A snort sounded from beyond Mr. Lane’s shoulder, though she lacked the energy to look for its owner.
Mr. Lane’s face went taut, as did the arm still around her. Though both relaxed again in moments. “Come, Miss Reeves. Let us get you inside, where you can warm up and put this fright behind you.”
He tried to urge her toward the path, but she held her spot, shaking her head again. Perhaps a bit too wildly, as the curl tumbled onto her cheek once more. “Not yet, please. I beg you. They will make a fuss, crowd around. I cannot…I cannot suffer that just yet.”
All those faces, sympathy mixed with curiosity, colored with disbelief. Nay. ’Twas quiet she needed. Peaceful quiet, so this fresh loss could seep in slowly.
That snort came again. “I have never known you to mind a fuss being made over you, Miss Reeves.”
“George Knight, I ought to…” Mr. Lane’s voice tapered off, and then he lifted an accusing finger. “This is your fault. What were you doing meeting with such a man in my garden shed?”
Mr. Knight shifted, which put him in the circle of light. His face bore all the feeling of a granite sculpture. “What I always do, Ben. I was selling a gun.”
Mr. Lane’s eyes went wide. “Here? Now?”
His friend shrugged. “He made it sound urgent, but I already said I would be here, so…”
“So you bring a criminal onto my property—”
“He was cornered,” Mr. Knight said, his voice even, “not criminal.”
“How can you know that? He could be a rebel, an outlaw, any number of kinds of miscreant!”
Mr. Knight rolled his eyes and pivoted, though he didn’t walk off as Winter half expected. “What care is it of mine whether he favors blue or red? I am concerned only with sterling.”
Mr. Lane’s nostrils flared. “What have you brought upon me, George?”
“He did not harm her.” But contrition finally snuck onto the man’s face.
His friend seemed unimpressed by it. “Physically, perhaps, but she is obviously suffering from the shock.”
Mr. Knight snorted a third time. “How can you tell? She looks no more dazed than she ever does.”
Tears surged to Winter’s eyes, but she spun away to keep him from seeing them. Cold closed around her when she left the shelter of Mr. Lane’s arms, though. She stalked toward the house. She would find an empty room and hide herself away until the choking sensation left her throat, until the waves of pain ebbed away.
Still, she heard Mr. Lane’s biting, “Get out of here, George.”
And Mr. Knight’s low, “Ben. I did not mean—”
“Later. Tomorrow. Just go for now. Please.”
Winter broke into a run, praying she could reach the door and somehow disappear before Mr. Lane could catch up with her. Solitude, she needed solitude. To curl into a ball and let the tears come.
She wrenched the door open and even made it two steps inside before his hands closed over her shoulders. Gently enough that she could have pulled away, but all her energy was spent in trying to stem the sobs heaving their way upward. As he spun her around, she squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to see the concern upon his face. It would surely unravel her.
“Winter—Miss Reeves. I am so sorry. To think that this happened to you in my house because of the poor business decisions of my friend—”
“’Tisn’t your fault, nor his.” She ought not to have spoken. Once she’d opened her mouth, a sob escaped and wouldn’t be stemmed no matter how hard she pressed her hand to her lips.
When he urged her to her right, she went blindly, unable to see through her tears. And because the room he opened was draped in silence, she didn’t much care where he’d taken her.
He led her to a sofa and sat beside her. “There now, Miss Reeves, take a moment. I…bother. I’ve no experience dealing with distraught females.”
And she despised being one. But trying to blink away the tears and look around only made it worse. Rather than a receiving room, he had brought her into what must have been a more intimate family environment. Embroidery sat, in progress, on one of the chairs, newspapers and books lay open upon the table. Pipe tobacco lingered in the air, and the furniture was well-worn and comfortable.
Images of home filled her vision. The dark beams and white chink, the stone fireplace, with its stove top and iron oven box. “I can’t believe it’s gone. Even thinking I would never see it again, I knew it was there. But now—Mother’s spinning wheels. Father’s favorite chair. The wooden horse he carved for my doll when I was a girl. Gone, all of it.”
