Law, Susan Kay (38 page)

"That sounds like him." Captain Livingston allowed
himself a small smile. "Well, then, send him in."

"Yes, sir." The soldier gave a quick bob of his head and
disappeared.

Livingston tugged his cuffs and smoothed his coat as he waited for
Leighton. With any other soldier, he could have assumed one of two things: the
soldier had deserted or had been captured. With Leighton, however, there were
endless possibilities. His horse may have run away with him. He could have
fallen into a well. He might have been chasing butterflies. The captain rather
found himself looking forward to the Lieutenant's explanation.

A brief knock, and the young private popped in again.
"Lieutenant Leighton, sir," he announced.

"Lieutenant Leighton," Livingston said with what he felt
was the proper note of joviality. Leighton shuffled in, followed by the young
private who, clearly curious, hovered in the background.

"You are dismissed, soldier." Livingston gave the young
man a stern look.

"Yes, sir." The private lowered his eyes sheepishly and
backed out of the room.

"Now, then." Livingston clapped Jon on the back and
indicated a nearby chair. "Sit down, sit down." He seated himself
behind the desk, braced his arms on the top, and leaned forward, frowning.
"You're out of uniform, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir." Jon fiddled with the bottom of his leather
jerkin.

"I hope you have an explanation."

"Yes, sir."

Livingston furrowed his brow. "Let's have it, then."

"Got shot."

"Shot? Again?" Dubious, the captain looked Jon up and
down. The lieutenant looked healthy enough, but then again, he'd always had the
constitution of a draft horse.

"On free night, was walking. Got lost."

Lost again. Clearly he needed to assign a keeper to Leighton, although
he hardly had the manpower to spare anyone. Still, it might be a good job for
that Herrington fellow.

"Ran into American sentries. Told me to stop." Jon
pursed his lips. "Didn't want to get captured."

"Of course not."

"So I ran. Shot me."

"So they captured you, then? How'd you get away?" He
wouldn't have thought Leighton could have managed an escape. More likely, the
Americans let him go after he'd destroyed half of their camp. Probably thought
it would make a more effective weapon to turn him back on the British.

"Didn't catch me." Jon grinned widely. "Run
fast."

"Where have you been? You've been gone nearly a week."

"A week?" The lieutenant looked confused. Too difficult
a concept for him, obviously. "Didn't know. Was sick some, I guess."

"Have you had a doctor look at your injury, Leighton?"

"Not yet. Took good care of me."

"Who?"

"Tories. Found me, took care of me till ready to come
back." He shrugged. "Better. Come back."

"Yes." Livingston was vaguely disappointed. He'd
expected the tale to be slightly more entertaining. "That's it, then?
Nothing else?"

"No." Jon looked crestfallen. "Sorry."

"No matter. Who were the people who cared for you? We must
thank them properly."

"They were, ah, Williams? Wilson? Ah, Winston?" Jon's
shoulders slumped in defeat. "Wilkins?"

"Never mind. Certainly you remember where they lived?"

Jon brightened. "That way." He waved west.
"Somewhere."

Livingston sighed. "Perhaps you'd best go have your wound
attended to before we continue this conversation."

"Yes, sir." Jon jumped to his feet, bumping the nearest
table and rattling the fine porcelain tea set displayed on it. He quickly
skittered aside and backed toward the door. "Sorry, sir. Go see doctor
now, Cap'n."

Livingston closed his eyes gratefully when Leighton slammed the
door behind him. He must remember not to interview Jon in his office again. He
had no desire to see the place wrecked.

Nearly a week, and the man could only remember the slightest bits
about where he'd been. But then, he didn't seem to know where he was half the
time.

Livingston sat up sharply. It wasn't the first time Leighton had
disappeared and no one had known where he'd gone to. It had only been for brief
periods of time before, and they'd all simply assumed he'd wandered off and
gotten lost again. But what if there was more to it? What if he was meeting
someone?

It was completely ridiculous. The man didn't have the mental
capacity of a field mouse. More, he'd found Jon on the battlefield, holding the
body of Sergeant Hitchcock. His grief had been genuine; Livingston was sure of
that much. He'd seen enough grief in his years as a soldier to know it at a
glance. That look—the shock and emptiness—in Leighton's eyes couldn't be faked.
It certainly wasn't the triumph of a man who'd witnessed the death of an enemy.

Livingston hadn't known Jon before his accident. He'd heard how
intelligent and clever Jon had been before he'd had his brains bashed in by a
horse, but Livingston had always assumed that that "brilliance" was
only in contrast to what Jon was now. But what if he'd been truly ingenious?
Enough to pull off a ruse like this?

It was utterly, absolutely absurd.

But so, then, was having a spy in his company.

"Excuse me, sir, but would you be Jon?"

Jon bit down an oath and turned to the woman who'd followed him
from the potter's. He'd spent more time than he had to spare in the shop,
feigning an interest in dishes, mugs, and bean pots, all the while trying to
delicately probe for any information about the peddler. This was his last
contact, damn it, and he'd come up empty again. He didn't have the time nor the
patience to listen to this little bird of a woman, whose hands fluttered in the
air like a hummingbird's wings.

It was getting more and more difficult to keep the grin plastered
on his face. "Yeah," he replied.

She peered at him carefully, her bright little eyes peeking out
from under a snowy cap and a fringe of equally white hair.

"The peddler told me to expect you."

"The peddler?" he asked cautiously.

She nodded.

"You know the peddler. Why didn't you say anything
inside?"

"I know the peddler. I didn't say me husband did."

"But—"

"No one pays much attention to a frail old lady, sir."

He looked at her more closely, noting the glint of determination
in her eyes. "It could be useful, I suppose."

