After Andrew had seen Jenny safely home from Montclair’s, he’d returned for instructions for his mission to Setauket. Montclair got him to the wharf, where they’d met a whaling crew that sailed him across from New York to Long Island. He’d traveled on foot the remaining distance to Setauket.

He now crouched behind a bush, watching British soldiers drill in front of the white clapboard church in the early morning sun. A mounted officer shouted instructions as the troop pivoted sharply, avoiding the gravestones standing at attention along the lawn. Suddenly, at the officer’s instructions, they dove behind the markers, aiming their Pattern rifles at an imagined enemy.

He swallowed against the sickening feeling in his stomach. Their actions confirmed the message he was carrying to Major Benjamin Tallmadge. The British already knew of the planned attack.

He crab-walked away, not rising until he was well beyond view of the mounted officer. Then, he broke into a run. He had to reach Tallmadge before General Parsons launched the raid. Heart racing, feet pounding the earth, he sprinted along the road leading to the Tallmadge house. His lungs screamed against his labored gasps, but he would not slow down.

He wiped at the sweat that stung his eyes and blurred his vision. A farmer driving a rickety cart loaded with his harvested vegetables meandered along the road, blocking the center, so Andrew had to skirt it by running into the field. He leapt over small shrubs and tree roots, doubling his pace once beyond the farmer. How long could he maintain this? His heart felt as if it would explode.

Up ahead was a large, brown, saltbox house. Slowing, he ducked into the trees. Bracing himself with one arm against a sturdy maple, he doubled over, gasping. As his heartbeat slowed, he scanned the yard and noted a young boy just inside the stable door. His dark skin contrasted with the brilliant white shirt and straw hat he wore. Andrew approached him carefully.

“Is this the home of Benjamin Tallmadge?”

The boy looked at him, his large brown eyes wary. “Who you?”

“My name is Andrew. I have a message for Major Tallmadge.”

The boy stared at him.

Andrew wanted to shake him. Just let me know if I’m in the right place. “Please, it’s important that I see Major Tallmadge immediately. Is this his home or do I need to look elsewhere?”

A rifle cracked in the distance, and the young boy jumped at the sound.

“You there. State your business.” Behind him, a voice resounded.

Andrew turned to see a man a few years his senior aiming a rifle at his chest. One quick shot and he’d be dead. The man’s nose looked too large, his forehead too high for his pale face. He wore the blue wool jacket of an officer in the Continental army. Silver buttons gleamed along the white trim of his coat and his white vest.

“Major Benjamin Tallmadge?”

“Who is asking?”

More shots echoed from the direction of the church. The man jerked in the direction of the noise, then turned back, again aiming his gun at him. “Quickly,” he said.

“I am Andrew Wentworth. I’ve come from New York City with a message for John Bolton.”

At the name, the man lowered his rifle. He glanced to the left and right. “And just in time—I am about to leave for ...” He glanced in the direction the shots had come from. “Come inside. Quickly.”

The interior of the house was refreshingly cool, making Andrew’s sweat-soaked shirt clammy against his skin. Grasping the cotton material, he pulled it away, fanning it in an attempt to dry it. It immediately stuck to his body again.

Tallmadge led him to the dining room and pulled out a chair, inviting him to sit. He poured a glass of cider and set it before him.

Andrew scanned the room. Resting on the sideboard was the plumed helmet signifying Tallmadge’s rank of major in the 2^nd Continental Light Dragoons. Andrew studied him with a deeper appreciation. His looks must belie his abilities.

“How do you know of John Bolton?” He cocked his head, reminding Andrew of an inquisitive bird.

“I’ve never met him. My orders were to ask for him.”

Tallmadge nodded. “Well, where is this message for John Bolton?”

“I was told to give it to him directly. He would request it with a specific phrase.” Andrew broke out in a sweat again.

“Culper requests the message.”

