He pulled free and didn’t budge. “I said, I’ll be along shortly.” His voice beheld an edge sharper than any saber.
A moment of tension passed between the two men and Moira noticed that Mr. White stood a good two inches taller than the major. Indeed, from her vantage point Nettles appeared dwarfed in Mr. White’s shadow.
At last Nettles gave a shrug. “As you wish.”
Moira watched her intended’s retreating back as he marched, rather than walked, back to the house. She suddenly envisioned a home run like a military academy, children marching in a row, sitting, eating, reading, writing, all at the commander’s will. And what would become of her? Would she be transformed into a wooden-headed doll, poised in every manner which her possessor wished, as though she had no mind of her own?
“Oh, that I had wings like a dove!” Moira closed her eyes, praying it might be so. “For then would I fly away, and be at rest.”
“Ah, you quote the Psalms.” Mr. White’s tone returned to its honeyed charm. “Quite comforting in turbulent times, are they not?”
“They are.” Moira pressed her lips together. She oughtn’t to have spoken the passage aloud. “Please forgive me. I hear many brides-to-be struggle with anxiety. That’s all this is. Prenuptial nerves.” She rubbed her bare arms. “And why I am speaking to you of this, I don’t know.”
Mr. White shrugged out of his frockcoat and placed it around Moira’s shoulders. It smelled of him, a leathery, woodsy spicy scent that she found not at all unpleasant.
“Never fear, Miss Kingsley.” He offered his arm. “I’m a superb secret-keeper.”
“What a relief, for I am the luckiest young lady in all of England.”
The words already felt mechanical. It was with much trepidation that she allowed herself to be escorted back to her uncle’s house.
Chapter Two
From his vantage point near the entryway of Baron Kingsley’s smoky study, Sam could see the lovely, but quite miserable, bride-to-be standing a ways off from the mingling crowd. How he pitied her and wished he could help her somehow. But he had a sworn duty, and by God, he’d use all his wits to see the job through.
He turned his attention to the British officer speaking. Most of the men, including him, had shed their tailcoats while they enjoyed their pipes.
“Those uncouth colonists thought they could steal Canada right out from under us.” The officer snorted with obvious derision. “But we’ll show them. We’ve set our sights on the U.S. Capital!”
The room erupted in a roar as cheers went up.
“And just how do you plan to do this deed?” Uncrossing his arms, Sam strode farther into the room. “I’ve heard the American militiamen are fierce.”
Laughter met his last statement.
“My dear, naïve friend,” Major Nettles began, “you have much to learn. Then again, you are a student, are you not?”
“I am.” The perfect disguise.
“Then learn from the best.” Nettles indicated the surrounding officers. “The American militia cannot possibly stand against His Majesty’s armed forces! Why, nothing is left of the American Navy. They use merchant vessels and have no gunboats. American militiamen are unskilled and untrained in the practices of war.” He set his jaw. “We will soon take back the colonies for the crown.”
More cheers.
A smile tugged at the corner of Sam’s mouth as he waited for the room to quiet. “And what of the First Nations?”
“The Indians? Bah! They are savages.” Nettles shrugged. “Although some fight for the Crown. So what of them?”
“Others fight with the Americans. Do you not fear them—fear being captured and tortured by them?”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” Nettles wagged his head facetiously. “Dear boy, a British soldier, one worthy of his shoulder boards, has no fear.”
“Not even of losing his scalp?”
“Not even that.” A sneer wafted across Nettles’s pronounced features. “Anymore questions…boy?”
Sam grinned. He would not be goaded.
“Perhaps it’s time you become a man,” another soldier injected. “Sign up for His Majesty’s Royal Army.”
“I shall consider it.” On my first day in hell. A chuckle escaped. By God’s grace, Sam had little fear of either fate.
Sam headed toward the rum and poured himself a small glass.
“So tell me, how long before British officers attack the American capital? Should we board a ship and sail tomorrow, would we make it in time to join the fray?”
