The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Interfered?” Hannah blew out a laugh.

  Emeline returned her smile. She supposed she was being ridiculous. In truth, she’d never been so happy to see a person in her life. She’d always thought of herself as brave, but when Thornhill was slobbering all over her, she’d been overcome with more terror than she’d ever felt.

  “I’ll grant you,” she began, lowering to one of the chairs, “Lieutenant Masters played the daring hero well, chivalrous and kind and comforting. But then in a flash, he became harsh and treated me as if he were annoyed I had been attacked. The man obviously loathes me.”

  She wouldn’t tell Hannah that moments before his demeanor changed, Emeline actually thought he might kiss her, actually felt a stirring in her heart for his kindness and chivalry. Yes, indeed, if she admitted it—which she wouldn’t—she’d been quite thrilled watching him dash in and slug Thornhill to the deck.

  She leaned toward Hannah. “I honestly think he’s mad. And it doesn’t bode well for our plans to have a puddinghead in such a high position.”

  “Oh dear.” Hannah waved her away with a sly look. “ ’E’s ‘ardly that. ‘E’s probably just smitten wit’ you. You know these Brits can’t ‘andle emotions.”

  “Fie! You’re a silly woman sometimes, Hannah, but I’m so glad you are feeling better.”

  Hannah sipped her tea then cradled the cup in her hands. “Somethin’ else you should know about the lieutenant. Mr. Keate tells me ‘e’s brung extra rations to the prisoners more’n once.”

  Emeline stared at her friend, unsure whether she heard her correctly. “The American prisoners?”

  “Ain’t no other ones down there, dear.” Hannah chuckled.

  “But why would he do that?”

  Hannah shrugged. “Maybe ‘e’s jist a kind man.”

  “Hmm.” Emeline frowned and fingered a curl at her neck. That couldn’t be it. Surely there was another explanation. And frankly, she didn’t care.

  “But more importantly”—Hannah set down her cup as the twinkle of mischief returned to her eyes—“Robert’s been workin’ on ‘is irons and should have them cut through soon.”

  Emeline’s stomach felt as though someone were slicing through it as well. “Which means I must garner some information soon.” She sighed. “I will do my best. I have another painting session this afternoon.”

  “It’s now or never, dear. Or I fear our plans are sunk.”

  Nerves wound tight as threads on a loom, Emeline made her way down the dimly lit companionway to the captain’s cabin. The deck tilted, shoving her against the wall, but she quickly regained her balance and continued, pondering how much the action reflected the course of her life—how she attempted to stay on the straight and narrow, but something always pushed her off the path, tossing her one way or another. Events out of her control. Events that caused her to do things she wasn’t sure God approved of. Like what she was planning on doing today.

  The marine standing guard smiled as she approached. The door was already ajar, and her pulse raced at the thought that today was the day she must lure some information out of the captain.

  It sped even faster at the sight of Dimsmore leaning over the captain’s desk, examining some documents.

  At the sound of her entering, he turned on his heels, and instantly the tight lines on his face softened in a smile. He took a step toward her.

  Emeline gripped her hands, wondering why she always felt uneasy in the man’s presence.

  He halted, noting her hesitation. “Forgive me, Miss Baratt. I’m sure you are still unnerved by your … experience.”

  She was. She’d even had nightmares—most unusual for her. And she found herself jumping at every little movement and sound even though Thornhill was locked below. “I am recovering, sir.”

  “Such courage is rarely found in one so beautiful.”

  She stared at him curiously. “I was unaware that one’s appearance bore any effect on bravery.”

  “I didn’t mean … forgive me, yet again. I meant it as a compliment.” His smile faded as annoyance gripped his features. “How fortunate that Lieutenant Masters happened upon you when he did.”

  Emeline narrowed her eyes. “Are you accusing him of something?”

  “No, no, you misread me. I was merely noting that it was most unusual for him to be in surgery at that time of night. I had just been playing whist with the man.”

  “He injured his hands,” she said matter-of-factly, wondering why she was defending him.

