Her only respite was out here, in Finnigan's Wood. She knew the peace was an illusion, but the sound of the water soothed her, and the vibrant life made the presence of the dread that lurked over her shoulder seem a little less pressing. The sick, heavy feeling in her stomach eased a bit.
She took another mouthful of the tangy cheese and chewy, hard-crusted bread. A copper-colored squirrel skittered down a nearby oak and perched on its hind legs, chattering at her.
"Hungry, are you, little one?" She tore off a chunk of bread and tossed it at the animal. The squirrel stopped scolding her, its tiny nose quivering. Then it whirled, gave a disdainful flick of its tail, and scampered back up the tree, leaving the bread on the grass.
She laughed. "Ungrateful little creature. I'm not that bad a cook."
"Really, Beth, you must learn to control this regrettable tendency to care for helpless creatures."
The familiar voice rumbled up her spine. She turned and looked over her shoulder. "Like you, I suppose?"
"Of course."
Then she dropped any pretense of casualness. The bread and cheese fell to the ground unnoticed. She sprang to her feet and hurled herself into his arms. "Jonathan!"
He closed his arms around her and shut his eyes. God, how had he forgotten? She felt even better than he'd remembered—and what he'd remembered had been pretty damn good.
"I didn't think you'd be able to come yourself."
He couldn't do this. He couldn't tell her that he had any reason for being here except to see her. And he couldn't—God, he couldn't—ask her to do this.
"I wasn't sure I'd be able to," he muttered, breathing in the fresh, clean scents of summer and lavender rising from her hair.
"How are you?" She tenderly probed his shoulder. "Does that hurt?"
"No. I'm fine." She didn't ask why he was here, didn't demand explanations or wonder why it had taken him so long to get in touch with her. She just worried about him. Even after all he'd done to her—and, despite her protests, he didn't believe he could ever make up for the deception—all she was concerned about was his well-being. He didn't deserve it. Especially not now.
But first, he would kiss her. He'd take advantage of her welcome, and he'd give himself just one more memory to take with him. Because after he asked her this, he promised himself he'd never ask her another thing.
There was something wrong. She knew it. She could hear the strain in his voice, feel it in his slight hesitation, but right now, lost in the wonder of seeing him well, whole, and alive, she was going to hang onto the happiness as long as she could. Let the darkness come when it would.
But then his mouth was on hers, and everything was right. His kiss was tender and sweet, but flavored with an edge of desperation that told her exactly how much he missed her.
He lifted his head, and she smiled up at him.
He didn't smile back, and there was a gray bleakness in his eyes. "Beth, I have to talk to you."
A sudden chill froze in her chest. "What is it?"
He lifted a hand to her face, but when she tilted her head in anticipation of his touch, he clenched his hand into a fist and let it drop. "Can we sit down? This might take a while."
"Certainly." She didn't want to hear this, she knew it. She sat down on the creek bank, wishing she'd worn skirts instead of breeches. She was unable to decide what to do with her hands; at least she could have fussed with the fabric of skirts. Instead, she smoothed the leather over her knees and fiddled with the long weeds growing luxuriantly along the brook. He captured one of her hands, lacing her fingers with his, and brought it to his lap.
She turned to look at him then, at his absolute stillness, at his cool, hooded eyes watching the water flowing away.
"You're not in uniform."
"No. That red coat seems to be an invitation to fire in these parts. I'd just as soon not be a moving target again if I can help it." He continued gazing at the creek, a muscle working in his jaw.
"What is it?" she asked finally.
He took in a breath. His features hardened, sharpened, and suddenly he was a man who could do what he had to without showing a flicker of hesitation or remorse.
"I know I promised you I wouldn't ask anything else from you. Sometimes, though, there are things that are more important than promises."
She squeezed his hand. "Go on."
"I've been working for the Americans—"
"I knew it!" Thank God, they were on the same side after all. He wasn't her enemy. "I knew you weren't—"
"Stop it." The command, though soft, was clear and sharp. He withdrew his fingers from hers and shoved her hand away from him.
"But we—"
"Don't make me out to be some kind of hero. It's nothing like that."
"But you are," she protested. "The information you've been gathering—"
"Is getting people killed." He picked up a twig and began to strip it of its leaves and bark with precise, careful movements. "Let me tell you what it's like, Beth. I found out that the British were planning a possible assault on colonial headquarters and the supply depot at Cambridge. We were going to land at Dorchester Point, then march on through Roxbury. I passed on the information, just as I always do."
With such abrupt violence Bennie jumped, he hurled the naked twig into the water and watched it float slowly downstream. "They decided to fortify the hills above Charlestown."
"Bunker Hill," she said softly.
"Yes." He turned to look at her then. His eyes were stark, bleak, filled with dark despair. His features were taut, and for a moment she was sure that if she touched him, he would shatter.
"All those men, Beth. They died. They died because of me. Because I'm so damn good at my job."
"Oh, Jonathan." She did reach out to touch him then, and he jerked away from her. She could feel him curling up, closing down, trying to ruthlessly stamp out any sign of emotion or regret. "They were soldiers. They knew what might happen," she said.
