Crystal Passion (The McClellans Series, Book 1) Author's Cut Edition

by Jo Goodman

  Meg would have liked to talk more about tiny minds, but Ashley's hand on her shoulder cautioned her against it. "Meg will send no one after us, as will none of the other servants."

  Davinia's thin smile was as fleeting as it was cruel. "Let us go, Ashley. There is a boat waiting for us."

  * * *

  Salem led his three companions down a steep bank tangled with vine and hazardous low branches to the river's edge. At the end of a small dock two fishing sloops bobbed in concert with the water's rough surface.

  "These boats will manage the trip quite nicely," he told them. "Shannon, Noah, you sail them around the bend to where we have the others. I'm taking Smith further down the bank. I saw an unattended rowboat there this afternoon, and the Marbleheaders will need it if the wind changes."

  Reluctantly Noah followed Shannon to the sloops, bringing an amused smile to Salem's face. He turned away, prepared to show Smith the path, only to find his friend regarding him curiously.

  "What are you staring at?" Salem brushed by Smith to lead the way.

  Smith shrugged as he followed. "Reckon that's the first time I've seen you pleased tonight. You're tighter than strings on a fiddle. I don't figure it's finding these boats that has you bothered."

  "For someone who plays his cards close to his chest, you have a terrible penchant for looking into everyone else's hand," Salem muttered.

  Smith remained unperturbed. "Thought Mrs. McClellan was lookin' a little peaked this evenin', too. Didn't seem natural somehow. I never noticed her so uneasy all the weeks I was watchin' her."

  "You're not going to give this a rest, are you? For the life of me I cannot understand if you are fearless or simply dense in your upperworks." He let a branch snap back without warning and it narrowly missed Smith's face. His friend's chuckle gave him pause. Salem shook his head in exasperation. "All right. Ashley says she's upset with me because I've forgotten what today is. Can you make any sense of that?"

  "No."

  "Neither can I and she wouldn't tell me. We didn't part very pleasantly. I'm afraid I was quite angry with her." Salem halted suddenly. He could feel Smith's still presence behind him, alert to the same noise that had cautioned Salem. There was a loud thrashing ahead of them as someone approached the river from another angle, kicking up dead leaves and flailing through the undergrowth. "The boat is about forty yards ahead, over that little rise," he whispered. "It would seem the owner has plans for it, though I can't fathom why he doesn't use the path. Let's go carefully."

  Salem and Smith hardly needed to tread lightly. The noise made by their unknown companion covered the sound of their advance. At the rise they stayed low, taking cover in the stiff grass around them. There was only the smallest bit of daylight left, and the forest covering made it difficult to see much beyond the boat. Still, they could make out three shadowed figures: two distinctly female and one male. The rounded shape of the male caused a shiver to ripple through them and made it possible to identify the women.

  Salem reached for the pistol tucked in the waistband of his breeches. At the same time, Smith reached for the knife strapped to his thigh.

  "She was trying to tell me that today was the day that Davinia returned," Salem said lowly, mentally flogging himself for having been so slow to understand. "That bitch must have been in the house while we were there."

  "Under the circumstances, I would say Mrs. McClellan was remarkably composed. How does Flannigan come to be here?"

  "Hell if I know," Salem answered through clenched teeth. "But I want that man." Even as he spoke he saw a thick arm reach out to touch Ashley's shoulder. She seemed to shrink back, away from Davinia and the Irishman.

  "Don't touch me!" she whispered sharply, warily eyeing the cane he held in one hand. "Davinia, I thought you knew nothing about Flannigan. There was no need for you to send him after me."

  Davinia frowned. "What are you going on about? I told you I wouldn't have an Irishman in my employ. This is Mitchell Ferguson."

  "The wee lassie's a bit confused, Lady Grant," Flannigan said with a hint of the Scottish burr. "My apologies for being late. Dinna mean to upset you both."

  "Stop it," said Ashley. "Have you forgotten I was your fair colleen when last we met?" She looked to Davinia. "Did you or did you not hire this man to take me away from the landing?"

  Flannigan interrupted Davinia's reply. "I dinna think we should stand here talking."

  "You're right," Davinia said coolly. "There's been a change of plans. I want you to take us to Howe's camp. I have news he would like to hear."

