Law, Susan Kay (37 page)

"It's dark," he mumbled. "I should go."

Her fingers raked through his hair, and her voice was laced with
amusement. "How long could it take?"

He laughed and moved farther down her body.

"Not long."

***

The darkness was thick, nearly impenetrable. She was glad of it,
because she didn't want him to see her face.

She knew this man so little, knew nothing of what drove him, what
shaped him, what he thought. But she knew one thing—he was a man who'd
shouldered more than his share of guilt and regret. And she knew too that for
him to see her sadness would only add to his burden.

"Do you want me to walk you back to the house?" he
asked, hoping to prolong the torture just a bit. If he'd known how much it
would hurt to leave her, would he ever have come to her in the first place? But
then he felt her body come close to his, her arms wrap around his waist, her
head settle on his chest, and he knew the question was absurd.

Of course he would have.

"No," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.
"I'll stay here and pack up a bit."

"Fine."

He smelled so good, and his chest was hard and smooth beneath the
softness of the linen shirt. She rubbed her cheek against it. "You will be
careful, won't you?"

"I promise."

She squeezed her eyes tightly against the sting. "You'd
better. I'll come and make sure you'll regret it if you aren't."

His laughter was strained. "You will, will you?"

"Yes. Joneses are notorious for taking their revenge if
someone breaks a promise to them, you know. No telling what I might do to
you."

"Well, I'd better take care, then." His arms closed
around her, belying the lightness in his tone. "Beth, I'm s—"

"If you're going to apologize again, I'm going to hurt you
worse than that ball you took in your shoulder did," she said fiercely.

"Only if you promise to nurse me back to health."

He could stand there and hold her forever. In fact, how easy it
would be never to go back. He could stay here and love her the way she deserved
to be loved. Instead of death and betrayal, his days and nights would be filled
with lavender and sunshine.

But if he didn't return, all the terrible, haunting things he'd
done already would be for naught. They—
he
—only held value in the
completion of his task. And he knew that even Beth wouldn't be enough to keep
the memories at bay.

"Good-bye."

He was gone with only a whisper of sound, so soft it could have
been the sighing of an errant breeze. She didn't know how he managed, in the
absolute darkness, to find the ladder and make his way down it without fumbling,
but she wasn't surprised. His senses seemed beyond those of ordinary mortals,
and she'd discovered that moving with utter silence was as natural to him as breathing
was to lesser men.

She stood there, frozen, fighting the trembling that threatened to
overtake her. The darkness cloaked her, welcoming, mysterious, vaguely
comforting, and a single, desolate melody played through her mind.

***

Jon
trudged through the narrow streets of Boston. He grimaced,
reaching down to tug at his stockings. The shoes Beth had given him were a
shade too tight and had rubbed the skin at the back of his heel raw.

Brick buildings crowded the street from both sides, shadowing it
from the midmorning sun. It always made him feel confined, as if the pathway
was too narrow for his shoulders. He seemed too big for the place.

Slumping into Jon's characteristic slouch, he continued on his
way. He passed an empty milliner's shop, its window festooned with faded
ribbons and bedraggled feathers. A tobacco shop perfumed the air with the
earthy scents of pipe tobacco and chocolate.

Boston was quiet, so different from the bustling city he'd found
when he'd first come there. Now many of the shops were closed, their owners
having escaped the volatile situation in the city at the first opportunity.
Still he shuffled along, finding returning to his dimwit role more difficult
than he'd imagined.

There was no sense in taking any chances that someone would see
him acting too alert. But after only a few days as himself—or at least, as
close to it as he was likely to manage—he was loath to become the idiot once
more.

He turned a sharp corner and plodded on. When he'd first begun
playing the role, it had amused him. People were so easily deceived, too lazy
to look beneath the obvious. They always saw what they expected to see, what
was easiest to believe, and he'd taken full advantage of their blindness.

Now, he felt a chill as he forced the idiot grin back on his face.
He had the terrible, absurd premonition that, if he hid behind the facade of
Lieutenant Jon again, he might never find his way back to Jonathan.

His ears picked up the distant throb of steady drumming. Troops
were drilling in the common.

It was nearly thirty-six hours since he'd left Beth. He'd been
slowed by his injury and recent inactivity more than he'd expected and had made
it only a third of the way back to Boston the first night. He'd spent the day
in a tumbledown barn, dozing and satisfying his suddenly sharp appetite from
the generous store of food Beth had given him.

He was dressed as a colonial and, if the pinch came, he assumed he
could pass for one. But he'd just as soon not take the chance of traveling
through the daylight hours; the only weapon he had was the sharp knife he'd
found in Beth's supplies, and if he'd been seen, he'd more than likely have had
to answer questions about why a young, apparently healthy man wasn't with the
Continental army in Cambridge. It had been simpler just to stay out of sight.

He'd made better time last night, slipping easily past both
American and British sentries and into Boston. Then he caught a few hours of
rest in the empty lean-to behind an abandoned blacksmith's shop, waiting for
day and the appropriate time to go find his captain.

One more turn and he was approaching the subdued red brick
building three blocks from the common that Captain Livingston had commandeered
shortly after they'd been stationed in Boston. Two soldiers, polished and stiff
in their bright crimson coats, guarded the door, their bayonets gleaming
silver. The captain never forgot the proprieties.

Jonathan took a deep breath, and the muscles near his wound
twitched. He felt completely exposed and longed for his musket, a sword, anything.
If he'd been recognized the night of the fiasco at the fort, he'd be arrested
the instant he identified himself to the guards—arrested, tried, and shot.

