So Rare a Gift (Daughters of His Kingdom Book 3)

by Amber Lynn Perry

  He offered his elbow, hoping the gesture would pull him from the depths of his thoughts, unprepared for the intensity of her grip. She glanced to him and waited a breath before initiating the return home, dragging him from the trench of darkness that gaped behind him.

  She spoke, keeping her face forward. “Thomas was grateful for his supper as he has only half an hour before he is to meet the other Whigs at Fessenden’s Tavern.”

  William’s neck corded, his vision trained on the puddles in the road. “The streets are quiet,” he bated, cautiously probing the secret he prayed she would reveal, but in the same thought, loathed to hear. “I suppose you spoke with no one, as I instructed you to do.”

  He looked to her, noting the quick rise of her chest and the way her neck muscles twitched.

  Pray, do not lie to me…

  Anna shrugged and turned her head away, yet her hand gripped harder. The dual message in her unspoken answer tipped his ready accusation on edge. “So you encountered no one, then?” Tell me all.

  She stopped and spun to peer up at him. Worry pinched her forehead in the middle and pulled her lips to a firm line. “I did see one man. Spoke with him.” She slammed her eyes shut. “William, I am a fool. I should have listened to you.”

  Hope plumed in his chest, pressing his lungs until he could hardly take a breath. “What happened?”

  Her eyes darted back and forth between his. Her chest pumped and the words poured like the very rain, drenching him with their cold truth. “He is from the army. He said…he said he is looking to help the man whose daughter had been kidnapped.”

  William’s muscles both weakened and toughened in the same quick pulse of blood. She spoke the truth.

  Her chin wobbled and he reached for her, ready to speak the comforting words that nestled on his tongue, but she went on.

  “I had met him once before—the first day I’d entered New York.”

  “You know him?” The question came too quickly.

  “Nay, we are only acquainted.” She shook her head. “I came upon him in my search for someone who could tell me the truth of my brother’s death—as that is the other reason I came to America.”

  William scowled in question and Anna swallowed, penitence shimmering in her eyes. “My father claimed he took his life, but I don’t believe it.”

  Her brother had killed himself?

  Looking behind, the prick to continue conversing in the cover of trees almost moved his feet before his legs did. The battle would best be ended now, but sanity brushed past the masculine pride as the thought of Anna being caught in the crossfire consumed every breath. “We must keep moving.” He took her arm and led her along. “Tell me more of this man with whom you spoke.”

  She nodded, walking beside him. “In New York he claimed there was a man who knew my brother and could tell me everything I desired to know. I was on my way to find him when that man—the coachman—tried to force me with him, and you blessedly came to my aid.” She clutched his arm harder as grief dripped from her tone like the trails of water down her cheeks. “I must beg your forgiveness, William. I should never have gone out alone, for now not only are my past sorrows resurrected, I have put us both in more danger.”

  She knew not the half of what she’d done, and yet he didn’t care. He looked down at her as they walked, aching to be home, out of the rain and to cover her with his affection. Nothing else mattered to him now but that she’d told him. Everything. Just as he’d hoped, but never dared believe. Her meeting with Paul was unintentional and it had left her visibly strained. The knowledge that she was not like Anna Muhr, that she would not withhold the truth and use him for her gain, bound his heart in a balm so powerful the raw wounds healed and the scars all but faded in a burst of blinding light. Love—so passionate and pure, so peaceful yet raging with power—consumed to the deepest part of his lost and lonely spirit. The need to keep her safe, to be with her always, to give her the best of him surged as his heart pumped ever quicker.

  He continued the questions as their house came into view. “Did he say anything else to you? What was the name of the man you were to find?”

  “I do not recall. Henderson perhaps?” She looked up at him, her thin brows swooped up. “I wish I could have attained the knowledge I sought, but there is a far greater need now.”

  He nodded. Aye, the need not to be discovered.

  They reached the door and William ushered her in front of him, helping her remove her sopping cloak before shaking off his greatcoat.

