After the horse’s needs were met, Edwin entered the tavern. Five men sat together at one long table and stopped talking as soon as he entered. A shiver went up his spine, reminding him of the omnipresent danger on every side. He glanced at the men’s clothing, but nothing distinguished them in any way. In fact, their ragged clothes appeared similar to his, although his boots were much finer than theirs. The nerves bunched up in his arms when he noticed the other men looking at the supple leather with interest.
He sat down at a small table as far from them as possible. A young maid brought him a bowl of stew, some bread, and a mug of ale. He thanked her, discussed the price of the food, and paid her.
He sensed the eyes of those other men burning right through him. Were they Loyalists or Patriots or members of the Vengeful Raiders? A shudder went through him as he remembered the screams of the tortured man.
Which side was he on? He did not want to become a barrister. He did not want to be a soldier. He did not want to marry some vain little woman who demanded new jewels and gowns for every party.
Why couldn’t he just be himself? Why couldn’t he love Agnes?
He already did love her. He rubbed his eyes and prayed she would be safe when he arrived in Leedsville. Then he would set out to find Margaret.
The men at the long table filed out before Edwin finished downing his tankard of ale. He nodded as they passed him, but they averted their eyes.
He devoured every last morsel of his meal and painfully limped outside to the lean-to, only to discover his stolen horse no longer there. He looked up and down the road, but the night had turned as black as pitch. Nobody passed by. He hobbled behind the tavern and stared out at the yard illuminated by the dim light from the backdoor of the tavern. He did not see a horse, only a necessary.
He went back inside and asked the young maid who the men were that had been sitting at the table.
“I’ve never seen them before. They must be strangers passing through,” she answered.
“They have stolen my horse!”
“I am very sorry,” she said. “You cannot trust anyone these days.”
He consoled himself with the fact that it was now unlikely he would be hung for stealing a horse, but it would be a long, agonizing walk to Leedsville. He feared time was of the essence, but the misery in his leg would not allow him to take another step. He asked the maid if a bed was available for the night.
He used the last of his coins to pay for the use of the bed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Agnes fought to rouse herself from her stupor and gasped for air. With a sack on her head and a gag in her mouth, she struggled to breathe and swallow. Ropes cut into her hands and feet. As she came to, she realized she lay in the back of a wagon. From the weight upon her, the sweet smell, and the itch on her skin, she assumed a huge pile of hay covered her. The wagon jostled her about as it ran into deep ruts. No doubt, her captors stayed away from the well-traveled roads.
Though bruised, she suffered no broken bones. She fought to remember what had happened as the men attacked her. She recalled lashing out with the hot iron in her hand. One man fell screaming in agony as it burned his flesh, but there were too many of them for her to harbor even a small hope of escaping their clutches.
I will die. Neither her father nor the entire Continental Army could save her now. She had fallen into the hands of fanatics, those who believed only in their own laws. These men did not deserve the right to be called Patriots. They were murderers. She feared they would gleefully hang her on a tree and leave her there until the vultures picked her bones clean. Her single resource lay in a desperate prayer for it to end quickly.
The wagon ceased moving. She listened intently to the sounds though the layers of hay and the sack on her head muffled all noises. First came the jangle of rings as the horses were unhitched. Then, the clomp of hooves on wooden planks. Next, the squeal of hinges alerted her to the closing of doors. Last, the thump of a bar being dropped into place. She must be inside a large barn. Would they leave her here and deal with her later?
“Take her out.” The miller’s voice echoed in the cavernous space.
A sense of rage took hold of her as she thought of the miller’s false smiles. She suspected his deceitfulness all along, but she did not have any inkling of how much evil lay behind his jovial facade.
Rough hands dragged her to the edge of the wagon by her feet and hauled her like a bundle of corn stalks. They sat her on a crude bench. When they removed the sack and the gag, she took in greedy gulps of the stuffy air in the closed barn as she glared at her captors. The miller, Zeb, and Obadiah, plus two men she did not recognize, but who were probably farmers judging from their clothing, and one shopkeeper who often came to the forge.
