by Susan Ward
~~~
Merry came awake slowly to the sound of rain, the heaviness of something around her, and the feeling of something moving slowly beneath her cheek. With disbelieving senses, she realized Morgan had returned in the night, the warmth beneath the sheets came from his body, and the movement beneath her cheek was his chest as he breathed.
Alarmed with herself, she pulled quickly back from him, slipping free of the arm that held her. Climbing from the bed, she took several steps away before she turned back to look at him.
She wondered if the day would ever come when she could look at him without feeling heat rise through her body. He was a beautiful man when the softness of sleep held his face, and she wondered what it would feel like to lay at his side and feel him slowly stir. Brushing her suddenly warm cheeks with icy fingers, she wondered what was wrong with her this day, indulging, what was at best, dangerous fantasies.
A quiet knock on the door sent Merry to find a serving girl. Her manner was friendly, a little overly curious of Merry, and definitely overly curious over Morgan’s slumbering magnificence. But, practical and of sturdy service, she set a large breakfast tray on the table and quickly went to stoke the fire.
Giving Merry a smile, she slipped out through the door with a careful turn of the knob, obviously trying not to wake the Captain. The girl succeeded in making Morgan roll over in bed and he lie now in her spot left vacant.
Taking advantage of Morgan’s sleep, Merry dressed in a cameo-pink satin dress. Cursing herself a fool, she took out the ribbon and, after a thorough brushing, tied back her hair with it. And then to her further exasperation, she pulled out a dainty pair of beaded slippers, never worn, and delicately made calfskin gloves.
The full-length glass showed her the subtly elegant details of the back of the gown, how it hugged her hips and interestingly swayed with her moves. The gown was highly stylish and flattering in every way, and she couldn’t make reason of why she had finally tried it on, on a day like today.
Of all the clothes he had bought her in Bermuda—and it was an impressive wardrobe, and she could not have selected a single gown half as well as he—it was the simpler gowns she preferred and always wore. The gown in cameo-pink was unlike her, but more unlike her was the pleasure she felt in knowing she looked pretty.
Curling in a chair at the table, she poured a cup of tea and began to pick at her breakfast. They were a day’s ride from Richmond. What would become of her there?
Almost in concert with her thoughts, Morgan woke. He rose from the bed and, while she noted he still thankfully wore his breeches, regrettably he was shirtless. Sucking in her breath, she tried not to stare, and tried equally hard to remain composed as he crossed the room to join her at the table.
He said, “Good, I see you’ve dressed.”
Whatever Morgan thought of finding her at the table garbed thusly, did not reveal itself on his face. For some reason, that caused her temper to flare. She snapped, “There was not much to delay me and I seem to have no choice but to travel on with you.”
Morgan gave her a small smile for that. “There is always a choice, Little One. Life is nothing if not endless choices. The question is which choice one makes and where it will take them.”
Ignoring that insight, Merry found herself foolishly saying, “You were very late last night.” Why had she said that to him? Trying to recover from that quickly, she added, “Were you not concerned, even a little, if left so long alone I would run?”
His grin told her he was not. “I played cards until nearly morning. And did more than my share of drinking.”
Her gaze lifted to him then, wide and flashing of memory. “Then I should consider myself lucky to have been left undisturbed in your bed.”
The way Morgan’s eyes bore into her made her tremble. “Indeed, you should. You are a vision when you sleep.” His compliment ran her like a caress. He dropped his gaze back to his plate and continued with his meal. “You look very beautiful today, Little One. The perfect image of my wife. You are becoming quite adept at my fictions.”
That did not settle well upon Merry, since she more than half suspected she had gowned herself to do exactly that. She couldn’t imagine why she participated so willingly in this game of his.
As they continued their journey to Richmond, inside the carriage there was silence. This time Morgan sat opposite of her. Merry could feel his eyes on her, but his face was relaxed and his posture unrevealing. She focused on the quickly passing landscape.
He seemed content with the silence and to look at her, though why that should comfort her female heart instead of distress it was a mystery. The silence between them was a pleasant thing, even with the uncertainty of her fate and the burn of his eyes upon her. How odd it was they could sit in a silence that was comfortable, and yet she could feel every part of him through her senses.
Fiction this may be, but it was dangerously so; like those French romance novels she used to read that bespoke the flow of love entrapping a woman both in heart and physically.
To feel the touch of a man not touching her; she had thought that foolish fantasy. But she could feel Morgan now, as surely as if his hands were on her. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she chanced another glance at him. Even now she felt him in her flesh, when he was asleep.
The carriage rumbled on and she took turns watching the scenery and Morgan. It was afternoon when Merry first saw Richmond. The bells of St. John’s Episcopal Church were a brilliant thunder that joined the patriotic sounds of celebration that had at its center a parade.
Watching a marching procession of Virginia Militia, she wondered if peace with Great Britain had at last been declared. There was an untamed vigor to the celebration, and she could think of no greater reason than peace to find this festivity here.
The carriage sputtered along the crowded street, and Merry turned her face from the window and asked, “Do you think there is at last peace?”
“No, Little One. I am quite sure the war has not ended.”