  “Hmm. Well, I wouldn’t put any action beyond him in order to woo a lady. He is not always what he seems.”

  She wouldn’t tell him her theory that the poor lieutenant’s sails didn’t open all the way. Instead, she lifted her chin. “I am not so easily wooed.”

  “I am glad to hear of it. Which prompts me to apologize once again for my presumptuous behavior a week past. I had imbibed far too much brandy, but that is no excuse.”

  “I have forgotten it.”

  He smiled, and she realized that he was indeed a handsome man, cultured and educated, and she wondered why he hadn’t married.

  Her gaze lowered to the piece of foolscap in his hands. “I was to meet the captain here. Seems you wish to see him also.”

  “Indeed. I have something of import to discuss with him.”

  “Do not be bothered with my presence. I will prepare my paints.” She moved to sit at her easel, hoping the man would leave.

  “I doubt any man would be bothered by your presence, miss. Perhaps I could entice you to a stroll around the deck this afternoon?”

  Before she could answer, the captain marched in, all bluster and excitement, obviously stirred up by whatever information he’d received that morning from the ship they’d anchored beside.

  Emeline attempted to shrink out of sight.

  “Dimsmore, good.” Captain Blackwell moved to his desk.

  Feet pounded above. Sails snapped, and the ship jerked forward.

  “The others will be here shortly,” the captain continued, studying a map spread across his desk. “We have much to discuss. This Washington campaign is most prodigious. Cockburn and Ross will lead—”

  Clearing his throat, Dimsmore glanced her way, forcing the captain to look behind him.

  “Ah, Miss Baratt. Forgive me. I forgot our appointment.” He approached and took her hands in his.

  Washington? Alarm dashed madly through her veins. “That is quite all right, Captain. Seems you have much on your mind.”

  “As much as I enjoy our sessions, I have more important matters to attend today.” He studied her. “Are you all right? You’ve gone quite pale.”

  La! She was such a bad spy! She gulped and forced a smile. “I fear I am still out of sorts.”

  He flattened his lips, naught but concern on his face. “Rest assured, Thornhill has received his just dues.”

  She nodded. “I so hoped I could finish your portrait today. Perhaps I can paint while you and your men talk?”

  The captain exchanged a glance with Dimsmore. “Nay. I fear I would be too distracted. We shall have to reschedule.”

  “Then I shall leave you to it.” Rising, she dipped her head, smiled at both men, and left at as leisurely a pace as she could muster. The Washington campaign? Surely they didn’t intend to march on her country’s capital? How brazen! But that had to be it.

  Now all she had to do was relay this information to Robert.

  And pray. Pray like she never had before.

  A chilled breeze rose from the foggy bay, and Emeline drew her pelisse tighter about her neck, hopelessly trying to calm her nerves. This morning, Robert would either escape to freedom with vital information for the American cause, or he’d be caught and quite possibly executed.

  And she would be culpable.

  In all her rebellious antics, she’d never caused anyone’s death.

  But she couldn’t think like that. Where was her faith? Certainly God wanted the Americans to win … to keep their freed
om. Didn’t He? Or perhaps He took no interest in the governments of men.

  She bowed her head to pray, as she’d been doing all night, finally ascending to the main deck just before dawn—before the prisoners were hauled up from their sleep to scrub the decks. But she had no more words to pray, no more pleas to lift to the Almighty, who seemed more silent than usual.

  She had started out praying in her cabin … oscillating from kneeling on the deck, to leaning against the bulkhead, to pacing. She envied Hannah, who, after delivering the information to Robert and informing Emeline that he was prepared to escape the next morning, said a brief prayer and fell fast asleep. Her snores provided the only accompaniment to Emeline’s prayers throughout the night. That and a sense now and then that God was indeed listening … and perhaps He even cared.

  Perhaps that was just wishful thinking. Did people really hear from God? Hannah said she did, quite often, in fact. She claimed to even feel His divine presence. Maybe if Emeline started living her life right, doing what was expected of her, God would grant her the same blessings.

