The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  Groans brought her attention to Mr. Ryne, trudging behind them as if they had the plague.

  In front of them, Dimsmore turned and dabbed his face with his cravat. “When will we see Baltimore, Miss Baratt?”

  “As I told you when you inquired five minutes ago, we are nearly there. We should start seeing the outlying farms soon.” She approached the man and stopped as Mr. Ryne came up from behind.

  Dimsmore leaned his hands on his knees while Ryne held his head as if it would explode.

  Owen and Emeline shared a smile.

  “Perhaps if you didn’t require so much rest,” she added, “we would already be there.”

  The look in Dimsmore’s eyes couldn’t be more malevolent. “How are you two faring so well?”

  Owen cradled his musket in his arms. “Made of stronger stuff than you, is my guess.”

  Dimsmore scowled. But the suspicion burning in his eyes gave Emeline pause.

  “There’s a creek up ahead, if I remember,” she said. “And a wooded area in which to hide. It would be a good place for you and Mr. Ryne to remain while the lieutenant and I go ahead into Baltimore. A lone man and woman won’t raise too many suspicions … but three armed men?”

  “I remember the plan, Miss Baratt,” Dimsmore quipped.

  Shielding her eyes, she glanced at the sun. “Once I find the commander of the militia, it should be of no account to get the information. We could possibly even return by sundown. If not, then definitely by the next morning.” Though she’d managed to keep her tone calm, her insides shook like a feather in a gale at what she was about to do.

  Dimsmore’s blue eyes shifted from her to Owen and back again, but he only groaned as he pushed to stand and continued onward. “I shouldn’t trust you two on your own. I or Mr. Ryne should accompany you.”

  Emeline’s heart turned to lead. No, Lord. No.

  At the creek, he and Mr. Ryne were quite happy to collapse to the ground and splash water over their faces and necks. Too nervous to rest, Emeline peered through the woods. Indeed, she spotted a fence in the distance, which no doubt was the Henrick farm—the farthest farm from town. They were close.

  She spun to find Owen looking at her oddly.

  “We should get going.” Grabbing a lock of hair, she spun it nervously around her finger. “Otherwise we may not make it back by nightfall.” Her glance took in Dimsmore. Sweat beaded over his pale face as he leaned over the creek. “Lieutenant Dimsmore?” she said by way of invitation, hoping beyond hope he was too ill to even entertain the thought of accompanying them.

  Wincing, Dimsmore struggled to rise and approached, taking a stance between her and Owen. “Very well. We will wait here. If you don’t come back by tonight—”

  “You’ll wait until noon,” Owen returned with authority. “We don’t know what kind of trouble we may encounter or how long it will take to get the information we need.”

  Dimsmore’s lips flattened, but he nodded, then stumbled back to sit by the creek.

  Owen turned to her. “Ready, Miss Baratt?”

  Drawing a deep breath to mask her fear, she raised her chin. “I am.” She faced Dimsmore. “Good day to you, Dimsmore. Mr. Ryne.” The marine barely acknowledged her from his hands and knees beside a bush. A retching sound scraped her ears. “See you soon,” she called out, hoping her cheerful tone would mock their discomfort. Actually, she hoped she’d never see these two men again.

  She couldn’t say the same for the man who now marched beside her. And for that, she was greatly sorry.

  They entered another clearing, and the fence she’d seen appeared on their right. Beyond the wooden posts, pastures spread out, dotted with cows and horses. To their left, woods banked the Patapsco River. She heard it gurgling past even above the birdsong and flutter of leaves in the wind.

  “Are you so sure, Emeline, that after ten years living in England, your friends and acquaintances or even family members will be assured of your loyalty?”

  “Of course. They have no reason not to be.”

  “If you were such a hellcat as a child, I don’t see why.”

  She pursed her lips. “Hellcat, as you put it, and traitor are two different things.”

  Owen stared up at the sky. “Which begs the question. How does one become the other?”

