Emmett paced back and forth over the packed dirt floor of his cell room. In his entire life, he couldn’t remember ever feeling such a lack of control. A shoulder-crushing mixture of frustration, fear, and anger. If Lieutenant Fox was to be believed—and Emmett’s gut told him in this case the man was telling the truth—Abigail was here in Byron. Emmett had thought the one advantage of leaving Detroit had been getting the lieutenant away from her. But now she was here, within the man’s reach, and again Emmett had no way of protecting her. He smacked a fist into his palm.
“Calm yourself, Captain,” Major Graves said from the chair in front of the desk. “You’re making the lot of us nervous.” He set down a quill and turned. “Still unsettled about the incident in the forest yesterday?”
Emmett sat on the narrow shelf of his own bunk and didn’t reply. Unsettled? Of course he was unsettled. An infernal tree chopped by two tea-sipping buffoons had nearly crushed him. And nobody was doing a thing about it. In this instance, Emmett had managed a narrow escape, but it was just a matter of time before Lieutenant Fox succeeded in catching him off guard. That worry, however, was secondary to Abigail’s safety. He could only hope her brother’s rank afforded her some measure of protection.
“You should be feeling fortunate instead of agitated.” The major nodded as if dispensing sound advice. “A dangerous business, chopping trees. Accidents aren’t uncommon.”
“We’re probably all safer here as prisoners than out there with the battles and the Indians,” Lieutenant Devon said. He set aside the letter he was reading and stood, carefully placing the miniature portrait of his beloved on a ledge on the uneven boards of the wall. He crossed the small room and poured a cup from the water pitcher, offering it to Emmett.
Emmett shook his head, turning down the drink. He didn’t explain his real concerns. Didn’t want to give the others reason to worry about him or their own safety. He scooted back, leaning against the wall and picked up the bit of hematite from the ledge beside his own bunk. He’d found rubbing his fingers over the bumps of the cool metal to be extremely soothing. “I trust all is well at home, Lieutenant?” He nodded toward the letter, glad to have something else to think about.
Lieutenant Devon looked toward the miniature portrait and smiled. “Yes. All is well. Georgiana is complaining of the naval blockades and the shortage of fashionable gowns and bonnets in Boston. But she and her family are safe and healthy.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Emmett noticed the way the man’s eyes shone when he spoke of his beloved. He set the rock back on the ledge.
“I’ll just be happy when this infernal war is finished.” Lieutenant Devon raised the cup in a salute and downed the contents, grimacing. “The well water tastes worse every day.”
“The lake should thaw soon,” Major Graves said. “A month at the latest. Then we’ll at least enjoy a change of sce—”
The cup dropped from Lieutenant Devon’s fingers, hitting with a thud. He pressed a hand to his throat then doubled over, clutching his stomach as he fell to the floor.
Emmett jumped from his bunk and crouched beside him. “Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant groaned and pressed his arms tighter against his middle.
Emmett looked up at the major.
“I’ll send for the doctor.” Major Graves hurried to the door.
“Lieutenant.” Emmett patted his back. “Can you speak?”
“Going dark.” The man spoke through clenched teeth, the sound hardly more than a grunt.
Lieutenant Devon wore no coat, and his shirt was quickly soaking through with sweat. He groaned and pulled into a tighter ball.
Emmett retrieved the cup and poured some more water, kneeling down to help the lieutenant drink. But he stopped. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. The water had a strange smell. Emmett touched it to his tongue and frowned at the bitter taste. The tip of his tongue started to burn then went numb.
This reaction was certainly not the result of stale well water. Had the lieutenant been poisoned? He looked up at the pitcher and felt a wave of nausea as realization hit. The poison had been meant for him.
Dread clenched his chest tight. As long as Lieutenant Fox continued his vendetta, Emmett put anyone close to him in danger.
He heard footsteps in the passageway, and Major Graves rushed into the room followed by a guard and Abigail. Emmett’s heart caught at the sight of her, and in the next moment, his stomach turned hard. He forced a neutral expression, hoping the conflicting emotions hadn’t shown on his face.
Abigail held Emmett’s gaze for a split second then dropped her medical bag and knelt beside him. “What has happened?”
If he’d thought a hunk of rock to be comforting, it was nothing to the sensation of having her here next to him. It took every ounce of his self-control not to reach for her. “He took a drink and immediately fell, holding his stomach and saying that everything was going dark.”