Andrew started at the exact words he was to listen for. So, Tallmadge was John Bolton. He pulled a letter from the leather pouch he carried, relieved to see that it had remained dry despite his dripping perspiration. Handing the letter to Tallmadge, he sank back against the chair. His body shook as his muscles relaxed and his mind calmed. No longer was he solely responsible for this message. His legs trembled from his exertion, and he rubbed them to try to still the tremors.

Gunfire in the distance reverberated in earnest now.

“I’m afraid my message arrives too late. The battle has begun. I hurried here as soon as Laurence gave it to me.”

“Montclair?”

“Yes. Leaving the city was not difficult, but navigating the sound proved almost impossible.”

“Yes, the British guard it well.” From his breast pocket, he took out a piece of leather and unrolled it, revealing rectangular cutouts. Placing it over the parchment, he quickly read the message. “Damn. How did they discover our plan? Their spy network is as good as our own.”

They both looked at the window as gunfire filled the air. Tallmadge rose.

“I’m sorry. I tried …” Andrew spread out his hands.

“It’s not your fault. The British had this information long ago. Parsons was hell-bent on this raid after the success of Sag Harbor. Once a general gets a plan into his head, it’s difficult to change his mind. Knowing the British were aware of the raid might not have made a difference. Rest easy.”

Andrew crossed his arms on the table and laid his head on them. His arms, sticky with sweat, stuck to the table. He sat up and fought to stay awake.

“There is a stream just behind the stable. Cool yourself off there while I prepare a message for Montclair.” Tallmadge patted his shoulder. “You did your best, Andrew. We are grateful for your effort.”

Rising slowly, he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him as far as the barn. His first steps were wobbly, but he gained his footing and shuffled toward the river. He thought he heard his feet sigh in delight when he tugged off his boots, then he peeled off his clothing.

The cold water shocked him as he plunged into the stream. Still able to hear the gunfire, he took long strokes, diving as deeply as possible. Tallmadge said it would have made no difference, but it might have. If the British had been taken by surprise …

He lay on his back, head in the water, looking up through the leafy maples. The water covering his ears blocked any sound of gunfire—it blocked any sound at all. He relaxed, floating. The sky was a brilliant blue, the leaves etched green against it. He had completed the mission Montclair sent him on. Now he just wanted to return to Manhattan as quickly as possible. He needed to know that Jenny was safe, and that Lieutenant Ashby was nowhere near her. He wanted to stand guard outside her house every night and protect her.

He wanted to hold her. To inhale her scent of lavender and lilac. To kiss her. To make love to her. Despite the cool water, his body stirred. But he had to stay away. That was how he could protect her.

Another gunshot. This one very close. Too close.

Jenny’s eyes burned from lack of sleep and crying. How many times did she get up to look out the window toward the oak tree, wondering if Andrew had returned from Setauket and stood guard there? How many times did she start to put on the disguise she had worn, planning to sneak out and see for herself if he was watching outside her house? But just as he promised to keep her safe, she must take care to not endanger his life.

Where was he now? How long would the trip to Setauket take? With the British presence there, he would be in grave danger. Pressing her hands together, she sent up a silent prayer for his safety. She should have ridden with him as she did when they rescued Uncle Jonathon. But, no, that would have put him in more jeopardy.

She hadn’t been able to eat since Andrew left, and this morning she picked at her breakfast, stirring the suppawn until the thick porridge absorbed the maple syrup Sarie had drizzled over it. Breaking off a hunk of the warm, rye bread, she nibbled at it for a moment, then abandoned it on the plate. The rich, dark coffee soothed her throat, hoarse from muffling her sobs through the night.

“You must keep up your strength, Miss Jenny.” Sarie poured more coffee into her cup. “Your mama needs you to be strong. She don’t need another sick person to care for.”

Jenny took a spoonful of porridge, but she couldn’t swallow it.

Sarie stared at her. “Miss Jenny …”

Jenny swallowed. The porridge slid down like a lump of mud. She snatched her coffee and took a hearty gulp.

The front door knocker sounded. She looked up, her heartbeat quickening. Could Andrew have returned from Setauket? Would he brazenly appear at her front door in daylight? No. Her heart sank.

