Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

S ilver snowflakes fell onto Mercy’s arms and shoulders as she fished out eggs from the coop.

“Dullix ix ux,” she murmured as she worked, filling her chest with the gift and manifesting the incantation to protect the Macleods from wickedness. She’d repeated the words three thousand times since they’d gone. “Dullix ix ux. Dullix ix ux.” Wind howled across the mountain and ripped at her heavy cloak, and she nestled her cheek into the soft wool Rory had picked out himself. The sky was gray, as it had been for weeks. It seemed as though the sun refused to shine upon the farm on Black Knob after the Macleods had gone.

Christmas Eve had crept up on her like an unwelcome friend—someone who normally would bring cheer, but was, at the moment, the last face you wanted to see. When she was younger, it was one of the few holidays that Granny had been kind to Mercy. She’d always made a fuss over Christmas Eve, and the twelve days that would follow, ending in a great feast on Twelfth Night. Granny had always managed to barter for a turkey or a duck, and every year, her father had stayed with them, sang songs and pretended like he was a part of their family. Of course, he was always lost in town between the holidays, but on Christmas Eve, Mercy could always count on James Barnett to be there. Granny remained spirited throughout the holiday, drinking James’ leftover whiskey and smoking mint tobacco. Granny was much kinder when she was in her cups.

Mercy pulled the last egg from the coop and placed it gently into her basket. She had set out this morning to collect for a feast, determined to lift Amity’s spirits, for it wasn’t just her heart that had been battered by the Macleods’ departure.

For the first time, it had felt to them both that they had a true family—the kind that cares about what you’re thinking and what will put a smile on your face and if you’ve had enough to eat and what will rile you up and just how far to push before you’ll fly at them with playful swats. A family that cares if you’ve slept well and that you’re growing plumper with curves because they’ve been working hard to see that you do.

Losing that, not to mention the greatest love she imagined anyone had ever felt, had left Mercy completely numb as she’d dressed the Macleods in layers, had packed their sacks with seeds and carrots and potatoes, cured ham from town and jars of mint tobacco for trade. Rory had grabbed at her hand after she’d sewn a wolf’s fang inside his right sleeve for protection. He’d raised her wrist to his mouth and kissed the warm, sensitive skin there, but she’d torn away from his grasp. Amity had taken over then, buttoning the brothers up and kissing their cheeks after Mercy had walked away, too overwhelmed to bid them farewell. Without Amity, Mercy knew she would be lost. The least Mercy could do was prepare her sister a Christmas Eve meal.

Mercy stood and drew the basket up into her arms, lifting her face heavenward and letting the snow fall into her lashes. She shivered and smiled. That Rory was now safely far away from this place was enough. Perhaps the same clouds were snowing on him, wherever he was. She sighed and walked back towards the cabin. She hadn’t been back to town since she’d read the advertisement in the Virginia Gazette, and no one had come in search of her services, so either the townspeople were miraculously healthy, or they all suspected Mercy of marrying a wanted man from Belhaven. She doubted very much that Mrs. Jane West still wanted her to midwife, as much as she doubted that Mr. Allston still wanted her to join his family for supper.

Lady greeted her as she walked back through the fence into the clearing, and she bent down to stroke her neck. To her left was the cabin, so splendidly refurbished, and a constant reminder that Rory had been there, that he had loved her, and perhaps more importantly to Mercy, that he had loved Amity enough to build her a loft of her own. Little sister, he had called her. Before she knew it, tears were falling down her cheeks, but she wasn’t surprised. It happened often enough since they’d gone away, so she wiped her cheeks and set about storing the eggs below the stairs in preparation for supper.

She cleaned her hands with her skirts and pulled on her mittens. Amity was due back any minute. For the first time since the Macleods had left, Amity had asked permission earlier that morning to ride Cameo down to visit with the Clintocks.

At times, Mercy was unsettled by Amity’s behavior. At first, Amity had stayed in Mercy’s bed every night, looking about as forlorn as Mercy felt. She’d been doing much better for the past week, but she was always looking over her shoulder, demanding that Mercy write protection incantations and hang them from the door frames, hide them in her pockets, tie them about the goats’ necks. She’d stayed close, offering help whenever she could, and never said a sardonic word, which was very unlike her indeed. There were times that Mercy craved her sister’s caustic remarks, would have paid to have her sister size her up and berate her for feeling so low. But most of the time, she was thankful for Amity’s careful handling of her.

