One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

Blackwell without the rest of the Rum Corps around. A clean shot out of the confines of Parramatta. I was sure even Owen knew his immunity didn’t stretch to the murder of an officer.

“He’s not here,” I said, before they could speak. Instantly, I regretted my words. I ought to have feigned ignorance, given them no hint that I knew anything of the lieutenant.

“Where is he?” asked Owen.

“Do you honestly imagine I would tell you?”

He took a step towards me and I stumbled back towards the water, the edge of the stream licking my boots. I forced myself to hold Owen’s gaze. My heart was thundering. But I knew he intended to scare the information out of me and I refused to let him win.

“How dare you lay a hand on me,” I hissed.

Owen gave a short chuckle. “Would you listen to her ordering us around?” He turned back to me, eyes close to mine. “Have you forgotten who you are, Nellie? You’re nothing but a factory lag.”

“Leave me alone,” I said, my voice rattling.

Owen grabbed my arm again. I heard myself gasp as his fingers dug into my flesh.

“Blackwell does not just get to walk away,” he hissed. “Not after what he did to my family. Tell me where he is.”

I yanked out of his grip. “I’ve no idea where he is.”

I grabbed my empty washbin and hurried back to the tavern.

Back in my room, I paced.

A fortnight until Blackwell’s ship left. And the rebels knew he was here. In the anonymity of Sydney Town, it would be all too easy for Owen to pull the trigger. All too easy for him to emerged unscathed from yet another murder.

Lieutenant Blackwell does not just get to walk away.

I had to warn him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“I snuck a little rum in that tea for you,” said Charlie when I came down to the bar. “But you didn’t even drink it. Highly ungrateful if you ask me.”

“Do you know how to find Captain Grant?” I asked, pushing past his jibe. I prayed he hadn’t overheard our conversation in the tavern earlier. Prayed he didn’t know I was seeking out Blackwell.

Charlie frowned. “You all right, Nell? Something upset you?”

“Captain Grant,” I pushed. “He plays cards here with Arthur Flynn. Do you know where he lives?”

“I know where everyone lives.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Except Patrick Owen.”

Charlie chuckled. “I know where everyone important lives.”

I managed a small smile at that. Nodded impatiently as he rattled off directions, and then I was out of the tavern before he could ask questions.

Grant’s property was not far from the Whaler’s; the house guarded by a high wooden fence with a gate cut into one corner. I stood for a moment, hesitating. Would it be wildly inappropriate for me to just knock on the door? I was beginning to lose sense of what was right and wrong in this place. All the lines I knew had been blurred.

I clicked open the gate and stepped into a neatly manicured garden. Saplings surrounded a small, circular pond, grass hemmed with roses that had withered and browned in the heat.

And there was Blackwell, leaning against the house and lifting a pipe to his lips. He was without his jacket and waistcoat, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His dark hair hung over one eye. He turned suddenly, catching sight of me. And at once he was striding towards me, the pipe left smoking on the garden path. The deliberateness of his movements made my heart jump into my throat.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” I said. “I just—”

He grabbed my hand and led me around the side of the house, where the fence was covered with white-flowering vines. We slipped through the door and wove through empty servants’ quarters, before climbing a wooden staircase to the second floor. Blackwell led me into the guestroom and locked the door behind us.

Before I could speak, he reached out and pulled me into a tight embrace. I felt myself sink against him, my arms sliding around his waist.

I stepped back, my hands tight around his bare forearms. “Captain Grant and his wife have left?”

“No. Not until tonight.” His voice was low. “But they’re in the front wing. They needn’t know you’re here.”

I nodded. Standing there before the tall, wide bulk of him, the idea that the rebels could touch him seemed almost laughable.

“Patrick Owen found me at Tank Stream,” I said. “He must have caught word you’d visited me. Followed me from the tavern.”

Blackwell’s eyes darkened. “Did he hurt you?”

I shook my head. “No. But I’m worried he’ll come after you.” I swallowed. “I know he wants you dead.” The words caught in my throat. Speaking them aloud made the brutality of it sting.

I needed to know the truth, I realised then. I needed to hear Blackwell’s version of what had happened in that little hut near Squires’ inn. In two weeks’ time, he was to disappear on the sea, and all I would be left with would be Owen’s tall tales.

“Patrick Owen says you killed his family,” I said. “In their kitchen. After the uprising at Castle Hill.”

I saw something pass over Blackwell’s eyes.

“I told him I knew it was a lie.”

But right then, I questioned it. Had I allowed myself to love a man who had done such things? For that was the other realisation that swung towards me as I stood there holding his gaze; that I was irrevocably in love with Adam Blackwell. I felt like a fool. I had no place to love such a man. All it would do was break me.

His lips parted. “You think it a lie?”

I stepped away from him, and stared at the polished floorboards. Blackwell moved towards the bed, the floorboards groaning loudly beneath