Michael smiled at her fondly. As always, the pleasure of her company cleared his mind of turmoil. “Probably not a battle, though they’ll try for one.”

  “But if not a battle, then what are they doing?” She frowned seriously. “I don’t understand.”

  He pointed out to a large, low island of salt marsh and mud flats, and the mainland of Christ Church Parish beyond. “On the other side of that island, Shute’s Folly, is the Hog Island Channel, out of range of any of our guns. It’s too shallow for most warships, but Tamar and Cherokee, and maybe Scorpion, could make it through, sail back around, and bombard Charlestown without us ever getting a shot at them.”

  “Is that likely? That they’d bombard Charlestown, I mean?”

  “Not at the moment, no. But it’s not a good idea to gamble on cannon balls. Those first four schooners will be sunk in the channel. The last, the Defence, will bring off the crews.”

  Gabrielle chewed at her pretty lip reflectively. “You said they’d try for a battle. What’d you mean?”

  He helped her adjust the spyglass to her eye, and directed her attention to the Defence. “Drayton’s on board her. He’s trying to provoke an incident. Anything at all, so long as it happens under the eyes of Charlestown, will rouse the people like a tonic. Does he that, he’ll make up for a lot.”

  A blossom of smoke appeared alongside Tamar, then another. The first reverberating boom reached them just before the third cloud of smoke erupted from the ship. Short of the channel, far short. Silence fell. “Six rounds only,” he muttered. “He knows he’s too far off; he’s giving it up as a bad job.”

  “Are you Michael Shane Fallon?”

  Michael turned in surprise at the male vice. A man clothed almost as a gentleman stood in the doorway. Three others, who didn’t come close, crowded through.

  “I am. What do you want?”

  Suddenly pistols appeared in the men’s hands. The others swung theirs wildly at the woman and back again. The man who’d spoken kept his firmly on Michael. “You will come with us, please.”

  Gabrielle started to protest, but Michael took her by the shoulders and gently moved her out of the way. “I’ll come quietly. There’s no need to frighten the ladies.”

  The tall man moved aside and motioned him through the door. Four pistols, he thought. Too many to fight, especially around the women. But if he could take the stairs at one leap and dash out the door—One of two men at the foot of the stairs raised his pistol toward Michael. The other held the servants cowering in a corner. What the hell was going on?

  Once in the street, the men formed a semicircle behind him, their guns openly held. To anyone who saw them, one thought came. Council of Safety business. They looked the other way. Nobody wanted to get involved in that.

  More cannon fire sounded from the river, erupting into a steady fusillade. The escort looked at one another nervously. People streamed past, heading the same way they were, running to see the show, brushing right against Michael’s guards. If he ducked into the crowd—

  The tall man seemed to read his mind. “If you run, we’ll shoot you and take our chances.”

  Take their—“You’re not Council of Safety. Who are you?”

  The tall man’s jaw tightened; he pressed his pistol harder into Michael’s ribs and hurried him along. The rest of the guard trotted after them.

  Down between the wharves a longboat waited. Half a dozen men in it, sailors dressed in grabbag fashion, kept a nervous watch on the nearby crowds, who had eyes only for the harbor. One of the seamen turned as they approached.

  “God blind me, Mr. Crisp, the captain’s brought every rebel in the town down here.”

  Michael whirled. “You’re Royal Navy.” A pistol butt crashed against his head.

  He woke to pain and a quivering, booming noise. It took him a moment to realize that the latter was not in his head. He lay on a ship’s deck, and her guns were firing. His hands went to his head, and he had to bite back an oath. Iron shackles were on his wrists, with three feet of chain between. With an effort he sat up. There were chains on his ankles, too.

  A ship’s gunner squatted beyond his feet, just putting his tools back into a chest. He looked at Michael’s irons and sniffed. “Them’ll hold you. Aye. Them’ll hold.”

  Rough hands pulled him to his feet. On the quarterdeck he recognized Lord William Campbell. The red-faced officer trying not to shout must be the captain.

  “And I tell you again,” the captain said rigidly, “I first fired only as a diversion, to draw attention while Mr. Crisp closed in on this scoundrel. Who would have thought the impudent dogs had the nerve to fire back?” He sounded as if he still couldn’t believe it.

