The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  Emeline brushed a lock of hair from the little girl’s face. “And I shall find some yarrow to help bring down Mr. Oakes’s fever. In addition, we should fetch dry wood for the fire and leave a stack behind when we’re gone.”

  “Miss Baratt …”—Dimsmore held his temper with difficulty—“as lovely as you are, I cannot tolerate this kindness toward our enemy.”

  She cocked her head, green eyes flaring. “I fear you must, Luther, for as long as we are here, I intend to help them as much as possible.”

  Braver men had not stood up to Dimsmore with as much pluck as this little lady. Her green eyes sharp, her chin steel, not a tremble to be found in either her voice or stance. Poor Dimsmore seemed out of sorts, and Owen had to suppress a chuckle.

  “You realize these actions make me question where your loyalties lie, Emeline. Suppose there’s a woman with child and a sick husband at the enemy headquarters when you go to gather information. Will you suddenly tell them everything you know about our plans?”

  “I know naught of your plans, Luther, nor do I wish to.” She flattened her lips and hoisted the girl a little higher.

  “Nap off, Dimsmore,” Owen said. “The captain has already deemed her loyal. Kindness toward others, enemy or not, does not preclude loyalty to one’s country.”

  Dimsmore’s lips curled as his insolent gaze shifted between Owen and Emeline. “Have a care, Lieutenant; your rank means nothing if you are a traitor. If Captain Blackwell knew how you coddled up to the enemy, tsk-tsk-tsk”—he shook his head then pointed a finger at them—“I will keep an eye on you two rebel lovers.”

  “You do that, Luther.” Owen growled inwardly. “For now, we need food and firewood. See to it.”

  Dimsmore snapped at Mr. Ryne and the marine leapt to his feet, grabbed his musket, and plunged into the rain.

  Emeline stared after him and rocked the girl back and forth. “Rain or not, I must locate some yarrow root.”

  The young lad Amos slipped out the front door, musket nearly as tall as he was in hand. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Too dangerous,” Owen said.

  The little girl whimpered in her sleep, and Emeline rubbed her back, shushing her gently.

  “I’m the man of the house now, Mr. Masters, and I don’t answer to you. ‘Sides, I know where some yarrow root is.”

  Owen glanced through the door the lad had left slightly open. Mrs. Oakes sat at her husband’s bedside reading to him from a book. “Is it all right with your mother?”

  Emeline brushed past them. “I’ll check with her.” The lad followed.

  Owen watched her place the child gently on a blanket by the hearth before she approached Mrs. Oakes, where Amos was already pleading with his mother.

  Owen felt Dimsmore’s stare on him and faced his nemesis. “I know you don’t like me, Dimsmore. But don’t allow your personal sentiments to cloud your judgment. We are all on the same side here.”

  “Are we?” Dimsmore huffed just as Emeline appeared, the lad at her side.

  “Is there no cloak inside to cover yourself with?” Owen asked the boy.

  He shook his head. “They took everything.”

  “Then we’ll have to be quick about it. Come, lad, show us where this yarrow root is.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy grinned.

  Hence, the lady who never ceased to amaze him, amazed Owen even still by tromping ankle deep in mud in the pouring rain through sodden forest and puddle-strewn fields. The boy led the way, as brave as any soldier Owen had met. When Owen was the same age as this boy, his father had abandoned him, and thus had begun Owen’s rebellion against all godliness and responsibility. Yet this lad had suffered even more, and he bore it with an honor and dignity Owen had yet to master.

  “Over here!” the boy yelled above the rain as he gestured for them to follow him to the edge of a field. Emeline moved as quick as she could in her saturated skirts to the place where the boy stopped.

  “There used to be some here.” The boy scratched his wet hair.

  Sounds that didn’t belong sent alarm skittering down Owen’s back.

  “Oh, here it is,” he heard Emeline say before she headed into the brush.

  Instincts took over. Owen grabbed the lad, covered his mouth with his hand, and shoved his body against Emeline as gently as he could. Enough, however, to push her into a thicket. She stumbled in the mud, caught herself on a tree trunk, turned, no doubt, to chastise him, but then saw his face. Thank God, the woman was smart enough to keep silent. He stooped and gestured for her to do the same. The boy wiggled in his arms.

