The remaining four took to their heels and ran as if all the devils in hell were in pursuit.

Phoebe applauded and scrambled back down the tree, reaching the ground just as Cato reappeared, the still-smoking pistols hanging casually from his hands.

“What cowards they were! But you’re a wonderful shot,” Phoebe said in awe.

Cato looked surprised rather than gratified by the compliment. “Did you doubt it?”

“Well, no, not really. But I’ve never seen you in battle before.” She gathered up her hat and cloak.

“That was hardly a battle,” Cato corrected. He stood for a minute in thought, whistling idly through his teeth. There really wasn’t an alternative.

“I think the bay will be able to carry you. It’s only about a mile.”

“What is?”

“Cromwell’s headquarters. We’ll spend the night there. It’s a damnable nuisance, but I don’t see any option tonight. The bay will need to rest that fetlock for at least a week, so I’ll pick up another horse in the camp to get us home tomorrow.” He slid his pistols back into the saddle straps.

Phoebe absorbed this information. “Are there any women in the camp?”

“None that you’ll be consorting with,” Cato said shortly. “Mount up, now.” He cupped his palm for her foot.

“Whores, are they?” Phoebe hauled herself inelegantly into the bay’s saddle. With only one rider, there was no need to use the pillion pad.

“Camp followers,” Cato agreed, taking hold of the bridle at the bit. “And,” he continued with some force, “you will steer clear of them and speak only to those people to whom I present you. Indeed, it would please me if you didn’t speak at all unless you’re in my company. Do you think you could manage that?”

“But why?” Phoebe was bewildered at this abrupt and rather harsh turn to the conversation.

“Because, my dear girl, you have the most exasperating habit of getting involved in unsavory situations,” he informed her. “I am beginning to understand that you don’t seem to be able to help it, but I dread to think what you could get up to in an army camp. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with you… where I’m going to put you.”

Phoebe didn’t bother to defend herself. It seemed he was thinking of Meg, and she had no desire to reopen that subject. When someone was so patently wrong, you didn’t argue with them. “But won’t I stay with you?” she asked mildly.

“You’ll have to, I suppose. But we live a communal existence in the house. It’s not arranged for privacy.” He led the bay out of the copse, in the opposite direction from the field and the wounded men.

Phoebe said no more. She found the idea of spending the night in an army camp intensely interesting, but if Cato realized that, he’d probably be even more disagreeable.

It was almost full dark when they turned through the gates of the Cotswold stone farmhouse that served as Cromwell’s headquarters. The tented camp spread out across the surrounding farmland, and lamps and fires sparked through the trees. The strains of a fife and the martial beat of a drum drifted on the frosty air.

Phoebe looked around curiously from her high perch. She was no longer gritting her teeth in fear and was sitting quite relaxed as the bay limped slowly up the driveway. He seemed to know where he was, and raised his head and whickered hopefully.

Cato patted his neck. “Not long now, old boy.”

The animal turned and nuzzled into Cato’s shoulder before picking up his pace a little.

The farmhouse was a squat, square, two-story building of yellow Cotswold stone. A courtyard in front was formed by outbuildings on two sides and the house itself at the rear.

Men were moving purposefully around the courtyard, carrying sacks, loading and unloading carts, under the flickering lights of pitch torches. Cato hailed a soldier, who immediately dropped what he was doing and came hurrying over, offering a brisk salute.

“Yes, m’lord.” His eyes darted once to Phoebe, then returned to the marquis.

“My horse is lame. Take him to the stables, have them poultice the fetlock and give him a bran mash. The poultice is to be changed every hour throughout the night. Understand?”

The soldier listened to the crisp instructions and saluted again before taking the bay’s bridle from Cato, who reached up to help Phoebe to the ground. The soldier glanced at her more openly now and with unfeigned admiration.

Phoebe responded with one of her customary friendly smiles. The soldier grinned back. Cato took her elbow and said briskly, “Come.”

He hurried her across the court to the house. “It’s inevitable that you’ll draw attention, Phoebe, but there’s no need to invite it,” he said curtly.

“I didn’t realize I was,” she responded. “I didn’t speak to him. I only smiled at him after he’d started looking at me.” She paused to look around, fascinated by the scene.

“There are a lot of things you don’t realize,” Cato said. She had no idea of the effect her lushly sensual appearance was going to have in this world of an army camp.

He put a hand on the small of her back and propelled her in front of him to the front door of the house.

The man guarding it jumped to attention and flung open the door. Phoebe found herself in a beamed, stone-flagged hall that took up the entire ground floor of the house. It was filled with men, most of whom were sitting on benches along a long plank table in the center of the room. Great smoking platters of meat and leather flagons of wine were on the table.

“Cato!” someone bellowed from one end of the table. “Welcome, man! We weren’t expecting you.” A tall man pushed back the bench and stood up, coming over to them, his ale mug still in his hand.

“Aye, my horse went lame after an encounter with some deserters, and I was afraid we’d be benighted.” Cato shook the man’s hand. “We’ll seek shelter here till morning, Oliver.” He turned to Phoebe, who was unclasping her cloak. “This is General Cromwell, Phoebe. Olher, may I present my wife.”

Phoebe curtsied. So this was Oliver Cromwell. He was ill dressed, she thought, in a very plain suit of poor cut and material. His linen was grimy and there was a speck of blood on his collar band.

“Lady Granville, I bid you welcome,” he said with a short bow. He had a grating voice and his countenance was rather red and seemed swollen to Phoebe. She wondered if it was drink. He certainly cut a poor figure beside Cato. She took off her hat and stood a mite awkwardly, unsure what to do next.

“We’re ill equipped to entertain a lady,” the general continued, “but come to the table. You’ll be glad to sup, I’ll be bound.”

“Aye, we’re famished.” Cato took Phoebe’s cloak and hat and tossed them both over a settle close to the fire, before urging her towards the table. “Gentlemen, may I present my wife.” He moved her in front of him as they reached the table. The man gathered there all half rose from their benches, nodding to Phoebe, who curtsied shyly.

“Sit down, Lady Granville.” An aesthetic-looking gentleman, rather older than the others, and dressed with impeccable style, brought a stool and set it at a corner of the table. “You’ll have to forgive our rough manners, but we’re an army camp and ill used to gentle company.” He smiled as he gestured to the stool.

“This is General, Lord Fairfax,” Cato said. “Sit down, Phoebe. And when you’ve supped, I’ll find somewhere for you to sleep.”

To Phoebe’s alarm, he moved away from her as soon as he’d provided her with a platter of roast suckling pig, a mound of buttery boiled potatoes, a hunk of wheaten bread, and a pewter cup of wine. He took a place on one of the long benches some distance from her and was soon deep in conversation. No one took any notice of her after that.

Phoebe ate and listened to the buzz of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. She felt both neglected and seriously out of place. She understood now why Cato had been reluctant to bring her here, but she wished he had not abandoned her.