by Laura Frantz
As she hurried along, a silver sliver of moon penetrated the sleet and cast an eerie light on the stone house. Turning her face aside, she wished the music was as easily shut away. The old tune “Liza Jane” followed her clear across the parade ground, every sweet note seeming to hammer home Papa’s passing.
As she reached her door and fumbled with the latchstring, a keen relief settled over her. Colonel McLinn needn’t bother with escorting her back to her cabin tonight. She was tired, in need of rest. Yet once inside, she realized she couldn’t possibly undress without Bella’s help due to the double row of hooks down her back. She decided to check on Abby again but found her sleeping, the fever finally broken, and Nancy watching over her, half asleep herself.
Returning to her cabin, she lit twin candles and sat back from the hearth, afraid a spark might burn the lush skirts of her gown. She could hear a flourishing finish to another poignant song, and her heart squeezed tight, a tear trickling to her chin. She wiped it away with her hankie, waiting for Bella.
Long minutes passed, and she tensed at the crunch of boots on snow. Soldiers on guard duty? A passing regular? Steeling herself, she readied for the knock. When it came, she summoned all the composure she could muster and opened the door, hiding her handkerchief behind her back. Colonel McLinn ducked inside, clutching the cape she’d completely forgotten in her haste to leave the wedding frolic.
He hung it from its peg by the door, which he shut firmly behind him. Captive, she thought. Her fickle emotions did such a strange dance she didn’t know which was uppermost. Pleasure? Embarrassment? Surprise? Something told her he had no great desire to be at the wedding frolic either and this was his escape.
Gesturing toward the hearth, she said a bit breathlessly, “Please . . . come in.”
He hesitated—was he reluctant?—before crossing the tiny space in three strides and taking a chair facing the fire. She sank down on a stool, watching the orange and yellow tongues of flame leap and curl around the charred burls of oak Micajah had left under her eave.
A brooding silence settled between them. He finally broke it by saying, “You’re much too lovely—and well dressed—to be sitting alone by the fire, Miss Rowan.”
The compliment, coupled with his gentle rebuke, made fresh tears well in her eyes. Blinking them back, she said, “It seems silly to attend a dance when one can’t dance.”
He gave her a sidelong look. “Because you’re in mourning?”
“Because I’m”—she took a breath—“a bit lame.”
His eyes swiveled back to her and stayed put till she looked at him again. “If you can walk, Miss Rowan, you can dance.”
A flicker of panic warmed her insides as she realized where he was headed. Bella’s wary words came rushing back. Maybe the colonel will try to make you his mistress. She said quickly, “Perhaps another time.”
“Why not here? Now? With no one watching?”
The faint but unmistakable strains of a slow country dance seemed to back up his startling invitation. He stood and moved his chair out of the way. Firelight spilled into the empty space, gilding the floorboards a rich gold. She had little choice but to stand up on unsteady legs and obey the . . . order.
She dared look up at him, the lace of her bodice rising and falling in a breathless rhythm a mere three inches from the gilt buttons of his Continental coat. He was entirely too close . . . so close she caught a hint of cherry bounce on his breath. Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue in an agony of anticipation, she felt one firm hand rest against the hollow of her waist and the other enfold her fingers in his own.
With more grace than a man of his stature should possess, he began moving her over the flickering floorboards, their shadows an intimate silhouette on the rough wood walls. In moments, every taut fiber of her being began to soften. At long last she was indeed dancing . . . and she’d never felt less lame in all her life.
Oh, Papa, if you could see me now . . .
He was so adept a dancer, so in control, there was never a chance for her to misstep. She simply followed his lead, knowing from the gentle pressure of his hands whether to go backward or forward or sideways. The music ended and was replaced by a distant, rousing reel, but neither of them seemed to notice or care.
Every turn they took about the tiny cabin seemed to shake loose a dark shadow. In the two months she’d known Cassius McLinn, he’d never been nearer than he was tonight, so close it seemed she almost touched his soul. Here in her humble cabin, he was no longer the curt commander but something more. She sensed his deep enjoyment of the moment . . . the music . . . holding her . . . and caught a glimpse of the man he truly was. Or who she wanted him to be.
