“What would you like me to say?”
Surprise flickered over the man’s face. “Well, an admission of guilt is of course preferable, but protestations of innocence are more common.”
Solomon could not help himself: he laughed. It was not bitter, but admiring. This man was relentless, absolutely determined to get what he wanted, and sure of himself. As well he might be, of course, for he had unraveled Solomon’s lie, but Ambrose Stuart did not seem inclined to gloat, as some men might, and his humor was refreshing after the months of dramatic speeches Solomon had endured at the tavern.
“How does this work then?” Solomon asked him. “You say you have captured me, and you bring me...”
“To stand trial.”
“A true trial?” Solomon raised an eyebrow right back at the man. “Or is this a witch hunt, and no words will save me?”
The man paused, tilting his head to one side. “Do you truly have a defense?”
No. Nevertheless Solomon only smiled.
Ambrose sighed. “Insofar as your defense is verifiable, and is deemed worthy. It shall work to your benefit.”
“Truly?”
“We are not monsters on a witch hunt, as you so eloquently suggested. We are people of reason. Quite unlike the Confederacy.” Ambrose put the pistol back in its holster, but the smoothness of the motion was itself a warning; he could draw the weapon once more before Solomon would ever get a chance to use his rifle. “Now, will you come?”
“What did you say about the Confederacy?” Solomon’s attention had been caught on that one word, and his heart began to pound.
Ambrose stopped, almost comically. “Is this relevant, Mr. Dalton?”
“Very much so.” Solomon’s voice was tight. “You see, I track a man and woman abducted for, I can only assume, one of the Confederate tribunals.”
“Jasper Perry,” Stuart guessed at once.
Solomon nodded. His stomach twisted at the quick assessment. How mu
ch did the man know, and to whom, in Knox, had he spoken?
“How very interesting.” The spy looked genuinely intrigued. “But who is the woman? Your sister?”
“The wrong sister,” Solomon said softly. “My younger sister, Cecelia. A woman they have, I can only assumed, kidnapped to be brought to death. Or to scare Perry.”
“I see. So naturally, you fear for your friend’s life.”
“He saved my life, as you doubtless know. It’s my duty to go to his aid. More so,” Solomon said, his voice hardening, “it is my duty to see that my sister is not harmed.”
“Very interesting.” The spy’s eyes narrowed in speculation.
“What?”
“Well, I must say I’m impressed,” the man admitted. “Most men snivel and beg for their lives. You, on the other hand, I do believe you’re bargaining for your sister’s life.”
“And while I bargain, we lose time.” Solomon heard his own voice rise. He was furious suddenly. Angry for himself, for if he had not defected, he would not be held up here at gunpoint while Cecelia was being carried ever further south.
Of course, if he had never defected, Cecelia would never have been captured at all.
He was furious too at the agent. For his knowing smile, for the enchanted manner in which he greeted Solomon’s pleas. For his humor.
“So what do you propose?” the agent asked, after a moment.
Solomon took a savage pleasure in the fact that the man was genuinely at a loss. “You want me to come back and stand trial, you say,” Solomon said simply.
The man only nodded. He knew this was some kind of trick, and even if he could not see where it was, he did not want to make himself look foolish by buying in whole-heartedly. For the first time since he had apprehended Solomon, Ambrose appeared worried.