Rose grasped her hands. They trembled.
“I am beginning to believe that no man can ever take Richard’s place,” Amelia said.
Rose swallowed. She wouldn’t have agreed with her maid a week ago. A week ago, she would have told her to give up her romantic, fanciful notions. She would have told her that one man was as good as the next, as long as he was honorable and hard-working. But Mr. Reed had changed everything. Rose had never met anyone like him. And she doubted she ever would again. Suddenly a hint of Amelia’s pain filled her own heart, and tears blurred her vision.
Amelia lowered her chin. “I need to find a husband. I’ve burdened your aunt and uncle long enough.”
Rose gripped her shoulders and resisted the urge to shake her. “Don’t be such a silly goose, Amelia. You are family now. Surely you know that.” She wiped a wet strand of hair from Amelia’s face.
“Well I suppose if that weren’t true, they would have dismissed me long ago.” Amelia’s laugh came out as a sob, and Rose drew her into a tight embrace and held her until her sobs subsided and they both drifted off to sleep.
Alex hoisted the ax above his head. His muscles burned. Sweat streamed down his bare back. He thrust the blade into the wood, then repeated the process again and again until finally the log separated into two. A sound that reminded him of a ship’s mast snapping shot through the air. Halting, he settled his breath as James Myers strode up to him, a bucket of water in hand, and scooped him a ladleful. Alex set down the ax and poured the cool liquid into his mouth until it dribbled down his chin. After handing the ladle back to James, he ran a hand through his sweat-moistened hair. “Thank you.”
Dropping the ladle into the bucket, James scanned the scene. “It is I who should thank you, Mr. Reed.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and Alex followed his gaze to the house, or what was left of it.
“It would please me if you would call me Alex.”
James chuckled. “It would please you? Now, aren’t you the gentleman? With that accent, you could almost be mistaken for some elegant British nobleman.”
Alex coughed into his hand. “God forbid.”
From across the field, Mr. Drummond strolled up to them. “And just what does God forbid?” He tugged off his hat and ran his sleeve over his forehead.
James scooped some water for the elderly man. “God forbid that Mr. Reed … I mean Alex would be a British nobleman.”
A sparkle lit Mr. Drummond’s brown eyes as he snapped them to Alex. “A travesty, indeed.”
Unsettled by the man’s keen perusal, Alex gazed back at the house. With all the burnt rubble cleared away, the structure appeared sound. Shards of darkened wood poked out from the remainder of what had been the kitchen, but the foundation was intact. Two young men from town, Mr. Anders and Mr. Braxton stood atop the roof joining the new frame to the existing one. A week or so of hard work should make the humble home as good as new. Not that Alex knew anything about carpentry, but he’d overheard as much from Mr. Drummond.
Alex stretched his shoulders, wincing at the ache that spread down his back. Though he’d been forced to lift heavy objects and perform various laborious tasks in the navy, he couldn’t recall ever wielding so large an ax or working so hard and long in such sweltering heat—not even when he’d chopped wood for Miss McGuire. Oddly, Alex embraced his discomfort. For the first time in his life, his hard work served a noble purpose. Shading his eyes, he glanced up at the sun slinging fiery rays upon him as if the glowing orb were angry at some offense. Which one? Alex wondered.
Hot wind whipped around him, and he closed his eyes, allowing it to cool his chest and arms. He drew in a deep breath of air tainted with a hint of salt and sweet summer flowers.
James clapped him on the back. “Well, I thank you again, Alex.” True appreciation beamed in the man’s eyes. “Now I best get this water over to Harold and Jarvis and then get back to my own work.” He tipped his hat and headed toward the house.
Mr. Drummond’s gaze remained on Alex. “Not done much carpentry work before, eh?”
Alex chuckled and picked up his ax. “Is it that obvious?”
“Just a bit. But you’re doing a great job, son. Thank you for staying. We’ll have this house up in no time.”
“It’s the least I could do.” Alex said the words before he realized their implication.
Mr. Drummond scratched his gray whiskers, and a hint of a smile flickered over his lips. “Now why would you say something like that?”
