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Draegan pressed his face to the cool softness of Fallon's belly and fought back a violent shudder. It had taken his last ounce of will to give to her sexually while denying himself, and now there was nothing left to sustain him.
No strength. No resistance. God help him, no shame.
He felt like a raw nerve, exposed and throbbing, incapable of the meanest civility.
If she had touched him then, murmured his name, encouraged him the smallest bit, he would have cast aside his misgivings and taken her right there on the puncheon floor, like the rakehell he was in truth.
It was what he wanted, what he ached to do. But not here, not tonight, not in this callous fashion.
He drew a deep breath. Another. And he raised his head from its soft, womanly pillow, pushed himself to his knees, and reached out to help her up. "Come," he said more gruffly than he intended, "right your clothing. It's time you were getting back home."
She stared at him for a long moment, saying nothing, and Draegan could have sworn he saw the
tiny images of their lovemaking mirrored in the ebony pupils of her large and luminous eyes.
He hesitated, searching his mind for something to say, some way to make her understand why she must leave so abruptly, without making himself appear an even greater fool than he was. But he found nothing.
For a moment he stood, clenching his fist as he watched her struggle to refasten the long row of tiny hooks that secured the front of her gown. And then, with a soft, ground-out curse he turned away, stalking to the door, where he bellowed for Jacob.
But Jacob did not answer, and the night beyond the rectory walls was silent and still. "I suppose I must go in search of him," Draegan said, shrugging into his shirt. "Stay where you are. I'll be back directly."
Fallon fastened the last of the hooks with trembling fingers: then, once the door had closed firmly at his back, she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks.
Dear God, what had she done, allowing him to have his wicked way with her, here in that hallowed place?
She had acted the wanton, listening to his talk of living for the moment, of throwing caution to the wind. And like a wanton whose services were no longer required, she was now being summarily dismissed, sent home alone to deal with her shame, her growing mound of regrets, her hurt and deep disappointment, because she had expected so much more.
A single tear stole from the corner of her eye, tracing a scalding path down her cheek. She'd had no prior experience in the secret ways of man and woman, but she had somehow assumed that this intimate episode would end differently. She imagined soft words of love spoken between them, kisses in parting—so unbearably bittersweet, a lingering, meaningful touch.
Angry at herself for having had such high expectations, angry at Draegan for his callous disregard of her feelings, Fallon dashed the moisture from her cheek. Her expectations had clearly been unrealistic, for there had been no tender endearments to salve her wounded heart.
Outside in the night, Draegan shouted for Jacob again, angrily. Fallon sniffed back her tears. As if things weren't bad enough, Draegan was about to heap more indignities upon her by placing her in the care of Jacob Deeter, instead of discreetly seeing her home himself. Jacob would be certain to notice her upset; he might even rightly guess its cause.
This last was simply too much to be borne. To live with the knowledge of what they had done here tonight was one thing, a shame she would have to bear the rest of her life; having others privy to her fall from grace was quite another.
Outside, all was quiet. Fallon lifted her gaze to the mantel and the ancient lantern that sat in its usual place and saw a way to escape.
In other, more desirable circumstances, she never would have considered entering the passageway alone. Yet at this moment her pride spoke louder and more eloquently than her fear, and so she went to the mantel and took down the lantern.
A few moments later Draegan reentered the darkened rectory. "I couldn't find Jacob," he said, closing the door. "He must have gone to Sike's Tavern, in the village, so I'll see you home personally."
His words were met by an eerie silence.
Draegan swept the dim room with a glance. There was no sign of Fallon. Ignoring the creeping sensation at the nape of his neck, he stalked to the parlor door. Perhaps she was feeling worn, had decided to rest. Yet as he paused in the parlor door, he saw that the divan was unoccupied, the parlor as silent and empty as the kitchen.
"Fallon!" He stalked across the parlor to the small alcove where he slept, then limped to the sanctuary. "Fallon!" His voice echoed in the large, empty space, hollow and tense. There was no need to question where she'd gone; with dread certainty he knew.
