The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  Keely laughed, pushing his hand aside. "Stop calling me that, it's not funny anymore. Now sit down and have your tea. You'll get your handkerchief dirty." She watched Micah return to his seat and pour them both a cup of tea from a silver pot.

  "You're certainly in a sour mood today," Micah said with good humor.

  Keely eased into her seat and took her teacup, sipping from it. "I'm sorry. Please accept my apologies. I don't know what's wrong with me today." She didn't want to admit to Micah that she was concerned about Brock's absence. More and more often these days she had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach when he was away. I received a letter from Aunt Gwen yesterday," she said, changing the subject.

  "You did?" Micah toyed with a silver-gilt button on his waistcoat. "How is she?"

  "Wonderful." Keely lifted a dark eyebrow. "Although I understand one of her hounds, Rupert, came down with some sort of illness and Auntie had a surgeon sent from Rome to heal him."

  "You think that's news, wait until I tell you what George Whitman's about."

  Keely sighed. "Micah, are you certain you should be telling me these things? You know Brock would be furious."

  Micah shrugged his broad shoulders. "I don't give a fig what Brock Bartholomew thinks, if you'll forgive me for saying so. He treats you so illy, you should have married me." He grasped her hand. "You could go away with me. We could go back to England."

  Keely pulled her hand from his, laughing to make light of the proposal. "You're being silly again. I don't want to hear it!"

  "All right," Micah conceded, twisting a thread on his coat sleeve. "Then listen to this . . ."

  After two cups of tea and half an hour's worth of gossip, Micah bid farewell to Keely and went on his way to play cards at the Golden Fleece tavern. Keely was just preparing to retire to her chamber when Jenna burst through the back gate of the garden. She had donned a simple housemaid's dress with a kerchief tied over her blond head. Had Keely not known Jenna so well, she'd never have recognized her.

  "Jenna, what's wrong?" Keely cried out.

  Jenna put her hand to her chest, breathing rapidly. "It's Brock, Keely, he's in danger!"

  "Brock? What do you mean? Where is he?"

  Jenna swallowed, trying to catch her breath. "I can't tell you the whole story, there isn't time, but I need you. Brock's going to kill me when he finds out I brought you into this, but if we don't do something, he'll be swinging from a noose by dawn."

  Keely took a deep breath, fear rising in her throat. "What do you want of me? What can I do? Surely there must be—"

  "No one must know I've been here, not even your servants," Jenna interrupted. "We must trust no one!"

  Keely nodded, trembling. "Tell me what's wrong. How can I help?" She told herself it was for the babe, to save the child's father. Her hazel eyes were riveted to Jenna's.

  "Brock is about to be set up. You must go and get him out of it."

  "Me? Why can't you do it?"

  She shook her head. "I think I know who's betraying us . . ." Her dark eyes shone with a mixture of pain and anger.

  "Who? Tell me!"

  "No questions, you must promise that. The more you know, the more your life will be in danger."

  "All right, no questions," Keely agreed. "But I still don't understand."

  There's no time to argue." Jenna held Keely's face between her palms. "Listen to me and do exactly as I say if you want to save your husband's life."

  "Yes?"

  "You must go to a tavern on the docks at Leipsic, jut north of here."

  "All right." Keely nodded, her eyes wide with fright.

  "You must go inside and get Brock out before he passes his message."

  "Spying?" Keely moaned. "He's spying? I thought he sold salt and transported soap! Micah never told me he was spying!"

  "You promised no questions . . ."

  Keely's face was wrought with fear for Brock. "How am I to . . . where are you going that you can't come with me?"

  "Brock will be dressed as a smithy. He's been going by the name of Timothy Irons down there. Have you got that?"

  "Timothy Irons, yes! I've got it."

  Jenna's head snapped. "Did you hear that?"

  "Hear what?" Keely looked in the direction of the house.

  "I thought I heard a twig break. There's no one out here, is there?"

  Keely gripped her hands until they were dead white. "No, of course not."

  "Just the same, I have to go." Jenna settled her dark gaze on her English friend. "Can you do it?"

  "I can do it. I don't know how but I'll do it," Keely assured her.

  "You know you lose your neutrality by helping us."

