The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  Emeline took several bites before answering. Finally, after her stomach had settled and wasn’t clawing her throat for more, she told him the entire story—from the attack on the Charlotte to her time on HMS Marauder and then onshore with the Oakes. Finally, she told him about Owen, how he kept her safe, saved her, even when he thought she was his enemy.

  While her father pondered what she had said, she finished her meal and thought to lick her bowl. But proper ladies didn’t do such things. She pushed it away and awaited her father’s criticism of all she’d risked in the past month.

  Instead, he took her hands in his and leaned toward her. “You have been through much, Emmie. I’m so proud of you.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course. I would have expected nothing else from you in your situation but to take the most dangerous path.” Humor twinkled in his eyes.

  “You’ve never been pleased with that quality of mine before.”

  “And I’m not still. I’m just glad you’re home.” He looked down and squeezed her hands.

  “Papa, I could still do good for my country. I could rendezvous with the marine waiting for me and Mr. Ryne. I could give him false information about the defenses of Baltimore.” And rescue Owen somehow, but she wouldn’t tell him that.

  “Absolutely not! You’ve done enough. More than any lady would have done. To send you off into danger again, I won’t hear of it.” Releasing her hands, he stood and squared his shoulders. “You’re home now, Emmie. You can rest and be safe, and when we defeat the British, you can get back to your old life.”

  Old life? One of following rules, obeying proper etiquette, attending parties and teas, gossiping with other ladies her age while each of them hoped to catch the eye of a wealthy man. At least she’d not have to clean and cook anymore since her father had made his fortune. But in all honesty, she didn’t know which was worse.

  “Lieutenant Masters saved my life. I owe him.” She lifted her most pleading gaze to him.

  “Ah, that’s what this is about. You’re sweet on this fellow.” He cocked a brow and shook his head. “Then I definitely order you not to go.” When she looked down, he softened his tone. “Haven’t you gotten yourself into enough trouble and danger by your disobedience? You could have been killed, Emmie. This is serious business.”

  A soldier cleared his throat from outside the tent.

  “Yes, what is it?” her father asked.

  “The general requests your presence, Major Baratt.”

  “Very well. Thank you.” He faced her again, his expression stern, his eyes daring her to defy him. “Stay here, Emmie. Do not leave this tent. Do you hear? I’ll be back soon to take you home. Won’t it be good to be home again?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Papa.”

  But she lied. It didn’t sound good to her at all. It sounded like another prison. After he left, she found herself pacing up and down the tiny tent, wanting desperately to rescue Owen, but knowing in her heart it was wrong. Wasn’t it? Both her father and the general had forbidden her. To be sure, blatantly disobeying one’s father wasn’t proper behavior. And running off in the middle of the night to rescue a man certainly wasn’t proper. Proper ladies stayed home and left such wartime heroics to men. But there wasn’t a man to do it. There was only her. She knew the way, and Dimsmore trusted her. How easy would it be to return, tell him Ryne had been killed, give him false information, and then when he wasn’t looking, bash him over the head and free Owen?

  Easy as convincing her father she could do such a feat.

  She plopped down into a chair and dropped her head into her lap. “Lord, help me. Please help me. I want to do the right thing. I want to follow You. I want to behave. But why do all these situations come up in which I am forced not to?” She sighed and rubbed her eyes, weighted with exhaustion.

  “Let Me lead you.”

  The voice came from inside her but not from her mind.

  Lord? She looked up but only saw the shifting shadows on the tent cast by the lantern. “I want You to lead me. I do.”

  A breeze stirred the tent flap and caused the lantern to sputter.

  “I have come that you might have an abundant life. Follow Me.”

  The words stirred a memory … something Mrs. Oakes had recited from the Bible. Emeline smiled. How wonderful Clara’s life had been. She’d done things most women never dreamed of—living on a ship traveling the West Indies, firing a cannon at pirates. And Hannah, sweet Hannah, had led such a wonderful life, yet she was the godliest woman Emeline had ever known. Both women had told her that being adventurous did not mean she wasn’t following God, that in Him was true freedom found. The verse Hannah often quoted traipsed across Emeline’s mind: “Jesus hath made me free from the law of sin and death.” God was all about freedom.