She'd broken her promise and entered the passageway alone, and the blame was solely his. Had he ignored the ugly rumblings of his conscience and claimed her, as he'd wanted so badly to do, then she'd have been safe in his arms that instant, instead of in grave danger.
Fallon held the lantern aloft, counting each step she descended. Ten, eleven, twelve... She came off the last tread and breathed a small sigh, though not of relief.
The worst was yet to come.
At the foot of the stairs, she paused, raising the lantern high. If only it were bright enough to penetrate the malevolent darkness that lay ahead, to dispel the threatening shadows lurking all around. Quite suddenly, she thought of turning back. Her determination, her anger and hurt, had deserted her the instant the door had swung to behind her, leaving only her pride to sustain her through the long and lonely walk home.
Now her pride seemed insufficient protection against whatever evil lurked in the stygian dark, too paltry a weapon to combat her fear. And only the prospect of facing Draegan again so soon after the humiliating scene in the rectory, of admitting that she—sensible, logical, pragmatic Fallon—was afraid of the dark, kept her from turning back to the relative safety of the church.
That same bitter pride forced her to place one foot ahead of the other, to keep moving steadily forward, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth. She would have walked to Hell and begged Satan's largess before facing Draegan Mattais again at that moment.
For the life of her, she could not fathom him! He was too dark, too moody, a complex puzzle on which she'd spent far too much time, and she was better off without him.
Her anger leaped to life inside her, a burning torch to keep her worries, her fears, at bay. She would put him from her mind the moment she entered the library; She'd forget that he had ever existed! It was the only course left to her, in light of the evening's disastrous outcome, and Fallon felt better, just having reached a decision. She now had a purpose, and Draegan be damned.
Her first order of business on the morrow would be a curtly worded missive informing him that their recently formed alliance was to be dissolved at once.
There was little chance that he would argue the point. He had fought against including her in his investigation since the very beginning, and he would doubtless be relieved that their association had come to an end.
He would no longer have to trust her, Fallon thought with a frown, and she could go back to her world of foolscap and ledgers and books, which suddenly seemed mundane and somehow—constricting.
The realization that she would not be a party to Sparrowhawk's capture was the greatest disappointment of all, and more than anything, it served to chip away at her newfound resolve.
Who was the spy? Was it someone she knew? Was he really in league with Randall Quill, as Draegan had intimated? So many questions remained unanswered that she found it difficult indeed to resign herself to the fact that she would not know the truth until it was over. And perhaps, not even then.
Her thoughts were suddenly brought full circle. What about Draegan? When he had completed his mission, and Sparrowhawk was no longer a threat, what would become of the patriot spy-catcher? There was no reason for him to remain here in Abundance. He had no family here, no true friends except Jacob, and it would be keeping with his character to depart in the same mysterious fashion in which he'd arrived, never to be heard from again.
The thought made Fallon inexplicably sad, driving the last vestige of the anger from her, bringing her world back into stark focus.
She had entered the part of the shaft that seemed the most perilous. Pinpoints of light flickered and danced on the heavy timbers shoring up ribs and roof. Fallon saw the dim outline of the rectangular crates just ahead, and she knew that a considerable distance lay between her and safety.
She tightened her grip on the lantern. Beyond the dim halo of light, something scurried and squeaked.
Fallon cringed inwardly, but she did not stop. Turning back was no longer an option. She'd come too far for that. She had to press on, despite her trepidation. She had to conquer her irrational fears, though at that moment it seemed the most difficult thing she'd ever done. She could not allow every groan of the earth and creak of the timbers to rob the strength from her limbs.
They were noises, nothing more, caused by the subtle, constant shift of the earth. And like the squeal of the rodent before her and the soft footfall behind, the noises were easily explained away. There was nothing worthy of her fear.
Footfall?
