But her resolution to confront Ethan was forgotten upon his arrival the next afternoon. Obstinately, she remained in the kitchen, refusing to go outside to greet him. She could hear him talking to Porhatras in that unintelligible language, and a few minutes later the two of them climbed the stairs together.
An unidentifiable emotion she labeled anger—anger that he would ignore her, his wife—infused her. She looked down at the apple she was peeling to discover there was little left but a mangled core. Nearly half an hour later when Porhatras appeared in the kitchen to collect a scuttleful of charcoal, Jane was nearly speechless with rage. She slammed the knife on the table and passed by the startled Indian girl without a word.
Ethan’s door was closed. She knew at that moment she was too furious to storm in and vent her wrath. Incoherence would be the disastrous result. And she intended to serve Ethan Gordon an articulate eloquence that would put Patrick Henry to shame.
Instead, she repaired to her room, bumping her head on the door’s low lintel. She muttered an expletive. Massaging her bruised scalp, she looked up to find dress after dress laid carefully across her bed. Simple gowns of cotton, wool, linen, and muslin, gowns of demure colors but with exquisite stitching and lovely embroidery. With the gowns were other apparel—stockings, Moroccan pumps, an ivory fan, a pair of long kid gloves. So this was what Porhatras had been up to—laying out the exquisite articles.
Stunned, Jane looked from the wealth of clothes on the bed back to Ethan’s closed door. Reluctantly her feet carried her into the hall. Without knocking she opened his door.
He was dressed in formal breeches of dyed black buckskin with black stockings and brass-buckled shoes. A fine lawn shirt that ruffled at the wristband was his one concession to elegant dress. He turned from the oval looking glass to face her.
“The dresses . . .” she murmured.
“Sorry that I could not purchase them new.”
“Why?”
“Why, because imports from England are forbidden.”
“No. Why did you purchase them for me?”
“I would not have my wife dressed like a pauper.”
“Thank you,” she managed beneath his close regard.
“Will thee help me with my stock, mistress? I can’t seem to get it buckled.”
“You are going somewhere?” The idea of going anywhere sounded heavenly. But then he had not invited her.
“I am attending a meeting of the Society of Friends”— his large fingers wrestled with the neckcloth—“at a farm not far from Mood Hill.”
No doubt close enough to the Fairmonts’, she thought sullenly. Her lips set in a mutinous line, but she walked up behind him and reached over his shoulders to take the muslin neckcloth edged with narrow lace. She was close enough to detect that pleasant scent unabetted by a gentleman’s usual jasmine powder or perfume. She first noticed that clean scent the night he rode after her to bring her back and she had ridden pillion behind him.
“It’s your queue.” Her words were spoken grudgingly. ‘It’s in the way.”
He reached behind his neck to move aside his clubbed hair, and somehow her arms about his neck awkwardly entangled with his hands. “Oh!” She couldn’t drop the stock. “Wait. I think I have it.” Nibbling at her lower lip in concentration, she tried releasing one end of the stock, but her free hand caught in the crook of his lifted arm. “Drat it!” she muttered.
His responsive chuckle was infectious, and she quite forgot her vexation. Over his shoulder she dimpled in the looking glass at him. When she saw the grin tilting the comers of his mouth she couldn’t help herself, and the smile she’d been attempting to stifle overtook her. “What buffoonery!” she quipped. “Here, turn about . . .”
Still holding the stock, she maneuvered around him. Now their arms were locked around each other’s shoulders, and she was looking into eyes that darkened in a suddenly serious expression. Her lids lowered against the heat of his gaze, and her own came to rest on his mouth. Its lines were strong, the bottom lip taut with restraint.
In a purely automatic response, her lips parted, and he murmured, “Jane.”
Slowly, wonderingly, her gaze rose to meet his. She found it astounding that the eyes of such a simple man could hold such plummeting depths. For one timeless moment she forgot she had been a titled lady, forgot he had been a convict. Her hand touched the square line of his jaw, just below the burned patch of skin. “You have been only good to me,” she whispered. “I will try to be all that you want in a wife.”
