Page 104 of Thief Taker

Could it all have been a lie, nothing more than a fabrication? And if so, why had Elias allowed him to run? If he’d felt nothing for Kit, then why give him this chance to escape?

No, he could not believe it. What he’d heard last night from Elias’s lips was the lie—a lie Elias had told to protect himself from the hurt Kit had inflicted.

The same hurt Kit had felt when he’d discovered Francis’s deception. He, Kit, was the deceiver now. Oh, he’d thought he had no option, that his cause was worthy—hadn’t Francis said the same? But the stark truth was that he’d deceived Elias, he’d befriended him under false pretences. And now he must pay the price.

They were both paying the price.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Kit felt tears run down the sides of his face and into his hair. So much had been taken from him, but he’d driven Elias away himself.

Footsteps outside—Hartwell’s quick tread on the stairs leading up to their room. Kit dashed his hand over his eyes and sat up. He refused to let his friend see him weeping.

There was a rap on the door and Kit got up to draw back the bolt. Ned slipped inside and Kit locked the door behind him. “Well?”

“It’s booked,” he said in a low voice. Moving to the table in the corner of the room, he set down two tickets and a sack. “Cost a damnable fortune, but we sail for New York in five days.”

“Five days.” Might as well say a year! “Cole could find us in five days.”

Ned glanced at him over his shoulder, his expression tight. “He won’t.”

Kit was not so certain.

From the sack Ned pulled a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese and a couple of apples, along with a pot of ale. A slight pang of hunger grumbled in Kit’s belly, though his stomach clenched with such misery that he wasn’t sure he could eat. “Cole told you to leave London,” Hartwell said, “so he won’t be looking for you here, will he? Besides, there’s nowhere in the world easier to hide than in London Town, and I’ve set a few lads to keep watch. If he comes sniffing, we’ll know.” He broke off a hunk of bread and pulled out his knife to slice the cheese, then handed them both to Kit. “Sit down and eat. You’re pale as a damned ghost.”

It was easier to do as he was bid than to argue, so he took the food and retreated to the bed. Perching on the edge he took a mouthful of bread. It was hard and dry in his mouth, difficult to swallow.

Ned took the room’s only chair, sinking deep into his coat against the cold as he chewed on his own food. Since Kit had arrived at Ned’s rooms last night, he’d been nothing but the truest of friends. No word of anger or reproach had passed his lips.

Kit’s eyes lingered on the tickets. He knew the risk Hartwell was taking in returning with him to America. “I’m sorry,” he said once he’d swallowed his mouthful of bread. “I’m sorry I brought this down on you.”

Ned lifted the ale and took a long swig, then passed the pot over to Kit. “Warned you against love after Francis,” he said, without malice.

With a nod, a flush of shame, Kit swallowed a mouthful of ale. It was weak and hoppy, but at least it washed down the bread. “It wasn’t love,” he said, staring down at the ale pot in his hands. “It was just—” He choked on it and stopped. “I don’t know what it was.”

After a silence, Hartwell said, “Whatever you call it, that kind of loss hurts like buggery.” He huffed out a grim smile. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

Kit chased up a smile, or a facsimile of one at least. “I keep remembering—” Elias’s smile, his tender touch, his kindness. Kit’s eyes blurred and he scrubbed his sleeve over them, shamed. “Damn it to hell.” He took another swallow of the ale, tried to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.

After a silence, Hartwell kicked his foot. “It’ll be easier when there’s an ocean between you.”

He doubted that; the thought of never seeing Elias again emptied his lungs, leaving only a void. But complaining about it would do no good. He just had to take it. So, instead, he forced his attention onto his friend and away from his own wretchedness. “What about you, then?” he said. “When we’re back in America, will you see your brother?”

Hartwell’s lips pursed. It was clear he’d given it some thought. “Best if I don’t,” he said. “Best if I stay out of Boston completely, all things considered.” His expression grew wry. “I’m still attainted of treason, don’t forget.”

“But surely you—”

Ned cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Let’s focus on the here and now, my friend. We’ve got five days before we sail, and you’ve got business to set in order.”

His family, of course. Despite the risk it entailed, he must at least write to Charlotte and tell her where he was going—and why. That was a task he dreaded, but the letter must be written. He only hoped it wouldn’t fall into Elias’s hands and bring him to the docks before they sailed.

And damn himself to hell, but part of him hoped that it would. Part of him hoped that it would bring Elias, if only so he could see him again before he left. He sank his head into his hands and squeezed his eyes shut.

Christ, but the pain was too much to bear. He didn’t know how to endure it.

Chapter 39

Elias stood in the yard of The George Inn, a middling sort of coaching inn in the town of Hounslow, west of London. It had three floors, all the windows black at this hour. The best room would be front left, on the first floor—that’s what Marlborough would demand. Away from the yard stink, and away from the kitchen. That window was dark like all the rest.

Elias tied his horse up on the street and stood with his hand on her neck, not quite ready to begin. Steadying himself.