Faithfully Yours (2 page)

“Good day, mistress,” shouted the lead rider.

She kept silent. Maybe they would take her for daft and continue on without pausing.

When a horse pawed the ground in front of her, Faith froze. Was the rider daft himself?

“I said, good day, mistress.” He nodded toward her as he drew back his horse, but did not dismount.

She did not expect him to. British soldiers in their glorious uniforms treated the residents of Chester County—and, she suspected, the rest of the rebellious colonies—like servants, ready to do their bidding. Father had their respect, but only because he helped them.

She stared at the road as she continued walking. The soldiers' gazes pricked her like the tip of a bayonet, but she did not dare to show her dismay at being surrounded by these men who had left their manners on the other side of the ocean.

Her arm was seized. As she was spun about, sickness threatened to burst out of her stomach. This soldier did not resemble the man who filled her dreams with terror, save for his glistening eyes, but his gaze raised gooseflesh on her.

The lead rider drew even with her again. “I
said
, good day, mistress.”

Looking from him to the man who released her arm when she twisted away, she realized the man on the horse wore officer's insignia. A lieutenant, he must be patrolling this area for some reason. She wondered why. All the rebel troops had left here after the horrible defeats they had suffered.

“Good day, Lieutenant.” She knew he would not leave until he had won himself the satisfaction of making her reply. Now he could take his triumph and be on his way. This ruse had worked before. Once the local residents acknowledged the British officers as their betters, they were left alone.

She started to edge away, but the lieutenant said, “That is a full basket that you have there, mistress.”

“Yes.” She took another step.

He nudged his horse forward to block her way. “What else are you carrying, mistress?”

“Clothing and food to share with a neighbor who has recently been bereaved.”

“That is very kind of you, mistress.”

“Thank you.” She drew her hood back up over her cap. “Good day, Lieutenant.”

The hand on her arm halted her before she could move. She stiffened, remaining silent. She had not seen the lieutenant give an order to his men. Were they stopping her for any reason other than to entertain themselves with their superiority and her dismay?

“What truly is in your basket, mistress?” the lieutenant asked, all humor gone from his voice.

The soldier beside her gave her no chance to answer. He yanked the basket out of her hands. She gasped and tried to snatch it back. She would not let these fiends steal from her. They did not need these supplies, and her neighbors did.

His broad hand covered hers, and she winced as the motion drove the splinter more deeply under her skin. Pulling her closer, he licked his lips. “Is there something tasty in here, lass?”

Horror ached through her. His voice was too much like the brute in her nightmare. “Give me back my basket!”

“You,” growled the lieutenant, “do not give orders here.”

“But I do,” came a deeper voice. “Stop this immediately!”

The man released the basket as if it had burned him. It fell to the ground, the clothing and boxes of salt and flour beneath them scattering across the road.

When Faith knelt to gather up the boxes, the order came again. “Stop!” Before she could retort, the deep voice said, “Dawson, collect this young lady's possessions and put them back into her basket. All of them.”

With a grumble, the man who had pulled her basket away said, “Aye, sir.”

“I want nothing to be missing.”

“Aye, sir,” he repeated, even more reluctantly.

“Are you unhurt, mistress?”

Faith's eyes grew wide when a man she had not seen before dismounted. He was of average height—both Dawson and the lieutenant were taller—but there was nothing commonplace about his eyes, which were almost as dark as last night's sky. A hint of ebony whiskers emphasized the taut angles of his face. They could not ease his jaw's stern, sculptured line.

The scarlet uniform might have been designed with him in mind. Its shoulder straps accented the breadth of his shoulders, while the black lapels drew her eyes along his muscular form to his white waistcoat and breeches. Beneath his black gaiters, which reached halfway to his knees, his boots were shaggy with dust. These men must have ridden far. She hoped their destination was just as far from Goshen.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked.

Faith scowled at him. She should have known he was no different from his fellows. Already he was trying to put her to the blush. She might have auburn hair, but she had learned not to flush at every comment made by these British soldiers. If she had not, she would be suffering from a crimson face most of the time.

“Are you in charge of these men, sir?”

“I am.”

“Then you should keep a closer eye on them.” She raised her voice so that none of the men would miss her insult. “I did not realize that the government in London was sending expeditionary forces of uncouth cads to America.”

Grumbles sounded around her, but the dark-haired man smiled. “I shall endeavor to do as you suggest, mistress. From what I have seen, there is little welcome in this area for the king's men.” He paused, and she wondered if he wanted her to comment. When she said nothing, he added, “It does not behoove us to create more ill will.”

“I am pleased to hear that.” She noted the insignia on his uniform. “I wish you the best of luck with your lessons with your men, Major.”

“'Tis Major Sebastian Kendrick, mistress.”

“Thank you, Major.” She reached for the basket. Dawson was stretching to hold it out to her, as if he did not want to come any closer to the major.

Major Kendrick grasped her wrist. “Is this blood on your hand, mistress? Tell me which one of my men caused this, and I shall have him punished without delay.”

Seeing the men look at one another in dismay, she said, “'Tis from a splinter, nothing more.”

His eyes widened, and she saw honest amazement in them. He knew that she could have used this opportunity to repay his men for their mistreatment, but she had not. That she could gauge his thoughts was disturbing. She wanted nothing to do with a British major when she carried supplies for the rebel army. Folding her arms over the basket, she edged back a step, then another.

As she turned to walk away down the road, the major called, “May I have the courtesy of your name?”

She pretended she had not heard. These beasts did not deserve to be treated with deference, for they never had offered her any that was not hypocritical.
Save for Major Kendrick
. She ignored that thought. Other British officers had been the epitome of graciousness when her family was near, then had sought to find her alone so they might seduce her. Let Father pay court to them! She wanted nothing to do with any of them. They had brought death and war and nightmares into her life. She wished they would all go away.

