The Raider’s Bride

by Kimberly Cates

"But if no rebel has been searching for the missive, why such mass destruction?" Atwood asked, waving one hand at the damage.

  Emily couldn't help the tiny smile that curled her lips. "There was some difficulty with a little girl and she tipped over the shelf."

  "A child caused all this? And just where was her mother when she was displaying such an unattractive temper?"

  "Her mother is dead. It seems her uncle is to be her guardian, a prospect neither the child nor the man is adapting to very amicably."

  "I can't say that I blame the uncle. No sane person would want to be saddled with a child who would hurl things in a fit of temper. Such passions are very distressing in female children. If the girl were in my care, I would curb such behavior immediately. An acquaintance with a willow switch should suffice."

  Emily bristled. "You cannot curb a child's grief, Captain. You can only help her to battle through it as best she can."

  Atwood flushed at the sudden defensiveness in Emily's voice. "No doubt you are right, my dear," he said. "You must forgive me if I am a bit overzealous. Dealing with soldiers day in and day out, I am particularly sensitive to a lack of discipline."

  With some shyness, Atwood reached out, and Emily was surprised to feel his fingers close about her hand. "As to children," he said softly, "I am only an ignorant bachelor, without a woman's wisdom in such matters. But there have been times these past weeks, my dear lady, when I've begun to hope you might teach me." There was something vaguely discordant in the self-deprecating smile he gave her, but his palm was warm, his fingers strong.

  It had been such a long time since Emily had been touched by anyone that she couldn't stop herself from savoring the feel of Atwood's hand—until the memory of another man's touch made her flush and draw away. The imprint of Ian Blackheath's hard-muscled body seemed to have branded itself on hers, the feel of those strong hands engulfing hers making her stomach quiver.

  More than a little flustered, she drew away from the captain. She stooped to retrieve a length of ribbon and busied herself by winding it around her hand.

  "I have been too forward," Atwood said quietly. "I'm sorry."

  Emily raised her eyes to his, forcing a half smile. "You've been nothing but kind, Captain Atwood."

  "I would be more than kind if you would let me. And I would guard you with my life, but"—his brow creased, and he examined the plume on his tricorn—"sometimes I fear even that might not be enough. Mrs. d'Autrecourt, I admire your courage in aiding the Crown in this way. And I can't tell you how much pleasure your presence has brought to me, personally—a wild English rose in the middle of these colonial thorns. But you must know that it is a dangerous task you've undertaken."

  He looked so solemn, an almost boyish sweetness in his features, that she couldn't help but like the man. "Captain, I took the possibility of danger into consideration before I agreed to come to Williamsburg."

  "Of course you did. But I want you to be especially careful at present. You see, there was an... incident that... By God, madam, I'm a soldier, and as such, I should be accustomed to violence. But this goes far beyond any horror I've ever heard of."

  "An incident?"

  "A wigmaker named Lemming Crane was torn from his bed last night under the very noses of my men, I'm ashamed to say. He was abducted by that rebel scoundrel who calls himself Pendragon."

  The nape of Emily's neck prickled, ice water seeming to trickle down her spine. Pendragon. The name seemed to be woven of the mysteries of the night—dark, terrifying. She had heard snippets of gossip about the patriot raider, bits of conversations that died whenever she came near—An Englishwoman, an enemy, not to be trusted. "You say Crane was abducted," she prodded. "But why?"

  Atwood's eyes clouded with distress. "He was not unlike you, madam," he said hesitantly. "In secret service to the Crown."

  Emily's heart gave an odd lurch. "He was... like me?"

  "Not really! In truth, he was somewhat of a fool. We all laughed at him. But he was one of our sources for information."

  "I see. What happened to him? You must have some idea."

  Atwood's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He looked away. "I don't know for certain. There are only rumors."

  "Tell me."

  "They say that—" Atwood paused for a heartbeat. "They say that Pendragon and his band buried Lemming Crane—alive."

  Emily's stomach churned, and she pressed her fingers to her lips, bile rising in her throat to mingle with the sharp tang of fear. "Merciful heavens!" she gasped, turning horrified eyes up to Atwood. "What kind of a monster would do such a thing?"

