The prospect of sleeping on a thin army mattress stuffed with straw was more appealing than the rented shelf in the sutler’s wagon she slept on in the camp. A tent and blanket offered shelter and warmth, luxuries few enjoyed down below. Smythe’s soft snoring was preferable to the incessant wailing of hungry children.
If Morgan planned to accuse her, he’d have done so by now. She judged him an upright man who wouldn’t abuse his awareness of her guilt. She liked him and couldn’t deny his presence sparked unfamiliar feelings in private places.
Always a decisive person, now she dithered and was still swaying on her feet when Morgan’s men entered and set about carting out the pallets.
“Captain says to leave mine for you,” Baxter said.
She detected no resentment in his voice, but…
“I’ll kip with Atherton,” he explained, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “At ’ome I share with four brothers.”
It took only a few minutes for the task to be completed, and it struck her again how willing they were to obey their captain’s orders. They were nice lads, no different from many of the young Scots who lived on her uncle’s estate. “War’s a senseless scourge,” she muttered.
“Amen to that,” Morgan said.
She whirled round, surprised and alarmed she hadn’t been aware of his return to the tent. In his hand he held the shoulder strap of a bag she recognized as a soldier’s knapsack. “I borrowed it from Syddall,” he explained. “But I’ve added a few things.”
He sat down on the empty pallet and patted the spot next to him.
She hesitated. A noblewoman would never lower herself to sit on a bed beside a man she didn’t know. But a peasant would. He probably assumed she was a whore like the majority of female camp followers.
She sat, then wished she hadn’t as the comforting warmth of his thigh seeped into hers. Their eyes met for a brief moment. She thought she discerned a slight blush on his tanned face, but he didn’t pull away. “I didna expect ye to fetch victuals for me,” she squeaked in a voice she’d never heard before.
“My pleasure,” he replied with a truthful smile.
He reached into the knapsack, pulled out a white linen square and draped it across her lap. She’d laundered enough napkins to know all the English soldiers carried one as part of their kit, but white was issued only to officers. The simple gesture brought back fond memories of civilized dining at her uncle’s table.
He handed her a heel of bread, then a lump of cheese. A pang of unreasonable disappointment stirred. She was sick of bread and cheese. The napkin had whetted her appetite for something more.
“Ta da,” he declared, carefully withdrawing a small wooden bowl covered with another cloth. A familiar but almost forgotten aroma assailed her nostrils. “Venison?” she asked. “I canna credit it.”
She chewed her bottom lip, ruing the outburst. Only a peasant wench who’d served in a wealthy household would recognize the aroma of cooked venison so readily. She summoned a litany of explanations, but his momentary frown disappeared quickly and his grin of delight warmed her heart, and caused a strange tingling across her breasts.
He lifted a corner of the cloth and took out a piece of meat. “General Abbott had a deer roasted last night in celebration of the fort’s surrender. My gunners and I were allowed an extra portion because he deemed the cannon the reason for our success. I saved a few of my chunks,” he confided.
It was a rare treat, and he was willing to share it with her—as if they were friends. Salivating was something peasants did, but she had no trouble opening her mouth in anticipation. However, she suspected the pulse thudding in her throat had naught to do with venison and it increased its rapid tattoo when he held the morsel to her lips.
“Taste,” he rasped with a smile.
His fingers touched her lips when she bit into the meat, sparking a lunatic urge to suck them into her mouth.
The venison roasted while she’d been digging up the church’s floor should have tasted like sawdust, but the succulent flavor heightened the unfamiliar sensations of yearning. She wanted to crawl all over him, blurt out the true reasons for her presence on the beach, kiss his full lips, run her hands through his hair. The insanity of the moment threatened to overwhelm her. This was new and dangerous territory. She chewed the piece she’d bitten off and pulled away. “Delicious,” she murmured truthfully.
A look of concern replaced the smile. The warmth of his big hand settled over hers. “I offer my protection, if you wish it,” he said softly.