  “Quiet. Be still.” He removed his hand from the lad’s mouth. The boy obeyed. The three of them crouched among the dripping shrubbery, their breaths mingling in the air between them.

  Redcoats penetrated the forest like blood on a green blanket.

  Owen could feel the lad tense in his arms. “Shh now, shh.”

  Twenty men traversed the field they’d just been in. Not many, but enough that Owen wouldn’t be able to protect them.

  Tromp, tromp, tromp. Splat, splat.

  One of them coughed.

  Tromp, tromp, tromp. Splat, splat.

  They were nearly past …

  Owen dared to let out his breath.

  When the last man glanced their way.

  CHAPTER 19

  The British soldier broke rank and headed toward them. Emeline grabbed her throat to stop the shriek of terror begging for release. Owen didn’t move. The boy trembled, and Owen swallowed up the lad’s small hand in his large, calloused one.

  Rain continued pummeling the landscape. Thunder gave a disheartened moan.

  The soldier moved cautiously toward them, peering through the shrubbery.

  Owen slowly withdrew a knife from his belt—a rather long knife.

  Emeline’s heart beat against her ribs so hard, she thought they would break.

  Lord, please, make us invisible. Please protect us. She hated that she only prayed when she was desperate, but perhaps God would take pity on her and answer this time. She had been trying to be good of late.

  The marine halted before the bush and poked the barrel of his musket through the leaves. It moved back and forth—a pendulum of charred death that came within an inch of hitting Owen on the cheek. He raised the knife to stab the poor man.

  “Bates!” The shout ricocheted across the field from the retreating troops. “What are you doing? Get back in line.”

  The soldier retreated a step. So did his musket. “Thought I saw something is all.”

  The soldier who shouted started across the field. “Nothing’s here. Come on before the colonel sees you and assigns you latrine duty.”

  The two slogged off in the mud, hastening to catch up with their regiment.

  After they returned to the cabin—with yarrow root in hand—it took Emeline several hours before her heart settled to a steady beat. She busied herself with crushing the herb for tea while making some stew out of the chicken Mr. Ryne had caught during their absence, along with some wild turnips and a few ears of corn that had escaped the British rampage.

  Since she had no change of clothes, Owen built a fire in the hearth, and the three of them frequented it often during the day to allow the heat to penetrate their damp attire. They kept the door and windows open, and through them, she could hear Dimsmore and Ryne muttering on the porch while sharpening their blades and cleaning their guns.

  The rain still came down as if God were crying over the brutality of His creation. If that were the case, it may never stop. Fine by Emeline, for it kept them here helping these people.

  Owen sat at the table instructing Amos how to assemble a hook and line for fishing, while poor Mrs. Oakes remained at her husband’s side. Little Abigail oscillated from sitting in her mother’s lap to following Emeline around, chattering like a bird set free from a cage.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What is that?”

  “Why?”

  “Can I help?
”

  None of her questions did Emeline mind answering, though she’d forgotten how inquisitive three-year-olds could be. This particular three-year-old was the most adorable child she’d ever seen, with a waterfall of curly blond hair framing a sweet face with big blue eyes. Children were so untainted by evil, so innocent, and Emeline longed to shield Abigail from the war raging outside her door. But it had already intruded on her peaceful childhood, threatening even now to steal her father away. Emeline glanced at Mrs. Oakes, who had opened her Bible again and was reading to her husband. He had consumed the tea hours ago, but thus far, his fever had not abated.

  “Is Papa going to die?” Abigail’s bottom lip quivered as she stared at Emeline.

  Stooping, Emeline took her little hands in hers. “I don’t know, Abigail. He’s very sick. We must pray very hard for him to get well.”

  “Yes, Mama says God answers prayer.”

  Emeline smiled. “He does for good little girls like you.” She tapped her on the nose and then drew her into an embrace. “Now, are you hungry?” The smile she got in response could melt the staunchest warrior.

