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Albany, New York
April 10, 1778
––––––––
Each time he came to Molly Harmar's bed, he came in darkness and left before the rising of the moon. The absence of light, the concealment of the shadows, suited his needs perfectly, allowing him to maintain a measure of privacy, to prevent the questions he did not wish to answer from ever being raised.
Molly's curiosity, once aroused, was a fearsome thing. Yet at present she slept—the moon was just topping the trees—and for the moment his secrets were safe.
It was time to move.
Slipping silently from the bed, Draegan Mattais Youngblood dragged on his stockings, breeches, and boots, and reached for his linen shirt, which lay on the coverlet, half under Molly's plump white hand.
Frowning, he took hold of the shirtsleeve and, inch by torturous inch, eased it from under her, praying that he would not wake her, that he could slip away without argument, explanations, or tearful entreaties.
In a moment, Draegan's patience was rewarded. The garment came free, and Molly slumbered on. Triumphantly, he donned the shirt, took up his uniform coat, and, turning, tramped on the tail of Molly's brindle cat, which had been curled on the rug by the foot of the bed.
The cat let loose an unearthly howl and flew beneath the bed; Molly came awake with a start. "Draegan, my love? What is it? What's wrong?"
Draegan bent to kiss her lips, to stroke her tumbled tresses, to placate her in whatever way he could. "Molly, dear. It's late. Go back to sleep."
Instead, she sat up, reaching for the tinderbox on the bedside table.
Draegan covered her hand with his. "Save your candles. I can see well enough in the dark."
But she could not. And he knew it.
"You aren't leaving?"
"I must." He straightened, tucking in his shirttail, wrapping and tying his stock. When the scar was concealed, he relaxed the smallest bit. "I was due at headquarters an hour ago. If I stay with you now and ignore Schuyler's summons, he'll strip me of my officer's commission. You don't want that, now, do you?"
She shook her head, and Draegan saw the faint glimmer of tears coursing slowly down her cheeks. Curse her for crying, Draegan thought. All the same he found his handkerchief, gently dried her tears, and pressed it into her hand. She was watching him intently now, her gray eyes huge and luminous in her pale oval face. "Will you come again tomorrow night?"
Draegan was stubbornly silent. He'd been sharing Molly Harmar's bed for nearly two months, since shortly after the death of her husband, Asa.
Mutual need had brought them together, yet in the past few weeks Molly had grown more demanding, and their relationship had become strained.
The change in Molly troubled Draegan. He'd thought at first that he had recognized in her the same deep thirst for life he himself had. Now he realized he'd been mistaken, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Molly Harmar wanted far more from him than he was willing to give.
When he failed to answer, Molly prompted, "Draegan? You will come again tomorrow eve?"
"How can I make promises when I've no way of knowing what tomorrow will bring?" He took up his coat, kissed her pouting lips a final time, and made his way from the room.
He knew that Molly was far from satisfied with his noncommittal answer. But he truly didn't give a damn.
A short while later, Draegan reached Schuyler's headquarters on the outskirts of Albany. The private standing guard outside the front entrance saluted as Draegan mounted the steps. “Evenin', Major, sir."
"Private, the general is expecting me."
"Aye, sir, and you’d best hurry on in. I believe he mentioned something about sendin' out a search party to comb the taverns if you didn't show your face within the quarter hour. His gout’s actin’ up again. Makes him short of temper."
Draegan thanked the private and entered, closing the door on the cold spring evening. He found the general in the parlor, his gout-ridden foot propped on a feather pillow. Pastor Jonathan Akers, Draegan's uncle, sat in a chair opposite.
The general's expression as he regarded Draegan was marked by pain and a vast irritation. "You are late, Major!" he snapped.
"My apologies, sir, but I was unavoidably detained."
"This is the second time in as many months that you have been 'unavoidably detained,' Major. And if you value your position, you will not let it happen again. I will not be kept cooling my heels while you dally with some tavern trollop, no matter how fetching she is! Have I made myself sufficiently clear to you?"
