Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution (23 page)

"I want to
go home."
 
Tears congested her
voice.

"We
all
want to go home."
 
He pressed his
cheek to her tears and wrapped his arms about her waist, folding her into the
hearth of his body, his touch communicating that it made even less sense to
turn around and go home than to keep pushing forward.
 
They'd already traveled more than halfway to St. Augustine.

He held her
through the search she made of her soul for a corner in which she could bind
desolation, terror, and hopelessness.
 
Somehow, she had to keep pushing forward and not allow any of it to bind
her, not even when she'd had to kill two men.
 
She didn't have to like any of it, but she
did
have to move
forward.
 
Mathias was right.
 
She carried far too much with her.

Moonlight
silvered the marsh.
 
Frogs throated
night, and crickets chirped.
 
An ancient
memory stirred in her brain.
 
Earth,
salt, musk — a man's flesh and fire forgotten for eighteen years.
 
Clay to clay, the curves and angles of their
bodies sought each other, shifting and sedimenting together until a
scarce-remembered fit emerged.
 
She
breathed in cadence with Mathias and the nocturne of the marsh.

His cheek
caressed hers.
 
Lips parted, she tilted
her face toward his until the corners of their mouths brushed.
 
An elemental ember of forge-fire fanned back
to life and swelled between them.
 
In
wonder and delight, she tilted her head further.
 
Lips hunted for each other, and she tasted the moistness of his
mouth.

He pulled back
from her, his hands fumbling for hers, covering them with his own.
 
Through resonance pulsing between them, he
shook his head, denying his thirst.

"No?"
she whispered, baffled.
 
Every nerve in
her body vibrated to close a circle left ajar for eighteen years.
 
Why did he push her away?

"All the
handsome men you've chosen, with blond hair and blue eyes."

She gripped his
hands, trying to shut out a flood of memories — images of handsome
blond-haired, blue-eyed Jim Neely, Richard Barton, and Edward Hunt.
 
"I haven't chosen Edward Hunt."

"Ah, but
he's chosen you, and he's everything Alton is not.
 
How can any woman turn her back on a protector in
Parliament?
 
I know what he offered
you.
 
David told me.
 
I can give you nothing like that,
Sophie."
 
Moonlight starkened
torment on his face after he pulled free of her.
 
"At least I know you consider me your confidant and
comforter."
 
Pain and confusion
knotted his voice, her heart.
 
"That's more than will ever be said for any of
them
."
 
He strode back to the campfire as if he
couldn't escape quickly enough.

***

Sophie lay on
her bedroll, her gaze following meteor trails, a list of attributes grinding
through her brain.
 
Edward: intelligent,
handsome, wealthy, enchanted by her.
 
Mathias: intelligent, successful, confidant, friend.
 
The analysis allowed her scant sleep, and
when she did sleep, she dreamed of men's faces floating on the surface of a
lake of spirits, their eyes damning and beseeching her.
 
The party broke camp predawn Saturday with
Sophie feeling every sore muscle in her body.

Did Edward
imagine Lady Beatrice stupid, just because she was fifteen?
 
Why, if
Sophie
were Lady Hunt, she'd
hire someone to follow Edward and get to the bottom of any frequent visits to
London.
 
A lifestyle of silk gowns and
theater visits must be exquisite.
 
But
if she became Edward's mistress, contention with a noblewoman the age of her
daughter was inevitable, and not an experience for which she was eager to cross
the Atlantic.

As for Mathias,
she didn't understand the reasoning by which he'd arrived at the conclusion
that he could only be her friend.
 
It
seemed obvious that if she'd "chosen" Edward Hunt, she'd have stayed
with the victorious redcoats at the bandits' campsite instead of escaping.
 
Mathias surely hadn't factored much logic
into his decision-making.

Damned if she
understood men.

No such perplexity
saddled David's mind.
 
The willow bark
tea had allowed him to awaken well-rested and eager to move on.
 
By late morning enough of his personality
returned for him to canter his horse up beside hers and give her a wink of
sarcasm.
 
"You look like the cat
dragged you home and left you on the doorstep."

"Thank
you."

"I'd like
to think it was fresh air and exercise doing you so much good."
 
Swiveling, he glanced at Jacques, who rode
ahead, and Standing Wolf at the rear.
 
Mathias and Runs With Horses were out scouting.
 
"I really think it's a certain
nothing
we discussed on Monday, before starting our journey."

She stared
ahead, her brain exhausted.
 
"You're right.
 
It's
nothing.
 
I won't waste my breath
talking about nothing."

"Maybe
I'll discuss it with Mathias, then, because I couldn't help but notice after
you two returned from your stroll last night that nothing was clearly
wrong."

She
glared.
 
"Keep out of it, or I'll
punch your arm."

He
cringed.
 
"Ooh.
 
I was just trying to help."

"Help
someone else.
 
You're about to ruin a
friendship."

"There are
ways aplenty to encourage such a friendship —"

He broke off to
the sound of a horse galloping in from the south.
 
With no time to seek cover, they pulled to the roadside and
readied weapons.
 
Mathias thundered into
view and reined back his mount.
 
"Quickly!
 
There's a man
left for dead about a mile down the road!"

They kicked
their horses into a gallop and followed.
 
Minutes later, they arrived on the scene — grass trampled and torn, a
dead saddled mare, and a raven-haired young man sprawled supine near the horse
in the humid shade of a lone pine, blood darkening the right side of his
well-tailored waistcoat.

