Scarlet RIbbons

by Judith E. French

  It will do me good to see a little action fer a change," Gideon had said when he agreed to accompany Forest back to King's Landing.

  "A loose word will see us both hanging from a British rope," Forest had warned.

  "Aye," Gideon had agreed. "But I learned to hold my tongue from rougher men than you'll ever live to see, laddie."

  Gideon was as tough as a tarred rope and equally trustworthy. Forest would feel safer at the tavern with the old seaman at his back. Gideon would take some of the drudgery off Sarah's shoulders, too, and would give Forest a little more freedom to come and go.

  "Forest." Sarah tugged at his sleeve.

  He turned back to her. "What is it?"

  She went to the wooden box and removed the letter. "The post rider brought me this letter when he told us about the ambush. I've not opened it, but he said it was for me. Could you read it, please?"

  He nodded and took the letter from her. It was clearly addressed to Mistress Turner at King's Landing on the Misakaak. The words were printed in crude, bold strokes with several misspellings, and there was no indication as to who had sent the letter.

  Sarah watched intently as Forest tore open the packet. His eye scanned the wrinkled page quickly, and his mouth tightened.

  "It's from your husband," Forest said harshly. "He says he's coming home."

  "What?" Sarah suddenly felt light-headed. She dropped onto the bench, feeling as though she had been suddenly punched in the stomach. "Obediah? Are you certain?"

  Forest turned the paper so that she could see how few words were on it. "'Wife,'" he read. "I am comin home from the fightin. Ye have much ta answer fer.' It's signed simply 'Obediah Turner.'"

  Sarah shook her head, trying to rid herself of the loud buzzing in her ears. "It can't be," she murmured weakly as she struggled to catch her breath. "He can't—" Then the room dissolved into spinning blackness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Obediah’s Threat

  When Sarah opened her eyes, she was in Forest's arms. Gideon, Forest, and Joshua were staring at her. Joshua's face was twisted with concern, and Forest looked frightened.

  "Oh," Sarah gasped. Sweet Jesus, had she fainted? She'd never fainted in her life, not even when Joshua had been trampled under the hooves of that horse and almost killed. "I'm . . . I'm all right," she murmured. "Let me go."

  Gideon offered her a cup of water. "It's cold, Miz Sarah. Drink a little. 'Twill make ye feel better."

  Forest eased her down into a chair, and Sarah realized with a start that she was in the public room. What had Forest been doing, carrying her upstairs to bed? She was nearly overcome with embarrassment. "I'm fine, really," she insisted.

  "What happened, Mama?" Joshua asked. "Are you sick?"

  "No, I'm not sick. Please . . . " Sarah motioned with her hand. "Just go do whatever it was you were doing. I'm fine."

  Reluctantly, Joshua and Gideon went into the kitchen, leaving Sarah alone to face Forest.

  "It was Obediah's letter that made you faint," he said quietly. "What are we going to do, Sarah? What are we going to do about us?"

  Sarah twisted her hands together nervously, keeping her eyes averted from his penetrating gaze. If only she could confide in Forest—tell him the truth. Surely, he would help her. Wouldn't he? "Obediah can't be trusted," she ventured finally. "He says he's coming . . . but he may not come at all." The lies burned like quicklime on her tongue. God help me, she thought. I'm not a deceitful woman by nature, I'm not! But what if Forest didn't help her? What if he betrayed her like all the other men she had known? She couldn't take the chance . . . not with her son's life. "Obediah may not come at all," she repeated.

  Aye to that, Forest thought bitterly. If I had the sense God gave a mule, I'd lay in wait for the bastard and put a bullet through him before he gets within a mile of the place. He leaned against the table and folded his arms over his chest. "I'll not leave you until he comes," he offered. "Not unless I have to."

  "He might not come," she repeated. Her mind scrambled to make some sense of what had happened. "Was there a date on the letter?"

  "Yes, it was dated three weeks ago."

  Fear turned Sarah's mouth dry. Obediah was dead and in his grave. Any letter he sent her would have had to come straight from hell. She picked up the cup and drained the cold water. "I feel like a fool," she admitted to Forest. "I'm not a fainting woman."

