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T he trouble, when it came, was not what Luke had expected.

He’d been on the lookout for the enemy—the French—and also for Spanish guerrilleros and motley bandits, for the mountains harbored many, and sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference.

They were allies, the English and the guerrilleros , but a lone man on horseback was easy pickings for desperate men, and the mountains were full of desperate men.

This trouble was a scream quivering faintly on the wind. High and light. A woman, or a child.

The scream came again, shrill and filled with real terror. Luke plunged his horse down the steep slope toward the sound, weaving through the pine and beech forest.

Through a gap in the trees he saw a stocky, thickset man hunched over a small, slender female. She was tied at hands and feet, but she writhed and bucked, struggling like a fish caught on a hook.

Luke drew his pistol, but he couldn’t get a clear shot through the trees. Besides, he didn’t want to hit the girl. He urged his horse toward them.

The man opened his breeches and threw himself roughly on her.

The girl twisted and smashed her bound fists hard into the man’s face.

He yelled and fell back, cupping his face.

His hands came away red. He grabbed her wrists and forced them back.

She bit his hand, and he cursed and gave her a backhander across the face.

Blood blossomed on her face, and she fell back, stunned, and the man threw himself again on her supine body.

Shouting, Luke leapt from his horse and raced toward them. It took an agonizingly long time. Intent on his prey, the attacker seemed not to hear.

With a roar of rage, Luke lunged across the last few yards, grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him bodily off the girl.

He went sprawling in the dust several feet away, rolled, and came up with a pistol in his hand, firing at Luke before he even got to his feet.

Sudden heat seared Luke’s neck, as though a hot poker had been touched to his skin. The man rushed at him. Luke fired.

The man jerked and staggered back, as if hit, but remained on his feet.

“The jewels are gone,” he growled in a coarse dialect that Luke only just managed to follow.

“And the girl is mine.” He wore the ragged remains of a uniform.

His nose was a mess of blood, and his cheeks were raked with fresh livid scratches.

Deserter, Luke thought. A man with nothing to lose.

“I don’t care about any jewels,” Luke said, speaking in Spanish. From the corner of his eye he could see the girl wrestling with the ties that bound her. “Just the girl.”

“You want to die for the sake of this skinny bitch?” The man dragged his breeches up with one hand and glanced around the clearing.

Luke knew what he was thinking. One horse. One man. Excellent odds.

This man was older, tougher, meaner than Luke. And Luke’s other pistol was in his saddlebag. But Luke didn’t move. Standing between the man and the girl, he braced himself.

“So be it.” The deserter dropped the spent pistol and produced a vicious-looking knife. He bared broken yellow teeth in a mirthless smile and hurled himself at Luke in a rush.

The blade flashed in the sunlight, and Luke respondedinstinctively, arching back. It missed him by a hairsbreadth.

Luke kicked the side of the man’s knee hard as he passed. It should have broken the bastard’s leg. It didn’t.

He stumbled, staggered sideways, and slashed at Luke with the knife again.

Luke scooped a handful of dust, threw it in the man’s face, and dived, chopping at the man’s throat.Hechokedandstabbed the knife toward Luke’s face.

Luke smashed his fist down on the man’s wrist and grappled fiercely for control of the knife.

They swayed, locked in desperate battle.

The glittering blade inched toward Luke’s throat.

Luke forced it back, straining every sinew, the bones of his wrist feeling as though they would crack.

The man’s face was inches from his. He stank. His breath was hot and fetid.

Abruptly the deserter’s grip loosened, as if he were beaten, then he gave a sudden twist and strove to thrust the blade in. Luke, alert to the trick, dropped his hip in an old wrestling move, threw his enemy off balance, and shoved back, hard.

In an instant it was all over: the knife slid in, neat as butter.

The man gasped and sagged slowly to the ground, spewing obscenities. His eyes were incredulous, disbelieving, even as the light faded from them. His body curled protectivelyaround the blade, his own blade, lodged deeply in his gut.

Luke stepped away, his lungs burning. He watched for a moment, then turned his back on the dying man.

The girl saw him turn toward her, and wrestled more frantically than ever with her bindings. She was all dust and rags and nakedness, bony spine and skinny, scraped ribs.