“You harbored a British soldier and took information back to the British on Sandy Hook.” The miller did not speak in his usual genial manner. He did not hide the malevolence of his true nature.
“You endangered your countrymen and the cause of freedom!” Zeb shook his fist at her.
“You are a traitor and will be hanged by the neck until you die,” Obadiah added with a sneer.
“What proof…?” Her mouth had not a drop of moisture in it, but they heard her.
“We have the letter you wrote to a lawyer asking for papers for your cousin,” said the shopkeeper.
With a quick prayer for strength, she fought to appear imperturbable. She would not allow her captors to revel in making her cower.
“Ha! We saw her kiss her ‘cousin,’” Obadiah growled. “He’s her lover!”
She shook her head. “No—”
The miller did not give her time to deny the accusation. “He spoke in a highborn manner. He appeared after the battle of Monmouth Courthouse with a grievous wound. You bound his injury, gave him shelter, and then allowed him to escape with information to the British encampment on Sandy Hook.”
She glared at the miller. “Would I have been forced to endure this travesty of justice if I agreed to marry you?”
Her whispered words hit the mark. The miller narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth. For a moment, she believed he intended to hit her, but he gained control of himself.
“I made a mistake in thinking you could ever be a proper wife, but your duplicity has been revealed and will not go unpunished.” He reached up for a whip hanging on a nail. “You will tell us exactly what you told the British.”
Her blood pooled in her feet. They intended to torture her before she died. Though her throat ached, she forced her words out. “I would never endanger those I love. My father is in the Continental Army as is my uncle. Aside from the fact that I do not have any useful information to give to the British, I’m sure you know my sister was taken by a gang of Loyalists. Why aren’t you searching for them and for her? That’s why I went to Sandy Hook. I want my sister returned home.”
“Can’t we hang her now?” Zeb whined.
“There’s no point in talking to her,” said Obadiah. “She ain’t going to tell us anything.”
The whip cracked as the end of it hit the floor an inch away from her bound feet.
“Who did you talk to?” the miller demanded.
She drew in a deep breath. “General Clinton.”
“There! She’s a spy!” screamed Zeb and Obadiah together.
“An enemy to the cause!” shouted the shopkeeper.
“I got hay to cut. Let’s get this over,” grumbled one of the farmers.
“We should have some fun with her first,” suggested the other farmer. “She’s a pretty thing.”
“I want answers!” the miller shouted above them as he swung the whip again, this time hitting the bench on which she sat.
“I cannot tell you what you want to hear, only that I spoke to General Clinton, who ordered a search for Margaret. The soldiers did not find her. I went through the refugee camp myself and looked for her. I hope she is not suffering. I pray the Loyalists are not as cruel as you are.” Her lips trembled, but
she kept the steel in her voice. “Did you kill Colleen, an unarmed and defenseless woman? Did you think she was a spy?”
The whip lashed out again, this time tearing through her dress, but it missed her skin. She doubted he would miss next time.
“Colleen poked around where she did not belong. She was nothing more than a spy. Like you,” he snarled.
“She collected herbs. She searched far and wide for healing herbs since many grow wild in the fields and woods.” She remembered Colleen intended to fetch more boneset for Edwin the day she died. Had she found the boneset on the miller’s land? He shouldn’t mind someone picking herbs on his property, unless he hid something he did not want anyone to see on his farm. Does he own something more valuable than flour? A cold chill shivered up her spine despite the stifling air in the barn.
“A British soldier was healed and has escaped,” the miller thundered. “Admit your part in that treacherous act!”
“Edwin’s mother and my mother were the best of friends, but they lost touch because my mother stopped writing.” The time for lies came to an end. She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured her sweet mother’s face. “His mother did not know my mother had died.”
