For Love or Country: The MacGregor Legacy | Book 2 (3 page)

“We will be fine, but once we bury these redcoats, you and all the Tuscaroras must go into hiding.” Tyra pointed toward the woods with the hidden swamp. “Their leader knows you killed his men and may seek revenge against you when the other redcoats arrive. They will outnumber your warriors and will have guns and cannons.”

“The Tuscaroras know how to survive and hide. Do not worry.” Red Fox motioned to his men. They gathered around. “Tell us what we must do for a white man’s burial.”

Tyra explained how deep they would need to dig each grave, the wooden crosses they would craft with the names, and the prayer she would say. “There is a wagon in the barn. Put them in it and take them to the edge of the property. I do not want them anywhere near the house.”

“Tyra!” Kirk hurried toward her with a twisted frown on his smooth face. “Captain Morgan is demanding to see you.”

***

Hugh lay upon the bed enduring the pain eating at his flesh and trying to recover from the humiliation of leaning upon a young lad to tend to his personal needs. He took a deep breath and winced from the effort. When would Miss MacGregor return? She was the only person who could make his pain diminish from the challenging conversation and wit in which she distracted him. Ever since her departure, a visit from her brother and mother had not induced the same effects upon his countenance.

He wished the window was closer, for then he would at least have a decent view. Mrs. MacGregor had come and collected his empty plate and glass. While here, she had pulled back the drapes to tease him with a bit of sunlight. Somewhere out there Miss MacGregor might be on her way back. He listened for the front door, but the sound of it opening never came.

After a while, a chill set into his body and a sweat broke out drenching his clothes. A ringing tortured his ears as he listened for the door to open with Miss MacGregor’s presence. Each hour passed in disappointment until he fell into a fitful sleep. His head ached and burned like fire, and his eyelids were so heavy he couldn’t find the energy to open them.

After dreaming of a raging battle where he saw his brother taken by the ragtag rebels, Hugh heard a woman calling his name. Her voice sounded familiar and endearing. Someone lifted his head. Cool liquid touched his lips and dribbled down his chin.

“Good, Captain Morgan. Drink a bit more,” she coaxed.

Miss MacGregor’s voice. When had she returned? Hugh forced his weary eyes open. A dim candle burned on the table by the bed, but it was enough light to see an angel with flowing red hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She leaned over him with a look of concern. Her brow wrinkled as she bit her bottom lip and lifted the cup to his mouth. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but she poured water inside. Hugh closed his mouth to gulp down the liquid. He choked. Miss MacGregor leaned him up and pounded his back.

“There now, I daresay, you shall be all right.” Her hair fell onto his face as the fragrance of sweet honey filled the air around her. It was a refreshing change from the stuffy chamber. “’Tis good to have you back. The fever made you take leave of your senses for several hours.”

“Fever?” Had he been ill? He lifted an eyebrow in question, too weak and weary to do more.

“Indeed.” She nodded sitting back down. “You have been running a temperature since evening. ’Tis now three o’clock in the morning.”

“Really?” Hugh yawned, fighting the onset of drowsiness. “I thought I had merely dozed off and took a short nap, while I waited for your return. Did Kirk not tell you I asked for you?”

“He did.” She nodded, flipping her wayward hair over her shoulder and drawing her shawl tight around her. “But I am not one of your soldiers to drop what I am doing and come running at your beck and call. Instead, I thought it more of my duty to see your men receive a proper Christian burial.”

“Forgive me, Miss MacGregor, but I had hoped to attend their funeral.” Hugh glanced down at the foot of his bed. “’Tis one of the reasons I had asked for you.”

“Well, in spite of your noble intentions, you were not in any condition to do so.” She relaxed against the back of the wooden chair and smiled at him. “When you are well enough, I will be pleased to show you their graves. I am sorry we did not have a minister to preside over them, but I prayed for their souls and for their grieving families. I read Scripture. ’Tis better than anything I could have said even if I had known them.”

“Pray tell, what did you read?” Hugh struggled to clear the mire from his brain and concentrate on what she was saying. The woman wasn’t afraid to shoot a gun, bury dead men, or act in place of a minister. Yet, she had taken excellent care of him, a man who could cause much hardship for her family as her enemy. She had asked for mercy. Was it not why she had chosen to save him—to care for him? Miss MacGregor may be the War Woman to the local savages, but to him she was a woman of mystery and intrigue.

