he scooted away from him to inspect his stitches, scolding him severely for not obeying her commandment. He wanted to tell her he wasn’t quite that stupid, that he’d used solely his uninjured limb for leverage. But his exhaustion at last caught up with him, and he fell asleep with her admonishing words echoing sweetly in his ears.

He awoke three hours later, when the hospital assistant came to call her away to help an injured sowar. Within fifteen minutes he was back on the rampart and did not leave for the next thirty-six hours. She sent the hospital assistant after him one time. But Ranjit Singh took one look at the situation—the enemy inside the barbed wire enclosure, ladders raised against the walls of the fort—and concluded that it was no time to pull any man away from the battle.

When Leo did finally get away, he stopped by the surgery, but she was in the middle of an operation, her brows furrowed, her face pale, cursing in surprisingly vivid German. So he hobbled to their quarters, fell into bed and fell asleep instantly.

He dreamed that she was there with him, carefully nudging his trousers down to examine the stitches on his thigh and tsking in disapproval. Her fingers were cool and reassuring. He adored her touch.

Her fingers meandered away from the stitches and dipped down to the inside of his thigh. He was immediately aroused. Put your hand on me. Give me some blessed relief. I have wanted you too long.

Her hand moved away. His hopes plunged. But then something even better happened. She kissed him just above the dressing, a moist, lingering kiss. He groaned with the magnitude of his need. Inch by inch she nibbled and licked. He was dying—such pleasure, such torture.

And then she came to a most logical but no less shocking destination: She took him inside her mouth. He was instantly on the verge. It was her mouth, her lips, her tongue on him. Burning, exquisite, unbearable.

He shuddered and jerked, barely holding back at the edge. He tried to give her a warning. I have to—I’m going to— Too late. He lost all control. His emptied into her in hot convulsions, the pleasure fearsome, almost terrible in its blinding intensity. And she—good God—she swallowed everything.

In the aftermath he trembled and gasped, undone. This had to be the best bloody dream he’d had in a long time. In real life, he would never even think to suggest to her that she pleasure him with her mouth, let alone that—

He opened his eyes. Judging by the light seeping in around the edges of the door, it was still the middle of the day. But as the shutters were kept shut—there were constant sniper shots during daytime—a kerosene lamp had been lit to dispel the dimness inside the room.

He had not lit the lamp.

He turned his head. Bryony knelt between his legs, panting slightly. At his look she quickly lowered her head and pulled up his trousers.

It had not been a dream. For a moment he was paralyzed with dismay.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I thought I was dreaming. I didn’t know—I wouldn’t have—”

“Don’t be silly,” she said softly. “It had to go somewhere and it wasn’t as if I didn’t know what was coming.”

Then she did something that amazed him: She giggled at her own words. “That was a horrible pun, wasn’t it? I’d better go make my rounds. You go back to sleep.”

That night she woke up panting in arousal. It was pitch dark. He was in bed with her, his hand between her legs, playing her like a lyre.

“Move a little higher,” he ordered.

He was on his back, she on her side. She wiggled toward the head of the bed, careful not to bump into his right thigh even by accident.

“Now come closer.”

She did. In the next moment, his mouth captured her nipple, and warmly, kindly lavished it with attention. Desire ripped through her—he knew exactly how wildly she responded to the coddling of her ni**les: A breath of air blown across the tips had them hard and quivering for touch; a gentle lick had her moaning and straining for more; a tug with just the right amount of force as she hovered on the edge of a paroxysm sent her over promptly.

When his lips retreated, she moaned in protest. He palmed her breast. “Patience, patience,” he murmured.

His other hand still fiddled with her, gently, almost sleepily. She wanted more. She wanted more aggression from him, more urgency, more—

He pinched her nipple. As aggressive and urgent a pleasure as she ever knew jolted her. Suddenly she was there, her spine curving, her inside quaking.

He kissed her on the forehead. “I’d tell you to go back to sleep, but I’m not sure you are even properly awake.”

“I am,” she protested. And fell back asleep in the next second.

When she woke up again, it was still night.

She stared at the ceiling, wondering what had pulled her out of her deep slumber. After a while she realized that it was the silence, the night as still as a thief. She sat up. Where was everyone? Was the battle over?

A match flared into life. Leo, seated at the edge of the table, his good leg propped up on a chair, lit the lamp. He discarded the match and lifted a half-eaten fig from the table. His clothes were hopelessly rumpled, his hair mussed, his face rough with a four-day growth of beard. He should appear haggard, but as he watched her, there was such a jauntiness to him—almost a swagger—that he merely looked at once battle-tested and virile.

Remembering the state she had been reduced to in her sleep—the front of her shirt open, her corset hanging loose, the top buttons of her combination undone, her skirt and petticoat up around her waist—she hastily reached for a blanket, only to realize that she was decently dressed, her skirts down at her ankles, her br**sts perfectly contained.

“I didn’t want to imperil anyone’s chance of survival by keeping the surgeon in a state of undress,” he said, smiling. “I also didn’t want soldiers dying of bliss should you rush out of this room with your bosom in plain view.”

She cleared her throat. “Thank you. Most kind of you.”

