The Colonel's Lady (16 page)

She was reaching into the folds of her dress, and the Shawnee’s ebony eyes followed her every move. Removing something from her pocket, she extended her hand and passed it to the chief, indicating he could put it in his coffee. Ever so slowly he took the small chunk of loaf sugar—perhaps the last in the fort—touched it to his tongue, then dropped it in the pewter cup.

Around the room the regulars were elbowing each other, but Cass didn’t share their amusement. There was something so inexplicably poignant about the scene it crowded out his irritation at her audacity. When she sat back down, Cass tried to pass her his cup. Smiling up at him, she simply shook her head and took an apple tart instead, passing the plate around the too-still room. The Shawnee sat and drank his coffee, his eyes returning to her again and again from some far-off place.

Watching, Cass felt a tingling wariness. He’d erred greatly having her present for the translation. Realizing he might have placed her in danger, he dismissed them all save Roxanna and an orderly. She had pocketed the pastry, he noticed, and was reading over the barren transcript, which he hoped would yield something more substantial tomorrow. He’d have better luck with the older Shawnee if his malady wasn’t serious.

Alone with her, he started to caution her, to reprimand her for a breach of prisoner protocol. But this time, before he could rebuke her, a spasm of guilt checked him. He was often so abrupt with her, upbraiding her nearly as much as he did his men. He made a mental note not to have her present when the Shawnee came again.

“Are we finished, sir, or do you have something else in mind for me to do?”

Her softly spoken question returned him to the present, and he stopped thumbing through a sheaf of papers to look at her again.

“Nothing more,” he said, “till tonight.” Her eyes widened slightly in question, and he added, “You are coming to the wedding, are you not?”

“Oh . . . that.”

“Aye, that,” he said, forcing a smile.

The matter of Dovie and Johnny had been such a simple one to resolve, yet she still seemed surprised by his swift agreement. It wouldn’t do, he’d agreed, to have an illegitimate child when a father was willing and waiting. And the couple did seem to care for one another. Word of the wedding had spread like wildfire about the fort, adding a festive feel. The Redstone women were elated. Dovie would be respectable at long last, Olympia crowed with a sort of envy, and the rest of them would get a fine frolic to boot.

Cass escorted Roxanna to the door and took her cape off a peg. The subtle scent of violets enveloped him as he settled the indigo wool about her shoulders and leaned forward to open the door. They said not a word to each other as they crossed the slippery common, his hand on her elbow to keep her upright. Around them the smithy, magazine, and quartermasters were seething with activity, but he hardly noticed. At some hazy point in the last twenty-four hours, Cecily O’Day had ceased to exist, and he no longer rued her passing.

16

Muted fiddle music could be heard from the east blockhouse, and Roxanna tapped one stocking-clad foot in time to the music. A jig, she guessed, wondering if Dovie was an anxious bride. Behind her, Bella put the finishing touches on her hair, softening the unrelieved black with a length of fragile ecru lace that made it seem snowflakes had fallen and lay frozen amidst her upswept crown of curls. She’d had a bath before the crackling hearth and now felt nearly woozy from its warmth. But for Bella’s chatter.

“It’ll be some miracle if Dovie can keep from losin’ her supper durin’ the ceremony,” she said, setting aside the brush. Turning to the table, she fussed with a sadiron and a petticoat’s stubborn wrinkle. “She’s been awful sick on account o’ that babe.”

“The midwife from Smitty’s Fort gave her some raspberry tea. Maybe she’ll remember to drink some beforehand.”

“I reckon my cherry bounce will do the trick if it don’t. Now close yo’ eyes.”

The excited trill of her tone alarmed more than delighted Roxanna, but she did as bid, squeezing her eyes shut and waiting for the familiar feel of her best linen dress.

“Hold up yo’ arms so I can get it o’er yo’ head without messin’ with yo’ hair.”

The rustle of silk slipping into place made Roxanna’s eyes fly open. Bella began hooking the snug bodice from behind, expression smug. Looking down, Roxanna found herself draped in pale lemon and lace, the luster of the gown catching the candlelight and revealing tiny embellishments of ribbon and rosettes, much like the cockades on the officers’ tricorn hats.

Speechless, she rested careful hands on the lace sash about her waist and took in the lush lines of the skirt, feeling she’d been caught in a delicious dream. But then practicality took over. “Bella, I’m not the bride. Dovie is.”

Clucking, Bella soothed, “I done took care of Dovie. Now turn around so I can see how it fits. I had a time takin’ in the waist, though the hem looks to be just right.”

