Once a Rebel

by Mary Jo Putney

  Thinking of all she’d endured produced a deep tenderness shadowed by past, present, and future. The past was bright memories of playfulness and long conversations right up till they’d been wrenched apart and sent into different forms of exile. The present was delight, danger, and an absolute duty to get her safely away from this cursed city and reunited with the children who gave her life meaning.

  The future was a mystery—except that he knew Callie had to be part of it. What that meant for him, he couldn’t guess, but no matter. He’d work it out as it came along. Today, escape to Baltimore, collect her family, then off to England posthaste.

  He knew in his bones it wouldn’t be that easy.

  Callie stirred and her eyes snapped open as she remembered where she was. Her hazel gaze was golden in the dawn, and the intimacy between them stabbed with rapier depth and intensity. He wanted to bolt from the bed like a scalded cat.

  He didn’t have to because Callie beat him to it. She scrambled along the wall and off the end of the bed. When she stood, the coverlet fell away to reveal her body backlit by a shaft of sunshine that turned her shift translucent. Desire stirred again, but it was no match for his panic. Where the devil did that reaction come from?

  He’d think about it later. For now, he slammed the door on his wildly veering thoughts and swung his feet to the floor. “How much needs to be done before we can leave? I presume you want to say good-bye to Mrs. Turner. Do you have any possessions in this cottage to carry away?”

  “I do want to say good-bye to Edith, but otherwise I’ll be traveling very light,” she said ruefully. She pulled her blue gown from the clothespress. “All I have is the clothes I wore and my pistol. Luckily the skirt on this gown is full enough for me to ride astride behind you without being too indecent.”

  “I have a better solution.” He stepped into the sitting room and opened one of the saddlebags he’d left by the door the night before, then removed two neatly folded garments. He handed them to Callie, then extracted a flattened hat, which he shaped into a wide-brimmed sun shade suitable for gardening or field work. “Wear these clothes. They’ll be loose, but not as loose as anything of mine.”

  Her brows rose as she accepted the tan trousers, linen shirt, and hat. “You regularly carry around clothing that doesn’t fit?”

  “When I’m going to rescue widows from war zones, yes,” he explained. “There are women who would rather die than wear male garments, but I like to be prepared. Female clothing isn’t well designed for escaping trouble. Climbing out of windows or riding astride are much easier in breeches. Because I wasn’t sure what size my widow would be, I erred on the side of large.”

  She shook out the shirt, which fell to midthigh. “You certainly did. But it’s smaller than one of yours.”

  “You’ll look like an urchin, but that’s not a bad thing in these circumstances.” He thought a moment. “You were wearing sturdy half boots, weren’t you? That’s good. Much better than delicate little slippers.”

  “Like you, I was thinking ahead in case I might have to run for my life. Will you pack this in your saddlebag?” She handed over the blue gown, then disappeared into the bedroom to change.

  He dressed also, pulling on his trousers and boots and tucking his shirt in. The heavy London coat could wait till they left. He explored the food basket Mrs. Turner had provided the evening before and found crumbly biscuits, a medium-sized chunk of cheese, and a bottle of tepid but flavorful lemonade.

  Callie emerged from the bedroom in her shirt and trousers, her hair braided and pinned up so she’d look like a boy when wearing the hat. As she settled at the table to eat, she said, “I gather you’ll be in full lordly array.”

  “Yes, and envying you for being lightly dressed,” he said feelingly. “But if we run into British troops, I may need to become all lordly again.” He sat opposite her and split a biscuit, then laid a slice of cheese in the middle.

  When they’d finished eating, Callie packed the empty bottles into the basket along with the remaining food. “I’ll take this back to Edith when I say good-bye. I’ll miss her.”

  Gordon rose and pulled his coat on. “I’ll saddle Samson while you take a last look around.”

  “There’s nothing here worth carrying away.” She moved into the bedroom and returned with a folded blanket and her pistol. “It’s going to be awkward riding on your saddlebags. This blanket can be used as a pad so I won’t be so uncomfortable.”

