Reed huffed. “What the deuces, Garrick? Why must you be so difficult?”
For an instant, anger chased Rose’s fear away—anger that once again a man had used his superior strength to subdue her. Struggling to her feet, she glared at Garrick as he kept the barrel of his pistol pressed against her forehead. Perhaps she deserved to die at the end of a gun, after all. “Let him kill me, sir. For I prefer that to the alternative.”
Garrick blinked then snorted. “Very well, as you wish.”
Lord, take me home. Rose’s mind went numb as she closed her eyes.
The twang of a sword spinning through the air. The squish of steel into flesh, and the cold barrel left her forehead. Rose pried her eyes open to see Garrick’s stunned expression. He glanced from her to Reed, and then down at the blade planted in his gut.
Staggering backward, he gripped the embedded sword with one hand, his pistol still in his other. “To the devil with you,” he muttered and leveled his gun at Reed.
The pistol exploded with a loud crack. The shot reverberated in Rose’s ears. Smoke filled the air as the smell of gunpowder drifted over her. Dropping the weapon, Garrick crumpled to the ground.
Rose snapped her gaze toward Reed. His eyes met hers. Red burst upon his white breeches. He bent over, clutched his thigh, then stumbled backward. His head struck the wooden post of Liverpool’s stall, and he too toppled to the ground.
“Amelia!” Rose nudged the woman, wondering how anyone in the house had slept through the gunshot. “Get up, Amelia.”
Amelia batted Rose away with a moan as Rose set the lantern atop a table in her maid’s bedchamber. Grabbing a petticoat and gown from a hook on the wall, Rose tossed them at the girl—no, woman. In fact, at two and twenty, Amelia was the same age as Rose. “Get up, Amelia. I need your help. There’s a man in the barn.”
“A man?” Amelia opened her eyes and struggled to sit.
Rose would laugh at the silly woman’s infatuation with the male gender if the situation weren’t so harrowing and Rose wasn’t still trembling. “Yes, and I need your help.”
Rubbing her eyes, Amelia peered in her direction. “A man, miss?”
“As I said. Now get dressed, gather some bandages from my aunt’s chamber, and meet me in the barn.” Rose’s stomach lurched within her. Oh my, what was she to do? Though Garrick was dead, Mr. Reed was very much alive. At least for the moment. But not for long with all the blood pouring from his leg. A wave of dizziness struck her, and she halted and pressed a hand to her chest. Oh why did her aunt and uncle have to be gone on this particular night?
“Whatever is the matter, miss?” Amelia, fully alert now, sprang from the bed. She flung her gown over her head and settled it over her nightdress. She touched Rose’s arm. “Miss? Are you ill?”
Rose drew a deep breath. “We need to hurry.” She had no time to think about Mr. Garrick’s assault. No time to calm herself. “Gather the bandages as I said and Aunt Muira’s needle and thread.” Grabbing the lantern, Rose headed for the door. She must also get a knife from the kitchen and the aged scotch her uncle kept hidden under the cabinet.
“But, miss—”
“Please do as I say, Amelia. A man’s life depends on us.”
Rose rushed out the door. A British man’s life. The enemy.
Bottle of scotch and knife in hand, Rose stormed into the barn. Mr. Reed’s pain-filled groan pierced the air as he struggled to rise. Swallowing her fear, Rose knelt beside him. A circle of maroon mushroomed across his white breeches. The metallic smell of blood filled the air.
“Be careful, sir. You’ve been shot.”
“I am fully aware of that, miss,” he said in an unmistakable British lilt that carried a bit of hauteur. He gave up on his attempt to stand and leaned his weight back on his arms. A pair of deep hazel eyes shot a look of curiosity her way. Brown hair the color of rich earth drifted in waves about a strong masculine face, then gathered behind him in a queue.
Rose set down the knife and bottle. A wave of unease crashed over her. Could she trust this man—this enemy? Regardless, she should not be alone with him. Despite his injury, he could possibly still do her harm if he so desired. She glanced toward the open door. Oh where was Amelia?
“Would you assist me in rising?” Wincing, he bent his injured leg until the heel of his boot lodged in the dirt.
“I will do no such thing, sir. I’ll not have another dead man in my barn.”
