Law, Susan Kay (16 page)

The fire must have made it to the powder magazine. Orange flames
leapt upward and clouds of smoke billowed up, obscuring the clear sky.

Gingerly, she lifted her hands from her ears. Sounds were muted,
as if her head was wrapped in soft cotton. She could hear faint pops as the
fire reached smaller pockets of ammunition.

There was no doubt her brothers had succeeded beyond their
expectations. It would take the British weeks to repair and replace what had
been lost. But Bennie, as she watched in fascination the scene below her, could
only worry that someone had been injured in the explosion.

She told herself her sudden trembling was due to the biting wind.
Squinting, she began desperately searching the ground around the camp for some
sign of a limp body. Particularly a large, familiar body.

What if he'd been too close to the fire? Surely they'd seen that
it had been heading toward the ammunition supplies. But had he moved fast
enough?

Bennie bit her lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood.
Why hadn't she found some way to warn him? Some way to make sure he was
anywhere but here when this had happened?

Because she couldn't endanger her brothers. And because she really
hadn't considered the possibility that someone would be injured. It had seemed
somewhat harmless, a prank, like the Boston Tea Party, to be played on the too
complacent British. She'd been sure the only risk had been to her family.

Now, too late, she'd realized she was wrong.

There was nothing to do. It was too dark and confused down in the
camp to identify anyone, even one as big as Jon.

Bennie swore to herself that first thing tomorrow she'd find a way
to check on Jon. At the moment she had no idea how she was going to manage
that, but she'd think of something. If nothing else, she'd find some excuse to
talk to that overfriendly Captain Livingston.

Reluctantly, fighting the urge to rush down into the midst of the
madness and start hunting for Jon, she turned to leave.

The entrance to the path was cloaked by two large bayberry bushes.
Bennie doubted that any of the British, even after several months of residence,
had found it. But after nine children had spent their youth running all over
the district, she doubted there was anyplace in the vicinity of New Wexford
that the Joneses didn't know as well as they knew every board in the Dancing
Eel.

Sucking in her stomach, Bennie pushed her way through the bushes.
It wasn't easy; both she and the bushes had grown some since she'd done this as
a child, and earlier tonight, she'd had her brothers clear the way, as several
broken branches on either side attested.

Wouldn't be a hidden pathway much longer, she thought. In the
daylight, any alert man would see the damage to the foliage and find the path.
It wouldn't matter then; she doubted she'd ever have need of it again.

"Halt!"

Bennie's heart lurched. They'd found her.

She turned slowly, acutely conscious of the branches rustling
around her.

He was no more than two long steps away from her—a soldier, the
muzzle of his musket gaping at her midsection.

"Come out from there," he ordered. "Easy,
now."

She could risk it, dive back through the bushes, try and make her
way through the forest. She was faster than most men. But even thinking about
it, she felt the flesh between her shoulder blades twitch. Her back would be
exposed, vulnerable to a musket ball. Although it was dark, perhaps dark enough
to provide cover, he was very near, and she had no faith in her ability to
outrun a shot from that grotesquely oversize musket.

She hesitated for only an instant longer before pushing her way
back out of the thicket. The soldier was young and vaguely familiar. Perhaps
she had seen him at the Eel, or the mustering. He must have already been on
duty when the explosion occurred, because his uniform was faultlessly worn,
unrumpled, not something that had been thrown on in the rush of the moment.

"Come on, now. Hurry up. The cap'n will be pleased to talk to
you for sure." Moonlight, white and cold, glinted off the shiny blade of
his bayonet.

Surely he wouldn't remember her. In black breeches and shirt, her
hair braided and tucked down the back of her blouse, one of Brendan's black
rags tied over her head, and soot smeared all over her face, she in no way
resembled the woman he may have seen in New Wexford. Her cloak was navy blue
and, as her mother had complained on many occasions, completely unfeminine.
With Bennie's stature, as long as she didn't talk, perhaps he wouldn't perceive
her sex.

She had to escape before he did realize she was a woman. If he
knew her gender, it wouldn't take him long to identify her; every other woman
in the area was at least a full head shorter than she.

If he discovered who she was, it would be very easy to guess who
had raided the camp. There'd be little hope for any of the Joneses then. And,
if there was as much destruction to the camp as she suspected, she doubted the
redcoats would be inclined to be lenient.

"Come out now, I said, or I may have to shoot. The cap'n
might want t'talk to you, but I'm sure I could wound you so's you'd last long
enough so's he could question you."

Fear, sick and acidic, clogged her throat and churned in her
stomach. There seemed to be nothing she could do. Every option she had
endangered her life and her family. If only the guard would relax, just for an
instant...

She was nearly out of the bushes now, almost completely visible.
Still, there was no flicker of recognition on the guard's set features. A sharp
tug on her cape stopped her. She pulled. Damn, she was caught on a sharp stick.
Grabbing the fabric in both hands, she yanked hard.

She heard the fabric rip. The bushes on either side of her shook
violently. Still, she was held fast.

"Got yerself caught there, have you? Well, I can't say that I
care if you catch a bit of a chill."

Still training his gun on her carefully, the soldier reached
forward and tore the cloak from her shoulders. Bennie registered the sudden
cold in the fraction of a second before she realized her freedom.

There wasn't time to do anything about it. The redcoat grabbed her
arm and yanked her out of the thicket.

The cloth could hide her hair. The soot could hide her features.
Unfortunately, with her cloak gone, there was nothing to hide her breasts.

His mouth fell open.

"Bloody balls, you're a woman!"

His gaze was fixed on her chest, and the bore of his gun dropped a
fraction.