  It apparently did just that, for after they’d all eaten, Abigail crawled onto Owen’s lap, book in hand. Amos drew up a chair and listened while the lieutenant read them a story. Emeline couldn’t help but stare at the touching scene. What a dichotomy this man was. Adventurer, rebel, prodigal, naval officer, and warrior, taking the time to read a book to children? He even softened his voice and added emphasis and emotion when the occasion called for it in order to make the story more interesting.

  Abigail and Amos adored him, obvious by the way they looked at him and hung on his every word. Emeline went back to drying the tin plates they’d used for dinner, trying to make sense of it all. He’d come ashore to get information that would no doubt win the war for Britain, and either these children would die in the onslaught or they’d grow up under British rule. Yet they looked at him now as if he were the savior of the world.

  From his position on the window ledge, Dimsmore looked at him with none of that same sentiment. As he continued sharpening his knife, he looked as though he’d love nothing more than to plant the blade in Owen’s back.

  Or perhaps it was just the nearness of the troops they’d spotted that day that set him on edge and put him in such a foul mood. The three men were to take turns standing watch outside. Mr. Ryne was out there now. Then after him, Owen, and lastly Dimsmore.

  Rising, Dimsmore sauntered her way. “Food was delicious, Sister. Wherever did you learn to cook so well?”

  “Taking care of my two younger brothers after my … our … mother died.” She glanced at Mrs. Oakes, but she was still reading to her husband. “As you know, Brother.”

  He glanced at the lady as well and must have decided it safe to continue. Leaning toward her, he whispered, “Yet I understood you were raised in England in a house of nobility.”

  Owen glanced up from his reading and motioned Dimsmore to silence.

  “Indeed I was,” she whispered back. “After the age of fourteen.”

  “Surely being a wealthy merchantman, your father could hire a staff,” Dimsmore pressed. “Why leave you to cook?”

  Anger and fear mixed in a brew in her stomach just as thick as her chicken stew. She faced the man with a sigh and a scowl. “We were not always wealthy. My father started out with but one ship.”

  Dimsmore rubbed his chin and nodded. “But your connections in England were wealthy.”

  Emeline tossed down her rag. “My father married against his family’s wishes and was cut off.”

  “Then why—”

  Thankfully, a moan interrupted Dimsmore’s interrogation and drew Emeline over to Mrs. Oakes. Gripping her stomach, the poor woman leaned her head on the bed beside her husband.

  Emeline dashed and knelt beside her. “Come now, Mrs. Oakes.”

  “Clara … please … call me Clara,” she muttered as her face scrunched in pain.

  “Clara, please come sit by the fire and eat your supper.” She glanced at Mr. Oakes, who had apparently drifted back into unconsciousness. “I need to give him some more tea anyway.”

  Eyes brimming with sorrow met hers. “Will it help? Will he live?”

  Emeline wanted to lie, wanted to tell her all would be well. “I don’t know. But let me sit with him awhile, all right? You need to eat and get some rest.”

  She sat back and rubbed her belly, a tear breaking free down her cheek. She wiped it away. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mrs. Masters.”

  Emeline shivered at the title, whether from pleasure or repulsion, she didn’t know. Perhaps a bit of both. “Please call me Emeline.”

  “Emeline. You are an answer to prayer. You came when I most needed you. You’ve tended my dear husband, befriended and cared for my children, and provided food and protection. A godsend you are.”

  Emeline had never been called such, and it made her cringe at the lies they had told this woman—and a pastor’s wife of all things. Something else proper ladies didn’t do. Lie to godly women.

  After assisting Clara to one of the comfortable chairs before the fire and serving her chicken stew, Emeline brewed a cup of yarrow tea and sat beside Mr. Oakes. It took the next hour to get but a few sips down him. And still his fever raged.

  Rain pattered, fire crackled, and Clara gathered her children to ready them for bed. They both came to kiss their father good night.

