An hour later, Caroline left the cabin. She hadn’t been able to convince Amanda that they were doing the right thing, but Amanda would come with her and she would bring Jeremy. Her sister had no other choice. If they remained on Fortune’s Gift, they knew that somehow Bruce would find a way to get to her again. And if she left the plantation, she’d be in the same kind of danger that all dark-skinned women knew.
It was all so unfair, Caroline thought. Amanda had listened to bedtime stories on their father’s knee, been hugged and spanked by their mother. Amanda was only two years younger than she was, the same age as Reed. There never was a time Caroline could remember that her sister wasn’t part of the family.
People might stare on the streets of Annapolis when Caroline and Amanda rode by in a carriage wearing the latest gowns from London. Neighbors might gossip about the Talbots of Fortune’s Gift who’d taken a black child to raise as one of their own. But it had never really mattered what other people thought or said. Her parents’ wealth and position had always protected them from social ostracism. At Caroline’s eighteenth birthday party, even the royal governor had danced with Amanda. And after that, who could pretend that she didn’t exist?
In many ways, Amanda had always been the daughter her father wanted. Amanda was kind and gentle, a natural peacemaker. When Caroline and Reed were blackening each other’s eyes and pushing each other out the barn loft window, Amanda was learning French, embroidery, and painting. Caroline preferred to spend her days on horseback following Father over the plantation; Amanda wrote poetry and read Latin histories. It was Amanda, not Caroline, who could whip up a heavenly light almond pastry or plan a cold supper for forty guests. If their father had said it once, he had said it a hundred times. “Caroline, you are such a wild Indian. Why can’t you be more like your sister?”
In those golden times, it seemed that they all forgot the hue of Amanda’s skin, forgot that she was a daughter of Africa, not England. And no one had posed the question, “What will become of Amanda?” until both girls were almost grown.
“Who will I marry?” Amanda had asked that night of Caroline’s wonderful birthday celebration. “No white man will ask for my hand, and I’ll not go down to live on Laborers’ row to get a husband.”
Caroline had laughed at the picture that would make—Amanda with her silks and brocades, her dainty slippers and flowered hats, tripping among the log cabins on stylish pattens. “A Moorish prince will come,” Caroline had teased. “He’ll hear of your exotic beauty—of your hair like black silk and—”
“More like black wool,” Amanda had protested between giggles. Her hair was a thick riot of curls that no amount of pins would hold in place. Her nose was wide, her lips full, her eyes as large and shining brown as the new-plowed earth. And her skin . . . her skin was the color of dark, sweet chocolate.
“Anyway,” Caroline had continued, “this Moorish prince—”
“I don’t care for any Moorish husband,” her sister had replied haughtily. “They have their own heathen religion. I could never marry anyone but a good Christian.”
Caroline had sighed. Amanda had always been religious-minded as well. “Mama says that no religion is heathen,” she’d reminded Amanda. “There is only one God over us all.”
“No Moors. If you want to be locked in some sultan’s harem, you marry a Moor.”
“Well then,” she had said, “an Indian chief—a handsome Christian warrior with millions of acres of land and hair as black as yours. You can insist that he build you a wonderful brick house and a rose garden before the wedding. I’ll come and visit you in the wilderness.”
“Why don’t you marry the Indian?” Amanda had suggested wryly. “You’d have so much more in common. Then you can live in the woods and I’ll come and visit you.”
“If I marry an Indian, he’ll have to live on Fortune’s Gift. After all . . .” Caroline had raised both hands and tilted her head in what she hoped was a regal manner. “I am,” she said solemnly, “the heiress.”
Amanda had thrown a pillow at her. Caroline had returned the favor, and both had dissolved into laughter. So long ago . . . Caroline mused. It almost seemed as though it had been another lifetime. Before they’d lost Mama and Father. Before the war . . .
