by M. S. Parker
The future was something that soldiers either didn't talk about at all or talked about too much. Some saw it as bad luck to talk about the future when the next day could be their last. Some saw it as a way to laugh in the face of the odds. My friends and I, we only talked about it when the end of a tour approached.
The last conversation we'd had like that came back to me with such clarity that I could almost hear my friends' voices.
“Can’t wait till I can just sit back at a desk all day,” Wilkins said with a lazy grin. “Easy street, I’m telling ya.”
“So, your ideal reward for making it through four deployments is getting to shuffle papers all day and count loads of scrap iron?” Rogers said, his hands never pausing from shuffling the deck of cards he carried with him for moments like this. “That’s your dream plan?”
“Hey, don't be an ass,” Wilkins retorted. “It’s a family business.”
Rogers snorted, executing a perfect bridge with the cards. “Your face is a family business.”
I rolled my eyes. “You two snipe like an old married couple.”
Wilkins flipped me off even as he kept after Rogers. “All right, Rogers. What are you planning that's so great?”
Rogers began flicking cards at a hat he'd set a few feet out. “I plan on finally using the teaching degree I sweated over before I enlisted. I’m gonna make some kids smart, y’all.”
I laughed as I rolled onto my side. “Not with that kind of English, you’re not.”
Rogers paused in his card shuffling to give me the finger, a gesture which I returned.
It was our language of love.
“Alright then, your turn, Honor,” Wilkins said. “When your last tour's up, when you finally decide not to re-enlist, what're you going to do?”
“Oh, you know, normal stuff,” I responded, with a vague wave of my hand.
“Brilliant, Daviot. A real winner.”
“I plan on sleeping a lot,” I went on. “Maybe eating something that tastes halfway decent.”
“Your plan sucks,” Wilkins said.
“It’s no suckier than yours.”
“Yeah, it is. By far.”
My eyes returned to the ceiling above me as the boys continued to banter. In truth, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted to finish getting my medical degree. I wanted to get married. Become a pediatrician and open up my own practice. I wanted to settle down and have a family. I wanted to have time to fuss over the simple things in life. To worry about the normal things like bills and groceries and where to go on vacation rather than IEDs and insurgents.
I sighed as the memory faded. Before the car wreck that had somehow plunged me into a different century, I’d thought those plans would be hard but attainable. Now, I was just hoping Gracen and I would be able to survive the war and have a simple future.
I pushed my hair back from my face and took a deep breath. I'd lingered in the library too long. Then again, if I was going to be completely honest with myself, I'd been hiding and not lingering. In the four days since Roston had returned, he'd made a point of being a complete ass to me every time we crossed paths. Nothing too overt, but always clear enough that I had no doubt where he stood and exactly what he thought of me.
Today was just starting, but tensions were still as high as the day of the argument.
Or, at least, that’s what I thought until someone knocked on the door shortly after the mid-day meal. I was partway up the stairs when I stopped and turned back to see who it was.
Part of me expected it to be Clara on the other side when Titus opened the door, but it wasn't. Instead, it was something worse.
Three uniformed British soldiers stood behind a fourth man in a slightly more pristine uniform. He was definitely an officer, though what rank, I didn't know. My brother Ennis would've. A wave of wistfulness washed over me.
Then I remembered what Gracen and I had done to the British soldiers who'd taken us captive, and my stomach flipped, my hand tightening on the railing.
I told myself that I didn't know why they were here. There were plenty of reasons why they could have come unannounced. Considering Roston's known Loyalist tendencies, they'd probably just come by to say hello.
Right?
“May I help you?” Roston asked as he entered the room.
It was the first time I was actually grateful to see him. I wasn't sure I would've known what to say.
“Roston Lightwood?” The officer gave a tight smile.
“Yes?”
“I am Corporal Quincy Axe. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
Roston nodded and motioned for them to follow him to the parlor, and all I could do was watch Gracen trail along behind. I knew he had to go, if only to find out the reason for their visit, but I felt sick as the door closed behind him, as if I was somehow abandoning him to something we should face together.
I hovered on the stairs, unsure where I should wait. I didn't like the idea of going up to our room, as if I had something to hide, but I wasn't sure I could take being anywhere near Titus or the other servants right now either. Finally, I decided on my favorite room. It helped that the library was close enough to the parlor that I could keep an eye on the door without seeming like I was doing just that.
It seemed to take forever, even though I knew, in reality, it'd only been less than fifteen minutes. When the door opened and Gracen came out, I called to him before he'd taken more than a couple steps. He crossed the short space between us in only a few quick strides, his expression unreadable.
I forced myself to keep my voice low. “Gracen, what’s going on? Why are they here?”
He came to me, his hands settling on my arms, his touch calming me.
“There's no need to worry. We just–”
A booming voice interrupted Gracen’s words. “Ah! So this must be Master Gracen’s little wife.”
After a moment, Gracen took a single step to the side to let me see the man behind him. He wore the signature red coat and white breeches that I'd only seen on the big or small screen. His cocoa-colored hair was wet with sweat, the waves plastered to his forehead. He was tall and muscular, easily standing out as the biggest amongst his companions. Almost as tall as Gracen, he was actually wider.
