Scarlet RIbbons

by Judith E. French

  A flurry of shots rang out from the tavern, lighter gunfire interspersed with musket shots. Without thinking, Sarah sprang up and ran toward the building. There was a crash of overturning benches and a man's scream. She dashed into the front entranceway of the tavern.

  Men lay around the public room like broken dolls. At the far doorway, Forest staggered to his feet and stood staring at a man on the floor. The hilt of a hunting knife protruded from the sailor's chest. The only sound in the room was the harsh rasp of Forest's breathing.

  He turned to face her, fists clenched, features contorted into a hard gray mask. Slowly, the mask crumbled. He wiped his hands on his buckskin breeches and took a step in her direction. "Sarah?"

  "Forest!" she cried. Without knowing how or why, she was in his arms and he was raining kisses over her face and lips. Her arms locked around his neck and tightened, pulling him ever closer.

  She was weeping now, crying so hard she couldn't see his face . . . could only feel his strong arms around her . . . his lips against her own. And within those arms she felt safe. "Hold me," she begged. "Hold me."

  "Sarah . . . Sarah," he murmured into her hair. "I told you to stay put. You could have been killed."

  "I . . . I was afraid you—"

  His mouth covered hers again . . . tenderly. Sarah's world tilted as she let herself be swept up in the sweet joy of being held . . . of being safe. She knew she was returning his kisses. She knew when her lips parted to allow him even deeper, sweeter kisses. She knew she was pressing against him, behaving in a way no decent married woman ever did, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the release of shattering emotion . . . the feel of his body next to hers.

  It was Forest who came to his senses first, pushing her gently away and shaking his head. "Sarah," he said raggedly. "If we don't stop now, there'll be no stopping."

  Trembling, she stepped back. What had she done? Reality filtered through the dream. "I didn't—" she began.

  "No. Don't say anything," he protested. "You're still in shock. If there's fault to be found, Sarah, the fault is mine."

  Her name was a caress on his lips.

  Sarah buried her face in her hands and took a deep breath. Raising her eyes, she found it was easier to look at the fallen men around her than at Forest. The tears dried on her cheeks, but her thoughts tumbled in confusion. "Are . . . are they all dead?" she ventured. There was no movement, and the air was thick with the awful smell of death.

  "God, I hope they're dead. I'd hate to have to kill them all over again." He motioned toward the kitchen. "Why don't you wash your face or . . . Hell, do anything. I'll get this carrion out of here. There's no need for you to—"

  "I'm not made of spun sugar," Sarah said. "We'll do what needs doing faster if we do it together."

  Forest gave her a long, hard look. "Are you certain? Women aren't meant—"

  "Aren't meant for what?" Her shoulders stiffened and her gray eyes narrowed warningly. "Aren't meant to see what happens in war?" Anger lent passion to her words. "Aye, men make the wars, I'll give you that. But who suffers the most from fire and rape and lost loved ones? Who washes the dead and lays them out for burial? 'Tis women who weep and suffer. Damn this useless war, and damn the men who wanted it. We had peace in the colonies until a few scurvy outlaws took it in their heads to rebel against their rightful king and country."

  "It's not my war," Forest lied. "I'd no part in starting the trouble."

  "No? You—" A faint whimpering caught Sarah's attention, and she turned toward it. "Flirt?" She flung herself down on her knees and took the hound's head in her lap. The bitch's eyelids flickered as the animal drew in an agonizing breath. "She's not dead!" Sarah cried. "She's alive!"

  Forest knelt beside the wounded dog and examined the bullet wound. There were two holes, proving that the slug had passed in and out. Despite the great loss of blood and possible broken ribs, the dog was conscious and breathing. Gently, he ran his hands over Flirt's hindquarters and belly, looking for further injuries.

  Something soft nudged against Forest's arm, and he glanced down to see a puppy. He picked it up and placed it next to the hound's head.

  Sarah's hopeful gaze locked with Forest's. "Does she have a chance?"

  He shook his head. "I don't know," he answered truthfully.

