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Robert slouched against the bars of his cell and watched Luis walk away. Earlier this morning things between the two of them had seemed as if they might work out after all, despite his part in getting the Colonel wounded. The arrest was a stupid inconvenience, but it hadn't been long before Luis had stormed into the jail, still a little pale, a little drawn after the previous evening's events, but every inch the sleek, powerful commander. Christ, he had been a welcome sight: the gallant rescuer.

"He's come for me," Robert had allowed himself to believe, his heart swelling stupidly and melodramatically.

"Trust me to handle this," Luis' eyes had implored. "Trust me."

And, sentimental idiot that he seemed to become whenever Luis was involved, Robert had. Oh, yes, he could trust Luis--trust him to be self-serving, manipulative, devious.... It was all Lombard Street to a china orange that the bastard had dreamed up some new ploy to catch the Queen. Robert straightened his spine and narrowed his eyes. He had been left here as bait, hadn't he? Well, he would see about that.

In the meantime Cruz awaited his instructions. The corporal was a good man, steady and reliable; Luis would never let him anywhere near his precious horse if he weren't. And taking care--medical care--of Luis should be simple enough. "I expect the hardest part, Corporal, will be making sure that the Colonel rests. I'd recommend a sleeping draught, except he'd probably refuse to drink it. But tell him I said he should stay in bed." Let Luis take that however he liked. "You'll need to change the dressing this afternoon and again this evening. Clean the wound with spirits of betonica; I keep a bottle in my medical bag, and another in the surgery cabinet. And this evening you can use a little basilicon ointment."

Cruz nodded. Knife and sword wounds were common enough among the garrison that most of the men--even Esteban--knew what to expect. Robert might have preferred to use a melilot plaster instead of the ointment; that would ensure a smaller scar and tended to reduce the chance of infection. But though he kept a good supply of the emplastra, heating the waxy pellets and mixing in the right proportion of the herbal tincture was a somewhat more difficult and delicate business than he would trust to a surrogate. Besides, that could surely wait until tomorrow morning. "And if there's any problem--anything, mind--come immediately and tell me."

"Si, señor." Cruz straightened a little, as if he were about to come to attention and salute, before he turned on his heel and hastened away to his duties.

Left there alone--and no, he told himself sternly, he was not the slightest bit disappointed--Robert took a handkerchief from his pocket and dipped it into the jug of water. He couldn't do too much about the bruises the captain's blows had caused, but he could clean away the blood crusting at the corner of his mouth. For a briefest moment he remembered the way Luis had stared at the blood, the way he had looked him over--hungry, just slightly predatory, a little possessive--making note of the abuse, but not in pity, and stripping him with his eyes. What had Luis been thinking? Robert shivered, imagining himself a different sort of prisoner, Luis' hands pinioning his against cool sheets; Luis' mouth bruising his own with savage, demanding kisses; Luis' body hard and warm against his own; Luis' eyes bright and feverish with desire. "Trust me." Ha! Whatever Luis might have been thinking, well, he could just think again.

Robert lay down on the hard, narrow bed; a few spears of straw stuck through the thin mattress cover, and he shifted about to make himself at least passably comfortable. This wasn't the first time he'd spent time in this jail, and he would be out tomorrow, but professional instinct--his old profession--made him gaze about and reacquaint himself with weak points and escape opportunities. It didn't take long: Santa Elena's lock-up was hardly Newgate Prison. Given sufficient time, for example, the window bars could be pried from the soft adobe bricks of the wall. There were two locks between a prisoner and freedom, one on the cell and one at the head of the corridor, but that also increased the time between the moment the single guard noticed something amiss and the moment he could arrive to investigate. During the day, the primary obstacle was not the building itself, but rather its situation on one side of the busy garrison plaza; in the middle of the night, that just made the route toward the stables and a clean escape that much easier.

It was almost autumn. Soon there would be merchants enough--well, technically smugglers--putting in along the California coast to buy hides and tallow. There were fur traders not far to the north as well, gathering otter and beaver skins for the Far East trade, and whalers in the bay opposite the presidio of San Francisco, shipping supplies before setting sail for another season in the South Seas. He could work his passage, and if he were lucky enough to sign on as a ship's surgeon, his portion of the profits would make his fortune more quickly than a lifetime here. In one or two voyages he could earn enough to return to England, set up a small practice. So there was absolutely no need, none, for this sense of betrayal, this lingering disappointment. He didn't need Luis to rescue him; he could fend for himself. He was not, after all, some pretty drummer-boy or pampered footman, some feeble molly in search of a protector.

"Doctor Helm?"

Robert opened his eyes and stifled a groan. Great. His arrest was already becoming the rumour of the day. He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed, and stood up politely. He forced a smile and approached the bars.

"Señorita Alvarado. What a surprise."

