by Shirl Henke
Poc, catching sight of his long absent master, ran to greet him barking a furious welcome. After Joss's disappearance the little terrier had nearly grieved himself to death while Alex was in Savannah. Upon his return to Coweta the dog had attached his fierce devotion to him.
"I had hoped this fight would be his salvation, but it has only given him a better way to die than drinking himself to death," Devon replied grimly. "Thank God the fighting is almost over."
"You have done everything you can to keep our people from joining the Red Sticks."
"We'll salvage what we can. Quint will help us," Dev replied.
"Do not fear. We have survived war. We will survive the peace as well." She turned from her son to welcome Alex, smiling and opening her arms as he strode toward them, Poc at his side. Hugging her grandson fiercely, she noted the tight haggard lines about his eyes and mouth yet did not remonstrate. "You are safely returned. My heart is glad," she said simply.
"Oh, there is mail for you. It arrived while you were gone," Devon said as they walked to Charity's house. "Mostly letters from your mother and sisters, Aunt Madelyne and amazingly, one from London."
Having heard repeated exhortations from the female members of his family to take care of his health and avoid foolish bravery on the battlefield, Alex was little interested in their well-meaning remonstrances, but the missive from London was another matter. A link to your past life...to Joss. His heart clenched as he forced the thought aside. "The one from London—is it from Uncle Monty?" he asked as they entered the house and climbed the ladder to Charity's quarters. The dog scrambled unaided after them.
"I'm not certain. I've had little opportunity to familiarize myself with my brother-in-law's handwriting," Devon said wryly as he picked up a bundle of letters and handed them to Alex. Oh, yes, and there was one curious one. The writing is so water smudged I was surprised it found its way to you. It must have come a great distance, judging by its condition."
"This one's from Drum," Alex said as he plucked the London letter from the pile, little noting his father's comment about the mysterious travel-stained missive.
Devon smiled at the animation in his son's face as he read his friend's entertaining narration. A bit of the old Alex showed through the grim soulless air that had settled over him the past seven months since Joss's death.
"He bribed a French wine smuggler to get the letter to an American ship," Alex said with a fond chuckle, reading Drum's amusing anecdotes about the ton. The latest gossip, the peccadilloes and foibles of the Quality seemed a million miles from the grim reality on the Georgia frontier. For a brief moment, Alex escaped back to happier days in that faraway place.
Of course Drum did not know of Joss's death. Since the outbreak of hostilities, there had been no way to reach him or their family members and business associates in England. Considering the gravity of the situation on the frontier, neither Alex nor his parents had taken time to think about London. So much had happened since they set sail nearly a year ago.
He set aside his friend's letter with a bittersweet smile. Perhaps he would read it again while he was out in the wilderness sitting beside a lonely campfire. Shuffling through the other correspondence, he paused when he reached the weather-stained letter his father had mentioned. Then he froze. "It can't be... What sort of ghoulish trick is this?" he murmured to himself as he clutched the missive in his shaking hand, staring down at it as if he expected it to burst into flames at any moment.
"What's wrong, son?" Devon asked, perplexed.
"It's Joss's handwriting."
"You must be mistaken," Dev replied gently, peering at the blurred writing.
"I'd know her hand anywhere, Papa. When could she have...it must have..." Any logical explanation for the letter eluded him.
"You'd best open it, Alex," Charity said sensibly.
His hands shook so badly he almost tore the fragile sheets extracting them from the bedraggled envelope. Having no idea what to expect, Devon and Charity stood silently in tense anticipation as Alex began to read.
"It's dated February twentieth, 1813," Alex said in hoarse disbelief. "Joss is...Joss is alive!" Trembling he swiftly scanned the lines as his father and grandmother exchanged worried looks.
"What is it?" Devon responded.
"Joss bribed a French voyager to smuggle this letter out. Chamberlain has her. She's been a prisoner in Mobile since last fall...and I will shortly be a father," he finished in a stunned, awe-filled voice.