The hair on the nape of Fallon's neck prickled alarmingly. She had heard the sound without even realizing it. Holding her breath, she strained to hear above the sickening roar of her blood in her ears.
It came again—a whisper of sound to the rear. She heard the barely audible rustle of linen, a soft rush of breath, and then nothing but the continuous trickle of water, the occasional creak of the timbers as the barometric pressure changed, and the pregnant silence that followed.
Fallon breathed again and started forward, trying hard to ignore the hammer-like thud of her heart against her ribs, the faint quiver that had suddenly infected her limbs.
She really must get hold of herself, she thought. She was being silly, when she needed to be brave.
Late-night assignations, desperate men, and secret passageways... Fallon shook her head. Was it any wonder she was starting at shadows?
More confidently now, she continued on, past the crates that held the British muskets, past the last of the timbers. She kept on walking forward, toward the manor, keeping courage high until she rounded the slight bend in the passageway and saw the faint flicker of light advancing slowly along the moisture-laden walls.
Voices, muffled and indistinct, echoed along the passageway, accompanied by the hollow ring of hobnailed boots upon the stone floor of the catacombs.
She squeezed her eyes shut, counted to three, and opened them again. But the bobbing advance of the shimmering light was no trick of her imagination. Someone was approaching from the portion of the tunnel closest to the manor.
She thought of the British brown Bess muskets stored in the crates to her rear, muskets that could only have been brought there by someone with sympathies—someone like Sparrowhawk, whose callous disregard for human life was infamous.
If she were caught, she could expect to receive no quarter. She knew she could not turn back without being seen and overtaken. Her only hope was to hide, and pray that she wasn't discovered. With her heart hammering wildly in her breast, Fallon blew out the lantern she carried and set it aside, gathering the tattered remains of her courage around her as she groped for the wall to her right and began to feel her way along as quickly as she could.
Chilly wet slime clung to her palms, oozing between her questing fingers. Something wriggled beneath her fingertips; she shuddered and cringed but kept moving, feeling her way in the dark, edging forward as quickly as she dared until the huge triangular stone loomed up out of the gloom of the catacombs.
Fallon felt an almost overwhelming surge of relief.
She had come to the fork in the passageway. The shaft to the left led to the manor, to Sparrowhawk or his man; the right led to the great cavern Draegan had described and to Vanderbloon's Wood beyond—her only hope of escape.
Outside, under cover of darkness, she could wait out the danger of discovery and, once that danger had passed, return safely home to Gilead Manor.
Hope surged through her. She quickened her steps, moving deeper and deeper into the darkness.
The wall curved sharply to the right, then jutted left again, creating a deep crevice in the rib that seemed even more lightless than the cavernous room that lay beyond.
In the doorway, Fallon paused to look back. The light reflected off the wet stone walls of the main passage was growing brighter. She heard the ring of boot heels more clearly now, and something else from the opposite direction, a soft, indefinable sound, like the rush of air as an unseen object hurtles through it.
She glanced around, growing desperate. The cavern was huge—too large to traverse in the moment remaining. If she tried for the mouth of the cave she'd be seen, caught, perhaps even killed, with no one the wiser. She had to hide, now, this instant!
But where?
Along the ribs of the cave, to Fallon's right, were several scattered broken crates. Beyond that lay a soft, misshapen pile of what appeared to be her salvation.
Canvas. A large, rumpled length of it, carelessly discarded and covered with dust. Enough to cover the crates, or conceal a desperate young woman.
A large rat crept to the edge of the canvas and sat on its haunches to survey her, its bright, feral eyes glinting red in the darkness. Aware that she had but a moment to spare, Fallon picked up a sliver of the broken crate and nudged the rodent, sending it scurrying into the darkness. Then, grasping the edge of the canvas, she tossed it back. Instantly, she started back in mindless terror, a scream frozen on her lips.
