Andrew struggled against the ropes that cut into his wrists. After being bound the night before, he had been shoved into a corner of the deck onto a pile of coiled rope. They’d stripped him of all but his breeches, and the captain had confiscated his leather pouch with the secret message for Laurence.

“Sleep well. Ya’ will need all your strength fer yer morning swim,” the captain had said last night as he’d slipped the pouch over his shoulder. He’d thrown his head back and cackled. “Then ya’ can sleep with the fishes.” He snorted sending thick, yellow slime out his nose. He wiped it on his sleeve, cleared his throat, and spat right beside Andrew’s bare foot.

Andrew hadn’t slept all night. He had planned how to escape. And he had thought about Jenny. None of his escape plans had come to fruition, and thinking of Jenny had filled him with a weariness that depleted his strength.

“Andrew, you need to keep trying,” her sweet voice encouraged him. “You can never give up. I am with you, my love. Come back to me.”

Just imagining the lilt of her voice lifted him from his despair. Yes, he had to fight. He had to find a way to return to her. She was in danger, too. He could not abandon her now.

His thoughts were interrupted when two crew members approached, casting a shadow over him. One held a long rope that weighed him down and dragged along the deck. Another length snaked along the deck, disappearing over the rail.

“Time fer yer swim.”

They laughed as they secured the rope next to the one that bound Andrew’s wrists. Each taking an elbow, they lifted him to his feet.

He swayed as much from lack of sleep as from hunger. The little food Benjamin had provided him was long gone. Waves swelling on the sound did not help as he tried to steady himself. The sun beat down on him as they led him to the bow of the boat.

“Any last words, lad?” The captain’s raspy guffaw frightened the gulls sitting along the bowsprit behind them. They squawked their objection to being disturbed as they flew toward shore.

Shore.

Andrew scanned the coastline. They had sailed closer to land during the night. He had no idea of their location, but the distance to land from the ship was swimmable—if he survived the keelhaul, and if they cut him loose, and if the rope didn’t drag him to the bottom of the sound. His heart sank.

Jenny.

He had to survive for Jenny.

The crewmen jerked him from his thoughts as they finished fastening the long rope around each wrist. One of them reached to untie the smaller rope that had bound him through the night.

“What’re doin’?” The captain asked, hurrying to stop him.

“No use wasting a perfectly good piece of line, Cap’n.” The man smiled, his breath reeking from his brown, rotted teeth.

The captain’s face broke into a broad grin. “Aye. A good plan.”

The crewman untied the short rope, but Andrew’s wrists were held fast by the long one. The other crewman took one end and walked along the breadth of the deck. Andrew was hoisted up on the ratline, the ropes of the rung ladder digging into his feet. He teetered and grabbed a rung to keep from toppling into the sound. He was directly opposite from the rope that dropped over the rail and into the sea.

All eyes were on the captain, who held his pistol in the air. He grinned at Andrew, cruelty displayed on his face. He would make him wait.

Andrew’s heart raced though he fought to breathe evenly. I must remain calm. The pistol flashed before the sound registered, jolting him. A hand pushed him roughly and the glistening water rushed toward him as he plunged into it. He gulped as much air as his lungs would take before he broke the waves.

Icy water shocked him, dazing him at first. His arms were jerked out in front of him as the sailors on board pulled the rope, skimming him along the bottom of the hull. Barnacles slashed at his skin, tearing the flesh. Saltwater burned in the freshly opened cuts. The urgency to survive took over, and he kicked his legs, increasing his speed along the hull. The shadow of the ship and depth of the water shrouded him in darkness, disorienting him. Only the pull of the rope guided him to the other side of the vessel.

His lungs ached, and the urge to inhale overwhelmed him. But he couldn’t abandon Jenny. The base of the keel cut into his back, shoving more barnacles into his skin. A gasp would fill his lungs with water. He had to stay calm. The water brightened as he traveled up the other side of the ship. He was almost through, but the elation was short-lived as blackness covered his vision. He was losing consciousness.

Hold on. Hold on.

Just as he was sinking into darkness, his head broke the water.

The crew yelled out “Huzzah!”

He gulped a breath, but a wave hit and he swallowed water as well. Coughing, he tried to clear his throat and harness more life-giving fresh air. The crew’s jeers echoed. He couldn’t swim with his arms tied together, and the only thing keeping his head above water was that the crewmen were hoisting him back up to the ship.

