The Night Lamp

By Carol A. Spradling

Military confidant Cole McKnight will do anything to reclaim his home, even run bounties for an unprincipled bondsman. When Isa Foster becomes his latest assignment, Cole jeopardizes more than his property to bring her in.

Isa Foster has a bounty on her head and a dead friend at her feet. Accused of the murder, she must rely on her espionage training and wits to clear her name. Cole McKnight is one distraction she can’t afford.

With George Washington's impending inauguration and the birth of a nation hanging in the balance, Isa and Cole must work together to uncover the truth behind the murder. While Cole fights for his family home, and Isa for her very survival, their biggest battle may be fighting their attraction for each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol A. Spradling
• Release date: Feb 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781470022358

Book preview

Prologue

March, 1781

Mount Vernon, Virginia

The fireplace log ruptured and split through, much like her home had done over the past eight years. The cold floor chilled her thoughts while the fire's warmth heated her decision. Even the elements had established harsh boundaries. Martha Washington had not married to lose her home, her name, or her social standing. She side-stepped Fayette and Hissy, her slumbering kittens, and her silk, dressing gown floated behind her like a queen's robes. She walked to the window, the glass laced with frozen ice, and looked out. Below her, moonlight lit the grounds in a ghastly, blue hue, and water from the Potomac River lapped the shore in a silent cadence. Her husband's command was hundreds of miles from her door but on nights like this, she was certain she could hear the soldiers weep into their bedrolls.

She gathered the neck of her robe closer together. George had assured her that her thoughts and imaginings were circumspect. The war would be short-lived and their holdings would remain intact. Yet the holes in his shoes and the frequent troop reports did little to convince her of his ability to honor his promise.

At the side of the bed, Hissy stretched her paws, kneading the air. There was little fear of her spilling Martha's secrets. The kittens had been her confidants, purring their approval as Martha shared the details of her decision. Jumping for the bed, the little ball of fluff misjudged the edge and fell out of view. She squealed but landed feather-soft on the floor. Fayette opened her eyes and glanced in the direction of the clatter. From the way she snuggled down in her bed, she was annoyed at being awakened so abruptly.

Martha set her jaw, dropped the curtain back in place, and looked across the room. Gold filigree caught the light and flickered down the ensconced sides of the Queen Anne desk. On the writing surface, a silver tumbler held African indigo and a plumed pen lay across the writing pages. The letter had been carefully considered, her words cautiously chosen. All the message lacked was her signature. Martha tapped the pointed end of the pen against her fingertip. The courier would arrive at dawn. She scanned the letter once more. George would forgive her in time, and if things played out as she feared, he would appreciate her wisdom. Of course, if the message was to find its way into the wrong hands . . . She tapped a finger against her lip. How long would it take for people to forget a military general's wife?

Hoof beats sounded in the yard. Martha doused the pen nib and scrawled her name across the bottom of the page. Sanding it quickly, she heard the door open and close on the first floor. The trusted courier knew where to locate the back stairs. They would have their assignment and be off the property before the household stirred. Martha picked up the wax bar and then returned it to its drawer. There was no time for a seal; she would have to trust her Night Lamp to keep the contents safe.

Chapter 1

August, 1781

North Carolina

Murderers are hanged. This realization wrapped Isa Foster in a cold sweat. She rubbed her throat where phantom knots laced her neck like a string of pearls. It was reassuringly smooth. She swallowed and wondered if stealing a horse could also send her to the gallows but then, it was her horse. Of course, she hadn't committed murder either, but that hadn't stopped Eli Banks from trying to wrap a noose around her neck.

Crouched down and peering through a holly bush, she sat back on her heels and tucked her hair behind her ear. Home. She had to get home. Although her aunts would be a welcome sight, more importantly, she could learn if they knew anything about Martha Washington's letter. Jack had assured Isa that the message was within a two-day's ride, but he had been murdered before they could retrieve it. Effectively escaping a hangman's noose, she would have to be careful how to proceed.

The main roads would be ideal for travel, but it would be better to avoid people. It was impossible to know how far news had traveled about Jack's death, and a hefty reward, even an invalid one, could easily cloud someone's judgment. Traveling the backcountry not only slowed her pace, but exhaustion, bug bites, and an abundance of snakes compounded the misery of the sweltering days and frigid evenings. All-in-all, it was a small inconvenience when put in perspective.