"You had better sit down," Charity said, guiding him to the chair he had vacated earlier while reading Drum's letter.
He sank weak-kneed onto it, blinking back the tears that obscured his vision. "She's alive," he breathed reverently, his fingers tracing over the familiar signature in her bold yet precise penmanship. Your loving wife. Joss.
"It would seem you've been given a second chance, son," Dev said, his own voice none too steady.
* * * *
Alex crouched behind the trunk of a huge old live oak a few dozen yards from the walls of the old Spanish fortress that guarded Mobile Bay. He and Joss's faithful dog had made the long canoe journey from the Muskogee town alone in spite of his father's and uncle's remonstrances, explaining that a larger party would attract attention. His best hope for rescuing his wife was to slip in and out swiftly and quietly. Alex circled the perimeter of the high stone walls, finding that the best way to gain entry without notice was via a small gate at the back of the fortress. It looked old. Perhaps he could break the lock.
Joss, are you inside? Are you well? All he had been able to think about on the long dangerous trek downriver was seeing her again, hearing her voice, feeling the soft touch of her healing hands. And holding their child in his arms. If her calculations were correct, the babe was due any day now. What would he do if she'd been brought to bed when he found her?
Cross that bridge if you come to it, Blackthorne, he said to himself, steeling his concentration to get into the fort undetected. He had left Poc at the edge of the swamp with a firm command to stay. When the sentry on the terreplein overhead turned his back and paced in the opposite direction, Alex dashed to the wall below, flattening his body to it, then edged along until he reached the gate. To his wary amazement, it swung open with a slight creak when he pushed on it.
Alex froze, hoping no one had heard the sound. The soldier's footfalls did not alter their steady pace. No one cried a warning. Stealthily Alex slipped inside, then eased his way into the shade of a low-growing honey locust to get his bearings. He began a furtive yet methodical search of the fort, beginning with what looked like the officers' quarters.
When he heard Cybill's voice angrily berating a servant, he knew he'd found the right place. He went from room to room, but Joss was nowhere to be found. If Chamberlain were before him now, he would flay him alive for taking her. Rupert was gone but Cybill was still here. Surely the colonel would not have sailed off and left his own wife behind. Surely she knew something.
The lady in question sat at her dressing table sipping a cup of chocolate while a subdued maid brushed her long black hair. The mauve satin robe she wore gaped open, revealing the heavy curves of her breasts, which sagged pendulously without the artifice of stays to hold them up. At length she dismissed the maid with instructions to draw her cool bath water.
As soon as the servant closed the door and walked down the hall, Alex slipped from his hiding place on the open balcony and entered the room noiselessly. Cybill remained unaware, reclining against the high back of her chair with a scented cloth pressed to her forehead. He slipped over to the door and slid the lock, then approached her.
"Is that you, Isolde? Pour the water quickly. I am dying of heat and the headache," she said petulantly.
"Make a squeak and you'll have far worse than a headache, milady," he said as his hand curved around the milky column of her throat.
She sat up abruptly and the cloth fell from her forehead. Her large violet eyes blinked incredulously at the reflection in t
he mirror. "Alex," she barely whispered.
"I'll remove my hand," he said, raising the gleaming blade of his knife menacingly, "but if you attempt to sound a warning, you'll learn firsthand how the Muskogee scalp their enemies."
A flush of excitement bloomed in her cheeks and glowed in her eyes as she nodded. He released her, asking, "Where is my wife?"
She smiled slowly with her lips but her eyes were the cold purple of a Russian sunset. "La, I had hoped you came to rescue me from this hellhole."
"Don't play, Cybill," he gritted out, grabbing a fistful of ebony hair and pulling it tight against her scalp. "I know Kent brought her here and she's carrying my child. Do you have any idea how a Muskogee values his woman and his firstborn—do you?" He tugged harder and raised the knife, slicing off a large chunk of her hair.
She gasped in outrage but the blade at her throat kept her silent. "You'd do it. You would actually kill me, wouldn't you?" she whispered.
