Moultrie hesitated. “Colonel, you’ll be the fourth man besides myself, Governor Rutledge, and General Lincoln to know. I trust that gives you some idea of the confidence in which you have to keep it.”

  “It does that.”

  The general paused again, then spoke quickly. “Lincoln is coming, finally. I’ve had several letters from him. If we can hold Prevost here until the thirteenth, just three days, we’ll have him between us.” He clapped his hands together as if the British general was between them. “Burgoyned!”

  That night Michael ghosted out through the lines again, with a dozen men. Moultrie could say what he wanted to about colonels and patrols, but information was needed. And from someone with experience enough to know what was important.

  A fog had drifted in with evening, and the night was gray and cottony. At the scrape of a horse’s hoof against rock ahead Michael halted. A mounted shape appeared, then another, as a column emerged from the mist. Michael could make out unfamiliar coats with rows of braid across the front, hussar jackets slung on one shoulder, shakos with a burst of white feathers. They obviously weren’t British. Motioning to the rest to be still, he rode toward the strangers, whistling.

  Almost at the first note the column wheeled toward him, drawing sabers. Two of them rode a few paces forward, and stopped. The night air carried their words to him, but he didn’t recognize the language. He fell silent.

  They were swarthy men, drops of mist clinging to their curled and pointed mustaches. The one slightly to the rear, fierce-eyed and with a great hooked nose, looked a vigorous fifty. The other, about Michael’s age, had a high forehead and fine features. “Tell me, Irisher,” the younger said, “do you whistle for King or Congress?”

  Michael started, then realized he’d been whistling Siribhail a Ghrádh, sung by Irish mercenaries around half the campfires in Europe. “The question, gentlemen, is who are you, and for whom do you declare? Do you recognize that song from a British camp up the Neck?”

  The younger man nodded. “Very well, then. I am Count Casimir Pulaski, commanding these fine fellows, Pulaski’s Legion, by name.” He nodded toward the fierce-looking man. “My second in command, Colonel Kovats, recognized your song, having served often with Irish troops. And”—his voice rose to a challenging shout—“we declare for America and Liberty.”

  “If you please, Count, lower your voice! I’m Colonel Michael Fallon, Irish Legion, and I ride for the cause myself. But if you don’t take care, we’ll all end being taken by those redcoats up the Neck.”

  “You mean the British are already here?” He seemed astonished, and so did Kovats, who seemed to swear under his breath. “But I crossed the river, the Cooper, I believe it is called, only an hour ago. And we have ridden the length of the peninsula to here.”

  “Then you rode right through the British Army,” Michael said dryly. “May I escort you into the city?”

  “Yes, of course,” Pulaski frowned. “If the British are so lax, then we must consider an attack. Yes, we must.”

  Michael’s smile was hidden by the fog as he turned back toward the city. What was Moultrie going to think of this firebrand?

  There was no moon on the night of the twelfth. Even with a spyglass Michael could make out nothing. No movement. Not a candle flicker. Behind him every horse of the Legion was saddled. The men slept with saber and carbine by their sides, and with their boots on. The same thing was repeated all down the entrenchments. Men slept by their guns, in the trenches. There wasn’t a man under arms in the city who wasn’t at the lines.

  The rattle of harness made him turn. Moultrie dismounted on the city side of the entrenchment and walked across. “Good evening, Colonel. Still quiet, I see.”

  “It is that. Not so much as a cough.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way a little longer. I hope the first we know of Lincoln’s arrival, and the first Prevost knows, is when his guns open up.”

  Michael nodded. Yes, if Lincoln waited until he was about six miles out, and dug in his guns there, Prevost would have an army to front and rear, and enough marsh on either side to prevent him getting so much as a platoon away by boat.

  “I’m glad it’s over, General. I know all the negotiations have been simply to hold them here, but they’re making the men nervous. Some of the rumors are outrageous. I heard this afternoon we’d offered to make the state neutral, put everyone on parole as it were. You can imagine how that affects morale.”

  “If I find out who let that out,” Moultrie snapped, “I’ll have his hide.”

