The Indigo Blade

by Linda Jones

  It took no more than five minutes to liberate the rebels, bind and gag the unfortunate guards, and lock the prison door once again. The lantern had been extinguished, and Max was certain the men they rescued could see his face no more clearly than he could see theirs. That was, as always, for the best.

  "In spite of our current state of dress, we're friends, of that I can assure you."

  They nodded solemnly. “These four gentlemen,” he gestured to the men who surrounded them, “will take you to a place where you'll be safe until transport to a more friendly haven can be arranged."

  "I'm not leaving,” one of them said softly. “This is my home."

  "I suggest at least a temporary absence,” Garrick added sardonically. “I have no wish to attempt this rescue endeavor on each and every night. Chadwick will be actively searching for you by morning, I can assure it."

  How could you argue with a man who wanted only to defend his home? Max couldn't. Tonight, the men would be delivered to safety in Cypress Crossroads. After that, their fate was in their own hands.

  Max had a feeling that before long no one would be truly safe.

  Dalton took one rebel onto his horse, and Lewis the other. Garrick and John followed, and the group rode away with dignity and aplomb as if they had every right to be parading through the darkened streets of Charles Town.

  When they were out of sight, Max drew the dagger from his belt. The short and sharp blade grew wickedly from a wooden handle that was engraved with the image of an indigo plant. There was even a brushing of the blue dye washed into the wood. He held the note to the prison door, and with all the force he could muster, he drove the blade through the note and into the door.

  The words that were illuminated in the moonlight were large and flowing, the message short and to the point.

  Chadwick—you possess nothing I cannot take away. It was signed, with a flourish, The Indigo Blade.

  The noise beneath her window, soft and indistinct as it was, disturbed her. All was completely quiet but for Penelope's heart, so she sat up warily, certain the rustle was not a figment other imagination. And then the answer came to her.

  Maximillian.

  She sprang from her bed. He likely wasn't having any better luck finding sleep than she, on this the eve of their wedding.

  The window opened noiselessly and she leaned forward, listening to the silent night and waiting for the sound to come again. It did, a rustle in the bushes beneath her window.

  "Maximillian?” she whispered.

  She saw movement, a tall figure staggering through the shrubbery. It took her but a single glance to know that the man beneath her window was not Maximillian.

  He heard her voice, though, and lifted his head. Hair paler than Maximillian's shone in the moonlight, and a familiar face was awash with anguish.

  "Heath Lowry?” What on earth was he doing beneath her window in the middle of the night?

  He lifted a hand slowly. “Help me,” he whispered, his voice loud in the still night air.

  Penelope didn't think twice. She grabbed her velvet cloak and tossed it over her shoulders as she hurried silently down the stairs in bare feet. She exited through the side door, stepping into the cold night air and searching for Heath once again.

  He was sitting amidst the bushes with his back against the brick wall of the house and his head in his hands.

  "What's wrong?” she asked, taking a single step forward. He was breathing heavily, his legs trembled, and she could see the dark stain at his side that could only be blood. “I'll get my uncle.” She spun away, but Heath's harsh utterance stopped her.

  "No."

  Penelope turned in time to see Heath lift his head. It wasn't simply the moonlight that made him appear pale. He was badly hurt. “I've been shot, Penelope,” he whispered. “Damned British soldiers."

  "A doctor..."

  "No. I can't trust anyone.” His eyes were beseeching. “Not my family, not my friends. I don't know who to turn to. People say they sympathize, but how can I know that they're telling the truth?” He tried to rise, but fell clumsily back into place. “Can I trust you, Penelope?"

  "Yes.” Her answer was immediate and sure. “Of course you can trust me."

  There wasn't time to panic, and like Heath she didn't know where to turn for help. “First we must get you inside. It's much too cold out here. The carriage house will do nicely."

  She stepped into the shrubbery, ignoring the chill of her bare feet and the snag of a number of twigs. “Come along,” she said, offering her arm and, as Heath rose, every ounce of her strength. He leaned against her as they stepped away from the house and toward the rear of the property.

