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The ground underfoot felt hard and cold. Cicely was now about four miles away from Cadiz harbour and only now did she feel she had got far enough away from the harbour. The night was cold – stars twinkled in the sky and the moon was full. A hunter's moon. Now it was she who had been the prey.

The copse of trees to which she had been headed turned out to be much denser and larger. Cicely had made her way slowly through the trees, using the hillier ground illuminated by the moon to guide her in the right direction. Now she was up there, high up above the town Cadiz looked like a more concentrated version of the starry sky, twinkling clusters of stars close together, the lights ablaze even though it was about two hours after midnight, surrounded by a halo of blackness.

Cicely felt her shoulder. She had been hit by a marine's bullet but she could feel, now the blood had coagulated into her clothing that it was not lodged in her flesh and despite its acute painfulness seemed to have skimmed half an inch of the top before flying off, lost on the shoreground now.

Cicely sighed, her chest feeling the heaviness of cold air and she sat with her back to a tree trying to find the lee of the wind so she could rest in a little comfort. No such luck. Up here the wind was biting and she knew she would have to move on soon to find some sort of shelter.

What were her options now? She was alive, that was true enough. But what of the future? Cicely had boarded the Victory in order to assassinate an assassin, in order to save Stephen's life. She had failed him, of course, despite having passed the mantle to another. James Fillings, the soft, likeable lad who had grown to be her closest – her only – friend, had promised. Cicely shivered and dipped her head, feeling her teeth chattering in her lap as a gust of cold wind blew past her.

But though his intention was there, as had hers been, deep down Cicely knew that he hadn't got it in him. How would…how could he cope with the emotions she had harboured? Besides, how would Fouche, the French spymaster who had sent her to do her grisly deed, know that Lebec had been killed?

With the little strength she had left Cicely hauled herself back onto her feet. Nothing she had endured before, not her flight from the Darwins; not being a navigational or joining up with Blunt's men on England's south-east coast; not the loss of their son…not even being holed up in a foul, dank French prison…none of these events in her life, Cicely concluded gravely, were as bad as they were now. Then, she had hope, a way forward. Then, she knew what she had to do, however toilsome, arduous and inconvenient. Now…?

She looked around, considering the options open to her. Cicely had no money, practically no belongings at all. What could she do? Steal? Beg? To her right was flat ground, heading towards Sanlucar; ahead to the north, towards yet higher ground still, the road to Seville. Her third option was to return to Cadiz. She looked towards the town again. It wouldn't be a good idea to return there in middle of the night: like so many busy ports, people walking around the town at night were usually up to no good. She would likely be fired on. Again.

It felt to Cicely like her heart had the weight of Peruvian gold inside as she pressed on north-eastwards. She could rein in her route when dawn showed its weak energy on the horizon. And maybe, before then, luck may gift her some shelter.

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The encampment that Cicely chanced upon not half an hour later was a disparate group of canvases perched on a rocky outcrop about six miles north of Cadiz. She did not know to whom these makeshift homes belonged, nor did she – now weary, hungry and disheartened – much care. Their presence made themselves known to her by was of a couple of pinpricks of light which turned out to be lanterns suspended on hooks close to the perimeter of the settlement.

She could see some shapes, those of people, not a hundred yards from the first tent and, on the night wind Cicely could hear people talking. Spanish, she guessed, or Portuguese. Perhaps she could throw herself on their hospitality temporarily in exchange for…what? Cicely still had her mother's necklace, suspended around her neck on its delicate chain and well-disguised by the collar of her shirt. She could trade them a place to rest and food for the value of the silver.

Taking a step towards the group, who she could now see were sitting around a small, makeshift fire, Cicely stopped dead as a cry came from the tent adjacent to her. The cry was of a baby and, as its low, repetitive wail pierced the air around them Cicely waited for someone to go to the child. The crying got louder and more insistent, grating on Cicely's every nerve and she found herself planting her feet through the ankle-length grass towards the poor thing.

