AN: Firstly, I'd like to apologise for the very long wait since the last update. I had a touch of writer's block, but I think I'm back on track now. Here's a decent chapter of Harry to prove it...

The voice continued. "Now, put your hands in the air, very slowly, and kneel down." And Sir Henry made a shocking discovery. The voice was American… and female. He paused for a moment, and the gun dug more sharply into his back. He obeyed. There was a rustling sound behind him, and then he felt his hands being tied together. Painfully, his bound wrists were wrenched backwards to lay against the small of his waistcoated back. A moment more, and the duelling pistol he carried was removed from his belt. "Stand up," the woman ordered sharply, emphasising her words with yet another prod of the gun.

Once again, Sir Henry obeyed his unknown captor, mind racing. "Now turn around." He did so, and stared. His captor was young, certainly not more than five and twenty years old, and decidedly beautiful. Instead of a gown, she wore a man's shirt and breeches, hair pinned up in a glorious golden crown on top of her head. Had Sir Henry's tastes been for young, blonde American women, rather than dark-haired, endearingly bashful English ones, then he would surely have been much struck by his first sight of this beauty. As it was, he was much angered. He stepped forwards, forgetting his bound hands, but the girl pressed the barrel of her musket into his chest, hard. She raised an eyebrow. "Careful. I have neither the time, nor the inclination to spend my evening cleaning your blood off my barn floor."

He frowned. "Your barn floor? You own this farm, ma'am?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course. I'm not so impolite as to go waving Charlie here around on land that doesn't belong to me."

Sir Henry smiled grimly at the nickname for her weapon. "Musket Model 1777 Charleville," he murmured, stepping back to take a closer look at the woman's weapon. "Useless at a range of more than 80 yards," he added, somewhat dismissively.

The virago straightened her shoulders. "I can still hit a man between the eyes at 90," she corrected him testily. Then she smiled thinly. "But enough about this. Who are you?"

He grimaced. "In England, a well-bred person such as yourself would offer their own name before making such an inquiry of someone else. Ma'am."

The woman gave a short laugh and, not lowering her musket an inch, bobbed a fashionable curtsey, despite her breeches. "Miss Christine Dale, sir."

When her captive replied, his tone was dryer than the hay his horse was currently dining on. "Sir Henry Pearce, of His Majesty's Army, Miss Dale. Honoured to make your acquaintance. I would bow, but alas…" He jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating his bound hands. However, a thought struck him at that moment and he paused. "Dale?" He laughed, long and loud, while his new acquaintance merely stared, somewhat baffled, at him. "Am I correct in thinking, ma'am, that you are acquainted that Lieutenant Thomas Quinn?"

The musket shook in her formerly steady hands, and she lowered it a fraction from its previous position. "Tom?" Then recovering her composure, she shook her head and replied defiantly, "Never heard of him."

"My dear girl, I am Thomas's commanding officer. And, that being so, I believe that you and I have some business to discuss." He stepped forwards.

The musket shot back up, and Sir Henry paused again, eyes wide in as much a gesture of peace as his current state would allow.

Miss Dale eyed him stonily. "Prove it. For all I know, you could be one of Boney's agents with an impeccable English accent."

He inclined his head, accepting her words. "Very well. When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies…" He paused, and looked up at her inquiringly. "I can continue, if you are not yet satisfied…"

But she shook her head, and finally the musket was lowered. With a sigh of irritation, she stepped smartly behind him and untied his wrists. Wincing, Sir Henry stretched out his arms gingerly, trying to relieve the ache in his arms. Miss Dale gestured to the barn door. "After you, Sir Henry," she suggested mockingly.

Inside the farmhouse, a fire crackled merrily in the kitchen hearth. Miss Dale pointed to a chair at the freshly scrubbed wooden table, and Harry sank gratefully into it, while she poured two glasses of wine from a half-empty bottle lying on a sideboard. She positioned herself opposite him, her musket lying lengthways next to her, folding her hands flat on the table top. For a moment, there was silence as the pair relaxed, and then Miss Dale asked, "So, why are you here? Not that I'm not overwhelmed with joy at the presence of an English officer, and a noble one at that, in my house, but I've had some of Boney's rats through here once already today, and I doubt they'd take kindly to you."

Sir Henry chuckled shortly. He liked this brusque, feisty woman. "When was the last time you saw Lieutenant Quinn, Miss Dale?"

She frowned. "About two weeks ago - no, closer to three. Why?"

