Sarah averted her eyes from the old man's gaze. "But I am not free to choose," she murmured. Her fingers found the cheap wedding band and twisted it. "I belong to another."
"That may be," Gideon answered, "but it changes nothin' between ye. Many a seaman has been washed up on shores not o' his choosin'. Take what happiness ye can find, while ye find it. That's my advice." With a firm nod, he turned and hobbled off.
Sarah sat motionless until she heard the outer door close. Then she forced herself to rise from the chair. Gideon is right, she thought. Rebel or Loyalist, it makes no difference how I feel about Forest. I did all I could to avoid Isaac's anger, but it's too late to worry about him now. With a shrug, she hurried into the cabin's kitchen to make ready her herb poultice and find her sewing basket.
She knew that when Forest's wound was properly tended, she must ride to Martha's and ask her to keep Joshua a while longer. There could be no question of bringing him home now while the anger from Isaac's revenge was so great. When Forest healed, he would have to go, too. King's Landing was no longer a haven for any of them.
Swiftly, Sarah stripped off her wet stockings and gown and shift, changing them for clean, dry ones. Her weariness receded as she washed and prepared her medicines. She loved Forest, and he needed her. That was all she could think of now. "Take happiness when and where ye find it," Gideon had said.
Her own mother had said much the same many years before when she'd married Sarah's stepfather. "You brought me sorrow by taking your own happiness with the wrong man," Sarah whispered into the still room. "Pray God I do not do the same to my own child."
~~~
Forest opened his eyes with great effort. Slowly, the room stopped spinning and his vision cleared. His fingers brushed the wool blanket, and he shifted slightly, feeling the soft feather ticks beneath him. A groan escaped his lips as pain knifed through him. From hip to armpit, he felt as though he was one sheet of fire.
With a gasp, he closed his eyes and lay still, panting for breath as the pain slowly eased. His free hand moved hesitantly to finger the bandages that encased his midsection.
He tried to moisten his cracked lips with his tongue, but found little relief. "Where am I?" he murmured hoarsely. His voice sounded harsh and brittle in his ears.
Relief washed over him as he became aware of the rhythmic swish and creak of a spinning wheel from the other room, and a familiar voice singing softly.
. . . Then up spoke the young girl's mother,
She was never known to speak so free,
Lord, would you slight my only daughter,
Since another maid's come to thee?
I've done no harm to your darlin' daughter,
She's none the better or worse for me,
She came to me on a horse and saddle,
I'll send her home in a coach and three.
Sarah, he thought. This is Sarah's house. Forest opened his eyes, blinking as his gaze adjusted to the light. Daylight. But what day? "Sarah?" he called.
. . . No more I'll roam to foreign countries,
Since my love's returned to me.
Lord Bateman was a noble lord,
And of his lordship high degree,
He set his . . .
Sarah's words trailed off. There was a scrape of wood against wood and she appeared in the doorway, her face flushed and smiling. "You're awake," she said, coming toward him. "We wondered if you intended to sleep away the winter."
"What . . . what day is this?" His tongue felt too large for his head. "Water," he entreated. "A drink . . . please."
She raised his head slightly and held a tin cup to his lips. "Just a little at first. You've had the fever. Not too much now."
Forest choked as the cold, sweet water ran down his throat. "God, but that tastes good. More."
She gave him another sip, then removed the cup. "If you can swallow, you'll drink the chicken broth I've prepared for you."
"Don't tell me you've sacrificed one of your precious hens," he teased. "For me?"
"A weasel got into the henhouse and pulled out half her feathers," Sarah replied saucily. Chuckling, she tucked a second pillow under his head. "How do you feel?"
Forest rubbed his head. "I wish I was drunk," he admitted.
"Your fever broke in the night. For three days you've tossed and turned, as hot as August. I feared you'd take the blood poison."
"Three days?" He tried to rise, groaned and fell back onto the pillow. Memories of the attack on the trail swept back over him. "Isaac?"
