Authors: Traitorous Hearts
She turned to look at him then, at his absolute stillness, at his
cool, hooded eyes watching the water flowing away.
"You're not in uniform."
"No. That red coat seems to be an invitation to fire in these
parts. I'd just as soon not be a moving target again if I can help it." He
continued gazing at the creek, a muscle working in his jaw.
"What is it?" she asked finally.
He took in a breath. His features hardened, sharpened, and suddenly
he was a man who could do what he had to without showing a flicker of
hesitation or remorse.
"I
know I promised you I wouldn't ask anything else from you.
Sometimes, though, there are things that are more important than
promises."
She squeezed his hand. "Go on."
"I've been working for the Americans—"
"I knew it!" Thank God, they were on the same side after
all. He wasn't her enemy. "I knew you weren't—"
"Stop it." The command, though soft, was clear and
sharp. He withdrew his fingers from hers and shoved her hand away from him.
"But we—"
"Don't make me out to be some kind of hero. It's nothing like
that."
"But you are," she protested. "The information
you've been gathering—"
"Is getting people killed." He picked up a twig and
began to strip it of its leaves and bark with precise, careful movements.
"Let me tell you what it's like, Beth. I found out that the British were
planning a possible assault on colonial headquarters and the supply depot at
Cambridge. We were going to land at Dorchester Point, then march on through
Roxbury. I passed on the information, just as I always do."
With such abrupt violence Bennie jumped, he hurled the naked twig
into the water and watched it float slowly downstream. "They decided to
fortify the hills above Charlestown."
"Bunker Hill," she said softly.
"Yes." He turned to look at her then. His eyes were
stark, bleak, filled with dark despair. His features were taut, and for a
moment she was sure that if she touched him, he would shatter.
"All those men, Beth. They died. They died because of me.
Because I'm so damn good at my job."
"Oh, Jonathan." She did reach out to touch him then, and
he jerked away from her. She could feel him curling up, closing down, trying to
ruthlessly stamp out any sign of emotion or regret. "They were soldiers.
They knew what might happen," she said.
"Yes, they were soldiers. That's all. Just men and boys like
me, trying to do what they thought was right. They weren't my enemies. My
enemies
are back in England, stuffed in velvet-draped halls and gilded rooms. But
they're not the ones dying, are they?"
If he'd let her touch him, she thought, he'd be cold. His flesh
would be chilled, as if he'd sat out in a late November rain.
"You had no choice."
"Choice!" He gave a harsh laugh. "We always have
choices. Except sometimes all of them are bad." His voice became remote,
utterly expressionless. "It's living with yourself after you make them
that's the trick."
"Jon," she said, her throat raw and aching. She wanted
to curl herself around him and warm him, to grab the darkness in both fists and
shove it away, revealing the man she'd known.
But she had never known him, had she?
He allowed himself to touch her then, just one little stroke along
her temple. He would have given much if he didn't have to ask her this, but
there was no way he could get to Washington himself without being recognized.
He could get through once, but he'd never be able to go back to his post with
the British, and he had to return; he was more vital than ever now.
Lord, she was lovely, fine glowing skin over strong, clean
features. Nothing delicate or dainty, no fragile flower that would wilt with
the first sign of age or difficulty. No, she was a woman, a woman who could
stand with a man, work with him, build a life with him.
And he wished—more than he'd ever wished for anything, even when
he was a child and wanted his parents back—that he'd never gotten embroiled in
the plots of kings and countries. That he could have met her at church, courted
her slowly with flowers and walks through the square, and taken her home to his
house and made love to her among lacy sheets and feather pillows. That they
could have children and laugh and grow old quietly, without ever being touched
by things like war and duty and the damn bloody job.
Instead, the job was all he had.
"I wouldn't ask you this if I didn't think it was imperative.
Even then, I wouldn't ask if I wasn't sure you would be perfectly safe."
"It doesn't matter. Who is completely safe these days,
anyway?"
"True." If only there was some other way... but if there
was, he couldn't see it. "I gathered some information. It has to be gotten
through to Washington."
The breeze blew a strand of hair across her lips, and she tucked
it behind her ear. "Important?"
"Yes. I was trying to make contact the night I was
shot."
He heard her quick intake of breath. "They caught you?"
"Almost. I don't think I was recognized. At least, there's
been no indication of that so far. But they obviously knew when and where the
meeting was to be. There's someone feeding information back to the British,
someone who's very good at it."
"Who is it?"
"I don't know—yet. But they've done an absolutely complete
job of eliminating all of my contacts. I've been trying for weeks to find
someone to get the information through, but every one is either dead or has
disappeared entirely."
She paled. "Dead?"
"Yes," he said brutally, unwilling to pretty it up for
her, half hoping she'd get frightened and refuse.
"Why don't you take it through yourself?"
"There'd be no way I could return to my company. And, at
least until we identify the traitor in the American ranks, I'm needed on this
side."
"You want me to deliver it." She was calm now, her voice
steady. She would make a very good spy herself, he thought in admiration; she
too had the ability to present a very different face to the world.
"There's no one else I can trust, Beth."
She considered briefly. "All right. Where is it?"
He felt a sickening thud in his gut. She was going to do it. He
wanted her here, tucked away safe and sound. "It shouldn't be any problem.