  Michael staggered forward, holding up his chains. “Lord William! What’s the meaning of this?”

  The former Royal governor glanced at him, and turned his back. The captain glared. “Mr. Crisp, get that man off my deck.”

  Below, two seamen dragged Michael aft, followed by Crisp, now in the blue coat and white facings of a Royal Navy lieutenant.

  “Damn it, man, what’s this all about?”

  “The murder of Colonel Sir Anthony ffrench-Newton,” Crisp replied coldly, “on the twelfth day of October, seventeen hundred and sixty-four. You’ll be taken to England and hanged. After a trial, of course. I hope you enjoy the rope locker. We don’t have a proper brig.”

  He was shoved forward to sprawl on heavy hemp cable, and the door slammed shut, leaving him in darkness.

  He was stunned. How long since he’d even thought of the Englishman’s death? And now they came to take him away in chains and hang him. He snarled in the dark. Well, he wasn’t hung yet, and they’d play bloody hell getting it done.

  Time passed; how much he did not know. Everything was still in his coat pockets, even Elizabeth’s miniature, but his watch was smashed. Eventually the guns fell silent. In the darkness there was only the smell of hemp and pitch, the rustle and squeak of rats among the cables, the creak of the ship’s timbers.

  The creak—The ship was moving. Sailing for England? Already? He wanted to leap up and pound at the door, but he dug his fingers into the piled cables till the feeling passed. No, he must think rationally. The captain would not just sail away. On the heels of the exchange with the Defence, it’d be seen as flight. No, he must be simply changing anchorages. Michael lay back on the cables grimly.

  The damp mustiness was oppressive. And then something ran over his hand, and something else brushed his thigh. He swore. The rats were losing their fear of him. Slowly he began to see, not their shapes, but scores of glittering eyes. Watching. He shouted, and they winked out. But pair by pair, they returned. The darkness was filled with their chittering, and the tiny, rapid padding of their runs, back and forth, and always closer.

  Once the rats would not have seemed so horrible, but he’d changed in the years since the Englishman’s death. He’d stood alone, then, as much as possible, and wanted it so. Now he enjoyed the company of others, and their friendship. Mr. Carver. Mr. Laurens. John Rutledge. Christopher. Henri and Louis. And Gabrielle.

  It was strange how often Gabrielle was in his thoughts. She was just a child. No, at nineteen she was a woman, a caring woman, even a loving woman. Life with her would be more than most men could hope for. He touched the miniature. His heart was no longer his to give, but he realized in surprise that whatever else he had to give was already Gabrielle’s. If he escaped—No, when he escaped, he’d go to her. That thought became a light to him in the darkness.

  Sharp pain stabbed his hand. With an oath he seized his attacker and hurled it against the bulkhead. At the thud and chattering death rattle the others disappeared. For the moment. He sucked the gash on his hand. He’d heard of rats as big as cats, but he’d never believed, not till he held that one. His hand hadn’t near gone around it, and it’d nearly squirmed free. The squeaking came again, and the eyes. He waited tensely … .

  The crash of guns woke him. His first reaction was a cold shudder. He’d seen a man who’d been gnawed while he slept. It was a worse way to die than hanging. He must escape soon.

  What was that firing now? he wondered. There wasn’t any sound of hits against the ship. Wheels rumbled as cannon were run out, feet bounded across the deck, muffled shouts drifted down to him, and the smell of powder smoke, as one by one the cannon fired, again and again and again. After hours it stopped.

  The door opened, and the seaman with the squint motioned Michael out.

  “Why?” Michael said without moving. The Marine guard in the passage tensed at his musket.

  “Come,” said the sailor. “Mr. Crisp, he says take you to the jakes. He says you might knock over a slop bucket. He says he won’t have his cable locker fouled. That’s what he says.” He laughed shrilly. “Me, I says let you wallow in it.”

