When he had swallowed as much as he could, she laid him back against the pillows. Then she changed her seat to a spot where he could see her easily. Though movement of the mattress hurt, it was worth it to have her so close.

Voice stronger, he asked, "The battle?"

"We won. That was three days ago. Allied troops are now pursuing what's left of Napoleon's army into France. If they prevent the French from regrouping, the war might be over."

He blinked. "Three days?"

She nodded. "Kenneth is well-he and Ensign Hussey from your regiment found you on the field after the battle." She hesitated. "Kenneth sent your groom and baggage here, but I've heard nothing about your orderly, Bradley. Was he killed?"

He nodded bleakly. Bradley had been a cheerful young Irishman. At least his death had been mercifully quick. "Your husband and Charles Mowbry?"

"Colin came through without a scratch. He said to thank you because your horse, Thor, saved Charles and him both. Charles is here. He had to have his left forearm amputated, but he's doing well." She smiled wryly. "Much better than you."

He was glad to hear that her husband had survived. Colin Melbourne's death would have produced deep, wholly irrational guilt because Michael had wished the other man didn't exist.

"Surprising… I'm still breathing." His hand went feebly to the spot where the bullet had plowed into his abdomen. It was impossible to separate that pain from myriad others.

"You were insanely lucky." She reached into the nightstand and brought out his kaleidoscope, now badly mangled. "You have three major wounds and half a dozen minor ones, but this saved you from the one bullet that would surely have been fatal."

He stared at the lead ball and the ruined silver tube. "Shattered rainbows, in truth."

She looked at him quizzically. "Shattered rainbows?"

"That's what the kaleidoscope contained-pieces of dreams and rainbows. A lovely thing. A gift from a friend." He smiled faintly. "My lucky charm."

"Obviously."

He reached for it, but could not raise his hand. Pain again, like red-hot knives. "Not… lucky enough."

"You're not dying, Michael," she said emphatically. "In the process of being shot, slashed, trampled, and kicked by horses, you lost about as much blood as a man can lose and still live. For that reason, you're going to be horribly weak for some time to come-months, perhaps. But you are not dying."

She sounded so sure that he was half convinced. He had felt almost equally awful after Salamanca, and he'd survived that.

Her brows drew together. "I'm talking too much. You need rest." She got to her feet. "One more thing. You wanted letters sent to your particular friends if you died. Do you want me to write them to say how you're doing? When they see your name on the casualty lists, they'll be worried."

"Please. And… thank you." He tried to keep his eyes open, but the brief conversation had exhausted him.

"I'll write this afternoon and give the letters to a military courier so they'll reach London quickly." Catherine pressed his hand. "You're going to be fine, Michael."

Having seen how state of mind could affect a man's recovery, she intended to repeat her assurance often. She got to her feet wearily. Though she'd lost only a fraction of the blood Michael had, she still felt feeble as a newborn kitten.

She took the three letters from Michael's dresser so she could copy the addresses. Her brows rose a little as she looked at them. The Duke of Candover, the Earl of Strathmore, the Earl of Aberdare. High circles indeed. She guessed that the men were the other "Fallen Angels" Michael had known since school days. What had he called them? Rafe, Lucien, Nicholas. She envied them for having had his friendship for so many years.

Catherine was not there the next time Michael awoke. Instead, a pretty brunette was shyly laying her hand on his shoulder. After a moment, he recognized her as Elspeth McLeod, the Mowbrys' nursemaid. He murmured, "Hello."

"Good morning, Colonel. I have some gruel for you. Dr. Kinlock says we must feed you at every opportunity."

"Gruel," he said with as much loathing as he could get into a whisper. But he submitted meekly. He couldn't have eaten real food even if it were offered.

After he finished, Elspeth laid him back and straightened the covers. "I don't mind saying I didn't expect you to survive. When Catherine brought you home, you looked ready for planting."

He frowned, not understanding. "Catherine brought me home? She said Kenneth Wilding found me."

"Aye, but she was with him. She went to Waterloo to get Captain Mowbry, and ended up going onto the battlefield with Captain Wilding." The girl shivered. "Better her than me."

Michael had known Catherine was intrepid, but even so, he was amazed. "I owe her even more than I realized."

