"Where did you get them?" Charity asked. "Is there an inn nearby? Or a village?"
"Not likely. There's no settlement of size until you come to Duck Creek and then Dover. But I knew of a yeoman's claim west of here. I've shared a meal with them once before."
Charity spread a clean cloth on the wagon bed for the food, then waited while he washed his hands and face and combed his hair. He prepared for a meal in a barn like it was a king's hall, she thought. Jamie was forever washing! It was a rarity in a man. Not that she didn't like to be clean herself—she did. But never had she known a man to bathe daily!
The food was as good as Jamie had assured her it would be, but Charity found she had no appetite. Her throat felt scratchy, and she was more irritable than normal.
"You're quiet tonight," Jamie remarked when they had settled into the hayloft to sleep. It was raining again, and the steady beat of rain against the cedar shingles was a comforting sound. The straw made a softer bed than they had shared for most of the journey.
"Just tired," she had murmured, wondering if she were coming early with her women's courses. She was still thirsty but didn't want to climb back down the ladder to get another drink of water.
She awoke in the night shivering. Jamie sat up sleepily beside her. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing... just cold."
"Cold?" He laid a hand on her forehead. "You're burning up!"
"No," she protested. "I'm all right, just cold." Her throat ached, and she had a throbbing in her head.
"I'll bring you some of the ale." Jamie's voice was concerned.
"No. Water, please. I'm thirsty."
"The well may be tainted. There's a bottle of wine in the wagon. I'll get that."
By morning light Charity could read the worry on his face. "You were to meet your contacts today."
"To hell with them." He pushed her back into the soft straw. The blanket was damp with her sweat. "You need a doctor. I'll ride to Dover for one."
Charity laid a restraining hand on his forearm. He'd rolled the white shirt to his elbows; his arms were bronzed and covered with soft russet hair. His eyes were dark with compassion.
"Let me go with you. It's not even raining now." She tightened her grip. "You said this was a dangerous business."
"You're sick, damn it!" He took her in his arms and cradled her like a child. "You don't listen. It's all a game... games are won and lost every day! I'm no physician... I don't know what to do for you, Charity."
"I'm not likely to die from a sore throat, Jamie." All she wanted to do was sleep. She had been ill only once before in her life, in Newgate Prison. Then she had believed she would die. There had been no clean blankets or straw, no tender hands to offer wine or to cover her shivering body.
For two weeks she had lain near death, with no priest to offer her last rites of the church. She had been unable to swallow the coarse prison food; her bowels had turned to water. She had looked death in the face in Newgate Prison, and she knew his features well. He was not here in this snug barn with Jamie Drummond close beside her. The time and place of her death she did not know, but it was far distant, of that she was certain.
"Do not treat me like an enfeebled child," she said firmly. "You called me your partner. Am I not permitted to have an equal say in our actions?" She pushed him aside and stood shakily. "If there is a physician in Dover and you have business in the same town, it is only common sense that we are wasting time here. We should be on the road to Dover!" She put a hand on the top of the ladder. "You go first. My head is spinning, and I don't want to break a leg climbing out of bed this morning."
Protesting, Jamie hitched the horses. Nothing would do but that she lie on the wagon bed, cushioned by a pallet of straw and wrapped in a blanket. "Dover lies several hours to the south," he informed her. "It may be nightfall before we find a physician."
"Then stop talking and drive," she grumbled. Her head felt as though someone were striking it over and over with a large stone. She had begun to cough, deep wracking coughs that shook her body. Every muscle ached, and she felt as though she had finished off two jugs of cheap wine all alone.
The meeting place was a lonely road beside a lightning-shattered oak tree. Charity watched from the bushes as Jamie tied the horses to a tree and waited. He had given her a pistol for protection and a small heavy bag of coins.