The girl considered him and his surroundings curiously. "How horrible for you. Everyone is talking about--" She leaned forward and her voice dropped confidentially. "Surely it can't be true? That you helped the Queen of Swords escape? Even after she attacked our poor, brave colonel?"

Robert rolled his eyes. "It's true enough, señorita."

"I can hardly believe it. And yet here you are." She flicked her fan open. "It really is too annoying. Whatever shall we do without our doctor?"

"Oh, you needn't worry." He smiled pleasantly. If she wouldn't leave him in peace, perhaps her damn gossip-mongering could be put to use. Anything he told her this morning would be all over the territory by sunset. "It seems my sins merit only a single night in jail. The Colonel has promised me I'll be out tomorrow."

"And you can trust him, of course."

She moved into a slightly less shadowed space, and Robert was surprised to notice a sharpness in her eyes at odds the annoyingly aristocratic fecklessness of her pose. There was something more than curiosity in her gaze, something knowing. He looked a little closer: he had been guilty of underestimating Maria Theresa Alvarado. Though she played the ingénue, the frivolous, naïve twit, and to the point of almost infuriating inanity, the Alvarado girl was clearly far from stupid.

"I--"

Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw the guard spring up behind his desk in the antechamber, and a moment or so later Grisham had passed him without acknowledging his salute and was striding down the corridor between the cells. The señorita caught the shift in Robert's gaze and turned with a brilliant smile and a flutter of her fan.

"Captain Grisham! What exciting lives you men have! But I have a frightful headache this morning, and I find the doctor here instead of his office. It is very inconvenient."

"I was just explaining," Robert added, "that I am unable to help. But perhaps, señorita, your Marta...?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so." She snapped the fan shut. "Well, good morning then, Doctor. Captain."

Robert watched Grisham watch her sashay down the corridor. Grisham shook his head and turned back with a lecherous grin. "A fine woman, that, wouldn't you say, Helm?" He cocked his head to one side as he unlocked the cell door. "Or would you?" He stood just inside and to one side of the open doorway, as if inviting his prisoner to attempt an exit. "Maybe women are not really to your taste?"

So the captain had returned for another puerile attempt at menace. Let him try. Even if there was something about Luis that made him throw caution and discretion to the wind, Robert would be damned if he'd let a son of a bitch like Grisham get the better of him. Every offence had its defence in kind. He moved back from the bars and leaned against the side wall of the cell with a calculated casualness.

"Oh dear, is this the part where you impugn--sorry, rather a big word--where you insult my manhood? And then I get angry and attack you, and you use the opportunity to beat me senseless? I was hoping we would just skip over that."

Grisham took a step forward. "I've been putting one and one together. As it were."

"Ah, I see. Higher mathematics." Robert fought to keep his expression bland and disinterested. "And what is it you think you've put together?"

"You and Montoya--no, it's Luis, isn't it? You and Luis."

Hell. Using Luis' Christian name this morning had been a stupid mistake. So how much did Grisham actually know? "Montoya and I...what? I'm not sure I follow."

"Oh, I think you do. See, I happen to know that your Luis was entertaining someone last night, someone he didn't want me to know about."

"It's called discretion, one of the marks of a gentleman. I'm not surprised you didn't recognize the character trait."

Grisham ignored his interruption. "And you weren't in your office. In fact, one of the sentries saw you entering the colonel's residence."

"And if he had continued to watch me, he would have seen me head for the kitchens, not Montoya's bedroom." The best lies were always at least half truth. "So you thought...Montoya and I...?" Robert laughed. "If that were so, would he have left me in here? Especially when he had a perfect excuse to keep me near him? And for that matter, I wouldn't have betrayed him and helped the Queen escape, would I?" Grisham was looking a little less confident now. "You can't really believe we're lovers? Good God, man, we're barely friends."

Robert pushed away from the wall. "But you seem unusually interested in Montoya's bed-partners," he ventured mildly. "Could it be, Captain, that you are the slightest bit jealous?"

He saw the flash of outrage in Grisham's eyes, and mentally braced himself for the expected reaction as he pushed his counteroffensive just a little further. He let his voice harden, but kept his tone low. "The Colonel wouldn't be the first officer to fancy a bit of rough. What were you when he found you, eh? Some wretched little trull, I'll warrant, good only for a quick three-penny upright in a dark alley."

Grisham leapt forward. Robert side-stepped, grabbing the Captain's arm and wrenching it back as he used the man's momentum to slam him against the wall. "Does this bring back memories?" Robert asked, with genial nastiness, pressing him against the bricks. "Now, why don't you bugger off and leave me to serve out my sentence in peace?" Grisham struggled, and Robert jerked his captive's arm. "Unless, of course, you'd like me to break this? Perhaps Private Esteban could have a go at setting it for you."

