The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

Emeline stood for several minutes watching the family disappear into the shadows until the forest swallowed them up. Wiping her eyes, she returned and mounted the steps.

  Owen thought to have some fun. “I should arrest you right here and now,” he said in his most authoritative voice.

  If Emeline’s heart weren’t attached, it would have leapt out her throat and skittered into the woods after Clara and her children. She froze and slowly slid her gaze to Owen, waiting for her blood to stop dashing through her veins.

  “Why don’t you then?”

  The man who was naught but a shadow sitting on the chair slid up his hat. “Because if I’d had my wits about me, I might have done the same.”

  She wondered if she heard him right. “I don’t believe you.”

  Rising, he moved toward her, all muscle and man, a panther on a night prowl.

  She didn’t move. Refused to show this man any fear.

  Stepping into the moonlight, he leaned a shoulder on the post and smiled. Yes, smiled. Not an I’ve-got-you kind of evil grin, but a smile one gives to a thing of beauty one admires. Her blood went from racing to warming.

  “Why aren’t you asleep like the rest of them?” she asked.

  His smile remained as he removed his hat and raked his hair back. “I gave my soup to Ryne.” He chuckled. “What was in it?”

  Emeline released a sigh. “Laudanum.”

  “Brilliant.” He chuckled.

  Emeline raised a brow. “I don’t understand. Why aren’t you arresting me?”

  “For allowing an innocent family to go free?” He shook his head. “That doesn’t make you a traitor. Just human.” He jerked his head toward the cabin. “Unlike some people we know.”

  Emeline swallowed and gazed at the forest where she’d last seen the Oakes. “They won’t talk. They don’t even know what we’re after.”

  Owen nodded. “I must admit you are quite an enigma, Miss Baratt.”

  “So you keep telling me. But there is nothing special about me. I’m just trying to do the right thing. Be good as God commands.” Emeline looked down and laughed. “Though I suppose proper ladies don’t drug British Royal Navy officers. Hence, I have failed yet again.”

  He chuckled. “I’d say God will forgive you, even if He considers it an infraction.”

  She looked up at him. “And who made you an expert on the things of God?”

  “Touché, Miss Baratt.” Owen glanced across the farm, his intense gaze alert, his jaw bunching, his presence both comforting and frightening. “Our mission is almost complete. Tomorrow we’ll be in Baltimore, discover their plans, and be back on the ship the next day.”

  She nodded, sorrow clawing at her soul—sorrow that she would have to turn this man in as a traitor. Despite his odd views of God and his unpredictability, he was decent and good. But still an enemy. Wait. Why did his tone bear none of the joy or excitement one would expect of such a victory? Odd. Could he possibly be …

  No. Certainly her country placed no spies aboard Royal Navy ships. Such an assignment wouldn’t provide enough information to warrant the risk. Only a fool or a daredevil would … She stared at him again, but he suddenly met her gaze and gave her a smile that made her not care where his loyalties lay.

  She lowered her lashes. “I shall be glad when it is over.” Snoring sounded from within the cabin, and she glanced that way. “What should we do with them?”

  “Ah, let them sleep.” He smiled. “They’ll have a headache come morning, but they’ll be none the worse for it.”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so kind. Or why you trust me still.”

  “Maybe I don’t.” He winked. “But what choice do I have? We need you.”

  So that was it. He needed her for access to the militia commanders. Merely a means to an end, that was all she was. She gestured toward the door. “What will you tell them?”

  “That Mrs. Oakes put laudanum in the stew, and when we were all asleep, she and her children escaped.”

  Emeline smiled. “It was a cruel thing to do, wasn’t it?”

  Before she could stop him, Owen gathered a lock of her hair and eased it from her face.

  Her breath caught.

  He ran a thumb over her cheek. “It was a devilishly good thing to do.”

