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The soft spring rains and warming weather had brought about a change in the countryside in the fortnight since Draegan's arrival. The harsh grays and lifeless browns of winter and early spring were softened now by the pink haze of the budding maple, the dappled white of the dogwood, and by a host of new green leaves.
Fat white ducks waddled by row upon row of nodding daffodils, which bordered village yards and the nearby lush green pasture. They searched for insects to feed their trailing ducklings before heading off to the swollen waters of Esopus Creek.
At dawn each day, Wilmer Pritt, the cowherd, collected the cows from sheds behind each village house and drove them through the streets to graze on land owned by Lucien Deane. At day's end he drove them home again, their brass bells clanking softly in the purple dusk.
Industry and prosperity were apparent everywhere in this bucolic mountain setting, and unless one looked into the careworn faces of the Peterskill refugees, it would have been difficult indeed to discern that there was a war being waged not many miles away.
Draegan Youngblood, however, found it impossible to forget. In fact, the war made the coming of spring something of an irritant for him. The greening of the countryside, the ever-increasing warmth of the sun, proclaimed loudly the passing of the days, and as each day settled into dusk and Draegan returned to Gilead Manor to keep his nightly vigil, he was reminded that he was no closer to putting an end to Sparrowhawk's reign of terror than he had been the first day of his arrival at the rectory.
His lack of progress in his ongoing investigation was frustrating, and Draegan was not by nature a patient man. He had not anticipated such difficulty in gaining the evidence that he needed in order to take down Lucien Deane. Indeed, he thought, watching as the waning moon rose high above the black line of the trees that bordered the grounds of Gilead Manor, he had never imagined that the great man would have proven so damned elusive.
After more than a fortnight of diligent waiting and watching, Draegan had yet to lay eyes on his enemy. More than once he had wondered if Schuyler's informant had lied about Lucien.
Fallon claimed that her uncle was physically incapacitated, that he suffered from debilitating headaches, and rarely ventured from the grounds of the estate.
The two claims did not support each other; Lucien Deane could not have been both a studious cripple and an infamous spy.
Or could he?
Was Deane in fact Sparrowhawk, as Schuyler and Jon Akers suspected? Or was he simply a scapegoat, a cover for another's treachery?
Draegan had no ready answers. And each tiny morsel of information Jacob Deeter did manage to bring him, each conclusion at which he himself arrived, raised even more questions, more doubts, more suspicions, until he was certain only of his seeming inability to sort it all out.
Draegan frowned at the mansion. The moonlight glinted ghostly white off the dark upstairs windows, but the long bank of mullioned windows in the library were softly luminous.
His frown deepened. Was Fallon Deane at this moment in the library, her pert nose buried in ledgers and letters and India ink for her will-o'-the-wisp uncle? Or was she in fact plotting the downfall of yet another American settlement, secure in the knowledge that the world thought Sparrowhawk a man?
Draegan forced his gaze away from the library windows. He didn't like to consider that the fiery beauty he had kissed a week earlier by the millpond might be a dangerous fraud, that all her talk about liberty and the tears she had shed over the Peterskill tragedy could actually be false.
Yet in order to ferret out the truth, he must look to every possible angle, and like it or not, Fallon Deane must be among his considerations. A gently reared young lady of impeccable background, bookish and prim almost to a fault, she was, as Schuyler had said, “beyond reproach."
Yet was she the innocent that she seemed? Or had she led Randall Quill and his rangers a merry chase that night a year ago? Had she planted the papers in a stranger's belongings and left him to face a cruel and undeserved death, uncaring of the agony he suffered?
Squeezing his eyes shut, Draegan ran a hand over his face, trembling ever so slightly. For an instant, he felt the sleet sting his face... felt the cold caress of the wet hemp against his throat... felt the noose tighten....
His breath rasped in his throat; he forced his eyes open and stared hard at the stars shining brightly in the ebony skies. With every fiber of his being he hoped that he was wrong about Fallon Deane. He remained unsure of just what he would do if he was not.
The thought that he might be forced to kill a woman to have his reckoning with the one who'd come so close to destroying his life had never occurred to him. It was not a thought he savored.
Moments ticked by, and Draegan calmed down. The moon rose high overhead, and he pushed the idea of Fallon as a suspect into the dark recesses of his mind, fighting hard to summon up his nearly exhausted patience.
If Sparrowhawk was indeed using Gilead Manor as a base of operations, then it only followed that at some point the spy would have to emerge from hiding to meet with his contacts to plan his next strike.
The war was not going well for the American forces. Washington was still in his winter encampment at Valley Forge, in Pennsylvania, Schuyler was still scrambling to hold the tribes in check, and stores to feed the Continentals were becoming harder and harder to come by as the fighting dragged on.