“Yes, Corporal Axe, this is my wife, Honor.” Gracen's voice was polite as he turned toward the soldier, but I could see how the smile he gave the soldier didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The man’s dark eyes turned back my way, his gaze slowly slithering over me as if hungry. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am. Corporal Quincy Axe, at your service.”
“It's kind of you to pay us a visit.” He made my skin crawl, but I couldn't be rude, not with what was at stake.
“Your husband hasn't told you yet?” Quincy's thin lips twitched. “We're not visiting. We have business in the area and require room and board.” He glanced at Gracen. “Which, I'm sure, as loyal citizens to the Crown, you are happy to accommodate.”
Right. Government-mandated housing for soldiers.
I found my nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave marks as I widened my smile. “Certainly. Welcome to our home.”
Chapter 6
I was in hell. That was the only logical explanation for the past few days. Hell.
Not only did I have to deal with Roston’s hostility, but also with the British soldiers whose favorite past-time seemed to be insulting the colonists and bossing the servants around. Or flirting with them. I'd already been forced to make it clear to the staff that they were not required to return any attentions they didn't reciprocate. I didn't care what Roston or Gracen said. If one of those assholes tried to force themselves on one of the servants, they'd be sorry.
The day after Quincy announced their stay, more soldiers had shown up every couple hours until the house was packed with more than a dozen Redcoats. Once I realized that I could barely move without running into one, I retreated to the library, finding it pleasantly free of...guests.
I'd managed to
lose myself in books for several hours over the last two days, and I was currently enjoying a collection of poetry. I'd never been a huge fan, but I had to admit that there was something to be said for the rhythm and the imagery.
A quiet “excuse me, ma’am,” startled me into focus. I shot up from my seat, turning around to find Corporal Axe at the door of the library, smiling as if he'd been standing there for more than a few seconds.
I inwardly recoiled at the idea of him watching me while I wasn’t aware of his presence, but I kept my expression pleasant. “Yes, Corporal?”
“I wanted to inform you that all of my soldiers have arrived.” His milk chocolate eyes ran the full length of my body. “You know, Mrs. Lightwood, you are quite the exquisite creature. It seems a pity to waste your considerable charms in a place such as this.”
My smile froze, and I made myself count to five so I didn't completely snap. “I wouldn't want to live anywhere else,” I answered honestly. “I love my husband, and I love this country.”
Quincy's eyes turned cold, but I couldn't tell if it was my comment about Gracen or about loving this country that had caused the change. Either way, I wasn't making any friends. I excused myself and headed to the kitchen to oversee our evening meal. I made a point of staying busy, moving in and out of the various rooms so that neither Roston or Quincy had the opportunity to speak to me.
I'd spent years having to prove myself to men who thought I didn't belong, of being in a job where women were still fighting for respect and equality, so I knew what it was like to have people considering me a second-class citizen. I also knew what it was to have to be constantly on-guard because the prevention and prosecution of sexual assaults left a lot to be desired.
But I'd always been safe in my home, always had certain team members who I knew had my back. Here, there was only Gracen, and I knew he wouldn't be able to understand the prickle of unease I got every time I was near Corporal Axe.
After a dinner of pretending that I didn't want to tell the soldiers exactly what I thought of their beloved king, I told Gracen that I wasn't feeling well and made my way upstairs to our room. I lay awake for a while, listening to the murmurs from downstairs, to the creaking house, but I fell asleep before Gracen joined me in bed.
The next day, I woke up at sunrise to find Gracen wrapped around me, his body heat chasing away the faint chill in the air. I knew he must've been exhausted, so I carefully extricated myself from him and the blankets, leaving him to sleep.
I dressed quickly, grimacing at the feel of unwashed skin. I was more used to not always being clean than most of my American contemporaries, but that didn't mean I liked it. Thinking about it, however, didn't help anything, so I made my way down to the kitchen to see if I could find Dye before breakfast. As awkward as some of our conversations had been, I still felt better talking to her than anyone else.
Before I reached the kitchen, however, I heard...singing.
Curiosity piqued, I walked toward it, finding myself heading in the same direction I'd already been going. The sound grew louder the closer I got to the kitchen. Not wanting to go in unprepared, I hid myself in the shadows and peeked inside.
The scene I saw was unexpected, to say the least. Ten drunk men were slurring something that sounded like an English folk song and waving glasses of what appeared to be some of Roston's best liquor. Several servants stood nearby, expressions barely concealing their disapproval. I felt safe assuming that most of them – if not all – hadn't been to bed yet.
“Sirs, Master Lightwood still be abed. If you could lower your voices.” Titus sounded more polite than he ever was to me, but I could hear the anger in his voice.
“Shove it, you bloody bastard,” one of the men sneered, raising his glass so that some of the amber liquid sloshed over the side. The other men laughed, and the muscles in Titus's jaw clenched tighter.
