Another tear crept out of the corner of his eye. He could just ignore the letter from the muses. Selfishly, he could stay in bed with the love of his life, make her stay in his time, make her less than who she could be.

His heart broke into tiny pieces then, for he knew the way he loved her, he'd never do that to her. She would become wildly successful, if he just died. But more than that, as the muses wrote, she would become a better person. When she went back to her time, she'd face her demons, and like the strong woman he knew her to be, she'd fight back finally. She'd win her own revolution.

He held her even tighter then. G.o.d, this life was such a cold b.i.t.c.h. He'd finally stopped thinking of suicide, then was told he had to sacrifice his life. No, he didn't have to. At least that was the impression he got from the letter. It was up to him to abide by history.

If he let himself be killed tomorrow then his sister and her lover would prosper. Paul would become amazingly efficacious as well, and best of all Erva became strong and more perfectly aligned to what she loved-researching and writing.

Not wanting to crush Erva, but needing her close was essential, for, Will realized, these would be the last hours he'd hold her. His last hours alive.

Chapter 27.

Feeling like a G.o.ddess, Erva languidly stretched her sore body. G.o.d, she and Will had made love so much she was fairly certain they both had rug burns in odd places. It was so freakin' good though. She felt the subtle morning sun showering warmth down on her, making her smile all the more. If only Will would wrap his arms around her, then this moment would be perfect.

Drowsily, she opened her eyes, searching for her husband to-be. She giggled, thinking of those words. Husband. To-be. Never in her life had that phrase meant anything more magical than they did at that minute. She would marry Will, live in a huge mansion, in-get this!-England, with a sister in-law she actually liked and...Oh, there were so many things about her life to look forward to now.

Except she stared up at the canopy of her bed, thinking about Ben. As awful as it sounded, she wasn't sure she'd miss her mother. Their phone conversations were always one-sided, and usually the reason her mother called was if she needed money. But Ben-Erva's heart lurched at the thought of forever more missing her best friend. Ben had been there for her through all the heartache her mother had caused, or any guy she'd dated, and especially through her ex-husband, Cliff. Yeesh, what had she been thinking when she'd married him? She didn't feel half the happiness she felt when she thought of Will. It was then Erva knew Ben would want her happy and would want her to stay with Will. As heartbreaking as it was thinking of how much she'd miss Ben, it was for the best that she stayed here, and Erva believed Ben would think so too.

Now where was her husband to-be?

Erva glanced around the bed, but only found his scent of clean, spicy male all around her. It still made her heart skip a beat when thinking about the way he smelled. The man was ridiculously tasty. Lifting her head off the pillows, she spied around the room and saw the wooden box that the muses had given her with a folded piece of paper in front of it. Even from fifteen feet away she easily spotted Will's handwriting on it, addressed to her, his love. Laughing, she raced to the parchment and carefully unfolded it, thinking he might be playing some game with her. Maybe a treasure hunt to what lay inside his pants? And hopefully it wasn't lying.

I love you. I love you so much, Erva. I've never loved another the way I love you. You have my entire heart, darling. My heart, my body, and my soul will forever more be yours.

Will Tears easily flooded her eyes and a couple ran down her cheeks-wet warmth on her face. G.o.d, the man was so sweet. She sighed and crumpled the paper to her heart.

It was then that she saw a golden envelope with Will's name on it. She glanced around the chamber, but decided to be invasive and read the letter.

Only, as she read a roaring train began to lurch through her skull. Every word she perused made her heart sink further and further into her stomach, then her stomach twisted and hollowed. When she was done, she knew why Will would write such a sweet letter. He had written his suicide note to her.

"Those f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.hes," she screamed.

Her brain lost all reasoning functions and focused on what needed to be done. She slipped on her corset, lacing it in a matter of a second. Not caring a flying flip if anyone caught her, she ran into Will's room, just to make sure he wasn't there. He wasn't in the dark chamber. Feeling the air press against her mostly naked skin in an oppressive way, she then ripped into Will's bureau. After she had on a pair of his breeches and a shirt, she heard a throat being cleared.

