The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

  She swallowed again. "I told you, to North Carolina."

  "Not to Ninety Six? Neville told me you had an aunt who lives there. Martha Neely."

  She sighed, still clinging to the hope that she could bluff. "Oh, very well, I may as well admit it. I'm going to stay with Aunt Martha in Ninety Six."

  Fairfax showed his teeth in something that looked like a smile but wasn't. "Would it distress you to know that Mrs. Neely died back in May? Neville checked the town records."

  A swell of despair rolled over her expression. "I guess I won't be staying with Aunt Martha."

  He pulled her up against him again, one hand returning to her buttock and squeezing. "I have no compunction about taking the time necessary to extract the truth from you. In fact, I fancy you enjoying the process so much that two or three hours hence, all manner of truths will be tumbling from your lips. So unless you prefer to miss the engagement you alluded to earlier, stop playing me for a fool. Your husband abandoned you. You're with child. It's time to find the protection of your kin. It's time to find Mother. You're going to Ninety Six."

  Betsy gritted her teeth and squirmed. "I told you I don't know where she is. Take your hands off me!"

  He tangled fingers in hair escaped from her mobcap at the back of her head, exposing her throat, filling her nostrils with his scent. "Betsy darling, Betsy sweet, I knew you were intrigued with me the afternoon we met in Alton. Shall I show you how it was with your mother in Havana?"

  "You cur!" She freed a hand, grazed his jaw with her fist, and tried to stomp his foot.

  While he scuffled with her for control, the door to the cellar opened. In the instant of her surprise, Fairfax blew out the lantern, plunging the aisle into shadow. She lunged away. He reeled her back. She sucked in a breath to scream and felt the tip of his dagger prick through her petticoat to her belly above the womb. "Quiet," he whispered, "or you'll never birth this child." At her stiffening, the pressure of the dagger grew painful. "Do we understand each other?"

  "Yes," she whispered, trembling, relaxing against his shoulder so he wouldn't injure her. Then she turned her attention to the wine rack separating them from the stairs, through which they watched a man with a lantern descend into the cellar.

  Chapter Forty

  A SECOND MAN followed him down and stood beside him at the end of the first aisle. Betsy sneaked a glance at Fairfax's face, but there wasn't enough light to see more than a glitter in his eyes, reflection of the two men's lantern.

  The pressure from his dagger had vanished, but she doubted he'd sheathed the blade. As if reading her thoughts, he secured his left arm across her ribcage, her back snug against his left side. The alertness in his body permeated her, communicating that there'd be no quick dash for freedom. Fairfax wouldn't drop his guard.

  Two more men descended with lanterns, and Betsy gaped in recognition at Basilio and Francisco. They were followed by a couple more, both strangers and young, before Betsy gasped at the seventh man: Clark.

  Great heavens, was this a meeting of the Ambrose spy ring? If so, Fairfax was seeing one of his fondest wishes unfold: the opportunity to identify all the rebels.

  Another three climbed down, all strangers. Then Betsy stared in confusion at the final man to descend. "You disgust me, all of you," said Adam Neville when he'd reached the bottom step and surveyed those arrayed before him. "You call yourselves 'Patriots?' You're dung-eating dogs, a continual source of amusement for the redcoats. 'Patriots' like you guarantee world domination for His Majesty."

  "Ahhhhhh!" whispered Fairfax, the sound a cross between a sigh and ecstatic release. Betsy glanced at him again and shuddered with horror at the radiance in his eyes.

  Lieutenant Neville planted his feet. "You're supposed to be an autonomous unit. But each of you has bumbled irreparably. I should never, never have had to compromise my position with the Rangers to ride here, just to realign this mission."

  "Ahhhhhh!" whispered Betsy, echoing Fairfax's comprehension, niggling details about the adventure making sense at last. Jan van Duser hadn't been Ambrose, and Abel Branwell hadn't been the double agent, and Whig Captain Ned Murray had assumed he'd nothing to fear at the mass grave because one of his own would give quarter to him. But Adam Neville had his own code of honor.

  "To tell you the truth, I don't know if it can be repaired at this point. Van Duser's gone, and the last time I saw Branwell was Saturday the twelfth of August, gentlemen, three days ago. Has anyone seen him since then?"

