Outside the bedchamber door, Lucy and Ruth stood, their backs pressed against the wall. "I never heard Master Brock carry on like that," Lucy murmured shakily. "He's gonna hurt himself, or hurt one of us."
Ruth shook her head, wiping her brow with the hem of her apron. In the past two weeks she felt as if she'd aged a century. It just didn't make any sense, Miss Keely running off with that dandy, Micah Lawrence. She thought she was too good a judge of character to have been so gravely mistaken about the girl. Ruth glanced up at Lucy. "He won't hurt nobody. No need to be afraid. Masta Brock just isn't that kind of man."
"What'll we do?" Lucy asked, twisting her hands.
"What can we do, child?"
"Lucy!" Brock boomed from inside the bedchamber. The door flew open. "Lucy!"
"Y-yes, sir?" The maidservant took a step back in fright.
"You saw your mistress the night she left?"
"Yes, sir. Me and Patience. Ruth and Blackie was sleepin'."
Brock waved a broad hand. "Come in here. I want to talk to Patience, too."
Lucy gulped. "She's gone to fetch flax for spinnin'. Ruth told her it was all right. She won't be back 'fore dusk."
"Don't just stand there, come in here!" Brock glanced at Ruth. "I'm all right, Ruthie. You go back to Laura." He turned his back on the women and Lucy followed on his heels.
Brock walked to the windows to stare out at the garden. He pushed one of them open and the heavy drapes fluttered in the warm breeze. "Tell me what you saw, Lucy," he said starkly. "What you heard that night."
"W-well, sir." She got down on her knees and began to retrieve the chess pieces that littered the floor. "Miss Keely, she went out earlier in the day. Said she had business. Then she just didn't come home. Mr. Manessah, he come lookin' for her."
Brock stroked his chin. "What time?"
The girl set several chess pieces on the bed and got down on her hands and knees again. "I don't know, but it was dark outside. Mister Manessah, he was a sight worried . . . said she was supposed to meet him hours ago at the Golden Fleece."
"Why?"
"Didn't say. Just told us to let 'im know when she come in." Lucy uprighted the teak table and returned the chessboard to its proper place.
"So when did she come home?" he asked bitterly.
"Midnight."
"Did she come alone?"
Lucy made an event of arranging the chess pieces. "N-no sir. She come with Master Lawrence."
Brock caught Lucy by the wrist. "Leave it. You're doing it all wrong. I'll set it right later. Just clean up the rest of the mess."
Lucy backed away.
"Go on." Brock returned to the window, fingering the drapes. "She came with Micah."
"I come into the chamber here and asked what she was doin'. Guess my mouth was a little smart because . . . because Mr. Micah, he slapped me."
Brock turned, frowning. "He slapped you?"
She bobbed her head. "Hard."
"What was your mistress doing?"
"Just sittin' there at the desk"—Lucy pointed—"a queer look on her face. Then he told her it was time to go and they went."
Brock rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of it all. "And she never said anything to you, Lucy?"
"Nothin'."
He began to pace the floor. The evidence was obvious, she'd left him for Micah. But something just didn't sound right. A spark of hope ignited deep within him. "Sit down, Lucy."
The girl plopped herself in a chair.
"Now I want you to think and think hard." He spoke quietly, putting emphasis on each word. "You said she looked queer, what do you mean?"
Lucy shrugged. "Just didn't look like herself, kinda nervous-like."
"Lucy," he said, gazing intently at the girl. "Can you remember anything she did that seemed strange? Was she trying to tell you anything even though she didn't speak?"
She looked at him blankly. "No. She just left with him." The servant paused. "Wait a second, Master Brock." Her eyes lit up. "She did do something kind of odd."
"What?"
She put up a finger. "Wait a minute." Lucy ran out of the bedchamber, returning a minute later with something in her hand. "I don't know if it means anything, but she yanked this off her neck and threw it to me as she was goin' out the door."
Brock opened his hand to receive the tiny object. It was her copper pence, the one she always wore around her neck on a chain. The copper pence her father had given to her. "Lucy, she gave you this and she didn't say anything?" he asked excitedly.
