Her words stole all levity from the conversation as every eye latched upon her.
“If that were so, miss,” the sergeant said with a tight smile, “He wouldn’t have allowed us to burn their capital to the ground.” He faced his men. “Nor raid those two farms on our way back. Taught these colonial jackals a lesson.”
“They wouldn’t consider themselves colonials, Sergeant.” Owen knelt again to fill his own canteen. “You forget they won their independence.”
“Lot of good it did them. They have no clue how to govern themselves. Why, most of them will no doubt be happy to have law and order restored.”
Rising, Emeline excused herself and wandered downstream, hoping she didn’t toss her accounts and give away her true sentiments.
She didn’t go far enough, for she could still hear the braggarts defaming her nation. Glancing over her shoulder through the leaves, she studied Lieutenant Masters—the tightness of his lips, his ramrod stance, and the way his thumb continually rubbed over the scar on his cheek. Was he as angry as she over this injustice? But how could that be?
Unfortunately, Dimsmore seemed to notice as well, for his gaze kept finding its way toward Owen. He turned toward the sergeant. “Where are you heading now?”
“We’re returning to our ship to resupply. Hear there’s another attack planned on Baltimore, and we expect to be sent to help. Though they may not need that many troops. If their capital was that easy, the citizens will either run off like poltroons or throw us a party to celebrate.” He laughed as if he told a grand joke, and his men joined in.
Dimsmore chuckled and nodded his approval. “That’s precisely what we were sent to discover.”
“Then Godspeed to you.” The sergeant saluted. “And I’m sorry about the—” He pointed toward Dimsmore’s head.
Dimsmore merely nodded as the sergeant ordered his men to get the wagons and fall in line.
Emeline longed to grab a musket and shoot the man. But that wouldn’t be very ladylike. Instead, she closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, focusing on the rippling and splashing of the creek and the sweet warble of birdsong.
She felt Owen’s presence before she heard him. The strength of him surrounded her—a barricade of comfort she didn’t want to feel. Not from her enemy. Opening her eyes, she dared a glance into his hazel eyes and found naught but concern … and something else that made her toes tingle.
She looked away. With over a day’s trek remaining, they would have to stop for the night. She’d do her best to get information about the upcoming attack from the lieutenant tonight, but regardless, she intended to escape these men and make her way to Baltimore alone, for she could no longer stand to be in the presence of her enemies.
CHAPTER 17
Clouds as dark and threatening as Owen’s mood swooped in to give them a reprieve from the blaring sun. But not from the heat. The temperature only seemed to rise along with Owen’s anger. Despite the beauty of sandy fields full of swamp grass and clearings dotted with Queen Anne’s lace, a cauldron of emotions stirred within him. Fury, of course, at the arrogance, the cruelty of the soldiers they’d met; sorrow at what his kinsmen were suffering; fear for Baltimore and his entire country; but more than any of those, determination to fulfill his mission and save his country.
The way he saw it, there was only one thing that stood in his way. That one thing now walked in front of him, her drab brown skirts doing naught to hide her beauty nor diminish the luster of her hair trickling down her back in golden waves. And those lashes … a man could get lost in the forest of lashes caressing her cheek.
Hang it all. Surely he could handle such a slip of a woman, a traitor at that. But something about her … something he’d never encountered before … something caused him pause. Caused him to not want to turn her in and see her possibly executed. But he was being weak—a foreign feeling for him. And he would not let it get in his way. Not when his country’s freedom was at stake.
A blue jay scolded him from above as he batted aside a leafy branch. He must stay the course, use Emeline to get close to the militia’s commander, and then turn her in and tell them what he knew. He could only pray they’d believe him.
Lightning flashed across the dismal sky, crackling in the air and sending a pulse through Owen’s veins … an evil pulse that carried more than the electric charge of a coming storm. It was the vile presence of war itself, the devastation, the loss … men’s attempts to dominate one another. If there was a God, why did He allow such barbarity? How could a God who expected complete devotion seem so absent from the affairs of men?