  The men remained silent. Betsy's peripheral vision detected a gleam. When she turned her head, she realized it was the reflection of the lantern on Fairfax's teeth. He was grinning. Ice stormed her spine.

  "Assume he's dead, then." Neville scowled. "Where's Wilson? Posey, wasn't he with you?"

  One man cleared his throat. "Yes, sir, but I haven't seen him since last night."

  "Damnation." Neville pounded his fist into his palm. "That confirms it's not a blackmail victim. Assassins are working us, lads. How did they latch onto us, eh? Who gave 'em the tip?"

  "My sweet," Fairfax whispered and brushed his lips on the back of Betsy's neck, above her tucker. She tensed, sickened.

  "Oh, come now, surely some of you have thought about it. After all, we've had enough clues. Very well, let's waste no more time guessing. Sheridan, step forward." The other men allowed Clark room, as if he smelled rancid. Neville brought his face inches from Clark's. His sneer was audible. "Your wife tipped them off."

  Clark wagged his head. "She wouldn't have. She's neutral."

  "Horse shit. There are no neutrals in this war. She swore allegiance to the King back in Augusta."

  "She did it because she was cornered by Brown. You know that." Anger blazed through Clark's voice. "If that's all you have on her, it's flimsy evidence. Look elsewhere. Betsy and I disagreed about politics, but she wouldn't have betrayed me."

  Betsy blinked back tears and pushed at Fairfax's arm when he nuzzled her neck. "My darling." He tightened his hold on her.

  Neville's contempt waxed into a vindictive smile. "Gálvez. Van Duser said the disappearance of your furniture was linked to the Gálvez family. Who gave Josiah Carter that name? It was someone who was familiar with how our efforts are connected with those of the Spaniards.

  "You told me how angry your wife was over losing your furniture, reportedly so angry that she confronted van Duser twice and tracked it to Carter's barn. Coincidentally, her grandfather was involved in the attempt back in June to bring in the Gálvez family. She knows enough about the Gálvez to throw the name into our operations and confuse us.

  "Sheridan, the shrew betrayed you. You fouled your own flight to Camden by picking up that assassin, so you couldn't set up shop posing as Kessler's nephew, and you couldn't set up house for Mrs. Sheridan. There's her motive for betrayal. Typical woman, she's angry with you. Typical woman, she consoled herself by bedding your apprentice. The two of them plotted vengeance. And now she's turned loose assassins on us."

  A tear rolled down Betsy's cheek. "Clark," she whispered.

  Fairfax licked behind her ear. "My lovely mystery woman."

  "You're wrong! When she and I met in Log Town, she warned me that Lieutenant Fairfax was sniffing around. If she was plotting vengeance, why would she have done that?"

  "Lamebrain, it makes her look guiltless, that's why she did it. Besides, I'm not convinced Fairfax is involved. No one's spotted him in the area since before Branwell disappeared."

  "Don't underestimate him."

  "I shall deal personally with him if he shows up."

  Betsy felt tremors course through Fairfax. When she looked up at his face, she saw his teeth shining again. He was laughing without sound. Horrified, she averted her gaze.

  "Sheridan, describe your wife."

  "She's seventeen. Pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes. About this tall." He indicated the bridge of his nose. "Slender."

  "That describes a number of ladies in the area. Men, take note that she's also nearly six months p
regnant. If you encounter her, capture and restrain her for my interrogation. If she attempts to escape or create a burden for you, kill her."

  "What? You'd murder my wife? For god's sake, man, I'm telling you she didn't do it!"

  Neville growled at Clark. "Whose side are you on? Husbands and wives betray each other in this war. You're only safe with those whom you recognize as belonging to the cause. That's the men in this room." Granite consumed the snarl. "If you aren't with us, we're all dead. We've run out of margins in this operation. Now get back over there with your fellows so we can assess where the mission stands."

  For the next ten minutes or so, Betsy was privy to schemes of the Ambrose spy ring. They reevaluated their chances of picking off British commanders, given distribution of their members among the Loyalist militia units. One man revealed intelligence that Cornwallis was debating marching the redcoats north that night to challenge the Continentals. Neville then reviewed strategies for completing the ring's mission beneath the cover of battle. Throughout it all, Fairfax held Betsy without making a sound. She felt his concentration and knew he was committing to memory every detail.

