One Night for Love

to a soldier chosen carefully for her by her father? No. He wishes he has not thought it.

She does not immediately answer. But when he turns his head to look at her again, he sees that she is gazing upward and that her wonderful dreamy smile is lighting her face again.

'Do you see that bird, sir?' He turns his head and glances at it. 'I want to be like that. Soaring high. Strong. Free. Borne by the wind and friend of the sky. I do not know what will become of me. One day you will be gone, and one day…'

But her words trail off and her smile fades and what she has just said hangs in the air before them like a tangible thing.

Then the silence is broken by the crack of a single gunshot.

***

One of the pickets has caught sight of a rabbit out of the corner of his eye and has imagined a ravenous French host. That is Neville's first thought. But he cannot take a chance. His years as an officer have trained him to act from instinct as much as from reason. It works faster, and sometimes it saves lives.

He jumps to his feet and hauls Lily to hers. They are running back to the company, Neville protectively hunched over her from behind, even as Sergeant Doyle bellows to her and everyone else is grabbing rifles and ammunition. Neville checks for his sword at his side even as he runs. He yells orders to his men, Lily forgotten as soon as he has her back in the relative safety of the makeshift camp.

He has misjudged the picket. It is not a rabbit that has caught his attention; it is a French scouting party. But the warning shot was a mistake. Without it, the French probably would have gone peacefully on their way even if they had spotted the British soldiers. Nothing can be gained for either side by engaging in a fight. But the shot has been fired.

The ensuing skirmish is short and sharp but relatively harmless. It would have been entirely so if a new recruit in Neville's company had not frozen with terror on the bare hillside, a motionless, open target for the French. Sergeant Doyle, cursing foully, goes to his assistance and takes the bullet intended for the boy through his own chest.

The fighting is all over five minutes after it has started. With a derisive cheer the French go on their way.

'Leave him where he is!' Neville shouts, racing across the slope of the hill toward his felled sergeant. 'Fetch the first-aid box.'

But it will be useless. He sees that as soon as he is close. There is only a small spot of blood on the dark-green fabric of his sergeant's coat, but there is death in his face. Neville has seen it in too many faces to be mistaken. And Doyle knows it too.

'I am done for, sir,' he says faintly.

'Fetch the damned first-aid box!' Neville goes down on one knee beside the dying man. 'We will have you patched up in no time at all, Sergeant.'

'No, sir.' Doyle clutches at his hand with fingers that are already cold and feeble. 'Lily.'

'She is safe. She is unhurt,' Neville assures him.

'I should not have brought her out here.' The man's eyes are losing focus. His breath is coming in rasping gasps. 'If they attack again…'

'They will not.' Neville's fingers close about those of his sergeant. He gives up the pretense. 'I will see Lily safely back to camp tomorrow.'

'If she is taken prisoner…'

It is highly unlikely even on the remote chance that there will be another encounter, another skirmish. The French will surely be as little eager for a confrontation at this time of year as the British. But if she is, of course, her fate will be dreadful indeed. Rape…

'I will see that she is safe.' Neville leans over the man who has been his respected comrade, even his friend, despite the differences in their rank. His heart is involved in this death more than his head. 'She will not be harmed even if she is taken prisoner. You have my word as a gentleman on it. I will marry her today.'

As the wife of an officer and a gentleman, Lily will be treated with honor and courtesy even by the French. And the Reverend Parker-Rowe, the regimental chaplain, who finds life in camp as tedious as the most restless soldier, has come with the scouting party.

'She will be my wife, Sergeant. She will be safe.' He is not quite sure the dying man understands. The cold fingers still pluck weakly at his own.

'My pack back at the base,' Sergeant Doyle says. 'Inside my pack…'

'It will be given to Lily,' Neville promises. 'Tomorrow, when we arrive safely back at camp.'

'I should have told her long ago.' The voice is becoming fainter, less distinct. Neville leans over him. 'I should have told him. My wife… God forgive me. She loved her. We both did. We loved her too much to…'

'God forgives you, Sergeant.' Where the devil is the chaplain? 'And no one could ever have doubted your devotion to Lily.'

Parker-Rowe and Lily arrive at the same moment, the latter hurtling down the hill at reckless speed. Neville gets to his feet and stands to one side as Lily takes his place beside her father, gathering his hand into both her own, bending low over him, her hair a curtain about his face and her own.

'Papa,' she says. She whispers his name over and over again and remains as she is for several minutes while the chaplain murmurs prayers and the company stands about, helpless in the presence of death and grief.

***

After they have buried Sergeant Doyle on the hillside where he died, Neville orders the camp moved two or three miles farther on. He walks on one side of a silent, frozen-faced Lily while Parker-Rowe walks on the other side. He has already spoken with the chaplain.

Lily has not wept. She has not spoken a word since Neville took her by the shoulders and raised her to her feet and told her gently what she already knew—that her father was gone. She is accustomed to death, of course. But