  “I don’t think you can put the devil and—”

  His lips met hers. Barely a whisper above her own—soft, testing … teasing. She should push him away. She should … but then he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her close and his kiss deepened. Madness and ecstasy! Never had she been kissed like this before. It was as if nothing in the entire world mattered but this man … the taste of him … the feel of him—all strength and honor and spice and wildness. She felt safe. Cherished.

  Not like the entire world was at war around them.

  La! Proper ladies didn’t allow men to kiss them like this! But she couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. He groaned, a pleasurable sound, a sound of yearning and desire. He released her lips. Stunned by the loss of him, Emeline couldn’t move. She was searching for her reason, her propriety, but they had abandoned her, along with her tongue, for she tried to speak but couldn’t.

  His breath filled the air between them as he cupped her chin in his thick hand and raised her gaze to his. “In another world, in a different time, I would beg you to be my lady.”

  Taken aback by his words, Emeline could only stare at him, searching his eyes for a spark of humor, but his tone and his look—a desperate look of longing—sent a sudden wave of terror storming through her. Covering her mouth with her hand, she opened the door and fled into the cabin.

  CHAPTER 23

  Angrier than a hungover pirate whose booty had been stolen, Dimsmore stomped down the path through a thicket of trees. Walking behind him, Owen hid a smile. He’d been hiding them all morning, ever since Dimsmore had woken and discovered the Oakes gone. At first, he’d blamed Owen, accused him of being a traitor, but once Emeline feigned her surprise that the laudanum was gone and then sniffed the leftover stew, Dimsmore redirected his anger toward Mrs. Oakes.

  Without an apology to Owen.

  “How could an ignorant farm woman concoct such a plan?” he had shouted.

  He’d rumbled about the cabin, throwing things and making such a clatter that he gave himself a headache. Even Mr. Ryne, who’d been vomiting since dawn, begged him to stop.

  Now the two bumbled down the trail, complaining of nausea and muscle aches.

  Of course, Owen and Emeline joined in with their own complaints, lest they draw suspicion their way.

  In truth, Owen took no care for any of that. All his care was directed toward the intriguing woman walking beside him. And all his thoughts were on the kiss they’d shared last night. He probably shouldn’t have taken liberties, but then again, there were many things he probably shouldn’t do. She’d looked so lovely in the moonlight with the breeze dancing among her curls, her lustrous green eyes full of such pluck and vigor, and those lips she kept biting as if they were sweet to the taste.

  He simply had to find out. And they were. Sweeter than he imagined. Her response—totally unexpected, for he’d thought she’d slap him—made it all the more sweeter, and he’d had to force himself to stop.

  This was no lady to be trifled with. This was a woman to cherish and adore. Two things he would never be able to do if she remained his enemy. But what if … So many times she’d sided with the Americans, favored them, extended undue kindness. Dare he hope that perhaps after landing ashore her sentiments were shifting back to the country of her birth? He must find out. At all costs.

  She’d not said a word to him that morning. In fact, she avoided eye contact even now. Yet she walked beside him instead of behind or before, which gave him hope.

  Morning sun trickled through branches, sparking the forest to life wherever it touched. Squirrels darted across the path, frogs chirped, lizards waddled up tree trunks. A blue jay followed them, jumping from tree to tree—an American spy,
no doubt. Owen smiled.

  The ground, still soft from the rain, sank beneath their boots as a breeze brought some relief from the heat already rising.

  With an eye on Dimsmore and Ryne ahead of them, Owen slowed his pace.

  “Would you like to talk about last night?”

  “No,” came the curt reply. “Nor shall anything like that happen again.” She stopped and stared at him, her eyes flashing and her pert little nose curling. “You caught me at a weak moment.”

  “All right. What shall we talk about then?” He started forward.

  “Why must we talk? We should conserve our energy for when we enter Baltimore.”

  “Ah, Baltimore. The city of your youth. It must be somewhat exciting to return after all these years. How long has it been, eight?”

  “Ten. And I’m returning as an enemy.”

  “Your father will no doubt be glad to see you.”

  She shook her head. “What makes you think I intend to seek him out? We will discover the militia’s plans and then leave. That’s it.”

