Mother paced the floor as Jenny sat, hugging a needlepoint pillow, staring at the flames dancing in the hearth.

“You must not marry that man.”

“Mother, I have no choice. He knows of our activities. If I refuse him, we will hang.” Does it matter? Andrew will hang the day after the wedding. How different life was supposed to be. They had dreamed of the life they would share—lying beside each other every night, sharing their journey, a house full of children. Now, his journey would finish at the end of a rope. Why not hers? She glanced at Mother. That’s why. Mother could not die.

“I will put the light on for a message to be picked up tonight …”

“Mother, that will be risky. Ashby is watching our house.”

“I don’t think he’s figured out the lantern system yet. We must call for a courier. Perhaps there is someone out there who can help us get away before the end of this week.”

“We must free Andrew, too. He must escape with us.” Jenny’s voice constricted with panic.

She recognized the look in Mother’s eyes. It was the same look she had when Jenny had demanded someone call a doctor for Kathryn while her twin lay lifeless in the street. Mother knew the futility of such a demand.

Jenny stood, throwing the pillow to the floor. “No. I will not believe that saving Andrew is hopeless.”

“Jenny.” Mother’s voice was gentle.

“NO!” The word erupted from a visceral place within. Think, think. She tapped her index finger against her head. Lucy, her fellow Patriot, was skilled in the art of herbs and medicine. A plan started to form. She couldn’t save Kathryn or Father, but she’d be damned if she wouldn’t save the man she loved.

The next night, Mother had just lifted the candle to lead them to bed when a light rapping sounded at the back door. Mother smiled. Heart fluttering, Jenny took her hand.

Couriers’ visits had trickled to nothing since Montclair’s death. Surely, this was a response to their signal for help. Or would Ashby come to the back door for some reason? No, he was too bold, too secure in his control over them. Even at this inappropriate time of night for visiting, he would march up to the front entrance.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

Together they hurried to the back door.

Mother eased the door open.

Daniel Gordon. The courier who had frequently picked up and delivered messages stood in the shadows.

He bowed slightly. “Mrs. Sutton.”

Mother ushered him in, scanned the yard, then closed and latched the door.

“I’ve—” Seeing Jenny, he stopped.

Mother quickly explained their predicament, including the circumstances of Jenny’s engagement.

“I am encouraged to hear this, Miss Sutton.” He stood with his arms crossed. “We weren’t certain where this household stood anymore.”

Jenny thrust her face into his. “Have no doubt, Mr. Gordon. I despise Nigel Ashby as I do the Ranger who killed my father.”

He nodded. “I’ll pass that along. I’ve seen your lantern. How can I help?”

“We must escape to Boston. But we must also break Andrew Wentworth out of gaol,” Mother said.

He looked from one to the other as if they were insane. “That’s impossible.”

She took Jenny’s hand. “Then we must either flee without him, or try to free him on our own.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sutton. I wish I could help, but I must leave immediately to prevent the British from raiding a magazine to the north. I must be on my way.”

Mother unlatched the door, again scanning the yard.

Daniel tipped his hat and slipped out into the inky night.

Mother slumped against the closed door. “I, too, am sorry, Jennifer. I did the best I could.”

She hugged her. “I know. I intend to go through with my plan.”

“Jennifer—”

“You, Sarie, and Isaac must leave. Tonight.”

“I can’t leave you to do this on your own …”

“Ephraim and Lucy will help me. If you are safely on your way, it will be less for me to worry about. Please, Mother.”

“But …”

“I know. But this is the only way to save three lives, for you know he will kill Sarie and Isaac as well. And who’s to say he won’t kill us all anyway? He has complete power over us, and we are helpless to prevent any of it. I would rather be dead than submit to that monster. But I can’t make this work if I am worried about you.”

Mother sighed, her shoulders drooping. “Oh, Jennifer. You will be in such peril.”

“No more than on a wedding night with a murderer.”

