The Colonel's Lady (43 page)

“Miss Rowan, I would suggest you try the tenderloin,” the officer to her right said in low tones. “You’d fancy you were in France and not the frontier.”

“Thank you, no,” she replied, taking up a goblet and bringing the lukewarm water to her lips.

“I understand,” he said between bites of beef. “If I were an unwilling guest of Liam McLinn’s, I fear I’d have no appetite at all.”

She looked down at the napkin in her lap, struck by his apologetic tone.

“I doubt our commander means you harm,” he continued, finishing yet another glass of wine. “He’s at war with his brother, even more so than the Americans, really. Bad blood, you know.”

“’Tis a waste of two men,” she murmured, “and a good many more.”

“Yes,” he replied, a wry twist to his mouth. “But you must admit he has just cause. If I’d had my inheritance squandered by an unscrupulous brother . . .”

She turned to him, feeling she’d been jarred by a thunderclap. Seeing her confusion, he leaned nearer, but his words were nearly snuffed out by the conversations all around them.

“Perhaps you are unaware of the exact circumstances. As the eldest son, Liam had the lion’s share of the family fortune. Till his brother lost nearly everything gambling. ’Twas a stroke of good luck to have Hank—our spy—return what was left of it.” He shot a triumphant glance at his commander deep in conversation with Millicent. “And now he’ll be able to settle the score once and for all on the morrow.”

The unwelcome words gripped her and didn’t let go. What had Bella told her? That Cass was the eldest son by mere minutes, not Liam. ’Twas none but Liam who’d lost all but the little remaining in Cass’s trunk, gambling it away between Ireland and England and the colonies in one grand deception after another. Her thoughts whirled and settled like dust devils as she groped for the truth. In the past she’d often believed the worst of Cass. But now . . .

“Your commander is nothing but a sham,” she said slowly and deliberately, meeting the officer’s gray eyes. “Liam McLinn is the second son of an Irish peer who stole his brother’s inheritance after losing his own—and is stealing still. General Washington dubbed him
Lucifer
McLinn for good reason. And you’re willing to blindly believe anything he says—even follow him into battle—and die for his lies.”

Pushing back her chair, she stood, and the table quieted, all eyes on her as she turned away.

“Take Miss Rowan to her quarters,” Liam said tersely, and an orderly at the entrance stepped up to do his bidding.

As soon as she set foot outside, she could hear the empty conversation and laughter resume. Like sounding brass and tinkling cymbals.

She stayed on her knees all night. Sharp stabs of hunger kept her awake, but the dread of dawn was the true culprit. Sequestered inside a tiny tent with only a cot and a canteen of water, she watched moonlight seep under the tightly pegged canvas and wondered where Cass was at that very moment. He’d need a miracle to face his twin and all his men on the morrow.

Her head dipped toward her folded hands in exhaustion as Old Testament images flashed to mind. Joshua and the battle of Jericho. David and Goliath. Daniel in the lions’ den.

Forgive me for lying, Lord.
She’d greatly exaggerated Cass’s numbers and artillery in some ridiculous hope it would make a difference. They needed a miracle of Old Testament proportions. Till then she’d be fasting. Praying.

Toward morning she heard the thunder of cannons. Pushing past the tent flap, she faced her guard, saber-tipped musket at his side, startled when a fine mist touched her face. Fog wrapped pale tentacles around the surrounding maples and sycamores, hovering over the near creek like a second skin. The morning was cooler, accounting for the sudden shift in weather, but quite unusual for June.

“Ain’t gonna be any hard fightin’ today,” the guard muttered.

Tents stood at attention all around them, and she could hear drilling and drumming on a far field beyond. By noon the fog was lifting, and she saw things she’d not noticed before. They were on a ridge, and in the sloping valley to the south, an American flag was flying on a liberty pole above Bluecoat mortars.

She was hardly aware of Millicent coming to stand beside her. A British cannon boomed without warning, spitting a hot ball into a far Bluecoat entrenchment. Dirt sprayed in brown profusion, and she saw a man in homespun fall. Within seconds an officer leaped out of the ditch into the open.
Cass.
Stunned, Roxanna sucked in her breath. He shouted a terse order, enemy artillery erupting all around him.

