My Dearest Enemy

by Jennifer Moore

  He heard footsteps in the passageway, and Major Graves rushed into the room followed by a guard and Abigail. Emmett’s heart caught at the sight of her, and in the next moment, his stomach turned hard. He forced a neutral expression, hoping the conflicting emotions hadn’t shown on his face.

  Abigail held Emmett’s gaze for a split second then dropped her medical bag and knelt beside him. “What has happened?”

  If he’d thought a hunk of rock to be comforting, it was nothing to the sensation of having her here next to him. It took every ounce of his self-control not to reach for her. “He took a drink and immediately fell, holding his stomach and saying that everything was going dark.”

  She touched the lieutenant’s neck, right below the jaw, feeling for his heartbeat. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  A groan was the only response.

  She pressed her palm to his forehead then his cheek. “What is his name?” she asked Emmett.

  “Devon. Lieutenant Devon.”

  “Lieutenant Devon?” Abigail leaned close, shaking his shoulder. “Can you tell me where you are hurting?”

  “Stomach.” He groaned again.

  Abigail rose, motioning to Emmett and the guard. “If you please, can you get him to a bed?”

  Emmett grabbed beneath the lieutenant’s arms and hefted while the guard lifted his feet, moving him up onto his bunk.

  Abigail opened her bag, taking out a few bottles and looking at the labels. “Now, what did he drink?”

  Emmett jerked up his chin toward the pitcher. He handed her the cup. “I think he may have been poisoned.”

  Abigail sniffed the water then touched it to the tip of her tongue just as Emmett had a moment earlier. Her face darkened, and she spit. “Monkshood.” She looked at the pitcher and then at Emmett. Her eyes opened wide.

  A thin man with a pronounced nose hurried into the room. He looked at the patient then at Abigail, and his nostrils flared. “Ah, Miss Tidwell, I see you’ve beat me to it.”

  “The lieutenant’s ingested monkshood.” She chose a bottle and moved to the bedside. “If you please,” she said to the guard. “A bucket. And some clean water.”

  “We cannot treat him here,” the thin man said. “Bring him to the hospi—”

  “Doctor, there is no time. We must expel the poison immediately.” Abigail reached past him and took the bucket from the guard. “His heart rate is slow, and his sight is darkening.”

  The doctor looked as if he would argue but thought better of it. He stood near, scowling as Abigail poured some of the syrup into the patient’s mouth.

  “Now, this won’t be pleasant, Lieutenant Devon. I’m sorry. Captain, please, can you help me turn him on his side?”

  The next moments were extremely unpleasant for all involved as Lieutenant Devon expelled the contents of his stomach with violent force. After each spasm passed, he would collapse onto the bunk, trembling.

  Emmett felt extremely sorry for the younger man.

  Abigail rubbed the lieutenant’s arm and spoke to him softly, occasionally brushing back a damp lock of hair or wiping his mouth with a cloth.

  And Emmett felt a bit less sorry for him.

  Finally, the vomiting ended. The lieutenant lay back, breathing shallowly. His skin was as gray as the dirty snow outside.

  “There, Lieutenant,” Abigail said in a gentle tone. She mopped his brow with the cloth. “Rest now.”

  “Miss, am I going to die?” Lieutenant Devon’s voice shook. He glanced toward the miniature portrait on the ledge.

  “Not if I can help it,” Abigail said, giving his arm a pat. She pulled down the picture and studied it. “Lovely. What is her name?”

  “Georgiana.” His eyes were drooping.

  Abigail put the picture into his hand. “Rest now, Lieutenant,” she said and took a step back.

  The doctor must have seen this as his signal to take charge. He ordered some men to bring in a stretcher, and for a few minutes, the small room filled with confusion as too many people got in one another’s way as they maneuvered the patient through the doorway.

  The chaos moved down the hall, and Emmett and Abigail were alone.

  When he turned to her, he saw her gaze upon the piece of hematite beside his bunk. She smiled, and a small blush colored her cheeks.