  "What happened?” she asked as they moved slowly across the damp grass.

  "Didn't you hear the news?"

  "No. I've been very busy this week. I'm getting married tomorrow—today,” she amended.

  "There was a demonstration, and a skirmish,” he said weakly. “It was meant to be a peaceful protest, but tempers flared. Words were shouted back and forth, and then Timothy threw a rock, damn his hide. A soldier fired, and then more rocks were thrown, and then ... It was chaos, Penelope."

  "I didn't know your sympathies were with the rebels,” she said as they reached the carriage house at last.

  "You're not going to turn me in, are you?"

  Heath was too weak to do anything about it if she did decide to go to her uncle or to Victor. He could barely stand, in fact. “Of course not,” she assured him. “You're my friend, Heath. I would never do anything to harm a friend."

  The carriage house here was smaller than the one on the plantation, being just large enough for the carriage and a single wagon. The interior was pitch black, cavernous and foreign. There was a lantern stored in the far corner, behind the wagon if she remembered correctly. She hoped her memory wasn't faulty in that respect.

  She saw Heath settled on the floor, and then she felt her way to the far corner, hands against the wall, until she found the lantern. She lit it, and then she set about finding what she could to tend his wound and returned to his side.

  The injury was nasty, black and red torn flesh, and the sight of the wound in the lamplight turned her stomach—but she was careful not to show her squeamishness. Her distress would only disturb Heath, and that wouldn't be good for him. Not now. She could be strong when she had to.

  "I didn't say anything for such a long time,” he said weakly as she cleaned his wound. “My father is a staunch loyalist, like your uncle, and I didn't dare to disagree with him, not aloud. I was afraid to oppose him, afraid I'd lose my family for politics."

  "I know what you mean,” Penelope said as she cleaned away fresh and dried blood.

  "Then you want freedom, too?” There was a touch of surprise in Heath's voice.

  "I don't know,” she whispered. Until this moment, politics had seemed a distant and rather boring subject, the discussions of loyalty and freedom abstract concepts her uncle and Victor discussed at great length.

  But this was real. Blood and pain, a son defying his father...

  "I believe with all my heart,” Heath whispered. “Independence, a new nation. I'd personally like to send every last one of those redcoats back to England where they belong."

  "You shouldn't talk—"

  "Sometimes a man has to stand up for what he knows is right, no matter what the cost.” Heath took labored, deep breaths and stared away from her as she tended him. “Men are going to die, Penelope, and I might be one of them."

  "Don't say such things..."

  "I don't want to die, but I can't live like a coward, hiding behind my father's money and power, accepting what I'm told when I know what's right. I can't hide any more."

  The bleeding had stopped, and Heath seemed to be resting easier. “Tomorrow I'll have to find you a doctor."

  "No.” Heath shook his head and closed his eyes. “I just need to rest here for a few hours. I'll be gone before the sun comes up."

  "You can'
t possibly go anywhere in your condition.” Goodness, he was badly hurt. He needed rest, good food, and proper care. Care she couldn't give him.

  He reached out blindly and found her hand. “I can, and I must. Thank you, Penelope. I won't forget this, I promise you."

  "Heath?"

  He opened one eye, and in spite of it all he gave her a crooked smile. “Yes?"

  "Take care of yourself,” she whispered, and then she left him to sleep.

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  Chapter Seven

  The wedding was a fantasy, a wondrous page out of a magical story book. The church was decorated in white and gold to match Penelope's wedding dress and the silk suit her groom wore. White flowers and gold bows filled the church, and an extravagant number of candles burned brilliantly all around, even though it was the middle of the day, and soft light broke through the church windows.

  A violin, a viola, and a cello played a canon by Pachelbel to set the mood for the many guests. Maximillian had made all the arrangements himself.

