Scarlet RIbbons

by Judith E. French

  Sarah sighed, knowing the truth of what he said. She turned back to help, but Forest shook his head firmly and pointed toward the door.

  "You're a woman of flesh and blood," he said. "Work yourself into a sickbed and where will that son of yours be?" He grinned. "You can trust me not to rob you blind in the night."

  "Can I?"

  "Aye. A scoundrel I may be, but I'm no thief." He ran a hand through his tousled auburn hair. "Besides, you've made it clear you keep no coin in the inn."

  "All right," she agreed. Her back ached and she could hardly keep her eyelids open. Without waiting for Forest's reply, she turned and walked across the yard toward her cabin. She needed no candle to light her way; she knew every step by heart.

  The pitch-black night was misty hot; no trace of moon showed through the clouds overhead. A mosquito droned around her head, but Sarah was too weary to slap at it. I'm getting as bad as an old woman, she thought. A stone turned beneath her bare foot, and she winced as it bruised her instep. She limped the last few paces to the door and fumbled for the latch.

  Sarah wondered if she'd be able to sleep once she crawled into bed. Despite the fatigue of her body, her mind raced with tumbling, confused emotions. It was not just the terrifying incident with Joshua and the pistol that disturbed her; it was more than the visit of that pig Isaac and his foulmouthed cronies.

  As frightening as Joshua's close call had been, Forest had prevented anyone from being hurt. Joshua was safe, and she doubted he would try such a fool stunt against his uncle again. Isaac believed the boy had been punished; he should be no more danger to Joshua than he had been since Obediah went away.

  Sarah barred the door behind her and began to undress, too tired to bother with a candle. Tonight, she would wash in cold water. In the darkness, her fingers found the battered tin basin and her hairbrush.

  Isaac had come and gone. Once more she had kept him at bay. She had accepted Isaac's taunts and arrogant demands without letting him push her into doing something foolhardy.

  Isaac was a bully, a man with few redeeming features . . . a man who took pleasure in his control over her.

  Sarah laughed wryly as she let down her hair. When had it ever been different for her at King's Landing? She hated Isaac as she had always hated her husband, Obediah, but she feared her brother-in-law more. In the years since Joshua was born, she had found ways to control Obediah, to put an end to his abuse, but Isaac was no puffed-up bully. Isaac was capable of carrying out his most dire threats.

  "Joshua," she whispered into the blackest corner of the room, and her heartbeat quickened. "My Joshua."

  She had done it all for Joshua. She would best Isaac as she had conquered Obediah in the end. Her husband could haunt her dreams as much as he liked, but if she held firm she could secure a safe home and a future for herself and her beloved son.

  Last night she had awakened in the witching hours with the sound of Obediah's voice in her ears and the rank smell of his unwashed body in her nostrils. She had wept dry sobs into her pillow, stifling her sounds so as not to alarm Joshua. The dream had been so real that she had gotten up and lit a candle, examining her face in the cracked mirror . . . foolishly looking for fresh bruises.

  Giving a snort of derision, Sarah finished her ablutions and made her way slowly toward her bed. Ghosts didn't frighten her; the pain she'd felt in this life had all been caused by living, breathing men.

  She rubbed her cheek, reassuring herself that the bruises were no more. Obediah Turner had abused her when she was a frightened girl; he'd been no match for her once she became a determined woman. At times she'd suspected he might even have feared her.

  Naked, she crawled between the clean, sweet-smelling sheets. Since she'd slept alone, she kept her spare sheets in a chest with tiny bags of dried spearmint. Her mother had always followed the practice; she'd said it kept a house free from disease. Obediah had hated the scent of mint and forbidden Sarah to use it. She smiled as she curled on her side, inhaling traces of the familiar herb.

  Now that she was truly mistress of King's Landing, she did as she pleased.

  Sarah closed her eyes and sighed. The tick under her was as soft as an angel cloud must be. There was no man to pull her roughly to his side of the bed and use her as carelessly as though she were a dumb object with no mind or soul. Nor would there ever be. She had fought too hard for her freedom.

