"Backhanded flattery if ever I heard it."
Chapter Twenty-Two
KER-POWW! "HALF PAST six, and all's well!"
All was, indeed, well inside the Queen Charlotte. The number of patrons in the tavern had tripled. David had earned the Congress ten percent on its investment. And while Mathias visited the smithy next door, his cousins communicated with Lower Creek warriors in the back of the tavern, despite their different dialects.
Sophie grimaced at the fat proprietor strutting his smoking timekeeper back inside. Powder wasn't cheap. He used the equivalent of an entire box of cartridges each day calling out hours and half-hours. All had best be well.
The excellent English tea, of which she'd been deprived in Georgia due to trade restrictions, was plentiful inside the tavern. By six-thirty, however, it made its presence known to her bladder. She whispered to David, "I'm going to find the vault."
"Not a bad idea. Let me know where it is."
She handed over her saddlebags, squeezed from her seat, and glanced across the street at the Stocking and Slipper. Using up every minute of his two hours, the Frenchman was. But after all, there had been two women.
The innkeeper's wife aimed her down the back stair, and she exited the tavern to a circle of a dozen Negroes dancing in the dusk of evening while another fiddled. She skirted them, a pot of corn mush kept warm above a fire, and a beehive oven. Off to the side, Lila sat with two elderly women and rocked her baby to the rhythm of the music. The new mother gave Sophie a mystical smile.
A trail wound through a small citrus grove, and the trees cleared to reveal a barn, watering trough, and vault. Through the planks of the barn Sophie smelled the horses belonging to the innkeeper. A massive Floridian mosquito lazed around her ear and she swiped at it. She rapped on the door of the vault to make sure it wasn't occupied before entering.
Above the serenade of fiddle music, footsteps rustled in the coarse grass outside — likely a tavern patron with several tankards of ale talking in his bladder. Uninterrupted time in a seat of easement was another simple comfort she'd relinquished in favor of the quest. She reached for the corncobs.
No one was waiting when she emerged, but the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She hurried by the trough, and when she passed the barn, he stepped out with a familiar greeting: a huge, raised knife, and a sneer wrapping his mouth and black eyes. She stiffened in horror. "Adios, hija del Lobo," El Serpiente whispered and sprang for her.
A pistol fired, and she shrieked. The assassin howled with pain, the knife knocked from his hand. "¡Santa Maria!" He turned toward the grove enraged and shaken, wagging his hand.
At the edge of the grove, Dunstan Fairfax stood at attention, a smoking pistol in his hand, gaze fixed on the assassin. Neither his face nor his voice displayed any feeling. "The devil. I missed." He holstered the pistol.
Loathing carved deeper into El Serpiente's face, and he shook his fist at Fairfax. "The same way you missed Manuel's knee in Alton?"
More horror churned Sophie's stomach. All her suspicions about Fairfax were true. She backed away from both men.
Fairfax encroached on the assassin. "Señor Vasquez, or Velasquez, or Alvarez, or whatever your latest alias is, Major Edward Hunt insists on an audience with you. Be sensible and come along with me peacefully."
The assassin spat on the ground, drew his sword, and stepped to the right, the trough looming behind him. "I would rather mate with a demon, El Teniente del Diablo."
"The devil's lieutenant" drew his hanger. "As you wish." Sophie crept toward the grove, having no desire to watch a master murderer and a military machine dismember each other. Fairfax's words iced her spine. "I shan't be but a moment, Mrs. Barton, so don't go far."
She ran. Metal clashed behind her. The assassin cried out, and she halted to look back. Fairfax had maneuvered El Serpiente into tripping over the trough. While she gaped, the lieutenant dragged the other man up off the ground and knocked him out with a solid fist to the jaw. Then he swung around and spotted her.
Terror loaned her legs extra speed. Halfway up the path through the grove, the thud of Fairfax's boots closed behind her. The fiddle music grew louder, as did hoarse breaths of pursuit. A few feet from the exit of the grove, he snagged her arm and hauled her around.
"Lila!" Sophie loosened her arm and swung at Fairfax's jaw. He blocked the swing and pinned her arm. "Lila!"
