So Pure a Heart (Daughters of His Kingdom Book 4)

by Amber Lynn Perry

  “Well…” Nathaniel conceded with a slight tilt of the head. “You are right. I did forget about that. So who would you have accompany her in your place? There are plenty of men in camp who would be more than happy to be her guardian and companion in such an undertaking.”

  The mention of it forced Joseph’s muscles to flex. No man in camp could be trusted beyond his intimate group of friends—and with all of them married, ’twould be impossible for them to accompany her. He looked toward camp, his insides afire at the thought of any other man at her side. A stranger could well take advantage of her in ways unthinkable.

  Nay. It had to be him.

  Like meat on a spit, he was skewered, the truth spinning him over the heat of a fiery, unforgiving fate.

  “’Twould be only for two weeks.”

  Joseph scowled. “Two weeks?”

  “Thomas says Washington is in great need of intelligence regarding their movement, troop numbers, artillery, and this knowledge must be had by mid-February, if not sooner, so the decision of how and when to attack can finally be made.”

  Rubbing his temple, Joseph grumbled silently. Two weeks was not so terrible, and such a mission would give his mind plenty of action to distract from the nearness of her.

  He sighed aloud and dropped a hand to his side. “I shall do it. But we shall go as cousins and name Ensign our uncle.”

  Nathaniel nodded, trying to hide a victorious lift of his mouth. “Excellent.”

  Joseph scowled. What had he done? He looked to the camp. There was no going back on it, no matter how his stomach churned. He turned back to Nathaniel, whose wide grin was now fully exposed and close to being smacked. “When do we leave?”

  Nathaniel’s smile grew wider still. “At dawn.”

  * * *

  The morning road was nearly empty, but for a few shoppers and tavern patrons who raced over the snowy roads to find warmth indoors, for there was none to be had in the frigid January air. A thick coat of fog hovered over the road like a sea of floating white. Scents of wood smoke tickled Philo’s nose as the muted sound of a ship’s bell barely reached his ears from the sea a mile away.

  Philo hurried his pace, glancing aimlessly at his mud-covered shoes before putting his attention forward. ’Twas early, perhaps too early for Maxim to be in his office, but even if he wasn’t, Philo could wait. The inquiry he’d sent to Plymouth, innocently asking about the sale of Eaton Hill, had yet to receive a response. Perhaps none would come. It mattered little. Philo dodged a pile of manure and continued on. Maxim knew everyone and everything, and with a little persuasion, he could be prevailed upon to do just about anything. Getting this information would be a simple task for such a man as Maxim.

  “Uncle!”

  Philo looked over his shoulder, the quiet road suddenly less pleasant than it had been as his niece hurried toward him. He faced forward, hoping she would hear his feigned pleasure, not see the irritation in his eyes. “Caroline. How are you?”

  She rushed up beside him, a laden basket in her arms. “I am well. And you?”

  Her exuberance made her seem younger than the five and twenty years she boasted. Then again, she had always been the most animated of the two—Hannah, in truth, only slightly more reserved.

  “Where are you off to?”

  Not slowing his step, he glanced at her with his eyes only, dismissing her inquiry with a comment of his own. “I might ask the same of you. Where do you go on such a morning with so large a basket?”

  “Oh…” She looked down, shifting the cloth more securely over the contents before flinging him a smile. “’Tis nothing.”

  Her obvious dismissal of his question was no surprise. They had never been close, despite her congenial nature. And no matter how he wished to ignore the sensation, Caroline Whitney had a strange way of being able to make him more at ease than even his own sister. He glanced at her, struck by how much she resembled Helena. “How is your mother?”

  Smile blooming, Caroline shifted the basket in her arms. “She is well, thank you. ’Tis fortunate I came upon you. She requested I seek you in order to issue an invitation to dinner this evening.”

  His dear sister, Helena, had always been kind to him. ’Twas more than he could say for any other member of the family. That familiar burning, the same he’d suffered since Ensign’s ill news, began again. “Give her my thanks, but I fear I cannot accept.”