  "It was a shock, him coming home."

  Sarah hid her face in her hands. You'll never know how much of a shock, she thought. If only I could tell you the truth. She took hold of Forest's hand and squeezed it. There was so much strength in this good man's scarred and callused hand. She wanted to tell him the truth about Obediah's death . . . to let him know she was a widow and not a cheating wife. But she couldn't risk it. The more people who knew Obediah was dead, the more likely Isaac would find out. And if he learned of his brother's death, he would take the inn . . . and worse, he might take Joshua from her.

  Sarah looked up at Forest and managed a weak smile. "Could we just live day by day?" she whispered. Her heart skipped a beat as she noted the lines around Forest's unpatched eye, the taut muscles along his jawline. He cares for me, she thought, he truly cares for me.

  "It's not easy, what you're askin'."

  "Nor easy for me," she replied. But when has life ever been easy for me? Obediah wouldn't be coming home, not until the Second Coming, and even then there'd be little chance. With luck he's naught but a twinkle in the devil's eye!

  Sarah got to her feet. "I'm all right now. I'm sorry I made such a fuss."

  Forest still clung to her hand. "I'd not put you in danger by staying. Have you thought that we might make a child between us?" That danger too had plagued him. "I would not shame you, Sarah, and I'd not bring an illegitimate child into the world."

  Sarah colored. She moistened her lips with her tongue. "I don't think I can have any more children," she said. She had never missed her woman's cycle again after recovering from Joshua's birth. Obediah had cursed her for being barren.

  She had considered the slim possibility of becoming pregnant by Forest and decided she would welcome another babe if one came. A married woman could always fabricate a tale about a returning husband, and she had no doubts about her ability to provide for another child. Joshua was her greatest joy in life . . . or had been until Forest had come along. Another child, even one born under such circumstances, could give her nothing but happiness.

  "I had a hard time with Joshua," Sarah explained, "and I've never been able to get with child again."

  She could not tell him that Obediah had succeeded in having sex with her only once since Joshua was injured by the horse. He'd surprised her the night he came home from the army, crept into her room and forced her to comply. But even then, his seed would not spill, and he had gotten no release from her unwilling body. Damn you to everlasting flames, Obediah Turner, she thought fervently.

  "You needn't be afraid of me getting in the family way," she soothed.

  Forest let out a deep breath. Sarah's explanation should have made him feel easier. Why then did he suffer a pang of regret? Was he hoping Sarah would bear his child to replace the son that died?

  "Day by day it is then, woman," he answered huskily. He brought her fingertips to his lips and kissed them. "If you're certain . . ."

  "I'm certain."

  When he was gone, Sarah hurried into the kitchen. The letter lay on the table where it had fallen. She picked it up and took another yellowed parchment from the wooden box. She couldn't read the paper, but she knew it was a listing of furniture that Obediah had purchased. He had signed his name on the bottom to prove that he had taken possession of the goods from the ship's captain.

  Sarah held the two papers side by side. Any child could see that the same person had not signed both. On the furniture manifest Obediah's signature was large and sweeping; the letter was signed with straight up-and-down letters that were not joined at the bottom.

  Sarah swo
re softly under her breath. Roman Clough had a hand in this deception somehow! The runaway bond servant could not read nor write, but he had helped to bury Obediah. He was the only other person who knew that her husband was dead.

  Sarah scoffed at her own superstitious fears. How could she have believed, even for a second, that the letter was from Obediah? Unless . . . gooseflesh rose on her arms. Unless Roman Clough had gone to Isaac with his knowledge, and the fake letter was really from Isaac!

  It might be a trick of Isaac's to frighten her . . . to play cat and mouse with her. And if Isaac believed she had any part in his brother's death, her life wasn't worth a clipped shilling.