Hope streaked through her chest like silver ribbons. But after looking up, she saw Paul, standing in Will's open doorway.

"He-he told me to stay behind today. He gave me strict instructions that you aren't to leave the house."

"Did he?" Her voice was lowered and angry.

Paul nodded uncomfortably.

"Did the a.s.s tell you he was planning on letting himself get killed?"

Paul's tense face fell slack and ashen.

As Erva continued getting dressed in Will's clothes, she said, "I take that as a no."

Paul shook his head. "No, he couldn't be. He loves you. He plans on marrying you. As he left, he cried, saying how much he loved you. I've never seen him like that, my lady. Not even with his wife." Paul winced as if the words he'd said bit his cheek.

Erva couldn't take any comfort in what Paul had alleged. She couldn't believe Will was doing this, especially after she'd asked him to never, ever do...Well, he wasn't committing suicide, was he? He was sacrificing himself, because the idiotic muses had said she would have a successful, healthy life without him. What those stupid Greek mythological creatures didn't understand was that with Will she already was more successful and healthy than she'd ever imagined. The love Will had given her made her grow in ways she'd never antic.i.p.ated, but there it was. She'd never go back to what she had been before Will. She was a wholly changed woman all because she'd met the kindest man on the face of the earth. Maybe the kindest man of all time.

G.o.d, she needed to run to get to him before...before it was too late.

She glanced at Paul, as she tried to belt the breeches to keep them on her hips. Not quite knowing how to explain what Will was doing without sounding as though she needed an insane asylum, or whatever they were called in the eighteenth century, she picked her words carefully. "I believe Will thinks that if he sacrifices himself during battle today, then...I'll live a better life."

Paul shook his head, clearly not understanding.

She huffed. "He-he seems to think that if he dies today, then not just me, but you too and his sister and her lover would prosper more than if he didn't."

Paul's eyes widened. "He asked about his will and testament this morning. He made sure I knew where it was, then said something about taking care of his sister, Miss Emma."

Listening to Paul reinforce what Will was planning, made Erva think her heart was crushing into ashes. The pain was almost unbearable, making her ribs, even the skin around her chest contract to a breaking point. But she had to get him. Had to stop this.

Stepping into a pair of Will's black boots, she growled when she realized they were much too big.

"Mrs. Jacobs' son has feet about your size. I'll fetch his boots for you and meet you by the front door."

Erva glanced up at Paul. His face had grown dark and serious. She nodded.

With one of Will's uniform coats and the large brimmed black hat she'd worn yesterday, Erva flew from his chamber and found Paul waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. After she stepped into the small black boots, he took her by the hand, an oddly affectionate touch but calming nonetheless, and they raced toward the stables.

"What time is it?" she asked, feeling so disconcerted she no longer had any idea what phase of the day it was.

"'Tis about eight in the morning, my lady."

She squeezed his hand. "Call me Erva, please."

He didn't say anything, but held her hand a bit tighter with a small smile.

Yesterday, Will had made sure to get his white horse from the other side of New York City, leaving behind his big black one on Manhattan. So Erva was relieved to see the white horse in his stall when Paul and she raced into the barn. The liveryman asked many questions, none of which Erva caught. She'd somehow lost the ability to understand what people said.

It was the opposite of her training in the Army. She hadn't seen much combat because breaking Arabic codes was something better done inside cozy buildings. But she had been sent into Iraq, Sudan, Jordan, and, where she'd seen the most combat, Afghanistan. During a skirmish it was best to be calm, listen to what everyone called out to each other. She knew Farsi more than she did Pashto and had repeated what she'd understood the Taliban fighters had yelled at each other to the Green Beret soldiers who surrounded her. And she had been helpful.

