Chapter Nineteen

Lily shot up from the pallet. Confused, she squinted at the familiar surroundings as though she had never before seen the tiny cabin. Beyond the windows, gray clouds hovered low in the sky and cast a lackluster gloom to the morning. A pile of filthy, bloodstained clothes lay heaped on a chair in grim reminder of last night.

Oh, Griffin.

Guilt strummed in her chest. A capable nurse did not fall asleep when a patient needed her attention. Blame it on exhaustion—or laudanum.

The possibility Griffin drugged her was beyond unreal. Days ago, in the first rush of love, she would have discounted the horrific notion. Now, with the likelihood of Griffin’s involvement in smuggling, she didn’t know what to think. Her fingers tightened over the blanket. When he awoke, she would seek an explanation.

If he awoke.

Despite’s Mead’s positive prediction, Griffin could well die of a nasty infection and fever. The mere possibility knotted her gut.

Ashamed by her neglect, she lumbered to her feet amazed at the stiff achiness of her muscles. Respect emerged for Griffin’s sacrifices these many nights asleep on the lumpy pallet.

She stepped to the bed. If he had tossed in his slumber, she couldn’t tell. On his back, he slept with his lips slightly parted. A pink flush suffused his cheeks. Traces of fresh, bright blood stained the white linen bandage wrapped around his head. Dirty hair drooped about his face and pooled on the pillow. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. She inched closer, eager for a sign of life. When his ribs expanded with an intake of air, she sagged with relief. A touch to his forehead singed her palm. Fever.

She hurried to the washbasin, filled the porcelain bowl halfway with water then sat in a chair near him. With a damp flannel cloth, she dabbed the sweat from his face and let the cool rag rest on his forehead. Please, God. Let him recover.

He didn’t stir or acknowledge her presence. Just as well. She had yet to find the right words to ask about last night. For the time being, what mattered was that he lived. As to his activities on shore, for what else would explain the grass and soil stains on his coat sleeves, there would be time enough later to talk.

She sat back and gazed upon his still form. Why didn’t he tell her about the smuggling? Was he afraid she would turn him in to the authorities? No longer love him? Love was not a window opened and closed at will. One couldn’t stop caring as easily as tossing aside a holey pair of shoes. Nevertheless, the criminal activity tarnished his image and left the ground beneath her feet less solid.

She wanted to believe things weren’t as bad as they appeared. Yet what good could come from merchandise taken from a pirate? Any distant hope his activities might be legal failed.

Slowly, she wrung the wet rag, unable to square the image of noble, kind Griffin with that of a contemptible criminal. If what she surmised was the truth, could she accept it? Would she continue to love him, as she once had?

Days ago, when she concluded Griffin was not a spy, the decision had left her pleased beyond relief. Now, as she dabbed away his sweat, she wondered if she had the strength to withstand any more surprises. For both their sakes, she would stave off judgment until she could hear his story. Pray God he would heal enough to explain.

As the minutes wore on, the questions and worry persisted. She was desperate to understand. Even as she lingered vigilant at his side, sensitive to his every breath, her mind tossed about possible answers. In all likelihood, the stored crates probably sat on some conveyance on land. As to Laurent, the merchant? Perhaps he was gone as well.

Oh, Griffin. What have you done?

How foolish to fall in love and give power to a fairy tale belief the future would be free of pain. Love hurt. Didn’t she have the scars for proof? A mother dead. A father too stricken by grief to notice her. Why should Griffin be any different?

Stop it! Such pitiful thinking was pointless and beneath her. What she wanted, more than anything, was for Griffin to regain his health.

A rap sounded at the door. As she hurried to answer it, she raked fingers through her disordered hair, and tightened the sash of her dressing gown. “Sloane,” she whispered, pleased to see him. “Come in.”

A worried air strained the face of the slender youth. He bore a tray with dishes and crossed the threshold. In his wake flowed a tasty aroma of something savory and delicious.

“This is perfect.” She inspected the bowls beneath their lids.

“Beef broth for Mr. Faraday.” He shot an uneasy glimpse at the lifeless form. “Porridge and tea, should you wish it.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t forget to pack, ma’am. Captain says we should see land sometime today.”

“I’d almost forgotten,” she said, comforted by images of home.

“It’s been my pleasure to serve you, ma’am.” He shifted and stared at his feet. “And God go with you.” He jutted a chin at Griffin. “And him, too. I’ll pray for him.”

Lily swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Sloane. I’ve said a few prayers myself.”

When Sloane left, Lily perched on the side of the bed. She nudged Griffin gently. “Will you take broth?”

He moaned and turned his head away from the spoon she held at his lips. A deep sound rumbled in his chest.

“What did you say?” She cocked her ear closer.