"Aye, sir."
"Good," Schuyler said. "Then, let's get down to the business at hand. Since you are already well acquainted with my guest, I shall dispense with the formalities."
Pastor Jonathan Akers, the youngest brother of Draegan’s mother, Eloise Youngblood, rose from his chair to grasp Draegan's hand. "Draegan, lad, it's good to see you!"
"Uncle Jon," Draegan said, "is something wrong?"
Akers shook his head and smiled, urging Draegan closer to the hearth. "The family is well, and they all send their love. Come, warm yourself by the fire while General Schuyler explains."
The pastor resumed his seat, and Draegan gave his attention to the general. He did not have long to wait.
"You recall those two gentlemen who were apprehended night before last trying to infiltrate the perimeters of our camp?" Schuyler asked.
Draegan nodded. He did indeed. The two men, pretending to be Dutch farmers delivering a wagonload of hay to camp, had turned out to be Tories. "I heard that one escaped during the night. Has he been retaken?"
Schuyler grimaced, shifting in his chair. "No, but as it so happens, his sudden leave-taking loosened his companion's tongue considerably, and some surprising information has been brought to light—information concerning a certain British agent, which, if substantiated, will prove a veritable windfall."
Draegan raised his dark head and he stared hard at Schuyler. "Which agent?"
Schuyler smiled humorlessly. "Sparrowhawk. After sixteen months of chasing my tail, I can finally put a name to the villain's infamous deeds."
"Are you certain?"
"As certain as I can be," Schuyler replied, "given that this information comes from an unscrupulous bastard. I've little doubt that Phelps would sell his own mother to avoid the noose."
Draegan said nothing as Schuyler went on, "The man in question is Lucien Deane. He lives on the outskirts of Abundance, near Esopus Creek. Phelps swears he's Sparrowhawk."
Draegan's aspect was grave, but his roiling emotions were barely held in check. Sparrowhawk, the most notorious British operative of the war... who had been at the root of untold destruction all along the border ... Sparrowhawk, who along with Randall Quill had caused him agony, humiliation, and pain, who'd nearly cost him his life.
There was a moment of pregnant silence, in which Draegan fought down his fury. And when at last he spoke, his voice was strangled. "How is it that this Phelps can do what no one else has been able to? How can he put a name to Sparrowhawk?"
"He claims to have had dealings with Deane in the recent past. Whether he is telling the truth or lying to save his worthless hide remains to be proven."
"Then, you intend to bring Master Deane to Albany for questioning." Draegan watched as Schuyler and Pastor Akers exchanged glances.
Jon Akers replied. "I'm afraid it isn't that simple. Lucien Deane is from an old and revered family. We cannot afford to approach him with these accusations until we have something more on which to found them."
"No man is above the law," Draegan said.
"That’s just it. I’m afraid that Lucien Deane is the law," Jon replied. "He is the local magistrate, and has been for many years. And if that is not enough, he is also the son and heir to the village's founding father, an elder of the Congregationalist Church that serves the community. He is a man of wealth and position, a man above reproach, and proving him to be Sparrowhawk will not be easy."
Schuyler snorted. "I don't give a damn about how revered his family happens to be, or how lofty his position is in the community! If he's found guilty of treasonous activities beyond a shred of doubt, I shall hang him higher than Haman. And that, Major Youngblood, is where you come in. It has come to my attention through Jonathan that the village of Abundance is experiencing some difficulty in attracting and maintaining a local minister. As an elder of the church, Lucien Deane quite naturally turned to Jonathan for assistance, in the hopes that he could recommend a suitable candidate for the vacancy. Jonathan and I considered the matter carefully, and have concluded that you are that candidate.