  "Rebel scum mounting insurrection against his king. A traitor hungry to rape England, steal away her rightful taxes." Atwood's eyes were alive with loathing. "The fools around here see the raider as a hero. But Pendragon is a villain in the common way. A murderer thirsting for blood, taking pleasure in the kill."

  "If this Pendragon discovered the truth about Mr. Crane, who is to say he hasn't identified the rest of us as well? If he were to discover that I've been passing along messages—"

  "You mustn't even think about such a thing!" Atwood's hands caught hers again. "Crane was a careless fool, while you are a very brave and intelligent woman, far beyond that traitorous villain's touch. And anyway, I am confident that Pendragon's reign of terror will soon be over. We are closing in on the rabid cur. In fact, my superiors are hoping that the information contained in the doll that has just been delivered will hold the clues we need to run the bastard to ground."

  Remembering Lucy cradling that doll against her little chest, Emily was as stricken as if she had seen the girl cuddling a viper.

  Totally unaware of the turmoil inside Emily, the captain continued. "The fact that this doll might hold news of Pendragon is the reason I came today. I wanted to inform you that when the message arrived I would fetch it myself rather than passing it along through the usual channels. My superiors will be overjoyed when I deliver it to them early. The sooner the rebel dog's neck is snapped by a hangman's noose, the better loyal citizens like you will sleep at night."

  "Of course," Emily said, hating the gruesome picture Atwood's words invoked—a man dangling from a noose, his eyes bulging, his mouth gasping for air. It was a horrifying vision set in counterpoint to that of another man clawing at the earth from the depths of a grave.

  Her fingers shook as she picked at a frayed end of the ribbon in her hand. "I can only wish you godspeed in your mission, Captain. Let me wrap the doll for you at once."

  Emily hurried behind the counter where she had placed the doll during the altercation with Lucy. But as her gaze fixed on the ledge under the counter, her chest convulsed with horror.

  She grabbed the counter's edge to keep her balance, her hand running with desperation over the neatly folded piles of cloth that were to be made into dresses her customers had ordered.

  At last she forced herself to meet Captain Atwood's questioning gaze.

  "The—the doll. It's gone."

  "What do you mean it's gone?" Atwood’s face turned ice white as he lunged behind the counter to look for himself, clawing through the materials that were stored there. "It couldn't have just walked away!"

  "It did. I mean, it didn't." Emily stammered, her fingers knotting in her skirts. "It must have been taken by the little girl I was telling you about earlier. The argument we had was over the doll. She wanted it."

  "Do you mean to tell me you allowed a child to walk out of here with vital communication?"

  "No! I took the doll away from her and tucked it beneath the counter just as her uncle returned. But she was so upset that she tipped over the shelf and ran out the back through the counting room. She must have taken the doll in the confusion."

  Atwood's face turned red with fury. "We shall see if she's quite so brazen when she faces the courts for this! In England we do not tolerate thieves!"

  Emily blanched as she recalled her visits to the prisoners at Newgate. The nightmarish images had stalked her ever si
nce. Pinched faces had stared vacantly out from behind iron bars, many of them children who were locked in the jaws of English "justice," where the harshest of penalties were handed down to starving people for the crime of stealing a crust of bread.

  The prospect of Lucy at the mercy of such a system was unbearable, and Emily was certain that the child would make things even worse with her ill-guarded tongue.

  "You will tell me the name of this hell-spawned brat at once!" Atwood demanded. "I shall teach her what it means to steal from the English Crown!"

  Desperate, Emily groped for a way to shield the defiant little girl. "Captain Atwood, the child doesn't know that she's taken anything but a fashion baby. A plaything," she reasoned. "How are you going to explain yourself if you go charging into her house—one of the king's soldiers demanding a doll from a child? What will you say to her uncle?"

  Atwood slammed his fist against the counter. "I will have that doll! The information it contains could be vital."