"No sign of him yet." She'd watched the road apprehensively and listened for hoofbeats in the night. She prayed Isaac wouldn't come while Forest lay helpless . . . and so far her prayers had been answered. She left Forest's bedside for a moment and returned with a basin of warm water and a cloth. Gently, she began to wash his face. "This beard of yours is beginning to grow out again. You were throwing yourself about so, I was afraid to try and shave you lest I finish what Isaac's man started."
"Where's Gideon . . . and the boy?" The water felt good on his face.
"Gideon's at the inn tending a customer. Joshua is still with Martha. I feared to bring him home." She put the basin on a table and dried his face with a linen towel. "You lied to me, Forest Irons," she accused. "You told me you had no part in this rebellion, and I find you're a crotch-infested rebel."
He forced a crooked grin. "A rebel I may be, but crotch-infested? You bear witness to my innocence in that."
"Hush!" she commanded. "You know well what I mean. Damn you, why did you come into my life and turn it upside down? I wanted no part of this rebellion. I'm loyal to King George, or I was, until I was forced into your game of deceit."
She went back into the kitchen and brought a bowl of steaming chicken soup and a pewter spoon. "Why I'm wasting good food on you, I'll never know," she fussed, letting her feigned ire cover her distress at his danger. "The king's men will only hang you. In the name of all that's holy, if you wanted to fight against the Crown, why aren't you hiding up at Valley Forge with Washington and his plowboy army, instead of complicating my life on the Misakaak?"
Before he could answer, she sat on the edge of the bed and shoved a spoonful of soup into his mouth. "No, don't talk. I wouldn't believe you if you told me the sun was coming up. You're a liar, Forest Irons, and I can't abide a liar."
The soup was too hot, but it didn't matter. It was delicious, and he was starving. "I can feed myself," he protested weakly.
"And spill it all over my quilts?" she snapped.
Gratefully, he accepted spoonful after spoonful until the bowl was empty. "Thank you," he said. "Can I have the rest of the chicken?"
"No. You can't have another bite until we see if that makes you sick. Invalids have weak stomachs," she scolded.
"It's my side that's hurt, not my stomach."
Sarah carried the bowl to the kitchen and stayed there until she had composed herself. She had no intention of letting him off easy now that she was sure he'd recover from his wound. In truth, she was angrier with herself than with Forest. Why hadn't she guessed that he was a rebel spy from the first? It was plain he was never what he'd pretended. She sighed. He deceived me, and I've deceived him, she thought. But I'm afraid that his is the more dangerous deception.
"Are you coming back?" he asked.
"Why?" she answered.
"I like to look at you."
Sarah muffled her chuckle. "That pitiful voice won't do you any good." She reappeared with fresh linens and a wooden bowl of medicinal-smelling, brown fibrous matter. "It's time to change your dressing," she announced crisply.
He pursed his lips. "I have a greater need, woman, but I'm not certain I can get up. Could you call Gideon to help me?"
She set the bandages on a chair. "Do you need the chamber pot?"
Forest felt heat rise in his face. "I need a man," he said between clenched teeth.
"I told you Gideon is busy. I can bring you the pot. I've been caring for you for three days. For the
first two, we couldn't even get you to use the pot. I've been changing—"
"I don't want to hear about it!" Sweat broke out on Forest's face as he pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his bare legs over the side of the bed.
She caught his shoulders. "You can't get up! You'll break the stitches and begin bleeding all over again. Would you undo all I've done for the sake of pride?"
"Aye," he answered stubbornly. The pain was acute, and the room was beginning to spin again.
If he didn't relieve his bladder soon, he'd wet himself or throw up . . . or maybe both. He raised his head and glared into her face. "Woman, do as I ask or get out of my way."
Startled by the flint in his tone, she stepped back. "Please don't," she entreated. "You'll bleed to death if you try to walk," she warned, grabbing the chamber pot and thrusting it into his hand. "Use this, and I'll fetch Gideon to carry it away." Without waiting for his answer, she turned and hurried from the cabin.
Forest waited until he heard the outer door close before he flung aside the covers. He'd expected anger, even rejection when Sarah found out the truth, but not this petty female tyranny. With a sigh of relief, he eased the aching pressure on his bladder. "Damnable wench," he muttered under his breath.
