Though gin was no substitute for blood, a few mouthfuls did dull the pain.

A cockney voice yelled, "Blimey! Here comes Old Hookey!"

A cheer went up. Michael returned the gin canteen and turned to see Wellington and an aide racing toward his square, pursued by a dozen French lancers. The square opened to admit the duke and his companion, then closed again. A volley of musket balls drove off the lancers.

Wellington was famous for always being where the fighting was fiercest. Unperturbed by the nearness of his escape, he pulled up his horse. "Good show here, Kenyon."

Michael forced himself to stand straight. "The regiment has done itself proud, sir. How goes the battle?"

The duke shook his head. "We're taking a pounding. Blucher swore he'd come, but the rain turned the roads to mud, so God knows when we'll see him. If the Prussians don't get here soon…" His voice broke off. "I must be on my way. Stand steady, Kenyon."

As Wellington prepared to leave, a soldier yelled, "When can we go at the frogs, sir?"

The duke smiled faintly. "Don't worry, lads, you'll have your chance at them." Then he cantered out of the square toward the beleaguered Chateau de Hougoumont, where the Guards had been fighting the French all day in a vicious battle-within-a-battle.

It was early evening, Michael supposed, but time had lost all meaning. Hard to believe that two days before, he had been waltzing with Catherine in a room full of light and elegance.

As he waited for the next attack, he tried to remember what it was like to have her in his arms. But detail was impossible to recall. The only thing he could conjure up was the warmth in her aqua eyes, and the bittersweet joy of holding her close.

The menacing beat of French drums began the signal for an infantry attack. Michael's lips thinned. He raised his spyglass, balancing it awkwardly with his good hand. Through the heavy smoke, he saw a vast French column advancing toward the allied lines. Luckily it would hit to the right of the 105th, so his tired men would have time to recover.

A bandage on his thigh, Captain Graham limped up. "May I borrow the spyglass, sir?"

Michael passed it over. The captain muttered an obscenity as he identified the red plumes and high bearskin hats. "So Boney is finally sending in his Imperial Guard."

"Precisely. They've never failed in an attack, and after spending the day in reserve, they're as fresh as if they were on parade in a park," Michael said grimly.

It was the last grand throw of the dice. With the Imperial Guard, Napoleon would regain or lose his empire.

At suppertime, Catherine forced herself to go home. Though activity was infinitely preferable to waiting, she must conserve her strength. It had been confirmed that another battle was being fought, so there would be a new wave of wounded in the morning. Intensely she prayed for the lives of her friends.

Catherine collected Elspeth, who was also helping in the hospital. The girl was proving herself a stalwart Scot, but her face was gray and dark circles shadowed her eyes.

Together they walked the short distance to the Rue de la Reine. Most of the Belgian servants had returned to their families, leaving only the cook and Catherine's groom. A good thing Everett was there, or the horses might have been stolen.

After washing up, the two women ate together in the kitchen. Catherine found it impossible to swallow more than a few mouthfuls of soup. Wearily she added a generous dash of brandy to her tea and took it to the morning room.

The portfolio of sketches was still there. She leafed through them again, wondering if the men in the pictures were still safe and whole. Was Colin glorying in what must be the battle of a lifetime? Would Charles live to see his unborn child, or Kenneth survive to draw other laughing families?

She came to the last picture, and quickly closed the portfolio, her throat tight. It would be a pity to ruin the drawing of Michael with her tears.

The Imperial Guard fell back, shattered by the fierce resistance of the allied troops. Michael was almost too dazed to appreciate the enormity of it. France's finest troops had broken and turned into a mob instead of an army.

But it wasn't over yet. How much longer would the battle last? How much longer could it last? The 105th had suffered over forty percent casualties, half of whom had died outright. Other regiments had fared even worse.

Then Graham cried jubilantly, "Look, sir!"

An elm tree at the crest of the ridge, where two roads intersected, was Wellington's command post when he was not riding the lines. The spot was barely visible through the smoke. Now the duke was there, his lean form silhouetted against the evening sky as he stood in his stirrups and waved his cocked hat forward three times. It was the signal for a general advance. A thunderous cheer went up in the regiments nearest the duke and rolled down the allied lines in a swelling roar.