  "Do you think we can move her? If you can lay her by the kitchen hearth, it will be easier to tend to the wound. The water's close, and my medicinal herbs."

  "Fetch a blanket."

  Sarah hurried to bring one from the common sleeping quarters upstairs. Together, they raised the hound a little at a time and slid the blanket under her. Forest was able to drag her into the kitchen on the blanket. The wound began to seep blood, but the flow was less than it might have been if he'd tried to carry the animal.

  "I can manage from here," Sarah said. "You can take care of them." She motioned toward the public room.

  "Aye. My first thought was to strip them naked and toss them into the river, but there's no sense in dirty'n' the river. There's a place in the woods where lightning felled a big oak. The hole beneath the roots will do for a common grave, and it will be a lot easier to fill in than to dig."

  "Shouldn't we do something about the boat they came in?" Sarah asked shrewdly. "And be certain you hold your tongue. I want no word of what passed here to become public knowledge. Tavern keepers are all suspected of being murderers and robbers. I'll face no murder trial for protecting myself against the likes of this scum."

  "I agree. I'll set the boat loose. They likely stole it downstream. With luck, the owners will find it."

  "If they're still alive." Sarah lost no time in gathering her healing supplies. She stirred soft lye soap into a basin of warm water, washed her own hands and face thoroughly, replaced the water, and began to clean the wounds in the hound's side.

  Forest paused by the door, watching her. Sarah was so intent on the dog she seemed to have forgotten he was in the room. Once again he was struck by the uniqueness of this particular woman.

  Sarah had survived an attack and ensuing bloodshed that would have sent most women hysterically to their beds. She had been thrown from a mortally wounded horse and faced musket and pistol fire that would have daunted many professional soldiers. She'd fallen into his arms with all the fervor of a passionate woman, and now, just as quickly, had dismissed him as haughtily as she would a bond servant.

  Wearily, Forest turned back toward the unpleasant task of disposing of the bodies. He wondered if Sarah suspected he was working for the Patriot army. He would have to provide solid answers to the questions he knew she would ask if he wanted to keep his true identity a secret any longer.

  The kisses he had exchanged with Sarah bothered him more than he would like to admit. There was no doubt in Forest's mind that Sarah wanted him as much as he wanted her. And he did want her. That much was certain. Sarah was a beautiful, desirable woman, and under other circumstances he might have pursued the relationship vigorously.

  Two things stood in the way. The first was the war. He was a soldier, sworn to serve Washington and the Patriot cause unto death, and Sarah was a staunch Loyalist. He had come to King's Landing to spy on her and her family, not to fall in love with her. The captain had reminded him that Sarah Turner was the enemy. Logically, Forest knew that. The trouble was, she was like no enemy he had ever faced before.

  The second reason was that Sarah was a married woman. Forest had done things in his life that he was ashamed of—he supposed every man had. But he believed in the sacred bonds of marriage, and had never, to his knowledge, betrayed another man by making love to his wife.

  Chad had never been bothered by such niceties of moral conduct. He had cut a wide swath among the married ladies of Philadelphia. He'd even fought a duel with one beauty's husband, a duel that both men, thankfully, survived unscathed.

  Forest's reluctance to take advantage of the oft-offered charms of married ladies earned him a good-natured teasing from Chad. "It's the way o
f the world, brother," Chad had insisted. "You're hopelessly naive if you don't realize everyone does it."

  Perhaps it was this naïveté of Forest's that had made Diane's betrayal all the more painful. He hadn't expected it of her, regardless of their marital problems. He had never expected her to take his son and flee Chesterworth with another man.

  He tried to remember Diane and was surprised that the memories no longer hurt. There was a sadness, some regret, but nothing more.

  I came close to making a cuckold of Sarah's husband today, Forest thought, as he dragged yet another body toward the woods. Am I any better than the Tory bastard who took Diane and my son away from me?