Alex gripped the ax handle so tight a splinter of wood pierced his skin. If the man only knew. “I meant after all this family has suffered.” When Mr. Drummond had asked Alex to help rebuild this poor farmer’s home, Alex had seen it as a way to offer penance for the crimes of his countrymen. He hated that he’d had to break his promise that he would leave last night, but how could he refuse the opportunity?
“You are a kind soul, indeed, son.” Mr. Drummond’s look of approval nearly forced Alex to take a step back. Then, smiling, the man turned and walked away.
Alex watched him as he left: the slight hobble in his gait as if one of his legs pained him, his gray hair poking out in all directions from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, the humble yet confident lift of his shoulders. And a longing welled within Alex, a longing to have a father like Mr. Drummond. Alex’s own father had never paid him a single compliment, nor even a kind word or encouragement.
Mr. Drummond took up his spot leaning over a log, shaping and cutting the ends with a long knife while James perched atop a ladder giving water to his friends. He must have said something funny as the men atop the roof joined him in laughter. Alex shook his head. These people found joy even in the midst of tragedy, even with their country at war and the enemy surrounding them. These Americans might be a rustic breed, but they were hardy and they cared for one another. They helped one another. Alex had seen nothing like it in his life. Men willing to give up a day’s or a week’s worth of hard work for someone else. And receive nothing in return. Astonishing. Shame drew his gaze to the grass surrounding his boots—shame at his own reason for offering his assistance. Penance. A purely selfish reason that had nothing to do with kindness.
Hoisting the ax onto his shoulder, Alex moved to the next felled trunk and dug the blade deep into the wood, angry at himself, angry at his father, angry at his countrymen. And even angry at Miss McGuire for being so charming and wonderful.
And for stealing his heart.
Rose clucked her tongue and nudged Valor forward. After both her and Amelia’s difficult night last night, Rose thought it best that they find something productive to do today. If only to keep their minds off their sorrows. So when Cora had informed her that Uncle Forbes was over at the Myers’ farm helping to rebuild James and Elaine’s house, Rose decided to bring him lunch, along with enough food for any other men helping out. And perhaps speak to Elaine again.
“Oh I do hope Mr. Braxton will be there. I know he’s a friend of Mr. Myers.” Amelia’s excited chatter drifted over Rose’s shoulder even as the woman’s grip on Rose’s waist tightened. “Maybe he’ll ask me to the ball.”
Rose let out a huff, amazed that Amelia could recover so quickly from a night of such anguish. But then again, Rose knew the woman’s flirtatious ways were the only thing that gave her the strength and impetus to survive another day without Richard.
She patted Amelia’s hand. “Maybe he will.”
Pushing up the brim of her straw hat, Rose gazed at the archway of thick elm branches overhead. Trumpet vines spun upward around their trunks and curled around branches before dangling over the dirt path like the green tresses of a forest maiden. Rose swatted one away and drew a deep breath of the fresh mossy air, trying to allay the ache in her heart.
“There they are.” Amelia’s arm speared out on Rose’s right side.
Two men stood atop what was left of the roof, her uncle and James leaned over a massive log perched above the ground on two wooden trestles, and out in the field stood anot
her man, ax raised over his head, dark hair blowing in the breeze.
Bare-chested.
Rose’s stomach clamped tight. Her heart raced. Removing one hand from the reins, she rubbed her eyes and refocused them on the man.
“It’s Mr. Reed,” Amelia said with merely a hint of surprise in her voice. “What is he doing here?”
Rose ‘s thoughts spun in a chaotic jumble. “I have no idea.”
“Oh my, look at him.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why not? He’s absolute perfection.”
“My word, Amelia, shame on you. You shouldn’t stare at him.” But even as she said it, Rose’s eyes shot his way again as if they had a mind of their own. He plunged the ax into a log, then yanked it free and lifted it over his head once more. Muscles as firm as the wood he chopped rippled through his chest and arms beneath skin glistening in the noon sun. She swallowed and urged Valor through the open gate and up the path to the house, where she pulled the horse to a stop. Her uncle looked up from his work and smiled. “There you are, lass.”
