Scamp's Lady

by Jackie Walton

  Replacing the blanket, he returned his attention to the road. “Since you’re calling him something as…amusing as ‘Scamp,’ do you think you could come around to calling me ‘Kit’?”

  If she hadn’t heard him, she would have thought his attention was wholly and completely on the road. She stared at him for a moment, but he appeared to be concentrating totally on the path. To call him by his Christian name, and a diminutive at that, invited familiarity. “Um, I’m not sure that would be a good thing. I am theoretically working for you, and I don’t really think…” Her voice trailed off in confusion.

  “I understand completely. Please forgive the impertinence.”

  The rest of the journey continued in silence. When they came to the camp outskirts, Deborah remembered more important problems than a half-drowned pup and a man she was much too attracted to for her own good.

  **

  Deborah’s mind whirled as they drove through camp. An almost-kiss from a man she should despise, but couldn’t. A dog rescued by that same man. Working for the enemy, that same man. An escape from that man, and all he represented, that she still had to accomplish. And a dead girl.

  Of all those things, she knew that she owed it to the dead girl to help find the killer. Something about the girl, Penelope Brightman, struck a cord with her. Deborah had never had a sister. A baby girl had been still-born when Deborah was five. She had wanted a baby sister desperately and mourned the baby, even at her young age. Penelope was about the age her sister would have been. Deborah’s long-ago, but not quite forgotten, feelings for her sister resurfaced. Melded with the horror and sorrow she would have naturally felt for Penelope anyway, she knew she could not even attempt an escape until she did everything she could to see justice served for Penelope Brightman.

  **

  As soon as they arrived back at camp headquarters, Kit called a meeting of all his senior officers. Deborah moved to retire to her chamber, but he motioned for her to stay.

  When they were assembled he addressed at them. “Gentlemen, today, shortly after midday, Mistress Morgan and I stumbled across a brutally murdered young woman in town.”

  Major, the Honorable George Hanger, a friend of Banastre Tarleton, sprawled back in one of the delicate Chippendale chairs that formed the dining set. “So?” he drawled, “What’s it got to do with us if some colonial wench sticks her spoon in the wall?”

  Col. Marshall looked at him for a moment before replying. There was a slight twist to his mouth. “Plenty, if the young woman is clutching a button from a British army jacket in her hand.”

  Hanger sat up straighter.

  Passing the button around, Kit asked, “Whose regiments have buttons with the insignia on that button?”

  “Volunteers of Ireland.”

  “New York Volunteers.”

  “Ban’s Tory Legion does, but they’re in Winnsboro, now.”

  “Is that all?” Kit asked. Heads nodded around the table. “All right. There’s nothing we can do about Ban’s group. I want you to muster the men here first thing tomorrow morning. What shall we tell them…inspection? Make sure everybody’s accounted for. I want every man there or know why for. Check sleeve and front buttons. Muster out anybody who’s missing one. Bring them here for interrogation. Any questions?”

  The officers filed out by one’s and two’s. Deborah, still clutching Scamp, rose to go. Col. Marshall intercepted her before she got to the door. Leaning negligently on the door jamb, he blocked her way.

  “Mistress Morgan.” A smile played around his mouth as he reached over to scratch Scamp’s ears.

  Deborah flinched at the nearness, but held her ground. “Excuse me. Scamp needs to go outside.” When he didn’t move, she added, “Now.”

  “Certainly. But I don’t need to remind you that we have one or two matters to settle between us.” His hand moved down the dog’s back and closer to her breast. He seemed to enjoy the tightening muscles in her face. “Even if you decline the familiarity of using my Christian name.”

  “Why you! Of all the miserable, loathsome, disgusting things to say!” She wrenched away from him. “You are an outrageous excuse for a gentleman, you…you…lobsterback!”

  Kit was openly grinning as she flounced around him and out the door. “We have an appointment with the dressmaker, remember.”

  “No…we…don’t.” And she marched out the front door.