She glanced down at her arm where an industrious mosquito probed for a fresh supply of nourishment. It must have hit a rich vein because its body lowered with the added weight. It shifted its feet back and forth. From the way it positioned itself, it looked as though it stored a hefty supply of food for winter. Not interested in bloodletting, Isa flattened the wiry pilferer. Its infusion no longer benefited either of them. She flicked the black speck into the air, snapped a few marigold petals from their stem and then rubbed the leaves over the itchy bumps. Steeped, orange buds worked better, but she hoped the makeshift remedy proved effective. Although the area remained pink, the bite no longer begged to be scratched.

A mere twelve feet away from where she squatted stood the means to expedite her trip. Isa tossed the spent leaves to the side and returned her attention to the horse in front of her. She had raised him from a colt. The white tips of his ears signaled to her like a welcome beacon. The odd coloring of white and brown triangles pivoted independently of each other as if motioning her closer. She fought the urge to break through the roughage, throw herself on his back, and race from the clearing. It would be a bold move but not one worth taking. Isa clenched her fists and bit down on her lip. Although she was close enough to be heard, she didn't dare call out. His bridle held him tethered to a sapling. It was foolish to think he had wandered here unattended.

Stooped low, she edged closer to the campfire. Orange flames flickered in front of her, and burning wood crackled. Keeping to the shadows, she glanced around the site. A fat trout hung heavy over a fire, poised headlong as if ready to dive into the soft blaze. Her stomach nudged her and her mouth watered. For the past week, she had found nothing but berries and a stray carrot in an overworked field. The single fish looked as inviting as an overburdened, banquet table.

She licked her lips and glanced around the perimeter. Ten yards away, a figure hunched at the creek bank. Keeping her eyes on him, she pushed thick wads of hair up under her hat and then pulled the rim down until her ears jutted out at odd angles. Her skirt was becoming an even bigger hindrance. Breeches would have been helpful, not to mention warmer in the cool evenings, but it was impossible to find any that fit her properly. For now, her identity was safe as long as no one got too close to her.

Her horse pawed the ground and she moved quickly. The warmth of the fire welcomed her as she squatted down beside the flames. She lifted the makeshift skewer and blew across the fish. The heated morsel created hunger pangs so strong, a scrawny carrot could not satisfy her appetite. Grabbing the twig in her dirty grip, she sank her teeth into the side of the trout. The scales burned the roof of her mouth and she jostled the bit from one side of her tongue to the other. She swallowed, feeling fire burn the sides of her throat. She took another bite, knowing blisters could heal, and pulled a bone from between her lips as she chewed. She cut her eyes to the water's edge and checked to see if the person responsible for her meal still sat by the creek bank. The dark silhouette remained in place. Not relinquishing her dinner, she crawled to the far side of the camp.

The familiar mount nodded his head toward her. Isa stood to her feet, anxious to be reacquainted with her old friend and flicked the last of the bones into the shrubs. The horse was still saddled, and Isa wondered if the campsite was meant to be temporary. No bedrolls were laid out to indicate a more permanent stay. She rubbed the long nose of the gelding and waited for him to nuzzle her in recognition. It had been a few months since she had last ridden him, and there was no need to call attention to his new owner.

She wiped her hands on her skirt and flicked a glance over the saddled back. The shadowed lump hadn't moved, but she doubted he would stay there for much longer. Isa hummed a tune in the animal's ear, and the soft points rotated towards her in recognition. He lowered his head and gave a soft blow through his nostrils. Isa had always thought this was his way of accompanying her when she sang to him. Relief melted over her. The duo's harmony was still intact. Patting his neck, she loosened the tether and then hefted herself into the saddle.

Where do you think you're going? asked a deep voice from behind her.

Her heart jumped to her throat preventing words, and her head turned to the shoreline. The dark shape still crouched at the water's edge. How had she not recognized the deceptive illusion as something other than a man's form?

Movement shot past her leg, and a sturdy hand grabbed the bridle. The horse shied and Isa pulled back on the reins. Metal clinked as a fist yanked the horse's head, forcing him closer.

Isa kicked into the darkness, hoping to strike the owner of the elusive body parts.

Release me! she demanded. This is my horse. I'm merely collecting him.

Your horse?

