by Beth White
“Fiona, turning him in would have been the right thing to do,” Desi said gently. “Our countries are at war.”
She rounded on him. “Well, but I didn’t know that he was an enemy officer. After all, he wasn’t in uniform. All I knew was that he was my friend, and he was badly injured, and I wanted him to have a chance to get well. He’d lost his memory of everything after Eton, and he’s such a good man, and he became part of the family. Uncle Luc-Antoine likes him!” She glared at Maddy, daring her to contradict that.
Maddy set down her teacup. “Desi and I came to your house and you hid that man, never said a word about him. You knew that was wrong!”
“Of course I felt guilty about deceiving you. But I l–love Charlie, Maddy! I know you know how that feels!”
Maddy’s cheeks reddened, and she glanced at Desi, whose lips twitched. “Of course I do,” she said. “But now you’ve got the whole family implicated in this—this accusation of treason.”
Desi, looking reassuringly sympathetic with Fiona, covered Maddy’s hand with his. “Fiona, please let me go down to Navy Cove with you and talk to Charlie. If he’s a naval officer, I agree with Maddy that he needs to be remanded to authorities here. Are you saying he’s gotten his memory back?”
“Yes, at least most of it. I tended him when he got hit during the battle at Fort Bowyer, and he was hallucinating about storms and some kind of sea battle.”
“But you say he wasn’t in uniform?” Desi frowned. “That doesn’t look good for him. It’s possible that he is a spy. And it’s awfully coincidental that he found himself in America, near a place where he knows someone . . . you and your family, that is.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Fiona said with a sigh. “I can’t make sense of it, but I don’t believe he’d betray our friendship that way.”
“You cannot be that naive,” Maddy said grimly. “Men take advantage of lovesick women every day.”
Fiona stared at her cousin. “Charlie loves me.”
“I’m sure he said he did. Fiona, it pains me to say it, but wake up! You have been duped by a handsome, charming, and very cunning young man. If you are a patriot, as you claim, you’ll do the right thing—as hard as it is.”
“But what about Sullivan? What if the general doesn’t want to trade Charlie to get him back?” Tears, perilously near the surface, choked Fiona. “I wrote to Lord St. Clair. That’s why I—”
“There is no guarantee that would happen anyway,” Desi said gently. “Surely you knew that.”
“Yes, but I had to try.” Fiona put her face in her hands.
And as bad as things looked, there was still hope. God was a good God and could be trusted to right any wrong, in his time. Anything could happen.
NOVEMBER 3, 1814
NAVY COVE
The memories had been coming back, in chunks and jags almost as confusing as the darkness of complete forgetfulness. Charlie finished the set of sit-ups he’d started both to while away the time and to keep his body fit in spite of the endless inactivity of the last month. He touched his forehead, completely healed now except for the bumpy scar that cut across his eyebrow and extended into his hairline. Physically he felt as good as he’d felt in his life. The Laniers fed him well, and Luc-Antoine even came out to play his harmonica and talk on occasion.
Of course he missed Fiona—her absence was worse than the wound in his head—but if she’d been here, he would have told her that the presence of God’s Holy Spirit had filled that void with hope. Several days ago, Oliver had brought his Bible out and left it, and Charlie used the time to refresh his memory of Scripture—and, he must admit, to learn what he’d not bothered to learn as a young boy. God the Creator had moved in history, through an impressive succession of flawed humans, to accomplish a grand design that Charlie could only guess at. If he were part of that design, to be used with all his own mistakes and wrongheadedness, the calamities that had befallen him thus far began to make sense.
Part of what had kept him here—besides physical weakness—was sheer affection for Fiona. She was counting on trading his sorry hide for her beloved twin brother. Certainly he understood and respected that familial love. He would do the same for either of his older brothers. Plus, he could hardly admit to himself his longing to see her one more time—or just hear her sweet, husky voice. On the other hand, the Lanier men had been justifiably worried about him running off with her, but since she’d been gone to Mobile, they had somewhat relaxed their vigilance.
