The Patriot and the Loyalist

by Angela K Couch

  Lydia hastened her steps as though she could escape feeling. If she had truly succeeded in closing her heart, why did she ache with thoughts of the dark waves on the head of a man she’d hardly known?

  A rapping on solid wood saved her from the downward spiral she’d been fighting all morning, and Lydia stood back as Eli answered the door. From her angle, she could make out the boy delivering a slip of paper. He said something and was gone.

  “Who was that?”

  Eli turned and stepped to her. “For you, Miss Lydia.”

  She took the worn note, its end jagged as though ripped from a larger piece of parchment, and nodded her thanks to Eli. She waited for a moment before unfolding it, smoothing the crease between two words.

  Meet me.

  “What is that?” Major Layton’s voice boomed behind her.

  Lydia twisted. “Nothing.” But who would want to meet with her and be confident she knew the location? Unless… “Miss Hilliard wants my opinion on something. The affairs of women—I am sure it would bore you.” She folded her arms behind her as she took a step away. Lydia tucked her fingers around the note. “I am afraid I must leave directly. Could you inform Mr. Selby, if you see him, that I will be taking breakfast with the Hilliards?”

  “Of course.” His eyes narrowed, but she simply smiled and retreated.

  She would discuss their arrangement later. She needed to see if this meant what she hoped. Lydia gathered her cloak, chiding herself. Hope wasn’t the right word. She was merely curious. She refused to attach emotion to a rebel—or any man, for that matter. She couldn’t let herself hope.

  Her breath showed in the cool morning air as she hurried down the steps and around the back of the house. She would go on foot. The grove wasn’t far and waiting for a mount or carriage would only delay her. Hitching up her full skirts, she ran in short bursts, part of her wanting to race all the way to the ancient oak, while another part wondered if someone might be watching. Or if she was going in the wrong direction. What if Daniel hadn’t sent the note after all? What if he were dead? But if not him, then who? Again, the sensation of hope rose within her. She wanted it to be him. Lydia slowed her pace, though her heart continued to race. She could afford no attachments.

  The monster of an oak sat silent in the morning light. Mists wafting off the bay gave a serene haze. No one stood by.

  Lydia reached out and let her fingers trail along one of the lower branches as she followed it to the massive trunk. No Daniel. Either he hadn’t come yet…or he would never come.

  But then, who had sent the note?

  Grabbing onto a branch level with her head, Lydia ducked under. A gasp clogged her throat.

  A corpse.

  No. His face was pale and lips tinged with blue, but his chest rose and fell with breath.

  She crouched, her outstretched hand not quite touching his shoulder. “Mr. Reid?”

  His sudden jerk awake made her startle and almost landed her on her backside. Lydia grabbed the tree and steadied herself. “What happened to you?”

  Daniel moaned as he pushed himself up. “I—” A cry broke from his chest. Both of his hands pulled his right foot in front of him, his teeth gritted at the motion. The swollen ankle had no boot but had been bound in a dirty cloth, like a…shirt? She glanced to his bare chest, a wisp of dark hair showing from under his coat.

  “What happened?” Her mind already formulated a reply. She recalled Captain Layton’s cocky look of triumph. They hadn’t gotten the Swamp Fox, but they were not unpleased with the way the battle near Alliston’s Plantation had gone.

  “They met us in the marshes.” Daniel peered at her, the muscles in his jaw flexing. Mud colored the side of his face. “There were too many.”

  “I told you I did not know their numbers.”

  “But you inferred a few.” He glanced away and wiped his palm across his mouth. “They massacred us.”

  “I am so sorry.” The apology tugged at her, but she refused to heed it. She had to remain detached. But what would she do with him? Lydia glanced around. “Where is your horse?”

  Daniel stretched for the crutch leaned at the base of the tree. “Dead.”

  “Oh.” Hence the crutch. But what a loss. Madam had been a beautiful animal. “How awful.”

