“Hold there, you,” Michael shouted. The man whirled, raising a pistol, and a gun Michael didn’t realize he’d drawn went off in his hand. The redcoated man tottered two steps toward him and fell on his face.

  The house disgorged his Legionnaires, and they fell on the body, searching the pockets.

  “He had two rifles back there, General. Didn’t think them redcoats went in for rifles much, except for them Hessian jaegers.”

  “Not a regular,” he mused half to himself. “That coat looks familiar, though. Of course. The King’s South Carolina Horse, Justin Fourrier’s band.”

  One of the searchers pulled a pouch from under the coat and upended it. Golden guineas showered across the corpse’s chest. “God! What do you make of that, Gene ral?”

  Justin Fourrier’s man, with two rifles and a pocket full of gold, shooting at him. It added up to one thing. “A personal matter, lads. A man adding to the debt he owes me.” How had he known Michael would be in the entering party, and with which column?

  A captain appeared at the head of the alley and saluted. “General Wayne’s compliments, sir, and would you please inform him what the shooting’s about.”

  “Just a man with a grudge against me, Captain. Tell the general it’s all under control.” His men followed him back to the street, leaving the assassin with his gold spread around him.

  The rest of the entry was uneventful. The cheering throngs returned, and the British continued their slow pullback until the last of them boarded boats from a wharf below Broad Street. Michael rode out onto the dock to watch the last boat go. A lone officer stood defiantly in the stern, facing the shore with a Union Jack in his hands. The last British flag to fly in South Carolina.

  Michael’s mind was on Justin. He was on one of the ships in the harbor, he’d wager. A wild impulse took him, and he whipped off his helmet and stood in the stirrups. “I’m here, you bastard,” he shouted. “I’m still here.”

  Feeling a little foolish he dropped back and settled the helmet back in place. The wooden planks rattled as he cantered back to the street, and to the waiting Legion. It was time to see General Greene.

  When they arrived at the State House, General Wayne was already welcoming General Greene, Governor Matthews, and the official party from the General Assembly who’d driven down from Jacksonborough to reestablish the state government in Charleston.

  “Ah, General Fallon,” Greene said, limping down the steps to Michael. “General Wayne tells us you had some trouble on the way in. A sniper.”

  “A private matter, General.” Michael pulled a folded paper from his pocket, the seal on it visible. “General, I’m leaving you. The Irish Legion has been disbanded effective today, and I’ve resigned my commission. This is Governor Matthews’s order to that effect.”

  “This is absurd!” Greene exploded. “The war isn’t over, yet. There’s still a British army in New York.”

  “The peace commissioners have been talking for weeks, General. A peace treaty may already be signed, for all we know. And as for that army in New York, the British don’t hold a foot of ground south of there. If the northerners want help from us, we should send them the help they sent us. Little and slow.”

  “Just a minute, Fallon,” Wayne burst out. His men called him Mad Anthony, though Michael couldn’t see the reason. “You seem to have forgotten quite a few Continentals, from Howard’s Marylanders to my Pennsylvanians.”

  “Your Pennsylvanians came too late for all but marching into Charlestown,” Michael snapped back. “The rest? The officers came from Maryland, Delaware, Virginia, most of them, but you check their rolls. Nine men out of ten or better signed on in the Carolinas. And there were more than a few in Congress didn’t want to send the little they did. It’s been the same from the beginning.” His temper had a grip on him, and it forced him on when he knew he should stop. “When the port of Boston was closed, South Carolina sent more money and more food than any other state, including Massachusetts. We consistently overpaid our assessments for the American armies, and we sent troops wherever Congress or the generals asked, from Florida to Virginia. And what did the north send us? As little as possible, and grudgingly given.” They stared at him, Greene and Matthews open-mouthed, Wayne white-faced with anger. He smiled. “I think, gentlemen, that you understand me now. I’ve a wife I haven’t seen in two years. So, if you’ll excuse me.” He saluted and turned his horse up the street that led out of town. Once he thought he heard General Greene call after him. He didn’t look back.

