“Well,” Hamilton said, setting his light on the table. “Shoot me if you have any courage.”
Esther shot to her feet and moved between the men, their faces shadowed and stern. “No! There will be no killing in my house.”
Twimball mocked with a throated laugh. “Once again she puts herself in harm’s way.”
“Then lower your weapon,” Hamilton said.
“After you’ve lowered yours.”
Hamilton lowered his gun with a side glance at Esther. “Are you all right?” he said.
“Yes.” She wanted to sound confident, but her simple answer waivered.
“The troops need food. Had I known they’d aim for Slathersby, I’d have diverted them.”
“Food or intelligence,” Twimball said. “Perhaps your commander wanted to spy on Sir Michael.” The lieutenant angled toward Father, who remained pressed into the corner as more rebels trailed in behind Hamilton. “Unless Sir Michael has changed his mind and now sides with the rebels.”
“Indeed not. This household is wholly devoted to Britain and the Crown,” Father fired back. “We aid and abet no rebels.”
“Still you swear allegiance to those who nearly killed your daughter.” Hamilton inched across the room, parting the arguing factions, going nose to nose with Lieutenant Twimball.
“She acted a fool,” Twimball declared. “Running into the fray. To save you perhaps? Are you a boy in need of a woman’s aid?”
“Does your Inspector General, Major Ferguson, know about your underhanded tactics?” Hamilton asked. “Disrupting a funeral? Firing on an innocent woman? Perhaps the British must kill women and children to gain victory.”
Twimball raised his chin. “Shall we take our fight outside?”
“A duel perhaps?”
“Duel? Are you mad?” Esther shoved between them, her entire body trembling. “Go your own ways. Save yourselves for the real battlefield.”
Hamilton took up his lamp, and she saw in his expression what he’d never confessed. Love. And fear. “Please,” she begged. “Each of you, return the way you came. Let this night pass in peace.”
He bore the slightest smile on his lips, along with a glint of pride in his eyes, as he nodded toward her. “You look well. Your shoulder has healed?”
“Yes, yes, but promise me, Hamilton. You will not—”
“Yes, promise her, Hamilton,” Twimball mimicked. “Surrender to her feminine wishes.”
Hamilton slowly turned. “I’ll see you on the battlefield.”
The two men stepped toward one another, shoulders back, chins raised. Esther released an involuntary sigh.
“Please, I beg of you, just go your way. Leave my father and me in peace.”
Except Hamilton, he could stay. She wanted to examine him in the light, ensure her heart he was well, with no wounds or scars—no harm from this mad war.
“Let us do as she bids.” Hamilton reached for Father’s Brown Bess. Raising it to his eye, he examined the frizzen in the flickering light. “If you aim to defend this house, I suggest you load your musket next time.” He tossed the gun back to Father, then tapped Twimball with the barrel of his rifle. “Until then, Lieutenant.”
“Where you will meet a coward’s end, I assure you.” Twimball knocked the rifle away, then roused his men. “We leave only on account of Sir Michael’s loyalty and that of his household.”
Grabbing his lamp, Hamilton disappeared into the shadows, departing with the militiamen.
“Lightfoot!” Father jumped forward, chasing him down the hall to the foyer. “Stay away from Slathersby Hill. You are not welcome here, Lightfoot! Do you hear me? You and yours are traitors.”
Esther listened for his reply. ’Twas nothing more than the clap of a closing door.
When Father returned to the kitchen, Twimball and his men had also departed. Father lit a candle and aided Esther to her feet.
