Fortune's Bride

by French, Judith E.

  His hand hovered over her lips so close she could smell the glove leather, and his urgent words seeped into her brain. “Garrett Faulkner. You know me, girl. You’ve known me for years. I won’t hurt you. Just don’t yell.”

  Caroline opened her eyes wide. There was just enough moonlight to make out his features. He did have the look of Garrett. She nodded. “All right,” she whispered. “Get off me. I won’t cry out.”

  He sighed. “Jesus Christ, woman, you nearly killed me.” She heard what could only be a groan of deep pain. “You’re as game as a cornered badger.”

  He rolled off her, and she scrambled to her knees. “What are you doing in my bedchamber?” she demanded. “Why—” She sucked in her breath sharply. “You’re the one they’re looking for—the man who blew up the powder magazine.”

  “Is that what it was? I heard the explosion. No, it wasn’t me. It’s a total misunderstanding. I . . . I apologize for coming into your house and frightening you, but it was a matter of life and death. Your brother Reed and I were always friends, and . . .” He groaned. “Has the entire world gone mad, Caroline? This cursed rebellion seems to have addled men’s minds.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.” Her heart was still pounding. She wasn’t sure her knees were strong enough to keep her standing.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “How did you know this was my room?” she snapped. She didn’t know whether to call for Bruce’s soldiers or to slap Garrett’s face. “How dare you come in here and grab me like that?”

  “I didn’t realize it was your bedchamber. I climbed the poplar tree and came in the nearest window.”

  “I can see I’ll have to keep my windows bolted.”

  “This isn’t funny, I assure you. I was nearly killed.”

  “I’m not laughing,” she said angrily. Her mouth was dry from fear, and she was suddenly cold. “Do you realize what would come of my reputation if you’d been caught climbing in my window? I’m a respectable widow. I’d either be hanged along with you as a traitor or publicly branded a wanton.”

  “I said I was sorry. I had little choice.”

  As Caroline listened to Garrett’s explanation, it seemed to her that his speech was oddly slurred, as if he were drunk. The whole of the Eastern Shore was aware of Garrett Faulkner’s reputation for wine and women, but now that she knew who he was, she was no longer afraid of him. Garrett had given her rides on his horse when she was a child. She couldn’t believe he would hurt her. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?” she accused, getting to her feet.

  “No. I haven’t had a drop. On my word as a gentleman! I was riding by on the road when a masked man burst from the hedgerow and galloped past me. Before I could collect my wits, an English dragoon appeared and shot my horse out from under me.”

  “And you didn’t explain the mistake?” It was plain to her that Garrett was lying. But it wasn’t possible he was the rebel. Everyone knew the Faulkners were staunch loyalists. Hadn’t Garrett served as an officer in the Royal Navy? She wondered if this could be some plot of Bruce’s to trick her into an act of treason. Trembling, she walked to the bedside table and fumbled with flint and steel to strike a light.

  “No,” he warned, “no light.”

  She lit the thick beeswax candle and anchored it firmly in the silver holder. “This is my chamber. My cousin, Captain Bruce Talbot, is outside. If he doesn’t see a light in my window, he’ll suspect something is wrong.” She fixed Garrett with a suspicious gaze. “Now, why exactly didn’t you tell the soldiers about the man you saw riding away?”

  “Logic, woman. I’d just had a blooded mare worth ten guineas killed. A dragoon that stupid wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. If I hadn’t leaped off my dying horse and run for the bushes, I’d be as dead as my poor Vixen.”

  Caroline’s eyes narrowed as she took in his black greatcoat, black vest, and black breeches. Even Garrett’s stockings and boots were black. His tanned face was surprisingly pale in the candlelight. Garrett Faulkner was still boyishly handsome, almost roguish, despite his age and the thin scar down one cheek. He must be . . . She searched her memory. He must be a good ten years older than she was, and she had celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday. No, she mused, Garrett Faulkner had gone away to England the year she’d gotten her skean. He must be at least thirty-seven.

