Aunt Elizabeth bustled into the main room. “This cottage is too small; we’ll have to add more bedchambers.”
Father limped in behind her. “So you’ve said, my dear. And the landlord has approved only one.” His smile indulgent, he scanned the area. “We must remain optimistic in our endeavors.” His weary eyes showed the cost of his efforts. “We’re making progress. And men must be hired to construct another bedroom.”
“Auntie, I could use help with restoring that old dresser we bought.” Rowena massaged her knees and waited for the usual protest.
Her aunt sighed. Her face haggard, her shrunken body swam in her black gown. Time and turmoil hadn’t been kind to her forty-five years. “I’m brought low, working like a peasant. I don’t even find joy in my embroidery anymore.” She hadn’t completed one project since her husband died.
“Doesn’t the Bible recommend we not have idle hands? That it’s the Devil’s tool?” Rowena picked up a thick cloth, coated with crushed shells glued with gum on one side, and approached the weathered green dresser. “First, we’ll smooth it down, then repaint the wood.”
Sam hopped up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll check on the animals.” He bowed his head and left the cottage.
Father shrugged, looking at a loss over what to do next. “Ah, so much to accomplish. I pray that soon I’ll have clients for legal matters.” His damaged knee made helping with the floor difficult. He soon followed Sam.
Aunt Elizabeth stepped over, shoulders drooped. She plucked up a second cloth coated with crushed shells. As slowly as possible, in an obvious show of reluctance, she began to rub the dresser top. She inspected the results, then rubbed slightly harder.
Rowena crouched and scrubbed the dresser’s side. Work did keep one’s mind and body occupied. The ugly, peeling paint diminished after several swipes of the shells. Dust clouded the air; a few shells came un-gummed and tinkled to the floor. She sneezed and scratched her nose.
Minutes later, when she glanced up, her aunt was quite absorbed in her ministrations. Her mouth in a determined line, she scoured the dresser in long, steady strokes. Tendrils of auburn hair drifted from under her white cap and stuck to her sweaty cheek.
Rowena smiled and continued with her own sanding, the bare wood starting to show through.
Mary came in the rear door from the garden they’d planted. “The weather is odd here, but the growing season so much better. Soon we’ll have pole beans and squash. Our Spanish hostess said to plant beets and Brussel sprouts this month.” Her aunt’s personal maid had taken well to becoming a gardener, her face brown from the sun. “I studied plants as a girl.”
Had she once hoped for a husband, Rowena wondered? “You’ve done well, Mary. We need the food.”
Mary’s eyes slid toward her mistress in confusion. “Are you all right, Ma’am?”
Aunt Elizabeth massaged her elbow, then continued her swipes at the dresser’s corners. “I know not how I am at this point.”
Clinks of metal sounded at the front door, followed by a knock. Rowena stilled. Who knew they were here?
She rose, shook out her skirt, and cautiously answered it. Her hand wanted to fly to her mouth, but she held it stiff at her side and suppressed a shiver at the man who stood there. “Good day. And what’s taken you so long, sir?”
Derec, sleek like a cat in black, removed his hat and bowed. “Even disheveled, ye look a beauty, m’dear.” In his other hand he carried a wooden box where chisels, a hammer, a small saw, and other tools she didn’t recognize, poked out.
The heat of excitement soared through her. She gestured, and he stepped inside. “You’ve come prepared, thank goodness.”
“I trust my neglected carpentry skills will prove useful. Ye said yer repairing this cottage.” A plank moved under his scarred boot.
She stuffed errant locks under her cap. “Be careful. We need to secure the floor in place.”
“Aye, did ye install floor joists first?” His dark eyes appraised her. He set down the box. “The planks are nailed to them.”
Embarrassment burned her cheeks. “No, I must admit we did not. How did you find us?”
“I inquired at the guest house. A Mrs. Torres-Novarro was quite helpful.” He tipped his hat to Aunt Elizabeth, who nodded, but kept working. She rubbed at the other side of the dresser, her black gown now gray with dust.
Rowena nudged the loose plank. “I suppose I might be better at entrapping spies than carpentry.” She spoke softly, so her aunt couldn’t hear.