  “Awful?” He heaved himself upward, releasing a short gasp as he maneuvered his injured foot. Standing, he leaned into the oak’s mighty trunk. His nostrils flared. “No. Awful is watching a boy plead for mercy while he’s clubbed with muskets.” Daniel looked past her, his knuckles showing white as he clenched his hands. “Watching helpless while someone fills that boy’s chest with buckshot, the barrel close enough to ignite his shirt.” He plowed his fist into the rough bark. Multiple times.

  Lydia flinched back a step. She stared at his knuckles, scraped and bleeding, then glanced to his face and the naked rage that burned like live coals in his dark eyes. What was this man capable of when driven by anger? If he ever discovered her deception…

  The fury melted from him. His eyes dulled, his shoulders slumped and he let his bloodied hand fall to his side. “They killed Gabe Marion. What is the life of an animal to the life of a…man? Any man. I’m so tired of this killing. This…waste of life.” His gaze found hers, his brow ridged with questioning. “When will it stop?”

  Lydia straightened, hardening her spine against the plea in his voice. It did not matter if the war ended. Lives would continue to hang in the balance. Disease, accident, and even giving birth to another life, would always be there, waiting to kill.

  10

  Daniel released a breath as Lydia’s expression hardened. His knuckles stung, momentarily rivaling the pain in his ankle. His temper was the curse of his existence. After all the damage he’d done and the hurt he’d caused at home, he’d spent the last three years trying to gain more control of his anger. Unsuccessfully. The war had only added fuel to that fire. But seeing the fear flicker in Lydia’s eyes…

  His head throbbed along with his foot, and he lowered himself back to the earth.

  “What are you doing?” The hem of her pale blue gown swept the ground as she stepped closer. “We should take you to the inn or somewhere you can rest and heal. Out of this cold morning air. You look terribly ill.”

  “I can’t show myself in Georgetown.” A pained grunt squeezed between Daniel’s teeth. “The British know my face, and I don’t hanker to spend my life rotting in a British galley.” He leaned his head back and clamped his eyes against the growing ache within his skull. Standing had been a mistake.

  “I don’t believe the British have true galleys anymore.”

  Her statement offered no relief. “Then they would probably dangle me from the end of a rope.” He glanced up at her. “They still have those.”

  “But…” Her hand rose to her throat. “You—you cannot possibly remain out here. Your foot looks…well, it looks frightful and probably requires a physician’s care. What of Wilsby? Could he help you?”

  “No good. He might as well be a Tory.”

  “Surely there is someplace that—”

  Daniel shook his head. “Don’t worry yourself.”

  “But…” Contrary to his words, her concern appeared genuine. Her fingers resided over her mouth, and a wrinkle formed between her lovely eyes—eyes that drew him deeper every time he looked into them.

  “I wasn’t thinking properly when I asked you here. There’s nothing you can do for me that won’t risk your own safety. I don’t want that.”

  She met his gaze. But only briefly. Lydia rotated away and took two steps. “There must be some place I can take you. Somewhere you can rest and let your foot mend.” She glanced over her shoulder at his wrapped foot. “It is unfortunate the British know your identity. Faking your limp would have no longer been necessary.”

  Daniel tried to chuckle but fell short. “Until someone noticed it’s the wrong leg. I was limping with my left leg before.” And he no longer had his cane.

  Arms folde
d across her abdomen and lips pursed, Lydia turned back. “There must be somewhere…” Her eyes lit. “My father has a storehouse—three actually, but the larger two are still in use. The smaller one should be empty. They haven’t needed it since...” Her fingers crept to her arms as though chilled by what she’d been about to say. Then she cleared her throat. “Since the Magellan was sunk.”

  “The Magellan?”

  “One of my father’s ships.” Dark eyelashes flittered low, concealing sea-blue irises. “Charles keeps the building locked, so no one would find you in there.”

  “But if it’s locked—”

  “There is an extra key in Father’s library. In his desk.”

  As much as Daniel wanted to argue with her, and not let her take the risk of smuggling him anywhere, he could not come up with an alternative. The chill in the air last night had wrapped itself around his bones, draining his strength. Plus, he had no food. The thought of it pinched his stomach and thirst burned his throat. And what if he was discovered out here in the open so close to Georgetown?