This morning, however, Mercy luxuriated in being alone. Ever since Amity had gone to town, Mercy had felt that she was again able to lift her chin and accept her fate, the fate she’d known since before the Macleods had turned her life upside down. She was, again, the master of her own fortune, and though she was hollow, she would press on, if only for her sister and the farm.

The goats’ bells tolled as the wind whipped through the clearing and the loose locks about Mercy’s face. She sighed with relief, gathering her cloak tighter at the neck and turned, suddenly stunned into stillness. There, not a few yards away among the goats, was a man standing straight and proper.

“May I help you?” she asked, squinting at him as snowflakes swirled in a lacy curtain between them. He was dressed very fine, in a sleeved waistcoat of red wool and a black cloak tied around his throat. His boots, though wet and muddy, had been recently polished, and his stockings were made from fine silk, not wool.

“I pray you can,” he returned with a smile that set her at ease.

“Are you in trouble?” she asked immediately, stepping forward in concern. “Or perhaps someone you know?” His thick blond hair fell over his brow as he nodded.

“Oh, yes,” he said, flashing a quick smile. “An acquaintance of mine,” he explained, stepping forward. “You are Mercy Miller, are you not?” Mercy sucked in a breath at the sound of her married name.

“I am,” she said quickly, nodding. “And you are?” she asked.

“Lieutenant George Crawley, at your service,” he said with a bow.

Mercy, to her credit, blinked and cocked her head. “Are you new in town sir?” she asked innocently, even as her heart began thudding wildly against her ribs. She had gone over this very scenario a thousand times in her head, and was at that moment almost relieved her husband’s enemy had finally found their sanctuary there on the mountain.

“I am,” he said, stepping forward. He narrowed his eyes, but did not push the point.

“Well you’d better come sit by the fire.” She pasted on the sweetest smile in her arsenal, the one usually reserved for the nervous family members who were dangerously close to refusing her help in aiding a patient. “You must be freezing.” She turned quickly and had to temper her steps when all she really wanted to do was flee.

She heard his boots crunching in the snow behind her as she hung the kettle over the flames and pulled two cups from the ground nearby. “Some warm milk?” she asked as she motioned towards a log for him to sit upon. “Or perhaps you’d like some lemon balm tea?”

The lieutenant refused the seat and grimaced. “Goat’s milk?” he asked with a tinge of disgust as he glanced around. He sighed and mumbled something Mercy was sure she was glad not to hear. “I will try the tea,” he said with a condescension that, she decided, had to be practiced since childhood. She nodded and started towards the barn when he held out a hand.

“Sir?” she asked with a calm she didn’t feel, widening her eyes in faux concern.

“I can fetch the tea you speak of,” he said tartly. He obviously thought she would make a run for it, but that was not her intention, and she couldn’t let on that she suspected that anyway.

“A true gentleman.” She forced a grin. “The stone jar is in the barn, just inside the door on the table.” He sniffed and grimaced, keeping an eye on her as he walked away.

For the short moment he disappeared through the snow and into the barn, Mercy ripped off her mittens and pulled the vial of Jimsonweed from her pocket, where she’d kept it since Rory had left, and bit into the cork. A cold sweat crept up her spine as she spit the cork into the fire and emptied the contents into one of the tin cups at her feet before tossing the vial as far as she could into the woods behind her.

“Did you find it?” she called, and George Crawley’s figure appeared through the storm, just as she’d stopped her hands from shaking.

“I think so, Mrs. Miller,” he said, sneering a bit when he said her last name.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said. She looked to the carriage road, which was all but obscured by the falling snow, and hoped to God that Amity stayed a while longer with the Clintocks.

Crawley opened the jar and sniffed, and Mercy couldn’t help but smirk when his brows raised in surprise.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said, holding out her hands. He gave her the jar and, after she crouched before the fire and shook out the dried herbs into the kettle, brushed off the top of the log behind her and perched upon it. Steam curled from the kettle and Mercy, donning her mittens again, poured the heated water into the cups.

“Your husband,” he started to say.

“Long gone,” Mercy said with a shrug. “And the devil take him. Here.” Crawley accepted the cup and wrapped his hands around it. He looked so out of place here, with his red coat like blood splatter in the snow. Winter on the mountaintop was pale, soft, and curiously colorless. Comforting. A time to anticipate the intensity of the first blooms in spring. Mercy bit back a relieved smile when he took a deep sip.

