Andrew tried to feed himself, but the spoon wobbled as he navigated it toward his lips. After two attempts resulting in more broth down his shirt than in his mouth, he dropped the spoon in the bowl and his head back on the pillow. Was he more hungry or tired? He didn’t know. Hearing someone enter, he cracked one eye expecting to see Sarie.

Instead, Jenny rushed to his bedside and kissed his forehead.

“Look at you. I leave for an hour and you perk up like a daffodil after a rain shower.”

How could just the sound of her voice invigorate him so? He grinned and took her hand. “Good day, Jenny. Where were you off to this afternoon?”

Her smile didn’t fade, but her eyes clouded over. What was distressing her?

“You were sleeping so soundly, I went to church to pray for your health.” She bustled about, smoothing his covers, but a blush reddened her face.

The burst of strength she had inspired seeped away. Something was wrong.

“You need to eat more.” She took the bowl he held.

“I’m weary.”

Her hands were warm against his arms and chest as she inspected his wounds. He tried not to flinch as she lightly touched the ugly rope burns that blistered where his wrists had been bound. Though he couldn’t see them all, his wounds—the long gashes etched along his torso, around his sides to his back where barnacles had gouged his skin—still burned like a well-stoked fire. When he’d arrived, he couldn’t move his arms, so he was exhausted with the simple effort of feeding himself.

She took the bowl and spoon.

“I shall feed you.” She bent toward him. “I need to bring you back to full health so we can fully enjoy each other’s company.” She gave a wicked wink.

He smiled, easing back against the pillows. He wanted to pull her back with him, feel her body against his. But even in her seductive wink, her eyes had lost their usual luster.

She offered a spoonful of broth, and he sipped it. He closed his eyes for a moment then looked at her.

“What are you hiding from me, Jen?”

She paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. She moved it to his lips. “Why do you ask that?” She lifted one shoulder, cocking her head.

“Because you are an ineffectual liar. Your eyes widen, and you blush. See? There you are.”

She narrowed her eyes, but she could do nothing to hide the blush.

“Tell me.” He stopped her hand in mid-air. “Trust me.”

He tried to hold her gaze, but she looked toward the window, biting her lip.

“You do that, too. You bite your lip.”

“Damn.” She dropped the spoon into the bowl.

Lucy Carter entered carrying a basket with assorted jars and bottles. “Good day, Miss Sutton, Mr. Wentworth. Time to tend to your wounds.”

As Lucy busied herself, preparing an ointment, Jenny rose, taking the bowl and spoon.

Andrew held her wrist. “You need to be honest with me.” His voice was low. “If we can’t be honest with each other, all our professions of love have been false.”

She recoiled.

He squeezed her hand. “And I don’t believe they have been.”

She glanced at Lucy, who was occupied with her task.

“We will talk later. I promise.”

“I survived only because of your love, Jenny. It was your face, your voice that saved my life. Nothing you can say can destroy me now.”

She turned away, and his heart sank.

Lieutenant Ashby sat beside Jenny on the settee. He eased back comfortably, more relaxed than his usual rigid posture. He balanced his brandy snifter on the arm of the sofa, his other arm brushing against hers.

She clasped her hands in her lap, fingernails digging into her palms. She wanted to run out of the room. She wanted to scream at him to leave. Here Nigel Ashby sat, as if he was entitled to everything he saw, including her, when his fellow Tories had killed Father. They had torn the flesh from Andrew, who lay in the room above them, fighting back from near death. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to see this bastard tossed into the water and sliced to ribbons on the bottom of a boat.

“I hope your meeting with Pastor Farr was agreeable this afternoon.”

“Yes. Yes, it was. And yours?”

“Most agreeable.” He reached for her hand, breaking it from her grip. “Now that we have set the wedding date for four weeks hence, we shall need to begin preparations.” He looked around the room. “This house will be quite adequate, I think. There is no need for you to move out or for me to remain billeted in someone else’s home. Perhaps you have a room where I can move my things?” He glanced at the ceiling.

Her heart pounded. Surely, he would not ask to see the rooms now? Putting Andrew at his mercy?

“We will prepare a room for you. It will take some time.”

“Perhaps you could show me, even though it’s not ready.” He smiled. “Perhaps my enthusiasm is premature, but I want you to know how happy you’ve made me. I would be most grateful to see what’s upstairs.”

Did he know about Andrew? Was he playing a game with her?

“I would be more comfortable if we readied the room first … Nigel.” His name stuck in her throat. But he smiled again when she said it.

Mother entered. “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

He stood and bowed over her hand. “Good evening, Mrs. Sutton.”

“Nigel was just discussing the idea of bringing some of his personal items over as the wedding nears. He wanted to see a room he might use for storage.”

Mother’s brows shot up. “Oh. Oh, my.” She played with the amethyst pendant resting against her bodice. “Well, we would need to prepare a room for you.”

Something banged on the floor above them. Then another crash.

She caught Mother’s anxious frown.

Ashby jumped up and started for the stairs. Jenny grabbed his arm.

“It must be Sarie cleaning. I’ll go check.”

