Blowing out his candle, he stretched on his bed, contemplating the days ahead. Could he fight with honor? Not seeking to avenge his pa or uncle or even Esther?
An edge of moonlight fell over his writing table and his empty letter. Restless, he slipped down the stairs in his stocking feet and out the front door, the night outside similar to the night within.
In time the sun would rise, bringing the dawn. But would he ever be in the light? Did true light even exist?
Uncle Laurence would say yes. In the form of the Savior, but—
Hamilton tensed at the sound of an approaching rider. As it drew nearer, he moved into the shadows of the porch, his back pressed against the side of the house, and wished for the dagger lying on the kitchen table.
At the gate, a large gelding walked through a slip of moonlight, the rider slumping forward.
“Who goes there?” Hamilton squinted, his blood pulsing. “Declare yourself. Friend or foe?”
The rider tumbled from the tall, bay steed onto the ground.
He leaped over the steps, racing to the wounded, and inhaled a familiar perfume mingling with the dew of the dust.
“Esther!” He collected her in his arms and carried her inside, lowering her to Aunt Mary’s settee.
He lit a lamp, then spread a wool coverlet over her shivering frame. Perspiration beaded along her forehead under the free wisps of her burnished hair.
“Hamilton,” she said, raising her hand to his blouse. “I have to tell you—”
“Shh, rest. Let me draw you a cup of water.” In the kitchen he fumbled in the dark for a clean cup, then drew water from the bucket by the stove. “Here, love, drink.” He raised her head and tipped the cup to her lips.
Eyes closed, her breath shallow, Esther drank until satisfied. Then she collapsed against the settee. Hamilton cushioned her head with a pillow and brushed the strands of loose hair from her face. Her skin blazed with fever.
“I must get you home.” She was so pale, so delicate. Blood stained the edge of her shawl, and when he eased it back, he saw hergown was also stained. “Your wound has broken open.” He glanced at the stairs. Should he wake Aunt Mary?
But a firm fist gripped his blouse collar. “I must... tell you... something.”
“Esther, what is so important that you risked your health coming here? In the night? I must return you to your father’s care.”
“Father, Twimball, they say you pistol-shot me, but I know...” Her grip tightened. “You did not.”
“’Twas Twimball. Taking aim at me. I was trying to save you.”
“Father refuses to believe it. He’s scared, Hamilton. Something in his letters from Lord Whatham. But you must forgive him. He... he... tries to be brave, but he is an ordinary man.”
“He has my forgiveness, but his anger toward us is unfounded. He claims Uncle Laurence stole Quill Farm from him while he was away. Fifteen years ago.”
“You must have misunderstood. Father would never... but he so wants to please Lord Whatham.” Her words barely rose above a whisper. “Increase his holdings...”
“To be sure, but at our expense?” Hamilton clasped her hand in his. “I forgive him whatever obligation he has to his employer but not that he sides with the Tories over the Lightfoots. Now, I must carry you home.”
“Come to Slathersby Hill tomorrow. I will beg him to—”
“I cannot.” Hamilton sat back on his heels, releasing her hand. “I leave with the Upper Ninety Six in the morning.”
Esther opened her eyes and struggled to sit up. “You joined the militia?”
“I could sit by no longer.”
“Then I must... tell you...” She pushed into a sitting position.
“Whatever it is, Esther, it can keep until I return in three months’ time.”
“I... love... you.” The lamplight flickered against her slight smile, illuminating her eyes. Despite her weakness and pain, theywere blue and clear. “I could not wait any longer to tell you. And to say I do not believe you fired upon me.”
