I spent the next couple days learning every nook of the Lightwood estate as I kept myself busy. I also made sure I stayed in the background. Titus was the only one who knew how I'd come in, and Gracen had made it clear that those circumstances were to be kept quiet. Judging by the look Titus had given me when I first hobbled downstairs in the dress he found, he wasn't too fond of me, but as long as he kept his mouth shut, I didn't care.

After a cursory introduction to the rest of the staff, I'd been put to work. The house was as massive on the inside as it'd appeared on the outside, and every room was richly decorated with antiques and furniture that looked like they belonged in a museum. Except I'd never been to a museum that could hold a candle to this place.

I started in the kitchen, first gathering water from the pump outside before slowly being trusted with more elaborate tasks. It was a tiring business, hours spent just to prepare dinner. My mother had always been a great cook, and I'd always understood the amount of work that had gone into meal preparation. At least, I had in my time. After only one day, I understood why places like this had to have a full staff. One person couldn't have done it all. The servants all worked together like a well-oiled machine. Everyone knew their place and what they were supposed to do.

Which meant it was apparent from moment one that I wasn't a regular member of the staff.

I felt completely out of place no matter how hard I tried. The long gowns I wore were a stark contrast to the uniforms I'd been wearing almost non-stop since I'd enlisted. The way I talked and acted were both out of place and time. I was constantly having to check myself to make sure I wasn't using colloquialisms that hadn't been made up yet. Fortunately, most members of the staff seemed to accept the lie that I'd been born in a more western part of the colonies. Or they were just following the instructions I was sure Titus had given regarding my past.

I tried my best to follow Gracen’s advice as well, making sure I said very little, and never about anything personal. There were times I had to ask questions, but whenever possible, I stuck with quick smiles and nods. My leg was healing quickly, but I still hadn't figured out what my plan would be for getting home, so staying here seemed like the best idea for the time being.

That first day, I'd heard rumors that a high-ranking British officer had come by, but since I hadn't been dragged out of the house to face murder charges, I assumed Gracen's father had taken care of it. Still, I kept a low profile.

In some ways, my schedule wasn't much different than it had been in Iraq. Up at dawn, working my ass off, and then, by evening, I would retreat to my room, usually too tired to do anything but lie down on the uncomfortable bed and stare aimlessly at the ceiling until exhaustion caught up with me. I usually spent those last waking minutes thinking about home, about my parents and Ennis, sometimes about Bruce, and more often about Gracen.

I hadn't seen him much since that night, catching quick glimpses of him here and there as I went about my chores. I caught myself staring at him a few times, watching how he moved, the confidence with which he carried himself. When I’d gotten the chance to talk to him, the discussions had been short and quick, Gracen usually asking about how I was being treated before rushing off to attend to one thing or the other. He wasn't cold, exactly, but there was a definite effort to distance himself.

Except I was certain I could feel him watching me. Every time I tried to catch him, he was busy with something else, but I knew he kept looking my way. His eyes haunted me, and at times, I felt as if they could see right through me. Every time he did look my way, I found myself flustered. Half the time, I dropped whatever I was holding or forgot important things. Like my name. Or why I shouldn't just tell him the whole truth about who I was and what had brought me there.

I wouldn’t, of course, because I'd already gotten myself into enough trouble. I didn't need to add “crazy person claiming to be from the future” to it.

Sometimes it was like he was two different people. One I'd become vaguely familiar with during our time together outside the estate. The other was the façade I saw for the first time when Gracen had brought in his father to meet the new servant.

Roston Lightwood was the complete opposite of his son. He was shorter than Gracen, but still a tall man. His hair was silver, though I suspected it'd been dark at one time. His eyes were hazel, but the color wasn't the only difference. His expression and gaze were cold, disdainful. He was a man of stature, and he had no problems flaunting it in front of everyone, as if his very life depended on his ability to make everyone around him feel small.

He looked me up and down for the briefest of seconds when he'd first seen me, clicking his tongue as I watched him genuinely size me up, as if I were one of his horses and he was deciding what to do with me. He'd only asked for my name, nothing more, and when I'd given it to him, he quickly dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

Maybe it was wrong of me, but I despised him immediately. I quickly lowered my gaze so that he wouldn’t see my emotions all over my face. I didn't know what Gracen had told his father about the “man” who'd killed the British soldiers, but I did know that the only thing Roston knew about me was that I was a charity case who had nowhere else to go. That put me lower than the colonial servants, which was saying something.

He ran the household like clockwork, and the servants were wary of angering him. I'd never seen him angry, but I'd seen his look before, the look of a man who would do anything to get what he wanted and would never take no for an answer.

