“Jenny.” Her name escaped his lips in a moan as he dropped his head back on the pillow, his eyelids heavy. He remembered the joy on her face the night they reunited on the road in front of her house. Had she already fallen in love with Ashby then? Were her kisses and declarations of love all lies?
But he could tell when she was lying. How she blushed—even in the darkness he had sensed her face redden. He thought it was passion, passion for him. Perhaps it was because she was caught unaware. And she bit her lip when she lied. He snorted. She’d had no time to bite her lip as he was covering them with kisses. Kisses she’d returned with equal passion.
And her mission was to Laurence Montclair’s to deliver intelligence within the Patriot spy network. It didn’t make sense. Why was she working with Montclair if she was in love with a British officer? Unless … was she passing information on to Ashby?
His stomach twisted at the thought. Not his Jenny. She would never … why, she had ridden beside him to save Jonathon’s life. She risked her own life to draw British soldiers away from Brentwood Manor when they were about to kill him.
Not his Jenny.
He smiled, hopeful. Then he remembered Ashby’s voice.
You are to be my wife. If your reputation is sullied, it is no matter, since you will not have to present yourself for marriage to anyone else.
He had ridden for weeks to arrive in New York and keep Jenny safe. He had dreamed of her every night, his mind filled with her every day. She was his love. His life. And now she belonged to another. He threw his arm over his eyes to block the thought of a life without her, a thought that drained his will to live.
If Jenny was this fickle, he never knew her at all. But without her, life made little sense. He shifted to his side. Wallowing like this would help nothing. He was surrounded by the belongings of a man who gave his life for liberty. Andrew would do the same.
Outside a troop of soldiers marched past the apothecary shop. The captain boomed commands. “Company, halt. Present arms.”
Metal clattered as they shifted their guns.
Was Ashby there? Just below his window? A viable target? He had killed men before—could he kill again?
The troop moved on and the street returned to its usual bustle.
He tried to sit up, but the movement stretched the scabs forming on his wounds, his arms wobbled beneath him. Damn! He had to build his strength. His only goal now was to fight the British … fight them to his death.
With Ashby finding any excuse to stop by the house, Jenny had been unable to visit Andrew until today—almost two weeks since the Wirth brothers had moved him. Not being able to tend to him and know how he was feeling had been agonizing. So had worrying about his reaction to her engagement.
As she climbed the stairs, her heart quickened. What state would she find him in? Upon entering his room, she stopped, and her hand flew to her mouth. The last time she’d seen him he lay helplessly in bed, unable even to feed himself. Now, he was sitting in a chair, reading a book. His face brightened at the sight of her, then the light disappeared from his face.
“Andrew. You look so well.” She wanted to jump up and down with the joy of seeing him so hale. She rushed to him, taking his hand in hers. She bent to kiss his lips, but he turned his head. “I need to explain something.”
He stared out the window.
“Andrew, please look at me.”
“When were you going to tell me of your engagement?” He glared at her.
“No, Andrew—”
“Apparently while I was riding as quickly as I could to find you, keep you safe in this God-forsaken city, you were cozying up to another. And a lobsterback at that.” His voice rose in fury. “How could you do this? How could you throw away our love, our fight against the British? Everything we believe in?” He threw the book to the floor, his body quaking with rage. And did she see fear through his angry tears?
“Andrew, please let me—” She knelt beside his chair.
“Is everything all right? Andrew, are you in pain?” Lucy’s high-pitched voice preceded her into the room. She skidded to a halt, panting, as she flew through the door. “Oh, excuse me.” She nodded to them then backed out closing the door behind her.
How inappropriate for the two of us to be secluded away behind the closed door of a bedroom. Jenny shook her head at the sudden incongruent thought. If Ashby knew she was here …
The pain in Andrew’s face tore at her heart. He frowned and turned his head to stare out the window again.
A clang sounded from below.
Andrew looked down at her. “You should leave.”
“Yes, she should.” Nigel Ashby’s voice was soft.