Merry paused to study him, wondering why the very obviously British Morgan had all but transformed himself into an American. This was more than one of his clever fiction. This was part of the man. This was where he lived. Who he was by choice, not birth. But why here and where was he taking her? What was his purpose in this?
She asked, “Are we almost to your home?”
“No. It is another half day’s ride from the city.”
They passed a wagon with a press, the printers working with quick movements to make broadsides. Noting her interest, Morgan tapped the carriage ceiling and then sent the aged servant to collect one.
As he watched her study the handbill, he laughed. “You do realize that your father would consider this treason,” he warned, with a grin, before he ordered the driver to continue on.
It was an ode about the British, more cleverly and harshly worded than the rhymes of her radical friends. But it expressed the same sentiment which could be found among the English young of her political mindset.
“It is not treason to want equality. Not even in England,” Merry said spiritedly.
Morgan’s smile was tender and amused. “Still, I would not save that for Kate.”
That statement packed a double punch that made Merry look up to study him. First, it was remarkable to Merry that he remembered her cousin Kate. Second, there was the suggestion that she would see her cousin again.
He had never done that before today, given her hope that she’d be returned to her family. On Isla del Viento, he had told her he would never release her. Her anxious eyes searched his face, but all he gave her was a small, enigmatic grin.
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of an inn. It seemed they were staying at least one night in the city. As he guided her through the noisy, shoving throng, she realized he had many friends here. Captain Devereux was a respected and well-known man. Eyes followed him as he moved through the crowd, and women turned their heads to openly stare at him.
T
his establishment was far more elegant and crowded than the carriage stop had been. Before they reached the stairs, Morgan was hailed by a serious looking portly man who, Merry soon learned, was a representative of the Virginia legislature.
After a quick introduction of her as Captain Devereaux’s wife, the man paid her no notice at all. He launched into a lengthy discourse about the increasing oppression of the British blockade, and those idiots in Washington who had started this damn war, without a thought for the hapless American merchants.
That led to an inquiry of what kind of cargo Captain Devereaux had run in. It seemed even a man of the Government could be flexible with his patriotism when his wife’s wants were at stake. English muslin, English tea, coffee and sugar from the Indies. He was in the market for all, if Morgan had in his cargo run through the blockade those precious luxuries too difficult to find of late.
After several minutes, Morgan handed her off to a maid, who took Merry upstairs to their room while Morgan continued below in his discourse with the American. In their room Merry found hot food waiting in a luxurious bedchamber.
She had finished her meal and was standing by the window when Morgan joined her. He came up beside her, brushing back the lace under curtains. “That’s the James River you’re staring at,” he informed her. “They say it resembles the Thames. I do not see it.”
There was something strange in his voice she couldn’t make reason of. She stared at the river. “It does resemble the Thames. You need to look with more than your eyes to see it.” Turning to face him, she asked, “Are you an American? It that how you manage this so brilliantly? Because it is no fiction at all?”
“Don’t work so hard to put the pieces together, Merry. I am what I am. I make a small fortune running in goods here. Most of the parts of any man lead back to coin. Would you like to go walk in the city? You seem quite captivated by what you see here.”
Morgan’s tone was without censure, his gaze warmly amused, and Merry cautioned herself it would serve her not at all if she continued to follow whichever way he pulled her.
She glanced at the crowd beneath the window. The right thing, on every account, would be to refuse to go with him. Why couldn’t she force the words through her lips?
Merry could feel him watching her and she glanced back up at him. It was an error to do so. He read her mind with effortless precision, took her hand, and before she could answer him they were off.
A few moments passed, angry with him in her mind, before she was outdoors and immediately pulled into another adventure she had warned herself to resist.
It was thrilling to be in America and surrounded by her people. Far away the war had raged for England, but here these robust people were at the center of it. It showed on their faces, in their carriage, their vigor, and in the determination they seemed to do each thing.
It surprised Merry how the business of living carried on robustly here. The street sounds were spiced of political rants in an array of opinions that would never have been tolerated, even in England. Patriotic demonstrations, had the sidewalks spotted with puppet shows of political satire aimed at President Madison, and criticism of the great lady across the sea. The affluent walked briskly with those less fortunate, carrying on in spite of the struggles the war had brought to their country. If England thought they had killed the American spirit, with their hardships and oppression, England had thought wrong.
Merry was lost in the pleasure of it all before she could stop herself. Grabbing Morgan’s hand without thinking, she dragged him along with her. Everything came to her new and different. She chatted gaily with shopkeepers. She tried on preposterous bonnets and laughed at herself. She asked a hundred questions, listened raptly to each answer, and was as greedy to learn as much as she could about the world here.
She was charmed by everything and charmed everyone in the process. Morgan stood back and simply watched her, sometimes making a nod to a shopkeeper when he noted the change in her eyes, which betrayed she wanted something, and made a gesture to his servant to pay. Her eyes were sparkling, her smile wide, and every man on the street watched captivated by her.
Shortly before dusk, Morgan reminded himself he’d drawn out the afternoon too long. He had business to attend in Richmond this day, and he would have to leave her, at least for a while, in the servant’s care.
