Courting the Corporal

by Heather McCorkle

  Deep laughter rumbled from him when she didn’t answer. Straightening her shawl, she took a step back from him, skirt swishing against the steps as she did so. The material caught beneath her heel and she began to slip. His hand shot out and gripped her elbow, steadying her. The warmth of his hand on her arm felt wonderful. Sensations she hadn’t felt in years began to stir deep in her bosom. They were things she hadn’t ever wanted to feel again. Her judgment of men’s character, her attraction to them, couldn’t be trusted. Eyes narrowing, she tugged free of him.

  “That is twice you have put your hands on me, sir. Such a thing is quite improper and I will thank you not to do it again,” she huffed.

  A corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked grin that caused things low in her body to betray her and tighten. “But if I have to do it again to save you from falling, again, your thanks will then be for naught,” he teased.

  Her brow furrowed so deeply she could see the carefully shaped hairs of it. Such a look would cause wrinkles, her mum would say, yet at the moment she didn’t care. “I shall forgive you since you are not from around here, and clearly do not know the rules of proper society.”

  The man tucked the package he was carrying under his arm and fixed her with an amused look. “You should instead thank me for not letting you fall on your arse, twice.”

  Mouth dropping open, she could only watch mutely as he gave her an exaggerated bow, turned, and strode down the steps. Her gaze remained riveted upon him. The leather duster billowed out around him, sending his leather and soap scent to her on the breeze. An arse of a man simply should not smell so good or have the ability to make such a simple outfit look so appealing. Shaking off such thoughts, she lifted her head and strode up the stairs, determined not to allow the frustrating encounter to ruin her good mood. She had a bottle of wine to buy and a change of destiny to celebrate.

  Chapter 3

  Two days later, the spunky redhead Fergusson had collided with on the stairs before Bailey’s Spirits still filled his thoughts. The way her cheeks had flushed as red as her hair, the look of indignation that had filled her ultra-blue eyes, and those curves, oh those curves… It should have been enough that she was clothed in all the finery that marked her as a lady of high society to banish her from his mind. But the fine silk and lace had framed her generous bosom oh so nicely. Though he hated himself a bit for it, he couldn’t help but hope he’d run into her on the streets of New York again. Much to his dismay—and relief—he didn’t.

  One more thing to attend to and his business in New York was finished for the year. Bottle of wine in hand, he stopped at the door to his friends’ place and rapped soundly upon it. Rain began to beat down on him, stripping some of the heat from the early June evening. The door opened to a lovely young woman in a yellow dress that beautifully set off skin the hue of mahogany oiled to a dark finish. He inclined his head in a slight bow and smiled.

  “Hello, miss. I am Corporal Fergusson. Mr. and Mrs. MacBranain are expecting me,” he said.

  The woman smiled and stepped aside. “They are indeed. Please, do come in, Mr. Fergusson.”

  Just a hint of an accent touched her words, marking her as one who had been born in the north rather than fled here for freedom before the war. While it wasn’t completely uncommon for a Negro to be a house servant, most of those in New York high society that he knew used Irish servants. A nurse friend of Ashlinn’s perhaps. But then, she didn’t have that haunted look those who had seen battle carried with them.

  “Thank you, miss.”

  His wet boots clunked against the marble floor as he stepped inside the foyer, leaving tracks of mud and droplets of water behind.

  “I apologize for the mess, miss. ’Tis raining with a vengeance out there,” he said.

  The woman smiled. “No need to worry about that, sir. It cleans up easily enough.”

  The scent of roses wafted to him from where they sat within a delicate vase on a table near the arched wall that separated the space from the rest of the house. Beyond the arched opening, a wide staircase yawned that forked both to the left and right after a short flight. The oak banister was garishly decorated with cherubs and vines. Such over the top trappings were a surprise, but then, Sean had said this was Ashlinn’s sister-in-law’s house, not hers.

  “Oh, Sadie, is that the postman? I have a few letters to go out,” a very familiar female voice called.

