SIX

"Well? What does he say?" Sharpe asked. Peter looked at the scout, then back to Sharpe.

"He says still no sign. Very odd, that. He says they're usually here prompt. It is the fifteenth today, isn't it?" he asked gingerly, taking out his pocket watch and peering at it. Sharpe shrugged.

"Summat like that."

"Ah." He snapped the watch shut and pushed it back in his pocket. He dismissed the scout, who nodded and walked off down the dirt street. Sharpe turned to go. "Mr Sharpe," he said quickly. He turned and looked at him. "I, er… It seems I have… mis-judged you," he said quietly.

"Not you as well. I think I'll get a notice put on me back," he said tersely, "One that says: 'I'm not an arrogant bastard'," he added curtly. Peter smiled.

"No, I… I notice Marjorie asked you to dinner, last night."

"She did."

"And… what was it you talked about?" he asked quietly. Sharpe smiled.

"I did all the talking, she did all the listening, what with her not being able to speak, like," he allowed. Peter nodded.

"I see. Told her all about your amazing victories against the French, what?" he smiled.

"Actually, no," he admitted. They had talked about London, and how close Hallam and Ashton-Under-Lyne really were after all. How it had been such a stroke of luck that two people, thrown so far apart, could have so much in common. Was it the up-bringing, she'd wanted to know. Was it the cities that had made them what they were? Was it the country that had made them both harder on the outside than in? Sharpe wet his lips, pushing the thought away abruptly. "About England."

"I see," he said easily. "Perhaps tonight you'll let her get more rest, eh Mr Sharpe?" he needled. Sharpe looked at him quickly.

"Now look here Mr Hindle, nothing happened that's not in King's Regulations," he said harshly, eager to scotch any rumours where Marjorie was concerned.

"Oh dear chap, don't think for one minute I'm accusing you of anything," he said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "What I meant was, her lamp was lit for a long time after you'd left. Left her a book, did you?" he asked lightly.

"No," he admitted, puzzled. Peter patted his shoulder, then nodded.

"Well then. I'll go find that useless brother of mine. At worst, he's simply lost," he said with a laugh, turning and walking off. Sharpe watched him go, then his thoughts turned back to Marjorie.

Harper walked into the barn, throwing down his shovel and letting himself sit heavily in the hay.

"All done, Sarge?" Brown asked from across the hay. Moore sat up and watched.

"All done, lad. Every wee thing he wanted." He lay back and closed his eyes.

"What's he up to, Sarge?" Moore asked curiously. Harper sighed.

"God only knows."

It was quiet, save the snores of the Chosen Men. The door creaked open and Sharpe walked in, looking at them and tutting.

"If I'd known it were a holiday I would have brought drink," he said sarcastically. "Well come on, there's stuff to do yet," he added indignantly.

"Mary Mother of God," Harper hissed, getting to his feet. Robinson, Hagman, Taylor and Harris appeared from under the hay like magic. "Alright then, on your feet," he said wearily, counting the six heads to be sure. He looked at Sharpe. "Where to, Major?"

"The kitchens," Sharpe said with a smile. "There's food needs sortin'."

"Now that's more like it!" Robinson grinned, elbowing his way to the front and tearing off out the door. The others followed, but Harper hung back.

"That young miss, sir?" he asked. Sharpe looked at him. "Did you get any information from her? I take it you got her on your side then?" he smiled innocently.

"Palm of me hand, Pat," he said confidently with a grin, and Harper 'o'ed his mouth at him.

"I don't want to know what you do in your spare, lonely time sir, I was just asking after the lady, so I was," he grinned, clapping a hand to the Major's elbow and walking out. Sharpe looked at his feet. Git, he thought with a grin. He looked up and saw Harris leaving slowly.

"Harris," he said quietly. The rifleman stopped, looking at him.

"Yes, sir?" he asked, amused. He had an idea what he would be asked.

"That Spanish scout, out the front," he said, gesturing with his head. Harris' smile faded. He had expected to be quizzed on women. Again.

"Yes, sir?"

"Go talk to him. There's summat not right here, and that scout knows more 'n he's letting on. Go and be nice to him, get him to tell you what he really knows about the Frogs coming," he said. Harris nodded.

"Yes sir." He turned to go.

"And Harris," he said quickly.

