Love's Courage

by Elizabeth Meyette

  Sarie appeared with a tray of tea and cakes. She offered the refreshment to him, but he brushed her away like a fly. She turned to Jenny with the tray, blocking Ashby’s view of her. Jenny bit her lip, her nostrils flaring. Sarie crossed her blue eyes. Jenny disguised her laugh with a cough.

  “Are you well, Miss Sutton?” He rose.

  “Yes,” she choked out. She sipped her tea. “This tea will help the dryness in my throat.” She smiled into the cup.

  Until the seriousness at hand again struck her.

  Ashby stood before her. She studied the floor since his proximity brought his body too close for her comfort. He dropped to one knee.

  “I suppose I must do this properly. Miss Sutton, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  For the last twenty-four hours, she had been dreading this moment. This was so wrong. It was Andrew, not Ashby, whom she’d dreamed of in this scene. It was love, not a threat, that caused a man to kneel before her asking for her hand. Her hands clutched the folds of her skirt so tightly that her knuckles were like white pebbles along the fabric. She could not feel her fingers to relax them.

  If she only knew his true intentions. Did he truly care for her? Was this proposal based on the ardor he professed? Or was it a sort of blackmail? If so, she was cornered, like an animal in a trap. She had no choice. If she refused, she and Mother might hang.

  “Miss Sutton?” He took her hands, squeezing them until she almost cried out.

  She met his gaze. A soft smile played at his lips, his eyes searching. Perhaps he did care for her. But the harsh way he squeezed her hands sent a message.

  He knew.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Ashby, I will accept your proposal.”

  His eyes glittered at her, triumph shining through. “Jennifer.”

  Her name, from his lips, sounded discordant, nothing like the soft, loving endearment when Andrew whispered her name.

  He swept her into his arms, his kiss harsh, his teeth bumping against hers. There was no tenderness, only conquest. He released her.

  “We will post the banns together tomorrow.”

  She nodded, wanting to wipe her lips with her napkin.

  He rose and bent over her hand. “I will call tomorrow morning to take you to St. Paul’s.”

  His words brought gooseflesh to her arms. How can I return to the place where Laurence Montclair was slain?

  Now, more than ever, she wanted to flee.

  Andrew’s improvement overnight was remarkable. He had eaten more porridge at supper, drank a full mug of ale, and even nibbled some melon. A good night’s sleep was the tonic he’d needed. When Jenny entered his room, he was propped against the pillows and Mathias was shaving him. At the sight of Jenny, he broke into a broad grin.

  “Careful, Mr. Andrew. You smile like that again, and this razor gonna give you a big dimple along the side of yer face.”

  Jenny hurried to the bed and took his hand. “You look much stronger this morning.”

  Mathias wiped his face with the towel, gathered up the razor and bowl, and smiled at him. “Good ta see you lookin’ so fine today.” He nodded at Jenny and left.

  She sat on the bed. This close, she could see the exhaustion in Andrew’s pallid face, tiny lines etching worry in his brow. It would be some time before he could travel. She brushed his lips with hers. He lifted one hand to stroke her hair, but the exertion was too much, and he dropped his arm back to the blanket.

  “Jenny.”

  How different her name sounded from his lips. Her belly tingled and warmth spread though her. She kissed his forehead, his cheek, his lips. “Beware, Andrew. When you are healed, I will have my way with you.”

  He smiled as a flash of passion gleamed in his eyes. Then he closed them and drifted off.

  She laid her head on his chest. “Beware.”

  The knock on the door that she had dreaded all morning echoed through the house. She didn’t move. She’d put this off as long as possible, but now she must put in writing her betrayal of him. She ran her finger along Andrew’s arm beside the gash she had covered with ointment in the dawn hours. No sign of infection yet. At least something was going right. And he was stronger this morning. Soon he would be strong enough to travel.

  “Jennifer.” Mother stood in the doorway. “It’s time.”

  Her body felt leaden as she tried to sit up. She held Andrew’s hand for a moment. What she was about to do was not an act of infidelity to him; it was a duty to ensure their very survival. Yet, even to have her name connected to Ashby’s seemed disloyal, to Andrew, to Father, to the Patriot cause. She shuddered.

