The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  "So what do we know?" Micah asked, pushing a small gold pick between his teeth.

  "Very little," Brock responded coolly. "Keely was last to see her alive."

  "Your English wife?" John's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

  "Jenna came to our garden to tell Keely that I was in danger. She sent Keely to get me out of that tavern while she went, I presume, to meet the person she thought was betraying us."

  George stroked his whiskered white chin. "So what you're saying, Brock, is that you think the person who is passing our information into the wrong hands may also be the very person who killed Jenna."

  Brock waited until a barmaid had set his cup of tea in front of him and had walked away. "It's very likely, George, but it could have been an accomplice. We just don't know how deep this is."

  Issac hit the table with his fist, jarring his jack of ale. "And the only connection we've got is your wife? Damn it, Brock! You should have sent her to England when we told you to."

  "Issac, we've had this discussion before. I know how you all feel about Keely, but it's not her." His dark eyes met his friend's. "I'm telling you, it's not her!"

  George gave a snort. "Well, it sure as hell is somebody!"

  Manessah lifted his jack of ale. "It's not Keely, that's too simple. Besides, she and Jenna were friends. You know Jenna always had an instinct for this kind of thing; she'd have known if it was Keely long ago." He looked to Brock. "What of our households?"

  Brock nodded slightly to Manessah, thanking him silently for his words in support of Keely's innocence. "Could be. No matter how often we warn each other that what we say is not to be repeated in any form outside this circle, I know it's done. We're all guilty. I know I am."

  "Ah-hah!" Issac leaned in. "So you admit your wife may know particulars of our movement."

  "No! I'm very careful. She knows less than your stable boys, for Christ's sake!"

  "Now there's a thought," Manessah interrupted.

  "Our servants?" Micah probed.

  "Exactly. They see us come and go day and night. They move through our houses silently. We've gotten so used to them that we don't notice when they're there and when they're not."

  Brock leaned back in his chair, eyeing Issac. "That's a good point, Manessah."

  "So what are we going to do?" George asked.

  Brock tugged at his long, dark braid. "For now, nothing. I'll continue my investigation into Jenna's murder and let you know when I find something."

  Micah smiled cynically. "You'll tell us when you know something? Does that mean you don't think you can trust your friends?" he said slowly, drawling out his words.

  Brock scowled. "Don't be ridiculous, Micah. Who's side are you on?"

  Micah lifted his hands in surrender. "Your side, friend. Just asking."

  Brock turned from Micah. "From today on we must be extra careful. Now that Sir Clinton has replaced Howe as commander of the English forces, we must take the advantage while he's regrouping. With the French joining us, Mother England finally sees what a threat we are. There'll be no mercy. We're no longer just a band of outlaws in the King's mind; he finally recognizes the seriousness of the matter."

  "So we just go on as before?" George asked hotly. "We just forget that Jenna was one of us and that now she's dead."

  "No! We don't forget, George." Brock lifted a fist in the air. "But we go on. Jenna would have expected us to. I'll find her killer, but in the meantime business goes on as usual."

  "I agree," Manessah said. "Now let's stop this bickering among us. We've been together too long to let anything like this come between us."

  Brock sighed heavily, looking from one man to the next. "This first problem at hand is finding a replacement for the Timothy Irons connection."

  "A pity," John spoke up. "It worked so well with the English troops in Philadelphia."

  "Well, I have a feeling they may be evacuating the city soon. Anyone have any ideas?"

  Everyone began to speak at once until Brock could hear no one. "Gentlemen, please." He stood to get everyone's attention. "One at a time, you'll all get a chance to have your say."

  Six weeks later Keely sat in the hot June sun in the garden mending one of Brock's shirts. At her feet, in a basket, Laura slept peacefully, her tiny fist pressed to her mouth. In her slumber she sucked at her hand, making Keely laugh aloud, her breast swelling with pride.

  The baby was all that she had expected, yet somehow more. Keely had never realized it would be possible for her to love anyone as much as she loved her daughter.

