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motherly concern for her safety. The truth was that Kate knew too much. If she was arrested, she could betray the woman, and worse, if Tremayne discovered who Kate was, she might be used as a bargaining chip against her father.
    When Kate thought of Peter Tremayne, she recalled with shocking vividness the warm scents of leather and wool and whisky, the fine weave of his linen shirt beneath her fingertips, and the soft wool of his tunic. The memory brought a flush to her cheeks. She turned to find Angela Ferrers, on her horse, trotting alongside her with the negligent grace of a cavalier and watching her with unconcealed amusement. Kate spurred her mount to escape the woman, but she kept pace.
    They were within sight of the Ashcrofts’ rambling hilltop farmhouse, their journey together nearly at an end, when the Widow took Kate’s reins and drew both horses to a stop. Angela Ferrers surveyed the silent orchards rolling away in all directions, and the empty road behind them. When she was quite satisfied they were alone, she spoke. “We probably won’t meet again, Kate. You’re angry, because I’ve used you, but I hope you’ll see past that and accept a word of advice. What Tremayne was offering, you can have from any man you like, if you take the proper precautions.”
    Kate hated how the woman seemed to read her mind. She had no privacy in her own thoughts. “That is not all that I wanted from him.”
    “Yes, but that is all he was offering. I’m sorry if this hurts your feelings. You did me a great service this evening. I’m trying to return the favor. You might know your way around a kitchen better than I do, but you don’t understand the first thing about the world outside Grey Farm.” Then, with an odd smile and an appraising glance, she added, “Though you’re a quick study, I’ll grant you.”
    Kate wrenched her reins away from the spy. “You’ve drawn my father into the war, embroiled me in treason, and driven me from my home. I don’t want any more of your favors. I’m going to spend the next two weeks with Milly and then go home to harvest our rye. Fornication does not figure in my plans.”
    “Only because you are infatuated with Peter Tremayne,” said the Widow coolly. “You’ll feel the same way about the next handsome man who falls into your orbit. You’re too passionate for spinsterhood and too independent for marriage. Your father’s been selfish, keeping you to himself. He should have found you a husband before you became so set in your ways, or taken you to town, where you might have found other outlets for your intellect. But there are alternatives to marriage and spinsterhood.”
    “Don’t talk about my father—”
    “Quiet!” she hissed, and turned to look back down the road.
    Kate froze. She heard distant thunder. No, not thunder. Not quite. A bass rumble vibrating up through her mount. It was a familiar tune played with a missing note. And then she knew where she had heard it before: at Grey Farm, this morning, when Tremayne’s troop had descended on the house.
    “Tremayne.” Kate turned to look at the empty road behind them.
    Angela Ferrers pursed her lips. “I think not.” For the first time that night, she looked uncertain.
    Ever since the Widow had donned her shell pink satin and begun feeding Arthur Grey’s letters to the fire, Kate had been caught up in events beyond her control. Throughout, Angela Ferrers had been confident and decisive. A few moments ago, Kate had hated her for it. Now its absence chilled her. “Who then?” Kate asked.
    “These men are riding with muffled spurs. That’s not Sancreed’s style at all.”
    The Widow reached for the pistol fixed to Kate’s saddle. She’d taken it as a precaution against bears. Kate gripped it hard and backed her horse away.
    The spy’s voice was icy. “We don’t have time for your Quaker scruples. Does your friend’s husband have any reason to fear the Redcoats?”
    Kate’s stomach lurched. “He was