Now and Forever (79 page)

Patrick listened to the story then threw back his head and laughed. His colleagues looked at him, openmouthed, for he had never laughed before in their presence. This story, however, merited little else.

"A large red ball seen bouncing over the tree tops?" he asked, for once forgetting the anger in his gut. "Mayhap our good soldiers should reconsider their love of rum and the grape."

The peacemaker shook his head. "It would seem so, but 'twas not the case. All were teetotal."

"A trick of the clouds and the setting sun," Patrick said, determined to find a reasonable explanation. Nonsensical stories such as this one ofttimes destroyed the most carefully wrought plans. Better to stop it now.

"His Excellency himself laid claim to the sight," said the peacemaker.

Patrick arched his brow. "This story stops now," he ordered. "It serves no purpose save to foster unrest."

The least powerful of the three opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

"Say your piece, man," Patrick ordered, noticing the man's unease. He wondered if the innocent face hid the heart of a traitor. "Have done with it now then get on with the business at hand."

"There are those who say a man and two women floated from a basket suspended below the big red ball and that the man was Andrew McVie."

"Yes," said Patrick, ruing the day he'd thrown in his lot with beggars and fools. "A most likely occurrence." McVie had vanished three summers ago and Patrick had every reason to believe him dead and buried.

"A farmer near to King's Crossing claims to have seen them sail off behind the hills then disappear. A shopkeeper in Morristown says the Lobsterbacks brung them to the ground and threw them in jail."

The peacemaker laughed. "Next we'll hear that King George was with them, drinking tea."

"Nonsense, all of it," Patrick stated in a tone that brooked no argument. If Andrew McVie was alive and anywhere in the thirteen colonies, he would know about it. "Put an end to conjecture and concentrate on the job at hand."

He turned once again to leave.

This time no one stopped him.

#

Dakota quickly discovered that the man of the house was pathologically tidy.

His desktop was a testament to anal-retentive decorating. The blotter was perfectly centered. A chunky glass inkwell was situated at the upper right-hand corner. Two quills rested next to it, points aimed toward the door.

If he had any personal effects, he kept them well-hidden. No miniatures of the wife and kid. No busts of either of the Georges—general or king. It wasn't as if she'd been expecting to find a framed 8 X 10 glossy or manila folder filled with carbon copies of his correspondence but she'd certainly figured to uncover more than this.

She tried the top drawer but it was locked. So were the other three. Devane didn't strike her as the kind of guy who would take the time to lock his desk, then hide the key under the blotter where someone like Dakota could find it. He probably slept with it under his pillow.

The thought made her laugh out loud and she stifled the sound with her hand. She could just imagine herself slipping back upstairs, sneaking down the hallway to his room, then trying to inch her hand under his pillow. He'd probably shoot her dead before she made it back out the door.

So that left the books themselves. Maybe he had a map or a copy of some incriminating correspondence tucked between the pages of Aristotle or Shakespeare's Sonnets.

She paused, waiting for that tingle of energy that she knew so well, but nothing came. It had been so easy with McVie. The image of the book
Forgotten Heroes
had come to her so clearly that she'd never doubted its existence—or that she would find the passage that spoke of Andrew's destiny, saving the lives of his friends Rutledge and Blakelee.

But it was different this time. Her mind was empty of everything but the terrifying notion that her world had suddenly gone from Technicolor to black and white. If this was how the rest of humanity went through life, she wasn't impressed. Instead of relying on those mysterious inner voices, she was reduced to using logic.

"No use whining about it, Wylie," she said with a sigh. The clock was ticking and if she didn't want Devane to catch her in flagrante delicto, she'd better get cracking.

She thanked her years of library science classes as she climbed the ladder and reached for the copy of
Aesop's Fables.
Librarians knew how to handle books. She could make her way through Devane's entire library in a few hours and he'd never even know she'd been there.

#

The first thing Patrick noticed as he approached the house was the light burning in the library window.

"Bloody hell," he swore under his breath. The dark-haired wench was up and about. He should have realized she would not miss an opportunity to pry into his affairs. He was grateful he had remembered to lock his desk drawers and secret the key upon his person.

He reined in the black stallion that had been Susannah's favorite and dismounted. The beast was high-strung and possessed of a foul disposition, yet he feared nothing. Patrick's own chestnut had patently refused to venture into the storm.

Quietly he led the horse back toward the stable and settled the animal in for the night. He had given William permission to sleep in the main house during the winter months, as much for his own convenience as for the boy's comfort.

Of late he and his companions had enjoyed much luck in their endeavors, despite the traitor among them who oft fed information to the other side. They moved swiftly and secretly about the countryside, gathering information, freeing innocent men held against their will. And with every day, every raid, he came closer to his goal.

He slipped into the kitchen and shut the door behind him. The hearth fire was banked, but warmth still rose up from the embers. His body registered the heat but he took no pleasure from it. He allowed himself to think of naught save stopping the short-haired wench before she stumbled upon the truth.