Caroline shivered in the night air. Mazie had offered a lantern, but she didn’t want to be seen. She’d convinced herself she’d been frightened earlier by a rabbit, or perhaps just the wind. She’d been jumping at shadows. No one had followed her. No one was there in the orchard now.
She left the road and walked across the open field toward the rows of apple trees. She was still terribly worried about Amanda. This rape had shattered her sister. In some ways, she had taken it harder than whatever had happened the night Jeremy was conceived.
Caroline couldn’t help but wonder why . . .
Jeremy was a child of mixed race. Even at eight months, no one could look at him and deny his white blood. His skin was a light café-au-lait, his black hair straight, his baby nose and lips much thinner than Amanda’s.
Amanda had never spoken of her assault. She had never given the slightest hint who Jeremy’s father was. And no pleading from Caroline could get her to tell what had happened. It was Amanda’s way to keep her privacy. Caroline had no doubt that someone had forced her sister; Amanda’s morals were without question. But Amanda had gone through her pregnancy and childbirth without revealing her tragic secret. And she had loved Jeremy with all her heart and soul since the moment he was born. How many women, Caroline wondered, could have forgotten the pain and shame the baby’s father had caused her? It just proved how sweet and good Amanda was.
Bruce’s rape had been violent. Amanda had fought him tooth and nail. He’d blackened her eyes and bloodied her face. Bruce had admitted the attack and shown no remorse for what he’d done. And although her sister’s physical injuries had faded, she’d not been the same since. Caroline was afraid that Amanda would never be again.
There would be no child of this assault. Enough time had passed to be certain of that. But even that grace hadn’t brushed the shadows from Amanda’s eyes.
The orchard loomed ahead of her. She stopped and listened, then entered the shadows. This was the quickest way; if she went around the orchard, it would take her much longer to get back to the house, and she was cold enough already.
She had gone about halfway when she heard a cough—not a human noise, but something more like a horse blowing air through its lips. Caroline froze. “Is someone there?” she asked with more bravado than she felt. “Kutii? Is that you?”
She took another step and collided with a cloaked figure. “Oh!” she cried.
“Caroline. It’s me, Garrett. Don’t scream.”
Her mouth tasted of the metallic bite of terror. She went completely numb.
“It’s Garrett,” he repeated.
She couldn’t hide the sigh of relief that escaped her lips. “Damn you,” she said. “You scared me half to death.”
“Who’s Ty?”
“Why are you following me? It was you before too, wasn’t it? You were here in the orchard when I—”
“Yes.”
Her Talbot temper flared. “Why didn’t you make yourself known to me? Is this what you do for fun—frighten helpless women?”
He chuckled. “You’re hardly helpless, Caroline. I wanted to see what you were up to, sneaking around in the middle of the night. Who’s this Ty?” “Not Ty, you idiot, Kutii. He’s a family friend.”
“One who lurks about in orchards in the night?”
“You’ve nerve to talk about lurking around!” She gave him a shove backward. “What are you doing here? What do you want of me?”
Garrett’s humor took a definite turn for the worse. “I am your husband. Have you forgotten that so soon?”
“Husband or not, it doesn’t give you the right to scare me half to death,” she retorted. The more she thought about how frightened she was, the angrier she became. “You’re lucky I didn
’t have a pistol. I’d have shot you.”
“Heaven help wandering livestock if you blast away at every shadow that moves.” He laid a hand on her arm. “You said you wanted me to take you south to the islands. I’ve found us a boat, but we have to go now. I was coming to the house to tell you when I saw you come out of the kitchen courtyard.”
“Wrapped in this hooded cloak, how could you tell it was me?” she demanded.
“You have a way of walking, but that’s beside the point. Do you want to go to the Caribbean or not? And what were you doing out here? It’s not safe to wander around. Not for a woman. There are too many—”
“The night I can’t walk Fortune’s Gift without an escort is the day I want to die,” she retorted. “This is my home—these are my people. No one here would hurt me.”