“Roxie . . .” He had come to a stop and was looking down at her.
Startled, she met his eyes. “No one’s ever called me that . . . save my father.”
“Do you mind?”
“I—nay, Cass.” His name slipped off her tongue like she’d been saying it a lifetime, though the surprised pleasure on his face told her otherwise.
The lapse seemed an open invitation for him to come nearer. Slowly he skimmed his knuckles along the oval of her cheek before twining his fingers in the richness of her hair, dislodging some of Bella’s carefully placed pins.
At his touch, a woozy rush of pleasure overcame the last remnants of her reason, and she did what she’d dreamed of doing since the first day she’d met him. Reaching up, she skimmed the glossy sheen of his hair, starting at his temple and sliding toward his broad back till her fingers found his silk queue ribbon. In a whirl of wonder and yearning, she pulled it loose. Her reward was a flash of brilliant red falling free about his wide shoulders, softening his intensity yet kindling his need of her. She saw it in his eyes instantly.
Oh, Lord in heaven, what have I done?
Never had Ambrose looked at her in such an all-consuming way . . .
Frightened, she drew back, even as his hand fell away. Her dress . . . the dance . . . the candlelit confines of the cabin . . . all had cast such a spell she felt far removed from who she truly was—a soldier’s daughter, a bit desperate for attention, her fear of spinsterhood shadowing her—till she’d snapped to her senses at the last second.
“Roxie, I—”
She shook her head, her voice a plea as she took another step away. “Please . . .” She swallowed, spilling her heart out in a few words as she backed up further. “I don’t want to fall in love with you.”
The answering anguish in his face made her wish the words back. Turning on one heel, he crossed the room with furious haste and went out, leaving the door open wide in his wake. Before she could bend down and pick up the slip of silk ribbon, Bella appeared, her face taut with apprehension. She stood in the open doorway, the icy wind rushing in and lashing them like a whip.
“Law, Miz Roxanna, I ain’t seen the colonel so riled since his men spilled a shipment of muskets into the river last spring.”
Stricken, Roxanna said, “I—I forgot my cape—the colonel was returning it to me . . .”
Bella stared at the length of ribbon in her hand. “Looks like the colonel forgot something hisself.”
Feeling caught in a trespass, Roxanna believed she would burst if she didn’t confess everything, yet her throat was so tight she couldn’t speak.
Coming up behind her, Bella said wearily, “It’s gettin’ late. Let me help you out o’ yo’ dress and then you can sleep the Sabbath away.”
The Sabbath? Her eyes flew to the mantel clock that proclaimed it half past midnight. The colonel had been in her cabin for some time, yet it had felt like mere minutes. Had anyone but Bella seen him come in, then leave? She waited for a reprimand about being alone with him, but Bella was strangely silent, her dark fingers plucking the combs and pins from her coiffed hair. Roxanna shut her eyes, feeling his hands instead, trying to reconstruct the events that had led to his doing so. The ease with which she’d touched him in return—nay, not simply touched but untied his wealth of hair from
his neatly bound queue . . .
Oh, Lord, forgive me.
Confusion muddied her shame. With Ambrose, it had been enough to have him hold her hand or kiss her cheek. She’d wanted nothing more from him—she’d needed nothing more. Her feelings for Ambrose had been tepid, not feverish, compared to what she felt for Cass. Tonight he’d awakened in her a hunger she didn’t even know she had . . . made her wonder in the span of a few breathlessly passionate seconds if being his mistress might not be better than being a spinster . . .
Bella went out without a word, leaving Roxanna to her own tangled thoughts. Candles snuffed, she sat before the fire, riddled by guilt, stuttering another conflicted prayer, this one suffused with a breathless thanks.
Knowing there are men like Cassius McLinn, thank You for sparing me a lifeless marriage to a man I only pretended to love.
His ambitious stride, long by any standard, now doubled in his fury. The guard could hardly keep up with him once he passed through the sally port and gained a firmer foothold uphill. He had a hair-trigger temper at times—and this was one of those times. They gave him wide berth.
