by Kris Tualla
Perhaps that doesn’t matter after all.
In truth, Kirsten was merely afraid she couldn’t conceive. She had no way of knowing for certain until she tried. Reid believed that if any couple went into marriage with the expectation—the sincere expectation—of a childless union, then they would not be disappointed when that eventuality played itself out.
The problem with Kirsten was the uncertainty. Hope would remain, unquenchable, until the possibility of conception no longer existed. If expectations and continued disappointment grew to bitterness, it would become a wasting disease in the marriage.
Reid turned another corner and kept walking.
The other side of the mental path which he trod led away from Kirsten. While consideration of how he might manage with her as his wife had occupied his thoughts thus far, he had not yet regarded a life without her.
His gut clenched.
During the five months before he returned to Philadelphia, he thought of her daily. Hourly, at times. Holding out a snippet of hope that he might see her again, he knew he would court her if he did. If he walked away from her now, as she claimed she wanted him to, how would he cope?
The exasperating princess held his hopeless heart in her hands. The thought of even trying to find another woman to give it to made his bones tired. He had never loved before. He knew he would never love again. If only she hadn’t waited so long to appear, his happiness might have had a chance to grow.
What sprouted now was withering before his eyes. He didn’t know if he could save it.
A memory niggled at his thoughts. He stopped walking, closed his eyes behind the tinted spectacles, and waited for it to come into focus.
One time, when he was about twenty, his father said something about—what was it?—stepping out, doing the right thing, and trusting that all would be right in the end.
Reid asked him what he meant by that.
Martin had laid a hand on Reid’s shoulder. “There may be a time in your life when you are faced with a hard decision, son. If that happens, you’ll know what the right choice is.”
“Then why wouldn’t I choose it?” Reid challenged, offended at the implied slight.
“Because,” Martin looked hard into his eyes, “the consequences will alter the course of your life.”
Reid hadn’t understood his father’s words at the time, but he noticed how Martin smiled at Dagny after he said them. Reid’s mother blushed and smiled back. Reid knew then that his parents shared a secret. Though they never mentioned it, clearly some covert affair cemented their bond as devoted husband and loving wife.
Martin Hansen had always been the quality of man Reid hoped to be someday. His time was running out.
Reid opened his eyes and started walking again. Clearly the right choice in his situation was to marry Kirsten Sven—if he could convince her to have him. What happened in the past was done. How that affected his future was unknown. Here and now, he was in love with her. No other man would ever be right for her because only Reid knew her secret.
She trusted him with her shame. God willing, she would trust him now with her life.
*****
A crowd stood in the deceptively sunny day outside the hall housing the military trial. They parted like ice floes when Reid cut through. His tall stature, clad in his officer’s dress uniform, declared his importance. He heard his name murmured in the crowd and knew his involvement in the explosion was recognized.
“Captain?” a soft feminine voice cooed at his elbow.
Reid turned toward the source. “Colonel,” he corrected.
A very attractive woman, probably in her mid-thirties, fluttered her lashes in his direction. “I beg your pardon, Colonel.”
Reid smiled politely. “May I help you?”
She laid a hand on his arm. “I’m having a dinner party this evening and wondered if you might be free to attend.”
“Who, may I ask, extends the invitation?” Obviously she expected him to know.
The hand tightened on his arm. “Madame Janine Chesterley, widow of the late Warren Chesterley,” she said.
Reid thought he detected a slight emphasis on the designation of widow. “This may be my last night in Philadelphia, Madame,” he declined. “I regret that I have preparations to make for my departure.”
Her hand began to move up his arm. “Under the circumstances, and if you don’t mind my asking, might you be convinced to remain in our city?”
Reid was rescued from answering by the appearance of a young clerk with a roll of paper in one hand. He stood at the top of the steps and unrolled the document.
“The court martial of Private Johan Symington, also known as Jack Smith, has reached its decision,” he called out in a voice freshly cut from puberty. “The accused has been found guilty of malicious destructive intent and the murder of five Continental Army soldiers.”
Reid heaved a sigh, blowing out the breath he didn’t realized he was holding, and nodded. Approving rumbles shook through the gathering.
“Symington is sentenced to be hung by the neck until dead,” the man continued without any display of emotion. “The sentence will be carried out at the Pennsylvania Regimental Quarters at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, February the twenty-fourth, in the year seventeen hundred and eighty-two.”
Without pause, the clerk turned on his heel and walked back inside the building.
Reid looked down at Madame Chesterley and wondered if there was any reason at all to accept her invitation now that he had two more nights in Philadelphia. The movement of a carriage a little way down the street drew his gaze and answered that question for him.
“I’m so very sorry, Madame Chesterley,” he said as he began to move away. “I’m afraid I cannot. Will you excuse me?”
Reid pushed through the crowd in the direction of Kirsten’s carriage, willing her to stay in place until he reached her. He saw her pale face in the window before she sat back out of sight. Once free of the crowd, he loped the final distance and pulled the door open.
Kirsten huddled in the far corner of the coach. “What was the verdict? I couldn’t hear.”