"You have the background, if you will," Schuyler went on, "the education—with your theology studies at Harvard—to be convincing in the role you are to play. You also have the cunning. The church, as you know, is the hub of the community. The citizens of Abundance, so long deprived of ecclesiastical guidance, will no doubt welcome you with open arms. And, in turn for serving their spiritual needs, you will enjoy an unlimited access to the community as a whole, and Lucien Deane in particular. So long as you conform to the strict moral standards dictated by the Church, you will be able to conduct your investigation into Deane's activities without arousing suspicions." Schuyler paused, pinning Draegan with his probing stare. "Well, Major," he said, "what say you?"
Draegan sent both men a dark look. "The good citizens of Abundance have appealed to you for a shepherd to lead their flock, and you are sending them instead a wolf in cleric's clothes."
The general’s smile was grim. "I have known you since you were in swaddling, Major. I know your family, and know every scrap of scandal attributed to your name as intimately as I know the throb in my big toe, and if I for one moment thought you incapable of laying your personal peccadilloes aside long enough to see the task through, I would not consider you." He paused to glare at Draegan and then at Jon Akers, as if daring either to question his judgment. When he continued, his tone was less harsh. "Yes, Major, I am very much aware of whom and what I am sending the good people of Abundance. But it may well take a wolf to put an end to Sparrowhawk." He shifted in his chair. "Well, sir? Will you accept this assignment, or must I look elsewhere?"
"I will take it," Draegan said softly. "And rest assured, if your suspicions hold true, you shall have Lucien Deane's head served up on a silver platter."
"Good. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I shall take this blasted foot of mine to bed." Schuyler rose and, with some difficulty, made his way from the room, leaving Draegan alone with his uncle.
It was nearly midnight when Draegan returned to the large brick house on Pearl Street and his rented room. Anne, his landlord's youngest daughter, had left a candle burning in the hallway to aid his passage, and he thought absently that he must remember to thank her for her thoughtfulness before he took his leave of Albany.
Draegan picked up the taper in passing, and found his way to the first-floor rented room, closing and bolting the door behind him.
Shut away from the rest of the world where prying eyes couldn't see, he began to relax. Placing the taper on the candle stand by the bed, he removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. Taking up the crystal decanter, he splashed a liberal amount of brandy into a glass. Then he moved to the washstand where he stood, gazing into the mirror as he drank.
There was little resemblance between the unkempt stranger framed by Sparrowhawk and hanged by Randall Quill that fateful night a year before, and the man he was today.
Since his return to Albany, he'd regained the flesh he'd lost while serving under Washington. No longer was he gaunt and hollow-eyed. The matted beard that had covered his cheeks and chin had been meticulously shaven, and except for the livid scar that ringed his throat—and which he would carry for the rest of his days—there was nothing to link the Reverend Draegan Mattais to the unfortunate Major Youngblood, nothing to give him away.
One other man knew of his resurrection that night in the churchyard, but because of his fear of Randall Quill, he was unlikely to talk.
Draegan tossed back the remainder of the brandy and set the glass aside. Molly's perfume still clung to his skin, cloying and sweet, mingling with the fumes of the brandy, reminding him of everything he was about to forsake by accepting this assignment. Another man in his position might not have been so eager to accept Schuyler's offer, to return to a place where he'd undergone a horrendous ordeal. Yet strangely enough, Draegan found he relished the task at hand.
Opportunity awaited him in the village of Abundance. He would put time and distance between himself and Molly and also settle the score with Sparrowhawk.
Staring intently into the looking glass, Draegan traced a finger over the thick pad of livid flesh that ringed his throat. He’d always been vain, using his handsome face and winning ways to his advantage, and the imperfection scalded his ego. Not until Sparrowhawk was dead could he put the pain of his recent past behind him; not until he had achieved a final reckoning with a certain militia captain could he lay his ghosts to rest.
Abundance, New York
April 19, 1778
––––––––
"Are you certain I can't persuade you to stay a little longer? I baked a nice pear tart just yesterday, unt there's a tiny bit of green tea in de kitchen pantry my Killian has not found yet." Ona Schoonmaker glanced out the window at her husband, putting a plump finger to her lips. "If he knew he would have a fit! He's very set on supporting de cause, you know."