  He accepted the blanket and pistol. “I presume this is loaded from yesterday. Rather than pack it away, better to ride with it ready to hand.”

  “It’s loaded. Perhaps it will be more useful today than last night.” She bit her lip as she gazed at the weapon. “But . . . I don’t know if I can shoot a man. Though I’m a good shot, last night when those soldiers broke into my house I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. Since shooting only one man wouldn’t save me and would probably get me killed, I was spared from having to fire, but today . . . might be different. I’m afraid I won’t be able to do what is needed.”

  “It’s hard to deliberately choose to kill another human being,” he said seriously. “I’ve had to do so, and it wasn’t easy. It’s not something I make a habit of. But a warning shot can have a sobering effect on attackers, and if anyone really needs to be killed, I’ll take care of it.”

  She smiled wryly. “As much as I like to proclaim how capable I am, that’s one responsibility I’ll gladly leave to you.”

  “I learned such skills the hard way, so I’ll do what’s needed. But sparingly.” He lifted the saddlebags and added her folded blanket. “I’ll saddle Samson. We can walk him down to Mrs. Turner’s house for your farewells.”

  She lifted the basket. “I’ll look around to see if there’s anything Edith might be able to use, then join you out in the street.”

  He nodded and headed outside. The acrid scent of smoke was much stronger there, but the storm in the early hours had saturated the ground and smothered some of the odors.

  Samson had made good use of the fodder and water and looked ready to face the day. Callie’s idea of the blanket pad was good and Gordon secured it across the saddlebags on Samson’s broad back. When he led his mount from the shed, he saw that Callie was in the street but had turned right toward the remains of her house rather than left toward Mrs. Turner’s.

  Leading Samson, he followed her. She stopped and stared at the ruins of her home, her face like granite. Charred bricks and blackened timbers had collapsed into rough piles, and rain had turned the ashes into a filthy mess. At the far edge of the wreckage, a thin wisp of smoke rose.

  Abruptly she pivoted and walked toward him, her jaw set. “I’m sorry, Catkin,” he said quietly.

  Ignoring his sympathy, she said, “Thus ends one act of my life. We’ll see what comes next.”

  He fell into step beside her, Samson ambling obediently behind. He realized that they’d avoided looking each other in the eyes since that disturbing moment when they woke up. The relationship between them was compelling but impossible to define.

  “I had concealed holsters built into the front edge of the saddlebags.” He tapped the left bag. “Your pistol is in here, not visible but easy to draw if necessary.”

  “You remembered that I’m left-handed,” she said, surprised.

  “Of course, since I am, too.” He chuckled. “Sinister, which means ‘left’ in Latin. It gave our fathers another reason to believe we were limbs of Satan.”

  She smiled, much of her tension fading. “They never lacked for reasons to believe that. Nor did they ever realize that treating a child as if it’s wicked will make it genuinely wicked in time.”

  Interested, he asked, “Is the opposite true? If you treat a child as if it’s good, does it become so?”

  “Probably, but I’m not sure. My children have always been good.”

  Their conversation ended when Edith Turner saw them and came outside. She stared at Callie. “I’d not have recognized you, La
dy George! Are you leaving now?”

  “Yes, I came to say good-bye and to leave you the key to the cottage. Feel free to use it if needed.” Callie set the basket on the ground and gave her friend a hug. “I don’t know if I’ll ever come back here.”

  Since tears seemed imminent, Gordon said, “I’ll take good care of her, Mrs. Turner.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Hug ended, Mrs. Turner dabbed at her eyes. “Your beautiful house is gone, but the land is very well situated. Will you sell it?”

  Callie looked blank. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right. It’s a good location. I suppose Washington will still exist no matter how this beastly war turns out, and the property is of no use to me anymore.”

  “If someone is interested, do you have a lawyer I can refer them to?”