“Long gone,” he repeated, lifting one pale brow.

“Gone. Now, perhaps you can tell me about this acquaintance,” she said, sipping her tea.

Crawley grinned before tipping the cup back again. “Yes.” He slurped again. “My acquaintance is in trouble. A great deal of trouble, really.”

“Oh no,” Mercy said, sipping her tea and squeezing her eyebrows together in faux concern.

“Oh, yes,” Crawley said.

“Please tell me all about it,” Mercy said. “But don’t let your tea get cold.”

Crawley drained the cup and stood. “My acquaintance, ” he said, “is in trouble, because he is a criminal. He is a runaway from his Majesty’s servitude, and he is going to pay with his life.”

“How awful,” Mercy said, sitting back on her log with her tea. Snow fell softly around the two of them—enemies of the deepest kind.

“It is awful,” Crawley said, his blue eyes like daggers. “He has committed many crimes that are punishable by death. And, unfortunately, those who have assisted him have chosen the same fate.”

In a flurry, Crawley flew over the fire and had taken her by the throat before she could even cry out.

“You’re going to tell me exactly where the Macleods are if you don’t want me to squeeze the life from you,” he said quietly as he dragged her backward, his fingers increasing their pressure. She clawed at him and, in the midst of her panic, locked eyes with Amity, who had appeared suddenly at the mouth of the carriage road atop their horse. Her sister’s face widened in panic before she disappeared the way she’d come.

“He’s gone,” she croaked when he released her, and she fell against the outer wall of the barn and onto the snowy ground, dazed.

“Where?” he asked, crouching down. She gulped for breath and could practically taste the acrid smell of this man, his face so close to hers. He was freshly shaven, his hair coiffed and tied back from his face. Everything but his eyes was the picture of a gentleman, but those eyes gave him away. They were predatory, like the starving, mangy foxes that had circled the farm several winters back.

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully with a rasp, but he shot out a hand to her throat and squeezed again.

“You do know,” he spat, his eyes narrowing.

“South,” she choked out as spots filled her vision. The world was going dark around her and she thought wildly that she could die peacefully, because she had known great love. “You’ll never catch up with him.” Her voice sounded far away.

“I will,” he returned, dropping his hand. Mercy fell forward and caught herself just before her nose smacked the frozen ground. “You’re his wife, are you not?” he asked, standing once more to stare down at her.

“I was,” she answered honestly as she pushed herself back against the barn, massaging her throat.

“You’ll hang for that,” he barked. He met her eyes and smiled, his civility a mask. “You will,” he said more calmly. “You’ve knowingly aided a wanted convict.” Mercy coughed and rose unsteadily, using the side of the barn as a support, prepared to lie as well as she could, but when she rose to her full height, he pointed a flintlock pistol at her chest.

His eyes were alight with emotion. “You’ll tell me where Rory Macleod is. Now.”

“There’s no need for that.” Again, Mercy felt as though she might lose consciousness as she searched desperately for the source of those words, her head swimming, unbelieving that Rory could be near enough to speak them. “Step away from her,” Rory hissed dangerously, stepping forward into the clearing slowly. Mercy, having wished to see him every moment of every day and night, could not have fathomed a worse time for him to appear.

“Ah,” Lieutenant Crawley said, smiling as he spun to face Rory. “I was assured that I would find you here.” A wicked rage filled Mercy as she wondered which of the townspeople had sold him out.

“And here I am,” Rory said, holding his hands out innocently, but Mercy, knowing him as well as she knew herself, saw them shaking with rage. “Point that pistol at me, not at her,” he said calmly. He stepped forward slowly and Crawley did as he was dared to do. Mercy let out a ragged breath and clutched at her chest, not fully realizing until then how close she had felt to death. She stared at Rory, the beautiful giant who had changed her for good. Who had perhaps just saved her life. Who had not yet met her eyes.

“You’ve no idea how I’ve searched for you,” she heard the vile man say as he approached Rory, pulling metal chains from his pocket. Mercy spied an oak branch out of the corner of her eye and, before thinking too much about it, grabbed it and flung it at George Crawley’s head. When he ducked and her body swung off balance as the branch met nothing but air, she cursed herself. He was a soldier. She was nothing. The last thing she saw was the fury in his eyes as he pulled the gun back and struck her, then all she could feel was pain and darkness.

“Mercy,” Rory howled, but as he made to go to her, Crawley cocked his pistol. He stopped, fury threatening to split his chest in two.