Hank threw open the door and then got out of the way. Cass pushed past him with such vehemence the silver sconce glittering on the lowboy in the foyer was nearly extinguished. Up the smooth staircase he went, unable to stem the thought of her, his heart already pulling him back down the hill to apologize and make amends, but mostly to take her in his arms again.
His bedchamber seemed empty as a tomb. As he lowered himself into a wing chair before the flickering fire, Hank’s sturdy shadow darkened the door frame. Without a word, the steady black hands tugged off one ice-encrusted boot and then another, ready to whisk them below stairs to be cleaned and blacked.
“Care for some brandy, sir?”
“Nay, whiskey.” Glancing at the clock mounted above the door, he grimaced. A double shot of whiskey on the Sabbath should do. Though he barred his men from the same.
Aye, what he should do was get rip-roaring drunk and drown out the feel of Roxie Rowan’s silky skin and hair beneath his fingers and her poignant, heartfelt plea.
Please, I don’t want to fall in love with you.
How in heaven had it come to that? He’d simply meant to return her cape. Instead he’d left all his wits at the door and succumbed to the unparalleled sweetness of her presence. Standing before him, with the fire gilding her gown and skin, she seemed the answer to all his angst and regrets. In the span of five minutes, he’d forgotten all about spies and overdue supply wagons and stone-faced Shawnee. Even Richard Rowan. Simply being in the same room with her gave him a measure of peace.
That she’d been crying was obvious, and it brought out every protective instinct he had, reminding him he was to blame for her sorrow. A father’s loss was hard to bear. On the heels of the loss of a mother and a broken betrothal, it might well be unbearable. He wanted to comfort her—and find comfort. One dance was all he’d wanted.
Running a hand through his unbound hair, he drew a steadying breath, listening to Hank’s footfalls on the stair and his rumblings in the kitchen far below. Aye, he was to blame for letting the situation turn so tender. He’d sensed her resistance, yet he had taken advantage of her and was furious with himself. The only puzzling aspect of the evening was when she’d turned his hair loose from its tie.
“Whiskey, sir.” Hank moved gingerly into the room and set the glass on the table before the hearth. It glowed amber and gold and held the subtle tang of oak. He finished it in two swallows.
Best be done with this Roxie Rowan business. Starting tonight, he’d make sure he never had occasion to be alone with her again. There was nothing to be done but honor her poignant plea.
As the whiskey flowed through him like fire and did its mellowing work, he wondered what she’d done with his black silk ribbon.
17
I must put a hedge around my heart. No more long looks in his direction. No wishing for what cannot be. When I think of him, it must be to pray for him . . . and pray only.
He was, she reminded herself, already promised to an Irish beauty—Cecily O’Day. Having been on the receiving end of another woman’s wiles, she’d not cause Cecily hurt. Nay, she’d not tempt Colonel McLinn, as if she could, nor be tempted.
Standing before Papa’s small shaving glass, she took note of the black smudges beneath her eyes, evidence of a near-sleepless night. Since Cass had left her cabin, she’d been in such a tangle her turmoil showed on her pale face. She still felt the effects of his parting fury yet didn’t know why her words had made him so angry. Could it be because he wasn’t used to being told no? Perhaps Bella had been right and his intent was to make her his mistress. Confusion filled her to the brim and overflowed. The mere thought of facing him, even with a desk between them, gave her a fierce headache.
’Twas twenty minutes till eight. Draping a plain linen kerchief about her shoulders, she fastened the ends above her snug wool bodice with a cameo, then gathered up her waist-length hair and subdued it into a chignon with a multitude of pins, all the while thinking of him. Penitent, she breathed a prayer for both of them, bypassing the cape hanging forlornly by the door. There would be no forgetting it again, as she’d not be wearing it, not this morning anyway.
