by Laura Frantz
“I’ve heard what British soldiers and Indians do to Patriot posts,” she murmured, passing it back to him.
“I’ll not let them take Fort Endeavor,” he said, crumpling the handbill in his fist and tossing it into the fire. “I’ll meet them in the middle ground, army to army, to spare as much settlement blood as possible.”
“When?”
“As soon as we’re able. I’m waiting for reinforcements, if they materialize, which I doubt. If they don’t come, we’ll march regardless. If we succeed in overrunning them in the middle ground, we’ll move on to Detroit.”
She turned to look at him again, and it seemed an icy hand gripped her heart. “It sounds . . . ambitious.”
“Aye.”
Knotting her handkerchief in her lap, she tried to make sense of what she could only call a sickening premonition. There were but two hundred men at Fort Endeavor, yet countless British and Indians in the middle ground. She saw an empty chair across from her and felt suffocated by such a sense of loss that she bit her lip to keep herself in check. If he went, her heart and head insisted, he wouldn’t come back . . .
He studied her, every angle of his face taut. “I will tell you this. It’s one thing to face an honorable enemy but another thing to deal with cutthroats and savages. Liam McLinn has earned the nickname of Lucifer by shooting men in the back. That is what I’m up against, and that is why I’ve been holed up in this house trying to forget.”
“Trying to forget how dismal your odds of winning are, you mean?”
“Aye, to put it bluntly.”
They fell into a sore silence, one she longed to mend but couldn’t. From the hall she could hear Hank’s soft tread as he climbed the stairs.
“I’d best go,” she said, though she didn’t want to. She felt at home here, away from the filth of the fort. She couldn’t blame him for seeking refuge in this house, though she abhorred his drinking.
He said a bit more gently, “Your father was often in this room. It seems right having you here.”
“Bella will wonder if I tarry.”
“Let her wonder, Roxie. Let them all wonder.” His tone was so mellow, so inviting, she felt her dilemma play plainly across her face. “I won’t offer you a drink, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Her eyes drifted to the brandy decanter on a far table, drained of all but an inch of amber liquid. “Perhaps a cup of tea.”
He got up and disappeared out the door, shutting it soundly behind him. The idea of him—so often brusque and stern and commanding—fetching anything lightened the heavy mood of moments before and almost made her smile. She ignored the nagging bite of warning that bade her go. She should leave now, before he returned. Yet this inviting room and all its amenities begged her to stay. There was no denying she was hungry for companionship. Comfort. Beauty. Surely there was no harm in lingering a while longer.
25
A delicious anticipation spread through her once she yielded. Free to look about, she let her eyes trace every lovely line of the room, from the intricate stitching in the floral carpet beneath her feet to the rich ivory curtains at the casement windows. Blue walls, she noted. A rich, Williamsburg blue.
The door opened, and Hank appeared, bearing a tray with a thistle cup and saucer that matched the one in her cabin, as well as a plump porcelain teapot and a dizzying assortment of tea. Hyson. Singlo. Sassafras. Mint. Even a pitcher of cream, a sugar bowl, a dainty silver spoon—and a plate of Bella’s beaten biscuits.
“Would you like anything else, Miz Roxanna?” Hank asked as he moved the tilt-top table nearer and set the tray where the handbill had lain.
She smiled up at him, thinking how pleased he looked to have her here, his furrowed face melting into relaxed lines. She felt equally delighted. “Oh, this is wonderful, Hank. Nothing more, thank you.”
Truly, she felt like a fine lady sitting in some fancy Virginia drawing room—or in a safer, more hospitable Kentucke years from now, when the war had been won and the Indian threat had lessened.
“The colonel’ll be back shortly,” he said, going to a corner chest and withdrawing a cribbage board and cards. These he placed on a second table. Seeing her surprise, he added, “Your papa was fond of playin’ games in this room. He gave the colonel this here board right before—” He broke off and shot her an apologetic glance. “Right before that last campaign.”