  With an angry snort Justin snapped the spyglass shut. Soon Faydon would row out to the ship, and tell him Marston had shot the bastard down. God, but he wished he could have seen Fallon’s face when he died. It was why he’d told Faydon to wait nearby and watch, so he could describe it. There wasn’t a chance Marston had escaped.

  His eyes darted, seeking Robert. The boy was forward, watching sailors splice line. A fine place for him, Justin thought, well away from Gerard, as he’d ordered. Like his bastard of a father, he’d associate with anyone.

  A boat bumped against the side, and Faydon climbed over the rail. The weaselly little man sidled to the foot of the quarterdeck ladder.

  “Marston missed,” he hissed. His eyes flickered nervously.

  Justin descended coldly. “Missed? With a rifle? At twenty yards at most?”

  Faydon pulled his head in under Justin’s gaze and lowered his voice still more. “Maybe he got excited. Maybe—I don’t know. He missed. Then Fallon got him running out the back door. God, I wasn’t more than ten feet from him. They dumped the gold over the body, and Fallon said it was personal, and they all went away, leaving him there. God. And Fallon knew the uniform. I guess Marston didn’t want to hang was he caught. A lot of good it did him. What are you looking at me like that for?”

  “Ten feet from him,” Justin said quietly. His voice was level. “Ten feet, and you didn’t shoot. I know you had a pistol. At that range even you—”

  “But I—I wasn’t paid for that. Twenty guineas don’t buy murder.” His voice rose with every word. “Besides, there were people all around, people watching. I—”

  “Captain Mill,” Justin called. “I have a thief here.” Faydon’s mouth gaped.

  Mill, at the head of the ladder, looked down at Faydon like the wrath of God. “A thief you say, Major Fourrier?”

  “Yes, a thief. He was in my command, but deserted after he was seen rifling my quarters. He took”—Justin weighed his man quickly—“one hundred and twenty guineas. And an enameled gold watch. Now he comes to me with some story about catching the real thief. As I said, however, he was seen.”

  Mill gestured; two brawny sailors closed in on Faydon. He writhed in their grasp. “It’s a lie! He gave it to me! The watch was part of the price. Get your hands out of my pockets!”

  “The price?” Justin sneered. “The price for what?” Faydon froze as Justin’s deadly gaze grasped him. One of the sailors held up a bulging purse and a watch.

  “Enough,” Mill snapped. “Take him below and confine him to a cable locker. And if he mentions Major Fourrier’s name again, gag him. Thieves, on my ship.” He stalked away.

  Outwardly Justin appeared satisfied. Inside, he burned. God strike Fallon dead. The whoreson dog had the devil’s hand to shield him. And through Marston’s uniform he wouldn’t have any doubts as to who wanted him dead. Fallon must die, and now—before he could send his own assassins.

  Fallon had escaped him. For the moment. But Elizabeth was still in his hands. That whore! She could pay a little more. The gag would stifle her screams, and Samantha could hold her for the strap. Those white breasts would redden till the black heart beneath them burned. His breath quickened in anticipation. He hurried below.

  Ann Thibodeau turned the page and droned on: “I do not myself, in spite of what others may say, and I do not exclude learned churchmen and our most worthy political leaders, believe that this affair, if it may be called by so light a term—” Gabrielle let herself drift out of the present, back to that earlier reading circle, back to Michael.

  She did that too much of late. Everything led her to him. Dinner plans became his favorite dishes, and dressing a choice of what he’d like to see. At times she had the feeling if she could only turn quickly enough, he’d be standing behind her. She smiled as she saw him behind Ann’s shoulder. Yes, like that. He’d stride through the garden in just that manner, with the smile that flustered her as no other could. But why would she think of him in a plain black suit? And there were no streaks of gray at his temples. The air froze in her throat as the image put its hand on Ann’s arm, and Ann looked up in surprise.

  “I beg pardon, ladies,” he said, his burning eyes never leaving Gabrielle’s, “for not letting the butler announce me. I’ve come a long way to see my wife.”