Then again, there was always the possibility they would attempt to
use him, turn him as a double agent, or simply follow him closely, trying to
flush out his contacts. He might not know his fate so quickly after all

He ruthlessly shut down his emotions, forcing the rigid control
that had served him so well for so long. He'd not allowed himself to feel for
so many years it had become second nature, and it had no longer been an effort.
Now, it was becoming more and more difficult to submerge his feelings and find
that place of cold, automatic duty.

He lowered his eyelids, as if he couldn't quite wake up, and let
his features go slack. Acutely aware of the careful attention of the guards, he
ambled up to the door.

"Halt!" Two bayonets snapped down, crossing in front of
the entrance and effectively stopping his advance.

"Identify yourself," one of the guards said sharply.

Jon studied the soldiers through his lashes. He didn't recognize
either of them. They were young, enthusiastic, and more than a bit edgy, the
kind who were always a bit too quick to fire. His muscles tightened, but he
made himself relax.

"Hello," he said in his most friendly tone.

"Who are you?"

"Lieutenant Leighton."

"Lieutenant... Lieutenant Leighton, did you say?" The
guard narrowed his eyes and glared at Jon.

"Yes."

The guard who'd asked the questions redirected his bayonet. It
hovered slightly above Jon's waist.

"You've been missing for nearly a week."

"That long?"

"What happened to you?" the guard demanded.

Jon grinned casually. "Tell Cap'n."

"Tell me where you were."

"Tell Cap'n," Jon repeated. The bayonet was just a
little too close for comfort, and it took all the self-control Jon could muster
not to reach out and relieve the guard of his weapon. It would be simple
enough; the young man's grip was too loose.

The guard hesitated, then glanced at the other guard and jerked
his head toward Jon. "Watch him." He snapped open the door of the
building and disappeared inside.

Jon turned his attention to the other guard, who, so far, hadn't
uttered a word. "Hello. I'm Jon."

This one blinked and fingered the stock of his musket.
"Quiet," he ordered.

"Your name?" Jon asked.

The guard simply stared at him. This one took his job just as
seriously, it seemed. Jon had hoped to strike up a bit of a conversation and
find out if he'd missed much while he was gone. With any luck, he also would
have gotten a hint of what his disappearance had been attributed to, but it
didn't look as if he was going to get much out of this man.

Jon smiled, slouched, and settled in to wait.

***

Captain Livingston frowned down at the dispatch. He shuffled the
papers, then tapped irritably on the polished, gleaming dark wood of the
desktop.

A traitor. By God, they thought there was a traitor, in
his
company!
It was patently absurd. All his men were loyal.

He straightened his wig and settled back into the blood red
leather chair. He looked around the familiar room that served as his office.
Furnished in leather and dark wood, accented with brass and a few really lovely
carpets, it was an adequate office for a captain, he supposed. A bit small, but
it would suffice. Certainly it was a tremendous improvement over the pitiful
conditions at that awful fort. Thank heavens his superiors had the good sense
to call him back to the city where he belonged. Although Boston barely deserved
the title of city, being unable to hold a wick, much less a candle, to London,
he could work here. He knew his duty.

And now there was the affront of this dispatch. They'd been
investigating his company for months now—months!—and they hadn't told him. It
had taken them that long to verify that he himself wasn't the traitor. He would
have laughed at the absurdity of it if it hadn't been so insulting. They'd told
him they had an agent working in his company, but they wouldn't tell him who it
was. Only that the captain had been cleared, and the agent would continue to
work to uncover the traitor. Complete effrontery!

The entire thing was almost beyond bearing. He realigned the
inkpot, quill, and papers until his desk satisfied his sense of order. The
entire task in the colonies had been bungled almost from the beginning. The
politicians in Britain clearly had no idea how to deal with the rebels.

He had plenty of ideas, by God. These colonists were simply
waiting to be led. But prodding them and giving them ultimatums merely fueled
their rebelliousness.

Yes, if he'd been consulted, there wouldn't have been the awful,
humiliating slaughter at Bunker Hill. It didn't matter that they had ultimately
won the hill and the day; their losses were too great for any but one who
hadn't been there to claim victory.

And now they were penned in this town, surrounded on all sides by
a force of vastly superior numbers, if completely inferior character and
training. He'd lost the best sergeant he'd ever had, and the replacement troops
were raw and ill-prepared. And that idiot lieutenant had somehow managed to get
himself lost in the bargain!

Sighing, he rose from his chair, clasping his hands behind his
back, and began to pace. There had to be a way to bring the new troops up to
scratch more quickly.

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts. Heavens, he hated it when
he was disturbed. Didn't people know when he was contemplating?

"Enter," he called sharply.

The door creaked open and a head popped around it. It was one of
those new ones—Herrington? Something like that. The boy was anxious to please,
but he had the most confounded difficulty remembering orders. Livingston had
set him to guarding the front door. That much, he'd thought, the private would
be able to handle.

"What is it?"

The soldier's round face flushed. "Ah, there's a man, sir. At
the door." His voice rose to a squeak. "He, ah, he says he's
Lieutenant Leighton, sir."

"Lieutenant Leighton? Well, is it, man?"

"I don't know, sir. He's, ah, he's rather large, sir."

"That's him! What's his explanation of his absence?"

The young private cleared his throat. "All he'll say, sir, is
Tell Cap'n.'"