She took the cribbage board wonderingly, its polished lines all too familiar with its ivory pegs and Patriot markings.
“I think it’d please your pa to no end if he could see you here beatin’ the breeches off the colonel like he sometimes did,” Hank murmured.
“Is the colonel any good?”
He grinned. “He and your pa used to go round and round and stay up half the night tryin’ to outdo each other. And if memory serves, he said somethin’ ’bout teachin’ his daughter to play as good as he did.”
“But I haven’t played in years. Not since Papa’s last leave.”
“I bet it’ll come right back to you—and it’ll surely put a smile on the colonel’s face. Mebbe make him forget all ’bout his achin’ head.”
Head or heart? she wondered. The door opened again, and Cass came in just as Hank let himself out. She kept her eyes on her steaming tea, stirring in cream and sugar, her heart doing absurd palpitations in her chest as he rounded the chair and sat opposite her again.
He eyed the cribbage board and playing cards. “Was this your idea or Hank’s?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, looking up, unable to stop a smile from stealing over her face at the sight of him.
Though still in shirtsleeves, he wore fresh, pressed linen, and his combed hair had been returned to its customary queue. His face was clean shaven and smelled of bergamot, not brandy. She was glad he’d taken time to do these things, yet any gentleman should clean up in feminine company. And since she was the sole female present . . .
“Do you want to play cribbage, Roxie?”
No, I want you to lean over this cribbage board and kiss me.
Unbidden, the bold thought seemed to leap between them and make itself known. He was looking at her so intently she almost squirmed under his scrutiny.
“Only if you do,” she managed.
She returned her attention to her tea, taking a sip and looking up just enough to watch his long, tanned fingers shuffle the cards with an easy grace. Best tuck away any blasphemous thoughts of kissing. At least any bestowed by him. Ambrose had kissed her just once, in a wisteria arbor back in Virginia. She could hardly remember the kiss, just how clumsily it had been given and how disappointed she had felt afterward. For days. And she knew, somehow, that if Cassius McLinn were to kiss her, he wouldn’t be clumsy or awkward in the least, and she’d not be left disappointed . . . just wanting more.
He dealt the cards and said quietly, “A shilling for your thoughts.”
Taking another drink of tea, she looked up over the rim of her cup. “They’re hardly worth that.”
“Oh, I’ll wager they’re worth a good deal more.”
“I’m simply trying to recollect the rules of the game.”
“All you need to remember is that it’s a fifteen-two game, and you score the most points when your cards add up to fifteen. The first to reach a hundred twenty-one wins.”
“I recollect that Papa and I used to play for a prize.”
His hands stilled from placing the ivory pegs. “Such as?”
She grew solemn. “If I win, you must abstain from all spirits for at least a fortnight. Not a drop.”
“Not a drop,” he echoed, eyes warm with amused light. “And if I win?”
She gave a little shrug and set down her cup. “Ask for whatever you wish.”
He grew thoughtful, all levity gone. “’Tis customary in Ireland for a man to take his pick of any woman present and kiss her as his prize.”
Lord, is he able to read my thoughts?
Unable to meet his eyes, she felt the heat bloo
m in her face again. “The stakes are quite high.”
“You can lower them, ye ken.”
The heady thought of losing was too sweet a temptation to resist. Forgive me, Lord. “I’ll not back down,” she told him, picking up her cards with an unsteady hand.
For a moment she feared, worldly as he was, that he could peer clear into her soul and sense her crumbling resistance toward him. Sitting there, staring at her cards without really seeing them, she knew they’d begun something far more dangerous than a simple game.
They started to play, he quietly confident, she bluffing and biting her lip till they were neck and neck. From somewhere in the shadows a clock struck ten times, but he seemed not to notice. He was ahead . . . she was ahead. And then suddenly she fell behind.
Her heart began to dance about and turn her breathless. If he kissed her, where would he kiss her? In this room? Would he simply lean over in his chair till he reached her? Or would he stand, arms about her like they were going to dance? Oh, the only thing that mattered was how he’d kiss her. Perhaps he’d simply brush her cheek or forehead chastely and be done with it . . .
