The Colonel's Lady (44 page)

A few bedraggled officers and Frenchmen were coming into camp, emerging from the smoke into fading sunlight, some so powder burned she scarcely recognized them. Despite the dust, she saw Cass plainly and found her feet. He was on his back atop the litter used to transport the wounded, and she caught but a glimpse of him as he was lowered to the ground.

She had no recollection of how she closed the gap between them, pushing past soldiers and horses to reach him, but in moments she was on her knees, her salty tears spotting his face. Flecks of powder blackened his tanned skin, and his eyes were closed. A silent cry erupted inside her as her hands hovered over him, desperate to ease his hurt.

Joram Herkimer knelt beside her, his generous shadow offering a sort of shade for the tumult of her emotions. “His horse was shot out from under him and then fell on his leg. I’m afraid it’s badly broken. But it’s the lead that grieves me.”

The lead?

The bullet’s path was plain before her eyes. Breathless and shaking, she lowered her head to Cass’s chest and recognized a startling absence of blood. Beneath her ear was the torn-up cloth of his uniform coat where the ball had nested—and a dull heartbeat. Frantic, her fingers plucked at the fabric of his waistcoat, fumbling till she pulled the locket free. A ball was imbedded in its face, destroying its silver beauty, blackening her portrait within. It glinted in the sun and made her wince at its reflection. But her heart was strengthening, rejoicing.

Oh, Lord, You spared his life!

His eyes swept open but were marred with pain. “Roxie, go . . .
now
.”

Did he think he was still on the field—in the thick of the fighting? “Cass, ’tis all right. You’re back at camp. But we have to get you moved—your leg . . .”

His features relaxed, and he squinted at the sky as if trying to get his bearings. “Listen to the drums. They’re in retreat.”

Truly, the battle sounds, so distinct minutes before, now seemed a distant echo. The grassy hill kept them from seeing what was going on just beyond. Could it be they’d beaten the Redcoats back?

His hand brushed her cheek. “How did you get here?”

“Five Feathers—he brought me back.”

His look was searching, disbelieving.

“You know—the Shawnee with Papa’s pocket watch.”

She saw his confusion clear and understanding dawn. Looking about, he made a move toward his sword. It lay near him in the grass and she reached for it, then saw the blood marring the tip. Stomach lurching, she left it alone.

Jehu appeared, so winded he could barely speak, his queue undone, his tricorn missing. “They’re in full retreat,” he panted, eyeing the hill in wild-eyed disbelief. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but they are.”

White-faced with pain, Cass attempted to sit up. “Get me off the ground.” Together the Herkimers managed to bring him to his feet.

“Find me a mount,” he said.

Joram turned to do his bidding while Roxanna stared openmouthed at Cass’s left leg, now bent at an impossible angle.

“You can’t possibly—”

“Watch me,” he answered.

They had to help him into the saddle, and Jehu passed him his sword. Returning it to its sheath, he was the commander again, his eye on the hill, scattered pockets of firing just beyond.

He looked down at her, features taut with pain. “Stay here at camp, Roxie.”

“Nay,” she said, reaching for his horse’s bridle.

But he was already turning away, just beyond her reach, his thoughts on the field. She watched him go, still wild with worry, the Herkimers alongside him, Bella shadowing her.

Oh, Lord, please bring him back to me.

The big bay sidestepped and then lunged forward at the touch of a single spur. Cass rode cautiously, cresting the hill till the valley lay before him like a swath of green silk. There he nearly forgot his throbbing leg and intense thirst and Roxie’s entreating look as he’d left her.

As far as he could see, Redcoats and Indians were fleeing, leaving their dead behind, their cannon in the field, a trail of clothes and shoes and broken equipment in their wake. He leaned forward in the saddle, sensing the shock of those around him. In the distance, French officers were riding toward them, leaping over the snaking Bluecoat trench.

They saluted, Gallic faces brimming, and burst into French. He listened, trying to make sense of it all, his officers’ faces a puzzle beside him. The French captain withdrew something small from his breast pocket, leaned forward in his saddle, and passed it to Cass. Sunlight struck gold, and he felt a nauseating familiarity. Liam’s signet ring.

“Your brother, mon colonel, is dead.”

Cass shifted in the saddle, the ring between thumb and forefinger, and kept his expression inscrutable.