“Doubtful, my scholarly friend.” Nettles puffed on his pipe. “We’re leaving the details to General Robert Ross and his forces. It shall be payback for the American attack on the City of York.” A muscle in the man’s jaw worked. “I lost someone I loved very much in that battle. A bloody mess is what it was.”
“You speak as if you know of it firsthand?”
“I do.” Nettles’s dark gaze attempted to spear Sam. “I wasn’t far away, on duty in Ontario. Our troops arrived, only too late. The Americans tortured and raped women before killing them in front of their children. A few survived to tell of the massacre.”
“Appalling.” Sam recalled the event a bit differently. Yes, the citizens of York had been frightened from their sleep, and Sam eschewed violence against innocents. But, truth to tell, British troops accosted American civilians more often than militiamen harassed Canadians.
“Appalling indeed.” Nettles lifted his chin. “And mark my words, the Americans will suffer for it. General Ross will see to it.”
Growls of agreement filled the study.
Sam digested the information and downed his rum before setting aside the glass. He took his place near the entrance once more. He would take his leave shortly, but not too soon to arouse suspicion. He’d learned that General Ross must be stopped and the U.S. Capital reinforced. He needed to get that piece of information, as well as others, to President Madison in time.
However, to do so he had to be on the ship tonight before it set sail for America.
Sam glanced across the way and stood to his full height, every nerve drawn tight, sending prickles of warning down the back of his neck. There, in the receiving parlor where all the smokers had shed their tailcoats stood Miss Kingsley—
And in her hands lay Sam’s black diary, containing news that was not for her eyes!
He slipped from the room and crossed the large foyer. As he approached, she looked up and smiled when she saw him. Her smoky-gray eyes held only a welcome, no fear or guilt from being caught snooping.
“What have you got there, Miss Kingsley?”
She glanced to the black book in her long, slender hands. “I don’t know. I found it on the floor.” She leafed through it. “Evidently it fell out of someone’s coat pocket.”
“So you took it upon yourself to read it?” Sam didn’t attempt to curb his sharp tone. Most likely she intended to run to her fiancé with what she learned.
“I read only enough to find out the book’s owner, is all.” Miss Kingsley tipped her head and strands of her straw-colored hair slipped from its pins. They fanned her cheek. “Does it belong to you?”
In reply, Sam held out his hand.
“I thought maybe it did.” She handed it over.
Sam bent to collect his tailcoat. From the way it lay in the pile, he could see how his diary had slipped from its hold. Perhaps Miss Kingsley had found it on the floor, but now she put him in a precarious position. He couldn’t take the chance of being discovered. Not now.
“Blast it all!” he snarled.
“Excuse me?”
Sam pulled on his coat and sheathed his diary. He buttoned the coat up the front, his gaze never wavering from her lovely face.
“I assure you, Mr. White, much of what I read made no sense, and that which I did understand I shall keep to myself. You have my word.”
Her promise meant nothing to him at this moment. In one swooping motion, he took hold of the knife he kept hidden inside h
is left boot and slapped his palm over her mouth to prevent a scream. “Miss Kingsley, I’m afraid I must kill you.”
No fear entered her eyes. She merely nodded and peeled away his fingers. “Are you a spy?” Her whispered breath touched his cheek.
Sam wasn’t about to answer the question. He pushed her farther into the room.
“I would suggest killing me in that corner there.” She pointed toward a narrow alcove. “You can stuff my lifeless body beneath the writing desk. No one will even notice I’m gone…until, of course, the stench is overpowering.”
“Do you think this is a game?” One hand on her upper arm, Sam gave her a shake. “Do you think I’m playing here? I promise you, Miss Kingsley,” he sneered, “I am not!”
“I know. I can tell.” She still kept her voice low. “But might I ask, Mr. White, that you make it quick? I’m not afraid to die. I simply don’t want it to hurt.”
Sam caught the pleading light in her gray eyes. “You’re joking?”
