The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

Keely would have protested, but she knew Mort was right. "Have you got a weapon?" she asked, taking her horse's reins from Blackie.

  Mort patted a lump beneath his patched coat. "Ya been too good to me, Mistress Keely, fer me to let ye down."

  She nodded, sinking her heels into her mount. "Then let's go . . ."

  Keely pounded her fists on the front door of the white brick plantation house at Fortune's Find. She hesitated only an instant and began to bang again. "Micah! Micah!"

  "Got to be somebody there," Mort called from his horse. "Plenty of light comin' from the windas. Give 'em a chance to answer, Mistress Keely."

  "I haven't got time to wait!" She rapped again viciously and was rewarded by the sound of scraping metal as the lock was turned.

  The minute the door opened, Keely pushed her way in. "Just wait there, Mort," she ordered over her shoulder. Bursting into the candlelit hall, she came face to face with a tall black servant. "Where's Micah? I have to speak with him. It's urgent."

  The manservant closed the door behind her. "Master Lawrence has retired for the evening, ma'am. If you wish to make an appointment . . ."

  She shook her head. Her waist-length auburn hair had escaped its silver hairpins to cascade heavily down her back. "I've got to see him now!" Turning, she ran across the entrance hallway and started up the grand, curving staircase.

  "You can't go up there, ma'am," the servant protested, hurrying after her.

  "Micah!" Keely shouted. "Micah!"

  A door opened at the top of the steps and Micah appeared in a long, floral-patterned banyan. "Keely! What is it?" He put out his arms to her and she flung herself into them.

  "Micah, you've got to help me . . ." The frantic words tumbled from her mouth. "I didn't know who else to come to! You're the only one who can help." The tears she had held back too long began to run down her pale cheeks.

  Micah's eyes drifted shut as he gathered her in his arms, inhaling her mysterious intoxicating fragrance. He had dreamed of holding her like this. He could barely breathe for thoughts of her soft ample breasts pressed against his chest. His slow, diligent patience had finally paid off. She had finally come to him. "Solomon."

  "Yes, sir?" The manservant who'd come up the steps behind Keely took a step back, lowering his head.

  "Send for tea. But have Cain bring it up. And brandy. I'm not to be disturbed!"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Come on, love," Micah soothed, pushing a lace handkerchief gently into her hand. "Come into my room, where you can sit down."

  Wiping her mouth with the bit of lace, Keely nodded, leaning against Micah as they entered his bedchamber. "I knew you would help me," she told him. "I knew you'd be here. You always said that if I needed something, I could come to you."

  Unwilling to release her hand, Micah led her to a two-seated velvet settee and sat down, pulling her down next to him. "Tell me . . ." he whispered, taking the handkerchief from her hands to wipe her eyes himself. "Tell me how I can help you."

  "It's Brock," she confessed, appealing to his brilliant blue eyes. "He's been arrested."

  "So soon?" Micah stood up. The damp handkerchief floated to the floor.

  "What do you mean?" Her brows furrowed in confusion.

  "I . . . I just meant I didn't think he'd get caught yet. He takes so many unnecessary chances. Surely you knew this would happen eventually."

  "You have to help me . . ." A knock came at the door and she let her sentence go unfinished. She knew she couldn't risk speaking in front of anyone.

  "Come in, Cain," Micah called, seemingly agitated.

  A huge, burly man with dark hair came into the room, carrying a silver tea service. When the man turned toward Keely, she saw that the entire left side of his face was severely scarred . . . a burn, she supposed.

  "Put it down and be gone," Micah ordered.

  The man set the silver tray on a table in front of the settee, glaring at Keely. The upper lip on the left side was turned up perpetually, his face frozen in a sinister sneer. "Anything else?" Cain boomed, his deep bass voice echoing in the paneled room.

  "Wait outside, Cain."

  "Yes, sir."

  The man left the room and Keely came to Micah's side. "They didn't even tell me where they've taken him. How do I get him released?"

  "I don't think you can; I don't think anyone can." Micah smoothed the front of his exquisitely made brocade, silk-lined dressing gown.

  "You don't?" She laid her hand on his arm beseechingly. "There's got to be some way."