Jenny leapt to her feet.
Rising, Andrew searched for his pistol, but he staggered and reached for the back of the chair.
Ashby stood at the door, ramrod straight. His nostrils flared as he strode to her, wrenched her arm, and pulled her to his chest. Though his face was a thundercloud, his eyes were filled with sadness. “I’ve tried to warn you, but you seem hell-bent on throwing away your life.” He glared at Andrew, then at her. “So, your heart has been spoken for. Never mind. Once he is gone, your heart will be free to love me.”
“I will never love you.” Jenny yanked her arm away.
Andrew’s face was dark with rage, his jaw set like stone. He stumbled as he stepped toward him.
“Still weak? Well, I have just the place for you to gain your strength before you hang. Andrew Wentworth, you are under arrest for treason to King George III.”
“No!” Her scream was primal, ripped from her gut. She blocked his path to Andrew.
He pushed past Jenny and stalked to the chair. Seizing Andrew’s arm, he hauled him toward the door.
Andrew groaned, his teeth clenched against the pain.
“No,” Jenny cried again. “I will marry you. I will do whatever you want. Just, please, let Andrew go.”
Ashby scoffed into her face. “Don’t whimper. It doesn’t befit you. You will marry me and do whatever I want whether I arrest him or kill him on the spot.”
He jerked Andrew around and half-carried him to the door. He turned back to her.
“Our banns are posted, remember, my dear? You are already mine.”
Chapter 22
“There, there, Miss Sutton. He is a horrible one.” Lucy sniffled and wiped her handkerchief across her eyes, then kneaded the tight muscles in Jenny’s shoulders.
“Thank you, Lucy.” All Jenny could think of was how to save Andrew. And Mother. The one thing that stood in her way was her fiancé.
Lucy wiped her tears again. “It’s just too much. First Mr. Montclair, then Andrew, and now that evil man has trapped you.” She crossed the room and picked up the brass mortar that lay against the floorboards. “I tried to warn you.” She held up the brass bowl.
Jenny nodded, remembering the clang she’d heard just before Ashby entered. “Thank you, Mrs. Carter.” Oh, that she had been more aware of the warning. But could Andrew have moved fast enough to hide? She thought not.
Lucy rubbed her shoulders again, then turned to the shelves, running her finger along the labeled drawers. “I suspect sleep might elude you. Aha. This will be perfect.” She withdrew an amber bottle and poured sweet-smelling oil into a small vial. “Oil of lavender. Rub it on your wrists and temples to help you sleep.”
“Thank you.” Jenny went to the window and studied the street. “I hope you will not be bothered by Ashby. After all, you worked for Mr. Montclair and housed and cared for Andrew.”
Lucy glanced toward the back room where Ephraim and Zachariah were inventorying stock. “Oh, do not fret. Mr. Carter will look after us. He is a good man.” She smiled weakly and blinked fear away when she met Jenny’s gaze.
“Yes, he is a good man.” Since the incident in front of Fraunces Tavern, Ephraim had jumped to do Jenny’s bidding whenever she came into the shop. She looked up and down the street again. “Do you know where Mathias is? He was to w
ait for me with the carriage.”
“I haven’t seen him since that lobsterback arrived.” Lucy joined her at the window. “No sign of him out there.”
Jenny shifted with unease. “I’ll walk home. If he returns, please tell him I’ve taken the usual route. Perhaps he will catch up with me.”
“Of course.” Again, a flicker of fear in her eyes. “Mr. Carter could drive you home.”
Jenny weighed the awkwardness of a drive with Mr. Carter against the possibility of encountering Ashby. “Yes. That would be very kind.”
“You take care, Miss Sutton,” Lucy said, laying a hand on her arm.
She covered Lucy’s hand with her own and felt her trembling. “You as well, Lucy.”
She checked the street for Mathias again, fighting back an ominous shiver.
Ephraim Carter offered his hand to Jenny, helping her onto the wagon. He did not meet her gaze.
