by M. S. Parker
“Protect me?” I scoffed. “If I remember correctly, we’re here right now because of me.”
“You’re a woman!”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I'd put up with a lot of shit in the army for being a woman, but this was testing my last nerve.
“You lied to me,” he repeated. “You knowingly deceived me and led me to believe I was in the company of a gentleman in need of assistance. I risked my own life to defend you. I killed that man to defend you.”
“I never asked you to!” I said in retort.
“You never needed to!” he said through clenched teeth. “It was the right thing to do! The honorable thing to do! And now I find out you’re a woman.”
“So it’s only honorable when you thought I was a man? How does that make any sense at all?”
“That is not what I said.” He sounded exasperated.
“You’re sure as hell implying it,” I countered.
“Then you’re just as foolish as you are a liar!”
I took in long and deep breaths, knowing that my own spike in temper wasn't helping matters. We both needed to calm down, or things would keep escalating, which wouldn't go anywhere productive.
“I want the truth,” Gracen said.
“Excuse me?”
“I want the truth, all of it,” he repeated. “I believe I’m entitled to complete honesty after all this.”
I looked up at him, our eyes locking as I tried to weigh my options. How was I supposed to tell him the truth when I didn't even understand it myself? How could I explain to him where I was from, or when I was from for that matter? Considering his clear opinion of women, I had no doubt that he'd instantly dismiss the truth as some sort of hysteria.
But I had to think of something, and he was clearly getting impatient.
“I ran away,” I said simply, feigning discomfort, stalling to further develop a fake story in my head.
“From whom?”
“My father,” I blurted out, saying the first thing that came to my mind. “I was to be married to a man I didn’t love, and when I objected, I was beaten and told that what I wanted didn't matter.”
Gracen’s expression softened, and I knew I'd chosen the right angle. I watched as his jaw unclenched and the furrows on his forehead relaxed. I felt guilty at having to lie to him again, but the alternative was out of the question. I'd be lucky if I wasn't locked up in a madhouse.
“I couldn’t stay,” I continued, pushing deeper into my lie. “I had no other option but to run. I knew I wouldn’t be able to travel alone as a woman, so I stole clothes from one of my brothers and escaped. I was on my way to Canada, with no food or water, and probably lost consciousness when you found me.”
“You were on foot?” Gracen asked, his look showing slight skepticism.
“I couldn't risk taking a horse.” I assumed what I hoped was a hurt expression. “My father would be more likely to search for a missing horse than a missing daughter.”
Gracen eyed me for a moment, and I could see him trying to decide whether or not to believe me. I prayed he would since I'd reached the end of my endurance. I was tired, my leg ached, and I was worried that if he didn't let this go, I'd pass out before I knew whether or not he planned to turn me over to the British...or just dump me somewhere outside and leave the rest to chance.
I winced as I shifted, and he looked down at my leg, then at the bowl.
“Do you need help?” Color suffused his cheeks.
“I can do it myself. Thank you.” I managed not to blush at the thought of having his hands on my thigh.
He nodded, then crossed his arms over his chest. “You shouldn’t have lied to me,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“I didn’t know if I could trust you.” That, at least, was honest.
He frowned, an expression of hurt flitting across his face before it vanished. Our eyes locked for a few seconds before he turned away.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“I cannot condone your actions,” he said. “However, I will not meddle in things that do not concern me. Come morning, you can decide for yourself what you wish to do.”
I felt panic creep up on me. I couldn't let him kick me out. Not in this condition. I didn't think I'd survive. I needed at least a couple days. “I can cook.”
His head snapped up in surprise as he looked at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“I can cook,” I said. “I can help out here.”
He shook his head. “You have a destination.”
“Until my leg gets better, I won't be going far.” I pleaded with him with my eyes. “At least let me be useful.”
He eyed me for a moment longer before nodding. “As you wish.” He turned to leave, his hand resting on the handle of the door as he looked back at me. “I’ll send Titus up with proper clothing, and I’ll explain the situation to him. He'll keep quiet about our homecoming.”
“What about your father?” I asked.
He paused before smiling and saying, “I’ll make sure he knows we have a new girl in the kitchen.”
With that he exited the room, softly closing the door behind him.
Great. I was a new girl. In the kitchen.
Then again, that was better than British prisoner and accused spy so I couldn’t complain. Besides, I wasn't planning on staying any longer than I had to. Once my leg was healed and I figured out how to get home, I was gone.
I didn't belong here, and there was nothing that made me want to stay.
Thirteen
I spent the next couple days learning every nook of the Lightwood estate as I kept myself busy. I also made sure I stayed in the background. Titus was the only one who knew how I'd come in, and Gracen had made it clear that those circumstances were to be kept quiet. Judging by the look Titus had given me when I first hobbled downstairs in the dress he found, he wasn't too fond of me, but as long as he kept his mouth shut, I didn't care.