"If anything goes wrong you are to take this money and go to the King George Tavern on the Green at Dover Town. Ask for the girl Betts who works there. Ask her if the honey was sweet this year on the Delaware. You must use those exact words. She'll see you to friends in Lewes. From there someone will find you a ship back to the Tidewater and Elizabeth." He put a protecting arm about her shoulder. "If there is shooting, drop like I told you and make no sound. Don't move until dark. This road is little used, but it will lead you to Dover by a roundabout way." He felt her head again. "You seem to be no worse. Do you understand?"
She nodded. It was useless to tell him that if there were trouble she would come to his aid in any way she could. Useless to say that if he were taken she would have no wish to remain free. "I am to ask Betts at the King George Tavern if the honey was sweet this year on the Delaware," she repeated dutifully. Trembling, she crouched behind a tree as he had instructed. What if she coughed? No amount of money was worth going through this! Even the palms of her hands were sweating.
They had not long to wait. A farm wagon pulled by a team of oxen and driven by a black man came down the narrow road. "Afternoon," he called to the team and the woods in general. "Master Ethan will be by soon. Are you about, Master Quaker?"
Jamie stepped from behind a tree. "Afternoon, Josiah."
Charity's heart was pounding. Jamie seemed to know the man, but who could tell. She leaned against a tree, pressing her cheek against the rough bark. The pistol felt warm against her middle. Jamie had promised to give her lessons. What good would it do her if she could hit nothing she aimed at?
Jamie and the black man exchanged a few words too low for Charity to hear, and then the man put his fingers to his mouth and gave a shrill, ear-piercing whistle. Seconds later, she could make out the sound of hoofbeats on the road.
Three men came around the bend. One was well-dressed, the other two in common clothing. One of the men was leading two saddled riding horses.
Charity watched as this new group dismounted and the well-dressed man shook hands with Jamie. Then the others began to unload the wagon and put the goods into the one pulled by the oxen. Jamie examined the saddlebags on one of the riderless horses, nodded agreement, and took the; bundles with their personal belongings and blankets and fastened them on the two animals.
The black man touched the near ox with a long-handled whip, and the massive animals moved off down the road. Another of the men got into Jamie's wagon and drove it off in the opposite direction. A few more words were spoken and the well-dressed gentleman mounted and rode off after the oxen along with his companion. Jamie waited until the road was silent and then called out to her.
"It's safe now. Come out, little quail. All over."
Her heart began to beat normally again. "Who were they?" she asked as he helped her to mount.
"No names, remember? Now we'll get you to Dover and a physician. I was told there's a good one on the Green. I've the use of..." He grinned. "I've the use of a friend's house in Dover. He's off to Philadelphia for the season. There's only a housekeeper and she's loyal. We'll trade your Quaker feathers for something brighter and have you right as rain in no time." He brought her fingers to his lips and brushed them with a light kiss. "You're tough, Charity, and as brave as any man."
And after such glowing words of tribute, what woman could admit she needed to visit the bushes? It was far easier to ride in discomfort to Dover on yet another unpleasant horse.
The small brick house east of town was more than adequate for their needs. Charity was tucked into bed by the plump motherly housekeeper, and a boy was sent for the physician.
Jamie had let slip that they were newlyweds in hiding from his wife's Quaker family in Philadelphia. It was enough to keep the neighbors from prying and assure their privacy. And, for a little, Charity could pretend that it was true... that she was Mistress Abigail Williams, bride to Josiah Williams... and the neat walled garden and brick house were theirs.
With the passing of her sickness, the welcome proof came that she was not pregnant. She told Jamie of her relief. "And what I would do if it were so, I don't know," she said honestly. "I never wanted to bring another bastard into this world."
"Nor I, but I think it's something you need have no fear of," he answered smoothly. "My last..." Reddening, he broke off. "A girl that... that I was close to... had two children by another man. She never quickened by me. Nor has any other woman cast blame in my direction, and I must say they had every opportunity." He flushed deeper. "I took a fall once. My hunter broke his leg and lay atop me for hours. It may well be that I will sire no children, bastard or otherwise." Another reason we should not wed. If any woman was meant to be a mother it's you. "I should have told you sooner and saved you the worry." His brown eyes glittered with cold fire.