It had been about a year since she had miscarried. They had been in the South Pacific. Stephen had gone with Padeen Colman, Calamay and two Royal Marines with the ship's boat to explore the myriad of islands discovered on the Royal Navy's circumnavigation of the globe in the late 1760s.

There, in Jack's cabin aboard the Surprise, the life that she had borne inside her was born too soon. She had tried to push, as her body was telling her to, but she had lost enough blood to pride the French. In the end her son…their son…had come away from her. Cicely had remembered Jack holding her shoulders as she sat, knees bent with her hands across her thighs as Pullings had covered the tiny thing up in a blanket.

Cicely found that she was standing before a wooden, makeshift crib of a young baby, howling now to the four winds for comfort. The glow of the light from outside was enough to illuminate the child's crib, a chair and bedroll next She was dressed in closely fitted robes and a cap covering her head adorned as it was with Italian lace and her large, dark eyes were scrutinising Cicely carefully. She had stopped crying.

"Poor little thing," whispered Cicely softly and she leaned towards the baby who started to wail again. Cicely glanced behind her. Surely someone of her kin should be here by now to soothe her? A moment passed and the child was still crying.

"There, there," Cicely cooed and she leaned into the crib, flinching from the pain in her left shoulder, and scooped up the child, who quietened at once. She held the girl close, her head to her right shoulder and she moved rubbed the child's back as she had seen Susannah Darwin do when she had been comforting young Charles.

Thoughts of her own son passed through Cicely's head once more. Time had stolen him from her and his accomplice had been death. She could never soothe her own baby as she was comforting this girl now. She would never –

Suddenly, Cicely turned the baby into her arms so the girl was looking at her. How easily would it be to take her? No-one seemed to be bothered by her pitiful distress. Perhaps that would be what her purpose in the future could be…? She could look after poor children…

…how easy would it be to throw herself on the mercy of a ship of the fleet with babe in arms claiming it was her own…making up some tale or story? Cicely Hollum could return to England. She could put it to Wigg that she would go back to him; renounce Stephen in exchange for housing some poor, motherless children…?

Looking down at the girl Cicely realised that she had closed her eyes. She leaned back over the cradle tentatively and lowered her in, watching her for a moment as she sought a comfortable spot in the cotton. Cicely draped the sheepskin back over the child, who wriggled a little as she settled and she found the urge to put her hand softly on the girl's middle.

She looked at the sleeping child in admiration – how perfect she seemed, lying wrapped up in a fur, with the light from outside reaching its rays inside. Cicely felt her necklace, the silver locket of her mother's absently. Then she unfastened it, removed it from her neck and placed it around that of the girl. There. A beautiful girl with a beautiful charm. It was worth too much to trade her comfort for. She would just have to find something else to bargain with now.

Cicely looked back at the child, sleeping and a lurch of her stomach caused her to take a step back towards her. No-one had come to her, to find out her distress. It would be so easy to slip the child next to her, pressed to her torso, arms around her –

"Bandito!" The scream behind her caused Cicely to swing round. "Rosita!"

From outside the tent, another scream went up and a man in a rather worn green tunic flapped open the tent's entrance.

"You!" he yelled, piercing Cicely's startled gaze with his own. "Identify yourself!"

English, thought Cicely, squinting in the dark light. Spanish, English…and that uniform –

Her thoughts were pierced by the cry of the baby girl who had clearly been alarmed at the shouting. Behind the man the woman screamed again. Before she had time to say or do anything however Cicely found that the soldier had seized her arm, dragging her out of the tent before throwing her to the ground.

"Un bandito venido a robar a Rosita!" Next to the tent a woman was screaming in her direction. As soon as the soldier and Cicely were clear of the entrance the woman darted in.

"English…? Espanol…? Portugez…? Francais…?" Cicely heard the emphasis on the last question and she scuttled back a couple of feet, trying to push herself up. She was about to speak but the soldier found the arch of her back with a well-aimed kick. As the man tried again, Cicely rolled over and pulled up her knees. She looked into the man's face and for a moment, wondered if she knew him.