“All?”
Something in his expression made her uneasy, though his eyes reflected a steady calm. Hastily she dropped her hand, shuddering. “I cannot refuse you, I know. But . . . please ... do not ask that of me.”
Too late she saw the import of her words mirrored in his eyes. He had misunderstood the reason behind her plea—not her fear of surrendering what was meant for Terence but a supposed revulsion of him.
Living with him daily over the stretch of months, she was no longer repulsed by his disfigurement. Yet unwittingly she had stung his pride.
His voice held its level, drawling quality. “You once called me a beast. Does the beauty fear the beast? Do not worry, mistress, I do not want that—nor expect that—of thee.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
In the dark Ethan let the dun pick its own way through the deep forest undergrowth. From overhead a yellow sliver of a Southern autumn moon filtered through the fern-needle branches. The surprising interlude with his wife made him late for the assignation, and he chafed at the slow plodding dictated by the heavy underbrush.
She was constantly surprising him. Stubborn . . . resourceful . . . sweet . . . volatile . . . and definitely unpredictable, which held a ridiculous though undeniable charm for him. Did that charm, did those bewitching eyes and beguiling lips, cause him to underestimate her as a potential enemy? His mind reached back to earlier that week when he had caught her at his desk with the mask. Did she recognize the coding device for what it was? He thought not. The mask looked little more than a paper cutout. Still, he had to be more careful. It would not help to have his own wife spying on him. He hoped the disagreement he provoked over her letter had distracted her from her discovery.
But then she certainly distracted him tonight. He did not expect to find her capable of humor. Her laughter . . . there was a pleasant quality in it. Just as there was a most pleasant sensation in the pressure of her breasts against his back when Jane and he were so ludicrously entrapped with his damnable neckcloth. Unfortunate, he thought with a melancholy sigh so foreign to his nature, that his wife was repulsed by his face.
And her Terence? No doubt a highly attractive man. Ethan cursed his jealousy. And his acquisitive nature that would not allow him to give up what was his—and which chained him for life to a highborn woman who loved another man.
A pine branch snapped across his shoulder, reminding him that he needed to keep his wits about him. The moonlight brightened as the trees fell away at a crossroads that was little more than an Indian path. Four miles farther east was the Sergeant of Arms Tavern and the Post Road—at one time a heavily beaten Indian trail, like the Great Wagon Road that ran southward all the way from Pennsylvania to the colony of North Carolina.
He would not be visiting the tavern that evening. The black handkerchief he wore about the lower half of his face precluded any social discourse; rather it insured his anonymity. He thought about Emma, the tavern’s chambermaid. She would readily welcome him to her bed again. His need for release was almost overpowering. Like the Biblical Onan, he could resort to the spilling of his seed. But that only parodied the miraculous union of the flesh, the union of the spirit at that moment when mortality was transcended.
The French agent he was to meet was waiting beneath the tree’s shadows, his horse shifting about impatiently. At Ethan’s approach, the agent said, “II auberge est proche. Vous a soif por the ou cafe?”
Ethan had studied only a little French at Willia
m and Mary before summer chores necessitated his final absence. But his ear told him that this was not the native Frenchman he was to meet.
Still, he went along with the prescribed exchange. His reply to the question of whether he preferred tea or coffee at the nearby tavern was to be, of course, coffee. “Cafe, monsieur. ”
The agent’s horse picked its way across the path, and in the moonlight Ethan could see beneath the shadows of the cocked hat the man’s mouth—thick lips that twitched nervously. “You are the Leper?” the man asked in English.
“Aye,” came Ethan’s voice, muffled by the handkerchief. “And the message you bring from France?”
“This!” The man’s hand drew the horse pistol. Ethan’s hand was a flash of white in the darkness. Twin explosions shattered the night’s stillness. His opponent’s horse reared, and the rider toppled to the earth with a thud and did not move again.