Half-covered by the canvas shroud, bagwig askew and a grotesque death's-head grin forever fixed upon his sunken face, was the Reverend George Antwhistle, former pastor of Abundance and Draegan's predecessor. Reverend Antwhistle, who had had a fondness for strong spirits and who had rambled on incessantly to anyone willing to listen, and to others who were not, about the strange goings-on at the church and rectory. Reverend Antwhistle, whom everyone had assumed had just disappeared ...
Horrified, yet unable to tear her gaze away from the pitiful remains, Fallon stumbled back, mindless of anything except her need to flee from the danger and death that seemed so much a part of this place, to draw cool, fresh air into her lungs. Stepping back farther and farther, she collided with a hard, male form, and fell trembling into the safe, solid comfort of Draegan's arms.
His voice sounded in the barest of whispers, next to her ear. "Quickly, now. Not a sound, not a breath." He flicked the canvas back into place, then drew her to the deep cleft in the wall. Pressing her into the crevice, he dragged the heavy bore pistol from his belt and pointed it aloft while shielding her body with his black-coated form.
In that moment, with the voices coming closer and peril lurking all around, the last stubborn shreds of Fallon's pride loosened their tenacious hold and fell away. Slipping her arms beneath the ever-present somber parson's coat, she clung to him, pressing her cheek to his shirtfront, losing herself in the heavy, reassuring thud of his heart.
The voices paused near the entrance to the cavern, a mere dozen paces away; Draegan's heartbeat quickened. One man spoke, his voice more sensed than heard, a mere crackle of sound, like the toneless rattle of dead leaves in a brisk winter wind.
There was a brief pause, and the air around them sizzled with tension. "What do you mean, it is not enough? I spent two hellish days and nights in the heat and the rain, and two more trying to ingratiate my way into Captain Brown's good graces—which was no easy task, I can tell you. The man is no fool, sir. He sensed something odd about my impromptu visit."
The toneless rattle sounded briefly, and then Randall Quill spoke again.
"I gave him the only excuse that I could think of: that I was visiting a cousin in a neighboring county and stopped by on a whim. But I don't think he believed it for a moment. He seemed unaccountably wary." A pause, a sigh, and then Randall went on, "Indeed, every man among them is wary, from Cobleskill to the Cherry Valley. I could see it in their faces. Not that I blame them. The fortifications are the worst of jest. I've seen privies built more soundly. One solid push is all that's required, and they will fall into British hands like toppled dominoes."
Fallon caught her breath, but Draegan's hand came up to still the sound.
"What was that?" Randall asked abruptly. "I could have sworn I heard something." He approached the entrance to the cavern, his boots sounding loud against the stone floor. Just inside the narrow entrance, a dozen feet away from the cleft in the wall where Fallon and Draegan stood motionless, he stopped.
For what seemed an eternity he stood there, listening intently, while Draegan maintained his tense and deadly silence and Fallon ceased to breathe. Then, abruptly, he turned and rejoined his companion. "It must have been the night wind sighing in the rocks," he said. "I cannot fathom why you insist on meeting here! This cursed place unnerves me."
Muted laughter, more sensed than heard, and gradually the footfalls faded. Fallon, still holding tightly to Draegan, felt the tension drain out of his body. "Dear God," she whispered shakily. "You were right about him—about Randall. He's in league with the British—a turncoat."
Draegan drew Fallon out from the crevice and, with an arm about her shoulders, guided her across the uneven floor of the huge cavern. "We'll speak of it later. Just now, it's imperative that I get you safely home."
They took a circuitous route on their way back to Gilead Manor, through the black heart of Vanderbloon's Wood. Local legend had it that the wood was haunted, that here, among the rocks and deep shade of the age-old wood, Satan and his disciples lay in wait, eager to practice all sorts of deviltry against the hapless, God-fearing folk who chanced to wander too near.
Fallon had never put much stock in local folklore, yet she found she was inexplicably glad to leave the deep, eerie gloom of the wood behind and move into the apple orchard.