  This was more than a marriage ceremony for Penelope, more than the simple promise to take Maximillian as her husband. It was the beginning of a new life and she knew, as she spoke her vows before friends and strangers and the man she was beginning to love, that after today her life would never be the same. That knowledge was frightening and exciting, thrilling and comforting.

  Surely no bride had ever been more adored. The love Maximillian professed shone clearly in his eyes, and his smile told her more than the words he spoke with such quiet passion. What more could any woman ask for?

  After the ceremony they rode in Maximillian's finest carriage to William Seton's house. Married at last, it seemed they'd both become suddenly shy. They held hands and said little on the short ride, and Maximillian kissed her—twice.

  Though peeved that she'd chosen Maximillian over Victor, Uncle William had still found the graciousness to throw a wedding party at his home. A cautious man, always, he was not blind to the fact that Maximillian Broderick had quickly become an important man in Charles Town. The fact that Maximillian refused to discuss politics at all, and the fact that he expressed greater concern over the cut of his clothes than the state of the colonies, were overshadowed—in Uncle William's calculating eyes—by his wealth and social standing.

  It seemed to Penelope that everyone in Charles Town had crowded into her uncle's home: old friends and acquaintances, as well as those who were simply curious about the couple who'd met and married so quickly. Yes, everyone was here, she noticed, but the Lowrys and Victor Chadwick.

  There were muted whispers all around, and she knew Heath was most likely the subject of many of those quiet conversations. Poor Harriet Lowry was probably worried sick about her youngest son. Penelope hoped that Heath had, at the very least, found a way to get word to his family that he was well. Family was important, and surely they could put their political differences aside in this trying time.

  True to his word. Heath had vanished before daylight. Penelope had slipped quietly to the carriage house as the sun rose, with a bite to eat for the wounded man, but he was already gone. The blanket she'd covered him with was neatly folded and returned to the back of the wagon, and all signs that anyone had spent the night in the carriage house were gone.

  Penelope, standing at her husband's side and observing the crowd, gripped his arm tightly and smiled when she spotted Tyler stalking across the room. “I swear, I believe he's grown three inches since I left him at the plantation."

  Fifteen years old and convinced he was a man defiant in all matters great and small, a young man who had always taken great pleasure in teasing his sister and his cousin, Tyler Seton was the light of Penelope's life. He was growing so handsome. Tall lithe, with dark blond hair and bright blue eyes much like their mother's, he already had the makings of a ladies’ man.

  And he never walked. He ran, he charged, and today he sauntered arrogantly.

  "I'm so glad you arrived before the ceremony,” Penelope said, greeting her brother with a hug and a kiss. Uncle William had promised to make the arrangements to bring her brother to Charles Town for the wedding, but Penelope had worried needlessly that Tyler wouldn't arrive in time. It had been a great comfort to see him sitting sullenly in the church.

  Tyler turned accusing eyes on Maximillian. He looked the groom up and down, taking in the white silk and polished shoes, the lace cravat and immaculately groomed hair that made his own locks look quite haphazardly arranged. “You could have done better,” he said as he turned back to Penelope.

  "Tyler!"

  "He's quite right, m'dear,” Maximillian said lightly, apparently not in the least bit offended. “I'm not good enough for you, but then again what mortal man would be?” He turned sparkling gray-green eyes to Tyler. “But as you are her brother and protector and clearly have her best interests at heart, I will tell you this. I will care for Penelope and cherish her as no one else can. I give you my word, she's in good hands."

  Tyler's eyes narrowed. “She'd better be."

  Mary crept up behind Tyler and gave him a big hug before he could slip away. Her smile was as bright as Penelope had seen since the Lowrys’ ball—since the night she'd met Maximillian.

  Every man in the room had kept an eye on Mary this evening. Every man but Maximillian, Penelope amended silently. Mary was beautiful, as always, but tonight she sparkled. Her red hair was flawlessly styled, her blue gown suited her perfectly, and her smile was genuine.

  Penelope wanted the best for her cousin. If only Mary could find this kind of happiness.