  “No, Miss Catriona. It’s the visitor the MacBranains have been expecting,” the servant woman called back.

  His eyebrows rose at the unusual familiarity with which the servant addressed her mistress. Such a thing wasn’t normally done in high society homes, not even up here in the North.

  “Ah, excellent! I am eager to meet him,” the woman called above the echo of narrow heels clicking on marble.

  It couldn’t possibly be whom it sounded like. Surely, his mind was merely playing tricks on him. She rounded the corner and his eyes confirmed what his ears suspected. Long red hair swung unfettered about shoulders that were far more slender than they had looked beneath her shawl a few days ago. Green satin and black lace hugged curves that bordered on being skinny, all save for a bosom with deliciously deep cleavage. Blue eyes widened, her gaze skittering across his frame, catching on the wine bottle in his arm, to his muddy boots, and back to his face.

  Pasting on a badly faked smile, she touched the servant’s arm in a casual way that suggested they might be friends. “I am afraid you are mistaken, Sadie.”

  The smile dropped and her top lip pulled back from her teeth as she turned to him. “It seems quite counterproductive to track mud all over one’s floor while coming to apologize.”

  “’Tis you who are mistaken, ma’am. I am indeed here to see the MacBranains.”

  Triumph shot through him when a blush stained her cheeks. “You are Corporal Fergusson?” she demanded.

  He nodded. “None other.”

  “No,” she insisted.

  Hands out, palms up, he looked down at himself. “Yes.”

  Her eyes widened. “No!”

  Emitting a wordless cry, she spun and stormed out of the room, heels clicking out a battle rhythm as if launching an assault on the marble floor.

  “Truly, I am,” he called after her, which elicited another wordless cry of frustration.

  He turned to the servant woman only to find her regarding him from beneath raised brows, head cocked. “You as puzzled as I am by that, Miss Sadie?”

  Her full lips began to twitch with a coming grin. “Perhaps not as much.” She nodded toward the bottle of wine tucked into the crook of his arm. “Is that from Bailey’s Spirits?”

  Not sure why it was relevant, but not seeing any reason to withhold the information, he nodded.

  “Well, Mr. Fergusson, I fear Miss Catriona’s reaction will not be your only surprise of the day,” she said.

  Even as he contemplated the strange words, his eyes followed the redhead as she disappeared around a corner. A fiery name to match a fiery personality. He liked both far more than he wanted to. Words raised in a heated discussion centered around him drifted back into the room. Among them were both Catriona’s voice and the gentle, soothing voice of a friend he remembered oh so well. Not wanting to track mud all across the foyer, he leaned to the left as far as he could, trying to see around the corner.

  The back side of a man clothed in a fine suit appeared in the opening, pulling double doors closed behind him. The feminine voices were all but cut off. Spinning on a heel, the man turned toward him. Though his hair was shorter and a scar marred his forehead, the confidence and self-awareness made him instantly recognizable. Cheeks aching from a grin so huge it had to look maniacal, Fergusson took a step toward the man.

  “Sergeant!” he said as he advanced, forgetting his muddy boots.

  The man grinned just as wide in response. They met in the middle of the floor
, embraced heartily, and pulled back apart.

  “’Tis just Sean now, me friend,” he insisted.

  Fergusson grunted. “It will always be Sergeant.”

  Waving the comment off, Sean grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “Come now, Rick, let’s dispense of such things. Tell me, how on Earth did you manage to make such an impression on Catriona already?”

  “I have a talent, I suppose.” He held the bottle of wine out to Sean, who accepted it with an impressed look. “A late congratulations on your wedding. Sorry I couldn’t be there, but, you know, war to finish and all that.”

  Sean tapped the scar on the side of his head. “Sorry I couldn’t be there to finish it with you. Head wound and all that.”

  Fergusson clapped him on the shoulder a bit more vigorously than he intended too, making his friend stumble a step. Laughing, Sean shook his head and motioned to the door.