“First Thessalonians 4,
For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.”
A rosy glow filled her smooth cheeks as she glanced away. “I was not sure what would be proper, I thought something with hope and promise would be best.”

“Quite an unusual choice. I must admit, you are full of surprises. I would have expected a few verses from Psalms.” He ran a hand through his unruly hair as a yawn interrupted his speech. “I must beg your pardon for keeping you up so late. ’Tisn’t my intention to rob you of your rest.”

“Too late, but I will gladly forgive you for an exchange of mercy for my family,” Tyra said.

“It remains to be seen.” Hugh awarded her with a grin as he rolled to his uninjured side and closed his eyes.

Chapter 3

3

K
irk burst through the front door and hurried into the parlor where Tyra read the
Cape Fear Mercury
and her mother sewed a pair of socks for one of the boys. The fire blazed as he gasped for breath, leaning over his knees. He glanced up at them with red cheeks from the biting cold outside.

“Goodness, lad, ye need to calm down afore ye cause yerself the pneumonia in this brisk weather,” Mama said with a severe expression meant to scold him. “At least give yerself time to catch yer breath.”

“Darren an’ I went to town to buy some feed for his Pa.” Kirk paused to take a few more harried breaths. “Redcoats were marching through town on Front Street, so many of ‘em they took up the whole street, an’ part of Market Street.”

“Was it really so many?” Tyra set down the newspaper and exchanged a concerned glance with her mother. She touched a finger to her chin. “I wonder if it means they were just passing through on their march or if they have a particular place in mind.”

“We overheard some men talking an’ they said the major plans to occupy the Burgwin House. He sent a scout ahead and ordered the family to remove themselves,” Kirk said.

“Are ye sure?” Mama asked, her sewing now discarded on her lap. She searched Kirk’s expression for further clarity.

“I know what I heard.” Kirk nodded, as he walked over to the fire and rubbed his hands to gain a bit of warmth. “Some of the soldiers are setting up tents around the Episcopal Church and holding meetings there.”

“But where is our army? Did they not meet any resistance at all?” Tyra stood, folded her arms and paced across the parlor. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she paused in front of the window and stared out at the overcast sky. It had been three weeks since her father and brothers departed. Captain Morgan had survived an infectious fever, but now he was mending and the British Army had arrived, she feared he would turn her family over to his superiors.

They had enjoyed civil conversations over the last few days. To her surprise, Captain Morgan had even attempted to tease her a couple of times. His recovery was taking longer than she would have preferred, but it couldn’t be helped. It would be another week before she could take out his stitches. Until then, she feared they would have to endure his company a while longer.

“Well, I suppose Wilmington is now occupied.” Mama resumed her sewing and pricked her finger. “Ouch!” She shook her hand as unshed tears filled her eyes. “I hate to think how long it might be afore we see yer da and brothers again. I daresay, the colonials shan’t come around while the British are here.”

“I have not thought of it.” Disappointment speared Tyra’s chest. She turned from the window and strode to where her mother sat. Placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, she bent forward. “We shall be strong and have faith the war will end soon and they shall come home safely to us.”

“Indeed.” Mama covered her hand with her own. Over the years, Mama had always been the one to comfort her, but these days she often returned the favor. Having a husband and three sons at war took its toll on her, but the special bond her parents shared between each other had always fascinated Tyra. Their relationship shared a unique love and warmth she had not witnessed among other married couples. Tyra had always dreamed of a marriage like theirs. It was a gift too many lacked.

“Miss MacGregor!” A familiar voice called from the chamber on the other side of the parlor across the foyer. Tyra lifted her eyes to the ceiling in frustration, letting out an unladylike sigh. “Why does he never call upon the two of you?”

“At least you do not have the duties I normally have,” Kirk twisted his mouth in disgust and wrinkled his nose.

“In the last few days Captain Morgan has been able to take care of his personal needs on his own.” Tyra whispered as she stood to her feet. She could not hide the teasing smile tugging at her lips. “I will be sure to call you if your services are needed.”

His green eyes narrowed and his lips twisted as he shook his head. “Twould be fine by me if I never see another chamber pot again.”

Tyra strode from the parlor and across the foyer. Her booted heels announced her arrival at Captain Morgan’s door. She knocked and waited until he bid her permission to enter. Gripping the brass knob, Tyra forced a jovial smile as she peered around the door. Dim light cast a slight glow. The warm hearth had grown cold several hours ago.