  "Step this way." Flannigan indicated the narrow path leading to the boat.

  Ashley stubbornly held her ground. "No. Davinia, this is wrong. Leave me here."

  "And have you run for help? Do you think I'm fool?"

  "You're a hundred times a fool if you step into that boat with him. If he is not your hireling, then he is Nigel's. D'you understand, Davinia?"

  "You would say anything to save yourself," Davinia said. "This man works for the Benningtons. I have no more time for your twaddle. Get into the boat."

  Ashley shook her head and clutched her shawl closely about her shoulders. "No. I won't." Her eyes glistened in the dark. "He'll hurt us, Davinia. Can't you see past your own aims? His presence means Nigel's alive!"

  "Nigel is dead," Davinia said tightly. "Into the boat or I swear I am done with you now." She raised her weapon until it was leveled at Ashley's breast.

  Ashley stood very still, her every sense sharpened. Small animals scurried underfoot. She could hear the snapping of twigs, the rhythmic beat of water licking the river bank. Fear tasted bitter in her mouth, and her flesh went hot and cold by turns. She dared not look away from the point of Davinia's pistol, calculating the precise moment when the weapon would discharge. She wondered if she would have the presence to leap aside or if she would remain frozen.

  "I can't be lettin' you do that now." Ashley's head snapped in Flannigan's direction as his deep Irish brogue blanketed all other sounds. "Sure, and it's your pistol I'll be havin'." His raised right hand held a silver mounted pistol every bit as primed as Davinia's own. "Lower your weapon, Lady Grant," he said kindly, his pleasant smile flashing briefly.

  "Have you taken leave of your senses?" Davinia demanded.

  "Not at all. It's my own head I'm lookin' out for. The duke's likely to have a relapse if I tell him his ward is dead by your hand."

  "The duke? A relapse? But—"

  Flannigan merely shook his head, watching Davinia's trembling hands cautiously. Her shoulders sagged slightly. She lowered her pistol until it was aimed at Ashley's feet.

  "Who are you?" she asked slowly, twisting her head to see Flannigan.

  "I'm not important. It makes no difference if I'm Flannigan or Ferguson or Fairbanks. I've used many monikers in my business. But it's as Mrs. McClellan said: I work for the duke. He's much recovered from that nasty blow to his head and insistent that I carry out his orders. I can't have you hurting the colleen; the duke wishes her returned unharmed." He paused an instant, long enough for Davinia to surmise what his orders were concerning her. "You can't begin to know the trouble you've saved me by returning with her this evening. Sure, and I thought it was only you I'd have tonight." He laughed genially. "Luck o' the Irish, if it's to be believed. Now I want you to drop the pistol, Lady Grant, and step into the boat. Mrs. McClellan, you follow her. Don't be difficult about this."

  Ashley knew Davinia would not simply acquiesce because Flannigan wished it. Certainly not after his thinly veiled threat. She watched as Davinia drew her shoulders back and lifted the pistol again.

  It was the force of her outrage that made Davinia's hands tremble on her weapon, but the movement was enough to ensure her death. There was a flash of powder from Flannigan's silver plated pistol. The report that followed deafened Ashley to the sound of Davinia's cry.

  Ashley dropped to her knees beside Davinia, vainly trying to find some sign of life. A crimson stain blossomed above Davin
ia's breast, and her pale eyes stared sightessly. Ashley lowered Davinia's lids and brushed a smudge of dirt from her face feeling a strange and overwhelming pity. Then she turned away from Flannigan, lifting the hem of her skirt to wipe her eyes.

  "We have to go now," Flannigan said, impatient with her fumbling with her gown. "Step into the boat and I'll see to Lady Grant."

  "I'm not going with you," she said. She stood, raising her arms stiffly in front of her. In a firm, two-handed grip she held the pistol Salem vowed he never wanted to see again. "Nothing could persuade me to go back to the duke. I want no part of Linfield. Ever."

  Flannigan's brows shot nearly to his hairline. He shifted uneasily, never one to trust a feminine hand on a weapon. His own spent pistol dropped uselessly to the ground.

  "You will have to get in the boat, Mr. Flannigan." Ashley mimicked his polite accents. "I would not hesitate to shoot." She was well pleased her voice did not quaver.