  “Walk with me a bit. I have something for you in the carriage house. It will give the ladies time to talk things through,” Sean said.

  Before they reached the door, Sadie pulled it open. The clip clop of horses and grind of wagon wheels against cobblestone drifted in from the busy street not far beyond the front garden of the house. Pattering beneath it all like the erratic rhythm of an untalented drummer boy was the constant deluge of rain. Nose wrinkling from the stench of wet horse manure, oil lamps, and far too many people, Fergusson stepped out before Sean. He flipped his collar up and ducked his head low so that his almost shoulder-length brown hair kept the rain from running down the back of his coat.

  On the way out the door Sean paused and handed Sadie the bottle of wine. “Would you please put this on ice for when we get back?”

  “Of course, Mr. MacBranain.”

  Following a stone pathway that cut through the garden and around the side of the expansive brick house, Rick spared a glance back at Sean. “Ice, in June? Damn, Sarge, you really did marry into money.”

  From behind him, Sean called up. “I did, but as you might guess, Ashlinn is the true treasure.”

  “True enough, she is at that. So I trust the marriage has gotten off to a good start?”

  Catching up and passing him, Sean opened the wrought iron gate that led around to the side of the house. “Aye, you could say that.”

  Though he couldn’t see his face, Rick could hear the smile upon it.

  “No little ’uns yet, though?”

  “Not yet, but it has only been a bit over a year. All in due time.”

  A slight overhang kept the rain from them as they made their way along the path to the huge carriage house. Sean opened a man door beside the double doors and motioned for Rick to go first. The scents of hay and horses enveloped him in a rush of warm air as he stepped inside. Behind Sean the door clicked shut, muting the sound of the falling rain. An inquisitive, young-sounding bark punctuated the noises of horses eating and rustling about in their stalls. It brought to mind the massive Irish wolfhound that had followed Ashlinn and Sean everywhere during the war. He had nearly forgotten that the hound was pregnant the last time he had seen her, and that he had asked for one of the pups.

  A childlike joy he hadn’t felt since long before the war swelled within his chest at the sound of clawed feet pattering against cobblestone. But it had been a little more than two years since then. There was no way the youthful bark he had just heard could be from a two-year-old dog. He shot Sean a questioning look, but his friend only grinned. Another soft bark of greeting sounded.

  Rounding the corner that led down to the horses’ stalls came a canine that already stood at least two and a half feet at the shoulder but still had that young pup look to him. Paws the size of a lady’s hand proved he would grow much bigger. While he certainly had the look of an Irish wolfhound, something else lingered about him as well. His body was broader, fuller, with a fluffy tail boasting long hair. Gray dominated his slightly long coat, but a ring of white framed his chest and head like a lion, along with white areas around some of his feet, and down his back.

  On instinct, Rick went down on a knee, grinning, yet holding his lips closed over his teeth. “Look at you,” he mused.

  “He isn’t purebred. We still have a few of the two-year-olds left if you’d like to look at them, but something told me to bring this fellah,” Sean said.

  The pup trotted right up to him, bushy tail wagging, floppy ears perked. His pink tongue darted out to slather Rick’s hands. Laughing, he petted the pup’s head and scratched behind his ears.

  “He’s fantastic. What else is he, besides wolfhound?” Rick asked.

  Crouching beside the pup, Sean petted him as well. “Husky. One of our neighbors is Dutch and he brought the dog all way from Siberia. Gorgeous animal. He was quite furious about the pairing, insisted we kill the pups. This fellah was the only one she bore, though, and ’twas easy enough to convince him that he died.”

  The story stirred something that slumbered deep within Rick. He scratched beneath the pup’s chin with both hands, looking deep into its unique blue eyes as he did so. Tongue lolling out the side of its mouth, it seemed to smile at him. Within its eyes rested the gentleness customary to the Irish wolfhound breed, but something else sparkled there as well, mischievousness, or a sense of adventure perhaps.