  “You don’t even wish to see him? Say goodbye?”

  Ah, there it was, the pain lining her face. The first hint that she still bore some affections for this place, for her family, for America. But then her expression stiffened.

  “Much like your mother did when she sent you to the Royal Navy, my father sent me away to live with my great-aunt. She had been begging for me to come for years. She never approved of my father marrying my mother. She was a quarter Mohawk, and such things are unheard of in England, as you know. So my father agreed, hoping my aunt would transform me into a proper lady who would find her place in society.”

  Owen stared at the golden curls dangling at her neck, remembering how soft they were. But he could not reconcile the light color with the dark hair so typical among American Indians. Not that her Indian heritage disturbed him. In truth, it rather excited him and certainly explained her wild, untamed spirit. “Seems we have more in common than we thought.”

  She glanced at him then, and he thought he saw a smile curve her lips.

  Dimsmore tripped over a fallen log up ahead, and Owen took the lady’s hand to steady her as she stepped over it after him. A group of chickadees serenaded them as they passed beneath the branch of a large oak.

  “I thought it would be a grand adventure,” she continued. “My aunt was known to be quite eccentric, and she loved parties and traveling. I had hoped to see Europe, meet interesting people, and perhaps pursue my art.”

  “And meet a prospective wealthy husband?” Like most women Owen knew.

  “Bite your tongue, sir. Never that. I don’t ever wish to be tied down.”

  Owen flinched. He certainly hadn’t expected that reaction. What woman didn’t wish to make a good match? Extraordinary.

  “Alas, my aunt became terribly ill.” Emeline swept a curl from her face. “And I spent my years at her bedside, caring for her.”

  “How disappointing. I’m sorry.”

  She looked at him as if surprised by the sincerity of his tone.

  But he was sorry. He could not see this wild bird caged for too long. Not without breaking her spirit.

  “Yet,” he dared say, “it would seem that ten years living among the British Haut-ton was unable to strip you of your … hmm …” How to say it as a compliment and not insult this precious lady.

  “Baseborn abilities?” She graced him with a smile that told him she wasn’t at all insulted.

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or apologize. “I meant to say that the general snobbery and spoon-fed whining of the nobility found no root in your unpretentious nature.”

  She gave a ladylike snort. “One doesn’t forget running a house and taking care of two brothers for fourteen … six years.”

  “Fourteen, six? Which is it?”

  She scowled. “Six years. My mother died when I was eight, and my father sent me to my aunt’s at fourteen. Ten years later, here I am.”

  Owen scratched his chin. Why did she seem like she was reciting a planned speech? “I’m sorry about your mother. What was she like?”

  Emeline smiled and fingered the locket around her neck. “She was beautiful and full of life … a magnificent artist.”

  “So that’s where you get it from.”

  “You flatter me, Owen. And I’m not sure why.” She cocked her head at him but then faced forward again. “If I possess even half her talent, I shall be glad for it.” Clutching her skirts, she stepped over a large root. “Father and she were dreadfully unhappy. He wanted a wife who acted like a wife, who tended the home and cared for the children. My mother tried her best, and she took good care of us, but she could not stop painting. It made her so happy.” Emeline smiled. “She could have been famous worldwide and sold her work, she was that good.”

  She glanced up at him as they continued forward. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Forgive me.”

  “No. Please, go on. I’m interested.”

  “There isn’t much else to say. Perhaps it was the Indian blood in her. She wasn’t suited to be a proper English wife and mother.”

  “And from what I gather, you don’t think you are either?”

  “I know I am not. But if God wills it, I will try. I’m tired of running from Him.”

  He dropped his gaze to the locket still gripped in her fingers. “How did she die?”

  “The doctors never said. In truth, I don’t think they knew. She simply grew ill, and in two days she was gone.” She released the locket as if letting go of a bad memory. “My father said God punished her for not following His rules. Doing her wifely duties.”

  Owen ground his teeth, his fury rising.

  “He said the same thing will happen to me if I don’t settle down.”