James dug his ax deep into the wood and rushed over to assist Rose from her horse. After her feet hit the ground, she turned and took the basket of food from Amelia before James assisted her down as well.
“We brought you lunch.” Rose held the basket out to James.
James leaned forward and took a whiff. “Very kind of you, Miss Rose.”
The two men on the roof descended the ladder and dropped to the ground, heading their way.
Amelia pinched her cheeks then turned to face them. “Good day, Mr. Braxton.” She gave the young man a coy glance.
Doffing his hat, he ran a hand through his blond hair and nodded in her direction. “Good day, Mrs. Wilkins. A pleasure to see you again.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Rose saw Mr. Reed toss a shirt over his head and start toward them. “Is Elaine home, James?” she said. “I’d love to see her.”
“No, I’m afraid not.” James placed the basket atop a table covered with carpentry tools. “She went to stay with the Brandons in town until I can get the house repaired.”
“How is she doing?”
“As well as you might expect, Miss Rose. She’ll be sorry she missed you.” Anguish burned in James’s blue eyes before a gentle smile stole it away.
Mr. Reed’s tall figure filled the corner of Rose’s eyes. Part of her was furious that he had not left, the other part elated. In truth, she had no idea which part to embrace. She decided on anger. It was the safer choice. “We should be going.” She could not question him now in front of these men. Turning, she tugged on Amelia’s sleeve, but the woman continued talking with Mr. Braxton.
Uncle Forbes approached Rose, a smile on his face. “So soon? I’ll not hear of it, lass.”
“It’s far too hot this time of day, Uncle.” Rose batted the muggy air around her neck. “You can bring the basket home with you later.”
“Come, come, my dear.” He proffered his elbow. “I’ll grab my lunch, and we can sit under the tree by the pond.”
Mr. Reed approached James and peered into the basket. His hazel eyes latched upon Rose. Regret flickered across them along with a burning affection that caused her skin to flush.
Turning away from him, Rose took her uncle’s arm. “Very well.” At least she would be away from Mr. Reed. Away from his effect on her. From the way one look from him could dismantle her anger and turn her insides to mush.
The warmth and strength emanating from Uncle Forbes’s arm helped ease Rose’s taut nerves as they made their way to the huge oak tree. Lowering onto the soft grass, Rose spread out her skirts as her uncle excused himself to get his lunch. Untying the ribbon beneath her chin, she drew off her hat and gazed at the leaves fluttering in the breeze, the red and yellow marigolds in Elaine’s garden, the ducks gliding over the pond. Yet voices drew her gaze back toward the house where her uncle stood in deep conversation with Mr. Reed. Grabbing one of the lunch bundles, Mr. Reed headed her way.
Her way?
Too late to jump to her feet and run away.
Tightening her jaw, she returned her gaze to the pond, trying to erect barriers around her heart. His shadow fell across her. He cleared his throat.
She glanced up.
“Your uncle said you wished to speak to me.” A breeze twirled among the dark strands of his hair.
With a frown, Rose searched for her uncle and found him sitting with James and Mr. Anders, eating his food. Why would he say such a thing?
“Miss McGuire?” The deep timbre of Mr. Reed’s voice caressed her ears.
She forced a stoic expression. “I fear he was mistaken, Mr. Reed.”
“Then forgive the intrusion, miss.” He nodded and turned to leave.
“Why are you still here?” she called after him.
He swung about, a puzzled look on his face. “You are angry?”
“No.” Rose fingered a blade of grass. “Yes … I don’t know. It’s just that I prepared myself for you leaving.”
One dark brow rose. “Prepared?” A spark of hope glimmered in his hazel eyes.
“Oh, never mind.” She waved at him. “Do sit down, Mr. Reed, and eat your lunch.”
He hesitated, glanced over his shoulder, then finally dropped to the ground beside her. He propped his boots on the dirt and leaned his arms across his knees. “When your uncle asked me to help today, I thought it my duty to stay and assist in cleaning up the mess my countrymen made. I hope you understand.”