  "I thought you would never arrive,” Mary said as she kissed Tyler on the cheek. Since he already stood six feet tall, she had to stand on her toes to manage the feat. “You whisked into the church just in time, not a moment too soon. Is Father going to allow you to stay for a while?"

  Tyler would have accompanied them to Charles Town weeks ago, if he hadn't had an argument with Uncle William just days before their departure.

  Tyler smiled widely. “If I behave myself, I'll be allowed to stay until you and Uncle William return to the plantation."

  "I see,” Mary said, wide-eyed. “Behave yourself? Why, you might as well not bother to unpack.” She laughed, and half a dozen admiring male heads turned in her direction. At that moment, Penelope was certain that whatever had been tormenting her cousin for the past few weeks had been resolved, and that all would be well.

  Tyler was here, Mary was happy, and Penelope was married to a wonderful man who clearly adored her. What more could she ask for?

  After she'd received the well wishes of every prominent citizen of Charles Town, when the guests were well-fed and glowing with the consumption of too much fine wine, her husband took her arm and placed his mouth near her ear.

  "I have waited as long as I possibly can. It's time to go home, my love,” he whispered.

  "Yes,” she answered with a smile. “Time to go home."

  * * * *

  It was a moment Max knew he'd remember all his days, a worthy memory to banish his nightmares, as he carried his bride into the house. It was more than a house, now, more than a building filled with fine furnishings and treasures from around the world. It was home.

  The only real home he'd ever known, a place for the heart to rest and rejoice. A place for family.

  He carried Penelope through the vacant foyer and directly to the spiral staircase, up without pause to the second floor and the bedchamber that awaited.

  Luxurious with gold and white and mahogany, the room was lit by a low blaze that burned in the hearth. Unlit candles sat on a table beside the bed, and flowers from the garden had been haphazardly arranged in vases on the dresser and the mantle above the fireplace. For all their protests, his friends had seen that everything was ready for him and his bride.

  "It's the most beautiful room I've ever seen,” Penelope said softly as he placed her on her feet. Her eyes roamed over the fine furnishings, at first avoiding but finally resting up
on the tall, wide bed.

  She was nervous. Of course she was nervous. He had no doubt but that this was a right and honorable union ... but Penelope still had her doubts. About love, about marriage, about the way of a man and a woman in the bed she so studiously avoided looking at.

  Max closed the door, and Penelope jumped—just a little. He noticed, of course, as he noticed everything about his bride.

  "I've known you less than three weeks,” he said, unable to hide the wonder in his voice, “and yet I feel like I've waited for this moment forever."

  Penelope turned her eyes to him then. Lifting her chin, she stared up with big, dark brown eyes that were endlessly deep, eternal in their mystery.

  Max placed his hands on her face, cupping her cheeks and making sure she didn't look away. “I love you,” he whispered. “For my very life, I would not hurt you."

  "I know,” she whispered.

  He kissed her lips before dropping his hands to her shoulders, tasted her sweetness and innocence, promised her more with the passion that was building within him. Her response was gentle, a softening of her mouth, the gradual parting of her lips.

  His fingers touched the column of her neck, skin so soft and silky, tender skin that none but he had caressed. Beneath his fingers, she trembled.

  He kissed her there, where a vein throbbed with every beat of her heart. She was his. His wife, his love, his soul. And he was hers with every fiber of his being.

  He removed her wedding dress, his fingers slipping with deceptive indolence through the ties as he kissed her lips and her neck, his hands cautiously pushing the fabric away so he could feast his eyes on her.

  She was lovely, more lovely than any sight he'd ever beheld. The gently rounded shoulders, the well-shaped arms and legs, the curve of her hip, all was perfection. When he stripped away her chemise to leave her completely bare, she raised her hands to cover her breasts, and blushed.

  "No,” he whispered, and he took her wrists in his hands and slowly drew them down. She didn't resist. “Let me see all of you. You're so very beautiful."

  His bride stood before him, naked, shy, and unafraid.