“Guilty,” Reid answered. “He’ll hang tomorrow morning at ten.”
Her gaze fell and she gave a little nod. “Justice has been served.”
He pulled off the tinted glasses and peered into the shadows of the carriage. “Forgive me for saying so, sweetheart, but you don’t look well.”
Her eyes flicked up to his. “Neither do you.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” he confessed. “I had a lot to think about.”
Her consideration dropped away for the second time. “I didn’t sleep either.”
She appeared fragile as a baby bird kicked from its nest too soon. Reid wanted to climb into the carriage and hold her in his arms, but was afraid that such forward behavior might further distress her. So soon after her shocking confession, he thought it best for Kirsten to set the tone for their interaction.
“I’ll be in Philadelphia for two more nights,” he offered.
She didn’t look up. “Yes, I know. Because of the hanging.”
He forced his tone to sound kind, not desperate. “When may I see you?”
Her chin lifted. Her eyes followed. “I really don’t feel at all well today, Reid. Will you come tomorrow?”
“Yes. Of course.” He knew by the look of her that she told him the truth. “I’ll come mid-day, after the sentence is carried out.”
“Thank you.” If she tried to smile, she failed. “I’ll see you then.”
“I love you, Kirsten.” The words would not be held back.
She didn’t reply. A single tear rolled down each cheek.
Reid stepped back and shut the door. He pounded the side of the carriage and the horses stepped into action.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
February 24, 1782
Reid was at the docks by nine. He claimed a spot where his back faced the morning sun; he wanted to watch Johan die withou
t any painful glare in his eyes.
The Pennsylvania Regiment soldiers built the scaffold yesterday after the verdict was read. In his march around the city to clear his head, Reid passed them by. The celebratory tone of their efforts didn’t surprise him in the least, considering that five of their friends had fallen in the man’s scheme.
“Morning, Colonel,” a young soldier offered as he approached. “Here for the hanging?”
“I am,” Reid answered.
“You’re the one what was hurt bad, ain’t you?” he ventured.
Reid looked down at the earnest young man. At first glance he appeared to be just a teen, but closer inspection clarified the lines around his eyes and mouth.
“Yes,” Reid said. “I spent three weeks recuperating before I was able to return to my unit.”
The soldier nodded. “And you testified, didn’t you? You helped get the bastard.”
“He is indeed, a bastard,” Reid agreed. On a hunch, he asked, “Did you know the men who died?”
The soldier nodded solemnly. “I was supposed to join them when my shift as guard was over.”
Reid clapped his hand on the man’s bony shoulder. “God was watching out for you.”
He gave a crooked smile. “That’s what my wife says.”
Reid was surprised to hear the man had a wife, yet marriages often happened before the couple reached twenty years of age. “She’s a wise woman. You are blessed.”
He laughed. “She says that, too.”
A shout from the barracks pulled their attention.
“That’s for me.” He saluted Reid before he loped away. “Have a pleasant day, sir.”
Reid watched his back and thought about the man’s words. A pleasant day. Was that possible?
First, he was going to watch a man die. A rope would be snugged around his neck and—if Johan was lucky—his neck would be snapped when he dropped to the end of the rope’s length.
Reid did a mental calculation and thought the scaffold might be a bit short. He hoped the Pennsylvanians hadn’t made mischief to extend Johan’s dying. If the neck wasn’t broken, the hung man would slowly strangle, bucking and panicking as his body fought for air.
Not that he didn’t deserve it.
Afterwards, he would plead his case with Kirsten and try to convince her to accept a husband—him. Reid held no assurances that he would succeed, but he intended to give it his very best effort.
By the time Johan was brought out to the scaffold, a large crowd had gathered. They howled as he appeared. If this was summer, Reid would have expected rotten fruits to be lobbed in the convicted killer’s direction. As it was, a few eggs hit the mark.
Reid watched as the rope was looped into place around the man’s neck and tightened. He couldn’t hear the exchange between the preacher and the killer, but Johan spit on the scaffold in punctuation, drawing another round of angry howls. Everyone on the platform stepped back.
A major extended an arm, his sword glinting in the sun. When his arm dropped, so did the hinged floor of the scaffold. Reid winced to see he was right.
It took Johan seven minutes to die.
*****
Kirsten sat in the drawing room, the pouch of money on the table beside the settee. She had determined the purpose of this interview was to say their final goodbyes; Reid’s purpose was irrelevant. Her decision was made and would not be unmade.
She slept yesterday afternoon, at last. Her nap was mercifully dreamless, unlike her night. Twice she awoke, panicked and fighting off her attackers.
Kirsten knew that she must stop ignoring what happened to her. She must allow the grief and fear to rise up, and then stare them fully in the face. Only then would they fade into the background of her life. They would never be gone; but they might at the least be quieted.
Marit babbled on at breakfast about the previous day spent with Henrik and the city official named Marcus Whitehead, or Matthew Whitfield, or some such name. Kirsten smiled and made the requisite sounds of interest and approval—and thought she had effectively hidden her troubles from her mother.