He clapped a hand over her mouth, pinned both arms, and dragged her back down the path. When they emerged at the barn, the assassin still unconscious, Fairfax released her mouth. "An audience between you and Major Hunt would be a waste of his time. He wouldn't have the slightest idea how to extract information from you."
"I demand that you release me this moment! Lila!"
Angelic radiance suffused his face. "Not until I've expedited the process of extracting information."
He dragged her toward the barn, and dread smothered her. She was going to be flayed alive. "Help! Fire! Fire!"
Fairfax kicked open the barn door. "Scream if you like. No one shall hear you."
"You shall be answerable to Major Hunt for every bone you break, every bruise you give me, every scratch!"
He hauled her inside and pinned her against the far wall, his left arm trapping her right, his right hand clutching her left, as if they'd paired off in a bizarre waltz. A horse whickered in the stall nearest them and shied away. Fairfax's voice softened in the shadows. "Breaking, bruising, and scratching? No, I cannot be bothered with any of that."
In the next instant, her awareness of him jolted to comprehend that one hundred sixty-five pounds of sweating, hard-muscled male pressed her to the side of the barn, her inner thighs heated on his groin. The horror in her stomach curdled. She wasn't going to be flayed alive. Oh, no.
His chest expanded and contracted against hers while his breathing returned to normal. He smiled. "As I was explaining outside, I believe we've gone about this all the wrong way."
He didn't sound penitent. "Take your hands off me, Lieutenant Fairfax."
The warmth of his breath slid along the right side of her neck. "Dunstan," he whispered. "Dunstan."
"Damn you!"
He laughed, his breath a caress on her neck. "You think me a monster, don't you?"
"Torture and violation are two sides of the same shilling."
His lips hovered above her right ear. "I've never forced anyone."
Surely he understood the multiple forms of rape. And he hadn't denied torture. She squirmed for escape but succeeded only in riding higher on his groin. Revulsion roiled in her chest, particularly when she realized that any woman unfamiliar with Fairfax's twisted mind might be aroused by his physical prowess and appeal. Any woman.
"You — you're supposed to be in South Carolina with the Seventeenth Light. You ignored movement orders. You'll be court-martialed for coming to East Florida."
"Court-martialed? Certainly not. I've been authorized to neutralize the St. James espionage menace."
Aghast, Sophie stared at Fairfax. Not only had he covered up his acts of torture and murder well, but he'd schemed his own transfer out of Georgia far enough in advance to whisper seduction in the ear of his future commander and receive his blessing on the pursuit of spies. For the duration of the mission, Major Hunt had been saddled with a junior officer who was manipulative, brilliant, and brutal. Empathy for Edward panged her.
"So here I am." Fairfax grinned. "And here we are." He drew his lips along the line of her jaw in a touch so light she barely felt it.
Her skin crawled, a flush of flesh extending from her right ear down into her right toes. Her voice emerged hoarse. "I haven't any information that could be of use to you."
"The flowerpot," he whispered, nibbling her earlobe.
She stared at the open door of the barn over his shoulder. Fairfax was crazy. "Flowerpot?"
"You remember. The daisies. A message buried in the soil, I wager."
It came back to her then. Sunday night over a week b
efore, when she was still under house arrest, she'd received that mysterious flowerpot full of daisies and the second cipher hidden within. She tried to make her tone as dubious as possible, but for some reason, it continued hoarse. "Why do you believe there was a message buried in the soil?"
"Mmm. I haven't understood until now why he's so obsessed that he could chase you across three hundred miles into this worthless hell." He nuzzled her neck, the heat of his lips encouraging her skin to crawl even more and her head to spin. "You're such a spirited liar. Of course there was a message in the flowerpot — one so important that you violated house arrest." He trailed his lips into the hollow of her throat. "You're also lying if you say you aren't enjoying this —"
"And you're doubly damned, Lieutenant." She attempted to thrust him away from her and again only succeeded in enhancing the contact of their bodies. A shudder soared through her. His restraint was so calculated, so well practiced.
"How intriguing. Do you realize no woman has ever pretended to fight me before?"
"I'm not pretending!"
"If you truly want me to desist, stop lying to me. Tell me about the message. Did it not specify the alternate meeting place for Don Alejandro and the rebels?"