“The vile British commander is—how do you Americans say it—suicide?” When Cass didn’t respond, he continued on, exuberance high. “Your brother was not in his right mind. He was seeing things—seeing more Bluecoats and Frenchmen than Redcoats and Indians. His officers—they became confused and began to flee the field. Watching it, he put this gun to his head.”

He produced a silver-plated pistol. Liam’s own. Cass regarded it with a sinking feeling deep in his spirit. What of Millicent? Hank? A bit light-headed, he tightened his hold on the reins. His men were surrounding him now, a great cheering mass of militia and Bluecoats, slapping backs and tossing tricorns into the air. He smiled despite himself, caught up in their jubilance, acutely aware of their bleeding limbs and powder-burned faces.

“Come on, boys,” he finally said with a lavish grin. “Reload your pieces and we’ll give them a proper send-off.”

Hours later, the shock had worn off and the reality of grave pain set in. Night had fallen, and fireflies winged about the marquee tent, mosquitoes buzzing against the netting of Cass’s bed. But he was hardly conscious of anything beyond his throbbing left leg and the hole in his heart. He hadn’t believed Liam dead till the French officers had shown him. And then, seized with an unbearable mix of relief and regret, he’d leaned over the pommel of his saddle and retched.

“Another sip, please.”

The alluring voice brought him round, and he turned his head. “There you go again, trying to make me tipsy.”

Underneath the netting Roxanna sat, trying to slip him sips of rum to quench the hurt of a broken leg and a lost brother. Though she hadn’t been present when he’d identified Liam, the poignancy in her face told him she knew all about it.

“They’ve set your leg,” she said. “Ben Simmons is an able doctor when he has to be.”

“Where’s my locket?”

She gave him a wan smile and looked over at his uniform coat lying across a trunk. “’Tis in your waistcoat pocket, where it belongs.”

“All mangled, I’ll wager.”

“Better that than your heart.”

“’Tis glad I am of that.” His eyes held hers and didn’t let go. Though hours had passed and the smoke had cleared and the din of battle was done, he was still striving to make sense of all that had transpired, still a bit disbelieving. “Roxie, what do you think happened with Liam?”

“His confusion, you mean?”

“His seeing things, aye.”

Her face assumed such wistfulness it reminded him of Abby. She was privy to something he was not, he thought. He could tell just by looking at her.

“I think Liam saw things as they truly were—a heavenly army,” she said softly. “How else can it be explained?”

“You were praying.”

“Yes. But more importantly,
you
were praying.”

“Aye . . . but what were
you
praying?”

Tears came to her eyes. “Elisha’s prayer in 2 Kings . . . ‘Lord, I pray thee, open his eyes, that he may see. And the Lord opened the eyes of the young man; and he saw: and, behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire.’ ”

He regarded her with a sort of wonder. She looked down at her lap and he saw her mouth tremble. “I didn’t want to lose you . . . to face life without you . . . to have to tell Abby you weren’t coming back. So I prayed like I’ve never prayed before—and fasted—and begged for an Old Testament miracle.”

She set the cup down, trying to wipe away the wetness streaming down her face. He reached out to her, her brokenness mirroring his own, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and running into his hairline. Lying on his back, he couldn’t comfort her like he wanted but had to be content with her head upon his chest, his fingers stroking her disheveled hair till hairpins lay like wingless insects on his shirt.

Even on his back with a badly fractured leg, he was acutely conscious of the sweet, womanly essence of her, her winsome vulnerability and strength. He wanted to ask about her cut lip but sensed she had shut that part of her captivity away and would share it with no one, not even him.

Slowly she lifted her head and took up the cup again. He drank slowly as she cradled his head with her other arm.

“Marry me, Roxie.” He spoke the intimate words into her ear.

She responded with a smile as color crept into her cheeks. “Best wait till your leg is mended—”

“Wait? If I wait, you just might change your mind.”

“No, Colonel McLinn. You have my promise as a good soldier’s daughter. Though I don’t have any idea who’ll marry us.”

“I do.” He grinned, a roguish twinkle in his eye. “Graham Greer.”

39

Fort Endeavor had never been so crowded. Or so jubilant. And Colonel Cassius McLinn had never seemed so humble, Roxanna thought. The victory was heaven’s own, and he made no claims to the contrary. Even blockhouse headquarters had a different feel. The door was always open, and French and American officers came and went at will. Even settlers came to pay their respects and hear firsthand what had happened in the middle ground. There was no drilling, no court-martials, just reveille and retreat, and the customary raising and lowering of the garrison flag at sunrise and sunset.