  Why was he questioning her loyalty now? When they were about to enter Baltimore? A niggling fear began scampering up her back. Owen Masters was no fool. She must deflect his suspicion, cast it elsewhere. The fate of Baltimore and possibly her entire country depended on it. Halting, she stared at him. “You question my loyalty, Owen, when it is yours that might very well be in doubt.”

  He smiled and planted the butt of his musket in the dirt. “How so?”

  “You do not behave like a Royal Navy lieutenant.”

  “And how should a Royal Navy lieutenant behave?”

  “Like Dimsmore and Ryne, I expect.”

  At this, his brows rose, and he began to chuckle.

  “Oh, never mind.” Whirling about, she grabbed her skirts and proceeded. “Let’s get what we came for and return to the Marauder. Then your navy can proceed with its murdering and plundering.”

  “I believe it is your navy too, by your own account.” His sarcastic voice followed her.

  Something else pricked her ears—footsteps, the snap of a branch that wasn’t from the wind.

  Owen heard it too. They both halted, eyes locked on the shrubbery lining the field. With one hand Owen raised his musket; with the other he nudged Emeline behind him.

  “Come out! Let us see you.”

  Seconds passed.

  “I will shoot!”

  Leaves rustled and a uniformed leg appeared, followed by the skinny frame of a young lad, no more than sixteen, in a private’s uniform. Red hair sprang from beneath his cap and barely a whisker formed on his chin. He tossed down his musket and raised both hands, eyes stark with fear and legs trembling. “Please don’t shoot, mister.”

  “He heard us.” Owen all but growled. “He heard what we said.”

  “No I didn’t, mister. I didn’t hear nothin’.”

  But they could both tell from his expression that he had.

  Owen kept his musket steady, his finger on the trigger. “I cannot allow you to inform your superiors.”

  The boy shook his head. “I won’t, mister. I won’t. I swear.” His entire body began to shake.

  No! Emeline wanted to throw herself before the boy. Surely Owen would not shoot a defenseless lad! No matter what, no matter if her actions revealed her true loyalties, she would not allow this innocent boy to die. Nothing was worth that.

  “He’s just a boy,” she said, looking around for something to use as a weapon. Her eyes latched on the pistol stuffed in Owen’s belt.

  “He’s in the American army,” Owen answered. “He’ll run and tell them.”

  “Please, mister, I don’t want to die.” The lad began to whimper.

  Owen cocked the musket. “I’m sorry, boy. War is war.”

  So Owen would shoot an innocent lad. Perhaps he was not the man she thought he was. Plucking the pistol from Owen’s belt, Emeline cocked it and leveled it at his back. “Put down the musket. Now!”

  CHAPTER 24

  Owen slowly turned around and smiled at the determined lady aiming a pistol at his chest. Overwhelming joy bubbled deep within him. He knew it! She was loyal to America. His ploy had worked.

  Emeline narrowed her eyes. “I said, set down your weapon or I’ll shoot!”

  From her stance and the furious steel of her jaw, Owen figured he’d better do as she said. He lowered his musket and set it on the ground then raised his hands.

  The pistol trembled in her grip, wavering over his chest. Her face was tight, her lips flat, her breath a windy storm.

  “Get out of here!” she shouted to the private, but Owen could already hear the resounding echo of the boy’s footsteps.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked.

  “Be
cause we are on the same side.”

  “Clearly, we are not, or I wouldn’t be pointing this weapon at you,” she spat back. “You think I won’t shoot—that a woman doesn’t know how to use a pistol? Are you willing to bet your life on that?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” His grin remained. And as she stood so bravely risking her life for another, sticking firm to her convictions no matter the cost, Owen thought she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.

  “I’m an American spy,” he announced and watched her eyes go from fury to doubt to understanding then back to doubt again. Yet she said naught.

  “After all that’s happened,” Owen continued in his most conciliatory tone, “I thought you might be too. So when the boy showed up, I tested you.”

  “You expect me to believe that? That you weren’t going to shoot that poor lad?”

  “I do. And I can prove it. My uncle is general counsel for the Department of the Navy. He’s the one who ordered me to maintain my post on HMS Marauder in order to discover battle plans and bring them ashore.”

