The Colonel's Lady (28 page)

Dear God, what now?

Shame—and a knot of emotions she couldn’t name—fell over Roxanna like a fever, but it was too late to simply slip out. The guard snapped to attention as she hurried through the front door, two regulars falling in alongside her to return her to the fort. She nearly fell on the rain-slick stoop, vaguely aware that a storm was rising around her, stirring the night air, mirroring the tempest inside her.

Oh, Lord, help
. . .

She didn’t look back, didn’t see the lithe shadow at one casement window watching her go. Her chest was heaving like she’d run a race, so hard it hurt. Rain pelted down, mingling with her salty tears. She brushed them away with shaking hands, trying to staunch the pain of Cass’s confession. All the while a strange numbness was taking hold, enabling her to keep walking, to lift the latch of her cabin door, enter in, and shut herself away.

Going to the washbasin, she splashed cold water on her flushed face, took up a linen towel, and tried to remove all traces of him. But his beloved, traitorous scent still clung to her skin, her hair, her bodice. She wanted to be rid of his shocking words as well, told to her at such an impossibly tender time. Yet they resounded in her head and heart, bruising her again and again.

Roxie . . . I shot your father.

The dark room, lit by a dying fire, seemed to tilt and spin. She had to work hard to draw a needed breath, to stop her shaking. Her eyes darted to the mantel and landed on the thistle cup, the delicate saucer beneath. Wounded by the very sight, she reached for it with trembling hands, wanting to hide it away and bury all her anguish alongside it.

The lovely china—the sentiment behind it—seemed hopelessly tainted. Once she had looked at it lovingly, had counted it her most treasured possession. But in the span of a few horrifying moments all that had changed forever. With a sob she raised her arm, flinging both cup and saucer against the far cabin wall and watching them shatter into countless pieces.

Just like her heart.

Cass came down the hill after Roxanna, hardly feeling the driving rain. Without the guard, he ducked through the sally port in such haste he nearly toppled the sentry standing watch. ’Twas a wretched night on all counts, the only light that of a few stingy lanterns shining in barrack windows. Mud was pooling around his boots, making it seem he was treading in molasses instead. Her shuttered cabin seemed leagues away.

At last he reached her door, feeling for the latchstring and finding it drawn in. “Roxanna, open the door!”

The heavy oak wall seemed symbolic of their separation, cutting him afresh. Never again would her eyes light up when she looked at him. Nor would that beguiling half smile, saved solely for him, warm his sorry soul. Though she’d tried hard not to love him, he knew she did. And he’d just undone all that they’d ever meant to each other, every complicated strand, impossible as it all was. He’d just handed her a reason to hate him.

“Roxie, ’tis me—Cass. Open the door!”

Frustration tugged at him, bade him to do something rash. He could break the door down if he wanted—but to what avail? Somehow he sensed she was hovering on the other side, hearing his every word. He bent his head, arms outspread as he grasped the rough sides of the door frame and waited.

His guilt-ravaged voice reached out to her again. “I cannot leave till we talk, ye ken. Let me in.”

Overhead thunder rumbled, deep and discordant, and a flash of lightning rent the sky. The rain began to fall in great sheets, wetting his shirt back so that it lay against him like a second skin. Cold water ran down the back of his neck, chilling him and fueling his angst. Banging a hard hand on the door once more, he felt a desperation he’d never known as a new thought curled like black smoke in his brain.

What if she . . . hurt herself?

What if his confession, coupled with her grief and love for him, made her rash? The day she’d drunk the tainted tea returned to taunt him. He’d never fully understood why she’d risked her own life in the wake of nearly losing his. Till now. If she hurt herself—if she died by her own hand—he died with her. Life meant little without her . . .

His fist grew sore from beating on the wood. He was a broken, sodden mess—half dressed, his voice hoarse from shouting, making a spectacle of himself before the sentries on the banquette above. But he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but that she was safe and sound. The image of her father’s pistol, kept in her cabin, shattered what was left of his composure.

“Roxanna—for God’s sake—open the door!”

Though his voice held strong, he’d never felt so defeated. The weight of it rolled over him till he felt he was sinking in the mud, mired in utter helplessness. Pushing away from the door, he looked across the blackened parade ground to the kitchen, where a light still lingered.