She kept as close to her edge of the seat as possible. The seat squeaked, tilting and bouncing back as he climbed up from the other side of the wagon and settled in beside her.
For a while, they rode in silence through the bustling street. Jenny twisted the corner of her shawl, twining it between her fingers.
“I would never hurt you, Miss Sutton.” Ephraim’s low voice carried the weight of remorse. “I would never hurt anyone. I don’t usually drink that much. We was celebrating my friend’s good fortune. He’d just bought a small farm. He kept buyin’ and pourin’, and I, well, I kept drinkin’.” He scrubbed the stubble on his chin. “Bah. I didn’t know my own name that night.” He wiped his sleeve across his nose. “I’m so ashamed. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. Me and my friends. I ain’t had a chance to ask you before.”
His mention of that night resurrected the fear she’d felt, but it was fleeting. She felt no fear here, beside him, now. She wavered between sympathy and anger. His drawn face and downcast eyes were evidence of his sincerity, but she could not let him off so easily. “If it had not been me— some young girl, someone’s sister, or mother, or daughter— you might have followed through. That girl’s life would have been ruined.”
He was silent for a while then made a choking sound. He cleared his voice. “Don’t think I haven’t considered that myself. I have. Ever night since. I don’t know what I can do to atone for that sin—for sin it was no matter I never went through … well, you know.”
Now Jenny was silent.
“I don’t blame ya’. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I do ask that ya’ never tell my Lucy … or my boy.” Now his voice did crack.
Jenny laid a hand on his arm. “I promise you, Mr. Carter. I will never tell Lucy or Zachariah. What purpose would it serve but to break their hearts?”
“Thank you, Miss Sutton.” His voice rose. Then he took out a handkerchief and blew his nose heartily.
Jenny believed he would have hugged her in that moment, the relief in his voice was so palpable.
“And I forgive you, Mr. Carter. I believe you truly are repentant.”
He wiped at his nose again. “Thank you.” A whisper. He sent her a sideways glance. “And you know, I am here whenever you need me.”
“Yes, I know that.”
He gave her a half-smile, then nodded and flicked the reins.
They pulled up to her house. As Ephraim helped Jenny down, she noticed the door to the carriage house was ajar. Was that the wheel to the carriage? Why had Mathias abandoned her at the apothecary and returned home?
“That’s strange,” she murmured. She walked toward the structure and called out. “Mathias?” Pushing the door open, she stepped back and screamed.
Mathias was sprawled in the driver’s seat, eyes bulging out, mouth agape, blood seeping into his white cotton shirt.
Andrew lay on the filthy blanket that covered a pile of rancid straw. He kept his breath shallow, attempting not to gag at the stench in the gaol from unwashed bodies, human waste, and utter despair. A thin stream of daylight filtered through the bars in the window high in the wall, high enough that he had to stand on tiptoes to see outside, but not high enough to block the view of the gallows from which traitors were hanged.
Standing on tiptoe, he grasped the bars and craned his neck to watch any activity, other than building a new scaffold, in the area. Along the green, farmers sold corn, squash, and apples. Children interrupted a game of ninepins on the lawn to throw rotten produce at a man in the stocks. Women strolled under umbrellas shading them from the early September sun. Life went on as usual beyond these bars. But within, men and women awaited sentencing, or worse.
When his calves quivered from the effort, he took one last deep breath of fresh air from the window, then resumed standing. The odor in his cell was as repulsive as the gruel that made up his meals. Visitors were welcome to bring the imprisoned food at any time, and Lucy Carter had been providing meals for him, which he devoured, hell-bent on regaining his strength. But he had not seen Jenny in the week he’d been locked up.
Despite the dire circumstances and the putrid surroundings, he held on to hope. Hope that he could find revenge on Ashby, who took any opportunity to taunt him about the mere days until Jenny became the bastard’s wife. His cruel jeers were a side of Ashby that Andrew was certain he’d never revealed to Jenny. Else she would never agree to marry him … would she?