“No? Like they wouldn’t hurt your Amanda?” He took hold of her other arm and pulled her so close that she could feel his warm breath on her face. “There’s a war on, Caroline. Your home is occupied by British soldiers, and the woods are crawling with Tory and rebel raiders alike. There’s no safety here for a woman, no matter her age or position.”
“I won’t argue with you over that,” Caroline said. “I went to see Amanda tonight. She’s been hidden with one of the—”
“I saw where you went. How long did you suppose you could keep her away from Bruce?”
“It worked.”
“I doubt he wanted to find her very badly. He was more concerned with you.”
He let go of her, and she found she was still shivering, although not from cold. She wanted to hit him. She wanted him to kiss her again as he had the night of their wedding. Whenever Garrett Faulkner came near her, she lost all rational powers of reason. “What do you mean ‘go now’?” she asked breathlessly. “This week? Tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow, girl. Now.”
“I’ll have to have things from the house. Jewelry. A little money. Some clothing and—”
“One bag, Caroline. A small one. If we intend to slip out from under the British eye, we’ll not do it in a man-of-war. My friend is waiting with a sloop. We’ll cross the bay and meet a larger vessel—”
“Tonight?”
“Can I make it clearer?” Garrett’s patience was clearly worn thin. “Come back with me to the cabin and tell the woman to go with me. I’ll escort her and the child down to the river. Dress warmly.”
“Garrett?”
“What is it?”
“I can trust you, can’t I? Amanda’s not strong. She—”
“She’ll have to be strong to make this voyage. Do you think we can reach the Caribbean in—”
“No, you don’t understand. Amanda’s not sickly. She’ll cause you no trouble. It’s just that she’s been hurt. She’s very fragile. If I tell her to trust you and—”
“You think I’d treat her like your cousin did—”
“No. If I believed that, I’d never have taken vows with you. Just be gentle with her. Don’t look at the color of her skin. She’s a lady, Garrett, a real lady.”
“And you, wife? What are you?”
The words a witch came to her lips, but she didn’t utter them. “I’m not weak,” she answered softly. “I can give as good as I get.”
“You’d better. For if I risk everything to take you to this island, you’d best—”
“No more threats,” she said firmly. “How can we get along if you continually threaten me? If you say we’re going tonight, then let’s get on with it. If we stand here much longer, my feet will turn to solid ice.”
“Do you want me to come into the house with you?”
She shook her head. “No. The dogs would rouse. Wait for me at the river. I’ll fetch my things and meet you there.”
“Not at the landing,” he warned. “Farther down, around the bend. Come to the sandy beach and I’ll carry you out to the sloop.”
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“I don’t promise to answer.”
“Did you blow up the powder store that first night?”
“Are you mad?” He sounded insulted. “How can you ask that of me, girl? Aren’t you a loyal Englishwoman?”
“I just wondered,” she said meekly. And it wasn’t until she was nearly to the house before she realized that Garrett hadn’t answered her question at all.
“You did it,” she whispered. “Loyalist, hell. You’re a Continental, Garrett Faulkner. And you just don’t trust me enough yet to admit the truth.”
Chapter 8
It was midmorning of the following day when the courier galloped into Fortune’s Gift and handed Major Whitehead’s aide a worn leather pouch containing several routine reports and a single slim envelope. The corporal, Milton Jakes, emptied the pouch and stacked the contents in the precise center of the major’s desk before returning to the mug of ale he’d been sharing in the kitchen with two fellow dragoons.
Upstairs, the major groaned and lay back on his pillow, waving away the tea and toast the black servant offered. “Nothing,” Whitehead said. “My stomach’s turned inside out and my bowels are in shreds.”
“Just a touch of ague, sir,” Toby said. “Tea will help you get your strength back.”
“Nothing I said.” The officer moaned and drew himself into a fetal position. “Tell my aide that I’m not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir, Major, sir.” Toby hummed inwardly as he let himself out of the officer’s bedchamber and carried the tray down the front stairs.