Slowly, his furrowed brow smoothed and the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. A woman who nagged and tortured a man with over-hot soup and the threat of wet nappies was hardly planning to turn him over to the enemy to be hanged. Sarah was furious with him, but not so mad that she wouldn't forgive him.
Grinning, he perched the chamber pot on the edge of the bed and laid back against the pillows to wait for Gideon. If Sarah didn't intend to turn him in, that made her a traitor to the Crown too. Forest chuckled softly. "I'll make a full-fledged Patriot of her yet."
~~~
To Sarah's vast relief, two more days passed without word or action from Isaac. Although the weather cleared, there were few travelers using the ferry, and none staying at the inn. It was cold, but not bitterly so. Sarah had been able to hide the dead men's horses in the thicket enclosure.
Forest was still confined to bed, but his condition was improving steadily. His fever was gone, and his appetite was as hearty as any field hand's.
The only excitement at King's Landing had been Gideon's discovery of pig tracks in the cornfield. Each morning, they found evidence that a large pig was coming to eat the corn still in the shocks. Between Sarah and Gideon, they concocted a scheme to trap the pig in the cellar in the stable.
It took hours of waiting in the cold, but the trap worked. Just after dusk, the pig followed the trail of corn and apples into the barn, Sarah slammed the door shut, and together she and Gideon drove the huge boar over the edge of the pit.
"Wait until you see him," Sarah exclaimed to Forest. "I thought he might break a leg in the fall, but he didn't. He's got tusks on him like an elephant!"
"He'll make fine hams and bacon, that's fer certain," Gideon added. "No tellin' where he came from, but I know where he's bound." He shook his head. "Mean! Meanest thing I've seen since I watched a Carobee Injun harpoon a killer whale."
"The boar's ears aren't clipped," Sarah explained. "I know all the local plantations' markings. Martha's is two pie-shaped cuts in each ear. There's none I know can claim him."
"None will claim him once we've done the butcherin'," Gideon agreed. He thumped Forest on the leg. "While yer lyin' abed, takin' yer ease, we'll be scaldin' and scrapin' that boar."
"Not for a few days yet," Sarah said. "I mean to fatten him up a little first. It's not every day a three-hundred-pound pig walks into my cellar. I want to—"
She was interrupted by the ringing of the ferry bell across the river. Donning their cloaks, she and Gideon left the cabin and hurried down to the river.
"I can come with ye, do ye want, Mistress," Gideon offered as they walked out on the dock. "The ferry's heavy fer a lady, and I don't fancy ye bein' out alone after dark."
Sarah shook her head. "I've been doing it for years." She tapped the pistol in her pocket. "I thought to bring some protection with me. It's not Isaac. Whoever it is, they're comin' from the wrong direction for it to be Isaac's bunch." She didn't want to tell Gideon that his wooden leg was more of a liability than an asset on the slippery raft. "I'll be fine," she assured him. "You fry up some of those fish you caught in the trap this morning, while I bring them across. Likely, they'll want to eat."
Gideon grunted his disapproval as Sarah stepped onto the ferry and picked up a pole. "Ain't fittin'," he grumbled, "for a lady to do such work."
Sarah pushed the raft away from the dock and out into the current. She liked Gideon, but he tended to fuss over her like an old woman. He'd even worried about her helping to trap the boar, as though she'd not been doing for herself and Joshua since Obediah had gone away. "And I did most of what work was done around here before that," she mumbled, only half aloud.
She liked the feel of the river moving beneath her as she poled the ferry slowly across. It was hard work, but her muscles were accustomed to the routine, leaving her mind free to think of whatever she wished.
It was Forest that was troubling her tonight. It was easy enough to laugh and talk of the weather and share inn gossip when Gideon was with them. But when she was alone with Forest, there were too many serious questions that needed answering . . . questions she was too cowardly to ask. She asked nothing about his reasons for joining the rebellion, or about his life before the war.
"He built boats," Gideon had confided when she summoned her courage to ask him about Forest. "He's good wi' his hands, Forest is."