  Micah gazed into the depths of her hazel eyes. "There's no helping him now. Once an arrest like this is made, the man can't be helped."

  Keely shook her head. "Don't say that."

  "I'm so sorry all of this has happened." He laid his hand on hers, his voice taking on a strange air. "But don't worry, I'll take care of you."

  "What?" Confused, Keely shrank back. What was Micah saying? Didn't he care about Brock? He wasn't making any sense.

  "I can care for you better than he ever could have." Micah grasped her arms, speaking more rapidly. "I'm leaving here. You can come with me. You know I've loved you since the day I first saw you there on the road to Dover."

  "Micah," Keely protested, "what's wrong with you?" She struggled, trying to twist from his grasp. There was a strange light in his eyes that frightened her to the depths of her soul. "Why are you saying these things? You talk as if he's already dead!"

  "You'll never want for anything, I swear it," he insisted, pushing her backward.

  "Micah! Let go of me, now!" she shouted. She was powerless to escape his iron-clad grip as he propelled her backward, flinging her onto his bed.

  "I'll give you anything. Tell me what you want, land, jewels, artwork!" He pinned her arms to the bed, pressing his mouth hard against hers.

  Disgusted and frightened, Keely twisted away. "Micah, please!"

  "Just tell me you love me and that you'll be my wife," he begged, trying to turn her face toward his.

  Recovering from her initial shock over Micah's attack, Keely gained control of her emotions. She ceased struggling and lay limp beneath him. "Get off me, Micah," she ordered forcefully. "Get off me now. You're hurting me."

  He rolled off her, but still held her wrists. "What's the matter, darling? Why are you angry with me?"

  Their gazes locked. "This isn't like you. I thought you were my friend."

  He loosened his grip, his handsome face lighting up. "You'll come with me then?"

  Fear of what Micah might do made her choose her words carefully. "I can't come with you because they're not going to hang Brock. I won't let them."

  "But . . . but if they did? If he was dead . . . you'd come with me? You'd be my wife then, wouldn't you?"

  The instant Micah released Keely's wrists, she scrambled from the bed and ran for the door.

  "Keely, where are you going?"

  She opened the door and rushed passed Cain. Down the hallway she went and toward the stairs with Micah at her heels.

  "Keely, you can't go now. We have to make plans." He lifted the skirts of his brocade banyan and followed her down the steps.

  Swinging open the front door, she stepped onto the front stoop, illuminated by two brass lamps. "Mort! My horse."

  Mort leaped off his own horse and came running with Keely's. He led the bay gelding up the three steps and onto the stoop. Without hesitation, he put out his hand and helped Keely into the saddle.

  Micah came bursting through the door. "Where are you going?" he demanded angrily. "I want you to stay here and talk to me!"

  Keely lifted the reins, staring down at Micah bitterly. "You son of a bitch!" she snapped. "I trusted you! Brock was your friend. When I tell him what you said, what you suggested, he's going to kill you!"

  Micah tipped back his blond head in laughter "When you tell him? You're not going to tell him. They're going to hang him, you stupid girl. He'll swing from a rope till there's no breath left in him." He shook his finger. "Then what will yo
u do? You'll come to me, just wait, you'll see."

  "Never!" Wheeling around, Keely sank her heels into the gelding's flanks, and horse and rider flew off the stoop and into the darkness.

  Brock paced the stone floor of the interrogation room, his hands tucked behind him. "I've told you, gentlemen," he continued calmly. "I know nothing of any such raid on the King's army a fortnight past. I know nothing of the supplies missing from your storehouse, and I am unfamiliar with the British brigs Charlotte and Lady Anne." He glanced up at them, his voice calm and placating. "A pity they were lost to those pirates . . ."

  "Captain Bartholomew!" Major Victor Hughs slammed his fist on the table. "We have had enough of your antics! I must have your cooperation!"

  Brock slipped off his azure sleeveless waistcoat and laid it carefully over his frock coat on an empty chair. "I told you, gentlemen"—he nodded respectfully—"I'm willing to cooperate to my fullest ability, but you must ask something that I can answer."