Charity looked puzzled. Where was the man who'd bathed her when she was ill? Who'd declared his love for her? The demons crowded in. He has not mentioned marriage. Not even now, she thought, not with talk of a child between them. "Jamie? What's wrong? I—"
"Damn it, woman! Do you think it's easy for a man to admit he's a gelding!"
"A gelding? You?" Her distress turned to anger. "More bull than gelding, I'd say!" Her hand ached to smack his face. "It must be quite convenient," she taunted. "You can take your pleasure without fear of any responsibility."
"Take my pleasure? You don't seem to have suffered any." Jamie left the bed and began to yank on his clothes. "Don't play the wounded innocent, Charity. Save your trickery for someone else!"
"My trickery!" Trembling with fury, she seized a candlestick and heaved it at his back. "You bastard!" Tears blinded her eyes and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. "You whorin' bastard!"
The pewter candlestick bounced off his shoulder and he winced, cursing under his breath. "Keep your voice down!" he hissed. "Would you bring the whole town about our ears? This is no tavern, used to drunken brawls!"
Charity flew across the room, oblivious of her nakedness, and began to pound him with her fists. "Don't you dare call me a tavern slut!" she panted. Her bare feet lashed out against his ankles. "I'm not! I'm—"
Jamie seized her wrists and pinned them to her sides. "Stop it!" He shook her roughly. "Stop it, I say!" He lifted her, still kicking, and dropped her onto the bed.
Tears overcame her, and she began to weep. It was so unfair! Two glasses of wine and he accused her of being drunk! As much as called her a whore! Her whole body shook with sobs, and she buried her head in the pillow.
Jamie sank down beside her. "Don't do that. Charity..." He touched a bare shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."
"You did," she sobbed. "You did mean it." She turned and looked up at him with accusing eyes. "I'm well to bed with, but not the heiress you would marry." Her voice cracked. "You warned me long ago. I should have listened."
He tried to gather her in his arms, but she pushed him away. "The fault's mine, Charity, not yours." He clenched his hands into tight fists. "You're a loving, giving woman... and I'd not trade you for any heiress, highborn or not." His voice grew thick. "Forgive me?"
"No! I've had enough. I want to go home. If you want to do something for me, take me back to Widow's Endeavor. I've had enough of you and your games!"
"As you wish." Jamie got to his feet and finished dressing. "Maybe it's best for both of us. You should have no trouble landing another rich gentleman."
She turned her back to him and drew the sheet up around her. "No more words, Jamie. We've said enough to last a lifetime." She crammed a knuckle in her mouth and bit down; the pain helped to dull the pain in her heart.
The door closed behind him and she lay back, staring at the bed hangings. Her memories of this room, this house, had been so sweet. Night after night, she and Jamie had made love here, lying awake for hours whispering endearments. Hers had been true. The tears she had thought all shed returned to roll down her cheeks, one by one.
That afternoon Jamie returned from Dover and told her to pack her belongings. "A ship leaves on the morning tide for St. Mary's on the Chesapeake. We'll be on it."
She obeyed without question. As she had told him, there were no more words between them. The sooner it was over, the better. At home, on the Chesapeake, perhaps she could pick up the pieces of her shattered life.
A fair wind filled the sails, pushing the sloop down the wide Delaware Bay toward the Atlantic Ocean. Charity leaned against the gunnel watching two dolphins leap and dive beside the boat. The water was clear and blue-green, the air as pure as any she had ever smelled. She pushed back her hat to feel the warm autumn sun on her hair and face. The dolphins' huge eyes seemed to stare directly at her as they plunged out of the waves.
Jamie came to stand beside her, ignoring her stiffening. "Some people say the tales of mermaids grew from such beasts, although I don't know how. It would take a lot of grog to picture one as a beautiful woman—half fish or not."
"You should know. You're the authority on women," she snapped.
"Not as much of an authority as I supposed, apparently," he replied mildly. "But then I'm young yet."
She turned her back on him and walked toward the bow of the sloop. She was in no mood to trade sarcasms with him. To her dismay, he followed.