“You said he was your cousin. I knew he wasn’t,” Zeb accused.
“He is not a spy either,” she said.
“Where is he?” asked Obadiah.
“On his way home.” Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. The man she loved was gone. He would never learn of her death. He would never mourn for her. He would marry some other duke’s daughter who was always clean and dressed in lovely gowns. His wife would have dainty fingers and the only work she would do would involve a needle and thread.
“Let’s put the rope up!” Zeb shouted. “No more talking!”
“We’re not hanging her here!” The miller let the whip fly again, but this time it nearly hit Zeb. “We’ll hang her where everyone can see her, so they’ll always remember her as a traitor. Her rotted body will be a warning to all turncoats. No one will get away with treason!”
“I’m no traitor. I want my sister returned to me,” she said.
“You harbored a British soldier. You protected him!” the miller thundered.
“Without him, I would never have gotten near General Clinton,” she pointed out.
“There! He was a British soldier! She admitted it.” Zeb’s voice held an inordinate amount of glee. “Where are we going to hang her? How about in front of the inn? It was that soldier who stopped us from hanging that drunken Tory there.”
“When she swings, it’ll be where everyone can see her,” the miller promised.
“This is taking too long. I’m leaving. The hay has to get cut.” One farmer headed for the door.
“No one leaves yet!” The miller’s whip knocked the hat off the farmer’s head. “She is lying.”
“Women talk all the time,” the shopkeeper complained. He headed for the door. “None of it means anything.”
The whip hit the shopkeeper’s arm, cutting through his shirt and slicing into his flesh.
“You fool!” he yelled at the miller. He charged and rammed the miller with his head. The other men watched the fight with interest.
With their attention drawn away, Agnes struggled to loosen her bonds, but the ropes held tight. She glanced around at the farming implements hanging on the barn walls. She needed a sharp object…
The knife in her pocket! In desperation, she yanked at the folds of her skirt. She tugged and pulled with the tips of her fingers, hefting the edge of her dress well above her ankles. She touched the shape of the knife, but a layer of fabric and a leather sheath prevented her from being able to use it.
She fumbled to remove the knife from its case. If she managed do that, she might cut the fabric to get the knife in her hands.
Meanwhile the two men rolled around on the barn floor, pummeling each other mercilessly. Zeb, Obadiah, and the two farmers stood riveted by the entertainment. Nobody wanted to run off and cut their hay now. Aunt Sally was right. Men and their wars! They caused nothing but trouble.
Except for Edwin. No other man ever touched her soul, but then he stole it. He left her heart so empty, she would never love another man. She clenched her teeth and vowed to stop thinking about him. His sister intended to drag him back where she thought he belonged and that was the end of it.
The knife slid out of the sheath just as the shopkeeper rendered the miller insensible.
“Is he dead?” Obadiah kicked the fallen man.
“I ain’t staying around to find out.” The shopkeeper picked up his hat and headed for the door.
“He’ll be as mad as a bull when he wakes up,” said one farmer.
“What if he don’t,” said the other.
Zeb leaned over and peered at the fallen miller. “I think he’s breathing.”
“We best get out of here.” The two farmers hastened to the door.
“What about the hanging?” whined Zeb.
“Forget it. Let’s go,” Obadiah ordered.
“Can we take her with us?” asked Zeb.
“If he comes to and she’s not there, he’ll come looking for us,” Obadiah warned.
“Yeah, we better disappear for a while.” Zeb glanced at Agnes. He smiled and walked over toward her.
She stiffened. She did not want him to discover the reason for her crooked skirt. She glared at him.
“You are pretty.” He fondled her breasts and chuckled. Then he lifted her chin and pressed his lips on hers. She did not breathe.
The miller groaned.
Obadiah grabbed his brother. “Come on.”
“I just wanted to have some fun,” Zeb grumbled.
The miller sounded like an animal in pain as he growled.
Zeb and Obadiah ran for the door.
