If he had been fit to marry any woman, he’d choose one like her. But yesterday had only reminded him how utterly unsuited for marriage he was.
He’d been so careful all these years not to get caught out. No one had thought it odd that he waited until he was alone to read his letters. He’d got around the trouble of playing regimental clerk by hiring Elijah Cameron, and gained credit thereby in his colonel’s eyes, since the Cameron family were his protégés. On the rare occasions anyone tossed Henry a newspaper with an indignant Read this! he’d pleaded weariness or sore eyes and asked his companion to tell him what was so very dreadful. And on the even more infrequent occasions where a friend had recommended some novel or poem, he’d laughed and protested that he’d never been fond of books like his brothers—which was why he’d gone to the army instead of Oxford, and would his friend care to share a drink, or had he heard about the hunt Colonel Lord So-and-So was holding? If anyone had ever suspected anything amiss, they’d said nothing of it.
But when Jeannette had thrust that handbill into his hands yesterday, he’d had no way to dissemble. It was impossible to pretend a lack of interest in a document that called for one’s own arrest for murder. And so he’d done his best—some mad part of his brain hoping he’d receive an instant, miraculous cure because he needed it so badly—and stumbled by the first sentence. He’d been ready to try again, hoping they’d taken his hesitation as shock over the paper’s contents rather than difficulty in comprehending them. But the instant he’d looked in Thérèse’s eyes and seen confusion replaced by dreadful comprehension and, even more painful, pity, he’d known better and handed it over to her. They’d needed quick understanding of what they faced far more than he’d needed to protect his reputation as an intelligent man.
And then his horror at being discovered as a fool with a defective brain had been driven out by an even greater dismay to hear himself labeled a deserter. Of course Thérèse was right that Jean-Baptiste Bondurant’s calling him one did not make it so, but he could no longer suppress his dread that his own army would take the same view.
He had no way of knowing where his army was. In the week he and his companions had spent aboard the Enterprize, the army might have set sail for anywhere. Therefore he reluctantly concluded their best course was to make for Canada. Trying to reach another port like Mobile, Charleston or Savannah seemed chancy at best, since Henry couldn’t doubt Jean-Baptiste had sent his handbills there, too. The farther north they went, the safer Jeannette and Thérèse would be. And if they could make it to the border, all they needed to do was cross a river.
He imagined himself telling his tale to some sympathetic militia colonel or colonial official there who’d help him to a ship bound for England and possibly loan him a little money until he could make it home to London and repay it. But...what if they didn’t believe him? What if he was branded a turncoat and a coward? Contrary to Thérèse’s fears, he had no urge toward self-destruction. It was one thing to not fear death, quite another to hold a pistol to his brow and bring it about. He wasn’t a very religious man, but some part of him still believed that suicide was the worst of sins, bringing with it eternal damnation.
Yet disappearance had its temptations. It seemed almost better to melt into this vast American frontier, to let his family believe him dead, than to bring so great a shame to their name. He could become a trapper, a hunter, a horse breaker—perhaps even follow Jeannette’s dream and go live among the Indians.
He could...but he would not. He’d sworn to see Thérèse and Jeannette to safety, and he’d never abandon them. Also, he didn’t think he could live with himself if he compounded his accidental desertion with a deliberate offense.
And now he was at least halfway to being in love with Thérèse. If he had any sense, any heart, he’d keep his distance, but he knew that if he found himself with her, a bed and privacy again, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for a journey like this. She didn’t have Henry’s years of military campaigning or the childhood privations Jeannette had endured, and yet now that she’d gotten over her initial fear of her horse, she rode on and on without complaining. He admired her practical nature, the unwavering courage that saw what needed to be done and did it, no matter how unpleasant the task, and it was beyond all delight to discover the hidden ferocity and passion that lurked beneath that ladylike exterior. He wanted more.
He forced himself out of his reverie to concentrate on the present moment. The country had been growing steadily less settled all morning—the houses rougher and farther apart, the wooded stretches longer and thicker. But the road remained good, as befitted a post road connecting Natchez and New Orleans to the interior of this spacious new nation. Except for a few tall pines, most of the trees remained winter-bare, but once spring came this would be lush, rich country. He heard a rustling to his right and spotted a doe fleeing deeper into the forest, her rump white against her brown coat.
“If we weren’t in such a hurry, we’d have fresh meat for dinner,” he said.
“You and your venison,” Thérèse said with a smile. “Did you often hunt, back home in England?”
“Not deer. Some gentlemen keep them in parks, and there are some fine specimens in Scotland—in the Highlands, in particular. I’ve never been there, though.”
“I thought you were from the mountains,” Thérèse said.
“Yes, but the Lake District. Different mountains. Not quite so high—I suppose they’re truly mere hills, but we always called them our mountains.”
“If you didn’t hunt deer, what did you hunt?” Jeannette asked.
“I suppose I’ve shot as many birds and ridden to hounds as often as most gentlemen of my age, at least ones who had to travel from home to find a good hunt.”
“Ridden to hounds...”
