The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Is someone injured here? I have some medical skills.” Emeline glanced past the woman into the shadows.

  The woman’s gaze drifted from Emeline to Owen and then over Dimsmore and Mr. Ryne. Something softened in her eyes, whether from acquiescence or sheer exhaustion, Owen couldn’t tell. The musket swept downward nearly at the same time the woman started to collapse like an empty sack of potatoes. Emeline dashed toward her before she fell, and Owen grabbed her other side. Together, they led her to sit on a chair perched before an open hearth where coals from a small fire still simmered.

  “My husband …” She gestured toward the back of the room, then squeezed her eyes shut so tight Owen thought they’d sink back into her skull. Groaning in pain, she rubbed her round belly.

  “When is the babe due?” Emeline asked.

  The pain passed. The woman caught her breath. “I don’t know. Soon. Perhaps a week or so.” She lifted pleading, pain-streaked eyes. “Please take care of my husband.”

  A blast of rain-laden wind spun eddies of leaves into the cabin, and Dimsmore gestured for Mr. Ryne to guard out front. After the man left, he set down his gun and shut the door.

  Emeline grabbed a lantern and headed toward the far end of the room where the circle of light revealed an iron-rod bed with a man lying on top.

  “What happened here?” Owen asked the woman, though he could already guess. Finding another lantern, he knelt before the fire, stirred the coals, and lit the wick.

  The woman, who was around thirty years of age with curly brown hair springing from her mobcap, replied in a sullen voice, “British raiders. They took everything. Our supplies, stores of food, horses, and burned the rest.” She swallowed and reached for her little girl. The toddler dashed for her and leapt into her lap, despite the size of the woman’s stomach.

  Dimsmore grunted as he sidled up to the fire.

  Big blue eyes surrounded by a cluster of golden curls stared at Owen as if he were a monster. What the poor child must have seen. The young boy came to stand beside them in as protective a stance as any grown man.

  “You’ve got quite the brave lad here, Mrs ….”

  “Mrs. Oakes.” The woman gazed at her son and smiled. “Though he disobeyed me by going outside.”

  “Now that Papa’s sick, Ma, it’s up to me to be the man,” the lad announced proudly.

  Owen couldn’t help but smile.

  Tears filled the woman’s eyes, and she shook her head. “I appreciate your help, mister. May God bless you for it.” She glanced toward the back of the room where Emeline knelt beside the bed. “How is my husband?”

  Rising, Emeline faced her. “Do you have any medical supplies?”

  “A few. Bandages, needle and twine, and some laudanum … over there in the box on the shelf.”

  Emeline quickly found the box and peeked inside. Even from across the room, Owen heard her sigh of frustration. Gripping the box to her chest, she moved toward them. “Lieu … Luther,” she addressed Dimsmore, “I need some fresh water. Rainwater will do. And any clean cloths you can find.” She faced Mrs. Oakes. “Do you have any alcohol?”

  Worry tightened the woman’s features as she shook her head. “No. We don’t drink spirits. My husband is the pastor of our local church.”

  Notwithstanding every attempt to keep his reaction hidden, a bitter taste filled Owen’s mouth and twisted his lips into a spiteful grimace. Just his luck, running into a man of the cloth. If not for the children, every ounce of his sympathy for this family would have instantly fled.

  “Will he live? Please tell me he’ll live.” The woman’s voice cracked as tears ran tracks in the dust on her face.

  Miss Baratt set down the box and knelt before her. “I’m going to do my best, I promise. You must not stress yourself for the babe’s sake.” Her smile seemed to settle the poor woman.

  “Got anything to eat?” Dimsmore asked.

  Miss Baratt rose and leveled such a look on Dimsmore, even Owen cringed.

  But Mrs. Oakes took no note. She absently shook her head. “Just some old crusty bread on the table. Help yourself.”

  Dimsmore didn’t hesitate to do so. He broke off a piece and handed it to Emeline, but much to Owen’s surprise, she didn’t take it.

  “If that is all they have, we should leave it to them, Luther, don’t you think?”

  “Mama, I’m hungry,” the little girl said.

