The Turning of Anne Merrick (9 page)

Fanny hiccupped, giggled, and winked. “Do any of you gentlemen
have
the answer? I know Johnny does… I’d wager Colonel Baum
has
the answer; don’t you think, Baroness?”

A grim Baroness von Riedesel pushed back her chair. “The time has come for us to bid adieu, General…”

“On the contrary, Baroness, it is time for Mrs. Loescher to bid adieu to our party.” Burgoyne took Fanny by the arm, but she jerked from his grasp, and scampered over to stand behind Simon Fraser.

“Does no one know the answer?” She giggled. “Here’s another clue—

“That is enough, Mrs. Loescher.” Stern-lipped Burgoyne chased after Fanny as she skipped around the table, reciting the last verse to her riddle.

Clapping two hands firm to Fanny’s shoulders, John Burgoyne steered his drunken mistress toward the marquee tent. “Say good night, Mrs. Loescher.”

“Cock!” Fanny shouted instead. “It’s a man’s cock!”

The abrupt departure of their host combined with the riddle’s answer served as a match, igniting guffaws among the men and much fan flutter among the women. The dinner party drew to a hasty close as the guests parted ways in a murmur of “A pleasure” and “Till we meet again.”

Pepperell borrowed a pierced tin lantern to light their way and, offering an elbow to Anne, said, “Best hold tight, at least until we reach the road.”

“I will,” she said, taking hold of his arm. “I’d hate to fall down à la Fanny Loescher plucking a rose… square on her hind end in the bracken with her skirts about her ears!”

“Skirts about her ears, you say? Hmmm… perhaps I ought think twice before ensuring your stability…”

The Captain’s bold innuendo sparked a thrill Anne immediately tempered with innate female wariness. Over the course of the evening it was clear this officer was of a different stamp from those she’d manipulated in the past. Geoffrey Pepperell was not one for following standard protocol.

Very unlike prim and proper Edward Blankenship… but very much like Jack.

Anne drew her arm away, stopped in her tracks, and mustered up some widow-like sternness. “I never would have accepted your invitation to dinner had I known that I would encounter such ungentlemanly behavior. If I did not require the light you bear, I assure you, sir, I would part company with you this instant.”

“Of course you are correct, and I apologize for overstepping the bounds.”
Very contrite, Geoffrey at once bowed and offered his hand. “I blame my lapse in manners on too much time spent in the company of rough men. I humbly beg pardon.”

Being too dark to see his face with any clarity, Anne responded with a cool, “Pardon granted,” and took his proffered hand with an uneasy sensibility that the man was not at all sincere in his apology.

Pepperell led the way with the door of the lantern open to offer the most light. Other than a muttered “Careful, now” and “Mind your step,” the hand-in-hand pair reached the corduroy road in uncomfortable silence, where their quiet trek was instantly made friendlier by the scattered campfires flanking the road, and the here-and-there glow of wedge tents lit from within.

Anne pulled her hand free as they set forth on the road, but the Captain immediately reclaimed it. “A moonless night coupled with those silly slippers make for a treacherous path.” He then launched into a long and amusing story of how he and Lennox had prepared the snake soup.

“Mind, Gordie Lennox is the finest of fellows, and my best friend, but he is no cook. I doubt he’s ever boiled water for his own tea, so you can imagine, he near lost his breakfast watching Ohaweio skin the snake…”

The tension Anne carried in her shoulders slipped off, and she found herself laughing as Pepperell described his cooking adventure. “Lennox may be a disaster in the kitchen,” Anne said, “but he and his wife sang a lovely duet this evening.”

“Gordie is an asset to any drawing room,” Pepperell acknowledged. “And the Baroness—she owns a voice suited for the finest opera house in London. Quite a surprise.”

Anne nodded and added, “I enjoyed your commander’s recitation. His selection from
Henry V
was most stirring.”

Slipping his arm around Anne’s waist, Pepperell’s hand settled too comfortably above her hip. “I found Mrs. Loescher’s riddle most stirring…” he leaned in and murmured into her ear. “My pretty friend, fain would I know, what thing is it ’twill breed delight?”

The warmth of his breath and timbre of his voice sent a confused
tremble of pleasure and fear to course her spine. Anne spun free of his grasp, snatched the lantern from his hand, and ran off the road.