"That you do," Elspeth agreed. "You were bled out and the next thing to dead, so she talked Dr. Kinlock into letting her give you some of her blood. I helped. 'Twas the strangest thing I've ever seen. It worked, though. Dr. Kin-lock says you would have died if not for the transfusion."

He frowned, confused. "How could she give me her blood?"

"Through a pair of goose quills, from her arm to yours." Elspeth rose. "The doctor said not to tire you, so I'll leave. With you and Captain Mowbry ill, there's much to be done."

After the door closed behind her, Michael raised his hand a few inches and stared at the shadowy vessels pulsing beneath the thin skin inside his wrist. Catherine's blood was literally running in his veins. It was an intimacy so profound that his mind could not encompass it. Saint Catherine indeed, not only brave but modest, and the most generous woman he had ever known.

She would have done the same for any friend, perhaps even for a stranger. Yet the knowledge that she had shared her lifeblood moved him profoundly. For as long as he lived, something of her would be part of him. He closed his eyes against the sting of tears. It was damnable to be so weak.

The Earl of Strathmore was frowning over the letter he had just received when a footman entered. "Lord Aberdare is here, my lord. I've shown him into the drawing room."

Lucien rose to greet his friend. Trust Nicholas, the intuitive Gypsy, to come all the way from Wales because he sensed trouble on the wind. After shaking hands, Lucien said, "I just received a letter from Brussels about Michael. He was badly wounded, you know."

"I know-Clare and I have seen the casualty lists," Nicholas said tersely. "But I've been worried about Michael for weeks. Since I was nervous as a cat on a griddle, Clare told me to come to London because news would arrive here more quickly."

Lucien handed him the letter. "A Mrs. Melbourne wrote this. Michael was billeted with her family this spring, and now she's caring for him. Apparently his chances of recovery are good."

Nicholas scanned the page. "He mentioned Catherine Melbourne in several of his letters. Her husband is a dragoon captain." He gave a low whistle as he read the letter. "Michael was carrying that kaleidoscope you gave him all those years ago and it blocked a bullet to the belly?"

"Apparently. Mysterious are the ways…"

"Thank God he had it with him." Nicholas frowned. "It's obvious that even if Michael doesn't take a turn for the worse, it will be a long convalescence. You know everyone, Luce. Where can I find a really comfortable yacht?"

Lucien's brows rose. "You mean…?"

"Exactly." Nicholas neatly refolded the letter. "Clare has already given me my marching orders. I'm to go to Belgium and bring Michael home."

Chapter 15

Amy's dark head peered around Michael's door. "Today's newspaper has arrived, Colonel. Shall I read it to you?"

"I would enjoy that very much."

He smiled as Amy entered and sat down with a graceful swirl of skirts. The house was much livelier since Anne and the children had returned from Antwerp. Charles had regained much of his strength, and most of the Belgian servants were back.

Life had returned to normal for everyone except Michael. Though the pain had lessened, he was still maddeningly weak. The brisk Dr. Kinlock had assured him that his condition was normal after such blood loss, but the knowledge did not increase his patience. He particularly hated having Catherine see him in such a pathetic state. The fact that she was an experienced nurse and not in love with him did not assuage his tattered male pride.

His condition had one advantage: he was too feeble to feel desire. Instead, his yearning was of the heart, not the body. He had not realized how deeply he cared for Catherine until now, when passion no longer obscured more subtle feelings.

Amy read the main stories of the day, translating from French to English. Michael knew French, of course, but listening to English was less effort. Besides, he enjoyed her company. If he ever had a daughter, he hoped she would be like Amy.

She turned the page. "Here's a nice story. The French army surgeon, Baron Larrey, the one who invented the field ambulance? He was captured by the Prussians after Waterloo. Marshall Blucher was going to have him executed, but a German surgeon who had heard Baron Larrey lecture went to Blucher to plead for his life." She looked up, her eyes shining. "And guess what?"

"Blucher changed his mind, I hope?"

"Not only that. It turned out that Blucher's own son had been wounded and captured in a skirmish with the French, and it was Larrey who had saved his life! Isn't that wonderful?" She looked back at the paper. "Now Marshal Blucher is sending Baron Larrey back to France with a Prussian escort."