Scamp's Lady

by Jackie Walton

  “God, I was sure we had him caught like a mouse in a trap. It’s a place called Hannah’s Cowpens, of all the idiotic things. I was sure it would serve to our advantage. I left 200 cavalry in reserve and we charged ‘em. Our men cheered but their damn militia didn’t fire until we were 40 yards from them. The front ranks gave a few shots and then ran for cover. I sent the 17th Dragoons after them, but that Washington pup came up with his cavalry from around the rise and drove the dragoons back.

  “Well, the infantry still advanced,” he waved an arm, “but things weren’t going well so I brought up the dragoons and cavalry on Morgan’s right. He withdrew like the coward that he is. All of a sudden, they turn and fire, and all my troops just give up. The bloody bastards just throw down their rifles. Some of the officers and I tried to get to the cannon, but it was too late.

  “There can’t be more than about 100 of us that got away.” He raked at his hair.

  Kit stared blankly at the ground. “Ordnance?”

  “Everything, two bloody cannon, 35 wagons, and a hundred horses.”

  “His losses?”

  Deborah could see that he hoped to salvage something from the debacle.

  “I didn’t see more than a few dozen.”

  Tarleton’s rage faded as exhaustion and defeat doused the flames. “Hellfire and damnation, he sat there on his great big horse and hollered, “They gave us the British hallo, boys. Give them the Indian halloo, by God!’ like he was riding to the hounds.”

  Deborah stifled a gasp and closed her eyes, and whispered, “Oh, he’s all right.”

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t whispered softly enough. Tarleton heard her. She looked up to see Tarleton whirling toward her, rage and hatred burning in his eyes.

  “Morgan?” Comprehension dawned. “Morgan! You’re Morgan’s daughter! That God-forsaken bastard is your father. Why you miserable little whore!” His hands raked his tangled yellow hair.

  Kit stared at her. A basilisk might have frozen him.

  Deborah drew herself up. She knew what was coming. Her legs were watery, but her knees locked. It served to keep her upright. She was determined he would see no fear in her. “Yes, he’s my father and I’m very proud of him.”

  Tarleton started towards her with a rising growl, his hands reaching for her neck. She stood her ground, as her father had, but there would be no brave William Washington to come charging around the rise. Tarleton thought her completely defenseless, but her brothers had taught her a few tricks. She wouldn’t go down without a fight, even a losing one.

  As he grabbed her throat, she reached up, fingers rigid, to claw at his eyes. Just as she made contact with his face, she heard a thwack, and he jerked back, like a puppet on a string, and dropped to his knees. She backed away.

  Kit, watching Tarleton, changed his grip on the crutch and replaced it under his arm. Rogers and several soldiers came running. Rogers watched her, but assisted the officer to his feet. The servant solicitously kept a firm grip on Tarleton’s arm.

  “What the hell are…?” Tarleton spit.

  “Forget it, Ban.” Marshall’s words were measured and flat.

  “I want to…”

  “I don’t care what you want.”

  “You heard who she is?”

  “I heard and I don’t care who she is. You will not touch her or harm her in any way, is that clear?”

  “But…”

  “Is that clear?”

  Tarleton wrenched his arm free. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear, sir.”

  “Go get cleaned up and see to what’s left of your men.”

  Wordlessly, Tarleton stomped off to comply. Deborah took a step towards Kit.

  He turned to her, his face devoid of all expression. “Get out of my sight.”

  Chapter 16

  Three days in her room were taking its toll on her. Three times a day she saw another person face to face when Rogers brought up a meal. He kept her up with the events of the day, brought her books, and teased her gently. But he couldn’t fill her hours; he couldn’t fill her thoughts.

  The elegant room grew oppressive. Instead of engendering thoughts of spring, the coordinated green room looked like previously eaten split pea soup. The brocade-covered chaise even felt slippery and lumpy.

  The view out of her window, tents and soldiers as far as the eye could see, simply depressed her. The men and scattered women going about their early morning business reminded her of her own imprisonment in among them, the enemy. They were the enemy and yet not the enemy. She had treated too many of their hurts, held their hands while they endured excruciating pain, comforted their friends when they died, to look on them as the enemy. Enemies were people you hated. She shook her head in realization: you couldn’t hate people who shared your joys and sorrows.