“Water.”

“Of course.” Buoyed by the hope of his improvement, she poured liquid into a tumbler. “Drink this.” Gently, she elevated his head and tipped the glass to his dry lips. His eyelids fluttered yet didn’t open. A bead of water slipped down his chin and she caught it with a finger. When he motioned he had enough, she eased his head to the pillow.

“Will you drink broth?”

“Let me sleep.”

Just those few words encouraged her. When he rolled to his side, giving her his back she didn’t take offense. Since she could not force him to eat, she let him sleep.

At the table, she poured herself a cup of tea and dipped into her porridge, not caring that it had cooled. Sloane returned with hot water. Once he’d gone, she washed herself, dressed and despaired of wearing the blue muslin gown yet again. Even though they were close to land, it seemed the boat couldn’t go fast enough to suit her.

The worry Griffin might die from infection left her frightened and unsettled. She paced about the small cabin. She watched for changes in his skin color and breathing. As morbid images of his dead body, shrouded in canvas, slipped into the shivery waters of the Atlantic, Mead appeared at the door. If it were possible, the lanky man looked even more haggard than early this morning when darkness blanketed the ship.

“How is he?” Half-moon spectacles rested low on his narrow, straight nose.

“He woke up only once to take water and slept all night.” Too embarrassed to admit she also slept, she added, “He refused food and he’s very warm.”

Mead seemed to read her fear and examined Griffin with slow and steady hands. “The cabin is warm, as is the outside temperature. We’ll wait and see and hope for the best.” When he’d changed Griffin’s bandage, he splashed alcohol across his hands and wiped them with a clean napkin. “The best thing is to continue with the cool compresses and encourage him to drink.”

“I feel so utterly helpless.” Arms clasped about her waist, she accompanied Mead into the corridor.

“He couldn’t get better care than what you give to him.” Mead smiled.

She doubted she deserved the praise. Nevertheless, she was touched by his kind words. It meant so much for her to do the best for Griffin.

“Why not get some rest yourself? Captain expects to sight New York late this afternoon.”

“I’m too excited to rest. How is the tailor, the other injured man?”

“I trust he’ll recover though the process is not without its trials.”

“Will you tell me about last night?”

Chin dipped nearly to his chest, Mead eyed her over the silver rims of his spectacles.

“No need to keep secrets, Mr. Mead. I saw dirt stains on Griffin’s coat. There’s no doubt in my mind, he went ashore.”

“Believe me when I say I’m sorry. I am not at liberty to speak.”

Lily swallowed a caustic remark, frustrated by the thick wall that once again surrounded her against the truth. “I do believe you are sorry.” She stepped into the cabin and closed the door.

As the morning lengthened, Griffin stirred restlessly. Every time he moaned, it felt like something ripped in her stomach. His shirt was damp with perspiration. It clung to his ribs. She tugged at the cloth and withdrew it from his torso. Bunched in her grasp, she used it to tamp the beads of moisture on his face and neck. She reveled at the flatness of his stomach and the dips and hollows of his chest. She blew a kiss across his sternum and with a whisper, ordered him to get better.

With a clean, dry shirt on her mind, she went to his trunk. She flipped up the lid left unlocked the previous evening. In her haste after Griffin’s troubles, she’d failed to note any specific items. Today, with time on her hands, she noticed the assortment of books, the letters and papers tied in blue ribbon and the hand-sized double portrait of an older couple. His parents, she presumed, noting the strong resemblance though she couldn’t recall ever meeting them. Griffin had his father’s cleft chin and his mother’s straight nose. Both handsome people much like Griffin.

Curious, she read the book titles, surprised to see in his possession authors such as Thomas Paine and Benjamin Franklin, both celebrated sympathizers of the Colonial cause. Griffin claimed scant interest in politics yet such questionable material contradicted his earlier comments. A new horror dawned as she dug through the rest of his trunk and extracted a ream of paper. She recognized Griffin’s bold handwriting. The title of the piece read: On a Nation Divided. Her skin crawled as she read the first couple of paragraphs. “My God.” She reared back with a fist pressed between her ribs. The seditious words damned him. As if hypnotized, she read on. With each sentence, her pulse beat harder. Her mind raced.

G. A. Fairley.

Griffin Alexander Faraday and G.A Fairley were the same person. She spun about and glared at the prone form on the bed, wanting to scream. “How could you?”

Afraid of what else she might discover, she forced herself to rake through the rest of his belongings. When she unearthed a notebook of secret code notations, her stomach turned. The discovery meant one damning thing.

She moaned and closed her eyes, sick to her stomach. He’d lied to her about everything. She clenched her fingers around the undeniable truth. The paper crackled. Griffin was a spy. Crushing the paper in her fist, she stomped once around the table, muttering in disbelief. How could he do this? He loved her.