  She must have sensed his contemplation. “What other choice is there? If you think you can make it as far as the road just east of the woods, I’ll bring a carriage to meet you. I know who I can trust.”

  Daniel didn’t share her confidence. “If you are sure.”

  She smoothed her palms over her skirts, her spine like a ramrod. “I am.”

  ~*~

  If only Lydia felt as much assurance as her voice conveyed. But, though she had no interest in his politics, she couldn’t walk away and leave him there. Neither could she turn him over to Major Layton. She wanted to remain detached from any sense of responsibility for what had happened to him and his friends, but she could not. The Major thought him dead, and she would leave it at that. If Daniel gave her information that would lead to the Swamp Fox, she would try to buy her freedom with it. Otherwise, as soon as Daniel Reid was healed enough, she would see him off and find a different way across the ocean.

  “I will need one hour before I come with the carriage.”

  Daniel’s head dropped forward, and his chest heaved a sigh. “All right.”

  She hesitated. The poor man looked no better than the corpse she had first mistaken him for. “It’s not far, but are you sure you’ll be able to reach the road?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Fortifying herself with a breath, she hurried back into town. An hour later, as promised, the carriage was ready, and she had Eli drive slowly down the road along the edge of the woods.

  Nothing.

  “Stop here,” she called through the small hatch above her head. Lydia braced herself as the carriage jostled to a halt. She searched the trees for any sign of Daniel.

  Still nothing.

  She shoved open the door and climbed down.

  Daniel hobbled from behind a tree.

  She waved to him to hurry, and then remembered that was not possible. The thought of him being seen drove her to his side. They had passed a British patrol on the way here. Though headed in the opposite direction, she couldn’t guarantee a different troop wouldn’t ride around the bend and catch her with this rebel.

  “Let me assist you.” Lydia hesitated to touch the filthy sleeve of his coat and tried to hide her grimace as he glanced to her face.

  He didn’t seem any happier than she, but he lifted his arm so she could prop him up and hasten him to the closed carriage. Eli jumped down from his perch to help boost the rebel inside and out of sight.

  Daniel didn’t even try for the seat, just dragged himself to the wall and leaned his head back.

  Lydia stepped over him to the seat as Eli climbed back up top. An instant later the carriage jerked forward and Daniel moaned.

  “Is your ankle broken?”

  “I don’t believe so,” he said through gritted teeth. “Hopefully, only badly bruised and sprained.” He winced as he shifted his foot, so rudely wrapped.

  “All the same, maybe it would be best to have it looked at by a surgeon.”

  “No. Can’t be trusted. I’d rather heal on my own than in a British prison.” He shook his head and coughed. “Though, I probably don’t have to worry about that. Tarleton’s quarter is more likely what I’d get.”

  “Tarleton’s quarter?”

  Emotion mingled on his face, sorrow and anger fighting for dominance. “Same as they gave Gabe Marion.”

  “You said he was killed. That’s not giving quarter.” Prisoners weren’t supposed to be shot after they surrendered. But that is what Daniel had said happened to the Swamp Fox’s nephew. Was that the terms Colonel Tarleton offered? And the rest of the British?

  Lydia didn’t want to think about any of that right now. Needless killing. No mercy. She brushed at dried strands of grass on her shoulder, moist where his arm had rested. She bent over and touched the corner of his coat. “Your clothes are soaked through.” More than a heavy morning dew could be responsible for.

  “Sat for over an hour in a swamp waiting for one of them big lizards to come looking for supper.” His lip curled with the hint of a smile. “If one had come along, I don’t know which I would have feared worse, the British muskets or those teeth. I’d probably take my chances with the first. At least then I’d know what I was up against.”

  Though Lydia held no affection for alligators, after what he’d just told her, she questioned his choice. “I imagine you have faced the British often enough.”

  “Spent the past three years battling them in New England, but it’s not like they left us alone before I joined the army. I saw a lot of good men die in skirmishes and raids near my home.”

