The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (50 page)

A swell of despair rolled over her
expression.
 
"I guess I won't be
staying with Aunt Martha."

He pulled her up against him again,
one hand returning to her buttock and squeezing.
 
"I have no compunction about taking the time necessary to
extract the truth from you.
 
In fact, I
fancy you enjoying the process so much that two or three hours hence, all
manner of truths will be tumbling from your lips.
 
So unless you prefer to miss the engagement you alluded to earlier,
stop playing me for a fool.
 
Your
husband abandoned you.
 
You're with
child.
 
It's time to find the protection
of your kin.
 
It's time to find
Mother.
 
You're going to Ninety
Six."

Betsy gritted her teeth and
squirmed.
 
"I told you I don't know
where she is.
 
Take your hands off
me!"

He tangled fingers in hair escaped
from her mobcap at the back of her head, exposing her throat, filling her
nostrils with his scent.
 
"Betsy
darling, Betsy sweet, I knew you were intrigued with me the afternoon we met in
Alton.
 
Shall I show you how it was with
your mother in Havana?"

"You cur!"
 
She freed a hand, grazed his jaw with her
fist, and tried to stomp his foot.

While he scuffled with her for
control, the door to the cellar opened.
 
In the instant of her surprise, Fairfax blew out the lantern, plunging
the aisle into shadow.
 
She lunged
away.
 
He reeled her back.
 
She sucked in a breath to scream and felt
the tip of his dagger prick through her petticoat to her belly above the
womb.
 
"Quiet," he whispered,
"or you'll never birth this child."
 
At her stiffening, the pressure of the dagger grew painful.
 
"Do we understand each other?"

"Yes," she whispered,
trembling, relaxing against his shoulder so he wouldn't injure her.
 
Then she turned her attention to the wine
rack separating them from the stairs, through which they watched a man with a
lantern descend into the cellar.

Chapter Forty

A SECOND MAN followed him down and
stood beside him at the end of the first aisle.
 
Betsy sneaked a glance at Fairfax's face, but there wasn't enough
light to see more than a glitter in his eyes, reflection of the two men's
lantern.

The pressure from his dagger had
vanished, but she doubted he'd sheathed the blade.
 
As if reading her thoughts, he secured his left arm across her
ribcage, her back snug against his left side.
 
The alertness in his body permeated her, communicating that there'd be
no quick dash for freedom.
 
Fairfax
wouldn't drop his guard.

Two more men descended with
lanterns, and Betsy gaped in recognition at Basilio and Francisco.
 
They were followed by a couple more, both
strangers and young, before Betsy gasped at the seventh man: Clark.

Great heavens, was this a meeting
of the Ambrose spy ring?
 
If so, Fairfax
was seeing one of his fondest wishes unfold: the opportunity to identify all
the rebels.

Another three climbed down, all
strangers.
 
Then Betsy stared in
confusion at the final man to descend.
 
"You disgust me, all of you," said Adam Neville when he'd reached
the bottom step and surveyed those arrayed before him.
 
"You call yourselves 'Patriots?'
 
You're dung-eating dogs, a continual source
of amusement for the redcoats.
 
'Patriots' like you guarantee world domination for His Majesty."

"Ahhhhhh!" whispered
Fairfax, the sound a cross between a sigh and ecstatic release.
 
Betsy glanced at him again and shuddered
with horror at the radiance in his eyes.

Lieutenant Neville planted his
feet.
 
"You're supposed to be an
autonomous unit.
 
But each of you has
bumbled irreparably.
 
I should never,
never
have had to compromise my position with the Rangers to ride here, just to
realign this mission."

"Ahhhhhh!" whispered
Betsy, echoing Fairfax's comprehension, niggling details about the adventure
making sense at last.
 
Jan van Duser
hadn't been Ambrose, and Abel Branwell hadn't been the double agent, and Whig
Captain Ned Murray had assumed he'd nothing to fear at the mass grave because
one of his own would give quarter to him.
 
But Adam Neville had his own code of honor.

"To tell you the truth, I
don't know if it can be repaired at this point.
 
Van Duser's gone, and the last time I saw Branwell was Saturday
the twelfth of August, gentlemen, three days ago.
 
Has anyone seen him since then?"

The men remained silent.
 
Betsy's peripheral vision detected a
gleam.
 
When she turned her head, she
realized it was the reflection of the lantern on Fairfax's teeth.
 
He was grinning.
 
Ice stormed her spine.

"Assume he's dead,
then."
 
Neville scowled.
 
"Where's Wilson?
 
Posey, wasn't he with you?"

One man cleared his throat.
 
"Yes, sir, but I haven't seen him since
last night."

"Damnation."
 
Neville pounded his fist into his palm.
 
"That confirms it's not a blackmail
victim.
 
Assassins are working us,
lads.
 
How did they latch onto us,
eh?
 
Who gave 'em the tip?"

"My sweet," Fairfax
whispered and brushed his lips on the back of Betsy's neck, above her
tucker.
 
She tensed, sickened.

"Oh, come now, surely some of
you have thought about it.
 
After all,
we've had enough clues.
 
Very well,
let's waste no more time guessing.
 
Sheridan, step forward."
 
The other men allowed Clark room, as if he smelled rancid.
 
