A Bride Most Begrudging (38 page)

chapter
T
WENTY
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F
IVE
   

CONSTANCE WATCHED COLONEL Tucker lead the men in musket drills. By the time they were through, instead of taking a minute and a half to load their muskets, it took only three-quarters. They practiced many of the rank speeds the men back home did, but Nellie explained it was only so the men could load without thinking, for the Indians didn’t come straight at you the way Englishmen did. Instead, they took advantage of cover, often surprising their quarry.

“I thought relations were friendly.”

“Oh, they are,” Nellie assured her. “But it’s still important to practice. One never knows.”

Constance turned back to the assembly of men who were now breaking up in preparation for the mistletoe ceremony. She’d enjoyed watching Drew go through the choreographed movements with the others as the Colonel called out commands, “Shoulder your musket!—Poise your musket!—Cast about your musket!—Draw forth your scouring stick!—Ram down your charger!” and so on until finally giving fire.

Even in a crowd, his presence commanded attention. He’d discarded jerkin and doublet, bringing the muscles of his arms and back into prominence as they rippled beneath his white shirt.

She’d seen him shoot the musket before, for several times he’d brought it with them to the creek for target practice after cleansing the dishes. And she’d enjoyed watching him then as well.

Leaning his musket against a tree, he shrugged on his doublet and jerkin, then moved to her, sweat lining his brow. “How fare you?”

She pushed back the hood of her cape. “Well.”

“Are you tiring? Need we leave?”

“I’m growing a little weary, but I’d like to stay and watch the mistletoe ceremony. May we?”

He nodded. “Very well, but we’ll leave as soon as it’s over. You’ve had a long day.”

He placed a hand beneath her elbow, catching up to the others as they moved down a path toward a rather sturdy oak. In the midst of its leafless branches, mistletoe shot from the trunk with boughs of brilliant green, decorated in an abundance of white berries, its richness a precious gem in the otherwise barren surroundings.

Granny Apperson grouped the women together and then the unmarried men. Constance and Mary gravitated toward each other to stand side-by-side for the ceremony.

Shots echoed throughout the forest as men applied their musket drills to loading and aiming for the mistletoe in record time. Within minutes the competition had narrowed to three—Josh, Goodman Emmett, and the man they called Caskie.

Young Caskie wiped a palm against his breeches.

Emmett cackled, his scrawny beard quivering. “Just imagine you’re having yer sights on one of them red-skinned savages, Caskie. That’ll make yer aim true.”

Constance frowned. Caskie raised his musket, fired, and missed.

Emmett pounded him on the back. “Well, son, step back now and take a good look at how it’s done.” Emmett prepared his weapon with exaggerated slowness, drawing attention to each of the forty or so steps it took to prime. “Now, where you fell short, boy, weren’t in your aim but in the picture you held inside yer head. You got to actually
see
them beggarly devils, naked but for a covering acrost their loins and heathen paintings of all kinds profaning their bodies.”

With what few teeth he had, Emmett uncorked one of the apostles around his neck, pouring powder down the barrel of his gun before replacing the cork onto the little bottle. “Of courst, it’s important to remember those whoresons fight not with honor. Oh, no. They slither like vile snakes behind tall grasses and trees just waiting fer a chance to strike at us God-fearing Christians. And all because they think we’re the fulfillment of some heathen prophesy about whites coming to take their lands.” Snorting, he opened the gun’s cap. “Why, everybody knows God meant for us to have this land so we could Christianize them barbarians. Ain’t that right, Preacher?” Shouldering his musket, he took aim and fired at a particularly lofty cluster, bringing it to the ground.

Disgust for his uncharitable words and attitude was soon replaced with a flicker of anxiety as Constance realized his shot was well above the ones Caskie and Josh had felled before. If Emmett won, she could be subjected to his kiss—possibly even three.