  “No?”

  “I shall be engaged elsewhere.” Philo rubbed the aching spot in his palm.

  She nodded with a humming response. “Church related, no doubt?”

  Chuckling bitterly, he faced the road. “Isn’t it always?”

  She grinned and appeared ready to speak again, but Philo beat her to it. “Your load makes me curious…I venture to guess you bring Leo Cooper a basket lunch and plan to sit on a blanket in the parlor as you might by the pond, if it were not covered with ice and snow.”

  Her cheeks bloomed red like a summer rose, and she looked away. “Nay.”

  A slight chuckle eased a bit of the chronic blistering in his middle. “He is courting you, is he not?”

  Raising a single shoulder, Caroline shifted the basket and made clear she wished not to speak of what he’d mentioned, by changing the subject as they continued around Shawme Pond. “How is my cousin? I have not heard from her of late.”

  He kept his eyes forward. Then she did not know? Did Helena and Jack? “You know she doesn’t write to me.”

  “Have you written to her?”

  The innocence of her question stung like a hand to his face. “My affairs are none of your concern, Caroline.”

  His cutting response seemed only to fuel her need for discussion. She stopped and pulled him at the elbow, forcing him to halt his progress as well.

  “I heard about Eaton Hill.”

  So they did know.

  He tried to pull back, but she’d snared him with the youthful wisdom in her eyes. “We know you are saddened. But ’twould seem for the best.”

  A bitter laugh popped out. “The best? My brother wishes to cut me off from everything that should be mine. Even my own child.”

  She dropped her hand back to the basket. “’Tis a two-way road, Uncle. You cannot expect something when you give nothing in return.”

  Blast. He should not have opened his mouth. She only spewed her mother’s own words at him.

  The tension between them nipped at his heels, and he widened his stance. He would not be cornered by his sister’s child, especially when she only invited him to dinner in order to tell him what was done was “for the best” and “everything will be fine in the end.”

  “The truth is…” Caroline glanced at some faraway spot on the horizon, her expression solemn but accepting. “Leo is not courting me. Not any longer.” She flung him a fleeting look before darting her eyes away. “He wished my affection but wasn’t willing to offer any of his own in return.”

  He stopped, a frown pulling hard on his brow. Poor child. She would think herself an old maid. “Well, the man is a fool, and your future is better without him.”

  “You are kind to me, Uncle.” A slanted half smile pushed up one cheek. “I see now we were not a good match. And he has so many constraints on his time…”

  “Constraints?”

  She jostled the basket again, and he reached for it, taking it from her arms. Shocked at the heavy weight, he balked with a surprised look, and she laughed, answering his previous question as they continued on. “Leo said he has too much to think about. Now that Joseph Wythe has given him his shop, he must focus on his work.”

  Philo put his hands in his pockets, his mind leaning back to a word she’d spoken. “Given? Did you say Joseph Wythe gave his shop to Leo?”

  Caroline bobbed a shoulder but offered nothing more.

  He bit the inside of his cheek, gnawing away his rising irritations. Was she too so blinded by the man’s pretended goodness? “Joseph simply walked away, hmm? What a generous man he is.”

&
nbsp; “Indeed.” She smiled. “But ’twas no secret he planned to leave for the army.”

  That had been rumored about. “What of Jacob?”

  The travails of years past were known to most everyone in Sandwich. Cyprian Wythe had been a friend to few, and his death—as well as the death of his wife—had left their son an orphan, whom Joseph had taken in.

  But the benevolence did naught to soften the man’s image in Philo’s mind. Still wanton, still selfish and sinful, Joseph Wythe was nothing more than the mud on his shoes.

  Caroline’s response to his previous question tugged him back to the moment. “Jacob is with Kitty Smith and will stay there until Joseph returns to fetch him.”

  “Returns? Ha.”

  Caroline’s delicate eyebrows jumped at his bitter response, but he tilted his head her direction and finished anyway. “Anyone who goes to battle should consider themselves as well as dead.”

