A Woman’s Innocence

by Gayle Callen

  “No. Didn’t I tell you how we’re going to disguise ourselves?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sorry. We’re going to masquerade as the police.”

  “The police!” Julia repeated, feeling anxiety tighten her throat.

  “Perfect, isn’t it?” Sam said eagerly. “We’ll be investigating the case against the notorious traitor and escapee Julia Reed.”

  “But—but the police will surely have already interviewed the household in the two weeks since I was arrested.”

  “Yes, but now that you’ve escaped, the Leeds police force has sent detectives—us—to investigate further, and to be prepared should you show up at the estate. And while we’re on official business, we can also be looking for the true traitor.”

  It was a rather brilliant idea. It allowed them to ask a lot of questions without anyone being suspicious.

  “But what if the real police decide to investigate?” she asked.

  He frowned. “I’m hoping they believe they already have enough information. They might very well drop in to see if you’ve returned home, so we’ll have to trust my sister to deal with them.”

  “I wish we didn’t have to involve Frances in this.”

  “There’s no help for it.”

  “Could it be dangerous for her, or others in your family?”

  She could tell by his expression that he’d been worrying about the same thing.

  “I hope I can protect them. I think we’ll try to keep your identity a secret from everyone but my sister. And you know the traitor won’t give up. He’ll be sending more men against us. I can only hope he’s so worried about his reputation that he won’t risk attacking us directly in a public place.” He scrutinized her appearance. “Besides, we’ll have the protection of the apprentice officer Julian.”

  “Who?”

  His smile was faint. “You don’t remember when I used to call you that?”

  Tentatively, she shook her head.

  “I used it the first time I came upon you dressed as a boy.”

  “Of course! I was never so frightened in my life when a man seemed to be calling my name in the middle of the bazaar.” She still remembered the shot of terror, the feeling of being surrounded by men—then the thrill of a challenge. The “thrill” part was always what got her into trouble.

  “I didn’t call your exact name. And you should have been frightened.”

  “If it makes you happy, I’m still frightened. I want to be able to protect myself, and not be such a burden on you. Do you have another pistol in that bottomless saddlebag?”

  “Maybe. Can you still load and shoot it?” His face clouded. “But of course you can. We found one strapped to your thigh when you were arrested. Another bit of evidence that didn’t look good for you.”

  “So I’m not supposed to protect myself when traveling alone?”

  Sam put his hands on his hips and studied her. “Did Lewis teach you to shoot?”

  “No. My father did.”

  “The proper Mr. Reed?” he said, eyes widening. “I never would have thought it.”

  “Just before my parents died, when Lewis was talking about leaving, my father decided I might need my own protection. I put my skills to good use in India, where I used to hunt jackal.”

  He gave her a smile and a shake of his head, then reached into his saddlebag and took out a bundle wrapped in an old rag. Within was a pistol, which he handed to her. “There’s powder and shot in the pouch. Load it while I get changed. I’ll inspect you later.”

  His words sent a shiver through her, the same shiver she’d had while sleeping curled against him. But she only nodded and seated herself on her blanket, watching surreptitiously as he pulled out a carefully rolled bundle of clothing.

  “Where did you get the uniform?” she asked.

  “One of the constables at the Leeds jail was about my size. He was kind enough to loan it to me.”

  “You mean unconscious enough.”

  He grinned.

  His smile could still make her blush, as if she were a shy fourteen-year-old again. But they were rare smiles now, given by a man who’d seen too much of the world. What had he been doing in Afghanistan? Why had he not worn a uniform whenever she saw him there?

  He disappeared into the trees, and when he reappeared, she had a momentary fright, as if a stranger had discovered their little camp.

  For he didn’t even walk like the Sam she’d begun to know again. He had a very slight limp, so faint that it seemed he was recovering from an old wound. He wore a navy blue frock coat, with pewter buttons down the front, and tails that hung almost to his knees. His shirt and trousers were white, as were his gloves, and he wore a leather stock tied around his neck so high that it brushed his chin. A black top hat completed the ensemble. He’d combed his hair forward, until strands hung haphazardly down his forehead. Four days’ growth of a beard helped hide him. She’d never kissed a man with a beard before.

  Inwardly, she groaned at her own thoughts.

  “So what do ye think?” His voice had a touch of a lower class accent that made him sound like a man who’d overcome a poor background.

  “You look…professional.”

  He walked toward her with that strange gait, his shoulders rounded, his face fixed in a rather dazed smile.

  “So what kind of a police officer are you?” she asked.

  “A small-town constable who’s intelligent, but has learned to hide it well.” He looked down at the pistol in her hands. “May I?”

  She held it out, and their skin brushed as he took it from her. She wanted to rub her hands together as if she could erase the strange feeling. He checked the priming pan and the flint, then pronounced himself satisfied.

  There were roads to Misterton that were infrequently traveled—deer or sheep paths, really—and Sam was amazed that they hadn’t changed in so many years. Julia rode astride her horse wearing his old coat, shirt, and trousers, rolled up for length. She looked like a little boy dressing in his father’s clothing. Until they could procure more suitable garments at Hopewell Manor, it would have to do. He found himself glancing over often, hoping to catch a glimpse of her ankles.

