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morning, miss,” was as cheery and nonchalant as ever, Julia was quite sure she detected a knowing twinkle behind his innocent blue eyes and she blushed fiery red.
    Embarrassed to be the cause of her discomfort, the Irishman kept his eyes down as he led her to the dining table where he seated her as if for a formal banquet. From his pack he proudly produced half a loaf of bread, a wedge of non-moldy cheese and a fat Spanish sausage whose strong garlic content caused her nose to wrinkle in anticipation. As did the smell of Brazilian coffee wafting from a silver pot.
    “You’re a treasure, Runyon,” she commended, bringing a pleased grin to the Irishman’s round face. “I trust this isn’t your own breakfast.” When he assured her he had already eaten, she attacked her feast with relish. Life would be better. Had to be better.
    “You’ve located the hospital, Daniel?” Julia asked at last. For nearly five years, over all objections, Julia Litchfield had aided the doctors and orderlies at the field hospital, giving what comfort she could to the wounded as they were brought in from battle. A sudden erotic picture flashed into her mind. Nothing, nothing she had seen in hospital prepared her for the sight of a naked man—in the fullness of his manhood—standing beside her bed. Once again, her cheeks flamed red.
    “Aye, miss.” Daniel Runyon turned abruptly away, fussing busily with the coffee pot. Poor lass. ’Twasn’t right she should have the whole world watching her wedding night. And knowing the wedding was yet to be. If at all. Both stubborn, they were. Might as well have been Irish.
    Once again Julia struggled back to reality. “Why haven’t they attacked, Daniel? It makes no sense.”
    “Don’t know, miss. Major says they’ve moved twelve-pounders onto the ridge above the valley. Their men be in as bad shape as ours but their artillery’s got us beat to flinders.”
    “Do you suppose…” Julia spoke slowly, thinking the mystery through. “If Soult’s men are as weak and hungry as we are, he may be playing a waiting game, hoping we’ll break ranks and begin the embarkation. That would give him a much easier target than men ready and waiting on a battlefield.”
    “Best guess, Miss Julia,” Daniel agreed. “You’ve your spyglass by you?” When she patted a pocket inside her cloak, he added, “There’s a wee flat spot on the roof. They’ve a cistern up there and a lookout point atop a tower. Doubt we could find a better place to see what’s happening.”
    * * * * *
     
    Only a portion of the battlefield was visible, they discovered. La Coruña was situated on a peninsula jutting out into the bay and guarded by ramparts at the peninsula’s narrow neck. Some two miles south of the city, partially hidden by low-lying coastal ridges, was the battlefield. French heavy cannon sat on a high escarpment above the valley floor. Arranged along the ridge behind the artillery was Marshal Soult’s army, an army which had already conquered most of Europe and did not know what it was to lose a battle. Soult’s army was merely one among Napoleon’s many. Sir John Moore’s army was all of Great Britain’s military might. To destroy it was to take not only Spain and Portugal but to pave the way for the invasion of England itself.
    And yet the French commander did not fight. The great guns remained silent. The morning was cloudless, the Iberian sun warming the rooftop as if the icy horror of the mountains had never existed. Julia unbuttoned her greatcoat and pushed back her bonnet, allowing the sun to beat down on the neat braids she had coiled into loops on top of her head. For the twentieth time she put the telescope to her eye and searched for signs of activity.
    Nothing.
    Warm. It was so wonderful to be warm, Julia thought. And shivered as the memory of the terrible annihilating cold of their passage through the Spanish mountains came flooding back.
    With a sigh Julia lowered the spy glass.