A rumble of thunder brought his gaze up through the leafy canopy. Night was approaching. They’d have to find someplace safe to sleep.
Insects buzzed him, and he swiped them away as Emeline slowed and eased to walk beside him. Dimsmore led the way this time with Ryne guarding their flank.
“Lieutenant Masters—”
“I wish you’d call me Owen. We are husband and wife, are we not?” He winked.
She shifted her gaze away faster than a scared rabbit and nearly stumbled over an exposed root. Adorable.
After a few moments, she cleared her throat. “What are the plans for attacking Baltimore?”
Surprised by the direct question, Owen glanced behind him to make sure Mr. Ryne wasn’t listening. Such a question made the lady suspect at best, at worst a spy. “Why do you need to know?”
She paused, grabbed a lock of her hair, and spun it around her finger. “After hearing those soldiers speak so boastfully, I wondered how brutal the plans are. I do still know people who live there.”
Owen grimaced. People she was obviously willing to betray. “Why do you care if you’re sailing back to England?”
“Surely you don’t think me heartless, Owen.” Her voice bore true indignance. “This was the town of my birth.”
“I would watch what you say, Miss Baratt. Especially in front of Dimsmore.” Owen gripped the hilt of the knife stuffed in his belt. “Show a speck of loyalty toward this land and you may find yourself in irons with your friend Hannah.”
“In front of Dimsmore but not you, sir?” She gave him a sarcastic smile.
How strange that his threat hadn’t rattled her in the slightest. Oh, how he wished her loyalties lay with America! But then he remembered how quickly she’d ratted out her compatriots—her dear friend. How she’d raved to the captain about longing to live in England.
Owen stiffened his jaw and replied, “Me as well. I have no tolerance for traitors.” And he didn’t. He must remember that when the woman sent his senses whirling.
As she was doing now just walking beside him. Her scent—so feminine—the way she lifted her chin as if she were royalty and the world her subject. Not in an arrogant way, but in a way that said she was no ordinary woman. To that he could attest. Sweat glued his shirt and trousers to his skin, his stomach yipped at his throat like a starving dog, and his legs ached to rest. If he was that uncomfortable, what must she feel like beneath all the layers women were expected to wear? Yet she uttered not a single complaint. In addition, they hadn’t eaten since the dried beef they’d consumed upon landing.
“Do you suspect my loyalties, Lieutenant?” she finally said.
“Do I have reason to?”
Distant thunder answered for her and kept her silent. A squirrel sped across the path as more clouds tumbled over the sun.
“You were born here as well, Lieutenant,” she added. “What city, may I ask?”
“Portsmouth.”
“So close. Do you have family there?”
“None I care to see.” Owen lied, for he’d love nothing more than to see his mother and uncle again.
Moments passed. Ahead of them, Dimsmore brushed aside a final branch, and they followed him into another clearing. Wind stirred the tall grass back and forth like someone playing a harp.
Emeline drew a deep breath and then sighed as they started across. “I know what made me turn my back on my country. P
ray tell, what was your reason?”
“Do I need one?”
At this she frowned, grabbed her skirts, and hastened to walk in front of him.
Grinding his teeth, he followed in her wake, wanting to apologize for his curt response, willing his anger for this turncoat to return.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he gazed up at the dark clouds and …
Bumped right into her.
She let out a yelp. He backed away. “My apologies. I didn’t …”
But she wasn’t listening. Both her and Dimsmore’s gazes were riveted upon plumes of gray smoke curling just above the tree line to the west. A burst of wind blew the scent of charred wood past Owen’s nose.
“Probably just a farm burned to the ground,” Dimsmore announced before proceeding.
The man was right of course. But Owen couldn’t just pass by, not if there were survivors in need of help. “There may be shelter left standing there. The sun is nearly set, and we need someplace to sleep.”
Dimsmore halted again and stretched his shoulders back, then gazed up at the darkening sky. “I could sure use a rest. How far are we from Baltimore, Miss Baratt?”
“My guess is half a day.”
