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Authors: Jane Feather

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BOOK: Chase the Dawn
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Bryony woke abruptly with a surge of panic. She lay blinking in the dim light of the cabin until consciousness returned fully, bringing recognition of her surroundings and the realization that Ben must have put her to bed.

She swung herself off the bed but found that her body seemed drugged with sleep, her head muzzy. She sat on the bed with a flop and struggled to collect herself. How long had she slept? The smell of wood smoke drifted through the unshuttered window with the unmistakable aroma of bacon. If Benedict was cooking breakfast, then it must still be early. Bryony stood up again, discovered her strength returned, and made for the door.

“Ben, we should leave here soon.” She spoke even as she stepped out into the clearing, brushing her tousled hair away from her face. She peered anxiously up at the sky, where the sun was climbing rapidly. Her letter would have been discovered by now.

“Yes, you must retrace your steps,” Ben stated with soft decisiveness. “As soon as you have had coffee and breakfast, lass, that is exactly what you are going to do.”

Bryony felt the last vestiges of weariness drop from her limbs, the muzziness leave her brain. “No, I am not,” she said with a calm firmness to match his. Squatting down beside the hearth, she helped herself to coffee and drank deeply, feeling its revivifying warmth lick her
muscles back to life. “I am coming with you. Your cause is my cause, and I will fight for it beside you.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Ben was not, at this point, too alarmed. He had expected as much, and it did not occur to him for one minute that he would fail to prevail in the end. He cut two slabs of wheaten bread, laid several thick rashers of bacon between them, and handed her the substantial sandwich. “Quite apart from the fact that Miss Bryony Paget’s destiny does not lie with that of a vagrant with a war to fight and no future beyond that war, a battleground is no place for a woman.”

“You are quite mistaken,” Bryony informed him, placidly chewing. “It doesn’t matter who or what you are now or may become, my destiny is bound inextricably with yours. And women have always followed armies, anyway. I fail to see why this one should be any different.”

Benedict began to feel the first hint of apprehension. Bryony’s assurance was so absolute. “Finish your breakfast and get on your way. I am leaving as soon as I have closed up the cabin.”

“Good,” she said. “Shall I put out the fire? The sooner we are away from here, the better, I think.” Still munching her sandwich, she stood up and reached for the kettle, tipping its contents onto the glowing embers.

“Bryony, you are
not
coming with me!” He took her by the shoulders, his fingers gripping with painful intent. “We have to say farewell, here and now, and go our separate ways. We have always known that this is the way it would be in the end.” His voice softened. “Do not make it more difficult, lass, than it must be.”

“It is not going to be at all difficult,” Bryony responded. “There will be no farewell. I love you and I
cannot envisage my life without you, therefore I am coming with you. You don’t quite understand how it must be, but you will soon, I am certain of it—once you have recovered from the events of the last two days and can see matters clearly again. At the moment, you must trust me to know what is best for us both.”

Benedict’s jaw dropped at this lecture delivered with such utter composure. “I will
not
take you!” was all he could think of to say.

“I am not asking you to
take
me,” Bryony pointed out carefully. “I am coming of my own free will, assuming responsibility for myself and my decisions.”

“You naive little baby,” he said with a scornful crack of laughter. “How can you possibly take responsibility for yourself in such circumstances? Apart from those six weeks you spent with me, you have never done so much as tie your own shoelaces.”

Bryony flushed. “That is not entirely true,” she said in a low voice. “But even if it is, I will learn. I will not be a burden to you, and I will never interfere with what you see as your duty during this war. When it is over, then we will decide what we must do.”

Benedict came to the desperate realization that, short of tying her to a tree in the clearing and leaving her to the wolves, he was helpless to prevent her following him if she insisted. He could, however, ensure that her following was short-lived. Shrugging, he released her shoulders. “Please yourself.” He strode into the cabin, leaving Bryony, somewhat surprised at the ease of her victory, to finish her breakfast.

She took the pots and dishes to the creek to wash them, and when she returned, Ben was standing outside the cabin, his sea chest at his feet, cleaning a flintlock
pistol. His musket stood ready against the cabin wall, and his clasp knife hung in a sheath at his belt. Bryony noted this overt display of instruments of death. She would have to become accustomed to much more than displays as she embraced her chosen destiny. Maybe Benedict would not survive the war he had to fight; if he did not, Bryony could not begin to imagine what would happen to her. She somehow did not think she would wish to continue living in such a circumstance. She had cast her past aside; abandoned the duties and allegiances she owed those who loved her; and, stripped of all outside supports, dependent only on her own untried strengths, she was embarking on an uncharted future.

Benedict ignored her. He thrust the pistol into his belt, checked the latch on the cabin door, slung the musket over one shoulder, and hoisted the chest onto his other. One last quick glance around the clearing to satisfy himself that there were no identifying traces of his occupancy, and he loped off into the trees at the rear of the cabin, his stride long and easy despite the weight he carried.

Bryony picked up her bundle of clothes with the little velvet pouch of jewelry and followed in his wake.

T
hroughout the day, Benedict strode ahead, whistling to himself occasionally, apparently oblivious of the figure trotting along behind him. At sundown, he shot a pheasant and made camp on the bank of a creek. Bryony watched as he plucked the bird and set it to roast over the fire on a spit he had fashioned from three sticks. She was not invited to draw close to the fire, and it dawned on her that neither was she going to be invited to join him at his supper. To her supreme irritation, this realization brought tears pricking behind her eyelids. She was famished after the long day’s march, exhausted, and much in need of a little comforting attention. But none was forthcoming from Benedict Clare, who clearly intended to starve her into submission.