Her terror was mixed with a sick surge of excitement. He could feel her trembling and was revolted by the smell she gave off, fear and musky arousal. "In a heartbeat," he replied. "Do not try my patience further. We savages are reputed to have little of it."
She licked her lips nervously. "I helped her escape." At his look of incredulity she went on, speaking in fast disjointed sentences. "Rupert wanted her—and worse, he wanted the child she carries. That's why he did not rape her. He planned to use the child to enforce her complaisance."
At his snarled oath, she insisted, "No! 'Tis the truth—if the child is a boy, he intended to raise your son to hate the Blackthorne name, and if tis a girl...she was to be your wife's replacement in his bed. I could not permit that," she added petulantly.
"When did she leave? How?"
"At dawn with a French voyager I hired to spirit her north to safety."
"If you're lying to me—or if I find harm has come to her..." He raised the blade and ran the flat of the cool silvery metal across her cheek. "I can be very, very savage, milady. Now, you are going to ring for your maid and cancel that bath. Your headache has of a sudden gotten much worse. You do not wish to be disturbed until further notice. Is the message very clear?"
He released his painful hold on her hair but held the knife ominously close to her face. She nodded and raised the bell. When the maid knocked breathlessly a moment later, he whispered, "Make it convincing."
She did. Afterward, he bound and gagged Cybill, then bundled her in several fluffy comforters and tied the whole securely on top of her large bed. She could sweat and squirm for hours and not make a sound that could be heard outside the room.
* * * *
Joss crouched in the titi thicket, holding her breath as Wilbur Kent drew near.
"I know you're hiding somewhere nearby. Come out and I shall return you to the fort. That or remain here as alligator bait. The choice is yours," Kent said conversationally as he approached her.
The only truth to his promises was that, left alone without weapons, she would be devoured by the creatures of the swamp. Joss knew he had no intention of returning her to the fort. Cybill sent him to kill me. The fact had hit her squarely when LeBeau, her guide, had been killed and she narrowly escaped from the sinking pirogue. She cursed herself for a fool not to have seen where the woman's vitriolic hate would lead.
Having dispatched her guide, Kent had run her to ground like the vicious bloodhound he was. Her arms were growing weary as she held a heavy chunk of log, ready to use it as a cudgel when he drew close to her hiding place. The nagging ache in her lower back intensified. Just a few yards farther. He passed by, ducking to get through the edge of the thicket. A bit far out of reach, but her only chance. She stepped out and swung the club with all her strength.
If she had been two or three feet closer she might have knocked him unconscious, but he heard her moving behind him and turned with a fraction of a second to spare, raising his arm to block the blow. The impact jarred all the way up her arms when the log connected with bone. Unfortunately it was not his skull but his forearm. He wrenched the weapon from her grasp with a sharp curse. Fortunately for her he overbalanced in doing so and fell backward.
Joss knew she could not outrun him. Instead she dropped swiftly to her knees, clawing for the log. She did not see the flash of his knife until it was almost too late. Rolling onto her side, she grabbed the log and raised it protectively in front of her as he scrambled closer still clutching the deadly blade. A feral grimace spread his thin lips wide, revealing long white teeth.
"So, you want to wrestle, eh? I always enjoy a bit of sport. No real satisfaction in an easy kill." He locked gazes with her, seeming to take pleasure in her desperate defiance.
He lunged forward, seizing her club with one hand and wrestling it away. Instead of holding tight, Joss released it and grabbed his knife arm with both hands. They went down, rolling on the soft damp moss. She bit and kicked like a demented thing. I can't let him kill Alex's baby! Joss twisted as they rolled on the uneven ground, nearing the edge of a sluggishly flowing stream. With strength born of sheer desperation she continued holding on to his knife hand with both of hers as he yanked her to her feet. Kent tried to twist his arm free but slipped in the mud and fell to his right side, pulling Joss with him.
The force of their landing knocked the breath from her. She felt a sharp pain between her breasts and a red haze exploded behind her eyelids for an instant but not before she saw the expression of utter amazement on his face. A low, raw whistling sound followed as she pushed free of him, backing away on all fours.