“What’s happened, Datter, to make you so sad?” Marit asked of a sudden. The question incongruously followed a litany of yester eve’s sumptuous dessert offerings.
The easiest lie was closest to the truth. “Reid is coming over to say his goodbyes later.”
“He’s returning to his duties, then?” Her mother tried to appear sympathetic, but her relief at getting the colonel away from her only child was clear as the crystal water goblet in her hand.
“No, he’s resigning,” Kirsten sighed. “He’s going home to Boston.”
Marit’s brows lifted. “How did the trial turn out?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear,” she said truthfully. “That man was found guilty. He’s to be hung in an hour.”
“Such a tone,” Marit scolded. “A man is about to die.”
“Three men were injured and five men died because of what he did. Not to mention the destruction of supplies.” Kirsten stood. “I’m going to read in the drawing room until Reid arrives.”
Now Kirsten looked down at the novel which lay unopened in her lap. Unable to bring her thoughts around to any subject other than the conversation she was about to have, she simply listened to the clock ticking the seconds away and waited for Reid’s knock on the door.
When it came, she nearly jumped out of her dress.
Kirsten stood, set the book beside the little pouch and faced the drawing room door. Her mind was made up, she thought again. Nothing he can say will change it.
Reid walked in and smiled at her.
Her resolve took a direct hit.
He approached and held out his hands. “Sweetheart, I’m so glad to see you are much improved.”
Kirsten laid her hands in his without thinking about it—and immediately regretted it. His large hands were warm and strong, like the arms he held her with. “I—I am, yes. Thank you.”
Reid pulled her close and his mouth took hers.
A last kiss.
She didn’t stop him. She didn’t have the heart to.
When the tender moment passed, he gestured for her to sit. “I have something I need to tell you. Shall we close the door?”
Kirsten’s glance slid to the portal. Was it preferable to risk her parents’ overhearing their possibly revealing conversation, or risk their indignation at the closed door closeting her alone with Reid, unchaperoned. The closeting won out.
“Yes, please.” When he sat beside her she added, “We still need to keep our voices low.”
“I understand,” he said.
“I won’t marry you,” she blurted.
“Hear me out,” Reid countered.
“No, you need to listen to me, Reid,” she pressed. “I will not marry you—or anyone.”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
She gaped at him. “What is this game?”
“It’s not a game,” he stated.
“Well, whatever you choose to call it, I am not amused,” she snapped.
Reid took her hand and began to massage it the way she had his. “Let’s back up a bit. I know what happened to you, and you know my circumstances.”
“Yes,” she hissed.
“Now—why won’t you marry me?”
His fingers felt so good on her hand she forgot to be angry. “Are you asking for a list of reasons? Again?”
He nodded. “I am.”
“I’m not a virgin,” she whispered, her face heating at the admission.
“Neither am I,” he whispered his response.
“Don’t mock me,” she warned and tried to pull her hand from his.
He held on and flipped it over to massage her palm. “I’m not mocking you. I respect you as a fellow human. Why should we have different expectations based on our genders?”
Kirsten glared at him. “Because men are—they can’t be expected to—it’s not healthy.”
Reid huffed a chuckle. “Who told you that
? Let me guess. A man trying to win sexual favors from you.”
Kirsten’s face flamed as she considered the question she was about to ask. “Yes. Why? Are you telling me it’s not true?”
Reid stopped rubbing her hand and looked her intently in the eye. The blue rim around his gray irises darkened. “I haven’t had a woman for four years. Do I appear in any way diminished to you?”
“No,” she admitted. Not in the least.
His ministrations resumed. His fingers began to move languidly up her arm, touching her lightly and raising gooseflesh. “Your next objection?”
Her heart kept a strong yet increasing cadence in her chest. “I—I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to let a man touch me… the way…” her voice hitched, catching in her throat. She couldn’t say the words with Reid so close, stroking her forearm so sensuously.
“The way.” He repeated and kissed her wrist.
“A husband…”
Reid tasted her skin, his tongue tracing a narrow trail upward from her wrist to her elbow.
“Touches his wife?” He asked before placing a lingering kiss in the sensitive crook of her arm.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He lifted his head. His mouth was inches from hers. “Is this pleasant for you?”
She couldn’t lie to him. “Yes…”
He kissed the spot behind her jaw just below her ear. She shivered as a delightful shock snaked from her neck to her belly.
“Imagine what I could do, Prinsesse,” he whispered in her ear. “If I had freedom with your naked body.”
Kirsten gasped. She leapt from the settee, more embarrassed at her own response than angry at his suggestion. “How dare you!” she yelped.
Reid leaned back, his expression bemused. “I apologize. I only intended to disarm your objection. Forgive me if I overstepped.”
She paced several steps to the right, then back to the left. She gripped her hands in front of her waist and refused to think about how Reid’s touch made her feel.
“I believe that all you’ll need is a gentle approach,” he continued softly. “And if that doesn’t work, there are other things which can be done.”