Abby was overjoyed at their return, jumping up and down and spinning like a toy top, so giddy—and gabby—that Bella finally led her away to the kitchen. Roxanna followed, wanting to hold her close and hear what she’d done in their absence, but stopped just shy of the kitchen’s back door. Alone with Abby, Bella hung a teakettle from the hearth’s crane as Abby asked one tentative, heartrending question.

“Where’s Hank?”

There was a lengthy pause, so unlike Bella that tears burned in Roxanna’s eyes. She leaned against the wood wall out of sight and waited for the answer.

“Well, Abby-girl, Hank got killed along with them Redcoats. He ain’t comin’ back.” Bella’s voice was heavy, weighted with such fatigue and sadness it was palpable, before rebounding with surprising enthusiasm. “But we got better things to think about, like a weddin’. You know who’s gettin’ married, don’t you?”

“Papa and Mith Roxanna?”

“That’s right. And we’re all goin’ to live in the stone house as pretty as you please. And I get to be the queen of yo’ kitchen.”

“What’s a queen?”

“A fancy lady with jewels in her hair. But I ain’t goin’ to be that kind o’ queen. Just a kitchen queen. And Miz Roxanna’s goin’ to be yo’ mama. Now ain’t that a fine thing?”

A delighted, slightly disbelieving smile tugged at Abby’s mouth. “Will there be a baby?”

Bella chuckled. “Law, but I hope so. You need some brothers and sisters. Let’s just pray they don’t all have red hair.”

Her smile faded. “Why is Papa hurt?”

Bella sat down and pulled Abby onto her lap. “Why? He got his leg broke bein’ brave. But it’ll mend in time.”

Unlike your heart.
Roxanna turned away, a prayer for Bella on her lips.

She’d told Cass of Liam’s confession and that it had been Hank who’d fired the shot that killed her father. But Cass hadn’t told her about Hank’s death. Somehow, perhaps irrationally, she’d hoped he’d return to them a changed man, if only for Bella’s sake.

Despite her grief, Roxanna was filled with joy as plain as Abby’s in regards to her own future. A bride and a mother to Abby and mistress of the stone house, all in one day.

Standing in the twilight shadows amidst fireflies and a still-scorching evening breeze, she looked longingly at headquarters. Since returning two days prior, she’d hardly seen Cass except to transcribe his letter of resignation, which was dispatched to Virginia posthaste. Though it would be months before he was relieved of command, he had mentally moved beyond its burdens and responsibilities. She could see it in the relaxed lines of his face and the telling shift in his demeanor.

The change brought about a sweet relief. But other concerns quickly crowded in. She wondered if he’d ever walk normally again. The broken leg, Dr. Clary declared, was a grievous one. He’d splinted it and supplied crutches and advised spirits to dull the pain—rum and brandy and whatever else was at hand. But Cass refused to drink. Pondering it now, she felt a profound thanks and failed to hear the footfall behind her.

“Miss Rowan, Colonel McLinn would like to see you,” said an orderly half hidden by the quickening shadows. Thanking him, she started toward headquarters, only to have him intercept her, arm extended. “The stone house, Miss Rowan.”

She couldn’t hide her pleasure at the invitation. Though word of their betrothal hadn’t been announced, it was hardly necessary. The news would soon be commonplace.

Up the hill they went, followed by a small guard. Before she’d mounted the first step, the elegant front door was opened by another orderly who seemed almost as delighted as she.

Was something afoot? He showed her to the dining room, where dozens of bayberry candles glittered in a cool draft and the air was redolent with roasting chicken and herbs. There at the head of the table sat Cass, his crutches in stark relief as they rested against a paneled wall behind him.

She paused in the doorway, feeling tongue-tied and flushed. “Colonel McLinn.”

“Miss Rowan,” he returned with a little smile, as if amused by her mock formality.

The orderly seated her to Cass’s left before disappearing through an adjoining door to the kitchen. She surveyed the china and cutlery and crystal spread before her, a vase of crimson roses within arm’s reach. A few petals lay upon the damask tablecloth. Reaching out, she fingered one a bit absently. Soft as baby skin.

“Are you expecting company, Colonel?”

“Nay, no longer.”

“I’m hardly fit for your fine table,” she murmured, though he himself was in fatigue dress. Looking down at her simple linen gown, she was thankful to be clean, at least.

“You’ve ne’er looked more beautiful to me . . . my bride.”

