by Mary Davis
“Most certainly.”
“I believe I—I mean, my brother and I caused you so much trouble the last time that I thought you would have been glad never to lay eyes on me again.”
“The last time? So you haven’t snuck here when I was unaware?”
One little word revealed so much. “The last time that I saw you.”
His mouth twitched. “I see. A lady never reveals her secrets.”
“Would you expect her to?”
“Nay.” He bowed.
She sensed he was conceding some sort of win to her, but she wasn’t sure exactly what.
He straightened. “I am so very glad you have come.”
“Were you waiting up here for me?”
“I must confess I was.”
That surprised her.
Then he looked down a bit sheepishly. “For the better part of a week and against rational judgment.”
He’d waited for her? Hoping she would return? A thrill rippled through her. “Against rational judgment?”
“Military officers have their secrets, as well.”
She should have expected as much. “Were you hoping I would return so that you could make me walk the plank?”
He chuckled. “Walking the plank is something pirates make their prisoners do.” He hesitated for only a moment before clarifying. “On a ship. Out at sea.”
She knew that. But it was fun to tease him back. He had a nice smile.
His hazel eyes twinkled. “The best I have to offer the lady is the pier.”
“Not the same. Perhaps throw me in your jail, then?”
“We don’t call it a jail. It’s a brig. And I believe it is already occupied at the moment.”
“Then why hope for my return, if not to punish me for trespassing?”
He reached inside his coat and retrieved a flat parcel wrapped in thin brown leather and tied with a strip of thicker leather.
From the size and shape, her first thought was that it was a book. She reached for it but then, thinking better, pulled her hand back.
“Go ahead. Take it. It’s for you.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I cannot.” But she wanted to.
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be proper for a lady to accept a gift from a man she hardly knows.” Especially an English officer. Papa would skewer her and then force her to marry the first man he could find. Even if he was old or terrible. Or both.
The leftenant wiggled the gift. “Just open it.”
Why tempt herself? “I appreciate your kind gesture, sir, but I cannot accept your gift.”
“Then at least open it so I can see if you like it.”
She stretched out her hands toward the package and then closed them. Papa would never know that she simply unwrapped it. Her fingers uncurled. But she would know. She fisted her hands. “Truly, I wish I could.” She shook her head but didn’t take her eyes off the gift.
“Then allow me to unwrap it for you.”
Excitement coursed through her. She would get to see what it was, after all. And if Papa chanced to ask her if she’d ever accepted a gift from the leftenant, or from any man, she could honestly say no.
The leftenant pulled at the leather bow. Ever so slowly. She wanted to grab the leather end and yank the strip off. So she tightened her fists instead to make her hands obey.
He stopped just short of freeing the one loop of the bow. “Mayhap you’re right. Mayhap this shouldn’t be opened.”
She jerked her gaze to his face. Not open it?
“You probably aren’t interested in what’s inside anyway.”
He was teasing her again. And she’d fallen for his trickery. “As a lady, I would be remiss to not at least see what is inside to acknowledge your kindness.”
He held out the gift. “Would you like to finish?”
Yes! she wanted to yell. Instead she said, “You go ahead. I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”
He reached for the strip and then stopped. “I’ll unwrap it if you admit you have the minutest curiosity as to the contents.”
He was sly. Dangle the bait, pull it back when he knew his prey wanted it more than anything, and make her beg. “I can guess what it contains.”
“Do tell?”
“It is obvious. A book.”
“Yes. Obvious. But what book?”
As to that she didn’t have a clue. And she was desperate to know. “Perhaps one of Shakespeare’s other plays.”
“Which one would be your guess?”
Macbeth? Othello? The Tempest? “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
He chuckled. “That is a fun play. But this is not a Shakespearean play. Or any other play.”
She had a limited knowledge of authors. “A collection of his poems, perhaps?”
“Close.”
She huffed a breath. But he wasn’t going to tell her. And she doubted she would ever guess it. “Very well. I do have the minutest bit of interest in what you have brought. Only because you have enticed me.”
With her confession, he quickly finished opening the parcel. He held out the book, which lay on the leather covering in his outstretched hands. The red leather volume had wear marks from much reading. It was a book of poems by someone named Sir Walter Scott. She wasn’t familiar with him but was eager to peruse his writings.
“Even though he is a Scotsman, I like his work.” The leftenant leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Don’t tell Mother England.”
“Pray tell, why not? Isn’t Scotland part of England? The whole British Isles?”
“Scotland as well as Ireland are like children throwing a tantrum, struggling to be independent. But in reality, they are better off under England’s protection.”
“Independent? Like the United States of America? We fought and won.”
“Ah. The colonies that got away.”