Captain Morgan sat up in bed propped against the carved wooden headboard. His black hair looked as if he had tried to comb it to the side with his fingers. A dark, scruffy beard had formed on his jaw. Guilt ripped through her because she had not offered him a blade to shave. The boundary lines continued to blur as to what was appropriate and what went beyond the Christian care of a man who was her enemy. After all, if he came face to face with her father or one of her brothers, would he not be compelled to try and kill or take them prisoner? A war of indecision wrestled within her pounding heart.

“How may I help you, Captain?” she asked, forcing herself to meet his intense gaze. Something about him intrigued her curiosity. Under more pleasant circumstances, she had no doubt she would have liked Captain Morgan. He was polite, respectful, and full of intelligent conversation, but his current position and power overwhelmed her with fear for her family. What would he do to them once he was well, now that his superior had taken control of the town?

“I did not mean to intrude on your conversation, but I could not help overhearing that British forces are marching through Wilmington as we speak and setting up headquarters?” He lifted a dark brown eyebrow, and she could almost feel the excitement he tried to contain. Resentment spiraled inside her.

“Indeed. It is what my brother has witnessed. He can be a bit animated at times.” Unease trembled through Tyra, but she kept her expression passive. “I imagine you would like to return to them?” She searched her mind for a way to carry him outside to the wagon bed. He wasn’t yet strong enough to ride a horse by himself or walk too far.

“As much as I would like to own up to my independence, reality screams at me when I stand to bear pressure upon my leg.” He tilted his head and regarded her with a peculiar expression as an easy grin spread across his face, revealing a row of healthy teeth. “Besides, the Army’s physician is not nearly as beautiful as my nurse here.”

Tyra blinked in disbelief, knowing color rose up to her face like a wave of heat. Already aware of his handsome features, Tyra wasn’t about to encourage him. What was the point when he would soon be leaving and they were opposing enemies? She said nothing as she waited for him to reveal his purpose in calling for her.

“I would be much obliged if you would have Kirk take a letter for me, so I can inform my superior of my whereabouts and the excellent care you have provided.” He scratched at the whiskers on his chin. “Perhaps they will send out a wagon bed to take me back to headquarters. I would not want to trouble your family any longer than necessary.”

Concern for her brother’s safety formed in her belly. She had heard stories of young boys being impressed into the British Navy and Army. Somehow, she had to keep Kirk as far away from the British headquarters as possible. “I need to visit the post office and the general store. I shall go myself and deliver your letter.”

“Alone?” Captain Morgan shifted to sit up, his lips forming a thin line. “Miss MacGregor, I realize I have no right to impose my will on you, but I wish you would not go into town alone.” He shook his head. “’Tis too dangerous.”

“I fear it might be even more dangerous for my brother. I shall bring you quill, ink, and paper to compose your letter. In the meantime, I will be ready to leave within the hour.” She walked to the door, opened it, and paused. “I should be perfectly safe among your gentlemen officers. ’Tisn’t likely they will try to impress a woman among their numbers, but I am not convinced where an innocent lad is concerned.”

***

Hugh stared at the closed door behind Miss MacGregor’s departure. Frustration filled him at his limitations. He longed to be up taking part in their conversations, learning more about the MacGregors, particularly Miss MacGregor. She was not as forthcoming in answering his questions as he would like, yet the woman certainly knew her own mind. How could he convince her not to go alone? Memories of some of the debauched behavior of the soldiers in his regiment came to mind. As soon as their superior officers turned their heads or gave them the night off, they would head to the taverns to find the first willing wench available. He wouldn’t trust any of them around Miss MacGregor.

Flipping back the covers, Hugh swung his legs over the side and scooted to the edge of the bed. His feet hit the cool wooden floor and his legs shook as he bent his knees and pushed himself up. His injured leg trembled even more, but his strong leg held him steady. Taking a deep breath, Hugh wrapped the blanket around him and took a step forward. He limped upon his bad leg as a searing pain etched through his side. Hugh gritted his teeth and dragged himself to the door, determined to reach Mrs. MacGregor before her daughter returned downstairs.

He made it to the door of the parlor and leaned against the threshold frame. He hated how much he needed their support. Mrs. MacGregor looked up with a startled expression, her blue eyes widened. “Captain, are ye sure ye should be up and about?”