She met his eyes. Her stomach began to somersault. She couldn’t think of a single coherent word to say.

“You’re lucky I’m wounded,” he told her.

“So you can’t chase me round the room, you mean?”

“Aye, I can’t so much as kiss you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your arms—or your lips,” she replied a bit saucily. “Just your leg.”

“Which should be mended by our wedding day. October, I think you said.”

She reached for her napkin and placed it in her lap. “’Tis right around the corner.”

“The continent, rather.”

At his grim resignation, she laughed. “By then you might have found a preacher.”

“I—”

The adjoining door to the kitchen swung open noiselessly, giving them pause. The supper smells intensified as the orderly carried in a tray laden with warm bread, whipped butter, and consommé. Roxanna all but held her breath as the young man set the steaming bowls before them and spilled nary a drop.

“’Tis only the first course, ye ken,” Cass said. “There are five more to follow.”

Delight flickered through her. “You spoil me.”

“You need spoiling.” Leaning over, he reached for her hand.

At the touch of his fingers, emotion tightened her throat. She paused, eyes on him and then the candelabra. When she looked at him again, she found his eyes shimmering. Was he thinking of Liam? Hank? The soldiers he’d lost in the middle ground? Or so suffused with thankfulness over being spared he couldn’t speak?

“Why not pray the prayer you prayed with Abby?” she said softly.

He gave a brief nod, and together they bent their heads. Though the words had been memorized long ago, she felt his deep emotion. “Be present at our table, Lord. Be here and everywhere adored. These creatures bless, and grant that we may feast in paradise with Thee. Amen.”

“Amen,” she echoed with feeling, dipping her spoon into her soup. “Who is in the kitchen tonight?”

“A French lieutenant. He’s asked to stay on as chef.”

“But Bella . . .”

“Bella can be in the nursery.”

She was smiling again, hardly aware of what she ate. “With Abby.”

“Aye, with Abby.” He took a sip of water. Not wine, she noticed. “Did I mention I want a dozen or more children?”

She feigned disappointment. “Only twelve?”

A smile pulled at the solemn lines of his mouth, and he buttered his bread with relish, as if making up for the meager rations in the field. “I was hoping you’d feel the same.”

“Twelve children sounds something like an order. We already have one, remember.”

“Abby needs brothers and sisters. This house needs life—laughter.”

The door reopened, and a second tray, burgeoning with roast chicken and cream sauce and assorted vegetables, was set down. Roxanna’s mind was spinning with the intoxicating thought of eating in this beautiful room day in and day out. With a French chef, no less. Only she’d throw back the curtains and let in light and fresh air and remove the hideous elk’s head above the mantel—

“ . . . our wedding trip.”

Her musings evaporated. “You were saying?”

“I thought perhaps we’d travel to Philadelphia, take Bella and Abby. They could stay with the Hazens while we go on to Williamsburg and Richmond and enjoy ourselves.”

“But isn’t river travel still dangerous?”

“Not with an escort of fifty French riflemen and two retiring officers.”

“Who will take command in your stead?”

“One of the Herkimers since Micajah is being discharged.”

Taking up her fork, she cut a bite of meat and eyed the artfully arranged vegetables. “You don’t want to stay here, then? Honeymoon in this house?”

In the candlelight, his eyes—so wildly blue—softened. “Only if you do, Roxie.”

I do.
She set her fork down, taken by a sudden whim. Hadn’t she learned anything on the march into the middle ground? Life was too precious to tarry. Today was all they had.

“It seems like we’re always waiting. For your leg to mend. Our wedding. Your replacement.” She glanced at her plate. “The next course. Safety. Happiness. Peace.”

Pushing back her chair, she got to her feet. Alone with him in the polished perfection of the dining room, she circled round to the back of his chair. Putting her arms around him, she buried her face in the scarlet silk of his hair.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

He went still. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow . . . I will wed you tomorrow.”

She sensed his surprise and pleasure as plainly as she felt the frantic fluttering of her pulse.

“You’ll wed a cripple,” he finally said.

“Then we’ll limp down the aisle together, provided we can find a preacher.”

His joyous smile turned her heart over and made jelly of her knees. With a deft maneuver he pulled her nearer, well away from his splinted leg. She sank atop his lap in an avalanche of linen and lace, their foreheads touching.

She queried with a joyous smile, “What say ye, Colonel McLinn?”

His eyes glinted with good humor. “I say aye, Mrs. McLinn. Limp on.”