After a cursory introduction to the rest of the staff, I'd been put to work. The house was as massive on the inside as it'd appeared on the outside, and every room was richly decorated with antiques and furniture that looked like they belonged in a museum. Except I'd never been to a museum that could hold a candle to this place.
I started in the kitchen, first gathering water from the pump outside before slowly being trusted with more elaborate tasks. It was a tiring business, hours spent just to prepare dinner. My mother had always been a great cook, and I'd always understood the amount of work that had gone into meal preparation. At least, I had in my time. After only one day, I understood why places like this had to have a full staff. One person couldn't have done it all. The servants all worked together like a well-oiled machine. Everyone knew their place and what they were supposed to do.
Which meant it was apparent from moment one that I wasn't a regular member of the staff.
I felt completely out of place no matter how hard I tried. The long gowns I wore were a stark contrast to the uniforms I'd been wearing almost non-stop since I'd enlisted. The way I talked and acted were both out of place and time. I was constantly having to check myself to make sure I wasn't using colloquialisms that hadn't been made up yet. Fortunately, most members of the staff seemed to accept the lie that I'd been born in a more western part of the colonies. Or they were just following the instructions I was sure Titus had given regarding my past.
I tried my best to follow Gracen’s advice as well, making sure I said very little, and never about anything personal. There were times I had to ask questions, but whenever possible, I stuck with quick smiles and nods. My leg was healing quickly, but I still hadn't figured out what my plan would be for getting home, so staying here seemed like the best idea for the time being.
That first day, I'd heard rumors that a high-ranking British officer had come by, but since I hadn't been dragged out of the house to face murder charges, I assumed Gracen's father had taken care of it. Still, I kept a low profile.
I
n some ways, my schedule wasn't much different than it had been in Iraq. Up at dawn, working my ass off, and then, by evening, I would retreat to my room, usually too tired to do anything but lie down on the uncomfortable bed and stare aimlessly at the ceiling until exhaustion caught up with me. I usually spent those last waking minutes thinking about home, about my parents and Ennis, sometimes about Bruce, and more often about Gracen.
I hadn't seen him much since that night, catching quick glimpses of him here and there as I went about my chores. I caught myself staring at him a few times, watching how he moved, the confidence with which he carried himself. When I’d gotten the chance to talk to him, the discussions had been short and quick, Gracen usually asking about how I was being treated before rushing off to attend to one thing or the other. He wasn't cold, exactly, but there was a definite effort to distance himself.
Except I was certain I could feel him watching me. Every time I tried to catch him, he was busy with something else, but I knew he kept looking my way. His eyes haunted me, and at times, I felt as if they could see right through me. Every time he did look my way, I found myself flustered. Half the time, I dropped whatever I was holding or forgot important things. Like my name. Or why I shouldn't just tell him the whole truth about who I was and what had brought me there.
I wouldn’t, of course, because I'd already gotten myself into enough trouble. I didn't need to add “crazy person claiming to be from the future” to it.
Sometimes it was like he was two different people. One I'd become vaguely familiar with during our time together outside the estate. The other was the façade I saw for the first time when Gracen had brought in his father to meet the new servant.
Roston Lightwood was the complete opposite of his son. He was shorter than Gracen, but still a tall man. His hair was silver, though I suspected it'd been dark at one time. His eyes were hazel, but the color wasn't the only difference. His expression and gaze were cold, disdainful. He was a man of stature, and he had no problems flaunting it in front of everyone, as if his very life depended on his ability to make everyone around him feel small.
He looked me up and down for the briefest of seconds when he'd first seen me, clicking his tongue as I watched him genuinely size me up, as if I were one of his horses and he was deciding what to do with me. He'd only asked for my name, nothing more, and when I'd given it to him, he quickly dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
Maybe it was wrong of me, but I despised him immediately. I quickly lowered my gaze so that he wouldn’t see my emotions all over my face. I didn't know what Gracen had told his father about the “man” who'd killed the British soldiers, but I did know that the only thing Roston knew about me was that I was a charity case who had nowhere else to go. That put me lower than the colonial servants, which was saying something.
He ran the household like clockwork, and the servants were wary of angering him. I'd never seen him angry, but I'd seen his look before, the look of a man who would do anything to get what he wanted and would never take no for an answer.
It was a miracle Gracen had a gentle side at all living under this man’s thumb.
“Washington is a madman.”
Roston stood firmly in the center of the study, wine in his hand as he demanded the attention of the room. Gracen sat in a chair beside him, eyeing his father as the older man gestured in the direction of the city.
“As if a ragged bunch of farmers would be a match for the greatest army in the world.” Roston drained half of his glass. “Hopefully, this loss will show those rebels that this is a lost cause for them.”
I stood to one side in the parlor, my head lowered as Titus whispered instructions to me every few minutes. I moved swiftly through the room, doing as asked, making sure Master Lightwood and his guests were kept content. It took all of my self-control not to show how disgusted I felt, both at what they were saying and at myself for serving them without speaking up.