To still her trembling, Jenny clutched the handle of the basket with both hands. The thought of entering the gaol sent a cold spike of dread through her. She stopped, unable to move any farther. She studied the path to the stairs, up to the dried-blood, brownish red door that loomed before her. If she had any sense, she would turn and flee.

But Andrew was inside.

She gathered her nerve, took a deep breath, and held the basket as if it were a lifeline. She stepped forward on the path, each step a decision that her feet had to agree to and move forward.

Inside the dingy office, a soldier lounged, his feet propped up on the desk. Spotting her, he sat up, interest lighting his face.

“Good evening, miss,” he said, his voice smooth and oily.

“Good evening, officer.” He was not an officer according to his uniform, but he puffed up as she’d expected.

“How may I help you?” He studied the basket then inhaled the aroma of warm bread and spicy stew that wafted from it, suffusing the stuffy room.

“I have brought supper for a prisoner,” she said, nodding toward the door leading to the cell area. He was the only soldier present. At least, visible.

The soldier deflated, glancing toward the door.

“I will need to inspect the meal.” He almost licked his lips.

“Of course, sir.”

She handed him the basket, snatching back her hands and folding them to hide her quaking. He examined her slowly, scrutinizing her body, no doubt thinking she had wanted to avoid contact with him.

“You seem a shy lady.” His smile stretched over yellowed, crooked teeth.

She twirled a stray tendril around her finger and smiled, knowing that the dimple that made Andrew weak would have the same effect on the soldier. A bulky key ring splayed out on the desk. If she reached out, she could touch it. But not yet.

He chuckled. “Come, miss, sit with me a bit. I get lonely locked up here with all these miscreants and traitors.”

“No, thank you, sir. My mother strictly forbade me to linger. She said bring the victuals to our Andy, and be off to home.”

He stood, frowning. “Andy, eh? Do you mean the traitor, Wentworth? He don’t need no food. Soon, he will dangle in the rising sun.”

Jenny’s stomach lurched; her knees felt like rubber. She placed one hand on the desk to steady herself.

“Yes, sir. Will you not help with my mother’s last request for him? She is sick in bed with despair, so we have been unable to travel here to visit him thus far.” She leaned in; it was not difficult to call forth tears. “Please, sir?” She smiled again, her dimple a volley on this soldier.

He softened. Shifting on his feet, he picked up the key ring, jangling it in his hand. “I don’t know …”

She matched his stare, then lowered her lids, a tear inching its way along her cheek. She looked up at him.

“I would be ever so grateful.”

“Eh? How grateful would you be, miss? How grateful for your brother’s last meal?”

His leer made her skin crawl, and the thought of his hands touching her made her nauseous. But he was a lowly soldier who could be flattered into doing her bidding. While she hated this pretense, he was all that stood between her and Andrew’s freedom. She pressed her handkerchief to her nose against his putrid breath and worse body odor.

“I … I would be happy to show you my gratitude, officer.” Her voice was small, soft, but it was as if she’d lit him on fire.

He rounded the desk toward her. She stepped back.

“I meant this meal.”

“I want to taste more than this meal …” He reached for her, but she sidestepped him.

“In that case, you would need to build your strength. I’m sure the army doesn’t provide enough food for a strapping man such as you.” She stepped forward and lifted the cloth off the stew releasing more of the spicy aroma.

He closed his eyes, his face beatific.

“You’ll need your strength.” Her voice was husky as she started to replace the cloth.

He held out his hand to stop her, almost touching her arm. She remained where she was, watching the fire in his eyes.

He took the pewter spoon from the basket and lifted out the bowl of stew. Looking at her, he scooped a spoonful of stew, blew across the spoon, and slurped. Jenny’s stomach cramped, preparing to retch.

“Mmmmm, better than my own mother’s.” He licked his lips. Was that all he would taste?

“Surely you don’t think I’ve hidden a knife in that bowl of stew.”

