Clara looked up at him. “So why is my own age an issue?” she asked defiantly.
“We received reports of two missing women, one of whom has red hair.” His gaze flitted around her uncovered hair. “Your color is more of a golden, honey-brown.”
The heat rose in her cheeks again. It was too poetic a description from practically a stranger. “That is my maid, Annabella,” she said succinctly.
“And how do I know it is not you who is the lady’s maid?” he challenged, his eyebrows raised provokingly. “Never you mind. I have a very knowledgeable source near the area where we found you, and I am certain he will be able to confirm your story.”
Paul. “Then this source of yours will be coming here to identify me?”
“Possibly. He also has men who work for him who might come in his stead. You see, if you really are Lady Clara Strathmore, then you are worth a lot to us in terms of recovering some of our own men who are being held prisoner by the British Army. We intend to barter your life for theirs.”
Clara’s heart raced. So possibly Paul, or maybe Ethan or Redmond, was coming to identify her. Then what? Would she really be able to leave with Paul? Or would the captain force her to return to her husband? Was Paul involved in this somehow and never told her? All she knew was that she could not possibly stay in the fort. She had to find Paul and get a straight answer.
“I understand, captain,” she said softly. “I think I should return to the women and their sewing.”
The captain led her back to the workroom and bowed graciously before taking his leave.
“He likes you, my lady,” whispered Martha once the sewing tasks had been explained to Clara.
“Whatever do you mean?” Clara asked ingenuously.
“Well, I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you. He looked like he was courting you.”
Clara flushed yet again. “The captain is just being polite.”
Martha shrugged. “I suppose. There’s not a woman in this fort who wouldn’t want him to act so politely around her, if you get my meaning. He keeps his distance. Not like any of the other men.”
Clara kept her head down concentrating on her stitches. “Maybe he has a sweetheart back home?”
“Not as I’ve heard. Anyway, if he likes you, you should make the most of it. He’s so very handsome.”
“Yes, I suppose he is,” Clara found herself saying.
“Is your husband very handsome?”
Clara sighed. “Yes, he is, rather.” General Strathmore was incredibly handsome. Unfortunately, he was an utterly horrible man. She could not, would not return to him, and she could not let the captain use her as something to barter. She had to leave, had to try to find Paul. And she had to do it that night.
* * * * *
Lying awake on her cot in the women’s sleeping quarters, Clara found out what Martha had meant when she said the other men of the fort did not keep their distance. Several times during the night, men came into the dormitory quietly and then entered the small curtained spaces of their chosen girls. All around her were the muffled sounds of couples whispering, moving, then finally fornicating. One or two made no secret of their climaxes, crying out as if they were alone and not mounting their amatory attacks in a room full of others.
Disgust shuddered through her. She must have been dead asleep the night before, but she was wide awake now and able to evaluate the situation. There was no reason she could not just leave the room. Surely if some of the men were coming to the women’s dorm, some of the women would be going to the men’s? She thought she had overheard that some of the officers even had their own rooms. Wouldn’t their women prefer to be with their men in private rather than in a communal bedroom?
As quietly as she could, Clara slipped into her own clothes, then tiptoed down the central pathway between the cots, opened the door, and walked out into the night air.
* * * * *
Clamorous pounding on his bedroom door jolted Sam out of bed. He groaned. It was the middle of the blasted night.
“Captain! Wake up!”
It was Patrick, which meant it was serious. Sam threw on his shirt and breeches and unbolted his door.
“What’s wrong, Pat—lieutenant?” he said steadying his sleepy body against the jamb. His eyes flew open the second he saw Lady Clara Strathmore standing before him, with Patrick and one of the night watchmen, Elias Bowman, on either side of her.
“She tried to escape, captain,” said Pat. “Corporal Bowman here caught her and brought her to me. She was wearing this.”
Pat held out a leather belt with a sheath, a sharp knife securely tucked inside.
“Christ,” Sam muttered. He turned to her. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“That I don’t want to be a part of your prisoner exchange scheme.”
Sam studied her. She was hiding something. Why didn’t she want to return to her husband? Pride? Utter disdain for imprisonment? Did she prefer wandering about in the woods to a patriot fort with a bed and food?
He turned to Pat. “What do you suggest we do, lieutenant?”
“She needs to be watched at all times, sir. I suggest you keep her here at night under guard.”
“And where do you suggest I go at night?”
“You’ll also sleep here. As it was in your tent the other night. Sir.”
Sam wanted to throttle him, but he had to rein himself in given their present company. Earlier that day, he had confided in Pat—as his best friend, certainly not as his captain—that he had found the lady quite appealing after she had taken a bath.
“Right.” Sam ran his fingers through his hair as Pat led Lady Strathmore into his quarters. “Go get a cot and blanket from the hospital, corporal,” he instructed, then watched as Elias left to execute his orders.
As Patrick lit a candle stub, Lady Strathmore surveyed the small room, her expression of obstinacy melting into admiration as she took in the simple yet comfortable furnishings. Sam prided himself in his refuge from the business of war: his books, his desk, his well-worn wingback, his washstand with chipped but fine porcelain basin and pitcher, his walnut blanket chest from home.
