“There, there, Miss Sutton. He is a horrible one.” Lucy sniffled and wiped her handkerchief across her eyes, then kneaded the tight muscles in Jenny’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Lucy.” All Jenny could think of was how to save Andrew. And Mother. The one thing that stood in her way was her fiancé.

Lucy wiped her tears again. “It’s just too much. First Mr. Montclair, then Andrew, and now that evil man has trapped you.” She crossed the room and picked up the brass mortar that lay against the floorboards. “I tried to warn you.” She held up the brass bowl.

Jenny nodded, remembering the clang she’d heard just before Ashby entered. “Thank you, Mrs. Carter.” Oh, that she had been more aware of the warning. But could Andrew have moved fast enough to hide? She thought not.

Lucy rubbed her shoulders again, then turned to the shelves, running her finger along the labeled drawers. “I suspect sleep might elude you. Aha. This will be perfect.” She withdrew an amber bottle and poured sweet-smelling oil into a small vial. “Oil of lavender. Rub it on your wrists and temples to help you sleep.”

“Thank you.” Jenny went to the window and studied the street. “I hope you will not be bothered by Ashby. After all, you worked for Mr. Montclair and housed and cared for Andrew.”

Lucy glanced toward the back room where Ephraim and Zachariah were inventorying stock. “Oh, do not fret. Mr. Carter will look after us. He is a good man.” She smiled weakly and blinked fear away when she met Jenny’s gaze.

“Yes, he is a good man.” Since the incident in front of Fraunces Tavern, Ephraim had jumped to do Jenny’s bidding whenever she came into the shop. She looked up and down the street again. “Do you know where Mathias is? He was to wait for me with the carriage.”

“I haven’t seen him since that lobsterback arrived.” Lucy joined her at the window. “No sign of him out there.”

Jenny shifted with unease. “I’ll walk home. If he returns, please tell him I’ve taken the usual route. Perhaps he will catch up with me.”

“Of course.” Again, a flicker of fear in her eyes. “Mr. Carter could drive you home.”

Jenny weighed the awkwardness of a drive with Mr. Carter against the possibility of encountering Ashby. “Yes. That would be very kind.”

“You take care, Miss Sutton,” Lucy said, laying a hand on her arm.

She covered Lucy’s hand with her own and felt her trembling. “You as well, Lucy.”

She checked the street for Mathias again, fighting back an ominous shiver.

Ephraim Carter offered his hand to Jenny, helping her onto the wagon. He did not meet her gaze.

She kept as close to her edge of the seat as possible. The seat squeaked, tilting and bouncing back as he climbed up from the other side of the wagon and settled in beside her.

For a while, they rode in silence through the bustling street. Jenny twisted the corner of her shawl, twining it between her fingers.

“I would never hurt you, Miss Sutton.” Ephraim’s low voice carried the weight of remorse. “I would never hurt anyone. I don’t usually drink that much. We was celebrating my friend’s good fortune. He’d just bought a small farm. He kept buyin’ and pourin’, and I, well, I kept drinkin’.” He scrubbed the stubble on his chin. “Bah. I didn’t know my own name that night.” He wiped his sleeve across his nose. “I’m so ashamed. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. Me and my friends. I ain’t had a chance to ask you before.”

His mention of that night resurrected the fear she’d felt, but it was fleeting. She felt no fear here, beside him, now. She wavered between sympathy and anger. His drawn face and downcast eyes were evidence of his sincerity, but she could not let him off so easily. “If it had not been me— some young girl, someone’s sister, or mother, or daughter— you might have followed through. That girl’s life would have been ruined.”

He was silent for a while then made a choking sound. He cleared his voice. “Don’t think I haven’t considered that myself. I have. Ever night since. I don’t know what I can do to atone for that sin—for sin it was no matter I never went through … well, you know.”

Now Jenny was silent.

“I don’t blame ya’. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I do ask that ya’ never tell my Lucy … or my boy.” Now his voice did crack.

Jenny laid a hand on his arm. “I promise you, Mr. Carter. I will never tell Lucy or Zachariah. What purpose would it serve but to break their hearts?”