Understand? That he was an honorable, kind man. Yes, she did. But she wished she didn’t. She wished he were a selfish, arrogant brute who would just leave.
“Rest assured, I intend to leave tonight.” He raked his moist hair back from his face.
“I do not believe you.” She smiled.
He chuckled and unwrapped the cloth bundle in his lap. Pulling out a chunk of yellow cheese, he offered it to her. She broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth. The sharp taste matched the angst brewing in her stomach.
Tearing off a clump of bread, he took a bite and stared at the pond glistening silver in the bright sun. Unable to stop herself, Rose gazed at him, memorizing every detail, the angular cut of his jaw, the black stubble on his chin, the way his dark hair grazed his open collar. Even sitting on the grass, he exuded strength and confidence. The wind flapped his loose shirt, giving her a peek of his chest. She turned away. Her eyes misted. She would miss him—this British naval officer.
Images of her father beckoned to her from deep within her soul. Sudden guilt followed the usual sorrow flooding her, and she lowered her gaze. Surely her feelings for this British man betrayed her father’s memory. And she hated herself for it.
Amelia’s giddy laughter echoed over the field, and Alex glanced in the maid’s direction. The poor woman stood far too close to Mr. Braxton, clinging to his arm and waving her fan about flirtatiously.
“Your companion plays a dangerous game.”
“Why do you say that?” Though Rose could imagine, she wondered at Mr. Reed’s concern.
“She throws herself at every passing man.” He took a bite of dried pork. “She’s a sweet woman, to be sure, but one of these men will take advantage of her.”
“Yes, I fear that as well.” Rose handed him back the cheese, her churning stomach unable to accept another bite.
“Perhaps your uncle can curtail her behavior.” Mr. Reed’s tone carried no condemnation, only concern.
“No, I fear my uncle is too often gone.” Rose plucked a dandelion weed. “Do not think badly of her, Mr. Reed. She is not as wanton as she may seem. Her coquettish ways cover a deep wound.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Reed swallowed his meat and looked her way.
Should Rose tell him the tale? What would it matter if she did? He’d be gone soon anyway. “Her husband was lost at sea two years ago.”
Mr. Reed glanced back at Amelia, but said nothing.
“She believes him dead, but it’s possible that he was imp
ressed by your navy.” Rose allowed anger to seep into her voice.
Sharp eyes snapped her way. “What is his name?”
“Richard Wilkins.”
Something sparked in Alex’s eyes before he looked away.
Rose laid a hand on his arm, her pulse quickening. “You know him?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so … perhaps. The navy impresses many men.”
“Indeed you do.” A welcome disdain ignited in Rose’s belly, and she did all she could to fan its flames. Better to be angry with this man than allow her sentiments to grow for him. “You steal them from their families, never to be seen or heard from again.”
Mr. Reed’s jaw bunched and he released a labored sigh. “It is an inexcusable practice, Miss McGuire, one which I have never approved of. But rest assured”—he gave her a measured look—“your American navy is not without equal blame. They hold our sailors hostage as well.”
“Perhaps. But I thank you for reminding me of something.”
“What is that?”
“That you are British through and through and always will be.” Grabbing her skirts, Rose struggled to stand as modestly as she could. She started to leave. “Good day, Mr. Reed.”
He grabbed her hand, turning her gaze back to him. “I am first and foremost a man, Miss McGuire. Neither British nor American.”
She feigned a tug on his grip, not wanting him to release her. Something deep within his eyes—longing and pain—kept her in place.
He squeezed her hand. “Much to my chagrin, I have discovered that my opinion of you Americans was quite erroneous at best. Perhaps you would offer me the same courtesy?”
Warmth spread from his hand up her arm and down her back, causing her to shudder. “How can I when I know so little of you?”
With a sigh, he glanced toward the pond then back at her, still not releasing her hand. “Very well. If you’ll sit back down, I’ll do my best to regale you with the horrid tale of my childhood.”
Surrender the Night Page 20