Thérèse’s brows narrowed in confusion, and Henry supposed it wasn’t a term that made much sense if you were unfamiliar with it. “To hunt foxes,” he explained. “We breed foxhounds to catch the scent of a fox and chase it, and also hunters—strong horses who are fast, sturdy and good over fences to carry us as we follow the hounds.”
“That seems like a lot of work to catch a fox,” Jeannette said dubiously. “Couldn’t you trap them instead?”
“And why would you want to hunt one?” Thérèse asked. “They aren’t good to eat.”
“To keep them from stealing things that are, like your chickens,” Jeannette said, rolling her eyes to invite Henry to share her exasperation. “You are such a city woman, Thérèse.”
“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m city-bred.”
“A few more days in country like this, and we’ll have you trained to think like a countrywoman,” Henry said. “Or perhaps a frontierwoman. As for the rest—well, I’m sure a farmer who wished to protect his chickens would set a trap. Riding to hounds gives those who can afford to keep a pack of foxhounds and a stable of hunters a reason to do so, and to enjoy the pleasure of galloping across fine country on a beautiful day, under the thin guise of helping our fellow man by keeping the fox population in check.”
Thérèse laughed. “Now I understand.”
They rounded a bend in the road. Jeannette fell a little behind. Her pony was trying to pull at the grass on the side of the path, but she tugged at the reins and kicked him forward. Henry vowed to keep a closer eye on the girl. She was so confident and quick to resist offers of assistance that it was easy to take her for more experienced and skilled than she was.
Thérèse looked comfortable, though of course he’d given her the best-tempered and best-gaited of their horses. He drew rein a little until they rode side by side. “Doing all right?” he asked.
She smiled. “Yes. Better than yesterday, though you may need to lift me down and carry me into the inn—I mean, the stand—tonight. I’m by no means sure my legs w
ill be working by then.”
He smiled back, enjoying the distracting picture of her cradled in his arms. “We’ll stop for a rest soon,” he promised her. “Somewhere for the horses to graze and drink water and for us to stretch our legs.”
He twisted in the saddle to look at Jeannette again. “Try shortening rein,” he suggested. “You’re giving him his head too much.”
Jeannette muttered an oath, but managed to get her horse into a shambling trot to close the gap between them.
They entered a thick stretch of forest. Here the road had worn down under the many horses, men and wagons that had traversed it, and they rode in a sort of level, narrow ditch, only just wide enough for two horses to ride abreast. If Henry had wished, he could have reached out and touched the roots of the trees that grew closest to the path. In the summer when the trees were in leaf and the sun shone through their green canopy this would be a beauty spot—or it would be if he knew the ground well. Here and now, there was something disturbing about being funneled into this narrow path with no way to escape. Had he been a commander, he would never have marched his soldiers along this route—and he would have posted some of his men in the woods and prayed his enemy would make so foolish a mistake. He hid a shudder. This road reminded him of some of the ancient history his brothers were so fond of and had occasionally deigned to translate for the benefit of their slow-top sibling.
“What’s wrong?” Thérèse asked.
He was not going to tell them of the Teutoburg Forest and how Quinctilius Varus had lost his legions. Not today, at any rate. Perhaps at some distant, future point when they were all safe. “I was just imagining this path in a heavy rain.”
“Ugh.” Thérèse peered up at the sky, which was gray, but with high, pale clouds that wouldn’t produce anything worse than a few weak sprinkles. “Thank God it’s dry.”
Something rustled in the woods above them to their right, and Henry’s mare snorted. “There, there, girl,” he murmured, patting her neck. “It’s just another deer.”
He hoped it was nothing worse, but he thought of the lost legions, not to mention Wilson’s and Cutler’s tales of panthers and robbers, and rested his right hand on his pistol butt, ready to draw. Turning, he saw that Jeannette had fallen behind again. “Stay close!” he called.
“I’m trying.” She tugged her horse’s head up and kicked at his sides, but she’d overcorrected the reins, and the horse reared and plunged in his confusion.
Henry let Thérèse ride ahead and fought to turn his mare around in the narrow path. He’d lead Jeannette’s horse by the bridle until they got to a safer place, and then he’d give up the sweets of Thérèse’s company to stick by Jeannette’s side until she had better mastery of the horse.
But before he could execute his plan, he heard more rustling, this time unmistakably no deer but the louder, heavier sound of a horse crashing through the forest. He just had time to draw and prime his pistol and shout a warning before a pair of ugly customers in dirty frontier clothing and mounted on small, wiry horses jumped down onto the path, separating Jeannette from him and Thérèse. One man seized Jeannette’s arm.
“Let her go,” Henry called. He cocked the pistol, let them hear it.
The smaller of the two bandits looked not in the least perturbed. “Ooh, a fighter.”
Henry expected him to draw his own pistol. He could see the weapon, holstered at the bandit’s side, but instead he put his fingers to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. More hoofbeats sounded from the forest.
Hell and damnation. They had reinforcements. In an instant, Henry suspected their plan—kill him and take Thérèse and Jeannette captive.
He fired straight at the leader’s head. So much for never killing again.