Robert let go, and Grisham shoved him away as he passed. He paused in the doorway, then turned back on his heel and attacked. Robert tightened his stomach muscles and shifted slightly sideways so that the captain's fist hit missed his gut. The punch still hurt like hell, though: it didn't require much play-acting to sink to the floor, curling inward upon himself and shielding his head against the base of the bed. Grisham kicked him anyway.

"This isn't over, Helm." Finally he stalked off. "No more visitors," he growled at the guard. "Understand, Private? No one."

Robert unfurled and, too sore at the moment to even think about moving from the floor, sagged back against the side of the bed. He stared up at the ceiling. Grisham's curiosity was just one more reason why this flirtation with Luis should end. They had enjoyed teasing and challenging one another, daring each other to admit the want, the need. But even that game was far too dangerous: who could tell, but there might be another night like the last, when they would forget the unspoken rules that used to keep them from going too far? It was different now. Now they knew that they had, however unconsciously, set rules and boundaries; now they recognized the
possibility--the inevitability--of breaking them.

Oh, well. It wouldn't help to dwell on such things. The worst part of confinement was the opportunity for too much thought; he needed something routine, like taking mental inventory of his medications, to keep his mind off Luis. Christ, he hurt all over. If that idiot Grisham had managed to crack one of his ribs, he would need warm vinegar to bathe the bruises and contusions. And something else, maybe, to numb the pain. From outside his window he heard a hacking cough: Ysidro Moraga had asked him to make up some more paregoric for his chronic bronchitis, but perhaps he should try dosing the man with ipecac and syrup of squills instead. He was almost out of hartshorn again; the local doñas, if not the more humble farmers' wives and daughters, seemed to require smelling salts constantly. They claimed palpitations, too, and pouted when he wouldn't give them tincture of rosemary and lavender.

And he was running low on laudanum, he remembered: tomorrow he would start macerating saffron, cinnamon, and cloves in the wine for diluting the opium. The spices weren't, strictly speaking, necessary for the drug's effectiveness, though they made the stuff more palatable. Robert smiled to himself; he'd had the devil of a time requisitioning them as official military medical supplies.

"Cinnamon? Cloves? Are you turned baker now, Doctor Helm?" Luis had demanded, sitting back in that throne-like chair of his and throwing his hands up in theatrical dismay. "Do I look like a grocer? Surely such things are available for purchase in our pueblo's fine store, are they not?"

"Until supplies run out, yes, but these are for medicinal purposes, Colonel. The health of this garrison should not depend upon my queuing up at the corner shop on the off chance."

"And if I humour you, Doctor, I shall have every housewife in the territory complaining to me when she needs a cup of sugar."

When the supply ship arrived Robert had been up at the mission--the fever which had swept through Santa Elena was still all but decimating the Indian rancherias. On returning home he had found his requested materia medica waiting for him: opium for the laudanum; jalap and calomel, a drastic, last resort for intestinal purges; blue vitriol for burning ulcers; white lead, to be blended into ointments or boiled into plasters with lard and olive oil to soothe and seal the wounds the Queen so often left in her regal wake. With them were small paper packets of the spices. There had been a bottle of fine French brandy, too, and a note in Luis' copper-plate hand, signed with his ostentatiously official flourish--"for medicinal purposes only." Robert could use some of that brandy now.

A few shouts and curses from the barracks square beyond his cell's window suggested that Grisham had found other targets for his abuse. As the morning drew on, the small plaza became busier with the business of daily life. Robert caught snatches of conversations, the shouted commands and reprimands as new recruits trained and drilled. It never changed, did it? He remembered the recruiting posters mobilizing an English army against Napoleon and the French, seeking young fellows whose hearts beat high to tread the paths of glory. But only idealistic young fools like himself had ever believed that rubbish; most officers looked to the army for a career of gentlemanly advancement and maybe an advantageous marriage. Most of the lower ranks had taken the king's shilling and put on a coat of Stroud-water red to avoid hunger. It was much the same here. Life in Santa Elena's militia meant rations and a small but relatively steady salary, and a grant of freehold land after retirement. In the meantime, a husband or son in uniform earned his immediate family remission of taxes. Most of the garrison, he knew, were poor men, not the sons of dons. Many of them were soldiers because their fathers had been; if they married, it would probably be to the sister or daughter of another soldier. Generations removed, most of them, from any family in Spain, their allegiance was to their comrades first, the men to whom they daily entrusted their lives, and then to their officers, because that was the way of their world. King and country? Glory? In the common barracks such things were little more than ciphers.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the noon heat warmed the still, stuffy air of the cell. Outside the cooking fires had been lit, and the familiar smells of onions and garlic, peppers and charring meat were enough to set Robert's stomach grumbling. If only he had eaten a bit more this morning. Maybe he should have tried sneaking the odd bun, or at least a grape or two, off Luis' breakfast tray. Maybe if he had asked Señora Santiago--

Robert heard voices from the guard's office. Bracing himself against the bed and grimacing as his muscles complained of the least movement, he pushed himself to his feet. If he stood by the bars and craned his neck, he could just make out what was happening.