It was a miracle Gracen had a gentle side at all living under this man’s thumb.

* * *

“Washington is a madman.”

Roston stood firmly in the center of the study, wine in his hand as he demanded the attention of the room. Gracen sat in a chair beside him, eyeing his father as the older man gestured in the direction of the city.

“As if a ragged bunch of farmers would be a match for the greatest army in the world.” Roston drained half of his glass. “Hopefully, this loss will show those rebels that this is a lost cause for them.”

I stood to one side in the parlor, my head lowered as Titus whispered instructions to me every few minutes. I moved swiftly through the room, doing as asked, making sure Master Lightwood and his guests were kept content. It took all of my self-control not to show how disgusted I felt, both at what they were saying and at myself for serving them without speaking up.

There were four other men with them, all Loyalists who had gathered to discuss the siege and the battle. I'd already bitten the inside of my cheek a dozen times or more to stop myself from speaking up, the ridiculous accusations and insults being tossed around both frustrating and provoking.

I was pretty sure Titus was hoping I'd slip up and voice my opinions on the matter, maybe get thrown out, or worse, arrested and handed over to the British. What had Gracen called me? A sympathizer? I didn't know if he'd passed that along to Titus, or if Titus had figured it out somehow, but the sideways looks the steward was giving me told me that my placement here hadn't been accidental.

So far, I'd caught Gracen’s eye only once throughout it all, and I'd seen the concern there. He didn't need to worry. As pissed off as I was by what they were saying, I had enough self-control to bite my tongue.

Besides, I reminded myself, I knew how the war would eventually end.

“A marvelous victory,” one of the guests voiced, raising his glass as if to toast what I knew had been the turning point...for the Americans.

I suppressed a smile as I remembered that the British had lost more than twice the number of soldiers as the Americans. Technically, they'd won, but history would record Bunker Hill as a different kind of victory.

Roston smiled at the man and raised his glass as well. “I almost pity the colonists,” he said with a smile. “Then I remember that I have better things to do with my emotions.”

The rest of the party – minus one – chuckled at that, and my fists clenched. Gracen looked over at me again, and this time, I knew my true feelings were showing. But it wasn't just anger at what the other men were saying. It was at what he wasn't saying. I wanted to yell at him to speak up, to tell them how a colonist had saved his life, but I didn’t.

It wasn't easy.

“It’s George Washington,” another man said. “Instilling false hope in these colonists. Some of them are nothing more than peasants, really. A shame, how their loyalty can so easily be manipulated.”

“A true gentleman cannot be manipulated,” a third chimed in. “These savages had no loyalty to begin with.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Gracen said, and for an instant, the entire room fell into an awkward silence. His eyes flickered to me for a second, but no one else seemed to notice, though I suddenly felt like the temperature in the room had gone up a couple degrees. “They are loyal to their cause. I think we can attest to that.”

“A lost cause,” Roston corrected.

Gracen hesitated as he looked at his father, then nodded slowly. “That may be, but loyalty nonetheless.” “Whether these skirmishes end in their favor or ours, we cannot deny that their loyalties lie with their commander-in-chief.”

Roston scoffed as one of the other guests chuckled heartily. “Commander-in-chief indeed,” the elder Lightwood sneered. “The man’s a hooligan and a fake. His followers will notice that soon enough.”

“Precisely, Father,” Gracen smiled, his voice even. “His followers. Certainly, we can call that loyalty.”

“I believe, Roston, that your boy has found sympathy for the colonists,” one of the guests chuckled. From where I stood, though, I could see the man’s eyes, and the look he was giving Gracen was far from amused, despite the fake smile on his face.

Roston noticed it too.

“My son is more loyal to the Crown than his father,” Roston said firmly. “If it were not for my sake, he would be standing in the ranks of the king’s army shooting rebels as we speak.”

“Then why hold him back?” the other man challenged.

Roston took a sip from his wine as he regarded his guest. The challenge had not gone unnoticed, and I could easily see the fury building.

“My son’s engagement party is the day after tomorrow,” Roston said, his voice strained yet calm. “After that, he is free to do as he pleases.”

My chest tightened in a way I didn't like, and I stole a glance at Gracen. His face had gone white, though judging by the similar color of his knuckles, anger, not fear, was the emotion behind it. His lips pressed together, and I knew he was holding back what he really wanted to say.

“In that case,” one of the other guests broke through the tension that had risen in the room, “a toast to the young Lightwood.”

The other men raised their glasses in unison, and from my corner in the shadows, I tried to tell myself that Gracen's engagement didn't matter to me.

Not. At. All.