  “You have to leave Byron,” Emmett said, with no time for preamble.

  Abigail’s smile dropped away. She blinked. “Emmett, you’re in danger.” Her eyes darted to the door.

  “I know. But you must leave. Return home immediately.” He held her arm and looked directly into her eyes. “You must. Promise me, Abigail.”

  She shook her head, her brows pulling together above her nose. “I will not. Not while you—”

  Footsteps sounded in the passageway, and she moved away from him to the lieutenant’s bunk, packing the bottles into her bag.

  The guard stepped into the room. “Anything else, miss?”

  “No, I think I have everything. Thank you.”

  He nodded and stood aside to allow her to pass.

  She met Emmett’s gaze just for an instant as she left the room, and his heart dropped. Her face was set in a mask of determination.

  The guard picked up the bucket and followed her.

  Well, if nothing else, this time Emmett had evidence. Absolute proof of Lieutenant Fox’s attempts on his life. The British officers would have to take the threat seriously now.

  But when Emmett turned to the desk, the offending pitcher was gone.

  Chapter 19

  Abigail counted the heartbeats beneath her fingers, keeping her gaze fixed on the hands of the clock in the hospital ward. Satisfied, she released Lieutenant Devon’s wrist and sat back onto the chair at his bedside. “Much better, Lieutenant,” she said. “Your pulse rate has returned to normal. How do you feel now?” Nearly six hours had passed since she’d found the man writhing on the floor of the prison barracks. And during that time, there had been moments when she’d been fearful that he’d not survive.

  “Better,” he said. His breathing still seemed shallow. “My mouth and face have still not regained full sensation, and I’ve some pain in my stomach, but it has eased significantly.” He glanced toward the small portrait on the table next to the bed. “I am going to recover, aren’t I?” Abigail heard hope where before there had only been fear.

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Abigail said. “I believe you will.”

  His lids lowered in a look of relief, and he sighed. “Thank you, Miss Tidwell.”

  “You are very welcome.” Abigail felt like sighing herself. She patted his arm and poured a fresh cup of water, helping him sit up to drink. She was tempted to ask the man any number of questions. Had he seen anyone suspicious in the barracks? Who had filled the water pitcher? Had Emmett mentioned any young ladies? But she knew now wasn’t the time for an inquisition. “You should rest.”

  Lieutenant Devon closed his eyes and lay back on the pillow.

  Abigail adjusted the blankets around him then glanced at the clock again, just now registering the time that was displayed. Nearly four o’clock. She’d have to hurry or she’d be late to her tea appointment. Abigail had quite a few questions for Lieutenant Fox, and she’d had an entire day tending to a man who had very nearly died to come up with them. As far as she was concerned, in this case, it was time for an inquisition. Knowing Isaac would be there eased her fear significantly, and today she would do what she’d come here for—she’d figure out how to keep Emmett safe.

  She informed Dr. Baldwin she was leaving, removed her apron, hanging it in the hospital cupboard, and fastened on her cloak and bonnet.

  The winter air did little to cool her anger. She thought she could actually feel flames on her cheeks spreading to heat her ears. Only a very small amount of Monkshood was required to kill a man, and the poison was known for the horrifically painful death it produced. If the pitcher had contained less water, if the lieutenant had taken a bigger gulp, if she hadn’t arrived in time, if
Emmett had been the one to drink it . . . Each if made her clench her fists tighter, and she had to remind herself to be cautious lest her anger show.

  She marched toward the row of houses where the officers lived. And to the one Isaac had pointed out as the house shared by the lieutenants.

  As she walked, she remembered Emmett’s words when they were alone in the barrack room. If she were to be honest, they’d stung a bit. He hadn’t looked delighted to see her, but unhappy, angry even. Of course, he’d just seen his friend collapse after drinking poison. But a month had passed since they’d seen one another—nearly two since they’d spoken—and his only words were a request for her to go away?

  He must know the gravity of his situation and fear her safety was in jeopardy, she reasoned. But of course his worries were foolish.