  Papa had never liked Reed to associate with him. The Faulkners were all scoundrels, he’d said. She tried to remember if Wesley had ever had anything bad to say about Garrett. The only bit of information that came into her head was that a branch of the family was related to one of the prominent English generals, and that connection had gotten Garrett his commission in the Royal Navy. Evidently, he wasn’t suited for a career at sea, because he was back here working his late father’s tobacco plantation. “And what business took you abroad on such a cold night?” she asked him.

  “I’d planned to see a neighbor of yours about breeding poor Vixen.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “I’m a bachelor, madame. I keep my own hours.”

  His breath was coming in short gasps. Despite his arrogant speech, and the danger he was in, she sensed something more was wrong. “I am loyal to the crown,” she lied sweetly. “If you are a rebel, it’s my duty to turn you in.”

  “Please,” he said. “For the sake of our families’ friendship. You must know where our allegiance lies. Mother England is—” He tried to rise, grimaced, and fell back to the floor.

  “You’re hurt.” Forgetting her anger, she ran to him and pulled back his coat. A dark stain covered one thigh. When she touched it, she snatched back a hand sticky with blood. “You’ve been shot,” she said.

  He gritted his teeth. “Run through with a sword.”

  “You forgot to mention that.”

  “I did,” he answered. Trusting gray eyes stared into hers. Garrett’s classic features looked strained. A spattering of freckles stood out across his well-formed nose. He looked as though he was about to faint. One lock of light brown hair had come loose from his queue and fallen carelessly over his forehead. To her surprise, Caroline had to restrain the impulse to push it back in place.

  She tore her gaze from his and saw the red pool on the floor. Her mind raced. It was obvious he would bleed to death without help. If Garrett was working for the Americans against the British, she couldn’t let him be captured. And if he wasn’t, he was an innocent man. Could she save him without revealing her own loyalties?

  “Just help me stand up,” he said. “I was wrong to endanger you. I’ll leave at once.”

  “No, no,” she said glibly. “Of course I’ll help you. Reed would never forgive me if I let you be arrested when you’ve done nothing wrong. Lie still. I’ll find water and bandages for your leg.”

  He didn’t answer, but neither did he try to rise again. She went to the far corner of the room and returned with a pitcher of water, a bowl, and a clean towel. “I’ll have to cut your breeches away,” she murmured. There was no time for false modesty. If she waited, there might be no one for the dragoons to arrest.

  “This is no job for a lady,” he said.

  “Nonsense. I’ve tended injuries before. You forget, I grew up here on Fortune’s Gift. I’m no dainty town lass.”

  “One would think otherwise to look at you, Mistress Steele.”

  “Save your compliments for those who have need of them,” she said, helping him to remove his greatcoat and waistcoat. Secretly, she was glad of his talking. It took her mind off the seeping tide of crimson that slipped through her fingers as she used scissors to cut a section out of the good black wool.

  The sword wound was surprisingly small. It was obvious that he had taken only a glancing jab and not a full thrust or a slash. “He must have nicked an artery,” she murmured, placing pressure on the injury.

  Garrett unwound his stock and wrapped that around his thigh, above the wound. He set his teeth and pulled the stock tight. Immediately, the bleeding
lessened.

  “I’ll have to wash this with soap,” she warned. “There may be pieces of cloth in the wound. If I leave them, it will turn septic.”

  “Have your will with me, woman. It hurts so bad, nothing could make it worse.”

  Deftly, she soaped the tightly muscled area, then rinsed his skin with a corner of the towel and patted it dry. Only a little blood trickled from the inch and a half slit. “It’s a wonder you were able to climb the tree,” she said to cover her own nervousness.

  She hadn’t touched a man this intimately since Wesley had gone away and not returned. Garrett’s skin was clean where he hadn’t bled on it. Even his hair and his garments smelled fresh. The only odors she could detect were those of leather and pine needles. She couldn’t help comparing him with her cousin. It was obvious that Garrett bathed regularly, a peculiarity she apparently shared with him.

