A spy for the English. Not the French. Not a turncoat. Just a guise.” Mercy nattered with an unhinged jaw, knowing all the while it wasn’t helping. She could no more understand the words coming from her own mouth than she could from Elias’s.

She stared deep into his blue eyes, trying—needing—to sift truth from deception. He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He stared back, gaze clear and candid as if he looked upon the face of God.

Stunning, truly. All her life she’d prided herself on reading people. Sorting them out like a basket of berries, good in one pile, bad in the other. Had she been wrong about this man just as she had been wrong about her mother all these years? How had she, the one of keen sight, been so blind? And how had he been so cunning as to let her—and everyone else—believe such a thing?

She yanked back her hand from his hold. “You were nearly hanged! Why would you do that? Why did you not tell General Bragg?”

A shadow crossed his face, though not a cloud dotted the sky. He pulled his gaze from her and reached for a pebble, tossing the thing back and forth, palm to palm. “As I said, no one would believe me. The truth of my mission is known only to a major in Boston, and in order to make my role believable, even he would deny me.”

Toss. Toss. The stone dropped lazily from one hand to the other, as restless as the information she tried to line up in a neat row. He could be lying, but why invent such a fanciful story?

“Miss Mercy?” Livvy drew close, blond hair as wild and loose as Mercy’s own.

She’d have to braid that, as soon as she finished combing through Elias’s tale. Mercy smiled at the girl; at least she hoped it came off as a grin instead of a grimace. “I need a moment with Mr. Dubois. Here”—she shrugged off the food pouch strapped over her shoulder—“get yourself something to eat and close your eyes for a few minutes.”

The girl reached for the bag, all the while studying Elias. The longer she stared, the more a dimple carved deep into her chin as she pursed her lips. The girl was not dim-witted. She must sense some kind of squabble hanging on the air.

Yet she said no more. She nodded, then retreated back near the horses and sat on the ground with the bag.

Mercy turned to Elias, unsure what to think anymore. Was he a spy? Wasn’t he? If he were not a traitor—if… Her heart beat hard against her ribs as she traced the way the sun wrapped a glowing mantle across his shoulders. If he were a man of honor, then she was in even more danger, for there’d be nothing to douse the affection that had been kindling since the first touch of his hand.

She clenched her teeth, trapping a scream of confliction.

The rock slipped from his fingers, and he snatched it up again. “You do not have to believe me, Mercy. Sometimes…” He peered down at her. “Well, sometimes I can barely believe it myself.”

She huffed out a sigh, wanting, not wanting. The few crumbs of information he’d served hardly sufficed, and in fact merely whetted her appetite for more. “What are you here for exactly? What is your mission?”

“Originally it was to find out which fort the French next intended to siege, which I did.” He tossed the pebble in rhythm with his words. “I was even on my way back to Boston, but as I overnighted at Fort Le Boeuf, the whole thing turned into something more…deadly.”

The tossing stopped. The rock plummeted. Elias’s hands hung still between his knees.

Fear snuck up like a snake, slipping a shiver down her back. She’d seen him face an Indian with a knife, a river bent on pulling him under, not to mention a time or two when she’d swung at him with all her fury. But in all those times, she’d never seen the unvarnished terror now twitching his jaw.

“What did you discover?” she whispered.

He blew out a long breath, and when he spoke, his low voice threatened like an approaching tempest. “I am not sure, which is why I am in such a hurry to get back what I hid in one of those crates. The only thing I know for certain is that I have never seen any weapon quite so deadly.”

He shot to his feet, brushing the dirt from his hands along his thighs.

She bit her lip, watching him as he stood there. Could be a ploy. He could be a consummate actor. But the solemn bow of his head, the restless energy rippling out from him, even the way he didn’t plead or demand she believe him, all testified to the probable viability of his story.

Still she wasn’t satisfied. She stood as well. “If I’m going with you—if—I need to know what it is we’ll be transporting, especially with Livvy in tow.”

He glanced at her from the corners of his eyes. “So…you believe me?”

“I did not say that, and stop changing the subject.”

His mouth curved up at one side, then just as suddenly the half smile faded. He folded his arms and faced her, planting his feet wide. “All right. There’s a battalion of French even now on their way to Fort Stanwix, but it is no regular threat. They intend to deploy a new weapon, one that will kill every man in that fort before a surrender can be arranged.”

Every man? Prickles ran along her arms. “What is this weapon?”

