Julian frowned. He was not prepared to lose any of his men over a personal vendetta. This would have to be done with stealth, not by force. “Sergeant, keep the men here. Keep your ears open, and be ready to come up in support at the first sound of trouble.”

He turned to Tamsyn. “You,” he said, pointing an imperative forefinger, “and Gabriel, come with me. If we can't do this with the three of us, then it won't be done.”

Tamsyn considered this. It seemed as if he were reneging on the bargain, but the bright-blue eyes were like diamond chips, the forceful mouth tight, the jutting chin set, and it rather looked as if this was the best she was going to get. But the colonel was no lightweight. She'd had ample evidence of his physical strength, and though he couldn't compete with Gabriel, he cut an impressive figure, exuding an internal power that made him an opponent to be reckoned with. And at least his men would be there to cover their retreat.

With an equable nod she dismounted, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. “We'd best approach on foot.”

They crept through the undergrowth, Julian, his scarlet tunic once again concealed beneath his black boat cloak, astonished at how Gabriel, despite his size, seemed to flit and melt into the brush. Tamsyn was like a fawn, her feet barely touching the ground, hardly crushing a blade of grass as she passed. He was not as practiced at this guerrilla warfare and felt like some clumsy great ox beside his companions.

They halted about fifty yards from the encampment, where they could see a patrolling picket. Another man joined him after a minute, his rifle resting against his shoulder. They spoke together and resumed their march in opposite directions.

Staging an ambush along the picket lines was not going to be easy. “How about the latrines?” Tamsyn whispered, her eyes shining wickedly in the now-full dark. “When Cornichet pays his nightly visit, we could be waiting for him. He's a creature of habit. Every evening at around eleven he goes to the jakes, taking a glass of cognac with him.”

“How do you know?” Julian peered at her in the gloom, infected, despite his attitude toward this time wasting and dangerous jaunt, by the wicked mischief emanating from the slight figure at his elbow.

Tamsyn grimaced. “I spent two and a half days tethered in his cabin, Colonel. I had ample opportunity to observe his routine.”

“Do you know where the jakes are situated?”

She nodded. “I was permitted to, use them-twice a day,” she added with a hiss of fury, remembering the discomfort and humiliation of her imprisonment.

Julian offered no response. If one played in a dirty world, one risked falling into the slime, and he didn't think La Violette was asking for sympathy. “So where are they?”

“The far side of the encampment, dug about ten feet within the picket line, but set apart from the main camp.”

“Lead on, Violette.” His expression was wry. Of all the crazy exercises he'd been involved in, this one took the prize. But this Spanish-Cornish bandit clearly had a fertile imagination when it came to devising the downfall of her enemies. Cornichet's plight would be almost as ludicrous as his own that morning, caught while taking his pleasure between the smooth thighs of a passionate plunderer.

Gabriel was grinning, much amused by Tamsyn's plot. But he too had suffered at the hands of Cornichet and his men.

They crept around the picket line. A twig snapped beneath Julian's boot, and the sound seemed to echo in the silence. Immediately Tamsyn cupped her mouth with her hands, and the haunting call of a nightjar filled the wood. Gabriel nodded his approval and Julian cursed his clumsiness.

The smell of smoke and smoldering embers still lingered in the air, and the wood was very quiet, its wildlife fled from men and fire. The trees were still leafless, and the crescent moon shone through the branches with an alarming brightness, but Gabriel and Tamsyn hugged the silvered trunks of trees, slithered on their bellies through bushes, and Julian followed them as they crawled and darted from dark patch to dark patch until they'd circled the outpost, and the faint odor of sewage wafted from beyond the picket line where the latrine trenches were dug.

“The officers' latrine is at the far end, closest to the camp,” Tamsyn whispered, her voice a 'mere breath on the air. “Their section has a canvas cover-as if what they do is any different from the common soldier,” she added with derision.

“I should imagine you were glad enough of the privacy,” Julian observed dryly, and was rewarded by a quick, rueful grin of acknowledgment. She was an infuriatingly opinionated girl, he reflected, but at least she knew when to yield an issue.

A staccato hail rang out from the picket line, and they dropped to the ground behind a thornbush. Tamsyn, squashed between the two men, slowly raised her head to look over the bush. There was another shout from the camp, and the colonel abruptly pushed her head down into the dirt.

“They haven't seen us,” she protested in a fierce whisper, struggling against the pressure of his hand. “They're changing pickets.”

“Your hair in the moonlight is like a damn torch,” he hissed against her ear. “Cover it with that bandanna you're wearing.”

Tamsyn pulled off the dark kerchief at her throat and tied it over her head. It was annoying to be reminded of this elementary precaution by someone she considered a mere novice at this game, but she couldn't quarrel with the instruction.

“It takes the picket about three minutes to patrol his section,” Gabriel whispered. He'd been concentrating on the activity at the picket line throughout the exchange between the colonel and Tamsyn. “Long enough for one of us to get across.”

“I'll go first,” Tamsyn said. “You follow, Gabriel, and the colonel can come last.”

“No.” Julian stated. “You'll come between us. That way, if anything happens and you're caught, we'll be able to attack from both sides.”

“Surely the same applies to either of you?”

“You're the one Cornichet wants,” he snapped.

“And having winkled you out of there once, I'm damned if I'm going to lose you again. It's bad enough indulging you in this ridiculous whim without jeopardizing my own mission more than I can help.”