  “Jennifer.”

  “Coming, Mother.” She rose, her attention lingering on Andrew’s face. He no longer thrashed in his sleep. He no longer moaned in pain. But with what she was about to do, she might as well stab him in the heart.

  Lieutenant Ashby handed Jenny from the carriage, holding her elbow as they entered St. Paul’s Chapel. She wanted to shake away from him. Before his proposal—and insinuation of his awareness about her Patriot sympathies—Ashby had been cordial and considerate. This morning, a coolness had crept into his demeanor, a severity into his attention.

  Jenny’s knees trembled as the two of them entered the church. She averted her gaze from the spot where Montclair had been slain. But as they progressed down the aisle, Ashby stopped beside that very pew, turning to face it. She studied the floor.

  “I find it interesting that I found you … ill in the churchyard around the time a man was murdered here yesterday. I know you are far too delicate to have committed the murder yourself.” He let his words echo in the empty church. “But I suspect you might know something about the incident.”

  Her mind raced. He knew that she had seen Montclair, but he also knew she didn’t kill him. Because he did. So, Ashby must have known that, rather than the Tory sympathizer he professed to be, Montclair had been working with the Sons of Liberty. To deny that she saw him would increase his suspicion that she was here to meet up with him, thus confirming her involvement in what he would consider treason.

  “Please, Lieutenant …” She tried to move forward down the aisle.

  He gripped her arm tighter. “You will call me Nigel.”

  “Please, Nigel.” She swallowed against the building nausea. “I … I did see Mr. Montclair when I came into the church yesterday. As I told you, I came to pray for the repose of Father’s soul. I was already distressed with grief.” It wasn’t difficult to feign this grief since she was already feeling lightheaded. “I only saw him from behind as I made my way to the front pew. As I was leaving I saw …” She clutched her lurching stomach. “I saw the blood, his staring eyes.” She swayed. “I ran outside and got sick. When you appeared, I was afraid I would be accused of the murder.”

  Another lie. Her life was becoming one lie after another.

  His grasp lessened.

  She stared at him. His stern gaze softened for a moment. Perhaps he believed her. Was she becoming that good at being deceitful? “Once I had lied to you, I didn’t know how to extract myself from that untruth.” I am going to burn in hell. But she had to convince him that she was not a spy. Even though she was.

  At that moment, Pastor Farr emerged from the vestry. “Oh, there you are. What a happy occasion during such difficult times.” He glanced at the pew beside them. His cheery voice grated on her ears. “Come with me, and we shall prepare to announce your banns of marriage.” Despite his portly size, his movements were quick and smooth as he strode to them. He took her arm, leading her away from the site of the murder toward the vestry. Candlelight reflected off his glasses as he smiled down at her. “Yes, a pleasant task in the midst of such sorrow.”

  Pastor Farr had them fill out the document that would officially announce their engagement.

  The priest’s gaze settled on her as she took the quill pen from him. Did he also know of her parents’ allegiance? She stared at the document. Finally, she lifted the pen. It felt cold in her hand
, and the cold traveled up her arm to her heart with a chilling self-loathing. When she finished signing, she met his gaze. Sorrow. Indeed, he knew of her parent’s allegiance. But he must wonder at her reason for this marriage.

  Ashby signed his name with a flourish, his signature sharp points and strident strokes, as rigid as he.

  “I would like to meet with each of you—separately—to discuss, well, marital issues.” Pastor Farr winked at Ashby.

  Her stomach flipped.

  Ashby bowed his compliance. “At your service.”

  “Miss Sutton, I would like to meet with you this afternoon.”

  So it begins. Instruction on how to be the wife of British Lieutenant Nigel Ashby. While Andrew lay deathly ill in her home.