"Yes, they were soldiers. That's all. Just men and boys like me, trying to do what they thought was right. They weren't my enemies. My enemies are back in England, stuffed in velvet-draped halls and gilded rooms. But they're not the ones dying, are they?"
If he'd let her touch him, she thought, he'd be cold. His flesh would be chilled, as if he'd sat out in a late November rain.
"You had no choice."
"Choice!" He gave a harsh laugh. "We always have choices. Except sometimes all of them are bad." His voice became remote, utterly expressionless. "It's living with yourself after you make them that's the trick."
"Jon," she said, her throat raw and aching. She wanted to curl herself around him and warm him, to grab the darkness in both fists and shove it away, revealing the man she'd known.
But she had never known him, had she?
He allowed himself to touch her then, just one little stroke along her temple. He would have given much if he didn't have to ask her this, but there was no way he could get to Washington himself without being recognized. He could get through once, but he'd never be able to go back to his post with the British, and he had to return; he was more vital than ever now.
Lord, she was lovely, fine glowing skin over strong, clean features. Nothing delicate or dainty, no fragile flower that would wilt with the first sign of age or difficulty. No, she was a woman, a woman who could stand with a man, work with him, build a life with him.
And he wished—more than he'd ever wished for anything, even when he was a child and wanted his parents back—that he'd never gotten embroiled in the plots of kings and countries. That he could have met her at church, courted her slowly with flowers and walks through the square, and taken her home to his house and made love to her among lacy sheets and feather pillows. That they could have children and laugh and grow old quietly, without ever being touched by things like war and duty and the damn bloody job.
Instead, the job was all he had.
"I wouldn't ask you this if I didn't think it was imperative. Even t
hen, I wouldn't ask if I wasn't sure you would be perfectly safe."
"It doesn't matter. Who is completely safe these days, anyway?"
"True." If only there was some other way... but if there was, he couldn't see it. "I gathered some information. It has to be gotten through to Washington."
The breeze blew a strand of hair across her lips, and she tucked it behind her ear. "Important?"
"Yes. I was trying to make contact the night I was shot."
He heard her quick intake of breath. "They caught you?"
"Almost. I don't think I was recognized. At least, there's been no indication of that so far. But they obviously knew when and where the meeting was to be. There's someone feeding information back to the British, someone who's very good at it."
"Who is it?"
"I don't know—yet. But they've done an absolutely complete job of eliminating all of my contacts. I've been trying for weeks to find someone to get the information through, but every one is either dead or has disappeared entirely."
She paled. "Dead?"
"Yes," he said brutally, unwilling to pretty it up for her, half hoping she'd get frightened and refuse.
"Why don't you take it through yourself?"
"There'd be no way I could return to my company. And, at least until we identify the traitor in the American ranks, I'm needed on this side."
"You want me to deliver it." She was calm now, her voice steady. She would make a very good spy herself, he thought in admiration; she too had the ability to present a very different face to the world.
"There's no one else I can trust, Beth."
She considered briefly. "All right. Where is it?"
He felt a sickening thud in his gut. She was going to do it. He wanted her here, tucked away safe and sound. "It shouldn't be any problem. You don't have to cross any British lines at all. All you'd need is a legitimate reason to enter camp."
"I have seven brothers in that camp, Jonathan. As you say, it shouldn't be a problem."
"Fine," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. She was being very businesslike and accepting about the entire thing—and he was finding it completely impossible to treat her the way he would any other compatriot.
He yanked off the jerkin she'd given him, folding it inside out. He removed the small, deadly dagger he always kept in his boot—sometimes, guns were too noisy—quickly slit the fabric of the lining and pulled out a bundle of papers.
"Here." He held them out. The papers were white and pure in the sun, tied with a black ribbon, and looked utterly innocuous. Yet he knew as he handed them to her that he was giving her something equally as dangerous as a poisonous asp.
She took the packet and tapped it against her thigh. "What is this?"
He simply stared at her, his face stony. "It's better if you don't know."
She tucked her tongue in her cheek. "I suppose I could always open it and read it."
"If you're not going to take this seriously, you're not doing it." He snatched the packet from her hand.
"Really, Jonathan. I'm taking it seriously. But I can't imagine how there could be any danger. I'll just go visit my brothers, drop these off, and go home."
"You don't understand, do you?" Still clutching the packet, he grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her toward him. "There's somebody in that camp that doesn't want this information to get through. Somebody who has, more than likely, already killed to prevent it. And God help me if something happened to you."
She saw the ice in his eyes, heard the despair in his voice, and knew it was true. If something happened to her, something he could have prevented, it would be the final blow, the thing that sent him hurtling over the edge of the abyss into blackness. He was treading very close to it, as it was.
"Jonathan," she said quietly. "Nothing's going to happen to me."
"You're right. Because unless you promise me you can follow instructions exactly, you are not doing this," he said savagely.
She nodded, and he loosened his grip on her. He rubbed her upper arms as if in apology for any pain he'd caused her. "When I get inside the camp, what do I do?" she asked.
