“My, my, my.” Cora clicked her tongue. “Ain’t seen nothin’ like that in quite some time.”
A flush of heat waved over Rose. She tried to pull her gaze away but found it riveted on the man. Forcing her eyes closed, she backed away, tugging Amelia with her. “We shouldn’t stare at him. It’s improper.”
But Amelia wouldn’t budge.
“Amelia!” Rose dragged the enamored lady from the window and forced her to sit down. “And where have you been all day? It’s nearly noon.” Rose had long since given up expecting Amelia to assist Rose with her morning toilette.
“I did not feel well, miss. I’m sorry.” Amelia poured herself some tea and gave a little pout. “Too much excitement yesterday, I fear.”
Cora tugged at the red scarf she always wore tied around her head and picked up the lump of dough. She slapped it back down on the floured table. “What excitement you talkin’ ‘bout, Amelia? I thought you’d be glad to see a bunch o’ handsome soldiers pokin’ about here.”
Rose and Amelia shared a fearful glance.
“I suppose it’s just the idea that we could be invaded by the British at any moment.” Amelia tossed her raven curls over her shoulder. “And lose everything—this home, this farm, and the family I’ve come to love.”
“Humph.” Cora’s thick arms flapped as she pressed down on the dough. “You both don’t know nothin’ about losin’ everything. About bein’ torn from those you love when you was but five and sold as a slave to strangers.”
“I know you have suffered, Cora.” Rose laid a hand on the woman’s arm, stopping her kneading. “What happened to you was evil of the worst kind.”
Dark eyes lifted to hers and a rare glimpse of understanding crossed over them before they hardened again. “I know the both o’ you lost your parents too.” She looked at Amelia. “But at least you know they’re no longer on this earth. I have no idea where mine are. Probably still slaves somewhere, or died in their chains.”
“You have us now, Cora. We are your family.” Rose dropped two more lumps of sugar into her tea.
“Goodness’ sakes, child. You’ll use up all our sugar.” Cora shook her head and sprinkled flour atop the dough. “Family, humph. I am your cook. I knows my place.”
“My word, Cora, you are so much more than that, and you know it.” Rose reassured the cook for what felt like the thousandth time.
Amelia smiled. “I certainly don’t feel like your servant.” Reaching across the table, she squeezed Rose’s hand. “You have treated me so kindly, I feel as though we are sisters.”
Rose forced back the moisture in her eyes. “I’m so thankful God brought you both into my life.”
“Your aunt and uncle have been kind t’ me.” Cora slapped the dough into a bread pan. “But how can I ever be free while my people are still slaves?” She scratched her curly black hair beneath her scarf and fisted her hands at her waist. “And what has God got to do wit’ any of this?”
Rose gazed into the fireplace that took up nearly an entire wall of the kitchen. Iron pots bubbling with the noon meal hung on a crane over the flames. Yet, a chill coursed through her. She understood Cora’s attitude more than she cared to admit, for Rose had great difficulty finding God’s loving-kindness in any of the events of her life.
Amelia sipped her tea. “God brought you Samuel, Cora. He’d still be here if you hadn’t chased him off.”
Cora tossed the pan aside, her face deepening to a dark maroon. “That no-good, lazy, sluggard. I’m glad he’s gone.”
“He loved you, Cora.” Amelia shook her head and shifted her shoe over the floor.
Spinning around, Cora grabbed a ladle from a hook on the wall, but not before Rose saw a mist cover her eyes.
“That man don’t know how to love no one.” Bitterness sharpened her tone as she stirred the pot hanging over the fire.
But Rose wondered. She had always found Samuel to be a hard-working man of honor. A man who had not hid his interest in Cora. But in the end, he took off without a word to Cora or any of them. Rose had heard through gossip in town that he had joined the army—the British army.
Amelia stood and headed toward the window. “I miss my family too.”
Rose clutched the woman’s hand in passing. “The plague took many of the townspeople. You’re fortunate to have survived and to have been married to Richard at the time.”
She gave Rose a look of derision. “What did it matter? He is gone now.”
