“But the horse... I mean, I heard you coming.”
“That was one of my men. Beck rode up to the porch as a decoy in case anyone was watching, dismounted, and then I went into the house.”
“And pretended to be surprised.” Sophia bit her lip in tearless pain as the image of his face came before her.
“Yes. I’m sorry for that, Sophia.” His low voice fell soothingly on her ear. “I had to find out how many men were involved before we could make our move.”
When his voice cracked, Sophia looked up at his unguarded expression and realized he had suffered as much as she had. The ordeal had required him to be painstakingly thorough, and to be both cautious and bold in correct contrast and proportion.
He had no way of knowing what Major Briggs had planned, and no way of combatting forces unseen. Under the greatest adversity, he had prevailed with no thought of yielding to his treacherous foe. The strength it took to do so, while ensuring her safety, made him appear grandly heroic to her. Yet his courage was as inevitable as the rest of his conduct—selfless, daring, and noble.
Sophia took a deep breath and closed her eyes, willing herself to be strong. “Continue.”
“When my men heard the carriage coming, they overpowered the driver, and one of them put on his uniform. This church is where we had planned beforehand to rendezvous, so, not being able to communicate with me, he brought you here.”
Sophia thought back to how seamlessly it had all worked, when in reality his men had acted on instinct, using the boldness and audacity of their commander as their guide.
“Did Briggs let you go?”
Grant laughed grimly. “No. As soon as you were gone, he informed me that he would take great pleasure in personally delivering me to a prison ship.”
Sophia’s head jerked up and her eyes met his. “But he told me if I married him, he’d let you go!”
“He had no intention of doing that.”
Sophia blinked to stop the images that now raced through her mind. She had been close to throwing away her life in marriage to a man she abhorred—all for nothing. She put her face in her hands and sobbed.
Grant gently pulled away her hands, but his composure for a moment seemed somewhat shaken. “Don’t cry. Please don’t.”
Sophia wiped her tears and gazed up at his weary visage, her eyes lingering on a long, red scratch on his neck. He appeared handsome and gentle and virtuous, like he had nothing to do with flesh and blood, and for a moment she could not speak.
“I want you to forget this night ever happened, Sophia,” he said with a tone of gentle solicitude. “It is behind us now.”
She nodded. “But how did you get here?”
“My men stormed the house once you were gone. In the firefight, Briggs escaped.”
Sophia’s breath escaped violently as she looked up at him with fear and surprise. For a moment, it was enough for her just to recapture that breath.
“Don’t worry.” He squeezed her hand and continued with a face of unchanging solemnity. “He didn’t get away a second time.”
Sophia gazed out over his shoulder. “They attacked us here then?”
Morgan didn’t answer at first. He stared at the sunbeams that appeared to be held captive in the haze of the church as if recalling the scenes she had not witnessed. “Yes. I had divided my force, so half of my men were already here. Briggs did not comprehend the strength of my force—or my resolve.”
“But how did you arrive here before I did?”
“A horse is faster than a carriage—especially when there is a shortcut.” He smiled. “How do you think I got all of these scratches?”
Sophia sighed and leaned back, closing her eyes a moment as she tried to absorb all she had learned. She felt Grant move restlessly in his seat beside her as if he had something more to say, but instead of speaking, he stood and begin to pace.
When she heard him pause, she opened her eyes and found him looking at her with a gaze as tender as ever he had worn for her. Then he turned away and stood with hands on hips, staring at the high windows of the church as they reflected the rays of the brilliant sun.
Sophia looked at his back, and wondered what he was thinking as he silently studied the panes of glass. His shirt emphasized the breadth of his shoulders in the soft sunlight, and his stance revealed a man still ready to fight. The essence of his courage and fortitude glowed, burned, and pulsed in every fiber of his frame.
He appeared to Sophia like a pillar of strength, yet when he spoke his voice held a tremor. “Tell me something, Sophia,” he said, with his back still toward her.
“Yes?”
He turned around and regarded her with a troubled expression. “Were you really going to marry Briggs, believing it was the only way to spare my life?”
Sophia paused, but only for a moment. “Of course.”
“Why?” He studied her face with a look of mingled hope and uncertainty as if he trying to read his fate in her eyes.
Sophia looked down, unable to meet his gaze as she tried to control the intensity and rhythm of her heartbeat. She had never loved him so well, or desired him so much as when that question was asked.
But when she lifted her eyes and observed the serious and solemn look upon his face, she decided she had to suppress what she had resolved to conceal. Although she thought she had seen signs that he cared for her, she was no longer sure. So she swallowed hard and said something equally as true.
“Because you are esteemed and admired by your men and the citizens. The country could ill afford to lose you now.”
She thought she saw a flash of disappointment in his shimmering eyes before he turned his back again. “I see.”
A stillness fell upon the room that made Sophia want to scream to fill the silence. She wished she knew how to draw aside the curtain that shielded his thoughts so that both his emotions and his sentiments might be revealed. “You must think me weak,” she murmured, knowing he had contempt for fear and fragility.