The gnarled limbs beneath which they made their way were rife with blossoms. Pale and delicate in the darkness, they emitted a perfume that drifted on the night wind, a perfume so beguiling and sweet that on any other night Fallon would have been unable to resist the urge to linger, to drink in the enchanted beauty of the night.
But tonight she didn't linger. The events of the evening had left her shaken, unsettled, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to put the chill, dank catacombs from her mind, or the cavern, with its canvas shroud.
Still battling the image, she cast a sidelong glance at Draegan. His features were dark, shadowed, his expression unfathomable. Since leaving the cavern there had been silence between them, the only sounds the sharp yip of a fox calling to its mate in the depths of the wood and the soft rasp of the meadow grass as it brushed against the hem of Fallon's skirt. When they reached the garden gate— with the great black bulk of Gilead Manor just beyond—Fallon broke the silence. "How long have you known about Reverend Antwhistle?"
"Since I first discovered the tunnel," he admitted. "It was a night of revelations, it would seem."
"Is that why you exacted my promise to stay away from the catacombs?" Fallon asked.
He snorted. "That was part of it, certainly— though for all the good exacting that promise from you did me, I might as well have saved my breath." He paused by the garden gate and glanced around, watchful, cautious. "Of course, until this evening, when you yourself confirmed it, I had no idea he had been my predecessor."
Fallon shook her head. "I was so certain that he had deserted us; addled, perhaps, from drink. But we misjudged him terribly. I wish to God someone had listened to what he was saying—I wish I had listened."
"You could not have prevented his death, Fallon."
"You can't know that."
"I do know it. Our friend back there became inordinately curious about the nocturnal goings-on at the church, and that curiosity is precisely what got him killed. More interference would only have meant more corpses stowed away in that infernal cave, and I doubt the men we are dealing with here would care if the one caught nosing about was a man or a woman. A grand show of heroics, in this instance, is tantamount to a death sentence."
"Words you yourself should remember while you are sneaking about at night," she countered.
"Mine is a different situation entirely."
"Different, yes, but no less dangerous." She sniffed. "Do you think Randall killed him?"
"Randall or Sparrowhawk."
"Is it not possible that they are one and the same?"
Draegan smiled ruefully. "I have weighed that possibility for some time, now, but I can't seem to reckon the two. He isn't cool or deliberate enough—"
"Or intelligent enough?" Fallon supplied.
"You begin to see my reasoning," he said.
She understood about Randall; it was all suddenly clear. Yet there were other, more personal aspects of Draegan and Randall's relationship that she couldn't grasp, and Draegan seemed reluctant to enlighten her. It was a subject that urgently needed discussion, yet she did not know how to broach it.
"You had better go in," he said without a trace of emotion, with no thread of regret in his voice.
"Yes." It was the wisest course for both of them, yet it was not at all what Fallon wanted. The softer words she'd longed to hear earlier had never been spoken; he remained distant, somehow unreachable, and the chasm that had suddenly opened between them was too deep and too wide for her to bridge alone.
A moment later, Fallon reentered the house and carefully closed the door. Slipping off her low- heeled black boots, she crept to the foot of the stairs and had just started to climb them, when the library door creaked slowly open.
With one hand gripping the balustrade and her skirt and boots held aloft in the other, Fallon froze, and for the space of a heartbeat she gaped at Lucien while he gaped back at her. "Uncle," she finally managed to say, painfully aware of how guilty she must look.
"Sabina?" Lucien said shakily; then, running a hand over his face, he seemed to collect himself.
"Oh, Fallon, my dear. 'Tis you. You gave me quite a start—and for a moment I thought—well," he said with a rusty-sounding laugh, "never mind an old man's fancy. What in heaven's name are you doing out of bed?"
"I couldn't sleep, and the thought of work just didn't appeal to me, so I thought I'd go out for a breath of fresh air. It's a lovely night for a stroll in the garden."
