"Bennie," Henry repeated, this time with shock instead of relief. It was as if at first he'd been too relieved to see her safe and sound to register that she was wrapped up in Jon's arms. Now he had, and the veins in his neck bulged. Clenching his fists, he started for Jon. "Just what are you doing with my sister!"
"Oh, my word." She was abruptly, embarrassingly conscious of what it must look like. She was being carried into the tavern in the arms of a man, a big, strong, wonderful-looking man who was wearing nothing but boots and a pair of loosely buttoned breeches. Heavens! What were her brothers going to make of this? If the Lord were merciful, perhaps the other four wouldn't find out.
She wiggled a bit, trying to get her feet safely on the ground. Jon tightened his hold and spared her a brief frown. It was futile. She wasn't going anywhere.
"She's hurt." Jon carried her over to the nearest table and gently settled her on a bench, propping her injured leg up on the plank. His fingers skimmed lightly over her ankle, tucking in the edges of his makeshift bandage. He lifted his gaze to hers. "How is it?"
"It doesn't hurt too much. I'm sure it will be fine in a few days." She was warmed by his care of her and the tender concern in his eyes. She was used to being treated as capable, practical, and self-sufficient. Accustomed to being the caretaker, the protector, she'd underestimated the appeal of being on the receiving end of someone else's concern.
"Stay off it," he ordered.
"Yes, sir, Lieutenant." She saluted him smartly.
"Now see here." Henry shouldered his way past Jon to hover at Bennie's side. "Where the hell have you been? What did he do to you? Did he hurt you? And you—" He turned to face Jon. "Just where the bloody hell is your shirt?"
"Ankle."
Henry wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "What?"
"Put my shirt around her ankle."
"Bennie."
She smiled up at Henry brightly, in no hurry to disabuse him of either his worry or bafflement. After all, she knew right well the whole night had been his idea in the first place.
"Bennie, you tell me what happened or I'm going to beat it out of the lump over there."
"Uh-huh. I'm sure you'll be just as successful at that as you were at the arm-wrestling," she said sweetly.
"Bennie," he repeated, frustration clear in his voice.
"If you must know, I was captured."
"Captured!"
"Well, nearly. A soldier caught up with me right before I reached the path. I suppose I'd spent too long at the camp, watching to make sure you all didn't do something foolish."
"Ben—" Henry began apologetically.
"Guess it runs in the family, doesn't it? I should have left earlier. Anyway, I'd nearly managed to escape the soldier, when I stepped in something—I don't know, a hole, a burrow, whatever—and turned my ankle."
"How did you get away?"
"Jon..." She stopped, turning from her brother to regard Jon soberly, the full impact of what he had done for her finally registering.
He had hit someone. One of his own men. It would certainly be considered treason, injuring a British soldier in order to help a colonial. It had undoubtedly gone against everything he'd spent the last several years doing and may well have put him in jeopardy besides.
And he had done it for her.
"Jon—"
"It will be fine," he said, as if he could read her concern.
"He didn't see me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Would someone please finish telling me what happened?" Henry's patience was long past the breaking point.
"Jon saved me."
"What? How?"
"I'm here, and I'm safe, Henry. That's all you need to know."
"But he's a..." Brit. Redcoat. Lobsterback. The enemy. Henry whirled to gape at Jon.
"Friend," Jon suggested.
"But—"
"Friend," Bennie agreed. He was more than that, she knew, but for now that would have to do.
"Shouldn't you be getting back before someone discovers your absence?" Despite the quiet pitch of Brendan's voice, it carried an impact that none of the others' shouts ever had.
Jon bobbed his head. "Yes. Long walk."
"Walk!" Bennie protested. "You're not walking all the way back. Take a horse."
"Can't take your horse."
"Exactly. He can't," Brendan agreed. "Besides, it's not that long a walk."
Jon glanced at Brendan. It was a quick look, not enough to raise suspicion, but after years of practice, Jon could gather a good deal of information with a minima] glance.