  When the wound was clean and dry, she poured wine over it. Garrett flinched but made no outcry. Then Caroline cut sections of a linen sheet to use as a bandage. “This will go better if you can help me remove your breeches,” she said, hoping against hope that he wore something under them.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is.” She glanced up from her work. “I have been wed and widowed. I am not a maiden. If you are shy—”

  “Not particularly. I was thinking of your sensibilities.”

  “Don’t bother. The sooner we have this properly bandaged, the sooner we can think of a way to get you safely out of here.” She felt her cheeks grow warm. “You do have something on . . . something under your . . .”

  “No.”

  “Nothing.”

  He shrugged. “Only what God gave me.”

  She pursed her lips. “Then you must try and make yourself decent with this.” She removed her dressing gown and draped it across his thighs, leaving herself shivering in the thin shift.

  “You are too kind, mistress,” he said.

  She was certain she heard a thread of amusement in his voice, but she concentrated on slicing away the rest of his breeches, and binding the wound tightly. “You can loosen the stock now,” she said. When he did, both of them held their breath. The bandage turned red, but didn’t bleed through the linen. Then she mopped up the rest of the blood from the floor, put the towel in the basin, and pushed the evidence under her four-poster. “If I assist you, do you think you can make it to the bed?” she asked. “I can hardly leave you here on the hard floor.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  The dozen steps to the bed were pure hell. Garrett was of average height and slim of hip and waist, rather than stocky. Still, she remembered how strong he had been when they’d struggled. He might not be a big man, but there was no softness to him; he was all hard muscle and sinew. “Lean on me,” she urged him, trying to support his weight. “Don’t put any strain on your leg.”

  His breathing was loud in the shadowy room as she helped him sit on the edge of the bed and remove his shirt, boots, and stockings, without exposing his loins or harming his injury. Finally, with a sigh of relief, she closed her eyes, whisked away the dressing gown, and covered his naked body decently with a sheet and covers. “Drink some of this of wine,” she said. “Too much would be bad for you, but a little may take the edge off the pain.”

  “I’d not argue with that,” he said.

  She poured a goblet of wine, handed it to him, and hung his greatcoat, shirt, and waistcoat over the cane-back chair. She had begun to tidy up the room when she heard loud voices and the crash of doors being thrown open. Dashing to the door, she slid the bolt. The hard tread of men’s boots sounded on the staircase.

  Seconds later, a fist pounded on her door. “Open up, Caroline! We’re searching all the rooms,” Bruce commanded.

  She twisted around and glanced back at Garrett. He was checking the priming on his pistol. She put her finger to her lips and shook her head.

  “Caroline!” Bruce called again. “Open up!”

  She crept back across the room to the bed. “What do you want?” she asked in what she hoped was a sleepy voice. “There’s no one in here.”

  “Open the door before we break it in!”

  Garrett slipped the loaded pistol under the sheets. Caroline looked from him to the door. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “Go away,” she shouted. “You have no right to invade my bedchamber.”

  The heavy stock of a Brown Bess musket slammed against the door. “What do we do?” she whispered urgently. Garrett shrugged, but his gray eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “No,” she said. “Not that way.” Without thinking, she slid into bed beside him and pulled the covers up to her waist. “Let them think what they will,” she said. “I’ll not let them have you.”

  The door shuddered under a second blow.

  Garrett’s gaze locked with hers and he grinned wolfishly. Before she could stop him, he reached across and seized the neck of her shift with both hands and ripped it to her waist. Caroline cried out with indignation as the door burst open and her cousin charged into the room, followed closely by four armed dragoons.

  Chapter 2

  Garrett’s arm tightened around Caroline’s shoulders at the exact instant she yanked a sheet up to cover her naked breasts. “What’s the meaning of this outrage?” Garrett demanded of the British officer.

  The captain’s mouth gaped open in astonishment. When he finally managed to close it, he stammered, “You . . . you common strumpet.” The dragoons behind him trod on each others’ heels to get a good look at Mistress Steele and her lover caught in flagrante delicto.

