The Officer's Desire
Colleen French
Copyright © 1987, 2019 by Colleen French. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of The Evan Marshall Agency, 1 Pacio Court, Roseland, NJ 07068-1121, [email protected].
Version 1.0
This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
Published by The Evan Marshall Agency. Originally published by Kensington Publishing Corp., New York, under the title Raging Desire and under the name Colleen Faulkner.
Cover by The Killion Group
For the men in my life, Keith, Ry, and Grey
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Epilogue
The Green
Dover, Delaware
1776
Chapter One
"Might I help you, sir?" Cassie O'Flynn spoke steadily as she eased back the hammer of the flintlock pistol and pressed the barrel into the intruder's soiled ruby waistcoat. This was the third time this week someone had attempted to rob The Patriot tavern, and she wasn't going to stand for it. Master George, the proprietor, had entrusted her with the money and she wasn't going to let him down.
The ruffian stiffened and raised his arms above his head.
"Turn around slow," the young woman commanded. "Or my finger might slip, and then"—she shrugged—"you'd be a dead man."
Sweat beaded on the man's forehead and ran in rivulets down his scarred face. "Yer makin' a mistake, wench," he slurred drunkenly. "Wasn't doin' no harm, just usin' the back way out to avoid an acquaintance."
"Just going out the back door, were you?" Cassie poked the pistol's barrel into his filthy ruffled shirt, enjoying the game. She liked putting men of this kind in their place; she liked seeing them squirm. Her voice became sharp and accusing. "With your hand in the cash box! Wouldn't the high sheriff like to see your pretty face this even'? Bet he'd even know your name."
The thief shook his head. "No, don't be doin' that." He took a step back, drawing his hands up to protect himself.
"Now you get out of here," she ordered." and don't you ever let me catch you in The Patriot again!" She waved the loaded pistol, her finger still resting lightly on the trigger. "I'm warning you. The next time I'll not be so kindly!"
The man bobbed his head up and down as he backed his way to the door and fumbled with the latch, never taking his eyes off her.
As the door slammed shut, Cassie caught a glimpse of movement behind her and spun around, holding the pistol on a second intruder." And how might I help you, sir?" She held the flintlock steady, eyeing the tall gentleman boldly.
Devon Marsh was taken totally unaware. He was expecting a pox-scarred barmaid, but the girl holding the gun on him was glorious! He ignored the barrel of the pistol she aimed straight at his stomach as he stared in awe. She possessed a raw, shocking beauty he'd never witnessed before. Her hair was a mass of fire-lit waves, coarse and untended, her face heart-shaped with a sprinkling of freckles. But her eyes! They were the most haunting emerald eyes he'd ever seen.
"What's the matter with you? Addlepated?" Her dark eyebrows arched over sooty lashes. "We don't allow customers in our back rooms." She looked him up and down. "Gentleman, or not." She lowered the pistol slowly, sensing he meant no harm. "So, get you to the public room, sir, or get out." She caught the hem of her apron and wiped her damp forehead. The heat from the huge fireplace made the small room almost unbearable.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." Devon's eyes were transfixed on the sea of green. She was Irish to the bone. "I saw the seedy fellow slip into the back room, and you follow him. I thought you might need some help." He knew how ridiculous he must have sounded. It was obvious this girl could take care of herself.
She nodded elegantly. The gentleman had an interesting face, so full of life. "I thank you." She spoke like royalty. "But as you can see, I need no help." She held him in the spell of her eyes for just a second and then turned, never giving him so much as a smile.
Despite her obvious dismissal, Devon remained in the doorway. He was as intrigued by her haughty manner as he was her spell-weaving beauty. "No, I can see that you don't. I'd put you up against a regiment of redcoats any day." He laughed, his deep baritone voice echoing a rare masculinity.
Cassie opened the pie safe, releasing a breath of fresh baked apple, and slid the flintlock in among the scraps of crust. Something deep inside her told her she shouldn't turn around. Let him go, her voice of reason warned. A man like him is not for the likes of you. But slowly she turned to meet the stranger's gaze. "You're an officer, I take it?" Her full, rosy lips formed a lazy smile.
"That easy to tell?" He rested a bronze hand on the frame of the doorway, returning the smile.
"Mmm-hmm." She nodded, eyeing him brazenly as she made her assessment. A more handsome man she'd never seen. The stranger looked as if he'd been cut from solid rock. His flesh was the color of newly turned soil, a deep suntanned brown; his hair, unpowdered and tied in a club, was a raven's hue. He wore a fine velvet frock coat and soft buckskin breeches, and he stood well over six feet tall, filling the doorway with his brawny shoulders. Cassie's eyes met his. They're as dark as a wild stag's, she thought.
"How could you tell?" The deep voice was laced with amusement.
