The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  If not for that cocksure grin, she hardly recognized him. Hair freed from its queue hung to his shoulders, strands hovering over an unshaven jaw as firm and hard as the tree she leaned against. A coarse, open-collared shirt hung over his chest, covered by a brown waistcoat draped down to tight leggings stuffed within black boots. A knife perched in his belt and a brown Bess in his hand as he headed toward her, looking more ruffian and rogue than Royal Navy officer.

  She warmed at the sight. No. Surely the effect came merely from the rising sun. Not this man, this enemy.

  Pushing from the tree, she attempted to walk as Mr. Ryne and Dimsmore also approached, both dressed in similar garb.

  To her embarrassment, she wobbled yet again, but quickly shifted out of the way of Lieutenant Masters’s rescue. She did not need any man’s help. Especially not that one’s.

  “Lead the way, Wife.” He gave her a roguish grin. “You say Baltimore is over a day’s trek from here?”

  Both the word wife and the look in his eyes did strange things to her midsection—things she didn’t want to acknowledge. “Roughly two days. And you’ll remember, Husband, that I am your wife in name only and only for this trip.” She still couldn’t believe that Blackwell had done this to her. When she’d protested, he’d said it was the only way to legitimize a woman traveling with three men. She knew he was right, but it grated on her, nonetheless. “Attempted liberties will be dealt with swiftly,” she added, forcing her most ferocious glare at him, which only caused his smile to widen.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, but she could tell from the twinkle in his eyes that dreaming of such things was not out of the question with this man.

  “Never fear, miss.” Dimsmore joined them. “I won’t let this scoundrel touch you.”

  Somehow that brought her little comfort. “The sooner we get there, the better,” she said. Clutching her skirts, she stepped over a rock and entered the copse of trees lining the shore.

  Dimsmore slid beside her. “You are a brave lady, Miss Baratt. We shall make every attempt to make the journey easy for you.”

  “I am no wilting flower that I have need of extra care, Lieutenant. Let us just be about our task and return unscathed.”

  She heard Owen chuckle behind her and felt Dimsmore’s disapproval in the air.

  No matter. The task before her was plain.

  She just had no idea how she was going to accomplish it.

  Two years. It had been two years since Owen had set foot on American soil. And it had never felt so good. If things went according to plan, he’d never have to return to HMS Marauder again. A pinch of regret caused him to wince at deceiving Captain Blackwell for all these years. He was a decent, honorable man … a good man. Owen would miss him and his wise counsel. He would also miss Benjamin Camp—another man worthy of his admiration, and his friendship, though he doubted Ben would feel the same way when he found out Owen was a spy.

  That couldn’t be helped.

  Retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the back of his neck where a constant stream of sweat did little to cool him off in the sweltering forest. They’d been walking for more than two hours in thickets of maple and elm trees, over fields of sandy soil covered with black-eyed Susans, and through foggy swampland.

  Nary a complaint had issued from Miss Baratt’s lips. He knew she was uncomfortable, could see the perspiration blotching her gown and gluing the fabric to her skin … could hear her heavy breaths as she forced herself to tread along. Wisps of honey-colored hair escaped their pins in protest and trickled down her back, seeking a breeze that never seemed to come. The homespun gown the captain had given her must have been made for an even smaller lady than she, for it clung to every curve, making her all the more alluring. If possible. Yet determination rode heavy on her brow, and though he had tried to make conversation, she had kept unusually silent.

  Why did he care anyway? She was a traitor to her country, and he would have no choice but to turn her in before she gathered information and returned to the ship. He shrugged off the sudden spasm of remorse. He had no choice. Sure, he could run off to Washington and search for his uncle, providing he had survived the attack. But any information he conveyed might be too late for Baltimore. Besides, that would still leave Dimsmore and Miss Baratt to do their spying. He couldn’t allow that, though he did wonder at his sudden selfless patriotism. He huffed. Or perhaps it wasn’t selfless at all. He still hoped his uncle would supply him with a privateer if Owen provided good information. The only problem he faced was how to ensure the Baltimore militia commander believed he was who he said he was without his uncle’s corroboration.