“Quite the contrary.” He was beside her again, but his hand did not reach for hers, and his manner had become grave and restrained. He even avoided looking at her now, making her heart ache at his sudden indifference. He seemed to be able to curb emotion as a rider would curb a rearing steed—as only a man in absolute control of himself can do.
“But I was so frightened.”
“Courage is not the absence of fear.” He looked over her head, and seemed to become lost in thought for a moment. When he brought his attention back down to her, she could tell his mind was still elsewhere. “It’s bravery in the face of fear. The country owes you a great debt.”
He never alluded to his own courage, nor apparently thought of it, evidently feeling neither triumph nor a sense of accomplishment at his victory.
Sophia waited for him to continue, but he seemed intent on listening to the renewed sound of hoof beats outside the stone walls of a church. In another moment a soldier’s head appeared in the doorway.
“Colonel Morgan. A dispatch for you, sir.”
Morgan turned back to her. “Excuse me a moment. This might be important.” His gaze lingered longer than was perhaps proper before he bowed, and strode away.
Chapter 14
There is a Destiny which has the control of our actions, not to be resisted by the strongest efforts of Human Nature.
— George Washington
Sophia picked up a blanket lying on the pew and threw the threadbare cloth across her shoulders as she waited for Grant to return. The morning air was still chilly despite the dazzling display of light streaming in through the windows and the open door.
As the low-toned voices outside came to a stop, she watched a man on horseback salute and snap back to his ramrod-straight cavalryman’s seat before taking to the road in a whirl of dust.
A few moments later Grant stepped back through the door, looking troubled and drawn as he studied the missive he held in his hands. Absorbed in his task, he seemed oblivious to Sophia’s presence
, providing her the opportunity to scrutinize him in wistful silence.
Even with his clothes covered with powdery dust, and his arm still bandaged with the same dirty rag, he reflected a raw and robust vitality. That he was a soldier to his core, Sophia was sure no one could disagree. That she loved him with all her heart, she could no longer pretend to deny.
Grant appeared uneasy as he deliberated upon the communication, his eyes continuing to scan it as if thinking between the words. When he finally looked up, his gaze drifted from Sophia’s eyes to something over her shoulder, and his expression turned from one of thoughtful reflection to one of complete alarm.
Sophia watched the blood drain from his stern countenance as he took another step forward. “Have a care, Captain Tate, and leave the lady out of this.”
Sophia turned her head just enough to see that Captain Tate had quietly entered behind her through a different door. He remained silent as he stood behind her, but Sophia saw treachery in his eyes and an expression on his face she knew enough to fear.
“Sophia, step away,” Grant said hurriedly, but the warning came a moment too late. Before she could move, Tate lunged and caught her from behind with violent ferocity. Although she struggled and fought, he overpowered her and succeeded in holding her with an unyielding grip.
In another instant he pulled out a long-bladed knife, just as Grant covered the distance to a mere arm’s length away.
“Let her go.” Grant’s commanding voice thundered and reverberated through the empty chambers of the church.
Tate reacted by wrenching Sophia nearer to him and bringing the knife closer to her throat. “Stay where you are, Grant.” His voice sounded low and threatening in Sophia’s ear. With her eyes tightly closed, she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
Grant’s impeccable restraint did credit to him now, as he casually dropped the hand holding the crumpled paper down by his side.
“I see I got here just in time.” Tate laughed. “That communication is about me, is it not?”
Grant stood breathing heavily, but otherwise showed no sign of duress. “You guess rightly,” he said calmly, though his eyes were watchful. “Your deception is now well known throughout the ranks, Captain Tate. There is no escape.”
Tate laughed. “We’ll see about that. How highly do you prize the life of the lady?” He touched the blade of the knife to Sophia’s throat and waited for a reaction.
Sophia could barely draw breath as the two men in the room stared at her, one with evil delight—the other with grave concern. Or was it something else she saw in Grant’s eyes before she lowered her gaze to the floor?
Grant drew in a long deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he talked distinctly and deliberately as if watching the effect of his words. “If you will permit the exchange of my life for hers, I will esteem it a privilege.”
Sophia lifted her eyes and stared at him with a look of mute appeal. His expression now declared something more than mere concern for her, and she had to bite her lip again to keep from whimpering or showing weakness.
“I thought as much.” Tate increased the pressure of his grasp. “Call the men off, and I’ll let her go when I’m safely out of your reach.”
Sophia watched Grant’s face to catch a glimpse of what was passing in his mind, but now she could find no trace of that which she sought. It was as if held a secret that his ever-guarded expression dared not betray. She had never witnessed more coolness and courage in a man.
“Let her go now, Captain Tate. It will go better for you if you do.”
Tate merely laughed. “Oh, no, my friend. I am leaving, and she is going with me.”
Grant’s gaze shifted to Sophia, and his eyes lingered upon her with penetrating scrutiny, almost as if they were the only ones in the room. In the look he conveyed a message that she read with explicit clearness. Stay calm and go along for now.
“For the sake of your life, Captain Tate,” Sophia said in a strangled whisper, clinging to the confidence Grant gave her, “do not underestimate the depth of his resolve.”
Tate merely laughed. “I believe I understand—better than anyone—the depth of his resolve. But look at him, standing there so powerless.” Tate increased his grasp on Sophia as he shifted his weight. “How does it feel, Grant?”
