Sarah knew that with Roman and Belle waiting for her at King's Landing it was time to confide in Forest. She'd been trying to find a way to tell him the truth about Obediah ever since she'd awakened in the bed at the rectory at New Castle. Twice it had been on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that Obediah was dead and buried and she was a widow—but both times the words had stuck in her throat like lumpy gravy.
Forest would be glad to be rid of Obediah, she was certain of that, but he wouldn't be pleased she'd hidden her husband's death all this time, especially since they'd been intimate. It was plain that Forest's thinking he was bedding another man's wife had grated on him. He'd be angry with her, but the question was—how angry?
"Forest." Sarah caught the dapple-gray's reins and pulled the horse to a halt. "We have to talk."
"Here?"
She nodded. "I'm afraid so."
"You've something to tell me."
She pulled her leg up and would have thrown it over the horse's neck and slid to the ground, but Forest's arm was firmly around her waist. His face was inches from hers, and his eyes had narrowed suspiciously.
"I'm waiting."
"I can't talk if you squeeze all the breath out of me," she protested.
"Sarah." His voice was deceptively soft.
She twisted around to face him squarely. "It's about Obediah . . ." she began.
"What about him?"
"He's dead."
"What? When? Are you certain?"
She looked down at her hands. "Umm-humm."
"How do you know? Did Martha tell you?"
"No."
"Then how do you know he's dead?"
She squirmed. "I buried him," she murmured.
"You what!" The horse jumped sideways, nearly unseating her.
She threw her arms around Forest's neck and held on tightly. "There's no need to kill me, too," she protested. "All I said was that I'd buried him."
"Was he dead?"
"Of course he was dead."
Forest unfastened Sarah's hands, lowered her to the ground and dismounted. He wrapped the dapple-gray's reins around a tree and advanced on her. "How long has he been dead?" he demanded.
"There's no need to shout."
"How long?"
"Awhile."
"How long, Sarah?" He took a step closer. "Since before I came to King's Landing?"
She nodded.
"Did you kill him?"
Her eyes widened in astonishment. "Of course I didn't kill him. Obediah died of the fever. He deserted his unit when he was wounded, snuck home, and died."
"That's it?" Forest caught her chin and raised it until their eyes met. "You didn't murder him? He just died, and you buried him? And you've kept his death a secret for months?"
"A little longer than that," she corrected softly.
"Then why in the hell did you let me think—"
"I couldn't tell you. If I told you, you might tell someone and then Isaac would find out. Isaac inherits the inn and gets Joshua. As long as people thought Obediah was alive, I could run King's Landing to suit myself."
Forest spun away and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. "You're a widow," he said. "All this time, you've been a widow."
"Sort of."
"Sort of, nothing! Either you're a widow or you aren't. Which is it?"
"I am." She came up behind him and laid a hand on his back. "I was going to tell you," she said soothingly.
"When?"
"I told you now, didn't I?"
He fixed her with a fierce gaze. "Why now, Sarah? Why did you choose today?"
"I had to," she admitted. "Roman Clough is at King's Landing. He hit me over the head, and now he's trying to blackmail me. If I don't pay him a king's ransom, he's going to turn me in to the sheriff, and he's going to tell Isaac I poisoned Obediah."
"Who the hell is Roman Clough?"
"He's Obediah's bond servant—at least he was supposed to be. Roman never was any good at working. He was here when Obediah died. He dug the hole and helped me—"
"All right!" Forest caught her around the waist and set her on the saddle. "Now, from the beginning. Slowly! Suppose you tell me just what's going on."
Sarah choked back a giggle and began to explain just what and why she had done what she'd done, and why she needed Forest's help in dealing with Roman and Belle Clough.
When she finished, there was silence. Forest remained where he was, arms folded across his chest, shoulders resting against the trunk of a massive oak. His face was impassive, his eyes clouded with dark swirls of what Sarah suspected was anger.
"Well?" she said, when she could take the waiting no longer.
"What am I supposed to say?" His voice was low and strained.
"Can you see why I couldn't tell you before?"
