The Colonel's Lady (17 page)

“Do you mind?”

“I—nay, Cass.” His name slipped off her tongue like she’d been saying it a lifetime, though the surprised pleasure on his face told her otherwise.

The lapse seemed an open invitation for him to come nearer. Slowly he skimmed his knuckles along the oval of her cheek before twining his fingers in the richness of her hair, dislodging some of Bella’s carefully placed pins.

At his touch, a woozy rush of pleasure overcame the last remnants of her reason, and she did what she’d dreamed of doing since the first day she’d met him. Reaching up, she skimmed the glossy sheen of his hair, starting at his temple and sliding toward his broad back till her fingers found his silk queue ribbon. In a whirl of wonder and yearning, she pulled it loose. Her reward was a flash of brilliant red falling free about his wide shoulders, softening his intensity yet kindling his need of her. She saw it in his eyes instantly.

Oh, Lord in heaven, what have I done?

Never had Ambrose looked at her in such an all-consuming way . . .

Frightened, she drew back, even as his hand fell away. Her dress . . . the dance . . . the candlelit confines of the cabin . . . all had cast such a spell she felt far removed from who she truly was—a soldier’s daughter, a bit desperate for attention, her fear of spinsterhood shadowing her—till she’d snapped to her senses at the last second.

“Roxie, I—”

She shook her head, her voice a plea as she took another step away. “Please . . .” She swallowed, spilling her heart out in a few words as she backed up further. “I don’t want to fall in love with you.”

The answering anguish in his face made her wish the words back. Turning on one heel, he crossed the room with furious haste and went out, leaving the door open wide in his wake. Before she could bend down and pick up the slip of silk ribbon, Bella appeared, her face taut with apprehension. She stood in the open doorway, the icy wind rushing in and lashing them like a whip.

“Law, Miz Roxanna, I ain’t seen the colonel so riled since his men spilled a shipment of muskets into the river last spring.”

Stricken, Roxanna said, “I—I forgot my cape—the colonel was returning it to me . . .”

Bella stared at the length of ribbon in her hand. “Looks like the colonel forgot something hisself.”

Feeling caught in a trespass, Roxanna believed she would burst if she didn’t confess everything, yet her throat was so tight she couldn’t speak.

Coming up behind her, Bella said wearily, “It’s gettin’ late. Let me help you out o’ yo’ dress and then you can sleep the Sabbath away.”

The Sabbath? Her eyes flew to the mantel clock that proclaimed it half past midnight. The colonel had been in her cabin for some time, yet it had felt like mere minutes. Had anyone but Bella seen him come in, then leave? She waited for a reprimand about being alone with him, but Bella was strangely silent, her dark fingers plucking the combs and pins from her coiffed hair. Roxanna shut her eyes, feeling his hands instead, trying to reconstruct the events that had led to his doing so. The ease with which she’d touched him in return—nay, not simply touched but
untied
his wealth of hair from his neatly bound queue . . .

Oh, Lord, forgive me.

Confusion muddied her shame. With Ambrose, it had been enough to have him hold her hand or kiss her cheek. She’d wanted nothing more from him—she’d needed nothing more. Her feelings for Ambrose had been tepid, not feverish, compared to what she felt for Cass. Tonight he’d awakened in her a hunger she didn’t even know she had . . . made her wonder in the span of a few breathlessly passionate seconds if being his mistress might not be better than being a spinster . . .

Bella went out without a word, leaving Roxanna to her own tangled thoughts. Candles snuffed, she sat before the fire, riddled by guilt, stuttering another conflicted prayer, this one suffused with a breathless thanks.

Knowing there are men like Cassius McLinn, thank You for sparing me a lifeless marriage to a man I only pretended to love.

His ambitious stride, long by any standard, now doubled in his fury. The guard could hardly keep up with him once he passed through the sally port and gained a firmer foothold uphill. He had a hair-trigger temper at times—and this was one of those times. They gave him wide berth.

Hank threw open the door and then got out of the way. Cass pushed past him with such vehemence the silver sconce glittering on the lowboy in the foyer was nearly extinguished. Up the smooth staircase he went, unable to stem the thought of her, his heart already pulling him back down the hill to apologize and make amends, but mostly to take her in his arms again.

His bedchamber seemed empty as a tomb. As he lowered himself into a wing chair before the flickering fire, Hank’s sturdy shadow darkened the door frame. Without a word, the steady black hands tugged off one ice-encrusted boot and then another, ready to whisk them below stairs to be cleaned and blacked.