Well, speak of the devil...or, in this case, of the saint. The mayora had placed a basket on the desk and, with her hands on her hips, loomed over the cowering young private.

"But I have my orders," he protested. "Capitán Grisham said no visitors."

"And El Coronel said I was to bring the doctor something to eat."

"Si, si. But the capitán--"

"And is the capitán now the military governor of this pueblo, Ramón?"

"No, but--"

"Then open the door, niño. And do not be all afternoon about it. Órale!"

"But--" The private rose from behind his desk and unlocked the first door. "Bueno. Bueno," he grumbled as he preceded her down the corridor. He opened the cell door as well, and stood to one side as she swept in.

Señora Santiago looked about, frowning. "I have brought you something for the almuerzo, Doctor." She laid the basket on the bed and bent to unpack it. "And a clean shirt," she added sternly. Robert looked down at the one he was wearing. Besides a few spots of blood from last night, it now showed smudges of dirt from the plaza and the packed earth of the jail floor. The señora held out the clean linen, and he began obediently to take his old shirt off; he'd met regimental sergeant majors with less commanding airs. A few of the bruises were beginning to purple, and he heard her sharp intake of breath as she noticed them. "Dios Mio!" Her eyes narrowed. "The work of that gringo capitán? It is an outrage! And you," she turned on the guard. "You let this happen? I will inform El Coronel."

Robert buttoned up the shirt and tucked it into his trousers. "I wouldn't bother, señora. I've survived worse. Besides, I'm sure the Colonel knows all about it." Luis must have known Grisham would take advantage of the situation. But did he care? "Now what have you brought me to eat? I'm famished."

She laid a veritable feast on the cell's small, rough wood table: apparently the not-so-condemned man was still allowed his hearty breakfast, or lunch. Robert fell to with a will. Chicken cooked this way, simmered until it shredded from the bone in a mole sauce rich with roasted chilies and bitter chocolate, was a dish unimaginable in England, or in Spain, for that matter. Even here in California it was something for festivals or the richest of tables. She had brought him fresh figs besides, some firm, sharply aged cheese, and a flask of Luis' best rioja. The guard stood outside the cell, staring at the repast, then glancing anxiously toward the office and the outside door, and then back at the table. And for good reason: the knife and fork, the crystal and the china on which the meal was served, the whole thing was quite outside what regulations for the feeding of prisoners allowed.

"This is far more than I could have expected." Robert laid his knife and fork on the plate. "Thank you, señora. The colonel's a lucky man to have you to look after him."

She brushed the complement aside as she began to pack up the remains "It is good to see one of you eating today."

"Señora?"

She sighed. "El Coronel says he has no appetite. He stays in his bed--but that is good, no? And when he would not eat, I gave him some juniper tea. It is what I make for my children when they are sick. El Coronel said you would approve. He said you are always making him drink some foul potion or other."

"Tell him if he doesn't eat something, I will force feed him more of the chia tea. Perhaps he might take some soup, or drink some broth at least?" Robert hesitated; he didn't want to worry the mayora. "Is the Colonel running a fever, Señora?"

"He complains of the heat, si." She frowned. "There is something wrong, doctor? Corporal Cruz says the wound is healing." She sounded doubtful about his competence.

"No. No, I'm sure there's nothing. A slight infection, maybe," Robert reassured her. That was common enough, nothing to be overly concerned about. Besides, Luis was obviously taking it in stride, complaining and joking. If Robert knew one thing about the man it was that he could trust him to look after himself. He'd be the first to call for his physician if he felt really ill. Wouldn't he?

Robert tried not to worry that Luis was already too weak to call. Surely in that case Cruz would have the sense to come and ask advice? He tried not to worry that Cruz had tried, but been prevented. He tried not to worry that he had not let the wound bleed enough the night before and that a serious infection had set in. Should he have noticed something that morning? Had he been too preoccupied? Luis had seemed to be recovering, and he was in good health otherwise. No, any infection could only be a minor one. Tomorrow morning Robert would wash the wound again, more carefully, and apply a plaster. He had nothing to worry about, he told himself.

After the señora left he paced up and down his cell, repeating the reassurances until he almost believed them. Then he paced some more, wishing he could see the situation for himself, that he could do something, anything about it, now. And then he paced some more again, cursing Luis for leaving him in jail and cursing himself for letting Luis get away with that folly. Finally he lay down on the bed and tried to think about something else.

