In high summer, England was in glorious bloom, and all the foliage was lush. More importantly, the towns and villages he’d passed through were prosperous and bustling, and the people were, for the most part, busy and cheerful. It was very hard to remember that there was war raging someplace. It was hard to remember that, not long ago, he’d been part of that war.

In an odd way, Charles, dressed in a tweed coat and sueded leather buff breeches, as befitted the manager of a country estate, regretted that he was no longer in the army. He’d felt important there in a way he never had at home. Oakhurst, he’d no doubt, was no more in need of an estate manager than he was of an estate. Geoffrey, for all his former rackety ways, would have seen to that. No, he’d likely been given the management of the estate simply as a way to keep him busy. He didn’t know whether he resented such largesse, or welcomed it.

Oakhurst was just ahead, perhaps a mile or so along the lane. Though he’d been here only a few times when he was younger, already he recognized landmarks. Over there, long felled by a lightning bolt, lay one of the oaks that gave the estate its name; here was the stream, which cut deeply enough in its banks to require a plank bridge, rather than a ford. Samson’s hooves rang hollow as he crossed it, the sound so homey that insensibly, Charles felt his spirits lifting. He breathed deeply of the smell of damp earth, listened more intently than he ever had to the counterpoint of birdsong and the buzz of cicadas, and rejoiced in the view of fields as devoid of threats as they were of people. If he’d been put out to pasture, as it were, he could think of worse fates, and worse places. He would grow roses, he decided, and let peace again seep into his soul.

From the comer of his eyes he caught just the merest flicker of motion, so small that he wasn’t sure he’d seen it It was enough, however, for him to stand in the saddle, scanning the field. Nothing. It was likely just a bird, he thought, triggering a response to danger honed too well on the Peninsula. That, more than anything else, was an indicator of the state his nerves had been reduced to.

No, there it was again, a flash of blue through the

trees edging the field, neither fast enough nor small enough to be a bird, after all. He tightened one hand on the reins, reaching his other hand down to his saddlebag, where he kept his pistol, primed and ready. Damn, but he’d not expected to face possible danger, not in England. Not on this peaceful, restful lane.

Again the blue flashed, closer this time. He aimed the pistol, his arm steadier now than it had been since his return. Closer now, and closer—and the blue flicker resolved itself into a woman’s skirts. She held them almost to her knees as she ran, throwing quick, frightened glances over her shoulder. For a moment he relaxed his posture. There certainly was something amiss, but it wasn’t likely dangerous. Not here on ...

Behind the woman—a girl, he realized, likely not much older than his sister—lumbered a rough-looking character, a man who shouted at her in words he couldn’t quite make out. Their tone was clear, though, and so was the long, deadly pistol in his hand. He was followed by another man, not quite so rough in appearance, but as deadly, judging by the pistol he held.

“Oh, help me, sir!” the woman cried, swerving and running toward him. “Help me!”

Through Charles’s mind flashed another time, another place, and a scene that was still part of his nightmares. His stomach churned.