  Callie frowned. “A lawyer over in Georgetown has handled several small matters for me. Mr. Key, Francis Scott Key. Do you know him? I made some gowns for his wife and became friends with both of them.”

  “I know the name and will send any interested buyers to him,” Mrs. Turner replied. “Take care, my dear, and write when you’re properly settled again.”

  Callie promised to do so. Gordon mounted, then offered Callie a hand. She took it, set her foot on his stirruped boot, and swung up behind him. “Please say good-bye to my other friends for me, Edith.”

  “I will. They’ll miss you and your wonderful gowns as well. Have a safe journey!”

  Gordon couldn’t agree more.

  Chapter 10

  The streets of Washington were quietly tense. A few people went about their business, their gazes wary. Callie saw a peddler, a free black named Harry, driving from house to house in his pony cart filled with fresh produce. She’d often bought fruit and vegetables from him. The sight was comforting. Washington might be an occupied city, but life was going on.

  Better to wander about the city than to think how close she was to Richard’s very masculine body. Waking up in the same bed with him this morning had been deeply unnerving because part of her found it very natural. Desire had never been part of her life, but apparently it had been lying dormant and was now beginning to stir. The timing was not good.

  They turned a corner and saw a large number of British troops marching toward the burned-out President’s House. Nearby was a large brick building that had been untouched. Callie said, “It looks like they’re heading toward that building, which has the headquarters of the State, War, and Navy Departments.”

  “Judging by the men carrying powder and rockets, those departments are going to get the same treatment as other government buildings,” Richard said grimly. “Perhaps another route would be wise.”

  Before Callie could reply, a man galloped from an alley shouting insults at the British in a wild one-man attack. He raised a pistol and shot—and was immediately brought down by a barrage of return fire. As the rider fell bleeding, Richard turned Samson and spurred the horse into a canter. “Definitely another route! You know this city. Give me directions.”

  “Go to the end of this block and turn left.” She swallowed hard, shaken by the swift, unexpected violence. “Why would a man do such a suicidal thing?”

  “At a guess, he hates the British and got drunk enough to behave stupidly,” Richard said tersely. “With the results you see.”

  He was probably right, but she was reminded how deadly an occupying army could be. A few minutes later they came on another group of soldiers smashing up a business while a fire burned behind the building. “That’s Admiral Cockburn supervising,” Richard said. “Do you know what the business is?”

  “A newspaper, the National Intelligencer. The editor has been writing inflammatory articles about the British in general and Cockburn in particular,” Callie said. “It looks like the admiral is taking a personal revenge. Turn right at this corner.”

  Richard silently obeyed. By keeping to smaller streets with no government buildings, they avoided any more ugly conflicts.

  They were nearing the edge of the city when a patrol of British soldiers led by an officer on horseback emerged from a cross street and came straight for Callie and Richard. The officer barked, “Halt!”

  “Should we try to outrun them?” she asked in a voice that surprised her with its calmness.

  “If we did, they might think we have reason to run and shoot us down. Better to bluster it out. We are English, after all. Not their enemy.”

  “Speak for yourself,” she said flatly. “I live and work here. I could be considered treasonous.”

  “Urchins are beneath the notice of British officers,” Richard assured her before pulling Samson to a stop and waiting for the officer to intercept them.

  “Who are you and what is your business?” the lieutenant asked in a menacing tone. Callie surreptitiously laid her left hand on the butt of her pistol, but she didn’t draw it out.

  “My name is Lord George Audley and I’m busy about the king’s affairs,” Richard replied with an aristocratic accent sharp enough to cut glass.

  “So you’re a lord,” the lieutenant sneered. “And I’m bloody Bonaparte! You sound English, all right, but I’m betting you’re a treasonous Yankee.”

  “A bet you’ll lose,” Richard said in full lordly mode. “Shall I show you my letters of introduction?”

  “You can, but that doesn’t mean I’ll believe them.”

  Richard reached inside his coat and produced an oilskin pouch, opening it with great deliberation. “This should do.” He handed over a folded piece of paper. “Be careful with it.”