Thinking of her training, she tried to take a deep breath. But it was so hard to breathe. What the h.e.l.l was Will thinking? Why would he give himself up for...her? It was then she realized that if she had found a note with something similar, she would probably do the same thing. She loved Will that much. She wanted him to live. She knew he was one of the best men she'd ever met. If he lived, maybe things would be different in the past. Britain abolished slavery sooner than America, but maybe if Will had lived, it would be forever gone even earlier. He was that good of a man. He was life changing.

She'd have to find him and trade places. Who the h.e.l.l cared about historical books after all? No one read them, except history geeks like her. So it didn't matter if she wrote a book or not. It just mattered that Will lived.

Paul and Erva raced their horses out of the stables and onto the cobblestone roads of Brooklyn. There wasn't a cloud in the blue, blue sky. It should have reflected a peaceful day, yet it was anything but as the sun bore down as if it were already condemning her. She heard a few far-off musket shots, and each volley ricocheted through her, bouncing internally off her skin, and settling into her hollow belly. Every time she heard a gun firing, she braced for the impact that it might be Will.

While galloping through New York, she reminded herself of her training and tried to remember the events that led to Will's death. In the pre-dawn, about two hours ago, the American Army almost stepped on the outskirts of the British camp still in Kips Bay. They had to backpedal quickly, which made one British officer, General Alexander Leslie, laugh and ask for his bugle boys to play a foxhunting tune. That was about a half hour ago. When the Americans heard the bugles as well as the British Army taunting them, they about faced. Angry to be belittled, they decided to make a stand for themselves. About now the Americans would be fighting off the British in a buckwheat field, getting reinforcements. The British would be getting a.s.sistance too, and one of them would be Will. He would scream at General Leslie for being too arrogant then rally the troops. In wave after wave of fighting the British and the Americans would fight toe-to-toe. In the midst, Will would die, his body rummaged for treasures by the Continental soldiers. Upon nightfall the battle would cease, and the British would take the field, which meant they technically would win, but the Americans never counted it as a loss.

Well, it wouldn't be history any more, Erva decided.

Paul was with her every step of the way, then he tied their horses close to the pier and made sure they had a ferry to cross the river. In a small vessel, loaded with the men who rowed and she and Paul, he glanced at Erva from time to time as they were propelled across the wide Hudson. Finally close to Kips Bay, he said, "He's the best man I've ever known."

At that Erva's vision blurred, her eyes p.r.i.c.king with tears.

"He's quiet," Paul kept talking, almost more to himself. "Always been that way. If I had known his father, met the man, I might have been fearful of talking myself. But Will...he was always so careful about what he said. I wanted to learn how to be like him, talk with consideration. I talk before I think often, which is never good." He looked at Erva with a tiny sad smile. "He bought me, ye know that?" Erva nodded as he continued. "He gave me my freedom as soon as he bought me, but I had nowhere to go, so I stayed. The next day he came into my chamber with two wooden swords and asked if I would play with him. I'd never really done that, ye know. I'd been worked since my earliest of memories."

Erva realized that the more Paul spoke, the more his particular English accent tightened into every word, making him sound more from Liverpool, and less like Will.

Paul lost his smile when he glanced at Erva again. "I learned how to play, how to laugh, and how to have fun. I learned how to take care of myself, thanks to him. I watched him become a man and grow compa.s.sionate about slavery and wages and working conditions and...Lord, the man cares so much about everything. He cared so much for his sick wife." At that Paul's eyes misted and reddened. "And she was so sick. She kept seeing people and hearing them and then her behavior...oh, the man was a saint. Forgive me for sharing as much with you, his future wife." Paul's mouth hung open for a moment, as if realizing she might not be in his future after all, because Will might not have one. "In all my days, I might never be as good a man as him. But I'm going to try."

Erva's tears surfaced and crashed down her cheeks. She nodded and watched as the ferry finally made it to sh.o.r.e. When she jumped out of the small boat before it landed, freezing cold water cascaded over her legs, but she didn't feel a thing. Her body had gone numb as her mind and heart raced.