“Thank you, Miss Sutton.” His voice rose. Then he took out a handkerchief and blew his nose heartily.

Jenny believed he would have hugged her in that moment, the relief in his voice was so palpable.

“And I forgive you, Mr. Carter. I believe you truly are repentant.”

He wiped at his nose again. “Thank you.” A whisper. He sent her a sideways glance. “And you know, I am here whenever you need me.”

“Yes, I know that.”

He gave her a half-smile, then nodded and flicked the reins.

They pulled up to her house. As Ephraim helped Jenny down, she noticed the door to the carriage house was ajar. Was that the wheel to the carriage? Why had Mathias abandoned her at the apothecary and returned home?

“That’s strange,” she murmured. She walked toward the structure and called out. “Mathias?” Pushing the door open, she stepped back and screamed.

Mathias was sprawled in the driver’s seat, eyes bulging out, mouth agape, blood seeping into his white cotton shirt.

Andrew lay on the filthy blanket that covered a pile of rancid straw. He kept his breath shallow, attempting not to gag at the stench in the gaol from unwashed bodies, human waste, and utter despair. A thin stream of daylight filtered through the bars in the window high in the wall, high enough that he had to stand on tiptoes to see outside, but not high enough to block the view of the gallows from which traitors were hanged.

Standing on tiptoe, he grasped the bars and craned his neck to watch any activity, other than building a new scaffold, in the area. Along the green, farmers sold corn, squash, and apples. Children interrupted a game of ninepins on the lawn to throw rotten produce at a man in the stocks. Women strolled under umbrellas shading them from the early September sun. Life went on as usual beyond these bars. But within, men and women awaited sentencing, or worse.

When his calves quivered from the effort, he took one last deep breath of fresh air from the window, then resumed standing. The odor in his cell was as repulsive as the gruel that made up his meals. Visitors were welcome to bring the imprisoned food at any time, and Lucy Carter had been providing meals for him, which he devoured, hell-bent on regaining his strength. But he had not seen Jenny in the week he’d been locked up.

Despite the dire circumstances and the putrid surroundings, he held on to hope. Hope that he could find revenge on Ashby, who took any opportunity to taunt him about the mere days until Jenny became the bastard’s wife. His cruel jeers were a side of Ashby that Andrew was certain he’d never revealed to Jenny. Else she would never agree to marry him … would she?

He had to get out of here. A hundred escape plans had run through his head each day as he lay on the straw, watching the sun travel across his wall and descend into sunset. He refused to yield. Even if he were killed attempting to escape, what did it matter?

He grasped the bars of the window again and shook them. They didn’t budge. He had to find a way.

Behind him, a bark of laughter.

“Do you really intend to rip those bars out of the wall, Wentworth?” Ashby peered through the small barred window in the cell door, eating an apple. Crunch. “Are you going to escape to save your fair maiden?” He studied his fingernails. “Which begs the question, is she still a fair maiden? No matter, I will discover that in a week’s time when we are married. If she is not, she will be punished. Oh, don’t worry—I will comfort her after that. She will—”

Andrew lunged at him. He thrust his face toward the bars. “Shut up, you bastard.”

Ashby snorted. “How brave. And how strong. Much stronger than the day I came and snatched you from your woman’s arms. You almost fainted like a girl. How are you going to rescue her, you weak-kneed, dandy prat?”

Andrew scowled at him. He straightened, determined not to let Ashby see his despair.

“Watch your back, Ashby. Your undoing will come from where you least expect it.”

He was rewarded with a flicker of doubt that flashed over Ashby’s face before he quickly concealed it.

“You’ll be hanged the day after my wedding. I want your last night to be spent imagining the wonders I will be showing your lover.” He tossed the apple core into the cell. “Enjoy your dinner.”

Andrew slumped to the floor. He would find a way.