  Her brother was the commander of the town, and Lieutenant Fox, while unpleasant, didn’t harbor any antipathy toward her. She was the safe one, while Emmett was in grave peril, and her relationship with the enemy was such that any help she could offer must be done in secret or risk causing him further trouble, as well as her brother.

  She let her mind wander, wondering what Emmett might have said to her under different circumstances if she’d recently arrived in a town where he lived. She imagined he might greet her with a smile and a bow, perhaps even a gentle tease about a shared experience in hopes of making her laugh. He might request a visit or meet her at a party. Maybe he’d reveal a new rock he’d found or tell her of a particular geological anomaly just outside of town.

  Would he not? An uncomfortable resurgence of her doubts itched at the back of her mind. If there were no war, how would Emmett treat her? Had the things they’d shared been a result of their forced circumstances? Or was there something more? Were her feelings reciprocated?

  She reached the door and lifted her hand to knock but paused and shook her head, as if sending her doubts flying. No matter the depths of his affection, Emmett was her friend, and she’d promised Jasper, Barney, Luke, and Murphy that she’d help him. That was all there was to it.

  Straightening her shoulders, she knocked. A servant woman opened the door, took Abigail’s cloak and bonnet, and admitted her to a small parlor beside the entry hall. The servant informed her that Lieutenant Fox was in a meeting but would join her shortly. Isaac had sent word that he’d been detained but would arrive soon.

  She thanked the servant, and once the woman excused herself, Abigail sat on a sofa to wait. The room was well appointed with fine furniture and a shelf filled with books. Dark stain was the color of choice for the wooden tables. Paintings of landscapes and foxhunts adorned the walls, and the sofa was covered in a deep burgundy velvet. The smell of cigars and brandy and masculinity permeated the room.

  Aside from the homey crackle of the fire, the only other sound was the murmur of men’s voices. Abigail noticed a door on the other side of the room was slightly ajar, and it was from the small crack between the doorjamb and the door that she heard the lieutenant’s nasally voice. She strained her ears and finally moved closer, pretending to study an oil painting should someone come in and discover her eavesdropping.

  “. . . have been thwarted at every attempt,” Lieutenant Fox was saying. “How does one man consistently possess such an abundance of luck?”

  They couldn’t be speaking about Emmett, could they? It was too great a coincidence, but Abigail crept closer to the door just the same.

  “The tree wasn’t our fault,” said a voice that sounded quite a lot like Private Matthews. “He was warned and moved at the last second.”

  “And the poison,” another said. “We’d no way of knowing who would drink it.”

  Abigail’s heart beat so noisily, she was having difficulty hearing over it. Her breathing even sounded loud, and she put her hand over her mouth to make certain she’d not give herself away.

  “It must be tonight,” Lieutenant Fox said. “I grow weary of waiting. Tonight we will act directly and leave no room for error. Now, if you will excuse me, I am taking tea . . .”

  Abigail didn’t wait to hear more. Her thoughts were folding in on her and her legs weakening. She had to get away, had to think, to devise a plan. Tonight? It was four o’clock in the afternoon. She had hardly time to come up with any strategy, but she must. Emmett’s life depended on it.

  She ran from the room, startling the servant in the entry hall as she rushed past. “I’m sorry. I must go.”

  The woman chased after her down the pathway with her cloak and bonnet. Abigail grabbed them, gave a hasty thank you, and kept running, not even bothering to put them on. She reached Isaac’s house and flew up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  What do I do? She repeated the question over and over as she paced across the room, twisting her hands together. Her insides felt hollow, yet she could scarcely draw a breath. What do I do? Her thoughts were filled with such fear and disbelief that she couldn’t organize them into coherence. It was one thing to hear others accuse the lieutenant, but to hear the man himself . . . It was all true. He intended to kill Emmett.

  She stopped, willing herself to calm. Enough panicking. The time had come to think.

  Leaning her back against the door, she slid down, clasping her arms around her legs and resting her cheek on her knees.