The only problem with knowing when Will would die, was in not knowing where. She knew from maps where the buckwheat field was, but where Will would station himself was as good a guess as anyone's.

"I'll ask Howe himself for Will's whereabouts," Paul said.

Erva nodded, but realized that Paul held her hands still.

"We'll find him. We will."

But the way Paul's eyes reflected agony didn't have Erva feeling confident that he believed what he'd said. Panic raced through her veins, pumping chaos and red-black jagged thoughts through her hazy mind. The fog of war she'd written about, theorized, and lived through in Afghanistan. But no one had written about the fog of a broken heart. It couldn't be theorized or given words-too agonizing. It tattooed one's heart, though, forever more.

Think straight, think straight, her sergeant had yelled at her during bootcamp.

Think straight. Think clear, she reminded herself.

None of it helped.

Until she remembered Will. In the throes of pa.s.sion last night, he'd gripped the bedding beside her head, looking down at her as he climaxed, spasmed into her body, and whispered, "G.o.d, I love you so much." And she loved him so much. She knew him better than anyone else in the world. He was her dissertation after all. She knew his tactics. He was always the aggressor, liking to feign frontal attacks, while he circled around his enemy. But today, fighting in the buckwheat field was different. By the time he joined the battle, he'd be forced into a defensive stance. Making matters worse, outside the field was a thick forest. He and his troops would be forced against the copse, up against a wall, so to speak. And Will was outnumbered. What would Will do? Erva closed her eyes as she recalled everything she'd read about him.

India! He was just twenty when he took his first command against his enemy, the French, during the Seven Years' War, or the French and Indian War, as most Americans called it. He was stationed in India and his commanding officer had gotten them pinned in a rice field, when Will's CO was killed. Will had fought alongside his men as he pretended a retreat from the center, allowing his enemy into his lines. Then he had his center turn around, as the flank lines pummeled the surrounded French. He had fought on the left flank. And now he had to be on the left side of the buckwheat field!

With that Erva pirouetted on a toe and raced toward the sound of the musket shots, leaving Paul behind.

As she ran through the alleyways of white tents and the off-duty redcoats, many of whom stared north toward the sounds of the skirmish, all she could think of was finding Will in time. She ran faster than she had in years, and immediately her legs screamed in agony. She'd worry about the pain later. Her lungs were filled with acid, making breathing particularly brutal. She had to stop and throw up, either from not being able to breathe or something else. Maybe her throat was too tight? It didn't matter as she found her gait again and sprinted through a wheat field to a buckwheat meadow on a hill, surrounded by the thick New York woods. She tried jumping over a fence, because she had attempted hurdles in high school, but one of her legs tangled with a post. Falling into the dirt hard enough to knock the wind out of her, she struggled on the ground with her emotions and breath.

When she could finally breathe again, she began crying once more, which utterly humiliated her as she found her way into a pack of redcoats. They were young boys, who took a few glimpses at her, then finally one whispered, "Oy, that's a girl."

"If it is, that's a girl officer," another one of them said. Then they all snickered.

Any other time, she'd think that was funny. But she kept running as she found more and more redcoats, and the noise of gunshots grew louder and louder. Something smacked against her chest hard, making her stop in her tracks. She glanced up when she realized she was firmly tucked into a man's st.u.r.dy body. There, she saw the anxious and maybe angry face of Sergeant McDougal.

"Jesus Christ, what are ye doing here, my lady?"

"Will. Will can't be here."

Sergeant McDougal's jaw kicked. He didn't say anything for several eons. She was about ready to buck from his strong grip when he leaned close to her ear.

"His head's not in the battle."

She nodded.

"He yelled at General Leslie. He's never done anything like that before. He swore too. Granted, Leslie is a pompous a.r.s.e, but yer General has never done anything remotely like that. Yer General Hill has always been the most patient of men I've ever known."