His lips migrated up to her chin, and she thrust her head back, as far away from him as possible, her neck muscles straining. Oh, gods, she didn't want Fairfax to kiss her mouth. She'd as soon tongue a slug. "I don't know what you're talking about." She held her jaw shut.
His lips caressed the curve of her chin just below her lower lip. "Mmm. Tell me the location of that meeting place, and I'll let you go."
Not from the way the fire in his groin was talking. She jerked her head aside again, neck muscles tormented and at the limit of their endurance. "New Orleans. They're supposed to meet in New Orleans if they cannot meet in St. Augustine."
He altered his restraint to seize her head and hold it immobile, his mouth poised above hers. "I'm now thoroughly intrigued with you. Do you realize no woman has ever pretended she didn't want me to kiss her?"
"I'm not preten —"
It couldn't have lasted very long, not when she kept her jaw gripped shut and her lips closed, and yet it seemed interminable. He confined the kiss to a series of strokes and nibbles, while she exerted by far the greater effort because she remained rigid and unyielding the entire time. Let him kiss stone for more response. Yet her body hadn't exactly turned to stone in the eight years since Richard's death, damn it. At times it quivered with hunger — not hunger for Fairfax, but he knew widows were bound to be hungry. Outrage surged through her. How dared he invite himself into her hunger? He dared because he knew just how much it disgusted her.
He returned his lips to her jaw line. "If we continue at this, by the morrow I guarantee you'll no longer be considering it torture."
"You're a vile creature."
"And you're still lying, my enchanting Sophie Barton. We know there will be no meeting of Spaniards and rebels in New Orleans. Had you mentioned a location such as — mmm, you've a delightful, throbbing pulse right here on your throat, Sophie, Sophie, Sophie, mmm — a location such as Havana, well, perhaps I'd have believed you." He pulled back, gloating. "Let's talk about Havana, shall we?"
If he'd already possessed military intelligence about Havana, why should he toy with her in such a way? "I don't know anything about Havana. Take your hands off me!" Hearing her voice betray a flush of tears just beneath her facade, she felt mortified.
"Another lie. How you flatter me. You are enjoying it."
A shadow crossed the barn door, someone passing outside. Envisioning an enraged El Serpiente slicing not one, but two throats from ear to ear in that barn behind the tavern, she thrashed in Fairfax's arms. "Get off me! You disgust me, Lieutenant!"
"No, I fascinate you. I'm in all your darkest fancies."
Her tears spilled through. "Let me go, please!"
"Please? How I love the sound of that word — seductive, submissive." In shifting his restraint, he ceased to pin her groin with his. If she could gain a few more inches maneuverability — she relaxed to signal acquiescence. "Ah, it is Havana, then, and after your contact on Saturday with Don Esteban Hernandez, I wager he told you the names of some of their agents before he died." Esteban Hernandez? Was that Stephen Hawthorne's real name? "So let's start with St. Augustine, darling." He relaxed a little, granting Sophie the space she needed. "Who are the agents in St. Augustine?"
She heaved her knee up into his groin. When he doubled over and exhaled in shock and pain, she thrashed loose. With a growl he lunged for her. She sprinted for the door, hearing his chase — staggering, raspy-breathed — then a crack of splintering wood as she cleared the trough. A glance behind brought her to an abrupt halt. The lieutenant had collapsed to the ground just outside the barn.
"Miz Sophie!" Lila stepped toward her over Fairfax, who was out cold wandering his twisted mind, and past the remains of the bucket that had ushered him there. The revulsion in Sophie's stomach exploded into a thousand jarring shards, and she squeaked out Lila's name before falling into the younger woman's embrace.
Lila's tone sounded incensed, protective. "There, there. I heard you call. I didn't know where you was at first. Maybe I should have killed him. He be just like the young massuh. What some men think they got a right to be doing with women..." She trailed off in disgust.
"I — we have to get out of here." And oh, how she wanted soap and water to scrub her face, throat, and neck.
"Yessum. That one be madder than a hornet when he wakes up."
"El Serpiente!" Sophie spun about and stared at the watering trough. Clouds from the west had engulfed the setting sun, but she still had enough daylight to discern that the assassin had disappeared. She whirled on Lila. "Did you see him leave? What direction did he take?"
Lila shook her head. "While I watch from those trees over yonder, a Spaniard come along, find him, pick him up, and carry him off."