“Care for some brandy, sir?”

“Nay, whiskey.” Glancing at the clock mounted above the door, he grimaced. A double shot of whiskey on the Sabbath should do. Though he barred his men from the same.

Aye, what he should do was get rip-roaring drunk and drown out the feel of Roxie Rowan’s silky skin and hair beneath his fingers and her poignant, heartfelt plea.

Please, I don’t want to fall in love with you.

How in heaven had it come to that? He’d simply meant to return her cape. Instead he’d left all his wits at the door and succumbed to the unparalleled sweetness of her presence. Standing before him, with the fire gilding her gown and skin, she seemed the answer to all his angst and regrets. In the span of five minutes, he’d forgotten all about spies and overdue supply wagons and stone-faced Shawnee. Even Richard Rowan. Simply being in the same room with her gave him a measure of peace.

That she’d been crying was obvious, and it brought out every protective instinct he had, reminding him he was to blame for her sorrow. A father’s loss was hard to bear. On the heels of the loss of a mother and a broken betrothal, it might well be unbearable. He wanted to comfort her—and find comfort. One dance was all he’d wanted.

Running a hand through his unbound hair, he drew a steadying breath, listening to Hank’s footfalls on the stair and his rumblings in the kitchen far below. Aye, he was to blame for letting the situation turn so tender. He’d sensed her resistance, yet he had taken advantage of her and was furious with himself. The only puzzling aspect of the evening was when she’d turned his hair loose from its tie.

“Whiskey, sir.” Hank moved gingerly into the room and set the glass on the table before the hearth. It glowed amber and gold and held the subtle tang of oak. He finished it in two swallows.

Best be done with this Roxie Rowan business. Starting tonight, he’d make sure he never had occasion to be alone with her again. There was nothing to be done but honor her poignant plea.

As the whiskey flowed through him like fire and did its mellowing work, he wondered what she’d done with his black silk ribbon.

17

I must put a hedge around my heart. No more long looks in his direction. No wishing for what cannot be. When I think of him, it must be to pray for him . . . and pray only.

He was, she reminded herself, already promised to an Irish beauty—Cecily O’Day. Having been on the receiving end of another woman’s wiles, she’d not cause Cecily hurt. Nay, she’d not tempt Colonel McLinn, as if she could, nor be tempted.

Standing before Papa’s small shaving glass, she took note of the black smudges beneath her eyes, evidence of a near-sleepless night. Since Cass had left her cabin, she’d been in such a tangle her turmoil showed on her pale face. She still felt the effects of his parting fury yet didn’t know why her words had made him so angry. Could it be because he wasn’t used to being told no? Perhaps Bella had been right and his intent was to make her his mistress. Confusion filled her to the brim and overflowed. The mere thought of facing him, even with a desk between them, gave her a fierce headache.

’Twas twenty minutes till eight. Draping a plain linen kerchief about her shoulders, she fastened the ends above her snug wool bodice with a cameo, then gathered up her waist-length hair and subdued it into a chignon with a multitude of pins, all the while thinking of him. Penitent, she breathed a prayer for both of them, bypassing the cape hanging forlornly by the door. There would be no forgetting it again, as she’d not be wearing it, not this morning anyway.

Head down, she crossed the common to Olympia’s cabin to check on Abby, letting herself in when there was no answer to her knock. Olympia stood by the hearth, expression sorrowful, and Roxanna’s gaze was drawn upward to the loft, where two large black boots were suspended from the ladder. Cass? No wonder they hadn’t heard her knock. The sound of giggling, high and musical as a song, spilled into the cabin from above. Wonder washed through her. If Abby could laugh so effortlessly, why couldn’t she speak?

“The colonel just got here, and she’s better,” Olympia said, drying her eyes with a handkerchief. “Seein’ her sick brought back memories of her ma . . .”

“I’m so thankful,” Roxanna murmured, backing out the cabin door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She hadn’t expected him to be here, but it touched her to think he was as concerned about Abby as the rest of them. Somehow the gesture seemed even to have softened some of Olympia’s hostility toward him.

Turning away, Roxanna hurried to the work awaiting her. The blockhouse door was ajar, and she took a steadying breath as she stepped over the threshold. A dozen eyes swiveled in her direction, followed by a respectful murmur among the men. The regulars were present with the younger Shawnee chief, and Ben Simmons was warming his hands by the hearth. Both orderlies were busy in a far corner, sorting through a collection of maps.

