by Gayle Callen
“Good morning,” his voice rumbled in her ear.
She wondered if he realized where his hand had been, but all he did was reach up and lazily scratch his bristled chin. His eyes were too close—everything was too close. She quickly sat up, giving a shiver at the loss of his warmth.
“I thought military men awoke at dawn,” she said.
“Only when our horses wake us up.”
She arched a brow at him as he rolled onto his back with a groan.
“Too long in one position,” he said.
“What’s for breakfast?”
“A woman after my own heart.”
Instinctively she smiled at him. “Remember when we used to—” But she faltered abruptly as nearer memories rushed back.
He lay still, looking up at her. “You sometimes used to meet me in the garden, carrying your breakfast in a little handkerchief.”
“And I always had something extra for you.” She turned away, embarrassed. “I must have been such an annoying child.”
“No,” he said quietly.
“But you were working.”
“I enjoyed answering your questions. You were a bright light of inquisitiveness on cold mornings like this.”
“The garden seemed so much more interesting than my governess’s lessons.”
And then she remembered that her governess was dead, maybe murdered. There was an awkward silence as Sam slowly stood up. He reached down for her, and she allowed him to help her to her feet.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he said, and disappeared into the woods.
Men had matters of the body so much easier than women. She stomped into the woods opposite the way he had gone. When she emerged a few minutes later, he was frowning at her.
He put his fists on his hips. “When you weren’t here when I returned, I thought—”
“That ladies don’t need privacy in the morning?” she interrupted. “Do I need your permission for that as well?”
“Of course not. But next time, at least tell me which way you’re going.”
She hadn’t thought of that. “Very well,” she said, trying for contriteness.
He shook his head, then glanced at the horses, who grazed side by side in the grass. “Now let’s examine our new acquisition.”
“Before we eat?”
“There might be even better things than the cold meat and cheese I’m carrying.”
Though the horse ended up having nothing but a decent saddle, the animal was a welcome gift all by itself. She would control her own mount—if nothing else in her life.
She sat down by the ashes of the fire to munch her cheese, only to see Sam staring at her strangely. Before she could question him, he dropped to his knees at her side and spread wide her skirts on the ground.
Indignantly, she began, “I don’t see what—”
And then he put his fingers through a bullet hole, which had blackened a small ring of fabric near the hem.
She gaped at it. “It appears my luck isn’t all bad.”
He gave a low whistle. “And here I thought you wouldn’t be a good luck charm.”
Julia shoved another piece of cheese into her mouth before she could respond to that. Was he actually being nice to her this morning? Or was it some kind of truce?
He rose to his feet and looked back down the path. “Would you rather wait here while I see to the body?”
She wiped the cheese crumbs from her hands. “No. I can help. And besides, you aren’t going to bury him next to the road, are you?”
“I was going to pull him into the woods.”
“But you need rocks, which are here at the stream. Let’s bring him here.”
Between the two of them, they dragged the dead man to their camp. The streambed and banks yielded enough rocks, and once the assailant’s face was covered, she had an easier time finishing the work.
“Was there anything in his pockets to identify him?” she asked, settling the last rock in place.
“Nothing.” Sam straightened and wiped his arm across his forehead.
“Then are you finally going to show me what’s in that other saddlebag?”
He glanced at her. “Disguises.”
Sam watched Julia’s expressive face, which was full of wariness and the interest she couldn’t hide.
She sighed. “From our time at the tavern, I already know how good you’ll be at this.”
Eventually he would tell her about the five years he’d spent disguising himself every day. But he still felt the ungentlemanly need to tease her. “I could tell from the tavern that you’d be good.”
She drew her breath in quickly and glared at him.
He knew damn well what she was thinking, but all he did was cock an eyebrow and say, “You understand how to adopt a role.”
“Oh,” she said, her face flushed. “I rather had to, didn’t I?”
He shrugged.
“So what will I do that will so completely disguise me from servants I’ve known my whole life?”
“You mean the servants you haven’t seen in ten years?”
“I saw them for a week last year. But you understand my meaning.”
“We’re going to change your hair,” he said with satisfaction.
“The color will still—”
“That’s one of the things we’ll change.”
After only a brief hesitation, she met his gaze levelly. “What do you have planned?”
Reluctantly, he admired her poise. “You’ll be a brunette. I bought a chicory paste back in Leeds. We’ll let it sit in your hair a few hours, and then you won’t even look the same.”
She wet her lips and straightened her shoulders. “A paste? Will it be difficult to work into my hair?”
“Probably. But we have no choice.”
“I have an idea that will make it easier. Do you have a knife?”
He studied her for a moment, then reached down for the knife in his boot.
She gave a brief smile. “Why didn’t you use that against our attackers?”
“It was in my saddlebag then. I thought the pistol would do well enough. So what are you going to do with it?” he asked as he handed it over.
Before he could even move, she pulled the plait of braided hair over her shoulder and sliced it off below her ear.
