Love Not a Rebel (6 page)

“They come from Virginia, sir. A good friend travels to the western counties and gets French weapons from the Indians there,” Frederick said nervously. This was not like their tea party—this could be construed as high treason. “The wagon is down the street, near the cemetery.”

“Good work, Frederick. And your Virginian is a good friend, indeed. Go ahead now, and the West County men will follow quietly behind you. If you see a redcoat anywhere, take flight. Sam has said that we’ve had a leak and that the Brit captain Davis knows we’re acquiring arms. Go quickly, and take care.”

Frederick nodded. He was anxious to return home. He believed passionately in his cause, but he believed, too, in the love he shared with his young wife and in the future he sought for his infant son. He’d tried to explain to Elizabeth that it was for the future that he had come out this night. They were a free people. They had won the right to representation in 1215 when the barons had forced King John of England to sign the Magna Carta. They were good Englishmen, even if they were colonists. It was not the idea of taxes they minded so much—it was the idea of taxation without representation.

No one really thought that it might come to war.

And yet, already, there were whispers of bloody, horrible conflict, of American fields strewn with blood …

He didn’t dare think of blood, not now. He still had to make it to the wagon, and then home.

He hurried along the street, turning corners, moving in silence. He knew that he was followed, and he took care to allow the West County Sons of Liberty easily keep tempo with his gait and yet keep hidden.

At last he passed the cemetery. In the cold mist of the night, the sight of the weathered tombstones made him shiver. He was almost upon the simple wagon that held the French armaments. His breath came quickly. Before him he could see the shadowed figure of his contact. The figure saluted sharply, then hurried away to disappear into the cemetery.

Frederick’s feet seemed to slap against the cobblestones.

He passed the wagon by and exhaled heavily. He was almost home. Suddenly he heard a flurry of footsteps. He turned about. There was a woman running down the street in a huge sweeping cape.

“Damien?” a female voice called.

Frederick’s heart began to pound. She was not following anyone named Damien, she was following him! He ducked around a corner into a lamplit street and started to run across it, then he paused. There was a sentry out. A sentry in a red coat.

“Halt!” the soldier cried.

Never—come death or all of hell’s revenge, he could not halt.

He streaked across the road. Then he heard the woman calling out. “No! Oh, no!”

A Brown Bess was fired, but though he did not pause to look, Frederick was certain that the woman had caused the sentry to lose the precision of his aim. He was struck, but in the shoulder. He barely suppressed a scream as the bullet tore into him.

He clasped the injury with his good hand and sagged against a brick building. He could hear the sentry arguing with the woman, and he could hear the delicate tones of the woman’s voice. Who was she, and why was she saving him?

He closed his eyes and thanked God for that small favor, but when he tried to open his eyes again, he discovered that he could barely see. He was falling, falling against the building and toward the mud beneath him.

He heard the sound of hoofbeats.

There was a horse pounding down the street. Frederick tried to push away from the wall. He had to find a place to hide, and quickly.

He staggered into the road. Looking up, he could see the spire of the Old North Church rising out of the mist. Or was the mist in his eyes? He was falling.

He would never see Elizabeth again. He would never cradle his infant son in his arms again. Was this, then, the price of liberty? Death and bloodshed? He would never see
her face again. He would never see her smile, he would never feel the tender caress of her lips against the heat of his skin.

The rider was upon him. Frederick threw up his arms as a great black stallion reared before him. “Whoa, boy, whoa!” a man called out, and Frederick staggered back. The massive animal came to a rigid halt, and the rider leapt from his back.

Frederick fought to stand but slumped to the ground instead. The man coming toward him was tall and towering, and wearing a fine black greatcoat trimmed with warm fur. He wore fine boots over impeccable white breeches and a crimson frock coat. His shirt was smocked and laced. Dimly Frederick realized that he was not just a man of means, but a man with an aura of confidence and the assured and supple movement of a well-trained fencer or fighter. Dressed in his buckskin and paint, he had come across a member of the nobility.

Now he would not even die in peace. He would be dragged into prison, tried by a puppet jury, condemned by the king to be shot or hanged by the neck until dead.

“What in God’s name—” the stranger began.

“Aye, in God’s name, milord, for the love of God, kill me quick!” Frederick cried.

