The Officer's Desire

by Colleen French

  Caroline swallowed the oath that rose in her throat. Wesley's death had come as a shock, but not so great a one that she couldn't manage her own affairs. Bruce had lied and bribed the authorities to get control of her money. "Fortune's Gift came from my mother's family, Bruce, as well you know," she said between clenched teeth. "Whatever my father added to my inheritance, he gained through his own wit and hard work. Fortune's Gift is mine. Even Wesley knew that."

  "Yours until you take a husband, cousin." His slack mouth turned up in a smile. "Until we are wed."

  She drew her silk wrapper more tightly around her and tried to reach the boy she had once played with as a child. "How could you expect me to come to your bed as a loving wife? Do you think I could ever forget that you raped my sister here in this very house?"

  "Amanda is a nigra," he said harshly. "None of your pretty words make her skin any whiter."

  "Born black, perhaps, but raised by my parents as a daughter in this house. As a sister to Reed and me. She's a free woman, Bruce, not a slave for you to use as your whore."

  "Hardly a little nun, your pet nigra. She didn't get that high-yellow pickaninny of hers in church, now, did she?"

  Caroline's hands curled into tight balls as she fought to keep her infamous Talbot temper under control. "She has a name, Bruce," she said quietly. "Her name is Amanda. And don't ever call baby Jeremy by that word again."

  "I've always wondered if she was Uncle John's by-blow, but she's dark-skinned to be half and half. Is she my cousin too, Caroline? Sometimes, they say, they turn out dark, if one parent is as black as coal."

  "You have a filthy mind. But then, you always did. No, she isn't Papa's natural daughter. He was in England that year; he didn't come home to Maryland until two months before Amanda was born. You know where Amanda came from as well as I do. We heard the story often enough when we were children. Papa picked her up out of a rowboat in the river. Just like baby Moses, he always said."

  Bruce scoffed. "Moses or not, she was a good lay."

  Caroline's fingers itched to slap his arrogant face. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Leave her alone, I warn you. You touch her again, and that British uniform won't save you. I'll shoot you myself, just as I shot that mad dog last summer."

  "Save your hysterics for someone who will listen," he said, reaching out and taking hold of a lock of her unbound hair. "Red as a fox," he murmured. "I've always fancied to wake up and find a fox-haired woman in my bed."

  She jerked free of his loathsome touch, and he laughed. "Bastard," she cried.

  "You will marry me, little cousin. One way or another. And you'll learn to curb that foul temper of yours. Once I'm master of Fortune's Gift, you'll—"

  The dull boom of an explosion shattered the night. Stunned, Bruce stared at Caroline. "It sounded as though it came from the river," she said, going to a window and peering out into the darkness. A red ball of light flared in the distance. "Is that your powder magazine?"

  For a few seconds, there was utter silence, then hounds began to bay furiously. Shouts rang out. A man's gruff voice barked an order. Suddenly, Caroline heard what could only be a musket shot, followed by the pounding of horse's hooves on the frozen lawn. Another Brown Bess roared, just outside the window.

  "Son of a bitch!" Bruce swore. He grabbed his coat and jammed an arm into the sleeve as he rushed out of the plantation office and collided with a young orderly.

  "Captain Talbot, sir!" the soldier cried. "Come quick! Someone's fired the powder store!"

  Bruce shouted back at Caroline, "Go to your room and stay there. I'll deal with you later."

  "We'll see who will deal with whom," she murmured after her cousin's retreating back. She grimaced and glanced around the disorderly room. Only the library wall lined with the precious volumes collected by her parents and grandparents seemed neat. The rest of the office was a shambles. Official dispatches were heaped on the desk and tables; maps of the Chesapeake and Philadelphia were tacked to the paneled walls. Pewter mugs and a dirty plate holding a half-eaten pork chop stood on a mahogany sideboard. The room smelled of rum, tobacco, and sweat.

  As she started for the doorway, she noticed a pair of Bruce's tall, black boots standing on the hearth waiting to be cleaned and polished. Expensive boots they were, too, of Spanish leather, she supposed. Or perhaps they were Hessian. Everything German was the fashion now. She glanced down the hall to make certain she was alone, and edged the boots closer to the fire. With any luck at all, they'd be scorched beyond repair before the orderly smelled the burning leather. "We'll see who gets the best of whom, cousin," she said with satisfaction. "I'd burn Fortune's Gift to the ground before I'd let you be master in this house."