  The sound of a man's deep voice singing drifted through her open window. Forest! Instantly, Sarah's eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright.

  . . . parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.

  Remember me to one who went there . . .

  Unconsciously, her lips moved, her words barely audible, as she continued the soulful lyrics of the old ballad.

  . . . a good friend of mine.

  Forest's parting words hung on the thick, ethereal mist.

  . . . Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

  Fighting the unfamiliar desire that curled in the pit of her stomach, Sarah caught her breath and listened. Except for the hunting cry of a nighthawk, all was quiet. After what seemed like a long time, she began to breathe again. Bunching up her pillow, she lay back down and closed her eyes. They flew open at once, and she found herself staring into the darkness over her head.

  Who was Forest, and why had he come to King's Landing? Was he a deserter, as he wanted her to think? Why had he helped her—not once, but repeatedly, even at the risk of his own life? What did he want from her? And worse . . . what did she want from him? What would be the price if she reached for it?

  Chapter Five

  Temptation & Regret

  Early the next morning, Sarah stepped into the drizzling rain to see Forest hoisting a yearling buck onto the butchering rack beyond the corncrib. A string of fish hung over the hitching rail beside two wild ducks. Drawing a wool shawl up over her head, she hurried down the path to join him.

  "Morning, Mistress Turner," he said. The deer had been field dressed and the body cavity washed. The liver lay on a clean piece of bark.

  "You've been hunting."

  "Aye, and fishing." Pulling a large knife from a sheath at his waist, Forest began to skillfully skin the animal.

  Sarah noticed that he was wearing his old hunting jacket, and a suspicious uneasiness began to plague her. "Any particular reason you decided to go hunting and fishing in the rain? All before dawn?" Warm raindrops spattered Sarah's face and arms. The grass under her bare feet was wet, and the trees dripped water in long, shimmering splashes.

  "Yeah, there is." He turned from his task and stared directly into her eyes. "I've got to leave King's Landing."

  "Leave?" The word was out of her mouth before she could think clearly. "But . . . you can't leave. I . . ." An intense sense of loss washed over her. "Haven't I been fair to you?" she asked. "If it's a question of more money . . ."

  "It's not the money," he replied, turning back to the deer. The honed steel knife flashed, and the hide fell away smoothly, nearly free of flesh. The damp air was full of the scent of fresh blood and animal musk. "It's personal."

  Sarah struggled to keep her voice emotionless. "If it's anything I've done or said to offend you . . ."

  "You've done nothing," Forest said gruffly. "I told you, it's personal. I'll come back if I can."

  "Do you have to go now?" she asked, hedging. "Couldn't you stay on a while until I—?"

  "You managed well enough until I got here."

  Sarah's spine stiffened as shame coursed through her. "So I did." What kind of fool was she to beg a hired man to stay? She'd known all along that he'd move on when the urge took him. She'd known he would go—and had wished fervently in the secret places of her heart that he wouldn't. Sarah tried to cover her disappointment with cool dismissal. "I'll fetch your wages."

  "No need." Forest's fingers tightened on the hilt of the knife until his knuckles showed white against the lean, bronzed surface of his suntanned hand. "Hold my coin for me. I'll try and—"

  Sarah tur
ned away and hurried toward the house, lips tightly compressed, hands clenched at her sides. "I pay what I owe," she flung back into the rain. Her eyes stung and she roughly wiped away the beginning of a tear. Inside, she removed a handful of copper pennies from her secret cache and carried them back across the yard.

  "Take your money," she cried, holding it out to him.

  For agonizingly long minutes Forest seemed to ignore her as he stripped the last of the skin from the young buck and cleaned his knife on the wet grass and dried it as best he could on the hide. When he turned to face her, the intensity of his searing gaze transformed Sarah's hurt anger to confusion.

  "Your . . . your money," she stammered.

  "Sarah." Her name was a husky caress on his lips.

  She blinked and stared back at him with numb incredulity, unable to move as he lifted one hand and gently brushed a tendril of damp hair away from her face.

  "Sarah."

  Her eyes widened with understanding as she moistened her lips with her tongue. A shiver of excitement made her knees suddenly weak, and unconsciously she leaned toward him.