Agnes swallowed her disgust and cut the fabric with the knife. Once she clasped the handle with her hands, she found wielding the blade took some tricky maneuvering, especially since the dampness on her palms made the knife slippery.
The miller’s mumbled imprecations grew louder. Fear propelled her to hurry. He needed the help of Zeb and the others to capture her, but killing her all by himself should be easy.
She must get away now! Slicing the rope, she untangled her hands. The miller rolled over and swore.
She cut the ropes binding her feet and stood. Dizziness overtook her, but she fought against it, grabbing handholds on the wagon. Her feet had grown numb from the constricting ropes, but she struggled forward. She must escape this madman.
His roar echoed through the empty barn, but she did not look back. The door stood open and the soft summer evening beckoned her as never before. Blood pounded in her head.
The whip cracked and twirled around her torso, imprisoning her arms and pinning them to her sides. She screamed as she fell backward. The knife slipped from her grasp.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Edwin resumed his journey before dawn the next morning. Despite his exhaustion, he barely slept. Nightmares marred his dreams. He must learn of Agnes’s fate. He must warn her about the miller and the Vengeful Raiders as soon as possible. He picked up a good-sized stick along the road to aid his walking, but his lack of momentum plagued him, for it only served to increase his sense of urgency.
The pain of his wound caused him the usual agony, but he clenched his teeth and struggled onward. Everything depended upon whether Agnes was safe. He had been a fool to let her go. Why did he think returning to his old life would be a sensible idea?
Listening to his sister brought his life into crystal clear focus. If he went back to England, he would never be allowed the chance to follow his own path. He would be bound to his duties, upholding the family name and the family honor. What did the king care about him? He would never be a duke. His brother had that distinction, and he could keep it.
Edwin cared not a whit about being Lord Greenly. While he prayed the war would soon end, he did not care who won. He wanted to be with Agnes. Fore
ver. He wanted happiness, or at least a chance at it. He became convinced he would never obtain that with anyone but Agnes.
He lumbered along for two miserable miles or so until he heard a wagon coming up behind him. He turned and looked at it. The farmer appeared to be asleep and the horse moved slowly. If he hopped on the back of the wagon, maybe the farmer would never notice. Of course, jumping up would be the difficult part.
This time, fortune smiled on him, for the wagon bed sat low to the ground. He bounded aboard. The horse moved in a most leisurely manner without the least bit of encouragement from the farmer, who continued to sleep.
Edwin massaged his leg. After a while, it did not bother him as much. Baskets full of purple beets surrounded him. He never saw so many beets in his entire life in one place. The colonies’ farms thrived with a remarkable variety of produce. He took one of the beets and studied it. Such a perfect specimen. Not a blemish on it. He dusted it off and admired it. The vicar would have been thrilled with such a handsome vegetable.
He sat the beet in his lap and stared at it as he considered his idea of becoming a botanist. He enjoyed collecting specimens with the vicar, but he began to doubt whether the hobby held as much fascination for him as it once did. His experience in the army, his injury, and meeting Agnes changed him. He now realized what fascinated him all along was not the specimens themselves but the Biblical stories that went along with each of them. All of the vicar’s sermons came from the plants he held so dear.
The wagon rumbled past the bright riot of colors from blooming wildflowers along the road.
“Why are you anxious about clothes? Learn from the way the wild flowers grow. They do not work or spin. But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them,” Edwin whispered the verse from Matthew to himself and a cold hand squeezed at his heart. How could he be so crass in believing fine clothing measured someone’s worth?
A heart of pure gold resided beneath Agnes’s simple homespun. He closed his eyes and prayed for her.
After a mile or so, the horse stopped at an inn and whinnied a few times to wake up the farmer. Edwin slid off the back of the wagon. The beet, which had been in his lap, went rolling ahead of him until it stopped at the foot of a tree. He lumbered after the beet, but just as he snatched it up, the farmer yawned and stretched. Edwin scooted behind the tree.
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