  And that brought her to the main question. How could she again think of Kit as the enemy? It was going to be difficult, perhaps impossible, but she had to try her hardest. Everything was over between them. He despised her, distrusted her, probably hated her now. If nothing else, three days alone in this oppressive greenness had given her the chance to come to that conclusion. A lot of pillows had been punched in the process and a lot of tears shed. Now her eyes were dry. She could sit still for more than a few seconds before jumping up to pace the confines of her green cell.

  A dull, aching lump under her breastbone started to grow as the tears dried. Intellectually, she knew it would take a long time for that particular pain to disappear. At the moment, it seemed to compress her heart and slow her breathing. Someday, she would be able to excise it; some day she would be able to look at it objectively, dispassionately. Someday it would heal over and leave a small scar. Not today, though.

  Today she had other things that had to be done. Her heart had to be carefully cauterized so she could concentrate on convincing him to release her

  All her belongings were tied in a cloth and ready to go.

  The tapes fastening her pocket around her waist loosened as she slipped on her shoes. The pocket slipped down her leg and landed next to her shoe. She stared at the shoe next to the cloth bag. A silver buckle glittered on the top of the shoe and its mate.

  Christmas presents given with joy, hope, and love.

  How swiftly they had died. Deborah marveled at the brittleness of those feelings, to have died so quickly. But, she thought as she retied her pocket and bent to remove the buckles, it was better to have found out sooner than later. She replaced the simple metal buckles and shivered. What hell would her life have been if this came out after the vows were spoken?

  She dropped the silver tokens in her pocket and went downstairs.

  Marshall was in the library, as usual, writing reports when she walked in. He didn’t look up, but she was pretty sure he knew she was there, even though he continued writing. When he finally finished writing, and sanded the document, he straightened. She could see how cold his eyes were. It didn’t bode well, but no matter.

  “Col. Marshall, I’m going to leave today.”

  He leaned back and regarded her with grim amusement. “Think so?”

  “Yes. I think so. You have no cause to keep me, unless the British Army has stooped to holding hostages?” She challenged him with a raised eyebrow.

  “I don’t believe that’s listed in the Manual of Tactics, but I’m been a firm believer in improvising when necessary.”

  It wasn’t quite the solid admission she wanted, but she had a trump card. “General Cornwallis is an honorable man, unlike some of his men.” She watched him bristle at the implication. Good, the barb hit home. “I don’t think he would be particularly happy to find you harassing innocent civilians. Particularly a defenseless woman and especially one who had done him a personal service.” His jaw clenched and she knew she had scored a major point. “I will go with my horse and wagon, or I will go on foot, but I will go. Today.” Not waiting for an answer, she turned and marched to the door.

  “Oh, I forgot.” She dug in her pocket. “Here, I don
’t want them.” She stepped back, threw the buckles on the desk and left.

  **

  Kit stared at the buckles for several minutes, his mind refused to acknowledge their significance. A crash somewhere outside the house broke his inertia. Snatching the buckles, he hurled them into the roaring fireplace.

  **

  Bundle in hand, she went in search of her rig. A soldier was hitching the horse to the cart as she approached.

  “Thank you. I assume this means your Colonel had approved my departure.”

  The soldier tugged his forelock. “Yes, m’um. Gotta say we’re mighty sad t’ see yer go. Yer a right fine lady, an’ we’re right gratified fer yer help.”

  She climbed up and nodded her acknowledgement.

  Halfway through the camp, Mr. Thomson hailed her.

  “Tis a sad day, m’um, a sad day. Ah really thought you’d be t’making of ‘im.”

  Deborah smiled sadly. “It wasn’t to be, Mr. Thomson. There’s just too much between us. Anyway, thank you for everything, including being my friend.” She extended her hand and grasped his. “Goodbye.”

