Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War

by Burns, Nathaniel

  "Or what?"

  He was silent for a moment, pondering this. There really wasn't anything he could do. He was in her woods. At least, she owned them about as much as he did, if not more, since this was her home and he had only intruded upon it with his own army—though he felt he didn't have an army now.

  "Or nothing. It wasn't a threat, miss."

  The silence that passed between them over the next few moments—it felt as though years had gone by—was excruciating. She had not removed the gun—he assumed it was a gun—from his back, and he hadn't yet the occasion to turn around and face her. If he was going to die by her hand, it would surely be better than the other form of death he faced if found in those woods by another. But still, he wanted to face his end head-on.

  "Turn around," she demanded, as though reading his mind.

  He followed her instructions, turning, still on his knees, hands in the air, facing his muse. She was absolutely beautiful, even holding a gun to his face, even with the dreadful haircut she had managed to give herself, even with her cold eyes—although she did a bad job of covering up her own fears.

  "I'm sorry to have followed you," he said quietly but honestly. "It's just that I simply don't have anywhere else to go. You see, I was…" He searched for a way to explain himself as he realized that even he didn't have a good explanation for his actions. Perhaps something about that calmed her, because she seemed to relax her posture a bit.

  "You what?" she probed, shifting nervously.

  "I left…my army. The people I came over with, they…" He sighed. "This isn't what I signed up for. I don't want to fight for them, but I can't show up in front of your general like this without being shot or hanged before I can utter a word."

  "And you're lucky I didn't deliver you the same fate!" she said, the stern aspect returning to her voice.

  "I agree," he said softly, looking down at the ground.

  This must have done something to her, because he saw the end of the gun—a rifle—slowly lower to the ground. After a moment or two, he raised his eyes once more to meet hers. She looked at him curiously now, almost with a glimmer of pity. Pity wasn't what he wanted, but it was much better than most other alternatives, so he decided to welcome it.

  "What do you want?" she asked, softly this time.

  "I really don't know," he said, more honestly than he cared to admit. "I suppose I wanted to follow you to see where you went. Hoped I would be able to speak with your general or one of his men and…join you."

  Even though he knew the truth behind what he spoke, it sounded ridiculous even to him. Why in the world would he, a person who should no more be on the side of the "rabble" than one of the farm animals in the countryside, want anything to do with being on the other end of the fight. Why should they believe him, that he had tired of fighting for the British and wanted to join the quest for freedom.

  The only thing he could hope was that somehow it made sense to her and that he didn't hear the gun cock and then fire before having a chance to prove himself.

  "Why would you want to join us, Redcoat?" It was a term intended to threaten him, to mock him, and even to be disrespectful, but he couldn't balk at it. He himself agreed with the sardonic tone in her voice. Isn't that why he had decided to join them, after all?

  It was almost as though someone else spoke through him when he replied, for he hadn't figured out what to say.

  "Because you have a noble cause, and the others who believe they are noble do not."

  The words startled him as much as they must have startled her. She swallowed hard, and he knew she was contemplating her next action. Whether or not it was to kill him or believe him he hadn't quite pieced together, but he earnestly hoped it was the latter.

  As quickly as the confrontation had begun, it ended.

  "Get up," she said, a mixture of reluctance and empathy in her voice.

  He wasn't quite sure he had heard her correctly, and his face must have expressed utter confusion, because she almost smiled as she repeated herself.

  "Get up," she repeated, "there's food by the fire."

  With that, she left him to walk over to the campfire he had seen upon awakening.

  6 Feelings

  As the campfire glowed, Abigail was mentally reviewing her choice to let this man—a British soldier no less—join her on her quest. She had to admit, though, if he was serious about his discontent with the British, he could be a valuable asset. She knew little to nothing about fighting, about war, so perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.

  On the other hand, if he was a spy, her entire life could be over very shortly. But how would he be reporting to them? He didn't have enough time to leave and come back; she had heard his blundering footsteps the entire way, and once she no longer heard them, she knew he had stopped. Then she had set up the campfire, crept up behind him, and waited until he woke up.

  And now here he was, sharing the same campfire as her. He was attractive, there was that. With chiseled features and dark black hair standing at about six feet tall, muscular and with a disarming smile, she felt that he could not easily be a spy. Spies had to be unassuming, stealthy, and he was anything but. Had she been a bear, he would have been her first choice for a meal, since he was so intent on making his presence known in the forest. She wondered for a moment how someone so adept at battle could be so loud in a forest—but then again, perhaps this was a first for him, too.

  They sat in silence for a while. She tossed him an apple and he caught it. Quick reflexes. She offered him a very small smile, and he grinned back at her, that disarming nature of his working its magic. Get a hold of yourself, Abigail, she thought, mentally scolding herself for falling victim to the smile of a man of his stature and station. The butterflies in her stomach wouldn't go away, and it bothered her. She was there to do one thing—avenge her father; nothing else mattered.

  His voice broke through her thoughts like rolling thunder, and she was almost startled at how smooth it was. Oh, sure, she thought. Once you don't have a gun to your back you’re Mr. Composure and Charm. The thought made her almost want to laugh, but she found it in her to hold back.