You don't have to cross any British lines at all. All you'd need is a
legitimate reason to enter camp."
"I have seven brothers in that camp, Jonathan. As you say, it
shouldn't be a problem."
"Fine," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. She
was being very businesslike and accepting about the entire thing—and he was
finding it completely impossible to treat her the way he would any other
compatriot.
He yanked off the jerkin she'd given him, folding it inside out.
He removed the small, deadly dagger he always kept in his boot—sometimes, guns
were too noisy—quickly slit the fabric of the lining and pulled out a bundle of
papers.
"Here." He held them out. The papers were white and pure
in the sun, tied with a black ribbon, and looked utterly innocuous. Yet he knew
as he handed them to her that he was giving her something equally as dangerous
as a poisonous asp.
She took the packet and tapped it against her thigh. "What is
this?"
He simply stared at her, his face stony. "It's better if you
don't know."
She tucked her tongue in her cheek. "I suppose I could always
open it and read it."
"If you're not going to take this seriously, you're not doing
it." He snatched the packet from her hand.
"Really, Jonathan. I'm taking it seriously. But I can't imagine
how there could be any danger. I'll just go visit my brothers, drop these off,
and go home."
"You don't understand, do you?" Still clutching the
packet, he grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her toward him.
"There's somebody in that camp that doesn't want this information to get
through. Somebody who has, more than likely, already killed to prevent it. And
God help me if something happened to you."
She saw the ice in his eyes, heard the despair in his voice, and
knew it was true. If something happened to her, something he could have
prevented, it would be the final blow, the thing that sent him hurtling over
the edge of the abyss into blackness. He was treading very close to it, as it
was.
"Jonathan," she said quietly. "Nothing's going to
happen to me."
"You're right. Because unless you promise me you can follow
instructions exactly, you are not doing this," he said savagely.
She nodded, and he loosened his grip on her. He rubbed her upper
arms as if in apology for any pain he'd caused her. "When I get inside the
camp, what do I do?" she asked.
"You'll have to find Washington. It shouldn't be too
difficult."
"Fine. What then? I can't simply ask to see him."
"No. Talk to the guards, have them use the name Goliath.
He'll see you. By now, he should have been briefed about me."
"Goliath?" She grinned. "How appropriate."
"Yes, well, all it took was one little rock, didn't it?"
She sobered. It might take more than a stone, but one more ball, a
little closer to the heart this time, or a knife between his ribs was all that
would be needed. She realized he lived every day, every minute, among people
who, if he slipped up once, would consider it their duty to rid the world of
the traitor in their midst. Despite the warmth of the sun, she couldn't
suppress a small shiver.
"Goliath. I'll remember."
"Good. There's something else. You can't tell anyone about
this. I mean it, Beth. Not
anyone."
"Of course not."
"Promise me!"
She nodded, slightly bewildered by his vehemence. "I
wouldn't. I rarely talk to anyone but my family, anyway, and—"
"No!" He jumped to his feet, roughly hauling her up with
him. "Not your family!"
"But Jonathan..." His eyes were pale, cold, unreadable.
Her throat closed in dread. "You suspect one of them."
He didn't answer, merely looked at her, as immovable and
unreachable as a granite statue. His silence was all the confirmation she
needed.
"No!" she shouted, pounding him on the chest with her
fists. "It's not one of my family!"
Jerking away from him, she went to stand by the bank, her face a frozen
blank as she stared out over the water.
He went over to her. "Beth—"
"What happens to him?"
"Who?"
"The traitor. When you catch him." She wrapped her arms
around her middle, and her gaze didn't waver from the slowly meandering water,
but he wondered if she saw anything at all. "What happens to him?"
"The same thing that happens to all traitors."
He sounded so cold, she thought, cold, emotionless, ruthless. She
turned back to him then, and his features were set, his eyes pale and icy.
There was no warmth in him, no softening, no acceptance.
"The same thing that would happen to me if I were
caught," he continued. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
This was not the man she thought she knew. Here was a man, she realized, who
could kill, and go on to do his job, detached and remorseless. Any trace of the
gentleness she'd always seen in him was gone.
Which was the real man? Had every bit of warmth and tenderness
he'd ever shown her been carefully planned, just his way of manipulating her
into doing his bidding? If that hadn't worked, was this the man she'd have
seen? Dangerous, unfeeling, untouched by any reality but that of his duty?
"It's not one of them," she repeated.
"If you say so," he said coldly. Her eyes were dark,
glazed with hurt and fear, and he wanted nothing more than to take her in his
arms and tell her it would all be all right. But that was something he couldn't
promise, and he found himself unwilling to outright lie to her again. He
refused to give her false hope.
He saw her square her shoulders and lift her chin, the classic
Jones posture: let the world try and come get me. He prayed the Joneses were
all as invulnerable as they believed themselves to be.
"Give me the papers," she said, steel threading her
voice.
"Not until you promise me you won't say anything to anyone.
Including,
especially
your family—not them."
"Then I want to know what they are."
"Beth, it's safer if you don't know."
"I want to know," she said, and he knew she wouldn't
relent.
"Every British asset in the colonies."
He saw a brief flicker of surprise in her eyes before she
extinguished it. "Every one?"
"Yes. Troops, artillery, ships, everything."
"I can see why it's so important." Her words were
clipped. "Anything else?"