“Ungh, ungh …” The jerking motion of the rope cut into his wrists and pulled his shoulders from their sockets. Blood streamed down his upstretched arms. Blackness engulfed him as they hauled him into the ship and dumped him on the deck. He rolled to his stomach, gagging and coughing up seawater.

“Cut ’im loose, lads.” The captain’s voice sounded like it came from far away.

Andrew fought to stay alert. They were not finished with him yet. He was supposed to have drowned. Rough hands clawed his arms, cutting away the rope. His arms fell slack against his body and shook uncontrollably.

“Yer a tough one, I’ll gi’ ya’ that.” The captain kicked Andrew’s side, setting off another coughing spell. Andrew vomited at his feet. The captain bellowed.

“Maybe not so tough, eh? Throw ’im over, boys.”

A roar of approval went up from the crew.

Brutal hands grabbed his arms and legs, lifting him over the side. Swinging him above the rail, they shouted, “One, two, three,” letting him fly on the end of the count.

Plunging into the depths again, he pawed weakly at the sea. Blood leached into the water around him.

Water where sharks swam.

Jenny collapsed back into the pew, her trembling legs unable to support her. She could not pull her gaze away from Laurence Montclair’s staring eyes and gaping mouth. What was she to do? She cast about into the dark corners of the church. No one was here. But someone had been—someone who knew that Montclair was working for the Patriot cause. Whoever killed him would come back for his body. Why, indeed, had they left him here?

To capture, perhaps to kill, whomever he was meeting.

Summoning her nerve, she slipped her hand into the back of the prayer book and retrieved the letter. As she rose, she slipped it into the folds of her skirt. If someone were observing her, she could not chance tucking it into her bodice. She scanned the church once more, stood, and hurried down the aisle. She dared not look at Montclair again, for she would break down.

Before she pushed open the door, she caught a flash of crimson in the recess of the nave. She ran out into the churchyard. Dizzy, she tried to stem her shaking. She slowed her pace, trying to appear natural. Few people were about on the street ahead, and no one was in the churchyard. Nauseated, she hurried to shrubs near the walkway to the parsonage and vomited into the juniper. Her stomach spasmed, and she clutched it, fighting the bile that rose in her throat.

“Miss Sutton?”

She jumped at the voice behind her. Turning, she faced Lieutenant Ashby, the scarlet of his coat brilliant in the late afternoon sun.

“Are you unwell? May I assist you?” He held out a hand to steady her.

She pulled back. Was it he she’d glimpsed as she left the church? Was it a coincidence that he suddenly appeared? Could he have killed Montclair? Coldness swept over her, overriding any sense of nausea.

“I am fine, Lieutenant.” She brushed her hands along her skirt.

He glanced at the pool of vomit she’d just deposited. “I suspect you are not fine.” Instead of their usual soft interest, his eyes were flinty and probing. “What brought on this unfortunate illness?” He took her elbow, leading her to a nearby stone bench.

She wanted to resist, but in the event that it was not he in the church, she did not want to draw attention to the scene within—or her knowledge of it. But surely, he would have seen her leave the church, for she was sick almost immediately.

“Perhaps the eggs I had at breakfast did not agree with me.” She forced a smile at him, ignoring the repulsion running through her.

“So, you came to church looking for release from that affliction?” He frowned.

“I came to church to pray for the repose of the soul of my father,” she shot back.

He started. “Of course. Forgive me. Did you find peace in your time at prayer?”

How should she respond? What would excuse her from witnessing what happened to Mr. Montclair?

“Alas, I felt ill even before I entered. I paused in the nave, but it seemed wiser to return to the fresh air. As you can see, it was the wiser course since the juniper is a much better receptacle than the stone floor of the church.” She smiled as if he were the dearest man alive. More lies. When had deception become so easy for her?

He studied her.

If he had witnessed her discovery of Montclair, he would know her lie. She would be more suspect than before, for why would she not run to him for help? If he had not been inside, he might just accept what she was saying as truth. It was a delicate balance.

“Allow me to escort you home.” Warmth returned to his expression, and he smiled.

She held back the breath she wanted to expel. Had he believed her?

“Thank you.” She slipped her hand through his arm, and they walked toward the street.

Mother ran to her as Jenny entered the house. She held out her hands in warning before Lieutenant Ashby followed her in, but was too late.

“Jennifer, were you able to deliver …” Mother stopped at the sight of him. “Oh. Good evening, Lieutenant Ashby.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Sutton.”

