Seaswept Abandon

by Jo Goodman

  Rae pointed to the honey, adding an extra dollop to appease Esther's dark gaze.

  "Honey ain't gonna do nothin' but sweeten your disposition, Miss Rae. Yo want somethin' to loosen your tongue, yo try a little of my Sam's specialty. It'll scare that cold right out of your body." She laughed heartily when Rae bravely held out her steaming mug. "That's the way. Never thought you McClellans were a cowardly lot." She went to the pantry and brought back a small stoneware jug. When she uncorked it, there was a shifting haze in the air, like summer heat upon the cobblestones. Rae wrinkled her nose as the alcoholic vapors were released. "Course, I always thought y'all were a might short on common sense."

  Rae smiled weakly, letting Esther enjoy herself, and watched the cook fill her mug to the rim with a syrupy liquor. She stirred the mixture with some trepidation and lifted it to her nose cautiously. Amazingly, it did not smell so bad once it was mixed with the tea. She touched the cup to her lips, sipping warily. Her dark brows arched in surprise and she took a larger gulp, nodding approvingly to Esther.

  "Go easy with that, Miss Rae," Esther warned. "It's got a mighty kick."

  Rae thought it had a rather pleasant, warming effect. It seemed even the liberal amount Esther had added was diluted by the tea. She motioned to the cook to add some more to her mug.

  Esther shook her head. "No, ma'am. Yo ain't gettin' no more." She turned her back on Rae and carried the jug back to the pantry. "Some McClellans have less sense than others," she mumbled.

  Rae continued to sip at her brew and bided her time. When Esther carried herself off to the fruit cellar, Rae slipped into the pantry and made off with the jug, cautioning the giggling kitchen maids to secrecy. Once she was safely in the fragrant confines of Salem's small library, Rae made herself comfortable in the lush softness of her brother's favorite chair. Smooth leather surrounded her as she tucked her legs beneath her, curling up like a child. Smiling at her stealth, well pleased with her theft, Rae added a few drops of liquor to her mug. The drink was pleasantly warm on her tongue. She pressed her lips lightly together, then cleared her throat.

  It did not hurt. She took a large swallow, added more from the jug, swallowed again, and felt a sort of numbness seize her insides. This must be the kick, she decided. It was not without its rewards, she noted as she tested her voice. She was able to say her name in a rough whisper.

  Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, Rae saw she had less than thirty minutes before she had to leave for Wolfe's. Surely by that time, she thought, Sam's concoction should have a chance to soothe her vocal cords. Over the next half-hour Rae applied herself to the brew with the steady purposefulness that Ashley had admired earlier. She wisely controlled herself and did not repeat the large gulps that resulted in a fiery burning in the viscera and settled for small, ladylike sips. When her lips touched the final bit of liquid in her mug, only one part of her brain clearly understood there was virtually no tea diluting the alcohol.

  She kicked the jug beneath her chair, straightening as she heard the handle of the library door being pulled. She schooled her welcoming smile, hoping the curve of her lips was not too silly as Ashley let herself into the room.

  "I thought perhaps this is where I would find you," Ashley said, wiping her damp hands on her apron. "I've just finished giving Courtney her bath. Such a fuss she makes. Soapsuds everywhere. I can see you are ready." She pointed to the shawl, which Rahab had rather negligently tossed on the sofa. "Will it be enough for you? Perhaps you better take your pelisse. There's a sharp wind brewing this evening."

  Rae turned her overly grave countenance toward the window. The sky was darkening; night still came early in spring. A sapling branch fluttered against the pane. Like an ebony skeleton, Rae thought. She brought her hand to her mouth, coughing to cover a wild urge to giggle.

  Rahab was no green girl. She knew the effects of alcoholic spirits—on others. She had seen her brothers on more than one occasion stepping lively to music only they could hear, laughing boisterously at the most childish of jokes, commiserating over the ragged path of true love. Rae recognized that the rosy glow that softened her vision would lead her to trouble if her behavior was not above reproach. Her solemn eyes rested on Ashley's face and her hands pantomimed that the shawl would be sufficient.