  “Uncle, really.” Caroline started forward, and Philo matched her step. She gave him a sideways glance. “You are not a Tory, are you?”

  “I am no friend of the British, but I am no fool either. Let the Patriots fight if they will, and all the better for me should they win. I for one would like to keep my head in place.”

  A sprite laugh breathed from Caroline’s mouth. Stopping, she looked at him, a sudden wisdom in her narrowed eyes peeling away his exterior, leaving him exposed, as if she could see what lay open in his soul.

  Her eyebrows neared as she stared, and his stomach squirmed. Why should a woman—a young one at that—make him feel the pricks of some unknown conscience? Had he anything to hide?

  With a smile that said she reserved whatever it was she’d wished to speak, Caroline took the basket from him and turned to where the road curved right. “I shall give your regards to my mother.” Long strides led her swiftly away from him, but she spoke over her shoulder. “You are still welcome, should you change your mind.”

  He touched his hat, and she turned away, disappearing around the bend in the road. His gut writhed, and he cursed the discomfort. He shouldn’t let his niece rile him in such a way. ’Twas not as if she was anything but a parrot of her mother, speaking and doing what Helena would do. The very reason declining the invitation was without question.

  “Philo! Philo!”

  Frantic steps and the blurted sound of his name spun Philo at the heel. “Maxim. I was on my way to see you. I—” Philo stopped, the round eyes and flushed cheeks of his companion seizing his lungs. “My friend, what’s happened?”

  Maxim gasped for breath, a hand at his chest. “I’ve just heard about the foundry.”

  Was that all? Why such a fuss? Philo fought the urge to growl. “That’s what I wanted to speak with you about this morning.”

  “You do not seem as upset as I would have expected at such news.”

  “Surely I’m upset, but there’s naught I can do until I know who’s bought it.”

  “Bought it?” At that, Maxim’s face lost a mite of color. “Then you haven’t heard. You cannot have, for I just overheard it from a Redcoat in Newcomb Tavern.”

  A pin of frustration jabbed, and Philo splayed his palms. “What?”

  “The British have taken the foundry. They have taken Eaton Hill.”

  The words wound around him like the lingering fog, seeping through his mind before a thrill raced up his spine, followed after by a sharp reprimand. Should he not be aghast, enraged? Somehow only glee found his heart.

  He feigned intense shock, but the question was sincere. “What do you mean?”

  “The army has taken the foundry for their own use.” His friend looked over his shoulder, then back. “Should we not alert the men in town and make ready to take back what should be yours?”

  What should be mine.

  At least someone understood that.

  Philo filled his lungs. “When was this?”

  “I do not know.” Still panting, Maxim motioned over his shoulder. “But it can’t have been long. Come. Let us—”

  “No. Wait.”

  One hand on his friend, one in the air, Philo’s mind followed the whisper that left crumbs for him to follow. Perhaps…

  He caught Maxim’s gaze. “Do nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Do nothing.”

  Maxim jerked back. “You cannot be serious.”

  Philo dropped his hold and placed a hand on Maxim’s back, careful not to have his friend see through his pretense.

  “We must first be sure we know what we are up against.” Remembering his mantle as a man of God, Philo reverted into the role he’d grown accustomed to, no matter how uncomfortable the cloth. “Providence does not work but with everlasting wisdom, does He not? Surely there will be good that comes of this. Prudence before haste. We must trust in His power to protect and provide.”

  “But does not God expect us to act?” Maxim’s face curled with frustration. “You do not speak sense, Philo. Your daughter is—”

  “She is fine.” He put a hand over his heart. “I feel all will be well, Maxim. Aye, we shall proceed, but with caution. We cannot have any more of our men running to their deaths. Already there will be too many widows amongst us.”

  Only slightly subdued, Maxim nodded with a rough breath. “I suppose.”

  Striding forward, Philo knit his hands behind his back, pressing his lips together to hold back the smile that tickled his face. Such good fortune. Perhaps God was as displeased with Ensign as he. Feigning more fraught than he felt, Philo pursed his mouth and slowed his step, staring down at his feet.