She couldn't fight – this soldier was going to give her a pasting and, even uninjured, she wouldn't make much of a dent on this well-trained fighter. There was only one thing for it. She dived forward, avoiding another kick. Cicely glanced at the woman who was now holding the baby close to her, as Cicely had done, just outside the tent. She would have to run for it.

From her position on the ground Cicely lunged at the man's legs, bringing him down onto his back with a thump. As she got to her feet she heard the woman scream out again, something in Spanish. Cicely looked in the direction that she had come and got to her feet.

Before she had a chance to run however Cicely felt a hand on her left shoulder which, rather than putting her to the ground spun her round. She looked forward – then up. Inches from her nose the large, menacing face of a man bore down on her.

"Steal – my – child – would ye?" With each staccato'd word that he growled he pushed her back. Cicely's heel caught on a stone but the man grabbed her shoulders. She yelled out and he dragged her close to his face again. Then she noticed the ragged sergeant's stripes on the man's own shoulder. Surely, this regiment was…

But Cicely's mind did not have time to finish its recollections as Sergeant Patrick Harker, who had had his misgivings about her when she had come across the riflemen on the south English coast almost four months earlier, slammed his fist into her cheek. She reeled, but that still wasn't enough to floor her – the punch was inaccurate and most of the energy was deflected.

Under the massive sergeant's arm Cicely ducked and darted past the tent in the opposite direction. Harker tried to grab at her shoulder but she was too quick for him. Her flight took her towards a campfire where other soldiers were leisuring. Behind her the ground-quaking steps of the giant thundered after her. Cicely stopped, surrounded as she was by faces…that she knew!

"Steal my lassie, would ye?" The faces belonging to the soldiers she had served with, who were now forming a semicircle that blocked her path. Cicely turned.

"Sergeant… "

But any protestation, or talking at all in fact, was as useless as a teaspoon to bail out a scuppered frigate. She charged forward, head bowed. A cheer erupted from the men behind her as she was flung onto her back with a more accurately laid punch. Behind him, Cicely just made out the mother of the girl, holding her still and eyeing Sergeant Harker. Guilt surged in her stomach. It was true, the thought had crossed her mind. Momentarily, but it had been there.

Cicely rolled out of the way of the boot aiming for her middle. No good was to come of this fight – he was far stronger and with brute force she would be hammered. Her only chance was to fight as she could before she could run. She scrambled to her feet, looking around for an exit. There was none, and the time wasted in looking had given the sergeant an opportunity to seize her shoulders again.

Yelling in pain Cicely turned and sank her teeth into the man's wrist. This time it was his turn to yell, before throwing more verbal profanities at her. And then she saw it. To her right, towards a dense thicket, was her refuge. She could easily get lost in there.

Cicely made to run but this time was floored not by a fist but a tree root and she tumbled down again. Above her Sergeant Harker threw himself towards her, holding her onto the ground. He held her wrists and this time Cicely managed to bite his nose.

Again, Harker yelled as Cicely managed to roll away. Feeling inside her shirt Cicely's hand rested upon the sharpened letter opener whose original purpose of slitting Lebec's throat was long now superseded and it worked just as well as a dagger in the sergeant's wrist as he chased after her. This time, the man roared in pain.

Cicely made to stab again but this time he bucked upwards. A second later he lunged for her left hand, holding her wrist away from her. She tried to struggle but he forced her wrist into the campfire, holding it there as a grin played on his lips. Cicely screamed, and let go.

"What is all this? Harker?" Over Serganet Harker's right shoulder the form that confirmed to Cicely the identity of the regiment appeared. Major Blunt's face glistened in the firelight. Harker let go his grip on Cicely's arm and hauled himself up. Cicely pushed herself away from him and tried to get to her feet but the Sergeant took one stride towards her and gripped her hair tightly.

"This brigand was trying to make off with Rosita, sir."

"Bring 'im with yer. My tent. Now."

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Cicely was brought before Major Richard Blunt, Sergeant Major Harker dragging her along by her hair. Now what? The Major was no fool, Cicely had seen enough the last time she was in his company.

