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rounded than it had a right to be. He would not see that she was shy about her no-longer-youthful body, but would think she was brave and bold like Myrtle. Bold enough to show the man she fancied what she wanted, and to lead him on to give it to her.
    And it gave her a secret thrill to think she would be fueling his fantasies, that he would be thinking of her as he lay in his tent at night, all alone save for the night birds and insects. For sure the rag-and-bone man didn’t think of her at night. Doubtless he spent his evenings in a dark alley with a drunken sixpenny whore, shoving his hands down her bodice and up her skirts, taking his pleasure from her roughly, little caring whether he hurt her or no.
    The sergeant-major would have more class than that. He would treat his woman with love and tenderness.
    Not that she would ever find out, of course. Still, it would do no harm to pretend for a while longer.
    Shaking her skirts back down over her ankles, she moved over to the writing table and picked up pen and paper. She would send him a short note to go with the tintype, and hope for the best.

Five
     
     
    Percy Carterton sat in his tent, writing as hastily as he could. They had received the orders at dinner, shortly after the last packets had arrived, that they were to move out in the morning. To his delight, there had been another letter for him from England, along with a precious photograph of the woman he adored.
    In the haste to get mobilized, he’d barely had the time to skim read the letter he carried in his pocket, but the few stolen minutes had been enough to put a bright song into his heart.
    His darling Beatrice had replied to his last letters, and with words as warm as any lover could desire. With every line they exchanged, he fell more deeply in love with her—with her courage, her dedication to those in need, and her passion. Especially with her passion. Her latest letter was burning a hole in his pocket, it was so hot.
    Though their mobilization orders had been urgent, he stole enough time from his preparations to reply. He could not have her thinking that he did not care for her, or that he had been shocked by the warmth of her words. Quite the opposite. They had given him heart for the battle that was to come.
    His commanding officer was shouting orders outside. He scrawled a loving farewell to his Beatrice, sealed the letter, and made for the officers’ mess. Darkness had already fallen, but the full moon lit up the campsite better than a dozen lanterns. “See this gets to England,” he said to the officers’ batman, thrusting the letter into his hand.
    The batman stopped in his tracks and gave him an alarmed look. “But—?”
    “Don’t ask me how. Just do it.” And he strode off again, his boot heels clacking together. Willis was a resourceful fellow. If anyone could see that his letter got to its destination, Willis was the man.
    The following morning, Percy marched across the dusty ground at the head of his company of men. His stride was as jaunty as a cock robin’s. After months of simmering tensions since England had annexed the Transvaal, the Boers had finally responded by coming out in open rebellion against the new government. It was finally time to show these upstart Boers who was really in charge.
    The sooner they engaged with the enemy, the better he would like it. He would fight this war and win it, and return to England as the proud victor, the captain of a brave troop of soldiers. As soon as he returned to England, he would find his angel and claim her as his own. She would be powerless to resist him, indeed, she would have no will to resist him, longing for him as ardently as he longed for her.
    He could tell from her letters that she would be a passionate mistress, bolder and more inventive in bed than many women with more experience than she had. Their hot natures would mesh perfectly together, creating a fiery explosion of desire.
    What did he care for the dust turning his