"Does he have a family?" she'd dared to ask.
"No wife, if that's what yer askin'. He had one, but she weren't much. She's drowned, and I've heard him say he'd take no other." Gideon had grinned mischievously across the table at her. "'Course, no man knows when his anchor line's tangled 'til it's too late t' sail a clear course t' freedom."
Sarah pushed back her hood and let the night air blow through her hair. She'd washed it in front of the fireplace, and before she'd had the time to braid it after it dried the bell rang. It hung down her back like an unwed maid's.
Forest had watched her brush it out, his eyes intent on every stroke until the hair had prickled at the back of her neck. If they'd been alone . . . She exhaled sharply and threw her shoulders against the pole. Why am I tearing my heart out with such thinking? As soon as the knife wound healed, Forest would be out of her house and out of her life. Thinking it could be any different was only asking for more hurt.
A torch flared from the landing, and a woman's voice called out. "Hallo! Hallo, the ferry!"
"I'm coming," Sarah answered. "How many are you?"
"Me and my old father," the woman replied. "But he's sick. He fell in the snow a little ways back and I can't get him up."
The ferry bumped against the bank, and Sarah tossed the woman a rope. "Did you come on foot?" Sarah asked. Taking the second line, she jumped to the bank and scrambled up, wrapping the line around a post.
"Aye." The pinch-faced woman was about Sarah's age and poorly dressed. Her homespun cloak was patched, the hem tattered and stained with mud. "We're bound fer Chestertown," the woman complained. "I told him it were too far t' walk, but there ain't no reasonin' wi' the old buzzard. His head may be white, but it's still thick as oak."
"How far is he? I can bring my servant and a horse if need be," Sarah offered.
The woman motioned with the torch toward the road. "It ain't far, ma'am. The two of us kin carry him t' the ferry. Our neighbor, John Bishop, has business in Chestertown next week. We coulda waited and rid in his cart, but no," she whined, "the old fool had to go this mornin'."
Sarah followed the woman, slipping her hand inside her cloak to grasp the loaded pistol. "He's your father, you say?"
The woman turned and thrust the torch into Sarah's face. Sarah jerked back, momentarily blinded by the light, and suddenly found herself enveloped in a smothering length of w
ool. She screamed as someone too strong for a woman clamped his arms around her and wrestled her to the ground.
"Hold her," the woman yelled. "She's gettin' away!"
Sarah kicked out at her assailant as hard as she could and cried in pain as her head struck the frozen earth. The pistol fell from her hand and slid away.
"She's got a gun!" the woman screeched.
A heavy weight fell on top of Sarah, and a man's voice snarled through the thick wool. "Lay still and hold yer tongue, or you're dead."
"I can't breathe," Sarah gasped.
The weight eased and the blanket was ripped away. Once more, someone thrust the torch close to her face. Her captors were shadowy forms in the darkness.
"I got the gun now," the man rasped. "Move a muscle and I'll shoot."
"Who are you?" Sarah demanded, throwing up a hand to shield her face. "What do you want?" For a second, she glimpsed an ominous glint of metal in the firelight as the pistol barrel descended. Then everything went black.
Chapter Eighteen
Blackmail
Sarah sputtered as cold water hit her face. She moaned involuntarily and tried to regain her senses without opening her eyes.
"Lack-wit!"
Sarah recognized the woman's voice
"Button yer hatch, ye slack-arsed doxy!" A man's rough hands caught Sarah's shoulders and shook her gently. "Wake up, Mistress Turner!" he insisted.
"She's dead! She's dead and ye kilt her!" the woman howled. "We'll hang, I tell ye. Ye hit her too hard, ye clod-skulled—"
"Hold yer tongue, ye lully-priggin' jade! She ain't dead, I tell ye. I kin see her breathin'."
"She's dead and we'll have t' throw her body in the river. I ain't hangin' fer the likes o' ye, Roman Clough."
Sarah's eyes snapped open, and she stared at her runaway bond servant. "You!"
"See," he said. "What did I tell ye?" He released Sarah's shoulders, and she fell back into the snow.
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