Free Law, Susan Kay by Traitorous Hearts Page A

arrayed on a low
stone fence at the far side of the pasture. They were perhaps seventy-five
yards away, nearing the edge of a musket's accurate range. Off to his right was
a stone barn; to his left, wrapping around the back of the fence, a tangled
mass of thick forest.
    Jon turned around, noting everyone's location. He didn't care to
shoot anyone accidentally either. There were two clumps of people: the small,
orderly, red-coated group that was his compatriots and the larger,
disorganized, cheerful collection of colonists, women and children mingled
among the militia.
    Beth was still there, of course, in her green dress that looked
like a piece of the forest. He'd nearly swallowed his tongue when he'd first
seen her in it, looking so pretty he couldn't believe every unmarried man in
the square wasn't clustered around her. When she noticed him looking at her,
she smiled, like sunshine and light, all warmth and encouragement and pride. A
smile like that could make a man want to beat the world.
    Instead, she was going to see him look like an idiot. Again. Like
he'd looked in that cold, stinking pig wallow. He wondered if she'd laughed at
him, with everybody else. Somehow he was sure she hadn't.
    If he was still Jonathan Schuyler Leighton, he could try to
impress her. He could talk in words of more than one syllable, and he could walk
without tripping over his gaiters. But he was Lieutenant Jon now, and he had to
be a fool. He gritted his teeth and his jaw ached with the effort to keep that
stupid grin on his face. He turned away abruptly, unable to watch her anymore.
    "Sergeant? What do I do?"
    "You jes' try t'shoot the bottles. Jes' like we practiced,
Jon," Hitchcock said encouragingly. "Start with the left one."
    Jon forced his face into an expression of blank bewilderment.
    "Ah, the brown one, son. Over there."
    "Yes." He lifted his musket and aimed at the brown
bottle, perched temptingly on the fence across the meadow. And suddenly he was
angry. Angry that he so seldom had a chance to test his skills at anything
besides acting like an idiot. Angry that he couldn't go to a woman and smile at
her without worrying if it would give him away. Angry that he couldn't allow
himself to blow that damn bottle to smithereens.
    He fired. The right bottle shattered.
    "Lieutenant!" The sergeant whacked him on the back in
exultation. "You did it! But, ah, I told you t'aim for the left one."
    Jon tapped another ball into his musket. "I did."
    "Oh." Hitchcock swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple
bobbing. "Still, that weren't bad, son. Right height and all. Now all you
gotta do is aim about six feet more to the left."
    Jon lifted his weapon slowly, trying to appear as if he was taking
careful aim, and frowned. At the last minute, he jerked, dropping his right
shoulder. The dark iron rooster weather vane fixed to the top of the barn spun
crazily, like a child's top gone amok.
    "Cor!" the soldier behind him said in amazement.
"Who coulda hit that if'n they tried?"
    The devil was in him now. He was taking a terrible risk, leaving
himself open to suspicion if anyone was alert enough to put it all together.
Still, he didn't seem to be able to stop.
    He reloaded and leveled his gun at the fence one more time.
    The pine tree was a good fifteen paces beyond the fence. He fired.
The top spike snapped off cleanly and tumbled merrily to earth.
    And Jon hoped to God no one ever realized how good a shot he
really was.

CHAPTER 6
    "Thank ye, lieutenant." Pocketing his coins, the peddler
flashed a gap-toothed smile.
    And well he should smile, Jon thought. He's gotten at least double
the going price. But Lieutenant Jon was a gullible fool, not a hard-nosed
bargainer.
    A fool. He was being a fool. Jon ran his fingers slowly
over the strand of Job's tears. The seeds were hard, translucently white, and
waxy, an inexpensive substitute for those who couldn't afford pearls.
    Why had he bought them? It was frippery, a worthless frill.
Foolishness. And he still