"Yes." She patted her lacy cap. "He left you a
message."

"A message?"

"Yes. Said he thought he was being watched. Thought it was
best to get out of town, quickly."

"Yes," Jon said thoughtfully. "I'm sure he was
right."

She peered at him. "Something you might consider yourself,
sir."

"Perhaps I should. However, it's not something I'm able to do
just yet."

She straightened her spine, and her air of fragility disappeared.
"Yes, sir. Some of us have more work to do, don't we?"

He tipped his tricorn. "That we do."

After the little woman had disappeared back inside the shop, he
began the trek back to the common.

Damn,
damn!
The peddler had been his last hope. All his
contacts had evaporated as if they'd never even existed.

The intelligence operation was completely compartmentalized: if
someone was caught, the number of others that agent could identify was severely
limited. Unfortunately, it also meant that in this situation Jon had no idea
whom to contact. He knew only the limited number of people he'd worked directly
with, and they'd all disappeared.

That left him few options. He had information that
had
to
get through, and the only way to be sure it got into the proper hands was to
deliver it directly to Washington, who'd recently been appointed to head the
colonial troops.

How? Now there was a problem. There was simply no disguise he
could think of that would allow him to slip through two lines of sentries,
through an entire camp, into the general's headquarters, and back out again
without being detected. Even
he
wasn't that good.

Jon absently kicked a rotting apple out of his way and turned into
a quiet side street, taking the long way to return to the common. He needed the
walk, the time to think, before he had to be back on his guard when he returned
to his company.

A bank of clouds had rolled in, blotting out the sun, and the
narrow street was dim and cool, hedged with buildings and smelling of horses.
He consciously slowed his steps to a shuffle.

There had to be a way to get the information through, there just
had to be. And he would find it—but not before he'd attached a small additional
note of his own.

***

Nibbling on a bit of cheese and the fresh bread she'd baked that
morning, Bennie watched the small creek meander by. Its surface was dappled
with the sunlight that filtered through the lush leaves of the trees, and
dragonflies lazily flitted from reed to reed in the marshy area by the opposite
bank.

She leaned back, letting the breeze caress her face. It was quiet
here, as if the lush vegetation absorbed superfluous sound. She enjoyed the
calm, something that had been so absent from her life for too long. The tension
and the worry that surrounded the Eel and New Wexford frazzled her nerves and
left her inexplicably convinced that something even worse was going to happen
at any minute.

Her only respite was out here, in Finnigan's Wood. She knew the
peace was an illusion, but the sound of the water soothed her, and the vibrant
life made the presence of the dread that lurked over her shoulder seem a little
less pressing. The sick, heavy feeling in her stomach eased a bit.

She took another mouthful of the tangy cheese and chewy,
hard-crusted bread. A copper-colored squirrel skittered down a nearby oak and
perched on its hind legs, chattering at her.

"Hungry, are you, little one?" She tore off a chunk of
bread and tossed it at the animal. The squirrel stopped scolding her, its tiny
nose quivering. Then it whirled, gave a disdainful flick of its tail, and
scampered back up the tree, leaving the bread on the grass.

She laughed. "Ungrateful little creature. I'm not that bad a
cook."

"Really, Beth, you must learn to control this regrettable
tendency to care for helpless creatures."

The familiar voice rumbled up her spine. She turned and looked
over her shoulder. "Like you, I suppose?"

"Of course."

Then she dropped any pretense of casualness. The bread and cheese
fell to the ground unnoticed. She sprang to her feet and hurled herself into
his arms. "Jonathan!"

He closed his arms around her and shut his eyes. God, how had he
forgotten? She felt even better than he'd remembered—and what he'd remembered
had been pretty damn good.

"I didn't think you'd be able to come yourself."

He couldn't do this. He couldn't tell her that he had any reason
for being here except to see her. And he couldn't—God, he
couldn't
—ask
her to do this.

"I wasn't sure I'd be able to," he muttered, breathing
in the fresh, clean scents of summer and lavender rising from her hair.

"How are you?" She tenderly probed his shoulder.
"Does that hurt?"

"No. I'm fine." She didn't ask why he was here, didn't
demand explanations or wonder why it had taken him so long to get in touch with
her. She just worried about him. Even after all he'd done to her—and, despite
her protests, he didn't believe he could ever make up for the deception—all she
was concerned about was his well-being. He didn't deserve it. Especially not
now.

But first, he would kiss her. He'd take advantage of her welcome,
and he'd give himself just one more memory to take with him. Because after he
asked her this, he promised himself he'd never ask her another thing.

There was something wrong. She knew it. She could hear the strain
in his voice, feel it in his slight hesitation, but right now, lost in the
wonder of seeing him well, whole, and alive, she was going to hang onto the
happiness as long as she could. Let the darkness come when it would.

But then his mouth was on hers, and everything was right. His kiss
was tender and sweet, but flavored with an edge of desperation that told her
exactly how much he missed her.

He lifted his head, and she smiled up at him.

He didn't smile back, and there was a gray bleakness in his eyes.
"Beth, I have to talk to you."

A sudden chill froze in her chest. "What is it?"

He lifted a hand to her face, but when she tilted her head in
anticipation of his touch, he clenched his hand into a fist and let it drop.
"Can we sit down? This might take a while."

"Certainly." She didn't want to hear this, she knew it.
She sat down on the creek bank, wishing she'd worn skirts instead of breeches.
She was unable to decide what to do with her hands; at least she could have
fussed with the fabric of skirts. Instead, she smoothed the leather over her
knees and fiddled with the long weeds growing luxuriantly along the brook. He
captured one of her hands, lacing her fingers with his, and brought it to his
lap.