  Feeling somewhat better, she left the room and walked quickly to the servants' staircase and up the stairs. Dressed as she was in her nightgown and robe she didn't want to meet any of the occupying English soldiers. She had been making ready for bed when Bruce had sent his orderly to summon her to Papa's office. Even though she'd answered his command without waiting to dress, she'd taken the trouble to strap a razor-sharp dagger to her waist. After what Bruce had done to Amanda, she would take no chances with him.

  Her Grandfather Kincaid had given her the knife and its accompanying leather sheath on her eighth birthday. A Scottish skean, he'd called it. "Even a great lady must be able to defend herself against enemies," he'd said with a wink. Her father had insisted she would cut off a finger with the antique weapon, but she never had. Grandfather had taught her the finer points of knife fighting and throwing a blade, and he'd made her practice in the hot Maryland sun for more hours than she wanted to remember—with not only a knife, but also a light rapier.

  "This is foolishness," her father had said. "Caroline is a Talbot. Talbot men take care of their women."

  "Aye," Grandfather had agreed. "That may be so, John, but ye ken the bairn comes from a long line of warrior lassies. And I'd nay wish to have her grandmother say I'd neglected her education."

  Dear Grandfather . . . How she missed his weatherworn face. If he were only here, she thought, he'd make short work of Bruce and his dragoons. But he and her beloved Grandmother Bess were lying side by side in the brick-walled family cemetery. They'd died within hours of each other when she was seventeen.

  Caroline sighed and entered Amanda's unoccupied room on the second floor and looked out a window. Mounted troops were searching the gardens with torches. She smiled. Evidently, whoever had blown up the powder magazine hadn't been caught yet. She hoped he had a fast horse. Fortune's Gift was crawling with British soldiers.

  Major Whitehead had made the plantation the headquarters for his detachment of Light Dragoons. He had been away for several weeks; she didn't know where. If he had been here, Bruce wouldn't have dared to behave so boorishly in her father's office. Major Whitehead might be an English officer and the enemy, but he, at least, was a gentleman.

  She had managed well enough with Major Whitehead until her cousin had been assigned to his staff. The major had treated her with the respect due her station, and since his sexual preferences were definitely male, he'd left her and the women of her household in peace. Now, Amanda and Jeremy were forced into hiding in servants' row. Even Caroline didn't know who had given them shelter this night. Since Amanda's rape, they had moved from cabin to cabin to keep Bruce from knowing where they were.

  She looked around Amanda's shadowy room and couldn't keep a lump from rising in her throat. Jeremy's rocking horse stood near a window; his toys were piled in his empty cradle. The house seemed empty without his cooing baby laughter and his sweet smell. "Because of you," she murmured, thinking of her foul cousin. "But it won't stay like this, I promise. I'll bring you home, Jeremy. I'll bring you both home."

  Patting the lump under her dressing gown to make certain her knife was still in place, she returned to the dark hallway and made her way to her own bedchamber. She turned the knob and pushed open the door, hesitating for a moment, certain she had left a candle burning on
the table beside her tall poster bed.

  Caroline froze, listening with her ears, but most of all, listening with her inner senses. Her instincts had never failed her yet, and she had come to depend on her own special gifts for knowing what would happen before it actually occurred. She waited, but no current of fear stirred within her breast. Reassured, she entered the room.

  And walked straight into something solid.

  A sob of fright burst from her lips. "Oh!" she cried. She stopped, momentarily lost in her own bedroom. Her heart raced, numbness spread through her body, and for an instant she wanted to turn and run. Then, when she realized that she'd heard nothing and that no one human or ghostly had grabbed her, she reached out hesitantly with a trembling hand and touched the back of a chair.

  She uttered a nervous giggle. "Damn me for a cowardly jade," she burst out.

  Her next thought was: What was the chair doing in front of the door? "If Toby's been rearranging my things again, I'll have his ears on a platter," she murmured, feeling the chair to be certain it was her own familiar cane-back seat.