His glance took in Garrick lying in a heap at the edge of Valor’s stall.
“Yes, he’s dead.” She thought she saw pain cross Mr. Reed’s gaze before he closed his eyes.
Amelia burst through the open barn door, her gown sitting lopsided on her shoulders and her long braid of dark hair swaying behind her. “Oh my.”
“I need to get back to my ship.” Reed moaned.
“You’ll bleed to death first, Mr. Reed.” Rose examined the wound. Blood seeped from the opening. She knew a little about doctoring from her aunt, and if she didn’t extract the slug and stop the bleeding, he may not survive. “We need to get the bullet out and patch you up.”
“Bullet out.” Beads of sweat broke out on the man’s face. His glance took in the barn, Liverpool and Valor, the rafters above, Squeaks, one of Rose’s chickens crossing the ground—anywhere but the wound on his leg. He frowned. “But surely you are not a surgeon.”
“Lie back, Mr. Reed.” Rose gathered some hay to form a pillow. Fortunately, he had fallen near the doorway where fresh hay had been piled to feed Valor, for she doubted she and Amelia could move his large, muscular frame very far. At least the hay would make a soft bed and absorb some of the blood.
“Amelia, the bandages.” Rose nudged Mr. Reed’s shoulder. Nothing but hard muscle met her touch. He did not budge.
“I insist you lie down, Mr. Reed.”
His quizzical gaze took her in as if she were some newly discovered species. “If you’ll assist me to my feet, I’ll be on my way.”
“You will do no such thing.” Rose nudged him again.
Reed shook his head as if he were dizzy. “What the deuces, madam. If you please.”
Ignoring him, Rose grabbed the knife. “My word, Amelia, the bandages please!” Rose glanced up. Her lady’s maid stared at Garrick’s body, her face a mask of white.
“Amelia, look at me. I need the needle, thread, and bandages you brought.”
The woman shifted wide, frightened eyes to Rose. “What happened, miss?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Rose shook her head, trying to scatter the memories.
Reed stared down at his wound as if he had just seen it. He moaned.
“Shouldn’t we wake Mr. Markham? Shouldn’t we call a physician?” Amelia knelt and handed Rose the bandages and the needle and thread as her gaze took in Mr. Reed’s uniform. “He’s British, miss.”
“I am aware of that.” Rose laid them on the cloth she’d spread over the dirt. “Which is why we cannot alert Mr. Markham nor call for the physician. The fewer people who see him, the better.” She held up the half-empty bottle of scotch. “Now, Mr. Reed, I suggest you have a sip or two of this.” With her other hand, she held up the knife to the lantern. “This may hurt a bit.”
Mr. Reed swallowed, and his eyes shifted from the knife down to his wound and back to Rose. “Ladies, if you will but help me to my feet, I will trouble you no further,” he said as if he were simply leaving an evening soiree. But then he glanced back at the blood bubbling from his wound. His face grew as white as fresh snow on a crisp winter’s morn. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he plopped back onto the hay.
CHAPTER 3
The sound of squawking rummaged through Alex’s ears. Cluck. Cluck. Cluck. An infernal noise that defied description. It seemed to peck upon his brain, sending pain shooting down his back. No, down his leg. His left leg. Was it on fire? Was he on fire? His throat burned. Sweat tickled his skin as it streamed down his cheeks.
The gurgle of water sounded. A cloth touched
his face—its coolness jarred him.
“Oh fare thee well, my little turtledove. And fare thee well for a while.” A sweet melody drifted in an angelic song around him. Was he in heaven? Quite impossible.
“But though I go I’ll surely come again. If I go ten thousand mile,” the sweet feminine voice continued.
The cloth moved across his forehead as humming replaced lyrics.
“How is he, miss?” another feminine voice asked.
Several moments of silence. “He is feverish. We must pray, Amelia. Pray very hard.”
Then the sounds drifted into silence.
Rose dipped the cloth into the bucket of water and wrung it out.
Laying it gently atop Mr. Reed’s forehead, she sat back with a sigh. On the other side of the naval officer, Amelia gazed at him from her spot perched on a stool. A morning breeze drifted in through the open doors of the barn and rustled the maid’s silky black curls.
“Do you suppose we should call for the apothecary?” Concern tightened Amelia’s face.
