“Mistress Morgan, you are planning on joining us for dinner?” It sounded like a question, but coming from the General, it was more on the lines of a polite order. The gold buttons on all the blue and scarlet and green jackets immediately swiveled toward her. “We are going to have a memorial dinner for Ferguson. Come in. Kit, do the pretties.”
“Ah, General, I’d rather not intrude on your, umm, dinner. It sounds like a private affair.”
Marshall loomed at her elbow. “The General requests your presence,” and gently, but inexorably, escorted her into the parlor. “Gentlemen, let me make you known to Mistress Morgan. Ma’am, I give you Major Smythe, Col. Johnson, Lt. Bradley, Lt. Claiborne, Lt. Harrison ...”
The names rattled in Deborah’s head, but she acknowledged each with a nod or a slight smile. Each of the heads dipped in elegant bows. “Lt. Harvey and I have met. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lieutenant.”
Harvey blushed almost the color of his jacket and got a few nudges for his pains. “Delighted to see you, too, ma’am. I hope your stay with us has been pleasant.”
She mumbled what she hoped sounded like an affirmative and Marshall continued spewing names. Only Tarleton, sprawled in a chair next to his good friend, the brandy decanter, failed to greet her. She figured it was not a great loss.
Marshall drew her toward the sideboard laden with decanters. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Sherry, please.”
He poured hers and one for himself. “I see you’ve made another conquest.”
“A what?”
“Mr. Thomson is a man grown and can well fend for himself, but Harvey is just a green boy. I’ll not have you weaving snares around him.” His voice matched his glower.
“Thomson? Harvey? What are you talking about, sir?”
His cynicism showed in every word. “You know very well what I’m talking about.”
“I do no such thing.” She bit out each word. “Mr. Harvey happens to be the first person I met here and he was very kind to me. I appreciate that.”
“Appreciate someone else. Harvey has barely started shaving. I happen to know his parents, and I’m sure they wouldn’t like a grasping little colonial of dubious loyalty as a daughter-in-law.”
The sip of sherry went down the wrong way. Between coughs, she choked out, “You what?” Cough. “Why you...” Cough, cough. “I’ve never...” Cough. The fury registered in her voice, even though the misguided sherry kept it to slightly more than a whisper. It was just as well. Here in the midst of Cornwallis’s men, she could hardly start berating his senior officer like a fishwife. She whirled and walked away. A small group of officers welcomed her into their discussion. She should have felt uncomfortable in the old, none too clean frock she’d worn since she’d left home, but fury stiffened her spine so that she might have been a duchess.
**
Kit knew the moment the words popped out that, not only was he wrong, but if a male of the lady’s family was within 50 miles, he would have been facing him over pistols at dawn. And rightly so. In fact, he was extremely lucky the General hadn’t heard it. The old man was a stickler for propriety and was reputed to still be a crack shot.
He watched when Lt. Harvey offered his arm as dinner was announced. She smiled and gently set her fingers on the sleeve of his red jacket. Kit set his teeth. The younger man seated her next to Cornwallis who was at the head of the table. Kit took his customary place to the General’s left. The dozen or so other officers filled in the table.
**
Deborah discussed the weather with Lt. Harrison on her right, inquired after the General’s health, bickered good-naturedly with Lt. Bradley sitting kitty corner across from her over the relative merits of English and American ham, and acknowledged without reservation the grief of these men who genuinely liked Major Patrick Ferguson. Marshall, she ignored.
Tarleton ignored everyone except his good friend, whom he brought to the table with him. He even ignored the food.
The dinner, however, was superb. Besides thin-sliced ham with apple butter (which everyone agreed was quite tasty, despite ham being considered a lower-class food by the British), there was a delicate consumé, trout with Cardinal sauce, roast saddle of mutton, cucumbers and the cruets, peas in cream, pumpkin soufflé, quail eggs in aspic jelly and finally the meringues, nuts and fruits. Even after taking only a small portion of each, Deborah thought her stomach was going to pop.
