“Why are you not in Williamsburg?” Stockton whirled as Paul crossed the shadow of the doorway. Venom seeped from his father’s eyes. “Close the door.”
Paul obeyed then stood at attention. His newly cleaned coat and freshly polished scabbard dimmed in the light of Ezra’s scrutiny. “I can see you’ve taken pains to clean yourself up. Did you think it would soften my anger when I discovered your infraction?”
“You always told me a soldier must look the part as well as play it, did you not?”
Stuffing his pipe, Ezra refused to look up, that ever-present undercurrent of disgust sitting heavy in his voice. “Pray, tell me why you would do something so foolish as to go against my orders?”
Face forward, Paul didn’t measure the words before he spoke them. “I thought you were supposed to be in Boston.”
Ezra looked up, his face red. “My affairs are none of your concern.” He stared, his expression bleeding hate. “Why are you not on your way to Virginia?”
Paul straightened. How much longer must he be forced to answer for his actions when everyone above him needn’t? “I stayed behind to help Richards. He requested that I assist in training the new men in his regiment and since my assignment was—”
“That was not for him to request and certainly not for you to accept!” Ezra slammed his pipe on the table. Slowly, the red color slipped from his cheeks and his tone evened. “My trip to Boston was altered when we discovered that the patriots are smuggling goods to the few civilians still inside the city.” He stood and walked to the other side of his desk. “I’ve returned to prepare the regiment for deployment on the frigate Braynwaithe with the mission to block off all means of travel by ocean and bring to justice any and all who go against the wishes of the crown.”
At last. A chance to prove himself. Paul stood taller. “When will we make ready?”
Ezra’s eyes flashed black while his body remained motionless. “We will not make ready.”
Paul scowled in question. “If the regiment is preparing for—”
“I will make ready.” Ezra rounded the desk, finger extended to Paul’s shoulder. “Remove your epaulette.”
No.
Paul’s hand went to his sword and he stepped back. “You would not.”
“Don’t act the fool.” Ezra’s eye twitched. “You never learned, son. I hoped I would not have to do this, but I am forced to remove you from your position.”
Reeling back from the sudden revolt in his gut, a bitter laugh burst from Paul’s throat. “Never learned what? I have done what should have been done but you never had the—”
“It was never your place to resolve what must be done.” The small lines around Ezra’s mouth deepened as he once again pointed to the indication of Paul’s station that decorated his coat. “Those that lead others into battle must be worthy of their rank.”
“And I am not?”
Ezra inclined his head, hate in his eyes. “Your epaulette, Lieutenant.”
“No.” Paul barreled forward, pointing a rigid finger at his father’s chest. “I’ve made one mistake. One! Yet you allow Donaldson to go free when he’s betrayed the crown?”
“You’re obsessed.”
“Obsessed to prove that I am right and you are wrong.”
“I will hear no more of this.”
Rage, thick and hot, singed Paul from the inside and he refused to release his father from the heat of his gaze. “I will not be treated as lower when there are far greater failures than I and their situations were bought or granted by connections.”
Ezra straightened, his broad shoulders not as intimidating as he may have hoped. “I wanted to grant you more, but you continually disobey and I cannot offer anyone something for which I believe they are unworthy.”
“Unworthy?” Paul leaned into his words, inches from Ezra’s face. “I have worked my way to this rank and I will work my way higher. I will prove to this army that I stand by my claim to uphold the crown no matter what you say about it!” He whirled and marched to the door. “I will do what needs to be done and I will not be stopped.”
Ezra called from behind him. “If you pursue this course you are no longer my son!”
Paul stopped just as his fingers gripped the handle. His father meant to injure with those words, but instead they inspired. Gripping the handle hard enough to leave the prints of his hands, he spoke over his shoulder. “So be it.”
Charging from the room, Paul marched from the house, his boots afire. Once in the street, he raced to the road that led out of town. Flinging a look behind him to be sure he wasn’t followed, he ran to the safety of the trees.
In the shadows he yanked off his hat and unbuttoned his coat, eager to be rid of the vestiges of his misery. He dropped the sword and bayonet, his chest pumping and hands sweating. Here he would do it. Here he would leave behind all he’d known and prove to himself, if to none other, that he could do and would do the very thing no one believe him capable of.