"Didn't say a word, just tossed it when she was going out the door."
He rubbed the sentimental object between his fingers thoughtfully. "Did Micah see her give it to you?"
"No, sir. He'd gone into the hall. He was in an awful hurry," she added disdainfully.
Brock closed his hand over the object, his eyes drifting shut for a brief moment. "I'm so sorry, love," he whispered. "I never should have doubted you."
"Brock!" A masculine voice from down the hall startled Brock. "Brock, where the hell are you?"
"Manessah, that you?" Brock met Jenna's brother in the hallway.
"Sorry to come into your home like this, but I just got word from the shipyard that you'd returned."
"Manessah, you're not going to believe what's happened."
The tall patriot's eyes met Brock's. "It's Micah."
"God damn him!" Brock clenched the amulet tightly in his fist. "Come in so we can talk."
The men entered the bedchamber and Lucy fled. Brock closed the door behind her. "How long have you known?"
Manessah lifted an eyebrow, surveying the broken china and scattered chess pieces. "Just since this morning."
"He's taken her, you know."
"I know."
Brock's eyes were riveted to his friend's face. "Do you know where he's headed?"
"It's bad, Brock. Detroit. And if he gets that far, I don't know if we can get her out."
Brock looked away.
"The good thing is," Manessah continued, "he's scheduled for a stop at an English-held fort in Penn's state."
"That's where we'll catch up with him then," Brock said quietly. He looked up again. "Anyone owe you any favors? We're going to need a regiment or two."
Chapter Twenty-seven
Keely sat quietly on a rough wooden bench, her back pressed to one of the inner walls of the fort. She hugged her knees to her chest, her eyes drifting shut. The sound of crude male laughter filled her ears as she leaned forward to rest her forehead on her knees.
She and Micah and his men had been here in this fort for two weeks and hour by hour she felt as though she was drifting farther from reality. For days Micah had been promising they would move on, but each morning he admitted they might stay one more day.
The fort was a log structure built behind walls of cut timber somewhere in the wilderness of Pennsylvania. It was defended by a ragtag assortment of misfit English officers and enlisted men, and was overrun with Indians dressed in breechcloths and English uniform coats. Though the Englishmen claimed to be here at the command of their superiors in New York, Keely wondered if they hadn't just been long forgotten and left to their own devices. A few women lived within the protective walls of the fort, but they were dirty ignorant females who peddled their bodies in desperation to feed themselves and their children.
The degradation that ruled the encampment disgusted Keely and she'd told Micah so. He'd only laughed and said it was good to see how the "other side" lived. His reply had infuriated Keely, but she didn't dare demonstrate her anger too forcefully. Although he had not hurt her other than an occasional slap, she knew she had to tread softly. Not far beneath the surface of his charming veneer lurked an uncontrollable violence.
"Keely!"
Micah's voice startled her and she looked up. The crude, windowless room was well lit with hanging lanterns. In the center stood a wooden table with six men seated around it engrossed in a game of cards. Several Iroquois Indian guards sat on
the dirt floor talking among themselves in a strange mixture of French and their native tongue.
"Keely," Micah repeated. "Did you hear me? Come here . . ." He pushed his chair back from the table, signaling her with his finger.
Wearily, she stood up. She knew there was no sense in resisting his demands. If she didn't get up and come to him, he'd drag her across the room, to the delight of the other men.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Fill my cup again. I told you to keep it full."
As she lifted the bottle of whiskey from the table and poured, Micah caressed her backside with his hand. "Micah, stop it," she warned.
An officer with a pipe in his mouth chuckled, tossing down a card. "Your turn, Lawrence. Can't you keep your hands off your pretty wife in our presence?" He lifted his eyes to meet Keely's meaningfully. "Makes a man awful jealous." He tapped his empty tankard. "Have her give me a douse too."