The dun, trained against Indian warfare, had not stirred. Neither did Ethan. He drew deep breaths, afraid that he would be sick. He had thought—hoped—that for him killing had ended with that last Mingo attack a lifetime before. In the darkness passed the vision of a frantic fourteen-year-old’s pistol still smoking . . . of the Indian dead scattered about the blackened ruins of what had been his home . . . of Ezra and Miriam, who had lifted no weapon in their defense . . . of Miriam’s blood that splotched the charred Bible beneath her outstretched hand . . . of the tomahawk buried in Ezra’s chest.
Ethan wheeled his mount back toward Mood Hill. Only with the pressure of his thighs against his horse’s barrel did he feel the flash of pain in his left flank. A quick glance revealed a mere flesh wound that could be easily dressed without alerting anyone at Mood Hill.
His thoughts turned to the more pressing issue. Where was the real French agent? Most likely waylaid and murdered by the now equally dead Tory. The Tory spy had posed as the French agent, hoping to discover the identity of and dispose of the mysterious Leper.
Cautiously Ethan chose a different route back to Mood Hill. There could be more than one Tory; another waiting to ambush the Leper if the first plot went amiss. Danger was his constant companion. Yet his work also jeopardized his wife’s safety, and with disgruntling clarity he realized she was as unsafe at Mood Hill as she was in Williamsburg. He would have to keep her near him at all times. The added responsibility entailed by his marriage vexed him anew.
From his wife’s unshuttered bedroom window candlelight shafted down on the dead leaves strewn across the earth. He reined in his mount, watching for a minute the pacing of Jane’s shadow against the wavy windowpane. So she knew no rest or peace, either. His shoulders slumped with fatigue and desolation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The same priest’s cassock that enabled the spy Ahmad to pass unsuspected up the Susquehanna River Valley to Quebec facilitated his penetration of the rebel troops that ringed Boston, already beset by October’s wintry storms. With incredible daring, he even paused at the marquee tent, with its arched chambers and dining and baggage tents attached, to deliver the last rites to a soldier dying of dysentery—one of General Washington’s own bodyguards.
Though Ahmad was able to observe the size of Washington’s troops, their condition, and the food and munition stores, he knew Gage would not be overly interested in the information. The commander of all British forces in America already had a number of spies wandering up and down the Hudson River Valley procuring just such information. Indeed, Ahmad discovered some months before that the official doctor for the Continental Army, Benjamin Church, was also a trusted spy for Gage.
No, Gage wanted something he could not obtain from an ordinary spy. Ahmad permitted himself a thin smile as the young sergeant ushered him into Gage’s office. Ahmad’s victory over Robert Lennox drew nearer. “Bless you, my son,” he told the departing sergeant.
Two people, a grizzled man in a rumpled greatcoat of brown velvet and a hook-nosed gentleman dressed in a fashionable royal-blue satin frockcoat and breeches, sat in chairs that flanked Gage’s desk. Both eyed the visitor curiously – skeptically – but made no effort to introduce themselves.
Since no other chairs were available, the spy hooked a leg over the low red chest near the hearth, where a fire burned against the room’s damp cold. He faced the two men with a benign expression that at the same time seemed to mock all that was sacred. Their identities were unknown to him. But he had been expecting the meeting.
A moment later the portly Gage entered. Usually genial, he wore a preoccupied frown today. All British authority had collapsed outside his lines around Boston. And the political scuttlebutt predicted if he didn’t subjugate the rebels soon, General Howe was waiting in the wings to succeed him.
He wedged himself into the chair behind the desk and faced his most dependable spy. “From various reports, I find that you have been successfully waging a campaign with the Mingos against the settlers along the Monongahela River.”
“Conducting a campaign,” the spy corrected.
He preferred not to take any actual part in the bloodbath the Mingos perpetrated, not because of any squeamish reluctance but because of self-preservation. Once the Indians worked themselves into a killing frenzy, he knew that neither political allies nor color guaranteed safety, and often the Mingos even fell to massacring one another over such trivialities as the possession of a woman’s petticoat or a child’s corncob doll.