His face darkened. He swirled the spoon around the stew. The temptation was too much. He took another, healthy sample. His eyes widened, then narrowed, trying to focus.

“This is thu …thu …” He swayed then a puzzled look covered his face as he slid to the floor.

Jenny snatched the keys from his limp hand and hurried to the door. She glanced back at the soldier, afraid he would rise and accost her. He lay still. Hopefully, she hadn’t laced the stew with enough laudanum to kill him. Hands shaking, she tried the first key—it didn’t fit. She flipped to the next. The lock clicked.

She blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness along the dim corridor. Four cells lined the passage, each sealed with a heavy wooden door containing a square, barred window. She peered into the first. A shape huddled in the corner of the cell, lying on straw strewn on the stone floor. The stench made her swallow down the bile that rose in her throat.

“Andrew,” she whispered hoarsely.” A dark-haired woman rolled over and looked at her.

“Jenny?”

She turned at the sound of Andrew’s voice. “Andrew!”

He must be hearing things. Existing day after day in this darkened cell with little food or water was wearing Andrew down. But when he heard Jenny say his name, he knew she was real. At first, his heart leapt at the sound of her voice, but then it plummeted. Why was she here? He pressed his face against the bars to see if Ashby accompanied her. No, she was alone. Had Ashby sent her?

She rushed to his cell, clutching a ring of keys.

“Jenny, what are you about?” Was this a ruse? An opportunity for Ashby to kill him himself rather than allow that privilege to the hangman?

“Hush, we must hurry.” She tried one key, then another, flipping through them, her fingers shaking. Finally, she found the key that slipped easily into the lock. The rusty hinges screeched in protest as she struggled to swing the iron door outward.

She rushed toward him, but he backed away.

“What do you want? You need to leave—now.” His heart was torn as she stood before him. His love for her had not diminished; indeed, he still dreamed of her every night. Soothing dreams that lulled him back to their idyllic days at Brentwood Manor when his passion stirred at her voice, her touch. But harsh reality struck upon awakening, surrounded by filth, imprisonment, and her betrayal.

“Andrew …”

He backed away from her. “You must leave here—now.”

“You will not hang. Hurry, Andrew, we must run. Now.”

He wavered. She seemed so sincere. How he wanted to wrap her in his arms, to flee with her and live the life they’d always planned together. He stepped toward her.

“What in the name of heaven—?” Ashby’s voice rang out from the front room.

Andrew pushed her out of the cell and pulled the door shut. He glared. “So, this was all pretense. Pretense to allow me to be killed by Ashby while trying to escape. How could you, Jenny?” His voice broke. He gripped the bars in the door. “He won’t have that satisfaction.”

“No, Andrew, please ...”

Jenny looked around, but she was surrounded by locked cells. There was nowhere to hide. She slipped as far into the darkened corner of the passageway as she could.

Andrew held the door closed.

Ashby rushed into the corridor, then, catching sight of Andrew, relaxed. “Awake, Wentworth? Trying to avoid dreaming about your wench in my arms? Writhing under me? Begging for more?”

“You bastard.” Control yourself. Do not give in to his taunts. Andrew locked his fingers around the iron bars and stared at him.

“No angry words for me, Wentworth? Are you enjoying the thought of my taking my pleasure with your lover?”

Andrew spat in his face.

Ashby lunged at the door, grabbing the bars. The door swayed toward him, and from his startled look, Andrew knew he had the advantage. He threw all his weight against the door to swing it fully open, crashing Ashby against the wall. His skull struck the stone, and he fell forward then stumbled into Jenny. He pawed at her, trying to gain his footing, then his eyes rolled back and he slithered to the floor.

She tried to reach the hilt of his sword, but his body twisted away, his pistol exposed. She clutched it, pulling it from his belt.

Her arms trembled as she aimed the gun at him.

Andrew took the pistol from her. He aimed it at Ashby’s head. He would blast the man to hell.