He relaxed the tension in his arms, letting them slide down to hang loosely at his sides. A flicker of intense anger passed over his features, then vanished, to be replaced by a look of regret. "I love you, Sarah. I thought you loved me."
"I do, but—"
"But nothing! Why the hell couldn't you trust me enough to share this with me?"
She looked away and swallowed, trying to banish the hard knot in her throat. "Joshua," she whispered.
"Joshua! What about Joshua?" Forest demanded.
"It's all Joshua," she flung back. "It wasn't in the beginning, but later . . . when I came to care for you . . . and then to love you. Isaac has the power. The law is on his side. He could take my son away." She met Forest's eyes straight on. "I didn't think you could stop him."
"And now? What makes today any different?"
"Roman's here," she answered truthfully. "I can't deal with him alone."
"What about Isaac? Do you think I can protect you and Josh from him?"
She nodded. "Yes, now I believe you can."
~~~
Sarah and Forest rode up to the kitchen door of the tavern, dismounted, and tied the reins of the dapple-gray. The back door stood open, despite the cold, and they could hear a man's voice from inside, singing off-key.
They was a wench in London Town,
They called her darlin' Molly,
She plied her trade upon her back,
Which brought about her folly.
Now this wench she—
The smash of crockery cut off the raucous delivery, followed closely by the sound of overturning furniture. Sarah rushed for the door, but Forest caught her arm.
"Wait until I get around to the front," he cautioned. He shoved a pistol into her hand. "Don't use this unless you have to, and for God's sake, don't shoot me with it."
Sarah counted silently to twenty, pushed the pistol into her pocket and entered the kitchen. Cold fury possessed her as she saw the condition of the room. Dirty dishes and pots were strewn across the table; half-eaten food lay on the floor and cold hearth. The kitchen smelled of stale beer.
"Damn yer greedy bowels, Roman Clough!" a woman's voice cried from the public room. "Yer no better than—" The woman shrieked, something bounced off the inside of the door, and there was a heavy thud.
"Shut yer trap!" Roman warned. "I'll—" He broke off as Sarah pushed open the door. "Ah," he said, blinking, "Ah . . . Mish . . . Mishtress Turner." He grinned stupidly and tried to stand up.
Sarah walked into the room and looked around. A wailing Belle sat on the floor near the hearth, one eye blackened, her gown soiled and torn over her protruding belly, her face contorted with weeping. The remains of a broken crock lay beneath a window. One bench and several broken chairs were overturned, and pewterware was scattered on the floor.
Roman was drunk, so drunk he could hardly stand. His hair stood out from his head like a wet rooster tail; his eyes were bloodshot, and his nose was swollen and bent at an unnatural angle.
"What do you think you're doing here?" Sarah demanded. "Get up off that floor," she ordered Belle, "and stop that bellowing."
Belle stopped crying and sniffed loudly. She wiped her nose on he
r sleeve and glared at Sarah. "Ye best watch thet tongue o' your'n," Belle snapped. "We come fer what's ours. Pay up, or Roman here 'ill see ye hang fer the murder o' yer man."
Roman belched and settled back on the bench, swaying from side to side as he tried to focus his bleary vision on Sarah.
"You sold the horse, didn't you?" Sarah accused. "You sold the horse and bought rum with the money." She picked up the mug Roman was drinking from and smelled the contents. "Uggh," she said. "They make that slop from bilge water and turpentine. I wouldn't feed it to a dying goat!"
"Sh . . . shold . . . ah . . . horsh," Roman agreed. "Shh a bad horsh. Broke my nosesh . . . my nose." He rubbed at the crooked appendage.
"Ye did thet a'purpose," Belle accused. She walked unsteadily to Roman's side and draped an arm around his shoulders. "Tried t' murder my Roman, ye did, ye wicked baggage."
"Thimes up," Roman said. "We want our two hundred pounds . . . er . . . er . . . "
"Or else," Belle hissed.
"You are threatening me with blackmail?" Sarah asked. "Am I to understand that unless I pay you two hundred pounds, hard money, you will accuse me of murdering my husband?"