  “Please, Papa, get well soon.” Little Abigail leaned to kiss her father’s cheek. “Papa, you’re so warm,” the girl exclaimed as her mother drew her back and allowed Amos beside the bed. The boy stared at his father, clearly fighting back tears. He bent to kiss his forehead then hurried to join his mom and sister as they settled down for the night.

  “Will you pray for him, Emeline?” Clara said. “I have no more prayers left.”

  Emeline nodded, longing to tell the lady that God so rarely answered her prayers. Yet hadn’t He done so earlier that day when the soldiers were nigh upon them?

  It certainly couldn’t hurt.

  Owen attempted to rub the exhaustion from his eyes as he sat back in the chair. His belly yearned for more of Emeline’s cooking, but there’d been barely enough to go around. Who knew the woman could cook like that? He smiled as his gaze shifted to Mrs. Oakes humming a sweet melody to her two children as they lay down beside her on the straw pallet. She tucked little Abigail close beside her and whispered something to Amos as he took a protective position in front of the women. They were good, decent children. Innocent children who had seen far too much misery in their short lives. A palpable pain shot through Owen’s chest as he watched their sweet faces in the firelight. What would become of them in this horrid war? And where was God in all of this? How could He allow such tragedy to befall the innocent?

  Whispers brought his gaze over to Emeline kneeling before Mr. Oakes’s bed, head bowed and hands gripped before her. Praying? He knew she meant well, but to Owen, it seemed a waste of time. Honestly, Owen couldn’t blame God for abandoning mankind. If Owen had created something so abhorrently evil, he would have forsaken it as well.

  The creak of the front door opening disturbed his thoughts as Mr. Ryne entered, dragging behind him a gust of rain-spiced wind and a cyclone of leaves. Quickly shutting the door, he removed his coat and hat and headed toward the hearth to warm himself.

  “You’re on watch, Masters.” Dimsmore’s voice grated over Owen from where the man sat by the window, obviously missing nothing.

  “I’m aware.” Pushing to his feet, Owen grabbed his musket and coat and left, suddenly preferring the rain to sitting in the same room as Dimsmore.

  Three hours later, soaked to the bone, and more tired than he’d been in a long while, he returned and got more pleasure than he should have out of waking Dimsmore from a sound sleep.

  Smiling as the man grumbled and left, Owen shrugged out of his wet coat and stooped before the hot coals in the hearth. Mr. Ryne snored from his spot in the
corner while deep breaths wafted from where Mrs. Oakes and her children lay fast asleep. Good. They needed their rest.

  But it was the sight of Emeline still awake beside Mr. Oakes that disturbed him. Such care for her enemy! Quietly, he approached her.

  “You need your sleep, Emeline. You’re no good to anyone exhausted.”

  She glanced up. Shadows dragged her eyes down as a sense of hopelessness hovered about her. “Neither are you.” She faced Mr. Oakes once again, a brittle shadow on the bed. “His fever has risen, and he’s been in and out of consciousness. I don’t want to leave him alone.”

  “I can watch him.”

  When she shook her head, he squatted beside her and dared to take her hand in his. It felt good—small, soft, yet strong, just like the woman herself. “I promise to wake you should anything change.”

  “But what of your sleep?”

  “I got a couple hours earlier, remember? Besides, I’m used to not sleeping.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  Owen squeezed her hand, pleased she hadn’t pulled it away.

  “Very well.” She started to rise. “Promise me you will—”

  “I will. Now go lie down.” He gestured with his head, wondering yet again why he was being kind to a traitor.

  That traitor, though exhausted, afraid, and filthy, was quite lovely as he watched her grab a blanket and collapse on it before the hearth.

  Owen took the chair she’d vacated and the cloth she’d handed him and dipped it in the basin of cool water. He placed it back on the man’s forehead and leaned forward on his knees, his wet hair hanging about his face.

  Though the wind had dwindled, rain still rapped on the roof, providing a soothing melody that did naught to unwind his nerves.

  “I heard you.” The raspy whisper came from the bed, jerking Owen’s attention up. He glanced around but everyone was asleep, including Mr. Oakes, who lay as still as death.

  “I …” One of Mr. Oakes’s eyelids cracked open. “Heard you talking about your father.”