Neville brought his face inches from
Clark's.
 
His sneer was audible.
 
"Your wife tipped them off."

Clark wagged his head.
 
"She wouldn't have.
 
She's neutral."

"Horse shit.
 
There are no neutrals in this war.
 
She swore allegiance to the King back in
Augusta."

"She did it because she was
cornered by Brown.
 
You know
that."
 
Anger blazed through
Clark's voice.
 
"If that's all you
have on her, it's flimsy evidence.
 
Look
elsewhere.
 
Betsy and I disagreed about
politics, but she wouldn't have betrayed me."

Betsy blinked back tears and pushed
at Fairfax's arm when he nuzzled her neck.
 
"My darling."
 
He
tightened his hold on her.

Neville's contempt waxed into a
vindictive smile.
 
"Gálvez.
 
Van Duser said the disappearance of your
furniture was linked to the Gálvez family.
 
Who gave Josiah Carter that name?
 
It was someone who was familiar with how our efforts are connected with
those of the Spaniards.

"You told me how angry your
wife was over losing your furniture, reportedly so angry that she confronted
van Duser twice and tracked it to Carter's barn.
 
Coincidentally, her grandfather was involved in the attempt back
in June to bring in the Gálvez family.
 
She knows enough about the Gálvez to throw the name into our operations
and confuse us.

"Sheridan, the shrew betrayed
you.
 
You fouled your own flight to
Camden by picking up that assassin, so you couldn't set up shop posing as
Kessler's nephew, and you couldn't set up house for Mrs. Sheridan.
 
There's her motive for betrayal.
 
Typical woman, she's angry with you.
 
Typical woman, she consoled herself by
bedding your apprentice.
 
The two of
them plotted vengeance.
 
And now she's
turned loose assassins on us."

A tear rolled down Betsy's
cheek.
 
"Clark," she
whispered.

Fairfax licked behind her ear.
 
"My lovely mystery woman."

"You're wrong!
 
When she and I met in Log Town, she warned
me that Lieutenant Fairfax was sniffing around.
 
If she was plotting vengeance, why would she have done that?"

"Lamebrain, it makes her look
guiltless, that's why she did it.
 
Besides, I'm not convinced Fairfax is involved.
 
No one's spotted him in the area since
before Branwell disappeared."

"Don't underestimate
him."

"I shall deal personally with
him if he shows up."

Betsy felt tremors course through
Fairfax.
 
When she looked up at his
face, she saw his teeth shining again.
 
He was laughing without sound.
 
Horrified, she averted her gaze.

"Sheridan, describe your
wife."

"She's seventeen.
 
Pretty.
 
Dark hair, dark eyes.
 
About this
tall."
 
He indicated the bridge of
his nose.
 
"Slender."

"That describes a number of
ladies in the area.
 
Men, take note that
she's also nearly six months pregnant.
 
If you encounter her, capture and restrain her for my interrogation.
 
If she attempts to escape or create a burden
for you, kill her."

"What?
 
You'd murder my wife?
 
For god's sake, man, I'm telling you she
didn't do it!"

Neville growled at Clark.
 
"Whose side are you on?
 
Husbands and wives betray each other in this
war.
 
You're only safe with those whom
you recognize as belonging to the cause.
 
That's the men in this room."
 
Granite consumed the snarl.
 
"If you aren't with us, we're all dead.
 
We've run out of margins in this operation.
 
Now get back over there with your fellows so
we can assess where the mission stands."

For the next ten minutes or so,
Betsy was privy to schemes of the Ambrose spy ring.
 
They reevaluated their chances of picking off British commanders,
given distribution of their members among the Loyalist militia units.
 
One man revealed intelligence that
Cornwallis was debating marching the redcoats north that night to challenge the
Continentals.
 
Neville then reviewed
strategies for completing the ring's mission beneath the cover of battle.
 
Throughout it all, Fairfax held Betsy
without making a sound.
 
She felt his
concentration and knew he was committing to memory every detail.

The men filed upstairs except
Neville and the first fellow with the lantern.
 
Neville waited for the door to shut.
 
"What do you think?"

"He'll desert.
 
He'll try to find his wife and warn
her."

"Agreed.
 
Stay with him.
 
The first sign, kill him."

The other man chuckled.
 
"We tried at Hanging Rock."

"May your aim improve."

They headed up the stairs.
 
The door grated shut behind them.
 
In utter darkness, Betsy was left in the
embrace of Fairfax.

"Be still," he
whispered.
 
Men's voices faded from the
entrance to the cellar.
 
She felt her
own pulse and heard the soft breathing of Fairfax and the ticking of the watch
in his waistcoat.
 
Minutes elapsed
before he released her.
 
"Forgive
me if I take leave of you for awhile in service to His Majesty."

He moved away.
 
She backed in the opposite direction, hands
groping for and finding shelves of wine bottles.
 
Behind her flame sparked: the lantern lit.
 
She raced around the end of the second
aisle.
 
His boots scuffed with his
pursuit.
 
She seized a wine bottle by
its neck and swung it at him when he bolted around the corner after her.
 
He flung up his arm against her upraised
forearm, jolting the wine bottle from her hand.
 
It crashed to the floor and filled the cellar with bouquet.