“There is no flinch in Colonel McLinn,” Millicent said with a tight smile, “nor has there ever been.”

Her words were lost as Bluecoat sharpshooters took aim at the British gunners, the men frantically working to swab the cannon’s hot muzzle before reloading. Roxanna’s insides clenched tight as a fist. She had to open her mouth to breathe. And then, like a white curtain coming down on a stage play, fog filled the valley, and Cass and the Continental line were lost from sight.

“What a royal view we have,” Millicent remarked, fluttering her fan in the sultry air, her fair features alight with interest.

Roxanna shut her eyes, biting back a barb.

“I can see you think me callous, but war is all I’ve ever known. My father was a British soldier. I’ve been surrounded by such all my life.”

“And Colonel McLinn was once a friend—an acquaintance—of yours. Have you no feeling for him?”

A smile softened her rouged lips. “I admire him—and pity him. His is a lost cause, as is that of all the Americans.” Concern clouded her lovely features, and she looked at Roxanna a bit anxiously. “I’ve been asked to keep an eye on you. Apparently there’s a plan afoot to steal you away.”

Hope flooded Roxanna, only to be snuffed out when Millicent produced a silver-mounted pistol. “I shall do my part, of course.”

Through the fog Cass could hear British drummers beating commands to control the movements of their troops.
Rat-a-tat
. . .
rat-a-tat
. . .
rat-a-tat
. Only Providence could have sent such weather, he reflected, and allowed his men to do what they’d done. Under cover of darkness, they’d made a nighttime assault on two enemy redoubts and captured four cannons. When the weather cleared, the enemy would find their own artillery turned on them. From the trenches his men could hardly contain their glee. He tried to smile, to share their excitement, but the expanding knot of anguish in his chest choked out any high feeling.

Roxie
. . .
where are you?

“Colonel, these Redcoat linstocks are a bit of a doodle compared to our own,” one of his artillerymen was saying, examining the long device that held the match to light the cannon.

“Aye, but it fires the same. ’Tis all that matters,” he replied, eyes returning to a far ridge now obscured by mist.

He withdrew his spyglass as Joram Herkimer crawled out of the trench to stand beside him. They faced north, staring into a wall of white that gave no hint of altering. His second-in-command’s voice was low and tense. “Where do you think Lucifer is?”

“If I knew that, the battle would be half won.”

“Where is
she
?”

The honest question felt like a blow. Cass’s jaw clenched. “That’s the better question.”

If it were any other British commander—Gage, Howe, Cornwallis, Clinton—he’d have rested in the fact that they were gentlemen. But Liam’s take-no-prisoners policy made him especially dangerous. He’d never known Liam to kill a woman, but he was capable of it and would find satisfaction in it simply because he knew Cass cared for her.

Turning away, Cass began to walk the trench, leaving heavy boot prints in the dry earth. The regulars in the ditch below were smoking pipes in a rare idle moment, awaiting his directive. Before he’d reached the midpoint, Jehu Herkimer found him, his face a contortion of disbelief and disgust. Every muscle in Cass’s frame tensed.

“Simmons and Holt are back, sir—with news.”

But it hardly needed announcing. The two scouts were barreling through the fog straight toward him, buckskins soiled and chests heaving, though it was Holt who got to him first. “Have a wee listen to this, sir. Hank is behind enemy lines, plain as day—I mean black as night.” There were a few snickers as he rushed on. “He’s in league with the enemy, he is. Practically lickin’ Lucifer’s boots. ’Twas him who led ’em to Miz Rowan.”

Cass fixed his eye on the scout as the words rolled over him in a punishing wave. He was hard-pressed to keep the sting of surprise and regret off his face. He’d thought Hank dead. Better that than this.

“They’ve got Miss Rowan keeping company with your brother’s mistress,” Ben Simmons said quietly. “Can’t remember her name . . .”

Cass felt his expression grow more grim. “Millicent Ashe.”

“Aye, the Irish lass. They’re in a big tent up on the ridge there, waiting for the fog to lift, same as us. All them lobsterbacks are in position on yonder hills—along with them heathen Injuns.”

“Good work,” he said by way of dismissal before motioning for Joram to summon his officers.