  "So, you know my name is Edward now," he said. If he was hoping she was going to extrapolate from context and offer her name up so willingly, he was wrong. She still wasn't entirely convinced that he could be trusted, so she held back just enough to let him know.

  He sighed, almost in a joking manner, flashed a half-smile, and said, "So, what's your name?"

  She waited for a moment, staring into the fire. "Raymond," she said, half sarcastically, half hoping he would believe her.

  "Nice try. I saw you cut your hair off, and I've never known a man with hair that long."

  He waited for her to reply, and she knew he was waiting, so she let him. She was in no hurry to make him feel better, or to ease his mind, or to bring him any kind of calm.

  "Plus," he added, "you're far too beautiful to be a man, so I'm not sure how you're planning on covering that up." Their eyes met over the fire, and he quickly looked down again, almost as though he was shy, but she found it hard to believe it wasn’t an act.

  "I'll make it work," she said.

  She thought about it for a moment longer and added, "Thank you, by the way. For the compliment."

  He nodded in reply.

  "It's Abigail," she said.

  He looked at her questioningly, almost as though he had forgotten his own question.

  "My name," she added.

  "Oh, right…Abigail…nice to meet you," he said. And then, just as she was going to ask him what a bad meeting was for him, he added, "Well, it is now…it wasn't so nice when we actually met, but…you know, I understand."

  She laughed, and he did, as well. It dawned on her that it was the first time she had laughed since about a month before her father had gone off to war. It felt good to laugh, even though it felt wildly inappropriate for the circumstances. But even so, she allowed herself the moment of joy, not knowing when one would c
ome again.

  "If you think I make a bad man, though, you make an even worse American," she said, motioning to the coat and outfit he was wearing. "How do you think you're going to convince the Continental Army to let you in with that garb, eh? Don't you know we're just a pack of disorganized, drunk rebels?" She gave him a look of condescension, intentionally, and he looked down at the ground.

  "That's not what everyone thinks," he said. "It's not what I think. But you do have a point; this is a horrible disguise, isn't it?"

  She nodded. Then she thought about the fact that she had another pair of her father's clothing in her sack. They were of no use to her, far too big, and she didn't have the time to sew up another set. She firmly intended to wear what she had on for the remainder of her time as a soldier in the Continental Army. Not many of the men had been changing their clothes, anyway; she had heard the stories from her father. And changing would only expose her identity to others if they caught a glimpse the wrong way.

  Finally, she reached into her pack and pulled out the clothing. Ensuring that the clothes didn't meet the flames, she threw them toward Edward's head. He was reclining on one side, his hand propping up his head, and when the clothes landed near him he sat up, as though he thought she had thrown a grenade.

  Unbridled laughter escaped her lips—how could she resist?—and he began to laugh along with her, a mixture of deep laughter and relieved sighs.

  "I didn't mean to scare you," she said, still laughing, "I just have an extra pair of clothing and my…" she trailed off, not wanting to talk about her father to a stranger. "I thought they would fit you."

  She averted her gaze from his eyes and pulled out another apple. She motioned to him to ask whether he wanted another one, and without a word he shook his head, raising his hand as if to say, "That's okay, I've had enough."

  "Thank you," he said, raising the clothes as though to indicate what he was thanking her for.

  "Of course," she said.

  Another silence passed between them, and she realized that he looked rather nervous, almost uncomfortable. Not understanding what had caused this change of behavior and disposition, she sat back against the tree and observed him. Finally, it dawned on her that he was trying to figure out where to change. I could have fun with this, she thought. After all, she was already being rather rebellious for a woman; why not go with it?

  "So, um," he said, "where should I change?"

  She shrugged her shoulders and casually made a circular motion in the air with her pointer finger, as though to say “who's around?” "Anywhere you want," she replied.

  "Right," he said.

  He got up and walked to the left toward a cluster of trees, using them as a kind of door or shield. A few moments later he returned, carrying his own clothes and wearing her father's. They fit him almost perfectly, and it was uncanny—almost disturbing—to see another man in her father’s clothing. But then again, it was only practical. This man needed clothes, and she had clothes she couldn't use, so why not?

  He sat down again, holding his old clothes in his hands and staring pensively at the fire. Without warning, startling her, he threw the red coat into the fire along with his old clothing. The flames excited and then grew to a new level of activity with the newly added fuel.

  "Hey!" she shouted, leaping to her feet and stepping back.

  "Sorry…I'm sorry," he stammered. "I didn't know it would flare that much."

  They both sat back down.

  "It's okay," she said. "Just warn me next time."

  He grinned boyishly at her. "Warn you the next time I throw clothes into the fire? You don't suspect I'm going to fight in the nude, do you?"

  She gave him a coy look back and shrugged.

  "How should I know?"

  They both chuckled.

  "If we're going to head out at dawn, we'd better get some sleep," she said to him. "Have a good night," she added.

  He nodded and rested his head on his arm, using it as a pillow, his back to the fire. Apparently he didn't have any issue sleeping on the forest floor. That much was a comfort to her. She watched him as his breath made his chest rise and fall, his arm following suit as it rested on his side.