  It was indeed, the very chair she'd toppled off when she was four and cut such a slice in her forehead that Grandmother had had to sew it up with silk thread. Caroline still had the tiny scar. "X marks the treasure," Grandmother had said. Caroline had taken pride in not crying when the wound was stitched up, and her grandfather had bought her a new hound puppy, the best one in Wesley's father's kennel.

  She began to take normal breaths again, feeling foolish. She took a step toward the bed table and trod upon a cat. The cat let out a yowl and fled toward the open door. Caroline gasped. I must still need a full-time nanny, she thought, shamed by her silly fears. Gathering her courage, she started across the room again.

  Without warning, someone clamped a gloved hand over her mouth. She screamed like an Iroquois captive at a torture stake, but only muffled sounds escaped her assailant's iron grip.

  Caroline exploded into a fury of flying fists, thrusting knees, and sharp teeth. She was not tall for a woman, but she had ridden every day since she was a babe, and her muscles were strong from swimming in the river and climbing trees. Terror and tenacity made her a formidable foe.

  The man in black was as unyielding as a wall of solid oak. Her furious blows wrung gasps of pain from the specter, but he never loosened his cruel embrace.

  Then she twisted and slammed her hipbone into his. He buckled and fell to the floor, carrying her down with him and knocking the breath out of her with his weight.

  "Caroline! Caroline!" he hissed into her ear. "I won't hurt you. It's Garrett." Cautiously, he removed his hand from her mouth. "For the love of God, Caroline, don't scream. You'll see us both dead."

  Stunned, she struggled to get air into her lungs. Garrett? Who the hell was Garrett? She sucked in a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream again.

  His hand hovered over her lips so close she could smell the glove leather, and his urgent words seeped into her brain. "Garrett Faulkner. You know me, girl. You've known me for years. I won't hurt you. Just don't yell."

  Caroline opened her eyes wide. There was just enough moonlight to make out his features. He did have the look of Garrett. She nodded. "All right," she whispered. "Get off me. I won't cry out."

  He sighed. "Jesus Christ, woman, you nearly killed me." She heard what could only be a groan of deep pain. "You're as game as a cornered badger."

  He rolled off her, and she scrambled to her knees. "What are you doing in my bedchamber?" she demanded. "Why—" She sucked in her breath sharply. "You're the one they're looking for—the man who blew up the powder magazine."

  "Is that what it was? I heard the explosion. No, it wasn't me. It's a total misunderstanding. I . . . I apologize for coming into your house and frightening you, but it was a matter of life and death. Your brother Reed and I were always friends, and . . ." He groaned. "Has the entire world gone mad, Caroline? This cursed rebellion seems to have addled men's minds."

  "You're lucky I didn't kill you." Her heart was still pounding. She wasn't sure her knees were strong enough to keep her standing.

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "How did you know this was my room?" she snapped. She didn't know whether to call for Bruce's soldiers or to slap Garrett's face. "How dare you come in here and grab me like that?"

  "I didn't realize it was your bedchamber. I climbed the poplar tree and came in the nearest window."

  "I can see I'll have to keep my windows bolted."

  "This isn't funny, I assure you. I was nearly killed."

  "I'm not laughing," she said angrily. Her mouth was dry from fear, and she was suddenly cold. "Do you realize what would come of my reputation if you'd been caught climbing in my window? I'm a respectable widow. I'd either be hanged along with you as a traitor or publicly branded a wanton."

  "I said I was sorry. I had little choice."

  As Caroline listened to Garrett's explanation, it seemed to her that his speech was oddly slurred, as if he were drunk. The whole of the Eastern Shore was aware of Garrett Faulkner's reputation for wine and women, but now that she knew who he was, she was no longer afraid of him. Garrett had given her rides on his horse when she was a child. She couldn't believe he would hurt her. "You've been drinking, haven't you?" she accused, getting to her feet.

  "No. I haven't had a drop. On my word as a gentleman! I was riding by on the road when a masked man burst from the hedgerow and galloped past me. Before I could collect my wits, an English dragoon appeared and shot my horse out from under me."