Owen tightened his grip on his gun. “Then let’s check it out. Cautiously. Guns at the ready.”
Raindrops fell from the night sky like tears from heaven.
Emeline hung back while the men approached the farm, guns leveled before them. She feared what they would find—feared to see her countrymen butchered, feared that she’d lose the rope of control she clung to and fall headfirst into a pool of uncontrollable rage. What she would do with that rage against three warriors, she had no idea. But then again, she wasn’t much for thinking before reacting.
Night had absconded with the light, and the only thing leading their way was the smoldering embers that now sizzled and smoked beneath droplets of rain. Every inch of her body ached, including her empty stomach, but it was her heart that outdid them all when she saw the destruction left behind by a band of self-serving, arrogant soldiers who were devoid of all honor and decency.
Fences lay like firewood scattered by a child’s temper tantrum. Chickens, pigs, and cows wandered aimlessly in search of food. All that remained of acres of corn were charred stalks lined up like gaunt soldiers marching to war. The barn—or what used to be the barn—was naught but a pile of smoking cinders, but off in the distance, light flickered from the window of a small house still standing.
The agony suffocating Emeline loosened its grip ever so slightly.
“Someone’s still alive.” Dimsmore’s tone was almost one of disappointment.
“And their house remains,” Mr. Ryne added.
“It’ll be our house for tonight.” Dimsmore chuckled.
Emeline wanted to kick him in the shin, scream a warning to these people, run as fast as she could to her house in Baltimore, and slam the door shut on this horrible world.
Instead, she watched the men start across the field. “No need for killing,” Owen said. “They will think we are Americans come to help.”
“They’re the enemy, Masters.”
“Civilians, Dimsmore. I will have us behave with more honor than Sergeant Herod and his men. Do I make myself clear?”
Emeline could not see Dimsmore’s face in the darkness, but she could well imagine his grimace. She’d seen it enough times. Despite that, she was thankful Owen—when had she come to think of him by his Christian name?—was in charge.
“They may have information we could use,” she added her opinion to the conversation. “Plus, they might need help.”
“Indeed, Miss Baratt.” Owen glanced at her over his shoulder. “Kindness will go a long way in getting what we want.”
“Kindness. Bah!” Dimsmore snapped. “We are at war, not attending tea and crumpets.”
At the mention of crumpets, Emeline’s stomach growled so loud she thought everyone would hear it. But the patter of rain and stomp of mud beneath their boots thankfully drowned out the sound.
Owen halted. “Stay here.” Taking her arm, he ushered her to stand beside the thick trunk of a tall oak. “In case there’s trouble.”
Emeline was more than happy to remain behind. The tap-tap of the rain on the leaves above meant less water would reach her dress. Though it was already damp enough. A breeze sent a chill scrambling down her. Or perhaps it was her fear of what they would find in that house.
Turning, Owen crept along with Dimsmore and Ryne toward the front porch, gesturing for Mr. Ryne to go around behind.
The single lantern that shone from the window barely afforded enough light to see one step ahead, let alone if there were any enemies about. Minutes passed. The three men became mere shadows floating in the darkness.
She could run. She could easily slip into the forest, find a bush to hide in during the night, and then make her way to Baltimore in the morning. But she didn’t yet have the information she needed, and though she considered herself highly adventurous—much to her and God’s chagrin—the thought of sleeping in a forest crowded with enemies, cold and wet, went a bit over the top. Even for her.
Besides, from the looks of things, there were most likely injured inside that house, and she intended to help them.
The raindrops grew heavier, muffling the sound of the men’s footsteps. Another shadow appeared before her—and behind the men—a smaller shadow, moving ever so slowly. She held her breath, watching it, trying her best to focus in the dark. Perhaps in her exhaustion, she was seeing things. But no. The distinctive barrel of a musket rose. And she did the only thing she thought to do.
She jumped on the man.