Protection in the camp meant only one thing. “I’m not a whore,” she replied, realizing too late she’d lapsed out of the peasant brogue in her moment of indignation.
He held on to her hand when she tried to pull away. “I’m sorry you think so little of me,” he said. “I know who and what you are, Hannah Kincaid.”
~~~
Holding Hannah’s chapped hand aroused Morgan’s baser instincts, but also filled him with a calm certainty that she needed his protection, and that he would give it willingly. “Your hands tell me you’re a laundress who works hard to make sure the men in our army have clean shirts and…”
His body heated at the notion she may have laundered the very drawers he was wearing.
She seemed to sense what was in his mind. “Aye. Mayhap I’ve washed clothes for ye.”
He tried to gather his scattered thoughts as hardened flesh strained against linen. She stared at him, probably wondering why an officer would be concerned about a peasant. And yet there was something about her that didn’t fit with notions he had of common folk. He needed to find out more. “You’ve tended injuries before,” he began.
“Aye.”
“Where did you learn to treat sprained ankles?” he persisted, hopeful exhaustion might loosen her tongue.
“A camp follower learns a lot o’ things,” she replied.
Something in her tone evoked concern. Jealousy twisted in his gut. “Do men harass you?”
She studied their joined hands. “They’ve learned not to.”
He clenched his jaw. If she was a royalist spy, she’d risked much in attaching herself to an army camp. He’d avoided them for years. They attracted men of no fixed abode who wandered from place to place following the army with the intent of using any means to make money. They sold food, ale, and other services. He suspected Hannah paid a portion of her earnings from the laundry to some sutler. Most camp whores were beholden to them, and they forced many a decent woman into prostitution.
His respect for her courage grew, but his outrage at the dangers she still faced consumed him. If anyone else suspected her role in the theft of the jewels…
“I will let it be known in the camp you are under my protection.”
She shook her head. “They will think I’m your whore.”
There it was again. A way of speaking that hinted at something other than humble birth. Mayhap she’d worked in a noble household. A peasant wench could never have carried out such an audacious plan as stealing the crown jewels without contacts among the nobility. Many Scottish earls and clan chieftains were still outraged at the execution of King Charles and wanted his son back on the throne of both countries. Rebel attacks against Cromwell’s rule were being carried out more and more frequently in many parts of the country.
Hannah had already risked her life, possibly more than once, and he suspected she would be prepared to do so again. The prospect sent a shiver of apprehension up his spine. He wanted to lift her fingers to his lips and kiss them, but doing so might confirm her fears as to his motives. Instead he squeezed her hand. “Isn’t accepting my protection better than being in constant danger?”
DANGEROUS AND UNPREDICTABLE
Shortly after making his promise of protection, Morgan lit the candle in the lantern and left Hannah to finish her meal alone. The tent suddenly seemed lonely and cold, despite the flickering flame.
She shared some of her bread and cheese with Smythe when he woke and refreshed the po
ultice on his ankle.
“Don’t ’urt as much,” he said with a yawn.
“Looks better,” she replied with a satisfied smile, though the improvement only rendered the drunken surgeon’s insistence on amputation more appalling. He might as well have condemned the boy to death.
Beyond weary, she bade him good night, curled up in the blanket on her pallet and considered the day’s events. Too tired to think properly, she moved to blow out the candle. The flame glowing within the lantern’s horn windows cast an eerie shadow of her movement on the tent walls.
For months she had lived a life in the shadows that had revealed a troubling reality. The common folk of Scotland went to bed every night hungry and afraid. The uncertainty caused by Cromwell’s aggression accounted for much of it, but she sensed fear and hunger stalked the poor even in times of plenty. She vowed to plead their case before the rightful king when he regained his throne.