Josh took less than a minute to prepare his piece, aim, and fire. He said nary a word. Relief swept through her as a clump of mistletoe bounced from branch to lower branch before finally making its way to the ground.

Emmett rocked back on his heels. “That’s it! That’s what I’m talking about.” Joining his musket to his wrist, he loaded with remarkable speed. “Did you see that, Caskie? Why, O’Connor here was prob’ly thinking about the time them bloodthirsty savages came in ’22 and set a torch to his family’s cottage, even while his baby sister lay inside, helpless in her cradle. Story has it ol’ Josh here watched the whole thing from up in a tree, his knees a’knocking and doing nary a thing to save her.”

A black silence descended over the crowd. Constance’s gaze flew to Drew, her breath momentarily cut off. Every muscle in his body exuded tension, his face cold with fury.

Josh took a menacing step forward. Emmett quickly shouldered his musket and fired. A cluster of berries tumbled to the ground.

Panic took hold of Constance. What was the range of these muskets? What if Josh couldn’t reach a higher point due to the limitations of his firing piece? Josh loaded his musket with carefully controlled movements, then held the gun loosely within his grip, his attention pinned on Emmett.

Emmett’s smug expression slowly slipped as he looked between Josh and the primed musket. “Meant no offense, O’Connor. Just giving Caskie a few pointers.”

“It’s Christmas day, Emmett, and need I remind you that without the Indians we wouldn’t be here, for our grandfathers would never have survived?”

Emmett’s lips thinned. “Oh, those lily-livered curs
saved
our grandfathers all right, but only to fatten ’em up for the kill in ’22.”

“All was fine until your father murdered their leader.”

Emmett’s face reddened. “He was openly wearing Morgan’s cap! And after Morgan had been missing for days!”

“Morgan went with Nemattanew on a friendly trading expedition. Nobody knows what
really
happened. Morgan could have been attacked by a wild animal for all we know, but Nemattanew the Immortal was never given a chance to explain, was he? He was simply killed out of turn by a lowly Englishman whose ‘patience had been tried’ because he didn’t like Nemattanew’s hat.”

Josh’s grip on his gun tightened. “The result was a massacre, famine, and epidemic that killed hundreds upon hundreds, then a ruthless counterattack by us where even more perished.” He leaned into Emmett’s face. “I’d just as soon avoid having my loved ones put through that again. Wouldn’t you?”

Emmett took a step back, his eyes taking on a fanatical light. “Seems we’ve an Indian lover in our midst.”

Constance gasped.

Governor Hopkin stepped forward, placing himself between the two men. “Enough, Emmett. We are at peace with the Indians and, God willing, will remain that way. O’Connor, it’s your shot.”

Constance looked back to Drew only to discover he had moved up to the front, very close to his brother’s back. She started at the explosive report of Josh’s musket, then swung her gaze back to the tree, but saw no mistletoe descending. She scanned the tree’s boughs. Maybe it had gotten caught in another branch. The crowd murmured and her pulse beat erratically. Had he missed?

Anxiety spurted throughout her body. She knew, in the deepest core of her being, that Jonathon Emmett would come to her, not once, but all three times. Bile rose in her throat. With extreme effort, she swallowed.

Josh’s face looked grave as he stepped back, and Emmett reloaded his piece, silent now. So Josh hadn’t missed after all. She folded her arms against her waist.
Thank you, God
.

Emmett once again took aim. Constance held her breath, tension tightening every muscle. A loud discharge. A miss. A roar from the crowd. Josh had won.

Her limbs went buttery with relief. She shook, she gasped for air, she barely managed to remain standing. Mary grabbed her elbow. “Mistress! Are you all right?”

Drew strode through the crowd, then encircled her waist with his arm. Josh rushed to them.

“Your pardon, Josh. She’s overdone today, I fear.”

Josh nodded. “Best take her home, then.”