“Put your hands out.”

“Let me tend to her,” Rory pleaded, not recognizing his own voice. He sounded, he realized, afraid.

“Put your hands out, or I will shoot her,” Crawley said, aiming his gun at her motionless body. Rory winced when he saw blood dripping onto the snow.

“Don’t,” he roared, stepping forward, then falling back. He knew Crawley would do it. “Here,” Rory said, frantically throwing his wrists out. “Here, chain me up.” Crawley smiled and turned back.

“I assume you’ve hidden your brothers?” Crawley asked conversationally as he locked the chains in place. The metal around his wrists was painfully familiar, like a nightmare that comes back to visit after several months of restless sleep.

“I haven’t hidden them,” Rory answered honestly. “I’ve sent them north.” It was almost the truth. Seven days ago, Rory had stopped marching on, had leaned against a pine and instructed his brothers to keep going west without him.

“We won’t go without ye,” Cailean had said, his voice hard, but Rory had refused to let them stop.

“Ye’ll keep going, but I’m going back for my wife. Once I’ve gotten Mercy and Amity, we’ll track you and find you. Just keep heading west.”

“Rory,” Cailean had said, his voice rising.

“She is the very air I breathe, Cailean.”

“Ye’ve said time and time again it’s too dangerous for them,” Cailean had said, his dark eyebrows knitting together.

“Aye,” Rory had responded.

“Then…” Cailean started to say.

“Let him go,” Rabbie had said quietly. He had taken one look at Rory and something passed between them. The only place, safe or no’, for Mercy and Amity is by my side. As if hearing the thought, Rabbie nodded. Rory had turned from his brothers then and taken back to the mountains he’d just crossed as though wolves were at his heels.

Once he’d gotten back to the farm, however, he’d watched the sisters from the trees for days. His resolve had weakened when he saw how safe and warm they were. When he thought of the dangers they’d face trying to cross the mountains with him, his resolve faltered. He had stayed for several more nights, not wanting to be away from Mercy, but not able to leave her, either.

And then George Crawley came slithering up the mountainside. Their mountainside.

“You haven’t hidden them,” Crawley repeated slowly, unbelieving. “Ah, well. It’s no matter.” Crawley shrugged with a wicked grin. “I really only wanted you.”

“Yes, ye can have me, but let me tend to her,” Rory said, ignoring most of what Crawley said and motioning towards Mercy with both hands, as they were chained tightly together. Just then, Mercy murmured incoherently.

“You see? She’s alive. And if you come with me now, she will stay that way.”

“No harm will come to her,” Rory said, and it wasn’t a question. But the snow fell on her prone body, and he swallowed bile.

“Not if you come willingly,” Crawley answered, and Rory knew he was telling the truth.

“Then let us proceed,” Rory said urgently. He wanted desperately for Crawley and his firearm to be as far away from Mercy as possible, even if she was lying injured in the snow. Crawley nodded and walked behind him down the carriage road towards town, where Rory could alert someone. If he had to guess, Mercy had sent Amity somewhere to hide, and she would be able to help his wife as soon as they’d left.

Every now and then Crawley prodded him with his pistol. The snow stopped falling after some time, and the sun threatened to break through the clouds above. A deer and her fawn jumped across the road in front of them, and Rory would have said that it was a very fine afternoon indeed if he wasn’t marching away from the love of his life, who was gravely injured, in chains, and at the more dangerous end of a loaded gun. Help her, little sister, he prayed to Amity.

“How did ye find me?” Rory asked after a while. He was resigned to his fate now, with the sweet knowledge that his brothers would be safe and the confidence that Amity would swiftly find his wife.

“A man called Teague answered my advertisement,” Crawley answered, pressing his pistol into Rory’s spine once more to quicken his pace. “He said there were three giant Scots in the mountain above the medicinal springs. When he mentioned a mill, I knew I had you. I remember so well the pain in your eyes as you watched your father’s mill on Raasay burn,” he added, and it sounded very much like he was smiling, but Rory was still parading in front of him, so he couldn’t be sure.

“Killing me will no’ bring your father back,” Rory said. It seemed important that Crawley know he had gone slightly insane. Rory knew it wouldn’t change his fate, but it seemed important all the same.

“Shut your mouth,” he heard Crawley spit from behind him. “I swore to avenge him.”

“And ye think my death will do it?” Rory asked. He hadn’t killed any officers that day, so he knew the man’s father’s blood was not on his hands. In fact, he had spent most of the battle pulling wounded men back towards the tree line.