  The men filed upstairs except Neville and the first fellow with the lantern. Neville waited for the door to shut. "What do you think?"

  "He'll desert. He'll try to find his wife and warn her."

  "Agreed. Stay with him. The first sign, kill him."

  The other man chuckled. "We tried at Hanging Rock."

  "May your aim improve."

  They headed up the stairs. The door grated shut behind them. In utter darkness, Betsy was left in the embrace of Fairfax.

  "Be still," he whispered. Men's voices faded from the entrance to the cellar. She felt her own pulse and heard the soft breathing of Fairfax and the ticking of the watch in his waistcoat. Minutes elapsed before he released her. "Forgive me if I take leave of you for awhile in service to His Majesty."

  He moved away. She backed in the opposite direction, hands groping for and finding shelves of wine bottles. Behind her flame sparked: the lantern lit. She raced around the end of the second aisle. His boots scuffed with his pursuit. She seized a wine bottle by its neck and swung it at him when he bolted around the corner after her. He flung up his arm against her upraised forearm, jolting the wine bottle from her hand. It crashed to the floor and filled the cellar with bouquet.

  "Bloody waste of an Italian red." He pinned her arms when she swung at him, hauled her back down the second aisle, and shoved her into the chair, emptied of blankets, rope, and pistols. "Where did you think you were going, eh?"

  "You have all the information you need to destroy the Ambrose spy ring. You don't need me." She sprang up.

  He pushed her back into the chair. "Remain seated. I don't need you? My dear, lovely lady, you underestimate your own charm and importance." He scooped up the rope and slid it between his fingers. "You and I aren't finished, and even if we were, I dare not release you to be apprehended, tortured, and possibly murdered by rebel scum."

  He walked around, pulled her right arm behind the back of the chair, and began binding it with the rope. "How dare you! Let me go!" Betsy tried to yank loose her arm and gasped at the harsh fiber digging her wrist.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you." He kissed her ear. "As a representative of the legitimate government, I have the responsibility to protect loyal subjects from rebel atrocities, even if I'm forced to use restraint on a subject who has become so confused she doesn't know what's good for her."

  "You're abusing your authority. You've taken me prisoner!"

  "Prisoner? A delectable thought." He secured her left arm and proceeded to tie her legs to the chair. "If you were my prisoner, I wouldn't be ensuring that these ropes don't chafe your sweet skin. Only if you struggle will the ropes bite."

  She'd been tied in a similar fashion to Emma. Over her shoulder, she watched him assemble his gear. "You're going to leave me here to starve, you loathsome creature."

  "Now, now, you and I have too much to discuss for that."

  "If you're killed out there, no one knows I'm down here. It could be days before anyone ventures into the cellar for wine!"

  "Darling, I'm touched. You do care for me." Musket over his shoulder, saber strapped to his back, pistols at his waist, he grasped the stem of the rose and knelt on one knee before her — less a knight-errant before a princess than a Celtic warrior before a priestess. Light from the lantern captured the preternatural pulchritude and virility in his face. "Upon my honor, I shall return to cast trophies at your feet. Then perhaps you shall be more amenable to a discussion about your mother."

  Trophies. Clark's head, perhaps? Betsy blanched. "I never asked for trophies or a champion. Untie me!"

  Nestling the rose atop her apron in the hollow between her legs, he stood, caught her face between his hands to steady it, and trailed the tip of his tongue from her chin all the way up to her nose. Then he seized the lantern and sauntered away.

  "Will you not even leave me a light? Lieutenant! At least leave me the lantern, I beg you!" He paused at the open door atop the stairs to extinguish the lantern. And after the door shut, Betsy was closed up alone in the night of her own making, her "champion's" kiss drying upon her face.

  Chapter Forty-One

  IN DARKNESS, HER nose awakened to Italian wine spattered over the stone floor of the cellar: wine the hue of battlefield gore. She twisted about, fingers seeking loose ends of rope. Fibers stabbed her skin. She bit her lip and paused. Disbelief, panic, and revulsion buried her, scattered her concentration.

  May your aim improve. The Ambrose spy ring had set Clark up to be murdered, just as she'd warned him at least twice. And as she'd dreaded, she'd become the instrument of his destruction. Staggered, unable to process the verdict she'd passed upon herself, she scampered her thoughts elsewhere.

