Page 52 of Triumph at Pemberley

And she had been thinking herself extraordinarily brave for marching into the battle, when all these men around her were the ones who had made the sacrifice.

The dragons had the right idea. Warfare was just wrong, in every way.

Jack paused at the entrance to the hospital tent. The stink, the suffering, and the hazy smoke were familiar to him from battlefields in Spain, but this would not be like visiting one of his wounded comrades. As soon as they recognized him here, it would be completely different. And highly unpleasant.

Just like everything else since he demonstrated his powers here. He used to dread battles. This - how his fellows reacted to him – was almost worse.

He scanned as far as he could see by the occasional lanterns swinging from the tentpoles, which was not far at all. He could not spot Frederica's bright hair anywhere. Steeling himself, he tapped the arms of a boy holding a cup for one of the wounded. “I am looking for Lady Frederica Fitzwilliam.”

The boy ignored him until the soldier finished drinking and collapsed back onto his cot. Then he looked up and his eyes widened. “Captain Jack!” he cried, his voice echoing with hero worship.

So it began. He heard his name - no, not his name, but Captain Jack's name - begin to travel through the tent, from one set of lips to another, with every eye turned to him. God, how he hated this! He had done nothing to deserve it. “Lady Frederica Fitzwilliam,” he repeated. “A woman with blonde hair. I am told she is here.”

“Yes, sir! Right this way, Captain Jack!” The boy began to eagerly weave his way between the injured and the dying, clearly thrilled to be providing this small service.

It was wrong. These wounded men were the heroes of the day, not him.

Frederica sat on the ground at the back of the tent, leaning forward to listen to an injured man with beads of sweat pouring down his face, a lap desk in front of her. She bent her head to write something on a paper there.

Jack placed a hand on her shoulder. “Time to go, Freddie,” he said, conscious of the many eyes on him.

“Not now,” she said, then turned back to the man. “There, that is done.”

It was almost a relief to have someone ignore him.

But the soldier paid no attention to her. “You are here,” he breathed reverently. “You came, Captain Jack.”

What did they think he was, a divine visitation? “Yes, it is I.” What else could he say?

“Ye'll save England for us, then, won't ye?”

God, it made him want to spew. “Only with men like you beside me, my good fellow.”

Frederica said briskly, “Captain Jack will absolutely save England. You need have no worries about that, Private Taylor. And I will send this letter to your parents as soon as I can.”

He kept staring at Jack. “This is all I need. Now I can die.”

That, at least, he knew the answer to. “Absolutely not,” he said in his best officer's voice. “I need you beside me as I fight. Every single man among you. I cannot spare any of you, so you must get well as quickly as you can.”

The man's eyes shone. “You can count on me, Captain.”

“Now I must take Lady Frederica away, for there is someone who has to speak to her urgently.” He sent her a mental image of Darcy and Coquelicot, hoping she would catch it. After all, she had refused the last two people he had sent for her.

She looked puzzled. “Very well, but there is someone here you must see first.” She grasped his hand and tugged him towards the middle of the tent, stopping by the bedside of a man with deeply sunken, closed eyes.

Frederica tapped the man's arm. “Sergeant Sutton, look who is here! It is Captain Jack himself!”

The man opened bleary, unfocused eyes. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Jack did not need a surgeon to tell him this soldier was not going to survive.

“Jack, Sergeant Sutton saved my life on top of the ramparts. He took these injuries while covering my body with his own. You should be proud of him.” Frederica pinned him with a significant glare.

Even he could take that hint. “Sergeant, you are a hero, and I am honored to have fought alongside you,” he said. “I will never forget what you did for Lady Frederica.” Acting on instinct, he laid his hand on the sergeant's shoulder.

And something happened. His feet started to burn, and then the power from the earth raced up him and down through his arm, pouring into the limp body before him.

Astonishment flooded the bit of him that was his own, that was still Jack. But right now, the King's Bond had control. He only hoped it knew what it was doing, because he most certainly did not.

He blinked to clear his suddenly blurry vision, but it made no difference. It was like when he had fought the battle. He had intended to raise the rampart and bury the cannons, but the giant wave, the whirlwinds, and exploding the munitions had come from something more powerful than him.