Pepperell was fast on her heels. “Wait!” he called. “Mrs. Merrick!”

Afraid she could no more control Geoffrey Pepperell’s bold advances or her own reactions, Anne was driven to outpace the booted footfalls following close behind, weaving a quick path through a maze of tents, unhitched wagons, and hobbled draft animals. Ignoring his calls, she raced up toward the tree line until the flicker of firelight in the sky and the sound of manly voices joined in song pulled her to a halt.

Teamsters!

The hesitation was all Pepperell needed to catch up and begin an instant tug-of-war for control of the light.

“Leave me be!” Anne held tight, the wire bail cutting into the pads of her fingers. “I can make my own way…”

“You cannot,” he said, wresting the lantern from her grip. “Be sensible. There are drunk and baseless men about.”

“The pot calling the kettle black!”

“
Touché
, madam.” Pepperell grew very serious. “Though I have given you ample cause to mistrust my intentions, you will only invite disaster by traveling alone through this camp after dark. Now, please—I insist upon seeing you safe to your door.”

The teamsters began the chorus of a popular bawdy song, and Anne huffed a beleaguered sigh.

“I promise to behave…” The Captain thumbed the sign of the cross over his heart.

“On with you, then,” she said, waving him along. “Light the way.”

Veering to the right of the campfire revelers, they skirted around a cluster of cannon carriages and wagons laden with powder and shot. Careful to maintain an arm’s length of space between them, Anne concentrated on following the soft rectangle of yellow light cast by the lantern he held aloft.

“Do you see that?” Pepperell waved the light toward the field of artillery, illuminating an eerie mist crawling between the carriage
wheels. His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “They say the spirits of fallen gunners follow their cannon from battlefield to battlefield…”

“Save me from your ghost stories,” Anne said. “I don’t believe in spirits.”

Pepperell stopped dead in his tracks, and his arm dropped like a tollgate—the back of his hand slapping Anne at the collarbone, sending her back a step.

Anne heaved a sigh. “I am neither amused nor frightened, Captain.”

Grabbing her by the upper arm, Pepperell put a finger to his lips.
“Shhh… listen…”

Layered atop the faded backdrop of the teamsters’ boisterous song, Anne could hear a rhythmic clank of iron chains—
shink, shink, shink
—as if a gang of exhausted prisoners shackled in leg irons was trudging along.

Anne jerked away. “Naught but the wind…”

“There is no wind. Be very quiet now and follow me,” he said, in a voice so low, Anne only just caught his command.

Taking the lead, Pepperell swept the lantern in a wide arc from left to right, and right to left. Anne followed a few paces behind as the ominous chorus grew in intensity with every step forward—the rattling chains joined by a creaking, like that of carriage wheels turning on ungreased axles. She scurried to close the space between herself and the Captain, taking hold of a fistful of his red jacket, gooseflesh rippling up her arms and across the back of her neck.

Pepperell quietly inched his sword free of its scabbard and handed the lantern to Anne, whispering, “Shutter it.”

“Shutter our light?”

His voice went military and clipped. “Do as I say.”

Anne snapped the tin door shut on the still-burning candle, and but for the pinpoints of light keeking out through the tiny punched openings, all was thrown into darkness. As her eyes adjusted, the pulsing rattle and creak were accompanied by a pitched moaning and throaty groaning.

Anne tugged at Pepperell’s jacket. “Let’s turn back.”

He pulled the pistol from the sash tied about his waist, cocking back the hammer. The clack of his weapon signaled a sudden pause in the ghostly rhythm, and in the brief quiet moment, Anne could hear her heart pounding in her ears, and then the clank, creak, and moan just as suddenly renewed.

Pepperell leaned down and whispered, “When I give the word, aim the light and open the shutter. Understand?”

Anne nodded vigorously, pinching thumb and forefinger to the tab of tin serving as the lantern door latch.

Sword in his left hand, pistol in his right, Pepperell took three long strides toward the noise with Anne scurrying along, the tail of his jacket clutched in her fist. They came to a halt no more than three yards from a huge, dark mound silhouetted in the starlight and pulsating in time to the clank of iron links—
shink… shink… shink.