  Ann’s gaze went from Gabrielle, frozen in her seat, to Michael, oblivious of the reading circle crowding about him. “Come, ladies,” she said. “Come along, now. Come along.” Herding her reluctant covey down the path, she stopped for a moment with a roguish grin. “General Fallon, the garden is yours for the next hour. The grass is very soft over behind those dogwoods.” She swept away with a trilling laugh.

  “Why didn’t you write, Brielle?” He’d told himself it was time to be conciliatory, but he couldn’t bridle his tongue. “I kept telling myself you had to be all right, but I didn’t know.”

  She pulled away from his cobalt gaze. “I haven’t had any letters from you, either. Why didn’t you write to me?”

  “But I did! I sent them to Georgia, where I thought you were. It wasn’t until I got Ann’s letter, not a month gone, I’d any idea you were here.”

  “If you’d stayed with me, as you should have, then you’d have known where I was.”

  Her eyes were burning, and her color was high. She was making an effort to hold her temper, he realized, and that made him lose his. “Stayed with you? As I should have? God’s blood, woman! There was a war to be fought. I’m a soldier and a man, not a child to hide my head in your apron.”

  “Strange that you should mention children,” she said coldly. “By leaving, you missed the birth of your daughter. That’s right, your daughter. Her name is Catherine, and she’s not quite two.”

  “I, I didn’t know.” A daughter. God send she was as beautiful as her mother. “But it wouldn’t have changed anything. I still would’ve had to go. Can’t you understand that?”

  “No, I can’t. I’ll wager you didn’t know Justin found us and took us to Charlestown. Your children were going to be raised by Papa.” His face went white; involuntarily she took a step toward him. He pulled her to him, and after a moment she relaxed.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he said, and was surprised at the intensity of his own fear. The danger was past, but that they should have been in it—“If only you’d told me. If only you hadn’t lied.”

  Angrily she tried to push out of the circle of his arms. “You still throw that up to me? After what you did? You—”

  He held her close, stroking her hair and riding over her protests. “No, Brielle. No. That doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter.” He lied. It did matter. She’d lied to him about something that was desperately serious. But it didn’t matter nearly as much as she did. “You’re all that matters to me now, Brielle.”

  She hesitated. Oh, damn, she did want him back. “Michael, the grass is soft.”

  With a joyous laugh he swept her up in his arms and laid her down behind the dogwoods. His hands trembled with eagerness as he undid her bodice laces and bared her breasts. Her breath quickened as her nipples stiffened against his palms. His kisses covered her face, her neck, her breasts, till she moaned. His hands gently raised her skirts, slid across her silken belly, played in the curls between her legs.

  He wanted it to be good for her, but his own eagerness led him to enter her in one thrust. Before he could speak a word she wrapped her arms and legs around him hungrily. She writhed against him with an urgency that swept him along. His breath rasped in his throat, and hers gasped past his ear.

  “I’ll never let you go,” she whispered fiercely. “Never.”

  And they both came.

  The old foundation at Tir Alainn had been cleared of charred rubble and was being enlarged to hold the new, brick manor that would rise there. Larger and grander in every way, Michael liked to joke, and harder to burn. Usually he stopped to watch the work whenever he passed.

  This time he rode straight from checking the clearing of fields that’d lain fallow for almost four years to his four-room cabin. Daniel called to him, but he rode on without hearing. Dismounting, he hurried inside and began hunting through the plantation books piled on his desk.

  Gabrielle looked up from her newspaper in surprise when he didn’t speak. James maneuvered his toy soldiers by the fireplace with a seven-year-old’s complete absorption. Catherine napped in her cradle.

  “Have you seen this?” Gabrielle asked, watching curiously as Michael searched. “The new city charter gives the name as Charleston. I know some people say it that way already, but do you think that’s reason enough to—Michael, what are you looking for?”

  “The list of slaves who’ve been freed. I’m certain I saw two men who were freed years ago. It’s a good thing Sarah put all the papers in with the plate, or—” Her silence finally penetrated. He turned to look at her. “Brielle, where’s the list?”