It had been too long since she’d played the game. And he was the most maddeningly attractive opponent she’d ever had. Small wonder she was losing. She couldn’t keep her mind on cribbage or anything else . . . just him.
“One hundred twenty-one,” he said, moving his pegs to the finish.
She felt herself wilt. “Congratulations,” she said softly without looking at him, turning her remaining cards facedown on the table between them.
Reaching over, he extinguished each candle with his fingertips till there was only the fire’s golden glow. For a desperate moment she wanted to run. He stood, and with one firm, calloused hand he brought her to her feet.
’Twas just one kiss, she reasoned, certainly the last before full-fledged spinsterhood. Surely the Almighty would forgive her that.
Amidst the sweet confusion of her feelings came the realization once again of how feminine he made her feel. Though he towered over her, he seemed less intimidating out of uniform. Ever so slowly, he laced his other hand through hers, bringing her arm gently behind her back, anchoring her to him. He was so close, the firm line of his chest was flush against her snug bodice. Drawing in a deep, silent breath, she felt a bit faint and fastened her eyes on the fine stitching of his shirt.
“Roxie . . . how can I kiss you if you don’t look at me?”
His tender tone turned her heart over. She obliged, tilting her head back slightly and looking up at him in the firelit darkness. When he bent his head and his mouth met hers, she gave a little sigh, her lips parting slightly in surprise and expectation. He kissed her with the same sure decisiveness with which he did everything else, his mouth trailing to her cheek and chin and ear, returning again and again to her mouth and lingering there, his breath mingling with her own.
She felt adrift in small, sharp bursts of pleasure. Was this how a man was supposed to kiss a woman? Tenderly . . . firmly . . . repeatedly? His fingers fanned through her hair till the pins gave way and wayward locks spilled like black ribbon to the small of her back. In answer, her arms circled his neck, bringing him nearer, every kiss sweeter and surer than the one before. Soon they were lost in a haze of sighs and murmurs and caresses.
The clock struck again, and the somberness of the sound and the lateness of the hour brought her back to the blue room on this cool spring evening, the forgotten cribbage game on the table beside them, her hair spilling down, the skin of her neck and shoulders heated from his kisses. How they’d stayed standing . . .
With a sudden wrench, Cass pulled free, though his hands lingered on the soft slope of her shoulders. He sensed her sharp surprise and regret—but it paled beside his own. ’Twas all he could do to stem his need and let go of her. She was trembling and looking up at him with such a winsome vulnerability it seemed he held her very heart in his hands.
“Roxie, I—” The words were punctuated with pain. His throat constricted as he worked to say what he should have said from the first. He had no right to kiss her, declare his love for her, with such a fatal secret between them. But the practiced apology—his confession—seemed to stick in his throat. “I have to tell you something. But you won’t want to hear it any more than I want to confess it.”
In the firelit shadows her eyes turned a drenching blue—entreating, almost pleading—so unlike the day he’d first stood across from her in the blockhouse. Then, and now, he struggled and looked away, only to look back at her, nigh speechless. There was simply no way to soften the bitter truth.
Say it, man, just say it . . .
“Roxie . . . I shot your father.”
The horrific statement unleashed a firestorm of memories and emotions inside him. Gunshots falling like hail in the icy woods. Crimson flecking Richard Rowan from head to toe. His own anguished cry to cease firing. The crushing irreversibility of it all.
I shot your father.
It seemed to echo endlessly in the elegant room and deepen the darkness. Slowly, she began backing up, out of his reach, a look of utter disbelief—nay, horror—marring her lovely, tear-streaked face.
“’Twas a terrible mistake at twilight. I couldn’t see clearly and I thought—your father—I thought he was the enemy.” He stumbled on, eyes wet. “God forgive me. Please . . . you . . . forgive me.”