Sam’s mouth dropped open, but he couldn’t help himself. A woman’s hair was often her pride, and he hadn’t imagined she would do something that drastic.
Yet he noticed that after she dropped the braid into the bushes, she tried to clasp her hands together to hide their trembling.
“How are we going to excuse your hairstyle?” he asked, watching as she spread her fingers through her uneven hair. “All women wear their hair long.”
“It needs to be shorter so I can pass as a man.”
Inside him a stillness blossomed, as he remembered the first time he’d seen her all grown up, in a Kabul bazaar. At first, he’d only noticed her as a tall, thin boy, dressed in trousers with a patched frock coat over a shirt. She’d roamed between the stalls, gaping at the Russian slaves for sale beside the melons and iron hinges.
In a low voice, Sam said, “Do you remember when I thought you a soldier’s son escaped for a day of adventure?”
She lifted her chin. “I would have succeeded in my ruse but for that monkey trying to pull off my cap.”
“A strand of your hair fell almost to your waist. You’re lucky all the men were too distracted by the screeching monkey.” He smiled. “I noticed your eyes next, as richly blue as a gem in the queen’s crown. I thought the shock of recognition would kill me.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Just a fact. And then my shock gave way to fear.”
“A big man like you, afraid?” She was laughing at him.
“They would have stoned you if they’d discovered you were a woman.”
Her smile faded, leaving only a trace of defiance. “Then you followed me, scaring me even worse. That was cr
uel of you.”
“You would have run if I’d confronted you in the bazaar. I hadn’t meant to frighten you.”
“So instead you grabbed me in an alley.” She pointed at him accusingly.
“But I saw you safely back to the encampment that day—not that you paid attention to my warnings.”
After all these years, he could still see the myriad of expressions that had crossed her face when she’d recognized him, from wistfulness to sadness to regret. And then the unkindest one of all—polite disinterest.
He knew she’d been angry that he’d left Hopewell Manor so abruptly, and angry that he hadn’t wanted to continue their friendship while in India. And when he’d caught her dressed as a boy again, things had gotten even worse.
“Julia, you passed as a boy once or twice for an afternoon. This will be days, maybe weeks, around people who know you.”
“And they won’t expect me to be a man, now, will they?” She held out the knife. “Finish what I’ve started. Make me look presentable.”
He would have argued further, if only it didn’t make such perfect sense. And she would blend in so well with his disguise.
But could she carry it off?
He took the knife from her, feeling her smooth, cool hands, which looked decidedly unmasculine. Stepping nearer, he tilted her face up so he could study the way her thick hair fell. Luckily he’d had the experience of cutting his own hair a time or two. He cut to a length just beneath her chin, a rather longish look for a man, but one that might grow out easier for a woman. Her hair hung straight, but he suspected, once washed, its gentle curls would surface.
She tentatively ran her hand through it. “Do I look like a man?”
He gazed down her body, from the small swell of her breasts, to her full hips which held out her skirt. He cleared his throat. “No.”
“Not in these clothes, of course,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“And not with that hair color. I’ll get the chicory paste.”
They knelt by the bank of the stream, and he worked the thick, oily paste into her hair while wearing leather gloves to protect his own skin. He was careful not to get much of the dye on her scalp. When he was done, he rinsed the paste off the gloves, laid them out to dry, and then sat back on his heels.
He stared at the oily brown mass that was her hair. “Now we wait two hours for the dye to work.”
With a sigh, she leaned back on her hands.
He watched her contemplatively for a moment, wanting to ask how she had met the Duke of Kelthorpe, the man she’d almost married, but he couldn’t think of a way to make it relevant to Lewis’s guilt. Yet it was important in her journey north last month, so he approached it that way.
“On your way to deliver your governess’s personal effects, you went to Kelthorpe’s weekend house party first.”
“The duke was counting on me,” she said.
Sam noticed that she was no longer meeting his gaze. “You were betrothed to him?”
“Not quite. Why must we discuss this?” she asked coldly. “Isn’t it enough that he’ll never see me again?”
This morbid, jealous curiosity of his was getting him nowhere. “I just need to put motives with actions for what you were doing last month. You must understand that to us you looked guilty of treason. A man named Campbell was going to bribe us not to expose you as a traitor.”
She jumped to her feet. “I’ve never heard of this man!”
“He’s already dead. But there were other men who seemed to be acting on your orders, trying to kill Nick, Will, and me. Do you remember Jane Whittington from Kelthorpe’s house party?”
“She was engaged to William Chadwick, one of your friends.”
She stressed the word with a distaste that was almost amusing.
“They’re married now, but they were almost killed after meeting you. We had you watched the whole time you were at Kelthorpe’s, and during the hunt, you disappeared for several hours. Campbell was on the grounds at that time, so we assumed you’d met with him and given the order to have Will killed.”
She paced, her movements stiff. “I had to meet a messenger from my brother.” And then her eyes went wide as she realized what that could mean. “It had to be a coincidence. Lewis was warning me in a letter to behave, that Kelthorpe was our best hope.”
