The Colonel's Lady (42 page)

“Cass . . .”

She placed her hands flat against his chest, then moved upward, tracing the finely tailored lines of his waistcoat as it leveled out onto the sturdy planes of his shoulders. In the deep darkness, her fingers brushed his finely wrought Gaelic jaw, the day’s shadow of beard, the queue ribbon holding back his hair. An undeniable yearning swept through her.

Did she . . . dare?

Standing on tiptoe, she brought his head down and pressed her mouth to his. Surprise rippled through him—she could feel it—and in answer his hands spanned her waist—warm, supple hands that held muskets and sabers and lethal things but now touched her so tenderly. When he drew back a bit as if measuring his response, she cast aside restraint and began covering him with kisses—sweet, sustained kisses on his mouth and bristled cheeks and chin—till he sat down atop his desk and wrapped her more fully in his arms and kissed her back.

For long moments she didn’t know where he ended and she began. He fanned his fingers through her hair, his rough palms catching on its damp strands, murmuring endearments in Gaelic she’d once heard when she was so ill and he’d prayed for her. His kiss deepened and she responded in kind, awash in the wonder that he wanted her. At last she laid her cheek against his chest, feeling the swell of the locket beneath.

Her voice wavered and became a whisper. “I should never have taken it away from you.”

His mouth was warm against her ear. “The locket hardly matters. ’Tis you and only you I need.”

Yes, but the truth of it had dawned all too late.

Only a man in love would make provision for her as he’d done, for Abby, even sanctioning her marriage to one of his men, a soldier he could have used in the field but he’d kept at Fort Endeavor, all for her future. He’d even humbled himself enough to tell her he’d made his peace with God so she’d not be left ignorant and grieving.

Her voice broke. “You’ve told me—shown me—you love me at every turn, but I’ve flung it back in your face.”

“You’ve never known what it’s like to be loved . . . truly loved . . . till now.” Gathering her closer, he stroked her hair. “I’ve been thinking of something your father said—that the true measure of love is what one is willing to give up for it. He was talking about freedom—fighting for liberty. But I believe ’tis the same for love as war.”

“What do you mean?”

“When all of this is over, I want you and Abby to be happy—and safe. To have a home. Graham Greer is a good man, more farmer than soldier—”

“Nay, Cass . . . please.” Putting her fingers to his lips, she shook her head as vehemently as Abby might have done.

“He’ll be a decent husband to you.”

“’Tis you and only you I need,” she echoed.

Gently he took her face between his hands. “Should I return to Kentucke, I’m going to resign my commission. I want nothing more than to live out my days in the stone house with you and Abby, our future children . . .” His voice thickened and nearly faltered. “But those hopes are in God’s hands now.”

“Have you asked Him for such a thing?”

“Aye, a thousand times over.”

“As I have,” she whispered. “Perhaps together . . .”

The lines in his face deepened. Had he given up hope? Did he still believe he would die on the morrow? Her heart, sore for so long, seemed about to burst.

Oh, Lord, I cannot bear another loss . . .

He enfolded her hands between his own. “What does Scripture say? ‘If one prevail against him, two shall withstand him . . .’ ”

“ ‘And a threefold cord is not quickly broken,’ ” she finished softly.

It was a verse her father had oft repeated.
A threefold cord.
Cass. She herself. Providence. And the one prevailing against them? Liam—and too many Redcoats and Indians to count.

37

They moved at dawn, trading the expansiveness of ridge and river valley for dense wilderness broken only by a narrow ribbon of crystal water. Here the woods were suffocatingly close, a green wool blanket of feverish proportions pressing down and turning all to sweat and insect stings and abject misery. This, Roxanna understood, was where they’d wait till they sighted the enemy. Outright battle was imminent. No one had to tell her so. She felt it in the intense vigilance paid to their surroundings, the preoccupation with artillery and orders, the terse murmurs among knots of men.

Desperate to take their minds off what was to come, she and Bella scoured the surrounding woods for berries—rich, ripe berries that stained their fingers purple and would be made into crusty cobblers to fortify the men. Sweat streaming down, Roxanna filled one bucket and then two and soon lost sight of Bella. But her thoughts were so full of Cass she hardly noticed. Their whisperings and stolen kisses of the night before returned to her with such sweet intensity she put a hand to her lips, still able to taste his kiss.

Setting down her bucket, she knelt at a slip of creek, cupping her stained palm for a drink. She couldn’t hear the distant camp sounds above the gurgling rush of water and was aware far too late of the sudden shadow that fell over her.