  Keely shook her head. "I don't care about your damned causes, all I care about is my husband and this babe."

  Jenna smiled. "I must go. God speed, Keely."

  "God speed," Keely whispered, watching her friend disappear from the garden.

  Coming around the hedge of boxwood, Keely nearly collided with Lucy. "Lucy! What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  "Doin'? Takin' in the tray and teapot."

  "You just came into the garden?" Keely interrogated.

  The maidservant lifted the teapot onto the tray, averting her eyes. "Of course, ma'am. Ruth sent me. You know I'm not one to be looking for work."

  "Where's Ruth?"

  "Gone to her sister's. She's got a touch of the summer fever. You said Ruth could stay the night."

  "And Blackie?"

  Lucy balanced the silver tray on her hip. "I'm not supposed to say but there's a horse race down on the riverbed tonight. He's long gone."

  "Good. Take the tray into the kitchen and then you may go."

  "Go? Go where, Miss Keely?"

  "I don't care. Wherever it is you go when you sneak out the window at night."

  Lucy's eyes grew round. "Goodness me, Miss Keely, you know that wouldn't be me because I'd never—"

  "You've got the night off," Keely interrupted. "Now go on with you."

  "You gonna be here all by yourself?" Lucy asked.

  Keely hesitated for only an instant. "No . . . no, Master Brock is coming home and I want us to have the evening to ourselves."

  "Ain't nothin' cooked in the kitchen."

  "I'll cook something myself, now go on with you," Keely ordered tersely.

  "Yes, ma'am." Lucy bobbed her head.

  Keely waited until Lucy disappeared into the house and then she headed for Lloyd's office. From behind a row of dusty leather-bound books, she retrieved a pistol and then she hurried up the steps to her bedchamber. The minute Keely heard Lucy leave by the back door, Keely crossed into the servants' wing.

  In the women's chamber she found one of Ruth's skirts made of blue tick, a soiled smock, and white wing cap of muslin. Stripping down to her chemise, she tugged on the woman's clothes, thankful that Ruth's abundant skirts fit over her round stomach. Adjusting the hat in a bit of cracked mirror hanging on the wall, Keely added a half handkerchief as a hood.

  Scooping her clothes off the floor, she ran back to her bedchamber, dumped them onto the floor, and started for the barn. Ten minutes later Keely was headed north in an old wagon, Lloyd's ancient matchlock pistol resting beside her on the hard wooden seat.

  Jenna moved silently in the darkness, her heart pounding in her ears, her fingers gripping the cold metal of a flintlock pistol. The person who waited at the end of this lonely dock on the bay was the traitor. This informant had betrayed the patriot committee and now risked Brock's life.

  Jenna heard the sound of movement behind a stack of crates and she stopped, easing back the hammer of the pistol. "Come out where I can see your stinking face!" she called. The sound of footsteps echoed hollowly against the wood slats of the dock and Jenna took a deep breath, her finger poised to pull the trigger.

  A dark figure appeared from behind the crates and took a step forward into the light of the three-quarter moon.

  Jenna gasped in shock, the hand she held the pistol i
n falling uselessly to her side. "It is you!" she cried out.

  And then there was a streak of bright light, the sound of a single shot fired, and the pungent smell of black powder in the air. Jenna crumpled to the ground under the impact of the lead bullet and for an instant she struggled for her life's breath before she surrendered and her body was still.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Keely wiped the perspiration from her brow with the sleeve of her borrowed clothing and looked up at the sun setting in the west. Dear God! She wasn't even sure how to find Leipsic. And what if she was too late? What if they had already taken Brock away?

  Keely's hands trembled as she fingered the wide leather straps of the reins. "Come on," she urged the chestnut gelding that pulled the old wagon. "Get up!" She loosened the reins, giving them a shake, and the horse increased its steady pace down the hard-packed dirt road.

  Following the road north, Keely kept her jaw set, "Stupid colonial bastard," she muttered aloud. "I told you this would come to no good end! I told you that you were a fool to put yourself up against the King and his soldiers!"

  The chestnut's ears twitched at the sound of the human voice as the wagon rounded a bend and moved east toward the bay.