"Enough, Sergeant," said Blunt as Harker stopped before him but he did not release Cicely. How much of a chance did she stand now, she thought? Would a claim of drunkenness pass as an excuse for being several miles away from Cadiz harbour? She tried to straighten up but found it impossible – Harker still had a painful hold on her hair. Now was not the time to think that she ought to have taken a blade to it before now but her mind decided to her avail it of her in any case.

"Sergeant, I said enough." Blunt took a couple of steps towards Cicely. "Pat," he added with a glare. Grudgingly Patrick Harker let her go and Cicely fell to her knees. With haste she tried to scramble to her feet but Harker pushed her back down again. Blunt took two more steps towards them, bending a little to take in Cicely's appearance.

"Well, what do you know – a naval uniform…low rank…seaman…" Cicely shot him a look which confirmed to the Major that he had guessed right, so far. "So, the Royal N are missing one of their men tonight, is that so?"

Cicely found herself nodding and the glint in Blunt's eye told her a couple of things – one that she would have to think fast and two, if she wasn't going to be considered a deserter and handed over to the Royal Marines, it would have to be good. Before she had an opportunity to speak, Blunt continued.

"You cannot have got lost by accident – we are very difficult to find here, and with good reason. Are you deserting? Or do you work for the enemy?" Cicely tried to look impassive as she knew, to some degree of interpretation; both of Major Blunt's assertions were true. Blunt bent lower and Cicely, though she desperately wanted to look away, eyeballed him back.

"No, sir," she replied weakly.

"Oh, so you do speak English, then?" Pulling her up by her shoulders and noticing her wince as he touched her left one, Blunt looked her in the face. "We may be separated by the type of fighting force we serve, but in the army a private defers to his superiors."

So," he continued, walking past Cicely for a moment before swinging back to look at her. "I think that you're one of the men we encountered a couple of days ago. I think that you stole the uniform and were trying to finish us all as we slept." Cicely found herself shaking her head and a shiver passed down her spine. If she were to retain her identity she must make the story she had just concocted sound believable. She bowed her head.

"No, sir."

"A deserter then. And you were trying to steal a baby," he added, his voice contempt-rich and accusing. Cicely tried not to look up as Blunt paced past her. Behind, she could hear Harker's low growl, as if he were a bear threatening its prey. The Navy well-rewarded those who captured deserters just like the canal company from which she had absconded in England. But, unlike the Grand Union Cicely knew the navy flogged deserters then sent them to pick the ropes before positioning them in the most dangerous roles come battle-time.

"No sir."

"We come down hard on thieves in the army." This time it was Harker talking. From her view of the ground she saw the Major's boots, high, black leather and well worn. He was softly tapping one foot on the floor. "We hang thieves, isn't that right Major?"

"Indeed, Sergeant," confirmed Blunt and Cicely felt his eyes burning into her scalp as campfire had burned her flesh ten minutes before. Aware of the throbbing in her left wrist as her body responded to the injury Cicely's mind scrolled back momentarily to the man who had tried to rob her of her locket which she had been trying to sell in an inn in London to buy her passage aboard a ship, the one she had now bequeathed to Harker's daughter. Blunt had hanged him.

"But we could always flog you…a thousand lashes…till you beg for your death." Harker's voice had lowered in pitch and Cicely squirmed.

"Out with it!" Major Blunt's demand was shouted at her and Cicely looked at him, feeling herself trembling.

"I…I…" she began but she felt herself being hauled to her feet from behind and Harker. She tried to dash away as Harker tore at her already ragged shirt. She felt herself trembling despite herself: a thousand lashes was death.

"Please!" Cicely protested, trying to turn to the sergeant, "I wasn't going to take the baby away…I heard her crying…" Then she looked at Blunt as Harker managed to pull her arms out of her blouson. "You know me… " she said to Blunt as she struggled against the great man but he had torn off most of what he could. Expecting a bare back on which to thrash he stopped as he took in the strips of cloth which she were wound tightly around her torso. Blunt stopped too and looked at her with an expression of worried curiosity.

"Major Blunt," she spoke to the 105th Rifles' commanding officer. She had been about to continue with a reminder that he had helped her once before but she didn't need to – realisation flooded the major's face light dawnlight on an eastern horizon.