  After they’d spent several hours riding in silence, she cleared her throat. “Sam, when I was at Hopewell Manor last year, I was told that your father had died. It must have been difficult being away at such a time.”

  “It was. I had almost decided to resign my commission and return home, but his death made things difficult for my family financially.”

  “But your brothers—”

  “I brought in more income than any of them. So I stayed in the army.”

  She looked as if she suspected there was more to the story, but he ignored her unspoken questions.

  “Is your mother well?” she asked. When he nodded, she continued, “It seems a shame not to tell her you’re home. She must miss you terribly.”

  “It won’t be for long. Did you see my brother Henry? He’s now the head gardener.”

  “I know. He was with you often when I was young.”

  “Yes, but he was too shy to talk to you, the master’s daughter.”

  “He always had something else to do when I came by,” she said, smiling. “I used to think he hated me.”

  “He just didn’t know what to say.”

  “I once tried to corner him to demand the truth. He blushed and stammered so much, I knew he couldn’t possibly hate me.”

  “Of course not.” He pushed a low branch out of the way. “You must have spoken to Frances last year.”

  “She makes a very capable housekeeper.”

  He smiled, caught up in fonder times. “I always thought she was planning her married life from the time she was ten.”

  “I understand her husband died.”

  He sighed. “Only a few years after they married, and they had no children.” He still had the letter she’d sent him, smudged with her tears.

  “But she’s young,” Julia sai
d reassuringly. “Surely she’ll find another husband.”

  “She said she’s in love with a memory now, and no other man will do. She immersed herself in the estate, and became housekeeper a couple years ago. She loves the freedom she has to run the place, since Lewis is so seldom there.”

  They both stayed silent as a shepherd crossed their path, herding ten sheep. The boy doffed his cap to Sam’s uniform with respect and curiosity, but Sam only gave him a brisk nod and motioned him to keep going.

  When the horses were trotting again, Julia said, “I remember your twin sisters well, because they were my age. How are they?”

  “Alice and Abigail are both married to tenant farmers on the estate. Numerous children, though I’ve lost track.”

  “You’re not very good at the nieces and nephews.”

  “I’ve never met any of them,” he said gruffly. He heard the emotion in his voice and knew she must have, too.

  She glanced at him sympathetically. “This will be a difficult homecoming for you. You won’t be able to tell any of them who you are. Which of your many siblings have we forgotten to discuss?”

  “The youngest, George and Lucy. And I don’t have any idea what they’re doing. We’ll have to ask Frances.”

  There was an ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away when he thought about his youngest siblings. Would they even remember him? Lucy was only six and George eight when he left home.

  When they were having a luncheon of bread and cheese beneath an oak tree, he asked, “What do you want your name to be?”

  Her face sparkled in the dappled shade of the tree, and he wanted to stare at her.

  “What would you name me?” She frowned and chewed her stale bread slowly.

  “How about Walter? A solid, normal name. Walter…Fitzjames.”

  “Constable Fitzjames,” she said, nodding. “What kind of man should I be?”

  “My new recruit, looking to me for every bit of my knowledge.”

  “And won’t that make you feel wonderful,” she said dryly.

  Sam forced himself to look innocent. “I will be the senior officer here, not quite the chief constable, but close enough. You don’t make a move without me, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Constable,” she said, sighing loudly. “What about your name?”

  “Joseph Seabrook. It’s a name I haven’t used in a long time.”

  She scrutinized him suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”

  He considered lying to her, but what was the point? She could hardly be in any more danger knowing the truth about him.

  “I had plenty of different names the last five years,” he said. “Nick, Will, and I were agents for the Political Department of the East India Company army.”

  “You mean…spies?” Her eyes went wide, and she didn’t bother to hide her shock. “So that’s why I never saw you in a uniform.”

  “I followed you several times in Kabul disguised as an Afghani to keep an eye on you.”

  “How—how dangerous for you!” Her cheese lay uneaten in her lap as she stared at him. “But what did you do? Where did you go?”

  “I can’t talk much about it, but I traveled extensively through India, Afghanistan, and Turkistan.” He looked up at the sun, already beginning its downward curve. “I can answer your questions at another time. We’re going to reach the estate after dark as it is. I’d rather be settled in a hiding place until we can awaken Frances.”

  Julia tried not to stare at Sam like he was a stranger. It had always been difficult for her to picture gentle, considerate Sam as a soldier, but now to imagine him impersonating other people, perhaps living another life for weeks or months at a time—well, she was just stunned. She really didn’t know anything about him anymore.

  Except how excited and nervous he made her feel whenever he was too close. And he was often too close, helping her saddle her horse, or taking the remains of their luncheon out of her hands to put away in the saddlebags. He was taller than she was, broader, every way a man. She watched him mount his horse and set off, and everything inside her fluttered.