The entrance hall was empty. Toby looked both ways, then walked through the wide corridors to the office. He set the tray with its blue and white Chinese patterned teapot, handleless cup, and plate of toast on a small table, and began to build up the fire.
“Wind sure is fierce today,” Toby mumbled to no one in particular. Icy branches of a bare lilac tapped against the window. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a black tail moving between the desk and the hearth. “Cat? Is that you?” Toby looked behind the desk and saw only painted baseboard. Suddenly the small office felt chilly. Quickly, he gathered up two dirty mugs, picked up his tray, and left the room.
A ragged black cat with only one ear, and a scarred nub where the second should be, leaped up on the desk and gazed at the pile of reports. Flames crackled on the hearth and a cherry log snapped.
Outside a gust of wind shook the lilac bush and rattled the branches of the great yellow poplar tree behind it. The house shuddered as a wind devil spiraled down the chimney and sent ashes flying into the room. The cat padded in a tight circle, settled down, wrapped his tail around his body, and began to purr.
Another heavy blast of wind struck the corner of the house. The cat’s eyes narrowed to thin yellow slits, and he began to lick his glossy fur.
The crack of a frozen limb giving way was lost in the howl of the winter wind whipping off the bay. The limb swayed, caught briefly on another branch, and tumbled down onto the lilac. One leafless prong hit hard against a single windowpane. The glass shattered and wind streamed through the opening.
Not a single hair on the cat’s back ruffled as the reports on the major’s desk scattered across the room and one thin envelope spun onto the hearth. At first, the beige paper quivered. Next, one corner blackened and a thin thread of smoke drifted up. In seconds, the envelope burst into flame, twisting and turning until it was consumed by the yellow-red fire.
Kutii stoked the tomcat’s head and smiled. Then he strode to the hearth with the swift, sure strides of a warrior and used the sole of his bare foot to grind the last of the sparks out on the wide red bricks.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside, but when the door opened, the room was empty. All that remained was the icy wind coming in through the broken windowpane and a smell of swirling ashes.
It was morning of the third day when Major Whitehead returned to his regular duties and another twenty-four hours before a bearded Tory scout arrived at his door with a message that shook the commander to the soles of his shin
y Hessian boots.
“Opsrey? The devil you say! Garrett Faulkner is Osprey?”
“Did ye nay get me report, Major?” The hard-faced ranger leaned across the commandant’s desk. “My informant said we’d have only hours to catch them before they sailed south to the Caribbean. Osprey’s found the means to get another ship. If you’ve let him slip through your fingers, it’ll be your ass that burns, not mine. I sent copies of the same message to General Knyphausen’s headquarters and to Home. I’ll not take the blame for this, Whitehead.”
“You’ve evidence to back up your—”
“Proof enough to hang Faulkner from the nearest yardarm. General Howe’s offered a hundred pounds for Osprey’s real name. I had to pay twenty to my informant, and I mean to collect the rest. Ye can still catch him. How far can he get with two women and a suckling babe? If they’ve escaped ye, ye’d best do somethin’ to get them back, Whitehead. When Howe learns of this, you’ll spend the rest of the war shovelin’ horseshit.”
“That remains to be seen, Taylor. Since I never received any such message from you, I must be in doubt that you sent it. Wait outside.”
When the blustering Tory was gone, Whitehead searched through his reports to make certain the missing letter hadn’t been overlooked. Then he went to his files and removed the collection of information on the privateer captain known as Osprey. He read it through twice, noting the number of British ships sunk and cargo stolen by the traitor. Then he opened the door and summoned his aide. “Release Captain Talbot and send him to me,” he ordered. “Immediately.”
He closed the door, folded his arms across his chest, and began to pace back and forth. First the woman gone, and now this! How in the name of all that was holy could he have misjudged the pair so badly? Faulkner was a relative of Lord Cornwallis . . . He had influential friends in high places and had served his country honorably at sea. How could a man like Garrett Faulkner be the traitor Osprey?
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