Lady Strathmore’s gaze landed on his bed, a very comfortable featherbed certainly big enough to accommodate more than one person, an idea Sam entertained for a split second.
“Where am I to sleep?” she asked with a plaintive tone.
Sam was absolutely not going to give up his bed. “In there.” He pointed to a minuscule antechamber along the wall perpendicular to the entrance. Between the annex and the entry door was his bed. “If you’re planning on escaping again, you’ll have to slip past my bed, then slip past the guard at my bolted door.”
She looked at the little room. “May I at least draw the curtain?” she asked, indicating the tattered drape that hung limply in the doorway.
“Yes.” He could at least pretend she was in another room.
She turned to the bookcase. “May I read your books?”
“Yes,” Sam grumbled. “But only in here. Probably not much of interest to you, anyway. Some are in Latin.”
“I can read Latin,” she protested.
That roused him.
“What do you have?”
Despite his annoyance at the whole situation, he had to admit having a highly educated woman in his midst would be diverting. “Caesar’s campaigns and such. Please feel free to read what you like.”
Corporal Bowman returned with a cot and blanket and he and Pat went about setting them up in the antechamber. Sam and Lady Strathmore glanced at each other uncomfortably until she looked away. Suddenly, her hand went to her mouth to cover a grin.
“What now?” he said. He followed her eyes to his crotch. Sam had pulled on his breeches hastily and only the waistband was buttoned. The buttons up the front were undone and a piece of his shirt poked through.
Determined to not lose this battle, he held her gaze as he boldly pushed his shirt in under the fall and fastened one butto
n. “If we are to live together, my lady, you will need to get quite used to such indelicacies.”
Her blush was enchanting.
“What was that?” asked Pat as he joined them from the annex, then shook his head with a smirk at the scene of the roommates glaring at each other. “All finished, my lady. The room is rather small, but you’ll merely be sleeping there, I suppose.”
The cot did indeed take up most of the space. The center of it was lined up with the curtained doorway. Elias had a difficult time extracting himself from the little room before returning to his post.
“Thank you, lieutenant,” she said. “I suppose I’ll just go to sleep now.”
“Lieutenant, I would like to see you outside for a moment,” Sam snarled under his breath.
“Certainly, captain.”
Once outside, Sam dismissed Elias for a piss break before he rounded on Pat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled quietly. “You know I get in a foul mood if I can’t … well, you know, in the morning. I suppose I can just stop what I’m doing during the middle of the day and go frig myself?” He raked his fingers through his hair, grabbed the roots and pulled. “Christ! You are so frustrating sometimes!” His hands continued to hold his head as if to keep it from exploding.
“Look, Sam, she might escape if she remains in the women’s dormitory. That should be first and foremost on your mind. She may very well be a spy. Have you considered that? As for the other, you’ll find time during the day. Or maybe you could do it once she’s asleep.”
“I make noise.”
“Yes,” Pat chuckled. “I know.”
Sam couldn’t stay mad at him for too long. “You are responsible, First Lieutenant Patrick Hamilton, if anything goes wrong with the workings of this fort because of my bad mood.” He stood as close as he could and not cause suspicion. Their mouths were an inch apart.
Patrick licked his lips. “Yes, captain. Now go to bed. I’ll wait outside until Corporal Bowman returns.”
Sam went inside, closed and bolted the door, then leaned his back against it, mulling over his changed living circumstances. He would now have to wear clothing to bed—his shirt or drawers or something. And where the hell was the lady going to pee? She’d have to get her own damn chamber pot. He glanced over at the annex doorway, then froze at the scene before his eyes. Lady Strathmore had taken a candle stub into the little room with her. The light cast her shadow against the curtain, practically sheer from age and wear. Her hands loosened the laces of her stays behind her back, then she lifted the boned garment off her body and twisted around to place it on the floor. The flame of the candle flickered before she came back into focus against the curtain, this time only wearing her shift, the outline of her very feminine body clearly defined. She arched her back ever so slightly as she raised her arms above her head to toy with her hair, shaking it loose until it tumbled down her back. Sam’s body grew warm in response to his now rampant cock. He had to look away, he had to, but he couldn’t.
Until she blew out the light.
All through the night, Lady Strathmore tormented him in his dreams, until he woke with a start, wanting so much to frig himself, aching to spend. He couldn’t, of course, not with her right there. She would hear, wouldn’t she? He resigned himself to being frustrated tomorrow. Pat would get an earful at the very least.
Chapter Twelve
The women said nothing to Clara the next morning. Yet they must have known something was amiss once they saw her changing out of her silk dress, then discovered she did not spend the night in their dorm and a sentinel had been stationed outside Captain Taylor’s door. If anyone asked, she would admit that there was a war going on and she was the wife of the enemy, and that perhaps the captain had received intelligence that necessitated the guarding of the fort’s guest.
Clara picked up her mending, inspecting it with a curious look as she joined the sewing circle. The breeches and shirts were not just torn from soldiering, they were threadbare.
“It’s difficult to keep our men in uniform, Lady Clara,” explained Martha.