  Mrs. Oakes rocked her back and forth. “Hush now, it’s okay. These are our guests.”

  Emeline snagged the piece of bread from Luther, turned, and gave it to the little girl.

  Luther’s eyes narrowed. He glanced around Emeline at Mrs. Oakes. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, we won’t impose on you for long. We must be gone first thing in the morning.”

  Emeline’s lips couldn’t have drawn tighter. “May I have a word with you both please. Outside.” Grabbing Owen, Emeline all but dragged him out the front door as Dimsmore scuffled behind.

  No sooner did the door shut than she spun on them both with the fury of the storm now brewing overhead. “That man in there will die unless I help him.”

  “Not our problem, Miss Baratt.” Dimsmore gripped the porch railing and glanced into the dark night. “We are only staying the night.”

  “Have you no compassion, sir? The woman is clearly about to have a child, and her husband is nearly dead.”

  “Then you may help him while we are here.”

  “That may not be enough time. And the babe is soon to be born.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “How can you be so cruel?”

  “Because they’re rebels.” Dimsmore straightened his stance. “You seem to forget what side you’re on, Miss Baratt.”

  “You seem to forget that we are all God’s creatures.”

  “God. Bah! We have a mission, and we will complete it.”

  Emeline glowered at the man. “You have no heart, sir.”

  “Enough.” Owen finally intervened, unwilling to admit he rather enjoyed the exchange, especially the way Emeline held her own against Dimsmore. “Dimsmore, get the water she requested. We’ll help them as much as we can while we are here.”

  With a huff and nary a glance at either of them, Emeline went back in the house. Astounding woman. Her care for these Americans, indeed for everyone she met, was eating away bit by bit at the wall of anger he’d erected against her.

  Dimsmore huffed. “You’d think that lady is one of them, the way she cares for them.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Dimsmore.”

  “I’m going to keep my eye on her.” Dimsmore grabbed a bucket from the porch and started down the steps. “You too, Masters.” He shot him a spiteful glance.

  Owen stared after the man as he dove into the rain.

  Regardless of Owen’s superiority, he knew one thing. If Dimsmore’s suspicions of either him or Miss Baratt took root, the man wouldn’t hesitate to arrest them both on the spot.

  CHAPTER 18

  Emeline walked through a field of wildflowers shining in the noonday sun—marigolds, asters, and daisies, a symphony of purples, yellows, and reds. A light breeze danced through their petals as she twirled among them, enjoying the beauty and the warm sun. Birds warbled a melodious tune, frogs croaked near a distant creek that gurgled and slushed on its way. She knelt to smell a flower. How had she come to be here? She felt such peace, such freedom! She never wanted it to end.

  Then the sky blotched with gray as if the Creator dabbed a paintbrush over it, blocking out the cerulean blue and casting a dismal gloom over the scene.

  Stomp, stomp, stomp … stomp, stomp, stomp! The rhythmic sound of marching thundered across the field. Flowers shook, birds went silent. Emeline stared toward the edge of the forest where a line of redcoats emerged from the green leaves like tentacles of a giant squid bursting from its cave. Before them, riding a horse, was Sergeant Herod, his malevolent gaze leveled upon her.

  Lightning cracked the sky from east to west, splitting the earth in two.

&nbs
p; Emeline spun, gathered her skirts, and sprinted across the field.

  Maniacal laughter followed her, pushing her onward through pines and elms. She leapt over a creek, across a muddy clearing, terror rushing like madmen through her veins.

  The stomp, stomp grew louder and louder, the laughter closer and closer.

  She came upon the cabin, rushed through the door, closed it, and slammed the wooden bar across it, then backed away.

  The stomping halted. Had they left? Silence was more frightening than noise. Slowly, she approached the window, trying not to make a sound. She peered out.

  Lieutenant Dimsmore’s face leapt into view on the other side of the glass, his grin evil, his eyes crazed. “You’ll hang, missy. You’ll hang as the traitor you are!”

  She screamed and stumbled backward, tripped over a chair, and fell to the wooden floor.

  Flames engulfed the house, hungry flames licking the wooden walls and creeping over the floor.