He had to get out of here. A hundred escape plans had run through his head each day as he lay on the straw, watching the sun travel across his wall and descend into sunset. He refused to yield. Even if he were killed attempting to escape, what did it matter?
He grasped the bars of the window again and shook them. They didn’t budge. He had to find a way.
Behind him, a bark of laughter.
“Do you really intend to rip those bars out of the wall, Wentworth?” Ashby peered through the small barred window in the cell door, eating an apple. Crunch. “Are you going to escape to save your fair maiden?” He studied his fingernails. “Which begs the question, is she still a fair maiden? No matter, I will discover that in a week’s time when we are married. If she is not, she will be punished. Oh, don’t worry—I will comfort her after that. She will—”
Andrew lunged at him. He thrust his face toward the bars. “Shut up, you bastard.”
Ashby snorted. “How brave. And how strong. Much stronger than the day I came and snatched you from your woman’s arms. You almost fainted like a girl. How are you going to rescue her, you weak-kneed, dandy prat?”
Andrew scowled at him. He straightened, determined not to let Ashby see his despair.
“Watch your back, Ashby. Your undoing will come from where you least expect it.”
He was rewarded with a flicker of doubt that flashed over Ashby’s face before he quickly concealed it.
“You’ll be hanged the day after my wedding. I want your last night to be spent imagining the wonders I will be showing your lover.” He tossed the apple core into the cell. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Andrew slumped to the floor. He would find a way.
Again, Jenny couldn’t concentrate on Pastor Farr’s words. She’d had trouble the previous week when he had prayed at Mathias’s grave, beside the minister who served the black free and enslaved people. Since his death, Sarie and Isaac wandered around the house, balancing grief and fear because they were unsure why Mathias had been murdered.
But Jenny knew. Ashby. If she told them what she suspected, they would tremble every time he appeared—which occurred less often now that Andrew was in gaol. He had her in his control. The man she would marry. Instead of Andrew.
On this Sunday morning, she sat in the pew beside Mother, staring at her hands, hands that had caressed Andrew’s face, traced the lines of his body. She tried to block the image of his hands gripping the iron bars that imprisoned him. Suddenly, Pastor Farr’s voice broke through.
“Three weeks ago, I published the banns of marriage between Lieutenant Nigel Ashby of London, England, and Miss Jennifer Sutton of Boston i
n the Massachusetts Bay Colony. This is the third time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it.” He looked around the congregation, giving sufficient time—perhaps even more time than necessary—for someone to object.
Was he hoping, as she was, that someone would come forward and testify to Ashby’s cruelty? That he was not fit to be husband to her? That he was coercing her? That he was, she was certain, a murderer.
Please, God, let someone speak.
Silence.
How could this be happening? She glanced at Mother, who squeezed her hand. Regardless of her fear, it was happening. And if she rejected Ashby, she and Mother would hang. Just as Andrew would. She fought down the wave of despair that threatened to make her cry out, “No.” Clenching her jaw, she sat erect, head high. She would not hang. Neither would Mother.
Neither would Andrew.
As they left St. Paul’s Chapel, Jenny opened her umbrella against the drizzle and searched for their carriage. A hand grasped her elbow.
“Good day, my love.” Ashby’s voice was low and intimate. “Just think, next Sunday you will awaken beside me in our marriage bed.”
Since arresting Andrew, he had become crueler. Where was the concern and protectiveness he’d shown? Had it ever been sincere? Yes, the pain in his eyes when he’d found her with Andrew had been real. And even of late, that flicker of tenderness shone through when he was off guard.
But he had killed Montclair and Mathias—in the name of loyalty to the King, he would argue. And a British sympathizer had killed Father. She shivered against the claustrophobic feeling of being surrounded by danger. She had to force herself to merely stand beside him.
She twisted her arm away from him. She scowled, pulling back, his face too close, his eyes too probing, but she noticed passersby casting quizzical looks their way.
“Best behave like a smitten fiancée,” he said, glancing at Mother. “Your mother has a lovely neck, it would be a shame …”
Love's Courage Page 17