Rose released her hand along with a sigh of resignation. Her aunt and uncle had admonished Rose to always trust God, to not complain, and to share her hope with others. But how could she encourage her friends when she held to her own hope with nothing but a thin thread? “We should trust God,” was all she could think to say.
Cora gave a cynical chuckle. “If this is God’s doin’, I want no part o’ Him.”
Amelia leaned on the window ledge and gazed out. “It seems He has taken everything from me as well.”
Rose stared into the amber-colored tea swirling in her cup. No amount of sugar could dissolve the bitterness in her throat. Was it by the hand of God they had all lost so much? She could make no sense of it. If God loved them, then why had He taken their families from them? She knew God existed. She understood that Jesus had come to earth and died and rose again so those who believed and followed Him would go to heaven. Maybe that was enough. Certainly it was more than any of them deserved. Despite what her uncle declared, perhaps their lives here on earth were meant to be lived without God’s help. Certainly that made more sense than thinking He purposely allowed His children to suffer so much pain.
Alex thanked Cora for the meal as he opened the door to the kitchen and stepped outside. All he received in return was a grunt from the peevish cook. Her dinner of wild goose and corn bread soaked in buttermilk was far better than her disposition. Closing the door, he gazed at the scorching sun that made one last effort to sear his skin as it dipped below the tree line in the western sky. He’d never experienced such sweltering heat. At least not since he’d sailed to Jamaica three years ago. How did these colonists bear it?
Adjusting the crutch beneath his arm, Alex hobbled over to examine his work. A dozen rows of cut logs sat neatly stacked beside the house. How he had managed to do all that work with one good leg, he could not fathom. Especially in the afternoon’s blazing heat. He pressed a hand against his back where an ache had formed hours ago. His wound throbbed, causing him to lean on his good leg, but even that appendage burned with exhaustion.
Turning, he gazed across the farm. He had not seen Miss McGuire since she had turned her pert little nose up at him that morning and sauntered away. Egad, she’d armed herself with a knife. Did she really believe he would hurt her? The thought saddened him.
His glance landed on the pigsty where the stinking beasts grunted and wallowed in the mud. The one named Prinney poked his snout through the wooden posts and looked forlornly toward the barn as if he were waiting for Miss McGuire’s appearance.
Infernal woman. Naming a pig after the Prince Regent! Yet Alex couldn’t help the smile that played on his lips even as his insides churned with indignation. Truly these colonists were every bit the unrefined, uncultured ruffians he’d been led to believe. And Miss McGuire. He’d never encountered such a woman in all his days. Hair consistently out of place, gowns stained with dirt, consorting with pigs and cows. Yet a healthy, fresh glow brightened her face much more than any powder and rouge he’d seen on the ladies back home, and her eyes—those lustrous eyes as clear and sparkling as the turquoise sea in the West Indies.
He really couldn’t blame her for wanting him gone. Despite the pain spiking up his back, he felt his strength returning. Soon enough he would relieve her of his company and head back to the crazy ramblings of Captain Milford and the tight confines of the HMS Undefeatable. So unlike the open spaces of this beautiful land. The western sky lit up with splashes of maroon, orange, and gold. He drew a deep breath of air and instantly regretted it. Lowering
his chin, he took a whiff of his shirt. He smelled of sour milk, pig droppings, and sweat. If only his father, Lord Cranleigh, could see him now.
Squawks shot from the barn, and Alex hobbled in that direction. Prinney grunted at him as he passed, and Alex made a face at the filthy beast before he swept his gaze to Miss McGuire’s garden divided into neat rows of tomatoes, some type of squash, lettuce, potatoes, and corn. Guarding either side of the open barn doors stood two flourishing rosebushes, boasting pink and red blossoms. Yet their sweet scent did nothing to assuage the stench emanating from within. As Alex shuffled inside, he flinched at the sight that met his eyes. Miss McGuire sat in the dirt at the center of the barn, gown spread out around her, with a chicken in her lap. Unaware of his presence, she spoke softly to the bird while she stroked the chicken’s feathers. The bird clucked and snuggled against her gown like a cat, and Mr. Reed stood frozen in astonishment. His crutch shifted and struck the wooden doorframe.