He must have drifted off to sleep, for when he finally opened his eyes the light had shifted and no longer shone into the cell. He stood up and stretched a little--his muscles ached and complained of stiffness--then stumbled, still a bit groggy, towards the pitcher for a long drink of
water. Refreshed somewhat, he hoisted himself up to stand on the bed so he could see out the window. A couple of soldiers sat at a table outside the barracks drinking and playing cards. A few paces away from them Ramón, now off duty, stood chatting up a girl who let her shawl fall a little more coquettishly low on her shoulder as she laughed with him. A little further off an older soldier watched while new recruits cleaned and primed their rifles; every now and then he stopped one of the boys with some correction, and the task was done over. A small flurry of Santa Elena's ever-present dust announced that a patrol had returned; the sergeant and his men dismounted and led their horses toward the stables. Beyond the town the late afternoon shadows had begun to paint the distant desert hillsides with shadows.

Almost dusk, then. Robert turned away and slid down on the bed against the wall. He folded his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knee. Almost dusk, almost night, and in the morning he would be out of here. It was just a matter of keeping his mind occupied until then. He glanced from one side of his cell to the other and began calculating distances and estimating walking times. How far, how long, from there to the stables? To the Church? To his office? How far from his office to Luis'? Oh, he knew that walk well enough. Further afield, then. It was an afternoon's ride to the nearest mission, so how far was that? How far, how long to Monterrey? Or north to the San Francisco Bay? There was a Russian colony, he had heard, perhaps a couple of days' ride north of there--how far was that? Or going the other way: a few hours to Agua Poquito and the Badlands, and then some nine or ten days' hard ride further east to the banks of the Colorado. How far from there to Santa Fe and the borders of the Texas Territory? How far from there to England?

Someone passed by his window, interrupting those calculations with a sudden, husky snatch of song. Robert couldn't place it immediately, so he tried whistling tunelessly under his breath, wandering from melody to melody until one stuck. He worked through it a couple of times before he remembered his father whistling it, over and over, to one of his caged linnets. Training songbirds had appealed to his father's scientific curiosity, but Robert had never understood the hobby. What had he been? Six? Seven, maybe? Early one morning he had sneaked into the drawing room and freed one of the little prisoners. He'd felt the sting of the birch for that, and been confined to his room for three very long summer days, until he composed a sufficiently contrite apology.

But though his father had been a strict disciplinarian when he had to be, he'd always loved and indulged his reckless, restless scapegrace of a son. Perhaps he had even been proud, eventually, of his son the exploring officer: there could be something dashing, even noble, about that. Afterwards Robert had tried to explain why he had to resign his commission, but his father hadn't wanted to know about the more sordid realities of intelligence gathering. And he had absolutely refused to hear anything of counter-intelligence. Rightly so: there was something shaming about spying on, betraying, even killing one's own countrymen, fellow soldiers, merely because, usually for greed or stupid lust or disappointed ambition, they had traded military secrets to the enemy. When Robert announced his decision to leave England, his mother had cried; his father had merely nodded his sad, disappointed acceptance.

The darkness closed in. The guard--Francisco Zamora, little Juanita's father, was on duty this evening--walked down the corridor to light the lamp on the end wall. He stopped on his way back.

"Doctor Helm? Would you like me to bring you a candle?"

"No, thanks." The offer was more than kind, and surprising: an open flame in a prisoner's cell was absolutely impermissible, an obvious violation of the rules. Zamora would not make a mistake like that, nor was he usually one to disobey orders. "Gracias, Francisco."

"De nada." The soldier started to walk away, then paused and returned. "I do not understand, señor. When my wife had the fever--she would have died without your medicine. Or my brother-in-law, Carlos: when he was shot, maybe another doctor would have taken his leg. You are a good man. You take care of us." Francisco hesitated. "Señora Santiago, she says you would never hurt El Coronel. But you help the Queen. I have seen that with my own eyes."

"It's-- It's complicated. The Queen, well, she-- I'm not sure I can explain. But I give you my word of honour, Francisco, that I mean the Colonel no harm."

"I trust you, señor." He inclined his head in something between a nod and a slight bow, then after a moment he leaned against the bars and broke into an almost conspiratorial smile. "But the Queen is a very beautiful woman, no?" He shook his head. "Beautiful women are trouble." And beautiful men as well, Robert added to himself.

A second guard joined Francisco in the guardroom; if the Queen put in an appearance Grisham obviously did not mean the garrison to be caught unaware. But Robert relied on the power of rumour and gossip to forestall any rescue attempt. If one had ever been in the cards to start with-- whatever Luis thought, the Queen was unlikely to be best pleased with him today either. So much for good intentions, the road to hell, and all that. Alone in his cell's evening darkness there was little to do except lie back on the bed and stare into the darkness until sleep came again.