  "If you're certain. I really do appreciate this, Rae. Shall you want a bite to eat before you go?"

  Rae shook her head vigorously and her smile waned. The thought of food on top of the jug brew was nearly her undoing. She stood slowly and reached for the watch plaid shawl, arranging it neatly about her shoulders. Indicating the clock, Rae showed Ashley it was time for her to leave.

  "One more thing," Ashley said as she reached into her apron pocket. Rae's eyes widened as Ashley pulled out what looked like a large leather bookmark. Blinking, Rae realized it was a leather sheath, a protective covering for a finely made six-inch blade. Ashley showed Rae the knife, then slipped it back into its jacket. Its delicate edges were razor sharp. It was the work of a master craftsman. "Salem had this made for me. He despaired of the way I used to strap a pistol to my thigh for defense."

  Rae chuckled as she recalled Ashley's penchant for bluffing her way through harrowing situations with an unprimed pistol. It was no wonder that Salem had given her the knife.

  "I gather you know how to use this. You had a more liberal education than I. Salem had to instruct me."

  Rahab nodded, lifting her skirt high as Ashley knelt to fasten the thin leather straps about her thigh. Rae had no qualms about carrying the weapon. It was as Ashley had said: Growing up as a McClellan had provided her with a liberal education. Her father felt very strongly that his daughters should be able to fend for themselves.

  "I doubt you shall have any use for this. It is merely a precaution. At least, I shall feel better knowing you have it." Ashley straightened. "Please go carefully. I shall expect you long before midnight."

  Rae kissed Ashley briefly on the cheek and hoped she did not smell of spirits. "I'll be fine," she rasped. "You'll see."

  Before Ashley could comment on the questionable return of her voice, Rae fled the room and the house.

  Chapter 2

  Rae decided nothing in her twenty-two years had prepared her for what she confronted when she crossed the threshold into Wolfe's Tavern. Nothing. The part of herself that was scrupulously honest, that part dealing only in realities, admitted that if it hadn't been for the liquor she would be taking her leave at this very minute. It was not a comforting realization to know she was an honest coward.

  Taking a deep breath, and immediately sorry for the action, Rae resolutely squashed her fears and pushed her way through the crowded pubroom. A variety of odors assaulted her nostrils. Among them she identified stale spirits, roasting mutton, the heavy fragrance of musk and sweat, and—oh, God—was that urine? She gave silent thanks the tavern was poorly lighted and thick with tobacco smoke so she could not see the exact nature of what she had just stepped in. She lifted her skirt a little higher, exposing a bit of ankle and calf, and shook her dainty foot. Someone laughed, but it was difficult to say whether the chuckle was directed at her plight. Rae tossed a disparaging look over her shoulder just the same. No one was going to make light of her.

  As Rae slipped through the crowd, occasionally finding herself the object of some rough but essentially careless fondling, she understood why Ashley had told her not to bother painting herself as a harlot. Clearly, none but the fallen would ever step foot in Wolfe's. She shuddered to think what could have happened to Ashley's reputation if she had ever been discovered in the tavern. Rae could not help smiling at the irony of her own situation. Being seen in Wolfe's would give pause to those young bucks who thought her a cold wench.

  There were several long tables in the tavern where soldiers in their cardinal-red uniforms sat shoulder to shoulder, regularly lifting their mugs as they drank to anything that caught their fancy. Interspersed about the room were booths for those who wanted relative privacy.


  Not many did. Typically, the booths were crowded with officers well into their cups. One secluded enclave of lobsterbacks was entertaining two young women to a ribald adventure, equal parts speculation and fabrication. Rae's ears turned pink at the tips even though she caught only a few phrases. She smiled ruefully. She had thought she was made of sterner stuff. She cautioned herself not to gasp at the sight of one soldier burying his face in the ample bosom of his female companion. Certainly the woman did not seem to mind. The lightskirt laughed shrilly and encouraged the liberty. Her thick fingers, reminding Rae of small sausages, closed around the man's head and held him fast. No doubt he would smother in that musky caress. Rae turned away, composing her features into an expression of jaded boredom, and neatly elbowed a man who tried to pull her onto his lap.

