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Taken his place and now lived his life.
Ten minutes later, Sam unlocked the door to the little tailor shop and let himself out. It was all but over now. He only had to confront Dick Thornton—or the man who was calling himself Dick Thornton—and then go home. A year of searching for answers would be over. The dead of Spinner’s Falls would finally rest in peace.
Except, as he made his way back to his town house, he knew he would never be at peace again. His body might return to Boston, but his heart would forever remain behind in England.
He was in the mews behind the town house now. He hesitated, then walked past his own gate to the gate that led into Emeline’s garden. It was locked, of course, but he scaled the wall, moving a bit slower than he’d have liked because of his ribs. The garden beyond was deserted. Michaelmas daisies bloomed on either side of the path, and the ornamental trees were just beginning to turn color. He could see the back of the house and the windows that lined the upper floors. One of those windows belonged to Emeline. She might at this very moment be looking out.
Sam was conscious of how foolish his actions were—to sneak into the garden of the woman who’d rejected him. He was embarrassed and angry because he was embarrassed. Soon he would need to return home and ready himself for supper with Rebecca, but he lingered a little longer, gazing at her house, his heart aching as it pounded a silent beat: if only...if only...if only...
He closed his eyes, coming to a decision. He couldn’t leave it like this. He had to speak to her. But now was not the time. For what he wanted, he’d have to wait for nightfall. So he glanced again at that window and then turned and left the garden. He would bide his time. He would wait patiently.
For the fall of night.
Chapter Seventeen
Just past midnight, Iron Heart was dragged from his dungeon cell. Guards marched him up the stairs of the castle, out into the street, and into the square in the middle of the shining city. Crowds lined the streets, clutching torches to light the way, their faces eerily lit by the flames. The people of the Shining City were silent, but one among them was not. For the wizard danced the entire way to the square, crowing his delight at Iron Heart’s death sentence and only a little hampered by a limp. And on the wicked wizard’s wrist, bobbing as he capered, was a white dove, tethered there with a golden chain....
—from Iron Heart
It was late and she was tired, but she still felt him before she saw him. Emeline’s heart gave a wild, joyous leap, entirely outside of her control. He was here. Samuel was here. She turned from her vanity table where she’d been brushing her hair in preparation for bed.
He stood by the door that connected her room to a small dressing room. His face was battered, his left eye swollen and black, and he held one hand against his side as if something pained him there. She stared at him, not daring to believe, trying not to breathe in case he evaporated from her sight.
“Your hair is beautiful,” he said softly.
It was the last thing she expected him to say. It made her self-conscious and oddly shy. He’d never seen her with her hair down. Never seen her in such a normal, homey setting.
“Thank you.” She set her brush down on the vanity table and nearly knocked it to the floor, her hands were shaking so badly.
He glanced at the brush. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”
“You’re leaving so soon?”
For some reason, she hadn’t expected this, either. She’d thought she would be the one to leave first, after her marriage to Jasper. But that was silly, of course. Samuel had to return to the Colonies some time. She’d always known that.
He nodded slowly at her question. “As soon as I finish my business, Rebecca and I will sail.”
“Oh.” There were thousands of things she wanted to ask him, thousands of things to say to him, but somehow she couldn’t give voice to her real thoughts. She was stuck in this awkwardly formal conversation instead. She cleared her throat. “Is it shipping business? Or the business of finding who betrayed your regiment?”
“Both.” He ambled into her room, pausing to pick up a china dish from a side table and turning it over to look at the bottom.
She swallowed. “But surely it will take weeks, maybe months to find out who—”
But he was already shaking his head. “Thornton’s the traitor.” He replaced the dish.
“How do you know?”
He shrugged, not looking particularly interested in the subject. “He isn’t really Thornton. I think he’s probably another soldier, MacDonald, who was under arrest when we were attacked. MacDonald somehow took Thornton’s place.”
She frowned, plucking at her wrap anxiously. She wore only a shift and the silk wrap; her feet were bare. She felt vulnerable with him prowling about her private rooms. Vulnerable, but not afraid. There was something inevitable about this scene, as if she knew all along that Samuel would someday enter her rooms. She only wished she could hold him a little longer. She looked down at her trembling hands in her lap and asked another question, delaying what would come.
“Wouldn’t Thornton’s friends or family have turned MacDonald in?”
“Most of Thornton’s friends were killed at Spinner’s Falls. Maybe all of them. As to family”—Samuel fingered the heavy brocade curtains hanging on her bed—“they were dead, too, all except his wife, and she died soon after Thornton, or MacDonald, returned home. I imagine he killed her.”
Emeline caught her breath at the casual comment. “Why are you doing this, Samuel?”
He looked up at her tone. “What?”