It was likely the same for English peasants, notwithstanding the benevolence of their so-called Protector. Enlisting in the New Model Army had provided Smythe and his comrades a chance at a better life, and they were fortunate to have come under the command of Captain Morgan Pendray.
As a saboteur, Hannah went to bed hungry many a night, and gnawing fear was her constant companion. But this night she lay on the pallet replete and strangely unafraid, even after the candle guttered out.
She pondered how Morgan intended to let it be known he was her protector. It was unlikely she’d be shunned as a sympathizer. Morgan wouldn’t be the first officer to take a camp woman under his wing. Even the high and mighty General Abbott was reputed to have his favorites, though she’d never seen him in the camp.
Morgan’s protection might work to her advantage in more ways than one. It never hurt to throw folk off the real scent. The trick would be to appear to be his whore while rebuffing his inevitable advances. As she drifted into sleep she admitted inwardly it might be difficult, since he drew her like a lodestone. Men were curious creatures she’d never considered as anything other than comrades or acquaintances, which made her feelings even harder to explain.
She sensed Morgan was an honorable man who meant what he said. It was her own willpower to resist that she had cause to doubt.
~~~
Morgan rose early the next morning, even before the lads who’d slept in his tent. He felt refreshed despite a sleepless night spent working out the practicalities of ensuring Hannah remained safe among the camp followers. It was in his own best interests to keep an eye on her, though it didn’t explain the excitement that had his heart racing too fast. He admitted inwardly he wanted Hannah Kincaid. She was dangerous and unpredictable. She’d lit a fire inside him that warmed his body and his soul. His life had a purpose now, though he wasn’t entirely certain what that purpose might lead to.
He’d unwittingly abetted her crime. She could yet destroy his career, even endanger his life. However, she was a rare find, a combination of beauty and courage, compassion and tenacity. Having spent the night remembering things she’d said, the way she ate, her mannerisms, he was becoming convinced she was not of the peasant class. The Scottish nobility constituted the organised opposition to Cromwell. They would never select a peasant woman to carry out what was probably the most audacious scheme of the entire rebellion.
Anxious to see Hannah again, he roused his crew, then dressed himself without assistance—a small victory!
The coming day held many uncertainties, yet he faced it with more enthusiasm than he’d felt for a long time. He dug in his purse for coin and handed it to Atherton. “Take Carr, Syddall and Baxter to the camp below, not the army cook tent. Get hot oatmeal, the good stuff, for everyone, and an extra portion for Mistress Kincaid.”
“Sir,” Atherton responded. “Thank you, sir.”
Morgan was pleased to see a gleam of anticipation in the lads’ eyes. The thin, watery oatmeal dished up by the army cooks always tasted of soap for some reason, but it was important he phrase his next command so they understood why they were getting a hearty breakfast. “You’re to put it about in no uncertain terms that Hannah Kincaid is under my protection.”
Five mouths fell open. Their confusion wasn’t a surprise. He’d deliberately shown no interest in anything that went on in the civilian camp, and now…
“Her safety is important. I’m of the opinion only she can get Smythe fit enough to accompany us to Inverness. If not…”
All five nodded in unison. He didn’t need to explain the ramifications if the boy couldn’t fulfill his duties. Abbott would discharge him immediately. The lads would do what was necessary to ensure the well-being of their comrade, especially since he suspected pushing and shoving had been involved in the accident.
As they hurried away to do his bidding, he turned to Wilcock. “Your older brother is a musketeer, is he not?”
A slight frown creased the youth’s brow. “Yes, sir.”
“So no one would think it unusual for you to spend a few minutes talking with him?”
Wilcock smiled. “No, sir. You want me to tell him about Mistress Kincaid?”
“Bright lad. Yes. But insist you’re sharing a confidence.”
Wilcock laughed. “Then he’s sure to tell his mates.”
Morgan slapped him on the shoulder. “Exactly. Off you go.”
Satisfied the process had been set in motion, he left his tent, impatient to see the young woman who’d inexplicably become the center of his world.