Weeks had passed since Fiona and Sehoy left, possibly a month or more. Luc-Antoine said no word had come from Charlie’s grandfather, though he supposed there was still a possibility that could happen. But this morning he had awakened with the feeling that he’d waited long enough. It was time to move.
He started by testing the strength of the chains around his ankles, as he’d done every morning since they’d put them on. One thing he would say for Luc-Antoine Lanier—the man was a first-class blacksmith. The iron links were smooth, free of rust, solidly forged. The story was that as a boy, just before the Spanish occupation, Luc-Antoine had been apprenticed to a Negro blacksmith who was enslaved to one of the wealthiest planters in the Mobile environs. He’d helped the slave earn his freedom in the fight for American independence, then joined him as a partner and settled on land ceded by the Spanish to the family on Mobile Point.
When the irons proved unbreakable as usual, Charlie turned his attention to the walls to which the chains were bolted. Here he might have a prayer of success. All lumber in this oceanside climate became subject to rot over time. Frequent rain, salt air, and infestation of bugs all created conditions which softened even the strongest of hardwood. Over the last few weeks, the Lanier men had long since removed anything sharp that might be used as an implement for digging or cutting, but Sehoy had once left a spoon from his dinner. Charlie had hidden it in a crack in the floor under his pallet.
Listening to make sure the barn was empty except for the animals, he located the spoon and pressed the end of its handle against the board behind the iron plate that held the chain bolt. The board gave. Heart leaping, he kept digging until the spoon bent in his hand. He moved to the other side of the plate and poked and prodded some more.
Splintery chunks of wood came away, leaving large gashes in the plank. He was going to have to make his escape now, because anybody who came in to check on him would see the damage—and move him. With renewed determination he dug harder and faster. The bolt plate wiggled the next time he tried it. Exultant, he yanked as hard as he could, and it gave another fraction of an inch.
Panting now, sweating from tension and exertion, he nearly jumped out of his skin when one of the horses kicked at a stall. There were only two left—Fiona’s Bonnie and Washington, the stud stallion that Léon rode. All the others had been sold to General Coffee. He stopped, frowning. Usually Oliver turned the horses out first thing in the morning. Why had he not done so today?
Then voices approaching from the north side of the barn told him why. Two of the voices were light, feminine.
Fiona and Sehoy. He also recognized Oliver, but a second male voice was unfamiliar. Deep, smooth, a lawyer’s voice, or maybe a preacher’s, the accent clean and cultured, with a faint Spanish sibilance to the s’s. Wait, maybe he had heard that voice before. But where?
Galvanized, he knelt to shove the spoon back into its hiding place. What was he going to do about the gashes in the wood? There was nothing to hang over the spot, no way to paint it. Maybe they wouldn’t come to him. Maybe they’d go straight into the house and leave him to rot out here with the horses.
The voices entered the barn, so he turned and leaned against the wall, covering the place where he had been working. The clamp and bolt dug into his back, reminding him of the stupidity and hopelessness of his situation. He’d waited too late. He was going to be caught and turned over to the American military.
Briefly, wildly, he considered throwing himself on their mercy as an informant.
Betraying his commission, his commander, his king.
But the thought fled as quickly as it arrived. No Kincaid would consider treason, even for a deeply loved woman. As he’d said to Fiona, she shouldn’t give herself to a man who would commit such a crime.
So he waited, pulse thrumming. The door latch rattled, a key turned in the padlock, the bolt slid across the door, all familiar sounds that he heard every time they brought him out to stretch his legs.
The door opened, and Fiona’s was the first face he saw. She looked beautiful, of course, with her curly fair hair windblown into wild ringlets, but otherwise polished like a fine jewel. She wore a soft, dark-green cloak, the hood fallen back to frame her face, over a thin green silk dress like fine London ladies wore.
Her tear-brimmed eyes pierced him. “Charlie, I’ve brought somebody to talk to you.”