At their
arrival and dismount, the man's eyes flickered open.
 
He lifted his head, dark eyes full of pain and determination,
hand closing about the handle of a pistol holstered at his hip.
 
Robbery hadn't motivated the attack.
 
Bandits would have stripped him and taken
his weapons.

David caught
Mathias by the upper arm.
 
"Watch
yourself.
 
He thinks we've come to
finish him off."

Jacques knelt
beside the mare.
 
The man's gaze
wandered back and forth between Standing Wolf and Mathias.
 
"Indians.
 
At least not redcoats."
 
He sank back, hand still clutching the pistol.

Redcoats
.
 
Interesting.
 
Sophie wondered how old he was.
 
He reminded her of her son-in-law, Clark.
 
So young.

David spread
his hands.
 
"Let us help you."

The man dropped
his hand away from the pistol and nodded.
 
David and Mathias approached with caution.
 
Jacques whispered, "
Belle
Sophie," and directed
her attention to the man's saddle.
 
"Made in Boston, the excellent work of a patriot saddle maker named
Herman Stone.
 
I recognize it."

Her attention
sprang to the wounded man.
 
"A
friend of John Adams?"
 
The
Frenchman nodded.
 
She looked from the
empty road north to where Mathias knelt beside the man in the grass, David
standing behind him.
 
"How Fairfax
would love to get his hands on him."

"We need
not let that happen."

They agreed
silently before she approached the pine.
 
Mathias had opened the man's waistcoat to blood soaking the right side
of his fine shirt.
 
He groaned while
Mathias pulled the shirt from his breeches.
 
Blood rimmed a shot hole below his ribcage.
 
The blacksmith poked his finger through a rip in the front of the
shirt and one in the back.
 
"The
ball passed straight through you, front to back."

"He killed
my horse and left me for dead."

Mathias studied
him.
 
"Who attacked you?"

The young man
looked away.
 
"A highwayman, of
course."

Of course?
 
Mathias and Sophie regarded each other a
moment, and she read his acknowledgement that the man had lied.
 
This wasn't the work of highwaymen.
 
Why would a wounded man protect the identity
of his attacker?
 
A chill teased her
neck.

Mathias offered
a curt nod.
 
"We've no way to tell
what the ball nicked inside you.
 
How
long ago did this happen?"

"Mid-morning.
 
My two companions and I had just taken a
break."

Two
companions.
 
The puzzle grew more
complex.
 
MacVie had said El Serpiente
was traveling with two Bostonians, but by Mrs. Woodhouse's account, El
Serpiente had been traveling alone.
 
And
hadn't the widow also commented on a party of three men who'd passed through
before the Spaniard and left her a decent tip?
 
"So you were wounded no more than two hours ago."
 
Sophie sank in the grass near the man's left
shoulder.

Hearing her
voice, he regarded her with perplexity.
 
"A woman?"

"And
you're a friend of John Adams."

His eyes
widened in astonishment.
 
"Who are
you?"

"Good
Samaritans."

David leaned
over, his right hand braced on his knee.
 
"We're on the trail of a man known as El Serpiente.
 
We want to question him about a murder.
 
What's your name?"

Expression
closed from his face, but not before they'd seen a flash of panic in his
eyes.
 
He rotated his head back to stare
at pine branches above, lips clamped shut.
 
A frown dragged from Sophie's brow to her lips.
 
"Suit yourself.
 
We've redcoats tracking us no more than four
hours behind.
 
Cooperate with us, and
we'll get you to safety.
 
Don't
cooperate, and we'll let them have you."
 
The man's cheeks paled further.
 
"And by the by, the British lieutenant's disposition doesn't
portend any displays of leniency from him toward wounded spies."

"My name
is Stephen Hawthorne," whispered the wounded spy.

She doubted he
gave his real name.
 
"A pleasure to
meet you, sir.
 
Given the urgency of the
situation, I think it prudent to bandage you and see whether you can ride one
of our spare horses."

Caution edged
Hawthorne's expression.
 
"I shall
try."

"Good.
 
While we're tending your wounds, it only
seems fair if you tell us some information about El Serpiente, since from your
expression you obviously know him."
 
She smiled.
 
"We've come
almost literally through hell and high water to find him."

Chapter Eighteen

WHILE JACQUES
KNELT to inspect the saddle of the dead mare, Mathias pressed a doubled cloth
to Hawthorne's injured side.
 
His face
blanching with pain, Hawthorne leaned back on his left hand to hold the wadded
cloth in place so Mathias could bandage his midsection.
 
"I was traveling to St. Augustine with
companions.
 
That's all you need to
know."

Sophie's
eyebrows shot upward.
 
"And their
names?"

"I'm not
at liberty to tell you."

Jacques's hand
sneaked to one of Hawthorne's saddlebags.
 
What was that wily old Frenchman up to?
 
She said, "It's useless for you to dodge our questions.
 
We know you expected to meet Don Alejandro
de Gálvez in St. Augustine."

David sucked a
gasp, and Sophie stared at a pistol suddenly grasped in Hawthorne's hand,
leveled at Jacques.
 
Pain clipped the
spy's voice.
 
"I thank you to keep
your hands off my property.
 
I
appreciate your assistance, but it is discourteous of you to take advantage of
my incapacitation and snoop."

Diplomacy
stretched Jacques's lips over his teeth.
 
"My apologies."
 
He
stood, keeping his hands in view, and when the pistol motioned, stepped away
from the horse carcass to where Standing Wolf stood out on the road.