Bella.

At any other time, Cass might have wondered why Bella sat by the hearth’s fire at nearly midnight, cradling a cup of tea in her bony hands. When he came into the kitchen, dripping water onto the plank floor, his boots more mud than leather, she stared at him as if he were naught but a ghost. Excruciating seconds ticked by as he crossed his arms and tried to herd his thoughts into a logical formation.

“’Tis Roxie,” he said with difficulty.

Her eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Earlier tonight she came up the hill to the house. I bade her stay . . . things were said.”

“Where is she now?”

“In her cabin. She won’t come out.”

“She disobeyed your orders to open the door, you mean.”

“Aye.”

“And you want me to keep an eye on her, make sure she don’t do nothin’ rash.”

He simply nodded, running a hand over his wet jaw, wondering just how much Bella knew. Had Hank told her about Richard Rowan’s last day? He remembered Hank was standing near him when he’d fired that fatal shot. Did Bella know that he loved Richard’s daughter beyond all reason? And that was why he stood dripping wet in a cold kitchen, nearly begging her to help set things right?

“I’ll do what I can, sir,” she said, rising and setting her cup aside. “You’d best go on back up the hill.”

26

’Twas Monday and Cass had come down the hill early, surprising the sentries and even Hank. He slipped through the sally port and entered the dark, chill blockhouse, sending the orderlies scrambling to kindle fires and candles long before dawn. That done, he could see that someone had taken advantage of his rum-soaked revel to rummage through his desk, disturbing the carefully placed documents he’d planted for that very possibility.

He reckoned he deserved the trespass given his lapse, but it was maddening that he still hadn’t an inkling who was spying—even after a poisoning. Blast, but the man deserved some sort of medal! If the British had an operative in this post, he was a believable one and aroused no suspicions. In the dark about the spy’s identity, Cass knew his only recourse was to plant false information to confuse and thwart.

Turning to the fire, he kicked the front log with his boot and contemplated the day ahead of him. This dreary April morning, he had an unknown enemy within fort walls, a known enemy in the middle ground, a shortage of fresh meat, two regulars awaiting court-martial for stealing rum, men stacked like firewood in the infirmary from a mysterious fever, no post physician, unceasing spring rains, and a courier who hadn’t come back.

And the only thing he could think of was the woman whose heart he’d rent in two.

Since she’d fled the stone house Saturday night, the ensuing hours seemed to echo with regret. He thought the Sabbath would never end, the only respite being Bella’s word that Roxie was in her cabin sleeping. Visions of violet-scented shoulders and pitch-black hair and the sweet, almost honeyed taste of her kept him wide awake almost as much as his latent confession. Both bruised his thoughts, nearly driving him to her door a second time. But something kept him at bay. She needed time. Time to sort through the bitter truth of what he’d told her. Time to compose herself. Time to extend forgiveness—or not.

As the ebony hands of the corner clock stretched to eight, he found himself as tightly wound. She’d never been late, not once, and for a few tense moments he feared she wasn’t coming at all. He didn’t blame her. If she never entered headquarters again, he well understood her reasons.

Going to the window on the pretense of opening it for fresh air, he saw her walking briskly across the common, head down, every lovely curve of her snug in sky-blue linen, a little lace cap covering the gloss of upswept hair he still ached to thread his fingers through.

Returning to his desk, he stayed standing, leafing through the correspondence that needed answering, keenly aware of the moment she came in. As she crossed in front of his desk with a demure, “Good morning, Colonel McLinn,” he felt disbelief take hold. Her careful manner seemed to return them to last week, before he’d embarked on his drinking spree, making their tumultuous hours of Saturday eve no more substantial than river mist.

“Miss Rowan,” he acknowledged, overcome by the lingering scent of roses in her wake.

When she’d settled her lap desk on her knees and looked his way again, he saw that a slip of hair had come free of its pins, framing her face so fetchingly it took all his nerve not to set it right. The thought of the handful of hairpins he had dislodged in his ardor and now had in his breast pocket nearly made him groan.

So this was to be his penance for all that had passed between them. A forced cordiality was not what he’d had in mind. She was going to punish him with the coldness of her presence. And he was powerless to do anything about it.