“Miz Roxanna?”

Her head jerked up.
Hank?
Sweat stung her eyes and she blinked. But the man whose moccasins were planted firmly on the creek bed opposite was a half blood—his unnerving features a mix of Indian and white. A British scout?

“Yep, that’s her, all right.” Hank’s voice rang out of the woods a second time.

In confirmation, the man’s hands shot out and grabbed her. She went limp, her mouth cotton, before realizing what was afoot. He was half-dragging, half-carrying her toward the familiar voice that was now ominous, his dirty hand clamped over her mouth to keep her from screaming.

Oh, Bella, where are you?

Briars nicked her skirt and bare ankles as her captor tore through the brush, intent on some horses half hidden beneath a blind of trees. Hank was waiting, binding her mouth with a strip of linen, so tight she felt strangled. When her captor heaved her atop his horse, she thought she might be sick. Stunned, she stared at Hank like she was seeing a ghost. Only the ghost was solid and unsmiling and wore a red coat.

They went at a blistering pace as if expecting Bluecoat scouts to waylay them at every turn. With every step Roxanna felt further wrapped in disbelief. Hank . . . a spy.
The
spy. The malevolence behind the tainted cinchona. The robber of the tooled leather chest. And his allegiance was to . . . Liam?

With shock and exhaustion pummeling her, they at last came to the edge of the enemy camp. Dismounting near an enormous tent, she took in more men than she’d ever seen milling like insects over the surrounding ground—so many men and tents and artillery she knew Cass’s Bluecoats were doomed. Stomach quaking, she found it hard to stand on her shaking legs, though the half blood’s brutal grip braced her. Hank refused to look at her, tending to the horses, while her captor removed her gag and pushed her toward a large marquee tent.

She entered reluctantly, unsure of what awaited, eyes immediately drawn to the sole person inside. Not Liam, whom she dreaded, but a woman in raspberry silk and lace, eating sweetmeats from a silver dish.

Her narrowed eyes swept over Roxanna, and surprise softened her sullenness. “Surely there’s been some mistake. This looks like a common camp follower, certainly not the mistress of Colonel Cassius McLinn.”

On her lips his melodious name sounded like an oath. The half blood she’d addressed had vanished, leaving them alone, but Roxanna was too intent on staying upright to answer. She gripped a tent pole, her surroundings shifting like she was aboard ship.

“Hank has told us all about you,” the woman continued with a slight smile. “And since Liam was anxious for an introduction, we thought to bring you here. I wasn’t sure it could be arranged, but Hank rose to the challenge.”

Such sarcasm turned the sweltering tent unbearable, and Roxanna sat down hard on a near barrel, the splintered wood grazing her thigh. Lifting the hem of her apron, she wiped her brow with trembling fingers, bitter words pooling in her mouth.

“I’m Millicent Ashe,” the woman continued, taking out an embroidered handkerchief and dabbing her own pale forehead. “I’m Liam’s . . . well, suffice it to say, I’m an old friend from Ireland.” When Roxanna said nothing, she continued, “Pardon my manners. Would you care for some refreshment?”

To Roxanna’s relief, Millicent reached for a pewter pitcher and poured water, not spirits, though addled as she was, spirits was what she needed. Crossing the tent, Millicent moved gracefully around half a dozen camp chairs and a large field table before extending the pewter cup. Roxanna thanked her, hardly believing she had. But good manners were so ingrained—and she was so rattled—she hardly knew what she did.

Before she’d taken two sips, a figure appeared at the tent’s opening and an officer stepped into the room. But for the scarlet and white of his uniform, the likeness was so jarring tears sprang to her eyes.

Liam.

“Comparing me to your beloved and finding me lacking?” His voice was so low she doubted even Millicent heard, but it was like acid.

She felt heat flood her face, for that was exactly what she’d been doing. Identical, yes . . . yet there was something cold and hard, almost reptilian, in Liam’s features. A freshly minted scar pulled at one cheek, marring the generous curve of his mouth. His eyes darted round the tent before returning to her, and she saw they were a rich if rocky blue-gray. Her soul went still. They were Abby’s eyes . . .

“Miss Rowan, I presume,” he said, looking her over, his assumptions plain. “Colonel McLinn’s paramour.”

“I’m not”—she struggled past her fear, hating that her voice wavered—“your brother’s mistress.”

“A pity,” he said, taking a camp chair and giving Millicent a half smile. “Such an arrangement does have its rewards.”

