"The devil you aren't!" The stool toppled when he stalked away before turning on her with a growl. "Last night, a spy from the Ambrose ring named Ralph Johnston, alias Sooty Johns, bungled an attempt on my life. Although he managed to escape my bodyguards, he'd fumbled his cover. Casa de la Sangre Legítima tracked him down and executed him.
"In the past five years, I've had my fill of rebels and interrogating them. I've no time for your lies. Were it possible, I'd recall Mr. Fairfax and invite him to finish this conversation, since he seems to have a knack for it." He stabbed a finger at her. "You lied to me this morning."
"No, I'm not a rebel spy!"
"At this point, your credibility is in the vault, madam. Upon further interrogation, Mrs. Fuller confessed that your uncle planned to drop in on you Tuesday morning. I ask you again, did you make contact with David St. James earlier this week?"
Well, damn. Betsy lifted her chin. "No."
"Very well. Since you claim you aren't a rebel spy and didn't make contact this week with a suspected spy, you shouldn't object to taking that oath of allegiance to His Majesty." He pounced on her vacillation. "Either you swear allegiance, or I shall escort you to jail tonight."
She hated being backed into a corner almost as much as she hated that jail cell. "The king has my allegiance. I swear it."
"Excellent. Your husband renewed his vows when I questioned him earlier. If you commit treason, your lives are forfeit. Endeavor to prove yourselves blameless subjects." His expression darkened with ancient pain, no doubt that of his torture at the hands of rebels in 1775. "I cannot express how much satisfaction it gives me to see a traitor dangle from a gibbet."
"What of the assassin?" Betsy whispered, appalled at the pit she was mired it. "Has he been caught?"
"No."
"He may continue to try to kill my husband."
"I cannot spare soldiers to guard you day and night, but I can increase the patrol frequency in this neighborhood. Given those limitations, you and Mr. Sheridan must remain on this property until we ascertain that the danger to you is past."
"Does that mean we're under house arrest?"
Brown crossed his arms over his chest, a smile twisting his lips. "Madam, I've no grounds to arrest a faithful subject who has committed no crime. It's in your best interests to remain where we can find you at all times. That way you insure your own safety, and you assure us of your loyalty."
Chapter Sixteen
HAIR DISHEVELED, CLARK stumped across the bedroom. "Why in bloody hell did you report it? I thought surely you had the sense to realize it would incriminate me!"
"Sense?" Exhaustion stripped away Betsy's diplomacy. "That assassin might have killed us all. You didn't even have the decency to warn me."
"I didn't know. I was told that two assassins were killed last summer, one was killed in Alton last month, and the others followed your mother to Havana, where they perished."
"How is it the redcoats knew of this extra assassin but your fellow Patriots didn't? Oh, face it, Clark. Brown knows all about the ring and is ninety-five percent certain you're a spy. For all the help the Ambrose ring gives you, they must either want you dead or locked up."
She stretched out on the bed in her shift and closed her eyes. "I'm too tired to beat my brain more with it." The chair legs at the desk squawked. She heard the scratch of quill on paper. "What are you doing?"
"Writing a letter." The scratch of the quill continued for another quarter minute. Then she smelled melted sealing wax. "Find a way to post this letter for me on the morrow, but only if it looks as though Brown isn't intercepting our mail."
Betsy yawned. "Post it yourself."
"I won't be here."
She chuckled. "As if you'd ride to Camden in the middle of the night."
"That's precisely what I must do."
"Oh, stop being foolish and come to bed." After opening her eyes, she rolled on her side and watched him stuff his shirt back inside his breeches. "What are you doing?"
"Dressing." He hopped into a shoe.
She sat up. "You cannot be serious."
"If I don't draw off the assassin, he'll keep trying for me. He may kill you or someone we love in the process."
"We're both under house arrest. Colonel Brown increased the patrols. The assassin won't make it through. Come to bed."
Clark slid on his other shoe. "If Brown knows much about these assassins and he's certain of my involvement with the Patriots, he intends for the assassin to take my life. Let the Spaniard be my executioner as he was Sooty's. To all appearances, Brown will have done everything he could to protect a loyal subject." He buttoned his waistcoat. "Don't think I shall wait here to be butchered like a fox in a hole."