  "It could be," Emily echoed. "And then again, it might not. What if this particular doll doesn't hold the information you need? What if that information is in the next doll to arrive here, or the next? The instant you interfere, people's suspicions will be aroused against me. From what you have said about this raider, Pendragon, I've gathered that he is ruthless and cunning. If he discovers my complicity in these activities, I've no doubt he will crush me as thoroughly as he did Lemming Crane."

  Giving voice to those fears made them loom in Emily's consciousness like great chill shadows. "Think, Captain Atwood. If Pendragon were to dispose of me in some equally... heinous manner, you would have no way of receiving future messages."

  "What would you have me do?" Atwood blustered. "Stand by while that message is lost?"

  "No. Let me attempt to retrieve it myself. Lucy's uncle knows about the child's fascination with the doll and about my refusal to sell it. I'm certain I can get it back without jeopardizing my position here."

  "Blast it, Mrs. d'Autrecourt. I don't know."

  "Please." She looked up at him through the fans of her lashes, using the only weapon she had left—the attraction she had seen in Atwood's eyes minutes earlier. "Trust me, Captain Atwood," she cajoled. "I won't fail you."

  He paced the length of the shop, reluctance in every line of his face. "I don't like complications," he muttered. "If the doll is lost, it will look bad on my record."

  "There is almost no danger of that happening. And besides, wouldn't it look worse on your record if we were to rush in and reveal that messages are being passed in this shop? Mr. Fraser went to a great deal of trouble to establish me here. I can't imagine he would appreciate having his plan ruined before a month was out, especially since he lost Mr. Crane so recently."

  The mention of Stirling Fraser appeared to daunt Atwood somewhat. He tugged at his neckcloth. Emily crossed to where he stood, tipping her face up to his.

  "Please, Reginald," she said, calling him by his given name for the first time. "I don't mean to press you, but I know that I'm right in this. The doll is safer with Lucy than if it were locked in the king's own treasury. The child wanted it so desperately that I'm certain she has it tucked away somewhere safe. Besides, it's possible that her uncle has already discovered her mischief. He could be on his way back to return the doll even as we speak."

  Atwood stalked across the room, restless with indecision. After a moment he turned with a disgruntled sigh. "I suppose there is little choice except to do as you say."

  "I will not fail you," she said quietly, wishing she were as certain as she sounded.

  "I'd advise that you don't." Atwood's jaw clenched. "I have a certain affection for you, Mrs. d'Autrecourt, but my superiors have little patience when affairs like this one are bungled. They would not be swayed by your considerable beauty."

  It was a warning. Emily heeded it well. "I understand the risk," she said, squaring her shoulders.

  "Do you? I sincerely hope so." Atwood grimaced. "However, I do have to set one condition if I am to go along with this mad scheme of yours."

  "Condition?" For a moment Emily was haunted by memories of Alexander's friends, who sometimes attempted to maneuver her into sordid affairs. Men demanding the only price that seemed to satisfy their sense of worth, and their lust. Surely Atwood would not be so... Emily swallowed hard. What did she really know about the English captain other than the fact that he had been polite when ever they had met and had begged her to give him news of the homeland he obviously missed so much?

  "You needn't be frightened of me, Emily," Atwood gave her a wounded look, and she was chagrined to realize that he had read her thoughts in her eyes. "I would never be so ungentlemanly as to demand of a lady anything she would not give freely."

  "Of course not. I'm sorry."

  "My condition has to do with the doll. You must give me the name of the child and that of her uncle as well. If, God forbid, something should happen to you, I must have some way to trace the message."

  Emily hesitated.

  "Come, Emily," Atwood murmured. "I am trusting you. It's only fair that you should do the same."

  Emily vacillated for a moment more, but in the end she knew she had no choice. "The little girl's name is Lucy," she said at last. "Lucy Dubbonet. She is staying with her uncle, a planter by the name of Ian Blackheath."

  "Blackheath!"

  If she'd said the child lived with Satan, Atwood couldn't have been any more stunned. "That scoundrel is said to rival Bacchus in his excesses," Atwood roared. "I'll not have a virtuous lady like you plunging into that den of iniquity!"