“Don’t be afraid,” Luke said in Spanish. “No one will hurt you now, senorita .”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, turning furious, terrified eyes on him, tearing at her bindings, even though they must be cutting into her flesh. Luke’s heart twistedinhischest. She was barely out of childhood.

“Stop it, little one. You’re only hurting yourself more.” Luke pulled off his coat and dropped it over her nakedness. She hesitated, her golden eyes defiant and wary.

“That’s right,” Luke said gently. “I won’t hurt you.” He squatted down, pulled out his knife, and reached for her feet. Instantly her bound hands rose in desperate, defensive claws, their nails broken and bloody.

“Hush, nina . Don’t be frightened,” Luke said in the kind of voice he used on a skittish horse. “I’m just going to cutyou free.”

Her eyes flickered sideways, and he saw a bloodied rock lying beside her. He smiled. “So that’s how you smashed that brute’s nose. Clever girl. Now let’s get you free.” With calm, deliberate movements he cut the rags that tied her feet.

“Now, for your hands.” Hesitantly she held them out to him, and he cut through the strip of cloth that bound her.

She wriggled into his coat, pulling it over her nakedness.

Her body was thin, unformed, and childish. Beneath the dust her skin was marred with darkening bruises, scrapes, cuts, and smears of bright, fresh blood. Her barely there breasts, her belly, and her thighs were scraped and smeared with blood.

Luke’s heart clenched. Had he arrived too late?

She scrambled to her feet. Gripping the bloodied rock in a grubby fist, she buttoned his coat one-handed, her gaze darting between the still figure of her erstwhile attacker and Luke.

“He’s dead,” Luke said quietly. “I killed him. You are safe now, nina . It’s all over.”

Her eyes were huge and golden, like a fierce little hawk; one side of her face was badly bruised and starting to swell. Her lips were split and still welling with slow blood.

She was heartbreakingly young, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. The same age as his youngest sister, Molly. But there was a world of difference between his happy, sheltered little sister and this fierce, battered scrap.

Luke’s throat burned. War was no place for little girls.

“You’re safe now,” he repeated, not knowing what else to say. He had no idea if she even understood him. She looked Spanish, but she might be Basque. Or even French, he supposed. She hadn’t said a word so far.

In French he repeated that she was safe, and that he would not harm her. Her eyes flashed hatred at the sound of his French—she was Spanish, then—so he said, “I am English. I will not harm you.” He knew no Basque, so he stuck to Spanish.

There was a long pause, then a violent shudder passed through her and she started to shiver.

Instinctively he reached out to hug her, but she flinched away, the rock raised and ready to strike.

He stepped back, holding his palms up. “Sorry. I simply meant to comfort you.”

The golden eyes burned with doubt.

“You’re the same age as my little sister,” Luke said helplessly. He stared for a moment, silently cursing himself. Stupid thing to say. What would she care of his sister?

He was almost twenty years old, a man—an officer—and yet, for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do.

He was no stranger to women, and having grown up with three sisters, he’d imagined he understood the female sex pretty well. But he’d never faced anything like this before.

He wished his mother was here. She’d know what to do with this girl, how to reassure her. He’d even welcome his bossy older sisters, Susan and Meg. They were both married, but not Molly. Not his baby sister, turning thirteen next month.

Please God Molly would never have to know such evil existed.

The young girl’s legs were long and skinny and shockingly naked under his coat. With one hand, she tugged down the hem, still gripping the rock in her other hand.

Turning his back on her, Luke went to fetch her clothing, which was scattered about the clearing.

He picked up a long skirt, part of a riding habit.

It dangled in shreds from his hands. He found a short brown coat, beautifully made of good quality fabric.

Now ruined. Every item of her clothing was shredded, unwearable.

The swine must have cut every garment from her. But why cut it to shreds?

“You will find no jewels there,” a hoarse little voice grated from behind him.

The jewels are gone.

“I know nothing about any jewels,” Luke told her. “I simply wanted to return your clothing to you. Take my shirt. It’s long—longer than that coat—and will cover you decently. It was clean on this morning.” He pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it to her.

She made no move to catch it. It fluttered to the ground at her feet. Her eyes burned.

She needed time to calm down. “Tend to yourself, chiquita .” He nodded to where a small stream gurgled at the far corner of the clearing. “While you wash the blood and dust from your body, I will bury this swine. Then we shall talk.”