Page 31 of Sweet Hellion

“That message was supposed to have gone to Ewan Fraser at Blackstone Abbey.”

He nodded. “Aye, it did. Ewan contacted me. He knew I was in a better position to help you.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because I am a friend of Ewan’s. Why else? I also know you aren’t guilty of desertion.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

He chuckled. “Ewan told me—and I know Viscount Munro. I can well believe he is a coward.”

“At least someone has the sense enough to see through that bastard’s façade,” Rhys muttered.

“I am not the only one who sees William for what he is.” His mouth thinned. “I am, however, surprised at the major general. I thought John was a better judge of character.”

Rhys nodded. “I, too, am surprised the major general wasn’t more insightful.”

Stirling’s expression darkened. “The men who perished at Almeida weren’t the only casualties.”

Rhys recalled the men in the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, so many far less fortunate than him. He was in no mood to care about the major general’s reasons for believing Munro. “I must see someone.”

“Do not fret over Miss Bamfield,” he said. “I have sent someone to guard her.”

“I will not leave Scotland without talking to her, my lord.”

“Call me Stirling,” he said. “No one said anything about you leaving Scotland.”

“A survivor of Almeida is in England. I must find him. Only he can attest to Munro’s cowardice.”

“There is a survivor on his way to Scotland even as we speak.”

“A survivor—on his way here?” Rhys leaned forward. “Who? How do you know this?”

“Because I know the man. Not well, mind ye, but well enough to like him. I believe you know him, as well. Tory Bamfield.”

Rhys felt as if a fist had been driven into his gut. “You are mistaken,” his voice went hoarse. “Tory is dead.”

“In fact, he survived and was recently released from a Portuguese hospital.”

Rhys’s hands clenched. “He died in my arms.”

Stirling’s gaze gentled. “You thought he was dead. He wasn’t.”

Had he heard right? “I-I left him on the battlefield to die?” Rhys whispered.

“From what Bamfield tells me, he was all but dead. It was only by miracle that the gravediggers noticed he was still breathing—though that was barely the case.”

Rhys shook his head. “I should have paid better attention. Grief and anger blinded me.”

“Indeed?”

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “I am no fool. I know what you are saying.”

He laughed. “Do you?”

Rhys resisted the urge the punch him. “I know what grief and anger does to a man. But I still shouldn’t have left him.”

“I will leave that for him to decide,” he replied without rancor. “I imagine Miss Bamfield will be happy.”