Silhouetted by the buttery sunlight flooding through the top of the Dutch door, Fallon Deane smiled and shook her head. Ona, wife to Killian Schoonmaker—a tenant of Lucien Deane's—was well known for her genial nature. There was nothing the Dutch vrouw loved more than a good gossip, and on several occasions over the past few weeks when Fallon had come bearing coltsfoot tea for Ona's persistent cough, she'd bowed to the older woman's wishes and lingered an hour or two. Despite the difference in their ages, Fallon had found that she enjoyed the older woman's company. That day, however, she knew she could not spare the time to sit and talk. She had already stayed longer than she'd intended. "I really must be going. Willie will wonder what's become of me. I was supposed to meet her at the bridge an hour ago."
Vrouw Schoonmaker clucked her tongue at Fallon. "That Wilhemina Rhys! She's off with some young man by now, I bet, unt has forgot all about de bridge! You might do well to stay unt have a nice cup of tea." The older woman smiled, and a mischievous light shone in her blue button eyes. "Maybe you should take a leaf from Wilhemina's book, unt find yourself a nice young man."
"All of the nice young men have gone off to war," Fallon said. "Now, don't forget. One cup of coltsfoot tea with honey twice a day to soothe your cough." Fallon opened the bottom half of the door and went into the yard.
"I'll remember," Vrouw Schoonmaker called after her. "Unt give my best to your Oom Lucien."
Fallon waved a hand in answer and hastened down the crushed shell walkway, past the small patch of ground where Vrouw Schoonmaker's husband labored. Killian was the local miller, employed by Lucien Deane, but at that moment he was busily turning the earth in preparation for a kitchen garden. "Good afternoon, Mijnheer,” Fallon said.
Killian paused in his labors and leaned on the handle of his spade, touching the broad brim of his hat with his free hand. "Mistress Deane. The missus says your uncle has found a new minister for the church."
Fallon nodded. "It appears so, yes. We are expecting him to arrive in a fortnight."She was reluctant to say more until she'd had the opportunity to meet the Reverend Mattais and take his measure. Since Pastor McCrea's death three years previous, the village had employed several ministers, none of whom had remained for more than a few months.
There had been Timothy Breton, whose patriotic zeal had carried him off to minister to the New England troops soon after the fighting began; lay minister James Holden, whom Fallon suspected had moved on in the hopes of finding a richer parish and a more lucrative position; and lastly the Reverend George Antwhistle, a disagreeable little man with a fondness for strong spirits, which had only served to alienate him from the community.
Reverend Antwhistle had complained vociferously of strange goings-on at the church and rectory, of lights in the black heart of the haunted wood that lay very near the rectory; of voices and unexplained bumps in the night. But because of his drinking no one had listened. Then one day he'd simply drifted away.
"Well," Killian said. "It will be good to have a shepherd to guide the flock once more. The town needs a man of God in its midst. It has been too long without." Always a man of few words, Killian returned to his task, filling the warm spring air with the smell of freshly turned earth as Fallon ran on, past the millpond and through the village streets.
Situated some thirty miles southwest of Albany and tucked up in a mountain hollow, the village of Abundance remained untouched by time and the ravages of the war that continued to rage in the East.
There were but twenty-four houses in the village proper, no more, no less, some built of the native stone so abundant in the Catskills, others of good Dutch brick. All were huddled close upon the banks of Esopus Creek. Some villagers were Dutch and others English in origin, yet all lived amiably side by side. There were Scotch-Irish too, but they hunted and farmed in the outlying districts, and as a rule, kept to themselves.
Before long Fallon reached the old stone bridge that arched over the swift waters of Esopus Creek, and found Willie Rhys there waiting.
"You certainly took long enough," Willie said, pushing away from the low stone wall against which she'd been leaning. "The old biddy must have chewed your ear off."