  Could she trust this man? Did he really want to join the patriot cause? Why would he? But then again, if he wanted anything else, wanted to bring her to her demise or cause her harm, why announce himself as a Redcoat? Wouldn't spies come in disguise? If you're trying to blend in with someone else and gain their trust, surely you don't show up dressed like the enemy, right? She couldn't think straight.

  Her thoughts drifted as she rested her head against the tree, allowing the firelight to lull her to sleep, making half-laid plans for the following day until finally she was lost to slumber.

  She awoke the next morning to find the campfire still smoking but mostly extinguished. The forest was crisp and the air was sweet, no doubt cleansed by the rain. Today was the beginning of one more wilderness walk, and she knew that at this hour the following morning they would be at the battlefield, ready to fight for the patriot cause.

  As sleep left her and consciousness removed the clouds from her eyes, she began to look around and take note of her surroundings. The packs were all there, but Edward was nowhere to be found. Panic began to overtake her, until she realized that panic would do absolutely nothing to help her.

  No, she had to think clearly about this. Perhaps he had gone off in the night and become lost or been injured. It didn't necessarily mean that he had been lying—his absence could mean anything at all. As she frantically tried to wrap her head around the absence of her newfound companion, she decided to remain still in case he was close by, ready to attack her.

  Remaining very aware of her surroundings, she slowly turned her head to the right, the back of her head still resting against the tree. The forest floor was still moist from the previous day's rain, and she saw footprints in the mud leading to the right, but they disappeared out of her line of vision, and she didn't yet have the courage to rise from her position and follow them.

  "Good morning!"

  Edward's voice was so loud and robust she physically jumped from her location and her head shot toward the left, where the voice originated. She saw Edward, still in her father's clothing, walk up with a jovial smile on his face, his hair obviously the product of a night's sleep on the forest floor. She didn't know whether to laugh or hit him.

  "Where have you been? You scared me!" She wanted to sound very stern but couldn't help smiling at the sight of him. This man had a hold on her in some way, she admitted, but only to herself. There were a million questions she wanted to ask him, but she knew that now was not the right time.

  "I'm sorry," he chuckled. "I went to…you know…there isn't exactly a latrine anywhere, and…"

  Now that it was so obvious why he would be up, she laughed out loud, putting a hand to her forehead as though trying to keep her head physically together.

  "Right," she chuckled. "Sorry about that."

  He twisted his face into an expression that clearly said "Don't worry about it" and waved an invisible object in the air, apparently disregarding her apology.

  "So what's on the agenda today?" he asked.

  "Walking. A lot," she replied.

  He nodded in reply. "Very good."

  The rest of the day was spent walking side by side. They had gathered their packs and discarded what was no longer necessary, making every effort to conceal any tracks they could and getting rid of anything they didn't absolutely need. After all, the extra weight would only hold them down, and since the arrival of Edward had no doubt been an unexpected event, time had been, if not wasted, then spent on his account, regardless.

  The butterflies still wouldn't go away, and she hated them. This was no time to start feeling, to start allowing emotions to overtake her, especially for someone she was still not entirely convinced was with her on this journey for the right reasons. No other possible explanation came to mind that held any water, but the
whole thing just seemed unusual, implausible.

  "You should learn to tread more quietly," she said to him, softly and almost teasingly, throwing a half-smile in his direction.

  He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose I'm not all that discreet, am I?"

  "Well, I don't know about all that. Until you swore, I thought you could have been an animal. Although animals usually don't have human shadows."

  "Okay," he laughed, "you caught me. Being stealthy isn't my strong suit."

  "What is?"

  "Oh, I don't know. I don't really have one."

  She thought the statement was more than a joke, more than a self-deprecating attempt to put her at ease. Something about it seemed sincere, and she had to wonder whether perhaps he was battling his own demons.

  "Everyone has a strong suit," she said, smiling again.

  He smiled in return, but his eyes seemed to be in another place, a time past, remembering old sins or far-off regrets that couldn't be undone. She wanted to reach out for his hand, to comfort him, and then was immediately terrified by her desire to do so, mentally reproving the mere thought of doing such a thing.

  They walked through most of the day, exchanging conversation, whatever bits of information they wanted to share and nothing more. It was apparent to Abigail—and she was sure it was to Edward, as well—that there was much more to her story, as well as his. Both of them were playing the cards they had very close to the vest and not letting the other see too much. And why should they? He had as much reason not to trust her, she reasoned, as she had not to trust him.

  Toward the end of the day, they heard the sounds of raucous laughter, some vile jokes being thrown about, the clanking of tin, and some distant gunfire. It was finally here. She was—well, they were—finally about to reach their destination. Another few hours’ hike through the woods and they would be where they had been heading the entire time. Another fate, another life. A new page for the both of them.

  Suddenly, pangs of emotion hit her and she realized how much she cared for this man. It didn't make any sense. But somehow, she thought he felt the same way. How was it that only a day earlier she feared this man, and before that, she thought she was alone in the world, off to face her doom or her victory, she couldn't know which. And now, here, in this strange twist of—what was it? fate?—she was standing beside a man she had only known for several hours, and she felt as though she loved him.