  Sarah suppressed a shiver as she put both papers back into the box. There was nothing to do but wait. As she told Forest, they would live day by day. Whoever had written the letter would let her know in his own good time. Until then . . . She slammed the lid of the box. Until then she would live her life as she saw fit.

  ~~~

  By December 20th, Washington's battered and ill-equipped army had retreated to a spot known as Valley Forge, west of British-occupied Philadelphia. The Congress of the United States of America had withdrawn to the small town of York, south of Valley Forge.

  Both the army and Congress made plans to secure quarters for the coming winter. While the members of Congress enjoyed the comfort of snug houses and sufficient food and clothing, Washington's troops were already in desperate need. The threadbare and often shoeless soldiers were reduced to felling trees to construct crude log huts against the bitter weather and salvaging what grain and meat they could from a hard-pressed countryside.

  The winter of 1777-1778 promised to be a harsh one, as snow and bitter wind whipped down from the north. The Eastern Shore of Maryland felt the cold blasts of the arctic air as much as Pennsylvania did, and sleet and early snow fell and ice formed on the Misakaak.

  At dusk on December 20th, the post rider, Les Bennett, appeared at King's Landing like a ghost through the falling snow. When he had warmed his numbed hands and feet before the fire and swallowed enough hot soup to ease his hunger, he produced another letter for Sarah.

  This time, she did not need Forest to read the message to her. The second letter was worded and written exactly as the first had been. She examined it quickly and tucked it into her pocket.

  "Letter from Master Turner?" Bennett asked. "He say where he is?"

  Sarah's gray eyes became as cool as frost. "Yes, the letter is from my husband," she said crisply. "But Master Turner is a soldier in His Majesty's service. Soldiers do not reveal their whereabouts in wartime."

  Forest entered the public room with a mug of hot cider for the post rider. "Yer horse is bedded down fer the night," he said. "Lucky you made it here without being froze to yer saddle. Snow's gonna be a foot deep by mornin'."

  The mail sack lay beside the man's chair. Before the rider left, Forest decided, he would pen a message of his own and slip it unnoticed into the sack. The last month had been hard on Forest's nerves. The contact he'd been expecting for weeks hadn't shown up, and there was urgent information to relay.

  Despite the inclement weather, there had been much more activity on the Misakaak than normal. Two parties of British regulars had passed through King's Landing in the last week, and a farmer had reported a Tory raid on a plantation south of the river just three days ago.

  Forest's relationship with Sarah had deepened since he returned from Chestertown. They had found pleasure not only in their ardent lovemaking but also in the joy of sharing everyday chores and laughter. In the deceptively peaceful atmosphere of the inn, it was easy to forget the war and pretend . . . if only for an hour or two . . . that he and Sarah and Joshua were a family.

  Gideon had eased into the household with the fit of an old shoe. Joshua was delighted with Gideon's sea stories and his gingerbread, and Sarah was relieved to have dependable help in the kitchen. Once she saw that Gideon was careful with flour and spices, and didn't drink hard spirits, she gave him free rein in the tavern. With the increase in the number of guests stopping at King's Landing in the last few weeks, Forest knew they would have been hard-pressed to keep up with the chores without the old man.

  Forest watched as Sarah knelt gracefully before the hearth and stirred the fire with a poker. Her dark hair was drawn up primly under a spotless linen mobcap, but a few tendrils had escaped to curl at the nape of her neck. Forest's fingers ached to touch those soft locks . . . ached to toss the linen cap aside and set free that silken curtain of hair.

  The firelight danced across Sarah's delicately chiseled features, and Forest felt the pricking sensation of growing desire in his loins. The room was suddenly unbearably hot. Damn, but he wanted her—and if it were not for the unwanted presence of the garrulous post rider, he would have swept her up in his arms and tasted that honey-sweet mouth. He would have carried her up the stairs to the bedroom and made slow, sensuous love to her.

  She loves me, he thought, I know she does. Whatever dread she has of Obediah's coming, it cannot have quenched the fire we shared.

  As if sensing his gaze, Sarah turned her head and stared full into his eye. For a second he saw the yearning flickering in her gray eyes, and her lips curved into a knowing smile. Later, her eyes promised before she turned to the post rider.