As he reached out, trying to ward off an expected blow, he saw the stranger’s face. It was a striking face, composed of steel-fire eyes, a hard jaw, and strong cheekbones. He was dark-haired and wore no wig. His very presence was menacing, for he was not just tall but extremely well muscled for all that he gave the appearance of a certain leanness.

“Hold, boy, I’ve no mind for murder in the streets!” the stranger said, a touch of humor upon his lips. “You’re no Indian, and that’s a fact. I can only determine that you were in on the trouble at the harbor. Is that it?”

Frederick remained stubbornly silent. He was doomed anyway.

“Ah … perhaps there is even something worse,” the stranger murmured.

“Search this way!” came a shout from the street. “I’m sure I’ve seen one of them!”

“Wait!” Frederick could hear the woman’s frantic voice. The stranger stiffened, hearing it too. He seemed puzzled.

“Redcoat coming,” the man murmured. “We’d best get you out of here, boy. I’ve business to attend to, but still … I’m wondering how badly you’ve been hurt. Now first …” He took off his cloak and wrapped it around Frederick.

“I’m not a boy. I’m married and I’ve got a child.”

“Well, you’re one up on me then, lad. Come on, then, take my shoulder, we’ll have to move quick.”

“You’ll turn me in—”

“And leave your wee babe an orphan? No, man, the British will have their revenge for this night—a blind man would know that. But I can’t see why your life should be forfeit.”

Frederick was not a small man, but his strange deliverer swept him up into his arms and quickly slung him over saddle on the flanks of the black stallion. He mounted the horse behind Frederick and then paused briefly again. “I dare not go back by Faneuil Hall. We’ll have to move westward.”

Breathing desperately against the pain in his shoulder, Frederick swallowed hard. “My house, milord, is just down the street.”

There. He had done it. He had told this man where he lived. He might be bringing danger down upon Elizabeth and the baby. He might have sealed their fate.

“Point me onward, and I will see you home.”

But before Frederick could do so, the sentry rounded the corner with the woman in the cloak following close beside him. “Sir! A man is lost, I tell you, and you must give up this ridiculous manhunt to help me!” the feminine voice cried.

The sentry stood dead still staring down the cobbled street to where Frederick sagged atop the horse. Frederick’s rescuer stepped forward. “Amanda!”

Frederick could see that she stared at him blankly, but perhaps the sentry did not fathom the look. The man
stepped forward, drawing her toward him. “My betrothed, Officer. Her father would be horribly distressed if he knew that she was roaming the streets. He would charge me with negligence, and … well … My friend, have a heart. Were you to report this, my lovely prize might well be snatched from my very hands.”

“What? Your betrothed—” she began in protest.

“Yes!” he snapped, narrowing his eyes. “She has lapses!” the man said quickly, and he caught hold of her with force, pulling her against him in a fine semblance of desperate affection. Frederick heard his urgent and commanding whisper. “If you wish your Damien well, you will shut your mouth now!”

She went stiff, but still. “Take the lady, milord, and save me some time and strength!” the soldier complained. “I’m looking for a dangerous, armed rebel. I followed his trail—who is that up on your horse?” he said with sudden sharp suspicion.

“My friend has partied too heartily this night. We’ve been at the home of Sir Thomas Mabry, and well … young fellows do imbibe too freely upon occasion. Isn’t that right, Mandy?”

She went very stiff, but agreed. As she smiled to the sentry, Frederick saw that she was very beautiful. “It was quite a party, Officer,” she murmured.

“There’s parties all about tonight, so it seems!” The sentry saluted the man. “Milord, then, if you’ve things in hand, I’ll be on my way.”

“Quite right! Thank you.”

The sentry moved on. His footsteps fell upon the cobblestones, then faded away.

“Who are you, sir, and what do you think you’re doing?” the woman hissed. “Where’s Damien? And what do you know about him?”

“I only know, mam’selle, that you were about to lead the king’s men straight to him.”

“And what difference would that make?” she demanded heatedly.

“I don’t know, nor can I care. This man needs help.”

“Help! He’s been shot! Oh, my God! He’s one of the rabble, one of the dissidents—”

“He’s a bleeding human being, milady, and you’ll help him since you’re here! Then I’ll see you home!”