  Forest sighed as he glanced across the yard at the dead horse. Damn if the place didn't look like a battleground. He'd fought in battles before, but he'd never had to clean up after them. It gave a man pause to think. "A horse, a cow, and five men—thank God I don't have to bury the cow."

  ~~~

  It was long past dark when Forest finished the worst of the task. He'd strung up the cow on the butchering rack and dug a grave for the horse where it lay. The night would be cool enough to keep the beef from spoiling. He was filthy and dead tired, and his leg ached.

  Sarah had been busy scrubbing the blood from the wood floor in the public room when he carried out the last man. She'd stopped long enough to tell him the dog seemed to be holding her own.

  There on her knees scrubbing, her braids knotted on top of her head, her coarse homespun skirts hiked up around her, Sarah Turner had looked every inch a lady of quality. Her fine-boned features and her graceful movements seemed more fitted for an elegant drawing room than the drudgery of a tavern.

  Sarah's image haunted him through the hours of backbreaking digging. It haunted him now as he stripped off his clothing and dove into the Misakaak to wash away the blood and grime.

  The water was cold, but it felt wonderful. It cleared his head and eased the dull throb in his bad leg. He swam into the slow current and let himself sink to the clean bottom, running his hands through his hair and using the sand to clean his palms and forearms.

  When he surfaced, Sarah was standing on the bank in the moonlight. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and he noticed that she had changed to a different gown and apron.

  "I've brought you clean clothes," she said simply. "They're Obediah's, so they'll be loose on you. I'll see what I can do about your stuff tomorrow. If your buckskins aren't properly cleaned, they'll be ruined."

  Forest clamped a hand over one eye. "Leave the eye patch," he called. "I've no wish to frighten you or the boy." He was certain his face and upper body were in shadow.

  "After what has passed this day, do you think I can be disgusted by so small a thing as a missing eye?" Her voice was clear and steady.

  Ah, Sarah, he thought as his pulse quickened. Why couldn't we have met before this war began . . . before you and Obediah . . .

  "Well, are you going to stay in there until your male parts freeze and fall off? I've stew in the pot and white-flour biscuits. Come to the kitchen and eat. The Lord knows you've earned a hot meal." Sarah settled her hands on her shapely hips and smiled mischievously at him.

  Forest felt his skin flush hot against the cold water. "Get you to the kitchen, woman! Or at least have the decency to turn your back."

  She laughed. "I never thought you to be shy. I am a married woman and a mother. I've seen men without their breeches before," she teased.

  "You're neither my wife nor my mother," he shouted. "But if you were my wife, I'd teach you manners where strange men are concerned."

  Still laughing, she gathered up his soiled buckskins and started up the path toward the house.

  "Sarah!"

  She stopped and turned her head.

  He waded out of the water, still in the shadows of the overhanging trees. "What happened before . . . " he began, "between us . . . "

  "Nothing happened," she said. Quickly, she hurried up the rise.

  Oh, but it did, his heart answered. God help us both, woman . . . but it did.

  Chapter Nine

  Flesh Calls to Flesh

  Sarah rose from her bed, threw on a linen shift and a cloak against the chill October night, and went outside. The brilliant orange harvest moon was already low in the sky; the stars were fading. Soon dawn would creep over the eastern horizon.

  The farmyard was quiet, the stable still. With a pang of sorrow, she remembered that her cow was dead and she'd have no milking to do this morning.

  The ground was cold beneath her thin leather shoes, and Sarah shivered, pulling the cloak closer. She had not slept. Even after Forest had eaten his stew and gone to his bed in the stable, she sat beside Flirt on the tavern kitchen floor, rubbing the hound's head, fondling the pups, and thinking.

  She and Forest had exchanged few words while he ate. Her questions about where he had been and what he had done since he left King's Landing in August went unasked and unanswered. She had known that asking would be futile; whatever answers Forest gave her would probably be lies.

  The questions echoed in her mind as she walked across the yard and stood on the bank of the river. Who was Forest and what did he want of her? Had he been sent by the sheriff to investigate Obediah's death?

