Fortune's Bride

by French, Judith E.

  She had known how difficult the journey would be, so she’d chosen her second-best gown, a shimmering gray, fygury silk gown with an overlay of silver lace atop a satin petticoat in the palest silver. It’was a dress made especially for her in Paris and smuggled into the colony the year before. She had worn it only once, and never since she’d been widowed. The bodice was square-cut and low, cool for the damp church, and too revealing for Garrett’s admiring gaze. She wished now that she had come to the altar in her riding habit and coat, or that she had at least had one of the maids sew ruffles across the neckline.

  Absently, Caroline put a hand to her throat and fingered the Kincaid diamonds. The cool stones were an inheritance from her Grandmother Bess, and they comforted her. As long as she remembered who she was, the entire British army couldn’t get the best of her—let alone some fortune-seeking ne’er-do-well.

  “. . . gathered here in the presence of God and these witnesses . . .” the reverend proclaimed.

  Caroline kept her eyes on the worn brick floor. This was the church where her parents had been married, the sanctuary where she had been christened. Standing here preparing to make wedding vows to a stranger was one of the hardest things she had ever had to do.

  “Do you, Garrett Faulkner, take this woman . . .”

  At least my bridegroom’s hands are clean, Caroline thought. Not like Bruce with his dirty fingernails and grimy wrists beneath his lace shirt cuffs. The minister’s words seemed to come from a long way off. Too bad I’m not the fainting kind of woman, she mused. What would they all do if I simply shut my eyes and crumpled to the floor?

  “I do.” Garrett’s affirmation was clearly stated.

  Caroline closed her eyes. She could picture Amanda’s dark face contorted with dismay. I’m doing this for you and Jeremy, Caroline cried silently. For you and Jeremy and Reed. Not for myself, I swear it.

  “And do you, Caroline Steele, take this man . . .”

  She gritted her teeth. Garrett was so cocksure, so pleased with himself this morning. What would he say when he found out that most of her money was in London, the rest tied up in Bruce’s guardianship? Garrett was marrying her for her wealth, but that wealth was tied up in material possessions that she couldn’t hope to sell during wartime, when everyone was bereft of cash. In essence she was practically penniless. And if she couldn’t convince him to take her to the islands, she wouldn’t even be able to raise the ransom to free Reed.

  Reverend Thomas cleared his throat again. “Caroline, do you take this man to be your lawful husband, to love, honor, and obey—”

  “I take him as my husband,” she answered quickly. He can hang from the highest gibbet in Oxford before I swear to obey him, she thought. He needn’t take all this too seriously. The marriage is in name only. I’ll make him understand that much from the first.

  “Darling.”

  She blinked. What did Garrett want of her?

  “The ring,” he said.

  His deep voice sent chills running down her spine. She looked up into his face and he smiled. Was he laughing at her?

  “The ring,” he repeated. “Open your hand.”

  With a start, she realized that her hand was clenched tightly into a fist. Trembling, she allowed him to slide a worn gold band on her finger. It fit perfectly.

  “ . . . man and wife,” Reverend Thomas intoned. “What God has joined together, let no man part.” He raised his head and spoke to the onlookers. “Ladies and gentleman, I give you Mr. and Mrs. Garrett Faulkner.”

  “Don’t I get to kiss the bride?” Garrett asked.

  “Yes . . . of course . . . er . . . you may kiss the bride,” the minister said.

  Caroline closed her eyes and obediently raised stiff lips for the symbolic kiss.

  “My wife,” Garrett said with great tenderness. Gently he took her chin between his fingers and tilted her face up to meet his. Her heart began to pound. She would have backed away, but he steadied her with one hand around her waist as his lips met hers.

  And then the earth swayed beneath her feet.

  Caroline gasped as an electric charge leaped between them, so sudden, so overpowering that she forgot where and who she was. Her eyes opened wide, and she gave a little cry deep in her throat. His warm mouth pressed against hers in a demanding caress of pent-up longing, and she responded with every fiber of her being. Her lips parted and he filled her mouth with the thrusting sweetness of his tongue. Without realizing what she was doing, she slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him tighter. Her mind spun crazily, and she had the feeling of falling off a ledge into deep water. Still, she clung to Garrett and let his kiss carry her farther and farther from reality.