"Yes, sir?" he asked, looking at him.

"You were wrong, Harris. Not all women like the gentile things in life," he said, winking at him and walking past him. Harris watched him go, frowned, and then shook his head, heading out of the barn.

He knocked on the door politely, waiting on the landing. After a long moment the door opened. Marjorie looked at him. She gestured with her head and he walked in, looking around. She closed the door behind him, turning to look at him.

"I hope yer men are happy, Mr Sharpe," she said quietly.

"The last time I saw 'em this happy, it were cos they had whole box-full o' new flints," he admitted, and she grinned.

"That must be a rifleman thing," she allowed, walking to the window and drawing the blinds slowly. He looked over at the table and saw hot food waiting. She looked at him. "Well go on then, sit down and get some food. You look tired," she said, following him to the table.

"Been diggin'," he said dismissively, pulling a chair out by the back. She just looked at him, and he gestured with his head. She smiled and sat in it, and he pushed it up for her.

"Well thank you, Mr Sharpe, I'm sure," she said. "Who'd a known a little Tyke like you would have such manners?" she smiled.

He sat in the chair opposite. "Who'd a thought a girl who used to work looms would be here at all," he countered, and she looked at him.

"True." She waved a hand at the food; simple but well roasted chicken, with roasted jacketed potatoes and a few green and orange looking vegetables. He spied the jug of gravy stock next to it and she grinned, picking it up and leaning over, pouring some on the pile on his plate. It flowed decidedly slowly.

"Bloody hell, you could surface a road wi' that!" he cried, most pleased, and she laughed.

"Something told me you'd like it thick," she said, pouring some on her own plate. She set the jug down. "It's nice to have someone who understands, int it?" she said to herself, it seemed. He picked up his fork.

"Yeah," he admitted quietly. He waited for her to start eating, then tucked in himself. "Makes it harder to lie," he added.

"Mr Sharpe, I'm sure –"

"Richard."

"Well then… Richard," she said, trying the name on for size. "I wouldn't lie to you. I'd hoped you'd understand that, at least," she said flatly. He shook his head.

"Not you, Marjorie, your brother," he said carefully.

"Why would Peter lie to you? About what?" she asked, surprised.

"He thinks he can use that Spanish scout to convince me of summat that's not true," he said. "He's playing a very dangerous game, Marjorie."

"You can call me Mar," she said easily.

"Well then." He huffed. "Do you know when the Frogs are coming?" he asked tersely. She looked at him.

"Richard, if I knew, you're the very first person I'd tell," she said dismissively, and he felt his pride jump. Something about the tacit way she'd said it made him believe her. "And anyway, I thought the scouts were watching for 'em?" she asked, looking at him.

"They are. But I don't trust the buggers. I've got men of me own watching, ta very much," he said quietly, and she laughed. "What?" he asked, bemused.

"You! Oh, I wish Dad could have met you," she said.

"Could have?" he asked gingerly.

"He… passed away. A good ten years ago now. A good man. A bloody good cartographer." She sighed, then looked back at him. "And your father? What does he do? No, wait, let me guess," she said, waving her hands up to stop him interrupting. "A… farmer, right? No, wait… he's a… a town crier! Yeah, a town crier – that's why you shout like it comes from yer boots," she giggled. He opened his mouth but she waved her hand at him. "No - he's a soldier too, most like. A Colonel, o' course. He bought you your commission as a Lieutenant, but you worked yer way up to Major all by yourself," she said, watching him.

"I've never paid fer a commission," he admitted. "Started out as a bloody Sergeant, like Harper."

"What? Oh, well... that sounds about right," she nodded suddenly. He looked at her, indignant.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said, a little stiffly. She smiled slyly.

"Only that I were right - you are a dirty little ranker after all."

He laughed abruptly, resting his elbows on the table and sliding his left hand over the knuckles on his right. He looked at the food, then back at her. "You know... this is..." He cleared his throat, looking down at the food and then removing his elbows from the table guiltily. "You realise this chicken's stolen," he said, to fill the sudden silence. She smiled.

"Absolutely. I stole it," she countered, and he smiled again. "So, come on then, what does yer dad do? Can't be worse than a cartographer," she reasoned. She noticed his smile fade. "What?" she asked.