  Dawn’s glow lit the horizon like the blaze of a matchstick to a lantern, announcing the sun’s arrival on yet another day—a day of war and despair for many. A day of nerves for her as she heard four bells, announcing the middle of the morning watch, followed by footsteps pounding the deck behind her.

  Soon after came the clang and grate of chains of the prisoners and the sleepy annoyed voices of the marines. “Move on. Move on, now!”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see the crew of the Charlotte emerge from the hatch and slog over the deck to grab their holystones. Several glanced her way and scowled. One spit to the side. But she cared not for their misplaced hatred. Her gaze dropped to Robert’s feet. In the dim light it would be impossible to tell, but the irons between his ankles were definitely cut clean through. He walked along in between Captain Lansing in front and Quartermaster Keate in back, both trying to keep him as hidden as possible.

  The marine took no note. Neither did the ones standing on guard or the new watch coming on deck from below. Including Dimsmore. What is he doing here? Emeline faced the bay, her heart seizing in her chest. “Oh Lord, please have mercy,” she whispered into the rising wind.

  “I see you have not heeded my warning, Miss Baratt.”

  So caught up in her pleas to God, she hadn’t heard the man approach. Not Dimsmore’s voice, but one deeper, more genuine—Lieutenant Masters.

  She faced him, ready to do battle, but suddenly found herself devoid of the energy required. Sunlight shimmered over the green flecks in his brown eyes as he assessed her with impunity. Not in anger, but more in curiosity. Wind tore the tips of his hair. His uniform was a tad wrinkled, his jaw peppered with stubble, and a single ray of morning sun speared the scar along his left cheek, making him look oddly alluring.

  “The captain has assured me of my safety,” she said, suddenly shy beneath his intense gaze.

  “Yet I do not see him here protecting you.”

  “That’s what I have you for, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” she replied curtly.

  He narrowed his eyes. And she wondered whether she should keep him distracted or send him away. One glance over her shoulder showed that Robert had chosen a spot by the larboard railing to scrub. Fortunately, Dimsmore was on the foredeck talking to a group of marines.

  Lieutenant Masters gave a tight smile. “I fear other more pressing duties keep me from being your ladyship’s bodyguard.”

  Pressing duties such as making sure that every man, including each of the prisoners, was hard at work. No, she couldn’t allow that. He was far too observant to miss Robert’s escape. Loathing herself, she placed her hand atop his just as he was turning to leave. “I’m sorry to hear that, Lieutenant, for I always feel safe in your presence.” She wanted to vomit. Instead, she smiled up at him.

  His eyes lit with a twinkle of mischief and a spark of suspicion. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. You can’t imagine how terrifying it is on board a ship full of men.” She looked down, cringing at how ridiculous she sounded.

  He laughed. Laughed! “I find that hard to believe, Miss Baratt. Your courage puts most women, and some men, I might add, to shame.”

  “Then you do not know me at all.” She feigned a quiver in her voice and, still looking down, glanced beneath her lashes at Robert. No one was watching him. This would be the perfect time!

  Lieutenant Masters followed her gaze.

  Fie! She froze, unable to swallow, unable to breathe. A shaft of morning sun thrust over the horizon and stabbed Robert’s feet where the irons had been hacked through.

  There was no chance the lieutenant wouldn’t see it.

  Hence, she did the only thing she could think to do—she fell against him. Her head hit his chest and she drew in a breath of his scent—moist linen, brandy, and the sea. It stirred something within her as she waited for his embrace and comfort. Instead, strong hands gripped her shoulders and nudged her back as if she had the plague. He laughed again, and when she looked up, his gaze was still on Robert.

  He grimaced but did nothing.

  Stomach sinking, she braced herself for his command that the prisoner be seized. But instead, he released her and quirked one eyebrow. “Since you are so frightened and weak, Miss Baratt, I suggest you retire to your cabin.” With that, he bid her adieu and proceeded to mount the quarterdeck ladder.

  Emeline glanced over the deck and saw Dimsmore’s gaze shift from her to follow Lieutenant Masters until he stopped at the wheel.