  **

  I just want to crawl in a hole and die, she thought as the wagon bumped along the rutted road to Camden. Scamp curled inside her cloak. She held him tightly. At a particularly rattling pothole, she squeezed him, and he yelped. Her grip eased. She lifted him up to nuzzle his warm fur and get a doggy kiss.

  Her soldier-escort, that Mr. Thomson insisted upon, was young, considerate, and curious. He tried asking her questions, but Deborah felt that if she opened her mouth, she’d crack into a hundred pieces. Instead he talked about himself, but all she heard was babble. Wearily, she dismissed him when they tied the rig in front of Kershaw’s Store.

  Inside, she asked the sales girl for Sarah.

  “M’um’s upstairs right now. She said she wasn’t to be disturbed.”

  Deborah nodded and headed toward the corner stair well.

  “Please, Mistress, you can’t go up there!”

  Deborah lacked the strength and will power to reply, so she just looked at the girl and then kept walking when the young lady backed away. As she opened Sarah’s office door, a voice barked, “I thought I told you not…”

  Sarah looked up from her account books, ready to lambaste whoever dared to interrupt her work, and froze. Her look went from executioner to mother hen in the blink of an eye. “Oh, baby girl, what happened?”

  **

  Sarah offered to let her help in the store in order to pass the time. It might help, but sometimes a body just needed to be alone. Today was one of those days.

  Scamp snuggled under her left arm as she sat on the bed, really nothing more than a cot, in the spare, cramped room above the store. He seemed to understand as he occasionally whimpered and gave her tiny licks, quite unlike his usual exuberant slobbers. In her right hand was a cup of rapidly cooling tea that Sarah had pressed upon her before she left. The older woman ruthlessly coerced the story out of her, on the theory that it was better to get it out in the open than to hold it in and let it fester. Sarah, too, seemed to understand, leaving Deborah to her tears after dropping a kiss on Deborah’s forehead.

  The rooms above Kershaw’s Store functioned primarily as a storeroom and offices. This was a storeroom with the table and bed thrown in. It probably served as a clerk’s bedroom in happier times. Merchandise sat in crates and on them. Deborah didn’t mind. Shelter was shelter. She couldn’t afford to be picky now. It wouldn’t be for long, anyway. Sarah’s contacts were preparing for Deborah’s departure, even now.

  “What am I going to do?” She whispered to Scamp. She picked him up and put him on her stomach, then leaned back against the headboard. “What am I going to do?” Oh, she’d be going back to her family, but that would be simple existence. All the joy in her life would be back here, just outside of Camden.

  The afternoon sunbeam coming through the window struck the discarded, still-full cup when the sound of boots on the stairs and agitated male and female voices roused Deborah from her lethargy.

  “Leave her alone! Haven’t you done enough?” It was Sarah.

  “Where is she?” Marshall roared.

  One door opened and slammed shut. Panic shook her fully awake, and Deborah scrambled off the bed. Her door was next. Scamp recognized the voices and ran to the door.

  Why was he coming after her? What could he possibly want, except to take her back to camp as a prisoner of war, a spy? She looked around wildly; there was no escape route but the door.

  “Get out of here!”

  “I’ll find her myself.”

  The door banged open. Scamp, startled, dashed behind her skirts. There was nothing between her and Kit. He looked…

  “Finally!”

  …relieved?

  “Get out! You can’t come barging in here. I’ll have you arrested, even if you are a British officer.” Sarah pounded on him rather ineffectively from just outside the door.

  Kit turned to her. “Mistress, you will leave now. This doesn’t concern you.”

  “It very well does concern me,” she screeched. “This is my establishment, and Deborah is my guest.”

  “God’s blood, mistress, you talk too much. Get out.” He grabbed her arm to haul her out the door.

  “Col. Marshall,” Deborah, standing straight and still, spoke quietly. “We have nothing to say that hasn’t been said. Unless you’re here to arrest me, please leave.”