  Lieutenant Colonel Klaus Von Bueren, detached from the Brunswick Infantry, stood up and came around the table. "You red rebel bastard! Tell me vhat this is!" He pushed a piece of rolled-up parchment into Brock's hand.

  Brock unrolled the paper, glanced over the list of names, and handed it back. "It says it's a list of captains commissioned as privateers for these United States."

  A red-faced Von Bueren threw the rolled paper across the room. He inhaled and exhaled rapidly, the buttons of his blue and red coat nearly bursting from their threads. "I know vhat it says! Vhy is your name here?"

  "My family has been in the shipping business in Dover for over fifty years."

  The German lieutenant colonel tossed his powdered head from side to side. "That has nothing to do vith anything! There is a new ship being built in Chestertown at this moment. Vhy is your name on the deed?"

  "I told you." Brock sighed, stifling a well-placed yawn. "My family is in the shipping business. To transport goods, we must have sailing vessels."

  Red veins pulsed at the officer's temples. "There is no shipping now!"

  Brock pulled a gold-cased watch from inside his waistcoat on the chair. It had been Lloyd's watch, one given to him by his brother, and now it was his. "It's near three in the morning, gentlemen. Couldn't this be continued after we've all gone home and had some sleep?"

  Major Hues stood up, his hands resting on the lapels of his red coat. He was dressed in the uniform of the Queen's Regiment of the Light Dragoons. The white epaulettes at his shoulders fluttered as he walked. "It is obvious, sir, that you are not taking these accusations seriously." He glanced over at Von Bueren and back at Brock. "That gives us no choice but to have you transported."

  Brock stiffened. "Transported? Transported where?" They wouldn't take him away from his Keely, not now! He had known it was a possibility when he'd married her, but it hadn't mattered. So much had passed between them since then. She loved him now . . . they had Laura . . . they had an entire lifetime ahead of them!

  Major Hues returned to the table, took a seat, and picked up a goose quill. He scrawled a few large, flowery words across the sheet of paper and slid it across the table to Von Bueren. The German officer signed the sheet and Major Hues sprinkled a bit of sand across the page.

  Brock clenched his fists at his sides. I love you, Keely, his brain pounded. I love you, ki-ti-hi!

  Major Hues cleared his throat, lifting the sheet of paper. "Brock Forrester Bartholomew is to be transported to the prison ship Jersey in the New York Harbor." He looked up at the patriot, a silly smile on his face. "There he will be interrogated as to his treasonous actions, then hanged from his neck until dead."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  "Mistress Bartholomew," George Whitman reasoned calmly. "We can't possibly allow you to go."

  "Allow me?" She laughed, her feminine voice stark in the lantern-lit tavern. "I'm a free woman. I can come and go as I please. My husband has been transported to a prison ship in New York. I intend to go to him with or without the committee's approval."

  George ran a hand through his powdered hair. "Don't you think this would be better left to us? I'm certain Brock would never approve."

  Keely rested her hands on the plank table, her eyes passing from committee member to committee member. The same men she had met nearly a year ago were all here—Jenna's brother Manessah, George, John, Issac, and a few new faces. Only Micah was missing. "Gentlemen, I know what all of you have been saying about me. Brock's English wife, the traitor.." She locked gazes with George, and ashamed, he turned away. "But I don't care."

  "Then why are you here?" John questioned.

  "I came to tell you that I was going. I also came to warn you. I'm afraid Brock will not be the last to be carried off in the night."

  George chuckled, lifting his jack of ale to his lips. "You think business is going to cease because you say it's for our own good?"

  "Let her speak, George," Manessah urged.

  "No, George!" Keely answered sharply. "I came to tell you to be careful. All of you. You've come too far to let them best you now."

  Issac studied the young red-haired woman who sat across the table from him. "Why would an English woman come here to the King's Head to warn a band of rebels?"

  "I was born in this town. My husband fights for the rights of our child, of yours."

  Manessah smiled, pushing back from the table to prop up his boots. "I think the lady is trying to tell us that she believes in the battle we fight for."

  She looked at Manessah. "I believe in my husband."

  There was a moment of silence and then one of the new members of the committee spoke up. "Charles Lutton, Mistress Bartholomew."

  Keely acknowledged him with a nod. "Mr. Lutton?"