  Her feelings for him were a weakness she couldn’t afford. She knew the secrets of what went on between men and women. In Afghanistan she’d become a different person, wild, desperate, doing things she knew were dangerous. But after every daring adventure, morning would always come, leaving her hollow, depressed.

  If her brother had found out—or anyone else—her reputation would have been ruined. But a reputation hadn’t seemed to matter when she would never be able to marry. Lewis would not have given his approval if she’d found a husband in a lower social class, and men of her own class were looking for a dowry more than a flesh-and-blood woman.

  And now Sam was back in her life. Unlike with other men, she wanted the comfort of his embrace, and something more, the tenderness that only he had ever made her feel.

  But he still treated her like a wayward little girl who got in his way, and whose problems he would have to reluctantly fix. And she didn’t know how to make things different between them—or if he would want something more.

  Chapter 8

  Every bone and muscle in Sam’s body ached, a feeling he was long used to. His backside was damp, though he hoped the blanket kept the dirt away from his white trousers. What a ridiculous color for a uniform. He and Julia were crouched behind the ornamental shrubbery that decorated either side of the gate at the main entrance to Hopewell Manor. It had to be well after midnight, but he couldn’t read his pocket watch in the darkness.

  Julia sat beside him and dozed, her arm pressed to his, giving a soft snore once or twice. She hadn’t been a burden so far, much as he’d been worried about such a thing. The bravery he’d seen in her as a little girl had only blossomed.

  But now would come the true test. Could she pass as a man in front of a whole household?

  But she was a woman—how could anyone not see that? He himself could think of little else but her soft curves and the kissable shape of her mouth.

  When he’d judged it late enough, he shook her gently to awaken her. Her head, which had been bobbing forward, now fell against his shoulder. He couldn’t see her face, but he felt the warmth of her breath.

  She murmured, “Is it time, Sam?”

  He resisted the urge to run his fingers across her cheek, to feel the fullness of her lower lip. “It’s time. We’ll have to scale the wall first.”

  She sat up and moved away from him. “I know the perfect spot.”

  “You do?”

  “One of the servants’ children showed me, and how to scale it. I think it was your sister Abigail. Follow me.”

  He put his hand out to see where she was going, and ended up with his palm flat against her backside.

  “Sorry,” he murmured.

  She didn’t say anything, just wiggled out from behind the shrubbery. They followed the wall until they reached an old beech tree towering skyward. He watched in surprise as Julia, just a vague outline of shadows, nimbly climbed from branch to branch, until she was sitting on top of the wall. He joined her, then took her hands and lowered her over the side. He jumped down beside her and they both remained still, listening. He clasped her hand and she returned a warm squeeze.

  They followed the long brick wall to the servants’ wing, where the window trim became less decorative. She showed no hesitation at all as they walked past one dark room after another, until she reached a set of double-wide windows. They hunched down.

  She let go of his hand and leaned nearer to him to whisper, “This is it. Her private sitting room is next door.”

  “I’ll go in first. Will you be all right out here until I call you in?”

  She gave a quiet laugh. “I just spent ten days in jail, Sam. The outdoors is feeling pretty wonderful about now.”

  Very gently, he threw a scattering of pebbles against the window, sounding like hard raindrops. When nothing happened after several minutes, he tried again.

  Suddenly the window open
ed wide, and moonlight glimmered on the barrel of a pistol.

  Sam pushed Julia flat against the wall. “Frances!” he whispered loudly. What if it wasn’t her?

  They heard a gasp, then a woman leaned her hands on the window frame and stuck her head out. “Samuel? Is that you?”

  He slowly stood up, both hands raised, and turned to face her. “It’s me.”

  She gave a strangled cry, reached out to enfold him in a hug, and pulled him half over the windowsill.

  But he didn’t mind. She was warm and solid, and still smelled like baking bread—like home.

  “Oh, Sam,” she whispered as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  “Hello, Frances. Can I come in now?”

  “Oh, oh yes, please!”

  She backed away from the window, and as he climbed in, a candle flared to life beside her bed. He quickly closed the curtains, but left the window open so Julia could listen.

  Frances was still tall and thin, and it made him sad to see that life had etched lines in her face. But her hair was still that reddish blond that he used to tell her looked like washed-out blood. It tumbled down around her shoulders, and she clutched a shabby dressing gown at her waist.

  She stared at him, smiling, and he grinned back.

  With his chin he pointed to the dressing table, where the pistol now lay. “Worried about intruders out here, are you?”

  “More than one man has tried to enter my bedroom window,” she teased. Then she murmured his name again in wonder and flung herself into his arms.

  Sam hadn’t realized he would feel so moved to be home again, to be hugging one of his sisters. Memories crowded in on him, of simple family dinners, stories as they gathered around the hearth each night, laughter shared. He had spent fourteen long years away and missed so much.

  Frances took a step back and turned him into the light, holding on to his upper arms while she studied him. “You look so different, Sam.”

  “Good. I’m counting on it.”

  She frowned at him. “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll tell you everything I can, all in good time.”

  She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Since when did you become a constable?”