She jerked her face up. “Mr. Reed.” Her eyes widened. “I thought you were partaking of your supper.” Shooing the bird from her lap, she jumped to her feet.
Alex repositioned the crutch and shuffled inside. “I was. Forgive the intrusion, Miss McGuire, but I heard squawking and thought something might be amiss.”
“No, I was just … just …” She lowered her gaze.
“Petting a chicken?” He grinned.
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, if you must know. They are my pets.”
“Indeed? I thought you ate them.” He wrinkled his nose at the smell of horse and cow dung that permeated the barn.
“Shhh.” She cast a harried gaze around her. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
If Alex didn’t realize she was serious, he would have laughed out loud. As it was, he simply gazed at her, amazed that she always managed to astonish him and bring a chuckle to his lips.
“You have dirt”—he brushed a finger over his own cheek—“there on your face.”
She swiped at it, a look of annoyance crinkling her features.
Alex stretched his tight shoulders and took another step toward her. “Did you miss your dinner?”
“Supper. And no, Aunt Muira, Amelia, and I ate earlier in the dining room.”
“Ah, I’ve been reduced to a servant again.”
“Not reduced, sir.”
“Ah, you are correct, madam.” He gave a mock bow to which she pursed her lips and glanced out the door as if planning her escape.
“Where is your uncle?” he asked, longing to extend his conversation with this bewildering, charming lady.
“In town, I assume.” She moved toward Liverpool and began to stroke the cow’s head. “He does much work ministering at the taverns by the docks.”
The cow groaned her approval, then swept her huge brown eyes toward Alex as if to prod him into jealousy at the attention she was receiving. Fiendish beast.
“I see you finished the work I gave you.” Miss McGuire continued petting the cow.
“As I informed you, miss, I am accustomed to hard labor.” He rubbed his sore palms where blisters stung in defiance of his statement.
“I thought perhaps your wound would slow you down.” She lifted her gaze to his.
He took a step toward her.
She stepped back, fingering the handle of the knife still wedged in her leather sash. “But I see you are getting stronger.”
Alex halted. He hated that she feared him. A breeze blew in, sending the wisps of her hair fluttering about her shoulders even as the last traces of sunlight set them aglow. He shifted his stance uncomfortably and tried to do the same with his gaze. But his eyes refused to let go of their hold upon her as if losing her visage would leave them cold and empty.
Miss McGuire blinked. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Alex hesitated but the truth spilled unbidden from his lips. “Because you are quite lovely, Miss McGuire.”
Shock flashed in her eyes before she swept them down to her soiled gown, then over to Liverpool. She huffed. “You tease me, sir.”
“I never tease.”
Darkness stole the last shreds of light from the barn, leaving only the light from a single lantern hanging from the post.
“I should be going inside.” Miss McGuire headed toward the door. “Please douse the lantern when you leave.”
Alex stepped aside to allow her to pass when a gong, gong, gong rang through the night air.
She froze and stared wide-eyed at him.
“It’s only a bell, miss.”
“It’s the bell from St. Peters.” She glanced out the door, her lip quivering as her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“What does it mean?”
Gong. Gong. Gong.
“It’s to warn us.” She swallowed. “British raiders have been spotted near town.”
A mixture of shame and anger battled within Alex. With his only thought to comfort her, he drew her into his arms. She tightened in his embrace stiffer than a sail at full wind. He nudged her back. “Go into the house. I’ll keep you safe.”
“No!” She jerked from him, anger darkening her features. “You are one of them.”
Alex felt her statement slam into his gut. “I told your uncle I would protect you, and I will.”
“You owe me nothing.” Grabbing her skirts, she started to leave when Alex clutched her arm.
“I will never allow anyone to hurt you.”
“Go join your friends, Mr. Reed.” She hissed, then tore from his grasp and dashed out the door just as the crack of a musket shot split the evening sky.
CHAPTER 10
Gripping the banister in one hand and the folds of her nightdress in the other, Rose crept down the narrow stairway. The aged wood creaked beneath her bare feet and she halted, holding her breath. No sounds met her ears save the slight hiss of wind swirling about the outside of the house. She inched down a few more steps. From the parlor on her right, a single candle sent flickering ribbons of light out the door onto the dark foyer floor. She eased to a spot halfway down the stairs.