He chuckled, then turned serious. “Again, I regret putting ye in that position. We had no idea the man was so unstable. Ye were beyond brave.”
She folded her arms in front of her. “I survived; that’s what is important.” She didn’t know if she cared to be part of the secret services anymore, though if it kept her close to Derec now and then…a foolish wish!
“’Tis everything, yer survival, I daresay.” He smiled, which melted her insides. “Shall we go for a walk to look for suitable trees to fell? For the joists? But the wood will need time to season.”
She resisted picking the dirt from under her fingernails in front of him. “Allow me to wash my face and hands.”
* * *
Outside, the December air not overly humid, they walked toward a cypress grove through the firebush with its yellow tube-like flowers, and green-leafed azaleas out of bloom. Tropical plants emitted a sweet aroma. Bright-colored birds, blue jays and yellowthroats, made strange calls from the trees. The fowl liked to dive at the insects that hovered over the adjacent pond. Here, she could pretend, for brief moments, that war didn’t exist.
The breeze teased at her loosened hair, casting off the paint dust.
Sam loped from the pen where he worked on the fence. “Mr. Pritchard, ’tis fine to see you. I’ll water your horse.” He took the reins of the large, cream-colored horse with white mane and tail. “Is this a Palomino, sir?”
“Aye, bachgen. He’s a beauty, that’s true. I named him Euraidd, ’tis Welsh for ‘golden.’” Derec put his hands on his hips. “How are ye?”
“I’m never idle—no devil’s tool here.” Sam winked at her, patted the animal’s neck then led him off. At nearly half-past fourteen he’d grown tall and skinny, all legs and arms.
Her father could be seen in the distance, jamming in the top rail to a zigzag, split-rail fence. He stared their way for a moment.
“What is your news of the war?” Rowena asked Derec as they continued their stroll into the grove. She ached to know his reason for arriving today.
Derec reached into his frock coat pocket and handed her five coins, some Spanish, some British. “That’s payment for yer part in capturing Fergus.”
She weighed the metal in her palm in tinkles. Was this why he’d come? She shoved the coins into her pocket. “From what I’ve heard about the war, it doesn’t sound good for us Tories.”
“Nay, it does not. The rebels have appointed their General Greene to take control in the south. They’re using whatever troops they have to harass Lord Cornwallis, to draw him away from his supplies.” He stopped at the thickest tree and leaned a hand on the trunk. “Cornwallis insists Virginia is the important state to maintain control; our superiors believe ’tis Charles Town, in South Carolina. There’s contention. And Greene will be a force to reckon with.”
“I hope the British can hold on to Florida. I confess I’m tired of it all. So much death and destruction. However, I keep up a good face for my father’s sake.” She flicked a gaze toward her parent. “I worry about my brothers. And my Aunt Joan. I wonder if she left Philadelphia as she said and is safe.”
“So many family members have lost contact. Or fight on different sides.” Derec had never mentioned if he had any family in America. A silence grew between them.
She rested her back against the tree beside his. “Will you stay and assist our motley band of cottagers, or does duty call you elsewhere?”
“For now, I might stay for a time. Depends.” He
ran his fingers along the pale, gray cypress bark. “What about ye? What plans do ye have? Sounds like no more spying, aye?”
“I try not to think too far into the future, it only disappoints.” She softened her words with a smile.
“What of marriage plans? Any beaux?” His gaze on her turned intense.
She gripped her elbows. “I think you know the answer to that after our talk on the beach. You mentioned something about ‘us’. Or did I misunderstand?” Had he simply used her for the ruse with Fergus?
“No misunderstanding. Truth be told, I once thought I’d never marry.” He drummed his fingers on the trunk. “Who would know the perfect fenwy, woman, would turn up in a green-eyed minx dressed as a boy.”
Her jaw tightened. She’d thrash him if he teased her again. “I once felt the same about marriage.”
Derec took a step toward her. She trembled and gripped her elbows tighter.
“Rowena, lady of the mist, or fire?” He touched her cheek with a light caress. He still carried that forest smell. “We might be like two lightning bolts crashed together.”
“We might.” She met his eyes. Further words caught in her throat.