“A man like you can’t imagine what it’s like to look into your mother’s eyes and tell her that her own people killed her husband,” Crawley said, seething.

“I’d argue the Macleods of Raasay are no’ her people…” Rory started to say.

“The Macleods of Raasay are traitors,” Crawley spat. “And the Macleods of Lewis want their penance. My mother wants her penance.”

Rory shrugged but stayed silent. If George Crawley needed penance, Rory might as well be his man. He wasn’t good. He wasn’t kind. He’d killed on that battlefield. He was sure he had taken the life of someone’s father, or brother, or son, that day. And, he thought with the most heart wrenching pain, he’d left Mercy.

He’d watched the farm once he’d gotten back and he’d seen Mercy and Amity living on. Every night, he’d wrapped himself in the blanket Mercy had sent with him and slept in the trees beyond her upper garden, shivering and trying desperately to talk himself into leaving again. Into forsaking her and finding his brothers and pushing on into New France. But every morning he couldn’t help but slink back for another glimpse of her. His wife. His love. His heart.

He had been torn in two by his loyalty and love for his brothers and that for his wife and her sister. He thought he’d been severed from his heart before, when he watched Raasay burn, but the agony didn’t even compare.

Soon, they reached the outskirts of town, and Rory could see the medicinal springs steaming in the cold air, though no one was about them. His eyes widened as he searched about for someone, anyone.

Mercy is hurt and alone.

“I hitched my horse at the tavern to rest,” Crawley said, pushing Rory forward towards the Halfway House.

“I assume I am to walk back to Belhaven,” Rory said.

“You walked here, you might as well walk back. I like to keep the horse at a trot, though, so you will probably run.” Rory rolled his eyes and kept moving. Damn this weather. No one was about.

“Ho, what’s this?” Rory heard Mr. Bell call. He turned and saw his friend ambling up the road from his farm.

“Mr. Bell,” Rory said quickly, “Mercy is…”

“Mrs. Miller is with Miss Amity,” Bell said meaningfully.

“Stay back,” Crawley called as he pressed the pistol to the back of Rory’s skull. “This is none of your concern, old man.” Bell nodded imperceptibly and Rory sagged with relief. Amity must have ridden through the woods.

Bell turned back to Crawley. “I’d say it is, seeing as ye’ve got my nephew in chains.” Bell frowned imperiously. His nephew? Rory thought wildly. Did Bell really mean to try to save him? He knew full well it wouldn’t work, but he winked at Bell despite himself.

“Your nephew,” Crawley sneered dubiously.

“Aye,” Bell returned, laying his accent on thick. “This here is my nephew, Rory Miller. Ho, don’t say ye’ve gone and mixed him up with that Rory Macleod I read about in the papers,” he said suddenly, feigning horror. “Aye, we’ve heard of that criminal around these parts,” he said, nodding vigorously. “We’ve all had a good laugh over the striking similarities between that devil and my dear nephew.”

“Sir,” Crawley said, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but this here is Rory Macleod, of Clan Macleod of Raasay. I captured him myself, and he has been charged by the Crown with transportation.”

“Oh no,” Bell shook his head in mock dismay, and Rory grinned, lifting his bound hands to scratch his bearded chin. He couldn’t help but enjoy this spectacle immensely, now that he knew Mercy would not freeze all alone, lying there in the snow. Bless Amity. “Ye’ve got the wrong of it. This here is my nephew Rory Miller, of Clan Bell of the Borderlands. My sister went and married herself a Miller, can ye believe it?” Bell leaned in and whispered conspiratorially to Crawley, who reared back with Bell’s closeness. Rory bit back a laugh. “He came here to find work after I sent word to my dear sister back in Scotland about the lovely backcountry of Virginia Colony. Did you know, sir, that there are medicinal springs here, and they can cure you of anything that ails you?” Bell asked, changing the subject. “If you’d just remove your boots, you can walk right into the water and…”

“You are mistaken, old man,” Crawley hissed, cutting him off and staggering a bit. “Now be gone with you. I have a long ride ahead of me.”

“What’s this, Mr. Bell?” Rory turned his head and saw William walking down the front step of the Halfway House and crunching into the snow.

“It seems this gentleman has confused my nephew with the notorious Rory Macleod!” Bell exclaimed.