  “Where is your home?”

  Daniel’s expression softened, the curve of his mouth becoming more genuine. “Prettiest valley on this continent, I reckon. A small farming community along the Mohawk River, central New York.” Daniel studied her. “You haven’t heard of it, have you?”

  “I’ve heard of the Mohawk River.” She honestly couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to settle any distance from civilization. And farm? She remembered how hard those first years were after Mother died, and she and Margaret were left alone in a small house to fend for themselves while Father buried himself in obtaining that first ship. The Zephyr—the Greek god of the west wind—had taken him and Eli away for weeks at a time. Sometimes months.

  A flock of mean-tempered chickens and an ornery milk cow resided in the barn behind the shack, and they had been her responsibility until she’d turned ten and Father moved what remained of their family into Georgetown and a bigger house. If all chickens and cows were like the ones she remembered, she’d be better off spying for the British.

  “So you spent a while in the Continental Army. What rank are you?” She would probably never offer it to Layton, but it was the kind of information he would want.

  “Sergeant. Not as lofty as your usual guests, I’m sure.” He paused to cough into the crook of his arm. “You are probably used to entertaining men far more sophisticated.”

  Lydia straightened her cloak around her. They would soon be to the storehouse, where she would hardly be entertaining this rebel sergeant. The carriage halted and she reached for the door latch, not waiting for Eli.

  “Mornin’ Lieutenant,” he called out.

  “Is Mr. Selby inside?” Lieutenant Mathews’s voice murmured, approaching.

  Eli’s boots hit the ground. “No, sir. Just Miss Reynolds.”

  Lydia glanced to Daniel. If anyone found him now… Heart rate skittering, she eased the door open and filled it with her skirts. The Lieutenant stood with a handful of his men still mounted, back-dropped by the tall masts of vessels loitering in the harbor. They weren’t yet at the storehouse.

  “Miss Reynolds? What brings you out here this morning?” Mathews craned his neck to see past her. “When I saw the carriage, I expected Mr. Selby. I was told to assist him with—”

  “As Eli said, he is not with me.” And she had no desire to balance here discussing her
brother-in-law. “Perhaps he is already onboard the Americus.”

  Lieutenant Mathews tucked his hat under his left arm as he wrinkled his brow. “The Americus has not yet reached port. We are still waiting on the supplies and ammunitions she carries.”

  That wasn’t right. “Is she not due?”

  “Of course. Major Layton—”

  “Is he here?” The mention of the man spurred Lydia’s pulse. As did the memory of him flaunting Daniel’s cane as a trophy.

  Lieutenant Mathews shook his head. “He’s meeting with Colonel Tarleton right now. Which is why we had hoped to have news from the Americus. With the rebels so near Georgetown and only eighty regulars posted here and—”

  “Good.” She pasted on her most pleasant smile. Daniel didn’t need to hear the full state of the British Empire. “I will leave you, then. Until this evening.”

  He nodded, set his hat back on his sandy head and mounted his horse. As soon as the soldiers focused forward, Lydia drew back and closed the door. She dropped onto the padded bench.

  Daniel’s face appeared even whiter than before. “It’s a good thing you wear so many petticoats, Miss Reynolds.”

  Lydia widened her eyes at him.

  Color must have reached her cheeks because he shifted and cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Miss Reynolds, I’m afraid being raised with four sisters has not…” He shook his head. “I mean no disrespect.”

  Lydia tugged at her skirts to make sure they hung properly over her laced boots. The carriage jostled forward again. Four sisters? In a rustic cabin in back country New York? “How many siblings have you?”

  “Only the four who lived past infancy. All girls.” His gaze settled on her again and he cracked a smile. “You remind me of them.” Daniel turned his head and coughed.

  “In what way?” Other than the fact she was also female.

  “Little things. The color of your hair. Complexion.” He winced as the carriage dropped over a rut and rolled to a stop. “Your eyes are different, though. My family all have the same as me. Plain old brown. I like the blue in yours.”