Angel's Flight

by Juliet Waldron

  “I thank you for the offer, sir,” said Jack with great politeness, “but such an action wouldn’t be well received by Mynheer TenBroeck.”

  Angelica was ready to heave a sigh of relief at Jack’s gallantry, but M’Bain wouldn’t hear of it. “I disagrees with you, sir, and I’ll tell you why. If you don’t tie the knot with yon lady, Johnnie Callahan is bragging round the camp that he stands ready to. He’s took a sharp fancy to her.”

  Angelica clung to Jack’s arm and tried to keep alarm out of her voice. “But Chief M’Bain,” she said, “isn’t he supposed to marry with Nancy?”

  “Johnnie’s—ah—headstrong. He’s one of Davy Bell’s mates, and that just naturally leads to... Well, you catch my drift. Now Captain Church, I’m gonna tell you straight. None of ‘em’s too smart, but they’re strong as bulls and they got some pull ‘round here. There’s plenty of grumbling that I’m not cutting you both up small. If the lady is marryin’ with you, Johnnie’ll be more inclined to do right by Nancy, and then we’ll all have a lot less trouble.”

  “Why will he?” Jack had been nodding, but Angelica was so confused by the chief’s train of thought that the question came blurting out before she had a chance to think better of it.

  “Because, miss,” M’Bain replied, willing to be patient with her, “your man has already beat Davy Bell, and Johnnie Callahan is Davie’s lieutenant. I don’t think any of ‘em’s ready to mess with Captain Church one on one. Not just today anyhow.”

  After absorbing this, Angelica said thoughtfully, “And it wouldn’t be wise to cross Nancy’s father either.”

  M’Bain grinned. “Well! You have been payin’ attention, haven’t you, miss?” he said with approval. “Nancy’s the apple of old man Bankhead’s eye, and he’s not only Irish but part Schagticoke, too. The devil’s part of each, if I may say, which inclines him to settle his quarrels with a shot in the back. Now, if I says you are to marry, I think Johnnie will see his way to behavin’ himself. No sense havin’ both me and old man Bankhead stalkin’ him.”

  “Chief M’Bain,” Jack said, slipping an arm around Angelica. “We’ll do as you say.” He drew Angelica close and whispered softly, the perfect image of a gentlemanly lover, “Isn’t it what we’ve both wanted?”

  In order to hide her warring feelings, her embarrassment, Angelica turned her face against his shirt.

  “Uncle Jacob will be terribly angry.” The words released an authentically deep shiver.

  “Never mind,” Jack said soothingly. His hand, radiating courage, was on her back. “We’ll get through, Miss TenBroeck.”

  There was a reality in those words that went beyond playacting. Angelica raised her head and met those clear gray eyes as she saw the long mobile line of his mouth, curving in response to her fear with a tender smile.

  “Why, as soon as you’ve got a bonny little shit of a grandson to show him, even a hard hearted Dutchman will see the sense of it.” M’Bain’s commentary broke in upon the intimate moment. “I know’d I could explain to you,” he continued. “Got heads on yer shoulders—for lowlanders.”

  After another long swig from his companionable green pocket flask and a careful corking, Chief M’Bain, regal as a lord, waved them away.

  ***

  The camp was settling down rather tamely into night. Lifting the waxed cloth to peep out of the hole in the attic roof, they could see a group of shaggy outlaws hanging around a fire in the center of the yard. The men were passing a bottle, laughing, chewing and spitting.

  Looking up, away from them, Angelica saw a familiar spring sky, the star shapes twinkling. The trembling clarity spoke of another fair day tomorrow and made a poignant contrast to the shifting, grubby world of men below. In the forest, spring toads set up a tinkling chorus.

  “I am weary to my bones.” Angelica sighed, sinking onto the linen covered straw Jack had assembled for their bed.

  “I don’t doubt it,” her companion replied, getting down beside her. “You slept on the ground last night, rode like a cavalryman in a battle all morning and worked like a mule for the rest of the day.”

  From a flask, he solicitously poured a pale liquid into a cup and handed it to her. “Reiver courage. Whiskey mixed with good spring water which I drew myself, as safe a drink as you may have, and one which will conduct you straight into sleep.”