Jenny shook her head as he bowed over Mother’s hand.

“Won’t you come in?” Mother gestured toward the parlor.

Jenny frowned at her. Her stomach still roiled at the memory of Mr. Montclair. Would she be able to keep up this pretense of calm during a social call? Possibly with the murderer? God, I just want to scream.

They took their usual seats, and Mother rang for Sarie. When the servant appeared, Mother asked, “May I interest you in a fruit shrub, Lieutenant? Mathias was able to buy some ripe berries at the docks today, and my husband—” Her smile disappeared, and she brought her handkerchief to her eyes. “Forgive me. His death is so new that I sometimes think he is still with us.” She cleared her throat. “He acquired a fine brandy while in Boston.”

“I would be honored. But are you feeling well enough for such a libation, Miss Sutton?”

“What is it, Jennifer?”

She frowned at Ashby, but he smiled and nodded as if to say, “Go ahead. Tell your story.”

“I was ill at church. I’m feeling better now. How providential that Lieutenant Ashby was immediately present to see me home. I’m feeling better, and a shrub will be refreshing.”

Mother nodded to Sarie, who curtsied and hurried to the back of the house to prepare the drinks.

Candlelight glowed in the room against long evening shadows. Despite the peaceful atmosphere, Jenny itched with apprehension. Something nagged at the back of her mind. As he and Mother exchanged pleasantries about the weather, she went over the scene in the churchyard. Wouldn’t she have seen him approaching as she ran out of the church? Surely, he must have been inside to have appeared so quickly. Blood rushed through her veins.

“… how much I enjoy your daughter’s company.” Ashby was beaming at her.

Mother grasped Jenny’s hand. What had just happened?

“In this treacherous time, it isn’t safe for two women to live alone, especially in a city so full of miscreants … and traitors.” He let the word linger in the air.

Jenny shivered.

“I see you are alarmed, and rightfully so, Miss Sutton.”

Sarie entered with a tray of tall glasses filled with a soft orange liquid. As Jenny took the last glass from the tray, Sarie barely shook her head. A warning.

Ashby sipped his drink. “Delicious. How fortunate that you were able to purchase fresh fruit. Of course, under the rule of King George, we are able to enjoy many delectable foods.” He stood, raising his glass. “God save the King.”

Jenny froze, but Mother took her hand and pulled her to standing. As one, they raised their glasses. “God save the King.”

They all drank.

Jenny choked and began coughing violently. Would she vomit again, right here on the Oriental rug? She gasped for breath.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mother patted her back.

Jenny nodded. Finally, she squeaked out, “Yes, I am all right, Mother.” Catching her breath, she settled back on the settee. “Excuse me.” She fanned her face.

“You have had a most strenuous day, Miss Sutton.”

“Oh?” Mother arched a brow at her.

The memory of Laurence Montclair, blood soaking his shirt, flashed in Jenny’s mind. She took a deep breath to stem the nausea. When she opened her eyes, Ashby was staring at her.

“Which brings me back to my previous point. Many violent occurrences take place throughout the city, some not far from this home.” Ashby continued to stare at her.

“Violent occurrences? Jennifer, are you all right? You look pale, dear.”

He had seen her. He was telling her that. The question was, did he murder Montclair or just witness her arrival?

“Rest assured, Mrs. Sutton, the only violence Miss Sutton experienced was her illness. Bad eggs, apparently.”

Mother sat rigid. She took Jenny’s hand.

“I would be most honored if you would allow me to protect you. My feelings for Miss Sutton have run deep for a while now. Perhaps you have been aware of them, for I did not attempt to conceal them from you.” His gaze bore into Jenny.

She lowered her lids and clutched her stomach. This could not be happening.

“Of course, it would be inappropriate of me to linger at your house for the amount of time required to ensure your safety. So, I am asking for your daughter’s hand, Mrs. Sutton.”

The room swayed. Jenny clasped Mother’s hand tighter.

“I know it’s shocking for me to ask this so soon after Mr. Sutton’s death, but these are not normal times. The rebellion of the Patriots has forced us to adapt our customs to the urgent needs of the day. Custom, alas, must fly with the winds.”

“Lieutenant, I hardly know what to say. This is so unsuitable. You must give us time to digest your words and contemplate their implications.”

Jenny stared at the floor. She already knew the implications. If she said no to his proposal, he would expose them both as spies. They would hang.