Faithfully Yours

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “Do they always get involved in such hopeless pursuits?” asked Sebastian from behind her.

  Faith closed her eyes, trying to submerge the pulse of joy at the sound of his voice. “Hopeless pursuits seem to be becoming something of a habit around here.”

  “If you speak of my mission, I can tell you that it is not hopeless.”

  “No?” She looked up at him, startled. Maybe she should have listened more closely at the doorway. “Have you found the smugglers or the Continental Congress?”

  “We know where the Continental Congress is.”

  “And the smugglers?”

  He gave her a rakish smile. “I wish I could say the same, and I expect I will soon.” Bending toward her, he added, “Let me help.”

  She started to stand, then yelped as she realized her skirt was caught by a thick sliver on the rough post. She turned, trying to free herself without ripping her skirt.

  Sebastian’s laugh halted her frantic fingers. Here, in the gray light beneath the clouds and without his uniform, for he wore a buckskin shirt and breeches, his smile no longer seemed like a taunt, as it had in the house. Good humor glittered in his eyes—good humor and something she would be a fool to examine too closely.

  “I believe I do need some help,” she replied, kneeling again.

  “Then do not move. You are certain to tear your pretty blue skirt if you do.”

  Faith smiled, but held her breath as Sebastian’s leg brushed her shoulder, heating all kinds of sweet stirrings in her. When she released the breath and took another, it was filled with his enticing masculine essence. She should tell him to move aside, that she had changed her mind, that she would find a way to escape without his help. As she savored the inadvertent touch, she did not.

  “I think I am more skillful with knitting needles than I am with a hammer,” she said, trying to keep the conversation going so she could think of something other than how close he stood.

  “There,” he announced as he stepped back. “You are free.”

  “Something that folks around here would never expect to hear from a British army major.”

  His smile wavered. “Can you never speak of anything without bringing the war into it?”

  “I would like to, but the war touches everything I do, everything I see, everyone I love.” She picked up the hammer, but met his eyes steadily as she added, “And it makes even allies distrust each other so much that they accuse each other of crimes that have not been committed.”

  “Gaylord should have thought before he acted.”

  “Is that a fault with everyone in your family?”

  Even though he wanted to deny it, Sebastian could not halt himself from caressing Faith’s cheek, which was burnished by the cold. “Not with everyone.”

  She laughed. “It is in mine.”

  “I would say it is quite the opposite. At least, in your case. You seem to think endlessly about everything you do or say.”

  “It is a good idea to consider all aspects of an action.”

  “And how would you consider this?”

  When he pulled her to him, her lips were soft and inviting beneath his. His tongue brushed hers. She trembled and pressed closer. He groaned with the need that stole his thoughts from his duties. His arm around her waist, he tugged her even more tightly to him. As her hands glided up his back, he longed to scoop her into his arms and take her somewhere to teach her that these kisses were only a prelude to a crescendo that would thrill them both.

  The dogs yelped again, and Faith drew back. Sebastian refused to let her escape him this time. Locking his fingers together at the back of her waist, he smiled at her.

  “So what do you say, Faith?” he asked. “How do you consider that?”

  “I consider it constantly.” Her finger traced the lacing that held the front of his shirt together.

  “That is good to hear, but sometimes one needs to stop thinking and do something.”

  Her breathless “Yes,” barely reached his ears before her mouth welcomed his again. Smiling against her lips, for he was pleased at her kissing him, he let his fingers slide slowly down her back. She quivered beneath his touch, and a fiery craving thrust through him like a heated blade. As his hands came up to cup her breasts, her sharp gasp became a soft mew of pleasure. He raised his head so he could see the rapture on her face.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “No? You don’t want me to touch you like this?” His thumb climbed the curve of her breast to tease its tip.

  “No. Do not stop kissing me.” Her voice took on a frantic tone as her hand against his nape steered his mouth to hers.

  He tightened his arms around her until he was sure he could feel her heart beating against his. With a groan, he released her before he found he could not. She rested her cheek against his chest, her breath coming as swiftly as his. He leaned his head against her cap, which smelled of fresh air and the day’s chill. A stray curl teased him to explore further.

  Before he could follow that temptation, a cold drop struck his head. It was followed by another. Looking up, he saw that the clouds were about to release their burden of rain. He took Faith’s hand and hurried with her into the house before both of them could get soaked.

  Sebastian cursed under his breath as they stepped beneath the roof of the porch and out of the storm. The soft gaze in her eyes remained, offering him an invitation that he ached to accept. Under her father’s roof. He knew he would be wise to recall that the obligations of a host did not include offering his daughter. Voices came from the dining room, so he drew her into the parlor.

  Again he could not keep himself from tasting her soft lips. She jumped back when footsteps raced up the stairs, followed by Mistress Cromwell calling to her children not to run through the house.

  “They certainly could never be accused of sneaking up on one,” Sebastian said with a chuckle.

  “I did not hear what you and your brother and Lieutenant Osborne were discussing,” Faith whispered, wanting to slip her arms around him again.

  “Why not?”