England was a world power, industrialized, established in trade. Sir Henry Clinton had all of the supplies that he needed to feed and clothe and care for his troops at his disposal, which gave the British a decided advantage over the fledgling United States of America, an infant nation still struggling to rise off its knees and toddle toward freedom and self-sufficiency.
Sparrowhawk was very well aware of the vulnerability of his homeland, and it would prove too tempting an opportunity to pass by. He would strike soon; of that Draegan was certain. And when he did, Draegan would be waiting.
Yet seemingly not tonight.
For hours he'd been keeping watch. The moon had set, the darkness was complete, and not the faintest flicker of light or life could be detected within the manor. The inhabitants had long ago sought their beds, and perhaps it was time he sought his too.
Three-quarters of a mile to the north, two men sat upon their horses on the lightless road.
"Show them the way, and make sure they maintain their silence. It would bode ill for all of you if they were seen. The furor over Peterskill has yet to die down, and I daresay that nothing would rally the good citizens of Abundance right now like a good British bloodletting."
"You are taking a hellish chance, bringing them here so soon after the raid on Peterskill. What in God's name possessed you?"
"Oh, lud, Randall," Lucien said, clucking his tongue. "Such whining from one so young! Where is your sense of adventure?"
"This is not adventure," Randall said through his teeth. "It's madness. You think this business some bizarre jest, some game in which you match wits with the militia! It is not a game, Lucien, not when our lives hang in the balance!"
"That's where you err, my dear boy." Lucien reached inside his cloak and brought forth a pistol. "It is indeed a game. The ultimate game of cat and mouse. A game that I am winning. And if you speak my name again with such vigor, I assure you, I shall pluck you from the playing field and leave your lifeless form lying in the road—bait for the ravens. I have not come this far to have you muck up my progress with your tantrums."
"You would not kill me," Randall said with his usual bravado. "Without me, there would be no one left to do your bidding."
"Wouldn't I? I might remind you that I managed this entire operation myself before you came into it, and I can again, if need be. It might be wise to humor me." Lucien smiled, but there was ice in the expression. "I have killed twice, albeit that poor ragged beggar in the church was more a sacrifice to your temper and greed than to my ambitions, for I had no burning desire to see him dead. As for you—well, that's different, now, isn't it?" He laughed, and the sound was harsh and abrasive, like steel grating on stone. "One more body would not trouble me greatly."
"What keeps you from it?" Randall sneered. "Not honor, not goodness. Not conscience, surely!"
"Honor brings cold comfort," Lucien replied matter-of-factly, "and goodness gets you nothing. But conscience? Now, there is something to ponder at length. What is conscience, I wonder? That intangible something that keeps the soul on an unerring track toward paradise. Yet it can't be seen or proven, so how does one know if it truly exists?" He gave another low chuckle, as if at some secret joke. "I really must invite the good reverend to dine of an evening. It would seem that he and I have a great deal to discuss."
"Take care not to encourage him where Fallon is concerned," Randall warned. "It would not do to have the man sticking his ecclesiastical nose into places it does not belong."
Lucien replaced the pistol and waved the young man away. "Just you take care of the business at hand, Master Quill, and leave my niece to me."
Turning a stiff back on Lucien, Randall clucked to his horse, guiding it off the rutted road onto the rocky forest ground. At a little distance, thirteen men, silent black silhouettes, waited for Randall Quill to lead them to a safe haven.
Lucien lingered in the dark road long after the contingent of men led by the American militia captain had melted into the night, long after it was prudent for him to do so.
His alliance with young Quill was an uneasy one at best. Conceived by force and bound by the silken thread of a shared treachery, the partnership had begun to sour almost from the moment of its conception.
Randall Quill was full of pomposity and self-importance, and Lucien loathed him. Yet the younger man had proven the perfect pawn in Lucien's game.
The militia captain had a greater mobility than the limited one Lucien himself enjoyed, and his position as commander of a company of rangers allowed him to come and go without attracting undue notice.
At present he was useful, and it was that very usefulness that kept him safe from harm.
Lucien breathed deeply, reveling in the cool freshness of the night air, in the headiness of an unaccustomed freedom, yet aware that he should have been getting back.
To return to the manse while Fallon and the servants slept would have been the wise thing to do. Yet he continued to linger, reluctant to return to a prison that, though of his own design, had proven nonetheless loathsome.
Sighing wistfully, he glanced at the heavens, barely visible through the heavy canopy of leaves overhead. The stars still glimmered brightly. There were several hours remaining until cock's crow.
What matter would a few stolen moments make?
Perhaps he would ride north, past the church, into the sleeping village. It had been a long while since he had dared to venture that far from the estate, an eternity since he had glimpsed the town his father had founded—a town that, once his plans came to fruition, he would never lay eyes on again.