Mr. Lane caught his breath. He wore panic on his face. “Deuces. Are you delusional, Miss Reeves?”
A laugh tangled with her tears.
His panic amplified. “I will go fetch someone. Perhaps call for an apothecary and obtain something to calm your nerves.”
“No! Please.” She reached out to stop him. “Grandmother will come, and I…please, not yet.”
He sighed. “At least let me see if the colonel has apprehended the villain.”
She shook her head. She certainly hoped not. And suspected he wouldn’t. Silas had always been sly.
Mr. Lane frowned in that probing way of his. “What is this? Surely you want the man caught. I cannot conceive why you would not after he put a knife to your throat.”
Did nothing escape this man? Winter swiped at her cheeks. “I know him, Mr. Lane. He was a hand on our farm before…before I came to live with my grandparents. I left Silas in charge. He didn’t recognize me at first, of course, but…but when he did, he told me it had burned. The house, the barn. Everything within.” She had to swallow past more rising tears. “I was allowed to bring so little here with me, and now—it’s gone, all of it. All the things of my childhood.”
Mr. Lane’s hand covered hers. She ought to pull away, but he looked so concerned, so desperate to help. And strangely, that small touch gave a good deal of comfort. “I am so sorry. I cannot imagine how you must feel. How very odd to be accosted like that, only to discover…” He paused to pull in a long breath. “Do you want me to go make sure the colonel has not apprehended him?”
How was it that he always managed to pull a laugh from her in her darkest moments? “No need to worry for Silas. He is a wily sort, though loyal as can be once one has won his trust.”
Mr. Lane nodded as he studied her. His face relaxed. “Your color is returning. I must say, I’m all relief you are not hysterical, Miss Reeves.”
She dug up a smile and pulled her hand from under his. “Oh, no. Not at all, Mr. Lane. I have no head for history whatsoever. Such a dull subject.”
He grinned and chucked her on the chin as her father used to do. “There you are, yourself again. Come.” He stood and held out a hand to assist her up. “We had better return to the group before we are missed.”
Though their hands had touched mere seconds before, she hesitated before putting her fingers back in his now. And once she had, once he had helped her to her feet, she wasn’t surprised when he didn’t relinquish her or when he lifted his other hand to wipe away a tear she must have missed. “Winter, you must promise never to frighten me like that again.”
Eternity stretched through a few ticks of the clock, during which she couldn’t tear her gaze from the blue depths of his eyes. ’Twas all she could manage to whisper, “I shall do my best to avoid it, Bennet.”
“See that you do.” His smile bloomed.
Had one of them moved? They seemed closer, and his fingers had somehow woven through hers when she paid no attention. Perhaps he leaned down now, or perhaps she strained up. She couldn’t say. She knew only that this was where she wanted to be, away from the crowds, in this quiet, welcoming room. With him.
Commotion in the hallway shattered the peace and dispelled most of the pulse-thumping tension. Fairchild’s voice filtered through the door, followed by feminine exclamations.
Winter sank back down upon her heels, though still Bennet held her gaze. He gave her a ru
eful smile, and then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. He tightened his fingers, touched his forehead to hers, exactly where he had kissed her, and sighed. “He will be a good husband to you.”
And with that nonsensical declaration, he let go of her hand, stepped away, and hurried out the door. Winter held her spot, at least until her breath regulated, and lifted a hand to her flushed cheek. Two near kisses in one night.
And it seemed she was longing for the wrong one.
Ten
Ben stood for a long moment in the street, staring up at the sign that swung from its iron fastenings as a stiff wind gusted by. The Knight’s Arms. Inside, George no doubt sat at his bench alongside his father and younger brother, putting a weapon together. Combining the skill of a craftsman with the eye of an artist, not to mention the scientific mind of an engineer.
All to create a method to kill.
He drew in a long breath but still did not move toward the door. He knew well the Knights had ongoing contracts from the British military—no better weapons could be found in all New York. But if George’s words were true, he would sell his guns to those in blue coats as quick as to those in red, if they had the coin.