"I've known many an officer and you're all alike." She shook her head saucily. "Maybe it's the way you stand there, daring me to take you on." Cassie raised her chin a notch, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Or maybe it's the way you clench your fists, tightening and relaxing them over and over again." She raised a balled fist, watching him as he self-consciously released his own. "Or maybe it's that glimmer in your heathen eyes that makes women tremble and the enemy sway in their boots. I don't know, but I can spot you." She raised laughing eyes to meet his again and felt the air grow still between them. "So what's a soldier doing in The Patriot besides coming to the aid of defenseless women?"
Devon grinned, baring even white teeth. He was enchanted, enthralled . . . "Just tipping a few tankards, listening to the conversation. I've just come home on furlough. Had some business to attend to. Then I'll be riding hard to catch up with my regiment. General Washington is in New York now, you know." He watched as the Irish lass leaned against the pie safe, pulling her linen cap off her head to push back the heavy mass of curls that framed her face.
"The general himself, is it?" She raised an eyebrow, only half believing him. She'd known enough officers in her life to know what they were like. Always trying to impress the ladies, throwing names and battles about as if they were scraps of stale bread. They were all liars.
Devon knew she didn't believe him, but he didn't care. He just wanted to keep her talking. He'd broken through her facade and he didn't want to lose their intimacy. "You're Irish, yet you speak with no accent."
She stiffened. "I'm not Irish, I'm American. Why shouldn't I speak like an American?" She may have been born in Dublin, but she'd sold herself in indenture for the right to be called American.
Devon knew he'd broken the spell. Cursing himself silently, he watched her pull the cap back over her head and reach for a wooden bowl on the worktable.
"I must get back to work," she told him, keeping her eyes averted. "Old Master George'll think I've run off with the cash box myself." She stepped forward, waiting for the soldier to let her pass.
Devon straightened up, but kept his arm across the doorway, barring her exit. "Tell me your name," he entreated softly.
"Let me go. My name is mine to give as I please and I don't care to give it to you." She returned his unabashed gaze, scrutinizing him as he lowered his arm.
"Don't you even want to know mine?" he called after her.
She let out a snort and disappeared into the crowd of hungry customers.
Late that night, Cassie lay on her narrow rope bed, unable to sleep. No matter which way she turned, or how she twisted her goose down tick, sleep eluded her. It was that man . . . that soldier that plagued her mind.
She rolled over on her back, staring at the attic rafters above. The pale moonlight shone through the tiny window beneath the eaves, illuminating the room that had been her home for more than three years. Damn, but it's hot up here, she thought.
Sitting up abruptly, Cassie reached for her shift and slipped it over her naked body. If that man was going to keep her up all night, she'd have to have some fresh air. If she didn't get out of this attic hole, she'd surely bake like a cinnamon apple!
Lifting the latch of the attic door, she stole down the crude wooden steps, taking care to avoid the squeaky spot on the landing. Pressing her ear to her master's door, she listened. A comforting snore wafted through the thick boards, followed by the mistress's wheezing. It was safe to pass.
Carefully raising the window at the landing, Cassie hiked up her linen shift and slipped through the opening onto the roof.
As the light summer breeze brushed through her damp hair, she gave a sigh of relief. After sleeping out under the stars most of her life, she would never grow used to the stifling heat of the tavern.
Tucking her bare feet beneath her, Cassie gazed out on the sleeping town. The bell struck the third hour as she relaxed against the rough cedar shakes of the tavern's exterior wall. Images of the tall stranger flashed through her mind as she made herself comfortable on the roof of the overhang. This was her haven; this was where she came late at night to escape the unbearable heat of the attic and to find peace when she was troubled.
What was it about him that haunted her? He certainly wasn't the first gentleman who'd fancied her. She'd had many offers from the men who frequented the tavern. Some men had been quite honest—lonely colonists looking for companionship. One young man had even offered to purchase her remaining years of indenture and marry her! And, of course, there'd been some proposals that weren't so honorable. Those usually came from men dressed like her soldier gentleman.
Cassie smiled, peering up at the stars. No, he was different. Though she'd told him he was like all the other soldiers, she knew otherwise. There was something about his reckless smile that reminded her of her father's. And he'd never been like the rest.
Cassie drew her knees in close to her body and pulled her shift over them. She knew she should go in before she caught a chill, but the thought of returning to her cramped bed under the eaves wasn't very appealing. For years she and her mother had followed her father through Europe, and wherever his army set up camp, that was where they unloaded their belongings. She'd spent more of her life sleeping outdoors than in, and she couldn't grow used to having her bed under a roof. Cassie caught a strand of bright hair and began to wrap it around her finger as her mind drifted back to her childhood.
Life with Patrick O'Flynn had been wondrous . . . at least for a child. Born a descendant of the Irish Wild Geese, he was a mercenary soldier. Wherever there was fighting, wherever there was payment, O'Flynn and many like him reported for duty. They traveled through Europe fighting for many causes. Sometimes O'Flynn was on the victor's side, and sometimes he wasn't; it mattered little to him. He was a soldier by trade, and went were he was needed.
Patrick O'Flynn never married Peg Donovan, Cassie's mother, but when Cassie set sail for America, they'd been together more than twenty years. They had a good life and saw no need for change.