  Pastor Farr met Jenny at the door of the rectory. As she followed him into the parlor, she inhaled the comforting scent of beeswax candles and starched linen. Sunlight dappled the Oriental rug on the parlor floor, choreographing a dance between the reds and oranges. Dreading this meeting, she sat in the chair he indicated and steeled herself for an unpleasant lesson on Ephesians 5 and the requisite obedience of a wife.

  He smiled at her as the housekeeper entered with a tea service. After pouring a cup for each of them, she quietly departed. Everything in this manse was quiet: the ticking of the long-case clock, its muted chiming on the half hour, the footfalls of the housekeeper as she retreated along the wood floor to the back of the house. Even the priest’s smile was quiet in his somber face. Gone was the boisterous humor of the morning.

  They sat in silence. Was he waiting for her to speak? Where did his sympathies lie? Would this marriage preparation trap her into revealing her alliance with the Patriot cause?

  “Miss Sutton.” His voice was quiet. “Are you well?”

  A sudden urge to burst into tears swelled within her. Taking out her handkerchief, she wiped her brimming eyes and pressed the linen to her nose, stalling, trying to compose herself. Let him think it was due to Father’s death. How she wanted to pour out her heart. What was it about Pastor Farr that homed in on her vulnerability? The air of serenity that surrounded him like a warm cape? His gentle gaze that, when searching hers, reached into her soul? His tenderness reminded her of Mr. Gates’s ministering to her aboard the Destiny. But Mother’s voice was clear in her head.

  Trust no one.

  Reining in her desire to reveal her distress, she took a deep breath. “I am well, thank you, Pastor Farr.”

  He nodded, allowing the silence to envelop them.

  Damn. He will wear me down with this serenity. “Mother and I are still in mourning. It is a short time since Father died.”

  “I saw you yesterday.”

  She jumped. “Excuse me?”

  “I saw you. Outside in the churchyard. Vomiting into my juniper bush.”

  Her face flamed.

  “I saw Lieutenant Ashby join you. He came from the side door of the church. A short time later I discovered Laurence’s body. You were the only people I saw about after my meeting with Laurence.”

  “I did not kill Mr. Montclair.” She choked the words out. Was the decision to be whether she would be hanged as a murderer or hanged as a traitor? Is that what her life had come down to now?

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  So, he, too, knew it was Ashby. And both of them were powerless to prove it or call him to account for his action. They were at the mercy of the British army. She sighed. Was it relief or frustration? Perhaps both.

  “Do you wish to marry Lieutenant Ashby?”

  Her nostrils flared. “No.”

  His gentle smile returned. “I thought not.” He stroked his chin. “I will post the marriage banns—indeed, I must. Meanwhile, you must devise a plan to escape this.”

  She must tread carefully, for he could be drawing her in to reveal information that would prove sedition.

  “The British are watching our house. Lieutenant Ashby, in particular, has been skulking around at night.”

  “Miss Sutton, I, too, have received and passed on, shall we say, items other than herbal remedies from Laurence. I will miss my dear friend and mentor. Your mother will confirm her trust in me in matters of loyalty.

  “Now, we have spent a sufficient amount of time to have allowed me to impress upon you St. Paul’s directions on how a wife must act.” He pressed his hands into the leather arms of his chair, lifting his bulk to standing. “I suggest you speak with your mother for assurance that, upon our next visit, you will be at ease during our ‘marital’ instruction. In the meantime, I will ponder this dilemma.”

  Her face flushed at his awareness that she didn’t yet trust him. But hadn’t a supposed minister betrayed—no, killed—Father?

  “Fear not, for it is difficult to know whom to trust nowadays. What you need to decide is how far to take this. Will you, indeed, marry Lieutenant Ashby? How will that serve you and your mother?”

  She shuddered. Living as a British officer’s wife—what hell that would be. How ironic that the only way to protect Mother was to betray Father. But how could they flee now? The trip would kill Andrew, and she could not leave him behind again.

  For now, she had to go through with the marriage to Ashby. Any other choice would cost them all their lives.

  Chapter 19

  Andrew tried to feed himself, but the spoon wobbled as he navigated it toward his lips. After two attempts resulting in more broth down his shirt than in his mouth, he dropped the spoon in the bowl and his head back on the pillow. Was he more hungry or tired? He didn’t know. Hearing someone enter, he cracked one eye expecting to see Sarie.

