For certain, if the young woman had half the grace of her brother, Ambrose, and the same delicate bone structure, she would be a beauty. Solomon let his thoughts drift to this strange woman and imagined her slim and lithe, as tall as Ambrose and yet elegant enough that men would still fall all over themselves to be seen with her on their arm. Although if she had Ambrose’s wit, perhaps they would not court her for long. That thought, oddly, made him angry; he seemed to be made of offense and resentment these days.
He shook his head to clear it.
“Well, they’ll be asleep soon enough,” he said shortly. The two of them had pushed the horses hard to circle wide around the Confederate party—a risk, but Ambrose had been certain of their path, and had been correct in his assumption.
Ambrose only nodded.
They waited, and as the sun set, a wind rose in the trees, rattling the branches and causing the birds to take flight in great choruses of calls and flapping. Solomon, who detested wet clothing as much as the next man, found him wishing for a thunderstorm for the first time. Chaos could only help them.
So absorbed were they both in waiting, they di
d not hear the footsteps until it was far too late. As Solomon felt his heart leap and he scrambled around on the hill, the soldier’s face went blank.
As well it might. They had brought soldiers on this mission who served with Jasper, and those who served with Jasper, had served with Solomon. Or rather, they had served with—
“Horace?” James Danielson asked softly. His face as white as if he had seen a ghost.
“Hello, James.” Solomon did not dare dart a glance at Ambrose. His pulse was pounding, and he could not fathom why the man was not reaching for his gun. He could not waste time now wondering also what Ambrose made of all of this.
“You come for Jasper too?” the man asked doubtfully.
Solomon stayed silent, too unsure of himself to know why the man was not firing, and too worried to let things spin out of control now.
In a rush, James’s words came again: “Was he the one, then? Did he kill you? Said he buried you. Said you were too wounded. Do ghosts carry wounds?”
For a moment, Solomon could have laughed with relief. So they had been looking for him as well. If he had not been so consumed with his own danger, he would have seen it at once. Jasper, who might have won a little comfort from sharing Horace’s true name, had proclaimed him dead and gone, out of the Confederacy’s reach.
Bloody Jasper... Solomon’s breath caught in his throat. He shook his head. “He would have brought me to the infirmary, but I told him the wound was too grave. If he is the one who set me to rest, you must thank him for me.”
“I...”
But at just the wrong moment, a branch gave way beneath Solomon’s weight, and the illusion fell to pieces. No spirit would so disturb the forest, for a spirit would walk with no sound beyond his voice.
“He lied again.” Danielson’s face closed off at once. “You’re just like him, aren’t you? A turncoat.”
Ambrose did not snort. He did not make a sound. But Solomon felt his amusement as clearly as if the man had shouted.
“Danielson, listen to me—”
“No.” The man raised his rifle, and then, to Solomon’s horror, raised his voice and yelled. “They’re here! They found us!”
Ambrose dived forward at once, knocking the barrel of the rifle out of the way as it fired, and landing a well-placed punch on the man’s face at the same time.
“Go! Get them out!” He directed only the quickest glance in Solomon’s direction before directing an uppercut into Danielson’s sternum. Three more right hooks landed in close succession on Danielson’s jaw, and the Confederate soldier went down like a ton of bricks.
Solomon, his eyebrows raised at the sight, forced himself back into action. He snatched up his rifle and was over the hill in a moment, swinging the rifle like a club and taking advantage of every startled look, every pause.
“Jasper! Cecelia!”
“Here!” he heard Cecelia’s cry, and she gave a shriek after that, one that made Solomon’s breath come short.
“Cecelia?”
Her screaming was wordless, wild, and Solomon fought like a man possessed, driving knives into flesh and ducking under flailing arms. Where Ambrose was, he had not the faintest idea, but the occasional yells of pain from behind him seemed to indicate that the man was holding his own. Solomon, meanwhile, tried to forge the tide of armed men to reach—
No. Oh, no.
The horses weren’t saddled, but they didn’t need to be. Cecelia was struggling wildly, kicking and screaming, but she was slung over the horse’s back like a sack of grain, and the man holding her down as he urged the horse out of the camp was none other than Robert Knox.