"A Spaniard?" Another Spaniard! The fifth assassin?
"Yessum."
David's piquet game was over, as was Jacques's fun with the doxies and Mathias's tour of the smithy. They must now fly with the greatest speed to St. Augustine in hopes that ten British soldiers who knew about Havana and two Spanish assassins wouldn't reach the city ahead of them and find André Dusseau. "Tell Cow Ford adieu, Lila. We're leaving."
Chapter Twenty-Three
BY TWO-THIRTY THE following afternoon, surrounding plantations, cattle ranches, and fruit groves and an increase in traffic alerted them that they'd entered the vicinity of St. Augustine. They halted. Sophie, Ulysses, and Lila dismounted, and Sophie retrieved the reins of their horses. "If Fort Mose is still standing, it shouldn't be too far away. Good luck to you."
"Thank you, Miz Sophie." Ulysses bobbed his head. "And good luck to you folks, wherever you going." In seconds, the family disappeared behind clumps of palmettos and moss curtains. A collective sigh of relief spread over the party. Abetting the escape of slaves was punishable by law. No one regretted being divested of the liability.
An hour south, the foliage to either side of the highway cleared, and the party paused to absorb the view. Squarish Fort St. Mark, formerly El Castillo de San Marcos, anchored the northeast corner of St. Augustine, its impenetrable coquina walls creamy as the inside of a bivalve, crenellations etched against the cumulus-and-cerulean sky. White, sandy beaches and the Matanzas River stretched east of the fort. Beyond that, a watchtower protruded from the low foliage on the north end of Anastasia Island, a sentry post with an eye on the Atlantic. Rowboats and fishing sloops lazed along the Matanzas. Beyond sandbars, three vessels lay at anchor: a warship flying the colors of Britain as her ensign, and two merchant brigs.
The King's Highway terminated at gates on the northern wall of the city. Two guards conferred a warm welcome, then Sophie and her party bypassed the public slaughtering pen near the gates. They hadn't traveled far down St. George Street before an exotic thrill teased Sophie's spine. In place of
familiar wood buildings of Georgia and Cow Ford was a fusion of whitewashed tabby-shell masonry walls, cypress planks, and thatched roofs of palm fronds — not dwellings of British design. Vine-covered arches beckoned to shadowy loggias, and she imagined ghosts: a black-veiled señorita, a tonsured friar, even Pedro Menéndez de Avilés himself, the city's founder. Whitewash slapped on walls almost obscured a non-British coat of arms here, or non-English words there, reinforcing Sophie's impression that the presence of King George the Third was but a hasty glaze over the terracotta of a culture that had persevered through two centuries of hurricane, fire, and massacre.
She shook off her amazement and trotted Samson up to pace her brother's horse. "David, let's find the Dragon and Phoenix Inn, as Hernandez recommended."
"What does it look like I'm trying to do?"
"It looks like you're trying to tour the city. I think the inn is on a parallel street. Ask for directions."
He grumbled. "Why do women always ask for directions?"
"Because men are forever getting themselves lost."
"Well, what did you expect me to do back there, ask one of the gate guards for directions, Madame Secret-Keeper?"
Lack of sleep had made him just as irritable as she was. Each of them needed a good night's sleep, maybe several good nights' sleep. But David and the others knew she'd cheated them of details in her fantastic tale of watching Fairfax and El Serpiente duel, then extracting Hawthorne's real name out of Fairfax without receiving injury.
Lila had been of no help to them in poking holes in the story. The Negro woman had stuck to a minimal-detail account of sneaking up behind Fairfax after he'd cornered Sophie and braining him with a bucket. Sophie decided it was simpler if David and Mathias didn't know the rest.
She dismounted and walked her horse over to ask directions from a baker. "Left at the next street, eight shops down on the right," she told David a moment later with a cheery smile.
She spotted the signboard for the inn as soon as they turned the corner. After dismounting and retrieving their saddlebags, they headed into the dim, muggy common room of the Dragon and Phoenix. Most tables were vacant. Three civilians sat engrossed over cards at one table, and two others conversed at another table. A sixth civilian, dark-haired, sat alone in semi-shadow, a tankard before him. Not a soldier in sight. Splendid.
Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 18