Major Kendrick's gaze followed her. She could sense it along with the stares from his men. There was something different about his, as if he could pierce through her cool guise and see how swiftly her heart beat. She hoped her cloak hid the shiver that coursed along her.

Why was she being so fanciful? Major Kendrick was just a man, a British soldier, no better and, thankfully, no worse than the rest.

She tensed when Major Kendrick shouted, but his words, which were almost swept away by the breeze, were an order for his men to mount. Hoofbeats vanished into the distance. She turned to look back. A gasp exploded from her.

Major Kendrick stood directly behind her. His horse waited along the road, which was otherwise empty.

“Why are you following me?” She could not lead him to the byre where she would be leaving this basket.

He smiled, his expression as chilly as hers had been. “I simply wish to assure myself that you will reach your destination without further incident.”

“I shall have no problems if—”

“If I curb the enthusiasm of my men?”

“I would not describe it as enthusiasm,” she answered, wondering how she could persuade him to leave her be.

He lifted his cocked hat and brushed back his ebony hair, which had escaped his queue. A useless motion, for the breeze sent it fluttering over his eyes before he could set his hat back on his head.

She quivered as she thought how easily her fingers could comb back his hair so it would stay in place. Was she out of her mind? To consider touching one of these Englishmen of her own volition? Absurd!

“Are all the women in these parts so outspoken?” Major Kendrick asked.

“I cannot speak for all the women here, save that I know of none who would appreciate being treated as basely as your men treated me.”

“For that, I shall apologize again.” He reached toward her, and she opened her mouth to shriek, although nobody would hear her along this deserted road.

When he took a glove from her basket and ran his finger along the red stripe on its palm, she bit her lip. Were his polite words only a way to examine her basket more closely? These men were supposed to be guarding them, not making them feel like criminals on their way to Newgate.

“Did you knit this, Mistress …?”

She acted as if she had not noticed his pause, which he wanted filled with her name. “Yes, I did.”

“The stitches are very fine and straight.”

“Thank you.

“Does the red show your loyalty to the king and his men, who wear uniforms of the same shade?”

“I like bright colors, and my neighbors ask for them in the things I knit.”

His brows lowered. “So you favor the rebels?”

“I favor neither side. I simply knit for those who are in need here, Major.”

“They must be pleased with your work.”

“I hope so.”

When she added nothing else, he stared at her for a long minute. What was he hoping to see? She had not lied to him, although she had not told him what she guessed he wanted to know—her name and her destination. Raising her chin, she met his gaze evenly. She would not be daunted by him. At least, she would not let him see that she was.

“I bid you to have a more pleasant day than you have had so far, mistress,” he said, tipping his hat toward her.

“Thank you again, and may you fare well on your journey.”

“I doubt that, on the rest of my journey, I shall come upon another sight more fair.” A rakish smile graced his lips as he bowed his head again and turned on his heel to stride back to his horse.

She was unsure if she should stand and watch his strong steps or if she should hie herself off with all possible speed. Doing either would be silly. Trying to calm her rapid breathing—she had been holding her breath the whole time he spoke with her—she settled her basket over her arm and walked slowly.

When she heard his horse riding away, Faith glanced behind her, but saw no one on the road. She let her shoulders sag, and she sighed. The headache that had tormented her last night had returned to pulse beneath her cap. Major Kendrick had his men thoroughly under his control, thank goodness.

Her steps faltered as she was about to turn down a path that was almost lost among the leafless briars. Never had she thought she would use the phrase “thank goodness” in reference to a British soldier. She doubted if she ever would again.

Two

The pile of stones had once been the beginnings of a byre, but whoever had started it—Englishman, American, or Lenape Indian—had abandoned it years ago. Part of the roof remained, and Faith stepped over the low threshold into the shadowed interior.

Aromas of hay told her that others were using this byre, too. Mr. Schmidt, probably, because his farm was nearby and he had had a good crop of hay this summer. That was no reason to worry. Even if Tom Rooke did not meet her here today, she could leave the basket in a back corner, and no one, not even kindly Mr. Schmidt, would take note of it.

Drawing back her hood, she set the basket on the hay. She settled her cap more firmly on her head. The devil take those Englishmen and their crude ways!

“I thought to see you an hour past,” came a soft voice from the shadows.

Faith turned and smiled. Tom Rooke's dramatic air had once unsettled her. Today, she was grateful he was here to take this basket and allow her to hurry home, where she could sit in her corner by the hearth, knit, and ignore the way her father answered the British soldiers' orders like a well-trained pup.

Tom Rooke stepped out of the shadows. He was as lean as a board and so tall his head brushed the rafters. Because he hailed from Paoli, a town about a day's walk from here, she had not met him before he became the courier for the supplies she was able to collect for General Washington's army.

“I made a late start,” she said.

“And you were delayed along the way.”

“How did you know?”

His mischievous grin tilted his lips. “'Twas no more than a guess. You seldom waver from the time you arrive.”

Going back to the door, she peered out. Clouds were thickening, and the scent of rain was heavy in the air—not yet snow, she hoped.

“Do you think you were followed?” he asked.

Faith shook her head, but did not turn. “I made certain of that. However, I don't favor the idea of a British patrol wandering about here.”

“Nor do I.” He came to stand beside her and had to bend to look out. “A full patrol?”

“About ten men.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper in spite of herself. “Led by a Major Kendrick.”

The major's name seemed to resonate through her and echo amid the spiderwebs lacing the rafters. His face was as bright as a brand in her memory—strong and unrelenting and fair and kind. No. She did not want to recall him as anything but a British officer who would turn on her if she dared to trust him. Pressing her hand over her throbbing heart, she bit her lip as a sharp pain exploded across her palm.