“I’m not. Death is preferable to life as Major Nettles’s wife.” A faraway look entered her gaze. “In death I shall be reunited with my beloved parents and all the souls to whom we’ve had the privilege to minister.” Her eyelids fluttered closed. She inhaled deeply. “I’m ready.”
Holding the knife’s sharp blade near her throat, Sam found he couldn’t do the deed. Oddly, killing a woman who had no fear of death and one who actually wanted to die seemed to defeat the purpose.
Besides, he’d never killed anyone other than in self-defense. And never a woman!
Miss Kingsley peeked at him through one opened eye. “Hurry and do it before you’re discovered.”
Sam shoved the knife back into his boot, noting the obvious surprise then disappointment that wafted across her pretty features.
She stood wide-eyed now. “You’re not going to kill me?”
“No.” Sam released the breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. “Count yourself lucky.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“Blessed, then.” Had she said her father was a minister?
“Cursed, is more like it.” Her shoulders sank forward. “I’ve been pleading with the Lord to intervene in this fate worse than death called an engagement. I thought, by your murdering me, Jesus meant to take me to my heavenly home.”
“I trust you’ll forget anything you read and keep your mouth shut, or I shall have to reconsider.”
She said nothing, her gaze fixed on his face.
Prickles of guilt inched their way to Sam’s heart. Miss Kingsley’s misery was palpable. He exhaled audibly.
“On second thought…”
She cocked her head and regarded him.
“I shall take you with me.”
She snapped to attention. “To the colonies?”
“Shh!” Sam held his forefinger against his lips.
“To America?” she whispered this time. She took two steps toward him. “May I be a spy like you? I’d be a very good one. People say all manner of things around me because they don’t realize I’m paying attention—or that I’m even in the room.”
Sam worked the threatening smile off his lips. “How fast can you pack a valise?”
“In minutes. I own very little.”
Odd. Baron Kingsley was a wealthy man. Well, no matter…
“Gather your belongings in one bag—and only one. Do not let anyone see you. Meet me out in back by the carriages in ten minutes. If you’re caught, stash the bag and get yourself outside.”
She gave a nod to each command. “I’ll get right to it.”
Sam grabbed her upper arm as she attempted to pass. He gripped her harder than necessary…just in case she got the notion to turn on him. “Say nothing to no one or I’ll toss you into the sea. Do you understand?”
Finally a flicker of fear. “I understand.” She pressed her coral-pink lips together and the wayward thought of kissing her scampered across Sam’s brain.
Madness. Sheer madness! Had he been smart, he’d have killed her.
He let her go and she scurried from the room.
He kneaded his jaw and forced his mind back to reality. How in the world could he use this situation to his advantage and for his cause?
Chapter Three
Moira silently slipped into her bedchamber. A lamp flickered on the small table beside the bed. Her lady’s maid jumped up from the rocking chair and curtsyed.
“You may go, Betsy. I believe the rest of the household staff is enjoying some sweet treats in the kitchen. I shall call if I need you. Right now I wish to have some time to myself.”
The dark-haired maid replied with another dip. “Yes, ma’am.” She left the room.
Moira turned the lock on the door and quickly moved to the high wardrobe at the other end of the room. She found her tapestry-covered valise, set it on her bed, and pulled it open. Gathering her underthings from her wardrobe drawers, she stuffed them into the mouth of the hungry bag. Next she slipped a couple of her frocks from their hangers, rolled them up, then stuffed them into the valise. She packed a few special trinkets and, of course, her Bible, recalling the last time she was forced to pack quickly.
She’d been only ten years old, some eight years ago. Her parents received the notice from their church’s Missions Board: they would go to Uganda and minister to the villagers there.
But this was not ministry. This was escape.
Moira paused to consider her impending actions. Could she trust Mr. White? Did it matter? She’d welcome death, so any life had to be better than marriage to Major Nettles! Besides, Moira saw something in Mr. White’s azure gaze, a spark of candidness, so rare these days, and it won both her respect and trust.