  On deck dim moonlight was obscured by drifting clouds. In the paler moments he could see a single sentry, pacing the quarterdeck. They moved forward, toward the heads. One sentry with a musket, and the guard. Off the larboard side, perhaps two miles away, were the lights of Charlestown. The seaman was ahead with empty hands, the Marine four paces behind. His hands came together, gripping the hanging chain.

  Suddenly he stopped, pivoted, the chain whistling through the air. The Marine couldn’t stop his forward motion. The heavy iron links smashed him to the deck. Michael launched into a shuffling run for the rail.

  “Stop him,” the sailor howled. “Shoot!”

  A hand on the shrouds heaved him up; the sentry’s musket cracked, and a rail splinter leaped beside his foot. He left the ship in a long dive. There was just time to remember the great shark two black fishermen had taken in the harbor before he hit the water.

  The harbor closed over his head; the chains were pulling him down. Desperately he kicked for the surface, fighting till his head broke surface. No time to rest. With the chains, he couldn’t float. He rolled on his side and began an awkward, two-handed stroke. Two miles. It began to seem like two thousand.

  On the Tamar lanterns were appearing, orders shouted and countermanded. Irregular musket fire crackled, but they were shooting blind. So far as he could tell, no ball came close.

  “Lower a boat,” someone cried, and as if it was a signal he heard the creak of muffled oarlocks ahead.

  God rot them. A boat between him and the city. He’d have to try for Haddrell’s Point, or Sullivan’s Island. If he wasn’t swept out the harbor mouth to sea. He pushed that thought away and began swimming away from the city lights. The steady creaking followed, the light splash of oars worked to avoid noise. It came ever closer. Did the bastards think to sneak up on him? Well, he’d never outdistance them now. He turned and treaded water, waiting.

  The boat loomed over him. Figures leaned and pulled him from the water. “It’s him. Are you—”

  “Sodomizing bastards!” he grated. His fist sent one man flying. “Mother-raping whores!” He slammed an elbow into a second man’s mouth, kicked a third in the stomach.

  Another reached for him yelling, “Wait—” Michael looped the chain around his throat and pulled him down.

  “God’s mercy! Somebody grab the man before he’s murdered us all!”

  At the brogue in that voice Michael froze. He pulled the man he was choking close. Even in the dark he could make out Henri. “God’s name!” He loosed the chain and heaved a sigh when he heard the inrush of breath. “I heard you, Christopher, but who else?”

  “You broke my nose, Mr. Fallon,” Daniel said. “Damn it, you broke my nose.”

  “It can only make you look better,” Christopher said. “He loosened every tooth in my head, and there’s nothing uglier than a toothless Irishman. See can Louis straighten up yet, and get us out of here. They lowered that boat, and they’ll likely have Marines in it.” The boatman managed to get a gasping Louis to the oars, and they moved slowly toward the city as Christopher squatted down. He held a hammer and chisel. “We’ll have you out in a minute.”

  Michael shook his head. “What in the name of God are you doing out here?”

  Byrne wrapped the chisel head in a cloth and set the edge against one shackle. An experimental tap made a low clank. “Well, you see, it was like this. We were going to sneak in through the stern-cabin windows, hold a gun to the captain’s head, and maybe Lord William’s, and make them let us all go.” He hit the chisel again, harder.

  Michael stared at them in astonishment. “You’d have all of you hung! A harebrained scheme if ever I heard one! What idiot made it up?” Henri winced and felt at his throat.

  “Gabrielle.”

  “Gabrielle?” Warmth flooded him. He began to laugh, joyously.

  “Aye.” Christopher replied. “She said we had to rescue you, and she said—Well, it doesn’t matter what all she said. It was she got a pass from the Congress—and here we are.” He swung the hammer again, and checked to see how the chisel was cutting. “What did they take you for, anyway?”

  “Murder.” Louis and Daniel stopped rowing and looked over their shoulders at him. Christopher hit his thumb with the hammer and bit back a curse. “Ten years ago I killed a man in a fight, an English colonel. He’d a sword in his hand, but him being who he was, and me being who I was, the charge was murder. Only they never caught up to me till now.”

  “Can’t call it murder if the other man has a sword,” Henri muttered. “Strike me blue if that’s not a duel.”

