“I’ve seen better, but this will do.”
Nicholas snorted in disgust, turned on them. “Where do you two think you’re going?”
Jamie entered a stall farther down and began to saddle his stallion. “We were about to ask you the same question.”
And then Nicholas understood. “Bethie. She woke you.”
His father pulled his saddle from the wall, walked to his mount. “And it’s a damned good thing she did.”
Nicholas led Zeus to the stable door, mounted. “You’re not coming with me. Stay here, and watch over her for me. Let me do this alone.”
Then he kicked in his heels, urging Zeus forward at a canter.
Behind him, Jamie led his horse from its stall, waited for Alec. “Not this time, Nicholas. Not this time.”
***
By the time Bethie had nursed Belle, dressed, and left her baby in the innkeeper’s caring arms, the men were far ahead of her. Clad in her plain linen gown and wearing her new winter cloak, she rode Rosa as fast as she dared. The ferryman reluctantly took her across the river—after she had assured him that she was not a bondswoman fleeing service or a runaway daughter, but a wife following her husband. He even pointed out which way the men had gone, after she pressed a coin into his dirty palm.
The air was cold with the crisp bite of autumn, the sky overcast and gray, the trees arrayed in shades of red and orange. She kept just off the road, using the skills Nicholas had taught her when they’d fled to Fort Pitt. She didn’t want him to spot her, didn’t want him to send her back. She was so tired of standing helplessly by while he risked his life, so tired of waiting to know whether he was dead or alive, so tired of doing nothing. These were her countrymen, her people. If he could not convince them to lay down their weapons, perhaps she could.
***
Nicholas had given up arguing with Jamie and his father by the time they’d reached the opposite side of the river and had turned to planning their strategy.
Jamie sounded insulted by his plan. “So you want us to stand there and say nothing.”
“Why is that?” His father frowned.
“The moment you open your mouth, Father, our cause is lost. These people are not fond of Englishmen.”
“Oh, that again,” Jamie muttered.
“You might not realize it, but your Oxford accents make you sound more English than bloody King George.”
Jamie chuckled. “Wearemore English than bloody King George.”
“Now that you mention it, son, I will say that your speech has become, shall we say, more colorful?”
“That’s one way to phrase it.” Jamie grinned. “It’s all those endless years of conversing with his horse.”
Nicholas was about to offer a witty retort, when he heard—or perhaps felt—many hooves beating the ground. “They’re just ahead.”
Jamie nodded, all jesting aside. “I feel it, too.”
They rode in silence until the front line of riders came into view.
Nicholas dismounted, stood in the middle of the road, one hand on Zeus’s reins, the other at his side. “Don’t draw your weapons unless you absolutely must.”
His father and Jamie dismounted and stood behind him, their pistols primed and loaded.
The horsemen drew near, riding at a gallop. Already Nicholas could see individual faces. A man toward the center of the mob motioned for them to clear the road. Zeus jerked on the reins, his animal instincts apparently telling him to make way for the horde that was bearing down upon them, but Nicholas stood firm.
On the road ahead of them, the riders slowed their mounts, then reined them to a walk.
Nicholas held up a hand in greeting.
“You’re blockin’ the road, friend.”