With sword arm upraised, Pepperell barked,
“Now!”
and rushed forward.

Anne swung the lantern door open, shining a piercing beam on a woman bent over a wagon’s tailgate—skirts thrown over her back—and the stunned grenadier at her rear, both of them squinting at the light.

Pepperell put the brakes on his charge.

The woman looked up with a tentative smile, and waggled her fingers. “Hey-ho, Cap’n!”

The grenadier grunted, “Douse th’ bleedin’ light.”

Anne stood wide-eyed with lantern raised, a war drum thumping in her chest, transfixed by the sight of the copulating couple.

“Would ye douse the light there, dearie?” the woman asked, “so’s a lass might enjoy her lad with a bit o’ privacy, aye?”

“Oh—of… of course…” Anne sputtered, lowering the lantern.

Pepperell sheathed his weapons. “Apologies, soldier—I’m afraid I mistook you for rebel thieves.” With a big grin and a wave of his hand he said, “Carry on!”

“Aye, sir!” The grenadier brought a knuckle to his forehead in a snappy salute, and at once set the harness chains to rattling and the wagon axles to creaking.

“
Away with us.” Geoffrey grabbed Anne by the hand and she let him lead her along, in quick strides, up a steep hillside. Slowing to a stroll upon reaching the tree line, Anne pulled free, and gave Pepperell a shove to the shoulder.

“Rebel thieves? I wish you’d voiced your concerns, sir.”

Pepperell shook his head. “Really, I was expecting to find foraging raccoons. I was as surprised as you when we found… well… when we found a beast with two backs!”

Anne couldn’t help but laugh at Geoffrey’s genuine discomfiture in this odd situation. As much as he annoyed with his ardent pursuit, the man was quite charming. “Did you note the soldier’s discipline?” she asked. “
In flagrante delicto
and yet the fellow did not fail to offer you a proper salute—a true guardian of the Empire!”

“And his partner! ‘Would ye douse the light there, dearie?’” Pepperell mimicked in falsetto, throwing Anne into a peal of giggles.

“Please… stop…” Catching her breath, Anne wiped a tear from her eye. “I’ll be waking the entire camp.”

Geoffrey Pepperell took her by the hand. “My, but you are a lovely thing laughing…” Before Anne knew what he was about, the Redcoat captain drew her into a simple kiss.

Flustered, Anne tried to pull away, swiping the back of her hand to the warm imprint his lips left upon hers. “Captain Pepperell…”

“None of that…” He took her hand and pressed the palm to his heart. “We are fast friends now, having faced the dangers of the unknown together. I shall call you Anne, and you must call me Geoff.”

His heart pulsed beneath her hand, and she caught her lips beginning to form his name. With a shake of her head, Anne tugged her hand free and marched away. “I shall do nothing of the sort.”

Pepperell followed after. “We have not the time for these proprieties you crave, Anne.”

“You, sir, are most presumptuous to call me by my familiar—we are barely acquainted.” Anne pointed to her campsite. “I bid you good night.”

The glow of canvas sanctuary beckoned and she picked up the pace to just short of running. Pepperell lost his hat racing after her.
Catching her by the arm, he twirled Anne into an embrace, the lantern he carried bouncing on her rear.

“I am a soldier at war, Anne. I know well enough how to seize the day…”

Locked in the circle of his arms, she looked direct into his eyes. Pushing two-handed against his chest, and in as stern a voice as she could call up, Anne said, “You are no gentleman, Captain Pepperell.”

“You are correct in that…” He let the lantern drop and roll in a clatter, and laid claim to her lips.

Anne closed her eyes, and for a moment, she simply gave over to the pleasure of a man’s touch—the rasp of stubble on her soft skin—chest muscles clenched beneath her palms—strong fingertips playing the groove of her spine…

“ANNIE MERRICK!!”

Levered back to her senses on the fulcrum of Sally’s shocked cry, Anne broke off the kiss, and Pepperell released his hold. Like a winged spirit in a flurry of frizzled braids and muslinet, Sally flew out of the tent swinging a very bright, glass-cased lantern. She retrieved the hat Pepperell lost and tossed it to land at his feet. “Good night t’ ye, Captain.”