His tangled thoughts swung from Hank to Bella, still so distraught over Roxie. Since losing sight of her in the woods, Bella had been a wreck. Nor would she deal well with Hank’s perfidy. They’d lived as man and wife, come west together. Though Hank had been his valet for better than two years, Cass had thought him too acquiescent—and too timid—to spy. But therein lay the deception. Only Hank would have known about the tooled leather chest, have had unquestioned access to headquarters and the stone house. And then there were all those trips to Smitty’s Fort for supplies. Again, a perfect opportunity to rendezvous with the British.

How could he have been so blind?

Slowly, like the drawing up of a heavy curtain, the fog began to lift. His officers were around him now, the regulars and militia looking on. He swallowed down his inhibitions, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword as he dropped to one knee on the hard ground. There was a fumbling to snatch hats off heads as his men realized what was about to happen.

He removed his own tricorn and placed it over his heart, now so full he felt it would burst. Flashes of the life he’d hoped to have—with Roxie and Abby in the stone house—cut into his soul and deepened his dread of what awaited him on the other side of that foggy curtain. ’Twas in God’s hands, all of it. And he acknowledged that fact now on bended knee before several hundred men who’d never heard him utter anything but God’s name in vain.

“Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.” Head bent, he hesitated, resurrecting the prayer from a boyhood long gone. “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: for Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever.”

A resounding “Amen” was murmured collectively, a chorus of support on all sides, wrapping round and bringing him to his feet. Through the scattering fog a regular was bringing him his horse. The stallion pulled against its harness, hooves adance, sensing the coming conflict. Returning his tricorn to his head, he reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew the locket, touching the tiny spring. Roxie looked back at him in mute appeal.

Deliver us from evil.

38

Roxanna stood to one side of the large tent, its canvas sides rolled up so that it had become an awning. Across from her, Liam was in full dress uniform flanked by his senior officers, Millicent equally resplendent in scarlet silk. All had spyglasses, intent on the action in the valley below. The sun struck the steaming ground with such brilliance Roxanna squinted as she looked south, wondering where Cass was among men no bigger than matchsticks in the distance. Not a shot sounded as the fog rolled back—and then suddenly the air was rent with cannon fire from the British and then the Continentals.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Liam’s expression shift from smug to startled before giving way to blatant disbelief. He adjusted the spyglass as if doubting his view. “An admirable start, turning our cannons on us,” he said slowly, jaw tense. “I suppose we’ll let them have a bit of sport first before we mow them down and continue south to the settlements.”

Leaning against a tent pole, Roxanna looked to the entrance. An Indian ducked inside, so tall he seemed to block the sun, his bare skin painted a hideous black. He fixed a dark eye on Roxanna before joining Liam at the front of the tent. A second Indian followed. Shawnee allies? She turned away, a chill spilling over her as she made a quick tally of the guard posted outside. Eight British regulars surrounded the tent, ready to intervene if she so much as thought of fleeing. And oh, she’d thought of little else since coming here.

She sensed Liam and his second-in-command would soon slip away and join the battle below, perhaps take some of the guard with them. That hope kept her from dissolving completely.

Minutes passed, and she felt her composure crumbling bit by bit. She was tired . . . hungry . . . weak. She’d not had a bath in days and could feel vermin making tiny trails over her scalp, perhaps from the infested bedding she’d been given. All the prayers she’d said, poured out of a weeping, anguished heart, now seemed like ashes as evil held sway all around her.

She couldn’t stand the smug satisfaction on Liam’s face or the boredom on Millicent’s or the detached arrogance on the senior officers’. Images of war began colliding in her mind—the acrid stench of gunpowder, the scarlet shimmer of too many Redcoats, the heavy sweating and grunting of men taxed to their physical and mental limits. A line of perspiration trickled from her brow to her chin. Cocooned on this bluff, she was far from the thick of battle, but she seemed to sense Cass’s distress, wherever he was, and it seeped into her very soul, weighting her like lead.

Oh, Lord, please help him
. . .
help all his men.

“Feeling neglected, Miss Rowan? Here, have a look.” Liam thrust a spyglass at her, but she refused it, cowed by the sudden flash of anger in his eyes. “Your beloved is down there in case you’re wondering—”

“I’m well aware of it.” Her wavering voice strengthened and snapped. “Why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I?” He regarded her with amusement, contempt scrawled in every hard line of his face. “As commander, I have countless men to fight in my stead.”