“You mean his best hope to get rid of you,” Sam said, getting to his feet. “Why didn’t the messenger just come to the house to speak with you?”
“I don’t know!” She whirled toward him, her face as white as the rag they’d tied beneath the dripping dye. “But you’re deliberately making this seem sinister.”
“It is sinister; our lives were in jeopardy. Jane almost didn’t survive a poisoning attempt.”
“It wasn’t me!” she sobbed.
He grasped her upper arms. “I know that! I believe you.”
For several minutes she struggled to recover her composure, but he didn’t move away. She wiped tears from her eyes and swayed. Somehow she ended up leaning against him, and it seemed so natural to put his arms around her.
He found himself wiping a tear from her cheek. “I don’t do this to hurt you, Julia, but to save you.”
“I know.”
She gave a final sniff and stepped away from him. The day seemed to grow chillier without her.
Sitting down facing each other again seemed too intimate, so Sam casually walked to the stream and drank water from his cupped hands. Julia leaned back against a fallen tree, half sitting, bracing her hands behind her. This pose made looking at her breasts far too easy.
He picked up a pebble and flung it into the water. As he moved farther upstream, he caught a glimpse of something shiny in the weeds, and realized it was Julia’s braided length of blond hair. It lay forgotten, like her femininity would soon be.
He pretended to reach for another rock, and this time fisted his hand about her hair. He turned his back and slid it into the breast pocket of his coat. He was a fool.
Chapter 7
Julia struggled against a feeling of overwhelming sadness and defeat. Her backside was numb from the rough tree bark and her scalp itched unmercifully. “What will we do if we can’t find the traitor?” she finally whispered.
Sam stopped his pacing and looked at her. She tried to read his face, but his expression was one of resolve and self-confidence. And for a brief moment she could have kissed him for it.
“We’ll find him,” he said firmly. “And if not, we’ll leave England.”
She glanced at him speculatively. “We?”
“I’m wanted by the law just as you are.”
“All because of me,” she whispered.
“Then it makes us even, because you’re partly here because of me.”
“But mostly because of a traitor.”
He nodded his agreement. They spent the rest of the two hours in uneasy silence, while she considered the enormity of the challenge ahead of them.
As he rummaged through his saddlebags, he said, “I found the soap to wash out your hair, but I seem to have forgotten towels.”
“Heavens, you’re not completely prepared?”
He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Do you mind if I use your petticoats, since you won’t need them?”
She turned her back and reached beneath her skirts to untie the laces at her waist. Two petticoats fell to the ground, and she felt cooler—and much more naked—without them. Somehow her drawers didn’t seem like enough protection—from what, she didn’t know.
“Do you have clothes in there for me?” she asked as she set the petticoats beside the stream.
He donned his gloves again. “No, since I didn’t anticipate you changing genders. When we reach Hopewell Manor tonight, we’ll go see my sister Frances. She’ll be able to find appropriate clothing for you.”
He spread a blanket on a small rise beside the stream. “Lie down here, with your head leaning over the embankment. As I rinse your hair, the water should drain back into the
stream and not on you.”
Feeling self-conscious, she sat down beside him and lay back, her head dangling awkwardly until he cupped it with his big hand. She felt strangely vulnerable, yet safe at the same time, because he was Sam. He used an empty cider bottle full of water, refilling over and over to rinse through the thick paste that coated her hair. He was so close above her, intent on his work, eyes narrowed with concentration. It felt strangely…arousing to be lying beside him as he bent over her. He immersed his hands in the soap, then began to lather it into her hair, and with relief she closed her eyes.
His fingers on her scalp moved in slow circles, cleaning, soothing. It had been so long since anyone had touched her hair, held her in such a gentle manner. He rinsed, then added soap again, all the while cradling her head with a tenderness that made her feel safe, and more relaxed than she’d felt in weeks. When his fingers stilled, she opened her eyes.
He was looking down at her wearing an expression she couldn’t decipher, while his hands cupped her head. They stared at each other, caught in a moment that seemed almost familiar, yet completely new.
He cleared his throat. “I think we’re done.”
She was almost disappointed. He helped her sit up, then wrapped her head in petticoats. The first one was stained brown when she removed it, but the second petticoat she applied was mostly wet.
“How do I look?” she asked, fingering through her hair and pushing it back from her face.
“Macassar oil will help hold your hair back. I’m sure my sister can procure us some. You definitely look different,” he added.
She spent the rest of the morning cutting and scuffing her nails, then learning how to walk like a man. Sam explained that she couldn’t just count on the clothes to disguise her, since they’d be with people who knew her. He reminded her to take long strides, and to stop wiggling her hips. He insisted she even needed to have her chest bound, as if there were much to hide. He taught her how to bring a gruffness to her naturally deep voice, and reminded her to mimic the servants’ manner of speech.
“The secret is to think like a man at all times,” he said. “Think about your profession and the reason we’re there.”
“Those are two different things, aren’t they?”