They were sitting in an awkward sort of circle, just the three of them, and Roxanna could better see Millicent’s extravagant gown. The excess of silk alongside her own plain linen was so startling it made her feel even smaller. They seemed to regard her with a sort of amused interest, as if trying to decipher what Cass could possibly see in her.

Her only weapon, she decided, was words. “You’ll gain nothing from bringing me here.”

At this, Liam’s eyes lit up, his voice a lazy, lilting drawl. “On the contrary, I’ve gained a great deal. Your absence has robbed my brother of more men, as a search party has gone out after you. When you fail to turn up, he’ll be rattled indeed. For a besotted Bluecoat commander, such a distraction could prove disastrous.”

Roxanna wanted to curse her folly. Whatever had possessed her to follow Cass in the first place? He’d called her a distraction, and she was. He felt such a crushing responsibility for her given her father, might he surrender in order to save her?

The officer before her melted into a puddle of scarlet and white. She was trapped, pure and simple, and if she even tried to run from the tent, she didn’t doubt he’d shoot her in the back and hang her from a gibbet for all to see.

He fixed cold eyes on her. “How many men does Colonel McLinn have?”

“More than you,” she answered, unashamed of the falsehood.

“Artillery?”

“Six-pounder cannons—too many to count.”

He laughed and leaned back in his chair, regarding her with heightened interest. “You’re lying.”

“What do you expect me to say?”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you? Yet Hank tells me you refused to marry him.”

“What does that matter to you?”

“I’m always interested in my brother’s affairs. ’Twould seem a rustic like yourself would jump at the chance to marry an Irish aristocrat.”

The condescension in his tone brought her upright, but it was the sight of Hank just beyond the marquee tent that stiffened her back. “If he is an aristocrat, his fortunes are now in reversal. I’m well aware that what was left of his inheritance has been stolen by Hank and given over to you.”

“Aye . . . even you.” His face was tight, almost feral looking, setting off little alarm bells inside her. “Since you’re here, we might as well settle a few more matters. You’ve obviously surmised that Hank is a British spy and has been since the start of this war. What you don’t know is that
I
killed your father, Miss Rowan, not my brother.”

Though every word was enunciated clearly, they might have been spoken in Gaelic—they made no sense. She simply stared at him, heart pumping erratically, black spots spoiling her vision.

“Hank may have pulled the trigger that day, but ’twas my order that Richard Rowan die. Your father made the fatal error of naming Hank as the spy in his journal. I had little choice.”

The words continued—sharp and piercing and utterly unremorseful. She looked away from him, remembering Cass’s anguish after the campaign and his heartrending disclosure in the study of the stone house, so different than Liam’s own.

“’Twas easy enough to accomplish, given what transpired. A great many shots were fired that day. Hank was standing behind my brother when it happened. And Cass, bless him, has ever been plagued by a keen conscience. He believed it was he who delivered that deadly shot. We were only too glad to go along with the ruse.” Leaning toward a camp table, he uncorked a bottle and poured himself some brandy. “I’d hoped that there would be an outcry among his officers and he’d be stripped of his commission and prevented from being reinstated under Washington’s command. But alas, his men are a loyal bunch.”

Millicent stirred in her chair and sighed. “Ah, the games these brothers play! I’m ready to see it end and get back to the city.”

“Soon, my love,” Liam said, eyes never leaving Roxanna. “New York will wait for us.”

His scrutiny made her stomach knot. Though she lowered her eyes to her lap, he continued to study her as if contemplating how best to use her. She sensed it—and feared it—and felt smothered by panic.

Strangely, there was a telling sympathy in Millicent’s voice when she said, “Miss Rowan is tired, Liam. Don’t you see?”

Pushing up from his camp chair, he stood. “Till dinner then.”

Amidst the candlelight and crystal of Liam’s table, Roxanna thought of Bella’s beans and corn cakes. Here, inside another marquee tent between two Redcoat officers, stuffed into one of Millicent’s too-tight gowns, she sat in a sort of awed disgust as platters of meat and cheeses and sweets crowded the linen-clad table. Light-headed though she was, she refused to eat a bite, her empty plate shining in silent protest.

Liam sat at the head of the long table, Millicent on his left, with no less than a dozen officers. Roxanna felt suffocated by the unwanted verdigris gown, the stifling heat, the officers’ attentions. Chatter and laughter flowed as freely as the wine—long-necked bottles of Montepulcian and Rivesalte—and for a few disorienting moments Roxanna felt they were celebrating a battle won before it had even begun.