  Her slow progress to the bar was not without its reward. Rae had sufficient time to study most of the patrons and was satisfied that her contact had not yet arrived. The booth she had expected to be occupied by Herr Kroger was being used by a man who was the very antithesis of the German Ashley had described. Rae gave him only the briefest of glances. The man's casual inspection was more disconcerting than the easy fondling she had endured. Something in his gaze stripped her to the skin and found her wanting. There was nothing about him to recommend a gentleman of the first water.

  "Hey, Red! You! There by the fat man!" The strident voice came from the bar area. "I'm talkin' to you, Red."

  Rae did not realize she was the object of the yelling until she noticed the customer on her left was sporting three chins. No one had ever called her Red in her life. She stood on tiptoe and looked over the shoulder of the soldier in front of her, pointing to herself in question.

  The barkeep nodded. "That's right, Red. It's about time you got here. Hoskins promised me help an hour ago." When Rae's immediate response was confusion, he asked, "Ain't you the serving wench Hoskins said would help out tonight?"

  Rahab's first inclination was to deny knowing Hoskins. Then it occurred to her that working as a barmaid provided the easiest way to watch for Kroger. "That's right," she called back, instantly regretting the careless use of her voice. The effects of Esther's jug liquor were wearing off. Then she swayed a little on her feet as she sank back on her heels and had to amend her last thought. There was still plenty of the stuff coursing through her veins.

  "Well, git over here. There's lots of work to be done and none of it without a few ales in your hand!"

  Rae tried to move forward but found her path blocked by several patrons who looked less than steady on their own feet. She tapped one of them on the shoulder, pointed in the general direction of the bar, and smiled engagingly. The brawny colonial, sober or drunk, was not proof against that smile. He nudged his friends, and Rae felt as grand as Moses when a path was made for her; even grander a moment later when she was lifted and passed from one man to another until she reached the bar without her feet once touching the floor.

  At journey's end she gracefully swung herself onto the counter and curtseyed regally to the crowd as if they had been her courtly bearers. The gesture won admiration and applause, and Rae felt heady as she dropped lightly to the floor.

  "Looks like you know how to handle the crowd, Red," John Wolfe said gruffly. His rheumy eyes passed over Rahab from head to toe. "But you don't know a damn thing about serving, I'll wager. Yer not likely to make much, dressed as you are."

  Rae nearly screamed as the owner's stubby fingers and bitten nails reached for her breasts. She sighed in relief when he only loosened the knot of her shawl. He pulled the garment from her shoulders and tossed it back to her.

  "Tie that about yer waist fer an apron and loosen that blouse over yer shoulders." His chin jerked in the direction of the neckline of her saque. "You got nothin' these men haven't seen before. Probably a lot less."

  Rae bit back a reply, doubting she could have voiced it anyway, and pulled at her overblouse, jerking the edges over the slender curves of her shoulders. The action was sufficient to expose the fine line of her collarbone and the high curve of her breasts. She ignored Wolfe's derisive snort when he saw the lace trim of her chemise. She supposed he thought she shouldn't have bothered with undergarments. Someone nearby whistled admiringly; someone else called impatiently for another brew. Rae felt a measure of relief knowing she was not to everyone's taste.

  Wolfe looked her over again. "I suppose you'll do." He thrust a tray into her hands and quickly loaded it with a stoneware pitcher and five tankards. He pointed vaguely in the direction of one of the long tables, which was particularly rowdy. "That way. And remember, what you spill, drop, or throw at anyone comes out of your wages."

  Which we have not even discussed, Rae thought. She nodded, set her chin determinedly, and pointed her feet toward the loudest part of the room.

  * * *

  Jericho Smith was not particularly amused by the wench's light-hearted and flirtatious theatrics. But then nothing had much amused Jericho for some time. He was weary of everything associated with war, and he counted among the casualties the women he saw in Wolfe's Tavern. They were a sad lot, flaunting their pale skin, wiggling their hips energetically, throwing themselves prone for anyone who looked. All in aid of a few coins, which only the British soldiers could supply. Smith's own pockets were light. Hardly surprising, he thought on a short sigh. He had not taken his position as one of Washington's aides because of the pay.

