Free Sons of an Ancient Glory by BJ Hoff Page A

collapsed in a heap on the floor, then the other, upon whom he still held a gun. At last his eyes went to the unconscious boy near the wall.
    â€œThat would be the Gypsy—the cousin of the lad who brought your message?” he asked, now turning his attention back to Tierney
    â€œYes—he…it was his idea to write the note…he said one of his people would deliver it, but in truth I didn’t really hope.”
    The boy let his words drift off, unfinished. Morgan noted his obvious discomfort and decided it was more than likely a rare feeling for the young rascal.
    Sandemon had gone to the Gypsy boy on the floor and was down on his knees, examining him. “He is unconscious,” he said, looking up, “but not badly hurt, I think.”
    Morgan nodded. “What exactly is all this about? The cell door standing open, you fighting with your gaolers—”
    â€œThey charged in here and began to beat on us!” The boy’s mouth thinned to a hard, indignant line. “They were furious because we got a message to the outside!”
    â€œYou’re fortunate it didn’t go worse for you! I doubt that you’ve any idea the kind of thugs you’re dealing with in a place like this.”
    â€œOh, I think I do,” the boy grated, pointedly glancing at the arm encased in a grimy sling. “This came about, for example, because I demanded some clean drinking water.”
    Morgan grimaced. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I am not unacquainted with the penal system myself.” He studied the boy for a moment. “You have been released into my custody. I trust you will give me no cause for regret.”
    The boy flushed, and—ah, yes…there it was again, that arrogant toss of the head, the defiant flare of the nostrils. Like a young and spirited thoroughbred.
    So like his father…like Michael…
    â€œI can explain all this, sir.”
    â€œNo doubt,” Morgan said. “And I am sure I will be altogether fascinated by your explanation. But that will have to wait, I fear. The first order of business is to get you out of here.”
    He turned to Sandemon, who had come to stand near the door again. The black man’s expression was impassive, but Morgan knew him well enough to recognize the disapproval and guarded curiosity in his eyes.
    â€œFind the chief warder. Tell him we need a physician at once.” He stopped. “Make sure he knows he has guards who need attention, not only a prisoner. Then I shall speak with the governor again before we leave for home.”
    â€œSir?”
    Morgan turned back to Tierney Burke, who motioned toward the Gypsy youth, still lying on the floor.
    â€œCan’t we take him with us? Please. I owe him, you see.”
    Morgan stared at him. “Impossible! The boy is a total stranger to you. A prisoner.” He paused. “And a Gypsy.”
    The blue eyes flashed. “He’s a friend! He opened a vein for me! I won’t leave him here like this. They’ll murder him.”
    Morgan considered him, feeling an odd sort of approval for his heated outburst. So, then, it would seem there was even more of his father in him than mere good looks. Loyalty and a keen sense of fairness had always been strong in Michael.
    Sandemon had stopped just outside the doorway and stood watching them. Morgan met his gaze and saw the troubled look, the doubt there.
    Turning back to Tierney, he said, “One can’t simply take a Gypsy off as he pleases. We might very well bring the wrath of the whole tribe on Nelson Hall. His people would not take kindly to our interference.”
    â€œOur interference would surely be preferable to leaving him here to be slaughtered! You
know
what they will do to him. He pulled a knife on the guards!”
    He was right, of course. The boy was as good as dead if they left him. Gypsies were mere animals to bullies like these—of no consequence whatever. Indeed, most