The strange man swore under his breath as the tug-of-war continued. Determined to win, she kicked her heels and the horse sidled away.

With an unrelenting, one-handed hold on the bridle, the man caught a fist full of mane in the other hand and held to the horse. The jerking had brought the tall, dark-haired man into the open. Finally, she had a visual target. She could inflict more damage, now that she knew where to aim. Moonlight illuminated her next strike and she punched her leg forward. His shoulder rolled backward and although the blow glanced off his collarbone, his grip held firm.

"My property was stolen two months ago, now let go!" she screamed.

She winced as her right leg scraped against bark and the horse became wedged in a cluster of beech trees.

Apparently thinking she had no way of escape, the man released his hold and stepped back. He breathed heavy and shook the hair from his face. His cheeks were covered with stubble, which appeared lighter than his hair. Although it was hard to determine his eye color in this light, one thing was certain. Fire burned in their depths.

Are you Isabella Foster? the man spat out.

Isa lifted her chin and glared down at him. I prefer Isa.

"Banks, he sneered as though the name was acid on his tongue. I was told all of your property was legally confiscated."

Stolen, she corrected. And since you realize you are in possession of ill-gotten goods, I'll be on my way.

He blocked her escape, and memories of four mud walls closed in on her. In a panic, she turned her gaze upward and searched for the moon in the night sky, silently praying to find it unobstructed by metal bars.

Stolen or not, he shouted, unrelenting in his task, I have a bill of sale, and I don't plan to be left stranded in the middle of the mountains with no transportation. I'm willing to let you ride with me, but--

She kicked her foot, catching him in the chest. He wheezed and doubled over, stumbling backward. Isa spurred the horse into a gallop. There would be no bargains.

Chapter 2

The heel of Cole's boots thumped against his calf as he slowed his stride. Under his feet, the plank sidewalk creaked, etching an eerie shiver over his spine. He swung his foot forward, and rough wood snagged the hole in his sock. He had hoped to put off this meeting until after he finished his assignment for General Washington. Meet a courier in Callihan, and then finish selling his soul.

His mother's face flashed in front of him, and he pushed the vision to the side. The deal would have to be done if he wanted to get his home back. He stopped in front of the iron-studded door and glanced at the name etched in the wood. Eli Banks. Cole sighed and pushed open the door. There was no other way to accomplish his goal.

Stepping inside the building, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the shaded room. With only one window in the structure, it was hard to tell how many people occupied the dwelling. Papers rustled in front of him, and he blinked away the dark spots in front of his eyes in an attempt to adjust his vision. Light and shadows shifted into place, transforming silhouettes into recognizable images.

At the center of the far wall, a silver haired man sat behind a desk, sprinkling sand on a document. He held the shaker in midair, and grains struck the paper like a soft drizzle of rain. Eli Banks, his cold, blue eyes stared across at him. Even if it were the dead of night, that piercing gaze would be visible. His predatory state bordered on demonic.

All too familiar with the evil within the man, Cole ignored the threatening gaze and swatted at a fly that buzzed near his ear. He and the insect had accepted each other's company a few miles back. If the flying noise-box didn't mind the reek of sweat and mud, along with something putrid Cole had fallen into, why bother to shoo him off now. The freeloader had most likely stowed away during Cole's dispute with a territorial bull. Not inclined to share a shortcut across his homestead, the snorting bovine had furiously escorted Cole to the property line and then assisted him over the split-rail fence.

Cole rubbed his backside. It was as wounded as his pride. He shuffled stocking covered feet to a chair and dropped his boots to the floor. A billow of dust clouded around his legs, floating upward to knee height. Grunting, he lowered himself onto the seat and shifted his weight to appease his tenderized quarters. There was no comfortable way to sit. His legs felt like thick clay that had hardened to stone. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a hot bath before his entire body completed the petrifaction process. From over the desk, Banks' silver head nudged toward him and his soulless eyes scanned Cole's weathered form.

Exhausted, Cole leaned backward and answered his obvious question. I walked half the way from Pierside, he said. As harsh as his tone sounded, it couldn't come close to matching his foul mood.

What happen to your horse? Did he go lame due to your recklessness? Banks asked.

Cole winced. As fatigued as he was, he was certain he could summon the strength to choke this man. The owner wanted it back, he answered.