She jerked to a stop. Her jaw dropped as a chilling realization danced across her shoulders. No, he’d never said anything about love, at least not directly. He said he wanted to remain married, which could be for any number of reasons and none to do with love. Would he use his status as a married man to hide his secret treasonous activity? Was it her uncle’s position and connections in English society he hoped to exploit? Maybe he only wished to indulge in the physical aspects of marriage.

The room began to spin. Her knees hit the floor with a thunk. Pain radiated up her thighs. Grasping the edge of the trunk, she gulped back a rank taste in her mouth.

In her hands was evidence to prove Cecil Jones’s claims—the very claims she believed untrue two days ago. Cecil’s suspicions and need for proof made absolute sense. Against all hope to the contrary, Griffin was a firebrand seditionist and a spy. He insinuated himself into the highest circles of British society, the lawyer claimed, playing both sides of the fence. Regretfully, he’d played her too.

Dear Lord. She wished she’d never seen the condemning material. In spite of the irrefutable evidence, she struggled to connect the man she loved to a man who wrote inflammatory essays and passed secrets to the rebels. How could he? Slowly, she shook her head, aware of one fundamental and unavoidable fact. Even if she lived a hundred years, she could never accept his lies. His charm, his kindness, his humor, his humility; was it all a sham?

She pressed a hand to her raw, abraded heart. Tears pricked her eyes. She’d given him the best and trusted him with her body. In return, he betrayed her. Why didn’t he have faith enough in her to share his political beliefs? Had he been only a smuggler, she might have accepted his folly, but his lack of confidence in her signaled a much greater grievance. His disloyalty to her and their country cleaved her in two. She was left with an aching gap even love couldn’t mend.

The tears came, and she swept them away with both hands. After a while, when she gained control over her emotions, she straightened the items in the trunk and quietly closed the lid. With her soul in shreds, she set both the essays and the nightshirt on the table then went to the bed and watched him sleep.

Griffin moaned and shifted beneath the cotton sheet. The action brought on her sneer of contempt. She considered his discomfort just rewards for his deceit. It would satisfy her to see him tried and convicted for his crimes. An instant pang of guilt stabbed at her. Nevertheless…

Nostrils flared, she dropped into the desk chair resolved to do her duty, aware at some deeper level she sought retribution for the damage inflicted upon her gullible heart. You’ll be sorry. She dipped the quill into the inkpot and set nib to paper.

Dear Mr. Jones,

In my possession is the evidence you seek. Mr. Faraday is no Loyalist. He is, as you believed, a traitor and a spy.

He writes essays against the King under the pseudonym of G. A. Fairley. His dedication to the Colonial cause is fervent.

Any satisfaction she’d expected at the revelation eluded her.

Oh, why, she lamented, did Griffin have to be a rebel? Everyone she knew in London revered the King. With tight, quick movements, she folded the letter in half and stuffed it along with a page she ripped from his ciphering journal into an assigned envelope. For good measure, she included one of the more fiery essays.

Then, heavy on her feet, she crossed the room and dug her portmanteau from her trunk. In it, she packed a shawl, Papa’s journal, a coin purse and what jewelry she possessed. Beneath all of this, she buried the envelope. Finished with her task, she sat down to wait. Time crawled on.

A great bellow jarred Lily awake. Her head snapped up with her stiff and sore neck evidence she’d fallen asleep.

Griffin sat up in bed, the covers rumpled, and clutched his left calf. “A cramp,” he hissed. Teeth clenched, face flushed, he massaged his leg. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

At her sarcasm, he stilled and lifted his head, possibly alert to a change in the atmosphere. The man knew how to survive.

“I’m almost finished with these.” The words lashed with scorn. In illustration, she held up one of the essays along with the blue ribbon used to bind them all together.

“Ah,” he muttered in recognition.

“Ah, indeed.”

He levered both legs off the bed and dangled his feet just above the floor. Face rigid with pain, he gripped the edge of the mattress, the skin over his knuckles stretched taut. “How long have I been asleep?”

How could he act so self-contained? Then again, she should have expected as much from a man who kept the most important secrets well hidden. After all, he was the great manipulator.

“Through breakfast and the noon meal,” she answered.

He tried to stand and fell back to the bed.

“Careful!” She was out of the chair in a flash.

He thrust up a hand. “I’m fine. Just a bit dizzy.”

She chided herself for caring. He didn’t deserve her concern. Nevertheless, she handed him a glass of water.

He hesitated. Perhaps he felt a twinge of guilt. Then he took the glass and drank, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallowed.

An urge to feel his forehead like a worried mother came over her. She resisted. “How do you feel?”

