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He gripped her fingers and shifted his jaw before answering. “When the war is over.”
“When the war is over?” The shock of his statement forced her to repeat his words. “That could be endless. No one knows when—”
A loud knock pounded against the door. “Open in the name of the king!”
Hannah jumped back with a gasp, body suddenly numb. Soldiers.
Ensign pulled his hand from hers, his voice thin. “Dear God…”
A shiver of disbelief trickled down her skin when the forceful knock once again shook the door. She spun to Ensign. “Uncle—”
A voice called from the other side of the door. “Open now, or we shall force ourselves in.”
Ensign hurried to the door. “Coming.” Turning, he pointed to the kitchen.
The firm line of his mouth and rigid angle of his arm drilled a pit in Hannah’s middle.
Spinning, Hannah dashed for the darkened kitchen and jerked through the entryway just as the front door squeaked open. She pressed her back against the wall, trying to quiet the frantic pace of her breath.
Footsteps stomped loud through the parlor as the intruders entered. Hannah stared down at the floor, the prayers she threw to heaven ripping her soul in two. Lord, protect him.
“Are you Ensign Young?”
“Aye.”
Her uncle’s response rang calm, steady, unlike the madness that raced through her as she listened.
“How may I help you gentlemen?”
“My name is Major Stockton.” A deep, gravelly sound scraped its way through the shadows. “I am here to relieve you of your foundry, Mr. Young.”
Dear Lord, no! Hannah leaned her head back and rested it silently against the wall. Clutching a thick mass of shawl at her chest, she forced herself to breathe through her nose, straining to calm the swells of emotion that crashed on her like a boat on an angry sea. Shock, anger, disbelief. The number of footfalls told her there were several inside, but exactly how many was impossible to tell.
The man with the deep timbre spoke again. “The king is in need of a foundry, sir. And with such a robust reputation, yours has been honorably chosen.”
“Well…” Ensign cleared his throat, his slow steps tapping across the floor. “I fear I must report ill news, gentlemen. I have just sold the foundry these three days past. It is no longer mine to give.”
“Nay, it is not. For now it belongs to King George.” A chair scratched across the floor and wheezed as someone sat. “Captain Higley, return outside and see that Reece and the others return to camp. They are not needed here.”
“Aye, sir.”
The door opened and shut before the loathed man continued. “We shall stay here this night, and you will give me a tour of the foundry in the morning.”
“I—”
“Lieutenant Greene, go to the kitchen and discover what food this man has to share. I am famished, and that scent is tantalizing.”
Hannah stiffened. Dear Lord! Not the kitchen!
“No!” Ensign’s voice echoed loud through the room. “What I mean to say is, I fear I have nothing to offer you, good sirs.”
Not moving—hardly breathing—still clutching the shawl that did little good against the gaining chill, Hannah looked to the door that led through the yard to the barn. Should she attempt
it? If she did, they would surely see her as she crossed the stream of soft light that shafted through the doorway. If she did make it unseen, that Higley fellow and the others would surely see her. She gripped her arms and looked upward. Lord, what am I to do?
Again, the chair scraped and footsteps started. “You wish not to share your wealth with the king’s men, is it?”
“I haven’t any wealth. I am a poor man whose family is not here, as you see.”