  Impatiently, Keely lifted up a long-handled horse whip and cracked it over the gelding's head, urging him into a trot. "Stupid! Idiot! You want to be a hero? You want to leave your son with no father the way you were raised with no father?" Tears moistened her eyes and she dashed at them ruthlessly. The only reason I got into this wagon was for this child, she assured herself, running a hand over her swollen stomach. If it weren't for you, she told her unborn son, Brock Bartholomew could rot in hell for all I care!

  Cursing her husband beneath her breath, Keely hung on tightly to the wagon seat, gritting her teeth as she was jarred again and again. By the time she entered the little seaport town of Leipsic, her back was aching and her stomach felt taut and achy. Spotting a sailor on the street, she called out to him. "Sir! Could you help me, please?"

  Toddy MacFarlin turned to see where the pleasant feminine voice had come from but all he saw was a dirty-faced, pregnant wench passing on a wagon. He scratched his whiskered face. "You say something, sweet pie?" He stared up at Keely, wondering if the twilight was playing tricks on him.

  "Yes . . . . yea," Keely returned, remembering the part she had to play. Perhaps Aunt Gwen's silly acting lessons would finally be of some use. "I'm lookin' fer the alehouse." She pulled up the reins, bringing the squeaky wagon to a holt. "My husband Timmy, I sent him to collect a fee from a cheatin' customer and we ain't seen a lick of him since. Drinkin' his pay more than likely, that or whorin'!"

  Toddy laughed aloud. "Whew-wee! Glad you ain't my missus!" He smiled at the sight of her deep red hair peaking from beneath her cap. Beneath the soiled clothes and smudged face, he saw a real beauty.

  "So, ye know where it is or don't ye?" she demanded, grinding her voice. "I ain't got all night. Got two babes at home to feed and the cow won't come in from the pasture."

  "And who might your husband be?" The sailor leaned on the wagon's wheel, taken with the girl.

  Keely scowled. "The bastard's name be Timmy Irons, claims to be a smithy by trade, a louse by trade if you ask me."

  Toddy chuckled. "The tavern, you think, huh?"

  She nodded. "I'm in a hurry, left my oldest tendin' the fire, but he ain't really bright, Little Timmy ain't, just like his papa."

  "You're in luck, 'cause I happen to be going in that very same direction! Gimme a ride?"

  Keely lifted the reins, giving them a snap, and the old wagon jolted forward. "Jump in!" she called over her shoulder.

  Laughing, Toddy MacFarlin ran beside the wagon and leaped aboard. "Just past that building and down that street," he told her. "Joe Galig's had that tavern on the beach for nigh on ten years now."

  "This way?" Keely pulled on the right rein, urging the horse faster.

  Toddy gripped the seat of the wagon as they went around the corner. "No indeed, Toddy don't envy that smithy tonight!"

  Up ahead in the distance Keely spotted a large brick structure with light streaming from the windows. There was raucous laughter mixed with the sound of shrill feminine giggles coming from the tavern. "This it?"

  "This be it!" The sailor pointed. "Just pull her around back."

  The moment Keely pulled the wagon to a halt, she leaped to the ground. "Tie 'im up fer me, will you?" she called over her shoulder, hurrying across the grass.

  Toddy laughed aloud, shaking his head as he watched the woman cross the side yard with long determined strides. "Give Timmy hell!" he hollered after her.

  Racing around the building, clutching her extended stomach, Keely ran up the front steps. She swung the door open and stepped into the bright light of the smoke-filled public room. No one took notice of her in her serving woman's clothing as she stood there surveying the crowded room.

  Joe Galig's tavern was a large one, built of red brick to stand the wind and salt air of the bay. Its public tap room was open, taking up half of the downstairs, while the second floor offered private rooms for dining and other pleasures. It was an honest establishment, though most of its patrons were smugglers and privateers.

  The smoke from the huge fireplace along the wall mixed with the tobacco of men's pipes made Keely's stomach churn violently and her vision blurry. Pressing her hand to her stomach, she wiped at her eyes to relieve the sting. Where in the blast was Brock? It was sundown! Jenna had insisted she be there by sundown!

