by Barbara Dan
In God's name! Where was Bruce? Surely he must have heard her screams. The whole town could hear Adam Fenton, spewing out his hatred at the top of his lungs! He was coming, still coming—ever nearer! His threats bounced off closed shutters and brick facades like a hundred casing shells rattling around in a steel drum.
Lydia marked his progress by his shouts, carried on the chill night air. He must be four, perhaps five doors up from where she crouched. He was still yelling, "Where are you, you blond whore?" and "Fuckin' bitch," as he came.
Closer and closer he came.
Lydia knew she had to move. She mustn't be trapped a second time! Where was everybody? Were they all deaf? she despaired. Wasn't anyone brave enough to come downstairs from above his shop and save her?
She pressed back in the shadows, making herself small. What she wouldn't give to be invisible. She listened to Adam rattle doorknobs as he came. He was growing frustrated and impatient. More provoked and violent.
She heard him smash his fist against something and curse. Blood pounded in her brain; she could barely think. She gathered her skirts, poised to leap from the doorway. Her hands clutched her woolen skirts, and she felt a hard object.
The gun! She still had the pistol. She drew it from her pocket, cocked the hammer— ready!—and raised it. She prayed it would only take one shot to stop him. One bullet—all that stood between her and certain death.
Adam Fenton bounded around the corner, confronting her so abruptly that she startled. She saw the flash, as the gun went off in her hands. She saw Adam's look of utter incredulity as he recoiled from the impact.
"You shot me! You bitch, you . . . shot me!"
He staggered, grabbing his left arm. Lydia lowered the gun, realizing her shot wasn't fatal. She hadn't killed in cold blood. Momentary relief gave way to a starker reality: A wounded animal was often the most dangerous. His bulk held her in the recessed entryway. As his bloody hand reached for her, Lydia dodged. She hurled the useless pistol in his face and shoved him, intent upon escaping into the open street.
"Get away from me, Adam Fenton," she cried, tugging free from his grasp.
"Here now! What's going on down there?" called an elderly female voice across the alley.
"Help me—please! The man's trying to kill me," Lydia screamed, fighting Adam in the street.
With a cleverness born of desperation and long years of living by his wits, Fenton assumed a jocular voice. "Hell, ma'am," he called into the night, "this whore stole my money. I'm only claimin' what's mine."
"Mercy!" came the shocked response. "Where's the constable when a body needs him? Harvey? . . . Go downstairs and do something, for pity sake!"
"Go back to bed, Mabel," a sleepy male voice replied. "The man's only lookin' for a little fun."
Hearing the couple's window close, Lydia's heart sank. Wounded, Adam Fenton was like an enraged, harpooned whale, capable of inflicting great harm. He knocked her to the cobblestones and leered down at her.
"You won't get away with this," she wept furiously, and kicked at him in a flurry of petticoats.
Adam grabbed her leg. "Who's going to leave a warm bed to rescue a whore?" His voice full of mocking triumph, he began to drag her by the ankle over the uneven cobblestones.
Lydia set up a yowling, caterwauling, screeching racket. She would not submit quietly—No! She would wake all of New London and the entire fort, if necessary.
"Damn you, Adam Fenton! You're a traitor, and I'll see you hang!" The bruising pain of being jounced and bumped every inch of the way only made her more vocal. "Help, somebody! End this miserable maniac's existence!"
Lydia saw the murderous intent in Adam's glittering gaze, as he came for her. He snatched her up and carried her, screaming and thrashing, toward the wharf, intent upon revenge. By the time he slung her on top of the overturned hull of a longboat, her body felt as if she'd been trampled by a team of oxen.
Dazed, Lydia propped herself on her elbows and looked about.
Every residence within blocks had a light in the window.
A dozen heavily armed men marched down the road toward the dock, coats slung in haste over nightshirts. Law-abiding citizens, ready to do whatever it took to restore peace and order and guarantee a good night's sleep. Her only hope now.
She twisted around, reaching out toward them, but Fenton slammed her back down against the boat bottom. His left arm seeped blood but, amazingly, he seemed impervious to pain. He no longer cared how he was remembered by the townspeople, just as long as he humiliated the classmate who had become the focal point for his anger.