  “I have never in my life drunk spirits.” She raised her eyes distrustfully.

  “Well, you are about to begin,” Jack said. The way he held out the cup was not to be denied. “Listen to your physician, miss,” he continued. “This will settle your nerves.”

  He gave her a cheerful smile and Angelica, smiling faintly in return, took the cup.

  “Go on...drink up.” Jack insisted. “Your work got us goodwill, miss, and I want you to know that it was a very brave thing, too.”

  “Well, it turned out better than I thought,” she said after a short, nose wrinkling sip of the powerful stuff. “After being pushed and pulled about in their nasty cook shed for an hour, they asked me if I could sew a fine line and it seems that skill was in more demand than what they call cookery. Lord! Messes of corn meal mush and milk, one old grannie out back straining cheese and fighting a losing battle with the pigs poking their faces in it.

  “And that stew we ate tonight! Beans and corn meal and God knows what. Now that pot actually might have contained someone’s fingers, Mr. Church.”

  Jack laughed. The sound was so normal that, in spite of everything, Angelica relaxed a little.

  “And then you sewed Miss Bankhead’s wedding finery until the sun went down.”

  “I did. A proper mess they’d made of it.”

  “How did they know you’d have exactly what was wanted in your pocket?”

  “They expected it of a Dutch woman,” Angelica explained. She slipped her hand inside the pocket slit in her dress, between shift and outer garment, and again touched the consoling familiarity of scissors and pincushion. Suddenly needing to see them, she withdrew the patches and unfolded what she’d pieced together.

  Jack came close. “You’ve still got your quilt top, I see.”

  “Yes,” she said, smoothing her hand gently across the material. “I wonder if I will live to finish it.”

  “Of course you will,” he said. Lifting her hand from the material, he kissed it with tender formality, as if it smelled of lavender and roses instead of onions.

  Angelica lifted her eyes to his. They were so cool, so gray, so certain!

  “I found an entire box of scraps in that corner. You might make some headway while we’re here.”

  “You think I will pass time quilting? Here? In the middle of this?”

  “Why not? We have candles, and you said it comforts you.” “It does. It just seems—futile.”

  “Miss TenBroeck, where there’s life, there’s hope,” he said. “Come.” Taking her hands, he drew her to her feet and then, candle in hand, led her to an overflowing box. “Sit here for awhile,” he directed, “and look through these.”

  ***

  “You were rewarded for your work, I see.”

  “Yes,” said Angelica. “Ima really is a kind creature. She came up with these leather stays for me. More convenient for travel with the front laced. And look! They’re almost new.”

  “Practical,” he said, studying the deer hide stays that now enclosed her slender waist.

  “Did you hear anything of interest?” he asked after a pause. “About their plans, or about how many will arrive with the widow’s bridegroom?”

  “Not much. The big animal that’s to marry Nancy kept coming in and staring. Then she’d snarl at me like I had been asking for his attention. In between their arguing and her saying catty things about me, I tried not to listen too much, just get on with what needed doing. Still,” she reflected, “sewing was easier than sitting around worrying about what they’re going to do to us.”

  “Nothing—if I can help it,” Jack said. Then he went back to his original topic. “D
id they not talk at all about Donnie Graham’s gang?”

  “I don’t think there are too many of them. Whenever Ima was a little friendly, Nancy’d say Donnie just had his cousins and could hardly call it a gang. I thought the ladies were going to start pulling each other’s hair arguing over whose gang was bigger—M’Bain’s or Nancy’s father’s.”

  “These gangs are something new to you?”

  “Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it. I remember there were reivers when I was a child living on Schoharie Creek, but it usually was cleaned up quick enough. I remember my father and some of the neighbors hunting men who were stealing stock, but I’ve never seen doings like this.”

  “Yes,” Jack agreed. “They’re sitting up here as if they’re in a castle. If I were M’Bain, I’d post a few more guards. While I was getting Hal settled and wandering around, I got a pretty good idea of where their sentries are.”