“I’ve fought with…” He ducked his head for a moment. “It seems I must surrender. Ye are the woman meant for me, though I don’t know how good a husband I’ll make.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. A buzzing started in her head. She resurrected her tongue yet kept her tone glib. “Did you ask me to marry you? I heard no such request.”
A smile spread across his face, his black eyes glinting. “Aye, Rowena, I suppose I did.” He bent down and pressed his lips to hers, warm, soft, and so sweet. She felt sparks down to her toes as her arms slid around his neck and she pulled him against her.
Chapter Thirty-two
They slowly broke the kiss, Rowena’s breathing rapid. An excitement she hadn’t known existed thrummed through her.
On a sigh, she said, “You stated you don’t know how good a husband you’ll make. I don’t know how compliant a wife I’ll be either.”
“I expect no less from a spirited young woman.” Derec smiled, his fingers gentle on her face. He kissed her again, his voice husky, eyes clouded. “I love ye, my lady of the mists.”
Heat spread through her; a heaviness lower down: such an odd, pleasant sensation. She craved more kisses, more of that feeling. “I love you too, dark stranger.”
“Is that what ye called me?” He chuckled then kissed the tip of her nose. “Shall I ask yer father for my lady’s fair hand?”
Rowena swayed with emotion as she laughed to help calm herself. “Ask him for all of me, sir.”
Derec laughed, hugged her, then glanced over her shoulder. “Be warned, I believe this is the man in question.”
She turned. Father limped toward them through the low brush, his expression curious and wary. “What is this? And who? Introduce me, Rowena.”
Her lips still tingling, she said, “Father, this is Mr. Pritchard. He’s an associate of Cousin James’. I’m sure I’ve spoken of him.” She turned to Derec. “My esteemed father, Mr. Marsh.”
“I seem to recall your cousin, shall I say arguing with you about someone you had romantic feelings for.” Father’s gaze assessing, he reached out his hand and shook Derec’s. “Good to meet you, sir.”
Rowena tamped down her nerves at how these men would meld.
“’Tis my privilege. Yer servant, Mr. Marsh.” Derec inclined his head. He looked at her with a teasing glint in his eyes. “Arguing, aye? Ye never mentioned my name so kept our love a secret, Miss Marsh? I’m devastated.”
She almost poked him in the ribs, then chose decorum. “I keep many confidences. Nevertheless, it took you long enough to realize the truth.” It had taken both of them awhile, she admitted to herself.
“What are your intentions toward my daughter, Mr. Pritchard?” Father crossed his arms in his threadbare buff frock coat. If he was angry, he hid it well. “After what I witnessed passing between you two, I trust they’re honorable.”
A green lizard skittered down the cypress trunk. Her aunt would have screamed.
“Aye, sir. Indeed they are.” Derec removed his cocked hat and pressed it to his chest. “I realize ye know little of me, but I request the pleasure of wedding yer daughter. And never fear, I’m aware she’s a handful who needs much guidance.”
Rowena suppressed another laugh. She raised her chin high. “You are no romp through the daisy patch either, sir. And I may be guiding you.”
Father’s eyes lit with amusement. “Sounds to me as if you two are well-matched. Rowena is young still, only eighteen. But she has matured much in our dire situation.” He motioned toward the cottage. “Come, Mr. Pritchard; we’ll find a place to sit amongst our disarray and discuss matters. Such as, how did you and Rowena meet? How will you support my daughter? What is your vocation and future plans?”
Rowena linked arms with Derec, her smile fading. Would her intended tell her father he was a spy? And Rowena had assisted him? Was she ready to be a wife to this enigmatic man who tugged at all her senses? These doubts unsettled and intrigued her.
* * *
Rowena watched in continued amazement as Aunt Elizabeth toiled. She had sanded down and now painted a bedstead bought second-hand. She worked in a haze of activity, not even complaining that her fingernails were chipped and stained with paint. No doubt the intense effort kept her mind from her sorrows.
Rowena took the broom and swept up the remainder of the wood-dust.
“How well do you know this man?” her aunt asked, slowing her strokes. Pungent brown paint dribbled from her brush into a bucket.