  She shrugged off the foolish notion. The only witness to Obediah's burial had been a bond servant, and that man was long gone. He had run away. With a broken indenture over his head, Roman Cough would be the last man to have dealings with the authorities.

  Could Forest be a Patriot spy? She chuckled at the thought. A lonely ferry crossing such as King's Landing would be the last place for a spy. Nothing worthwhile ever happened here. What would a spy possibly want with her? It was no secret that she was loyal to King George; everyone knew it for miles around.

  Unless . . . Sarah sat on the edge of the dock and drew her knees up to her chest. Had Forest come to spy on Isaac and his men?

  Uneasiness stirred within her. Isaac was an evil man, no better than a criminal. The rebellion was only an excuse for him to prey upon the weak and unguarded. She had long suspected that Isaac might be a part of the Tory outlaws who terrorized the Eastern Shore, but she had thought her speculations were rooted in her own fear and dislike of her brother-in-law.

  Isaac was a braggart and a bully. He regularly stole pigs and chickens from outlying farms and picked fights with guests at the tavern. Even before Obediah had gone away to fight the rebels, Sarah had heard Isaac boast about burning a man's barn in Sussex County to settle a quarrel. But none of those acts made him a murderer.

  Obediah had told her that Isaac was receiving money from the British authorities to hire Loyalist troops and purchase arms. As lazy as Sarah knew Isaac to be, it was possible that forming and maintaining a band of mercenaries at the Crown's expense was the extent of his violent activities.

  If Isaac was the man behind the raids . . . Sarah drew in a deep, shuddering breath. There had been a series of rapes and murders on isolated plantations up and down the peninsula in the last two years. Travelers had been found beside the trail, their throats cut and pockets empty. Homes and barns had been burned, livestock driven off or simply butchered. Sometimes the victims were rebel sympathizers, but just as often they were Loyalists.

  A rooster crowed and Sarah jumped. She was letting her imagination run away with her. War always attracted human scavengers. Blaming her brother-in-law for the acts of all the outlaws prowling the Eastern Shore was senseless.

  Sarah wiggled her fingers and rubbed her hands together against the cold. Isaac was a loathsome toad and a petty thief, but he was no monster, capable of murdering his neighbors. She ignored the warning voice in the back of her mind. "I'm as full of fancies as an English tutor," she murmured under her breath.

  It was safer to mind her own business where Isaac was concerned . . . safer to not think about what he did or where he went.

  "And Forest is no better than I thought at first," she added. "A deserter from one of the armie
s. He came upon King's Landing by accident, and now that he's here, he thinks he's found a good place to hide out the war. If I try to make more of Forest than what he is, it's to ease my own guilt at having these unsettling feelings for him."

  Idly, she picked up a stone and tossed it into the dark water. The stone sank without a sound.

  "I don't know what you want of me," she whispered, "but I know what I want from you." A shiver of excitement passed through her as Sarah realized what she had just said. I don't care, she thought passionately. I don't care who you are. I want you to make love to me. I want to feel—

  The urgent clanging of the bell on the far side of the river startled her. Sarah jumped to her feet and took hold of the worn bell rope at the dock, giving it a few hard tugs. The bell on the other side rang again, letting her know that the ferry passengers had heard her answering signal.

  Quickly, Sarah hurried back to her cabin. She wasn't properly dressed to receive guests.

  Forest's solid form appeared in the stable entrance wearing Obediah's old clothing. He had belted in the ample waist of the breeches, but she noticed with some surprise that Forest's broad shoulders nearly filled Obediah's shirt. The sleeves were rolled to Forest's elbows, despite the morning's chill, and over the shirt he wore a deerskin vest. His curling auburn hair hung loose about his neck, and the black eye patch was rakishly in place, making him look more pirate than tavern servant.

  "Sarah, you're up." His intense gaze locked with hers, and his smile made her heart skip a beat. "I heard the bells. I'll take the ferry across," he offered, "and pick up whoever's waiting."

  "All right." She stopped and gave him a fleeting smile in return. Her face felt flushed, and suddenly she felt breathless, as though she had been running uphill. "I'll . . . I'll start breakfast in case they want to eat," she stammered. Even her tongue betrayed her. She was acting like a love-struck girl. "We can offer fresh beef," she said ruefully.