It was not precisely a lie, Fallon thought, yet the telling of half-truths still made her nervous.
Lucien, perhaps sensing her unease, searched her face. "Are you quite all right, child?"
"But of course, Uncle. Why do you ask?"
"You seem somehow ... different. Not quite yourself."
She was different, Fallon thought. She was not as innocent as she had been prior to Draegan's arrival in Abundance. But she had been hoping the changes that Draegan had brought about in her life would not be so blatantly obvious. Aloud, she said, "I'm just tired. I suppose that the lateness of the hour must be catching up with me. I really should go to bed."
Lucien had ambled forward, and stood now at the foot of the stair. Bending down, Fallon bussed his cheek. "Good night, Uncle. You won't stay out too long, or tax your strength too greatly."
"Your pardon?"
"Your cloak and walking stick," Fallon said, inclining her head to indicate the fine cloth wrap folded over his arm.
"Oh, yes," he said quickly, glancing down at the garment. "It just so happens that I was about to follow your lead and indulge in a late stroll about the grounds, but I've changed my mind. I think I will warm a bit of brandy instead and leave the stargazing for another night."
With a murmured wish for his good night's rest, Fallon mounted the stairs, suddenly anxious for the solitude of her chamber, and for the first time in her life, ill at ease in her uncle's presence.
Precisely one hour after Fallon had closed her bedchamber door, shutting herself off from the world, another door was opened and closed with a resounding slam—this one at the rectory.
"Jacob!" Even as he shouted the caretaker's name, Draegan knew he was not there. The rooms—his rooms—were black as pitch. Not the smallest ember from which to light a taper glowed in the grate.
Not that it mattered, he thought, shrugging out of his coat and letting it slide from his fingertips to the floor. He had become a habitual creature of darkness, secure in the shadows, wary in the light.
Disgusted with himself, with his whole situation, Draegan limped to the great cupboard and carelessly rifled through his belongings until he found the bottle of brandy. Until now, he had abstained from the use of strong spirits, settling for a bit of wine with his dinner. His abstinence had been just one small part of the holy facade he'd been forced into donning when he'd accepted this damnable assignment—an assignment that grew more tangled, more twisted, more complicated with each passing day. More detestable.
Scowling, Draegan worked the cork from the bottle and flung it aside, then tipped up the bottle and drank, wondering how in hell he'd gotten into such a mess.
The brandy slid down his throat like liquid fire, exploding in his empty belly. A moment of intense warmth followed, and then blessed numbness threaded through his veins. He gave a long sigh, then drank again deeply, musing on how he had come to his present circumstances.
Washington—it had begun with Washington, that paragon of piety and exemplary behavior on and off the battlefield. Sinking into a chair at the table, Draegan brought the bottle to his lips for another swallow.
The general had seemed to feel that a war could be fought and won without compromising one's honor, a concept that Draegan had never quite managed to grasp.
He had always considered such lofty ideals to be specifically designed for times of peace. War, after all, was not a gentleman's game. It was best waged by scoundrels such as himself, unscrupulous individuals willing to lay aside the few principles they possessed in order to accomplish an objective.
Draegan considered that the general's edicts did not apply to men like him, men who dirtied their hands and stained their souls so that the higher-ups could maintain their integrity.
Yet, as it happened, the general had disagreed.
By the middle of March of the previous year, rumors concerning Lucy Greenhill and the circumstances surrounding Draegan's wound had begun to ripple through the ranks of Washington's army. They were unpleasant rumors of a heartless seduction and a jealous woman's rage, which, however unsavory, were uncomfortably close to the truth.
Lucy Greenhill, wife of Major General Sir Percy Greenhill of His Majesty's Army, had succumbed to Draegan's charm, as he had intended, and up to a point, everything had progressed according to his plan.
Eager to please, Lucy had passed on the news and gossip from her husband's letters to Draegan, who in turn had reported directly to Washington. Then, in December, Sir Percy had had the misfortune to contract the measles from which he never recovered.