Keely cringed at the word wife. When they had arrived at the fort, Micah had explained to her that the only way she would be safe from the other men was to say she was his wife. Even then, she was not to leave his sight. If she did, he had warned, he couldn't be responsible for her virtue. So, she remained a prisoner of the worst kind. There were no chains to hold her here. She remained with Micah of her own choosing . . . because she knew she must.
Keely moved out of the way of Micah's hand and filled the officer's tankard. Then she moved around the table, filling the others' cups. An Iroquois with a shaved head brushed against her as she leaned to fill his tankard. The man grinned, reaching out to catch a lock of her hair. Keely glanced across the table at Micah, but he was engrossed in his cards.
Keely's eyes met pitch black. "Let go," she insisted through clenched teeth.
The Iroquois laughed deep in his throat. "Very beautiful." He grinned, grasping a large hunk of hair. "More beautiful a scalp I never see. It would hang well on my belt."
She grimaced at the pain he caused her as he twisted her hair around his hand, forcing her to draw closer. Tears stung Keely's eyes. "Micah . . ." She looked across the table to see Micah staring intently, a strange glimmer of interest in his eyes. He seemed to enjoy seeing this man hurt her!
"Micah!" she said loudly. "Make him stop."
The odd expression was gone from Micah's face as fast as it had appeared. "John, let her go. I've warned you before." He returned his attention to his game.
The Iroquois brave laughed aloud, releasing Keely. She took a step back, rubbing her head. Filling two more cups, she went to return the bottle to Micah. As she backed up, he caught her arm. "Not so fast, wife," he chided. "A kiss for your master."
"Micah, no," she hissed. "Let go."
"Is it too much for a husband to ask his wife for such a small favor?"
"Micah, you're hurting me, let go."
Several of the other men glanced up with interest.
Micah pushed up out of his chair. "I said a kiss, wife," he threatened.
She rested her hands on his chest. "Micah, you're drunk!"
He pulled her away from the table by her arm, out of earshot of the other men. "Don't you do this to me," he warned. "You came of your own free will. I won't be embarrassed by you in front of the other men."
"I said I would come with you," she challenged. "I didn't agree to be mauled in public."
He pulled her against him. "I've had enough of this bitchy behavior, Keely. This is not the woman I fell in love with."
She laughed bitterly, turning her face from his so that she didn't have to feel his breath on her lips. "She's dead, Micah. She's gone."
"Nonsense!" He grasped her by the shoulders, giving her a shake. "Now you wise up and start behaving yourself." He turned her face to his with his hand and forced his lips against hers.
Keely closed her eyes, her face stony, her flesh unyielding. When he received no response, he pushed her aside and she fell back, catching herself before she hit the wall.
"Go sit down," Micah ordered. Then he returned to the card table. One of the officers patted him on the back as he sat down and Micah laughed, lifting his tankard.
Keely went back to her bench and sat down, drawing up her knees again. Weary, she closed her eyes, blocking out the sounds of the men's voices and the harsh laughter directed toward her.
Brock . . . Her lips turned ever so slightly into a smile. She thought of his dark eyes filled with laughter, his broad bronze hands that caressed her so gently, his voice that filled her heart with joy. Ki-ti-hi . . . that was what he called her.
She wondered what he was doing now. Was he holding Laura? Was he on the Tempest somewhere on the Chesapeake? Keely's heart twisted beneath her breast until it became a physical hurt. Brock would never know that she truly loved him. To him, she was a betrayer, and when Laura grew into a woman, he would tell her what her mother had done.
A tear slipped down Keely's cheek and she brushed it away hastily. It was thoughts of Laura and Brock that kept her from going mad. She spent hours dreaming of them, reliving past moments, laughing to herself at her own foolishness. Now that Brock was gone from her life forever, she desperately regretted those first months of her marriage. How could she have been so obstinate? It wasn't until after Laura's birth that she had realized she was in love with her husband. Their time as man and wife had been so brief. If only she could have had those first few months back . . . she'd live them differently now.
Keely dozed on and off until the sound of movement in the room made her open her eyes. The men who had been playing cards with Micah were getting up and hurrying out of the room. A buzz of excitement flowed through the knot of Iroquois at the far end of the room as they gathered rifles from a heap in the corner.