  . . . Until he broke away with a low chuckle. “We’d best finish this later,” he murmured.

  Caroline came crashing back to reality, to the snickers of the watching dragoons and Cora Thomas’s muffled sound of outrage. Caroline drew in a deep breath, trying not to look at the red-faced minister or Garrett’s smirking grin.

  She could still feel the pressure of his lips on hers . . . still remember the taste and texture of his hot mouth. Her breath still came in ragged gasps, and her heart still beat a furious tattoo. She took a step back, amazed by the sensual languidness that held her limbs in thrall, despite her mind’s protest at Garrett’s mocking audacity.

  Shyly, she ducked her head, not wanting Garrett to read what she knew was visible in her eyes. Once, when she was a child, her grandfather had given her a worn curry comb for her birthday. Amid the jewelry, the new gowns, the music box, and the toys, the curry comb had seemed a poor present. Since her grandfather had always doted on her, she had almost tossed his offering away. Then she saw the gleam in his eyes and her pout became a giggle. She turned the old comb over, and on the bottom a single word was scratched. Stable. Immediately, she’d run to the barn and found a white-maned pony with a tossing head, dainty hooves, and eyes as warm as melted chocolate.

  Caroline shivered. She had taken a man to husband for her own purposes—a man she expected to be nothing but a necessary inconvenience. And now? Delicious expectation teased the corners of her mind. Could she find something with Garrett she had never known before? Would she realize the passion that other women bragged of and she had never felt? The possibility was enough to bring a smile to her lips.

  The unexpected turn of events put an entirely different light on the relationship she had supposed she would have with her new husband, and caused her to rethink her strategy for dealing with Garrett.

  Caroline had grown up in a world more of men than of women. She had always had the loving care of her mother and grandmother, but the other important people in her life—her father, her grandfather, Kutii, Wesley, and Reed—were all male. Other than her family, Wesley was the only one she had ever really kissed, and she’d never been intimate with any man other than her lawful husband. When she and Wesley had consummated their union, she’d found a warm pleasure . . . a physical satisfaction that had grown slowly throughout their marriage. But not once in Wesley’s bed had she ever experienced a tenth of the sexual desire she’d felt in this one moment in Garrett’s embrace.

  “Darling?” Her bridegroom offered her his arm. She took it gracefully and allowed him to lead her down the aisle toward the door.

  Mistress Collins rose to her feet in the back pew, shock written plainly across her face. Caroline smiled sweetly at her and tried not to think of the tale the apothecary would spread around Oxford.

  “I have reserved a private room at the Queen’s Rose Inn,” Major Whitehead said. “I thought it might be nice to have dinner before we start back to the plantation.”

  “Thank you,” Garrett replied. “It was kind of you to think of it. I’m certain the lady must be as hungry as we are.”

  One of the soldiers opened the double doors and they stepped out onto the brick walk. In springtime, the church would be shaded by old oaks. Now the mottled gray trees loomed barren and cold. The ground was littered with l
eaves, and patches of ice clung to the edges of the puddles.

  To the left stretched a graveyard. Near the church wall, Caroline saw a freshly turned earthen mound that marked a new grave. She wondered who had passed away—an old woman at the end of her life or a young man cut down by the senseless violence of war. So many of the brightest and strongest had died. For a few seconds, she thought of Wesley and her eyes clouded with tears. Then that sadness was replaced with a determination to make his murderer pay for the crime. A rush of fierce emotion filled her heart, and she stiffened her spine as she inwardly vowed that she would find Osprey and seek her own vengeance.

  Major Whitehead had begun to chat with Garrett as they neared the carriage. Neither man seemed to notice Caroline’s mental withdrawal. Suddenly, her ruminations were interrupted by the thunder of iron-shod hooves. She looked up to see a group of mounted dragoons galloping full tilt down the quiet residential street with her cousin Bruce in the lead.