The library door was closed. The yellow glow of candlelight spilled through the cracks and out into the darkened hallway. Mistress Wylie had a great deal to learn. A more experienced member of a spy ring would have known to block the escape of light with cushions or books.

Grim-faced, he reached for the latch.

#

"The man's a sociopath," Dakota muttered as she slid a heavy leather-bound tome back onto the shelf. It was bad enough that Devane didn't have any fascinating knick-knacks scattered about his library, but she'd at least hoped his choice of books would shed some light on the man.

You'd have to check into the morgue to find a more deadly dull collection of books. Where were the hand-drawn maps? The letters from family and friends? The telephone wouldn't be invented for another hundred years. If you wanted to get in touch with someone, you wrote a letter, but so far Dakota hadn't found one single shred of information that would give her even the slightest idea of where she was or what was going on around her.

If she didn't come up with some answers soon, she'd be forced to do the unthinkable and ask him.

Asking questions made you vulnerable; it provided your enemy with a road map of all your weaknesses. But when you came down to it, what choice did she have? It wasn't as if she could turn on CNN to catch up on things.

If nothing else, she finally understood why the heroines of the Gothic novels she'd devoured as a teenager never asked questions. She couldn't count the times she'd flung a poor unsuspecting paperback against the wall and snarled, "Why didn't you just
ask
?" at the hapless heroine. Now she knew. If the heroine had uttered so much as "Where am I?"" the antihero would have known she was ripe for the taking.

No, she'd have to find a more subtle way to get at the truth.

She was considering that when something caught her eye near the corner of the room. A piece of paper stuck out from beneath the lush Persian carpet. Quickly she crossed the room and grabbed for it.

Pay dirt!

It was a list of some kind. Two columns of names written in a strong, masculine hand. She scanned the long left-hand column and saw the names McDowell, Grant and Arnold. Her eyes shifted to the right-hand column, where the names Rutledge and Blakelee leaped out at her. Her heart pounded wildly and she had started to zero in on the others when she heard footsteps in the hallway. She barely had time to stash the slip of paper back underneath the carpet when the door swung open and Devane loomed in the doorway.

"What in bloody hell are you doing in my library?" he roared.

"Trying to figure out where in bloody hell I am."

The room fell silent.

It was the
hell
that did it, she thought. The look of utter amazement on his face was priceless. It was almost enough to make up for the fatal error she'd made. Now he probably thought she was a fallen woman on top of everything else.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "So where am I?" she asked.

"Franklin Ridge," he said after a pause. "You asked that question earlier, madam."

That was almost embarrassingly easy. Maybe there was something to be said for the direct approach after all. "In New Jersey?"

"In New Jersey."

"Are we near Princeton?"

"You do not know?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you."

"Is it that you have no sense of geography or are you not from this colony?"

"A little of both."

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

The library suddenly got a lot smaller.

#

Her dark eyes held a fierce glitter within their depths but was it the glitter of madness or commitment? He needed to find out.

"We are a half-day's ride from Princeton to the north," he said.

"Near Morristown?"

"A stone's throw."

"And where's the closest jail?"

"Sweet Jesus, madam, but you try a man's patience beyond endurance."

"You're not a walk in the park yourself."

Again the words were recognizable but the pattern was not.

He closed the distance between them. "It is now my turn to ask the questions and, by all that is holy, you are to answer with the truth."

"And I've told you the truth. My name is Dakota Wylie. I have no sense of direction and, believe me, I'm not from around here."

"And where are you from?"

"I told you before, sir, or were you not listening?"

She was a canny wench, one not easily bested, but he was not a man easily deterred by a challenge.

"New Hampshire, did you say?"

She hesitated. It was clear she did not remember what lie she had perpetrated upon him.

"Or was it Boston?" he prodded.

"It is none of your business, Mr. Devane."

"But I think it
is
my business." He moved closer. "I find you on my property. I find you in my library. If not mine, then whose business is it?"

"This is ridiculous." She stepped backward.

He stepped forward.

"If you're trying to intimidate me, it won't work."

"I am trying to obtain an answer to my question, madam, and if intimidation is the means by which I will succeed, then we will soon find out who the victor is."

"Move out of my way," she ordered. "It's late. I wish to sleep."

He blocked her passage. "You had your chance to sleep and it has passed."

"No wonder your wife left you," she snapped. "I'm only surprised she made it past the honeymoon."

Wrong thing to say.

She gauged the distance between herself and the door and considered making a run for it. Unfortunately the last time she'd done any running it was to grab the last bag of chips at the supermarket.

"You will not talk of my wife or my marriage again." His voice was low, menacing. "Not in this house. Not with anyone."

She lifted her chin and met his eyes. "Why?" she asked, sounding braver than she felt. "Got something to hide?"