"Stop sulking, Charity. I'm taking you back. The least you can do is act civil."
His eyes locked with hers, and she felt herself flush. "I'm not sulking," she protested. "I just don't feel like talking."
"I was wrong. I acted like a pompous ass. But I said I was sorry." He grinned boyishly. "All I'm asking for is a truce."
Damn that smile of his! Even now, after all that had happened, it tugged at her heart. "All right," she agreed. "Truce."
"No firing on the enemy without fair warning?"
"No." Some of the pain softened. At least they could part as friends... for the sake of what had been. Or what she thought they had been to each other. She forced a smile. "I'll try."
"Good." He leaned against the rail. "We'll both try."
They passed other ships both large and small, and once a crude dugout more than twenty feet long. A huge British man-of-war sailed by, her colors bravely blowing in the wind. Charity stared at the cannons and shivered. How dare they challenge the might of the Crown? King George's ships ruled the bays and oceans. How could men like her Jamie dare to oppose British law with their illegal smuggling?
A uniformed officer aboard the man-of-war scrutinized the sloop as they passed. Charity could understand why. The men who manned the smaller boat looked hardly less than pirates themselves. She wondered on just what kind of vessel Jamie had taken passage for them.
The sloop was old and dingy; the cabin Jamie had shown her was barely more than a cubbyhole. The air was foul below deck, and it was dark. She much preferred to stay on deck and watch the seabirds and passing Ships.
A horse whinnied and Charity threw him a sympathetic look. The animal's owner, a planter from Virginia, was the only other paying passenger. The man had staggered aboard in Dover drunk, had been carried below, and had not been seen since. The fine gray thoroughbred had been tied near the cabin; no one had even bothered to remove his saddle and bridle. He was roped and cross-tied with a line running completely around his body lashing him tightly against the cabin wall. A piece of cloth had been wound about the gray's head to blindfold him. P
oor thing, she thought. She wondered if it would be wrong to ask one of the crew to unsaddle the horse and give him some water.
Near the bow, a sailor sat on a coil of rope idly tossing dice. He was a big man, unshaven, with a wide face and bulging eyes beneath the thatch of sun-bleached hair. Cutoff pants barely reached his knees and his dirty feet were bare. Charity had noticed him staring at her earlier but had tried to ignore him, not wanting to bring on the same reaction she had gotten in Chestertown from the stable owner.
Two more men were at the stern lashing down a loose piece of cargo. They looked as disreputable as the sailor at the bow. The captain lounged by the starboard gunnel. He at least seemed responsible. He was well-dressed with a spotless wig and an honest face. Charity looked toward the gray horse again. Should she say something to Jamie, or just go and ask the captain himself? The animal was obviously uncomfortable. Even though she didn't like horses, she couldn't bear to see any animal suffering.
She moved down the rail to say something to Jamie. The ship rolled and she fell against him. Her hand struck something solid. He motioned her to silence and moved the edge of his coat, revealing the pistol tucked into his waist.
Charity's throat tightened; she forced herself to pretend nonchalance as she pointed out a sea gull and asked what kind of bird it was. Jamie had kept close beside her since they had passed the cape; his saddlebags lay at his feet, not below with their other belongings. Her eyes scanned the heavily loaded deck innocently.
"Jamie," she whispered. "Why do I have the feeling we're in trouble again?"
The wind had picked up, and the; ocean was a mass of whitecaps. No other sail was in sight; the sandy beach lay to the west, a thin line of brown against the blue.
His voice was low, so low she could barely make out the words, his face smooth. "We're safe enough now."
"Now?"
Smiling falsely he shrugged, leaving her unspoken question unanswered. If the captain and crew of the Kathleen planned foul play, it would not happen until nightfall. He cursed himself for six kinds of a fool. He'd been too anxious to leave Dover. He should have waited for a safe ship. Now he'd placed Charity and himself in danger, not to mention the gold he carried in his saddlebags.
Tender Fortune Page 17