  “Oh yes we do,” he whispered to himself.

  Chapter 8

  Deborah dined in her room. Scamp jumped and played and wiggled and finally went to sleep on her bed. She, on the other hand, spent the time fuming and stewing and worrying and daydreaming and plotting. How any man could engender such a mixture of fear and gratitude and just plain old-fashioned lust, she would never comprehend. In the end, she gave up and also went to sleep.

  **

  Kit didn’t even attempt to go to sleep.

  He knew from long experience that the effort would be useless. So many things had happened, good and bad. They whirled in his brain.

  But he knew the good wouldn’t outweigh the sight of that young woman, lying dead with the evidence of rape on her thighs. Even if he did manage to get to sleep, the nightmares would come to claw at him.

  Except, he knew that the nightmares were real.

  The time was better spent going over the army’s books and planning his next offensive.

  Finally, as he sat reading on his bed, in the small hours of the morning, when a man’s waking defenses are at their ebb, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  Alleys and dogs and bolts of material floated through his night world. Kit watched a pair of figures at a distance, one on top of the other. His throat closed because he knew what was happening. At this distance he was helpless to stop it.

  Helpless, always so helpless.

  He ran, his heart pounding with the exertion. As he got to the figures, Ban stood up, laughing.

  The man in his dreams looked down, and Kit could see what was at his feet—the raped and lifeless body of Deborah Morgan.

  Kit sat straight up, eyes wide open and beads of sweat already cooling on his face. Hauling in deep gouts of air, he just sat for a moment and stared at the window opposite his bed.

  As his breathing slowed, he realized it was almost dawn.

  **

  By the time she had walked Scamp and finished breakfast, the troops still stationed at Camden were in inspection formation. Her fingers were itching to start the cloak and dresses, but she took time to watch one of the units as their officers checked the men. Loyalist detachments, generally in their own clothes, received cursory attention. The regulars, in uniform, underwent rigorous scrutiny. Every once in a while a man was pulled out of the line and sent to another officer. They separated four men out of the unit and marched them to the house for interrogation. Other units sent more or less similar groups.

  Deborah went up to the workroom to begin measuring and cutting. The cloak seemed the reasonable starting point.

  Sewing makes use of real thought only on an intermittent basis. As a result, she had plenty of time to contemplate the scene by the river. As the shears crunched through the fabric she recalled the masculine strength of his body as he held her, the slight scrape of his beard, and that age-old scent of the male.

  He had wanted her. He had lain down with her in a secluded place. His hands had gently worshipped her body, making her truly aware of her femininity for the first time. His mouth had been poised to touch hers and she had strained to complete the union when Scamp interrupted.

  What was she thinking about? That dog had more sense than she did. This man was a British colonel! What in heavens name was she doing? She shook her head as if to dislodge the delicious, but dangerous memories. The shears stopped for a moment and then continued their cut, as if they knew that their wielder’s lapse of attention was only momentary.

  Scamp wanted to wrestle with the material, so Rogers earned her undying gratitude when he brought a bone, plac
ed elegantly on a silver salver, for the dog. As the morning wore on, she glanced out the window to see soldiers going out of the house, some sweating, some pale, some shaking so hard they could barely stand. But they were the lucky ones.

  Stopping for lunch, she went downstairs. Scamp barked at the seven very frightened men lined up under guard in the hall. Sgt. Thomson supervised the proceedings. He nodded politely to her, and returned his attention to his detainees.

  As Col. Marshall left his office, Scamp yipped and bounded over for a petting. Kit had to bend a little, even with the dog stretched full length up his leg. He took longer than necessary petting the dog, but he wasn’t looking at Scamp. He stared at Deborah, so long and so hard that she wondered if he’d received some damning information about her. He shook his head like a dog might shake off a fly.

  Walking over to Deborah, he said, “These are the ones who can’t account for their missing buttons. We’ll have another go at them after lunch to see if they can account for their whereabouts.”