"You mustn't be so impertinent, Willie," Fallon chided, starting off down South Road, which led past the church and on to Gilead Manor. "Vrouw Schoonmaker has a kind and generous heart. Besides, if you were anxious to leave, you could have returned home without me."
"And walk past the churchyard all by myself?" Willie looked at Fallon as if she'd taken leave of her senses. "I'd sooner beg the use of Vrouw Schoonmaker's broomstick and fly home!"
"Wilhemina Rhys!"
Far from chastened, Willie turned a sulky face to Fallon. "Tout her as good-hearted all ye like! I still haven't forgiven her for telling Mother that she saw me kissing Thomas Smith by the millpond last week!"
Fallon smiled, glancing at the other girl, who was making cheerful small talk as they walked along. Willie was the daughter of Zepporah Rhys, the housekeeper at Gilead Manor, and of an age with Fallon. Indeed, she and Willie had often played together as children. Indulgent by nature, at least where his niece was concerned, Lucien had made no attempt to discourage the budding friendship, and it had never occurred to the democratic Fallon that her friendship with the daughter of a servant was in any way improper. As the years passed, they had become the best of friends, yet they remained as different as day from night.
Willie was impetuous, flirtatious, and eager to wed. Fallon had never been impulsive like Willie, was given to pragmatic thinking, considered flirtatious behavior a waste of time and effort, and, at present, had little if any desire to wed. Ever.
That wasn't to say that she didn't like men. One or two of her half-dozen suitors had captured her interest—until she had opened her mouth, betraying the presence of a keen and questioning mind behind her topaz-colored eyes and thick black lashes. Then each in turn had beaten a tactful retreat, failing to darken her door again... with a single exception.
Randall Quill, the son of a prosperous farmer and the ranking officer of the local mounted militia, had proven more persistent than most. Fallon was not particularly fond of Randall, but he had managed to garner her uncle's approval and so was welcome to call at the manor whenever he chose to do so and thus far, Fallon had no reason to raise an objection.
"Fallon. Fallon! Are you listening to me?" Willie's demand jolted Fallon back to the present.
The rutted road they followed was flanked on the right by patches of forest and fields lying fallow. On the left lay Vanderbloon's Wood, a dense stand of virgin forest and tangled vine. Set against that eerie backdrop, at a little distance off the beaten path, was the small stone chapel and rectory built by Fallon's grandfather, which soon would be occupied once again.
"Yes, of course," Fallon replied. "You were lamenting the fact that your mother found out you were trysting with Thomas. Perhaps you should try to be more discreet."
"Nay! It isn't that!" Willie insisted, plucking nervously at Fallon's sleeve. "Look there! Don't you see it?" She pointed at the small stone chapel down the way, and the thread of gray rising from the rectory chimney.
"It's smoke." Fallon frowned. "But that can't be. The workers I hired aren't to start until next week."
Determined to investigate, Fallon started forward, Willie still dragging at her sleeve. "You aren't goin' in there!"
Fallon gave Willie a determined look. "I most certainly am. And you are coming with me."
"What? Oh, no!" Willie dug in her heels, begging and pleading. "Fallon. Fallon, please! You've heard the tales they tell about this place. You know a man was hanged in that big tree yonder, and there are those that say he still walks!"
"Willie, that's ridiculous," Fallon said, pulling her friend along. "There is no such thing as ghosts, and no earthly reason for you to be frightened. Someone is trespassing, that’s all. Now, come on. Let’s see who it is."
"It ain't the earthly things that worry me," Willie replied. "What about Reverend Antwhistle? He told my mother about the odd happenings here, and he claimed he was goin' to look into it. Then one day he simply disappears. Mother thinks the ghost of the hanged man got him, and so do I."
"Don't be childish." Fallon strode through the weed-choked dooryard with Willie in tow, and rounded the corner of the building, pushing the rectory door inward.