As Bella bent to search for stray threads and smooth the flounced sleeves, Roxanna allowed herself a forbidden thought.
I feel like a bride.
After all, yellow was the preferred color for brides in the colonies. Even England. The winsome if wayward notion of a waiting groom—in a Dutch blue Continental coat with a light blue riband running across his chest and a honeymoon in the stone house—worked its spell, and she put a hand on a chair back to steady herself.

“Law, Miz Roxanna, you woolgatherin’ again?”

Again.
Lately she’d gotten into the intoxicating habit of daydreaming, and Bella, astute as ever, was quick to call it what it was.

“Yes,” she confessed, aware that the telling flush she saw in the mirror had nothing to do with the gown and everything to do with
him
.

“Mind tellin’ me who you thinkin’ ’bout?”

“Abby,” she said in a little rush, for there was some truth to it.

“Aw, I hear she’s sick with that fever goin’ round. She should be better come tomorrow. It lasts ’bout three days then goes.”

“I brought her some broth earlier. She took a few spoonfuls.”

“Now, never you mind about that child. She be fine. I’m goin’ to bring her a little weddin’ cake later on.” Bella studied her with a motherly eye. “You still rememberin’ that promise you made to yo’ ma? The one ’bout not marryin’ a soldier? She didn’t say nothin’ ’bout dancin’ with ’em, did she?”

“No,” Roxanna answered. “But I can’t dance, remember.”

Bella examined a flounce and acted like she hadn’t heard. “Now I wouldn’t let any o’ them regulars tromp on my toes. But any o’ them officers would do fine.” She glanced at the mantel clock and grimaced. “Best get on over to the kitchen and bring out my bounce.”

Roxanna watched her go, a tight feeling in her chest.
Oh, Lord, it is a wedding I want. And I do feel like a bride tonight, albeit an old one.

Most of her friends in Virginia had been wed by the age of eighteen. And she’d stood up with one after another, soul-sick with longing, just like she was about to do with Dovie.

Going to the corner trunk, Roxanna rummaged for her best handkerchief, pushing aside a vial of violet water till she found one of fine linen bearing her mother’s initials. Before she straightened, a decisive knock sounded on the door, and another knot ripened in her already tense stomach. Remembering the last time she’d been surprised with not Bella but Colonel McLinn, she opened the door carefully to find his towering frame filling it completely.

All the air went out of her as he cleared the lintel log and stepped inside. “I’ve come to escort you to the wedding, if you’re ready.”

If . . . If you only knew.

Their eyes met for a fleeting instant, in which she tried to take in as much of him as possible, thinking it might stem her perennial need to look again. She’d already made up her mind to leave the festivities early if she could, as soon after the ceremony as possible. She needed some solitude to right her wayward heart with a cold dose of reason. Since Papa’s passing, she sensed she was trying to fill the great void in her life with a man, any man—even Cass. And he, feeling intensely responsible for her, was determined to do his duty. Like escorting her tonight.

He reached for her cape hanging by the door with an endearing familiarity, and they went out into a night of wind and snow without another word. And there, waiting in the blockhouse before the blazing hearth, stood an entirely altered Dovie in royal purple brocade, her hair pinned up like Roxanna’s, looking happy if wan.

Casting a glance about, Roxanna realized McLinn was to stand up with Johnny just as she stood with Dovie, but they were all standing—a hundred fifty or more soldiers and the Redstone women, even Bella and Hank—as there weren’t nearly enough chairs.

She searched for a pastor or magistrate, but there was only a newly enlisted regular by the name of Graham Greer making his way through the throng, bearing a small black Bible. With a start she realized he was the official.

The ceremony was as short as decency allowed, and she felt benumbed by its familiarity.
Dearly beloved
, indeed
.
She’d heard it a dozen times or better. Her favorite part came when Graham Greer intoned, “You may kiss the bride.” Johnny did, long and lusty, to the rousing “huzzahs” of every man present save Colonel McLinn. She was a bit taken aback by the couple’s show of passion, but the colonel grinned broadly, a hint of extra color showing beneath his winter tan.

At last the dancing and cherry bounce could begin in earnest. An ear-splitting reel complete with fiddles, fife, and drum rocked the large room, and immediately Micajah Hale stood before her. She smiled and shook her head in polite refusal, unable to make herself heard above the music and foot stomping. Bowing, he left her alone and commandeered Mariah. Seeing another officer heading her way, she began backing up toward the kitchen.