  “You aren’t thinking of trying an escape, are you?” she asked, paling at the idea.

  “Well,” he countered, “do you think your uncle could afford the ransom I’ve promised?”

  “No.” Angelica looked glum.

  “I was only buying us time, miss. You must be ready for anything.”

  They were locked into the saddlebag house, or rather into the upstairs under-the-eaves sleeping part of one side. Some more civilized builder than the current occupants must have erected it. The second story ran all the way across.

  The area was entered by a ladder through a trap door but, as soon as Jack and Angelica had gone up, the ladder had been removed. The building, once a handsome and solid refuge for two families who’d shared that central fireplace, now was in a sad state.

  Below, one side was occupied by a random grouping of women and small children, the other by a crowd of men. For some reason or other, perhaps in order to use the attic space like a barn loft, a window had been smashed out and covered with a piece of sail.

  It was the outlaw’s treasure room, one feature of which was a fine, surprisingly clean feather bed and a trunk full of linen. There were boxes overflowing with leather tack and kegs of nails, as well as a wardrobe of jackets and dresses.

  There were barrels, too. The aromas surrounding them revealed what they contained. There were several of corn meal, one of salt fish and one of biscuit. Overhead dried apples hung in wizened strings along with sprigs of medicinal herbs, the usual catnip, mint and sassafras.

  “And what about this—this—marriage?” Angelica finally gathered enough courage to bring it up.

  “We’ll play their game,” Jack answered. “And wait for our chance to get out of here.”

  “Mr. Church,” she began nervously. “Um—I don’t know what—I don’t think—”

  “Don’t worry,” he repeated, giving her a look in which she thought she discerned a measure of unhappiness at her reluctance. “I give you my word that, unless you agree, I shall regard this as never having happened. Neither shall I speak of it to anyone, now or later.”

  “Please don’t be offended, sir. I’m too tired for such serious subjects, too tired to think straight.”

  “Certainly,” he said soothingly.

  Then, after a moment’s silence in which she had removed her cap and loosened the braided coil of her thick hair, he changed the subject. “What do you think of how I’ve fixed up our prison?”

  “Very comfortable,” she said smiling. “Dusty, but cleaner than downstairs, I believe.”

  “We have water in the pitcher, a basin, and I even found a chamber pot in one of those trunks.” Jack smiled. “It is hiding its shameful but very necessary self behind those barrels of salt fish there.”

  They washed their hands and faces. After they were done, Jack poured the used water through the roof hole. It landed with a splash at the side of the house.

  Out of her pocket, Angelica fished the comb she’d been given aboard Vanderzee’s ship. Slowly, she began to loose n her hair. “Allow me,” Jack said, coming to sit beside her on the bed.

  Angelica was too tired to protest. And what was the sense of it anyway?

  She’d already spent two nights in this man’s arms. She knew exactly how Uncle Jacob—or Cousin Arent—would make of the events of the last few days. She was entirely, completely, compromised.

  Already his strong hands were in her thick hair. “I’ve been wanting this pleasure,” he said softly.

  She could hear the smile in his voice.

  “Isn’t it rather a task, sir?”

  “To comb a beautiful woman’s beautiful hair?” He lowered his head and dropped a kiss on her shoulder.

  Angelica quivered at his touch.

  From impropriety to impropriety! Still, at the moment, she was too tired, too in need of comfort to care.

  With all the discretion anyone could require, after that first tender salute, Jack sat back and began to comb. He did it carefully, beginning with the ends and working slowly upwards.

  The light of their one small candle flickered. Although there was no fire, the afternoon heat had collected in the narrow space and the attic was still warm.

  “Now, this is treasure,” said Jack softly. He was moving the comb freely, sweeping through the whole length, following each stroke of the comb with a stroke of his own. “Is the color from your Mama?”

  “No,” Angelica replied, leaning back. “‘Tis from my Papa, who was pure Dutch. I have a lock of his hair and a lock of Mama’s, too. Hers was chestnut.”

  From her mother, née Margaret Livingston, came Scots, English and German blood, as well as Dutch.

  “Your father must’ve been a handsome man.”