  Yet despite the threat of being tossed in an American prison, despite even his desire for a privateer, Owen had to take the risk. For his country. He had information that could save Baltimore and thus, perhaps end the war in America’s favor. He wasn’t about to let a slip of a woman stop him.

  In truth, he just wanted to finish the mission and get on with his life. If only they could have been dropped ashore closer to Baltimore, but they didn’t want to alert the suspicions of any American farmers or woodsmen in the area. This way, it looked like they were a group of backwoods farmers seeking shelter from the British in the city.

  They emerged from the trees into another clearing. A white-tailed deer foraging in the distance lifted its head to watch them before bolting into the woods. Owen drew a deep breath. The scent of pine, oak, and earth filled his lungs—a pleasant smell that reminded him of home and lured a smile to his lips. A screech brought his gaze up to a Cooper’s hawk soaring high above them. At least the bird was in a cool breeze—one that refused to grace them below.

  Had he been so long at sea that he’d forgotten the heat of Maryland summers? He suddenly found himself thankful that he didn’t have to wear his thick naval uniform, for he could not imagine marching in this heat beneath layers of wool. Owen was also thankful they’d not come across any troops—American or British—thus far.

  Miss Baratt quickened her pace across the field, almost as if she were trying to lose them. Conversely, Dimsmore trudged behind them, cursing and grunting like an overheated sow. “Should we allow the lady to rest?” he finally said.

  More like allow Dimsmore to rest. Owen smiled and glanced ahead. He could hear the slight trickle of water in the distance coming from a patch of pines.

  “Miss Baratt,” he shouted to the woman who was at least twenty feet in front of him. “Let’s stop up ahead by the creek.”

  She halted, adjusted her bonnet, and stared back at him as if he’d asked her to climb the nearest tree, before continuing onward.

  Baffling woman.

  The creek ambled across the edge of the field and disappeared into a cluster of pines heavily clothed with bramble bushes. As Owen approached, a trickle of unease spiraled down his back. Something wasn’t right. He cocked his ear to listen, but Dimsmore began complaining behind him again.

  An eagle squawked overhead. The unease increased, and Owen called out to Miss Baratt to stop, but she had already disappeared into the trees.

  Her muffled shriek filled the air.

  Plucking his knife from his belt, Owen dashed into the brush.

  To find the muzzles of at least twenty muskets aimed their way.

  CHAPTER 16

  Drop your weapons and raise your hands, you filthy rebels!” the man dressed in the royal marine uniform shouted, aiming his musket directly at Lieutenant Masters.

  Emeline’s heart had somehow hoisted itself into her throat, unable to beat or even move as she stared at the man. The marines had them surrounded, and behind the guns so imperiously pointed at their chests, more soldiers rustled forward. At least fifty, battle weary from what she saw of their torn, bloodstained uniforms. American blood, no doubt. Blinking back the terror and fury crowding out her thoughts, she shifted her gaze to Lieutenant Masters.

  Yet the lieutenant remained as calm as a windless sea, returning the soldier’s stare as if h
e hadn’t a care in the world. Slowly he dropped his knife and placed his musket on the ground. Dimsmore and Ryne barged through the brush and froze.

  Emeline felt gazes skittering over her like spiders on the loose, and her glance confirmed that several of the soldiers stared her way, ill intentions forming in their eyes. A chill wriggled up her spine. She hugged herself.

  Dimsmore dared advance toward the man, whom Emeline assumed was a sergeant due to the three chevrons on his right sleeve. The white belt crisscrossing his red jacket matched his white trousers, though both were mottled with stains.

  “We are British, you buffoons,” Dimsmore barked. “Lower your weapons at once.”

  The man scowled then nodded toward the marine beside him, who promptly struck Dimsmore’s head with the butt of his weapon.

  Emeline gasped as the lieutenant folded to the ground like a piece of parchment.

  Mr. Ryne tossed down his gun and went to assist his superior. Lieutenant Masters shook his head and reached for something inside his waistcoat. “Completely unnecessary. The man was correct, you know.” Weapons cocked.

  He halted, keeping his hands in the air. “Just retrieving proof of our loyalty.”