"You'll have to find Washington. It shouldn't be too difficult."
"Fine. What then? I can't simply ask to see him."
"No. Talk to the guards, have them use the name Goliath. He'll see you. By now, he should have been briefed about me."
"Goliath?" She grinned. "How appropriate."
"Yes, well, all it took was one little rock, didn't it?"
She sobered. It might take more than a stone, but one more ball, a little closer to the heart this time, or a knife between his ribs was all that would be needed. She realized he lived every day, every minute, among people who, if he slipped up once, would consider it their duty to rid the world of the traitor in their midst. Despite the warmth of the sun, she couldn't suppress a small shiver.
"Goliath. I'll remember."
"Good. There's something else. You can't tell anyone about this. I mean it, Beth. Not anyone."
"Of course not."
"Promise me!"
She nodded, slightly bewildered by his vehemence. "I wouldn't. I rarely talk to anyone but my family, anyway, and—"
"No!" He jumped to his feet, roughly hauling her up with him. "Not your family!"
"But Jonathan..." His eyes were pale, cold, unreadable. Her throat closed in dread. "You suspect one of them."
He didn't answer, merely looked at her, as immovable and unreachable as a granite statue. His silence was all the confirmation she needed.
"No!" she shouted, pounding him on the chest with her fists. "It's not one of my family!"
Jerking away from him, she went to stand by the bank, her face a frozen blank as she stared out over the water.
He went over to her. "Beth—"
"What happens to him?"
"Who?"
"The traitor. When you catch him." She wrapped her arms around her middle, and her gaze didn't waver from the slowly meandering water, but he wondered if she saw anything at all. "What happens to him?"
"The same thing that happens to all traitors."
He sounded so cold, she thought, cold, emotionless, ruthless. She turned back to him then, and his features were set, his eyes pale and icy. There was no warmth in him, no softening, no acceptance.
"The same thing that would happen to me if I were caught," he continued. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his face. This was not the man she thought she knew. Here was a man, she realized, who could kill, and go on to do his job, detached and remorseless. Any trace of the gentleness she'd always seen in him was gone.
Which was the real man? Had every bit of warmth and tenderness he'd ever shown her been carefully planned, just his way of manipulating her into doing his bidding? If that hadn't worked, was this the man she'd have seen? Dangerous, unfeeling, untouched by any reality but that of his duty?
"It's not one of them," she repeated.
"If you say so," he said coldly. Her eyes were dark, glazed with hurt and fear, and he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and tell her it would all be all right. But that was something he couldn't promise, and he found himself unwilling to outright lie to her again. He refused to give her false hope.
He saw her square her shoulders and lift her chin, the classic Jones posture: let the world try and come get me. He prayed the Joneses were all as invulnerable as they believed themselves to be.
"Give me the papers," she said, steel threading her voice.
"Not until you promise me you won't say anything to anyone. Including, especially your family—not them."
"Then I want to know what they are."
"Beth, it's safer if you don't know."
"I want to know," she said, and he knew she wouldn't relent.
"Every British asset in the colonies."
He saw a brief flicker of surprise in her eyes before she extinguished it. "Every one?"
"Yes. Troops, artillery, ships, everything."
&n
bsp; "I can see why it's so important." Her words were clipped. "Anything else?"
God, would it never end? Once again, he found himself unable to tell her the entire truth. "Contingency plans if the colonials attack Boston. Defense and escape plans."
She thrust her hand out. "Give them to me."
He reached to put the packet in her hand, then paused, the papers hovering a bare inch above her palm. Once he gave it to her, there'd be no going back. He'd have embroiled her in danger, in these deadly games of war she had no place in.
But there was the job. He'd spent years putting the job first, above everything and everyone. He could do it one more time.
The paper, pristine and unwrinkled, nearly gleamed in the bright sun. He wondered irrelevantly why it still looked so untouched after all the hiding and carrying around it had been subjected to in the last few weeks.
"You won't tell anyone?" he asked one more time.
"I'll follow instructions, sir." He dropped the packet into her hand. She tucked it into her pocket. Her voice became rich with intensity, heavy with repulsion. "But don't ever, ever ask another thing of me."
She turned and walked away, her strides sure and swift. At the edge of the clearing, underneath a huge, twisted oak, she paused to look back at him. Her skin was pale, her eyes huge and dark.
"It's not one of us."
CHAPTER 26
Bennie was not particularly impressed with the army camp. It was smelly, crowded, dirty, and it seemed the men spent a great deal of time digging what to her appeared to be utterly useless holes.
Well, so much for military discipline, she thought as she strode around yet another group of men playing cards. When she'd reached the first line of encampments, the occasional soldier had tried to stop her, assuming that a female could be entering camp for only one reason. One glare took care of most of them, although she had to admit that the fact that it was delivered from a vantage point half a head taller than their own had to help. The rest were dispensed with by the simple expedient of mentioning who she was there to visit. Her brothers, it seemed, had been cutting rather a wide swath through the place.
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