Her. It had to be her.
He tried telling himself that this was the fair thing to do: Amaranthus needed to know first that he’d discovered Ben, in order to take whatever action she could to protect herself once the truth was known. But he’d had enough of lies and lying, and he’d be damned if he lied now to himself. She’d made a fool of him and damn near dragged him into her web.
He wanted to tell Amaranthus because he wanted to see the look on her face when he did.
Decision made, he went to sleep and dreamed of beetles with tiny red eyes.
WILLIAM TOOK HIS greatcoat off for the first time when he reached New Bern. It was raining, but it was a soft rain that smelled of spring and his skin yearned for air and freshness, and his limbs for a good stretch. It would need to be a good deal warmer before he took much else off, but he did find an inn with a stable for Betsy, and once having seen to the horse’s needs, he walked down to the shore, shucked his boots and filthy stockings with a sigh of relief, and walked out onto the cold, wet sand above the tide.
It was twilight and there was no one on the beach here, though he could smell a wood fire and boiling crabs from a distant cluster of shacks. His belly rumbled.
“I must be thawing out,” he said aloud, his voice sounding rough and cracked to his ears. He hadn’t consciously thought of food since recovering from the bang on the head in Morristown. Denzell Hunter had fed him then, insisting he eat something before setting out on the road home. He had tried to refuse, knowing that it was likely Denzell’s entire ration for the day—but hunger and Hunter’s insistence had won out. He’d eaten now and then, of course, on his way south, but without much noticing what.
He wished he had been able to persuade the Hunters to come back with him, but at least Dottie had written a letter for her parents. He touched the inner pocket of his coat and was reassured by the crackle of paper.
The wind had dropped, and there was no sound but the soft hiss of the tide coming in.
Thought of Dottie’s letter brought Uncle Hal to mind—not that he’d been far distant. The feel of sand underfoot and the sight of his own footprints, long and high-arched, like a series of commas following him down the beach, brought back again that conversation by the marsh in Savannah. Treason.
“At least there’re no bloody alligators,” he muttered, but looked over his shoulder by reflex, then snorted and laughed at himself. What with one thing and another, he’d given the quandary of his earldom not a single thought in weeks, and realized with some surprise that he felt at peace with himself and was reluctant to pick that burden up again. He didn’t care who he was—but he wasn’t the Earl of Ellesmere. He’d have to do something about that, but not now.
At least Amaranthus’s suggestion is right out. Not, he assured himself, that he would have taken her up on it in any case, but knowing that her husband was still alive quashed the notion out of hand.
The hand in question closed involuntarily, wet with rain, and he rubbed his fingers against his palm, erasing the memory of the kiss she’d left there, with a tiny warm touch from the tip of her tongue.
Damn Ben. Selfish sod.
A sudden rush of seawater surged up about his ankles, the cold running through his body like the electric shock from a Leyden jar, the water sucking the sand out from under his feet. He staggered back, blinking rain from his lashes and realizing that his shirt was damp and the shoulders of his jacket wet.
A lift of the air brought him once more the smell of food, and he left the beach, his footprints disappearing behind him as the tide came in.
106
The High Ground
Kings Mountain, Tennessee County
April 1780
TAKING POSSESSION OF THE high ground was one of the cornerstones of military strategy. Jamie’s da had told him that, once, when he and Murtagh had sat up late before the fire, drinking whisky and talking. Jamie had been hunched up on the floor in a corner with the dogs, hoping to be overlooked so he could stay and listen.
Neither man was unobservant, though, and they’d spotted him soon enough—but by then, they’d had a few drams and so his da had let him stay, now curled up next to Da on the settle, warmed by the fire and the heat of his father’s solid body, the big hand that wasn’t holding a whisky glass resting absently on Jamie’s back.
“Ye remember hidin’ in the bracken?” Murtagh was saying, his eyes glinting with memory. “Up on the hillside, waitin’ for the start of it?” A small rumble of laughter under his father’s ribs had tickled Jamie’s ear.