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“Thank you, Tommy. God bless you!” George picked up the small bag he’d carried with him. Thomas showed him through the back door and up the stairs that led to the modest living quarters above the shop.
“Take your time getting settled before you come down. I’ll be here whenever you are ready.”
George panted in giant heaves as he made his way up the few stairs. Halfway, he stopped and turned to Thomas. “I say, is there anything to eat? I’ve been living on the most unpleasant grub—I’m in terrible need of some real victuals.”
Thomas stifled a chuckle. This man? Hungry? Never.
“You will find a bit of bread and cheese in the cupboard, but I don’t cook much. No wife, you know.” Thomas laughed to mak
e light of it, trying to tell himself he liked it this way, living alone, but his heart would never believe such a lie.
“I understand. Never had a wife myself.” George laughed for a moment and then shook his head as if fighting a memory. “Thank you again. I’ll be down soon enough, and ready to work.” He began his trek back up the stairs, pounding on each step as he went.
As Thomas returned to the press, his uncle’s foul smell accosted him anew. He opened the front door of the shop, allowing the cool air to pour in from the noisy street. How had he missed that it was raining?
He paused for a moment and leaned his shoulder against the frame of the door, taking in the view and inhaling the fresh scent of rain. Crowds of people ran in and out of the shops, dodging the streams of water. Redcoats dotted the streets, their muskets in-hand. Carriages bumped over the muddy streets, dogs barked. A young boy darted past the shop door, waving with a wide grin on his dimpled face. Thomas smiled and waved back.
Pushing out a loud sigh, his stomach plummeted to his feet. Shaking his head, Thomas went back to his work. He left the door open, savoring the familiar sounds and smells of his city—his home. He hated to leave Boston. In time, Sandwich would feel like home . . . wouldn’t it? Only time would tell.
Placing the minuscule type, his thoughts turned to the dark task that awaited him.
The clock struck noon. Only ten hours left, but he wasn’t counting.
One of Martin’s minions had come by several days before specifying that his superiors wanted names. Four names of powerful members of the Sons of Liberty to use as “examples” of what happens to patriots who choose to go against the Crown.
How could he possibly do it? Thomas placed the tiny metal letters into the trays as a boundless pit dug into his middle. If the soldiers wanted “examples”, why not go after them themselves? It wasn’t as if all members of the group kept their involvement a secret.
Plunging the letters in with greater force, Thomas clenched his teeth. The blackmail was perfect. He had no choice but to comply. Daniel’s safety and the safety of his family was paramount.
Give Robert Campbell’s name.
Thomas’s head shot up and his hands froze as God’s words dripped over him like the rain that fell outside his door. Would it work? Robert had gone to great lengths to be seen as a trusted Loyalist . . .
The longer Thomas contemplated, the more the plot seemed plausible. Robert was dead; there was nothing the soldiers could do to him—they hadn’t specified the men had to be living.
Chuckling, Thomas pulled the lever of the press. It might work. It had to. He would give them the names of two deceased members of the group along with two phony names. Hopefully that would keep them occupied long enough to allow him to get out of Boston and safely into Sandwich before they realized his fraud and caught up with him. He would have to stay hidden for a while, but no matter. He had everything he needed to make a good start. And God would be with him—as He had always been.
Thank you, Lord.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Blast! Who could be bothering him now?
Thomas looked up and his jaw slackened. His neck heated around his collar, his eyes widened. A woman stood just inside the stoop, the rain trickling off her crimson cloak.
She smiled, and his breath caught.
“Sir?” she asked again, in the same melodic voice.
“Aye, forgive me, Miss.” He quickly wrenched off his leather apron. “How may I help you?” He rushed forward, almost tripping on the leg of the press.
“Forgive me.” Her gaze moved over his face for a moment before she dipped her chin. “I . . . I was looking for the new bakery and had been told it was down this street, but I can’t seem to find it. Your door was open so I just came in.” She looked behind her, allowing Thomas a full view of her graceful neck. “It’s silly, I know. Having lived here all my life I ought to know my way around town, but it’s been a while since I’ve, well . . . never mind.” The woman stopped her endearing ramble as her cheeks pinked. She lowered her lashes but not before Thomas took another long drink of her chocolate eyes.
She bit her lip and he grinned as big on the inside as he did on the outside. “Not silly at all, Miss. The Arbonne’s Bakery is just four doors down. The shingle is poorly placed, anyone could miss it.” He moved toward her and pointed down the street.
Their eyes locked for a moment and he inhaled the sight of her gentle smile and clear skin. His heart flipped behind his ribs and he couldn’t stop his gaze from combing her from head to foot.
Realizing his ill manners, Thomas bowed at the waist, his eyes never leaving hers. “My name is Thomas Watson.”