She waited till the colonel led the second set with Dovie before making her escape. Out the back door she went, wishing she’d brought her dulcimer. As it was, she had no excuse to stay on. She couldn’t dance, yet the dress she wore seemed a vivid calling card to do just that, and she didn’t like all the attention.

As she hurried along, a silver sliver of moon penetrated the sleet and cast an eerie light on the stone house. Turning her face aside, she wished the music was as easily shut away. The old tune “Liza Jane” followed her clear across the parade ground, every sweet note seeming to hammer home Papa’s passing.

As she reached her door and fumbled with the latchstring, a keen relief settled over her. Colonel McLinn needn’t bother with escorting her back to her cabin tonight. She was tired, in need of rest. Yet once inside, she realized she couldn’t possibly undress without Bella’s help due to the double row of hooks down her back. She decided to check on Abby again but found her sleeping, the fever finally broken, and Nancy watching over her, half asleep herself.

Returning to her cabin, she lit twin candles and sat back from the hearth, afraid a spark might burn the lush skirts of her gown. She could hear a flourishing finish to another poignant song, and her heart squeezed tight, a tear trickling to her chin. She wiped it away with her hankie, waiting for Bella.

Long minutes passed, and she tensed at the crunch of boots on snow. Soldiers on guard duty? A passing regular? Steeling herself, she readied for the knock. When it came, she summoned all the composure she could muster and opened the door, hiding her handkerchief behind her back. Colonel McLinn ducked inside, clutching the cape she’d completely forgotten in her haste to leave the wedding frolic.

He hung it from its peg by the door, which he shut firmly behind him.
Captive
, she thought. Her fickle emotions did such a strange dance she didn’t know which was uppermost. Pleasure? Embarrassment? Surprise? Something told her he had no great desire to be at the wedding frolic either and this was his escape.

Gesturing toward the hearth, she said a bit breathlessly, “Please . . . come in.”

He hesitated—was he reluctant?—before crossing the tiny space in three strides and taking a chair facing the fire. She sank down on a stool, watching the orange and yellow tongues of flame leap and curl around the charred burls of oak Micajah had left under her eave.

A brooding silence settled between them. He finally broke it by saying, “You’re much too lovely—and well dressed—to be sitting alone by the fire, Miss Rowan.”

The compliment, coupled with his gentle rebuke, made fresh tears well in her eyes. Blinking them back, she said, “It seems silly to attend a dance when one can’t dance.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “Because you’re in mourning?”

“Because I’m”—she took a breath—“a bit lame.”

His eyes swiveled back to her and stayed put till she looked at him again. “If you can walk, Miss Rowan, you can dance.”

A flicker of panic warmed her insides as she realized where he was headed. Bella’s wary words came rushing back.
Maybe the colonel will try to make you his mistress.
She said quickly, “Perhaps another time.”

“Why not here? Now? With no one watching?”

The faint but unmistakable strains of a slow country dance seemed to back up his startling invitation. He stood and moved his chair out of the way. Firelight spilled into the empty space, gilding the floorboards a rich gold. She had little choice but to stand up on unsteady legs and obey the . . . order.

She dared look up at him, the lace of her bodice rising and falling in a breathless rhythm a mere three inches from the gilt buttons of his Continental coat. He was entirely too close . . . so close she caught a hint of cherry bounce on his breath. Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue in an agony of anticipation, she felt one firm hand rest against the hollow of her waist and the other enfold her fingers in his own.

With more grace than a man of his stature should possess, he began moving her over the flickering floorboards, their shadows an intimate silhouette on the rough wood walls. In moments, every taut fiber of her being began to soften. At long last she was indeed dancing . . . and she’d never felt less lame in all her life.

Oh, Papa, if you could see me now . . .

He was so adept a dancer, so in control, there was never a chance for her to misstep. She simply followed his lead, knowing from the gentle pressure of his hands whether to go backward or forward or sideways. The music ended and was replaced by a distant, rousing reel, but neither of them seemed to notice or care.

Every turn they took about the tiny cabin seemed to shake loose a dark shadow. In the two months she’d known Cassius McLinn, he’d never been nearer than he was tonight, so close it seemed she almost touched his soul. Here in her humble cabin, he was no longer the curt commander but something more. She sensed his deep enjoyment of the moment . . . the music . . . holding her . . . and caught a glimpse of the man he truly was. Or who she wanted him to be.

“Roxie . . .” He had come to a stop and was looking down at her.

Startled, she met his eyes. “No one’s ever called me that . . . save my father.”