“Mornin’, Miss Rowan.”

“Hello, Ben.”

Aware of his eyes on her, she began checking the supplies in her lap desk where it rested in a corner, noting she was low on ink. Hopefully a quantity would come in with the now-overdue supply train. If not, she could try to make some of her own.

As she sorted and straightened papers and quills, sand and inkpots, she felt she wasn’t tidying her lap desk at all but someone else’s. Pages of correspondence seemed to be out of order, and the customary neatness was missing. Alarm shot through her. Nay, things weren’t as she’d left them Saturday last. She must tell Cass . . .

Ben was at her elbow, and she sensed his impatience. “Seen the colonel, Miss Rowan? Doc Clary is here, wanting to report about the sick Shawnee.”

“Colonel McLinn is with Abby,” she said. Closing the tambour top, she tried to push down her suspicions. “How is the older chief?”

Passing a hand over his beard, he murmured, “Pewter poisoning.”

Eyes widening, she tried to recall what she knew about the malady. “Best feed him on a wooden trencher, then.”

“He’s too sick to eat off a wooden plate or otherwise. What we don’t want is a death on our hands. Word is there’s plenty of Shawnee sign about the fort. Guess they don’t like the fact that two of their headmen are in here. I figure they’re aiming to get ’em out.”

She suppressed a shudder, her gaze moving from the brooding, bearded face of Ben to the smooth-skinned Shawnee on the bench in the middle of the room. Feeling a twist of sympathy override her fear, she let herself linger on him long enough to note his hostility, then checked the time on the watch she had purchased for her father. Half past eight. At least when Cass came she’d not be alone with him. The room was chock-full of men.

She looked up from the watch and felt the Indian’s eyes on her. Though he’d been looking elsewhere in quiet defiance when she’d come in, his gaze was now fixed on the timepiece in her hand. Once again she was struck by the beautiful simplicity of his buckskin clothing and the array of eagle feathers in his shoulder-length hair. Just as she was about to lower her eyes and look away from him, he gestured to her with a dusky hand.

Leaving Ben’s side, she crossed the room and sat down tentatively on the bench beside him, placing the pocket watch in his weathered, outstretched palm. A flash of childlike curiosity crossed his face, followed by open wonder. He held it to his ear, then turned it over and traced the engraving. Sensing his delight, she couldn’t help but relax. He turned to her with a slight smile, revealing even white teeth, the sober lines of his face softening. Looking directly at her, he spoke in his strange tongue. She felt a flurry of confusion and raised her shoulders in a slight shrug.

Ben drew near, his voice touched with surprise. “Miss Rowan, he’s askin’ you what it is.”

Remembering the protocol of translation she’d observed thus far, she looked only at the Shawnee, bypassing Ben altogether. “It’s a watch . . .” Tongue-tied, she struggled to explain it in a sensible way. “It’s a device for marking the passage of white man’s time.”

Ben interpreted and the Shawnee looked satisfied, then a bit surprised when she asked, “How do your people mark time?”

Ben interpreted and there was a thoughtful pause. “The seasons move my people forward. Nature is more reliable than the white man’s method—and shows the Creator’s splendor.”

She smiled in understanding, a bit awed by his eloquence. “Like the first leaves of spring, you mean. Or the coming of the first snow.”

He nodded and closed the face of the watch, only to flick it open again.

“You may have it if you like,” she said quietly.

At this, Ben seemed to balk. She looked at him and read stark displeasure in his face. Undaunted, she turned to the Shawnee and repeated, “A gift.”

Fumbling in her pocket, she withdrew a tiny key on a ribbon fob. “I nearly forgot. This is how you wind it.” Taking back the watch, she inserted the key into the silver facing and gave a turn, then held both out to him, murmuring again, “A gift.”

It was a full minute before Ben gave the translation. When at last he did, the Shawnee’s eyes shone with amused mischief. Leaning nearer Roxanna, his inky hair falling forward and obscuring his smiling mouth, he said in perfect King’s English, “Good trade.”

Hearing the words so plainly spoken, she felt such a swell of delight that she laughed. Clearly pleased, he removed a slender string of white wampum hidden beneath his buckskin sleeve and held it out to her. Taking it, the offering warm from his skin, she nested it in her palm, admiring its glossy perfection.

