With their purchases wrapped for delivery and Beekman's note firmly in hand, they went to the bank, where a bored clerk with a mulish mouth and tobacco—stained fingers counted out the money in a combination of Spanish, British, Dutch, and New—York currencies, muttering exchange rates under his breath and scribbling out an accounting as he went along. Nathaniel arranged for a good amount of this money to be paid into the account of a Mr. James Scott. To his surprise, Elizabeth excused herself during the process and went to speak to the bank manager without him. Walking back to the Schuyler estate with five hundred dollars in notes and silver and his hand resting lightly on his rifle, he managed to curb his curiosity.

"Why James Scott?" Elizabeth asked. "Could not Runs-from-Bears use his own name?"

He cast a surprised glance in her direction. "Bears never goes into the bank. They wouldn't let an Indian do business there, Boots."

She drew up, flushed with surprise and indignation. "But why not, if he has money to deposit? The funds from the silver—" She glanced around herself and dropped her voice. "They are kept in that bank? I assume you were repaying the funds you borrowed from the silver mine in the spring?"

"Yes."

"Then who is James Scott?"

"I am. I do the banking for Runs-from-Bears. It's just a name, Boots."

Elizabeth shook her head, "I fear I will never understand this business."

"You could understand it well enough, Boots. You might never like it much. You realize the treasury could show up at our door tomorrow," he warned her once again. "Sooner or later somebody's going to start talking about this gold we're spending so freely, and they'll come looking for the five—guinea pieces."

"I am not worried," Elizabeth said, straightening her shoulders. "I will just tell them you married me for my money.

"That'll do the trick, all right," Nathaniel said sourly.

In their room, Elizabeth put a small purse in Nathaniel's hands, along with a sheet of paper covered closely with her strong, upright handwriting.

"Four hundred dollars, as agreed. In notes. I hope that is satisfactory. And a bill of sale for the schoolhouse, for your signature."

He knew better than to show surprise. Nathaniel read the offered document carefully; he read it again in order to gather his thoughts.

"Mr. Schuyler arranged for the withdrawal. And Mr. Bennett reviewed the bill of sale and made a suggestion or two. They were both most helpful."

"So I see. Did you withdraw all of your aunt Merriweather's funds?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Never mind, Boots. Idle curiosity killed the cat, I'm told. Give me something to write with, and we'll see this done."

"Wait," she said suddenly, and she turned on her heel and left the room. Nathaniel was just thinking of following her when she reappeared ushering before her a mystified Mrs. Vanderhyden and Mr. MacIntyre, who ran the estate for the Schuylers while they spent their summer at Saratoga.

"We need witnesses."

When all parties had signed the document and they were alone again, she sat down on the edge of the broad bed and let out a sigh of relief, and then lay back with an arm across her face.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Now I'll have to figure out what to spend this money on. Don't think I've ever had so much cash and nothing to do with it."

She peeked at him over the edge of her arm. "If you'd like to make an investment, I have something to suggest."

He grinned at her. "I was thinking of a new rifle, but I expect you'll have a better idea. What is it?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I'm not ready to tell you yet. Hopefully tomorrow, before we leave for home."

Nathaniel lay down next to her and pulled her face up to his, traced her eyebrow with his finger. "I'll let you lead me astray tomorrow." His hand slid down her arm and up her side, probing softly with his thumb for the curve of her breast. "If you'll let me do the same for you today."

* * *

"I wasn't made for fancy clothes," he said, picking at his shirtfront. The coat, borrowed from John Bradstreet's wardrobe, was cut in severe lines, tight—sleeved and swallow—tailed, and slightly too narrow across the shoulders. Nathaniel flexed his arms in protest.

"I beg to disagree," Elizabeth said, her head tilted to one side. Under the softly gathered, high—wasted skirt—borrowed again from the selection Mrs. Vanderhyden had provided—one toe tapped softly. She brushed a hand across his shoulder.

The color suited him: deep black against the fine Holland linen, with a modestly folded jabot at the neck. The fawn—colored breeches fit him better than the coat, and they were far less discreet than his usual buckskin leggings: every muscle was visible when he moved. His hair was brushed back smooth away from his brow and gathered into a neat tail. The combination of his deeply tanned face above the startling white linen and the twirling silver earring leant him a dangerous air, which he supplemented with a scowl.

"I can't deny that you look pretty, Boots. But I like you better in doeskin with your legs bare and your hair plaited. I hardly know how to put my hands on you."

"As you've had your hands on me quite a lot today, I find it hard to sympathize." She tugged on the lace shawl tucked into the deeply cut bodice in a vain attempt to cover more of her bosom. "Rest assured, I do not enjoy this any more than you do. If I had my way I would spend the evening in bed. Reading," she added in response to his grin. "But it seems we have entered into the world of high finance and intrigue, and I suppose we must play out the game."