Then she saw him. Mr. Reed.
A traitorous wave of relief sped through her, for she had assumed she would not find him at his post. Sinking onto one of the stairs, Rose positioned herself for a better view and drew her knees to her chest. With only a single candle to light the parlor, Mr. Reed stood by the fireplace, one boot atop the base of the hearth, her uncle’s Brown Bess stiff in his arms.
Wide awake and guarding them like a protective father … or husband.
Despite her angry demands that he join the British raiders, he had ushered her inside the house and once they had gathered Amelia and Aunt Muira, he had assured them that in Uncle Forbes’s absence, he would guard them with his life. Amelia nearly swooned in his arms, while Aunt Muira remained the epitome of feminine courage. Rose wondered how brave her aunt would be if she knew it was a British naval officer who offered them his protection.
But when her aunt had handed Mr. Reed the Brown Bess that hung over the fireplace in the dining room, Rose’s fear had risen another notch. It was bad enough to have an enemy in their home, but an armed one was beyond the pale. Now he could do with them as he pleased or worse, hail his compatriots wandering about in the forest to come join in the siege.
But no. Rose no longer believed that.
Mr. Reed let out a long sigh, rubbed his eyes, then took up a hobbled pace across the room. Raindrops pattered on the roof as he paused at the corner of a window and lifted a flap of the wooden shutters to peer into the night. Releasing the tab, he resuming his shuffle. Fatigue tugged at his stern features. At well past midnight, the man must have been beyond exhaustion. Especially after all the hard work he’d done that day—work Rose had forced upon him. Guilt pinched her heart. She had expected him to either be gone or fast asleep. Certainly not standing his post as if he were on watch aboard his ship.
With musket propped in one arm, he took a turn about the room. Lines of concern edged his face. Concern for them? Concern
for his countrymen? Confusion threatened to crush Rose’s disdain for this British man. He moved out of her sight for a moment. His boots thudded over the floorcloth of coarsely woven wool. But then he emerged once again on the other side of the parlor. He stretched his neck and eased back his broad shoulders. Despite his limp, with his head up and stubbled chin jutted forward, he walked with the authority of a man in command. A man who was well equipped to deal with any situation that came his way. She envisioned him in his dark blue navy coat with brass buttons and service sword at his side, and a burst of warmth flooded her—no doubt due to the hot humid night.
Surely as a second lieutenant aboard a British warship, he carried a great deal of authority. The weight of that responsibility seemed to sit heavy on his shoulders tonight. Or perhaps it was the dichotomy of protecting Rose and her family against his own countrymen. She had not considered, until now, the conflict the poor man must be suffering.
Because she had not considered that he would protect them at all.
Reaching the fireplace again, he leaned one arm upon the mantel and released a sigh. He rubbed his tight jaw and gazed across the room. Resolve and deliberation reflected in his hazel eyes. And something else—an anguish that set Rose aback.
Her thoughts drifted to the way he had looked at her in the barn. A look that had sent her belly aquiver. A look as if she was something precious to cherish and protect.
Rose squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. No. What was wrong with her? He was a British enemy. A spy, most likely. And he would soon be gone.
A sob caught in her throat at the thought. He froze at the sound and glanced her way. Rose’s pulse quickened. He approached the door, peering into the darkness. Leaping from her seat, she darted up the stairs into her chamber and quietly pressed the door shut behind her. Her heart crashed against her chest as she leaned back against it. But no creak of stairs sounded. When her breath settled, she grabbed the lit candle on her desk and dropped to the floor beside a trunk at the foot of her bed. Lifting the lid, she rummaged through the contents: a stack of books, an old jewelry box, a deck of cards. A cool musty smell saturated the air. She grabbed the blanket her mother had knitted for her when she was a child and drew it to her nose, but her mother’s lilac scent had long since faded. Beneath it, the McGuire family Bible stared up at her. Setting down the candle, she began sifting through crackling pages—pages she hadn’t read in years. There, stuffed somewhere in Psalms, was the letter.
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