  “Is that what you believe?” he asked, his tone a bit too angry. No wonder this woman tried so hard to be what she called a proper lady.

  “How can I not after all the tragedies that have befallen me? I try so hard to be good, but it seems the world, or perhaps God, is against me.”

  “Perhaps what you consider to be good and what God considers to be good are not one and the same.”

  She huffed. “How would someone like you know?”

  “Ouch, the lady wounds me.” He pressed a hand to his chest, though he knew she was right. He had never prided himself on knowing much either about being good or about God.

  “I’m sorry, Owen. You didn’t deserve that. You’ve been kind to me.”

  “But I did deserve it.”

  “Well, in that case, I don’t suppose you’ll give me a hint of the British plan of attack? We are nearly at Baltimore. Surely you trust me by now.”

  Owen wondered at both the sudden change of topic and her curiosity. But then again, perhaps, despite her declaration otherwise, she was concerned about her family’s safety. What difference did it make if she knew? If she was loyal to Britain, it didn’t matter. If she was loyal to America, all the better.

  “All I know is that the British are planning attacks by both land and sea. They’ll land four thousand troops under Ross at North Point and march to Baltimore from the east, while our ships will bombard Fort McHenry. Once the fort is taken, they’ll sail into the harbor and point their guns at the city.” Owen’s stomach deflated even saying it. “Of course, this all depends on how many men are defending Baltimore and how much armament they have at their disposal. Which is what we are to discover.”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  They walked on in silence, the story of her past settling in his mind. And in his heart. She was as wild and free-spirited as he. Which only made him love her more.

  Love. There was that word again—a foreign word when it came to women. Desire, admiration, pleasure … yes. But never love. Love meant commitment, and commitment meant settling down. And he had far too many adventures planned to allow that to happen. Yet … as he glanced at this lady beside him—the most beautiful creature inside and out that he’d ever
known—he might be persuaded to make an exception.

  Proper ladies didn’t think about kissing men! Proper ladies didn’t feel all warm and tingly when they remembered kissing a certain man. Emeline glanced at that man beside her, the commanding way he walked, the way his gaze continually took in their surroundings like a protective warrior—the very presence of him, powerful, dangerous. Yet despite all that, he made her feel safe, even special.

  What was happening to her?

  They emerged from the trees and started across a field—like stepping from a cool kitchen into an oven as rays from a fiery sun pummeled them from above. Even the heated air seemed to buzz and crackle like sizzling coals. Plucking a handkerchief from her pocket, Emeline wiped the back of her neck. Proper ladies didn’t sweat either, she supposed, but there was naught to be done about it.

  Owen glanced her way and handed her the canteen. Taking it, she uncorked it and took a swig. “Thank you.” Oh, what she must look like with half her hair dangling from her pins, dirt smudged on her gown and skin, and what she could only imagine were dark circles beneath her eyes.

  Yet when he took back the canteen, he gave her a look as if she’d just walked into an elegant soiree in her best gown. He took a gulp of water and wiped his sleeve over his mouth. Fie! Her thoughts went to their kiss again. She sped forward and continued across the field of tall grass sprinkled with goldenrod and pink milkweed.

  If he thought her unlike any British nobility he’d met, the feeling was mutual, for he certainly didn’t match her notion of a Royal Navy officer. She’d always imagined them to be strict, by-the-book, heartless, and licentious. Yet during the past three days ashore, this man had disobeyed orders more than once, shown a great deal of care for Americans, and never once taken advantage of her. In fact, quite the opposite. She wished more than anything that she didn’t have to turn him over to the Baltimore militia … that she didn’t have to betray him and never see him again.

  Yet now that Owen had told her the plans, she no longer needed him. Perhaps she could lose him once they separated from Dimsmore and began their trek into Baltimore. But of course that wouldn’t do. Knowing him, he’d still make every attempt to get the information he came for and then return to his ship. And she couldn’t allow any knowledge to get into the hands of the British that would aid them in winning this war.