“You are making a big mistake, Lawrence—”
“No, you are the one who’s made the mistake!” The hostility between the two men pulsed like a tangible force. “You never thought about what it is like to live in your shadow, did you?”
“I gave you every opportunity to prove yourself,” Grant said, his expression held motionless as a gun to the head. “You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”
“Oh, I’ve proved myself, all right. The British are going to make me a colonel, and pay me handsomely for what I’ve done for them.”
“So that’s what this is about? Power and money?” Grant had begun to circle around so Tate had to turn to keep him in his sight.
“It’s about respect!” Tate raised his voice for the first time and there was savagery in it. “Don’t move or I’ll kill her.”
“If you kill her, you’ll have no way out.”
The idea seemed to enrage Tate even more. “So be it!” he yelled. “She’s the reason we were caught! Oh, the two of you had me fooled for a little while, but Briggs and I figured it out.”
Sophia closed her eyes again in silent dismay at the mention of Briggs and the realization the two of them had been working together all along.
“Let her go and we’ll talk.” Grant sounded calm, soothing.
Tate laughed again and this time it sounded fanatical. “No deal, Colonel Morgan, but it is indeed a pleasure to see your concern! Finally I possess something you cannot have.” He began to pull Sophia toward the door from which he had entered. “I’m afraid you will never get the opportunity to cherish the bride you have wrested from the arms of another.”
When Sophia gathered the courage to look at Grant again, his expression was no longer effectively masked.
“You’ll not harm her and live,” Grant said, his tone low and threatening. “Depend upon it.”
There are times when the rope by which a life hangs seems worn to a single strand, and there are times when the worst fate is missed by the lapse of a mere second. Such is one of those times.
Sophia watched a dreadful calm descend upon Grant’s countenance and wondered at the look. When she heard the whisper of another footstep behind her, an instinct that went deeper than thought prepared her for what was to come. Within a heartbeat, Grant lunged forward and grabbed her arm, just as one of his men came up from behind and knocked the knife from Tate’s hand.
The speed at which Grant sprang, grasped, and pulled her to safety, startled her. In another swift movement, he pushed her behind him and stood like a mountain between her and Tate. Without thinking, Sophia grabbed a piece of his shirt, and found herself leaning against him for support.
With her gaze attached to Tate, whose arms were being held behind his back, Sophia felt Grant lean down and slowly pull a long, glistening knife from his boot. The muscles in his arm bulged, displaying hard, sinewy, steel-tempered flesh, as he raised the knife high. Tate closed his eyes seeming to prepare himself for the deathblow, but Sophia grabbed Grant’s arm in one swift movement. “Stop! Have mercy.”
“Fighting men deserve mercy,” he answered, never taking his eyes off his quarry. “Traitors deserve justice.”
Sophia felt a tremor shudder through the arm she held. She had seen men angry before, but never anything like this cold, uncontrollable, consuming rage that caused every tautly held muscle in his body to quiver.
He showed as much tendency toward leniency or mercy as a man-eating tiger, and she couldn’t help but think of the damage he was capable of inflicting with but one powerful hand. His eyes flashed in such a way that made her believe he did not need the knife to dispose of his foe in one deadly swoop.
“It is for a military court t
o determine justice,” Sophia said, forcefully. “Not you.”
Grant stood rigid, his arm still raised as the warring of vengeance and duty continued to shake him. This intensity and ferocity of his character did much to mask his usual calm, quiet, unassuming manner.
“Do not let him goad you into losing your purpose,” Sophia said softly. “Remember what we seek here.” She pressed his powerful arm with her hand again, imploring him not to hurt the man who so little deserved her mercy.
Grant’s eyes remained bright with fury and impatience, but his tone became calm and purposeful as he slowly lowered his arm. “Bind him and post a guard,” he told the man holding Tate. “See to it that no one puts a bullet in his head before his trial. He shall hang as a traitor.”
Grant walked out the door then, letting it slam closed behind him, but Sophia could hear him outside issuing orders in a strong, thunderous tone. When the talking stopped, there was only a brief pause before he threw the door open again with enough force to pull it off its hinges, and began moving toward her with a long, steady, purposeful stride that dared anyone to get in his way.
Without speaking, he swept her into his arms and held her more tightly than was reasonable or dignified. It was a deceptively gentle embrace for all its searching strength, and for a moment he seemed incapable of doing more than feeling her heart beat against his.
“What are you doing here, Sophia?” he whispered at last. “You should be living your life—not fighting for it.”
Sophia closed her eyes and took in the smell of him, the sweat and the leather and the smoke, and knew she could never love as she loved this man. Yet, how could he explain to him what she had only just come to understand herself?
He responded to her silence by tightening his embrace, and Sophia found herself wondering how a mortal man could possess such immense gentleness and such resilient strength.
When a neighing horse punctured the silence, he sighed heavily and let her go with what seemed like deep reluctance, as if he, too, were unsure of what to say or do next. Or perhaps, Sophia thought, he was questioning how fear and dread had suddenly been replaced by such feelings of hope and happiness.
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