Again, Jenny couldn’t concentrate on Pastor Farr’s words. She’d had trouble the previous week when he had prayed at Mathias’s grave, beside the minister who served the black free and enslaved people. Since his death, Sarie and Isaac wandered around the house, balancing grief and fear because they were unsure why Mathias had been murdered.

But Jenny knew. Ashby. If she told them what she suspected, they would tremble every time he appeared—which occurred less often now that Andrew was in gaol. He had her in his control. The man she would marry. Instead of Andrew.

On this Sunday morning, she sat in the pew beside Mother, staring at her hands, hands that had caressed Andrew’s face, traced the lines of his body. She tried to block the image of his hands gripping the iron bars that imprisoned him. Suddenly, Pastor Farr’s voice broke through.

“Three weeks ago, I published the banns of marriage between Lieutenant Nigel Ashby of London, England, and Miss Jennifer Sutton of Boston in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. This is the third time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it.” He looked around the congregation, giving sufficient time—perhaps even more time than necessary—for someone to object.

Was he hoping, as she was, that someone would come forward and testify to Ashby’s cruelty? That he was not fit to be husband to her? That he was coercing her? That he was, she was certain, a murderer.

Please, God, let someone speak.

Silence.

How could this be happening? She glanced at Mother, who squeezed her hand. Regardless of her fear, it was happening. And if she rejected Ashby, she and Mother would hang. Just as Andrew would. She fought down the wave of despair that threatened to make her cry out, “No.” Clenching her jaw, she sat erect, head high. She would not hang. Neither would Mother.

Neither would Andrew.

As they left St. Paul’s Chapel, Jenny opened her umbrella against the drizzle and searched for their carriage. A hand grasped her elbow.

“Good day, my love.” Ashby’s voice was low and intimate. “Just think, next Sunday you will awaken beside me in our marriage bed.”

Since arresting Andrew, he had become crueler. Where was the concern and protectiveness he’d shown? Had it ever been sincere? Yes, the pain in his eyes when he’d found her with Andrew had been real. And even of late, that flicker of tenderness shone through when he was off guard.

But he had killed Montclair and Mathias—in the name of loyalty to the King, he would argue. And a British sympathizer had killed Father. She shivered against the claustrophobic feeling of being surrounded by danger. She had to force herself to merely stand beside him.

She twisted her arm away from him. She scowled, pulling back, his face too close, his eyes too probing, but she noticed passersby casting quizzical looks their way.

“Best behave like a smitten fiancée,” he said, glancing at Mother. “Your mother has a lovely neck, it would be a shame …”

“I despise you,” Jenny hissed. She smiled at the couple walking by who greeted them, then glared at him again. “I will never love you, no matter what you do or say.”

“Did you think this is about love, sweet Jenny?”

“I did once, Nigel.”

The muscle along his jaw flinched, and his eyes grew moist. His body relaxed as he studied her. “Yes, I do love you.” He ran his finger along her jawline and she recoiled. He looked away. Straightening his shoulders, he turned back to her, his gaze cruel. “But you betrayed me. Nevertheless, you will be my wife … and your lover will no longer be a distraction. He will hang the morning after our wedding night.” Bowing over her hand, his tongue flicked against her skin as he kissed it. “I will exact my payment for your safety.”

Her stomach writhed. He had calculated Andrew’s death intentionally. Her nostrils flared, hot breath coming in gasps. What could she do? How could she save Andrew? She tried to pull her hand back, but he held it and glanced at Mother.

“I hate you.”

“Which will make our life together even more interesting.”

What if she slapped him, right here in the churchyard? Would that dissolve their banns? What if she grabbed his pistol, just a foot away from her itching hand, and shot him dead?

“Come, Jennifer.”

Mother’s voice floated to her, and she forced the thoughts from her mind.

Taking her arm, he assisted her into the waiting carriage. Isaac held the reins, his face a somber mask as he sat where his father’s body had grown cold. On the same cushion marked with a reddish-brown stain where Mathias had bled out. Ashby’s work. It had been a warning.

Oh, if she could only turn her wrath into fists of iron and pummel Ashby. She had never known hatred like this.

Nigel Ashby’s life was not worth saving.