For a second Tamsyn debated with herself. He couldn't stop her if she simply launched herself across the ground. Gabriel would follow, and they could manage without help from this damned supercilious colonel. But he did have a point. Pride warred with common sense, and the latter won.

She made no response, merely hunkered down behind the bush, frowning fiercely. Julian gave Gabriel a nod, and as the picket turned at his post to march down the line, the giant leaped forward. He clung to the bare ground, but he was visible for a terrifying few moments under the moonlight; then he disappeared into the shadows beyond the picket line.

The two left behind waited, unmoving. The picket returned and left. Tamsyn didn't wait for the colonel's nod. She darted across the space, crouching low, a diminutive flying figure, and then she too disappeared into the shadows.

Julian waited alone, no longer concerned with the military merits of this exercise. Now that it was begun, all his concentration was on successful completion. His moment came, and he moved out of concealment and ran, conscious of his sword bumping against his hip. His foot caught on a stone and he almost tripped, cursing his clumsiness, but in the full regalia of a cavalry officer he was more encumbered than his companions.

“Over here.” Tamsyn's hissing whisper beckoned him from the gloom, and he dropped to the ground beside the other two behind a woodpile. The camp was surprisingly quiet for this time of night, but they could hear subdued voices from the scattered tents and huts, an occasional burst of laughter, a shout of complaint.

“Let’s get in place.” Tamsyn moved forward on the words, but again Julian caught her arm, his fingers hard, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

“Same order as before.”

She acceded in silence, and they waited while Gabriel threaded his way through the trees to the humped canvas shape,of the officers' latrine and disappeared behind it.

“You, now.”

The English colonel seemed to think he was in charge, but there was no time to stop and argue the toss with him. Tamsyn flitted away, cherishing the thought of revenge on Cornichet. It was worth putting up with a little of the English milord's autocratic manner to achieve it.

At precisely eleven o'clock Colonel Cornichet emerged from his hut, a glass of cognac in his hand. He paused and looked up at the sky, smelling the freshness of the air. Now that the rain had stopped, the English siege of Badajos would move apace. His own force was too small to go to the support of the citizens and garrison of the town, but if he hadn't lost La Violette, he'd now be in a position to mop up a few of the local partisan bands, and a map of the passes they used through the mountains would have been an Invaluable contribution to the struggling French armies.

He'd planned and almost pulled off a neat coup that would have brought him the congratulations of his superiors and almost certainly a promotion. Something that would have taken him out of this godforsaken land before the miseries of summer came down on them. Instead he'd been outwitted by the English, who were now presumably in possession of all Violette's vital information.

A disgruntled frown drew his eyebrows together as he strode through the camp, making his accustomed tour of the pickets in a dour silence that none of his men chose to break, before he turned and walked purposefully toward the latrines.

“There he goes,” an infantryman observed sotto voce to a companion. “Old man's regular as clockwork.” A ribald response brought a guffaw from both of them as the colonel pushed aside the canvas curtain and disappeared from view.

He was preparing to make himself comfortable on the wooden slats resting over the trench when the tip of a knife poked through the canvas wall at the side of the enclosure. He stared, for a moment unsure what he was seeing, and then the canvas split with a harsh rending, and to his eternal astonishment the small face of La Violette appeared in the opening.

“Bon soir, Colonel Cornichet.” Her white teeth flashed in a far from friendly smile, and the serviceable knife she held pressed into his throat. “We have a little unfinished business, you and I. Don't shout,” she added softly, seeing him gather his wits. “If you open your mouth, my friend here will blow your brains to kingdom come.”

Cornichet gazed stunned to where Gabriel's pale eyes regarded him with deceptive mildness from behind the girl. The muzzle of a rifle jutted through the torn canvas.

“Sacre bleu,” the colonel muttered at this apparition, as he fumbled desperately with his dropped britches, trying not to move his head against the tip of the knife.

“It's not a pleasant sensation, is it, Colonel?” the girl said, still smiling, but her eyes were as flat and cold as violet stones. The knife pricked, and a bead of blood formed and trickled down to stain the white folds of his stock.

Cornichet's Adam's apple moved convulsively, and the tip of the knife slid upward, pressing into the soft skin beneath his chin. He gave up trying to adjust his dress and stood immobile, sweat gathering on his forehead.

“There's an old saying, Colonel. Do as you would be done by,” La Violette continued. “And something else I recall about the sweetness of vengeance.” The knife tip traced a circle on his skin.

“For God's sake,” he whispered hoarsely. “If you're going to do it, then get on with it.”

She shook her head and her eyes made him shiver, but before she could say anything, St. Simon spoke with brusque impatience from the darkness behind her.

“In the name of goodness, girl! You're as bad as a cat with a mouse. Let's be done with this and get out of here.”

Cornichet stared, dumbstruck as a tall cloaked Englishman pushed the colonel's tormentor aside, thrusting her behind him. He held a cavalry sword in his right hand and looked thoroughly exasperated.

“Forgive me, Cornichet. But there's something I want from you.” His sword flickered twice, so quickly the Frenchman had scarcely time to draw breath, and the rich gold braided epaulets fell with a splash into the latrine trench.

“And his buttons,” La Violette demanded from the darkness.

Julian sighed. “Your pardon, Cornichet, but I struck a bargain with this vengeful wretch.” Again his sword flicked, and one by one the colonel's gold tunic buttons with the Napoleonic eagle stamped on them followed the epaulets into the latrine.