Of course, all during dinner, the gentlemen would take wine. Catching one another’s eyes, they would lift their glasses, “To Bulldog,” “Ferguson,” “To a damn good officer,” sounded all through dinner. Sometimes the entire table would join in the salute. Deborah realized early on that merely touching the wineglass to her lips was the wisest acknowledgement of the toast.
Through it all, she ignored Marshall, and Tarleton continued to ignore all but his friend.
Lt. Harrison cracked a walnut for her and presented it with a gallant flourish. As she plucked the succulent nutmeat from its shell, she looked around and said, “Gentlemen, I will leave you to your port and your happy memories of Major Ferguson. May he rest in peace.”
“Amen” sounded around the table.
“Goodnight, gentlemen, General.” They all rose for her departure. Even Tarleton got out of his chair, aided by what looked to her to be a kick to his shins. He glowered at her, rose halfway and then plopped back in the chair. Deborah ignored him, made her curtsey, and thankfully retired.
**
In that grey area between wakefulness and true sleep, small noises and minor discomforts frequently become incorporated into dreams. Kit Marshall stood before her, cold and arrogant, in full dress uniform. He drew his sword. “Traitor, traitor, traitor,” he intoned. “What’s the penalty?” He began to swing the sword over his head, and the blade grew larger with every stroke.
She knew she should run, but her stockinged feet stuck to the ground. Strangely, she wasn’t afraid. Step by ponderous step he approached, his face as blank as a statue.
From out of a clear sky, a single hail stone dropped on the board-sized sword. The rock of ice clicked as it hit the blade and rolled to her feet. As the sword swung past her, the draft made her shiver.
“Where’s the panic?” she asked herself. There should be panic. Sunlight bounced off the sword, and the whole area burned bright yellow in the reflected blaze. She turned away from the irritating glare, annoyed but unafraid.
But it was the drop of hot wax on her neck that woke her.
“Wha? Who?” Half asleep, disoriented, she saw only a dark looming figure above her, the face distorted to a caricature by candlelight. Marshall’s name sprang to her lips, but the man slapped a hand over her mouth. Bouncing onto the bed, he half-rolled over her to put the candle on the single table on the other side of the bed, pinning her in the process. She could see him now.
Tarleton.
Brandy fumes choked her. “Alright you little tart, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Freeing one hand, she beat on his shoulder. His laugh was ugly. “That’s right, show a little spirit.” He yanked the comforter down to her waist and grabbed her breast through her shift, squeezing painfully. She tried to buck him off, but he held firm. He released her mouth. She drew breath to scream, but he stoppered it with his mouth. Prying her mouth open further, he ground down and thrust his tongue into her. Tasting blood and nearly gagging, she continued to beat on him.
Finding a handful of hair, she yanked as hard as she could. He pulled back with a yelp. “Bitch, I’ll get you for...”
She screamed. He slapped her, snapping her head around. His hand grabbed her shift and ripped. Once again his hand captured her mouth as he bit the upper curve of her breast. The pain barely had time to register when the door slammed back against the wall, and Tarleton levitated off her.
She turned onto her side, pulled the comforter up, and squeezed her eyes shut, only to have them pop open at the jarring thud that rattled the furnit
ure. Tarleton slid slowly down the wall, holding his face. Blood flowed between his fingers. Marshall stood over him, fists clenched, looking for all the world like the Archangel Michael defeating Lucifer. His bare, heaving chest and feet and half-fastened breeches didn’t lessen the image. “God damn you, Ban. What the hell’s gotten into you? The old man’ll have your head for this.”
“The ‘old man’ was thinking of another part of his anatomy that wouldn’t necessarily ruin his value as a soldier, but would forestall any further occurrences such as this.” Cornwallis, still fastening his dressing gown, glowered. “Throw him in the bridewell, and I’ll decide what to do with him in the morning.” He turned to leave.
Marshall snatched a towel from the commode and tossed it at Tarleton. Kit took a deep breath. “Sir.” Cornwallis stopped and turned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. While it might be satisfying to know that his repose in the jail was less than comfortable, it might not show well to the men.”