  “Leave?” he snarled, “the only person who’s leaving is this busybody.” He pushed Sarah out the door and closed it. “We have a great deal…”

  The door popped open. “Who do you…”

  Marshall again put her out and looked around quickly. He shoved a large chest in front of the door before it could be breeched again. The pounding and yelling on the other side told of Sarah’s frustration. Marshall waited, breathing hard with the light of battle in his eyes, until retreating footsteps and silence told him he’d won. The menace remained when he turned full on Deborah. “We, on the other hand, have a great deal to talk about.”

  “No! We have nothing to talk about.” Anger kindled in her. What right did he have to barge into her life again? “Arrest me or leave! We have nothing to say.”

  “I may beat you, Deborah!”

  Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare!” She scanned the area for something to use as a weapon: flatirons, just to her right. She edged toward them and reached behind her to grab one. Marshall followed her movements, but jumped back as she swung the heavy metal at his head.

  “Be damned, woman, what are you trying to do, brain me?”

  Deborah saw him move in to grab the flatiron. She tried a backhanded swing. He caught it just as it arched toward his chest and twisted it out of her hand. It thumped on the floor. She heard Scamp’s claws clicking as he scrambled for cover. In a heartbeat, Marshall’s hands captured her shoulders, reminding her just how strong he was.

  “I’m the one who’s damned,” he growled as he hauled her against his body. One of his hands imprisoned her head while his mouth plundered hers. Nothing in this kiss was gentle; this was the punishment for rebellion.

  Deborah’s gasp checked in midstream when Kit’s mouth descended on hers. His mouth, hard and hungry, pushed her lips back from her teeth. She stood there, transfixed with the shock of the assault. She tried to draw breath, but he seemed to suck all the air from her. Her thoughts reverberated in her head as a wordless scream. This couldn’t be happening to her. A kiss was supposed to be a joyous thing, not this domination.

  For a moment, the only coherent images were his eyelashes, twitching as his face contorted. She felt the pressure of his hands on her shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. The unmistakable evidence of his arousal plowed into her belly. His mouth ground into hers until she tasted blood.

  He forced her mouth apart, a prelude to the invasion of his tongue. The breech in her fortress rallied her defenses. No, he couldn’t do this to her, not without a f
ight. Twisting away, she managed to break his hold. The bed caught her behind her knee as she pulled away, and her own momentum laid her flat on it. She bounced up, but he followed her down, determined to reclaim his prey.

  The cot gave under his knee when he pushed her down. His arms became prison bars on either side of her. He bent down for more plunder.

  And stopped.

  He stared at her mouth with a mixture of horror and revulsion. One finger, tender and gentle, wiped the drop of blood from her lip. He jerked upright, stomping away, only to be stopped by a large chest. From the back, she could see his hands flex and clench repeatedly.

  His palms hitting the wood sent her bolt upright.

  She saw his right hand quickly back from the impact, but his words grabbed her attention.

  “I was so furious when you left, I don’t think I’ve ever been so completely consumed with rage in all my life.” He drew a deep breath. “After you left, I sat there feeling angry and sorry for myself. I felt used and betrayed. I mean, your father was a rebel general who had just thrashed one of our best officers. You had obviously been taking the supplies back to the rebel lines. I convinced myself that everything you’d said and done was a lie and a cheat. Then you had the nerve to leave! I’d just finished convincing myself that I’d been a duped fool when I saw the buckles. I’d worked myself into a rage, so I picked them up and threw them in the fireplace.” He turned, slowly and hesitantly. If Deborah didn’t know him better, she’d say he was afraid

  “All of a sudden, everything was quiet, still. It’s one of those rare moments in a camp. Only it felt empty to me. Empty like my life was before you and like it was going to be now, unless I did something very drastic. I was still roaring angry, but it only took me a second or so to finally realize just where my priorities lay. I had to get you back, even if my first impulse was to shake you.

  “I grabbed the buckles out of the fire, but they were a little warm.” He looked down at his hand and began to shake it gently. His right palm and fingers were bright red and blistered in patches.

  Her indrawn breath hissed. That’s why he had been favoring his right hand. She got up slowly. Healing instincts demanded she soothe his hurt. Common sense told her to stay as far away from him as possible. No good would come from getting close to him, physically or mentally, now or in the future. He wasn’t in any great danger, but she was.