Nodding again, she leaned away enough to look at the sergeant in the eyes and plead her case. "He's-he's going to get himself killed." Her voice broke, and tears rushed down her cheeks all over again.

The sergeant sighed. "I understand yer fear. I do. But these are just a bunch of farmers pretending to be soldiers. They couldna do any damage to yer man."

"The way they didn't do damage during the Battle of Lexington and Concord just a year ago?" She shook her head and tried to gain more distance between herself and the Sergeant. "Trust me, McDougal, those pretending soldiers can and will do damage. But I'm not about to let them do it to Will."

McDougal gave her a wide smile. "There ye be, Minerva. Ye fight for him, hmm?"

She tore free from the Sergeant's grasp, but for some odd reason answered him. "Yes, I will."

He sighed and nodded. "He's on the left flank, just over there." The sergeant pointed in the direction where the musket shots were intense and jarring. "I'll come. I doubt ye need the help, but just in case."

Chapter 28.

Erva rushed ahead of Sergeant McDougal, now a.s.sured where Will was. The buckwheat field sat on a fat hill, where row upon row of British soldiers stood their ground, making their scarlet uniforms such a bright contrast to the earthy grains. It was too late for harvesting, and the buckwheat's fruit had fallen shame-faced down toward the thinning, skeletal stalks.

For this battle, she knew neither side had enough time to gather field pieces, so they were shooting each other only with their muskets. Of course, to many thinkers of her time, the in-line formation for a battle seemed absurd and silly-to just stand in front of an enemy and get shot at and shoot right back. What most modern people didn't understand was that the muskets weren't anywhere as close to as accurate as the guns of the twenty-first century, meaning that one side couldn't target the other. Shooting at each other was more a game of chance, and not as fatal as one would think. Further in-line tactics hadn't changed much since the dawn of battling with pikes. The only time it altered was when weapons became more accurate and deadly.

Sergeant McDougal dragged Erva back by clasping her wrist and pulling. "I can't have ye go into the battle."

She easily twisted her arm then swung free. "The h.e.l.l you won't."

In a step, the sergeant grasped her arms. "He'd kill me if he thought ye were in peril. Again."

She balled her hands into fists. "He can't kill you if he's dead himself."

His grip loosened, and she ran from him. She sprinted so fast, she didn't watch carefully where she was going, other than the direction the sergeant had indicated Will would be. Pushing young soldiers out of her way, she knew they were changing lines. The front row of men needed to reload their muskets. They would about-face, and have the second line come in their place. G.o.d, the air was thick with white-blue smoke and smelled strongly of sulfur, the tell-tale sign their gunpowder wouldn't pack much of a punch.

She vaguely heard the sergeant call out her name, but she scanned the crowd of redcoats for her Will. Finally, close to an apple orchid, she saw him, sitting on that big black horse, a bit away from his men, but he was stationed so he could see better, his eyes focused on what lay ahead of him. Continental soldiers.

Never were the Continentals in uniform. Well, some were, but mostly they dressed in their civilian clothes, which unfortunately were threadborn and disheveled. It was a wonder so many stayed and fought. They never had enough clothes, food, or pay. But they must have believed in the cause. And Erva knew Will believed in freedom and equality too.

She jogged through the red-clad troops, all reloading. A soprano buzzing sound erupted too close, then stung her shoulder. It made her stop in her tracks, the pain that suddenly exploded throughout her right arm. With her left hand she clutched at the bee sting, but when she looked at her palm she realized she'd been shot.

"Jesus," she whispered.

She knew it wasn't a deep wound, but it still hurt. A lot. It burned and simultaneously began to throb as fast as her heartbeat. Getting hurt had never entered her mind. After all, she wasn't in her own time, and for some strange reason she'd thought she'd be immune to pain, getting shot, and death.

But she didn't have time to think more about it.