"No!" The exclamation seemed more one of resignation than of rebuttal. "Not you again. Not twice!" He looked at his sergeant major then added, "put her down Harker."

"Her, sir?"

"Of course, Pat. You never knew, did yer?" Major Blunt walked in an arc past Cicely, still staring at her before standing next to his sergeant major. "This 'ere you knew as Robert Young. Private Robert Young." Cicely broke her gaze from Blunt and looked up at Harker, shuddering a little. Utter astonishment was not strong enough words to describe the emotion that the sergeant was feeling right now. A moment later, it was elicited in words, looking quickly between Cicely and the major.

"B…bloody…be-jeesus…Young…? Mary, mother of God…! He…she…in our regiment…a lassie…and…sailor…" Images of the unpleasant, filthy jobs he had had this upstart of a Private Young doing as the regiment prepared for their mission skimmed through Sergeant Harker's mind.

"Young…Mrs Maturin," Blunt corrected as he changed the subject. His voice had dropped a little lower and he inclined his head a little as if, Cicely wondered, a small part of him still didn't quite believe her and was weighing her up one last time. "Are you guilty of stealing, or attempting to steal my sergeant major's daughter?" Cicely's eyes widened, hoping the shard of guilt of the thought she'd had, that she did possess, did not show through.

"No, sir," she replied meekly. "I heard…crying…I went in…" Cicely glanced over at Sergeant Harker and smiled faintly. "She's beautiful, sir. She has your eyes."

"I'm sorry about your wrist, Young…Miss," he replied, his eyes darting to her wrist. "Yer shoulder looks a bit mangled an' all," he added, the closest Cicely expected to receive as a reply. Not that she wanted or needed one.

"I'm sorry about yours," she returned.

"It'll heal." Cicely felt herself shiver – it was the middle of the night, or very early morning now and she had more exposed flesh than she was used to. Perhaps the major could avail her of something from the

"Dismissed, Sergeant Major Harker," concluded Blunt. "I will see to Mrs Maturin. Please, go and comfort your wife. Here." He reached behind him, drawing a thick-fibred blanked towards her. Cicely recognised it, or its kin at any rate. As a member of the regiment for such a short time Cicely's hopeful comfort, lying beneath it after a few arduous days waiting to board HMS Thorn, the ship that had taken them to their brave but ultimately abortive attack on the French mainland, of the Surprise and seeing her husband were brought to the fore as she pulled it round her.

"Last time I saw you, you were aboard the Thorn." Blunt eyed her up and down again, one hand on his hip, the other gesticulating his point. "You and Harris were trying to join us. The republican traitors were killin' the crew. We managed to get to safety but saw the ship burning off the French coast…we thought you dead, Mrs Maturin." Cicely shook her heavy head as the memory of that day, the first step in the onerous path to where she was now.

"We tried to stop them…we fought back, but by the time we had got to the shore the Thorn was already adrift. They'd coated it in something, like pitch but more inflammable. We thought they had the firepower – it was a warship after all – I can't tell you how amazed I am that they didn't fight back."

Cicely found herself nodding slowly, the grim memory of the ship's inadequate, unusable iron. She knew the Thorn would have had cannon – sword and knife too – but the clearly the Thorn's captain had not kept his weapons close at hand or, if he had, they weren't fit for use.

"How did you end up in the south of Spain? It's far from the north of France," Cicely asked. She wondered whether she was pressing the Major too far on something which, as technically still one of his Privates, was both none of her concern or business.

"There were enough loyal to preserve most of my company." Cicely's presumption seemed to be unfounded and Blunt seemed to be relieved to share his experience since they were separated. "We had no orders other than to support the rest of the army and we managed to get out of France on another ship and got to Corunna after you and Harris were captured – " Cicely shuddered again as she thought of poor Matthew Harris, Blunt cut off. He took her arm, eyeing it analytically. It was beginning to darken, the skin was dry and by morning there would be a large weal. He strode decisively to the entrance of his tent.