  She spun back around, chest heaving, and waited for her breath to settle. The sun continued its rise over the bay, illuminating the deck, betraying their plan. Yet still … she waited … and listened….

  Loose sails flapped. Water purled against the hull. Wood creaked interminably, and Dimsmore’s voice became garbled as he continued commanding his men.

  Yet through all the clamor, Emeline listened for that one sound she most desired.

  Hurry, Robert, before more sailors and officers come above!

  Finally, there it was. The sound of a gentle splash. Thank God! Emeline dared to lower her shoulders … dared to breathe a sigh of relief when …

  A harrowing shout echoed over the deck, “Prisoner overboard!”

  CHAPTER 12

  You have to tell ‘im it were me.” Hannah clutched Emeline’s hands. “Never!” Emeline snagged them back and sank into a chair. Dropping her head in her hands, she stared at the stained deck of their cabin.

  “It’s our only ‘ope.”

  “For what? It’s over, Hannah. Our plan has failed.” Miserably. Emeline could still hear the eerie musket shots fired at poor Robert as he attempted to swim away, could still hear the demands from Dimsmore that he stop and return at once or be killed. The captain was roused from his sleep, but by the time he arrived on deck, Lieutenant Masters had ordered her to go below.

  Now, hours later—after they’d heard much commotion on deck—she and Hannah had been summoned to the captain’s cabin.

  “They know what we did, Hannah. And now we are to be locked up below with the others. Or worse.”

  “Oh posh.” Hannah snorted and planted her fists at her waist. “If they knew that, we’d already be there.”

  “Then why does the captain wish to see both of us? And what has happened to poor Robert? I cannot bear it. This is all my fault.”

  “My dear, you must calm yourself. You’ll do no one any good so distraught. God is in control.”

  A tear broke free from the corner of her eye and made a run for it down Emeline’s cheek. “I knew I should have behaved. I should not have lied and deceived. Now God will punish me.”

  Hannah handed Emeline a handkerchief then stooped to peer up at her. “God is not like your earthly father, my dear. The sooner you believe that, the sooner you’ll find peace. Now this is what we must do….”

  Emeline stood beside Hannah before the captain’s desk, feeling as though she’d rather make a d
ash for it and leap out the stern windows into the bay than face the decision before her.

  Lieutenant Dimsmore and two marines stood at attention to her right, ready to take them below. Lieutenants Masters and Camp stood to their left.

  Captain Blackwell rose and held the infamous chisel up before him. “Which one of you can tell me how this chisel ended up in the prisoner’s possession? And don’t tell me he stole it on deck. We search the prisoners every time they are escorted back to the hold.”

  Emeline swallowed and glanced at her friend. Something sour and bitter brewed in her stomach, and she wished she’d become ill all over the deck rather than have to do what she knew she must.

  But must she? What was the right thing to do? Her mind and heart spun in a wicked cauldron of confusion and angst, causing perspiration to slide down her back. The right thing to do was not lie, wasn’t it? But the right thing would get them both locked below. And what good would that do the rest of the prisoners … or America?

  She closed her eyes for a moment … thinking … praying … hoping they didn’t see her distress. She could hear the captain’s boots stomping on the deck, the breathing of the officers, the swish of water against the hull.

  Hannah nudged her gently from the side.

  She opened her eyes, along with her mouth, and tried to get the words out. But they scrambled back down her throat.

  Finally, she drew a deep breath. “I fear, Captain”—she swallowed—“that I must inform you … that I saw my friend in possession of this chisel not a week past.” The words turned bitter on her tongue, making her want to spit and cough to be rid of them.

  Blackwell’s sharp eyes speared Hannah. “And you said nothing?”

  “I thought nothing of it, Captain. She told me she’d found it and intended to turn it over to the first officer she saw. I had no reason to believe otherwise.”

  For what seemed like an eternity, Captain Blackwell stood, shoulders spread wide, brown eyes shifting to Hannah and then back to Emeline.