  “God’s teeth! You mean it was really offered? What if they’d accepted?”

  “Then we’d have had to delay, find fault with the arrangements, anything.” He breathed heavily. “I’ll tell you now, Fallon, this cannot be affecting the men any more than it’s affecting the Privy Council. Some of them are beginning to take the negotiations seriously. Prevost’s refusal of that last offer came with a demand for immediate and unconditional surrender, and some of those fools want to consider it.”

  “General,” Michael said slowly, “I’ll not be bound by any such thing. If those bastards surrender the city—”

  “You won’t have to,” Moultrie cut in. “I told them they could consider it if they wanted, but I wouldn’t. It didn’t take them long to realize they can’t surrender the city if the army that’s in it refuses.”

  “Then God send Lincoln quickly, General. I’ve heard civilians explaining to the soldiers that they’re to obey orders from the Privy Council as well as their officers.”

  The night stretched on interminably. Men ignorant of what the night should bring were infected by tension. Infantry moved up, waiting restlessly; artillerymen checked their pieces, and rechecked them. Mutters rose to growls, subsiding only at an officer’s command. The Irish Legion no longer slept. Each man sat by his horse, ready to ride. And Moultrie did ride.

  All through the night he rode up and down the line, stopping here to confer with officers, there to quiet nervous volunteers. But every time he came near, Michael could see he was feeling the tension himself. His glances at the sky became more frequent. When light came, he seemed to expect what he saw. There was the Neck, empty of Lincoln. And empty of Prevost. The British Army was gone.

  His orders to Michael and Pulaski to pursue were almost perfunctory, but they pushed their Legions unmercifully. They crossed the river at the Ashley Ferry, riding hard, but the enemy had already reached the Stono and were digging in with their backs to the river. Dejectedly the Legions returned to the city, to find a message from Lincoln. He was on the Edisto, sixty-five miles from the city and, he said, still pressing on.

  “I don’t understand,” John Laurens said. “From what General Moultrie says, he’s only three miles closer than he was the day Prevost crossed to the Neck. We could have had a great victory here, if only he’d acted as he did at Saratoga.”

  “I think he did,” Michael replied. “I think he did.”

  26

  All the windows were open in the study of Michael’s Queen Street house, and it was certainly cooler inside than out in the September sun, but he still fanned himself with a palmetto frond as he wrote. It wasn’t the place of the commanding officer to keep a legion history, but he’d begun his jottings in Purrysburg and it had grown. Now he was trying to catch up, adding details to skirmish reports while he could still remember them. A lot had happened in the four months since Prevost escaped at Charlestown. In South Carolina the Legion had skirmished the length of the state, harrying the redcoats back into Georgia. From elsewhere the news was not so good. Spain had declared war on England in June, but what that meant to America was yet to be determined. The British had raided and destroyed Norfolk, Virginia, and burned three coastal towns in Connecticut. The New Englanders had sent an overwhelming force to take a fort on the Penobscot River in Maine. They’d been defeated, lost nearly five hundred men, and had to burn forty-nine of their own ships. The British lost thirteen men.

  He threw down the pen. As if it had been a signal Henri and Louis burst into the room.

  “Strike me blue,” Henri said, “if I’ve ever seen anything like that French fleet off the Bar. It ought to make short work of the redcoats once it reaches Savannah.” He dropped into a chair and swung his legs over the arm. “What’s that admiral’s name, Louis? Papa always did get mad because I couldn’t get my tongue around the French.”

  “He is,” Louis intoned, Jean-Baptiste Charles Henri Hector Théodat, Comte d’Estaing.”

  “The admiral who abandoned General Sullivan in Rhode Island last year,” Michael said.

  “Damnation, Michael,” Louis said. “He had to cut his anchor cables to run ahead of a storm.”

  “And by the time he could return,” Henri added, “it was all over.”

  “I heard he never tried to go back. I heard he sailed straight to Boston.” Michael sighed. “I supposes the rest of the army shares your good opinion of d’Estaing?”

  “From General Lincoln on down,” Louis said. “The militia think we’re going down there and march right into Savannah.”