  The officer opened the letter and scanned the brief lines, then gasped. “Lord Liverpool? The prime minister?”

  “Yes. Would you prefer a letter from Lord Castlereagh? As foreign secretary, he might be appropriate under these conditions.” Richard smiled with knife-edged arrogance. “Or if you hold on a moment, I believe I have a letter from the Duke of Wellington, who is most relevant of all.”

  Suppressing his rage, the lieutenant handed back the letter from Lord Liverpool. “What are you doing in a conquered enemy capital?”

  Richard folded the letter, tucked it in the oilskin pouch, and returned it to his inside pocket. “That, Lieutenant, is none of your damned business. Now let us pass!”

  The officer gestured to his men and an aisle opened up through the middle of the patrol. Callie’s skin crawled as they rode through the group of scowling soldiers. One exclaimed, “That’s a bloody woman riding behind him!”

  “You brought your own whore?” the lieutenant snarled.

  Richard whipped around and said with lethal intensity, “The lady is my wife. Last night a group of British soldiers attacked Lady George and I barely rescued her in time. Since our troops cannot be trusted to behave properly, do you blame her for going in disguise for her own safety? Now, let us pass or there will be blood!”

  The lieutenant paled. “Get yourself gone and stay away from British patrols!”

  “Believe me, I intend to.” Richard turned again and they continued through the patrol and down the street. Callie’s back itched as they rode away from the soldiers. She murmured, “What are the chances that one of those soldiers will fire?”

  “Slim, but not impossible,” was Richard’s honest reply.

  “I was afraid of that,” she said grimly. “That horrid lieutenant looked ready to do murder just because he could.”

  In an impeccable aristocratic accent, Richard said, “May all his rabbits die and he can’t sell the hutches.”

  After a moment of shock, Callie burst into tension-relieving laughter. “I haven’t heard anyone say that since I left Lancashire!”

  Richard chuckled. “One reason I like ‘the lower orders’ is because they often have such wonderful turns of phrase.”

  “I miss the directness of northern England.”

  “Cooler there, too. The rain this morning did nothing to ease the temperature.” He ran a finger around the edge of his cravat to loosen it a little. “I’ll be glad
to get back to the Zephyr so I can take this blasted coat and cravat off.”

  “They must be very uncomfortable,” she said sympathetically. “But looking and talking like a lord does help when dealing with the British soldiers. It wouldn’t work as well with Americans.”

  “I’ve noticed,” he said, his accent moderating to one that would suit an educated man on either side of the Atlantic.

  “Americans are odd,” she mused. “They both despise and are fascinated by the British nobility. Since I had no desire to be noticed, I never mentioned that my father was a lord.”

  “Or that you were married to one,” he said teasingly. “You handled our reunion scene very well. Most touching.”

  “The playacting we did as children came in handy then. But usually I prefer a combination of honesty and saying as little about myself as possible.”

  “Truth has the advantage of being easier to remember than multiple lies.” He guided Samson to one side of the road as a British military wagon rattled by with several soldiers inside. They gave Richard curious glances but no more.

  He continued, “We didn’t finish our name discussion. I noticed Mrs. Turner called you Catherine, which is common enough not to draw attention.”

  “I asked my husband to call me Callista, not Catherine, so I was Miss Callista in Jamaica. What name do you generally use? Or have you had dozens over the years?”

  “Not dozens,” he protested. After a moment of thought, he said, “Well, maybe two dozen, but I’ve only created false identities when it was useful. Mostly I’ve gone by Gordon. As you say, it has a harder, tougher sound than George or Richard, and Augustus was never in the running. Gordon can be either a first or last name, so it’s nicely ambiguous.”

  “Like you.”

  “I like being ambiguous. It’s safer that way.”

  She could understand that need for safety. After all, she’d created a new identity for herself when she moved to the United States. “With all your traveling and shifting identities, is there any place you call home?”