by M. S. Parker
It was going to be a long night.
7
My father was a large man, the kind who made you think twice before you decided to do anything stupid. His size had kept him out of trouble for most of his life, and the scowl he usually kept plastered on his face had pretty much the same effect. A military man to the core, a patriot at heart, he exemplified everything the US Army stood for.
And he scared the shit out of pretty much everyone who saw him.
But I knew the real him. I knew the heart of gold he concealed, the warm hugs he gave, the smiles that came when he was proud. There were times when I felt like he had ruined my future forever, that no other man could ever match up to him.
Maybe that was why I put up with so much of Bruce's shit, because on some level, I felt like my expectations were too high.
I also knew that if my father found out some of the shit Bruce pulled, my fiancé would've come face-to-face with the scariest my father could be.
Which was what happened one night I came home crying after Bruce and I had been in a terrible fight.
I'd just returned from my first tour and had a week of leave. I'd gone home but had spent my first night on a date with Bruce...where he'd proceeded to drink too much and make snide comments about how women looked in uniform. When I called him on it, he'd gone into a fifteen-minute tirade about how things hadn't been easy for him while I was gone. How hard it'd been to go that long without seeing me. Without sex.
That was the last straw. I'd stormed out and taken a cab home. Dad hadn't said a word. Hadn't asked me what was wrong. He'd just held me until I stopped crying.
I hadn't heard him leave later that night, but the next day, Bruce had come to apologize. The moment I saw his expression when my dad came down the stairs behind me, I'd known why Bruce had come.
I wondered what my father would've thought of Gracen. Somehow, I didn't get the impression that he would be as easily intimidated as Bruce. Dad would've liked that.
I, however, wasn't so sure I liked it. Or him, for that matter.
As the night dragged on, sleep didn't get any closer. I tossed and turned, my hands hurting more and more as the ropes rubbed my skin raw. While I was used to not being in the most comfortable places to sleep, this was definitely on the top of my discomfort list.
Finally, I gave up and looked over to where Gracen sat. His eyes were closed, his cane still in his grasp.
I had to admit he was a handsome man, despite his crude ways of dealing with situations. His high cheekbones and chiseled jaw made him easy on the eyes, and his curls just added to the charm. The fact that he wasn't wearing a wig, like a lot of people during this time period, told me that he was as pretentious as his accent made him sound.
If I'd met him in another place and time, I would have probably given him more than just a second glance. He was the kind of man who commanded attention, of that much I was sure.
My mind wandered back to Bruce, and I wondered what he was doing now or if my parents had called him when I didn't arrive home. Then again, even if they had, there was no guarantee he would've answered. I doubted he’d be calling me again anytime soon to try to get me to come early. He might've sounded annoyed at first, but I didn't doubt he'd find a way to get over it. Over the years, he'd lost the part of him that had always put me first – if he'd ever really had it to begin with.
I wondered what would have happened if I'd done as he asked and gotten straight on a plane to Vegas. My parents would've been upset, my father probably even more than my mother. I knew he'd been looking forward to my return and had wanted to discuss my possible re-enlistment before I made a final decision. I was surprised when he supported my decision to eventually open my own pediatric practice, even suggesting that he could lease a small space downtown to help me set up. When I first mentioned that this might be the time to make that change, I thought he'd give me hell for wanting out, but he hadn’t.
He was probably going out of his mind by now and trying not to show it. My mother would definitely be worried sick. I could only imagine how Ennis was handling it. I wished there was some way for me to let them know that I was okay.
If being tied up in the company of an eighteenth-century Loyalist a day before one of the precursor battles of the American Revolution was any indication of me being okay.
I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep, but my mind was still racing from worry, from all of the new information. How the hell was this even possible? How had I gotten here?
I retraced everything that I could remember. The accident, the man trying to unbuckle me from the car, everything, but I still couldn’t find any logical explanation for the time warp I’d found myself in. I vaguely remembered my time in the darkness, the feeling of being hurled back and forth, the arms that had grabbed and pulled me. My mind tried hard to piece things together. It still didn’t make any sense, and I was slowly starting to realize that there might not ever be an answer.
I might just have to accept that I was in 1775...and might never get back to my own time.
I wasn't sure if I could, but I was too tired to do anything about it now, even if the ropes around my wrists had left me with any viable options. I coughed and shook my head, trying to work out the knots in my neck and fight the pair of throbbing spots on the back of my skull. One from the accident, the other from Gracen.
“If you plan to stay awake all night, do you mind keeping it down,” he spoke up without opening his eyes.
I looked at him and grinned. If I had to be miserable, at least I knew he wasn't doing much better. “I doubt my coughing is what’s keeping you awake,” I said.
He opened his eyes and glared at me. “It wouldn’t, if you’d bloody lie down and go to sleep.”
I used my best sarcastic voice. “I'm sorry if the prisoner is causing you problems.”
“You’re not a prisoner.”
I turned slightly to my side to show him the ropes, an eyebrow raised as I dared him to contradict the obvious.