“A grenade, of sorts. The likes of which I have never seen. The outside shell is glass, which of course inflicts a nasty spray of skin-piercing shards. But worse are the contents. Small bits of metal, sharpened, jagged, and coated in a substance beyond my understanding. Some kind of poison, I guess. These bits are loaded into the glass grenades, launched over the walls by a new kind of mortar, and when they explode, whoever chances a single scratch by one of those pieces of metal dies shortly thereafter in agony.”

“How do you know this?” Her voice sounded strange, even to her own ears. Then again, this whole conversation was morbidly odd. Were the sun not warming her shoulders and a breeze cooling her cheek, she’d question if she were awake.

“I witnessed the test fires”—a fearsome glower etched lines on Elias’s face—“as they practiced on English prisoners, mostly men, some women and…” His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he barely choked out his last word. “Children.”

She gulped, suddenly needful of air. This was no playacting. The truth, the horror, the righteous rage emanating from Elias knocked her back a step.

His eyes narrowed to daggers. “If I bring in that weapon and our men can figure out what the poison is, perhaps an antidote can be created. If not, well…I know where the poison and the mortars are stored. We take out the supply, and the threat is leveled, leastwise for now.”

He’d carried this weight all this time, come for her even when he knew each minute spent chasing after her was one taken from his mission. And he’d not even blinked with the prospect of adding a young girl into his care, despite the strain he already bore. The truth of who Elias Dubois really was punched her square in the belly, and she pressed her hands to her stomach.

“Livvy,” she called out, her voice shaky but audible. “Prepare to ride.”

Elias cocked his head at her, one brow lifted.

And surprisingly, she managed a small smile. “We’ve a wagon to catch up to.” But then all mirth fled. That wasn’t all to be done. Her eyes burned, and she blinked back tears. “But first we have a body to bury.”

As much as she understood the urgency of Elias’s mission, duty to Matthew came first.

Hours later, after a thorough check for signs of anything that breathed, Elias slid from his horse and emerged from the woods. Ahead, the road forked, one branch bearing south in a sharp turn. He needn’t check, really, for Rufus no doubt continued on the northeast trail, toward Fort Edward, but all his training had taught him to be thorough. Training? Hah. A smirk twisted his lips. Why follow such minute protocol now when he’d already forsaken the number one tenet?

He followed the road to where it split. None of this would be happening if he’d never hidden the weapon in a crate of gold to begin with. He should’ve taken the risk of carrying the thing on his body. But hindsight…well, hindsight ever had a way of making the present look like a farce.

Slowing his pace, he scanned the ground, looking for signs of wagon wheels. Who helped Rufus was still a mystery, unless the Shaws had turned back and stumbled across him. Of only one thing was Elias certain—that all along Rufus had intended to bring that gold into the fort by himself. He not only would take all the credit for surviving an Indian attack single-handedly, but would receive a fat pay increase and gain another rank for having saved the load. The young scoundrel had been willing to see them all die just for his profit.

Shoving down a rising anger, Elias crouched and studied the dirt where the road divided. What the…? He ran a finger along the weeds flattened in the curve of a rut. No doubt about it then.

“Which way?”

Mercy’s quiet voice wrapped around him from behind. He stood and faced her, taking a moment to brand this image of her on his memory. She belonged here, framed by green wilds, one with God’s creation. He’d never seen a lioness other than as a child in one of his grandfather’s books, but this woman embodied all the traits of the queen of hunters. The way her chin tipped proud, that thick mane of hair riding her shoulders, the confident look in her eye. And now that she knew his secret, the power to crush him with a single swipe.

He scrubbed his face with his hand, wiping away that thought, then hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Rufus turned off here, going south.”

Her floppy old hat dipped low on her brow. “Hmm,” she murmured. “A windfall for us.”

“How’s that?”

“Going south leads us deeper into my people’s lands. We can make good time by staying on the road. Red Bear would be a fool to follow.”

A bitter taste filled his mouth. “Red Bear is no fool. If he sees our tracks on this road, he will strike hard and fast.”

“Yet we don’t know for certain he has followed us this far. All our precautions are slowing us, and night will soon close in. I say we gain as much ground as we can by lighting out on the southward fork.”

He grunted, then bypassed her as he chewed on her idea. It made sense, but something about it squeezed his chest like an ill-fitting waistcoat. He stalked back to the safety of the tree line, where Livvy sat astride Mercy’s mount and his own horse nibbled on some grass shoots.

He peered up at the girl. “Livvy, how about you climb down and ride with me for a while?”

Mercy gained his side. “What have you in mind?”