  Emeline turned and paced in the other direction. But wasn’t freedom from rules a bad thing? Didn’t it cause people to make mistakes, sin against God?

  “Not if you follow Me.”

  The voice halted her, made her look around again, question her sanity. Was God speaking to her? But who else could it be? “Have I been wrong all these years?” she said out loud. “Is being a proper Christian lady more about following Jesus, having a relationship with Him, rather than obeying a list of rules and requirements?”

  Something inside her leapt for joy as a breeze stirred the lantern flame into a wild dance. But there was no breeze. The air was still and stagnant, the sounds of men eating and laughing outside muted and distant. Yet the flame leapt and fluttered. Just like her heart.

  She gripped her hands together. “Lord, lead me. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with, Dimsmore?” Owen winced as the vile man added another rope to the ones already wrapped around his raw, bloody wrists, then cinched them tight.

  He forced back a wail of agony. He would not give the man the satisfaction.

  Dimsmore chuckled as he retrieved another long piece of rope. “As pleasurable as that would be, Masters, I will not deny myself the joy at watching you hang.” He flung it around Owen’s chest and tied it behind the tree, then tightened the one already there.

  Owen silently cursed himself. He’d come so close to escaping. The fire had gone out and he could hear Dimsmore’s snores emanating from the shadowy lump where the man lay just a few yards away.

  Owen should have been patient. He should have waited and worked through his ropes a little more. Instead, he had tugged on them with all his strength, hoping they would unravel and snap. But in the process, he made too much noise.

  He should have remembered Dimsmore slept like a cat on the prowl. But Owen longed to be free. Another minute longer and he was sure he’d go mad tied up like a hog before slaughter. He needed to get to Baltimore. He longed to protect Emeline, save his country. He couldn’t stand doing nothing at all. Worse—not being able to do anything. But his rash behavior had once again cost him dearly.

  Dimsmore had leapt up like a frog tossed in the fire.

  And now Owen’s chances at escape drifted away with the breeze stirring the leaves around them.

  Dimsmore stood beside him for a moment, and Owen was glad the darkness hid whatever heinous expression was on the man’s face. He uttered a string of curses then went to stoke the fire.

  Owen gazed up at the stars peeking through the canopy. It had to be well past midnight, and Emeline and Ryne had not returned. That did not bode well for her mission. A dozen horrid scenarios slunk across his mind—the worst being that Ryne had discovered her loyalties and had been forced to kill her to keep her from revealing his identity. Was the man even capable of doing such a thing? Owen believed he was … that he would do anything for his country and to save his own life.

  Breathing out a sigh, Owen’s heart wilted. He would go mad entertaining such thoughts.

  Perhaps he should pray. What could it hurt? He was out of options, and if there was a God, certainly He had
the power to help. But would the God most people worshipped even listen—the God his father had worshipped, the one with more rules than the Royal Navy? Yet … that was not Ben’s God, nor the God Mr. Oakes had spoken about. Their God was a God of love and freedom, a God who relished unconventional adventures. If such a God existed, Owen would pray to Him.

  He shifted on the dirt, feeling uncomfortable, then gazed up at the heavens. God, I don’t even know how to pray, but if You’re there, please help me. Please be with Emeline. Protect her and keep her safe. Don’t let her come back here. Please save my country from tyranny. I’m sorry I’ve been rebellious. I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to You much. But I promise if You protect Emeline and give her a good life, I’ll follow You. I will.

  The fire crackled and the mournful sound of a whip-poor-will echoed through the trees. But something else happened. A chill skittered up Owen’s back. Not just his back but over his chest and arms. A pleasurable chill, an exciting chill. And along with it, his heart seemed to swell with the oddest sensations—a love and peace he’d never known. It felt almost like acceptance would feel, if Owen had ever felt such a thing … acceptance from his Father in heaven. Not the disapproval and rejection Owen was accustomed to receiving from his earthly father.