When she thanked him, Ben refused to translate. He seemed increasingly agitated, perhaps on account of the elbowing, grinning regulars who ringed the room, muskets at their sides. Were so many men truly necessary?

Turning back to him, wondering if Ben would cooperate, or if the Shawnee knew more English than he let on, she asked, “What is your name?”

Gesturing to his headdress, he filled the silence with more of his mellifluous Shawnee.

Ben stood in sullen silence, and she finally turned to him. “What did he say, Ben?”

“His name’s Five Feathers.” Beneath his beard glowed the red of blatant embarrassment. “And he says he knows who you are.”

“Oh?” She looked at him, expectant.

“The woman of the red-haired chief.”

The . . .
what?

Heat engulfed her cheeks and touched the tips of her ears—she could feel its fiery journey all the way to her toes. An unmistakable titter went round the room and she pinned her gaze on Ben. “Please tell him I am
not
—”

But the words were lost as the blockhouse door opened. The ensuing silence told her just who had entered even before he’d circled the bench and stood before them. She kept her eye on a wide crack in the puncheon floor, unable to look at Cass, their midnight parting flooding her with fresh angst. Even as she studiously avoided him, she sensed he was taking in every single detail of the scene before him—from the timepiece in the Shawnee’s hand to the wampum in hers, the regulars’ rapt attention, even Ben’s bristling. He said nothing, and she realized that this was a subtle tactic he used to force others to fill the silence. Not surprisingly, Ben obliged.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed all the excitement, sir. Miss Rowan’s done more in ten minutes than we’ve done in ten weeks. If you’d waited a bit longer to come in, no telling what information the chief here might have given her.”

“Scrivener . . . chef . . . diplomat?” The quiet question seemed an invitation to look at him, which she would not do. “Miss Rowan’s talents seem without end.”

Heart pounding, she got up from the bench and turned her back to them, leaving Ben to confer with him in low tones before Cass dismissed the regulars and the Shawnee.

“I’m just saying our Indian appears to know more English than he’s letting on,” Ben murmured behind her. “He came alive when Miss Rowan gave him the pocket watch. Told her his name and everything.”

Ben’s whispered words seemed to point an accusing finger, and she felt upended once again. She heard Cass’s quiet dismissal of him and felt a sudden shadow fall over her. Slowly she turned to face him. He looked, she realized, like her father used to—before he gave way to one of his rare rages. Only the colonel would give her no quarter, she guessed.

Though his voice was low and calm, it was steel-edged and brooked no argument. “Miss Rowan, are you in the habit of dispensing personal possessions to savages?”

The accusation stabbed her, as did the slur. “
Savages?
Nay—”

“Aye,
savages—
one in particular who won’t simply take your watch but your life—
and
your virtue. I don’t want you within twenty feet of him.”

She hesitated, feeling dwarfed in spirit, struck by how stern he was when he’d been so tender with her in her cabin. “Perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so savage if he wasn’t treated as such.”

The freshly shaved jaw tensed. “He’s treated like any other prisoner according to the Articles of War, Miss Rowan.”

“I was merely showing him a kindness.”

“A kindness.” The words held a hint of mockery.

“Yes, a kindness.”

He leveled her with a look. “Then let your kindnesses be few and far between. You’re under my authority, and I’ll not have you gifting a sav—a
man
—who has been the death of countless settlers. Is that clear?”

She glanced away from him, her gaze brushing the orderlies’ backs as they performed their tasks across the room, no doubt straining to hear their every word.

“Do I make myself clear, Miss Rowan?”

She raised her chin. “Ask me politely, Colonel McLinn.”

Surprise sparked in his eyes, nearly thawing their coldness. Amusement and exasperation pulled at the corners of his mouth. She felt a little surge of triumph at catching him off guard.

“Miss Rowan,” he replied, his stern gaze unwavering, “I didn’t achieve the rank of colonel by being polite. Do I make myself clear?”

In answer, she simply smiled, softening her refusal to curtsey or salute or do whatever he expected of her. Breaking her gaze, he moved to his desk and said, “We’ll continue our conversation later. I have more pressing matters outside the gates.”

His terse tone sent fresh alarm through her. Before she could question him, his officers entered, their faces reflecting varying degrees of concern. Micajah Hale was at the front, eyes darting first to Roxanna, then the colonel, as if mulling how much to say. She took a chair along one wall, wondering if he would send her out.