PORRIDGE
As he walked, Morgan mused on the phenomenon of morning erections. Soldiers living in close quarters thought nothing of remarking on it in a spirit of snickering camaraderie. It was part and parcel of army life. Even in the barracks in England it had been the one constant jest—that and the taunts about Welsh folk in general whenever he was around.
He’d previously not given much thought to the fact he hadn’t greeted the day in an aroused state for years. He smiled when it struck him he’d woken with a pleasant ache at his groin every morning since setting eyes on Hannah.
He thrust open the tent flap and strode in. His eyes took in the scene. Smythe was sitting up and color had returned to his cheeks. He was smiling at Hannah who knelt beside him, reapplying a bandage to the injured ankle.
Morgan’s cock noticed more significant details: the flush that reddened Hannah’s lovely face when she turned to him briefly; the delicate hands that he wished were tending him; the enticing aroma of a female in a confined space used only by men.
“Good morning,” he managed, though it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he was awed by her disheveled beauty. What would it be like to wake every day amid those tangled tresses?
“Morning, sir,” Smythe replied.
Hannah whispered something Morgan couldn’t hear before resuming her task. He cleared his throat and glanced down at his groin, reassured he hadn’t offended her. His knee-length buffcoat concealed the strength of his need.
He walked to the side of the pallet, willing her to look up so he could gaze into those bewitching green eyes. “How fares your patient?”
She kept on with what she was doing. “Much improved, melord. The swelling has gone down considerably, though the bruises look terrible.”
The sultry sound of her voice only worsened his swelling. He wanted to hear his given name on her lips, but such a request would alert Smythe.
“Mistress Kincaid’s my guardian angel, sir,” the lad said with an adoring grin.
An angel indeed!
“It’s fortunate for you she was in the vicinity,” Morgan replied, tamping down an absurd pang of jealousy.
Don’t get any ideas, boyo. She’s made for a man, not a child.
He peered down at the top of her head, hands clasped behind his back lest he be tempted to haul her to her feet and rain kisses all over her face. “I’ve sent the men for breakfast,” he explained. “They’ll make sure people in the camp know you’re safe.”
At last she looked up at him. �
��I understand,” she whispered.
He clenched his fists, stifling the urge to taste her full lips. She had insinuated herself into his heart and now she was in his blood. He knew in that moment he could never tell her of his suspicions regarding the crown jewels. He didn’t want her to fear him. He wanted her body, but also her regard, her friendship.
He’d been faithful to Blodwen, but his marriage had more to do with duty and a stoic acceptance of the way things were.
Life was full of strange twists and turns. In a meagre tent perched on a remote Scottish hillside with the stink of death and destruction all around him, Morgan Pendray—coolheaded, methodical, reasonable man that he was—realized in a moment of blinding clarity that he craved Hannah Kincaid’s love. He had to have it, or life would go back to being the same meaningless existence he’d lived for too long.
“Porridge, sir,” Atherton exclaimed as the crew returned to the tent with bowls of steaming oatmeal.
~~~
Atherton passed a bowl of porridge to Smythe who grasped the wooden spoon and tucked in. Hannah held her breath when her belly growled. Surely she couldn’t be hungry after the venison, but the aroma of the food stirred memories of happier times. She dwelt among camp followers and was always careful not to spend coin on luxuries. Laundresses could ill afford anything other than day-old bread and moldy cheese.
“You’re hungry,” Morgan said with a smile.
He’d obviously heard the rumblings. She hoped the flush spreading across her breasts hadn’t reddened her face. “Aye.”
He stared at her for a moment. The heat rising in her body reached the tips of her ears. He took two of the bowls from Carr, then addressed his men who shifted their weight from one foot to the other, eyeing the unexpected treat in their hands. “You lads eat here. Keep Smythe company. I think Mistress Kincaid deserves some fresh air.”
Highland Betrayal Page 6