"I don't know what he did. Never met him," he admitted, and she closed her mouth.

"Oh. Sorry," she said awkwardly.

"What for? Were it your fault?" he asked curiously, and she grinned.

"Now you sound more like me father. Stop it," she said. He smiled and they got on with eating. "You know," she said quietly, "Dad would have found all this very strange. His two children out in Spain, one of 'em entertaining some foppish waster, just cos –"

"Thanks very much, Mar," he interrupted, and she grinned.

"You know what I mean. He'd turn in his grave if he knew… well, about Peter and Nigel," she said quietly, and he kept judiciously silent. It was quiet for a long moment, and he suddenly appreciated the chicken.

"How did he meet Nigel?" he asked.

"It's a strange story, actually," she said. "Nigel was working for Declaré, a rival mapping house. One day he came over and delivered some papers, said they were new maps of Spain, and could he leave 'em for Peter. Well, I thought he might as well. Turned out he'd seen Peter going to and from work every day. Love at first sight," she shrugged, and Sharpe sat back slowly, pushing all the thoughts away that that brought up.

"How did Peter take it? Him working fer a rival company?" he asked.

"He was upset, Richard. He… were head over heels for Nigel, that much was clear. But… Well, I just put up with it cos Peter's my brother – my older brother. Other people – society – would not have been so understanding. He didn't want scandal and public outrage," she said. "Nigel's boss knew people that could spirit us out on a ship from Liverpool, so one night we went. I went cos we were that close," – she brought her fingers together to indicate an inch – "from being chucked in the canal fer not paying debts. I had no reason to stay, and Nigel said he knew people as could help us get on our feet in sunny Spain." She shrugged. "I had no reason not to trust Nigel, seeing as how he thought the world of my brother, and I couldn't see him betraying that. So here I am."

Sharpe studied her face, her candid tale belying the rich clothes she wore. He noticed tonight's scarf was pale pink. There was a knock at the door and Sharpe stood. He looked at her, then at the door.

"Yes?" he asked.

"It's Harris, sir," he called. Sharpe dropped his napkin on the table and crossed to the door. He opened it and gestured him inside. "There you are, sir. I went looking in your room, but it was empty, so I assumed you'd be in here, sir." He looked past him to Marjorie, nodding. "Evening miss," he said eagerly. She just nodded, smiling.

"Well?" Sharpe asked impatiently. Harris looked back at him.

"Oh, er, the scout sir? It took me three bottles of wine, sir, but he's being paid by the French. Seems they're two days away, and they're bringing a full infantry battalion. No cavalry, no guns, they can't get them here in time. The Spaniard was supposed to keep us thinking they weren't coming, sir, and when they arrived at dawn the day after tomorrow, we'd be caught with our trousers down, sir." He paused. "Begging your pardon, miss," he said, nodding to her apologetically. She grinned.

"Good work, Harris. Now go and repeat that to the Sergeant Major, but not Colonel Parker."

"Sir?"

"Do it. Tell Harper to start on them other things I told him about," he said. "And not a word of this outside the Chosen Men, understand? I don't care if bloody Wellington appears, you're not to tell him, either. Dismissed."

"Yes sir," he nodded firmly, saluting and turning, disappearing from the room. He closed the door quietly, thinking. She watched him.

"So the scout were lying," she said softly. He looked at her.

"And so were your brother, Mar," he said apologetically. "That scout's been paid by the Frogs. Whether Peter knows or not, he's helping him to keep up the ruse." He walked back to the table slowly, sitting on the chair sideways, putting his elbows on his knees. She leaned back in her chair, watching him curiously. He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers slowly, thinking.

"Richard," she said quietly. He looked at her. "Why did you… Why did you let your man spill everything like that? In front of me?" she asked curiously. "I'm Peter's sister. Why do you think I'd not tell him what I've just heard?" she asked plainly. He studied her face, searching for an answer that wouldn't sound as lame out loud as it did in his head.

"I trust you," he managed eventually, realizing everything sounded just as lame out loud as it did in his head. She snorted with amusement.

"Hardly. You don't trust anyone," she replied.

"Alright, I'm hoping I can persuade you not to tell yer brother about what we've discussed tonight," he said, straightening.

"Oh you were, were you?" she asked, amused. "And how were you going to do that?"