  He watched her mind spin behind those beautiful green eyes of hers, no doubt sorting through memories of the past month they’d spent together, searching for hints of the veracity of his story.

  “So everything you told me was a lie?”

  “No, not everything.” Owen lowered his hands. “I’m sorry, Emeline. I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”

  She kept the pistol raised. A breeze stirred the curls at her neck. “I don’t know what to think. Fie!” She looked toward Baltimore. “I need to go and warn my city, my family, my friends.” She looked back at him, tears brimming in her eyes. “I don’t know who to trust.”

  “Trust in this … I’ve fallen in love with you, Emeline Baratt.”

  She stared at him, the fury seeping from her eyes along with her tears. The pistol wavered in her hand. A battle raged behind her eyes, and he wished more than anything he could allay her fears, convince her of his love and loyalty.

  He reached for her. “Trust me, Emeline. You know me.” He shook his head and laughed. “I can’t believe we’ve been on the same side this entire time!”

  She started to laugh as well … and lower her pistol. “Owen—”

  “Aha! Just as I thought.” An all-too-familiar voice screeched across the field, along with the cock of two pistols.

  Owen quickly thrust his hands back in the air, even as his heart sank to the mud beneath his boots. He didn’t have to look up to know that Dimsmore and his lackey Ryne were making their way toward them.

  Why hadn’t he heard them coming? Hang it all! He’d been so thrilled to finally know that Emeline was not a traitor, to realize there was nothing to stop him from expressing his love—from seeing that spark of returned affection appear in her eyes—that he’d slacked in his duties, forgotten they were at war and the enemy was close.

  Emeline froze, her eyes filled with terror. Before Dimsmore got too close, Owen gestured for her to raise the pistol again.

  Thank God she did.

  Dimsmore and Ryne finally came into view, their weapons aimed at Owen. “Care to explain what’s happening here?”

  Emeline started to speak, but Owen interrupted. “She caught me. I admit it. I’m an American spy.”

  You’d think Owen had given Dimsmore two thousand pounds for the smile that split his face in two. “I always suspected,” he slithered out in a tone of defiant victory. “You always were too soft on Americans.” He snorted and shook his head. “Ryne and I saw you let that kid go and Miss Baratt here point a pistol at your head.” He glanced at her. “Good work. You can lower the weapon now, Miss Baratt.”

  Her mouth still agape, she did as he said, but horror filled her face as she shook her head at Owen.

  But Owen would not comply. Instead he faced his nemesis with a look of defeat. “Indeed, she caught me letting that private go. I didn’t think she had it in her, but she grabbed my pistol.”

  Dimsmore faced her and smiled. “I admit, Miss Baratt, I had my doubts about you as well, but I see now that you are loyal to our country.” He snapped at Ryne. “Arrest him at once!”

  Mr. Ryne approached Owen, cautiously at first, but once he saw Owen acquiesce, he took his other pistol and two knives and then tied his hands behind his back. In an instant, Owen’s worst fears were realized. He was not only a prisoner of war, but also a traitor whose fate was the noose.

  The pistol slipped in Emeline’s hands and clunked to the dirt by her boots. The sudden turn of events left her unable to move or even speak. Good thing, for she wanted to shout out her own guilt and join Owen in his chains. He had stood up for her, protected her, and it had cost him the thing he valued most—his freedom.

  She still couldn’t believe it. All this time they’d been on the same side, fighting not only the same cause, but their undeniable attraction for each other. She thought back to his odd behavior on the ship when he’d found out her loyalties to Britain—how he’d kept his distance and almost seemed to hate her. Then the kindness he’d extended to the prisoners, his reaction when Washington had burned, and finally how he’d allowed her to set the Oakes family free. All the memories had started to make sense the minute he’d told her the truth, when she saw the relief, laughter, and love in his eyes. Love. He’d said he loved her.

  How could one’s heart soar to the heavens one minute and sink to the depths of the earth the next? Yet that was exactly what was happening now.

  Turning, Dimsmore approached Emeline. No doubt mistaking the horrified look on her face for shock at Owen’s betrayal, he knelt to pick up the pistol and stood up to take her trembling hands in his.