Moira packed the rest of her belongings, making sure to take her stockings, her warmest wrap, and sturdy leather everyday booties which properly covered her ankles. Then, tying on a wide-brimmed hat and with a lighter shawl around her shoulders, her best slippers still on her feet, she quietly made her way down the servants’ stairwell in the back of her uncle’s manor. She could hear laughing wafting up from the kitchen. It was almost too easy. Within seconds, she was outside where carriages lined the drive.
The crisp snap-snap of two fingers claimed Moira’s attention. She stared in the direction from which they’d come. Mr. White stepped out of the shadows, took up her valise in one hand and clasped her elbow with the other.
“This way,” he whispered.
She followed him as they slipped in and around the parked carriages until they reached one that appeared to be a hired hackney coach. After tossing her bag up to the driver, Sam opened the door and helped Moira inside. He mumbled something to the driver before climbing in and closing the door. He sat on the bench beside her. Her bare forearm rubbed against the fabric of his frockcoat.
“We’re going around to the front to pick up Sir Nathaniel, so you might want to think up some tale as to why you’re sharing our hired hack this evening.” Mr. White leaned forward. “Since you asked to be a spy, consider this a test to prove your worthiness of the role.”
Moira lifted her chin. “I shan’t disappoint you.” She rummaged through her mind, back over the volumes she’d read recently—Shakespeare, Henry Fielding, Maria Edgeworth, Fanny Burney, and Daniel Defoe. What would the pirate Captain Singleton do in such a situation?
By the time Sir Nathaniel strutted to the coach, she’d decided the less she said the better.
The professor climbed inside. “Why, Miss Kingsley,” he declared as he sat opposite her and Mr. White. “What on earth are you doing in here?”
“Shh…” She placed a gloved finger against her lips. “It’s a surprise for Major Nettles.”
“A surprise?” Several moments of laden silence lapsed. Moira held her breath. At last, Sir Nathaniel broke into laughter. “A surprise! Of course. Oh, my dear girl, I just adore surprises.”
The coachman closed the door and, with a slight jerk, they were off.
She sat back and smil
ed, her gaze bouncing to her American companion. “Thank goodness Mr. White agreed to help me, or I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”
Sir Nathaniel chuckled some more. “Tell me…what is the surprise?”
She pulled her chin back in mock insult. “I won’t say. Why, that would ruin everything.”
“Of course. Of course.” He dissolved into more laughter and leaned forward to slap Mr. White’s knee several times. “Imagine that. A surprise.”
“Imagine that.” He gave Moira a slight jab. Looking her way, he rolled his eyes, causing her to giggle softly.
Thank God Sir Nathanial is in good humor tonight. One catastrophe averted. Hopefully no more would follow.
After some twenty minutes of polite chitchat, they reached Sir Nathaniel’s quarters. Mr. White promised to see Moira back home and pay the driver for the hack. The older man was pleased with the plan and whistled all the way to his front entrance.
Mr. White swung himself across the way and took the vacated place opposite her. He leaned back against the bench and churned out a long sigh. “The man is particularly affable after a few glasses of rum and good food in his belly.”
“And did I pass my first test?”
“Yes, and I congratulate you on your quick thinking.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me.” Moira hid her wide smile by focusing on the passing scene outside the window. Lamplights glowed at front entrances and people strolled along the streets, mostly men.
“Surely you have heard better compliments than that.”
“Nay, I have not. My parents didn’t believe in what they called puffing me up with vain words, but I always knew when they approved or disapproved, by their expressions.”
“I find that quite sad.”
“What, that flattery leads to vanity and pride?” Moira shrugged. “It’s true, and it’s been many a good woman’s downfall.”
“Name one.”
“Queen Marie Antoinette.”
“Hmm…”
“She lived a life where those closest to her fueled her pride to the point where she couldn’t see her people’s needs, couldn’t hear their cries as they starved in the streets.”
Give Me Thine Heart: A Novella Page 2