  The sergeant approached, a burly man with eyes far too small for his face and a hook nose that rode upon a bushy mustache like a ship on a rogue wave. “You expect us to believe you are British. Where are your uniforms? Why aren’t you with your regiment?”

  “We have no regiment. We are spies, if you must know, sent on a secret mission by Cockburn himself.” Lieutenant Masters withdrew the papers, along with what looked like a badge or perhaps a coin and handed them to the man. “A mission which you are severely compromising.”

  With the help of Mr. Ryne, Dimsmore rose and spewed a string of curses at the sergeant.

  Ignoring him, the man unfolded the document, scanned it, and then examined the coin. Something on his face softened and then tightened again as he turned and called to a Mr. Jackson. Another man made his way through the crowd, and the sergeant handed him the parchment. “Decipher this immediately.”

  Stumbling, Dimsmore moaned and lifted a hand to his head. Blood saturated his hair, and Emeline headed toward him to see if she could help.

  “I can tell you exactly what it says,” Lieutenant Masters said as Mr. Jackson rifled through his haversack, pulled out a small leather book and a pencil, and got to work.

  The sergeant frowned. “And you will, as soon as he’s finished. In the meantime”—he flipped the medallion over in his hand—“where did you get this?”

  “From Admiral Cockburn himself. As you can see, it bears his personal insignia as well as the crest of the Admiralty.”

  Removing his black shako, the sergeant ran a hand through his hair, his gaze shifting from the medallion back to Owen, then over Dimsmore, Ryne, and finally Emeline, where it remained far too long for her comfort.

  Owen cleared his throat, drawing the man’s gaze yet again. “First Lieutenant Owen Masters of HMS Marauder at your service, Sergeant. This is Mr. Ryne”—he gestured toward the marine—“and this man is, I hesitate to say, your superior, Lieutenant Luther Dimsmore.”

  Emeline attempted to press a handkerchief over Dimsmore’s wound, but he grabbed it from her and waved her away. “And you shall pay for this affront, Sergeant,” he grumbled out atop a curse.

  A flicker of fear flashed in the man’s eyes. “And the woman? You expect me to believe she’s also a British spy?”

  Some of the men behind him chuckled.

  “I do.” Owen glanced her way, and she thought she saw him nod as if to reassure her she was safe. “She has contacts in Baltimore we need.”

  “How do I know you didn’t steal the admiral’s medallion off the real spies?”

  “If I were an American, how would I know that it bears proof of being British? It has no other value and appears to be a mere token of some sort, a cheap one at that. Why would I even steal it?”

  The sergeant handed the medallion to the man beside him, a beastly fellow who looked like he could snap a neck with two fingers. He moved to a shaft of sunlight to examine it just as Mr. Jackson completed his decoding and handed the parchment to the sergeant. After perusing it, he looked up at Owen. “What does it say?”

  “It says, ‘By order of Admiral Cockburn, the following persons are authorized to go ashore and discover by any means possible the plans, armament, and troops of the American militia in Baltimore.’ Then it lists our names … Lieutenant Owen Masters, Lieutenant Luther Dimsmore, Mr. Ryne, and Miss Emeline Baratt.”

  Owen continued with an impatient huff. “If you detain us or if you expose us to the Americans, you’ll have to answer to the admiral himself. No doubt you’ve heard of his brutality.”

  The look in the man’s eyes confirmed that he had.

  “He speaks the truth,” Mr. Ryne, who hadn’t said a word all day, added. “Lower your weapons. You’re frightening the lady.”

  Yes, they were, though she had tried to hide it. She’d heard talk on board the Marauder of how vicious these marine landing parties could be—their horrific raids on civilian farmers, burning homes to the ground, slaughtering families, ravishing both goods and women.

  The sergeant gestured for his men to lower their weapons. “Take the lieutenant to the creek and get him some water.”

  Two men snapped to attention and approached Dimsmore, but he quickly shoved them aside and speared the sergeant with hate-filled eyes. “Striking a superior is a hanging offense.” He bent to retrieve his weapons, stumbled, but then finally grabbed them.