He closed his eyes and threw one arm over his face. Luis' servants must have washed and ironed the shirt, for when he drew a breath the linen released the faint rosewater scent he remembered from Luis' bed. He shifted about, until he lay on his stomach, his head resting on his arms, and the scent was all around him. And then it wasn't just roses: it was Luis, holding him, pressing him down into the mattress, and the slightest touch of the night breeze on the back of his neck was Luis' breath feathering softly along the side of his face. Robert knew he should move and break the spell: a jail cell was too public, the guards too close for such fantasies. But the awareness of the danger just heightened the arousal, and his dream Luis was whispering to him and urging him to submit. Luis' hands were all over him now, caressing him, stroking him. Luis, incubus-like, was thrusting into him, claiming him, and all Robert wanted to do was...God, yes, harder...yes... No. What the hell was he doing? This was ridiculously, stupidly wrong. Robert bit down on his tongue to keep himself from making a sound; he concentrated on the pain until the moment and the spike of longing diminished.

He woke with the new light, as the false dawn before sunrise began to lighten the cell's gloom. It was early enough that he could inventory, one by one, the sounds of the garrison and the town rising and preparing for a new day's work. There was the odd cock crow to start with, then muffled stumblings toward the well for water. Eventually he heard footsteps and voices outside the jail, and he pulled himself to his feet. Thankfully the bruises didn't hurt quite so much, but his stiff muscles complained of ill-use. Would Luis come in person to exact his written promise of good behaviour? Robert stood by the bars, hands in his pockets. He considered whistling the Rogue's March, but decided that might be a little over the top.

"God Almighty! Don't you men have anything better to do?" Grisham entered the jail, followed by a small crowd of men oblivious to his reprimand. He took the keys from the guard and unlocked the door at the head of the corridor.

So Luis had not come in person; Robert felt the renewed shiver of disappointment. Then he saw the self-satisfied smile on the captain's face, and the shiver became an ominous chill. He took his hands out of his pockets and gripped the bars.

"Just give me a pen and some paper and you'll have my damn parole."

"Change of plans, Doc."

The soldiers clustered behind Grisham scowled at one another and muttered amongst themselves.

"Capitán?" Ramón spoke up. "Yesterday El Coronel said--"

"And today the Colonel isn't here, is he?"

Robert caught sight of an ashen-faced Cruz in the crowd. "Corporal? What's happened?"

"I am sorry, señor. I did as you told me. But El Coronel has a fever; and this morning I cannot wake him." Cruz stepped forward. "Capitán Grisham," he began, "you must allow the doctor--"

"Nah, I don't think so." Grisham pushed him away with a sneer. "Regulations. Until such time as the Colonel regains his health, I command this garrison. And as my first order--"

A suddenly slack, glazed blankness in his eyes, the captain crumpled to the floor. Behind him Private Esteban stared with uncomprehending shock at the butt of the pistol he held by the barrel, the pistol with which, it seemed, he had just cold-cocked his commanding officer. There was a moment of absolute silence.

"Carajo!" Cruz said at last. "The Capitán has caught the falling sickness." He bent down, picked up the keys. "Esteban, perhaps you had better take him to his quarters. And stay with him, mano...until the Doctor is sure he is fit again for duty, sí? Morales, find Sergeant Perez and tell him he is now in charge." Then he unlocked Robert's cell and held the door open respectfully. "Doctor? We will go to El Coronel?"

And without delay. It was only a matter of minutes before Robert was standing once more on the threshold of Luis' bedroom. Señora Santiago rushed forward and took one of his hands in both of hers and pulled him toward the bed. She needed no words; the situation spoke for itself. Luis lay there dishevelled, sweating and pallid, unconsciously restless amid a disarray of sheets. Robert fought down the panic; there was no time for that, not now. He laid his hand on Luis' forehead: the man was burning up.

"Señora, have a bath prepared--the colder the better. What the hell happened, Corporal Cruz? How long has he been like this?"

Cruz joined him at the bedside. "He had a fever, Doctor, but it was not so bad last night. He sent me away. And when I came this morning he was like this. I am sorry; you trusted me and I failed."

"No. No, it's not your fault. I should have warned you that--" Robert pushed Luis' nightshirt away from his wounded shoulder, and untied the dressing. Whatever else Cruz had or had not done, he had made a good job of that. But the wound...Christ! A scab had begun to form already, too soon, and the skin around it was red and puffy. "I'll need a bowl and a jug of boiling water as well, señora," he said, turning toward where she was supervising the servants as they poured in the first few buckets of water into the tub. "And clean rags, lots of them. Corporal, can you give me a hand with the Colonel?"

Between the two of them they lifted Luis from the bed and into the tub. Robert draped a wet towel across Luis' brow. The servants poured in more water. The wet linen of the nightshirt clung revealingly; at this rate Luis would have little dignity left. Señora Santiago took a final bucket of cold water from the servants and sent them off for the rest of the supplies. When they returned with the hot water and the rags, she took them and shooed them out of the room.