  Forest cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her face toward his, bestowing a tender, lingering kiss on her trembling mouth.

  Liquid fire spilled through Sarah's veins as their lips touched. She pressed her trembling body against his and closed her eyes.

  "Sarah," he murmured softly, his breath warm on her lips. "I'll come back if I can."

  His voice broke the spell, and stunned awareness tore through her as she realized she had been kissing him back. She pulled away. "No . . ." she protested, raising her fingers to her lips. Her lashes fluttered as she fought for control of her whirling senses. "No." She shook her head and took a step backward. "I didn't want . . ." she began, and then trailed off, her voice strained and throaty.

  "Didn't you?" Without waiting for an answer, Forest spun around, scooped up his rifle and powder horn, and strode toward the forest.

  Sarah exhaled raggedly. Her lips still felt the imprint of his; her heart pounded as though she had been running uphill. Her breasts tingled with unfamiliar sensations, sending a sweet, hot aching to throb in her loins.

  "Go on!" she cried. "Leave. And don't come back!" Futilely, she threw the pennies after him.

  ~~~

  Sarah worked at cutting up the deer in the rain for most of the morning, pausing only to gut the fish. She knew the ducks could wait until afternoon; she put them in a bucket and lowered them into the cool well until she could get to them. The deer had to be butchered immediately. Some of the venison could be soaked in salt water to cook fresh, but the rest had to be salted or smoked to keep it from going bad in the August heat.

  Butchering was a difficult, messy job, and Sarah hated it. But meat was precious; she couldn't afford to let any of it go to waste. She had herself and Joshua to think of, as well as guests who might stop at the inn. The rain was only a slight hindrance. Although her clothing quickly became soaked, the rain was warm. It was easier to do the butchering outside than to take it into the house or barn and have to clean up the blood afterward.

  In peacetime, most farmers butchered large animals in cold weather, but since the beginning of the trouble with the rebels, habits had changed. There was so much raiding back and forth that no one wanted to keep stores of meat and grain; they were too easily stolen. Precious livestock, such as cattle and pigs, had to be moved from place to place and hidden. Since it was easier to move live animals than salted meat, butchering was done as the meat was needed.

  Cutting the venison kept Sarah's hands and eyes busy, but she couldn't keep her mind off Forest and the kiss that had rocked the solid foundations of her world. No one had kissed her with such tenderness before—other than her parents and her son. And no man other than her father had kissed her without lechery. She sighed heavily as she sliced pieces of the haunch into long strips. Even now, gooseflesh rose on her arms when she thought of Forest's kiss.

  Sarah had come into daily contact with men of all stations since she was a babe in her father's inn in York. She had seen men: rich and poor, drunk and sober. She had held the heads of men who were sick. She had helped to carry away those who had died peacefully in their sleep and those who had met a violent and sudden end. But never in all those years had she met a man like Forest.

  There was a quiet strength beneath his gentle, laughing demeanor, a strength that awakened emotions within Sarah's breast that she thought she had buried long ago.

  "Why do you have to be different?" she shouted into the misty rain.

  There was no answer except the familiar hypnotic cadence of raindrops pattering against the broad leaves of the trees and the corncrib roof.

  The knife slipped and nicked Sarah's thumb. "Ouch," she cried. Instinctively, she raised the injured thumb to her mouth and sucked at the wound.

  Forest's face rose in her mind's eye and she willed it away. One kiss and I'm as silly as a goose girl, she thought. This rebellion against the Crown must be troubling me more than I realized, if I'm losing my good sense.

  There was no place in her life for a man like Forest . . . no place for a man at all. What man since her father had brought her anything but unhappiness? Let other women succumb to the desires of the flesh; she would not.

  "It's a good thing you're gone," she whispered. "I'm a respectable, married woman. I—"

  The baying of hounds cut through her reverie, and Sarah raised her head to see Joshua coming toward her on the black mule, followed by her friend Martha. Martha was riding bareback on a fat workhorse and balancing a wicker basket on her lap.