  The muzzle of a cannon broke through the front window, shattering the glass.

  Boom!

  Emeline leapt from her chair. Her heart pounded. Her breath heaved. She shoved a hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking. Too late.

  Owen was by her side within seconds. Against her will, thick arms encased her, pressing her against his chest.

  “Only thunder, Emeline … only thunder.”

  She thought to push from him, but in truth, it felt far too good in his arms. Not frightening or restrictive like she’d always thought it would feel trapped next to a man, but safe, comfortable, exciting.

  Raindrops pattered the roof. Wind whistled past the walls. The coals in the hearth sizzled.

  The beat of Owen’s heart through his waistcoat settled her nerves.

  He rubbed her back, tangling his fingers in her loosened hair.

  “Ouch.” She half laughed and backed from him, grabbing the wayward locks.

  “Forgive me.” He smiled and looked down. “I suppose I need practice in comforting women.”

  “Glad to hear it.” La, had she just said that? Proper ladies didn’t speak so boldly to men.

  He led her to sit in the chair beside the bed and then knelt before her. Light from the fire flickered across his dark eyes as he looked at her with such admiration it set her aback. Who was this man, this enemy who seemed to despise her one minute and make her feel like a princess the next?

  A day’s stubble roughened his jaw, and for some strange reason she longed to run her fingers over the coarseness. Dark hair grazed his broad shoulders, still damp from the storm. They sat looking at each other far too long for propriety’s sake—as if they were communicating in any way but words.

  Ashamed, Emeline broke the spell between them and glanced at Mr. Oakes lying on the bed, looking so pale, his breath labored.

  “You did all you could,” Owen said.

  “I hardly did anything.” The poor man had been beaten near to death and then, from the looks of his back, dragged over rough terrain, probably by a horse. Emeline didn’t want to ask his wife the details.

  “All I could do was clean his wounds, stitch him up, and give him some laudanum for the pain. But I fear he already has an infection. His fever is rising.”

  Owen sat on the side of the bed and stared at the man with more sympathy than Emeline would have expected.

  “You disapprove of preachers?” she asked, throwing propriety to the wind yet again with this intriguing man.

  He jerked his gaze up to hers. “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw your reaction when Mrs. Oakes mentioned her husband’s profession.”

  His lips flattened, and his gaze wandered back to the man.

  Thunder rumbled the cabin walls, joining the snoring coming from Dimsmore as he lay before the fire, fast asleep. Poor Mrs. Oakes and both her children were snuggled up together on a quilt in a corner beyond the hearth. Thank God she was able to finally sleep. Mr. Ryne was no doubt outside on watch.

  Aside from the hearth that took up an entire wall, there was a table and chairs, a wooden cabinet filled with now-broken dishes, a bench, and the bed Mr. Oakes lay upon. Shelves along the wall and in the cabinet loomed empty. Areas in the room sat vacant where furniture must have been. The British had left a few pots, pans, and other cooking utensils, a clock, a mirror, and some clothing hung on hooks. But they had stripped this family of everything else. Emeline had difficulty quelling her anger. Though she kept repenting of it, it kept rising with more fury like a persistent storm. Like the one now blaring outside.

  “My father was a preacher.” Owen’s deep voice drew her gaze back to him.

  Emeline kept silent, waiting for him to continue, but he seemed lost in his thoughts.

  “That was a bad thing?” she finally asked.

  “Only if you were his son … or his wife,” he added bitterly. “There were always so many rules, and I never seemed to be able to keep them.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “God’s rules must be followed, Miss Baratt.” His tone was cynical. “Or His wrath will be poured upon you and you will burn in hellfire.”

  Emeline bit her lip. “How terrifying for a child to hear such a thing.”

  “It was. And no matter how hard I tried to be good, I guess, well, let’s just say it wasn’t in my nature.”

  She smiled. “I don’t think it’s in any of our natures, for I certainly haven’t been.”

  His brows shot up. “You? Not good? Miss Rule-follower?” He teased.

  She wouldn’t tell him that she often failed at following those rules. “What happened to your father? Is he still in Portsmouth?”