But she simply stared at him, lips parted in a sort of stunned wonder. He read unmistakable revulsion in her gaze and felt a deep, gnawing ache that he’d caused her such hurt. Stricken, he watched her frantic fingers try to return her hair to its chignon with the few pins remaining, the rest scattered on the rug at his feet. Wordlessly, she spun away, opening the door just enough to slip through, almost colliding with Hank in the foyer.
He watched her go, fighting his anguish, wanting to go after her. The room’s emptiness in her wake was barren as a winter field, blowing cold clear to his soul. He felt frozen, mired in a melee of emotions he couldn’t stay atop of. On the eve of his own demise, he had cast love away, and its loss meant more to him than his own life.
Dear God, what now?
Shame—and a knot of emotions she couldn’t name—fell over Roxanna like a fever, but it was too late to simply slip out. The guard snapped to attention as she hurried through the front door, two regulars falling in alongside her to return her to the fort. She nearly fell on the rain-slick stoop, vaguely aware that a storm was rising around her, stirring the night air, mirroring the tempest inside her.
Oh, Lord, help . . .
She didn’t look back, didn’t see the lithe shadow at one casement window watching her go. Her chest was heaving like she’d run a race, so hard it hurt. Rain pelted down, mingling with her salty tears. She brushed them away with shaking hands, trying to staunch the pain of Cass’s confession. All the while a strange numbness was taking hold, enabling her to keep walking, to lift the latch of her cabin door, enter in, and shut herself away.
Going to the washbasin, she splashed cold water on her flushed face, took up a linen towel, and tried to remove all traces of him. But his beloved, traitorous scent still clung to her skin, her hair, her bodice. She wanted to be rid of his shocking words as well, told to her at such an impossibly tender time. Yet they resounded in her head and heart, bruising her again and again.
Roxie . . . I shot your father.
The dark room, lit by a dying fire, seemed to tilt and spin. She had to work hard to draw a needed breath, to stop her shaking. Her eyes darted to the mantel and landed on the thistle cup, the delicate saucer beneath. Wounded by the very sight, she reached for it with trembling hands, wanting to hide it away and bury all her anguish alongside it.
The lovely china—the sentiment behind it—seemed hopelessly tainted. Once she had looked at it lovingly, had counted it her most treasured possession. But in the span of a few horrifying moments all that had changed forever. With a sob she raised her arm, flinging both cup and saucer against the far cabin wall a
nd watching them shatter into countless pieces.
Just like her heart.
Cass came down the hill after Roxanna, hardly feeling the driving rain. Without the guard, he ducked through the sally port in such haste he nearly toppled the sentry standing watch. ’Twas a wretched night on all counts, the only light that of a few stingy lanterns shining in barrack windows. Mud was pooling around his boots, making it seem he was treading in molasses instead. Her shuttered cabin seemed leagues away.
At last he reached her door, feeling for the latchstring and finding it drawn in. “Roxanna, open the door!”
The heavy oak wall seemed symbolic of their separation, cutting him afresh. Never again would her eyes light up when she looked at him. Nor would that beguiling half smile, saved solely for him, warm his sorry soul. Though she’d tried hard not to love him, he knew she did. And he’d just undone all that they’d ever meant to each other, every complicated strand, impossible as it all was. He’d just handed her a reason to hate him.
“Roxie, ’tis me—Cass. Open the door!”
Frustration tugged at him, bade him to do something rash. He could break the door down if he wanted—but to what avail? Somehow he sensed she was hovering on the other side, hearing his every word. He bent his head, arms outspread as he grasped the rough sides of the door frame and waited.
His guilt-ravaged voice reached out to her again. “I cannot leave till we talk, ye ken. Let me in.”
Overhead thunder rumbled, deep and discordant, and a flash of lightning rent the sky. The rain began to fall in great sheets, wetting his shirt back so that it lay against him like a second skin. Cold water ran down the back of his neck, chilling him and fueling his angst. Banging a hard hand on the door once more, he felt a desperation he’d never known as a new thought curled like black smoke in his brain.