  She moved to the fire and hovered her hands in the faint heat that still radiated from the weak flames. William reached for a log and rested it atop the hungry embers.

  He brushed his hands together to keep from tugging her against him and feeling once more the warmth of her body beside his. Only this time, no doubts would peel them apart. “There may be a time when you can learn what you wish to know about your brother. Having been a soldier, there are many who would have known him. Think not that you must abandon what you desire, ’tis only put aside. Allow the Lord to preserve it for the future. Perhaps when this conflict is finished—”

  “Nay. I do not believe there will ever be chance of that now.” She lowered her hands. The dusty light painting her features in softest orange. “Samuel was my dearest friend and guardian after mother died. He could not have changed as they claim he did. He was sweet and good and kind.”

  “Do you remember your brother’s rank? Where he served?”

  William snapped his mouth shut. He must tread with caution or unwittingly reveal what he loathed to keep hidden.

  Anna reached her hands out once more, and ’twas only then he saw that she shivered. He spun around and searched for the shawl he had seen before leaving and snatched it from the back of the kitchen chair, draping it around her shoulders and allowing his hands to rest on the slope of her arms.

  The smile she offered in return warmed like a summer sunrise. Looking back to the fire, that sad, reminiscent countenance returned. “Samuel served in Boston and had reached the rank of captain, I believe.”

  Slowly, William lowered his hands and stepped back as the room expanded around him, leaving him suspended in a cold, gray light. Like the flash of a long forgotten dream, the reverend’s voice and Anna’s reply pulsed in his ears.

  “Forgive me, I didn’t ask your full name.”

  “Anna Fairchild Martin Rone.”

  William choked on his breath. Dear Lord.

  “William?…William?”

  Anna’s quiet appeal roused him from the briars, but the thorns remained lodged. He blinked with a quick nod.

  “Aye, forgive me.” He flicked a look to the clock on the mantel. “I suppose the soup is ready, hmm?”

  “Oh! The soup, of course.” She snatched a wooden spoon from the table and bent to stir the contents of the pot when she flew a hand to her mouth and lurched back up to her feet. “I am sorry, I cannot…I fear my former pride forbade me from admitting the truth, that I am overtired.”

  The weight of the revelation made his limbs drag against the floor, but he ushered her to the room. “You should retire early, my dear. Tomorrow is full. I shall fetch my own meal.”

  She turned, innocence and love radiating through the tiny smile that lifted her mouth before she slipped into the bedchamber and shut the door, leaving William to tread the murky waters of reality alone.

  Appetite long since vanished, he slumped in the chair nearest the fire and stared into the crackling fire. His long deceased enemy returned now from the world of the departed to begin again what he’d loathed to part from. Even in death, Samuel Martin would endeavor to dominate, endeavor to demean, and command his every breath.