  "I'd just like to ask what you hope to accomplish by going to New York." His tone was not condemning, but rather curious.

  She folded her hands on her lap. "I don't know."

  "You don't know?" George was unable to contain his laughter.

  "All I know is that I have to go."

  "But it's absurd, a woman traveling that far, right into the hands of the British!"

  Keely sighed impatiently. "Tell me something, George. If your wife was taken prisoner in the middle of the night, wouldn't you go looking for her? Wouldn't you try to have her set free?"

  George shook his head so violently that puffs of white powder rose in a cloud above him. "It's not the same thing, Mistress Bartholomew. Not at all."

  Manessah stood up. "It is exactly the same thing. Wouldn't Jenna have said so?"

  Keely smiled up at Manessah in silent thanks. "Well, gentlemen, if you have no messages for my husband, I'll be on my way. I leave at dawn."

  Manessah came around the table, offering his arm to her. "Let me walk you out."

  She pushed away from the table. "Thank you. but it's not necessary. My manservant is outside. He'll see to my safety."

  Manessah took her hand, linking it through his arm. "It would be an honor, ma'am."

  Smiling, Keely accepted his hand and together they walked to the door. "Thank you for supporting me."

  He squeezed her hand. "You were terrific."

  "I was scared, but I felt like I should come and tell you myself before I went. I wouldn't want to endanger any of you. But I have to go to him. You understand." She looked up at him with her hazel eyes, seeing Jenna's face in his.

  "Completely. Give Brock my best and tell him we're doing all we can here. Micah is supposed to be looking into a prisoner exchange."

  Keely smoothed her hair. She wore it pulled back and tied with a ribbon in a long mane of curls cascading down her back. "Is that why he isn't here?" She forced her voice to remain steady. What had happened at Fortune's Find with Micah had disturbed her greatly.

  "I assume so. John brought the message that he wouldn't be attending tonight's meeting."

  "Well, Manessah, I've got to be going. I still have things to take care of at home."

  "Do you want me to go to New Yor
k with you? I can."

  "No. I think it's safer if I go alone. None of you should be involved. I'm taking a man with me. I'll be safe enough."

  Manessah offered his hand in friendship. "I want you to know I never believed any of what they said about you."

  "I know." She smiled, taking his hand. "It doesn't matter. All I want is to get Brock back safely."

  "Mistress Bartholomew," George Whitman came up behind her.

  "Yes, George."

  "If you manage to see Brock, tell him we're behind him. Tell him we'll get him out."

  "I will, George."

  He bowed gracefully. "Godspeed to you."

  Keely and Manessah watched George return to the table of men. "The older ones, they're all so suspicious," Manessah told her gently.

  Keely opened the door and lifted up on her toes to kiss her newfound friend on the cheek. "Good night, Manessah, give your mother and Max my love."

  "I will."

  Keely closed the door quietly and crossed the dark street to where Mort waited on horseback.

  "You all right, Miss Keely?"

  "Fine, Mort." She swung into her saddle. "Now let's go home."

  The carriage lurched forward, came to an abrupt stop, and rolled forward again. Keely groaned aloud, clutching her stomach. It had taken her over a week to make it to New York City, and she was sick to death of the tedious, jolting ride. While she would have preferred to have come by horseback, she had realized that she must give the proper appearance. No woman of her position would be riding horseback across country with one male servant, she would undoubtedly have been stopped and questioned.

  Instead, Keely had chosen the slower mode of transportation and it had worked. Her ruse had been that she was traveling north to the English-held city to visit her Tory cousin. The cousin, widow Valerie Goldson, was actually a patriot informant and a friend of Manessah's. Jenna's brother had been kind enough to send a message ahead, making arrangements for Keely to stay with the widow while she was in New York trying to gain her husband's freedom.

  Wiping her perspiration-soaked brow with a linen handkerchief, Keely peered out the window at the brick and wood-frame warehouses lining the waterfront of the harbor. The streets were a flurry of activity with wagons of goods being transported and armies of soldiers marching to and fro. Everywhere she looked there were men in the uniforms of the King—redcoats, bluecoats, greencoats—swarming the streets.