“As I said, we cannot risk it.”
“But surely they wouldn’t toss an injured man in prison?”
“He’s British,” Rose snapped, hearing the venom in her own voice. “You heard what they did to that redcoat they caught in town two nights ago.” She shook her head. Had it already been two days since that vile man, Garrick, had entered Rose’s barn and attacked her? Every moment since then, Rose had been so consumed with keeping Mr. Reed alive, that she’d had no time to sleep let alone recover her nerves from the incident. She gazed at the blisters on her palms—red, puffy, and sore to the touch.
Evidence of the crime committed in her barn—and her duplicity in covering up the murder.
It had taken Rose and Amelia—well, mainly Rose—hours of hard work to gouge out a hole in the soft earth large enough for Mr. Garrick’s body. After saying a few words over the man—out of Christian duty—Rose had left his grave unmarked, leaving Garrick in God’s hands to face whatever judgment he deserved.
What else could she have done? Should any more British soldiers happen upon their farm and see their fallen comrade, only God knew what they might do to her and her family. She grabbed a piece of hay from the ground and twirled it between her fingers, allowing a bit of strain to seep from her knotted muscles. Yet even so, her head still spun with all that had happened. If not for these blisters and the injured officer lying before her, the entire incident would seem more like one of the many nightmares that so often haunted her slumber.
Amelia pressed down the folds of her violet gown, a puzzled look on her face. “How can you be so kind to this man after what the British did to your family?”
Rose lowered her chin. She gazed at Mr. Reed’s pistol and sword lying atop his blue coat by the barn door—reminders that he belonged to the same nation who had murdered her father. And caused her mother’s death. “British or not, this man saved my life. If he hadn’t, rest assured, I’d have already turned him over to General Smith.”
If he hadn’t, she’d probably be dead.
Or worse.
“He’s quite handsome,” Amelia said, a devilish twinkle in her eye.
Rose shook her head. “You are incorrigible, Amelia. You have just as much reason as I to hate the British.”
“He is first a man, isn’t he?” Amelia quirked a smile that formed a dimple on her cheek. “Besides, it’s so romantic the way he dashed to your rescue.”
“There was nothing romantic about it.” Rose huffed. A chicken approached, cocked her head quizzically at Mr. Reed, then hopped into Rose’s lap. Rose stroked Georgiana’s feathers as it settled onto her gown.
“You and your chickens, miss.” Amelia said as a grunt sounded from the doorway, drawing both ladies’ gazes to the pig. Prinney waddled into the barn and made his way toward Rose. “And your pigs.” Amelia scrunched her nose. “How do you expect anyone to court you when you smell like a barn?”
Liverpool pressed her nose against the wooden posts of the stall beside them and mooed. The pungent scent of pig droppings drifted on a stiff breeze as if confirming Amelia’s words even as Prinney nuzzled up against Rose. Reaching out to pet him, she smiled. “I prefer my barn and my animals to most of the men I’ve met.”
“I simply will never understand you, miss.” Amelia flattened her lips. “With your inheritance, you could wear the finest gowns and attend monthly balls at the Fountain Inn”—she leaned toward Rose, a gleam in her eye—“and no doubt catch the eye of a wealthy man.”
Memories flooded Rose. Memories of men wealthy in coin but devoid of conscience. Men who thought nothing of stealing a young woman’s fortune—and future. “I shall leave the fine gowns and frivolous soirees to you, Amelia.” Rose gazed beyond the barn’s open doors where the morning sun cast rays over the distant oak trees and lit the wildflowers dotting the field in bright purple and red. The distant rush of the Jones Falls River settled her nerves like a soothing balm. “Besides, I doubt I’ll ever find a man I can trust.”
Mr. Reed groaned, drawing Amelia’s concerned look his way.
“Poor man. What are we to do with him? You can’t keep him out here forever.”
Nudging the chicken from her lap, Rose took the cloth from his forehead and dipped it into the water. Georgiana squawked in protest as she strutted across the hay-strewn ground. “Just until he recovers. Then I’ll send him on his way.”
Amelia pinched her cheeks, bringing color to the surface, though no man—at least not a conscious one—was in sight. “I do not see how you can keep him from Cora and your aunt and uncle for that long.”