The man fell from the saddle, and his companion shouted with anger. Henry longed for his sword, left on the mantel at Bondurant Plantation. A blade was far better for fighting several men at close quarters than a single-shot pistol. Now all he had was his wits, his horse and his fists, and he made the best use he could of all three. His chestnut wasn’t a trained warhorse—he missed his gelding Caesar back on the Peninsula even more than he missed his sword—but she had a fighting horse’s temperament, and she responded with an eager sprint when he spurred her toward the rider who was trying to wrestle Jeannette from her saddle.
She clung to her pony with admirable tenacity, and just as Henry approached, managed to wrestle her assailant’s spare pistol from its saddle holster. Even as Henry prayed she wouldn’t be so foolish as to try to shoot it with no training, or toss it to him not even knowing if it was loaded and primed or not, her attacker saw what she’d done, let out a howl of outrage and tried to pull it back. It distracted him enough that Henry could push him off balance as he rode by. The horse reared, plunged and bucked him off, while Henry halted his own mare’s wild career and wheeled her to return to the fight. By God, this beast would make a grand cavalry mount! She had the spirit, the speed and the nimble turn of foot.
The first two attackers were down—one dead from Henry’s pistol, the other for the moment knocked senseless by his fall or his own horse’s hooves, but three more had crowded onto the path. Thérèse had fallen or been dragged from her horse, but she’d taken shelter in the road bank where a tree with thick roots grew over the road. The attackers couldn’t get at her without dismounting, but Henry wanted them gone.
“Here, Henry!” Jeannette held the pistol she’d taken aloft in triumph. He urged his mare alongside her gelding, took the pistol and considered his targets. They still had him outnumbered, but if he could take out one more, perhaps the survivors would conclude he and his companions were more trouble than they were worth.
But then more hoofbeats sounded from the trail behind them, riders at a gallop. Henry ground his teeth in despair. He was only one man and far too lightly armed.
Two horses and riders rounded the bend and rode into the narrow sunken path, and his heart lightened. These were no bandits.
“Langevin!” the first rider shouted.
Henry grinned. It was Obadiah Wilson, with Ben Cutler close on his heels.
The remaining bandits, seeing their numbers matched, galloped off to the north. Henry saw them urge their horses up a low spot in the bank and into the woods before they disappeared from view altogether.
Cutler and Wilson reined their own mounts to a halt, looking indecently triumphant. As well they might. Henry shook their hands in turn. “Well met, friends,” he said, then realized too late he’d spoken in his own English accent.
But his companions from the Enterprize only exchanged a quick glance. “Thought so,” Wilson said.
“Why are you here?” Henry asked, still in his own voice. There was no point in dissembling now that he’d let himself slip. “Don’t mistake me. I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. But I thought you’d be two days downriver on the way back to New Orleans by now.”
The men looked at each other again, and this time Wilson gave a barely perceptible nod. “We had letters waiting for us in Natchez,” Cutler said. “My father is ill, and Obadiah’s wife is breeding and having a hard time. They need us, so we’re going home. General Jackson may not admit the war is over, but anyone can see it is.”
So these two were true deserters. Henry bit back his natural expression of shock and condemnation. They were militia, after all, and couldn’t be expected to see the matter in the same light as a regular soldier. Not to mention the fact their timely arrival had most likely saved his life and his ladies’ freedom. “Well, I’m glad you happened along when you did. Shall we ride together?”
“I lost my horse. And my pistol was on the saddle, but she threw me just as I was trying to draw.” Thérèse had stepped away from the bank and was brushing mud off her dress. She looked forlorn, woebegone and as beautiful as ever.
“Never mind,” he sa
id. “They’re gone, and we have two more horses now.” He nodded at the two bandits’ horses.
Her mouth twisted. “I doubt they will be as gentle and comfortable as Queenie. And she had my saddlebags, too.”
He couldn’t ask her before Cutler and Wilson if the jewels had been in the saddlebags. Surely she was still carrying them on her person. “You weren’t carrying anything too valuable in them, were you?”
“Only every scrap of clothing I own but the ones on my back, and all my needles and thread!” She sounded genuinely grieved, and Henry didn’t doubt she was, but she gave him a tight, reassuring nod. Their treasures were safe. “And she was such a good horse.”
Despite everything he found himself smiling tenderly. It had taken her all of a day to go from being afraid of her horse to loving it. “An excellent one, and perhaps we’ll find her. I doubt she’ll stray far from the trail.” He added aside to Cutler and Wilson, “She’s an ambler with the strangest not-quite-trot I’ve ever seen, but fast and beautifully smooth. I’d wish we all had ones like her, but I’m glad mine has learned to trust me and has all the instincts of a warhorse.”
“That’s a quarter running horse,” Cutler said, eying the chestnut mare with approval. “Spanish and English blood mixed. Sure-footed and brave, like you saw, and there’s nothing faster over a short distance. Your lady’s sounds like a racking horse.”
“If we’re to find her again—not to mention everything in her saddlebags—shouldn’t we leave?” Thérèse prompted, staring at the two bandits with revulsion. The one who yet lived was beginning to stir.
“You know this road.” Henry nodded to their new companions. “What should we do with...these?”
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