Now and Forever (100 page)

"Tonight," Dakota said. "I can feel it in my bones."

Emilie glanced toward the window. "God help me, so can I."

#

Abigail was curled on the window seat in Papa and Dakota's bedroom. Lucy was propped up on the sill, looking quite pretty in the new dress that Dakota and the red-haired woman had sewn for her that afternoon.

Abigail had wanted to put on a pretty dress of her own and go to the party, too, but Dakota had promised to save her a piece of sugar cake and tell her all about the music and dancing in the morning. Abigail's temper had heated up really fast when she heard the word no, but then she'd thought about how much she wanted Dakota to stay with them and be her new mama, and she'd decided to mind her manners.

Fancy coaches and carriages wound their way up the snowy lane to the house and Abigail pressed her nose against the windowpane as she watched the men and ladies step down. Many of the men wore powdered wigs tied at the napes of their necks with brightly colored ribbon. Abigail giggled as a fat gentleman tugged at his ponytail, only to send his wig sliding down over one ear.

The ladies wore their hair in elaborate arrangements that puzzled Abigail. How did they make their hair stand up that way? Was it a secret you learned when you grew up? She hoped so, because she would so love to look beautiful.

It was great fun to sit there, so warm and cozy with Lucy, and watch the parade of guests as they arrived at the house, but it was the big ugly cloud that fascinated Abigail most of all. She didn't know what it was, but the cloud made her feel funny inside, the way she felt when a lightning storm was coming, all jumpy and filled with excitement.

The bright red balloon was coming back and when it did, Abigail and Lucy would be ready.

Abigail grabbed her cloak, tucked Lucy under her arm and tiptoed toward the back stairs.

#

The blows came hard and fast but Patrick refused to sway. They would have to kill him before he bent a knee before the bloody traitors. The good people of Franklin Ridge, the same good people who had ostracized him, had cradled a viper to their bosoms. It should not surprise them when the viper bared its fangs.

McDowell.
The very name was a blight upon the cause.
May you rot in hell for eternity.

The crack of bone echoed inside his head. His bone? He waited for the pain but it never came. He was beyond pain, into another, more terrifying realm of sensation.

The butt of the musket slammed into his shoulder and he staggered but did not drop. One week ago he had lacked a reason to go on, but all had changed. His life had opened up before him, filled with promise, and he would not, could not, let it slip through his fingers.

Dakota.
He saw her clearly in his mind's eye, saw the sweetness of her soul, the fire of her convictions. He saw her heart, the depth and breadth of everything she was . . . everything he could be.

He would not give up.

He would not die before he saw her face again.

#

General McDowell was outraged when he realized Patrick wasn't at the party.

"To leave you in such trying circumstances," he said, feigning sympathy for Dakota's plight. "A most ungentlemanly thing to do."

Dakota debated between defending her husband and siding with the enemy. She opted for the enemy. "Quite," she said, taking the arm the general offered. "I don't know what possessed him to do such a thing."

"Most thoughtless," McDowell went on. "I'm of a mind to have my men comb the area until they find the reprobate."

"Don't do that!" Dakota snapped, perhaps a shade too harshly. "I will not force my company upon anyone. . . especially not my husband."

"You have been ill-used, my dear," McDowell said as they entered the enormous front hall that tonight served as a ballroom. "Much as dear Susannah had been."

Dakota nearly choked on her own saliva.

"My plainspokenness surprises you," McDowell said, chuckling. "I do not mean to make you uncomfortable, my dear, only to remind you that you are not the first young woman Devane has mistreated nor, dare I say, will you be the last."

And thank you so much for sharing, you moron.
If the situation had been different, if she hadn't learned what kind of man Patrick truly was, McDowell's comments might have been devastating. As it was, she regained her composure just in time to take her place in the receiving line to greet their guests.

#

Emilie was curled up by the hearth fire in the kitchen, pretending to doze. Neither Patrick nor Dakota put any stock in her suspicions about Cook, but the sense that all was not as it seemed had grown stronger as the day progressed.

One thing was certain: Cook was running poor Molly ragged. The young woman had kneaded a dozen loaves of bread, cut the vegetables for soup, plucked four chickens, then set out to lug an enormous bag of flour down to the basement.

"You can't do that," Emilie had said to the girl. "It's too heavy."

Molly wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "Aunt says I must, ma'am, and she doesn't take kindly to slackers."

"Tell Will to come in here and do it."

"Will's off t' the stables, helping his father," Molly offered with a sunny smile. "'Tain't the worst thing I've done in my life."

"Still, it's too heavy for you. I would help you myself but I am two months with child and must be careful."

Molly's smile was maybe a shade too hearty and Emilie grew even more suspicious. "Like I said, 'tain't the worst thing I've done." With that Molly dragged the sack out the back door then down the stone steps to the cellar.

All day long it had been that way in Cook's kitchen. Harsh voices. Even harsher tasks. Enough whispering to make the most trusting soul wonder what was going on. Emilie didn't have Patrick's knowledge of the area or Dakota's extrasensory perception, but she did have the strong feeling that Cook was involved in something much bigger than what was in her stew pot.

"That's a lazy one," Emilie heard Cook say as she pretended to nap by the fire after supper.