  She looked at him rather thoughtfully but nodded in silent understanding and turned to contemplate the men. Some were older; some looked like they were barely out of short pants. “I guess things would be a lot easier if you could just look at them and tell which one is guilty.”

  His laugh sounded more like a bark, and he signaled to the guards to lead the men away. “Definitely.” He took he elbow to lead her to the dining room, but she resisted going, watching the men as they filed out of the house. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, yes,” she said as she finally moved. Again, she stopped and looked at the now-closed door. “I don’t know. Something’s wrong, and I’m not sure what it is. Something just…just tickles the back of my mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’ll come to me.”

  They walked into the dining room, with Scamp running round and round his new people.

  **

  After lunch, a small detachment road back into camp, somewhat the worse for wear. They had engaged some of Col. William Washington’s men near Rugley Mills. While the engagement seemed to have ended in a draw, some of the British soldiers were wounded, including Lt. Harvey, the young man who had precipitated her misadventure.

  “How many wounded do you have, Lieutenant?” she asked as she entered the dim infirmary cabin.

  “Three, ma’am. And may I say that it’s a pleasure to have you treating my men rather than…uh hum, that is to say, I’m delighted that you’re assisting us…ummm…I mean, in spite of you’re being detained and…everything…” His voice trailed off.

  Taking pity on him, she sought to reassure him, “Thank you, Lieutenant. I understand everything you’re trying to say, and I appreciate it.” She laid a consoling hand on his arm, only to have him flinch. Her hand came away bloody. “You’re hurt!”

  “I’m quite all right. If you would be so kind as to see to my men?” He was pale, but holding his own.

  “Yes, of course.” She quickly looked over the three men. The injuries were serious, but none of them was immediately life threatening. Her assistant, as he had been trained to do, disrobed and cleaned the injured soldiers. She nodded her approval of his efforts and examined the saber cut on the first man’s leg. “Yates, when you’re finished there, the Lieutenant also needs treatment. Sit, Mr. Harvey.” Not looking to see whether her orders were followed, she dug into the supply chest for a needle and thread.

  The three soldiers were resting, and Deborah was finishing the bandage on a shirtless and very red-faced Lt. Harvey’s arm, when Marshall walked into the tent. The four wounded men began to struggle to their feet when she barked, “Lie back down. Col. Marshall’s consequence will survive your convalescence.”

  The object of the discussion grinned, “Well men, this shows you what happens when you put a woman in charge.”

  The shocked and apprehensive faces on the soldiers changed to grins when they realized their commanding officer wasn’t standing on formality.

  “How are you men doing?”

  “Jus’ fine, sir,” the first-bandaged man replied, “Mistress Morgan’s got nice, soft hands, and she’s done us up good.”

  Marshall nodded and watched as she cut the excess bandage off Harvey’s arm. Immediately, the young man reached for his shirt.

  “Young man,” Deborah began in her severest this-is-the-tone-I-use-when-I’m-dealing-with-my-obstinate-father voice.

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I have duties that require my attention.” Harvey didn’t look at her as he struggled with his shirt. “Yates, come and give me a hand with this blasted thing.” Silently Yates assisted him into the shirt and fastened it. Deborah watched him, arms crossed over her chest and feet tapping.

  Harvey was still pale, but she realized that she wasn’t going to be able to keep him any longer. She was dealing with a combination of embarrassment, the British inbred and overblown sense of duty, and a young man’s striving to fill shoes that were still a little too big for him. With rueful honesty, she realized that her own words had forced him into proving his manhood.

  “All right, Mr. Harvey, you may leave on one, no, two conditions.” Wary, he waited for her to finish. “One, you must go to your tent and sleep for a minimum of two hours. You’ve been injured and your body needs sleep to help it heal. Two, you must use the sling that Yates will prepare for you for at least one week. Agreed?”

  Harvey looked over at his senior officer who was staying aloof from the skirmish. Yates was fetching the required material, and the other men were wisely asleep. “Very well, ma’am.”