“Well, at least not for long,” he amended. “Believe me, I want to get rid of you as much as you wish to be rid of me, but I cannot have you going off to the rebels.”
“Why do you even care?” I asked. “If I truly were a sympathizer, wouldn’t the best option be to send me over to the colonists?”
His eyes widened as he leaned forward, all pretense of sleep gone. “Are you bloody mad, man?” He sounded shocked. “Let you tell them that Gracen Lightwood pulled you from the fields where the army would have certainly found you, most likely held you as a spy? Do you know what that would do to my family?”
I rolled my eyes. “There's no need to get overdramatic.”
He scowled at me. “You know nothing of my family, Mr. Daviot. My father, Roston Lightwood, supports the English position here in the colonies more than he’s supported me. His wealth depends on the British, and he would rather his family die before ever having any of us associated with the rebels.”
“That’s a shame,” I muttered, knowing well what would happen to the Loyalists in the years to come.
“A shame?” Gracen asked in exasperation. “Bloody ungrateful, if you ask me.”
“So you share your father’s opinions?” I found myself honestly curious, not only making conversation.
“I have taken no side,” he said. “This isn't my fight.”
“You live here, don't you?”
“I was born in London.”
Nice deflection. “That wasn’t my question.”
He looked down and used the tip of his cane to draw patterns in the dirt. “My father loves the Crown. He spent most of his life in service of the king. All he ever had was his work, and he was rewarded for it. It’s why he brought us to the colonies. Shortly after I was born, he was given a tract of land just outside Boston for his services. Had he stayed in England, his inheritance would have been a pittance.”
I was beginning to understand. “You feel the need to be just as grateful as your father.”
He thought about it for a moment. “I suppose that is some of it. But I am a British citizen by birth, no matter where I make my home.”
In a flash of memory, I remembered something I'd seen in some movie. How the people who were born and raised in England didn't consider the colonists to be British citizens...until it came to their blind obedience.
“You know that not everyone in the colonies enjoys the same liberties as British citizens, right?” I asked. “That the rebels, as you call them, just want to be treated equally.”
He gave me a hard look. “The world is rarely so simple; something you colonists don't seem to understand.”
I wanted to disagree. I did understand it. I had seen war. I had seen death. I'd seen what it meant to fight for what you believed in against people whose beliefs were just as strong. There was rarely any right side, rarely a winning side, and things were never clear cut or easy. No matter how righteous the cause, innocents were always in the line of fire.
But some things were worth fighting for, and I knew this had been one of them. America wasn't perfect, but I'd enlisted because I believed in my country.
“I think you should get some sleep,” Gracen ended the conversation. “Sunrise will be in a couple hours, and if we’re lucky, we can get away from here before the patrols make their rounds.”
He stretched out on the ground this time, covered his face with his hat, and crossed his arms over his chest. I continued watching him until his breathing steadied, and a light snore escaped him. I didn't like him, I told myself, but I did wonder what would happen to him when the battle began tomorrow.
And what would happen to him as the rebellion became an official war? A war that the British would lose. I didn't know enough about British history to know how drastically the war affected their country, but I did know that it was a turning point that eventually led to America becoming one of the major world powers.
I reminded myself that none of it was my problem. That whatever happened to Gracen and his family had already happened long ago, just like the war had already taken place.
Sort of.
Trying to figure it all out made my head hurt even more.
I finally got into a relatively comfortable position, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
8
The cannon blast woke me even as I was being shaken.
The first thing I was aware of was the urgency with which Gracen was moving. Immediately on the heels of that thought was the change in the periodic gunfire I'd heard last night. It came faster now. Not as fast as it would in my time, but still enough of a change to remind me of where and when I was.
The Battle of Bunker Hill had begun.
“Did you know?” he asked as he cut the rope binding my hands. “Was this why you wanted to get away so urgently?”
“I had no idea,” I lied, rubbing my sore wrists as I watched him throw a glance toward the city. In the light, he was even more handsome than the night before, his features clearer, his emerald eyes more piercing. The frown on his face, though, wasn’t as appealing.
He looked at me as if I had tricked him somehow. “Did you attempt to keep me here?” he asked.
“Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. “I tried to get away from you. You were the one keeping me here against my will.”
He pulled his overcoat on without taking his eyes from the tree line. I knew what he was looking for, and I wanted to assure him that if we avoided Breed's Hill, we'd most likely pass by unseen. But I knew if I offered this bit of information, he'd want to know how I came by it, and that wasn't a story I could tell.
“I want nothing to do with this.” Gracen's voice was hard. “You are free to do as you please, but I will not be a part of this madness.”
I moved quickly to his side, pleased at how much better my ankle felt, and crouched beside him even as the sounds of muskets and cannons roared nearby. This was what I wanted to avoid last night, though, in hindsight, I realized it would have been a bad idea to join up with the soldiers now facing off against the British. While the British casualties would be more than double the American ones, it would still be a bloodbath.
“We should probably stick together,” I said.