He faced the crowd with a snarl. "See this pretty little blond?" He pointed, holding onto Lydia's leg. "It's Bruce MacGregor's wife." He lurched unsteadily and threw his head back in a maniacal laugh. "She thinks she's too good for me. Me, Adam Fenton! Remember the name, you bastards!"
"Take your hands off my wife!" came a ringing baritone that was known to carry above the din of battle.
A tall dark figure separated from a mound of lobster traps and bait boxes on the wharf. "Talk's cheap, Fenton. Let's see what you've learned since I used to whip you on the school playground."
Lydia sat up, her appearance a shambles, her face radiant. Pulling what remained of her dress together, she stood up on the boat's hull, ready to spur on her champion from the best vantage point around.
"Bruce!" she shouted, "I love you, sweetheart!"
Fenton swung around to confront the brawny giant pushing his way through the crowd. His advantage gone, he latched onto the first thing that came readily to his hands—an oar. He circled, threats and oaths rolling off his tongue like sludge from the bottom of a filthy river.
"It appears my wife has flushed out the blue light traitor," Bruce told the crowd, never taking his eye off his adversary. "Sorry it turned out to be you, Adam."
"Save your breath," Fenton sneered, taking a vicious swing that barely missed taking off Bruce's head.
Having laid aside his musket, Bruce lacked the means to reach Fenton beyond the long oar. He circled, studying his opponent's reflexes and footwork, but most of all his eyes.
The night watchman, newly arrived on the scene, lit the lantern on the dock and stood back to watch, along with everyone else. The lamplight cast long shadows, as the two men danced around each other. Fenton was a strong man and well muscled; he wielded the oar with ease.
An old hand at unorthodox fighting, Bruce watched for an opening. His sinewy body flexed and rippled with pantherine grace. He moved in and out, testing Fenton's agility and basic moves.
Adam was wary, defensive. He'd been on the winning side of a good many fights over the years. As a carpenter, he knew the heft and feel of a solid cudgel; he trusted the strength of the oak timber in his hands. But he also knew Bruce's reputation with his fists. He had to stay clear. If Bruce landed even one lucky punch— Before Bruce got anywhere close, he had to deal a solid, crippling blow.
Lydia saw the unevenness of the contest. Bruce was larger, taller, but unarmed. Fighting with bare fists. She looked around desperately for another oar, an axe, anything that might serve as a weapon. There was none.
The circle of men tightened around the pair, willing the fight to its logical conclusion. Someone in the crowd threw Lydia a cloak, and she gratefully covered herself. She watched Adam swing the oar, whirling and dodging, laughing wildly, trying to provoke Bruce into taking just one fatal step.
He's over-confident, Lydia suddenly realized. The second Adam drops his guard, it will be over.
But Adam, even half-tanked on cheap grog, kept his head. He kept a safe distance from Bruce's long reach, circling, slashing, jabbing with the pole.
Dancing on his toes, Bruce stayed just out of range. Several times the crowd drew back with an excited gasp. Time after time, the flat oak blade barely missed striking the tall Scot.
"Seein' double, are ye?" jeered Bruce, bouncing side to side.
"Your wife offered herself to me," Adam gloated, trying to destroy
Bruce's concentration. His wound was proving bothersome, and the oar grew heavier with each successive swipe.
"I doubt that! Why, even me pet sow couldn't stand the smell of ye," Bruce quipped, his grin mocking. "Not even if you got down and wallowed in the mud with her."
Suddenly Bruce charged.
Intercepting a wild swing, he grasped the oar in both hands, flipped it—and the man on the other end—through the air. One powerful jerk landed Fenton on the hard ground, while the timber sailed like a javelin over the crowd's head.
Bruce turned to his stunned opponent. "Get up, you rotten traitor," he growled, hauling Fenton to his feet. Before the burly carpenter could shake the cobwebs from his brain, Bruce delivered a series of hammering blows to Adam's midsection, each hard enough to dent a blacksmith's anvil. Adam folded up, his face a sickly green. Disgusted, Bruce polished him off with a left uppercut to the jaw.