The room was indeed occupied, but not by the Reverend Antwhistle, her uncle's workmen, or the ghost of Willie's hanged man.
A man was seated in a large wing chair drawn comfortably close to the blaze that crackled in the fireplace grate. His long legs were stretched out, the parish records resting open across his lap. Still holding on to Willie, Fallon craned her neck to one side, trying to peer around the wing of the chair in which he sat. She could see little more than two long booted legs and a hand that casually flipped through the pages of the book lying open in his lap. "I know it must be mentioned somewhere," he said to himself, "but I'll be damned if I can find it."
His voice was deep and resonant, the voice of a young man, strangely pleasing to the ear. It was a moment before Fallon recovered enough to speak. "Perhaps I can help you, sir,” she said. “Precisely what are you looking for?"
For the space of a heartbeat he was very still; then, with care, he closed the old tome and laid it aside, slowly coming out of the chair and turning to face her.
Fallon caught her breath. He was arrestingly handsome. Tall and lean, he had the look of a fallen angel, dark and alluring, almost shockingly sensual. His long sable hair was tied at his nape with a wide black ribbon; his features were cleanly molded, decidedly aristocratic, with just a subtle hint of arrogance. The straight nose and slightly rounded chin, the shallow indentation below his full lower lip, had been sculpted with an artist's precision and were worthy of a master, but it was his eyes that captured Fallon's attention. They were unsettling eyes of pale green, set like bright peridots in his tawny face—unusual eyes, eyes that seemed to shine with an unnatural light.
He must have noticed her staring, for he smiled, and the momentary spell he'd cast over Fallon was broken. "Your pardon, ladies. I was not aware that I had company."
Willie giggled, nudging Fallon with her elbow. "That sure ain't the Reverend Antwhistle."
He chuckled at Willie's comment. "Indeed, no. I am not the Reverend Antwhistle." He crossed the room, limping slightly. Halting before them, he sketched a courtly bow. "My name is Draegan Mattais. How may I serve you ladies?"
Fallon, who had been ready to ply him with questions concerning his presence at the rectory, was taken aback. "Mattais? Reverend Mattais? But that isn't possible! You aren't expected for a fortnight."
Draegan raised a dark arched brow and continued to study the young woman who had just addressed him. She was passing tall for a woman, standing six or seven inches above five feet, but her height became her, lending her lissome form a willowy grace that was decidedly attractive. For the space of a few seconds, he put all thoughts of business aside and allowed his gaze to travel briefly over her face and form.
Her face was oval-shaped, her skin a soft peach with just a smattering of freckles, and her eyes a rich shade of golden brown, fringed with lush black lashes.
She was lovely, but she would have been lovelier still if she could have been persuaded to unbend the slightest bit, to uncoil the rich chestnut tresses caught so severely at her nape, to ease the strain in her dulcet voice....
She was still looking at him with an expression of disbelief—no, Draegan thought, it was horror. Instinctively, he raised a hand to his throat. But his stock was perfectly in place, the unsightly scar still concealed beneath a wealth of costly linen. He breathed a little easier.
"A fortnight," he began, "yes, well. As it so happens, my former ties were severed much more quickly than I had at first expected, and, since I am most anxious to begin my work here, I saw no reason to delay." He furrowed his brow and pinned her with his best implacable stare. "Is something amiss of which I'm unaware? The parish has not found another to fill the vacant position?"
"No," the chestnut-haired beauty hastened to say. "No, it isn't that. It's just that—well, I didn't expect to find you here. I rather expected that you would present yourself at the manor before you settled in."
"It seems I have offended you by my impetuosity." He bowed deeply. "I'll gather my things and go."
"You have not offended me," Fallon hastened to reassure him, "but there is still a great deal of work to be done to make the rectory habitable. I'm afraid the roof leaks when it rains, and then there's the cleaning. We wanted everything to meet with your approval, and as you weren't expected so soon, I assumed there would be ample time."