Well, she had told him that she could look after herself, that she would not be dependent upon him in any way, and he had mocked her. Now she was going to have to prove that she could. The determination stiffened her backbone, and she cast a glance about her for something
edible. She found sorrel and watercress—the latter a little bitter, but beggars could hardly be choosers.

It was a cheerless supper and did remarkably little to satisfy a hunger that grew intense as the rich aroma of roasting pheasant filled the evening air. When Benedict, with callous indifference to the salivating spectator, pulled the bird apart with his fingers and set to, Bryony discovered that the contemplation of murder produced remarkably few guilt feelings. His meal completed, Ben rinsed his fingers in the creek, tidied his belongings in customary methodical fashion, and lay down by the dying fire, his head pillowed on his cloak. Not so much as a glance had he directed toward his unwanted companion since leaving the cabin that morning, and it was a bereft and forlorn Bryony who finally fell asleep under the stars, on the outskirts of the charmed circle from which she had been so clearly ostracized.

After a restless night, she woke with the first bird call, chilled by the dew, her muscles, accustomed only to feather softness in the last months, stiff and cramped from their unyielding mattress. There was no sign of Ben, and for a second blind terror engulfed her at the thought of finding herself abandoned in the middle of nowhere. Then she saw that his belongings were still neatly stacked and the fire had been rekindled. Was he going to cook something for breakfast? she thought longingly. He’d certainly be making coffee, and at this moment Bryony thought she would sacrifice anything for a cup of that hot, reviving liquid.

When she returned from a necessary trip into the woods, Ben was squatting by the fire, the aroma of coffee almost visible, so tangible was it to her starved senses. Would he give her some if she asked? But even
when she approached him across the dew-laden grass, he did not look up or acknowledge her presence by so much as a ripple of a muscle. Pride, Bryony found, was not easily defeated; she could not bring herself to beg. She turned away, going down to the creek, where she splashed her face and drank the cold, cheerless water. She imagined that she was parched in the desert, tormented by thirst and only water could satisfy her—certainly hot, strong coffee would not do so! Another handful of cress served as nourishment while Bryony tried to convince herself that there were many members of the animal kingdom who thrived on a vegetarian diet. The thought that perhaps nature had designed them differently to accommodate such eating habits was not helpful and was summarily dismissed. Variety was clearly the answer. On the march today, she would hunt and gather as Ben had taught her. Yesterday, she had made no provision for her food because it had not occurred to her that Benedict was capable of such heartlessness. Now that she knew the depths of which he was capable, she would be prepared.

Benedict stamped out the fire, stowed away the simple utensils he had used, and cast a final glance around, managing a covert inspection of Bryony, who was standing by the trees, idly examining her fingernails, to all intents and purposes waiting patiently for him to make a move. He was conscious of his admiration for her, despite his anger, which showed no signs of abating. How much longer could she hold out? He had thought when she had approached him and the coffeepot that she was about to throw in the towel. But she was made of sterner stuff than he had anticipated, and Benedict Clare was obliged to admit that he was made of weaker stuff than
he had anticipated. He was finding it remarkably difficult to continue with his plan.

The day grew hot and muggy, and the dense forest permitted little movement of air. Sweat stung Bryony’s eyes and itched beneath her tunic as she plodded doggedly in Ben’s footsteps. Her handkerchief, knotted at four corners, made a makeshift basket for her plunder of nuts and berries collected along the walk. Bryony was not entirely sure how many of them were edible, but Ben’s pace was too fast to allow her time to examine before she picked, so she could only hope that when they stopped for the night she would find some in her little store that were at least palatable.

This solitary marching through the backwoods could not continue indefinitely, she told herself whenever her determination showed signs of weakening. At some point, they would come to a place where civilized things happened and where food and drink of an ordinary kind would be readily available to one who would be as prepared to steal as to buy, if that were the only means available. At some point, Benedict was going to have to accept the need to talk…. So her thoughts ran on wishfully throughout an interminable, wretchedly uncomfortable day.

The most extraordinary cacophony broke into her miserable trance toward late afternoon, and her head shot up from her intense concentration on her feet’s progress along the weed-infested path through the thick undergrowth. Benedict had stopped dead on the path, and she almost ran into him, pulling herself up just in time. Facing him was a phalanx of angrily gobbling wild turkeys, their tails fanned, their wattles shaking. To Bryony’s inexperienced eye, they looked most ferocious
and certainly sounded it. She stepped back involuntarily. Then Ben, incredibly, put his burdens on the ground and swooped on the foremost bird, tucked it beneath one arm, and wrung its neck.

It was over in an instant, the bird hanging suddenly limp, its neck at an odd angle. Its companions, in sudden panic, scattered, gobbling wildly, and Benedict thrust the dead turkey into his game bag, slung that and his musket over his shoulder, hefted his sea chest, and strode through the bewildered birds, shooing them out of his path. Bryony, still stunned, remained immobile on the path before realizing that the turkeys were reforming between herself and Ben. With a choked gasp, she plunged into the midst of the crowd, felt them, feathery and warm against her bare legs, felt the sharp peck of a beak, and cursed Benedict Clare with all her might.

Her resentment became overpowering when she realized that Ben was going to cook and eat alone a catch big enough to feed six. He had chosen for his campsite a small glade where a pretty little stream ran limpid and musical over rock and sand. Bryony settled herself some distance from his fire, dabbling her hot, tired feet in the cool, crystal-clear water, and tried not to watch as the bird was prepared. He quartered it and set legs and wings to broil on hot, flat stones over the fire. Presumably, it was quicker that way, she thought glumly, and Benedict must be sharp set after such a long and strenuous day. She, herself, was beginning to feel a little light-headed, but dwelling on the sensation did not help matters in the slightest, so she turned her attention resolutely to the spoils in her handkerchief.

BOOK: Chase the Dawn
13.63Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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