“It could be someone injured or an intruder. I insist on accompanying you.”

Mother stood in his path. “I believe Sarie is up there. She will call if she requires help.”

Another noise thumped above them.

“I have pledged to keep you safe. I will honor my duty.” His eyes slid from Mother to her.

“There is no need …”

But he brushed past Mother, who stood gaping, as he strode toward the stairway.

Gathering her skirts, Jenny tried to keep up with Ashby’s long strides up the steps. As they reached the hallway, Sarie was closing the door to Andrew’s room, her eyes widened when she saw Ashby. Jenny’s breath came in short gasps as she ran ahead to block the door.

“So sorry, Miss Jenny. I dropped the basin and it smashed in two. When I picked it up, it fell again and broke to pieces. I’ll fetch a broom to clean it up.”

“Thank you, Sarie.” She turned to Ashby. “Well, we are safe in our home after all. No reason to investigate any further.”

He stood close, towering over her. His breath tickled the curls that framed her face. “No, but since we are upstairs, why not look at the room you had in mind for me? Was it this one?” He stepped toward Andrew’s room.

She stepped in front of him. “This is most inappropriate. You should not be above stairs with me at all.”

He cracked open the door then peered down at her. “You are to be my wife. If your reputation is sullied, it is no matter, since you will not have to present yourself for marriage to anyone else.” He pushed her aside and threw open the door.

If he hadn’t been suspicious before, he was now. He would certainly arrest Andrew—and Andrew would hang.

Jenny reached toward the pistol at Ashby’s hip. She could shoot him. If that’s what it took to save Andrew, that’s what she would have to do. From liar to spy to murderer. What have I become?

But the bed was empty. She could see it had been hastily made, but perhaps Ashby wouldn’t notice. She drew back her hand.

Where was Andrew?

Ashby scanned the room, his brows drawn down in confusion. He turned to Jenny, searching her face.

She stared back at him, arching her right brow as if to say, “What were you expecting?”

He examined the room again.

Sarie entered with a broom.

“Let us return to the parlor so Sarie can finish her task.”

His lips were a taut, grim line. His flinty gaze bore into her.

She turned toward the stairs, praying he would follow. Andrew was in that room somewhere. Under the bed? In the armoire? That would be a tight fit with the clothes hanging in it. Please let Ashby follow rather than search further.

When she had descended a few steps, his footsteps stomped behind her. She let out a sigh, realizing she’d been holding her breath since he’d opened that door.

Beneath the bed, Andrew lay still, holding his breath. He’d been a fool to try to get out of bed unassisted. When he’d heard that damned British officer’s voice in the room below, he couldn’t keep himself from trying to get to Jenny. Surely, he’d just added bruises from his fall to his other injuries. But none of those injuries would destroy him. Not like what he’d just heard.

She is to marry that British officer? He exhaled a hot, steaming breath. Could Jenny betray him like this? Could he have misunderstood that rotten lobsterback—what was his name—Ashby? Could he have misunderstood what Ashby had said? No, he was sure of what he’d heard.

None of his wounds hurt as deeply as Jenny’s betrayal. All these days she’d spoken of love and devotion, and the whole time … Were they engaged when he saw her with him at the apothecary shop? The night they delivered the message to Montclair? Her greeting when she first saw him was passionate—had it all been a lie?

He clenched his fists as his gut squirmed with anger and despair. It would have been better if he’d died at the hands of the Tories. Oh, Jenny.

Sarie’s face appeared as she knelt beside the bed, and she offered her hand to help Andrew slide out. The gashes on his back reopened, and he felt the blood seeping into his nightshirt. His weakened arms grew limp as he tried to scuttle along the floor without making any noise. The coppery taste of blood oozed in his mouth as he bit his lip against the pain.

Mathias entered and hurried over to lift him to standing.

The room spun out of control. Everything went black save for pinpricks of light swirling in a crazy dance. He reached out to find support, but only air filled his grasp, and his knees gave out.

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry, son.” Mathias’s voice echoed as if they were in a cavern. It was the last thing he remembered until the acrid odor of ammonia shocked him to consciousness as Sarie waved smelling salts beneath his nose. He pushed her hand away.

Jenny sat beside him. “Andrew. Oh, my God. Andrew.” Jenny lay her face against his. Sitting up, she wiped beads of sweat off his forehead.

He turned his head away and pulled his hand from hers. She picked up the tincture of laudanum from the bedside table and tried to spoon a dose of the remedy into his mouth.

“No.” He tried turning away, but the effort was too great. She administered the medicine, and he sank into the pillows. His brows creased as he fought the pain. He studied her face. Her eyes didn’t glow as they had, she did not smile, there was no dimple to entice him. He looked away. Had everything been a lie? He closed his eyes.

She gasped. “Oh, my God. You heard what Ashby said.”

He kept his eyes closed.

“Andrew, let me explain—”

“You are to be his wife?” Overcome with exhaustion, he could barely form the words.

“No, Andrew, no.”

He lost focus as he drifted off with the effects of the medicine.

“Andrew, please listen.”

Her voice sounded like she floated away. Then blackness.