Robert took a scalpel and a bottle of Epsom salts from his medical bag--at some point someone, either Cruz or the mayora, had had it brought from his office--and placed them besides the tub. He poured a quantity of the mineral salts into the bowl and poured in the water to dissolve them. The wound needed to be reopened and cleansed. The procedure was going to hurt like hell. Robert knelt beside the tub, ran his fingers down the side of Luis' face.

"Be strong, Luis," he whispered. "Be strong. Please."

He turned and gestured for Cruz and the señora to help him hold Luis steady. Then he picked up the scalpel, and began to cut away the scab. Luis jerked beneath their hands; for a moment his eyes opened, and a cry of incoherent pain escaped his lips. The wound bled some, of course, and
welled with infection. Robert dipped a rag in the mineral solution and placed it on the wound to draw the poison. Luis tensed against the burn of the hot poultice. He hated doing this, but Robert forced himself to be ruthless. Be cruel to be kind, he told himself. Do what you have to do. Don't let him down. The cloth came away soaked with pus. Robert repeated the sequence, again and again, until the wound ran clean with blood and the swelling subsided.

He sat back on his heels. "That's as much as we can do for now, I think." Robert touched Luis' forehead: still feverish, but better. "Help me get him out of these wet clothes and back into bed."

Cruz balked, but the señora didn't hesitate. She stripped the shirt off Luis, coolly and efficiently, paying no attention to his moan when she raised his wounded arm. She held a clean sheet open as Robert and the corporal pulled him from the tub, wrapped it around his still unconscious body, and threw the coverlets back as they lowered him on to the bed. Then she tucked the covers around him, as gently as a mother with a beloved child.

Robert sat down on the edge of the bed. He felt light-headed. Now that the worst was over, the panic was rising again. His hands trembled as he tied a new dressing on the wound and fumbled with the bandage.

"Come. There will be coffee in the kitchen." The señora ushered Cruz out of the room. "Doctor, I shall bring yours up in a little while. You will want to stay here, I think."

He nodded, too grateful for her prevarication to worry, and almost too grateful to wonder about how indiscreet his expression might have been. He held one of Luis' hands in his own--how long had he been doing that? But there was a comfort in it, for him and, he hoped, for the unconscious Luis as well; so he continued holding it even after the panicky weakness and shakiness began to pass.

There was a soft tap on the door, and the mayora entered with his coffee. Robert stood, then realized that he was still holding Luis' hand. He flushed with embarrassment, though she gave no sign of finding his behaviour at all unusual. She merely inclined her head toward the armchair, and he drew it up beside the bed and sat there. She gave him the cup and saucer, then busied herself in setting the room to rights.

"El Coronel takes his coffee con leche," she said. "But you prefer yours black, no?"

"Yes, I do. Thank you, señora."

"It is nothing." She bent down and began to collect the stained rags into a bundle. "Emilia usually brings him his coffee in the morning. But she is too young. Some things are not for her to see. It is better that I bring it. And sometimes, I think, I will bring you some, too."

The coffee cup rattled violently as he laid it back on the saucer. "Señora--"

"I am wrong?" She stood up and faced him. "After my mother died, I kept my father's house. Then I had my husband, God give him peace, and my sons to look after. Now Coronel Montoya trusts me to run his household. He has many responsibilities, many worries, but not about his house. I look after him. I make sure that he has what he needs. I see how he looks at you, señor. I see how you look at him." She shrugged. "And I do what I must. It is simple."

Robert watched her, momentarily speechless, as she picked up the bundle and moved toward the door. In her own unassuming, placid way she would make as formidable an opponent as the Queen. "Señora?" he asked finally, urged by a sudden, nagging suspicion. "Would you know anything about what happened in the jail this morning?"

She was good, didn't even flinch. "José Esteban is my godson." She paused and looked back at him. "And now all will be well for El Coronel. You are here to take care of him."

Robert wished he had that much faith in his own abilities. In truth there was little enough he could do beyond keeping vigil, and now and again brushing a cold, damp cloth along the lines of Luis' face when the fever dreams made him thrash about too violently. He could talk to him, perhaps: patients often responded to familiar voices. But there was too much he wanted to say, and yet too little for which he could find the right words.

Perhaps he could read something to him. He sat back in the chair and opened the volume of Shakespeare's works from the bedside table. It was in the original language and printed in London, one of Egerton's pocket editions, with the flexible leather covers, thin paper and small type, designed and sold by the bookseller especially for army officers in the field. Books like this had been common enough in Spain during the War. Was that where Luis had come by his? It was odd to think that they might have met there, and odder still to wonder what would have happened if they had. The thread-bare silken bookmark suggested that Luis had been reading the Midsummer Night's Dream. Robert remembered the play well enough from school. He'd played Peter Quince, and at the time he'd had a terrible crush on--who was it?--Will Jenkins, who played Bottom, and who was himself infatuated with the boy acting Puck. "Lord, what fools these mortals be."