“And we will win these islands, as well. They belong to us.”
“That is not a matter for us to decide. Let’s not sully the moment with politics. We have digressed.” He pushed the volume toward her.
She dared not touch it lest she never want to put it down. After all, it was a book. One she’d never read before. How could she resist? She had only a handful and had read them each several times. When she’d been in school, she’d had access to a variety of others. But since completing school, she didn’t. Papa brought home one now and then for her. But this was a book she’d never heard of before.
“Go ahead. Open it. I know you want to.”
She stared at it.
“Certainly it wouldn’t be improper to just look at it?”
Of course not. But she knew herself. She wouldn’t want to give it up.
“Let me.” He tossed the leather covering aside, turned the book to face himself and flipped it open.
Her heart sped up in anticipation of the words it contained. And at the man standing in front of her, offering her words she’d never read before.
“Here. I think you’ll like this one.
“‘O listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell;
Soft is the note and sad the lay
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.’”
She closed her eyes and listened to his accent measuring out the verse in slow rolling time. The highs and lows, and where he chose to add emphasis, told her how he felt about the piece. His cadence. As though the piece had a life pulse.
But she’d best pay attention before the poem ended.
“‘There are twenty of Roslin’s barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold—
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.
“‘An
d each Saint Clair was buried there
With candle, with book, and with knell;
But the sea-caves rung and the wild winds sung
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.’”
He paused and took a deep breath before breaking the spell with ordinary words. “Did you like it?”
She opened her eyes. “It was quite lovely.”
“Tell me. What is it about?”
She wasn’t sure, and she sensed he knew that. She had paid more attention to his languid tones and accent, to the flow of verse, and not so much to individual words and their meaning. “Rosabelle was a ship that sank.”
“Anything else?”
What could she say? That she wasn’t really listening to the poem but to his voice? “Any good poem needs to be studied to be fully appreciated.”
“How true.” He handed her the volume.
She took it before she thought better and let the weight of it sink into her hands.
“You pick one,” he said.
Since she already held the book, what could it hurt now? She flipped through the pages and found a short one titled “Lucy Ashton’s Song.”
“‘Look not thou—’”
“Shh.” The leftenant put his finger to his lips and looked past her. “Quickly. Someone’s coming.”
She hadn’t heard anything but hastened quietly. She was practiced at moving through the forest with very little sound.
He tucked her behind a broad tree trunk and stood, facing her.
She focused on steadying her breathing to keep it quiet and stared at the ornate brass buttons on the leftenant’s chest. His whole uniform was pressed and neat. And he smelled of some earthy spices.
First came the voices and then the crunching of the forest floor underfoot. Two men who weren’t worried about being quiet. Good thing for her. They were probably English soldiers. She wondered why the leftenant felt the need to hide. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to explain what he was doing on the hillside in the middle of the day.
The men’s voices and footfalls drew closer, and she held her breath. They spoke of their wariness of this war. “Either give these bloody islands to the Americans or take them by force. ’Tis a fool’s mission to just sit here and rot like a compost heap.”
If those men knew one of their officers could hear them, they wouldn’t speak so freely. They apparently had passed as close to the tree as they were going to, because their voices diminished into the distance.
She remained silent until she hadn’t heard the two men for quite some time. She looked up at the leftenant.
He was gazing down at her as though studying her. Not at all upset about the soldiers’ comments.
Her heart palpitated at his nearness and the intensity of his golden-flecked eyes.
* * *
Charles regarded this young woman standing before him. Her sea-blue eyes studied him boldly. She was rare indeed. “Why do you come to English Camp?”
She seemed startled by his question. As though she hadn’t really expected him to speak. Or perhaps hadn’t expected the question. “I like looking at the garden.”
The garden? “Once you had seen it, there would have been no need to see it again. And the first time you didn’t even know it was there.”
“Actually, I did know. There was talk that the English were so foolish to have a fancy flower garden, and no wonder they lost the Revolutionary War.”
Was she goading him? He let it pass. “You made it clear when I walked you home that your father doesn’t approve. Do you disobey him regularly?”
“I didn’t actually disobey him. He never directly forbade me to come.”
Charles raised his eyebrows. “But you knew if you asked his permission, he would forbid you.” The flicker of her gaze away told him he was right. “You’re a passive rebel.” Much like himself. His parents hadn’t directly ordered him to find a suitable socialite wife, but it was implied in every undertone of every communiqué. He had subtly avoided the topic. Part of the appeal of serving so far from home.
“I wouldn’t say a rebel. More a naturally curious person.”
“Once your curiosity was satisfied, why return?”