He surveyed her over his glass for a moment, weighing up his options. "What did he say to you when you saw him? Did you have any new information for him, or he for you?"

Miss Dale scowled. "Perhaps, sir, it would be easier for us if you did not insist upon answering a question with a question." With sudden vehemence, she pointed out, "I risk my life for you and your damned monarchy - the least you owe me is a straight answer!"

Sir Henry remained unimpressed. His face was impassive. "On the contrary, Miss Dale, I owe you nothing. Lieutenant Quinn's reports stated that you had decided to help us because of some personal grievance against France. As I see it, you are the one in debt."

Miss Dale folded her arms, a mulishly sullen expression crossing her lovely face. "And did Lieutenant Quinn's reports also state the fact that I'd been dragged in for questioning by the local spymaster last month? That I endure damn Frogs trampling over my dead husband's lands every week? That the people in the village won't sell me a thing because he was executed for treason? And you say I'm the one in debt? A funny idea of honour you people have."

Quietly, Sir Henry set his glass down, for once speechless. "He did not," he replied at last. "Forgive me, Miss Dale. My comments were thoughtless. I was not aware of your circumstances."

She shrugged and rose from her chair, turning to put more wood on the fire. Without looking at him, she explained, "I married my husband when I was sixteen. He was French, and my father was an American merchant who very much liked the idea of Continental connections. We were happy, for a long time. He was a patriot - so am I. When the wars started, Armand joined the army, of course. He was promoted to a captaincy very quickly. He was well liked by his men, by his superior officers - there were whispers of higher offices to come. And then, the next thing I knew, he'd been arrested and taken to Paris - charged with passing information onto the enemy. He was executed without even a trial. I still don't know what exactly he'd been accused of. He gave everything to France, and she didn't even value him enough to trust his word when he pleaded his innocence."

"And now you spy for a country which is at war with your own?"

She shrugged elegantly, back still turned to him, and there was a touch of bitter irony in her voice when next she spoke. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend - isn't that what they say? I'm a patriot, and once Boney's dead and buried and I've danced a jig on his grave, then England will have no worse enemy than me. But until then, we are stuck in what you might call a marriage of convenience."

Sir Henry drained his glass of wine, pondering his words. He did not for a moment believe them to a be an exaggeration. Her confident handling of 'Charlie' was enough to prove that. But, as she said, they were stuck with each other. "Very well. Lieutenant Quinn went missing shortly after he left your farmhouse, Miss Dale." There was a loud clatter. Miss Dale had dropped a log of wood on the tiled floor.

"Missing?" she rasped. "God, you don't think some of Boney's men…?" She was unable to finish her sentence. She turned, and groped blindly for her chair, sitting down heavily.

Sir Henry shook his head. "I don't believe so. They tend to crow a little more over their achievements. Was he in uniform when he left you?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Are you in the habit of training fools, Sir Henry? Of course he wasn't. He might as well have left here playing one of those infernal marching tunes you soldiers seem so fond of."

Sir Henry sighed. "That is… unfortunate. If he has been captured out of uniform, then the officer who had the honour will certainly suspect him of being what he is, and he will be treated as such. Did he leave any reports for me?"

Miss Dale nodded, only half-listening. "Yes. I will fetch them for you."

She vanished from the room, to return a moment later bearing a small tin box, dusty with soot. She set it on the table and dusted her hands with a handkerchief. "I keep it in the ledge of one of the chimneys. I never use the room, so there's no chance of it being discovered, or damaged, by accident." Sir Henry nodded and popped the lid open. A collection of papers, covered in Lieutenant Quinn's sure, bold hand lay there - all ciphered, of course. Sir Henry could make out a few individual words at a glance, but to translate all the reports would take several hours. "Miss Dale, might I trouble you for a pencil and some paper?" he asked very calmly at length, as though they sat together in an English drawing room in peacetime. Quietly, she fetched the items he had requested.

"And now, I suggest that you retire. I shall need to leave here very early tomorrow if I am not much mistaken, and I don't anticipate availing myself of any sleep," Sir Henry explained. Miss Dale wavered, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of leaving an English spymaster at large and unsupervised in her house, but exhaustion overcame anxiety. Hesitating, she removed his pistol from her belt, and laid it down on the table next to him. A moment later, and Sir Henry heard her footsteps, light and even, on the stairs. Checking his pistol, and moving the candle closer to his collection of papers, Sir Henry pulled the first report towards him. It was to be a long night, it seemed.