"She's not a worker, Aunt," came Molly's sweet voice. "She's a guest."

"Hmmph," Cook snorted. "Guests sleep upstairs in a regular bed. They don't curl up by the fire like common folk."

You're a snob, Cook,
thought Emilie.
But are you a traitor, too?

#

Under different circumstances Dakota could imagine enjoying an eighteenth-century party in her honor. And there was certainly something to be said for men in uniform. Add to that the music and the rum punch and the laughter, and it made for a heady brew.

Too bad the
if onlys
made it impossible for her to enjoy the party.

If only she belonged.

If only the marriage they celebrated was a real marriage, not a sham.

If only Patrick had seen fit to be there with her.

What did you expect, Wylie?
she thought as she twirled around the dance floor in the arms of a ruddy officer from Philadelphia. She'd turned Patrick's entire life upside down. She looked up at her dancing partner, who favored her with a huge smile.
What would you say if I told you I was born in 1967
?

She knew darn well what he'd say. He'd scream, "Witch!" and start a bonfire.

Patrick hadn't done that. He'd tried to understand and to believe, even when reason must have told him he was mad to consider it. Last night he'd made love to her, body and soul. It had been about so much more than sex, so much more than desire, that she'd felt as if their two hearts had become one.

He knew this wasn't her world. He knew she would be adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar ways. No matter how much he hated General McDowell, Patrick never would have left her alone at this party. Not unless—

"Madam?" The officer's brow creased with concern. "Are you unwell?"

"No—I mean, yes." She lowered her eyes and swayed. "I am feeling quite unwell. Will you excuse me?"

"Let me accompany you from the dance floor."

"No, no, you needn't do that. Please find another partner and continue dancing."

She hurried away before he had time to protest, and barely reached the back stairs before she ran into Emilie.

Emilie grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the pantry.

"I was right!" Emilie's voice shook with triumph. "It's Cook!"

Dakota stared at her in the murky light. "What?"

"Cook is the missing link."

"That's crazy," Dakota said, even though the buzzing in her head and down her spine told a different story. "How could Cook possibly—"

"I don't have time to explain it all," Emilie said, "but Molly put the pieces together."

"You're talking too fast," Dakota protested. "Slow down. I don't know what you're—"

"Listen!" Emilie gripped Dakota's forearms and shook her hard. "Cook's sister Margaret works at the Ford house where General Washington is staying." Emilie paused for effect. "And Margaret is Molly's mother."

"So what? That doesn't make her a spy. My mother has a martyr complex but that doesn't make me Joan of Arc."

"Don't you understand? Cook and Margaret passed messages back and forth through poor Molly. The two women have had a rivalry going on since the cradle and finally Margaret had something to hold over Cook's head."

"General Washington?" Dakota breathed, suddenly beginning to understand.

"Exactly," said Emilie. "And the more detailed information Margaret passed on, the more jealous she believed Cook would get."

But Margaret didn't know her sister as well as she thought. Cook had bigger and better plans for the juicy information Margaret relayed through poor Molly. Cook wasn't getting jealous; Cook was getting rich.

". . . the White Horse Tavern where Molly worked . . . " Emilie's words penetrated the loud buzz inside her head.

She struggled to zero in on what the woman was saying, but she felt as if Emilie were a thousand light-years away.

"What about the White Horse Tavern?" she managed to say. "Isn't that where you met Molly?"

"And it's the place where Zane and Josiah made the drop the night they were captured. The owner was a staunch patriot."

Dakota met her eyes. "Or so you thought."

"Exactly," said Emilie. "The bastard betrayed us. Loyalists paid him in gold to alter his allegiance."

Dakota sagged against the cold stone wall of the pantry as dark images, shadows, danced at the outer reaches of her peripheral vision.

"Dakota?" Emilie kept her from falling. "Are you okay?"

"Patrick's in danger," she said, knowing the truth of her statement in every cell and fiber of her body. "I have to find him."

"It's dark out there. You don't know the area. You'll never be able to find him."

"I'll find him," Dakota said. It was her destiny, the reason she'd traveled through time.

"I'm coming with you," Emilie said.

"No!" Dakota was adamant. "You can do more here. Someone has to watch Abby and keep McDowell from getting suspicious." Her mouth curved in a quick smile. "Besides, you're pregnant. You can't take any chances."

Emilie sighed and placed her hands over her still-flat belly. "Godspeed," she said, hugging Dakota fiercely. "Come back safely."

Dakota hugged Emilie back but said nothing. It would be a miracle if she came back at all.

"Cook's coming!" Emilie said. "Give me two minutes to get her to the kitchen, then you can make a run for it."

It was the longest two minutes of Dakota's life. Finally she peered out from the pantry, saw nobody peering back in at her, then tore up the back stairs to the bedroom. She wasn't going anywhere without Shannon's gun. Abigail was sound asleep, sprawled across the enormous feather bed. Dakota resisted the urge to press a kiss to her forehead. Goodbyes were dangerous.

She slipped into the anteroom, slid her hand under the mattress and relieved the gun. This time she didn't hide it in her stocking but tucked it in her bodice, fashion be damned, then grabbed her cloak and was off.