The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (51 page)

"Bloody waste of an Italian
red."
 
He pinned her arms when she
swung at him, hauled her back down the second aisle, and shoved her into the
chair, emptied of blankets, rope, and pistols.
 
"Where did you think you were going, eh?"

"You have all the information
you need to destroy the Ambrose spy ring.
 
You don't need me."
 
She
sprang up.

He pushed her back into the
chair.
 
"Remain seated.
 
I don't need you?
 
My dear, lovely lady, you underestimate your own charm and
importance."
 
He scooped up the
rope and slid it between his fingers.
 
"You and I aren't finished, and even if we were, I dare not release
you to be apprehended, tortured, and possibly murdered by rebel scum."

He walked around, pulled her right
arm behind the back of the chair, and began binding it with the rope.
 
"How dare you!
 
Let me go!"
 
Betsy tried to yank loose her arm and gasped at the harsh fiber
digging her wrist.

"I wouldn't do that if I were
you."
 
He kissed her ear.
 
"As a representative of the legitimate
government, I have the responsibility to protect loyal subjects from rebel
atrocities, even if I'm forced to use restraint on a subject who has become so
confused she doesn't know what's good for her."

"You're abusing your
authority.
 
You've taken me
prisoner!"

"Prisoner?
 
A delectable thought."
 
He secured her left arm and proceeded to tie
her legs to the chair.
 
"If you
were my prisoner, I wouldn't be ensuring that these ropes don't chafe your
sweet skin.
 
Only if you struggle will
the ropes bite."

She'd been tied in a similar
fashion to Emma.
 
Over her shoulder, she
watched him assemble his gear.
 
"You're going to leave me here to starve, you loathsome creature."

"Now, now, you and I have too
much to discuss for that."

"If you're killed out there,
no one knows I'm down here.
 
It could be
days before anyone ventures into the cellar for wine!"

"Darling, I'm touched.
 
You do care for me."
 
Musket over his shoulder, saber strapped to
his back, pistols at his waist, he grasped the stem of the rose and knelt on
one knee before her — less a knight-errant before a princess than a Celtic
warrior before a priestess.
 
Light from
the lantern captured the preternatural pulchritude and virility in his
face.
 
"Upon my honor, I shall
return to cast trophies at your feet.
 
Then perhaps you shall be more amenable to a discussion about your
mother."

Trophies.
 
Clark's head, perhaps?
 
Betsy blanched.
 
"I never
asked for trophies or a champion.
 
Untie
me!"

Nestling the rose atop her apron in
the hollow between her legs, he stood, caught her face between his hands to
steady it, and trailed the tip of his tongue from her chin all the way up to
her nose.
 
Then he seized the lantern
and sauntered away.

"Will you not even leave me a
light?
 
Lieutenant!
 
At least leave me the lantern, I beg
you!"
 
He paused at the open door
atop the stairs to extinguish the lantern.
 
And after the door shut, Betsy was closed up alone in the night of her
own making, her "champion's" kiss drying upon her face.

Chapter Forty-One

IN DARKNESS, HER nose awakened to
Italian wine spattered over the stone floor of the cellar: wine the hue of
battlefield gore.
 
She twisted about,
fingers seeking loose ends of rope.
 
Fibers stabbed her skin.
 
She bit
her lip and paused.
 
Disbelief, panic,
and revulsion buried her, scattered her concentration.

May your aim improve
.
 
The Ambrose spy ring had set Clark up to be murdered, just as she'd
warned him at least twice.
 
And as she'd
dreaded, she'd become the instrument of his destruction. Staggered, unable to
process the verdict she'd passed upon herself, she scampered her thoughts
elsewhere.

Widow Abby Fuller's tear-swollen
face haunted her memory.
 
In Betsy's
hair, on her skin, in her mouth, she tasted and smelled that dark, humid,
savage scent.
 
Sweat on her froze, and
she struggled with her bonds again.
 
Torture, ravishment, seduction: which had Fairfax applied to extract
information from Widow Fuller about David St. James?
 
Which did he have in mind for
her
?

She plucked at a knot and panted,
wrists irritated, the knot still tight.
 
Somewhere up there, Tom waited for her.
 
He might have gone to the stables when he first returned from work.
 
Not finding her, he'd have headed to the
room, where he'd have seen their belongings packed, ready to be transferred to
the horses.
 
Perhaps Hattie would have
informed him that "Miz Betsy" had gone upstairs with a headache.
 
Puzzled, Tom would sit at the table and have
a bite to eat, just to think things out.
 
Perhaps he was on his second or third plate by now.
 
Betsy's stomach rumbled.

At what point would his puzzlement
yield to worry, and his worry transform to panic?
 
No, Tom wouldn't panic.
 
He'd search the grounds.
 
He'd
ask if anyone had seen her.
 
Before
dark, he'd conclude that she wasn't at the tavern, and something had happened
to her.
 
The thought would cross his
mind that she'd run off with Clark.
 
But
he'd dismiss it, realizing she hadn't taken her clothing.
 
He'd comprehend that she'd met with foul
play.
 
Tears filled her eyes at the
thought of his anxiety.
 
She yanked at
the ropes and squeaked in pain.
 
Would
he suspect Fairfax had something to do with her disappearance?

A silky veil of black lace.
 
Shall I show you how it was with your
mother in Havana?
 