Brendan was calm, almost unnaturally so; he seemed completely unsurprised by the events of the evening. Jon wondered if that quiet demeanor was ever disturbed by anything, and if anyone ever really knew what went on beneath it. Perhaps with a bit of time and a little probing, Jon could catch a glimpse.
"You could come with me. Bring the horse back here after," Jon suggested.
Brendan smiled slightly, but his eyes were dark with calculating intelligence. This one, Jon knew, was going to be the toughest one to fool.
Brendan shook his head slowly. "No. If you just turn the horse loose and give him a slap, he'll find his way back. The question is, will you?"
"Brendan!" Bennie was shocked by his barb. Except for the occasional jab at members of his family, he rarely bothered to insult anyone and generally seemed to prefer to keep his opinions to himself.
Jon, however, seemed unperturbed. "Oh, sure. Fine.
It's bright out, and I remember the road. Been on it many times." Turning his back on Brendan and the others, Jon bent over to check her bandage once more. His big form filled her vision, blocking her view of her brothers and of the rest of the room. His fingers wandered above the wrapping, slowly rubbing her leg. After spending so much of the night pressed against his body, she was somewhat disconcerted to find that this small touch had a nearly identical effect on her.
He gently massaged the bottom of her calf, and the warmth of his fingers spread easily through her breeches. Her whole leg began to feel loose and floaty. She sighed. Pain? What pain?
"I'll send your shirt back," she said.
His smile was dazzling, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Keep it. Yours now."
***
"What the hell happened!"
Sergeant Hitchcock winced as his captain's bellow resounded through the now quiet camp. The fact that the captain had hollered was an indication of just how upset he was; the captain always prided himself on his patrician, perfectly modulated tones. He might be in the army, but he was still Quality, and he wouldn't lower himself to such an unbecoming thing as shouting.
Unless, of course, his camp had nearly been destroyed by a raid.
Hitchcock warmed his fingers over a small campfire. It was still damn cold out, and he was unlikely to get warmer anytime soon. The worst of the blaze was finally out, but there was a lot more work to do before the night was over. Even then, there was hardly going to be a nice warm tent for him to crawl into.
He sighed; it was no use moaning over something that couldn't be helped. If there was one thing he'd learned in nearly thirty years in the army, it was to forget about the things that were done and past and get on with the job at hand.
"It must have been a small band, Cap'n. Any more, an' the sentries woulda noticed em,"
"They should have 'noticed' them anyway."
"Yes."
"Why didn't they?"
"Gettin' soft, I guess, Cap'n. These younger ones ain't never been in a war, ain't never been in danger. Don't know how easy it is to die when you ain't payin' attention."
"It's your job to teach them, Sergeant."
Hitchcock straightened proudly. He'd never been one to flinch from his duty, or from his mistakes. "Yes, Cap'n."
"Double the watch, and the sentries' time on it. Perhaps they'll learn to be more alert."
"Yes, sir."
Livingston strolled slowly around the fire. Alth
ough they were out in the open, they were as good as alone; no one came within twenty yards of them. At least the men had enough sense to stay out of the captain's way just now.
"It's better than they deserve," Captain Livingston said. "I should discipline them more strictly." He watched the smoke curl up from the smoldering remains of fully half the camp's tents. He'd told his men, time and again, not to trust the deceptive quiet of the region. Colonials were unpredictable and reckless, given to violence and more than willing to put themselves in danger to inflict it. It was difficult for a calm, reasoned man to predict their actions.
He'd known from experience that sooner or later something was going to happen. He'd warned his troops, and they'd not had the wit to listen to him. Well, now their punishment would be the cold, the crowding, and the work necessary to make the fort comfortably habitable. That should prove enough incentive for them never to be so careless again.
"How much damage?"
"Not as much as it appears." Hitchcock ticked off his report on his fingers. "The horses were scattered, but all but a couple found their way back as soon as the fire died down. I expect the rest'll show up tomorrow. We lost lots of the soft goods—tents, blankets, an' stuff— but we can move into the fort immediately. It's not ready, but it's close enough. Ain't gonna be comfortable, but better'n a lotta places I've been stationed.