“First letter will be to Tom Jefferson of Virginia,” he said in low tones, the bulk of the desk between them. “I have a court-martial at nine o’clock, which should give you sufficient time to compose three copies.”

She simply nodded, eyes down. He tried not to look at her, but it was his habit to do so, if only to gauge how well she was keeping up with the dictation. Today she’d have no trouble, he wagered. He felt like a musket ball had lodged in his brain. The tables had turned. ’Twas his heart she held in her hands, and it remained to be seen what she would do with it.

As soon as Cass left the room, Roxanna drew a bracing breath. If not for the orderlies still milling around, sorting through maps and perusing ledgers, she’d have put her head down on her desk and wept. An able actress she was not. Papa always said she wore her feelings on her sleeve, and the last hour had been a veritable battle to keep them hidden. Hurt and anger kept gaining the upper hand, but underneath was a far more encompassing and troublesome emotion. How, she wondered for the hundredth time, did one hide the things of the heart?

Despite everything, each time he moved, her eyes ached to follow him. Whenever he spoke, her ears strained to catch the lilt in his voice. This morning he was immaculate in uniform, and the scent of him—clean and spicy and invigorating—reminded her unceasingly of his warm arms. Surely he’d noticed her unsteady hand and the uncommon number of mistakes she’d made in dictation. Blessedly, he’d left the room and she could rectify her errors in secret. At this rate, she didn’t know how she’d last through the day.

Weary, she sat in her Windsor chair, second-guessing her decision to arrive for work this morning, yet pleading a headache and keeping to her cabin hardly seemed a refuge. Bella was coming by more than usual, and Roxanna felt certain Hank had told of her bolting from the house, hair askew, looking like she’d just been made love to. For once Bella held her tongue and hadn’t asked her outright what had transpired. Mayhap she didn’t have to. Cass’s coming to her cabin—banging and shouting loud enough to raise the dead—had informed the entire fort, surely.

She finished the three copies he’d requested, using an unprecedented amount of paper. She got up and threw her blunders into the fire, which crackled hungrily as she placed the correct copies on his desk for his signature. Till he returned, she could replenish her inkpots and sharpen a new quill.

She looked about restlessly, wondering about the sudden commotion on the common. The orderlies stopped their work and went out, shutting the door behind them but leaving the window open wide. In moments Abby entered, looking like she’d been rolling in the corral with the horses.

“Oh, Abby, I’m glad it’s you,” she said, tamping down her dismay over Abby’s appearance as the child moved to a table where a game of checkers awaited. “Would you like to play?”

But Abby simply looked up, eyes shining with unshed tears, and pointed a finger toward a window.

“Are you frightened, Abby?” Returning her penknife to her pocket, Roxanna crossed to the window and closed the shutter. “Two of the soldiers were caught stealing and must be punished. Colonel McLinn wants to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The red head bobbed in silent understanding, and Roxanna knelt and put her arms around the child, sensing more was bothering her than soldiers meting out justice beyond the window. But how was she to know? Was Olympia mistreating her? Or simply neglecting her? Without a voice, Abby remained an unplumbed mystery. Roxanna held her close for several silent minutes, not only to comfort Abby but to seek comfort herself.

“Why don’t you draw a picture or practice writing your name? You’re making your letters so nicely.”

While Abby sat down with slate and pencil, Roxanna moved to peer through the shutter. Every soldier had assembled to watch an enlisted man, stripped to his breeches, being tied to a post near the flagpole. She turned away and shut her eyes as a great many lashes were meted out by Micajah Hale. That done, the next offender was brought forward. This time it was Cass himself who took a sword and broke it over the second soldier’s head.

The humiliation of each act was palpable. Watching it seemed to shrink her spirit, reminding her of the harsh realities of military life and the man who enforced them.

What, she wondered as anger thrust through her sadness, would the punishment be for an officer who’d shot down a fellow officer? And withheld the bitter fact? Pressing a trembling hand to her mouth, she bent her head and tried to pray, but all that filled her mind was the memory of him holding her, of how treasured and secure she felt before his shattering revelation.

Oh, Lord, forgive me for hating him . . . and loving him too.