  “I’d better not hear any of the Legion saying that,” Michael snapped. “They know better than to expect an easy fight. Ever.”

  Louis raised his right hand. “None of them has, or will in my hearing. It’s just that everybody’s so eager to retake Savannah, especially after all this useless skirmishing.”

  Henri brandished an imaginary saber. “It’ll be a beautiful fight.”

  “God help us,” Michael murmured. “Look you, Louis, if you can keep your brother from attacking before the rest of us leave Charlestown, the two of you might meet with Count Pulaski’s adjutant. Pulaski, MacIntosh, and myself are being sent down ahead to make first contact with the French when they land. Just don’t go down there thinking we’ll take the town in one day because the British did.”

  “We won’t.” Louis looked questioningly at his brother, who immediately began studying his boots.

  Michael eyed them both suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Louis sighed. “Oh, hell, we’ve heard Justin is in Savannah with about a hundred irregulars. He’s supposed to have been burning and looting while Prevost was in Carolina, and worse things in Georgia.”

  “We thought you ought to be the one to tell Brielle, since we haven’t seen her, out at Tir Alainn as she is,” Henri piped in, and immediately went back to his boots.

  “If you think I’m going to tell my wife that I’m marching off to shoot at her brother, you’d better think again. And neither of you will be babbling it to her, either. Do you understand me? As far as she’s concerned, Justin is in New York or London or anywhere but Savannah.”

  “I understand,” Louis said, and Henri said, “I understand, but—” before his brother punched him on the arm.

  None of them wanted much talk after that. Michael tersely gave them their last instructions, and they replied in monosyllables. Even after they’d gone, though, and he’d turned back to the battle-history, he couldn’t get Justin out of his mind. Michael had also heard the tales, some of them horrible. Justin couldn’t expect gentle treatment if captured. How did a man tell his wife he’d killed her brother in battle? Or hung him?

  Thoughts of Justin brought, almost inevitably, thoughts of Elizabeth. With a sense of shock he realized he hadn’t thought of her in—how long? It was impossible. A man didn’t simply stop thinking about a woman he loved. Why, he could visualize her. Five years had passed since he’d as much as seen her in the street, but it was almost as if she was standing right there, in the door.

  “I thought they’d never leave,” she said.

  Starting, he jerked to his feet. She was lusher, riper, and still gut-wrenchingly beautiful. “How did you get here?”

  Elizabeth laughed throatily. “I came by carriage, of course. No, I know you didn’t mean that. Papa Fourrier has simply dozens of those French officers up at Les Chenes. They drink wine, and the officers tell him how unfortunate it is that Huguenots of noble blood were forced to leave France. I took the chance to get away. You aren’t going to be stuffy, are you?”

  “No, I—” He stopped and made an effort to regain his composure. He had to stop babbling. “I’m afraid I’m not being much of a host. Most of the servants are with my wife.” He turned away and missed the ugly look that flashed across her face. “Would you care for some wine? I still have some good Madeira.”

  “Could I have some brandy, instead? I’ve developed a—a taste for it.”

  When he turned back with the glasses, he nearly spilled them. She was smiling at him, hands clasped behind her, childishly demure. Only, for her, it wasn’t demure, and she was no longer a child. Her soft breasts were pushed into even greater prominence. Her violet eyes smoldered.

  Damn it, he had to get hold of himself. “I’ve never had the chance to tell you how deeply I regret your father’s death. I had great affection for him.”

  She reached for the proffered glass with both hands, and left one on his wrist. “Thank you, Michael. But surely, there’s something else you regret.”

  Somehow she’d drawn closer. She was almost in his arms, and her perfume made his head spin. No, not the perfume, damn it. Her. Her violet eyes held his, hypnotically. “I don’t understand,” he lied.

  “So many years, and you’ve never once tried to see me. I’ve never stopped loving you, Michael. Never stopped wanting you.” Their lips were almost touching.

  Suddenly he jerked back. “Elizabeth, we’re both married.”