  A gray-haired Quaker who was crossing the street dropped his Bible and scrambled for safety as Bruce’s sorrel gelding raced past, spattering the man’s black coat and wide-brimmed hat with clods of mud. As the animal neared the church, Caroline’s bay carriage horses shied and backed in place. At the last possible moment, her cousin yanked hard on the reins. Bloody foam sprayed from the sorrel’s mouth and its eyes rolled white in its head as Bruce sawed at the bit. The exhausted animal reared, then fell back on its haunches as the captain vaulted from the saddle and rushed at Caroline with a drawn pistol.

  “What do you think you’re doing, you stupid bitch?” Bruce demanded. “You’ll not marry—”

  “Control yourself,” Major Whitehead shouted above the clamor of the arrival of the rest of Bruce’s patrol. “You are too late, Talbot. They are already wed.”

  Swearing foully, Bruce rounded the matched bays and pointed the flintlock at Garrett’s chest. “Not for long!”

  “Seize that man!” the major ordered his dragoons.

  Garrett shoved Caroline away from him so hard that the force knocked her to the ground. She saw a blur of motion as he lunged toward her cousin at the same time that the pistol fired. Flames shot from the barrel of the flintlock; the lead ball whined over Caroline’s head, splintering the church door. Men were running, horses snorting. The carriage rolled back a few feet as the driver fought to control the panicked team.

  Caroline rose to her feet and gasped. Garrett had Bruce pinned by the throat to the muddy ground beneath the carriage. The high front right wheel rested against her cousin’s head. Another inch of movement, and Bruce’s skull would be crushed by the weight of the vehicle.

  “Let him up,” Major Whitehead said, beckoning to his soldiers. “You’re under arrest, Talbot.”

  “Not yet,” Garrett said. “Not until he apologizes to my wife.”

  The driver spoke soothingly to the bays. Nostrils flaring, they continued to toss their heads and roll their eyes. Caroline knew that the slightest noise could send the animals out of control. Quickly, she moved to the nearer horse’s head and took hold of the cheekstrap. “Whoa, whoa,” she murmured. “Easy, Brandy. Easy girl.” Brandy was the flightier of the two animals; if she could calm her, Rum would settle down.

  “I say let him up, Faulkner,” the major commanded.

  “First, the apology,” Garrett insisted. He raised Bruce’s head and slammed it down in the mud again. “Loud enough so that the lady can hear you.”

  “All right, all right,” Bruce said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Louder,” Garrett threatened.

  “I apologize,” Bruce rasped.

  Garrett let go of him, grabbed the carriage for support, and hauled himself to his feet. Only Caroline saw the effort it cost him, and the bloodstain seeping through the wool of Wesley’s best sky-blue breeches.

  Bruce crawled out from under the carriage and was hauled to his feet by two burly dragoons. His face was bruised and swelling. Blood ran from a cut on his lower lip.

  Caroline ran to Garrett, blocking the major’s view of Garrett’s injury with her full skirts. “Are you hurt?” she demanded in a shrill voice. “I was so frightened. He nearly killed you.” Then she whirled on her cousin. “How could you? How could you try to kill him on our wedding day?” She turned back to Garrett and threw her arms around his neck. “Your leg,” she whispered. “Your wound has opened. Don’t let them see.”

  “I’ll escort Mistress Faulkner to the inn,” Garrett said.

  “Oh, yes,” Caroline agreed. “I’m all muddy. My gown may be ruined.”

  “Of course,” Major Whitehead said. “I’ll send four of my men with you.” He glared at Bruce. “You are in a great deal of trouble, Captain. You disobeyed a direct order of mine.”

  “I can’t believe you let that bastard marry her,” Bruce answered bitterly.

  “Say nothing more, Talbot. You are burying your career with your own stupidity.”

  “What would you know of women?” Bruce taunted. “With your tastes?”

  The major’s lips tightened and white spots of anger appeared on his cheeks. “Sergeant Michaels,” he ordered. “You will take charge of the captain’s patrol. Take Captain Talbot to the jail here in Oxford and put him in shackles. Tomorrow morning, I want him returned to my headquarters. If he escapes, I’ll have you and the rest of the guard detail shot.” He glanced back at Bruce. “Perhaps by morning, you will be sober.”