Cornwallis ducked his chin and pursed his lips. Doing so formed the only lines on his baby-smooth face. He looked up at Marshall from under his eyebrows and grunted. “Confined to quarters and a guard on his door.”
He turned away but changed his mind. “My apologies, Mistress Morgan. This won’t happen again.” With that, he brushed past Thomson who had come up behind him, and left.
Kit hauled Tarleton to his feet and threw him out the door. “Mr. Thomson, escort the Colonel to his quarters and post a guard on the door.” Stony-faced, Thomson grabbed Tarleton’s elbow. The officer jerked it away and stumbled off on his own, still daubing blood from his face.
Deborah watched it all from underneath her covers. They might have all been in a play, for all that the commotion seemed to affect her. She just sat and watched, with one shoulder bare where Tarleton had ripped at her clothes.
Marshall turned his attention to her, but she could tell his eyes weren’t on her face, but her shoulder. He slowly shook his head, rather like a bull contemplating a charge. Still, his eyes never left her. His arousal tented his half-fastened breeches. He took a step towards her. A foot-fall sounded outside the door, and he stopped. He glared at her and followed his fellow officers.
**
She awoke with a start. The memory of the night’s events had her throwing off the covers before her eyes ceased functioning independently of each other, as they were wont to do first thing in the morning. Jackknifing upright, she looked wildly around the room. The normalness of everything annoyed her. “It should look like mayhem happened here,” she muttered before sliding out of bed. Tarleton had mauled her, but no permanent damage was done.
After a quick mending job on her shift, she checked on the burned soldiers. The worst-burned man had died just after sunset. One more looked like he might not live. Three had been sent back to their tents with bandaged wounds. The others were sedated but looked like they too would live.
The entire process took about an hour and a half. Mending her shift took a few minutes. Now it was not yet noon, and her knitting was almost finished. Even with her brother’s big feet, there were still only a few rows to go. What would she do to occupy her time? It certainly didn’t look like she’d be getting out of here anytime soon. The prospect of cowering in her room or the relative safety of the parlor with nothing to do would drive her lunatic. And hers, unlike Adam’s, wouldn’t be pretense. Leisure time only made her think of Major Ferguson, and she didn’t want to grieve for an enemy soldier, even if he was a nice man.
She had the parlor to herself and chose a chair near the window. Marshall was somewhere. She didn’t care so long as it wasn’t near her. “I can’t stand the sight of the man.”
“Pardon me, ma’am?” Deborah gasped and looked up to find Rogers in the doorway. “Did you want something?”
Finding her breath, Deborah responded, “No…No, thank you, Rogers. I was talking to myself.” Absurdly she noticed that his waistcoat was of the same maroon brocade as the wall covering here in the parlor. The old black man barely came up to her nose, but he stood ramrod straight. White hair gave him a halo, but his eyes were sharp and clear. Even thought the house had been commandeered, here in the midst of the enemy, Mistress Kershaw’s servants were not to be trusted, Rogers in particular. The British had promised freedom to any black who took service with them.
“Very well, ma’am,” he replied before turning with great dignity and going through the doorway.
She went back to her knitting and her thinking, this time completely by herself.
Cornwallis had gone out to inspect the preparations for the majority of his forces’ removal to Winnsboro’s winter headquarters. It was cold and drippy. He’d gone out against her advice and would probably be in bed again before the week was out. Why should she care? He was the enemy and a man and a lord and if he did land himself in bed again because of this foolishness, after all her work to get him healthy, she’d strangle him herself.
How dare he! After all the time she spent trying to get him healthy, he just ignored her advice. Why, the next time he wanted her help, she wouldn’t give it. In fact, she’d just…leave.
Leave! Escape. She shouldn’t waste her energy trying to outfox the British; she should use it trying to…
“Mistress Morgan, I’d like a few words with you!”