“In fact, we really don’t have uniforms at all,” interjected Abby. “Which I suppose is good as we can make whatever it is the men need in whatever color we happen to have.”
Clara was a little perplexed, so the women explained. The occupation of New York by the British necessitated the development of cottage industries as imports could rarely get through, if at all. Weaving homespun cloth of wool and hemp not only helped keep the New York regiments in shirts and tents, it helped the women who lived at the fort to earn their keep.
“Only officers’ wives are allowed to be on the official army ration,” said Martha. “Those of us what have soldiers can share in their victuals. It’s especially hard if there’s a baby on the way.” She nodded at Susie, who was busily spinning hemp. Martha leaned in. “Many of us lost our homes and even our loved ones when the redcoats invaded New York,” she said in a low voice. “This fort is our home now, so we do what we can to help out and the army gives us room and board.”
Clara felt a queasiness in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t given much thought to the colonists who had been displaced because of the war. She now sat amongst them, listening to them chatter away about what role they played in their fight for independence. By “helping out,” it seemed, Martha really meant practically running the fort. Not only did the women mend and make clothing and tents, they worked in the hospital, gardened and cooked, tended the pigs, cows, and chickens, cleaned the common areas and officers’ quarters, and did the laundry.
“Our own Mrs. Scott maintains discipline among the girls,” said Martha, once again speaking quietly. “She doesn’t allow drunkenness, and no whoring, although the girls can be sweet on a soldier.”
“You do so much,” Clara said with awe. “What is it that the men do?” It was a bold question in the heart of a rebel garrison, but Clara was genuinely curious.
Martha laughed softly. “Well, I don’t suppose I should tell you all as you just might tell your husband. We gather and distribute supplies for the militia and the regular army.”
“And the men go out on scouting missions,” Abby added. “They survey the terrain and build bridges.” She suddenly flushed crimson. “That’s what Andrew told me.”
“Abby!” exclaimed Martha with a smile. “Andrew Ross? He’s a nice one, he is.”
Abby leaned in. “But he says some of the men want field action. They want to fight. They think they’re not doing enough for the war. Some of ’em are even bored.” She sat back in her chair. “If you ask me, what we do is awfully important. And I don’t want my Andrew getting shot full of holes. And if any of ’em is bored he can help me do the washing!”
Susie got up from her spinning with a sigh and padded over to the mending area, her hand on her belly. She looked over Clara’s shoulder. “You certainly know what you are doing, Lady Clara,” she said sweetly. She stood there for a moment, admiring Clara’s work, before she asked, “How long have you been in the colonies?”
Clara looked up, and offered a smile. “About a year, I suppose.”
“Do you like it here?” asked Abby with heartfelt enthusiasm. “I mean, is it as nice here as it is in England?”
“Well, the two places are so very different.” It was the most gracious thing to say.
“Do you think women have more rights in England?” Martha blurted.
Clara was taken aback by the question. “I really don’t know.” It was something she had never considered.
“Women have no rights anywhere,” Mrs. Scott boomed, walking in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “We feed and clothe our men, give them babies, and they take us for granted. Like the African slaves, except they don’t keep us in chains. Don’t none of you think they’re fighting this revolution for your freedom.” She nodded at Clara. “When it’s all over, we and our European sisters can start our own revolt.”
“But the rich have more rights,
don’t they?” asked Abby. She turned to Clara. “Isn’t it better for titled women in England?”
“So, if we were all rich we would have rights?” retorted Martha. “I don’t think that’s true, Abby. We’re still women.”
The conversation gave Clara pause. She had never felt she lacked rights at home—until, of course, she got married. Her marriage was forced upon her. “I will admit that I don’t want for anything. I have good food, fine dresses, even jewelry. But I did not make my own choice for marriage,” she confessed. “I simply could not have. My father and brother made the choice for me.”
There was a brief moment of silence, before Mrs. Scott asked, “And do you love the man, dear?”
No one had ever asked her that question before. Love was irrelevant for her class. What she felt for Paul was definitely love. There was not a shred of the sentiment in her relationship with the general. “We have nothing in common, really,” she said evasively. “He’s so much older than I.”
Mrs. Scott stood with her hands on her hips. “Like I said, we have more work to be done once this war is over. And you girls have mending to do to keep our patriot men out of rags.”
“Ooh, look at those elegant stitches!” Abby exclaimed, examining Clara’s work.
The other girls looked over. “Your sewing is much too fancy for this lot,” said a young blond woman mending a tear in a soldier’s breeches. The women laughed.
“Maybe you can mend the captain’s clothes, then,” said Martha. She caught Clara’s eye and winked.
Clara flushed. “I can certainly teach you—” A sudden pain gripped her lower right. She doubled over with a groan.
Martha was instantly at her side. “Lady Clara, what’s wrong?”
“There’s a pain in my side … in my belly.”
“Is it your courses?”
Clara blinked back tears. It seemed a little soon. Paul had told her to not expect her body to return to normal for a while. “Perhaps. I don’t know.”
“The medicines and herbs are kept in the hospital,” explained Martha. “Come, let me take you there.”
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