  She needed Jasper to devise a plan, but how could she get word to him? Before parting, they’d arranged a spot, a crooked fence post at the north end of town, where she would go if she needed help. After a few hours of surveillance when they arrived, Jasper had determined the pickets were lighter north of the town where there was no road, thicker forest, and less of a chance for a surprise attack. The Americans would check the spot at regular intervals throughout the day and night. But she had no way of knowing what time they would be there.

  And she couldn’t very well stand out at the edge of town alone in the middle of the day without raising suspicion. Perhaps she could find somewhere to hide as she waited. But no, hours could pass, and time was not something she had in excess. Could she leave a note? But how would she get a reply? There was no time to go to the spot twice.

  What she needed to do was get word to Emmett. But how?

  A knock sounded behind her. “Abigail?” Isaac asked through the door. “Are you ill?”

  She stood and stepped lightly across the room toward the bed, not wishing to reply from directly beside the door. “A headache. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  “What shall I do? Shall I send for Dr. Baldwin?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She opened the door and saw his face tight with worry. “I just need to rest.”

  “You are very pale. I will tell Mrs. Bennett to look in on you.”

  Abigail put a hand to her head. She didn’t try to still the trembling that lingered. “In a few hours.”

  Isaac nodded and rubbed her arm gently. “Sleep then, and recover.” He bid her farewell and departed.

  A fresh rush of guilt burned Abigail’s throat. She was deceiving her brother again. But what was the other choice? He would never believe one of his men to be a villain.

  She sat at the small desk and thought for a long while before composing a short note to Emmett. She explained that it was imperative that he leave this evening. After some thought, she decided his primary obstacle was the guard outside the barracks entrance, and she told him she would cause a distraction at precisely half past nine.

  Abigail thought that was a particularly good time, because it would be full dark, and the people of the town as well as the soldiers would be finished with their supper and hopefully in for the night. Emmett would have less chance of being seen as he made his escape.

  And she reasoned Lieutenant Fox would wait to set his plan into motion. He’d act late when the town was asleep, not when he’d possibly be missed. At least, she hoped that was the case. She continued with the letter, describing the broken fencepost north of town where he could meet Jasper and the others, in case she did not get a chance to tell him herself
.

  She read over the letter a few more times, hoping she’d not overlooked anything. The plan was simple, to be sure, but she reasoned fewer factors left less room for error.

  Her next challenge would be getting the letter to him. Then she’d need to come up with a plan to draw the guard’s attention from the barracks. Abigail pushed those other problems to the back of her thoughts, only focusing on one step at a time, lest she become overwhelmed with the enormity of what she was doing. Performing small tasks was much easier than looking at the entire undertaking.

  In the cell room, she’d determined the bit of hematite indicated which bunk belonged to Emmett. But if she slipped the note beneath his blanket, he may not notice it until much later. And if she left it sitting on his pillow, someone else might find it. The problem was now how to make him discover the note without drawing any unwanted attention. And of course, she needed a way to get into the room in the first place. But that, at least, seemed possible.

  She changed into her homespun dress, thinking it would be warmer for walking about in the evening, and drew on her cloak and bonnet. Emmett’s rock pouch lay on the bedside table, and she picked it up, smelling the soft leather. She’d miss this reminder of him.

  Tipping it, she poured out the native copper nugget and slipped it into her pocket. The copper was her favorite, and she trusted he wouldn’t mind parting with it. She’d also brought the blue fluorite Emmett had so admired, thinking he might like to see it again. Now, she hoped he would wish to keep it as a remembrance of her. Before she cinched the drawstrings, she slipped the letter inside.

  She took a small glass bottle from her dressing table and hurried out the door.

  Abigail glanced up and down the street before starting toward the prison barracks. She worried she might chance upon her brother or Lieutenant Fox or even someone who would mention to one of them that they’d encountered her, so she took a different path through the small town, staying in the evening shadows as much as possible. The air smelled of woodsmoke as dinners were being cooked in the houses around her. Windows glowed, shining yellow on the snow.