"They got into the food stores. Dumped a lot, poisoned a bunch more. Luckily, there weren't all that much there anyway. We're expectin' a new shipment next week. Worst of the lot was losin' so much powder. Nothin' for it 'cept order some new, an' who knows when that'll get here? We'll be short until then. No problem, unless war breaks out in the next few weeks."
Livingston reached up and clamped his hat more firmly on his head. He'd lost his wigs, damn it, and the hats just didn't fit quite right without a wig. Still, he didn't feel worthy of command without some sort of headwear. "Nothing to be done, then, but write a report for headquarters. If you would assemble a list of necessities, I will get it off first thing tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." Hitchcock paused, glancing around quickly to assure himself no one was near. "What do you think they'll do, Cap'n?"
"They'd better not do anything but send up new supplies. After all, they're the ones who are supposed to have such a bloody good source. Well, it wasn't good enough to tell us we were going to be assaulted in our sleep, was it?"
"No." It sounded reasonable enough. But, in Hitchcock's experience, command wasn't always entirely reasonable.
"Now then." Livingston turned to face his sergeant, and Hitchcock was struck by the uncharacteristic fire in his captain's eyes. 'Cor, the captain actually looked right pissed. In Hitchcock's mind, he had a right to be, but the sergeant really hadn't expected the captain to bother with getting mad.
"Any idea who it was, Hitchcock?"
"Well." The sergeant hesitated, unwilling to present anything he couldn't substantiate. Besides, he rather liked the girl.
"Out with it, man."
"One of the guards thought he saw somethin', before he got knocked over the head."
"What was it?"
"Who, Cap'n. He saw that girl."
"Girl?"
"The one from the tavern. The one you—"
"Ah, yes. The Jones girl. Did he see her do something?"
"No, sir. Jes' watchin', he said. He weren't none too clear—still a little knotty-headed, if you ask me."
Livingston picked up a long stick and poked at the fire. "Sergeant, what is your opinion about the action we should take in response to this unwarranted attack?"
"Well, sir, I guess ya got a coupla choices. Y'can go detain the girl, question her, try and find out what she knows. If'n we're forceful enough, mebbe she'll tell us somethin'. Then again, mebbe she doesn't know nothin'. She coulda jes' been meetin' a lover."
He sneaked a peek at Livingston, wondering if he'd react to that. The captain had sure seemed interested in the girl when he'd first met her. Would he use this opportunity to put a little pressure on her? In the sergeant's mind, it was unlikely it was going to do much good. These colonials stuck together, especially if they were family. And after all, you couldn't torture a woman, especially when you had no real evidence. Nope, they weren't going to get anything useful from her.
The captain continued calmly prodding the fire. "What else?"
"We could do nothin', for the time bein', anyway. Jes' keep our eyes and ears open, an' if anybody tries anythin' again, make sure we're waitin' for 'em this time."
"Yes." Livingston dropped his stick and straightened, brushing his hands together. "Then again, perhaps we have one more option."
"What's that?"
Livingston nodded grimly. "We know where their guns are." Determination flattened his voice.
The captain had a plan, Hitchcock realized. "But how—"
"Captain! Sergeant!" The eager voice interrupted them.
"Jon," the captain said. Lieutenant Leighton lumbered toward them, tripping several times in the dark. "Where have you been? I don't believe I've seen you in all the excitement."
"Was here when it started. Thought I saw something in the woods—"
"You saw something?" Livingston asked sharply.
"Thought so. Followed it."
"Who was it?"
"Don't know." Jon shrugged. "Disappeared in the woods. Spirit, maybe."
"A spirit," the captain repeated in disbelief.
Jon nodded. "Got lost then."
"You got lost." Livingston rubbed his temples, a habit he often adopted when he was trying to talk to Leighton.
"Yes. Couldn't find my way back for a long time."