  Laura's arrival had also raised feelings inside Keely for Brock, emotions she didn't quite understand, emotions she wasn't certain she welcomed. Brock's distrust in her infuriated Keely, and yet in the same breath she felt the need to prove herself. Too often these days she found herself thinking of Brock as she went about her daily duties. She caught herself recalling conversations with him, remembering his touch as he took Laura from her arms.

  Since the baby's birth Brock had slept in Lloyd's bedchamber to keep from disturbing his wife and daughter. But sitting in the sun this morning, Keely decided it was high time her husband returned to his own bed. She missed the sound of his steady breathing in the night and she yearned for the feel of his arms wrapped around her. She had recovered from Laura's birth and it was time she claimed her wifely rights again, she thought, laughing aloud at her lewd thoughts. In the last few months she had come to terms with her desire for her husband, accepting their lovemaking as what Brock said it was, a gift from God to be treasured.

  The sound of a feminine giggle broke Keely from her reverie. Lucy's shrill voice was coming from the corner of the garden near the back gate. Although Keely could not see Lucy, she could tell by the serving girl's voice that she was speaking with someone.

  Curious, Keely put her mending down and moved quietly along the boxwood hedge that obscured her view of the back gate. Moving a little closer, Keely made out the rumbling sounds of a male voice, interspersed with Lucy's high-pitched tones.

  "Now, Georgie, ye know ye shouldn't've come here!" came Lucy's voice, followed by a giggle.

  "I know, but you didn't come last night," answered the man. "I missed you. Let me in, just for a moment."

  Keely stopped, squinting to try to see through the dense green foliage of the ancient boxwood. Through a tiny hole she spotted a glimpse of Lucy's blue-tick skirt.

  "A bad'en you are, Georgie. You know what would happen to me if anyone saw you here! Weren't you supposed to report back this morning?" Lucy said.

  Hearing the click of the back gate, Keely pushed her hand through the hole in the boxwood, forcing back several branches. Just as the gate squeaked open, she gained full vision of Lucy, and the sight of the man that came through the gate made Keely's blood run ice cold.

  The young blond-haired man was dressed in a short red coatee, faced with green. On his head was a black leather cap with a red plume.

  Keely clamped her hand down hard on her mouth to keep from making a sound as Lucy flung herself into the man's arms, laughing and kissing him. A British soldier! Lucy's latest man was a British infantryman! Swallowing hard, Keely turned, pressing her back against the boxwood.

  Was Lucy Brock's betrayer? Had her gossiping finally gotten her into trouble that she couldn't get out of? Was it Lucy who had followed Jenna and killed her or had her killed? Even with the obvious evidence against Lucy, Keely found it difficult to believe. It was too easy.

  "Keely!" came Brock's voice through the hedgerow. "Keely, where are you?"

  Smoothing her dimity skirts, Keely came around the boxwood hedge, smiling. "I thought you'd gone to Chestertown." She tried to look unruffled as she glanced up at him.

  He lifted his daughter out of the basket and brought her to his shoulder. The infant wiggled contentedly, cooing as Brock poked her small hand with his finger. "I got a late start. I may just wait and go tomorrow. I came back for some charts I left in the study. What were you doing in the back?"

/>   "Doing?" Keely didn't want to tell Brock anything about Lucy's British soldier until she found out more. She was determined to make no false accusations this time. "Oh, I . . . I saw a rabbit." She looked up at him, shrugging. "I wanted to see where it went."

  Brock laughed, draping an arm over her shoulder. "I sometimes wish I had the time to chase after rabbits." He pressed a kiss to Keely's temple, inhaling her heavenly scent.

  In the last week or so Brock often found himself coming home during the day for silly reasons, even postponing long-overdue trips. Keely's voice haunted him as he spoke with his crewmen; her scent invaded his thoughts as he tried to concentrate on columns of figures. Memories of her touch made him dreamy and unproductive. She was becoming an obsession.

  Keely smoothed the fine silk of his waistcoat, adjusting his stock. "Well, get your charts and be on with you. You've wakened Laura and now she'll want to eat."

  Brock laughed, leaning to press his face to the bodice of Keely's gown. "I envy her then," he teased.