  Instead, Jenny rushed to his bedside and kissed his forehead.

  “Look at you. I leave for an hour and you perk up like a daffodil after a rain shower.”

  How could just the sound of her voice invigorate him so? He grinned and took her hand. “Good day, Jenny. Where were you off to this afternoon?”

  Her smile didn’t fade, but her eyes clouded over. What was distressing her?

  “You were sleeping so soundly, I went to church to pray for your health.” She bustled about, smoothing his covers, but a blush reddened her face.

  The burst of strength she had inspired seeped away. Something was wrong.

  “You need to eat more.” She took the bowl he held.

  “I’m weary.”

  Her hands were warm against his arms and chest as she inspected his wounds. He tried not to flinch as she lightly touched the ugly rope burns that blistered where his wrists had been bound. Though he couldn’t see them all, his wounds—the long gashes etched along his torso, around his sides to his back where barnacles had gouged his skin—still burned like a well-stoked fire. When he’d arrived, he couldn’t move his arms, so he was exhausted with the simple effort of feeding himself.

  She took the bowl and spoon.

  “I shall feed you.” She bent toward him. “I need to bring you back to full health so we can fully enjoy each other’s company.” She gave a wicked wink.

  He smiled, easing back against the pillows. He wanted to pull her back with him, feel her body against his. But even in her seductive wink, her eyes had lost their usual luster.

  She offered a spoonful of broth, and he sipped it. He closed his eyes for a moment then looked at her.

  “What are you hiding from me, Jen?”

  She paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. She moved it to his lips. “Why do you ask that?” She lifted one shoulder, cocking her head.

  “Because you are an ineffectual liar. Your eyes widen, and you blush. See? There you are.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but she could do nothing to hide the blush.

  “Tell me.” He stopped her hand in mid-air. “Trust me.”

  He tried to hold her gaze, but she looked toward the window, biting her lip.

  “You do that, too. You bite your lip.”

  “Damn.” She dropped the spoon into the bowl.

  Lucy Carter entered carrying a basket with assorted jar
s and bottles. “Good day, Miss Sutton, Mr. Wentworth. Time to tend to your wounds.”

  As Lucy busied herself, preparing an ointment, Jenny rose, taking the bowl and spoon.

  Andrew held her wrist. “You need to be honest with me.” His voice was low. “If we can’t be honest with each other, all our professions of love have been false.”

  She recoiled.

  He squeezed her hand. “And I don’t believe they have been.”

  She glanced at Lucy, who was occupied with her task.

  “We will talk later. I promise.”

  “I survived only because of your love, Jenny. It was your face, your voice that saved my life. Nothing you can say can destroy me now.”

  She turned away, and his heart sank.

  Lieutenant Ashby sat beside Jenny on the settee. He eased back comfortably, more relaxed than his usual rigid posture. He balanced his brandy snifter on the arm of the sofa, his other arm brushing against hers.

  She clasped her hands in her lap, fingernails digging into her palms. She wanted to run out of the room. She wanted to scream at him to leave. Here Nigel Ashby sat, as if he was entitled to everything he saw, including her, when his fellow Tories had killed Father. They had torn the flesh from Andrew, who lay in the room above them, fighting back from near death. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to see this bastard tossed into the water and sliced to ribbons on the bottom of a boat.

  “I hope your meeting with Pastor Farr was agreeable this afternoon.”

  “Yes. Yes, it was. And yours?”

  “Most agreeable.” He reached for her hand, breaking it from her grip. “Now that we have set the wedding date for four weeks hence, we shall need to begin preparations.” He looked around the room. “This house will be quite adequate, I think. There is no need for you to move out or for me to remain billeted in someone else’s home. Perhaps you have a room where I can move my things?” He glanced at the ceiling.

  Her heart pounded. Surely, he would not ask to see the rooms now? Putting Andrew at his mercy?

  “We will prepare a room for you. It will take some time.”