“You are the one with the falcon eyes, and Matthew always said your scouting skills were second only to his.” Grabbing hold of his horse, he swung up onto the animal’s back.

Mercy frowned up at him. “Is that flattery, Mr. Dubois?”

“It is the truth. Scout back a mile or so and see if anyone follows.” He reached down, offering Livvy a hand up. “We will continue south until you catch back up. If you see no signs, then we shall stick to the road. Agreed?”

Mercy nodded, and the girl wrapped her thin arms around his waist. As he nudged his horse into motion, a sliver of unease poked his conscience for sending a woman—one he cared about very much—into the woods spying for trouble…until he reminded himself that that was what lionesses did. She was in her element, and that rankled deep. Would she ever consent to settling down in one place with a man such as him?

“Mr. Dubois?” Livvy’s voice chirped from behind. Though the girl was nearly as tall as his shoulder and standing on the edge of womanhood, she was, after all, still a girl.

“You can call me Elias, Livvy.”

“Mr. Elias?”

He smiled. Whoever had raised her had done a fine job of instilling manners. How different would his life have been had he listened to his mother and grandfather’s lessons at such a young age?

Guiding the horse onto the side of the southward road, he murmured, “Aye?”

“When do you think I shall see my papa again?” Desperation haunted the girl’s question.

“Hopefully soon. Miss Mercy and I are doing everything we can to get you to him safely, for he surely must be missing you.”

“It must be awful for him managing without me.”

Were it not for the compassion riding ragged in her voice, he might almost think her prideful. But over the past two days, seeing her compliance to Mercy, her willingness to please and encourage, he slapped that rogue idea away.

“You are quite the little lady, Miss Livvy.” He dipped beneath a low-hanging branch, breathing in horseflesh and leather.

Livvy followed suit, leaning against his back. “I am all Papa has, since Mother…”

He tugged at his collar, loosening the knot at his throat. It shouldn’t surprise him, the way suffering had a way of grabbing every human by the neck and shaking, ofttimes hard. But it never failed to shock when one so young must endure such tragedies.

Bless this girl, Lord. Hold her in Your hand.

He glanced down to where her hands rode loosely at his sides. How much did her papa ache to have this girl, this flesh-and-blood reminder of a love lost, returned to him? “I imagine your papa must love you something fierce.”

“He does.”

The conviction in her young voice stabbed him between the shoulder blades. What would it have felt like to have had a father like that? A frown carved deep into his brow. What was this? Self-pity? Had he not laid all that on the altar that stormy night two years ago in a Boston church?

“Just like your papa—oh! Mr. Du—Elias…I did not think to ask if your papa is still living?”

Was he? His knuckles whitened on the reins. “Truthfully, Livvy, I would not know.”

“That is so sad.”

He stifled a snort. Sad? Maybe. But even sadder that both his father and his grandfather had cast him out. “It is a sorry truth, Livvy, but not everyone has a loving father.”

Livvy’s hands patted his sides, motherly beyond her years. Then again, being held captive in a Wyandot war camp likely had added a score of years she’d never asked for.

“I bet your papa was a strong man, a brave one,” she murmured. “Just like you.”

“Aye, he was strong. You must be, to be a voyageur.” His mind slid back to that first time as a young man, barely older than Livvy, when he’d traveled to Montreal to meet Bernart Dubois. The man was muscle and steel standing there on the banks of the St. Lawrence River…reeking of rum and rage.

“My father could haul three packs at a time and once paddled from Montreal to Grand Portage in six weeks flat—a trip that usually takes eight. Indeed, he was a strong man.” He spoke as much to Livvy as himself, a good reminder that not all about his earthly father was wicked.

Behind him, Livvy shifted. “And brave?”

He chuckled, low and bitter, and shame stabbed him for the base response. But it couldn’t be helped. How brave was it for a man to drink himself into oblivion? To leave behind the woman who loved him more than life, taking her honor, crushing her heart? To lash out at his own son?

Absently, he lifted a hand and rubbed the scar near his ear. “No, Livvy. There was nothing brave about him.”

They rode in silence a ways. Just as well, for the girl’s questions dredged up ghosts that haunted in ways he hadn’t expected.

But a troubling noise behind them jerked him from such painful speculations. Far off, twigs cracked. Weeds swished. Someone was coming.

Fast.

He yanked the horse into the woods, barely clearing the side of the road when he caught sight of Mercy barreling down it.

She reined her snorting horse to a stop in front of them. “We’ve got to move. Now!”