  "Sarah," the older woman called. "What in God's name are ye doin' out in this downpour?" Martha was a tiny bird of a woman whose creased and smiling face peered out from beneath the shelter of a man's wide-brimmed straw hat.

  Joshua slid off the mule and ran to hug his mother. "Aunt Martha made gingerbread men for me, Mama, with raisin eyes!"

  "Careful of this knife, now," Sarah cautioned. "I've already cut myself." Her admonishment was softened by a kiss to the boy's forehead and a generous hug. "Thanks for bringing him back, Martha." Sarah smiled at her friend. "I've some fresh deer liver for you to take home."

  "Well, it's Johnny's favorite, I'll say that." Martha dug her heels into the mare's side, urging the big horse toward the stable. "I thought we'd share the noon meal. I've brought apple turnovers and a loaf of my squash bread."

  "Go to the inn kitchen and dry off. I'm done here. I'll change my clothes and join you in a few minutes." Sarah gave the boy's backside a pat. "Put up the mule and go with Martha. I'll not have you wetter than you already are."

  "But Mama . . . "

  "Mama, nothing! Git!"

  Joshua stuck out his lower lip and trudged off toward the stable as Sarah had ordered.

  By the time Sarah reached the kitchen, Martha had water boiling for tea and Joshua was busy setting up an army of tin soldiers beneath the trestle table. Sarah knew how much her friend enjoyed the luxury of real English tea. Martha's Patriot husband had forbidden tea in their own home ever since the citizens of Chestertown, Maryland, had dumped a shipment of British tea into the Chester River as an act of open rebellion against the Crown.

  Only Loyalists served tea at their tables, but that didn't prevent Martha from savoring every cup that Sarah offered. "What kind of Christian would I be if I refused a neighbor's act of hospitality?" Martha had remarked with a wink the only time the two women ever discussed the subject. Enjoying a cup of forbidden British tea with Sarah was one of Martha's greatest pleasures, and it did Sarah's heart good to aid in the conspiracy.

  "That man of yours shot a deer this morning, did he?" Martha said as she poured water over the fragrant tea leaves. "Josh speaks high of him." She took two earthenware mugs from a cupboard and set them on the table with the familiarity of a longtime friend. "My Johnny was huntin' bigger game last night. He thinks there's a bear prowlin' 'round my pigpen. Johnny saw Isaac and his friends heading north away fr
om here. That's how I knew it was safe to bring the boy home."

  "I would have come for him myself this morning," Sarah replied, sinking onto the bench, "only I thought I'd best do up that venison first."

  "He's no trouble, and that's a fact. With my Will and the boys away in the army, it's too quiet at White Oaks. You know Johnny don't say much. Josh is welcome any time." Martha lowered her voice. "Word is, Howe's army is going to invade the peninsula." Martha laid a thin hand on Sarah's. "It's not safe for you here, girl. Leave King's Landing and come to White Oaks with Johnny and me."

  Sarah couldn't contain a chuckle. "I'm no rebel. What do I have to fear from the British army? I'm glad they're coming. Maybe they'll bring some law and order to the Eastern Shore. God knows there's been nothing but trouble for months."

  Martha snorted. "You think Howe's men will stop and ask whose side yer husband is fightin' for before they set fire to yer house? I'm past my prime and as stringy as an old hen, but you . . ." Martha's brow furrowed in genuine concern, and she shook her head. "I tell you, you're not safe. There's worse things can happen to a woman than bein' robbed."

  "It's common knowledge that King's Landing is a Loyalist tavern," Sarah answered calmly. "And everyone knows that Will and your other sons are with Washington. It's White Oaks that will be in danger if the British troops come."

  "Maybe, maybe not. We're pretty far back in the woods." Martha poured the tea for both of them and raised the steaming cup to her lips.

  "This rebellion cannot last," Sarah warned her friend. "You know—"

  Martha silenced Sarah with a frosty stare. "No more, girl. Remember our agreement. I do not blame ye for the choice of that brute yer wedded to, but me and mine stand firm for the General. Will's sweated thirty years on White Oaks. We buried two girl babies on that land. No man born of woman will drive us off it while we draw breath, and that includes that German madman that calls hisself King of England."