"Badly decomposed, but not his."
"Then why has no one heard from him in so long?"
"He was injured, in a coma like Elizabeth. He came out of last year, but didn't know who he was until just recently."
"How can you be so sure that he's telling you the truth?"
"Because he happens to be a friend of Thomas's."
"They know each other?" she asked, open-mouthed.
"He just married one of their other friend's sisters. He was injured and blind, with no memory. Thanks to her he's recovering nicely, and is back in the saddle, discreetly, of course. He's carefully trying to see who's left of the network."
She shook her head. "What about their network? Samuel's? They're still out there. Our remaining enemies could all still be after us and eager to take over Joyce Hall."
Will smiled tightly. "I'm counting on it."
Chapter Twenty-seven
"You WANT your enemies to come after you?" Vevina repeated in disbelief. "Damn it, Will, have you got some sort of yearning for death?"
"No," he said, shaking his head, before rising from the edge of the bed to stand over by the window with her. "But it needs to be over. We all need to be free of the past."
"But think of the risk you're taking. If this is about Rosaria, let it go! Before you lose everything."
"It's because I gained everything with Elizabeth that I have to end this now, Sister, don't you see?"
She sighed raggedly. "All right, I'll help you. But you have to promise me you won't do anything rash with those muskets!"
"I can't promise. I need to think-"
"There's nothing to think about!" she insisted, stepping away from him to pace up and down with her arms folded across her chest. "I have four children to consider you're your niece and nephews. Not to mention all the people here at Ardmore who have been so kind. I don't want civil war in my lifetime, Will. Look at what happened the last time we had one here on Irish soil. The animosity persists to this day. Not to mention what happened in France. You fought to protect, not to oppress. For liberty, not for still more tyranny.
"Please, Will, there's no shame in killing to preserve, to save lives. But if you commit treason, you're little better than Bonaparte. It has to be democratic change in Ireland, or not at all."
"If we wait that long, it may be not at all."
"It's not up to us to decide," she said with an impatient wave of her hand. "You've always trusted Wellington in the past. If he gave you the orders you've been following, surely you must know there's a good reason!"
She could see him wavering in his resolve then, and tried to press home her advantage. "I can understand why you don't want to invade France, but using the weapons to foment rebellion is not the way to save lives either."
"I know, but I feel like if I don't do something now, we may have to wait another hundred long bloody years until we finally win our freedom from England."
"What matter if it takes two hundred, so long as the cause is just."
Will sighed heavily. "That's the problem, Sister. After all I've seen, all I've done, I'm not even sure what is just any more."
Vevina gave up trying to argue with him on a rational level. Instead, she embraced her brother. Pressing her hand to his chest, she felt the flat gold necklet carefully concealed under his shirt and cravat.
He grabbed her wrist hard, but she kept her hand upon it.
"Don't try to hide it from me, Will, I saw it last night. You told me the sword on this represents conflict and justice. The rainbow perfect love. If you really believe that, then tell me where those muskets are, and let Stewart and Parks sort this out."
He sighed raggedly. "I wish I could."
"It's easily done. I'll go get Stewart and—"
"No!" Will shrieked, trying to block her way.
"Will, for pity's sake, what is it?" she gasped, looking up into his white face with blank incomprehension. "What is really going on here? What are you not telling me?"
He shook his head and sighed. "I hardly know myself sometimes."
"Try to put it into words then, my dear," she prompted softly.
He took a deep breath, and after letting it out slowly, spoke at last. "Ever since we've come back to Ireland, well, I don't need to tell you. You've felt it too. I wish I could explain it all. But I just don't have the words, and we really don't have the time. All I know for sure is that my instinct, my knowledge of the heart, if you would like to call it that, is warring with the knowledge in my head more fiercely than I ever thought possible."