  For a moment she seemed off balance with surprise, but she quickly regained her equilibrium. Her voice was low, a whisper more compelling than a shout. “Gabrielle can’t give you what I can. She can’t give you what we had. Remember, Michael? The nights above the stable? And before? You were the first, Michael. You should have been the only one.”

  Again she brushed her lips against his, but after a ravenous second he tore free again. “Elizabeth, it’d be adultery for both of us.”

  He couldn’t believe his ears. What was happening to him? So long as a woman was pretty and said yes, he’d never before concerned himself with whether she had a husband. And now to start talking about adultery with the one woman he should want more than any other. Should want? Did want. He did want her more than any other.

  Elizabeth dropped her hands to her hips and stared at him in exasperation. “Good God. I’d think you’d want to cuckold Justin. You should want to put as big a set of horns on him as you can.”

  “That was all long ago between Justin and me.”

  “Long ago? Haven’t you ever wondered how, after all those years, you were seized for murder? Oh, you needn’t look so surprised. Rutledge and Laurens made a good job of hiding the truth. But I know.” She drew breath; now for a partial lie. “It was Justin and his father sent a man to England to gather evidence against you, a greasy little gray man who killed another friend of yours, a man named Cavanaugh. That’s another thing for you to hold against them, isn’t it? God, Michael, if you never had any love for me at all, you ought to take me just for being Justin’s wife.”

  Michael was barely listening. How did they ever think to send a man looking? And Timothy. Oh, God. “How did this man find Timothy? There’d be no one to put us together, except a few hussars.”

  “Oh, dearest, that’s not important—”

  “I never mentioned his name to a soul. Not a—Wait. I did once. To your father, in his study, the day he told me—” He looked at her, and it was as if he saw her clearly for the first time. “You always did like listening at doors, didn’t you?”

  His hands caught her around the throat, a firm grip that lifted her off her heels. She gasped, but the realization that she could breathe didn’t lessen her panic. His hands were like iron bands. She couldn’t budge them. And his eyes. They were on fire. His eyes looked murder.

  “No, Michael, please. You don’t want to hurt me. You don’t want to kill me. I love you. I swear it. If you want to punish me, then beat me. Beat me, and we’ll make love. But don’t kill me.” For the love of God, wouldn’t he stop staring at her?

  “I know more now than I did then. It wouldn’t be just you making love to me. I’ll be the one to kiss you all over, this time. Wouldn’t you like that? God’s mercy, Michael. Don’t kill me. I didn’t mean to tell them. I swear I didn’t. Oh, God, I swear it.”

  He pushed her away, and she fell, her dress flying up and twisting under her. From the waist down she wore only shoes, stockings, and garters with red rosettes. She made no effort to cover herself.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. He felt tired. “I’m not even angry with you. Not for Timothy, and not for acting so much like a Winchester goose I near thought to ask your pimp the price. But it’s changed. I’m not talking about husbands and wives. You’re different. I’m different. It’s no good anymore.” He gave a puzzled laugh. “I thought it would be, as much as you, but it isn’t.”

  She laughed, too. Disbelievingly. “You can’t just walk away from me. Not you, Michael. Do you remember the last time you saw me like this? Shall I tell you what came of that little encounter?”

  “Will you tell your doxy to cover herself?” Gabrielle closed the door behind her. “I mind my house being used as a bordello.” She went about the business of removing hat and gloves, ignoring their consternation.

  Michael stood staring curiously at Gabrielle, but Elizabeth scrambled angrily to her feet, hastily adjusting her clothes. “Why, you little bitch, what would you know of doxies, or of what a man wants in bed, either? There’s not enough life in you to rumple the sheets.”

  Gabrielle’s face paled, but she gave no other sign that she’d heard a word. “I suppose I really should tell Justin about this. Or perhaps my father. I’m certain he would see, Elizabeth, that your, shall we say, appetites are curbed.”

  “Papa Fourrier would have you shown the door before you opened your mouth,” Elizabeth said with an ugly laugh. “He considers you little better than a trull, yourself, for marrying Michael Fallon, and he’d never listen to a whore. I’ll visit my darling Michael when and where I wish, and you can—”