Rose wrung out the cloth and placed it back on Mr. Reed’s forehead. “I will fetch the eggs and milk Cora needs from the barn. Aunt Muira is in Washington DC assisting at the orphanage for the next few days, and Uncle Forbes spends most of his time at his church. Besides, he keeps his carriage and horse in the stable, so he has no need to come out to the barn.” Rose wiped a strand of hair from her face. “I am sure Mr. Reed will be long gone before anyone finds him.”
She laid the back of her hand against the man’s flushed cheek. Still hot. Two nights ago, after he’d drifted into unconsciousness, Rose had poured scotch over Mr. Reed’s wound and dug out the bullet. Then she sewed up the opening with needle and thread. Just like she’d seen her aunt do a dozen times. Rose supposed she should be thankful that Mr. Reed had swooned at the sight of his own blood—as humorous as that was—for at least he had not been awake to see how violently her hands shook. But now she wondered if she had done something wrong, for his fever indicated an infection. And that did not bode well for Mr. Reed.
Rose eased the blanket up to his chin and watched as his eyelids twitched and his breath grew labored.
“Do you suppose he’s wealthy?” Amelia asked.
“My word, Amelia. Appearance and wealth. Is that all that matters to you? Why, this man could be part of the very crew who were responsible for your husband’s disappearance.”
Amelia cocked her head and puckered her lips in that delicate way that seemed to turn most men to mush. “We can’t know for sure what happened to Richard.”
Rose studied her companion. Each of them had suffered great losses. Two years ago, Amelia’s husband had gone missing at sea. A simple seaman aboard a merchant ship that had never been heard from since. Reports filtering back to Baltimore from a fishing boat told a tale of a British frigate’s seizure of the merchant sloop. Soon after, Aunt Muira had found Amelia, destitute and starving, scrabbling for scraps of food on the city streets. Of course Rose’s benevolent aunt had brought the lady home and given her a position as Rose’s companion and maid.
“I cannot bear to think of it.” Amelia batted the air aside as easily as she seemed to bat away her husband’s memory. But Rose knew better. She’d often heard Amelia’s quiet sobs during the long hours of the night.
Mr. Reed moaned and tossed his head. Sweat streamed down his forehead onto the dark hair at his temples. A few days
’ growth of whiskers shadowed his jaw and chin.
Amelia’s forehead suddenly wrinkled. “What would the magistrate, or worse, General Smith think if they found him here?”
“No doubt they’d accuse me of being a traitor. Not just me but my aunt and uncle too.”
“And me.” Amelia’s brown eyes grew wide.
Prinney grunted as if he included himself in the conspiracy.
Rose bit her lip. Amelia had a propensity to gossip with the other ladies in town. “You must tell no one, Amelia. Can you promise me that?”
“Of course, miss.” She laid a hand on Rose’s arm.
Rose swallowed. She could not put her aunt and uncle at risk. Not after all they’d done for her. Not when they were her only family left—the only ones who cared about her. “We must pray he recovers soon, Amelia. Pray hard.”
“If I prayed, miss, I would join you.” Amelia shrugged. “But I shall wish really hard.”
Rose was about to comment on the woman’s lack of faith when a “Hi ho, Miss McGuire!” shot into the barn from outside.
Rose’s and Amelia’s wide eyes latched upon each other. “My word, it’s Councilman Snyder,” Rose said. Why hadn’t Rose heard his carriage drive up? “Hurry, Amelia, cover Mr. Reed up with hay. I’ll delay him.”
Amelia gazed at Rose as if she’d lost her mind.
“Just do it, please.” Rose scrambled to her feet, stepped over Prinney, and dashed out the door, hearing the crackle of hay behind her.
The summer sun struck her like a hot poker. She squinted against its brightness and nearly bumped into Mr. Snyder, who was strolling toward the barn with tricorn and cane in hand.
His bergamot scent assaulted her. “So nice to see you, Mr. Snyder,” she lied. Truth be told, the man made her nerves tighten into hopeless knots, though she could not say why. He had been nothing but kind to her, and he had certainly not hidden his interest in furthering their relationship.
A slick smile that reminded her of a hungry cat curved upon his lips. “Whatever are you always doing in the barn, Miss McGuire?”
Surrender the Night Page 3