Betsy rolled out of bed and seized his elbow, mortified by the fervent gleam in her husband's eyes. "This is madness. I cannot let you go. I will not let you go. I shall wake Lucas and have you thrown in Augusta jail to keep you safe."
"Please, you're making this more difficult for both of us."
"You're my husband, the father of our child. I need you alive, here by my side. I cannot raise this baby without you. It makes no sense for you to leave in the middle of the night."
He nodded. "War often makes no sense."
Tears of desperation and disbelief heated her eyes. She flung her arms around him. "For the love of heaven, my husband, don't do this."
He disentangled himself. "I must."
"Then take me with you."
"No. You're safe here with Lucas and Sarah." He reached for his coat.
Her throat constricted. "I cannot believe you're leaving me." The first tears squeezed out. "Don't go. Not this moment. Please stay with me the rest of tonight."
He hesitated, then dropped the coat back over a chair before stroking her cheek. "Now, now, dry your tears, sweetheart. I'm here."
He removed his shoes and waistcoat and followed her down onto the bed, unresisting when she removed his breeches, responsive when her mouth and fingers built his arousal, attentive when she needed her own arousal addressed, compliant when she mounted him. A stellar performance to the very end, when a sleepy Betsy heard the clock downstairs strike one. Yet as she drifted off to sleep, her legs wrapped around Clark and imprisoning his sweaty body against hers, she sensed he'd never been there making love with her. He'd sent a life-sized poppet in his place, and John Clark Sheridan was long gone to Camden, South Carolina, in the service of the Continental Congress.
***
The clock striking five in the morning jolted her awake. She reached beside her to feel the sheets still warm. A horse whickered outside. She scrambled to the window and glimpsed Clark in the yard walking his gelding to the street, fowler in one hand. In the next instant, he swung up into the saddle and kicked the horse into a trot south on the road. She raced from the bedroom down the stairs.
She'd almost gained the front door when a blob of masculine darkness rose from before the window, lunged for her, and propelled her backwards into the wall. He clapped his hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. Something cold and sharp prodded her neck. A knife meant for slitting a throat from ear to ear. Terror squeezed Betsy's throat.
"Scream, señora, and I kill you, comprende? Where did he go?" He peeled his hand off her mouth while retaining the point of the knife in the hollow of her throat.
Her chest aching, Betsy gasped for breath. The knifepoint pressed inward, burning. "He wouldn't tell me. Said he wanted to p-protect me. Please. D-don't kill me. I don't know."
The wine-drenched warmth of the Spaniard's breath washed over her face. "He went to Camden, did he not?"
"D-don't know."
He chuckled. "To Camden, sí, with all those French-loving dogs who dream ensueños francés de bobalicones. Stripping mighty Britain of her military command — bah! How the Rightful Blood loves ridding the world of such imbeciles, idiotas francés." The knife pressure at her throat released. "Gracias, señora."
He shoved her away, and, while she lurched against a chair, flung open t
he front door and bolted outside. His running footsteps faded into predawn. Somewhere farther away, a horse was startled into activity. Straightening, she drew a deep breath and screamed for Lucas and Sarah, even though she suspected it was too late to catch the assassin, even though she knew in her soul that it was also too late for Clark.
***
"Madam, my irritation grows with each meeting." Brown's glower clouded the Saturday morning sunshine. "You're withholding information. He told you where he went."
A broom propped against the fireplace seemed the safest place for Betsy to look. "He only said he had to leave, and then he sneaked from bed while I slept."
"With an assassin from the Rightful Blood chasing him. Your husband is a rebel spy."
"The assassin didn't kill me. Surely that proves I'm not a rebel spy."
"It proves you're damned lucky." Whack! He swatted his booted calf with a riding crop. "Beneath my very nose — how long has he been an operative for the Congress?" She remained silent, her soul resounding with grief, her brain numb with fatigue and doubt. "Answer me!" After stalking forward, he kicked the leg of her stool.
She flinched and hung her head. "I don't know."
"Where did he go?"
Into the depths of sprawling, bustling Camden-hell: fallen angel. "I don't know."
"What's his mission?"