Resisting the urge to kneel before her, the duchess of his heart, he looked at the tall, dark-haired man behind her—and nearly dove into a corner in dismay. No wonder the man’s voice had sounded so familiar. What was New Orleans Governor Claiborne’s translator doing here?
“I am Desi Palomo, agent of General Andrew Jackson,” the man said in that deep, faintly accented voice. “I understand you are the Honorable Charlie Kincaid, grandson of Admiral Lord St. Clair?”
Charlie nodded. “More precisely, Lieutenant Charles Kincaid, of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
“Ah. Then your so-convenient memory lapse has ended.” Setting Fiona aside, Palomo sauntered into the tack room and looked around.
He didn’t seem to recognize Charlie, but this was not a stupid man. Charlie was going to have to be careful. Forcing himself to relax against the wall, he crossed one ankle over the other and folded his arms in deliberate insolence. “Convenience depends on one’s perspective, I suppose. My pain from injuries sustained while helping to defend Fort Bowyer has mostly subsided as well. Do you seriously contend that a British naval officer would so conduct himself if he hadn’t lost all memory of his sworn duty?”
“He would if there were ulterior motives in play.” Palomo’s smile was bland. “But let us not begin with such harsh accusations, Lieutenant Kincaid. Miss Lanier here wishes to believe the best of you, and I would hear from your own lips an account of your out-of-uniform presence on American soil.”
Fiona could hardly breathe. She had deliberately stretched out the visit to Maddy, putting off going home—where Charlie was a prisoner and nothing would ever be the same. But her hand had been forced, everyone knew what she’d done, and she had to face him. Face the humiliation of having fallen for a liar. A user.
Could she ever again trust her own judgment?
He stood leaning against the wall, relaxed in his chains, a smirk on his fine mouth. She could see the wheels turning in his head as he put together his story, figured out twists to make it seem true. His story. History. She supposed the past was ever that way—events told and retold and embellished to benefit the teller.
His eyes were clear and bright, his color good in spite of his incarceration, the scar on his forehead faded to a healthy pinkish-white. She was glad. At least she didn’t have to feel guilty that he’d been mistreated. It had been easier to believe in him when he’d been injured and ill.
“I’m under no obligation to tell you anything,” he said, regarding Desi calmly.
“On the other hand, if you don’t speak, I shall be forced to assume the worst.” Desi glanced at Fiona. “She’s told us everything that happened since you arrived here, including the fact that there was no indication of your military rank.”
“That’s because I didn’t know it.” Charlie touched the scar on his head. “I presume you’ve never had an injury that literally knocked you senseless. Not a thing one has control over.”
“I’m not arguing that point. But you have clearly regained your memory, and I repeat my original question. Why was a British naval lieutenant sailing off the coast of an American military post, out of uniform?”
Charlie shrugged. “Obviously, the British fleet was in the area, which you know from the attack on Fort Bowyer. My ship was sailing just south of the Gulf of Mexico when we encountered the storm that scattered the whole flotilla. I washed overboard and just managed to grab onto a lifeboat. I honestly have no idea what happened to the rest of the officers and crew, but I floated for several days before I was picked up by a Spanish merchant ship heading for New Orleans. By then I was delirious and dehydrated. The Spaniards dressed me in clothes intended for sale in the city. Unfortunately, another storm hit before we could reach port, and this time I was hit in the head by a broken mast.” He looked directly at Fiona. “If she hadn’t found me, I would be dead.”
Her heart pinched. Was his tone just a little too glib?
She watched Desi’s face. Did he believe Charlie’s story?
Dark eyes inscrutable, Desi gave a short laugh. “There’s no doubt you are one lucky Scotsman—or unlucky, I suppose, depending on where you stop in the story.”
Charlie smiled. “Rather luckier than not. Every sailor lives expecting the next storm to send him to Davy Jones’s locker. That I instead woke in the arms of the sweetest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen? I’d say someone has plans for my life beyond my own selfish gain.”