Thirst for silver had certainly led men enough into dangerous business. The London Trade, with their apples and beef and other items otherwise impossible to find, proved that smuggling was alive and well in the city, and perfectly acceptable. But if George were caught handing over a weapon to the wrong person…well, it didn’t bear thinking about. ’Twas as perilous as if he were a spy.
Which was still a question in Ben’s mind. Try as he might to extinguish it, the doubt Mrs. Shirley raised about the Knights’ loyalty continued to smolder. Did a person’s politics ever really change…or did they merely lessen in volume?
His fingers flexed. Why had he not seen that before? When Washington still held New York, many of its residents considered him an oppressor—many, but not all. Plenty were sympathetic to the rebel cause, and some left with him when he fled. But many stayed behind, from what he had seen, and adjusted to life under the British.
Adjusted…but did their thoughts ever alter? Especially after seeing the corruption the English military machine brought with them? Ben had heard enough grumbling to know the Redcoats’ boots were hard upon the necks of the city’s inhabitants. Even the always loyal were eager for the army to leave. So it stood to reason that those already inclined toward the Patriot cause would be all the more eager. And perhaps willing to help it along.
Excitement sang through his veins. That was how he would find his spy. He would discover the former Whigs among all the Tories, those who had put their names to any of the many documents demanded by the new American Congress and which still floated around the city, if one knew where to look. Perhaps many of those had since bent their knee to the Crown and retracted said allegiance, but they would have retained their ties to other Whigs. It may be too vast a list to be helpful, at first sight, but there must be connections. To Washington himself, perhaps, or to those he had put in charge of endeavors of espionage.
Would that tack lead him straight back to George? Ben drew in another long breath and stepped toward the door in search of his friend. He could only hope it would not.
When he entered the shop, he bypassed Mr. Knight at the front with a wave and headed for the workshop in back. George sat at the table, a length of metal before him. His younger brother was nowhere in sight, which Ben considered a blessing.
His friend looked around, brows raised. “Good morning, Ben. You’re out and about early today.”
“Morning, George.” He sat in his usual place at the end of the long bench. “A Brown Bess?”
George ran a hand down the metal. “It will be.”
He didn’t want to ask. But he must. “And to whom will you sell that one? Or do you even care?”
“I knew you wouldn’t let it pass. Yet, strangely, I hoped you would.” Not meeting his gaze, George kept at his work. Though for the life of him, Ben never could figure out what it was the Knights did to turn metal and wood into a gun. He understood the theory, of course, but the execution was beyond him.
“George.” He leaned close, voice low. “How can I let it pass? You were hidden away on my property, selling a weapon under cover of darkness. Do you even know who the man was?”
George shrugged. “A farmer from Long Island, one who had to get back this morning. It is only business, Ben.”
“Business? George, your business is not hurting, what with all the military contracts you must fulfill. Do you mean to tell me you care so much for a single sale that you would go to such extraordinary lengths to achieve it?”
Now his friend sighed. “Perhaps my love of sterling was colored by sympathy a bit. He was obviously in dire straits.”
“You didn’t seem terribly sympathetic in my gardener’s shed.”
“You were listening.” Sounding resigned, George pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wondered. All right, I shall be forthright with you. I don’t ask a man about his loyalty before I sell him a weapon. I could get in trouble for that, I know, but I have had enough of politics. Frankly, both sides have their tyrannies as well as their valid points. The way I see it, my job is to make and sell guns. ’Tis no great concern of mine who buys them.”
“George.”
“Don’t lecture me, Professor. Last night may have gone poorly, but I swear to you that particular man was not the threat he seemed, only a desperate farmer.” Yet his quick glance showed some concern. “Did Fairchild catch him?”
“Nay.” Which made a grin tickle Ben’s mouth. “The man apparently led him into an unsavory area and then vanished.”
“Did he—Fairchild, I mean—ask about our presence?”