  Keely stroked Brock's cheeks. "Then come back to my bed, husband."

  Brock lifted his head, his dark eyes sparkling. "Methinks that's an invitation," he said slowly, his voice taking on an edge of eroticism.

  She smiled secretly. "Is it? Give me the child and go now. I've woman's work to do." She took Laura from his arms and put her back in the basket. When she straightened up again, Brock was still standing there, dressed handsomely in a coat of burgundy with matching breeches.

  "Come here," he commanded softly.

  She came to him, lifting her arms to rest them on his broad shoulders. With one hand she grasped his thick ebony braid, giving it a playful tug. "I'd like to have seen what you looked like all dressed like a savage," she said thoughtfully.

  "Oh, you would, hmmm?" He kissed the hollow in her shoulder.

  Keely arched her neck, reveling in the feel of his hot, wet mouth pressed to her pale skin. When his lips met hers, it was a slow, sensual onslaught, a kiss of promise. Their breaths mingled and she strained against him, threading her fingers through the stray tendrils of hair at the nape of his neck. She was consumed by the force of his kiss and overwhelmed by the power he held over her.

  "I don't know that I can get home tonight," Brock whispered in her ear. "I'm expected in Chestertown."

  "I'll be here tomorrow," was her reply.

  "I'd carry you to our bedchamber now but one of my men is waiting for me out front. I've a meeting with Caesar Rodney this morning."

  Keely pushed up on her toes to kiss Brock full on the mouth. "Then go," she teased, her voice nonchalant. "And I'll see you when I see you, cousin."

  "Wench!" Brock kissed her impulsively then walked away. Keely watched him until he disappeared into the house, admiring his long stride.

  Once Brock's carriage had departed, Keely returned to the boxwood hedge to check on Lucy, but she was gone. Determinedly, Keely then retrieved Laura and headed for the house. She'd look into the matter of Lucy and her British soldier, and when she had sufficient evidence, she would tell Brock.

  "If your papa has his culprit," she whispered to the baby, "then he'll no longer have any reason to distrust me."

  Chapter Sixteen

  That night Keely retired early, tucking Laura into her cradle in the small nursery connecting to her bedchamber and then climbing into her own empty bed. Though she had half hoped Brock would put off his journey to Chester town, she had received no message, so she knew he'd gone and wouldn't return until late tomorrow.

  Falling asleep almost immediately, Keely awoke a few hours later to the sound of night peepers and the caress of the soft night breeze on her face. Opening her eyes slowly, she was startled to find the large windows of her bedchamber open. As she blinked back the confusion of slumber, she came to the stark realization that the windows had been closed when she went to bed. Who had opened them? She was such a light sleeper that no one could come into their chamber without waking her.

  A cold shiver of fear ran down Keely's spine as she bolted upright. Laura Gwen! Was Laura all right? Just as Keely's bare feet hit the floor, she spotted the outline of someone or something standing amid the swaying curtains. The light of the moon poured through the windows, casting a pale river of glimmering shadows across the hardwood floor and up the walls. The figure stood inhumanly still, staring into the darkness at her.

  Though Keely wanted to scream, no sound came from her mouth as she stood in indecision. She could have easily gotten to the hallway door before who or whatever it was caught her, but Laura was sleeping in the nursery and she couldn't leave her daughter, not even long enough to get help.

  Standing in her thin white sleeping gown, her eyes narrowed. "What do you want?" she asked shakily. Logic told her it was a person, a man, though she couldn't hear him breathe or see anything more than the glimmer of the whites of his eyes.

  When the man made no response, she lifted her hand slowly to touch the porcelain knob of the nightstand next to the bed. Carefully she eased open the drawer and slipped her hand inside, all the while watching the shadowy man. When her hand touched the cold steel of Brock's long hunting knife, a smile crossed her lips. The weight of the blade in her palm gave her the confidence to take the first step forward.

  "Stand back," she ordered. "You can have what you wish, but first I take my child."