Owen heard a thump and a shout behind him. Emeline! Wheeling about, he charged toward the sounds, seeing only dark mounds moving on the ground. He grabbed one of them, a boy from the feel of him. The lad squirmed and kicked and attempted every which way to pound Owen in the face, but all he managed to do was punch him in the gut. Owen growled and gripped the lad’s arms so tight, he squealed.
Dimsmore rushed to where Emeline lay and helped her to her feet.
“I curse you Brits! Leave my farm or die!” The young boy who had yet to reach manhood shouted with all the authority of an admiral.
Emeline groaned, and Owen started for her. “Are you all— Ouch!” The boy kicked him in the leg, squirmed from his grasp, and took off.
Mr. Ryne appeared from behind the house and brought him back within minutes.
Dimsmore laughed. “Can’t even subdue a child, eh, Masters?”
“Want to try me and see?” Owen ground out as he reached for Emeline. But Dimsmore tugged her away. To the lady’s credit, she jerked from his grip and stepped aside.
“Don’t hurt him. He’s only a boy,” she pleaded, though Owen couldn’t make out her expression. “I thought he was going to shoot you.”
“I was goin’ to shoot you! Stinking Brits.” The boy struggled in Ryne’s grip, spitting and heaving like a mad cow.
“We aren’t British, boy. Calm yourself,” Owen said.
Dimsmore attempted to take Emeline’s arm again. “Are you all right, Miss Baratt?”
“Yes, just sore and muddy.”
“Settle, lad. We aren’t your enemies. We saw the smoke and came to help.”
This seemed to do the trick, for the boy’s shoulders deflated as if someone had forced all the air out of him. Finally, he glanced up at them. “You ain’t Brits?”
“No, lad.” Dimsmore adjusted his cocked hat. “We’re farmers heading for Baltimore.”
Emeline picked up the musket the boy had dropped and handed it to Owen.
“Then please help us, sirs.” The boy’s voice cracked, losing all its bluster. “My dad’s hurt bad, and my mom is … well, she’s in a family way … and my sister …” He dashed toward the house, urging them to follow.
Grabbing her skirts, Emeline charged after him as fast as the mud would allow, but Owen caught up and grabbed her arm. “Remember we are m
arried, Miss Baratt.”
Humphing, she shrugged from his grip, but he nudged her behind him and motioned for the others to be cautious in case it was a trap. Unlikely, but one never knew in times of war.
The lad burst through the door and disappeared inside where voices could be heard.
Dimsmore mounted the steps, Mr. Ryne behind him.
A female voice shouted, “One more step and I’ll shoot you clear back to England itself.”
Dimsmore halted, and Owen brushed past him, hands in the air. “Ma’am, we are Americans. We saw the smoke and came to help.”
“It’s true, Ma. There’s a lady with them too,” the boy said.
Moments passed as the rain tapped on the roof and wind slapped moist air against Owen’s cheek.
A groan sounded from inside. “Put down your weapons and show yourselves.” The woman’s voice shook.
Owen nodded toward Dimsmore and Ryne. “Do as she said—”
Before he could grab her, Miss Baratt shoved past him, her wet skirts sloshing over the porch, and rushed into the house.
“Hang it all!” Gripping his musket, Owen dashed after her to find her standing before the black barrel of a wavering musket, held by a woman quite heavy with child.
“We are friends. Let me help you,” Emeline pleaded as Owen, intent on grabbing the dangerous gun from the lady, started for her.
Emeline held up a hand and gave him such a look of warning that he couldn’t help but stop. She faced the woman again. “This is my husband, Owen Masters. And I’m Emeline. We are Americans heading toward Baltimore.”
Dimsmore and Ryne entered behind them. The poor woman’s eyes widened, fear pacing across them.
“This is my brother and cousin,” Emeline added in a tone that would lure a fox out of its den. “We will do you no harm.”
A moan sounded from the shadows at the far end of the one-room cabin, and a small girl no older than four crept out from beneath a table.
“Amos, get Abigail,” the woman ordered. The lad who had so bravely attacked them, whom Owen could now see was no older than ten, grabbed his sister and held her tight.
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