"Oakley! Water, bandages, now!" Blunt shouted to his corporal, presuming it was Cicely's injuries which had made her quake. Promptly they were supplied and Cicely was surprised that Blunt made to soothe her wounds himself, having invited her to sit on the chair next to his desk, rather than allowing her to do it by herself. She did not complain – Cicely felt fit to drop and the cool water on both her torn shoulder as the major bathed it, and the damp bandage he tied around her burned left hand were as welcome as red at the mizzen during a gun battle.

" – and we've been under siege from the Spanish who are loyal to the Spanish King's alliance with France. You were lucky to find us, Mrs Maturin, " Blunt added as he tied a knot in the bandage. "We were ambushed a couple of days ago and were lucky to meet up with the man who had orders for us to seek out other regiments who were spread out over Spain to give support to the ships at Cadiz."

"And what about you, Cicely? How is it that you find yourself in my company again? You steal, you lie…" Blunt put his large to her face. There was blood on it; Cicely wasn't absolutely convinced that it was hers and she stood up feeling for source.

"…you maim, you abduct…" She shot him a look and was about to protest but the major continued.

"…I know, the lassie cried…" He put his hand back to her cheek, wiping away a tear this time which, despite her best effort, had escaped its duct.

"What else do you do? Cheat…? Fornicate…Kill…?" Cicely took his hand from her face, suddenly annoyed by his mild mocking tone – Richard Blunt was clearly enjoying teasing her.

"Drink. Curse," she admitted, looking away from the major and towards the canvas at the back of the tent. "And I envy too. She…my rival…I've never even met Diana Villiers yet I envy her place in my husband's confidence." The words tumbled from the hidden box that she had thought a stronghold to the shameful feelings she had harboured since Stephen's correspondence to the woman had been revealed by Fouche. Even if she were in the most beautiful dress in France, such as the one she had been wearing in prison when the spymaster had enlightened her to it she would be nothing to Miss Villiers. She was, Cicely knew, beautiful.

"Not if you were standing beside her." Blunt's words were soft, spoken into her ear with a warm breath and she knew she must have said these thoughts aloud too. Cicely swallowed and blushed, not least because she had aired so many of her own private feelings before, technically speaking, her commanding officer.

She turned to face Major Blunt who shot her a satisfied look. He stroked her face and trailed the inside of his hand down her neck. She could smell brandy on the man's breath, his eyes roaming hers, tempting her to give way, tempting her to yield and have him hold her, to love her, just as Stephen did. Cicely's stomach lurched. She turned away.

"So, it's the latter then," he concluded but didn't step away from her. Another comment designed to rile her and Cicely looked into his bright blue eyes and told him of her capture. and that of Matthew Harris, of the prisoner exchange and that Harris had been taken away and shot. Far away that she was from the Victory as she was now guilt hung round Cicely as she told him too of the deal she had been forced to make with Fouche, and how she had absconded having failed to carry it out. She felt the tears prick her eyes again but fought the urge to cry again.

"Major Blunt," Cicely murmured, "please believe me when I say that I wasn't going to take Sergeant Major Harker's daughter." She looked away as quickly, hanging her head at the taupe blanked in which she was shrouded, as she had summoned his attention. "I lost a child, Major Blunt. He was born too soon." Then she looked up as the major took her hands. Cicely chided her own openness but then her tired mind concluded, perhaps now was the time for airing her fears, her doubts, her weaknesses.

"Oh lass," he replied softly.

"I have gone over that day time and time again in my nightmares, when my days are at the blackest." Then Cicely found herself smiling a little at the thought of what she now must do. "I must get back to my ship, my original ship, the Surprise," she concluded. It wasn't the best plan, but it was the only plan. It may even be on the other side of the world, or back at Portsmouth though Cicely doubted it as so many ships had been heading west then south, following the Victory's wake as ships of the line.

"Our contact with our orders, he said he too was seeking out a ship called HMS Surprise." Cicely sighed at Blunt's invaluable information and she felt her heart race. If the Surprise was there, in dock at Cadiz she could get back to it. No doubt they would be recruiting for hands, ordinary seamen to do the hard work. She could speak to Aubrey, relay all that she had been through. Tell him of Stephen. Her eyes darted towards the tent entrance and she took a step towards it. Blunt however did not move out of her way.