Depriving the redcoats of their commanders, if she believed the assassin. Cornwallis: 402. Was Clark supposed to assassinate him? The rebels were idiots if they'd given a shoemaker such an assignment. "I don't know."
He hovered like a panther on a tree limb, lord of the swamp, flicking his tail, waiting to spring and eviscerate. After half a minute, he lowered his voice. "Are you a rebel spy?"
"No."
Whack! "Look at me when you answer. Are you a rebel spy?"
She lifted her head and met granite for an expression. Someday, Brown was going to find the rebels who'd tortured him, and the sight of their corpses dangling from gibbets would purge his soul of torment. "I'm not a rebel spy."
He forced her to ride the steel of his gaze for what seemed an eon. "You're either telling the truth, or you're made of stronger fiber than many men I've known." At the window again, he scrutinized the day outside. "You will remain on this property while our investigation continues. Should you venture away without permission, I shall consider you a traitor and mark you for execution. However, should you recall significant details that might advance our investigation and inform me of them, I shall release you from confinement. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Whack! "Good day." He strode to the front door and yanked it open. The two Rangers posted at the door followed him out.
Their footsteps were almost soundless, each trained by Indians in furtiveness. Provincials: individualists, sometimes radicals. Yes, Thomas Brown was an individualist, a clever and deadly individualist. She couldn't see him wasting time finishing up the investigation to uncover her lies. When he returned to haul her back to jail, she'd have had no choice but to wait for him in Lucas's house, trapped.
Her foster-parents entered through the front door. Sarah drew her into her arms. Lucas's face looked old, drawn with worry, and his hunched shoulders projected that he knew they'd be back. "Did you tell him what the assassin said?"
"No." She was surprised at how firm her voice sounded.
"You've everything to gain by telling him what you know."
"I'm neutral, regardless of what oath I had to swear."
He shook his head. "He'll figure it all out. You'll be sharing that jail cell with Widow Fuller."
She repressed a shudder. What had Mrs. Fuller done but try to convey the best escape odds possible on a man she loved? Surely Mrs. Fuller's silence for three days had bought David the time he needed to get to Williamsburg. Surely her own silence would increase Clark's chances of getting to Camden. However the worst part was believing that silence was the only way she could help her husband. Passivity. How she hated passivity.
Chapter Seventeen
RUTH GLENN SNIFFED over her coffee cup. "A rebel spy."
Betsy looked up from her own cup. "No one has proven him to be a spy."
"Bah. He lived a double life. You never knew him. None of us did." She handed Sarah her empty cup. "Fugitives don't often escape. I doubt he'll come back."
Betsy felt her face pale. What a brutal thing to say. She'd never have believed it of Ruth, a model Christian woman, always so busy tending the poor.
Jane handed her empty cup to Sarah. "Ruth has a point. Men do foolish things. He shouldn't have run off. He's not worthy of your devotion."
"At least he isn't a double agent." Ellie looked hopeful.
Ruth waved off the suggestion. "We've all had far too much excitement lately. Especially you, Betsy. We're your friends. Sometimes friends have to deliver honesty that hurts. In all honesty, it's time for you to move on."
"Move on?" Betsy cocked an eyebrow at the vicar's wife.
"You must put this behind you and focus on keeping yourself well for the sake of the baby. And that means smiling."
"Smiling?" Betsy could hardly believe her ears.
"Yes, try smiling. It will make you feel better."
Dull anger churned Betsy's soul, bruised by women she'd trusted. She fantasized giving Ruth a gesture other than a smile.
Ellie frowned. "I hope you don't run off after him."
"She won't do that," said Jane. "She's too sensible. But Betsy dear, your primary concern right now should be your baby. Thank goodness you have a home with Lucas and Sarah."
"That's right." Ruth stood. "It isn't like Mr. Sheridan left you homeless. What time is it getting to be? Goodness, Sarah, I've drunk far too much of your coffee. Thank you ever so much. I must be off, ladies."
Ellie and Jane stood, following Ruth. Each seemed relieved to be leaving. Betsy bit her lip, speechless with hurt and indignation. How did the women expect her to put Clark behind her? He was still her husband.
The warmth of Sarah's hand rested on her shoulder, but her voice held an early frost. "Thank you for coming."