“But I would like to see you,” he said softly. “And perish of bliss.”

She bit her lower lip, then set her face into an austere expression. “Not when I’m still upset with you.”

He flushed. She stared at the abrupt and visible reddening of his complexion—she’d never seen him flush before.

“I’m sorry. I was dreaming and I—I—” he stammered.

She flushed too. “That’s not what I’m upset about.”

“No?”

She felt the warmth of her cheeks spread to her throat and bosom. It was a few seconds before she could speak. “You promised you would stay off your feet and only load rifles for others. But when Captain Bartlett came to tour the injury ward he couldn’t say enough about your marksmanship.”

He relaxed and tossed her a fig. “That is pure slander. I will have you know that I stayed calmly uninvolved as pandemonium erupted all about me.”

“Captain Bartlett further said that when the sight on one of the machine guns malfunctioned, and their regular sharpshooter became injured, you were the one who held off the enemy while the sepoys repaired the sight.”

“A momentary lapse. I blame it on the general panic among the men.”

“A momentary lapse that lasted a day and a half?”

“Will you forgive me if I tell you that all throughout I was extremely, excessively careful with my stitches?”

“Your dressing was soaked in blood.”

“Was it?” He looked genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know.”

“The stitches mainly held. But it took a while to clean and disinfect.”

“I didn’t know that either,” he said sheepishly. “I thought you came, took a look at it, then …”

They both flushed again. She’d always viewed such sexual acts as analogous to cliff-diving: survivable, and no doubt thrilling to a tiny portion of the population, but what was the point really? Yet as she’d knelt before him that afternoon, she’d remembered the searing pleasure he’d once given her in just such a manner. One day you will return the favor, he’d whispered in her ear that night. And she’d decided to return the favor then and there, because they might not live to see another day.

Perhaps she ought to rethink cliff-diving. Because she certainly enjoyed its analogous act more than she’d ever thought possible for anyone. Even the scramble at the end.

She cleared her throat. “I’m going to write a letter to the Times,” she said, changing the subject completely. “The last man I operated on was hit by friendly fire. The bullet shattered upon impact. And it was horrible—took me four hours to extract all the fragments. Ranjit Singh told me that these Dum-Dum bullets are designed to do that, to inflict maximum damage. I understand that bullets are supposed to be deadly, but surely it is against the spirit of the Geneva Convention to have bullets that maim so viciously when they don’t kill.”

He sighed. “This entire thing is mad. We spent untold amounts to maintain these forward posts, because we fear the Russians would come sweeping down the Pamirs any day. But I’ve seen photographs of the Pamirs taken from the air: It would be worse than Napoleon marching on St. Petersburg for the Russians to invade India via the Pamirs—they’d have a better chance sacrificing half their army in Afghanistan first.”

She took a bite of the fig he’d given her. “I didn’t know there were photographs of the Pamirs taken from the air.”

“Remember my purpose for being in Gilgit, the balloon expedition? It wasn’t to survey the Nanga Parbat, but to take aerial images of the Pamirs and study the routes the Russians could take.”

Her eyes went wide. “You were on a spy mission?”

“It wasn’t exactly spying since the Pamirs don’t belong to either side. But I’d certainly gone to Gilgit in service to the empire. So I’m not quite as innocent a bystander in this uprising as you are.”

It was her turn to speak sheepishly. “And here I thought you were merely following me around.”

“I was.” He finished his fig and wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. “I always had something legitimate to do, but I could have gone to Sweden and Italy instead of Germany and America. I chose to be closer to you.”

She looked down into her lap. She still had trouble thinking of him as devastated by their annulment—before she left for Germany, he’d entertained quite grandly at his hotel, leaving her to draw the very reasonable conclusion that he was more than happy to be rid of her as a spouse.

But then there had been that microscope. There had been the way he’d looked at her, hope and despair fused into one single, scalding emotion. What stupid children they had been, to cause each other such pain and then to hold on to their wounds so fiercely.

She got up, walked to him, and very carefully wrapped her arms about him.

He kissed the top of her head. “I wish we had more time.”

But there was no more time to be squeezed from the all-consuming battle—he couldn’t have had more than twelve hours of sleep in the five nights and days they’d been here. Sometimes it seemed to her that she’d lived her entire life in this fort, that there had never been anything in her years but this siege and this desperate struggle.

A knock came at the door. “Mr. Marsden, it’s Richmond. We are due back on the rampart in two minutes.”

“I’ll be right there,” Leo answered.

“Must you go?” she complained. “There is no fighting.”

“But the enemy is still out there. Which is why I need to go, so that the next batch of sepoys can rest. I was just about to leave when you woke up.”

“I wish you could stay,” she murmured, as she kissed him just above his collar. “I am having an extraordinarily difficult time letting you out of my arms.”

down her face. He kissed her tears. “It doesn’t matter where I am; I’m yours.”

After a half day lull, all hell broke loose. Ranjit Singh informed Bryony in an unsteady voice that whereas they’d had two or three thousand attackers earlier, now they were surrounded by well over ten thousand Pathans, every last one of whom was dead set on storming the fort.