“Commander?” The venom in her voice turned every head in the tent. “You’re not a commander—you’re naught but a coward.”

Their eyes locked—his so like Abby’s yet hard as iron. She took a step back, but not before his hand shot out and struck her, his signet ring cutting her lip. Blood ran into her mouth and down her chin, and she nearly fell from the force of the blow. No man had ever hit her. The shame and shock of it started her crying, and she sank down hard atop the nearest keg, fumbling for the handkerchief she didn’t have.

She was acutely conscious of Liam looming over her, as if debating how to be rid of her, when one of the Shawnee shadowed him, returning his attention to the field. When Liam turned away, she felt a piece of cloth settle in her palm. She brought the soft square of linen to her bloodied lip, as surprised by the Indian’s gesture as Liam’s savagery.

But this, she realized, was no ordinary Indian. Her eyes clung to him, trying to make sense of his familiarity. His shaved head and paint-smeared features continued to confound her—till she caught sight of his headdress.
Five Feathers?
As if aware of her scrutiny, his dark eyes slid her way again, and he pulled something from his beaded belt.

Papa’s watch.

Was he mocking her? Or communicating something more? He turned away, and she shifted her attention to the valley beyond, drawn by the surprise and consternation on Millicent’s face. Liam’s expression was more veiled, betraying little but mild irritation. Fresh alarm knotted her insides. What was happening out there?

“I told Tarrington to hold the line no matter what,” Liam muttered, shifting the spyglass to his other eye.

The gunfire was steady now, occasionally punctuated by the boom of mortars and cannon. Smoke billowed above a melee of fighting men, each side taking and then giving up hard-won ground.

“There are . . . so many.” Millicent’s voice was like a whisper, but every ear heard, all eyes fastened on the Continental line and the glut of men behind it. Swells of the blue uniforms of the French and the darker indigo of the rebels seemed to ride like a wave over the scarlet and white. And then, within moments, a red tide surged back over Cass’s Continentals till the line of Patriots seemed ground to dust.

Suddenly other officers were pouring beneath the awning now—jubilant and tense and talking all at once—and Roxanna felt all the breath go out of her. The Continental line had broken . . . the Bluecoats were in retreat . . . victory was at hand. Her mind was reeling in such confusion she backed up into a tent corner, lip swollen and still bleeding, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her. Even without a spyglass, she’d seen how many men had fallen. They lay like toy soldiers knocked to the ground—British entwined with Americans in a horrific spectacle of death.

Oh, Cass, where are you?

Liam was smiling coldly, and Millicent’s fan was fluttering like a bird’s wings against the rising heat. The guard had gathered to observe the action, muskets lax. They turned their backs to her and looked in a different direction, seemingly forgetting about her altogether. She wanted to run away, but her limbs were leaden—and then a dusky hand circled her wrist. Five Feathers stood over her, his fierce face paint masking his intent. Confused, she stared up at him and waited for what would surely come next—only she didn’t care. She wanted to die. She wanted to end the burning pain in her head and heart once and for all.

Gesturing for her to be silent, Five Feathers moved her beyond the awning past a line of empty tents, where he crouched and tugged her toward a horse hidden behind a huge sycamore. There in the leafy shade, her shaking legs wouldn’t help her onto the bare back. She felt no bigger than Abby when he pushed her atop the stallion, mounting behind her and gripping the reins.

He kicked the horse’s sides and they bolted south. This close, he smelled of smoke, his encircling arms hard as iron bars. They flew through thickets and over sun-dried creek beds so swiftly her teeth chattered. Miles of wilderness began to blur, and then her senses rebelled at the thunder of cannons and the stench of black powder.

Would he drop her into the very heart of battle?

Numbness turned to disbelief as they galloped toward Bluecoat tents and the large marquee that reflected the strengthening sun. There Five Feathers dismounted and tugged her from the horse’s back, leaving her on shaking legs before riding away. Dazed, she looked back at him, but he’d slipped through the smoke. All she saw was a flash of his horse’s tail.

“Miz Roxanna!”