  "Gideon will bring you something more substantial as soon as it is cooked," she said. "You know where the beds are, but there is no fire upstairs. If you prefer, Forest can bring you a pallet. You can sleep here where it's warm."

  "A soft bed's no good if a man freezes in it," Bennett agreed. "This suits me fine."

  "Then, if you have no more need of me, I will bid you a good night," she said. "Forest?"

  "I'll see about the pallet."

  With a nod, Sarah turned and left the room. Forest noted the gentle sway of her hips and her graceful step with a longing so intense it was a physical ache. Later, he vowed silently.

  The post rider waited until Sarah's footsteps faded before he raised his cup and motioned to Forest. "You 'spose I might get this filled?"

  "Aye." Forest moved closer to the fire and took the empty cup.

  "You've not asked me where I hail from," Bennett said with an amused twinkle in his dark eyes.

  Forest tensed. "What?"

  "I thought we might ha' met before," the older man continued. "I hail from Stony Bridge."

  "You?"

  The post rider chuckled. "Who better to carry the word? What I don't know ain't worth know-in'." He propped his stockinged feet as close to the flames as he could without scorching the wool. "I've been watchin' ye when I come through wi' the mail, but Hawk told me not to make myself known to ye."

  Aware that Captain Peregrine Harris was known as Hawk to his friends, Forest relaxed and pulled a chair up next to Bennett's. "I expected to be contacted before this," he confided.

  "Sorry about your uncle. Hawk was some tore up. I didn't know John myself, but I've heard nothin' but good about him. If it's any consolation, some of Enoch Anderson's boys bumped into a party of them Tory raiders a week ago."

  "And?" Forest leaned forward eagerly.

  "Seven Tories shot, two choked to death."

  "Choked?"

  The post rider grinned. "When they fell off their horses with that rope around their necks." He tapped Forest on the knee with his empty cup. "Now if you'll step to and fill this mug like I asked, you can start tellin' me some of this all-important news."

  Sarah tucked a protesting Joshua into his bed in the loft and blew out the candle. "No more talk now," she admonished as she piled an extra feather tick onto the wool blankets. "It's been a long day. If the snow stops tomorrow, you can play out in it if you're good." She gave him another kiss and climbed down the ladder to her kitchen.

  She had fixed up the loft for Joshua soon after Forest returned from Chestertown. "You're too big to sleep in your mother's room," she'd assured her son. Forest had built a sturdy bed for him, and she'd covered it with a new mattress. To her sur
prise, Joshua had accepted his new grown-up status without a squeak of protest.

  "I told you he would," Forest had remarked later that night, when they lay in her bed together. "You can't keep him a child forever, Sarah."

  "Maybe not," she admitted, "but I'll give him a longer childhood than I had."

  She paused at the bottom of the ladder and leaned her cheek against the raw wood. "They'll not make a man of you yet," she promised softly. "There is time enough for you to shoulder the responsibilities of the world."

  Gideon had built up the fires in both rooms of her cabin an hour ago. Even so, the air was cool with the wind tearing at the chinks and windows. Snow was piled against the glass, and Sarah could hear the muted patter of snow and sleet against the roof and windows.

  Shivering despite her heavy cloak, she pulled a stool close to the blaze, took the two letters from her pocket, and began to examine them in the flickering light. Forest had been in the stable when Bennett gave her the second letter, and she hadn't had a chance to tell him about it.

  It was plain that whoever was trying to frighten her with the letters was bound to show his face soon. She was determined that she not be caught unawares. Why did this have to happen now—now that she was truly happy for the first time since she was a child?

  Falling in love with a man like Forest was something she had never expected, but now that she had, she wanted to cherish every precious moment they had together. The letter writer was a threat, not only to her security at King's Landing, but also to her relationship with Forest.

  She knew so little about him, but what she did know was good and right. He was strong and brave and loving. If she closed her eyes, she could see his sinewy hands, scarred by tools, and marked by a workingman's calluses. Those powerful hands had been tender when he touched her . . . when he caressed her in ways no other man ever had.