Bullets slammed into the fort as if they were some malicious god’s idea of manna from heaven. The casualty rate rose sharply. A camp follower and two sepoys died not from battle but from the flying bullets while traversing the interior of the fort.

For some time Bryony existed in a state of abject fear. She was not ready to die. She was not ready for Leo to die. Or for Ranjit Singh or Captain Bartlett or her patients or the brave cavalry soldiers who’d ridden from Malakand or anyone at all in this fort to be hacked to death.

Then the hours passed, the defenders still held, and her terror subsided to a grim apprehension. She went on with the work of the surgery, which was unfortunately all too plentiful. Leo sent her a hurriedly scratched note: B., The stitches are fine. I changed the dressing—no infection as far as I can tell. Be sure you eat enough and sleep as much as you can. And walk in the open only under the most extreme caution. L.

She barely ate and slept for two days, but when she finally returned to the quarters, she did proceed under extreme caution—Ranjit Singh had found a pair of spare shutters from somewhere and had accompanied her, the two of them each holding a shutter as a shield, running the gauntlet.

Leo came and lay down next to her at some point. She was so tired she couldn’t even grunt to acknowledge him. But if it was possible to sleep with a smile on her face, then she must have—whether she had enough grace to die bravely she did not yet know, but at that moment at least she was strangely at peace and unspeakably happy.

He stirred when she got out of bed two hours later—she needed to make her rounds.

“Hullo,” he said, his eyes still closed, his voice barely audible.

“Hullo,” she said, sitting down again at the edge of the bed. “Since I’m here, let me take a look at you.”

He obediently moved as she needed to help her. The wound on his arm had healed almost entirely. The cut on his side was also coming along nicely. Even the one on his thigh had made satisfactory progress, though the eventual scar promised to be much uglier than if he had been able to recover unmolested.

“You know what is tragic?” he murmured.

“What?” she said, smiling at his wry tone.

“That in what could be my final days on earth I spend all my waking hours killing men I’ve never laid eyes on before, and scant minutes making love to you.”

“The very thought makes tears stream down my face.”

He opened his eyes and touched the back of his hand to her cheek. The tenderness in his look was almost enough to make tears stream down her face in truth. “Bryony.”

She placed her hand over his heart. “Is it as bad out there as Ranjit Singh says it is?”

“Worse.”

She sighed. “I don’t know why, but I have this huge regret over having never seen Cambridge. I hear it’s a lovely place.”

“It is. You will like it.”

“Do you really think I’ll have a chance to visit it? And your house on the river with the cherry trees?”

“I do. You’ll make it, Bryony. And one day you will be the first woman to be admitted to the Royal College of Surgeons,” he said, his tone brooking no disagreement.

“Of course,” she said, growing ever closer to tears.

“There are two letters in my bag, one to my brothers, one to my godfather. If something should happen to me, I want you to deliver those letters.”

“Shh. Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not talking like that. God willing, I am going to lecture at Cambridge until 1960, when I am so old that my students will ask if I’d met Newton in my youth. But bullets fly in war—a sepoy standing next to me was killed on the spot—and I want to prepare for all eventualities.”

“No, you—”

“Listen, Bryony. In my letters, I wrote that we have married again.”

“But that is not true.”

“No. But should you survive Swat Valley and I do not—what if you should be with child?”

“You know how unlikely it is for me to conceive.”

“Yes, I know. But the irregularity of your courses could also disguise a pregnancy for months. I won’t have you ostracized.” He brought her hand to his lips. “And don’t worry, with Sir Robert and my brothers behind you, no one will dare ask to see a copy of our new marriage lines.”

Her tears did come after all. He had thought of everything for her.

“I love you,” she said, choking on her words, knowing that should things go ill, this was their farewell.

“You’ll do it then, for me?”

She nodded. He closed his eyes. She rained kisses on his hand. When it seemed he’d fallen back asleep, she rose to leave.

“Almost forgot. There is something else I need to tell you,” he murmured.

She sat down again. “What is it?”

“The day before our annulment was granted, your father came to see me at Claridge’s.”

“Did he?” She never knew.

“As soon as we were alone in my suite, he punched me so hard that I was on the floor, seeing stars.”

“No, that can’t be true.” Her father was a scholar who never did anything more strenuous than raising a pen.

“Yes, it is true. And before I could get up he punched me again. So there I was with a bleeding lip and a cut on my cheek, and he said, ‘I trusted you to treat her right, you bastard.’”

“My father?”

He sighed. “Yes, your father. So there I was yelling that I treated you like a princess, that no woman in her right mind would act the way you did and why in the name of all that was good and sane would he choose to defend you when you hated his bloody guts.”

She rested Leo’s hand against her cheek, shocked and strangely exhilarated. “And what did he say?”

“He said that you hated him for damned good reasons. And so you must hate me for damned good reasons too. And with that he punched me again and left.”

Her tears once again overwhelmed her control. “He never told me.”

“Of course he wouldn’t have.” He rubbed away her tears with his palm. “When you see him again, do not think so harshly of him.”

“I will try.”

He smiled. “Good. Now go bother your patients and let me sleep.”