She jumped and dropped a stitch. Damn the man, he always did that to her, sneaking up on her and sending her heart racing. “Certainly, Col. Marshall.” Picking up the stitch was a good excuse not to look directly at him. “Please sit down.”
“I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind, thank you.” She did mind him towering over her, but she shrugged her indifference. He braced his feet apart and clapped his hands behind his back. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.
She looked up and found him studying her. She thought she knew what he saw. Her mother’s elegant wall mirror told her that her hair was light brown, her nose has an obnoxious spray of freckles, and her mouth was, well, a mouth. Everything else was put together in reasonable order. There were no surprises. “Well?”
**
What he saw was the sunshine burnishing her hair with hints of old gold, a nose that was unfashionable, but nonetheless patently adorable, and a mouth that was designed exclusively for kissing. He jerked himself back to business before the king in his breeches sat up and demanded attention...
**
“There are several items I need to discuss with you.” The formality in his voice startled her, but she said nothing, and he continued. “The General wishes me to, and I wish to, extend apologies for the events of last night. Tarleton’s actions were unforgivable. He has been confined to his quarters for the next week.”
“What!” She dropped her knitting on the cherry side table and jumped to her feet, nose to collarbone with him. “Confined to quarters! That man’s an animal. He should be tied up and…and…gelded.”
Kit tried to cover his bark of laughter with a cough. “Believe me, Mistress Morgan,” his expression was rueful, “for a man of Tarleton’s character, seven days alone with nothing to do is a most exquisite punishment. That and the gossip. In any case, this will not happen again.”
“Colonel, if you release me to find my brother, it most assuredly will not happen again.” She sat back down and picked up her knitting, only to hold it in her lap.
“Ah! That brings me to my second item. I gather,” he hesitated and pursed his lips, “that the contents of your wagon consisted solely of blankets. A market trip does not usually procure a single type of item, but rather an assortment of supplies. I’d like to know why not.”
“Pardon me! You want to know why I have blankets?” She tried to make her voice sound as incredulous as possible, but oh, but if he only knew how dangerous, and appropriate, his question was.
“Yes. We happen to be at war here and it is my duty to investigate anything suspicious.”
“But why should my blankets be of any interest to you? They are just blankets, for hea
ven’s sake. I’m not carrying pistols or gunpowder or anything like that. People need blankets, even in...unpleasant times.”
“I agree...but a whole wagon-load of them?”
“Yes, a whole wagon of them. The storage cabin for our workers caught fire a few days ago, and all their winter supplies were destroyed. We have to replace the blankets immediately with winter coming on, and we heard there was a supplier in Lancaster that gave a good price. That’s all there is to it. Nothing worthy of the might of the British crown or its officers.” She hoped her look bespoke irritated and outraged innocence.
**
Ah, Kit thought, she looked pure enough to model for a portrait of the Madonna. On one hand he wanted to believe her, wanted her to simply be going about her business after a small crisis. But then, he would have no excuse for keeping this maddening little female in camp. She was beginning to dominate his thoughts more and more. He was masculine enough to be titillated by the possibilities.
A gut-wrenching vision of Tarleton on top of her, pulling at her clothes, made him retract from visualizing himself in that same position. That did not, however, mean that he was prepared to let her go entirely.
On the other hand, if the odd supplies were indeed destined for the rebel troops in Charlotte as Ferguson had speculated, the consequences of naming her a liar and a rebel were not even to be thought about.
“Bye the bye, Colonel, have you sent out anyone looking for Adam? I certainly haven’t heard of any massive search effort.”
“All patrols have standing orders to keep an eye out for him.”
“Colonel, I need to find him.”
“We’ll find him, don’t you worry.
“Harrumph,” Kit cleared his throat. He walked over to inspect the curved mantle over the fireplace. Then he inspected an elegant landscape on the wall.
**
Deborah watched him wander. She had no idea what he was thinking, but she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like it.
Marshall turned to face her, clasping his hands behind his back. His feet were spread; he rocked back and forth. Deborah’s apprehension grew with every sway.