Intent upon following his whim, Lucien started to turn his horse toward the village when a sound like the rumble of distant thunder somewhere to the rear caught his attention.
Curious, he turned toward the south, back toward the sound, and saw a pale horse emerge from the shadows. When the rider caught sight of Lucien sitting on his horse in the road, he reined in his mount, allowing Lucien a clear view of horse and rider.
The animal itself was huge, with eyes that glowed like dark red coals against a milky coat. Plumes of vapor streamed from its nostrils, and had Lucien not known better, he'd have sworn he'd caught a whiff of brimstone on the chill night wind.
The horseman was no less impressive than his mount. Raven hair, tossed by the wind and his wild ride, framed features that were as classically molded as Michelangelo's David's, and appeared every bit as hard and pale and pitiless.
As Lucien watched, the rider nudged the white and walked it forward, the stallion sidling anxiously under the stranger's restraining hand.
Lucien cast an anxious glance to the rear. They were alone on the darkened road; the phantom rider was approaching with cold deliberation. Was he friend or foe? Or was he merely curious at finding another rider abroad so late? Lucien did not know and could not afford to wait long enough to satisfy his curiosity. He could not risk being recognized, and so he wheeled the hunter he rode, digging his heels into its sides. The horse lunged forward as the phantom rider called out for him to halt, breaking into a hard run, reacting to each nudge of Lucien's heels with a renewed burst of speed.
Down the lightless road they pounded, past the gravestones gleaming white in the churchyard, past the darkened church—the phantom white several lengths behind, and gaining fast.
Lucien risked a glance at his pursuer, and a chill snaked up his spine. The crazy bastard was standing in his stirrups, a fiendish grin on his marble-white face. Lucien spurred his hunter to a breakneck speed. He had no idea who or what was chasing him, but one thing was becoming infinitely clear: the rider was absolute Hell on horseback, and he had every intention of running his quarry to ground.
Escape seemed improbable. His hunter was aging, his chances of outrunning the phantom white incredibly slim. Lucien Deane, however, did not despair. He had played a good game thus far; if he forfeited now, it would all be over. He would be stripped of the fame, the glory, the satisfaction he'd known as Sparrowhawk, and he would be given in its place a traitor's grave.
Into his dismal thoughts crept the light and heart that were Fallon. Fallon, Sabina's child. Fallon, who embraced the American cause with so much fervor. Fallon, who cherished truth and honor, who gave her heart unstintingly. His truth would crush her, Lucien knew, and he simply could not allow that to happen.
Bending low over the hunter's neck, he dug his heels into its heaving sides and felt it give another forward lurch. Several yards to the rear and coming up fast, the rider shouted for him to yield. Lucien ignored the warning cry. There was too much at stake for him to think of yielding, and one chance left of escape....
Two lengths to the rear, Draegan spoke to the stallion, urging the animal into a dead run. He hadn't expected to come upon another rider so late upon the road, and he had been quite curious to ascertain the rider's identity and the manner of business that kept him out at such an hour. The fact that the fellow had chosen to cut and run rather than face him aroused Draegan's innate suspicions. He could not let the fellow escape without answering for his actions.
Draegan shouted again for the rider to halt. Twisting in the saddle, the rider snatched a pistol from the concealing folds of his cloak. Draegan tried to swerve as the rider took hasty aim and squeezed off a shot. The weapon's muzzle belched orange fire, but the shot went wild. Draegan came recklessly on.
Just ahead, Draegan's quarry was hunched forward over the neck of the bay, the voluminous cloak billowing out behind the slight form like the outspread wings of a great black bird. The cloak, combined with a dark tricorn hat pulled low to shadow the rider's face, made it impossible to discern if the rider he was chasing was male or female, old or young.
Urging Banshee on, Draegan raced along the flat, the night wind stinging his face. He fairly flew around a sharp bend in the road, hot upon the hunter's churning hooves. The dark horse followed the outside curve, leaving the way clear for Draegan to cut him off. A hoarsely barked command and the pale stallion lunged to the left, neck to flank with the smaller bay, carrying Draegan closer, ever closer to his goal. Suddenly, as they rounded the blind curve, they charged directly into the path of a farmer's wagon laden with a loose mound of last year's hay.
Grinding out an oath, Draegan hauled on the reins, bringing his stallion back upon his haunches. The stallion's gleaming hooves struck the air precariously close to the heads of the farmer's team; the animals reared and pulled against their traces. It took a full moment for the farmer to right his team and set his wagon into motion again, and as he moved off into the distance, Draegan heard the old man curse him roundly in guttural Dutch.
But Draegan paid little heed to what was said. He was too concerned with what lay ahead. The road leading into the village was empty, and except for the fading creak of wagon wheels the night had gone suddenly still.
He glanced around, listening intently for the sound of hoofbeats. He heard nothing.
Sparrowhawk had escaped.