  The fire crackled. Dimsmore’s snores increased. And Owen rubbed his eyes. “He left us when I was ten. Ran off with some trollop from what we heard.”

  Emeline drew back, stifling her gasp.

  Owen scratched his stubble. “Hypocrite down to his bones, he was. Left me and my mother without a penny in the till.”

  No wonder the man wanted naught to do with God and especially with His rules. “What did you do?”

  “My uncle took us in, cared for us, loved us. My mother still lives with him.”

  “How on earth did you end up in the Royal Navy?”

  He chuckled, and the sound of it settled on her like a soothing blanket. “I was nothing but trouble to my poor mother. My uncle was away often on business, and I fear I was a rather disobedient son, always getting into some kind of trouble or another. My mother had family in England with the right connections, and they got me a commission as midshipman when I was seventeen.”

  Emeline blew out a sigh. “What a difficult change that must have been for you.”

  “Indeed.” He ran a thumb down his scar, started to say something, but then stopped.

  Fascinating man. He’d spent so many years with the British being pruned from a rebellious youth to an obedient officer. It was no wonder his loyalties remained with them. How could she blame him for that?

  Still, he was her enemy. No matter how much she was beginning to feel for him. Fie! Insanity! Just more proof she needed to curb her wayward emotions. For they always led her into trouble.

  “Tell me some of your boyhood antics.” She thought to lighten the mood.

  He shook his head. “No deal, Miss … I mean, Emeline. It would only disparage your already low opinion of me.”

  I doubt it, she wanted to say, but instead she said nothing.

  He stared at her hands, seeming to want to take them in his. She held her breath. He started to reach for them but pulled back and rubbed his chin.

  Dawn turned the black to gray outside the window. Mr. Oakes groaned, and Emeline placed her hand atop his forehead. “Dear God, help us! He’s burning with fever.”

  “I’m not leaving this woman to watch her husband—” Emeline slammed her mouth shut and raised defiant brows toward Dimsmore.

  Owen had been unable to take his eyes off her, ever since she’d stepped from the cabin onto the front porch, three-year
-old Abigail in her arms. The little girl had crawled into Emeline’s lap soon after they’d broken their fast with hardtack and had yet to relinquish her hold. Now, the wee one laid her head on Em’s shoulder, her light curls a near match for the color of Emeline’s own hair.

  For some reason the sight warmed Owen to his core.

  That warmth instantly dissipated when he saw Dimsmore’s scowl. “We didn’t come ashore to nursemaid the en—farmers,” he seethed through his teeth, keeping his voice low, while his fiery gaze shot to Owen. “Surely you don’t agree with her. We have a mission to perform and a captain awaiting our return.”

  Owen glanced over the farm. Raindrops as thick as honey continued to pound the ground that was naught but a muddy pond wherever he looked. Thick clouds rumbled overhead, dark and so low, it seemed one could reach up and touch them. Daylight revealed the total devastation the British raid had perpetrated on this poor family. Farm implements lay broken and strewn over the yard. Hay spread in the mud, fences destroyed, crops burned. So much of it done out of sheer cruelty rather than just taking plunder. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep the rage from making an appearance on his face—or in his voice.

  “We can hardly travel in this storm, Dimsmore,” Owen finally said. “It will not only slow our progress considerably, but we will risk becoming ill in the process. I’m in command here, and I say we wait out the storm for another day.”

  “Good,” Emeline said. “It’s settled then. While we are here, we should provide food for this poor family.” She gazed over the sodden farm. “Perhaps catch a chicken or two or one of those pigs. Mr. Ryne,” she addressed the marine who sat on a bench, his hat over his eyes.

  He nudged it up just far enough so she could see his annoyed gaze.

  “I recall Lieu—Luther here, my dear brother”—she smiled sweetly at Dimsmore—“telling me you were raised on a farm. Do you know how to catch a chicken or pig, sir? We could use your help.”

  The marine looked at Dimsmore, disgust shadowing his plain features.

  “Order him to comply,” Owen commanded. “We have to eat while we are here, don’t we?”