“Ha!” William said, approaching the three. Rory was surprised to see him holding a musket, and he could feel Crawley’s body tense behind his when he noticed it, too.

“Stay back,” Crawley yelped, but the words were muddy.

“Why, sir,” William said, holding his free hand up innocently. “We mean you no harm.” A crowd began to form about Rory and Crawley on the road. “But you must unchain Mr. Miller at once.”

“This is not Mr. Miller,” Crawley shouted. “I have the document here.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled a paper from it, which he waved furiously at the men standing behind William. “This here is Rory Macleod, transported on August the twenty-fifth of this year.”

“Now see, now I know ye’ve got it wrong,” Bell said emphatically. “This man, my nephew, arrived at my farm in August of last year.”

“Stop that,” Crawley cried, his patience obviously growing thin.

“It’s true,” William said, nodding solemnly. “Why, Mr. Strauss,” he called, and Gideon Strauss, the man whose pockets the strumpet Lydia had tried to empty, stepped forward from the crowd that had accumulated. “Did not Mr. Miller help you retrieve your stolen wedding ring in October of last year ?”

“He surely did,” Mr. Strauss said quickly, and Rory felt his jaw drop. “It was Samhain—I remember it well.” Until that moment, he thought these theatrics were merely to show him how much he would be missed by Mr. Bell and William, but now hope started to build in his chest.

“I’ll not take the word of some backcountry farmer,” Crawley barked, catching himself as he weaved to the side. Is he drunk? Rory asked himself.

“I am, sir,” Gideon Strauss said cooly, his eyes narrowing and his spine straightening, “the private solicitor for Thomas Fairfax, Sixth Lord Fairfax of Cameron, who is the owner of the very land upon which your boots currently rest.” Rory glanced at Crawley’s face, which had gone white.

“Rory,” Mercy called desperately. She held on tightly to Amity’s hips as Cameo slowed by the town medicinal springs.

After Amity had seen Crawley at the farm, she’d ridden down and raised the alarm with Mr. Bell, who she’d spotted first, then William, before riding at breakneck speed to the Clintocks. After, she’d taken Cameo up through the woods, careful to avoid the carriage road.

Mercy had been conscious by then, and, according to Amity, in an absolute snit.

“That man thinks he can take Rory from me?” she had yelled as Amity dabbed at her wound with yarrow to staunch the bleeding. Amity had barely made it onto the horse in front of Mercy before she’d kicked her boots into Cameo’s sides and sent them flying back down the mountain in pursuit of her husband.

They passed the springs at a trot and spied a crowd, the top of Rory’s head visible in the middle.

“Rory,” she cried again. She was so relieved to see him still there, and not already in a wagon being hauled back to Belhaven, that she couldn’t stop the flood of tears that streaked down her frozen cheeks.

When he heard her voice, Rory spun and searched for her through the tight circle of men around him and his captor. When their eyes met, she nearly wept.

“Stay there,” she heard Crawley yell as Rory started to move towards her. He froze, but he kept his eyes on hers as she flung herself off Cameo and marched towards him. God, he is beautiful . His face, wide and full of emotion, cracked her heart wide open all over again.

“Now you will listen!” Crawley shouted for all to hear. “This is Rory Macleod, criminal of the worst sort, and until his debt is paid, is the property of His Majesty!” His words, Mercy heard with satisfaction, slurred together. The Jimsonweed is working.

“No, no,” Mr. Bell said, shaking his head violently. “Again, I tell ye, this is my nephew from the Borderlands. He arrived here in August of last year. Though he resembles the convict Macleod, I can promise you that he is my nephew Miller!” He caught Mercy’s eye and the side of his mouth drew up.

“What is all this?” came an imperious voice from behind them all. Mercy turned and saw Rose Clintock, arm in arm with Theo, and a splendidly uniformed Major John Clintock, the girls’ uncle, stomping towards them. She knew at once it was him, though she had never made his acquaintance. He was tall and stately-looking, well-groomed with shrewd eyes—the same eyes as his niece, Rose.

“Major, sir,” Mr. Bell said, stepping forward quickly. “This gentleman here,” he said, emphasizing the word gentleman as if it were a dirty word, “believes my nephew to be a criminal, escaped from Belhaven. He has somehow mistaken him for the notorious villain Rory Macleod.”

“He is the villain Macleod,” Crawley whined, his words slurring slightly, “accused of treason and sentenced with transportation by His Majesty’s court!” Mercy glowered at him, her head still throbbing from his blow.