  Flannigan feigned a step toward the boat in the same moment he cracked the heavy knob of his cane against Ashley's wrist. She cried out, dropping her pistol and falling to her knees in pain. Her head was bent and tears of pain blurred her vision. She did not see Flannigan raise his cane over her. It was the bright orange spark of gunpowder and the explosion that followed immediately that jerked her upright. Flannigan's cane dropped harmlessly past her lifted face, and before she could release the scream that was trembling on her lips, Flannigan fell heavily to the damp earth. Her attempt to scream came to nothing. The sound was locked in her throat. Ashley looked about her frantically, trying to peer into the dark border of woods where the shot had come from. She did not know if she was being rescued or if she should expect the next pistol ball in her chest.

  "Ashley!"

  She leapt to her feet at the familiar voice, running in the direction of that most welcome and beloved sound. She nearly toppled them both with her exuberant greeting, winding her arms about Salem's neck and throwing her body flush against his. Salem kissed her brow, her eyelids, the fine arch of her cheeks.

  "Are you all right?" he asked between hurried kisses.

  She nodded in spite of the wrist that throbbed behind his back. "I think I'm all of one piece." She buried her face in his neck, trembling against him. "I was so frightened. I thought they would take me away from you."

  "I despaired of ever having a clear shot. I should beat you for drawing that pistol!" he said in her ear. "Never was there a woman with more guardian angels than you, my love."

  A lazy voice drawled beside them. "Before you squeeze the life out of her, might I be allowed to say hello?"

  Surprised, Ashley nearly came out of Salem's embrace, but the circle of those strong arms would not release her. "Mr. Smith?"

  "The very same, ma'am." He lifted his hat and even the murky darkness could not obliterate the golden cap of his hair. He jammed the hat back in place, and only his smile kept him from blending into the night. "If you don't mind me sayin', Mrs. McClellan, you sure do have a way of gettin' in trouble."

  "I can't deny that I've caused trouble."

  "I didn't say you caused trouble, ma'am, only that you get into it like a bear does honey. But we'll have to talk about that later. Salem, if you take her on up the rise, I'll take care of—"

  "Right. This way." He led her up a narrow path and over the rise, talking to her the whole time so she could not hear the soft splash as Smith buried the bodies in the river. "They didn't hurt you?" he asked. While his eyes searched her face, his hands touched her shoulders, her waist, reassuring himself that she was unharmed.

  "No, no one hurt me. I have a few scratches from walking through the woods, but nothing serious. How did you manage to find me? I never thought to see you."

  "It was an accident, Ashley. No more than that." Her shiver was transmitted to him and he rubbed her back, giving her more security than warmth. "We were looking for boats for the retreat, and I recalled seeing one in this area. Flannigan and Davinia must have arrived very early in the day."

  "Yes. Davinia watched you leave the house this morning. She announced herself shortly after that. She was furious that I had nothing for her. I think she went a little mad then. She started waving a pistol, threatening to use it on Courtney if anyone interfered."

  "I should have been there today," he said bitterly. "At the very least I should have understood your message when I returned. She was in the nursery, wasn't she?"

  "Yes. With Meg and Courtney. She saw you coming to the house from the window. She was listening hard at the door all the while you were there."

  "Then she heard about the plans for retreat."

  Ashley nodded. "She was afraid I would ruin her chance to get the news to Howe so she forced me to come with her to the boat."

  Salem pressed her head to his shoulder and laid his cheek against the softness of her raven hair. "How did you come to have the pistol?"

  "I tied it to my leg when I knew I would be seeing Davinia alone today. But while Davinia's loaded pistol was pointed at Courtney I was too afraid to use it."

  "And Nigel?"

  "Let us speak of him later," she pleaded quietly. "I hear Smith coming, and you must surely be about your business now."

  "I will take you back to the house first."

  "No. Let me stay here with you."

  In truth, Salem had no wish to be parted from her, but he gave in reluctantly. "All right. I'll send Noah back to the house to let them know you have come to no harm." Smith's noisy intrusion brought a rueful smile to Salem's lips. "I think Smith fears he's interrupting something," he whispered in Ashley's ear, delighting in her small laugh. "I swear the man could walk on broken glass without a sound. C'mon, Smith. You've adequately announced your presence. Let's get the boat and join Noah and Shannon."