Isabella Foster? Eli's pointy ears perked, and he sat up like a fox catching the scent of a new chicken coop.

She prefers Isa, Cole sneered, remembering how he had learned this information. He touched his chest, the spot still tender. The lady didn't seem as set to find me as she was her horse.

The silver fox slid to the end of his seat, arms perched on the desk edge. Cole was certain there was a hissing sound as he prepared to speak. The man's tongue darted out from between his lips, wetting them. Without realizing it, Cole glanced down to see if the protrusion was forked.

Did she say how she found you? Banks asked.

It wasn't mentioned.

I don't suppose you know where she was going?

Cole pushed himself up from the chair. He had cursed the strong-willed woman with every step he had taken and every briar patch he had encountered, especially when his boots had rubbed his feet raw and forced him to walk barefoot. Her destination was not of any interest unless he could be assured of ample time alone with her. Thoughts of her being on the receiving end of a sound thrashing in payment of his unwarranted misery had fueled most of his trip.

No, Cole snapped and limped toward the desk. Sitting down had been a serious mistake. His entire body protested his insistence on renewed movement. At least, he had the forethought to grab his boots before standing. He doubted he had the strength to bend over for any reason. I don't know where she is. Just give me my assignment--and a horse that doesn't belong to someone else.

Foxy laughed and handed him a folded paper. "Isabella Foster is your next assignment. You need to find her and bring her in."

Cole's shoulders slumped as though weighed down by the document. It would be impossible to argue about it. Who did she kill?

From beneath bushy brows, watery gray eyes peered up at him. Eli made it no secret that he thrived financially from the capture of murder suspects, but Cole's willingness to take these assignments without argument seemed to rouse him. This irritation was something that even he couldn't explain. Still, criminals in exchange for reward money were hardly as tantalizing as Cole's death and the potential ownership of his property. His eyes practically glowed red in anticipation of being master of Knight's Moor.

She killed no one, according to Judge Hanley. It is his opinion that a woman isn't capable of murdering a loved one in cold blood.

So why am I to bring her in? Cole asked, staring at the paper.

Banks pushed back in his chair and propped delicate ankles on the corner of his desktop, crossing them fussily. He inspected his fingernails, flicking one nail against the other. She has something that belongs to me, he said and peered up at Cole. And your opinion isn't relevant. We both know you'll bring her in.

Cole averted his gaze and scanned the paper, hoping his fury wouldn't burn a hole through it. He hated every assignment and tried to do them quickly and with little emotional involvement. Basic knowledge of the person was more than enough information to return them to Banks. Isa Foster was already more than a name on a page. Riding her horse for the past two months gave him an insight he preferred to not have. From his experience with military leaders and their choice of mounts, a person's horse told the character of the owner and if his theory held true, Isa Foster was a strong woman with a softness that made him . . .

Bold letters brought him out of his character assessment. He reread the sentence and then glanced over the edge of the page. Across from him, the plume of a letter opener twitched in the air while Banks worked the lead along his cuticle.

This report states Isabella Foster was traveling with a man of similar age, Cole said and lifted the page in the air for emphasis. Her companion was found dead, yet Miss Foster was questioned and then released.

Banks nudged his glasses up the bridge of his wide nose, enlarging the view of his pupils. Surely a bat would fly from their cavernous depths at any moment. His full lips twisted to the side and he sucked in air between his teeth. After a few more grisly, slurping noises, he pulled a whisk broom from his desk drawer, broke off a straw, and prodded at his molars. At the time of the murder, Bohannon, her escort, was transporting--

The details of his assignment demanded Cole's full attention, and his feet sorely objected to his abusive treatment of them. Sitting down, he lowered the paper to his lap and rested his palms on his knees. Bohannon? Jack Bohannon? He mumbled the name aloud.

That's what I said. Do you not listen when I give you details? Banks paused and tilted his head. His eyes glistened like a bandit discovering an open safe. Bohannon stole an important document from me, and I want it back. He spoke slowly, obviously calculating a way to increase his profits. That's why you're going to bring Isabella Foster to me instead of the sheriff. Since she was with Bohannon when he died, I'm certain she knows where the letter is. After I get the document from her, he is free to enforce the law however he chooses.

Banks' tongue flicked across a pointy incisor then wiggled its way to the back of his mouth. A series of smacking noises coming from his open jaws ended,