About noon Luis' fever finally broke, and his sleep became more peaceful. God willing, the infection seemed to have run its course. Robert had finished the play by that time, and started in on the sonnets. He'd read them before, of course, but the tension of the lovers' triangle, the drama of jealousy and desire and betrayal, had never seemed so poignant before.

"When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies....Oh, love's best habit is in seeming trust....Therefore I lie with her and she with me--"

"And in our faults by lies we flattered be."

At the sound of Luis' heavily accented English, Robert looked up from the page and smiled broadly. "So you're awake finally," He laid the book aside and stood up to close the distance between them. "You had us worried, you know."

"Us?"

"Me." Robert sunk down on the bed. "You had me worried."

"Ah." Luis looked annoyingly pleased with himself. "So perhaps the next time I tell you I am dying--" He closed his eyes for a moment. "I thought I was dying," he said more softly. "I thought I would never see you again."

"I would never allow that, querido." Robert leaned over and pressed a brief, impulsive kiss on his lips.

"You are an arrogant bastard." Luis smiled up at him. "Your bedside manner, however, is definitely improving. Though I seem to be somewhat underdressed. Again. What has happened while I was not dying?"

"A few things." Someone else could explain to the Colonel how it was that his Captain of the Guards found himself so mysteriously indisposed. "Nothing that you need to worry about right now."

"Hmmm." Luis flexed his shoulder and inhaled sharply, grimacing at the pain. "Diablo!"

"Sometimes a wound closes too soon. I had to-- I can give you something for the pain, some laudanum?"

"That will make me sleep again." Luis reached out and placed his hand on Robert's thigh. "Will you stay with me?"

"If you want."

"I want."

The faint huskiness of that voice, the touch of that hand sent a delicious but completely inappropriate tingling through Robert's body. He swallowed and searched for the willpower to stand and get the medicine from his bag. He measured a little into a glass on the bedside table and diluted it with a quantity of water: after so prolonged a fever, Luis would be dehydrated as well. Luis took the glass with his left hand. Robert supported his head while he drank it all down, then he fluffed the pillows officiously and relaxed Luis back into them.

Luis closed his eyes and smiled contentedly. "You are slipping, my dear Doctor. This time your potion was almost pleasant."

Robert read a bit more for a while, but decided he really wasn't in the mood for poetry or drama. Eventually he just sat and watched Luis sleep. Señora Santiago came upstairs to check on them and then retired, beaming happily, to prepare something light for her Coronel to have for his supper. Robert relaxed in the armchair. Luis' wound would still need tending, of course, and there was Grisham to be sorted, but still and all, perhaps things might not be quite the shambles he had feared.

But then a clatter of weapons and running feet signalled that the sentries had seen something--or someone. "The Queen," a voice called out. Luis stirred and muttered in his sleep. Robert sighed. No rest for the weary.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a half-expected movement through the veiling of the curtains, and he looked up. The Queen stepped into the room, her drawn sword in her hand.

"What do you want?"

"I came to see if the rumours were true, Doctor. Is he dying?"

"No."

"So you have saved his life again." The Queen advanced a pace or two toward the bed; Robert stood up to block her. "You protect him. Why?"

Robert hesitated. "He's my patient."

"Today perhaps. And the other night? You said you wouldn't interfere in a fair fight. But you did, didn't you?"

There was no point in arguing that point. "Why do you hate the Colonel so? What did he do to you?"

"He killed my--" She drew a breath. "You know what he is: a tyrant, a thief, a murderer. You can't trust him. He'll betray you: you know that. You know he would trade your life away quickly enough to gain something he wanted."

"Perhaps he would," he admitted quietly. Luis had, more than once, for that matter. "But I'm only responsible for my own actions. I won't betray him."

"So you'll betray me instead?"

"No, I-- You don't understand. If I wanted that, I'd be handing you over to the guards. I don't want to hurt you. But I won't allow you to hurt him."

She sheathed her sword and then raised a black-gloved hand to sweep her hair out of her eyes. Sliding closer to him, she reached out and pulled his face toward hers. "Robert..." Her kiss was warm and urgent, desperate almost, in its passion. She leaned forward, and the press of her body
reiterated her silent plea. His body responded to hers and for a heartbeat he allowed her to deepen the kiss. But finally he pushed her away, trying to be gentle in his rejection.

"You should go now," he said. "Before the sentries return."

She started to say something, stopped, nodded curtly. He watched her slip out the window and stood there another moment staring after her. Behind him Luis shifted in the bed, rustling the sheets.

"Robert?"

He turned toward the sound. Luis was awake, alert, regarding him with clear, light eyes--eyes that, even as they looked him up and down, grew hard, cold and unforgiving.