I definitely didn't want to deal with a roomful of drunk, singing soldiers, so I backed away from the shadows and made my way back up to my room. If this morning was an indicator of how things were going to go throughout the entire war, then Gracen and I needed to seriously discuss leaving before our loyalties were brought to light. The difference between a revolutionary and a rebel was all in which side a person was on, and in a country still owned by Britain, being a rebel could be a death sentence.
I pushed those thoughts aside as I crawled back into bed next to Gracen, willing my heartbeat to slow down. I would have to deal with everything later, and I knew there was nothing I could do about it then, but right now, I could lay next to my husband and forget about everything else for at least another hour or so.
As I tried to will myself to sleep again, I watched Gracen, tracing his features with my gaze. His straight, aristocratic nose. High cheekbones. Soft lips that might've been just a tad too full to be considered manly. His dark waves covered part of his face, and I wondered if this was how he'd looked when he was younger, without the lines and worry that'd come from being ruled by a harsh hand, from losing a wife and child.
“Is it morning already?” Gracen's voice was thick with sleep as he stirred. His eyes stayed closed, but his arms slid around me, pulling me against him. His morning erection pressed against my hip.
“It is,” I said softly, snuggling closer to him. “But we have a bit of time before we're needed.”
I tried not to think about the men downstairs or the way Quincy's eyes followed me around the room. Of how I'd have to smile and make nice when all I wanted to do was put them all in their place. I hated it, and a part of me even resented Gracen for bringing me back here when we could've made a fresh start somewhere else. Nowhere was really safe for us at the moment, but there were places we could've attracted a lot less attention.
“Honor, my love, is something wrong?”
Gracen's eyes were open now, and even though I could see he wasn't completely awake yet, he was aware enough to have noticed that I wasn't as relaxed as I had been.
I started to shake my head, to tell him that it was nothing, but he stopped me by putting his hand on my cheek.
“I thought we had no more secrets between us.”
I sighed. He was right. I'd already told him the worst of it. If he'd been able to accept that I was from the future, I shouldn't ever need to worry about telling him anything.
“It's Corporal Axe,” I said. “He's always staring at me, making comments about how pretty I am.”
“You are a beautiful woman.” Gracen kissed the tip of my nose. “He would have to be blind not to notice.”
“It's not that.” I shook my head, struggling to find the right words to explain how I felt. “I don't like being alone with him.”
“You worry far too much,” Gracen said, running his fingers through my hair. “He is an officer in the British army. He would never conduct himself in a less than dignified manner.”
I waited for him to say that he was joking, but the expression on his face said that he truly believed what he was saying. I supposed it shouldn't have been surprising. For a man who was almost thirty years old, who'd experienced so much loss, he was surprisingly naive. A part of that, I supposed, came from believing so completely in the idea of honor that he didn't understand people who pretended. It was why he'd wanted to tell his father as much of the truth as possible. He loathed deception. Even a man who did horrible things had his own sort of honor if he was honest about it.
Growing up in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries as I had, skepticism wasn't merely accepted, it was common. People were cynical of everything. Government. Media. Each other. People who took things at face value were mocked. In a way, even those with the most extreme paranoia had a level of respect that the more trusting didn't.
“Conduct yourself in a manner above reproach, and all will be well.” Gracen's eyes closed again, signaling the conversation was over.
The worst part of it was that he hadn't said any of it as a warning or even a request. It was evident he simply believed that was the way
it would be. As long as I didn't say or do anything that could be misconstrued as inappropriate, then there wasn't anything to worry about. Without that sort of temptation, Quincy would continue to admire from afar and behave as a polite British officer.
And with that statement, Gracen had given his position on the matter. If the corporal did try something, the blame would be on me.
Chapter 7
The only high school dance I'd attended had been my senior prom. Bruce had invited me, and I'd been so head over heels for him that I'd worked my ass off to buy a fancy fitted black dress that constricted my rib cage and high heeled shoes to match. Most girls would've loved the whole build-up, but I'd just been excited to finally get to show people at school that Bruce and I were official, that he was off-limits to the other girls he'd dated while we were casual.
I'd hated nearly every minute of it. The constricting dress. Having all those eyes on me, watching me, wondering what anyone saw in me. Why the man at my side was with me. Hearing all the whispers behind my back. And Bruce hadn't helped. He'd paraded me around like I was some prize, something to show off. At the time, I told myself that it was sweet he wanted people to see us together. It wasn't until we were older that I realized that was just what he did. He showed off with whatever or whoever happened to be around.
When Roston announced that he was holding a party in recognition of our “honored guests,” memories of that stupid prom kept coming back. Except it was so much worse.
First, because this was how most people in the area would learn that Gracen and I were married. And since that meant Roston hadn't thrown a party for us, it would show everyone what we already knew.
Roston didn't approve of the match.
Between him and Clara, I doubted anyone in the upper crust of society would be very friendly. The most I could hope for was civility.
Then there was the bigger picture. How to manage myself in a roomful of Loyalists and Redcoats without giving away what I thought or felt. And without raising any questions about where I was from or what I knew.