  Jericho twisted in his booth, settling his back against the wall so his view of the tavern was nearly unobstructed. He rested one booted leg on the bench to keep company at a distance and drank his ale slowly. His eyes never stopped searching the room and only paused occasionally on the doorway when it swung open. No one in Wolfe's ever noticed the brief disappointment set about his mouth when the object of his search failed to enter. Jericho finished his drink and raised his arm for another, grimacing only slightly when the pub's newest serving wench answered his summons. If he had to sit here, waiting for couriers who might never appear, the very least that could have been supplied him was a lightskirt more to his taste than the one hovering about his table now.

  "A refill," he said carelessly to Rahab, sliding his mug to the edge of the table. His keen blue eyes swept icily over her again, finding nothing to recommend changing his opinion. The freckles sweeping the high contours of her cheeks did give him a moment's pause. They seemed at odds with the flashy copper of her thick hair and the sultry depths of her green eyes. Then she swayed on her feet, just enough so that when she caught herself, putting a hand to the small of her back, her breasts pushed forward, straining against the confines of her chemise. Jericho's lips curled derisively. "I'm hardly impressed, ma'am."

  Rae followed the direction of his gaze and blushed hotly, bringing up her empty tray as if it were a shield. With courage borne of this protection, she allowed her eyes to sweep over Jericho Smith, aping the manner in which he had insolently studied her.

  Even sitting as he was, Rae could tell he was a tall man, but she was neither impressed nor intimidated. All the McClellan men were virtual trees, and Rae saw nothing exceptional about the stature of this rough stranger. He had a certain lean and lazy strength, she decided critically. Like a snake before it struck. She would not let herself smile at the thought and continued her dispassionate appraisal. Rae admitted his features were not unappealing. His hair was virtually hidden by the worn cocked hat he sported, but she could see evidence of its bright color in his brows and a few strands that had escaped the queue at his nape. She was not particularly partial to yellow-haired men. She thought them lacking in a certain maleness. His lashes were as heavy and dark as her own and shaded eyes that were an uncommon shade of blue, nearly the color of clear southern waters but with none of the warmth. She thought his nose a bit too bold and arrogant, his mouth indolently curved in mockery, and the set of his jaw a silent challenge.

  His clothes were styled in the fashion of the colonials. He wore a plain linen shirt and neckcloth. His black coat fitted
the breadth of his shoulders tightly, and Rae could see where clumsy stitches had repaired one of the split seams. A tarnished button hung loosely from one of the sleeves. His navy breeches fit snugly into the tops of his scuffed riding boots. He was no soldier, and that made him even more distasteful in her mind. His presence in Wolfe's named him a British sympathizer, and Rae felt her stomach churn. As she was judged, so did she judge.

  Rahab smiled sweetly, picking up his mug, and boldly allowed her eyes to fall to his lap where his breeches stretched tautly across his hard thighs. "I'm hardly impressed either," she rasped. She turned her back on him, well satisfied with the astonishment she had been able to bring to his placid expression. Arrogant Tory oaf!

  Jericho blinked in surprise as the saucy wench gave him her back, then surprised himself with a shout of laughter and an agreeable grin. The wench gave as good as she got, and he found himself appreciative and not a little interested. He was reluctant to recall the last time he had genuinely enjoyed himself, because it meant admitting the war was exacting its price on him. He preferred to believe he was immune to the ravages that seven years of fighting and intrigue could take on his soul. These past seven years were not so different from the seven years before, or the seven years before them. At thirty-one he had more than a nodding acquaintance with adversity and ugliness. But it was not in Jericho's nature to rue what could not be changed, so he did not allow himself to dwell on the fine manor home that had been lost to him or the years he had spent at the mercy of a spiteful captain's whims. What did it matter that when he escaped Garvey's service on the Igraine he had not yet reached his majority? He had left that floating prison alive, and that was more than the one who had engineered his disappearance had thought him capable of.