  Garrett silenced Caroline’s protest by pulling her facedown against his bare chest and holding her there with an iron grip. “Have you no sense of common decency, sir?” Garrett admonished in his most rigid tones. “I had heard that you were a gentleman.” The lady’s breasts were warm, full, and deliciously soft. Under any other circumstances, Garrett would have found the situation most pleasurable. As it was, he decided, neither of them could give their predicament the attention it deserved.

  The captain’s face contorted with anger. “Arrest that man!” he ordered, stabbing a finger toward the bed.

  Garrett uttered what he hoped was a convincing laugh. “Since when, Captain . . . Talbot, is it? Since when is it a crime in Maryland to share the bed of a willing widow?”

  Garrett’s right hand was occupied keeping Caroline pinned down. In his left he held the hidden flintlock, the pistol he dared not use. If he fired, he could kill the officer, but he had only one shot, and there were four dragoons. Not good odds, but a gamble he’d willingly take if it were not for the woman laying beside him. No, the danger to Caroline Steele was too great. He would have to talk himself out of this snare or surrender. The thought was bitter enough to bring bile rising in his throat.

  Caroline’s lips were in direct contact with his skin, as were her teeth. “Darling,” she murmured. Or was it Damn you? Her husky voice was muffled by the covers.

  Garrett’s eyes teared up and he tried not to wince as she nipped him so sharply that he was certain she’d drawn blood. “There, there, sweet,” he said. “Let me handle this.”

  “I said arrest that man!” Talbot repeated. Two dragoons started toward the bed.

  “You’re making a huge mistake,” Garrett warned. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The dragoons hesitated.

  Talbot drew himself up to his full height. “We are in search of a traitor who blew up a powder storage belonging to His Majesty not sixty minutes past,” he declared. “You are under arrest for suspicion of treasonous acts.”

  “Me?” Garrett laughed again. “The only suspicious acts I’ve committed were by leave of the lady between these sheets.” He looked down at the mass of dark red curls spread across his chest. “I’ve been here since the clock struck eight, isn’t that so, Caroline?” Luck, don’t fail me now, he prayed fervently as he loosened his hold on her and flashed his most charming smile. In
the split-second before she twisted to face the captain and his menacing soldiers, she shot him a look that would have sunk a man-of-war.

  “That’s true,” she said. Her words came out a whisper, and she repeated her statement. “What he says is true. Garrett . . . Garrett has been here in my chamber all night.”

  “A pretty story, little cousin,” Talbot said. “Nevertheless, we will take the gentleman into custody and—”

  Garrett yawned. “I feel it only fair to warn you, sir,” he said in a condescending manner. “This act will ruin your career. I have high family connections.”

  The closest dragoon took one step back and glanced at his captain.

  “I care nothing for your family.” Talbot frowned. “You are a Faulkner, aren’t you? James?”

  Garrett shook his head and settled himself against the pillow nonchalantly. Caroline’s fingernails were cutting into his good leg, and his injured leg throbbed like all the demons in hell were jabbing it with pitchforks. Not only was he certain he couldn’t stand on the leg, but it felt as though it was bleeding again. If they pulled back the covers, the game was over. “I am most assuredly not James. I am his cousin, Garrett Faulkner of Faulkner’s Folly, late an officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. And since you know my family, doubtless you know that my late father was blood cousin to your commander, Lord Cornwallis.”

  Indecision showed on Talbot’s face. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Of course they are related,” Caroline said. “It’s been common gossip on the Eastern Shore. How else do you suppose a colonial like Garrett received a naval commission?”

  “For God’s sake, man, you’ve made a mistake. While you’re harassing me, the real villain is getting away. I live only twenty miles from here as the crow flies. Lord Cornwallis is in Philadelphia. Send a courier to him and ask if he will vouch for me. If you care to arrest me later, anyone can tell you where to find me. It’s not as though I’d travel for my health in the midst of rebellion.”