“Didn’t ye know, lamb? He’s leadin’ a force of men out to cut the spelts and harvest what food they can. They left at midday.”
“He didna see fit to tell me.” Bethie stood, torn between fury and fear. “Can you watch Belle for me, Annie? She won’t be hungry again for a while.”
“Aye, but there’s nothin’ ye can do for him until he returns. He likely kept it to himself so as no’ to worry ye.”
Bethie scarce heard her as she hurried to the door. “Thank you, Annie.”
She opened the door and froze.
Richard!
Icy terror shot through her, froze the breath in her lungs.
She’d caught only a glimpse of her stepbrother. At least she’d thought it was him. One moment he was there, standing not thirty feet away from her door, an oily look upon his face. The next he was gone, vanished in the crowd.
Had she imagined him? The man she’d seen had the same reddish-blond hair, the same square face, the same freckles, the same filthy smirk. But he’d worn a redcoat uniform, and Richard had always hated the English. Perhaps she had merely seen a soldier who looked like him.
Why, then, had he looked directly at her?
“Ma’am, are you well?” Private Fitchie’s face swam into view.
Bethie clutched the door frame, drew in a deep breath, tried to quiet her pounding heart.
Annie’s hand settled reassuringly on her shoulder. “Bethie, lamb, what is it? Ye’ve gone as pale as a ghost!”
“I—I’m fine.” But she shook from head to toe.
“Fitchie, help me get her inside.” Annie, with Belle still in her arms, took one of Bethie’s arms, while Private Fitchie took the other.
Bethie sat in the chair Private Fitchie pulled out for her. “I’m fine, truly I am. I—I thought... for a moment, I...”
“Be a peach, Private, and fetch her some fresh water. Be off wi’ ye.” Annie settled her girth in a chair beside Bethie. “Now, lamb, tell me—”
From outside came the sound of rapid gunfire, the blare of a trumpet.
Private Fitchie stopped still in the doorway, turned to face them. “The alarm! We’re under attack!”
For the second time in as many minutes, Bethie’s heart seemed to stop. “Nicholas!”
Chapter 22
“Fall back! Quickly!” Nicholas reloaded, aimed for a Delaware wearing a British officer’s coat and gorget, fired. “Go!”
The warrior fell back amid rows of waist-high Indian corn, his death scream lost amid the war whoops and gunfire. There were probably fifty more just like him hiding out there, some in the corn, some in the trees on the edge of the forest.
Nicholas ducked behind the shelter of an apple tree, reloaded.
Men dashed past him, bags of radishes, summer squash, fresh greens, beans, peas, sheaves of spelt clutched to their chests. Most were already well behind him on their way back to the ravelin, but a few had dropped their burdens to fight. He needed to get them out of here.
“The rest of you—fall in behind me! Make for the glacis!”
An arrow sang past his shoulder, landed harmlessly in the dirt.
He found the warrior who had fired it, put a ball through his throat, then reloaded.
Men scrambled low to the ground, ran backward, reloading and firing as they went.
The blast of a howitzer. The whine as the ball arced through the air. The explosion of impact.