  "Your wife?"

  "She's staying with us." His tone brooked no argument.

  Smith had never intended to give him one. "I reckon she'll give the men somethin' nice to look at when they reach this side of the river."

  To Smith's embarrassment, Ashley placed a tender kiss on his hard cheek. "You're a fraud, Mr. Smith, but I cannot help but like you."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said sheepishly.

  One of Salem's dark brows kicked up. He had never thought to hear Smith admit to any deception. "Come along, Ashley, before you have the man disclosing the whole of his shady history."

  "Very well," she said. "But some day I shall learn it all."

  Ashley touched Smith's arm briefly, and in that instant he understood she knew things about him even Salem could not guess. Somehow it did not surprise him that she heard the traces of an accent he could hide easily from others. "I don't doubt that you can worm it from me, ma'am." He grinned. Then he turned and led them back to the rowboat.

  Washington's retreat from Long Island took the better part of the night. The first men began arriving on Manhattan shortly after ten o'clock. Ashley waited with Noah on the river bank while Salem, Shannon, and Smith joined the Marbleheaders, returning to Long Island for more men. Each trip across the East River, made soundlessly and secretly, brought increasing numbers to safety. Only two hours after the evacuation had begun there was a lull in the wind and the tides changed. Ashley and Noah and the several hundred men already on shore watched helplessly as the sailing craft were left behind and rowboats were all that remained to ferry the men. Ashley did not need the grim look on Noah's face to tell her the rowboats alone could not do the job by morning. There were not nearly enough to bring back all of Washington's men, and those who were left behind faced death or prison.

  Ashley helped distribute water and rations to the men who rowed tirelessly from point to point, and to her husband, just once, she managed to give an encouraging kiss. "You shouldn't do that," he said, reluctantly lifting his head. "Everyone will want one."

  "Then they shall have one," she said, laughing when he scowled. But as soon as she was away from the boat, Salem took up the oars and set himself and his small crew to the rhythm that
would make the crossing smooth and quick.

  The mariners faced an impossible task that night, but they continued to strain their muscles and backs, refusing to accept they could not save everyone. When the winds changed direction, filling the sails of the discarded crafts, it seemed a reward to the spirit and energy of the men who could not be bowed. But even with the sloops, dinghies, and skiffs adding their space once again to the effort, it was dawn before the last of the soldiers and materials reached refuge on Manhattan. The final convoy had nothing to fear from the early morning light; their passage was assured, covered by a heavy cloak of fog. It seemed to the nine thousand men who had been ferried from Long Island that a hand finer than Lady Luck's had guided them to safety. It was hard to remember they were in retreat. The midnight exodus under the nose of the most powerful army on earth smacked of victory.

  * * *

  Salem slowly opened one eye. The sun was setting on a day he had barely seen, having slept away the whole of the morning and the better part of the afternoon. All things considered the dream was too pleasant to risk waking. He ached everywhere. There was a stitch in his back and his hands seemed unable to open fully. It was much easier to take refuge in the warm and tender ministrations of the woman at his side than to hazard full awareness. With no regret he turned his back on the prospect of greeting the day, closed his eye and fell easily into the arms of his loving fantasy.

  Naturally she was dark. Salem had long ago decided he preferred ebony over the pallid blondes he once admired. Her hair was soft and thick as velvet, and he buried his fingers in the strands delighting in the rich texture. His thumbs idly traced the delicate arch of her cheekbones and the faint hollow of her temples. He was familiar with every fine contour of her face, the sweeping fan of her black lashes, the full sensitive curves of her mouth. Her wildflower fragrance drew him closer to her warmth. She was freshness and light and he had every intention of making her his.

  His mouth tasted hers, savoring the honeyed recesses, drawing out the flavor that was peculiarly hers. He played, he teased, he dueled with her tongue, relishing the response of his emerald-eyed lady. He touched his mouth to her ear, whispered love words that brought her body flush against him. His hands caressed the length of her slender throat, her shoulders, the taut curves of her breasts. In his palms he felt her arousal and groaned softly with wanting her. Her tapered waist filled his hands, her nipples budded beneath his mouth, her thighs parted to accommodate his desire.