  She nodded to Yates, “I’ll come back to check on them in a few hours.”

  Marshall followed her out of the hospital. When they were some yards away, she let out a long breath. “I’d forgotten just how sensitive an intrepid young male is.”

  “Yes, we tend to be a rather easily-bruised species.”

  Suspicious, she glanced at him, but his face was bland and innocent. Too bland and innocent. Laughing, she said, “Yes, I know I stepped on his fragile manhood, but males tend to be all too caught up in maintaining their illusion of manliness instead of using common sense.”

  “Oh, to be considered a poseur as well as touchy.” He lifted the back of his hand to his forehead in dramatic grief.

  His smile, slightly higher on one side as usual, tickled something deep inside her. “Just so.” Even as she teased, she knew that it was something he could joke about but never be accused of.

  They passed the gaol, a dismal structure with a single window and a well-guarded door.

  Kit noticed the direction of her gaze and commented, “We’ve cleared two of the men. We’re still interrogating the other suspects, but unless someone confesses, or we can find a witness, I’m not sure how we’ll get our man.”

  Deborah stopped and pursed her lips. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Yes, we may not be able to hang our killer.”

  “No, I mean that something’s wrong with the men you have in custody.”

  He stopped and studied her face. “You mentioned this yesterday. Do you know something?”

  “No, I don’t know anything. I felt it yesterday, very vaguely. But today it’s really strong and I’m not precisely sure what the problem is. I have this feeling that...that the men you have just don’t fit into the puzzle correctly. There’s something we’ve overlooked.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” Worried, she reached out and lightly touched his sleeve. “Just promise me that you won’t do anything drastic until we can get more proof.”

  **

  He’d heard his father joking about it, half seriously, half mockingly, but Kit had never in his wildest dreams thought that he would ever want to promise a woman the moon and the stars, just because she looked at him with wide, earnest eyes. It took a considerable amount of will power to simply assent.

  Disturbed by sensations he didn’t comprehend, and not being completely sure he wa
nted to comprehend them, Kit continued on towards the house. Deborah followed.

  **

  A few steps gave them a view of the road to Camden and the carriage coming toward them. As the carriage drew closer, Deborah was surprised to see a woman holding the reins. Times were chancy enough to go about with a man at your side. Deborah knew that from personal experience! But a woman alone, no two women, was tempting the fates.

  The carriage pulled around the circular drive leading up to the house. Mistress Kershaw and her daughter stepped down as Kit and Deborah drew near the house. Deborah could see several boxes in the back of the vehicle.

  “Good day, ladies,” Deborah said as she and Marshall drew closer.

  Mistress Kershaw ignored her and turned directly to Marshall. “Col. Marshall, it is imperative that my daughter and I take up residence in our own house! There has been another murder and Camden is no longer safe, even for respectable young women.”

  The younger Mistress Kershaw glanced nervously from her mother to the British officer. Clearly she was not happy about the prospect of returning to her home, but staying in Camden was no longer an option.

  “Yes, we know about Mistress Brightman’s murder. We were...”

  “No! There has been another discovered since poor Mistress Brightman, just today.”

  Marshall looked at his toes and muttered, “Looks like that changes matters.” Deborah looked at Marshall and found him returning the regard. “Seems your feelings were correct, madam.

  “What happened?” he directed the question to Mistress Kershaw.

  “Colonel? Could we get the ladies settled before we get too involved? I’m sure this has all been very difficult for them.”

  “Of course. We will talk more at dinner. Ladies.” He bowed and strode away from the house.

  Deborah smiled at the younger Kershaw lady, but it wasn’t returned. “Well, shall we get you settled?”

  “Young woman, this is my house. I am perfectly acquainted with it.” The older woman’s back was unbent and so was her voice.

  “Certainly.” Deborah’s level look lasted a few moments. “I only wished to inform you that the back two bedrooms are unoccupied. I will see to your luggage.” She left to inform Rogers of the development.