“I gave my word, man.” Patrick leveled a glare at the impertinent Welshman.

“That’s as may be,” John replied obscurely. But he seemed to have given in, for he opened the side door and held it as Patrick and Sophie walked through, Simone trailing behind.

They turned at an archway leading to a large room. Patrick pushed through the blanket hanging in the doorway and stopped at Sophie’s shoulder. The room was lined with cots, and flung down on each one was a wounded man. Some had bandages wound around their heads and some had bandages around their legs; several seemed to be missing limbs. Most of the men didn’t look over at the door when they entered. A plump woman did glance up, then went back to changing the bandage on a soldier’s chest.

Patrick looked down at Sophie. Her face was utterly bloodless. He put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

“Oh God, Patrick, they are just boys, do you see?”

“They look younger because they are wounded,” he said gently.

“No.” Sophie drew in a shuddering breath. “That one can’t be older than fourteen.” Patrick looked where she was pointing. He’d seen head wounds like that in India, and he didn’t think much of the boy’s chance for survival.

Suddenly a small lad popped up in front of them. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was wearing the remains of a ragged French uniform.

“Why are you here?” he demanded. His English was accented but clear—and his gray eyes were fierce. The boy was, in fact, more dangerous-looking than John Hankford had been, rifle and all. He slanted his eyes over to Hankford. “Why did you let them in?”

John cleared his throat apologetically. “Their clipper blew into the harbor and so they will stay the night here, Henry. I had to tell them.”

Patrick looked at the Welshman in amusement, giving up the last remnants of his suspicion that Hankford was part of a Napoleonic plot. Clearly, this French guttersnipe had him over a barrel.

Sophie curtsied. “You must be the man who was brave enough to save your companions,” she said, her soft voice full of admiration.

Henry looked at the beautiful lady before him assessingly. “I only put them in a boat,” he said. “They were lying about dying, with flies all over them. I couldn’t … I couldn’t get them all in the boat, either.”

Patrick looked about the room. “You saved ten men,” he said.

Henry looked up at the tall Englishman.

And then Patrick bowed. “You are to be congratulated, Henry. You did a very brave thing.”

For the first time since they had entered the room, Henry looked a bit confused. “My name is Henri,” he said. Suddenly he swept a miniature, but exact, court bow.