Five days ago, at Derec’s arrival, Father had given his permission for them to wed. Aunt Elizabeth had grimaced, gaze averted, but said nothing until now.
“I have known him for nearly a year.” It was more eight months, but a year sounded better. She was well aware she had much to learn about Derec.
“You say James introduced you. Why have we never met him before?” Her aunt’s blue eyes looked too big for her thinning face. Her ever-present black gown, now mostly gray with wood-dust—no matter how hard Mary brushed it—hung on her even more.
“With the war, our travels…it wasn’t so simple. We have been separated for a time.” Rowena stepped closer. “Are you eating properly, Auntie?” she asked, genuinely concerned.
“I try to…don’t change the subject.” Her aunt plucked the handkerchief stuffed up her sleeve and dabbed perspiration from her forehead. “You never even had the chance for a debut.”
Rowena pushed down a groan. “That hardly matters now.”
Aunt Elizabeth swiped the brush along the edge of the bucket. “He’s a foreigner, with, from what I gather, a mysterious past. What do you know of his family, his prospects?”
“I’ll tell you more if you promise to partake of heartier meals. You don’t wish to fall ill. We need you.” Rowena smiled, and gave a quick curtsy. How could she explain the Welshman to her traditionally-minded aunt?
“I know you dismiss me as a flibbertigibbet, but I’m trying to be stronger—as strong as you.” Aunt Elizabeth swathed on more paint, head bent.
“I’ve noticed the changes, Auntie.” Rowena sympathized with her aunt’s struggles. She left the bedchamber, sweeping as she went, and swept the dust out the rear door. She caught a few spiders and other insects who constantly seemed to infest and swished them out as well.
Then she opened the kitchen windows wider, to let in the cooler December air, as well as dispel the acrid smell of paint.
Hammers pounded as Derec, Sam, and even Father, nailed the cypress planks to the floor joists they’d installed in the attached parlor. Her father rested his painful right knee on a pillow. The tabby floor in the kitchen area would be left intact.
“No snow an’ almost Christmas. ’Tis still a shock, aye, Miss?” Daphne glanced out the window; then she turned back to knead bread dough on the worn surface of a rough-hewn table.
“It certainly is, but a good one. So much nature in constant activity.” Rowena peered out to where holes had been dug behind their cabin for posts; the beginning of a second bedchamber. The landlord had grumbled over the addition, worried about window taxes. However, their labors kept the rent low.
Mary, in her shabby faded-green bonnet, kneeled in the garden, pulling weeds and tending her plants. She seemed content.
An arm slipped around Rowena’s shoulder. She faced Derec and leaned into his comforting warmth. “Ready for dinner? I’ll reheat the stew.”
He nuzzled her ear, then nibbled her earlobe. “Ye are what I hunger for,” he whispered. “Not everyone waits for the nuptials to enjoy…”
Her entire body flamed. She laughed, her own desires rife. “So you’ve said. For shame, Mr. Pritchard. In front of my family. You are a rogue.”
“I’ve never denied it, cariad.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m an impatient swain caught in yer enchanted spell. ’Tis good yer father agreed not to make us wait until the war ends. Who knows when that will be.”
Instead of having banns called, Derec had purchased a license from the County Clerk. They had also spoken to an Anglican priest who agreed to marry them, and decided on January, after Christmastide.
“Well, for this moment, since my father is present, you must behave.” The idea of being alone with him sent another twinge of yearning through her. She stepped away before she misbehaved. At the hearth, she poked the smoldering fire and added kindle. Smoke spiraled up the chimney throat.
Derec came beside her again. “With all respect, or little of that, what about tonight, my love? In the barn? We’ll chase Sam out and only disrupt the horses.”
She suppressed another laugh. They had exchanged secret, torrid kisses when the chances permitted, and murmured over further intimacy. Her body ached for him. But right this minute she’d redirect his amorous ambitions with a question that had bothered her. “You said, months ago, that you had something to tell me about James and an uneasy alliance?” She grabbed a cloth and moved the cast iron stew pot from a high hook to a low one, closer to the sputtering fire.
Her Vanquished Land Page 25