“Interesting that you know so much about these plays,” Eamon said in a mild tone.
“Dragged to the damned theatre by my grandmother. Give up, Stone. You have nothing to offer a lady but your clever conversation. Which grows wearying, trust me.”
“Good thing I don’t want to marry you then. Believe me, I will search until I find a lady who loves me for who I am.” Eamon shrugged. “If she has a fine dowry, so much the better.”
“Her family will forbid it,” Wolfe predicted. “Wisely.”
“He must have someone in mind,” McCormick said. “Who is the lady, Stone? Anyone we know?”
“No one specific, more’s the pity.” Eamon gave a heartfelt sigh. “These are musings to while away an idle hour.”
McCormick flashed his grin. “Care to make a wager?”
Of course, the man who could skim through complicated odds in his head would say that.
Wolfe scoffed, but Eamon let anticipation bubble inside him. They might die this day, unable to escape the troops that surrounded them. At McCormick’s words, though, something within Eamon believed they would live. Perhaps this very wager would compel them to survive against all odds.
“What terms?” Eamon asked.
“You find a lady willing to marry you,” McCormick said. “Legally, I mean, in the parish register, with the blessing of her family and all.”
Eamon leaned in. “Let’s make it more interesting, shall we? We each attempt to find wives—the loser is the last bachelor standing.”
McCormick’s blue eyes twinkled. “The stakes?”
Wolfe broke in. “Dear God, the pair of you. What can any of us wager?”
“A bottle of the finest brandy smuggled from France?” McCormick suggested. “Or, let’s say, the final bachelor has to host a spectacular soiree for the lucky couples.”
Eamon shook his head. “I have another idea. We pool what we have—money, any property we acquire, whatever we have that is worth anything. The dividends go to the sons and daughters from these marriages so they won’t have to scratch for a living like we did. That way, we all win. Once we produce offspring, that is. We’ll think of some amusing forfeit for the losing bachelor.”
Wolfe contemplated Eamon a moment, thoughts hidden behind his flinty gaze, then he relented. “It’s never likely to happen, so why not?”
He held out his tattered-gloved fist once more. McCormick and Eamon met it with theirs so rapidly that they both laughed.
Wind scraped branches above them. Eamon went quiet and again checked his watch.
As the long hand clicked to the top of the hour, a blast sounded down the ridge to the right.
“There we are,” Eamon said in an everyday tone, but McCormick had already hauled Wolfe to his feet and was staggering with him away from the explosion.
The ridge suddenly cleared of Frenchmen who raced toward the noise. Eamon caught up to the other two, lending his arm to steady Wolfe. The three gained the top of the hill, deeper twilight and smoke giving them cover. Wolfe paused, Eamon beside him, to catch his breath.
“Don’t stop, my friends,” McCormick said in alarm. “We need to get clear.”
“We are clear.” Eamon readjusted his hold on Wolfe, who grunted with pain.
McCormick shook his head. “You should have told me you’d lit a slow match, Stone.”
Wolfe’s eyes filled with apprehension. “Why is that?”
“Because I wouldn’t have lit mine.”
A second explosion roared into the night.
The three men jerked forward along the path toward Wellington’s army, moving as fast as they could with Wolfe stumbling between them. The boom of powder and the shouts of panicked French soldiers barely muffled Wolfe’s continuing curses and Eamon’s echoing laughter.
Chapter 2