"Too bad about that glass jaw, Adam," he said matter-of-factly. He wasn't even breathing hard. Reaching down a long arm, he retrieved the limp object of his contempt from the ground.
Nonchalantly he pitched Adam over the boat hull at Lydia's feet. "Here, Lydia. I believe the credit goes to you for discovering who's been working with the British all these months."
He turned to the astonished onlookers. "Gentlemen, I present my wife!" he said with an eloquent bow.
Lydia looked down from her precarious perch. Everybody stared up at her as if they expected her to deliver a political speech. Properly chagrined, she hugged the borrowed cloak around her. "Oh, Bruce, I—"
"Don't be modest, my dear," Bruce grinned sardonically, watching his wife squirm. "In one night you accomplished what neither I nor Colonel Rathbun's special task force managed in four months."
Lydia pressed her lips together in disapproval. The situation had gotten out of hand. She was glad Bruce had come along and rescued her, but for him to twist things around in front of all these people—! Well, it was simply too outrageous!
Spotting Andrew Graham and Colonel Rathbun in the crowd, Bruce hailed them, "Right this way, gentlemen. On behalf of my wife, I'd like to turn this prisoner over to the United States Army."
The colonel came forward, beaming. "Well done, well done, Captain and Mrs. MacGregor!" The crowd applauded, thankfully drowning out more accolades. Several men stepped forward to shake Bruce's hand. Aghast, Lydia listened to them praise her as a "beacon of liberty." Finally, to her immense relief, their well-wishers said goodnight and began to disperse to their homes.
Arms akimbo, Bruce cocked an eyebrow at her, and Lydia knew with a shiver of excitement that she was soon to walk a handsome pirate's plank!
Bruce might joke about tonight's adventure with his friends, but he was sore displeased. "Come here, wife." Bruce held out his arms, and timidly Lydia, her teeth worrying her lower lip, came to him with tiny mincing steps. "Now why the devil weren't you home tonight?" he demanded, his voice a deceptively silky growl.
Sighing, Lydia slipped her arms around his powerful shoulders and let him cradle her against his broad chest. Waxing bold, she whispered in his ear, then drew back.
"Does that answer your question?" she asked in sweetly seductive tones.
His black eyebrows shot up in a look of surprise. Deep velvet brown and violet-blue semaphores flashed and decoded an exchange of messages. Then a set of small, beautifully even white teeth nibbled on Bruce's ear lobe. He grinned, his voice booming with sudden urgency. "Andrew, I leave you and your men to deal with Isaac York and what's left of Adam Fenton. My wife and I have private business that's long overdue."
With that, Bruce swept her up and strode toward his waiting horse, turning the darkest night of her life into a moonlight rhapsody.
Chapter Thirty
Sending Lydia on ahead to turn down the bed, Bruce unsaddled, watered and fed the horses. Returning to the house, he paused to remove his boots inside the back door, then scrubbed the grime of fighting from his face and hands. And since his shirt was badly torn and in need of repair, he dropped that and his coat in a pile in the mud room. Living with Lydia, he had fallen in with her step-saving ways. Stripped down to his trousers, he made his way up the back stairs, rehearsing in his mind how best to lay down the law to his wife.
By the time he got upstairs, he was tingling with anticipation. He knew it was a husband's duty to deal severely with a wayward wife, especially after the danger his vixen wife had gotten herself into, but he simply couldn't muster up an ounce of anger. He was just so relieved that no real harm had come to her.
One way or another, he had to curb her adventurous nature.
He paused to listen intently at the bedroom door and smiled. All quiet on the domestic front. Opening the door, he raised the lamp high and scanned the room. Neat as a pin. But where was Lydia? He had expected to find her lurking behind the door, ready to pounce or try her seductive wiles on him.
Puzzled, he glanced at the massive fourposter, where his robe and slippers were laid out. Wondering what further mystery awaited him, Bruce set down the lamp on the mantel and peeked through the connecting door to the nursery beyond.
Lydia was leaning over their firstborn's crib, adjusting the blanket over the baby. The front of her canary yellow robe was still open. Clearly she had been seeing to Isobella's needs.