She touched the lieutenant’s neck, right below the jaw, feeling for his heartbeat. “Sir, can you hear me?”
A groan was the only response.
She pressed her palm to his forehead then his cheek. “What is his name?” she asked Emmett.
“Devon. Lieutenant Devon.”
“Lieutenant Devon?” Abigail leaned close, shaking his shoulder. “Can you tell me where you are hurting?”
“Stomach.” He groaned again.
Abigail rose, motioning to Emmett and the guard. “If you please, can you get him to a bed?”
Emmett grabbed beneath the lieutenant’s arms and hefted while the guard lifted his feet, moving him up onto his bunk.
Abigail opened her bag, taking out a few bottles and looking at the labels. “Now, what did he drink?”
Emmett jerked up his chin toward the pitcher. He handed her the cup. “I think he may have been poisoned.”
Abigail sniffed the water then touched it to the tip of her tongue just as Emmett had a moment earlier. Her face darkened, and she spit. “Monkshood.” She looked at the pitcher and then at Emmett. Her eyes opened wide.
A thin man with a pronounced nose hurried into the room. He looked at the patient then at Abigail, and his nostrils flared. “Ah, Miss Tidwell, I see you’ve beat me to it.”
“The lieutenant’s ingested monkshood.” She chose a bottle and moved to the bedside. “If you please,” she said to the guard. “A bucket. And some clean water.”
“We cannot treat him here,” the thin man said. “Bring him to the hospi—”
“Doctor, there is no time. We must expel the poison immediately.” Abigail reached past him and took the bucket from the guard. “His heart rate is slow, and his sight is darkening.”
The doctor looked as if he would argue but thought better of it. He stood near, scowling as Abigail poured some of the syrup into the patient’s mouth.
“Now, this won’t be pleasant, Lieutenant Devon. I’m sorry. Captain, please, can you help me turn him on his side?”
The next moments were extremely unpleasant for all involved as Lieutenant Devon expelled the contents of his stomach with violent force. After each spasm passed, he would collapse onto the bunk, trembling.
Emmett felt extremely sorry for the younger man.
Abigail rubbed the lieutenant’s arm and spoke to him softly, occasionally brushing back a damp lock of hair or wiping his mouth with a cloth.
And Emmett felt a bit less sorry for him.
Finally, the vomiting ended. The lieutenant lay back, breathing shallowly. His skin was as gray as the dirty snow outside.
“There, Lieutenant,” Abigail said in a gentle tone. She mopped his brow with the cloth. “Rest now.”
“Miss, am I going to die?” Lieutenant Devon’s voice shook. He glanced toward the miniature portrait on the ledge.
“Not if I can help it,” Abigail said, giving his arm a pat. She pulled down the picture and studied it. “Lovely. What is her name?”
“Georgiana.” His eyes were drooping.
Abigail put the picture into his hand. “Rest now, Lieutenant,” she said and took a step back.
The doctor must have seen this as his signal to take charge. He ordered some men to bring in a stretcher, and for a few minutes, the small room filled with confusion as too many people got in one another’s way as they maneuvered the patient through the doorway.
The chaos moved down the hall, and Emmett and Abigail were alone.
When he turned to her, he saw her gaze upon the piece of hematite beside his bunk. She smiled, and a small blush colored her cheeks.
“You have to leave Byron,” Emmett said, with no time for preamble.
Abigail’s smile dropped away. She blinked. “Emmett, you’re in danger.” Her eyes darted to the door.
“I know. But you must leave. Return home immediately.” He held her arm and looked directly into her eyes. “You must. Promise me, Abigail.”
She shook her head, her brows pulling together above her nose. “I will not. Not while you—”
Footsteps sounded in the passageway, and she moved away from him to the lieutenant’s bunk, packing the bottles into her bag.
The guard stepped into the room. “Anything else, miss?”
“No, I think I have everything. Thank you.”
He nodded and stood aside to allow her to pass.
She met Emmett’s gaze just for an instant as she left the room, and his heart dropped. Her face was set in a mask of determination.
The guard picked up the bucket and followed her.
Well, if nothing else, this time Emmett had evidence. Absolute proof of Lieutenant Fox’s attempts on his life. The British officers would have to take the threat seriously now.
But when Emmett turned to the desk, the offending pitcher was gone.