There were four other men with them, all Loyalists who had gathered to discuss the siege and the battle. I'd already bitten the inside of my cheek a dozen times or more to stop myself from speaking up, the ridiculous accusations and insults being tossed around both frustrating and provoking.
I was pretty sure Titus was hoping I'd slip up and voice my opinions on the matter, maybe get thrown out, or worse, arrested and handed over to the British. What had Gracen called me? A sympathizer? I didn't know if he'd passed that along to Titus, or if Titus had figured it out somehow, but the sideways looks the steward was giving me told me that my placement here hadn't been accidental.
So far, I'd caught Gracen’s eye only once throughout it all, and I'd seen the concern there. He didn't need to worry. As pissed off as I was by what they were saying, I had enough self-control to bite my tongue.
Besides, I reminded myself, I knew how the war would eventually end.
“A marvelous victory,” one of the guests voiced, raising his glass as if to toast what I knew had been the turning point...for the Americans.
I suppressed a smile as I remembered that the British had lost more than twice the number of soldiers as the Americans. Technically, they'd won, but history would record Bunker Hill as a different kind of victory.
Roston smiled at the man and raised his glass as well. “I almost pity the colonists,” he said with a smile. “Then I remember that I have better things to do with my emotions.”
The rest of the party – minus one – chuckled at that, and my fists clenched. Gracen looked over at me again, and this time, I knew my true feelings were showing. But it wasn't just anger at what the other men were saying. It was at what he wasn't saying. I wanted to yell at him to speak up, to tell them how a colonist had saved his life, but I didn’t.
It wasn't easy.
“It’s George Washington,” another man said. “Instilling false hope in these colonists. Some of them are nothing more than peasants, really. A shame, how their loyalty can so easily be manipulated.”
“A true gentleman cannot be manipulated,” a third chimed in. “These savages had no loyalty to begin with.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Gracen said, and for an instant, the entire room fell into an awkward silence. His eyes flickered to me for a second, but no one else seemed to notice, though I suddenly felt like the temperature in the room had gone up a couple degrees. “They are loyal to their cause. I think we can attest to that.”
“A lost cause,” Roston corrected.
Gracen hesitated as he looked at his father, then nodded slowly. “That may be, but loyalty nonetheless.” “Whether these skirmishes end in their favor or ours, we cannot deny that their loyalties lie with their commander-in-chief.”
Roston scoffed as one of the other guests chuckled heartily. “Commander-in-chief indeed,” the elder Lightwood sneered. “The man’s a hooligan and a fake. His followers will notice that soon enough.”
“Precisely, Father,” Gracen smiled, his voice even. “His followers. Certainly, we can call that loyalty.”
“I believe, Roston, that your boy has found sympathy for the colonists,” one of the guests chuckled. From where I stood, though, I could see the man’s eyes, and the look he was giving Gracen was far from amused, despite the fake smile on his face.
Roston noticed it too.
“My son is more loyal to the Crown than his father,” Roston said firmly. “If it were not for my sake, he would be standing in the ranks of the king’s army shooting rebels as we speak.”
“Then why hold him back?” the other man challenged.
Roston took a sip from his wine as he regarded his guest. The challenge had not gone unnoticed, and I could easily see the fury building.
“My son’s engagement party is the day after tomorrow,” Roston said, his voice strained yet calm. “After that, he is free to do as he pleases.”
My chest tightened in a way I didn't like, and I stole a glance at Gracen. His face had gone white, though judging by the similar color of his knuckles, anger, not f
ear, was the emotion behind it. His lips pressed together, and I knew he was holding back what he really wanted to say.
“In that case,” one of the other guests broke through the tension that had risen in the room, “a toast to the young Lightwood.”
The other men raised their glasses in unison, and from my corner in the shadows, I tried to tell myself that Gracen's engagement didn't matter to me.
Not. At. All.
Fourteen
“You a different one, ain’t ya?”
I looked up from the buckets of water I'd just dragged in to see a young black girl looking down at me. I'd seen her around but hadn't talked to her. And to be honest, my interactions with the rest of the staff had lost what little importance they'd had.
It was the day of Gracen’s engagement party, and the preparations for it weren’t the only things keeping me awake at night. I hadn't seen Gracen since that night in the parlor, and I hadn’t dared ask about him either. Titus clearly felt that what happened had put me in my place, and I wondered if it was less my loyalties and more my relationship with Master Gracen that had concerned him. Though what Titus suspected that relationship was, I didn't know.
I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he was engaged, a fact that had kept me up late, kept me distracted when I should've been trying to figure out how to get home. I had no idea why I cared that he was getting married, only that I did. I tried writing it off as some sort of weird bond due to what we'd gone through together, but a part of me couldn't help but feel it was something more.
Not that it could ever be anything other than what it was. For all I knew, Gracen and his wife-to-be were the ancestors of some really important person, and if I messed with that, I'd seriously screw up the world I wanted to get back to.
“Not just your talkin',” the girl said. She eyed me from where she stood, her dress hanging on her lean figure. “Everything about you is different.”