Head down, she crossed the common to Olympia’s cabin to check on Abby, letting herself in when there was no answer to her knock. Olympia stood by the hearth, expression sorrowful, and Roxanna’s gaze was drawn upward to the loft, where two large black boots were suspended from the ladder. Cass? No wonder they hadn’t heard her knock. The sound of giggling, high and musical as a song, spilled into the cabin from above. Wonder washed through her. If Abby could laugh so effortlessly, why couldn’t she speak?
“The colonel just got here, and she’s better,” Olympia said, drying her eyes with a handkerchief. “Seein’ her sick brought back memories of her ma . . .”
“I’m so thankful,” Roxanna murmured, backing out the cabin door. “Let me know if you need anything.”
She hadn’t expected him to be here, but it touched her to think he was as concerned about Abby as the rest of them. Somehow the gesture seemed even to have softened some of Olympia’s hostility toward him.
Turning away, Roxanna hurried to the work awaiting her. The blockhouse door was ajar, and she took a steadying breath as she stepped over the threshold. A dozen eyes swiveled in her direction, followed by a respectful murmur among the men. The regulars were present with the younger Shawnee chief, and Ben Simmons was warming his hands by the hearth. Both orderlies were busy in a far corner, sorting through a collection of maps.
“Mornin’, Miss Rowan.”
“Hello, Ben.”
Aware of his eyes on her, she began checking the supplies in her lap desk where it rested in a corner, noting she was low on ink. Hopefully a quantity would come in with the now-overdue supply train. If not, she could try to make some of her own.
As she sorted and straightened papers and quills, sand and inkpots, she felt she wasn’t tidying her lap desk at all but someone else’s. Pages of correspondence seemed to be out of order, and the customary neatness was missing. Alarm shot through her. Nay, things weren’t as she’d left them Saturday last. She must tell Cass . . .
Ben was at her elbow, and she sensed his impatience. “Seen the colonel, Miss Rowan? Doc Clary is here, wanting to report about the sick Shawnee.”
“Colonel McLinn is with Abby,” she said. Closing the tambour top, she tried to push down her suspicions. “How is the older chief?”
Passing a hand over his beard, he murmured, “Pewter poisoning.”
Eyes widening, she tried to recall what she knew about the malady. “Best feed him on a wooden trencher, then.”
“He’s too sick to eat off a wooden plate or otherwise. What we don’t want is a death on our hands. Word is there’s plenty of Shawnee sign about the fort. Guess they don’t like the fact that two of their headmen are in here. I figure they’re aiming to get ’em out.�
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She suppressed a shudder, her gaze moving from the brooding, bearded face of Ben to the smooth-skinned Shawnee on the bench in the middle of the room. Feeling a twist of sympathy override her fear, she let herself linger on him long enough to note his hostility, then checked the time on the watch she had purchased for her father. Half past eight. At least when Cass came she’d not be alone with him. The room was chock-full of men.
She looked up from the watch and felt the Indian’s eyes on her. Though he’d been looking elsewhere in quiet defiance when she’d come in, his gaze was now fixed on the timepiece in her hand. Once again she was struck by the beautiful simplicity of his buckskin clothing and the array of eagle feathers in his shoulder-length hair. Just as she was about to lower her eyes and look away from him, he gestured to her with a dusky hand.
Leaving Ben’s side, she crossed the room and sat down tentatively on the bench beside him, placing the pocket watch in his weathered, outstretched palm. A flash of childlike curiosity crossed his face, followed by open wonder. He held it to his ear, then turned it over and traced the engraving. Sensing his delight, she couldn’t help but relax. He turned to her with a slight smile, revealing even white teeth, the sober lines of his face softening. Looking directly at her, he spoke in his strange tongue. She felt a flurry of confusion and raised her shoulders in a slight shrug.
Ben drew near, his voice touched with surprise. “Miss Rowan, he’s askin’ you what it is.”
Remembering the protocol of translation she’d observed thus far, she looked only at the Shawnee, bypassing Ben altogether. “It’s a watch . . .” Tongue-tied, she struggled to explain it in a sensible way. “It’s a device for marking the passage of white man’s time.”
Ben interpreted and the Shawnee looked satisfied, then a bit surprised when she asked, “How do your people mark time?”