"There's no point you wastin' yer energy tryin' to get back there tonight. You told me yerself that the Navy at breakfast-time. Besides," Blunt's face twisted into a grin, "I can't let you go. A deserter from both the Navigationals and the Navy? Someone would pay a pretty penny for one such as yourself." Cicely looked at him in shock, and saw the teasing merriment in his eyes. She ignored the bait.

"Please, accept my hospitality once again Cicely Maturin." He gestured towards his bed roll. I'll get yer some ale if yer now abide it. You may as well rest, till then." Despite herself, Cicely yielded, sitting down on the major's bed.

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The sound of drill practice roused Cicely from a relatively restful slumber. Crossed thoughts in her mind, confused by her surroundings and the urge to think of a good reason to give the sergeant major for her lateness to lines, Cicely sat up and rubbed her eyes.

"Cicely Maturin." Major Blunt was standing at the entrance to his tent and she blinked again, trying to assimilate the conflicting sense-provoking signals, not least the impatient throbbing in her left wrist. "Did yer rest well, lass?" He was holding a tin plate of what looked like bread and meat. Cicely hoped that it was for her.

"Well," she nodded as Blunt sat next to her on his bed. Sure enough he proffered the plate. Cicely tried to eat it in a ladylike fashion but then gave in – she hadn't eaten properly for a couple of days – and she bit into it fervently trying not to let the words he had spoken to her the night before, the touch that she had rejected darted like an arrow through her mind as it was threatening to do as he sat inches from her.

"Nothing untoward happened, Mrs Maturin," Blunt continued, as if he had just read her mind. She put down the now-empty plate and turned to look at him gratefully.

"Thank you, Major. For everything." Cicely got to her feet as did Blunt.

"It's dawn, lass," he added as Sergeant Major Harker bawled at the soldiers and recalled glimpses of their fight several hours before. "You'd better get goin' if you're gonna make recruitin' at the docks." Cicely nodded and smiled again. The major, no matter his background, his manner, had been kinder to her than anyone had been for a long time.

Cicely stuck out her hand and Richard Blunt shook it, and nodded. Then Cicely shook her head, as if an errant fly had taken up residence within her brain.

"I'm a known deserter. They'll be looking for me…" Before Cicely had a chance to finish her sentence, let alone consider her next move Blunt took up the uniform which he had brought into his tent with him when he had arrived.

"Here. Our last uniform." His tone was authoritative with a hint of ironic joviality. " Heaven knows what you did with the last one you were issued, Private Young." Lining the cell she had shared with Harris by now, Cicely replied silently. She had replaced it with the beautiful Parisian dress that she had been given to wear by Fouche as a lure to detain her in royalist France.

"And a note written and signed by me." He handed her a piece of folded paper. "I lost you as part of my regiment when the Thorn was ambushed. You were never officially off my roll and, until I knew your whereabouts, could not discharge you, or list you as dead." He smirked, as if sharing a joke with her. "You were captured and forced into service for the French. That means your neck is still mine. But not for much longer." He held out a hand.

"Your shilling," he prompted. Cicely raised her eyebrows, then frowned. She hadn't anything of value on her, let alone money of any kind.

"Lost with my uniform, I regret to inform you, sir," she replied sardonically.

"There. Be more careful with that! You are discharged from the army, Robert Young. I hope your continued service to King and Country in the Navy is successful."

"Thank you, Major Blunt." Cicely turned once she got to the tent flap, wishing she had a means of repaying for her trespasses and saluted. Richard Blunt's face broke into a wide grin and he laughed aloud.

"You'll make a soldier yet, yer salt-lickin' Jack Tar!"

When her form was a mere fleck on the steep, downward slope, on her way to Cadiz harbour he smiled again. "Good luck, Cicely," he whispered as she disappeared and hoped that none of his men had seen him send her a French adieu.

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A "French adieu" is a blown kiss into the wind, or it is 'round our way. Nothing suggestive, I hasten to add!