Ruth situated her straw hat on her head. "Thank you for taking care of her, Sarah. You're a sensible, good woman." And what did that make Betsy, a lunatic for loving Clark? "Call on my husband anytime. We shall pray for Mr. Sheridan to come to his senses and surrender peacefully." Ruth grasped her basket. "Poor, foolish man."
"Take care, Betsy," said Jane.
Tears blurring her vision, Betsy stared at her cup while the women exited. When they were gone, Sarah removed the cup from her lap and sat next to her. Pain strangled Betsy's voice to a whisper. "Yesterday they supported me. Today they shun me."
Sarah took her hand. "They're frightened, confused. Most folks cannot handle a big misfortune. They resent you for disrupting their lives with it." She sighed. "Folks do the best they can to give comfort. That's where their platitudes come from."
"Their best?" Betsy blinked back tears. "Did you hear them? They expect me to make them feel better when I'm the one who hurts. And they want it all fixed overnight! My problems won't be fixed overnight."
"Lucas and I understand. You can count on us."
***
In the shade of an oak that afternoon, the two women snapped beans in the back yard. Sarah might have prattled about social events and the weather, but she remained quiet, receptive to Betsy in a way empty talk would have prevented. The tranquility she invoked enabled Betsy's thinking to clear.
Remaining silent and passive was an option, but it wasn't a good one. Lucas had returned from the stationer's shop, unable to post Clark's letter. Molly warned him that Rangers were inspecting all mail for the Sheridans.
Brown was closing on her. Betsy might as well already be in jail. If she wanted to help her husband, she'd have to take some risks.
Sarah brushed her forearm. "Lieutenant Neville is here."
Adam strolled around from the front yard, jangling suspicion through Betsy. She didn't want to tal
k with anyone, especially a Ranger. However, his face expressed condolence, so she set the bowl of beans down and folded her hands in her lap to await him.
He bowed. "Good afternoon, ladies. Mrs. Sheridan, may I speak with you?" Seeing the forbearance in her eyes, he added, "This is personal, not business." Sarah rose, curtsied, and left, taking both bowls of beans with her. At Betsy's gesture, Adam took Sarah's seat. "I cannot believe Clark's a rebel spy."
She wished she could unburden herself on Adam, but had she been in Brown's position, sending Clark's friend to dig information from her would be a logical first move. She smoothed a wrinkle in her apron. "I'm as shocked as you are."
"Poor lad. He's probably run scared, hiding and hoping it'll all blow over. Where did he go?"
"I already told Colonel Brown that I don't know."
"Do you suppose he went to Camden?"
Why would Adam mention Camden specifically unless Brown suspected Clark had gone there? "This is a business visit, not a personal one."
"I apologize." He shook his head. "I want to help. Clark sees the best in people and doesn't have much bad to say about anyone. Most men at the tavern deride their wives. Not Clark. He praises you for your assistance with the books or skill with cooking. It shuts up the lads. Few men love their wives the way he loves you. He has a good soul in him."
She bit her lip and turned away. "Good day, Lieutenant."
"I didn't mean to upset you more. I'm worried about him. If I found him, I might be able to mediate, straighten things out."
A tear escaped Betsy's right eye and rolled down her cheek. Exasperated for not containing her distress, she fumbled for the handkerchief in her pocket. Adam extended his. She dabbed her eyes with it and returned it. "Thank you."
"Please help Clark, even if you won't involve me."
In the depths of his eyes, fire clutched for her. Loyalists could be just as fanatic as rebels. She pulled away, afraid to look further. "How can I help him? I don't know where he is."
He withdrew a paper from his tote bag and unfolded it, his voice silk in the sultry air. "We received a copy of this last week from Camden." He turned it to her. "Does it mean anything?"
On the paper, three-digit numbers were paired with words or names in columns. Betsy's gaze swept the page, where it lodged on the number four hundred two, the name Cornwallis scripted beside it. Good god. Listed above it was four hundred one: Sir Henry Clinton, Commander in Chief. Horror blossomed through her. Four hundred three: Lord Rawdon. Four hundred seven: Cruger, British commander at Ninety Six, South Carolina. Four hundred eight: Tarleton, commander of the British Legion. The names went on and on. Thomas Brown's name was there, too.
The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 12