The snow had fallen steadily for more than two hours before it began to ease. By the time dawn finally arrived the land was covered in a crisp white blanket while every leaf on every tree was decorated with a coating of hoar frost. Finding a path across the icy ground, through hollows and along ridges and over half-frozen streams where one slip could easily lead to a turned ankle or worse, had become a test of endurance. As a result, what had begun as a purposeful hike soon slowed to a weary trudge.

There had been no signs of human habitation since the cabin but plenty of evidence in the snow telling them they were not alone. Animal tracks abounded. Deer and hare slots, mostly, though on one occasion they had come across a set that was recognizably feline in nature. A lynx, Hawkwood deduced from the size of the pug marks, hoping he wasn’t mistaken and that it wasn’t one of the bigger mountain cats out on the prowl.

He tried not to think about the signs they were leaving in their own wake. Maintaining caution, they had avoided open ground as much as possible, sticking close to the treeline where the cover was better and where the surface was less prone to indentation, using established deer trails whenever they could.

Every so often, they paused and took stock. As yet, there was nothing to suggest that the Americans had taken up the chase, but Hawkwood was not about to let that lull him into a false sense of security. Had the roles been reversed, the fact that his quarry had established a lead would not have deterred him from pursuing them.

He and Jago had once chased a smuggler halfway across the English Channel, at considerable risk to themselves; there had been no question of allowing the bastard to escape, not with the blood of two British naval officers and several French prisoners of war on his hands. Memories of his own recent escape from Paris also came to mind; he’d been followed every step of the way by a policeman named Vidocq because Hawkwood had killed one of his officers.

Between them, he and Lawrence had taken the lives of at least six American troopers. No commander could afford to let that go unpunished, else he would lose the respect of his men. The Americans might be some way behind, but they were coming. The only hope was to reach the British lines before their pursuers caught up. And before the snow began to fall in earnest. Which was not going to be easy, with Lawrence’s strength flagging.