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He strained all of his senses as he took in the scene before him.
The house lay in shambles.
What had happened? The sight of the overturned tables and chairs, the broken glass, turned his chest to stone.
He searched the parlor, the kitchen. Someone had been through the house in a hurry and left evidence of their escape.
“Eliza! Eliza!”
He stopped breathing, hoping to pick up even the tiniest sound. Since the bottom floor held no clue, he bounded up the stairs two at a time, calling for both girls as he explored the small room first, then the larger.
The view in front of him forced his stomach to his throat. His heart thumped against his ribs as he shoved his fingers through his hair.
The quilt had been thrown off the bed, and articles of clothes were strewn around the room. The doors to the armoire were wide open and the moonlight cast a phantom-like glow making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
They’d been kidnapped. That much was clear. But who had done it and why?
“Eliza!” he yelled again, panic flooding his voice.
His mind whirled at such a pace his thoughts couldn’t keep up. He ran down the stairs and out the doorway to his waiting horse, intent on heading back to question the soldiers further.
Suddenly he stopped. A frightening realization fit together in his mind like the pieces of a puzzle box. The autumn air grew thick around him as he formulated what must have happened.
It was Watson.
Watson must have known Robert well, if indeed they were both members of the same traitorous group. There was that time he’d seen Robert enter the print shop . . .
Yes. It made sense now. Robert may have told Watson he had two daughters and that Samuel was in love with one of them.
Watson planned to use Eliza as leverage.
Samuel gripped the sword at his side and cursed at the sky.
He leapt onto his gelding and raced back to town. The trees and houses whizzed by him at the speed of his whirling mind.
Watson must have planned to only release the girls if Samuel promised not to follow through on the blackmail. Well, not only would he follow through, he would see to the torture and imprisonment—even death—of Thomas Watson.
Samuel figured the press would be closed up tight. It was.
He didn’t even bother to knock. Kicking the door in, he barked at the four other soldiers he’d brought with him to begin searching. Their torches lit the room like monstrous fireflies.
“I’m heading upstairs. Yell for me if you find anything,” Samuel said.
As he headed to the back door, a man’s large frame filled the emptiness, a wide-eyed look on his round face.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the man demanded, his quivering voice a laughable companion to his shaking jowls.
“Who are you? Where’s Thomas Watson?” Samuel stood in front of the fat man, looking down at him.
“I’m . . . I’m George Watson, sir. Tommy’s uncle.” George scanned the space with a bewildered stare. “Tommy’s not here. He . . . he never came back from whatever it was he said he had to do this evening. I fell asleep. The first night in a long while that my bed’s not been rocking back and forth.” He chuckled, while his thick fingers massaged each other and his eyes darted between the soldiers moving about the room.
“You’re saying you haven’t seen him since earlier this evening. Are you sure? And he hasn’t been here?” Samuel had no patience for this. He wrenched George’s arm. “Don’t lie to me.”
“No, sir. I wouldn’t lie to you. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Take him.” Samuel motioned to Donaldson who stood nearby.
Donaldson nodded and moved forward.