  "And you didn't explain the mistake?" It was plain to her that Garrett was lying. But it wasn't possible he was the rebel. Everyone knew the Faulkners were staunch loyalists. Hadn't Garrett served as an officer in the Royal Navy? She wondered if this could be some plot of Bruce's to trick her into an act of treason. Trembling, she walked to the bedside table and fumbled with flint and steel to strike a light.

  "No," he warned, "no light."

  She lit the thick beeswax candle and anchored it firmly in the silver holder. "This is my chamber. My cousin, Captain Bruce Talbot, is outside. If he doesn't see a light in my window, he'll suspect something is wrong." She fixed Garrett with a suspicious gaze. "Now, why exactly didn't you tell the soldiers about the man you saw riding away?"

  "Logic, woman. I'd just had a blooded mare worth ten guineas killed. A dragoon that stupid wouldn't listen to anything I had to say. If I hadn't leaped off my dying horse and run for the bushes, I'd be as dead as my poor Vixen."

  Caroline's eyes narrowed as she took in his black greatcoat, black vest, and black breeches. Even Garrett's stockings and boots were black. His fanned face was surprisingly pale in the candlelight. Garrett Faulkner was still boyishly handsome, almost roguish, despite his age and the thin scar down one cheek. He must be . . . She searched her memory. He must be a good ten years older than she was, and she had celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday. No, she mused, Garrett Faulkner had gone away to England the year she'd gotten her skean. He must be at least thirty-seven.

  Papa had never liked Reed to associate with him. The Faulkners were all scoundrels, he'd said. She tried to remember if Wesley had ever had anything bad to say about Garrett. The only bit of information that came into her head was that a branch of the family was related to one of the prominent English generals, and that connection had gotten Garrett his commission in the Royal Navy. Evidently, he wasn't suited for a career at sea, because he was back here working his late father's tobacco plantation. "And what business took you abroad on such a cold night?" she asked him.

  "I'd planned to see a neighbor of yours about breeding poor Vixen."

  "At this time of night?"

  "I'm a bachelor, madame. I keep my own hours."

  His breath was coming in short gasps. Despite his arrogant speech, and the danger he was in, she sensed something more was wrong. "I am loyal to the crown," she lied sweetly. "If you are a rebel, it's my duty to turn you in."

  "Please," he said. "For the
sake of our families' friendship. You must know where our allegiance lies. Mother England is—" He tried to rise, grimaced, and fell back to the floor.

  "You're hurt." Forgetting her anger, she ran to him and pulled back his coat. A dark stain covered one thigh. When she touched it, she snatched back a hand sticky with blood. "You've been shot," she said.

  He gritted his teeth. "Run through with a sword."

  "You forgot to mention that."

  "I did," he answered. Trusting gray eyes stared into hers. Garrett's classic features looked strained. A spattering of freckles stood out across his well-formed nose. He looked as though he was about to faint. One lock of light brown hair had come loose from his queue and fallen carelessly over his forehead. To her surprise, Caroline had to restrain the impulse to push it back in place.

  She tore her gaze from his and saw the red pool on the floor. Her mind raced. It was obvious he would bleed to death without help. If Garrett was working for the Americans against the British, she couldn't let him be captured. And if he wasn't, he was an innocent man. Could she save him without revealing her own loyalties?

  "Just help me stand up," he said. "I was wrong to endanger you. I'll leave at once."

  "No, no," she said glibly. "Of course I'll help you. Reed would never forgive me if I let you be arrested when you've done nothing wrong. Lie still. I'll find water and bandages for your leg."

  He didn't answer, but neither did he try to rise again. She went to the far corner of the room and returned with a pitcher of water, a bowl, and a clean towel. "I'll have to cut your breeches away," she murmured. There was no time for false modesty. If she waited, there might be no one for the dragoons to arrest.

  "This is no job for a lady," he said.

  "Nonsense. I've tended injuries before. You forget, I grew up here on Fortune's Gift. I'm no dainty town lass."

  "One would think otherwise to look at you, Mistress Steele."

  "Save your compliments for those who have need of them," she said, helping him to remove his greatcoat and waistcoat. Secretly, she was glad of his talking. It took her mind off the seeping tide of crimson that slipped through her fingers as she used scissors to cut a section out of the good black wool.