“We lost another of our agents,” Gage announced without preamble. “To the Leper again.”
“But it is not because of the Leper that you have asked me here,” Ahmad stated.
The spy’s uncanny discernment never ceased to rattle Gage. The man had the instinct of an animal. “I have a more important assignment for you. An assignment of such delicacy that you are the only one whom I feel capable of carrying it out.”
The spy raised a sardonic brow. “An assignment of such danger, you mean.”
Gage hesitated, pulling at the lower fold of his chin. “Yes.” His glance slid questioningly to the man dressed in elegant satins, who nodded his assent. Gage’s two visitors had come directly from a meeting at 10 Downing Street, if one could exclude the six-week voyage.
Gage’s rather nasal voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Parliament is getting a backlash from our businessmen in England. Not only are the businessmen taxed to support a war they didn’t want in the first place, but they have lost the profitable trade they were doing in the colonies. They want an end to this war before it drags out another year.”
“And?”
Gage looked again to the man in satin, who spoke for the first time, in a falsetto voice. “We represent an important segment of Parliament that feels without this General Washington, the rebel army might disintegrate for lack of leadership. We want the man assassinated.”
“So the Roman Senate wants to do away with Caesar?” the spy asked with a caustic smile.
The grizzled man shifted uncomfortably. “We want to execute a treasonable man,” he snapped.
“Are you interested in the—enterprise?” the man in satins persisted.
Ahmad delayed, knowing that by doing so, he would drive up his bargaining price. “I am quite certain you have other agents, Gage—other fanatics willing to risk their lives for the Mother Country.”
“England has such patriotic men,” the grizzled man injected. “Men willing to die for their country.”
“True,” Gage said, “we have patriotic men willing to die. But Washington has bodyguards. Any attempt that is unsuccessful will just alert and prepare the rebel general that much more. We must succeed the first time. We need someone unencumbered by patriotism,” the general finished drily.
The spy gazed indifferently out the window, where windblown snow obliterated the landscape. The interview was following the course he had foreseen long ago.
“What about a mercenary?” the man in satins asked of Gage. “One of the Hessians?”
Ahmad chose the moment to speak, and all three men
listened. “A mercenary does not act out of idealism. Thus he is more calm and less likely to make mistakes. Neither does he have reservations at the last minute about a bystander who might get hurt in an explosion or killed by a stray bullet. A mercenary calculates every conceivable hazard.”
He paused and asked coolly, “Yet none of the men have come forward, have they?”
“But if we could find a patriotic man willing to attempt the assassination,” the grizzled man insisted.
Ahmad did not bother to look at him. “Your spy system is filled with more holes than a sieve,” he said. “Boston is crawling with agents and double agents. General Washington would be alerted before the would-be assassin could prime a pistol or draw a sword.” The spy came to his feet. “Gentlemen, we’ve discussed this long enough, don’t you think?”
Gage looked to the two men on either side of him. Both nodded. “All right. Will you do it—will you assassinate George Washington?”
Ahmad stared at the three for a long moment. “Yes. But it will be costly.”
“A gentleman who looks after his own interests,” the grizzled man sneered.
“How much?” asked Gage.
“Wychwood Estates and Manor House.”
“Impossible!” pronounced the man in satins.
The spy leveled his pale blue gaze at the man. “My price is high because I am risking all—and because I shall accomplish that which you wish.”
“Wychwood and Manor House belong to Lennox—one of the king’s own favorites,” the grizzled man said. “The king would never consent.”
The spy shrugged and turned to leave.
“Wait!” Gage said. He looked at the two political representatives from Great Britain whose faces wore expressions of strained uncertainty. His own military career lay on the chopping block. “Our king, I’m sure, is well aware of prior history—of monarchs like Charles I, who pushed Parliament too far and lost his head for it. I think when His Majesty is better acquainted with the facts, he will accede to this demand.”
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