'"Zackly!" Roman cried, slamming the table with his pewter mug and then draining the last of the pungent liquid.
At that instant Forest appeared in the doorway, musket leveled at Roman. "Don't move," he warned. "Not even a muscle, if you value your life."
Belle dropped onto the bench beside her husband and began to shriek wildly.
"Shoot her," Sarah said matter-of-factly. "It's the only way to keep her quiet."
Belle's hands clamped over her mouth, and her screaming was reduced to whimpers.
Roman stared at Forest. "D-don't shoot," he begged. "Don't sh-shoot! I ain't armed."
Forest pulled a sheet of foolscap from his pocket and unfolded it. "I have here a warrant for the arrest of one Roman Clough, runaway bond servant, and a woman, Belle, who calls herself his wife."
"I am too his wife," Belle cried.
"Silence, woman," Forest ordered. "You are both under arrest for stealing a horse, for attempted blackmail against Mistress Sarah Turner, and for suspected murder of Obediah Turner."
Roman's face turned a pasty white. "I didn't have nothin' t' do wi' killin' Master Turner," he cried, suddenly sober. "He died o' the fever. Tell him, mistress," Roman begged. "It 'twere fever, nothin' more. All I did was he'p bury him."
"Mistress Turner?" Forest asked solemnly.
"That much is true," Sarah agreed, stifling her urge to giggle. "Roman is a runaway, a blackmailer, a wife beater, and a horse thief, but he had no hand in Master Turner's death."
"See? See?" Roman cried. "I ain't done nothin' wrong."
"Roman wanted to take this matter to the sheriff," Sarah said. "Perhaps we should all go—"
"I'm certain the sheriff, my father, will want to see the Cloughs," Forest said. "There is a reward posted for their arrest. These two are due a public lashing, at least. Then there is the matter of Roman's breaking his indenture."
"He'll have to serve double his time, won't he?" Sarah asked. "But stealing a horse is a hanging offense. Will they whip them before or after they hang them?"
Roman groaned.
"I'm certain it will be before," Forest answered solemnly. "Little good of doing it after. Messy business."
"Ye can't hang me!" Belle pleaded. "I plead my belly! They can't hang a woman what's wi' child! Mercy!" She leaped up and seized Sarah's skirt. "Fer God's sake, mistress, give us mercy. We didn't steal the horse—ye gave it t' us."
"She has a point, sir," Sarah said. "In a manner of speaking, I did give them the animal." She smiled prettily at Forest. "And it would be most inconvenient to travel to Talbots Courthouse to deliver them to the sheriff at this time. Couldn't we just let them go?"
Forest frowned. "Let them go?" He waved the paper. "What about the reward for their capture?"
"They wouldn't be safe on the Chesapeake," Sarah said. "They'd have to flee north if they wanted to save their necks."
"Out of the question," Forest said. "The law is the law."
"The least you can do," Sarah insisted, "is to wait while they put my kitchen to order." She glared at Belle. "Out there, both of you! There are dishes to be washed and the floor to be swept. I simply cannot go to Talbot Courthouse and leave the inn in such a filthy condition."
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Forest said. "You heard the mistress! Set that kitchen into order at once!"
Roman and Belle stumbled over each other to get through the kitchen door. As it banged shut behind them, Sarah flung herself into Forest's arms.
"Do you think we should set a guard over them?" she whispered.
"Not if we want them to get away."
Sarah giggled and buried her face in his shirt. "The sheriff's son? How could you? And a warrant for their arrest? What is that paper, really?"
"My captain's commission." He bent and kissed her. "You don't believe I'm the sheriff's son?" he said when they parted. "It's true."
"No, I don't believe you. The sheriff's name is Richardson, not Irons." She stepped back and eyed him suspiciously. "Unless you aren't really Forest Irons either."
"Would I lie?" He grinned. "No, don't answer that. Sheriff Richardson is indeed my father—my stepfather, if you insist, but he has acted as father since I was a young child. We may bear different names, but we are far closer than many natural fathers and sons."