  Watching the little fellow wriggle beneath his attentions, trying to lick him again, Rick grinned. “Your instincts were spot on. He’s perfect.”

  Sean rose to his feet. “Fantastic! What will you call him?”

  Caught up in the pup’s blue eyes, Rick thought hard for a moment. “Lincoln, after our esteemed President, God rest his soul.”

  “A fine name. Now that I have softened you up a bit, there is a favor I must ask of you, me friend,” Sean said.

  The serious tone his voice took at the last part made Rick rise and meet his gaze. “Anything.”

  Sighing deeply, Sean ran a hand through his short hair. “Don’t be so quick to agree, you haven’t heard what it is yet.”

  Rick dismissed the words with a laugh and a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t matter. You saved me life on more than one occasion. We’re blood brothers. You have but to ask and ’tis yours.”

  Sean made his way over to a bale of hay and sat down. His friend’s disregard for his fine pants raised one of Rick’s brows, and his concern.

  “I trust you are still guiding people to other states?” Sean asked. Though the question was innocent enough, the hesitation in his friend’s voice led him to believe far more weighed on it.

  He sat down on another bale next to him. “Aye.”

  The pup bounded up to him, sat on his feet, and thrust his head into his hands for more petting. He scratched absently behind its ears as he watched Sean’s guarded face.

  “Ashlinn’s family is heading west to settle some property in California.”

  “Which part?”

  Sean’s smile stretched to a painful looking size. “Sonoma County, right in your backyard, quite literally, according to the county records, I believe.”

  Scratching his own bristly chin with one hand, Rick tried to catch his friend’s gaze and failed. “Um hum, but I’m guessing that’s not why you want me to do it.”

  “No, ’tis not.”

  He began to fear he was going to have to literally pull it out of him. “How many people?”

  “Four.” The tension in Sean’s voice was building, which Rick knew to mean they were getting closer to the meat of the issue.

  “Four people, a wagon or two, doesn’t sound so bad. Why is it you fear I’m going to say no, then?”

  A long sigh rattled out of Sean as he finally looked up and met Rick’s gaze. “’Tis Catriona O’Brian and three of her friends.”

  Rick shrugged. “’Tis no bother, Sean. True, the woman doesn’t like me much, but we can get along well enough for three to four months on the trail together.”<
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  Still, Sean looked doubtful.

  “Out with it, man. What else is there to it?” Rick prompted.

  Again, his friend sighed. If he kept it up Rick feared he may swoon like a lass. “Her friends are women. I am asking you to guide three women to California.”

  Rick shot to his feet. “For the love of Saint Peter, man, what are you thinking?”

  Hands held out, Sean rose to stand beside him. The pup let out a bark and danced between the two of them as if it were a game. “I know, I know. But you’re the only person I trust for the task. This is Ashlinn’s sister-in-law, after all. We will pay for armed men, however many you need.”

  The desperation in his friend’s eyes tugged at his heart like sutures. “People die on such a journey all the time. While armed men can help protect against savages and predators, they can do nothing against illness and weather. The risks are high, Sean. I only want you to enter into this with your eyes wide open.”

  Sean clapped him on the shoulder. “I know, and I am. These women are not like the frail lasses of high society. They are strong, independent, and they know the risks, as do Ashlinn and myself.”

  Nodding, despite everything good sense told him, Rick echoed one of Sean’s many sighs. “All right, then. I hope they can prepare quickly, because we need to depart within the week to make it before the weather turns.”

  A whoop of relief echoed off the rafters, making a few of the horses around the corner jump in their stalls. “Thank you, me friend. I’ll owe you greatly for this.”

  Rick shook his head. “Don’t thank me until I get them all there safely.”

  Sean’s answer was cut off by the pounding of a pair of feet running toward them. They both turned toward the corner to see a gangly young servant boy running toward them. He nearly slipped in the hay scattered across the floor but managed to right himself at the last moment. His wide eyes fixed on Sean.