  “Let us return to Newcomb and see if we cannot somehow glean a bit more information from that Redcoat, hmm?”

  Maxim’s mouth bowed up, and he nodded with acceptance. “I can always be persuaded in that vein.”

  “Come. Let us see what we can learn.”

  Philo started again and glanced up to the clouds. Providence at work, surely. God was not well pleased with Ensign, that much was certain. Here was the chance Philo had been waiting for. The art of persuasion was delicate, but even soldiers were human, were they not? They had pride that needed stroking, egos that craved boosting.

  Once they could be swayed to side with Philo, Ensign would have no choice but to give Eaton Hill to him after all.

  Chapter Seven

  A day had passed—one day and a full night—and they’d been on the road again since daybreak. The vast silence between them loomed like the snow, quiet and endless, surrounding and consuming. Hannah gripped the edge of the wagon seat beside Joseph, a giant flake plunking against her cheek. She brushed it away. The minutes passed more like hours. A bump in the road jostled her, and she gripped the seat harder to keep from bumping into his body, which rested not half an inch from hers. Not much longer. She shivered. Her cheeks and nose prickled, and her fingers ached with every movement. Having hardly recovered from the first journey when setting off on the return, she still had not fully shed the quivers of cold.

  She flung a quick glance in Joseph’s direction before focusing on the puffs of breath that left her mouth as she breathed. Not a word between them. For that she was both grateful, and not. Could they really make such a ploy believable if they could not at least be civil? Nathaniel and Captain Donaldson had made clear their mission, and she was both alive and sick with dread at the thought of not fulfilling what she’d vowed she would do at any cost.

  A slice of bravery tempted her to look at Joseph again, and her heart skipped a pulse. Tricorne dusted with snow, blond queue resting between his broad shoulders, greatcoat barely able to contain the large muscles that filled it. He stared forward, the blink of his eyes against the falling snow the only indication he wasn’t a mere statue as he held the reins.

  He had insisted—nay, demanded he be the one to accompany her. Why? She didn’t want to question, for her heart loved and loathed his presence far more than she would ever admit in words. She must tread with care. Their mission, short as it was, was long enough to demolish the
fortress she’d erected, despite its thick towering walls.

  “You wish to speak.” His voice rumbled toward her, nearly startling her off the seat.

  She straightened, gathering the composure his sudden words had scattered. “I am sorry to disappoint, but I do not.”

  He peered her way with the slightest move of his head. “You say I do not know you, Hannah, but I do. You wish to speak.”

  “I have nothing to say.” She wriggled in her seat, her insides twisting.

  He stared forward, offering an almost imperceptible shrug, waiting near a full minute before voicing his reply. “Very well.”

  The nerve of him. He did not know her. Well…not perfectly, anyway. She tapped her toes in her shoes. To keep the blood moving, aye, but also to ease the stifling anxiety. Fighting the urge to peek at him again, she stared off into the wood, the large flakes floating to the ground like goose down. Keeping the barricade of their broken past between them meant the raw, tender parts of her would not have to be touched, and such security allowed for rumination. This man had offered to be her companion. Nay, had insisted. The protectiveness and sincerity she’d seen in his eyes played wistful chords on the strings of her heart. But the ever-present dissonance overshadowed, as well it should.

  This is no game, Hannah. And you are no fool.

  “I suppose we could make the entire journey in silence.” She breathed in, avoiding the battle of her own thoughts, which dizzied her. “But I hardly believe such would be good practice when we are supposed to make the British believe we are kin.”

  His jaw shifted, and he flung her a fleeting look before training his attention on the snow-covered road. “True.”

  After a beat of silence that testified indeed that one word was all he would say, she cleared her throat to speak, but no response readied itself. Nay, that was a lie. There were words that waited to be spoken. Oceans of them. How have you been these past years? Still, the deepest ones reached up from her heart to grip hard at her throat. Why did you never return to me? Even deeper still, Did you not love me as I did you?