Desi’s lip curled. “Ah. So God put you here? Funny, we Americans are rather fond of claiming the Almighty’s favor.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve told you everything I am able to say without betraying my responsibilities as an officer.” Charlie turned that blue-hazel gaze on Fiona. “Except . . . I would like to express my sincere regret for having put Miss Lanier in jeopardy. She has been nothing but kind to me, and I harbor no ill will for her part in my capture.” His tone was formal but sincere. Where was the passionate, affectionate Charlie she’d adored in childhood and recently come to love? Had that been a lie too?
“Charlie—”
A slicing motion of his hand cut her off. “If you don’t mind, I’m rather tired of this interrogation. I have nothing else to say.”
As she backed away from the pure boredom in his eyes, she felt gentle hands on her shoulders.
“Come, Fiona,” Sehoy said quietly, “let’s go and make a cup of tea, then I’ll help you unpack. Oliver, you’ll come with us?” she said over her shoulder.
“Of course,” Oliver said.
Fiona stared at Charlie’s impassive face for one more moment, then whirled and left Desi to deal with him.
Some wounds, invisible though they might be, were beyond healing.
10
To Charlie’s dismay, Desi Palomo didn’t leave with the women—and please God it wasn’t because he’d finally recognized Charlie. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to keep a low profile while skulking about New Orleans, attending quadroon balls—where white Creole men met and made certain arrangements with light-skinned free women of color—gambling, listening to conversations in the French Market.
“You are a better man than I thought,” Palomo said, eyeing Charlie with some perplexity.
“What do you mean?”
“You know she loves you. You could play on her sympathy in any number of ways.”
“My conscience is quite loaded enough, thank you—I don’t need that as well.”
Palomo stared at him for a long moment. “All right, then. But for the record, I’m inclined to agree with Fiona that the best use of your presence is trading you for someone more valuable to us. Especially if we can hold you here—or, better yet, in Mobile—long enough to keep you from effecting whatever mischief you’d planned when you first arrived.”
“I didn’t plan to be here,” Charlie burst out, “the storm—”
“Yes, yes, the storm,” Palomo said, waving a well-manicured hand. “But you’d come from somewhere specific and clearly were on the way to somewhere specific. You weren’t just wandering the globe. And how you landed here, of all the ports along the Gulf Coast—within five miles of the home of a young woman who has dem
onstrably carried a torch for you for nearly ten years—now that is the interesting point of all this.”
“I told you,” Charlie said doggedly, “I was part of the fleet assigned to attack Mobile. But when the Spanish picked me up and I had no way to get back to my command, I remembered from the Gonzales family’s visit all those years ago that I must be close to the port of Mobile. And my rescuers agreed to leave me there. It is pure chance—or divine intervention, if you will—that Fiona found me before I died from the effects of the second storm.”
“And these storms were in August?” Palomo appeared to have settled in for conversation. Dangerous conversation.
“If you say so.” Charlie shrugged. “I still have no clear memory of that time, outside of some very tense nightmares.” Go on the attack. Misdirect. “Now perhaps you will answer some questions for me. You say you are an agent for General Jackson. Is he now commander-in-chief of the southern wing of the American army?”
“He is. And when he heard that an English officer had been living as a guest at Mobile Point—had even participated in a battle against the British fleet and perhaps helped to defeat them—well, he is understandably curious as to the meaning of your . . . shall we say, less-than-orthodox behavior. I am instructed to bring you back under guard so that he may question you himself.”
“I have nothing else of import to relate. All my unorthodox behavior can be explained by my head injury. I’ve told you everything I know.”
Palomo regarded him, head canted to one side for a moment. “Then, Lieutenant Kincaid, I shall leave you to your own unsociable company. I wish to stay the night and make sure Fiona is properly settled, but you and I will leave for Mobile at daylight. You should pack for an extended vacation at Fort Charlotte. Formal wear not required.” He sketched a mocking bow and left.
Charlie heard the bolt scrape across the door and the key turn in the lock. He waited, standing with his back against the wall, for several minutes, then when no one else approached, slid bonelessly to the ground. He looked up at the gouged wood around the plate that fastened his chains to the wall.