"Hmmmph!" she said. "I've been too frightened to shut my eyes at night because I was afraid of the sheriff, and all along I've been sleeping with his son?"
He took her in his arms. "The problem is, you haven't been sleeping with his son enough." His mouth descended on hers. "My God, woman," he murmured between kisses, "do you know how long it's been?"
"I know," she answered huskily. Her fingers tangled in his hair. "I've been counting, too."
"There'll be no reprieve this time," he warned. Still holding firmly to her wrist, Forest crossed the room and pushed open the kitchen door. The room was empty. "I think we've lost our prisoners," he said, pulling her against him.
Slowly, tantalizingly, Forest began to kiss her neck. "You've much to answer for, wench," he murmured. His strong hands spanned the curves of her hips and thighs. One arm slipped beneath her knees, and he swept her up into his arms. "Shall we go to bed, my lady?"
"Not here," she said. "My cabin. I'd not sleep on the same sheets as Belle Clough."
"I've heard that widows are the sweetest bedmates."
The tip of his hot tongue teased Sarah's ear, and she shivered with anticipation.
"I wouldn't know," she whispered. "You'll have to be the judge of that yourself."
Chapter Twenty-Five
East of the Mason-Dixon Line
Five days later, Sarah crouched under a low-hanging cedar tree in the pouring rain somewhere east of the Mason-Dixon Line. She was cold and wet, and her sodden braids had come undone and slapped across her face like icy ropes when she moved her head. She leaned back against Forest and wished for the hundredth time that she was warm and dry before her own hearth at King's Landing.
Hidden in the trees were forty-two men, Delaware militia and local farmers, all eager to make an end of the Tory raiders who had caused so much destruction on the peninsula. Some were seasoned soldiers, others were boys not old enough to shave. None had reason to feel sympathy for Isaac and his band, and most were suspicious of Sarah.
"How do we know she won't lead us into a trap?" a steely-eyed rifleman had asked when they first formed the plan of attack. "She's a Turner, ain't she?"
"I'll stake my life on her," Forest had flung back.
"You already have," the militiaman had muttered.
"We don't stand a chance if she betrays us," another man had said. "We're outnumbered better than two to one as it is."
"If I wanted to betray you," Sarah had answered boldly, "I'd have done so from my own kitchen. Do you think me fool enough to come along and
chance being caught in the cross fire?"
The attack party had tied their horses nearly a quarter of a mile away so that no sound would warn the Loyalists of their approach. The wind and rain had muffled any noise as Forest led the Patriot troops close to the fort. Once they were in position, they had lain in their hiding places since twilight . . . waiting.
Isaac's fort had been enlarged and improved upon since Sarah last saw it in the spring. The upright logs, rising fifteen feet high and sharpened to spikes at the top, had been sunk deep in the earth. The wall surrounded an area covering a half-acre of ground, large enough to contain a hundred men and their horses if necessary. On the outside, around the perimeter, was a bristling barrier of crossed logs, five feet high, stacked one upon the other and spiked to keep horsemen from riding too close to the main fort walls.
Inside the fort, animals were kept tied along the west wall and crude barracks lined the north and south walls. In the center of the compound were a well and a three-room log cabin Isaac used as headquarters and armory. There were two entrances into the fort; the first was the main gate, facing east, and the second was a low, hidden doorway set into the west wall, just wide enough for a large man to squeeze through.
"The west entrance isn't guarded," Sarah explained to Forest as the two huddled together in the rain. "It's bolted from the inside, but if someone lifts the iron bars . . . "
"The trick is to get inside and open the door," he replied. "The front gate won't be easy to take by force."
Huge timbers reinforced by crossbars formed the east gate. The heavily guarded entrance might be burned, but it couldn't be smashed by anything less than cannon fire.
"If we surround the fort Indian style," Forest continued, "they could sit in there taking potshots at us for weeks. If it was August, we could burn them out. Now, in the rain, with everything wet, we'd be lucky if we could get enough fire going to cook a squirrel."
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