He crossed the store to where Merry sat on the floor enthusiastically examining books. He lowered until he was at eye level with her. Laughing, he noted it was a picture book for children she was studying with such rapt fascination.
He said, “What have you here, Little One?” He lifted the book from her hands.
Merry’s smile was glowing. “That is the same book my brother gave me for my birthday that caused me to stow away to America at nine.” Laughing and shaking her head, she said, “I cannot believe I found a copy here.”
Morgan thumbed through the pages. “It’s a wonder you wanted to see Indians with how they depicted them in this. Brutal and savage.”
Merry’s smile only grew larger. “I wanted to see everything. I was a curious child.”
Morgan touched her cheek. “What makes you think you’ve changed, my dear?” He handed the book back to her. “I am going to have to leave you in the care of Pitt. I have an appointment I cannot delay any longer. Behave yourself, Little One. I do not think causing mischief with a Shawnee Indian will result in a pleasant fate.”
For the first time, Merry noticed the man standing obediently inside the doorway. He was dressed in strange kind of leather pant and shoe, his torso covered by a plain white shirt. He had tree-trunk size arms crossed over his chest, and was even taller than Morgan. He was dark of skin in a way that told her the hue was not of the sun but natural. He was bald and heavy of facial features and stared right at her without smile or softening of lips.
Stared at her and through her, was Merry’s impression of those sharp dark eyes. Shawnee Indian? How could she have missed him? She had not noticed him once this day, but he hadn’t materialized out of thin air and he was indeed watching her in an imposing, diligent way.
Merry shifted her gaze back to Morgan. Trying to sound casual about everything, she said, “I’ve never seen a Shawnee before. Is he to be my jailor now?”
Morgan’s smile was amused. “Only until my return. And you have it backwards, Little One. He is to make sure no one steals you from me.” He tapped her on the nose playfully and left her.
Gnawing on her lower lip, she tried to recapture her enjoyments of the books. It was hard to do knowing Pitt was there. She looked at him. Her cautiousness of him was exceeded by her curiosity. She motioned for him to come to her. Nothing changed on his face, she stared at him, motioned again, and then he came to her.
She asked, “Are you really Shawnee?”
Silence. Perhaps he did not speak English. Then, he made a nod.
“And you work for the Captain?”
A short, “Yes.”
“What do you do for him?”
No answer. It was then the shopkeeper noticed Pitt deep in his store. Frantic and angry, he crossed the room as he exclaimed, “I don’t care whose Indian you are. You know the rules. No farther than the doorway.”
Merry sprang to her feet. “You will not talk to Mr. Pitt that way. I thought this was a country of equality and freedom.”
That turned the shopkeeper’s unpleasant focus on her. “British, are you? If you want to preach equality and freedom you should see your bloody ships from our waters and this blasted war of yours at an end. Now get from my store. I don’t tolerate British whores any more than I tolerate Shawnee.”
Merry’s eyes rounded with fury, and she swung her arm to slap him. He caught it rudely in midair. A moment passed, humiliating and ugly, before Merry said on a fierce voice, “Unhand me, sir. Or you will rue the day you dared to touch me.”
He gave her a hard shake. “And get from my shop or I will turn you over my knee.”
He released her arm and Merry jerk
ed it back, having to fight not to rub the burn of her skin. Lifting her chin, she looked at Pitt. “Come, Mr. Pitt. I have no desire to stay in this shop.”
Pitt’s impassive expression did not change, not even when she placed a hand atop his arm. Behind her she heard, “Crazy British girl. You’ll see what good comes from being nice to Indians. Think he’s your friend, do you? I’m sure the men of the River Raisin Massacre could teach you otherwise, if there were one left alive to tell the tale.”
Compassion fought the keen smart of disillusionment, once safely from the shop. Merry released the arm she realized she had been clutching for support, looked up at the regal Shawnee and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Pitt. That was my fault.”
Pitt said nothing. She started to walk again, and he retained a respectful step behind her. The glow of the day was gone, and she had no idea where to go. She was about to turn to ask Pitt if he knew where the inn was, when she heard a voice calling, “Miss. Miss, please wait.”
Merry turned to see a woman, blond and beautifully buxom, closing in on her.
“You’ll have to forgive William,” she said anxiously. “His son was killed in the massacre of River Raisin. It has made him a bitter man.”
“That does not give him license to be rude,” Merry stated cautiously.
“You’re British. You cannot understand all the hardships of this war on our people.”
“Perhaps not. But does that make me any more responsible for the actions of my government than you? What will it serve any of us to blame each other? I do not think that will further the cause of peace.”
“True words. True words,” the woman agreed, though her annoyance was only mildly concealed. “You are very passionate about your politics for one so young. I am Regina Wells and you are?”
Backed into a corner, Merry had no choice but to participate in the farce Morgan had forced upon her. “Merry Devereaux,” she informed stiffly.
“Devereaux? I was not aware the Captain had married.”
And before Merry could stop her, the blond looped an arm through hers and began guiding her down the street toward the inn. “You must tell me everything over tea, Mrs. Devereaux.”
