Even so, several competing choruses had kept up a running contest late into the night, alternating between patriotic anthems and the endless, bawdy camp songs that any group of soldiers seemed to generate spontaneously. Winter was fairly sure there was a bit of Abby’s “fraternization” going on as well, and that thought was almost enough to drive her from her tent in search of Jane. Instead she stayed put, going over regimental paperwork until her eyes drooped, then lying awake on her pallet, aware of every footstep nearby. If Jane was going to come back, after all, this would be a perfect time, and Winter kept expecting to hear the soft rustle of the tent flap and the murmur of her lover’s voice in her ear. Eventually she fell asleep, and dreamed of Jane’s lips on hers and Jane’s fingers sliding over her skin.

She’d left instructions for the camp to be awoken a half hour later than normal, in deference to the fact that a few men and women would probably have sore heads. Blinking, she saw that it was still well before the appointed hour. The light trickling in through the canvas was the bright, angled sunshine of just past dawn, and the camp still seemed quiet.

“I’m awake,” Winter said. The two voices broke off. “Bobby, is that you? Who’s there?”

“It’s Captain Verity,” Bobby said. “She . . . would like to see you.”

Winter sat up abruptly. “Send her in!”

“Sir—”

Jane pushed through the tent flap. Her hair was a tousled mess, and she wasn’t wearing her uniform jacket, as though she’d just rolled out of bed. Winter’s greeting died on her lips when she saw Jane’s face, which was a mask of fury.

“This is your fault,” Jane said. “I fucking warned you, didn’t I? You think we keep watches around the camp for fun?”

“Jane?” Winter said. “What’s going on?’

“What’s going on is what always goes on. You had to trust Captain fucking Sevran, because he’s so delightfully charming, and he promised his men would be on their best behavior.” Jane snorted. “Like a gang of fucking soldiers is any better than a bunch of apes.”

“Jane—”

“One of your precious fucking Royals decided he didn’t have to ask permission to lay hands on one of my girls. What the fuck did you expect?”

Winter sucked in a breath. “Balls of the Beast. Is—”

“I think he’ll live,” Jane said. “But things have gotten a bit out of hand. Bit of a fracas, you might say.”

Winter could hear more voices from outside, Cyte’s and Folsom’s. And, behind them, a rising chorus of shouts, yelps, and thuds, mixed with the crunch of breaking tent poles and the ripping sound of tearing canvas.

Oh, Brass Balls of the fucking Beast . . .

Chapter Seven

MARCUS

The war, as best Marcus could see, was going very badly indeed.