Ben measured his friend. He supposed, even if the sale had been as innocent as he claimed, he would worry about Fairchild’s questions. Frankly, Ben had felt some anxiety about that himself, and he had nothing at all to hide when it came to his presence in his own garden. But no gentleman ever wanted to be caught seeing what he ought not. “I informed him that we came out when we heard Winter scream. He accepted that without consideration.”
“Winter?” His hands paused in their busy task, and his gaze finally held Ben’s. Though now he wished it wouldn’t. “You are calling her by her first name now?”
Oh, bother. Ben scrubbed a hand over his face. “No. That is, not really, I just…” He rested his head in his hand. “Seeing a knife to her throat like that, the fear in her eyes, and then the blankness—”
“Which I maintain was nothing new.”
“Then you’re a dunderhead, George.” He looked up, wondering if he appeared as foolish as he felt. “I fear I…I think I’m in love with her.”
Metal thudded onto the table, and George spun to face him. “You cannot be serious.”
How he wished he weren’t. But seeing her first in Fairchild’s arms and then in that stranger’s, a blade so near—he had never felt such jealousy, followed by such terror.
Apparently his silence proved answer enough, for George groaned and slapped at his leg. “Confound it, Ben, you are too intelligent to be so stupid. ’Twas bad enough when I thought you merely infatuated by her beauty, but love? You cannot be such a fool.”
Ben tried to rub a hand over his head, which resulted in knocking off the hat he’d forgotten to remove upon entering. After leaning over to pick it up, he dropped it on the table. “I wish you could see in her what I do. Then you would understand.”
“Terribly sorry, old man, but I can’t see what isn’t there.”
“It is there!” Ben stood, paced to the wall, and pivoted back again. “She puts on a good show, yes, but it is only that. A show, with her as her grandparents’ puppet. Saying what she must to please them, or at least to keep from angering them. Hampton struck her, you know. That was why she was out of society the past two weeks. I saw the bruise upon her cheek.”
George looked at him as though he were an
unfortunate soul bound for the madhouse. “Ben, she probably ran into something.”
“Have you ever seen her lacking in grace?”
“Well, perhaps she was trying to hold a thought in her head while walking. I imagine that would make her trip and stumble.”
Ben huffed to a halt. “George Knight.”
Hands spread, George shook his head. “What do you want me to say? I’ve never much cared for Hampton, but he is a respected man. And Miss Reeves is…”
He folded his arms over his chest. “She is what?”
Rather than finish his thought, George held his hands up in surrender and turned back to his work. “What an unbelievable conversation. But since we are having it, it must be asked—does she even like you? I don’t mean to be insensitive, my friend, but you are not notorious for your ways with women.”
He couldn’t be insulted by such an obvious truth. Indeed, it made him chuckle. Ben settled on the bench again. “I know I’m not, but it’s different with her. I think she does like me, actually. She defended me to Archie, and she made no objection when I tried to kiss her last night.”
“When you what?” Hands still again, George turned wide eyes on him. And grinned. “If she made no objection, then why only ‘tried to’?”
He had spent several hours lying awake last night, asking himself that question. Even after Fairchild returned, he could have kissed her. No one knew where they were, and the moment had lingered long enough. He could have ignored the hubbub in the hall, leaned down…but it would have changed nothing and only given him more cause for hopeless longings. “She is practically engaged to Fairchild.”
George cocked a ginger-colored brow. “And…?”
“And I am not my brother.”
“Ah. Say no more.” But his friend studied him intently before releasing a veritable gust of breath. “I cannot believe I am about to say this, but you obviously care for her a great deal, in spite of all good sense. So why do you not propose before the colonel can?”
He had considered that too during the long, sleepless night. But he barely knew her. Certainly he had not discovered the full scope of her depths. The fact that she hid herself so well from everyone, that she constantly threw up another wall whenever he discovered a crack in one…an intelligent, amazing woman lurked under the beauty, he was sure of it. But he had met many an intelligent, amazing woman with whom he would not want to spend his life. How could he be sure she wasn’t one of those until she let him see her in her fullness?
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