"Ah, my little sea nymph!" Bruce said, advancing with a gleam in his eye. Together, their arms around each other, they fondly regarded the product of their passion.
"Isn't she precious?" Lydia whispered.
"An angel like her mother," Bruce agreed, nuzzling Lydia's silky hair. Even if firmness was called for, he meant to be loving in his discipline.
"She should sleep through till morning," she said with evident pride in her mothering skills. "The rest of the night is ours." She took Bruce's hand and began to tiptoe out of the room.
Distracted by the mischievous gleam in her eye, Bruce tripped over a small table in his haste to follow. 'Oops!" He righted the rickety table before it toppled.
"My hero." She smiled, enjoying the way she managed always to keep him slightly off balance. Her eyes shone like starfire in the moonlight. "I don't know what I would do without you around to rescue me."
"Lydia, you've got to accept the fact that we can't always be together. I can't have you taking unnecessary risks."
"I totally agree. End of lecture?" she hinted, ready to pursue other interests. "You know I would never intentionally do anything to cause you worry."
He lifted one eyebrow, showing skepticism, and she sought to mollify him by running her fingers through his hair. "From now on, I shall be a model of propriety, Bruce. Now, let's get more comfortable, shall we?" She came at him with clear purpose in her eyes and began to undo his trousers.
Bruce caught her busy little hands, which were already attempting to distract him from exerting his husbandly authority. "Lydia, I am quite capable of taking off my own clothes, thank you."
"Fine. I'll just get your robe, while you undress." She bustled over to the bed, the very picture of submissiveness. As she returned to where he was hopping around on one leg, getting out of his trousers, she casually shrugged out of her own robe, draping it over a straight-backed chair, then held out his robe so he could slip into it.
"Thank you, wife." He was already onto her game, having spotted the bucket of ice from the springhouse cooling a bottle of canary wine. On the night table stood a tray of fruit and cheese and her special creation, a small, multi-layered cake with thickly swirled chocolate icing.
The flash of cleavage, as she came near, and her hands caressing the front lapels of his robe, quickened his pulse, and he knew he had his work cut out for him to remain in control. He cinched the sash on his robe, frowning down at her.
Completely unphased, she spun away, trailing her fingertips along his jaw in a careless caress, and leaving behind a waft of gardenia perfume.
"You've changed your scent," he accused her, turning suspicious.
"Seasons change, why no
t perfumes?" she said airily. Taking a long taper from the mantel, she went around the room lighting fragrant candles until the room was brightly aglow.
Watching her, Bruce was soon half out of his mind with desire. He was past pretending that being around her didn't have a powerful effect upon him. Her long hair swirled around her hips like a mane, promising an even wilder ride than their ride home.
"Mrs. MacGregor, you are seducing me out of my mind, and well you know it," Bruce said, with a touch of his Scottish burr. He gathered her soft womanly curves in his arms, savoring the way her freshly scrubbed skin glowed, rosy and smooth. He buried his nose in her lightly perfumed hair, breathing in the essence of her. Just holding her against his heart gave him joy. He couldn't always figure her out, but he knew her heart was true. With her he could relax, be himself, act like an idiot, make a mess, behave badly, whatever. She only seemed to love him more for his imperfections. He could not have chosen a better wife and lover.
Having given Bruce time to stew in his own juices, Lydia disengaged and resumed tidying up the room. The fourposter bed, turned down earlier, was soft and inviting, and piled high with fluffed up pillows and freshly scented sheets.
Finally he couldn't stand her delaying tactics a second longer. As she sashayed around the room, just out of reach, he placed himself in her path and snapped his fingers imperiously.
"Hand over the nightgown, vixen," he growled lightly.
Her eyes lit up, instantly knowing what was afoot. "Aye, aye, Captain." Slowly she raised the hem, a few tantalizing inches at a time, until he cleared his throat impatiently.
Meekly she placed the warm woolen gown in his outstretched hand.
Bruce strode to the window, threw open the sash, and tossed her bed clothes over the side. Dusting his hands, he closed the window against drafts and turned to her with a pirate's grin.
Lydia's eyes widened with surprise.
"Just makin' sure you can't escape, proud beauty," he said, advancing.