  Then she spotted him . . . . Brock was sitting against the far wall at a small wooden table, a pewter mug in his hand. He was dressed in worn breeches and a cheaply made muslin shirt, his hair tucked beneath a three-cornered hat. He was in conversation with a dark-haired man with a mustache.

  Keely took a deep breath, trying to block out the sound of her own pounding heart. Then lifting her chin, she hurried across the planked floor. "Timmy Irons, you drunken bastard!" she shouted aloud. Behind her she heard several chuckles.

  Brock's head jerked up, his eyes widening for an instant before he allowed Timothy Irons's face to reappear.

  "Timmy Irons, I'm calling you!" Keely shouted louder, praying no one heard the tremor in her voice. "I told you to get that money and get home!" She strode up to the table, her mouth twisted in anger.

  "What are you doin' here?" Brock demanded.

  "What am I doin' here? What the hell are you doin' here?" She reached out with a hand to cuff him on the ear just as she'd seen common folk do in the public square.

  More masculine laughter followed as men turned to watch the incident with amusement.

  "What is this, Tim?" the man across from Brock asked suspiciously.

  "This is Timmy's wife, is what it is!" Keely said before Brock could open his mouth. "And Timmy's goin' home where he belongs!" She gripped Brock's arm and he came up out of his seat.

  The instant he stood, Keely spotted a small brown paper packet sealed in wax resting on the center of the table. Without thought, she scooped it up. "This my money?" she demanded, giving Brock a shove toward the door. "It better be!"

  Passing Brock, the packet clutched in her hand, she hurried ahead of him. The man from the table shouted after Brock, but he kept going, only a step behind Keely.

  "Run!" Keely shouted as they came down the steps of the tavern. "There's a wagon around back!"

  "There had better as hell be an explanation for this!" Brock insisted hotly.

  Keely caught Brock's hand. "Just run!" Behind her in the distance she could hear an angry voice calling in the darkness.

  "Tim? Tim, where are you? Find him!" shouted the voice. Angry voices and footsteps followed as men rushed down the tavern steps.

  Coming around the side of the building, Keely climbed into the wagon as Brock untied the horse. Leaping in beside her, he cracked the horsewhip fiercely over the gelding's head and the wagon sped around the back of the tavern. "I know a way through the marsh," Brock breathed, leaning fo
rward into the wind.

  Keely clung to the side of the wagon in terror as it careened through the darkness. "Duck!" Brock shouted, and she did so without question. Hanging branches tore at her hair and arms, scratching her face, and then they were in a clearing.

  Down a bumpy path they flew and then suddenly they were on softer ground. The smell of the salt air was stark and tangy as they descended into the marsh. Strange sounds filled Keely's ears and lights flickered in the distance through the tall reeds.

  Brock grasped her hand, forcing it to his arm. "Hang on to me!" he ordered. "I think we've lost them, but I'm afraid to slow down. Are you all right?"

  Keely nodded numbly. "Just keep moving," she insisted, raising her voice to be heard over the pounding of the horse's hooves and the creaking of the swaying wagon.

  For a long time they stayed on the path through the eerie marsh and then suddenly the wagon leaped through another entryway of hanging vines and tree limbs and they were on an established road again. Brock pulled the wagon to a halt. "Keely." He took her by the shoulders. "What the hell is this all about?"

  Keely's mouth fell open. Rain was beginning to fall softly, hitting her face. "You ungrateful clod! How about a thank-you?" She squirmed from his grip, taking the brown paper packet from her skirts and throwing it at him.

  The packet of papers hit Brock in the chest and he snatched them up, stuffing them into his shirt. "You shouldn't have come. How did you know I was there?"

  Her hazel eyes narrowed dangerously. "I risked my neck to get you out of there and all you can think of is how I knew where you were!"

  "Don't avoid my question." He wiped the rain from his eyes. "I have to check the wagon wheel, something's loose." He swung down onto the ground and knelt by the rear left wheel. "Now tell me what you know of this. . . ."

  Keely yanked the reins from off the seat and gave them a snap.

  "What are you doing?" Brock shouted as the wagon rolled forward.

  "I'm going home!" she returned, livid with rage. Now that Brock was safe, she could be angry with him again.

  "What about me?" he called in disbelief. The rain was coming down harder now, drowning out his voice.