  God?

  “What are you smiling at?” Not even Dimsmore’s caustic tone diminished the joy and peace flooding Owen. He stared at the marine lieutenant, who suddenly looked somewhat pathetic.

  “I believe I’ve had an encounter with God.”

  Leaning over, Dimsmore poked the fire and gave a sordid chuckle. “No, but you’ll meet Him soon enough.”

  So this was what Ben and Mr. Oakes meant when they said knowing God was worth it—this feeling of being loved, this sensation of not being alone … of everything having a plan and purpose.

  Owen bowed his head. Thank You, Lord.

  “Trust Me.”

  The words filtered up in his spirit, and he was about to respond that he would, when leaves rustled. Dimsmore grabbed his musket just as Emeline Baratt burst into the clearing. She wore the same stained and ripped gown, her locket swayed over her bodice, twigs and leaves protruded from the tangle of golden curls falling to her waist, her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling … and Owen’s heart both leapt and sank at the same time.

  “Finally.” Dimsmore lowered his musket and peered around her. “Where’s Ryne?”

  Emeline glanced at Owen ever so briefly, but during that second, he spotted a flash of terror cross her eyes.

  To her credit, she blew out a sigh and shook her head. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Dimsmore shouted and started for her. “What do you mean, dead?”

  “He was shot.” Instead of backing away from the man, Emeline lifted a hand to her brow and breathed heavily. “It was horrible, Luther.”

  It was the first time Owen had heard her use Dimsmore’s Christian name. It grated on him more than he could say. But it had the effect the lady no doubt desired, for Dimsmore took her elbow to steady her.

  She fell against him, forcing him to wrap an arm around her.

  Owen’s grating turned to fuming as he watched the man lead her to sit on a log by the fire.

  “I’m so sorry, Luther,” she said breathlessly, gazing up at him as he went to get her a canteen. Were those real tears in her eyes? Amazing.

  “We were heading to Baltimore, almost there, in fact, when shots rang out.” Emeline took the canteen and stared at the fire. “I started running, but before long, I noticed Ryne was not beside me.” She took a swig of water and handed it back to Dimsmore, who listened intently.

  “Another shot rang out, so I kept running. I hid amongst the trees until whoever it was had gone.” She glanced at Dimsmore. “But I could swear I saw British uniforms through the foliage. They must have thought we were Americans.”

  Dimsmore frowned, rubbed the back of his neck, and took up a pace before the fire.

  “When I went back to find Ryne, he was … he was …” Emeline swallowed and hugged herself.

  “It’s all right, Miss Baratt.” Dimsmore dropped beside her. “Mr. Ryne knew the risks. Did you make it to Baltimore? Did you get the information we need?”

  “Indeed, I did, Lieutenant. I have a great deal to tell Captain Blackwell. Valuable information Admiral Cockburn will want to know.”

  “Good.” Dimsmore slapped his knee and rose. “So they believed you?”

  Emeline offered Owen a quick smile while Dimsmore wasn’t looking. “They did, indeed. I encountered many people who knew me years ago. Hence, it was of little consequence for them to allow me to wander about their headquarters and assess the number of troops and armament and where everything is positioned.”

  “Hmm.” The first hint of suspicion appeared on Dimsmore’s face. “America must be more barbaric than I thought to allow a lady to run about a military camp unescorted.”

  Emeline acted indignant. “I was not without escort. They assigned an officer to accompany me while I searched for my father. At least that was the excuse I used.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes, they told me he had joined the militia.” Emeline clasped her hands in front of her.

  “Did you find him?” Dimsmore directed a pointed gaze at her.

  Still she didn’t balk. In fact, her tone became sharp. “If you mean, did I reunite with him and my friends and reassess my loyalties, no I did not. Would I be here otherwise?”

  Dimsmore’s lips flattened. “I suppose not.” He released a heavy sigh. “Very good then. We will leave at first light. With some luck, we will make it to the rendezvous point by sundown.” He sneered at Owen. “Then you’ll get your just dues. And you, Miss Baratt”—he smiled sweetly at her—“will be the heroine of the day.”