The captain sighed. "I want you to think very carefully, Lieutenant. Did you see anything else beside your... spirit? One of the men—who was it, Hitchcock?"
"Walters."
"Walters was assaulted in the woods, and perhaps you saw something that could help us find his attacker."
"Walters? Was he hurt?"
"Not seriously."
Jon allowed himself to feel a brief moment of relief. He hadn't wanted to hurt the boy, not really, but if that was what it had taken to protect Beth, he would have done it. Not without a bit of regret, but that wouldn't have stopped him. He'd long ago learned to get past such trivialities as relief and regret.
"Didn't see anything. Must have been the spirit too."
"The spirit again. Jon, why don't you go ahead and go back to your—no, I don't think you have a tent anymore. Wherever you plan to spend the night."
"Maybe I'll go see Walters. See if spirit hurt him bad."
"Ah, he's in the medical tent, Jon. It wasn't damaged," Hitchcock said, ushering Jon in the proper direction. The sooner he was out of the captain's sight, the better.
"Why don't you do that, Jon," Livingston said tiredly. "You go tell ghost stories for a while."
"Yes, sir. I have a good story."
"I'm quite certain that you do."
Jon's big form faded into the darkness as he stumbled away.
***
The traitor had known about the little raid, of course. Had those boys really thought they could keep it a secret? Nothing that happened in New Wexford was ever a secret to him. All one had to do was watch, listen, and pay attention, and one could find out everything that was happening in this small village.
His contacts had no idea he'd known something he'd chosen not to tell them. What good would it have done? It wasn't important—boys just playing at war. And he hadn't gotten into this to put anyone he knew in danger; he was trying to stop the conflict from getting any worse. If he and his contacts didn't agree on the best way to do that, well, he'd always been able to make his own decisions. He wasn't planning on changing now.
Oh, they'd be upset if they found out he'd been withholding information. But what could they do? There was really no way they could ever know, and even if they did, they needed what he could give them.
So, this little bit of information, he'd kept t
o himself.
***
The sky was just beginning to show the faint paling that signified the approaching dawn as Jon ducked into the hospital tent. He made sure he conked his head on the frame as he entered, shaking the tent violently and earning himself a sharp rebuke.
"Hey, watch it! I don't want this coming down around our ears."
"Sorry." Jon spared an apologetic glance for the jowly medic.
Ben Walters was sprawled on a cot in one corner of the tent, holding a sack of ice to his temple. His nightshirt was tucked securely around him. His face was shadowed in the weak lantern light, and he looked a little sickly but not seriously hurt.
"Ben." Jon knelt beside the cot. "Heard you got hurt."
The young man opened one eye. "Somebody coshed me on the head."
"Who?"
"Dunno."
"Oh." So Ben hadn't seen him after all. Jon hadn't thought so, but he hadn't been entirely sure; there'd been a chance. He'd told Beth he was certain only because she would worry too much if she thought he might have been discovered. "Any ideas?"
"Some friend of that woman, most likely."
"Woman?"
"One of those Joneses, from town. Must o' been her and her brothers who set the fire."
"Saw them?"
"No. Only her."
"Oh. Tell Captain?"
"Yes, I told the cap'n. Didn't seem like he was goin' t'do much about it, though."
"Maybe not sure enough?" Jon suggested helpfully.
"I'm sure. Cap'n's just got kinda a weak spine, if you ask me. Well, they're not goin' t'get away with it, if I can help it."
"What you going to do?"
"Tell some o' my buddies. We'll make sure they're sorry for ever coming near our camp."
"Mm." Jon tapped his fingers on the rough blanket spread over the cot. "Tell 'em you caught a spy, huh?"
"Well." Ben winced and readjusted the sack of ice he held against his head. "Maybe she wasn't a spy, actually. But I caught her."
"Tell your friends you let girl get away, huh?"
"Maybe." Ben pondered that for a minute. "Didn't let her get away, exactly. I was attacked."
"Anybody see? Maybe girl hit you."
Law, Susan Kay Page 13