The brothers exchanged intense looks, communicating on a level she couldn’t begin to broach. Josh tipped his head once, turned to Mary, and paused for a moment before approaching Granny Apperson. He suspended his mistletoe above her head, and the startled old woman looked up as he hooked a thumb beneath her chin, awarding her a gentle kiss right on the lips.

Straightening, he winked at her as she plucked a berry from the cluster. “I hereby start a new tradition, Granny,” he proclaimed in a voice that reached every person present. “I say the winner claims one kiss and one kiss alone, then hangs the mistletoe above the meetinghouse entry, giving all a sporting chance.”

The single and married men alike roared their approval, and Granny Apperson held up her hands for silence before announcing, “Let it be so!”

Drew held Constance still, allowing the revelers to swarm past them as they followed Josh back to church.

Emmett sauntered by, his gun resting against his bony shoulder. “Too bad yer not feeling well, Mistress, or you might have been able to catch me under the mistletoe and seen just what could’ve been yers had yer
husband
not cheated me out of yer hand in matrimony.”

She felt Drew tense, but before he could respond, his grandmother approached. “Run along, Emmett,” she said, “for ‘he who envies admits his inferiority.’ ”

Drew quirked a brow. “You’ll have to speak more plainly, Grandma.
Inferiority
is too long a word for Emmett here to grasp.”

“You hush up too, Drew, and get your woman home.” Grandma gave Emmett a push, prompting him to proceed forward. When he and Grandma moved around the bend, Drew nuzzled the top of Constance’s head. “Are you all right?”

She rested her cheek against his chest. “I am fordone. I want to go home.”

————

I want to go home
.

How prophetic had that statement been? Drew thought. Had she meant England? No, of course not. She’d meant the cottage, but still, that wasn’t her
real
home.

He hammered a head onto the barrel of tobacco, effectively sealing it. Home for her was something he couldn’t begin to reproduce. Even if he built some huge manor house, it would be for naught. The manors in London were made for entertaining, and no one “entertained” here. There were no dances, no balls, no teas. There wasn’t even a city.

Lifting one shoulder, he wiped his brow against it, then continued hammering. If only he hadn’t gambled that long ago summer night. But then, Emmett would have her.

If only he hadn’t married her. But he’d had no choice.

If only he hadn’t loved her, bedded her. But he did and had.

The only thing to be done now was to send her back, for she was as misplaced here as a rainbow trout in a school of gasper goo. Jamestown was nothing more than a harbor for their tobacco trade. They had no theater, no roads. They didn’t even have horses.

He shoved the hogshead onto its side, then rolled it to the barn. She didn’t belong here. It had all become so clear on Christmas. And ever since, nothing had been the same.

She’d slept almost solid for those first few days after the celebration, and he’d begun to grow concerned. But she’d evidently just been taxed. Once she caught up on her rest, she’d immersed herself in the running of the cottage like never before, starting with that ludicrous sneezeweed she and Sally had draped across the bedposts.

What worried him, though, was how she insisted on cooking the meals. It had caused some tension heretofore absent from the cottage, for Mary, of course, resisted relinquishing her duties to her mistress, but Connie insisted. And once Connie dug in her heels, Mary hadn’t a prayer.

With assistance from Isaac, Drew heaved the barrel up on its end, wedging it next to other hogsheads lining the outside of the barn. Only a few more to go, and his shipment would be ready to roll down to the public warehouse near the wharf.

He watched Isaac move back to the tobacco press. It wasn’t just the cooking either. For some reason, Connie had decided to launch into all kinds of domestic projects. She’d tried to make candles out of the old bayberries she and Sally had picked last fall, but not only were there not enough berries, but neither could she get the temperature of the fire quite right. At first, the candles came out lumpy, so she added fuel to the fire. Then the paraffin became so hot it melted the already deposited wax right off the candles she was re-dipping. She ended up with a huge mess, a bunch of wasted wicks, and about four questionable-looking candles instead of thirty. The yard sure smelled good, though.