  “Well, it’s done with now,” Christopher said. He split one shackle with a last blow and moved to the other wrist. “It puzzles me. How did those buckos get into the city? The Council of Safety patrols are supposed to prevent boats coming from the British ships most particular.”

  Michael opened his mouth, then closed it again. How indeed? The cannon fire had been to draw attention while he was taken out. But coming in?

  “Do you think Drayton hates you enough to arrange this?” Louis asked.

  “He hates the British worse than he hates me. No, he’d deal with the devil first. Maybe they bribed a Council patrol. Most of those lads are no more honest than they’re forced to be.”

  Christopher hooted. “Those fine British officers bribing rabble to let them make an arrest? The notion’s daft. No, if bribing was done, it was done by someone else. You’ve an enemy, lad. You’d best think who.”

  The boat slid through the night toward Charlestown. Christopher worked on the chains, and Michael thought. Who?

  Gabrielle sat quietly in the drawing room of the Fourriers’ Broad Street house. A glass of wine was on the table beside her chair. If she picked it up, she knew, she’d start trembling. And if she started to tremble, she’d begin to cry. She sat with her hands in her lap.

  The hands on the mantel clock seemed not to move at all. There’d been hours of indecision, hours of terror, when she thought there was nothing she could do. And then there had been the plan. It had seemed so simple, in spite of the men’s objections. Now, perhaps she’d sent three men to their deaths. Four, counting poor Daniel. Four men to hang. And Michael most of all.

  With a moan she closed her eyes. Michael most of all. That, she decided, was the only choice a woman could make. Men could divide their loyalties a hundred ways, but women kept theirs few, and gave each their whole heart. She prayed, the same simple phrase over and over again: God, let him come back. God, let him come back. When she opened her eyes he was standing in the doorway, dripping water on the rug.

  His name hung in her throat. Half laughing, half crying, she ran to him, threw her arms around him. The wetness soaking through her dress didn’t matter, only the feel of him, the feel of his arms going around her. “You’re safe,” she whispered against his chest. “You’re safe. It worked.”

  “Actually, I jumped over the side before they could try it. But they picked me up and brought me back.”

  She backed away trying to smile, wiping tears away with trembling fingers. “Isn’t this silly? You’re safe, and here I’m crying as if—Oh, your wrists! Your poor wrists.” She caught his hands, staring at the raw, red bands where shackles had gouged away skin and flesh. “I’ll get hot water, and bandages.”

  He reached for her as she turned to go, but it was his sapphire blue eyes that caught and held her. “Don’t go, Brielle. Don’t go. I’ve something to say.” She caught her breath awkwardly, half-fearing what it was.

  “Gabrielle, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She was trembling; she couldn’t speak.

  “You know I’m very fond of you, Brielle. You must know that. I can think of nothing I’d like more than spending the rest of my life with you as man and wife. I’ll do my best to make you a good husband, and never make you sorry you said yes.” He sighed and shook his head. “Damn, I’m no good at speeches. Not this sort, anyway. Will you marry me, lass?”

  “Yes.” She found her voice. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.” He’d not mentioned love, and that caused a stab of pain. She’d accept it, though. In time he’d love her. She’d make him. Almost shyly she let him turn her mouth up for their first kiss, her lips trembling, his gentle and firm. With a contented sigh she sank against his chest.

  “Have you thought about the banns?” Louis asked, and they both leaped guiltily.

  Gabrielle swallowed heavily, one hand at her throat. “Louis, you took ten years off my life.”

  “Damn it, Louis, how long have you been hiding there?”

  “I came in with you saying you’re no good at speeches. I take it that means you made one. Bad form, speechifying to women. Sweep them off their feet.” He gestured with his arms in demonstration. “Then kiss them without mercy and tell them what they’re going to do. You will marry me.”

  “I haven’t seen you sweeping Ann Lewis off her feet,” Gabrielle giggled, and Louis turned bright red.

  “That’s of no object,” he snapped. “And there’s still the question of the banns. Posted at the church every week for three weeks before the wedding, remember. There’s no way you’ll keep that from Papa. You, Michael, will probably be shot. And you, Brielle—”