“My curiosity is rarely satisfied. There is much of interest in the forest. On the whole island.”
“If he directly forbade you to come, would you stay away?”
She hesitated and then nodded. “I would have to.”
“So you are careful in coming.”
She closed the book. “I should be going.” She handed it to him.
“Please keep it.”
She stared at the book as though she wanted to. “I cannot. If my father found it...”
She needn’t say more. He clasped the book. He didn’t want to risk her not being able to return. He walked her back over to the log with her burlap sack. Quite fortunate that the soldiers hadn’t seen it. After folding the coarse fabric, he handed it to her. Then he bound up the book in the leather, tying it securely. “I will leave the book hidden under the front edge of this log.” He leaned over the log and tucked the book there. “Next time you come, you will have it to read.”
“Thank you!” She smiled at him.
And he felt as though he’d just been knighted by the queen herself.
“I must go.”
He didn’t want her to, but if he hoped to see her again, he must. “Shall I walk you?”
“Thank you, but no. I’ll travel faster alone. I have already been gone longer than I should.”
He, too, had been gone an unacceptable amount of time. He bowed. “Until we meet again. ‘Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow...’”
She curtsied. “‘That I shall say good night till it be morrow.’”
He was tempted to keep her there but knew he mustn’t. She walked backward a few steps, then turned and hurried through the underbrush. Her ebony hair tied at the nape of her neck swished across her back. He imagined it felt as silky as it looked. He watched her until she disappeared quickly in the thick undergrowth.
He hastened to the path above the officers’ quarters. No one would think it strange if he emerged from that direction, but they might question if he scuttled down the hill he’d escorted an American girl up the week before. He slipped between two cabin-houses and came out onto the narrow carriage road. He, of course, didn’t live in one of these homes. They were for the married officers. Being the lowest ranking officer and unmarried, he had a small room within the barracks.
“Where have you been?”
Charles spun around to face his brother. “I was patrolling the perimeter.”
Brantley looked displeased. “Captain Bazalgette has been searching for you.”
This couldn’t be good. “I’ll go right away.”
“Don’t bother. I told him that I sent you on an errand. I heard about your indiscretion last week.”
It wasn’t an indiscretion. Everyone was making more of it than it was.
His brother gripped his shoulder. “You have to watch what you do. You can’t have any kind of blemish. Not only is your military career at stake but also your social standing. We may be thousands of miles away from London, but word gets back.”
Charles didn’t believe anything that happened here on these remote, inconsequential islands would have any effect on his social standing. His parents certainly wouldn’t fault him. Would they?
Should he resist the urge to climb the hill in hopes of catching a few stolen moments with Rachel? The thought of never seeing her or teasing her didn’t sit right with him. He would just have to be as careful as Rachel was being.
Chapter 5
At the knock on the door, Papa encouraged Rachel to open it. She knew that suitor number two stood on the other side. She took a d
eep breath to steel herself before swinging the door open.
Another handsome man, his hair a chestnut brown. He bowed deeply to her and spoke in a heavy Irish brogue. “Carrig O’Leary at your service, milady.”
Rachel blinked, not believing this man stood on her porch.
Papa nudged her. “Invite him in.”
Rachel stepped back. “Please, come in.” Papa was allowing this man into his home? When Carrig went to greet Genevieve, Rachel leaned closer to Papa. “Papa? This man is from the British Isles. I never thought you’d let an Englishman in our house.”
“Not an Englishman. An Irishman.” Papa’s eyes brightened. “The Irish dislike the English as much as we do. As they say, ‘My enemy’s enemy...’”
“‘...is my friend,’” she finished.
Papa patted her back. “Exactly. I think you are going to like this one.”
She was sure she wouldn’t. But she smiled and toddled off like an obedient daughter. She might have to work harder to find something that Papa would find adverse about him.
But Carrig said all the right things, complimented Genevieve’s cooking and gave attention to Rachel’s half sisters and brother, even the little ones. By the end of supper, Rachel was even beginning to like him. Well, except for his strong dislike of the English, which he made sure he mentioned several times. To Papa’s great delight.
“The English are brutes who think they have the right to rule over the world. People came to this country to escape their tyranny.”
Papa beamed at that comment.
Soon, Rachel was left alone with Carrig in the parlor.
He motioned toward the settee. “Please have a seat.”
She would have preferred to sit in the chair, but he stood in front of that. It would be rude for her to move around him and sit there. So she nodded and sat in the middle of the settee, leaving no room for anyone but her littlest sisters to join her on either side. She hoped he would back up into the chair. But he didn’t. He wedged himself between her and the arm of the furniture. She scooted to the end of the settee before he completely sat down. Could she move to the chair without being rude?