It was all she needed. She shoved, the soldier stumbled backward,
and she turned and flew into the forest.

"What the—Halt! Halt, I say!"

Sharp branches tore at her clothes and scratched her face. The
cold air burned her chest. Her heart pounded so loudly she could scarcely hear
the sounds of the man's pursuit.

"Stop! Damn it, stop!"

She kept running. The ground was uneven, rocky and overgrown, and
the path was almost impossible to follow in the dark while sprinting at high
speed. She could only hope it was equally difficult for him.

Breaking into a small clearing, she pushed herself to run harder.
The opening might give him the opportunity to get off a clear shot.

She gave no cry as she went down; there was only a muffled thud as
she slammed into the snow-covered ground. Sharp pain stabbed up from her ankle
to her calf. Had she stepped on a stone or in a hole, stumbled over a small
ridge?

It didn't matter. It only mattered that she moved.

Her hands sank wrist-deep into the snow before she was able to
force herself up. He was getting closer; she could hear him charging through
the woods like a maddened bull.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, she tried a step. And went
down again. Her ankle simply wouldn't hold her.

Perhaps she could crawl out of the clearing, hide herself in the
undergrowth. Absurd to hope that he wouldn't find her, but—

"Stay right there."

She froze. He was advancing on her warily, his musket trained on
her carefully. Clearly, he was taking no chances this time.

"Get up," he snapped.

"I can't."

His face registered the impact of her voice. "Dear God, you
are
a woman."

She grimaced. "Your captain said much the same thing to me
once."

"The cap'n?" He bent, pulled the cloth off her head and
tugged her hair out of its confinement. Grabbing her chin, he tilted her face
up to the moonlight, turning her head from side to side as he studied her
features. Bennie held her breath as the bayonet of the gun swept perilously
close to her leg.

"I remember you," he said thoughtfully.

"That's most observant of you, soldier."

He smiled and straightened. "I think the cap'n is gonna be
very happy to see you, miss."

"How lovely," she said tightly.

"Get up."

"I can't. I hurt my ankle."

"Well, I'm certainly not gonna carry you. You're too heavy.
You'll just have to hop, won't you?"

"How gallant."

He poked her with the bayonet, not hard enough to pierce her skin
but with enough force to show her she had better move or he might not be so
gentle the next time.

Reluctantly, Bennie started to push herself up to her feet again.
She heard a muffled thud and watched in disbelief as the soldier closed his
eyes and sank slowly to the ground.

A hulking form loomed over her, dark, large, and shadowy—and
completely nonthreatening, for she immediately recognized that bulk.

"Jon!"

"Hush." He knelt in the snow in front of her. "You
all right?"

"What did you do?" she said in shock.

"Made him sleep."

"What did you hit him with?"

He shrugged and lifted one huge fist. "With this."

"But he's one of your own men," she protested.

Tentatively, tenderly, his fingers brushed her knee.

"He might have hurt you, Beth."

It was pure luck that had him stumbling upon the soldier chasing
Beth into the woods. He'd been scouting the perimeter of the camp, gathering
his own information and conclusions, when he'd heard the soldier holler
"Halt!" Jon had caught only a glimpse of the soldier's quarry before
both had disappeared into the woods, but that had been enough; Jon had
recognized that fluid, controlled, sure way of moving and plunged into the
woods to follow.

Luckily the soldier had been too intent on chasing down his prey
to realize someone was quietly speeding along behind him. Jon had caught up
with them when they'd reached the clearing and had been able to slip up behind
them without either noticing his presence.

When the man had prodded Beth with that deadly silver blade, Jon
hadn't thought; he'd only felt—rage, pure and blinding. The kind of rage that
was fatal for a man in his profession, for spying required absolute, steady
control. Before he'd had time to think about it, he'd whacked the hapless
fellow over the head.

And he wasn't one bit sorry.

"Did he hurt you, Beth?"

"No. I fell, twisted my ankle on something. I can't seem to
put any weight on it. Maybe if I try again—"

"Don't move." He touched her left foot. "This
one?"

She nodded.

He lifted it to his lap. "First, we have to get your boot off."
His fingers probed gently around her calf, her ankle, the edge of her boot.
"It's starting to swell."

He paused, looking at her intently. "It's going to hurt,
Beth. Whatever you do, though, please don't yell. I don't know how many guards
there are out here."

"I won't make a sound."

Her face, covered with dark streaks of soot, was composed, no
telltale glimmer of silver dampness on her cheeks.

"Here we go."

He pulled steadily, putting the force of his massive strength
behind it. He watched her carefully; she was calm. Not even a faint grimace
crossed her features. The boot resisted, finally coming free with a sharp jerk.

He stripped off her woolen sock, rotating her foot carefully. Her
ankle was puffing up rapidly, already showing faint signs of discoloration.

"You've earned a few tears, you know. A few moans,
even."

"I'm fine," she said, only a small tightness in her
voice betraying what he knew must be throbbing pain.

Her eyes were dark and bleak, the flat color of a night sky void
of stars. "What happened back at camp?" she asked.

"Attacked. Set on fire. Small group snuck in." He didn't
seem overly concerned. Perhaps it hadn't been as bad as she'd thought.

"Was anyone hurt?"

"No. Minor burns, a little smoke. That's all."

Had he made the connection? It would be so obvious to anyone else:
her presence, the way she was dressed, and the attack on the British. But his
mind didn't seem to run along the lines of deception and plotting and intrigue.
Perhaps he wasn't suspicious of her presence. She didn't want to say, or ask,
anything that would cause him to think about it too carefully. Yet she had to
know.