Bella was shouting at her, but Roxanna could hardly hear above the din of battle. Face contorted with disbelief, she grabbed Roxanna by the shoulders, tears running in rivulets down her dark face. “Law, but you look a sight! What have they done to you?”

Roxanna’s own eyes filled and nearly spilled over. Her lip was so sore it hurt to speak. “I’m . . . all right. Is Cass . . . ?”

Bella’s face seemed to close, as if hiding secrets. Pulling away, Roxanna plunged through a lingering mist of fog, stumbling along an entrenchment, senses straining. Up a hill she ran, hungry for a glimpse of him, unaware she was treading on dangerous ground at the rear of a column. Bluecoats surged just ahead of her, leaving spent cartridges and broken muskets in their wake. Overcome by the melee, she fell to her knees, trying to make sense of her surroundings, fingers digging in the warm grass and dirt, her white kerchief trailing like a flag of surrender behind her.

Bella dropped down beside her, shackling her with a hard hand. “You got to come back to camp. Now!”

From somewhere—in the midst of the fray—she could hear Cass shouting at his men to hold the line.

Her heart, so barren moments before, seemed to burst.

“You got to go back!” Bella shouted above the noise. “For Abby’s sake!”

The frantic words seemed to restore her reason. Dazed, she got to her feet and let Bella lead her, returning her to an abandoned camp depleted of all but a few scattered sentries and the sick.

“Now sit down here and stop your shakin’ and drink this,” Bella soothed, pushing her toward a crate and passing her a canteen of water. “Though what you need is some o’ my cherry bounce.”

Roxanna took a long drink, spilling water down her dress front. Bella stood so near that her skirts brushed Roxanna’s, as if she feared Roxanna might take flight again and she’d have to stop her. The sun was burning her eyes in its downward slant. Absently she guessed it to be three o’clock and wished for her hat.

“When . . . will it . . . end, Bella?” The question was so weary, so strung out, it hardly seemed a sentence.

Bella drew a deep breath. “Lord only knows. Them Redcoats don’t like fightin’ past dusk. But the colonel and his men come alive at night.” Taking back the canteen, Bella’s eyes turned searching. “Was that Indian who brung you back here the one the colonel kept locked up last winter?”

Roxanna nodded, eyes on the smoky horizon.

“McLinn was beside hisself when those Redcoats took you. I wish he could see you now. It might make all that fightin’ go easier.” She took a sip from the canteen and ran a tongue over parched lips. “I suppose you saw Hank. Only you’re too kind to tell me so.”

Before she could dash it away, a single tear spotted Roxanna’s cheek. How much did Bella know? How much should she share? Or hold back?

Bella’s eyes turned damp. Head down, she reached into the pocket of a dress blackened with soot and spotted with grease. “Right before we left on this here campaign, I was cleanin’ out some o’ Hank’s things and found this. It’s in your pa’s fine hand.”

The missing journal pages?

Roxanna took the papers, left edges tattered where they’d been torn from the book’s binding, and her eyes fell on one telling line.

I fear—I know without a doubt—who the enemy is. Hank.

“Don’t know why Hank didn’t burn them pages. Mebbe he thought it didn’t matter. Mebbe he forgot where he hid ’em—or didn’t reckon on me findin’ ’em.”

“I’m sorry, Bella.” The apology, though heartfelt, was woefully inadequate.

Bella swallowed hard and passed a hand over her eyes. “I know you is sorry. You sure look it. It’s Hank who should be sorry . . .”

Roxanna looked north, to fighting she couldn’t see, and felt tension tighten like a coil inside her. ’Twas absolute torment to sit here while men fought and fell just beyond that hill, Cass among them. But even as she thought it, found the waiting unbearable, a thundering commotion to their right drew their attention. The wounded were beginning to come in, and her heart wrenched anew at the sight.

Following Bella’s lead, she began doing what she could—carrying water, binding wounds, whispering words of comfort and snatches of Scripture, praying for those who were beyond all hope of survival. The sun dipped lower, but the gun and cannon fire never ceased, and in time she no longer started at its thunder.

Lord, how long must the carnage go on?

She was so weary she seemed to have slipped into a sort of trance, senses dull, her every movement slack. She hardly heard a new ruckus behind her, nor saw Bella’s frantic features as she turned toward the sound.