Gingerly, he touched the bandaged wound over his ear. “Like I’ve been cracked on the head with the flat of an ax.”

“Close.” She took his empty glass and set it on the table. “A musket ball.”

He shot her an uneasy look.

“Don’t you remember?” Her jaw tightened with anger.

He patted the bandage with a light touch. “I have a vague recollection of a gun blast.” Something like embarrassment or awkwardness scuttled his features, surprising in lieu of Griffin’s typical grace and confidence.

“Gun or guns?” Tension rasped in her voice. “Was there one gun shot or many? Men on horses? A company of British soldiers dispatched to bring the smugglers to heel?”

He gazed up perhaps remembering the scene as well. “Your ability to see beyond the ship is extraordinary.”

Shadowed circles pooled beneath his eyes. Dried blood on his bandage and dirty hair roughened his appearance. Still she cared, and the realization annoyed her.

He scrubbed a hand down his cheek, his brow furrowed as though tortured by a weighty decision. She wished his concerns didn’t matter.

“Lily, I meant to tell you when we reached New York.”

“Meant to tell me what?” Beneath the clipped pleasantness in her tone, her body quivered with pent-up emotion.

A hand skimmed across his chest and down his arm, as if in search of further wounds or maybe he meant to stall. She wondered if in this dire circumstance, when truth mattered as much as life, he considered dredging up more lies.

“It’s only a minor head wound. Mr. Mead says you’ll live.” Bitterness tolled loud and clear.

His mouth twitched, and she was appalled he found amusement in a near deadly disaster. “My mother will be happy to hear of it.” He held her gaze. “I see you hold a different opinion.”

She kept quiet.

“I don’t remember anything after I got hit. Do you know what happened?” He arched a brow and winced.

“How ironic you should ask me. Everyone suggests I should ask you for an explanation. Once again, no one on this ship will speak—at least not to me. Am I a monster capable of destroying all and sundry? I can assure you it is a power I’d rather not possess.” She wanted him off balance, as miserable as she felt.

“You’re no monster. You’re a loving—”

Unable to listen to his drivel, she cut him off. “I know what I am. And I know what you are, too.”

He stiffened, still and taut as a hare sensed danger.

“Tell me. I deserve some truthful answers.”

The muscles of his chest expanded when he drew in a big breath. She studied his strained expression. She could almost hear his brain whirring, coming up with lies.

“Please. Just listen.”

It took considerable discipline not to shriek and howl her displeasure or stomp about the room like a mad woman. Grinding her teeth, she slid into the desk chair determined to steel her heart and spine to whatever he might dish her way.

Neither one spoke. He brushed a hand over his loose hair. The gesture dredged forth the memory of the first time she sat with him in this cabin—the first stirring attraction. “When you came aboard, dressed as a cabin boy, I thought you worked for the Crown or at least someone with ties close to the Crown.

She knew this and nodded, urging him on.

“When you revealed you worked for Cecil Jones, your behavior—the questions and snooping began to make sense.”

“We’ve been through this,” she said with testy impatience. “Just get to the point. What were you doing last night when you got shot?”

He lifted his chin and stared out the window. Clearly, he was in the midst of some internal struggle, and she despised him even more for the delay. Why couldn’t he trust her?

After a few minutes, he faced her. “I pray you will not abuse the information I am about to reveal. Lives hang in the balance. What you do can mean life or death for Mulworthy and others.”

There was no mistaking his serious intent or his plea for her cooperation. “You think I have no regard for the safety of the officers and the men on this ship?” Her hands shook at the insult. “How can you think so little of me?

“I’m sorry. I regret…” He paused. “War and duty…” He shrugged as if further explanation were unnecessary. “We delivered the crates and Laurent.”

“The lace,” she quipped.

“The guns,” he added.

Her brows rose along with her shock. “So it was guns and not gold, as I suspected.” Her mouth curled with derision. “And Laurent? Is he a wealthy merchant?”

“A skilled military officer.”

“I see.” Oh, how they must have laughed at her naiveté as they sat around the Captain’s table while they drank spirits and played cards. How Mulworthy must have sniggered at his ruse of the hidden guns beneath the lace.

“It’s war, Lily.”

“And you stand with the Colonists.”

“I do.”

Had he trusted her enough to share this information when she revealed her connection to Cecil Jones, she might have reached a place of understanding and acceptance. Confused, hurt, she couldn’t deal with this pain, not now.

“Did you put laudanum in my brandy?”

He dropped his head and stared at the floor.

She rose from the chair, her hands fisted at her side. “I’ll inform Mr. Mead you’re awake and have Sloane bring you food.”

“Lily, wait.” Urgency strummed in his voice.

With an iron fist pressing against her breastbone, she left the cabin.