She had managed well enough with Major Whitehead until her cousin had been assigned to his staff. The major had treated her with the respect due her station, and since his sexual preferences were definitely male, he’d left her and the women of her household in peace. Now, Amanda and Jeremy were forced into hiding in servants’ row. Even Caroline didn’t know who had given them shelter this night. Since Amanda’s rape, they had moved from cabin to cabin to keep Bruce from knowing where they were.
She looked around Amanda’s shadowy room and couldn’t keep a lump from rising in her throat. Jeremy’s rocking horse stood near a window; his toys were piled in his empty cradle. The house seemed empty without his cooing baby laughter and his sweet smell. “Because of you,” she murmured, thinking of her foul cousin. “But it won’t stay like this, I promise. I’ll bring you home, Jeremy. I’ll bring you both home.”
Patting the lump under her dressing gown to make certain her knife was still in place, she returned to the dark hallway and made her way to her own bedchamber. She turned the knob and pushed open the door, hesitating for a moment, certain she had left a candle burning on the table beside her tall poster bed.
Caroline froze, listening with her ears, but most of all, listening with her inner senses. Her instincts had never failed her yet, and she had come to depend on her own special gifts for knowing what would happen before it actually occurred. She waited, but no current of fear stirred within her breast. Reassured, she entered the room.
And walked straight into something solid.
A sob of fright burst from her lips. “Oh!” she cried. She stopped, momentarily lost in her own bedroom. Her heart raced, numbness spread through her body, and for an instant she wanted to turn and run. Then, when she realized that she’d heard nothing and that no one human or ghostly had grabbed her, she reached out hesitantly with a trembling hand and touched the back of a chair.
She uttered a nervous giggle. “Damn me for a cowardly jade,” she burst out.
Her next thought was: What was the chair doing in front of the door? “If Toby’s been rearranging my things again, I’ll have his ears on a platter,” she murmured, feeling the chair to be certain it was her own familiar cane-back seat.
It was indeed, the very chair she’d toppled off when she was four and cut such a slice in her forehead that Grandmother had had to sew it up with silk thread. Caroline still had the tiny scar. “X marks the treasure,” Grandmother had said. Caroline had taken pride in not crying when the wound was stitched up, and her grandfather had bought her a new hound puppy, the best one in Wesley’s father’s kennel.
She began to take normal breaths again, feeling foolish. She took a step toward the bed table and trod upon a cat. The cat let out a yowl and fled toward the open door. Caroline gasped. I must still need a full-time nanny, she thought, shamed by her silly fears. Gathering her courage, she started across the room again.
Without warning, someone clamped a gloved hand over her mouth. She screamed like an Iroquois captive at a torture stake, but only muffled sounds escaped her assailant’s iron grip.
Caroline exploded into a fury of flying fists, thrusting knees, and sharp teeth. She was not tall for a woman, but she had ridden every day since she was a babe, and her muscles were strong from swimming in the river and climbing trees. Terror and tenacity made her a formidable foe.
The man in black was as unyielding as a wall of solid oak. Her furious blows wrung gasps of pain from the specter, but he never loosened his cruel embrace.
Then she twisted and slammed her hipbone into his. He buckled and fell to the floor, carrying her down with him and knocking the breath out of her with his weight.
“Caroline! Caroline!” he hissed into her ear. “I won’t hurt you. It’s Garrett.” Cautiously, he removed his hand from her mouth. “For the love of God, Caroline, don’t scream. You’ll see us both dead.”
Stunned, she struggled to get air into her lungs. Garrett? Who the hell was Garrett? She sucked in a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream again.
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!” B
ruce 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 arid 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.
JUDITH E. FRENCH
JUDITH E. FRENCH is the author of twelve
Avon Romances, including MOONFEATHER,
HIGHLAND MOON, MOON DANCER,
and FORTUNE’S MISTRESS. She and her husband
of 34 years make their home in an 18th-century
farmhouse that originally belonged to one of Judith’s
female ancestors. Since their four children have
grown up and moved out, Judith and Gary share the
house with a Norwegian Elkhound, several
aging Siamese cats, and a resident ghost. Judith has
been writing seriously since she was seventeen
years old, following a family tradition of storytelling
that has been handed down through generations
of Eastern Shore Maryland farm families. Judith’s
oldest daughter is also a best-selling romance author.
Fortune's Flame Page 33