  The curtains moved and the man leaped from the shadows. Keely's mouth fell open as a scream rose in her throat and she lifted the knife to defend herself. The man's hand came down hard on her mouth before she could make a sound, and her knife went clattering to the floor.

  "Damnation, woman," came Brock's voice. "You nearly slit my throat with that thing . . ." He slid his hand from her trembling lips.

  "Br-Brock?" Keely turned to face her attacker. "You son of a—" She bit off her own words as she caught the first glimpse of him.

  Brock stood barefoot, his ebony hair unbound and flowing down his back, the briefest loinskin tied around his middle. His skin shimmered in the moonlight, enhancing the form of his broad shoulders and sinewy thighs. Standing here in the eerie light of midnight, he appeared more like a statue of bronze than a human of flesh.

  "Wha-what are you doing?" Keely whispered, still in awe. "You scared the wits out of me!"

  He laughed deep in his throat, taking her in his arms. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd wake up; I was just going to slip into bed beside you." He took her in his arms, kissing the hollow ' of her neck.

  "I still don't understand." Her trembling hands grazed over the wide expanse of his back, making her shiver despite the warmth of the night's breeze.

  "I'm playing Indian," he said, feeling rather foolish.

  "You're what?" She looked up at him and he planted a kiss on the end of her nose.

  "You said you wanted to see what I looked like as a Delaware brave. I had a hell of a time finding this damned loincloth."

  Keely broke into a smile. "You did this for me?" She brushed her fingers over his broad cheeks, noting the splash of green color across them. "For me?"

  "I didn't think you'd come after me with a knife!" He ran his hand through her mane of thick hair, relishing the feel of it. "You have a way of making me feel like an ass, cousin. I should know by now that you're not one for jokes."

  "Oh, Brock." She took his face between her palms, kissing him on the mouth. "Let me see you." She was laughing, but she was touched that he would have made such a gesture. He had cared enough to grant her a whim. He had heard what she'd said and he had acted on it. The thought was startling.

  Brock stepped back, releasing her begrudgingly. "It's a long time since I last shed my white man's clothing."

  "And you did it for me." Keely clasped her hands together, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The sight of Brock's nearly naked form made her heart race and her palms grow damp and warm. Her eyes met his. "I like it, husband," she whispered, an edge of sensuality in her voice.

  Brock took in the sight of his wife standing in
the moonlight in her white gown, the traces of her curves outlined by the wispy-thin material. Since the birth of their daughter, her hips had widened slightly while her waist had narrowed. Her breasts had taken on a full roundness that she'd not had before.

  The familiar sensation of the tightening of his groin made him reach out to her. What was this he felt inside, he wondered as he buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair. What was this ache for her? It wasn't just physical. He wanted more. He wanted to possess her thoughts, her being, and it frightened him. He had been in love with Elizabeth, he was sure of that, but these feelings for Keely were different—they ran deeper. His ache for her was constant of late.

  "I've missed you here in my bed," Keely whispered as their lips met. He tasted clean and fresh with a hint of mystery, like the night air.

  Her words made Brock shiver with anticipation. Who would have guessed this sassy wench of a woman-child could ever have tempted him like this? He lifted his hand to her breast, cupping it, feeling its weight as he stroked the bud of her nipple with his thumb.

  Keely groaned, resting her head on Brock's bare chest, reveling in the sensations he created with his fingers. She had dreamed of him touching her like this, only the dreams were never this fulfilling, not like the heat of his caress. When Brock kissed Keely this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him, inviting the force of his rising desire. The feel of his strength matched to her weakness made her limbs tingle hot with bittersweet longing.

  Lifting Keely into his arms, Brock carried her to their bed, laying her down gently among the tangled sheets and counterpane. "Take off the gown," he murmured quietly as he tugged on the thong of his loinskin.

  Keely smiled, feeling wicked as she sat up and pulled the sleeping gown over her head, her intense gaze never breaking from his.

  Stretching over her, Brock covered her soft body with his, stroking her flesh with his palm, burying his face in the valley of her breasts. The amulet she wore around her neck was cold against his lips as he lifted it over her head with his teeth and set it gently on the pillow.