  “There isn’t one,” she said levelly.

  “Nonsense. You’ve always kept perfect records. You wouldn’t—”

  “Michael, no slaves have been set free.”

  “The war—” he began numbly.

  “Had nothing to do with it. I didn’t free any slaves because we couldn’t afford it.” He stared; she hurried on. “Yes, Michael, we couldn’t afford it. If—”

  “I said I’d free them. I said it. After eight years’ service they’d get a mule, and tools, and fifty acres. And freedom. Just like any indentured man.”

  “Are you going to free the slaves, Papa?” James piped up suddenly. “Why? Slaves are slaves.”

  There was a moment’s silence. It had been a long time since they’d lived as planters did. They’d gotten used to having the children under foot, like a farm family. But this was no time for James to be there, listening.

  Gabrielle went to the door and called Martha. The black woman sensed the tension in the air and hustled the boy out quickly. Gabrielle hesitated a moment over the sleeping Catherine before speaking.

  “He’s right. Slaves are slaves. Not indentured men, Michael. They’re slaves. If you free them you’ll ruin yourself. You know what a field hand costs. How are you going to replace them, especially if the Assembly cuts off the slave trade?”

  “I’ll hire men.”

  “If you could find them, which you can’t, and if they’d work for a wage that’d allow you a profit, which they won’t, what’d you pay them with?” A stab of pain went through her at the look on his face, but she forced herself to go on. “Michael, you are very nearly bankrupt. Do you think I don’t know the debt you took on just to start the house?”

  “I wanted to give you back your home,” he said stiffly. “All right, then. I’ll stop construction and send you and the children back to the city. The house there can be repaired.”

  “Michael, it isn’t just the house, and you know it. You can’t hide it from me. I learned how to read those books. And I have read them.”

  “It’s not as bleak as it seems.”

  “Let me tell you how bleak it is.” He tried to speak, but she rushed on. “Of the merchant ships—yours and Mr. Carver’s—two are left, both needing rebuilding. Four vessels were lost with cargoes, cargoes that were uninsured because of the war. The shippers have claims before the courts, charging that you are responsible for their losses. And in the end, you’ll have to pay. You loaned money to the state, to the militia, to the army. And they’re as slow paying off those loans as they were in winning the war. And the prizes you took? The agents in France have stolen your proceeds. You have one thing. We have one thing. This plantation. If you can make a rice crop, we have a chance, a small one. Even so, it will take us years to recover. But if you let those slaves go, the wolves will close in. For the rest of our lives, every dollar we see, there will be two men fighting over which one gets it.”

  He went to the window and leaned a hand on either side. She was right. He’d tried to keep it from her. Hell, he’d barely admitted it to himself. If the worst came, there’d be nothing left, less than nothing. He’d had nothing before, but this time there was Gabrielle, and the children.

  “I wasn’t yet five,” he said, “when my father died on Drummossie Moor, at the battle they call Culloden, going down the Stapleton’s Irish Pickets. I was too young to know why my father didn’t come home, or why that meant we had to leave our farm, but I learned other things. I learned about hunger, and watched my mother grow gaunt from giving me food she should’ve eaten. Every night, for the three years till she died, I went to sleep with the sound of her sobbing in my ears. Was a man named Grogan took me in, once she was laid to rest. To him a boy was meant to be worked, seven days a week, from before dawn to after dark, with a bit of time on Sunday for church. If that wasn’t enough to save my soul, there was always his strap. I fought him. God knows how, but I fought him. The village folk said I was a wild, ungrateful child, born to hang, and when I ran away at fifteen, it was good riddance. I swore that no child of mine would ever go to bed hungry or cold. Well, there’s no way back. Only forward, or down. If I must be foresworn on something, my children will not suffer for it.”

  “Michael—” Her voice caught, and she strove to keep the tears gathering in her eyes from falling. In the strong man who stood before her she could see no sign of that frightened, hungry boy. But how she wanted to find him and comfort him. “Michael, I never knew.”