“I don’t need you to see me anywhere—”

“You do need me, milady. And I need you at the moment. Come, let me put my arm about your shoulder and sing. That should see us as far as this poor man’s place. Frederick! You must lead us, for I don’t know where we’re going.”

There was no choice. Frederick told him the number of his house, and they hurried onward. They could still hear the soldiers running blindly about the streets. The night was coming more and more alive as news of the night’s deed spread quickly from house to house.

Soldiers passed them again. The man cast his head against the woman’s shoulder and stumbled, singing. “Stop it, you lout!” the woman cried.

“Ah, Mandy, love, drunken lout—it’s a drunken lout I am. ’Scuse me, Officer!” He stumbled, looked about sheepishly, and pulled the woman against him again, but led the horse along with perfect direction. The soldiers snickered—and left them alone.

Frederick could almost hear the woman’s teeth grate, and if he didn’t hurt so badly, he’d be laughing. What were they doing with him, he wondered, for they were aristocrats, the two of them. Alive in a sea of the Sons of Liberty.

It was a patriot’s city! Frederick thought proudly, and then he wondered again at the man who carried him homeward. He winced. This man was a lord.

But his accent sounded a bit … colonial. It was cultured, it wasn’t a northern accent, it had a softer slur to it. Maybe there was hope. Why, George Washington, a growing power in Virginia, was friends with Lord Fairfax, a man of importance very loyal to the crown. The time would come when a man had to choose sides. It would come soon.

The man reined in on the horse quickly as they stopped before the house. Frederick didn’t realize how weak he
was until he was lifted bodily from the black stallion. “Help me!” the man demanded quickly of the girl. She complied, seething, helping as Frederick fell from the horse into the man’s arms.

Quickly, competently, the man brought him to his door and knocked upon it.

Elizabeth came and opened the door. Frederick tried to rise against the stranger’s shoulder. He saw her face, saw her soft gray eyes widen with alarm, but then she responded ably, drawing them into the small but comfortable home where they lived.

“Frederick!” she cried when the door was closed against the night.

“He’s taken a shot in the shoulder, and he drifts in and out of consciousness,” the stranger was explaining. His voice quickened. “We need to pluck the bullet out—he’s probably got a broken arm and collar bone, but ma’am, first, we need to wash away the paint, in case of a visitor.”

“The paint!” The girl gasped.

Elizabeth gaped at the strangers for a moment. The girl was stunning, well dressed, beautiful. There was no doubt of the man’s prestige and power, for though his clothing was not overly elegant, the cut and quality were unmistakable.

“Let’s lay him down, shall we?” the man said softly.

“Oh, oh! Of course!” Elizabeth agreed.

Frederick drifted in and out of reality as they laid him out and bathed him. He was offered a bottle of home-distilled whiskey, and he drank it deeply. Then the man was digging into his shoulder for the bullet and Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, was clamping her hand over his mouth and begging him to silence.

“Let me,” the girl said suddenly. Elizabeth and the man stared at her. She shrugged. “I’ve some skill.”

“How?” the man asked her.

She shrugged dispassionately. “My father has been shot upon occasion,” she said. She smiled at Frederick and brought the blade of a knife against his flesh.

Frederick passed out cold.

Eric watched with a cool assessing gaze as Lady
Amanda Sterling removed the bullet from the young man’s shoulder. Her touch was both gentle and expert, and she murmured that it was best that he had lost consciousness, for he would feel no pain. “There’s no break in the shoulder, I’m quite certain.” She glanced at Elizabeth who stood by, wringing her hands upon her apron, tears in her eyes. “Cleanse the wound with alcohol, and I’m sure that all will be well.”

Elizabeth Bartholomew fell down upon her knees, grasping Lady Sterling’s hands. “Thank you! Oh, thank you—”

“Please!” Amanda Sterling’s beautiful face flushed to a soft rose. “Don’t thank me! God alone knows how I have come here, and I intend to leave now. This is a bed of traitors—”

“You are good, lady! So kind—”

Amanda Sterling, her hood fallen back, her hair glistening a glorious red in the firelight, pulled Elizabeth to her feet. “Please don’t. I’m leaving, and I—”