A smile wrinkled the corners of her mouth. Being an only child and having two parents who loved her a great deal was more than any illegitimate child could expect. She adjusted well to the life of a camp follower and, like her father, always had itchy feet. She never liked to stay too long in one place and was always anxious to move on to the next.
There were some aspects of army life that bore forgetting. There wasn't always enough decent food, or wood for fuel. Sickness spread through the camps like fire, killing all but the strongest, the most determined. Cassie's baby brother had died of consumption in Paris. And then there were the times when Father was wounded. Cassie shuddered inwardly, thinking of the long hours she'd spent cleansing festering wounds and pouring hot broths into him when he was barely coherent. But he always recovered.
Every time he was hit, Peg would say." You've done it this time, Paddie. Finally I'll be rid of ye, so I can take my little colleen home." But he was always on his feet again, making plans to move on.
Cassie stood up, staring out into the peaceful darkness. Yes, Patrick O'Flynn was a fine figure of a man, just like . . . She caught herself. There he was, her gentleman soldier again. She leaned against the cool cedar shakes listening to the eerie call of the night hawk and the soft chirping of the crickets. 'Twould be best if she never laid eyes on that handsome rogue again.
Slipping back through the window, Cassie made her way up the attic steps. Why couldn't the man have been a tanner? Or even a merchant? She laughed to herself. The joke was on her. The first man she ever met in her life that she couldn't get out of her mind, and he had to be a soldier!
Devon Marsh swung open the heavy hand-hewn door of The Patriot and ducked in. It was a curse to be a tall man in the Colonies. Ceilings often hung low and doors were cut for the average man. A man of his stature spent his entire life rounding his shoulders and stooping at the knees. Devon chuckled at the thought of General Washington ducking to get in doorways.
Making his way through the smoke-filled room, Devon chose a small table toward the back. From here he could see everything, hear much of what was said. Sliding his three-cornered cocked hat off his head, he eased into a chair. His eyes searched the busy room for familiar faces . . . one in particular. He hadn't been able to get the Irish maid off his mind. He tried not to think about her, but images of her freckled nose and saucy eyes haunted his mind.
"Good evening to you, sweetness." Molly sashayed in Devon's direction, a round tray of frothy mugs balanced on one ample hip. "Can I help ye?" Clear blue eyes sparkled with insinuation.
Devon smiled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Pretty Molly," he cajoled." come sit with me a moment." He patted the chair beside him.
Molly set the tray onto the trestle table and slid into the chair. She didn't care if Master George did throw a fit. A country wench had to cut hay while the sun was shinin'.
Devon draped his arm over the back of the blonde's chair and leaned to whisper in her ear.
Cassie slammed another tankard of ale onto the wooden counter and reached for the tray. "I'm coming, I'm coming," she shouted to the table of merchants in the corner. Balancing a tray on each hip, she started across the room, stopping short when she spotted her gentleman soldier with the other barmaid. Shameless hoyden, she thought. Look at that Molly all cuddled
up against him.
"Cassie, damn it all, bring us some ale."
She glared, clenching her teeth. "Here's your ale, gentlemen." She dropped the tray on the table with a bang, ignoring the creamy liquid that puddled on the floor. "But if I hear you hollerin' like that again, you're liable to get it on your heads."
The men grew silent at her reprimand until Carl, a regular customer, spoke up. "Sorry, Cassie. You know we don't mean any harm."
"Well, just the same. I don't like it." She unloaded the pewter tankards one at a time. "You can see I'm moving as fast as my feet'll carry me. If you want a faster piece, maybe you want that one." She motioned in the direction of Molly and her soldier.
Carl laughed, lifting a tankard to his mouth. "Come on, Cassie. You know you're our favorite. You've got a mouth on you, but we wouldn't have you any other way."
The others nodded, speaking in agreement. "You're the only one that don't take no stuff," someone called.
Cassie scooped the empty trays off the table. "Well, just be sure you leave me a good tip." She eyed them sternly and then broke into a smile. "Have a good evening. Let me know if you need anything else." She turned to call over her shoulder. "And don't stay too long or your wives will have your heads on a platter!"
Molly pressed her arms close to her body, forcing her breasts to swell at her neckline. She bit her lip, looking up at the soldier, eyes wide. She sighed. Now here was an opportunity! She ran a finger along the sleeve of his rich burgundy coat.
"I was wondering if you might help me, Molly." He smiled, brushing a stray hair off her forehead. The girl was pretty enough but Devon knew that life on her father's farm had cost her her true beauty.
"I wonder if you could tell me something about her." He pointed in Cassie's direction, following her with his eyes as she crossed the room.
Molly wrinkled her nose. "Cassie? What would you want with her? She's a cold goose if there ever was one." She squeezed his arm lightly, savoring the feel of his muscular flesh. Most of the men that came into the tavern were old and stringy—at least the ones that paid her any mind. "What would you want with a snipe like her, when you could have me?" Molly didn't usually come on to men quite so strongly, but she didn't want to let this one get away.
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