  And now, he must keep himself all the more closed, all the more hidden from the woman he loved.

  ~~~

  Paul opened the door to the tavern and stepped in from the rain. The aroma of savory meat and yeasty bread consumed the warm air, and the sudden pang in his stomach reminded him he�
�d eaten nothing more than stale bread and fatty meat in bland broth for weeks. He pressed a hand to the wound that still pained. Soon, he promised himself, soon Donaldson would have a similar wound in the left of his chest.

  He stepped toward the large kitchen fire in the back of the tavern. A tall, thin gentleman poked at a round of pork turning on a spit.

  The stranger spoke without raising his eyes. “Care for a room or just a meal?”

  Paul cloaked the abiding irritation with charm. “Aye, sir, I thank you. I should like a meal, indeed. “ He stopped and pivoted to glance over his shoulder. “But I am curious…perhaps you can help me…”

  The man batted the air to quiet him. “Aye, just a moment—Kimball!”

  Another man made his way through the crowd, his arm waving. “Coming, sir.”

  “We’ve much to attend to and I’ll have nothing but your full attention.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The proprietor poured ale into three large mugs. “Take these drinks to the table in the corner.”

  With a nod the man took the large tray and hustled back from whence he came.

  Paul followed with his gaze as the man weaved through the crowd toward a large table in the back. ’Twas the patriots, no doubt. Paul had seen them there before, full of self-righteous zeal. Foolish men. Ingrates—

  “Now, how may I help you?”

  Paul turned back with a quick shake of his head. “Of course.” He took another quick look behind before pinning his gaze on the man in front of him. “I am looking for a gentleman by the name of Warren Fox.”

  The proprietor’s attention turned once again to the spit. “Don’t know him.”

  “I hear he might be passing through. He is looking for his daughter and I wish to help him.” Such a sincere overture would not be ignored, surely.

  Heaving a breath, the man stood, his forehead and neck glistening from sweat. He gestured to a man seated alone to the left of the patriot crowd. “You’ll be looking for him. Been in here several times before.”

  “Really?” Paul allowed only a single eyebrow to rise, though anticipation burst like black powder. “The distinguished fellow, tan jacket, black hat?”

  A nod was the only reply.

  Paul bent slightly to offer his thanks before hurrying to the man he sought, the table a mess of maps and notes. When the fellow didn’t immediately look up, Paul readied his charm.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  Only the man’s eyes lifted, slowly, as if the intrusion were nearly a criminal offence. “Aye?”

  Paul grinned wide. “Forgive me, I do not mean to disturb you, but if I may be so bold, are you—”

  The heated patriot discussion cut off Paul’s words. Pressing back the scowl that itched to swell across his face, Paul looked up and stilled at the sudden recollection. The man from the print shop stared directly at him, his jaw hard, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

  “State your business. I am busy as you see.”

  Paul turned his attentions once more on the man at the table whose eyes were hard and brimming with suspicion.

  Though it had not been offered, Paul took the opposite seat. “Are you Warren Fox?”

  The man leaned back against his chair, glare hard and scrutinizing.

  After another look around Paul’s gaze landed on the printer once more and his muscles jolted. The man still stared. Not only that, he had moved closer. The temperature of the room rose and a string of profanities thumped through Paul’s mind.

  Clearing his throat, Paul spoke while his gaze lingered on the printer. “I am looking for a man named Warren Fox.” Now, he faced the one who sat opposite. “According to the tale I have heard, this fellow is searching for his daughter that was taken by a man in the wood.”

  The tight expression on the man’s weathered face softened a degree, but still he did not speak. Paul went on. “I believe that the man I seek could well be the same who took his daughter.”

  Rubbing his hand over his mouth, the man squinted. “Who are you searching for?”

  So this was Warren then? The man had not said, but Paul continued as if he were. “Henry Donaldson—tall, dark blonde hair, strong build. He deserted the army and betrayed his country by helping the colonists in their quest for freedom.” The last words tasted like gall. “I plan to find him and bring him to justice.”

  Blinking, the man’s stare sharpened. “Who are you?”

  Paul shot a look to the patriot table and breathed out when he saw the print shop owner no longer looked at him. Even still, risks could not be taken. Should the patriots know he was a soldier…

  He leaned forward, careful his volume didn’t carry beyond the table. “I am Paul Stockton. ’Tis my duty to find this man. And I will.”

  “A similarity in physical appearance means nothing. What makes you think we search for the same man?”

  Paul leaned forward. “Then you are Warren Fox.”

  Folding his arms around his chest, the man lowered his chin answering only after two slow breaths. “I am.”

  Confidence seized. “Do you remember anything else about the man that might identify him? Did he have a wound on his arm?”

  The man’s crossed arms released, his face rounding in shock. “He did.”

  Paul rested back against his chair, struggling to subdue the childish jubilance with trained solemnity. “Then it is confirmed. Shall we not combine our efforts in search of this man and your daughter?”

  The man leaned forward, resting one forearm on the table, his strained tone choking the air between them. “How can I be sure you speak the truth? That you will not take her as he has done? How can I be assured you are not simply looking for a reward to line your pocketbook?”

  “Reward?” Paul shook his head. “You will know I am in earnest when we combine our efforts and I speak not once of material gain.” He strained urgency through his voice. “I must find this man. I am close, I can feel it, but I believe to find him we must work together.”

  “Hmm…” That familiar suspicion returned, deepening the shadows around Warren’s eyes. A deep command rumbled across the table when he answered. “If we are to work together, you will do as I say.”

  Irritating, but Paul had suspected as much. He nodded. “When shall we begin?”

  “Immediately.”

  Paul glanced out the window as the rain plinked against the glass, begging for entrance. “Now?”

  “You wish to begin later?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then let us away.”

  “Excellent.” Paul rose, but the man reached out, gripping his arm with iron-like fingers. “If you betray our agreement, if you harm my daughter in any way, I will have my vengeance upon you. Make no mistake.”

  A tremor toyed with Paul’s spine. This old man was no fool. Then again, Paul was no peasant farmer. He straightened to pull the anxieties from his back. Steeped in the cloak of sincerity he wore so well, Paul dipped his head. “Never fear. I give you my word.”