  She wanted to tug from his grip, to spit in his face, but instead, she lowered her gaze so he wouldn’t see the fury in her eyes.

  “You’re trembling, Miss Baratt. I’m sorry to have sent you off with the enemy. I suspected him but had no proof. But all is well now.” He squeezed her hands gently. “You are safe.”

  Forcing a smile, she pulled back her hands and hugged herself. Over Dimsmore’s shoulder she spotted Owen, hair hanging about his face, give a barely perceptible nod. He was right of course. She had to continue on the mission, warn Baltimore of the upcoming attack. It would do no good for her to become a prisoner alongside him.

  “I thank you, Lieutenant, for your quick thinking and your rescue. I’m not sure what I would have done.”

  Dimsmore’s shoulders seemed to grow in size and stature as he holstered the pistol and glanced across the field. “If you are able, you should proceed with our plan.”

  Emeline drew a deep breath and followed his gaze. How could she possibly leave Owen a prisoner? If she didn’t return, which she had no plans of doing, he’d be taken back to HMS Marauder, then eventually court-martialed and most likely hanged. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat.

  “Yes, I am able.” It came out scratchy and with less enthusiasm than she intended, but Dimsmore didn’t seem to notice. If she didn’t get this information to Baltimore, neither she nor Owen would have a country anymore.

  “Brave girl.” Dimsmore nodded and held a hand to his stomach. “Mr. Ryne will accompany you.”

  Her heart seized. “Mr. Ryne? There is no need. Baltimore is just past that farm. I need no further escort.”

  Dimsmore removed a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his brow. “If you’re worried Mr. Ryne is also a spy, I can vouch for him, Miss Baratt. And we are at war. Even a mile is dangerous for a young lady to travel alone.”

  “But Mr. Ryne is so … so”—what excuse could she use?—“British.”

  Dimsmore laughed. “No more than Lieutenant Masters.”

  “At least he was born here and can honestly say such should he be questioned.” She flinched at the desperation in her tone.

  Dimsmore frowned and pressed a finger to his temple. “I believe you’ll find Mr. Ryne quite clever on the spur of the moment. Meanwhile, the traitor and I will be waiting at the creek where we planned.”
r />   “Ryne!”

  Mr. Ryne approached, dragging Owen with him.

  “Protect her with your life,” Dimsmore ordered him. “Get the information and return at once.”

  Mr. Ryne nodded, flung his musket over his shoulder, and took a spot beside her.

  But Emeline’s eyes were on Owen. He met her gaze, his expression devoid of fear. Instead she saw assurance and … love. Her heart broke. Would she ever see him again?

  She averted her gaze, lest she give herself away.

  “Shall we?” Mr. Ryne said.

  Nodding, Emeline grabbed her skirts and proceeded.

  With no idea how she was going to pull this off.

  CHAPTER 25

  Dimsmore shoved Owen to the muddy ground. Unable to catch his fall, he landed on his side. Pain shot into his arm and across his shoulder. He rolled to sit and spat out mud as Dimsmore kicked him against a tree, wrapped a rope around his chest, and tied him to the trunk.

  “You’re nothing but a crooked snake, a slimy American snake.” Dimsmore looked at Owen as if he had indeed just slithered out of a hole. He called him a few more choice names that should never be said in polite company. But then again, Owen wasn’t polite, nor was he company. Nor did he wish to remain in this man’s company more than he had to.

  Easing up against the trunk, he began scraping the ropes on his wrists against the rough bark. Slowly, methodically, stopping whenever Dimsmore looked his way. Which thankfully wasn’t often.

  The man pulled out a piece of dried beef and began chewing on it.

  Owen’s stomach grumbled. Ignoring it, he shifted his thoughts to Emeline. How was she faring with Mr. Ryne? She had a hard task before her. Not only did she have to convince the Americans that she was loyal to them, but she had to convince the staunch Mr. Ryne that she was loyal to Britain. Ryne may not say much or express much emotion, but he was no bufflehead. One slipup, one wrong word or reaction on her part, and he would … Well, hopefully he wouldn’t harm her.