Betsy strained
legs and arms against her bonds, abrading her skin.
 
Rage and terror burst from her at her immobility.
 
Two or three hours hence, all manner of
truths will be tumbling from your lips
.
 
She thrashed about, chafing her wrists more.
 
Her struggles released the scent of the rose from her lap.
 
She collapsed against the back of the chair,
fresh tears welling to her eyes.

In her memory, Laughing Eyes
reproved her.
 
Use this forthcoming
knowledge wisely, or you will invite suffering upon us all
.
 
Wisely?
 
What a fool she'd been.
 
Her head
drooped, and she wept.
 
Unleash a fiend,
and of course the whole thing must explode in her face, and she must end up
betraying her own mother and the father she'd waited her entire life to
meet.
 
"Mother, oh, Mother, I'm
sorry!
 
You'll never forgive me, but I
am so sorry!"

Tell your Uncle David how sorry I
am...I hope he forgives me someday.
 
The similarity between
Betsy's despair and that of Widow Fuller, evident in the darkness, throttled
her and ratcheted her weeping into sobs.

With what trophies from slain
opponents did Celtic warriors return?
 
What body parts did they cast at the feet of priestesses of the old
gods, currying favor?
 
"Clark, oh,
Clark, I didn't know!
 
I'm
sorry!"
 
Murder at the hands of his
fellow Patriots would be a blessing for him, a swift ball of lead in the brain
or heart, but she intuited he wouldn't be so lucky as that.
 
Hard sobs wrenched her gut.

Twenty minutes or so spent in
lamentation flushed the wild terror from her.
 
Her face sticky and salty, she stared into night as complete as any
tomb, the numbness of defeat settling over her brain and encouraging
surrender.
 
She'd invited death and
destruction upon everyone she cared for and was powerless to stop the
consummation of it.
 
Might as well make
it easy on herself, tell Fairfax everything.
 
Maybe he'd be quick with her.

Flutters of life within her belly
agitated her resignation, kept it from solidifying into capitulation.
 
Baby, sweet baby, promise of life in the
womb, black as any tomb, yet unlike the tomb, a covenant of continuation.
 
Maybe she'd consigned everyone else to
death, but didn't she owe at least birth to her baby?
 
The child prodded her again, demanding of an answer and commitment.
 
A tough, scrappy layer knit over Betsy's
soul.
 
She couldn't save the world, but
perhaps she'd save her baby.

A grunt of pain passed her lips
when she contorted her right hand to allow her fingers inspection of the
knot.
 
She did the same for the knot
binding her left hand.
 
Ignoring the
fibers stabbing her wrist like needles, she pressed into the heart of the knot
with her right forefinger and thumb and began wiggling.
 
Perhaps the small movements would loosen the
knot enough to help her understand its composition.

After a few minutes, she rested,
unsure whether she'd made progress.
 
How
much time did she have?
 
How long did
Fairfax need to lure prey into a trap and cut them to pieces?
 
How many victims' deaths must he indulge in
before his urge for blood was sated and he headed back to the cellar to sate
other urges?
 
Betsy shook the thoughts
from her head, refusing to dwell upon them.
 
She must extract what she could from the time given her.

Still she needed rest, for as
minutes accumulated into an hour, two hours, her fingers cramped, and her
shoulders ached.
 
When her right hand
fatigued, she attacked the left knot.
 
When both hands fatigued, she slumped forward, trying to ignore her
growling stomach, dry throat, and pressured bladder.

Once, about eight-thirty or nine,
the faint voice of Tom calling her name roused her from drowse.
 
"Tom!"
 
Her voice emerged a croak.
 
She coughed to clear her throat.
 
"Tom!
 
In the cellar!
 
Tom!
 
Tom!"
 
She listened but
heard no response.
 
He'd moved out of
range.
 
Despair sullied her
determination.
 
With a snarl, she shoved
desolation away, returning to the knots.

Exhausted an hour later, she
realized the right knot was beginning to open.
 
Muscle spasms coursed through her arm and up the side of her neck.
 
Her wrist and palm were rubbed raw.
 
She had to rest.
 
She dozed, lost track of the time.

When she awakened, she returned to
the right knot, probing its structure.
 
What time was it, midnight?
 
Over
and over, she traced her fingers along the knot's mysteries, not understanding
what fed one strand until she happened to move her left hand, and the whole
mess on the right side moved with it.
 
Just as with Emma, Fairfax had left a rope connection between her
hands.
 
That meant she'd have to untie
both hands before getting either free.

Wearied again, she allowed herself
to doze before returning to work, this time with the fingers of her left hand
probing the other knot.
 
Her left wrist
and palm gained intimate knowledge of the spiky fibers imbedded in the
rope.
 
Shoulder cramps and the needling
pain intensified and slowed her.
 
She
dozed and wakened, dozed and wakened.
 
Whenever she could, she kept after the knot, long into the nightmarish
night, long after the passage of time had ceased to flow in units she
recognized.

The left knot loosened.
 
Then, with both knots open, lacking just the
unraveling of the rope between them, she heard the door to the cellar scrape
open.
 
Blinking into lantern light, she
caught her breath, fear soaring into her throat.
 
Oh, gods, no, it couldn't be so!
 
With only five minutes longer, she'd have freed herself.

"Betsy?
 
Are you down here?"