  Emily forced a smile, remembering all too well her own reaction to Flavia Varden's descriptions of Blackheath's outlandish house parties. But Emily didn't dare reveal her sick dread to the man standing, so outraged, before her.

  "I'm certain my virtue is quite safe," Emily soothed. "I've met Mr. Blackheath already and we were not overly impressed by each other."

  Emily tried to keep a guilty flush from staining her cheeks as she remembered certain parts of Blackheath's anatomy that had been impressed quite relentlessly against her own.

  "Don't be lulled into a false sense of security by the man. It's said he could have seduced the vestal virgins if he'd had a mind to." Atwood stopped, embarrassed. He frowned, suddenly lost in his own thoughts. "And yet," he said at last, "maybe it's not such a bad thing that Blackheath is involved after all. At least we don't have to worry about the message falling into enemy hands. It's well known that Blackheath cares for nothing except his own decadent pleasures. From the gossip bandied about, it's astonishing the man can even raise himself from his bed in the morning, he's so far gone with drink and women."

  As if suddenly remembering that he was in the presence of a lady, Atwood flushed. "I'm sorry... Emily. I didn't mean to scandalize you with such talk. It's just that I'm a little... tense at present."

  "I understand."

  An earnest light shone in Atwood's eyes. "You will take care?" he said, capturing her hand. "I do not want any harm to befall you."

  "I'll be careful."

  Atwood chewed meditatively at the corner of his lip. "In the meantime I think it best if you're not alone here any longer, what with that bastard Pendragon on a rampage." He smiled, as if just seizing upon some idea. "I think your shop is becoming so profitable that you have been forced to take on another seamstress. The man who owns your indenture is thrilled, of course."

  "Hire someone else?" Emily pulled her hand from Atwood's grip, the thought of some stranger barging into her hard-won sanctuary dismaying her. "No. I don't think—"

  "After what happened with Crane, I'm afraid I have to insist. Also, if you're going to travel to the Blackheath plantation, there must be someone else here to receive messages."

  "You mean, another... spy?" That was an even more disturbing thought. "If loyalists are so plentiful that you can just pluck one from the streets at a moment's notice, why did Mr. Fraser go to such lengths to hire me?"

  "
This person would not be involved in our... business transactions. She would be just what she seems. A helper for you. Someone to sound the alarm if you should be visited by Pendragon. Someone to accept deliveries when you are gone. One of my men has a daughter who would suit well enough. She's very willing, if somewhat dull-witted, and she is tolerably adept with a needle. I shall send her to you tomorrow morning."

  "No. I'd so much rather you would not do that."

  "This is not something I can leave up to you, Emily. I'm already taking a great risk on your behalf. I can only hope I won't regret it."

  Something in his face made Emily fall silent, afraid she might jeopardize the victory she had already won.

  Atwood straightened his coat, his mouth suddenly grim. "Of course, things could get very awkward if my superiors somehow receive word that the message arrived early. There is always the chance..." Atwood paused. "One week is the most time I can possibly give you to retrieve the doll, Emily. I don't want to frighten you, but you must be aware of the danger you are in. The men who command me are not tolerant of mistakes. And Pendragon has the devil's own insight when it comes to ferreting out secrets like the one you are keeping now. I don't want to find you buried by the brigand in some hellish grave."

  Emily fought back a shudder as Atwood raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fear-whitened knuckles. "Good-bye, my dear," he said, then turned and left the shop.

  Emily locked the door behind him and made her way into her private quarters in the back room, Atwood's warnings ringing in her ears.

  What had she done? What had ever made her believe she could come here and play at being a spy? The idea had sounded so simple, so reasonable, when Stirling Fraser had proposed it to her two months ago. One year of minimal danger in exchange for a new life. One year of service to the Crown while she built up a shop that would be hers to keep when her period of servitude ended.

  Fraser had offered her a chance at independence. He had offered her a chance at prosperity—as much as her own wits and ambition could buy her.

  In return she merely had to turn a blind eye while his other employees dropped off parcels and message-carrying dolls. She only had to smile across the counter and give those parcels to other couriers who would carry them on their way.