Lucy had rushed to the tavern where Draegan was staying in Princeton to give him the terrible news, fully expecting that he would comfort her, and found him in bed with the serving maid.
Crying hysterically, Lucy had run out, but before Draegan had had time to do more than slide into his breeches, she was back. If he lived to be ninety, he knew he'd never forget how it felt to stare down the barrel of that blasted horse pistol Sir Percy had insisted she carry—or the look in her eyes when she'd squeezed off the shot that had nearly cost him his leg.
The fact that Madam Greenhill had meant to geld him had struck his fellow officers as rather droll—all but Washington, who had seen no humor in the situation. As Washington wrote out Draegan's transfer, he had expressed his regret in superior tones that Madam Greenhill's marksmanship hadn't been better.
The incident with Lucy Greenhill had set off a disastrous chain of events that, once set in motion, Draegan had been powerless to stop. The rumors that had invoked Washington's displeasure and gained Draegan an unwanted transfer had also set him en route to Albany when the inclement weather had struck. If it had not been for the storm, he wouldn't have been forced to seek shelter in the church. Undoubtedly he would have pressed on that night and found a cozy wayside tavern instead of a length of hemp, and he wouldn't currently have been lying awake at night in a darkened rectory, trying like bloody hell to devise a way that he could have his pound of flesh and his heart's desire too.
There was no viable solution to his dilemma, no end to his anger, his frustration, his hopelessness;
no end, it seemed, to the nightmare he was living— and sharing—with Fallon.
Draegan tipped the bottle, then set it down again with a dissatisfied sigh. The liquor had lost its appeal, as well as its potency, and he was destined to remain appallingly sober while he contemplated his failings, his follies, his sins, the greatest of which concerned Fallon Deane.
He had no business meddling in her life, dammit, he thought. She needed and deserved some stable young man who would make a home for her and give her children—someone with whom she could build a life that was safe, secure, and properly dull.
She did not need a somewhat jaded adventurer whose luck in the past had run rather thin. She did not need, nor did she deserve, his lusting attentions, his faithlessness. Yet realization and acceptance were two very different things, and he suspected that it would be a long time before he could accept the inevitable and move on.
A light tapping, a persistent bid for entrance, broke the brooding stillness. Draegan pushed out of his chair and made his way to the door. Half-hoping that Fallon had found her way back to him, he jerked the panel open, an apology lodged high in the back of his throat. But as he saw Jacob's homely face through the opening, his spirits were dashed upon the doorstep.
"I'm sorry to bother you so late, Reverend, sir, but I thought you ought to know there's trouble brewin' in town."
Draegan did not invite the caretaker in. In his mood, he was not fit for company. "What sort of trouble?"
"It's James McCord, the cooper. He's deep into his cups at Sike's Tavern—"
"Well, wish him a high, fine time of it, and tell him I'd join him, but nothing seems destined to work in my favor this evening." At Jacob's look he flung himself away from the door, angry. "Hell, don't look at me that way! I may have to pretend to be the man's minister, but I'll be damned if I'll be his fucking conscience."
"Reverend, sir," Jacob said, wringing the hat in his gnarled hands, "you don't understand. McCord can't hold his liquor the least bit. He showed up a couple o' hours ago, and started to tipple when the cap'n an' a couple o' the militia boys walked in."
Draegan came back to the door, an intent look on his face. "Quill, you say?"
Jacob nodded. "Aye, sir. There's three o' them, and McCord's alone to face 'em. I think there's a good chance it's gonna turn ugly."
"Three to one," Draegan said. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."
"Will you come?" Jacob asked again.
After the evening's disappointing outcome, after the buildup of all his frustration and deep-seated anger, perhaps a confrontation with Quill was just what he needed. "Aye, dammit. I'll come," Draegan said impetuously. "Fetch the white, and I'll see if I can't shave down those odds just a bit."