"Appeal to yer sense of… what's that word? Coming from the same place?" he asked, and she laughed.

"Oh Richard, you are a card," she giggled, and he grinned, not just relieved she wasn't scathing of his ignorance, but amused she shared and accepted it.

She straightened and looked around the room slowly. "Right… Dinner," she said smartly, holding her hand up and counting off a finger, "done. Talk of family and the French, done," she said, counting off another finger. "Get past sticky issue of my brother and Nigel, done," she added, touching a third finger. She looked at him, letting her hands drop to the table. "Well then, just one thing left. Do me a favour," she said. He looked at her, eyebrows raised in innocent query. "Get over there and turn down me bed."

He gawped for a second. "What, just like that?" he asked, not moving.

"Well did you want summat else?" she challenged. "I don't know about you, but I'm not playing this game any longer. The Frogs will be here day after tomorrow, Richard. You'll go off and fight. Now you and I both know you've got a bloody good chance of surviving and coming back to me, but who can be sure?" she asked frankly.

"I weren't aware I were supposed to be coming back to you," he said, grinning gamely.

"Oh Richard, don't be facetious," she said, standing and walking over to stop in front of him.

"I'll do me best," he said as he looked up at her, wondering what 'facetious' meant.

"You'd better do a damned sight more than that," she remarked.

She turned over under the warm cotton sheets, finding him sleeping on his front, to her right. She caught sight of some long, thin scar and pushed the sheets down, finding more criss-cross scars across his back. She stared at them, fascinated, wondering what they were. She inched closer and put her finger out, touching one of them gently. He started and lifted his head swiftly.

"It's alright, the place int on fire," she smiled quietly, and he huffed through his nose, letting his head fall back to the pillow. She slid her finger down the scar slowly. "What are these?" she asked curiously.

"Scars," he said succinctly, rolling onto his back deliberately. She watched him, but he just got comfortable and sniffed to himself, clearly attempting to go back to sleep.

"You don't like them?" she asked, putting her hand under her face and propping herself up on her elbow to watch him.

"Who does?"

"You don't need to be ashamed of them Richard."

"Who says I am?" he said irritably, opening his eyes and looking at her in the gloom. She smiled.

"Takes one to know one," she admitted quietly. He watched her, and she wondered what was going through his head. "You know, scars are not who we are," she added. He raised his hand to her bare neck lazily, sliding his fingers down it slowly.

"Oh aye? So why do you hide yours?" he asked. She didn't answer. "Cos they are." He paused. "I'm just a soldier who were flogged raw fer summat he didn't do, and you're just a loom girl on the run from Nigel's boss," he said, resigned.

"Balls, Richard!" she snapped, and he grinned delightedly. "You're a Major, with titles and medals and Eagles and armies crushed beneath you," she said flatly. "They might have whipped you while you were a grunt, but they sure as bloody hell couldn't beat the tiger out of you," she added, her eyes flashing. He grinned.

"And you?"

"And… I'm just lost in Spain," she sighed, falling onto her back and looking at the ceiling. "Bloody hell, what am I doing in this odd country?" she asked herself. He rolled onto his left side, leaning over her.

"Trying to convince people yer more than what you were, same as me," he said softly. She looked at him, putting a hand to his face, feeling the rough stubble and studying his green eyes.

"Oh Richard," she sighed unhappily. "What happens to the villagers while you and yer brave men are fighting?" she asked.

"They hide behind the barricade," he said simply. "We give the Frogs a good pastin', and come home fer dinner," he said cheekily. She giggled.

"It's going to be that easy, is it?" she asked, grinning.

"Well, for you, maybe. I have to actually do some fighting," he said.

"Be careful. Don't get any more scars," she said quietly, her face losing its humour. He looked her face over with intent, thinking. "Don't die here, Richard, so far from home," she whispered.

"Dunt matter. I don't have a home."

She let her face register her anguish, before pulling his head toward her. She kissed him once, before guiding his head down to rest on her collarbone. He slid his hand across her and to her side, pulling her in, and she slipped her arm round his back, holding his head to her neck securely. She squeezed him to her once, pulling the sheets up over them.

"You will one day. A bright, sunny place with your own buildings. All yours. Safe."

She closed her eyes, heard him sigh comfortably, and drifted off to sleep.