  She regarded him in amazement. “I do not eavesdrop on my father’s guests.”

  “Then you have not heard about the defeat of the British army north of Albany?”

  Her eyes widened as Sebastian explained the contents of the message he had received. “How can that be? How can the rebels cause such a defeat?”

  “Defeat?” Her father strode into the parlor. “What are you talking about?”

  Faith drew her fingers out of Sebastian’s hand and went to her father. “Sebastian has received word of General Burgoyne surrendering to the rebels.”

  What her father replied sent flame rushing up her face. She wanted to remind him that the expedition from Canada led by General Burgoyne was not a part of the main army, but her father would remain furious. Nothing but the complete defeat of General Washington’s army would satisfy him.

  She lowered her eyes quickly so that her father—and Sebastian—could not see her dismay. General Washington could not give up, because he would be sentenced to be hanged along with all of his officers. Clenching her hands, she recalled how two men from Goshen had been made officers before the battle by the Brandywine.

  “I have embarrassed you, Faith,” her father said with a sigh. “Forgive me for letting my own dismay cause me to speak so harshly.”

  “Embarrassment is what Burgoyne’s going to face when he returns to Philadelphia.” Sebastian sat, as Faith did, then came to his feet as her mother came into the room.

  Mistress Cromwell motioned for him to sit. “I have heard what you said. I find this remarkable.”

  “As do our military leaders in Philadelphia,” Sebastian said. “I am glad I shall not be there to listen to Burgoyne explain how his well-trained men were defeated by an undisciplined collection of mountain men and farmers.”

  “How can you jest about this?” asked Faith, astonished. “If—”

  Mistress Cromwell stood. “I came to tell you th
at our meal is ready. Why don’t you wash up? Then we can discuss this during our supper. Faith, will you bring the soup into the dining room? I have to—” She glanced at her husband and Sebastian. “I have something I must do before supper. It will take only a moment.”

  Faith nodded, but glanced again at her father and Sebastian, who did not move to follow her out of the room. As they talked so low and fast that she could not understand, she hurried after her mother.

  One thing she did understand. She liked Sebastian’s kisses too much. She must not let them betray her into foolishness, or she would be defeated as utterly as General Burgoyne—and the cost of surrender might be far higher than she could imagine.

  Eight

  “Ezekial,” Faith said, putting another tankard on the tray, “please take this mulled cider out to the soldiers in the barn.”

  “That is kind of you,” replied a voice that was much deeper than her brother’s.

  She forced a smile for Sebastian, hoping he had not noticed how her fingers trembled as she set the pitcher back on the kitchen table. “The night is cold, and I thought they would enjoy something warm to drink before they slept.” She shuddered at her own words.

  “Is something amiss?” Sebastian asked as Ezekial opened the door and carried the tray out to the barn.

  “No, everything is just as it should be.” She wondered if she had ever spoken such a heinous lie. On the morrow, she would be meeting Tom Rooke to give him more supplies, so she had put the powder he had given her into the cider, which would make Sebastian’s men sleep long past midday.

  “You look unsettled. Are you shivering?”

  “It is cold.” She closed the door that her brother had left ajar.

  He drew her into his arms and up against his chest. “It is warmer here.”

  His lips on hers gave her no chance to answer, even if she had had something to say. Savoring his kisses, she let her fingers explore the breadth of his back before slipping up through his hair. One brushed puckered skin, and she pulled back with a gasp.

  “That is a scar!”

  He took her hand and led it back to the spot right behind his left ear. “The sign of a childish folly, nothing more. It is not, as you clearly fear, left by a ball that bounced off my hard head, but left from an attempt to teach Gaylord to use one of the old swords that hang on the wall at Kendrick Court.”

  “He struck you with it?”

  “Quite by accident.” He chuckled. “He was not much more than five years old, and his single attempt to heft the sword alone was a failure. I thought I might help him.” Drawing her hand back to his lips, he pressed his mouth to it. “I was a fool to think I could help him, and I received this blow to my head for my attempt.”

  She pulled her hand out of his. “Maybe there was a lesson that you should have learned then.”

  “To take care around someone who might injure me with such a glancing blow?” His arm around her waist tugged her closer again. “Or should I have learned that being so near to someone can be dangerous?”

  “Being so near your brother that day was dangerous.”

  “Without question.” His fingers curved along her cheek. “But being near you is even more dangerous, sweet one. You tease me to forget my orders—”

  “You—forget your orders? I cannot imagine that.”

  “Do you want to know what I can imagine?” As his thumb played along her jaw, he whispered, “I can imagine you slipping into my arms as I lean you back onto my bed. With your fiery hair falling free, I would gladly loosen the hooks along the back of your gown and free your breasts to be caressed by my fingers and my mouth.”

  With a moan, she brought his lips to hers. This fantasy was not only his, but hers, as well. The longings kept her awake at night and lured her to him during the day. She had not guessed this unending craving for his touch could grow stronger with each passing second. When his tongue traced the whorls of her ear, she clenched his linen shirt. She longed to pull it from his breeches and stroke the bare skin across the hard muscles of his back.