  Widow Abby Fuller's tear-swollen face haunted her memory. In Betsy's hair, on her skin, in her mouth, she tasted and smelled that dark, humid, savage scent. Sweat on her froze, and she struggled with her bonds again. Torture, ravishment, seduction: which had Fairfax applied to extract information from Widow Fuller about David St. James? Which did he have in mind for her?

  She plucked at a knot and panted, wrists irritated, the knot still tight. Somewhere up there, Tom waited for her. He might have gone to the stables when he first returned from work. Not finding her, he'd have headed to the room, where he'd have seen their belongings packed, ready to be transferred to the horses. Perhaps Hattie would have informed him that "Miz Betsy" had gone upstairs with a headache. Puzzled, Tom would sit at the table and have a bite to eat, just to think things out. Perhaps he was on his second or third plate by now. Betsy's stomach rumbled.

  At what point would his puzzlement yield to worry, and his worry transform to panic? No, Tom wouldn't panic. He'd search the grounds. He'd ask if anyone had seen her. Before dark, he'd conclude that she wasn't at the tavern, and something had happened to her. The thought would cross his mind that she'd run off with Clark. But he'd dismiss it, realizing she hadn't taken her clothing. He'd comprehend that she'd met with foul play. Tears filled her eyes at the thought of his anxiety. She yanked at the ropes and squeaked in pain. Would he suspect Fairfax had something to do with her disappearance?

  A silky veil of black lace. Shall I show you how it was with your mother in Havana? Betsy strained legs and arms against her bonds, abrading her skin. Rage and terror burst from her at her immobility. Two or three hours hence, all manner of truths will be tumbling from your lips. She thrashed about, chafing her wrists more. Her struggles released the scent of the rose from her lap. She collapsed against the back of the chair, fresh tears welling to her eyes.

  In her memory, Laughing Eyes reproved her. Use this forthcoming knowledge wisely, or you will invite suffering upon us all. Wisely? What a fool she'd been. Her head drooped, and she wept. Unleash a fiend, and of course the whole thing must explode in her face, and she must end up betraying her own mother and the father she'd waited her entire
life to meet. "Mother, oh, Mother, I'm sorry! You'll never forgive me, but I am so sorry!"

  Tell your Uncle David how sorry I am...I hope he forgives me someday. The similarity between Betsy's despair and that of Widow Fuller, evident in the darkness, throttled her and ratcheted her weeping into sobs.

  With what trophies from slain opponents did Celtic warriors return? What body parts did they cast at the feet of priestesses of the old gods, currying favor? "Clark, oh, Clark, I didn't know! I'm sorry!" Murder at the hands of his fellow Patriots would be a blessing for him, a swift ball of lead in the brain or heart, but she intuited he wouldn't be so lucky as that. Hard sobs wrenched her gut.

  Twenty minutes or so spent in lamentation flushed the wild terror from her. Her face sticky and salty, she stared into night as complete as any tomb, the numbness of defeat settling over her brain and encouraging surrender. She'd invited death and destruction upon everyone she cared for and was powerless to stop the consummation of it. Might as well make it easy on herself, tell Fairfax everything. Maybe he'd be quick with her.

  Flutters of life within her belly agitated her resignation, kept it from solidifying into capitulation. Baby, sweet baby, promise of life in the womb, black as any tomb, yet unlike the tomb, a covenant of continuation. Maybe she'd consigned everyone else to death, but didn't she owe at least birth to her baby? The child prodded her again, demanding of an answer and commitment. A tough, scrappy layer knit over Betsy's soul. She couldn't save the world, but perhaps she'd save her baby.

  A grunt of pain passed her lips when she contorted her right hand to allow her fingers inspection of the knot. She did the same for the knot binding her left hand. Ignoring the fibers stabbing her wrist like needles, she pressed into the heart of the knot with her right forefinger and thumb and began wiggling. Perhaps the small movements would loosen the knot enough to help her understand its composition.

  After a few minutes, she rested, unsure whether she'd made progress. How much time did she have? How long did Fairfax need to lure prey into a trap and cut them to pieces? How many victims' deaths must he indulge in before his urge for blood was sated and he headed back to the cellar to sate other urges? Betsy shook the thoughts from her head, refusing to dwell upon them. She must extract what she could from the time given her.