I'd told myself that Gracen wasn't my responsibility, but now that it came down to it, I couldn't leave him here, knowing what I did. Even though neither of us were soldiers in this war, it felt too much like leaving a man behind, no matter how things had originally played out for him.
He was moving now, and I followed. At least he was being cautious as he inched toward the river. As I walked behind him, I was unsure if I should give him details about where the majority of the fighting was taking place. My sense of direction was skewed at the moment, and I had no idea where we were in relation to Breed's Hill. Ennis would have known.
Keeping low and moving slow were our best bets. With neither of us being armed and me still limping a bit, I could only hope that if we ran into either side, they'd take us for civilians trying to avoid being shot.
Morning turned into afternoon as the heat rose steadily. I wanted to ask Gracen how much farther, but being quiet was more important than the sweat pouring down my face. Theoretically, I'd known that Boston and the surrounding countryside would have looked different than what I was used to, but I hadn't realized how much. I was completely dependent on Gracen to lead me now. I was completely lost.
Then I saw the smoke.
Charlestown, Massachusetts was on fire.
Through the trees and brush, I could see flickers of orange and red. The people in Boston would have a better view. According to the book Ennis had given me to read, one of those Bostonians would be John Quincy Adams, a child now, but who would later become president.
The strange things we remember in moments of duress.
Even though the details were lost, the smell of the smoke and the sounds of battle drove home more than anything else just how great a price had been paid for our freedom. This was only one of many battles that would make up the war, and it wouldn't be long before the colonists would run out of bullets and resort to throwing rocks. It would be a bloodbath.
We had to leave before we were counted among the casualties.
I grabbed Gracen by the arm, but he wouldn’t budge.
“My God,” he whispered as he watched the flames across the Charles River.
I pulled harder. “Gracen, we have to move, now!”
He stumbled a few steps, his face pale. I didn't blame him. I'd seen war firsthand, and I felt sick to my stomach. For someone who'd never witnessed it, it was overwhelming. I pulled harder, and Gracen followed me a dozen feet or so before we were stopped by three muskets pointing straight at us.
“Halt, in the name of King George!”
Shit.
I pushed Gracen behind me, an involuntary act since there was no way I'd be able to protect either one of us, but I was also pretty sure he'd be useless if it came to a fight. The redcoat in the middle lowered his musket, coming toward us in slow strides. The other two kept their weapons trained right on us.
“Identify yourselves!” the leader demanded.
I held up my hands to show that I didn't have any weapons. Even though it irked me, I knew that we were safer with the British than the Americans at the moment.
“My name is Gracen Lightwood.” He stepped around me, and I frowned at him. He ignored me. “I am the son of Roston Lightwood, a Loyalist to the Crown, and a friend to the British army.”
The man looked at me, clearly expecting me to add my own identity to the mix. Gracen knew where my loyalties were, and I wasn't sure I could trust him to support any lies I might tell, but I also knew I couldn't tell the truth.
“Mr. Daviot is my steward,” Gracen lied, putting a firm hand on my shoulder. “We were on our way to my estate when the fighting started, and we decided to take cover and wait out the battle.”
The redcoat looked past us toward where the battle continued. He didn't even bother hiding his contem
pt at what I was sure he considered cowardly behavior. I had no doubt he wished to be with his comrades, charging the rebels on the hill. I wanted to tell him that he was better off here.
“In the name of King George, I am putting you under arrest and taking you to camp for questioning,” the man said.
“Good man, I assure, there is no need–” Gracen began but immediately held his tongue when he was shot an angry glance. The other two soldiers came forward, clearly intending to do as they'd been told.
I couldn't let them take us to camp. I didn't know how close it was to Breed's Hill, for one thing. For another, I was somehow still passing as a man. If we were taken somewhere to be questioned, there was a good chance that my gender would be discovered which would cause more problems than I even wanted to think about.
Since I was unarmed, I needed to be fast. I said a quick prayer that my training back home would be as much of a surprise as my resistance and then moved. Kicking at the musket pointed at me, it fell to the side just as the man pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was deafening, but it was the target I was worrying about, and the lead ball had the desired effect as it buried in one of the other soldier's legs.
As the musket was brought back around, the redcoat seemed eager to use the bayonet on me, but I grabbed the barrel and pulled it forward. I watched as the blade slid into the other soldier before he could do anything more than stare at us in shock.
The redcoat hit me, his fist slamming against the back of my head. I saw stars and staggered, pain shooting through my skull and down my spine. I let the adrenaline flood through me, giving me what I needed to move past the pain, and not a moment too soon. The soldier pulled his weapon out of his fallen comrade and turned it on me.
He thrust the bayonet toward me and the blade cut through my shirt and shoulder, drawing blood. It did little damage, and I ignored the pain as I pushed the weapon away and grabbed the soldier. My hands wrapped around his arm, and I brought his elbow upwards with tremendous force. The man screamed in pain as I felt his joint snap and the gun fell from his hand. He was quick though and managed a blow to the jaw that caught me enough off guard that I fell.