  “Faith, I—” Her mother’s words ended in a gulp.

  Pulling out of Sebastian’s arms, Faith met her mother’s wide eyes. Father stood behind her, a broad smile creasing his face. As he walked into the kitchen, his chuckle had the triumphant sound it assumed when he had gotten the best deal out of any negotiation. He slapped Sebastian companionably on the shoulder and reached for the pitcher on the table.

  “Join me,” Father said with another chuckle, “in a drink of Faith’s excellent mulled cider while we talk.”

  Faith snatched the pitcher away from him.

  “Daughter?” he asked, his smile wavering.

  “This is … It is not warm enough.” She sought any excuse to keep her father from drinking the cider, which contained the sleeping powder. “Let me reheat it for you.” Her voice quavered, and she hoped they would think it was nothing more than her embarrassment at being discovered in Sebastian’s embrace.

  She thought someone might denounce her for the liar she was, but her father nodded and motioned for Sebastian to join him in the parlor. Her hope that Mother would go with them vanished when her mother remained in the kitchen.

  Setting the pewter pitcher back on the table, Faith went to the cider jug and poured more into a pot by the hearth. She sprinkled some spices into it before setting it to warm. She waited for her mother to say something, but the kitchen was silent.

  Finally, unable to endure the quiet any longer, Faith said, “I know you have something to tell me, Mother.”

  “You are a woman grown. You have been taught well. Your decisions are yours to make.” She put her hand gently against Faith’s cheek. “And your actions are yours to take, whether they are folly or wise.”

  “Do you think kissing Sebastian is folly?”

  “Do you?”

  She faltered with her answer as she let the memory of his touch swirl around her, sweet and tantalizing and threatening to jeopardize her vow to keep her neighbors from suffering more in the war. She wanted to be in his arms as he brought to life the fantasies he had whispered to her. She wanted him gone.

  “I think,” she whispered, “it is both.”

  “I think you are right. Take care, daughter, because the choices you make now may change your life forever.”

  The shouts woke Faith. Too many nights had been interrupted like this, but she could not accustom herself to being ripped from her dreams to yet another disaster. Buttoning her wrapper to her chin, she winced as she hurried across the icy floor. The night air must be far below freezing, she thought, if the hearths below could not ease this cold.

  She was not surprised to see Sebastian with his cloak over his arm as she came down the stairs. As a chill came from it, she realized he had been outside. Had the shouts been his? That possibility amazed her because he was usually so calm.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, pausing on the bottom riser.

  He turned from where he had been talking to her father, who was adding logs to the hearth in the parlor. “My men. They are viciously sick.” He tossed his cloak back over his shoulders.

  “Sick? How sick? If they are suffering from what your brother had—”

  “It is something different. They cannot keep anything in their stomachs.”

  Faith did not hesitate. She raced back up the stairs. Dressing quickly, she pulled on her thickest socks and her heavy boots. She ran to the first floor even as she was drawing on her gloves. Throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she buttoned it into place and took the pot her mother held out to her. The aroma of chicken broth drifted from it.

  “Sebastian is in the barn,” Mother said. “Start with this broth while I make some chamomile tea to ease the nausea. I added some calamint to soothe their stomachs.”

  Nodding, Faith hurried out into the cold. The grass beneath her feet crunched, and snowflakes floated aimlessly through the night like stars falling to the ground. She shrugged away that fanciful thought as sh
e rushed to the barn.

  A single lantern burned within. Slipping through the door, she closed it hastily behind her. Groans reverberated through the barn, and the animals shifted with disquiet. She hurried to where men were thrashing on the hay-strewn floor. The odors of sickness struck her, warning her to turn back. She tried to ignore them and the nausea that roiled in her stomach.

  When a hand settled on her arm, she recognized the thrill of delight that accompanied Sebastian’s touch. She looked up into his drawn face. Her fingers rose to smooth the furrows in his forehead, but she lowered them before she could be caught up anew in the desire that urged her to think of nothing but satisfying it.

  “Here,” she whispered, handing him the pot. “We need to see if we can get them to eat.”

  “I shall tend to that. You should return to the house.”

  “I can help. I helped you tend your brother.”

  “This is not a place for a woman.” One corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile. “If you have never trusted me before, sweet one, trust me when I tell you this. The men do not want you here when they are in such a state.”

  She started to argue, then heard a man retching on the other side of a stall. “Mother is making some chamomile tea to ease the stomach cramps. I will—”

  “Have one of your brothers deliver it here.”

  “As soon as it is ready.” She recognized his stubborn tone. He was determined to protect her from this illness.

  When he turned to ladle some of the soup out for his men, she turned to leave. She faltered when she saw the men holding out the pewter tankards that she had filled with the mulled cider that evening. Each man had one lying beside him.

  Her own stomach tightened. She could not believe that the powder Tom Rooke had given her had done this. It should have made the men sleep—nothing more. He had assured her of that. Her nails bit into her palms as her hands became fists. Tom hated the British. Had he lied to her and used her to make these men so ill that they could not complete the duties that had brought them here?