  The sergeant swallowed. “I thought you were an American.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Sergeant John Herod.”

  Dimsmore cursed. “Don’t matter what you thought.” He shook his head, blinked, and headed toward the creek.

  Owen’s gaze followed him, a hint of a smile on his lips. “So you believe us now?” He faced the sergeant again.

  The man breathed out a weary sigh, nodded, then handed the medallion and parchment back to Owen. “Please accept my apology, Lieutenant. I’m sure you understand my mistake.”

  Relief settled Emeline’s heart back in her chest. Still, some of the men continued to stare at her as if she sat unclad before them. Indeed, she felt as though she were in such a state beneath their intrusive gazes. Owen must have noticed for he moved to stand beside her. “I have put the matter behind me.” He glanced over the troops. “No doubt you’re anxious to be on your way. Let us not detain you further.”

  “We stopped here to rest and fill our canteens when we heard you approach. We’ll do so and leave after that.” With a snap of his fingers, more marines appeared from the brush and headed toward the creek, some grunting, others talking, while others kept their eyes upon Emeline and Owen. The sergeant excused himself and headed toward Dimsmore.

  Owen rubbed his eyes. “We should find another place to rest. Who knows how long they’ll be here?”

  Emeline nodded. “In truth, I don’t feel safe with these men.”

  “I agree.” Owen retrieved his knife and musket and gave her a look of concern. “Let’s fill our canteens and be on our way. Stay close to me.” He gestured for Mr. Ryne to follow, and the three of them found a spot by the water a few yards from the marines.

  For once, Emeline didn’t mind obeying the man. And if she had to admit it, she felt safe with him by her side. She lowered to sit on a rock by the creek while Owen knelt to splash water on his face and fill her canteen. He looked nothing like he had on board the Marauder. Not just his attire, but his demeanor. On the ship, he’d seemed tense, out of place, almost like a caged animal pacing to be set free. Out here in the wilderness, he seemed more alive, more in his element, even calmer, though their situation was certainly not without danger. He ran his fingers back through his wet hair as he scanned their surroundings—like a predator, not prey. He turned to her, caught her staring at him, and smiled as he handed her the canteen. Against her wil
l, her insides turned to mush.

  Quickly, she shifted her gaze away. Only then did she see two wagons parked at the edge of the trees loaded with crates and sacks and overflowing with everything imaginable—lanterns, pots, bolts of fabric, candle holders, paintings, tapestries, silverware, and even chairs. Stolen from some poor farmer, no doubt.

  Her anger rose to overcome her fear, and even more so as the marines’ conversation with Dimsmore echoed down the creek.

  “You should have seen how easy it was to enter their capital,” the sergeant said. “Daft, cow-hearted Americans! They fled like chickens before a wolf. Even that popinjay, Madison, their so-called president, took off like a spineless biddy.” Other marines joined in his laughter.

  Dimsmore, apparently having forgiven the sergeant’s assault, nodded and smiled as he pressed a wet handkerchief to his head.

  Oddly, Owen looked about ready to explode.

  The water Emeline had just consumed threatened to spew from her mouth.

  The sergeant took a long draft from his canteen and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Yes, indeed. We waltzed right into the president’s dining room, all set for a feast. Ole Cockburn himself toasted the president’s health with the buffoon’s own claret … even as we were ransacking the house from cellar to garret.” No doubt noticing he had an audience, the sergeant’s gaze landed on Owen.

  “Sorry to have missed that,” Owen shouted back to him, which seemed to assuage the man.

  Dimsmore swept narrowed eyes toward him.

  “Then we set the mansion aflame,” another marine added. “That was something to see!”

  Averting her gaze to the forest, Emeline pressed a hand to her stomach.

  Dimsmore rose, blinked, and wiped the wet cloth over the back of his neck. “What of the storm the next day? We felt it quite violently on the ship.”

  “Came out of nowhere.” The sergeant shook his head. “Never saw such wind. Toppled houses and buried thirty of our men beneath the rubble.”

  Emeline could keep silent no longer as she faced the soldiers. “It is almost as if God Himself was defending these Americans.”