  “Oh, he was,” Angelica said. “Far more handsome than Uncle Jacob or Cousin Arent. He was not so broad or square, but a fine figure of a man. Even if he’d lived, I don’t think he’d have got plump like them.”

  The amusement over her shoulder was almost palpable.

  “Pure gold,” he said. “The proverbial Dutch gold.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, sir.” The reply held a formality it was hard to feel. She didn’t want to be rude, but his touch was relaxing her toward badly needed sleep.

  Capable hands gently and firmly turned her around to face him. His gray eyes were full of tenderness and something that looked— alarmingly—like desire.

  “Prepare yourself, Miss Angel TenBroeck. I am going to ask your uncle for your hand.”

  Jack smiled at her as if he could, at a time of his choosing, grow wings and simply fly away from the Clove, free as a bird. Speechless, a thousand desires clamoring, she studied the man before her.

  “Don’t play shy maiden. You gave away the game on the Judik.”

  His speech came from the vain, fan-fluttering world of the ballroom. Here, now, alone in this attic cage, with danger multiplied a thousand times...

  “Say yes.” In the next instant he’d caught her close, begun to hungrily kiss her.

  There was loss of will inside the circle of his arms. Crushed against his chest, she felt his urgency. As her lips helplessly parted, his tongue came, bringing something sweet and tender. She quivered and let him, for it was like it had been at the inn, where the taste and smell of him had roused an identical hunger.

  After a long, deep drink at her lips, his attention shifted. Earlier, she’d removed the new leather stays and the shawl to wash, and now her neck, throat, and high bosom were exposed. He lowered his blonde head to salute her breasts, lips tenderly grazing the white swell above the dress.

  “Stop!” She knew what would happen if she let this go on. Her voice was faint and she was blushing mightily, the blush that follows a deep penetration of pleasure.

  Hands on his broad shoulders, she tried to push him away. “No more,” she whispered. “We mustn’t.”

  “Where is my yes?” he murmured. Then, lowering his fair head again, he went back to her breasts.

  Strong arms held her close while his lips began a game, softly touching the muslin below, then the bare flesh a
bove, a kind of blind man’s bluff that unerringly discovered her nipples. He lingered, lips gently tracing, teasing the answering hardness.

  He was the one who ended it. Suddenly, he was gazing into her eyes, expelling a sigh whose playfulness imperfectly disguised a genuine frustration.

  “That, I think,” he said, “was a fine yes.”

  He placed one last worshipful kiss upon the bare flesh of her neck, while Angelica shifted and sighed.

  “And I also think it clear,” he continued, “that you and I run a terrible risk if we are not married as soon as possible.”

  The unearthly gray eyes lifted and met hers. Angelica had never experienced anything like the desire she saw there.

  “Yes,” she heard herself whisper. “Yes, Jack.” The sound of her heart knocking against her ribs had drummed out all will, all reason.

  “Mmm,” he murmured, pulling her against him to take another deep draught of her mouth.

  When the kiss came to a breathless end, Jack caressed her cheek and murmured close against her lips, “I am greatly, greatly honored, Miss Angel TenBroeck.”

  Joy illuminated his ghostly eyes. If he’d laid her down now, swept up her skirts and slipped one of his strong hands between her legs, she knew she would not have been able to muster the faintest protest.

  Instead, Jack set a chaste kiss upon her forehead. “There,” he murmured. “I shall braid your hair and we shall sleep together just as we did at Tarrytown, somewhere very close to bliss, but innocent all the same.”

  “I don’t think being close is a good idea.” Although weary almost to dumbness, Angelica heard herself rally, try to push away some of what he had made happen, try to regain her distance.

  The gray eyes flashed merriment. “I can control myself, miss,” he teased. “It is you, I think, who needs to cool.”

  With that, Jack took her shoulders in those strong hands and turned her around again. Although his breathing was quicker than usual, he seemed determined to go on with his braiding.

  “Jack, this is madness,” she said after a dizzy moment in which she felt his fingers deftly at work in her heavy hair. “You are crazy. And I am crazy for—for what I just said, what I just did. I cannot marry with a Tory.”