"Your concern for my welfare is heartwarming, but I'm a man of God. And as such my needs are few."
She shook her shining head and sighed. "I suppose it is useless to argue now that you are here. And I would be remiss in my duties if I did not take this opportunity to bid you welcome." She came forward and put out her hand. "My name is Fallon Deane. Lucien Deane is my uncle and this is my friend Willie."
She grasped his hand and shook it, as direct and forceful in manner as most of the men of his acquaintance. But she wasn’t a man. She was very much a woman, and her skin was cool and soft. "Fallon," he said softly, "an uncommon name for an uncommonly attractive young lady. Irish, is it?"
The compliment warmed Fallon's cheeks, a fact that irritated her. She never got flustered in company, and felt herself every man’s—and woman’s—equal. It was a mystery as to why he had that effect on her, and since she couldn’t understand it, she strove very hard to ignore it. "I was named for my mother's grandmother. She was a Calloway and lived all her life in Dublin."
He smiled his knowing smile, and his green eyes glinted. "That would explain a great deal."
"Oh?" Fallon said with an unconscious lift of her chin.
"The flame in your hair... the fire in your eyes." Fallon's discomfiture increased, a fact that seemingly did not escape his notice, for he deftly changed his tact. "Tell me, Mistress Deane, does your family live near your uncle's estate?"
"I reside at Gilead Manor with Uncle Lucien," Fallon replied. "He is my family. My mother died when I was quite young, and my father six years ago.”
"I am sorry to hear that," Draegan said.
"There is nothing to be sorry for, Reverend Mattais. I do miss my parents, but consider myself quite fortunate to have such a wonderful uncle. He is very good to me. Now," she continued, "to the business at hand. Why don’t I arrange for a room in the village where you can stay until the reparations and the cleaning can be completed." She tapped one index finger against her creamy cheek and narrowed her golden eyes at him. "I think the widow Hadley's house will do nicely, and she had been hoping for a boarder—"
"Oh, no, I couldn't," Draegan said. “I am something of a night owl, I fear, and like my privacy. My being in residence would only disrupt the household, and I cannot allow that.” He smiled, and hoped she would drop the matter of his lodgings. He had to be free to come and go at will, without arousing the interest of the town gossips. Besides, he had work to do here at the rectory, work that her unannounced arrival had already delayed.
"Reverend Mattais, please listen to reason. You cannot possibly stay here."
Crossing his arms before his chest, Draegan stared down at her. "My dear Mistress Deane, I can and I shall. Now, please, let us speak no more of this."
She sighed in defeat. "Very well, then. But I shall send someone by this afternoon to help make the place habitable."
Draegan took her by the arm, gently steering her toward the door, where her friend waited. "There is no need to trouble yourself on my account. I have already found a man who has graciously agreed to help me. His name is Jacob Deeter. And though I thank you for the thought, I think we should be able to manage quite nicely on our own."
She furrowed her lovely brow. "But Jacob Deeter has been gone for nearly a year."
"That was my understanding, yes. Yet as luck would have it, he recently returned," Draegan said. "Now, if you will just tell me when it will be convenient for me to meet with your uncle. I am most anxious to get started."
"Tomorrow at two," Fallon said. "We can take care of your initial interview then."
"Interview? Yes, of course. I shall look forward to it," Draegan said, leaning against the door to watch as Fallon Deane and her companion crossed the dooryard. When they were nearly out of sight, Jacob Deeter joined him there.
"You find anything?" Jacob asked.
Draegan shook his head. "No mention of a passageway anywhere in the volume I examined. At least in the portion I got to read. As you can see, I had visitors.”
“Aye. Mistress Deane.”
“Do you know her well?"
Jacob dragged off his hat and mopped his brow with his shirt sleeve. "Since she was just a wee thing."
Draegan clapped the older man's shoulder. "Come in, then, won't you? We'll have a tot of brandy and you can enlighten me."