Fierce exultation burned through Michael, searing away his weakness. In his bones, he knew that this battle was won. The long years in the army, the brutal hours of being cut up by French artillery, had come down to this moment. Raising his sword in the air, he shouted, "Follow me, 105th!"

"Aye, Colonel! To hell, if you'll lead us there," a voice boomed back.

The regiment formed into companies and boiled down the slope over the matted, blood-soaked rye, muskets and bayonets at the ready. All along the ridge, the action was being echoed by the other allied troops under command of any officers who survived. They swooped down onto the plain, leaving behind them unmoving scarlet lines of dead and wounded.

Vicious skirmishing began across the two-mile width of the battlefield. Though much of the imperial army was in full flight, pockets of French soldiers still resisted gallantly.

The 105th split into smaller groups, some men pushing forward after the fleeing enemy, others engaging in fierce hand-to-hand combat with those Frenchmen who still fought. All was chaos. Light-headed from blood loss, pain, and fatigue, Michael was in a dark, fierce place where there was no past or future or fear. Only instinct and will and the madness of war, where any moment might be his last.

Reality was a collection of feverish, disconnected images. A tangle of fallen French guards, their limp bodies intertwined like tree roots. An abandoned horse peacefully cropping a mouthful of grass. A dying hussar, his belly ripped open, pleading for death. Michael spoke a prayer in French, then cut the poor devil's throat.

He thought his own death had found him when a cuirassier charged, sword swinging. Michael braced himself, but knew that in his present condition he had no chance against a mounted man.

Then the Frenchman's gaze went to Michael's sling. He raised the hilt of his sword to his forehead in a salute and swerved away in search of other targets. Michael touched the hard ridge of the silver kaleidoscope, which was tucked inside his coat. His lucky charm had not failed him yet.

They were moving up the opposite slope of the valley when Michael pushed through a gap in a ragged hedge and found Tom Hussey being attacked by two Frenchmen. As one stabbed a bayonet through the ensign's shoulder, Michael leaped forward with a murderous shout. He sliced one assailant's chest, then turned snarling on the other. Unnerved by his attack, both men fled.

Tom wiped his forehead with a grimy sleeve. "How does one learn to fight like you, sir?"

"Practice and a bad temper." Michael's fury subsided, leaving him panting. He indicated the blood seeping between the ensign's fingers. "You should get that taken care of."

"There will be time for that later." Tom's eyes were bright with the intoxication of fighting and surviving.

There were only two good hands between them, but together they managed to bind the bayonet wound. Then they moved forward again. Michael tried to keep an eye on the boy, but a flurry of advancing Hanoverians separated them.

Death in battle can come in an instant, or with excruciating slowness. For Michael the end came swiftly. He heard a snarled French curse, and turned to see the men he had driven away from Tom Hussey. Both were aiming their muskets from less than fifty feet away. They fired. Two balls slammed into him almost simultaneously, one in the thigh, the other in his abdomen. When he crumpled to the muddy earth, he knew he would not rise again.

He lay there, barely conscious, until he felt the vibration of galloping hooves drumming through the soil. He raised his head to see half a dozen French lancers racing toward him in mindless panic. Though he knew the effort was pointless, he tried to crawl toward a ragged hedge that might offer some protection. He did not reach it in time. The lancers rode over him, the hooves of the horses rolling him across the ground. One lancer slowed long enough to stab his lance into Michael's back.

Pain was everywhere, so intense it blacked out the red setting sun and the clamor of battle. With each shuddering breath, he hoped that dying with honor would redeem the times when he had not lived with it.

He felt himself floating away, disconnected from his battered body. Catherine was there, her presence more vivid than the devastation around him. She smiled and dissolved his pain with gentle hands.

With the final shreds of awareness, he knew that he had died well, and that he had been privileged to know a woman worthy of being loved. Then he spiraled into darkness, his spirit at peace.

Chapter 12