  She returned his smile. “Surely you will be a hero as well, Luther.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “I cannot deny this will be good for my career. Especially should your information win us this war.”

  “What about him?” She gestured toward Owen. “Since it is just you and me now, will he give us any trouble on the way there?”

  “Don’t worry about him, miss. I will ensure your safety.”

  She turned toward Owen, her face away from Dimsmore. “Traitor!” she shouted at him, but then winked.

  He wanted to shout at the foolish lady. What sort of game did she think she was playing? If Ryne was gone and she had told the Americans the British plans, why had she returned? He could only think of one reason. And that one reason both elated him and made him steam with fury.

  She’d come back for him.

  “What in the name of every Royal Navy ship do you think you are doing?”

  Emeline hadn’t expected Owen to be completely overjoyed to see her, but she had expected some kindness, perhaps a modicum of appreciation. Certainly not the fury she was seeing now reddening his face and seething in his voice.

  “I’m rescuing you of course,” she retorted as she inched a bit closer to him on the dirt. One glance over her shoulder told her Dimsmore was still off relieving himself.

  “We don’t have much time to talk. Oh Owen … your wrists.” Even in the dim light of the fire she could see the blood saturating the ropes around his hands.

  “It’s nothing. You should have stayed away.” He scowled. A rather handsome scowl, if she were to say. How wonderful to see him! Even if he was filthy and bruised and tied to a tree. Blood stained his linen shirt and dribbled over his waistcoat, and his hair hung about his face like a wild savage. But just seeing him made her heart soar. He was alive and in one piece, and that was enough for her.

  She leaned toward him. “This is the plan.”

  “There is no plan. Go home, Emeline. Live a happy life. Forget about me.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I’ll do no such thing. Dimsmore trusts me. I’ll get his gun, free you, and we’ll both return to Baltimore.”

  “If you can get his gun. I don’t think he completely trusts you.
”

  “It’ll work, Owen. You’ll see.”

  “Madcap woman! Please leave while you can.”

  “I love you, Owen.” She clutched his face between her hands and dared to kiss him. She intended just a short peck for reassurance, but the look in his eyes and the taste of him lured her to stay longer than she should. He kissed her back, but only for a moment … a moment too short before he nudged her away, urging her to leave with a terrified look.

  As it was, Dimsmore returned just as she repositioned herself on the log, ignoring the low growl coming from Owen. Stubborn man. Would he leave her to hang as a traitor? She thought not. Besides, she’d clearly sensed the Lord leading her to rescue him. It had been more than her own desire to do so. It had been a strong urging, a sense of peace that all would be well. So she had started off on her first God-led adventure. She would do her part, and God would do His.

  At least she hoped that’s how it worked.

  But morning came, and no matter how much she begged Dimsmore for a pistol or even a knife, citing her fear of being attacked again in the woods, he would not relent.

  “I’ll protect, you, Miss Baratt. You have naught to worry about.” His shoulders rose and a smear of desire in his eyes caused nausea to brew in her stomach.

  She offered him a sweet smile that nearly forced that nausea out of her mouth.

  “Very well. Thank you for your chivalry. I am indebted, Luther.”

  She exchanged a glance with Owen as Dimsmore released him from the tree, and he gave her an I-told-you-so look that made her frown.

  One way or another, she would get a weapon. She had a full day’s journey during which to do so. If she had to, she’d resort to flirting with the beast, encouraging him, complimenting him … whatever it took.

  Either way, she would not allow Owen to step foot on the HMS Marauder.

  By noon, Emeline’s feet ached, her throat was parched, her dress torn even more than before, and she was no closer to getting a weapon from Dimsmore than she’d been that morning. She’d given him no reason to mistrust her. She’d not once spoken to Owen, nor even looked at him. At least not when Dimsmore could see. Plenty when he could not. Even with his hands tied behind his back, Owen exuded strength and fortitude. It wouldn’t take much for him to charge Dimsmore and knock him over then stomp him unconscious.