Her eyeglasses had been knocked off during the fight. Joss groped for them until she found them. The lenses were cracked but allowed her to see the gristly scene before her. The knife was embedded neatly between his ribs high on the left side of his chest. When he had pulled her down on top of him, her weight must have driven the blade directly into his heart. That wheeze had been Wilbur Kent's death rattle.
Joss struggled to her feet. Kent had pursued her by boat. All she need do was backtrack where he had hidden it. After that...well, after that she would cross that bridge when she came to it. She trudged through the awful morass toward the sound of rushing water. When she reached the bank where she had left LeBeau's pirogue, she found it half submerged from the shots Kent had fired into it. Through the cracked lenses of her spectacles she could make out the Frenchman's body floating facedown near a large log a dozen yards away.
When the log started to move she screamed in horror. An immense alligator swam lazily across the river. She backed slowly up the embankment, circling to give the predator a wide berth before beginning her search of the shoreline. Then she saw the canoe shoved carefully up on the muddy bank.
With a cry of relief, she picked up her pace, heading toward it. The dull low backache that had been plaguing her all day suddenly exploded into a sharp agonizing cramp that wrapped around her belly. She sank to her knees, breathless as a gush of water bathed her legs.
The baby was coming and she was alone in a swamp filled with alligators and poisonous snakes!
* * * *
Cybill huddled on the chair with sweat streaming in rivulets down her face and body. Her hair hung in damp tangles around her bare shoulders as she sat in only her thin silk undergarments. She had spent several hours tied up, smothered in blankets in this accursed heat, before her husband had found her.
Across the room Sir Rupert paced furiously. It was his unexpected early return to which she owed her rescue. She was not inclined to feel in the least grateful. He was far more furious over Joss's escape and Alex's pursuit of her than he was concerned about his wife's brush with death.
"Now let us review this one more time, m'dear," he said tightly. "Jocelyn Blackthorne, great with child, just slipped magically from her room this morning and somehow managed to find a gate negligently left open allowing her to escape the fort. She simply set out to walk back to American territory—all by herself with no outside aid? Then her husband mysteriously learned sh
e was being held here, broke into your room searching for her and forced you at knifepoint to explain her absence?" His voice was low and deadly with fury and disbelief.
Cybill was nauseated from the heat, dehydrated and now frightened by his quiet raging, yet her jealous anger overcame all else. She flung back her fouled hair and stood up, stamping her bare foot imperiously. "I have told you what happened! They are both gone, escaped!"
"How convenient for you," he sneered.
"You really mean how disastrous for you that you've lost your chance to kill Alex and bed his woman," she shot back.
Chamberlain's eyes narrowed in icy anger. "Why is it, pet, that I have the feeling you are not quite telling me everything, hmm?"
"Don't be absurd," she said shrilly as he stalked nearer. "I should think you'd wish to give pursuit."
"Oh, I shall in the fullness of time, I shall. I have a Red Stick scout searching for their trail right now."
The colonel's manner was cold and contained but he was holding himself on an exceedingly tight leash. His return from New Providence was made posthaste because he had orders to evacuate the British contingent from Mobile. The American general Wilkinson was in route with a large force to take the fortress and hold the bay. The bumbling British high command had decided to retreat.
"You should pursue your quarry, not bedevil me," she snapped. "By now she could have paddled halfway to Georgia!"
He whirled on his heel at her last outburst and lunged at her, seizing her throat with his clawlike deformed hand. "Paddled—did you say paddled? I believe earlier you insisted she had simply walked into the swamp."
Cybill coughed and tried to evade his punishing grip, but he would not relinquish it. Her face turned from furious red to sickly green, guilty terror etched in every line. Abruptly he shoved her back against the chair and leaned over her until their faces were inches apart. He could smell her foul body odor. The stench of sweat was now permeated by the metallic scent of fear. He was well familiar with the smell of fear. Every night before a battle, he walked among his soldiers, reveling in it.