Spotting Micah speaking to one of the Englishmen, she went to him. "What is it? What's going on?"
Micah turned to her, his mouth twitching nervously. "A silly little uprising, apparently. Nothing to worry your pretty head over." He looked unconvinced.
"What kind of uprising? I don't understand."
The officer pulled on his coat and began to button it up. "No need to worry Mistress Lawrence. It happens on occasion, but I can promise you we're perfectly safe within these walls. These Injuns love to get into an uproar. We let them do the fighting; we watch from the rampart. Care to come?"
A mixture of fear and hope colored her face. "Someone is attacking the fort? Who?"
The officer shrugged, strapping a pistol around his waist. "Never know. Could be a bunch of Injuns; every once in a while a band of patriot rebels breaks through." He smiled. "But they never get out alive."
Rebels? Keely thought. Maybe they could get her out. Maybe they could help.
"You stay here, Keely." Micah picked up his tankard and the bottle of whiskey from the table.
"No. I want to go with you to . . . to watch." She touched his arm lightly.
"I said stay here. Mark says he'll leave one of his red bastards to watch after you; you'll be safe enough."
"But Micah, I'm scared," she said, feigning weakness. "I want to be with you."
Micah glanced at Mark, smiling with self-importance. "I'm sorry, love, but you'll be safest here. They're not even certain who it is yet."
At that moment a sound of gunshot echoed, followed by several more. Somewhere within the walls of the fort an Iroquois emitted a high-pitched hoot of victory. Through the doorway that led into a corridor Keely could see men and Indians filing by with rifles flung over their shoulders. Somewhere a bell clanged.
"Damnation," the officer muttered. "Fire. Every time we let these damned Indians fight, they set the place on fire! You coming, Lawrence?"
Micah smiled at Keely. "You stay, love and I'll send for you if I think it's safe. All right?" He brushed his lips across her cheek.
A moment later there was no one left in the room but Keely and a tall, gangly Indian dressed in blue breeches and a hide tunic. He sat on the bench on the far wall from Keely, whittling on a stick. For a l
ong time Keely just sat on the bench listening to the gunfire and the bloodcurdling shouts of glee coming from the Indians. Then she got up and began to pace. The Iroquois guard paid no attention to her.
Keely kept glancing at the door each time she passed it. Then, with each turn, as she started across the room again, her path grew closer to the door. Finally the Indian brave stood up, walked to the door, and sat down on the log bench beside it.
Keely sighed and began to pace again. Then, suddenly she stopped in midstride. "Is that smoke I smell?"
The Iroquois lifted his head, twitched his nose, then returned his attention to his whittling. "Yes."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't you think you should go find out if they're burning the place down?" she demanded.
He looked up. "No." He dropped his head.
Exasperated, Keely walked faster, past the bench, around the table to the wall and back again. The smell of smoke grew stronger with each passing minute until finally it began to seep into the room.
For a moment she stood in indecision, then she walked up to the door. "Well, if you're not going to do anything about it, I am! Damned if I'll burn to death in this hole!"
Without bothering to look up at her, the brave in the blue breeches lowered his rifle, barring her exit. "We stay here."
Keely turned away angrily, lifting the hem of her dress to wipe her brow. Though it was September it was still warm . . . and it seemed to be getting warmer by the minute.
"Don't you understand?" She turned on her captor suddenly. "They're burning down the fort. We've got to get out of here!"
He wrinkled his nose again. "Just bark, no big fires yet."
A woman's scream sounded somewhere within the walls of the fort and Keely shivered. Panic rose within her as she paced the floor faster. Gunfire sounded regularly now and occasionally a man cried out in pain. Slowly, smoke filled the room and it began to sting her eyes.
The Iroquois brave looked up, wrinkled his nose, then tucked his whittling beneath his jerkin. Unhurried, he stood and gathered his rifle and a small pouch on the bench beside him.
"Finally . . ." Keely muttered.
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 30