  ~~~

  A rapping on the door lurched William from his lounged position in front of the fire. He sprang to his feet and lunged for the pistol that rested on the mantel.

  He swallowed, rubbing his thumb against the gun’s smooth handle, wishing his vision could penetrate past the planks of the door. Flicking a look to the clock, he frowned. Midnight.

  The knock came again, followed after by a voice. “William. ’Tis I, Thomas.”

  Heaving free his anxieties with an audible breath, William replaced the weapon and charged for the door. Thomas entered without an invitation, spiking the remaining edge of William’s worry.

  “What’s happened?” William clicked the latch shut, his scowl growing heavy as Thomas faced him, his own expression hard, no doubt from the report he prepared to relay.

  Only he did not. He stared, his jaw ticking before he removed his hat and tapped it against his leg. His gaze sharpened.

  A suffocating mist of confusion and angst thick
ened the shadowed room. William stepped forward. “Speak, Thomas.”

  “I have seen your hunter. He is in town.”

  “This I know.”

  Thomas’s eyes narrowed and he turned his head. “You know?”

  Growling deep in his chest, William raked a hand over his head. “I saw him speak with Anna not seconds before she delivered your supper.”

  Thomas hummed, his head still cocked. “I saw him at the tavern. He spoke with a man named Warren Fox—a man claiming to be searching for his daughter.”

  A crack of rage shot down William’s spine. Then ’twas true, though he’d clung to a thread of hope his fears would prove false. Somehow, in the hours since Anna had retired, he’d almost convinced himself ’twas all some strange ghostly dream, that Paul had been a phantom and their lives were not truly on the brink of utter ruin. He shifted his weight over his feet. “Paul claims to seek the man who pretends to be her father that they may join their efforts—believing that indeed I am the one who took her. Find Anna, and they find me.”

  Thomas huffed a quiet reply and slung his hat on the chair. Resting against the edge of the table, he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and folded his arms across his chest. “He cannot be sure you two are together. No one knows but us.”

  “It matters not how he came to such knowledge, only that he is here and that I must reckon with him.”

  Tipping his head, Thomas’s tone reached to the floor. “You plan to fight?”

  “I must.” William rubbed his eyes, then his forehead. “I know Paul too well. He will not surrender his hunt until I am found.”

  “What of Anna?”

  William looked to the bedchamber, regrets and wishes pulling against his spirit. His fraud, his lies and deceptions, cackled like demons in the sparks of the fire. She knew nothing of him, of his past and the darkness that followed. Here his enemy waited to ensnare and burn them, leaving ashes of grief where the walls of their joy once stood.

  “You could flee.”

  Thomas’s quiet words lured William from the singeing heat.

  He shook his head, having already discarded that enticing alternative. “Running would only prolong that which is coming.”