“I’ll get that. You jus’ keep eatin’.” Sarie shot her a stern look.

Jenny sighed and forced down another spoonful. Sarie was right—Mother didn’t need another person to nurse. Caring for Father had taken its toll on Mother, and now, taking over the system of messages was further draining her strength. Jenny nibbled at a bit of bread as she contemplated the magnitude of what they were about. If the British discovered … She jumped at Sarie’s voice.

“Lieutenant Ashby is callin’, Miss Jenny.” Sarie stood at the door, her brilliant blue eyes guarded with fear.

“Thank you, Sarie.” She toyed with the porridge remaining in her bowl as if lost somewhere in the clotted gray mass were answers for to how to handle Lieutenant Ashby’s attentions. Ashby had been kind when he’d come to pay his respects after Father’s funeral, but just the sight of his red uniform made her stomach squirm. Maintaining a pleasant composure in front of him took all her reserve. She started as her reverie was interrupted by the sound of the dining room door opening.

“Do you want me to tell the lieutenant that you are indisposed?” Sarie asked.

“No, I’m coming.” As she passed Sarie, she squeezed her arm gently. “Everything is fine,” she whispered.

Sarie’s wide eyes revealed her doubt.

Jenny stopped outside the door to the parlor, brushed her hand over her stomach to quell the butterflies, and took a deep breath. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door and swept into the room.

Lieutenant Ashby rose. “Good day, Miss Sutton.” He bowed over her hand. As usual, his posture was erect, his spine ramrod straight. The perfect British officer.

“Good day, Lieutenant. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” She tried to breathe evenly and dispel the quaking in her legs. The idea of this man standing outside her house a few nights ago at almost the exact moment she’d emerged shook her to her core. She forced a smile and indicated a chair as she took her own.

Sarie carried in a tray set for coffee. The blue and white porcelain cups rattled against the saucers, and the rich, fragrant liquid sloshed out of the spout of the silver coffeepot. She set the service before Jenny, meeting neither her gaze nor the lieutenant’s. She bobbed a curtsey and left.

Jenny lifted the pot, spilling a bit more of the steaming liquid. She forced her hands to be steady as she poured and served Ashby’s coffee. I must be strong. I cannot let him see my fear. She stared directly into his eyes and smiled, knowing her dimple would likely catch his attention.

He shifted in his seat and crossed his legs.

“Forgive my clumsiness.” Taking a napkin, she wiped up the spill. “I’m still affected by my father’s death. My grief often takes hold when I least expect it.”

He shifted again. “No apology necessary, Miss Sutton. I understand completely. The loss of your father surely must be a great sorrow to you and your mother.” He cleared his throat. “Do you have … anyone to watch over you? That is, I mean, to ensure your safety in this city? Every day there is more tension with the rise of the rebellious patriots.”

“I’m sure we have nothing to be anxious about.” Unable to still her trembling, she reached out to place her cup on the table beside her.

“Oh, but you do.”

His harsh voice startled her, and she rattled the cup, almost spilling its contents. She looked up at him, her heart thumping. “What do you mean?” She searched his face for some clue of his intent. Was he here to arrest her? And Mother? They should have left immediately after Father’s funeral as she’d promised. But then she would have missed precious time spent with Andrew.

He scrubbed his hands along his thighs. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to speak so curtly.” He took a deep breath. “There are subversive elements in the city who are covertly working against the Crown.” He looked at the floor as he spoke. “When captured, these rebels are put in gaol until they are tried for treason.” He paused as the clock ticked the minutes. Finally, he spoke again. “Most are hanged.”

Heat stabbed through her. Her trembling was impossible to still. Could he hear her heart hammering?

“I just want to ensure your safety … and, of course, your mother’s.”

He was warning her.

Standing, he picked up his hat by one of its corners. She stood, too, extending her hand.

“I will take my leave now.” He bowed over her hand. “I am your most obedient and humble servant, Miss Sutton.” His gaze bored into her.

With perfect posture, he left the room.