“I realize it may not be any of my business, but Miss MacGregor intends to take a letter of mine to my superior officer. I suggested the lad take it, but she fears he will be impressed into the British Army and insists on going herself.” Hugh tipped his head back to make sure Miss MacGregor wasn’t yet coming down the stairs. “At the risk of being too forward, please do not allow her to go alone. ’Tis too dangerous. Do not misunderstand me. There are good men in our service, but as with any place there are bad ones as well.”

“She has always been a headstrong lass, to be sure.” Mrs. MacGregor nodded, setting her sewing aside and rising to her feet. She walked toward him and took his arm to lead him back to his chamber. “I thank ye for the warning, and your meaning is quite clear. I shall accompany her, and we will stop by our neighbor’s house to see if Mr. Simmons will escort us into town, considering the circumstances.”

Hugh breathed a sigh of relief, unsure of when Miss MacGregor’s welfare had become so important to him. How could he help it? She had not only saved his life, but spent countless hours in his company reading the Bible to him, giving him news of the war and of town, feeding him, and staying up late to care for him throughout the night when he had a raging fever.

“I think it will be a wise alternative, and I daresay, ’twill not offend Miss MacGregor’s independent spirit.” He chuckled, not wanting anything to change her bold personality. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Sounds like ye’ve come to understand my daughter quite well in the past fortnight,” Mrs. MacGregor said.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs as Hugh entered his chamber and hobbled back to his bed.

“Captain, why are you out of bed?” Miss MacGregor’s voice carried across the chamber in her usual forthright manner. He paused like a child in the midst of a naughty act. She set the quill, ink, and paper on the table by the bed. Turning to look at him, she placed her hands on her hips. Few women stood tall enough to meet him at eye level, but Miss MacGregor claimed the honor.

“The exercise is good for me.” He offered her a teasing grin. “How else am I to rebuild my strength?”

With a frown making her lips look pouty, she leaned forward, pressed her hand against his chest, and pushed him. Hugh stepped backward until his knees pressed against the bed. He lost his balance and stumbled onto the bed. He prayed the rope under the mattress would hold his weight from such force as he grunted and glanced up at her in surprised confusion. She pressed her fingers against her lips as if she couldn’t believe what she had done, but a budding smile toyed at the corners of her mouth.

“Tyra!” Mrs. MacGregor stood at the foot of the bed. “What are ye doing, lass?”

“Captain Morgan is not ready to be up and about. If he is, he could make the trip into town to deliver his letter himself.” Miss MacGregor looked from her mother back at Hugh. Her eyes were full of fire, and it stirred his blood in a way that made his head swim like a dizzy fish. He was right to go to her mother in an effort to try to protect her. With such bold courage, she might provoke the wrong soldier in town.

“Apologize, Tyra,” her mother said. “I helped Captain Morgan back to his chamber myself. I assure ye, lass, he is not ready to travel on his own and has done naught to deserve yer ire.”

Miss MacGregor stepped back from him, the smile in her expression faded to hurt betrayal as she stared at her mother. She blinked and gripped her stomach. Regret filled Hugh with a desire to make her smile again.

“No, ’tis all right.” Hugh shook his head and pulled the covers around him as he lay where he belonged. “Miss MacGregor is only concerned for my welfare. After saving my life, I am quite grateful for her judgment.”

“Captain, I appreciate your mercy,” Mrs. MacGregor said. She turned her gaze back to her daughter. “Lass, ready yerself. I shall be going with ye to town. I would like to stop by the Simmons place on the way.”

“But are they expecting us?” Miss MacGregor asked.

“Nay, but that is the beauty of it.” Mrs. MacGregor’s smile widened as she gripped her hands together in front of her. “They shall be pleasantly surprised.”

***

Tyra sat on the wagon bench, freezing in the cold while her mother went inside to ask Mr. Simmons to escort them into town. Her teeth chattered as she rubbed her hands inside her muff and snuggled deeper into her brown cloak wishing they would hurry. In truth, she had no idea why her mother insisted on requesting his escort unless it was the presence of the British. Over the past few years since their men folk were at war, she and her mother had gone to Wilmington many times by themselves until today.

The front door opened and laughter followed with dim candlelight. Mr. Simmons and her mother walked toward Tyra. His gray hair inched beneath his black hat, but his shaggy beard and mustache hid his expression. He assisted her mother as she climbed onto the wagon and settled beside Tyra and walked around to the other side. Mr. Simmons hoisted himself like a young agile man and took the reins in hand. He clicked his tongue, snapped the reins upon the two horses, and off they rolled onto the path ahead.