  Garrett helped Caroline up into the open carriage and stepped in beside her. She covered his bad leg with her skirt as the major sat in the second seat across from them. “Drive on,” Garrett instructed the coachman. “The Queen’s Rose.” As the carriage rolled away, the dragoons who had come from Fortune’s Gift with the bridal party mounted and followed the vehicle.

  Once they reached the elegant inn, Caroline insisted on being shown to the private bedchamber reserved for important guests. “My new husband and I will be taking this room for the night,” she told the innkeeper’s wife, Maude Hawkins.

  Maude waved away the maid who had come to assist the mistress of Fortune’s Gift. “I will tend to her,” the older woman said. “See that Major Whitehead and Mr. Faulkner are served some of that excellent Dutch red, and tell the cook to carve the beef.” When the girl left the room, Maude closed the door and came close to Caroline. “What service can I give you, my lady?”

  Caroline took Maude’s hand and squeezed it. Her second oldest son, Tom, had been aboard Osprey’s ship when it went to the bottom. “Mr. Faulkner has had an accident. I’ll not trouble the physician, but I need the barber, Harley Wiggins. Can someone fetch him here without making a fuss?” Harley was an ardent rebel. The only reason he wasn’t with Washington’s army in Valley Forge was that he’d lost a leg in the Battle of the Brandywine. Caroline knew that both Maude and Harley could be trusted.

  “I’ll do it myself,” Maude said quietly. “Faulkner won’t bring us trouble, will he?”

  “I have a feeling he’s always trouble, but he’s no Tory. I’ll stake my life on it.” She smiled at Maude. “Still, we’ll say nothing that anyone could use against us, will we?”

  “No, ma’am, we sure won’t,” Maude replied. The innkeeper’s wife was tall and broad, as round as a plum pudding. Her sensible gray wool dress was covered by a starched linen apron so wide and clean that she could have spread it out for a table covering. Her hands were as large as her feet, and worn red from years of hard labor. Now that the inn prospered and Maude had a staff of twelve girls under her, she still worked harder than anyone else in the Queen’s Rose. “It’s an honor to serve you, Mistress Caroline,” she said with a vigorous nod. “An honor.”

  Caroline rejoined the gentlemen and forced herself to partake of the excellent dinner Maude had ordered for them. She laughed and talked with Whitehead and Garrett, and shared several bottles of wine, all the while wondering if Garrett was bleeding to death under the table. If he was, he gave no sign of it. He was as jovial as if this were a real wedding and he was a happy bride
groom.

  “I suppose we should have invited the minister and his wife to dine with us,” Caroline said.

  “I think not,” Garrett joked. “I don’t believe the reverend approved of our marriage.”

  “No, he certainly didn’t. And I don’t believe they had much appetite after the bullets started flying,” Major Whitehead said. “None of them showed so much as a face outside the church.” He smiled at Caroline. “You are to be commended for your bravery. Most women would have fainted or at least pretended to do so.”

  “I knew I was in no real danger,” she replied prettily. “Not with you and Garrett there.” She placed a hand on the major’s sleeve. “What will happen to my cousin?”

  “It depends on his behavior tomorrow. If he sees the error of his ways, he could be let off with a fine. I’d not want to call a court-martial. After all, no one was hurt, and he did have a great deal of provocation.”

  “You are a wise man,” Garrett said. “His Majesty is well served with officers like you in his service.”

  “I try to be,” Whitehead said. “But Talbot demands more patience than I can summon.”

  “I will ask a boon of you, sir,” Caroline said, smiling. “Since it is”—she averted her eyes, affecting shyness—“our wedding night, perhaps you would allow us to remain here at the Queen’s Rose, just for tonight.”

  Garrett’s eyes met hers questioningly.

  “Please, Major. It would seem so much more . . . private.”

  “Of course,” Whitehead agreed. “You have never been a prisoner. I regret that we’ve had to detain Mr. Faulkner until word comes from Lord Cornwallis in Philadelphia. It will be no trouble for me and the men to remain here tonight.”

  The major seemed so eager to honor her request that Caroline wondered if one of the dragoons who had accompanied him was a favorite of Whitehead’s. It didn’t matter to her. His personal life his own. “Thank you so much,” she replied.