Sharpe clutched the rope with two strong hands. Placing a foot firmly on the wall, he began to climb. Below him, Harper watched on, face showing a determination which reflected Sharpe's own. The grappling hook had been a bitch to attach to the window above. Firing it from a long bow, Sharpe had eventually made it clutch the ledge after what seemed like the hundredth attempt. Inside the fort, the 95th Rifles, Sharpe's troop of Chosen Men, waited for rescue. They had been taken captive in a French ambush, and were no doubt being held for interrogation. Though his superiors had nothing short of ordered him to leave them there to rot, Sharpe would hear no word of it. He would not abandon them to torment and death. Not while he had strength left. And so, leaving all that could be spared behind, traveling light, only he and Harper had embarked on this rescue mission.
Sharpe's foot slid on the rocks, sending a shower of crumbled brick and rocks down to the ground. He regained his footing and continued to climb. He reached the ledge and heaved himself up and through, clutching his rifle and dropping to the floor on the other side. The room was dark, lit only by the pale, milky moonlight pouring in from the window. He could see the silvery outlines of a table, chairs and a wardrobe. Casting his eyes to the other side of the room, he saw a four poster bed, draped in a thin veil of curtains. Sharpe caught his breath, seeing a figure sleeping, silhouetted against the veils. He began to creep slowly towards the door he could see across the room. A floorboard creaked as he trod on it and the figure in the bed stirred and sat up. Sharpe cursed under his breath.
"Who's there?" a woman's voice called. "I can see you. I will call the guards!"
Sharpe kept stock still, hoping the woman was bluffing and hadn't seen him. To his dismay, the figure threw back the covers and slid out of bed. He saw her take hold of a broom leaning against a wall. Brandishing it like a weapon, she made her way around the bed and towards him, hesitant in the dark.
"Who are you?" she demanded, adopting a defensive stance with the broom held in two hands.
"Richard Sharpe," Sharpe said weakly. Perhaps he could settle this without force and the woman would let him be on his way.
The woman edged forward into the moonlight streaming from the window. She wore a white nightdress which draped around her slender frame as though it was the moonlight itself, caressing her elegant hips and rounded breasts gently. Ebony hair cascaded around her shoulders is subtle waves. Sharpe sucked in a breath, reverent before the beauty before him. She too seemed to be looking at him, sizing him up with large, dark eyes. Sharpe could see her grip loosen on the broom and a look of hesitance flitted across her face.
"You came in by the window?" she asked him.
"Yes, m'lady." Sharpe felt a little stupid, as though he had been caught stealing food from a pantry.
"You like to watch women as they sleep?"
"No!" Sharpe protested. "I mean ye– but… not like that. What I mean is, I –" He was becoming flustered.
"Shh." The woman suddenly moved closer and laid a delicate finger across his lips. Sharpe was silent in an instant.
"It would seem the fates have brought us together then," the woman said. "You must like to watch woman as they sleep or you would not trouble to scale the walls outside to reach my bed chambers." Sharpe made no protest. The woman moved closer and pressed her body against his. The broom was discarded on the floor. She snaked a hand behind his neck, the other moving over his back as she drew herself even closer. "I think you must like to watch them even more in bed when they are not sleeping..." She raised an eyebrow mischievously.
Sharpe looked down at her face, the high cheekbones, porcelain-smooth skin, full red lips. He thought of his wife briefly. Briefly, and then he was kissing her.
Harper watched Sharpe disappear though the window and waited. He heard no sound and expected Sharpe to wave him up when the coast was clear, but saw nothing.
"Sir?" he ventured up to the widow after a few moments, keeping his voice as low as he could for fear of being discovered by the night patrol which would surely pass by any moment. "Sir?"
No sound.
Harper looked about him anxiously. He thought he heard approaching footfall. Grabbing hold of the rope, he tested it and, satisfied that it was still hooked firmly in place, he began to ascend towards the window ledge. He climbed through and settled onto the floorboards of the room inside, keeping low with a tight grip on his 6-barrelled rifle.
Sounds and movements came from his left. He looked up to see a bed. Through the curtains draped around, he could see two figures writhing together under the sheets. Around on the floor Harper saw Sharpe's forest green jacket, trousers, shirt, belt, shoes and a nightdress which was certainly not Sharpe's. A familiar voice grunted from the bed. Harper rose to his feet, dismayed.
"Sir!"
Sharpe started at Harper's voice and rolled off the figure below him, who yelped in surprise and pulled up the sheets to cover her nakedness.
"Harper! I –" Sharpe began in mortification.
"Your wife!" Harper cried. "And your men! This is a rescue mission, not… not…" he flailed for words, "… this!"
"You're married?" the woman shot to Sharpe. Sharpe stuttered for something to say. "Ooo, you dirty boy," the woman said, biting her lip and sliding up close to Sharpe with a flirtatious grin. Harper looked on with horror, sending Sharpe a scathing look.
"I… I have to rescue my men," Sharpe said with difficulty and moved away from her. Harper gathered his commander's clothes and threw them at him as Sharpe stood up.
"No!" the woman cried in indignation. "Wait!" But Sharpe and Harper were already on their way out of the room, Sharpe pulling on his clothes sheepishly and Harper shaking his head in disappointment.
"It was a gift!" the woman cried out of the door.