“This was all Mr. Bell’s idea,” Amity whispered at Mercy’s side.

“This is the criminal, Rory Macleod!” Teague shouted, suddenly appearing farther down the road. He huffed as he hurried to approach the crowd, which had turned to stare at him. “I was the one who wrote you, Lieutenant,” he sputtered, turning to Crawley.

“Lieutenant?” Major Clintock asked in a low, gruff yet polished voice, narrowing his eyes.

“Formerly a Lieutenant,” Crawley said, shifting his weight, lifting his chin, and staggering. “I sold my commission before…”

“Do you mean to tell me,” Major Clintock asked icily, “that you come here, pretending to be in His Majesty’s service, and falsely accuse a member of this community of treason?”

“It’s sadly true, Uncle,” Rose said loudly, a small smile on her lips. Mercy could tell that she was enjoying the part she would play immensely. “For I have been in acquaintance with Mercy Miller, nee Barnett, for many years, and I know her husband to be the nephew of the farmer, Mr. Bell.” She gave Theo a sidelong look and grinned.

“Hogwash!” Teague sputtered, then took a step back as Major Clintock took several strides toward him.

“Dare you call my niece a liar?” he asked with pure venom in his voice. It became clear at once to Mercy that Rose and Theo were very much the objects of their uncle’s undying affection.

“This man here,” said Mr. Jenkins, the man Mercy had recognized the night of the bonfire, the one who had tried to help her, “cannot be trusted.” Mercy panicked until she realized he was pointing at Teague , not Rory. “He obviously has a blood feud with Mr. Miller, as I stand witness to his attempt to murder Miller’s wife.”

“What’s this?” Major Clintock growled, staring at Teague in horror.

“It’s true,” said Mr. Collins, stepping forward next to Mr. Jenkins. Mercy’s chest heaved. He had been there, too, she remembered. She could have forgiven everything and hugged them both on the spot. Horrified murmurs flew from the crowd.

“These men speak the truth, Major Clintock,” Mercy said, gritting her teeth, remembering the smell of the fire and the heat that had threatened to consume her.

“Lying wench!” Crawley shouted as he stumbled forward. Mercy watched his face twist as he realized, perhaps a little too late, that he was about to lose this fight.

“This woman,” said Mr. Thomas West, Jane West’s husband, as he stepped forward in all his finery, “will deliver the heir to the greatest tobacco warehouse in Belhaven.” He stood tall to peer down his nose at Crawley. “Do not dare to insult her with your ravings, sir.”

“I married the two myself, ages ago,” Reverend Hawes said happily as he hobbled forward, grinning. He was gazing around at the crowd in fascination. She was sure a man of the cloth was not supposed to lie, but it looked as though the reverend had been in his cups that morning, and perhaps he truly believed his own falsehood.

“Get back,” Crawley cried out suddenly, and the crowd immediately dispersed with huffs and a few screams as he waved his pistol around, pointing it here and there. He’d begun to sweat, Mercy saw with satisfaction. He staggered to and fro and the crowd backed away whenever he got too near.

“He’s a madman,” someone murmured, and there was a chorus of agreement among the bystanders.

“Drop your sidearm at once!” Major Clintock commanded, placing his hand on the pistol in his belt. But Crawley didn’t comply. He was far too gone with the poison to listen to reason. His heart, she knew, was beating uncomfortably fast. He was disoriented. Afraid. Wracked with pain. Good.

He whirled around, and Mercy saw that his eyes were wild with fury and confusion and fear. They locked on hers as he spoke.

“I lost the person I cared for most in this world,” he slurred, his eyes not straying from Mercy’s, though she was confident he was speaking to Rory. “Now I will take that from you.” Mercy’s eyes widened as she watched Crawley pull the trigger. In a violent rush of color and movement, Rory was in front of her. She heard the shot, saw the smoke, and it took her a moment to realize that the bullet had lodged in her husband, who was now lying on the ground in front of her. She screamed before she heard the second shot. Instinctively, her hands drew to her chest where surely she would find a bleeding wound.

Crawley stood there in front of her, staring with wild eyes, but she realized they were not staring at her, but rather at nothing at all.

She watched motionlessly as blood bloomed red over the front of his shirt and he fell to his knees. Behind him, Mr. Bell was holding William’s smoking musket.

Crawley looked as though he wanted to say something, but when he opened his mouth, a bloody cough was all he managed. He rasped, then fell forward onto the red speckled snow