forward.
She was marched across the enclosure, toward the open doors of the building. Just as they reached the entrance, she heard Ben’s voice, authoritative yet with that inherent softness that reminded her of spring raindrops. When had she had that fanciful thought before? The instant before she was thrust into the building, Bryony remembered. She was in the hayloft, listening to the voices of the intruders who had clubbed Jebediah just as she had been about to leave the stableyard and return to the house, her problem unsolved, but at least the solitude had brought her some peace. Her problem … Francis … oh, God, it was better not to have remembered! Her father, Sir Edward Paget … a king’s man to his backbone, to his last drop of blood …
“What the hell are you doing here?”
The soft voice, infused with incredulity, exploded her rapt trance. Bryony shook her head free of the memories that, now unleashed, threatened to overrun her senses. The hand at her mouth was lifted.
“Redcoats,” she said. “About half a mile to the north, along the track.”
“Coming here?” The question snapped in the sudden stillness.
“No.” She shook her head. “Camped and well away with drink, I think.”
“Sentries?”
“I did not see any, and I nearly fell over the camp, but no one saw me. There are perhaps a dozen of them, but I didn’t stay to look around carefully. It seemed more urgent to warn you.”
He looked at her closely, the black eyes narrowed. “If you’re due any gratitude, you will receive it with whatelse is owed you for this night’s work.” There was no misunderstanding him, and Bryony swallowed nervously. This was the Benedict who set fire to barns, stole weapons, tied innocent people to beds in order to prevent their getting in his way. This was the man who bore the scars of the whip upon his back, inflicted for some unknown crime.
He swung away from her and began to rap out orders in a sharp staccato. Bryony backed out into the enclosure, where men were moving swiftly and silently, the pile of weapons diminishing as they were transported to the waiting carts. She stepped sideways to avoid a man with a heavy sack and tripped over something soft and yielding. A rapidly quelled scream emerged from her lips as a strangled whimper of horror. The man at her feet was dead, his eyes staring wide and blank into the night sky, a red stain spreading untidily across his tunic.
“Get over to the wagons.” It was Benedict’s voice, harsh, bearing no resemblance now to spring raindrops.
“He’s dead,” she said, looking up at Ben.
“And he’ll not be the only one before this night is over, unless we have uncommon luck,” he replied shortly. “Have you any idea what you’ve walked into?” He shook his head impatiently. “I don’t have time to deal with you now. Get over to the wagons and stay there until you are told what to do next.”
“Would it not be more helpful if I kept watch on the track?” The shock of her discovery of the dead man shaded her eyes, but her voice was strong and she met his anger with lifted chin, her mouth set in a determined line. “It seems you can ill spare one of the others to stand guard.”
Benedict struggled with himself for barely a second.She was quite right, and he could not, for the moment, afford the luxury of chivalrous concerns for her safety. They were pointless, anyway, since she had obviated his earlier attempts to protect her. “Go, then. But stay within sight on the track. You are not to approach the camp again, do you understand?”
Bryony nodded and ran back to the cart track. What was Benedict intending to do with three wagons loaded with purloined arms? They couldn’t use the cart track again, surely. Not with British soldiers half a mile up the road. The men would be able to disperse across the fields, through the woods, the way they had come, presumably, but carts and horses needed more clearly defined paths.
Dear Lord! What was
She was marched across the enclosure, toward the open doors of the building. Just as they reached the entrance, she heard Ben’s voice, authoritative yet with that inherent softness that reminded her of spring raindrops. When had she had that fanciful thought before? The instant before she was thrust into the building, Bryony remembered. She was in the hayloft, listening to the voices of the intruders who had clubbed Jebediah just as she had been about to leave the stableyard and return to the house, her problem unsolved, but at least the solitude had brought her some peace. Her problem … Francis … oh, God, it was better not to have remembered! Her father, Sir Edward Paget … a king’s man to his backbone, to his last drop of blood …
“What the hell are you doing here?”
The soft voice, infused with incredulity, exploded her rapt trance. Bryony shook her head free of the memories that, now unleashed, threatened to overrun her senses. The hand at her mouth was lifted.
“Redcoats,” she said. “About half a mile to the north, along the track.”
“Coming here?” The question snapped in the sudden stillness.
“No.” She shook her head. “Camped and well away with drink, I think.”
“Sentries?”
“I did not see any, and I nearly fell over the camp, but no one saw me. There are perhaps a dozen of them, but I didn’t stay to look around carefully. It seemed more urgent to warn you.”
He looked at her closely, the black eyes narrowed. “If you’re due any gratitude, you will receive it with whatelse is owed you for this night’s work.” There was no misunderstanding him, and Bryony swallowed nervously. This was the Benedict who set fire to barns, stole weapons, tied innocent people to beds in order to prevent their getting in his way. This was the man who bore the scars of the whip upon his back, inflicted for some unknown crime.
He swung away from her and began to rap out orders in a sharp staccato. Bryony backed out into the enclosure, where men were moving swiftly and silently, the pile of weapons diminishing as they were transported to the waiting carts. She stepped sideways to avoid a man with a heavy sack and tripped over something soft and yielding. A rapidly quelled scream emerged from her lips as a strangled whimper of horror. The man at her feet was dead, his eyes staring wide and blank into the night sky, a red stain spreading untidily across his tunic.
“Get over to the wagons.” It was Benedict’s voice, harsh, bearing no resemblance now to spring raindrops.
“He’s dead,” she said, looking up at Ben.
“And he’ll not be the only one before this night is over, unless we have uncommon luck,” he replied shortly. “Have you any idea what you’ve walked into?” He shook his head impatiently. “I don’t have time to deal with you now. Get over to the wagons and stay there until you are told what to do next.”
“Would it not be more helpful if I kept watch on the track?” The shock of her discovery of the dead man shaded her eyes, but her voice was strong and she met his anger with lifted chin, her mouth set in a determined line. “It seems you can ill spare one of the others to stand guard.”
Benedict struggled with himself for barely a second.She was quite right, and he could not, for the moment, afford the luxury of chivalrous concerns for her safety. They were pointless, anyway, since she had obviated his earlier attempts to protect her. “Go, then. But stay within sight on the track. You are not to approach the camp again, do you understand?”
Bryony nodded and ran back to the cart track. What was Benedict intending to do with three wagons loaded with purloined arms? They couldn’t use the cart track again, surely. Not with British soldiers half a mile up the road. The men would be able to disperse across the fields, through the woods, the way they had come, presumably, but carts and horses needed more clearly defined paths.
Dear Lord! What was
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