So Rare a Gift (Daughters of His Kingdom Book 3)

by Amber Lynn Perry

  He flung her a sideways look, “I expected you to be abed.”

  She looked back to the fire. “I could not sleep.”

  The gentle stomp of his boots against the wood floor neared until he took the seat beside her. He sat with a humph and rested his elbows on his knees, wiping his hands over his face. “’Twas the soldier, I fear. But impossible to know for certain.”

  “Will he be punished?”

  A curt, quick laugh left his lips. He slumped back in his seat. “The British will do whatever they like, when they like.”

  “You mean the man who shot that poor boy will never be charged, never forced to pay for such a crime?”

  William stared, his eyes lost as if he were still in the wood. “Not in this life it would seem.”

  A rolling sensation tumbled down her middle. Vengeance was God’s. Somehow they must take comfort in that. She sent William a sidelong glance. The light of the flames cast angled shadows along his profile, and not for the first time, he reminded her of Bernini’s David—the creased forehead, the determined lines in his jaw.

  She looked away before he could feel the weight of her stare. “You did all you could—”

  “Did I?”

  Anna turned only her head to him. “Will you keep up this dangerous pursuit?”

  He questioned her with a look.

  She swiveled toward him. “That innocent boy was killed because he was smuggling. The same could happen to you.”

  William’s eyes narrowed. “We have discussed this matter before.”

  “Aye, but not since a young child was murdered.” She stood and turned away from the light of the flame. “If you were to die and if I were forced to return to England—”

  “I have already given you my word. Is that not enough for you?” The chair scraped along the floor, indicating he stood. “I will not abandon the fight simply because you choose to cling to your fears.”

  “Choose to?” She spun around. “Do not I have a right to be afraid?”

  “When we married I made a vow to provide and protect, which I have done and will do. Always.”

  She spun to the fire once again, praying he didn’t see the moisture in her eyes. “I do not wish to argue.”

  The logs popped, their tiny sparks singeing the swollen places of her heart. This marriage was meant to protect her, not leave her a widow in a strange land. Yet the strains that played in her chest were not from that threat alone. She knew from whence they came, but she refused to believe it was true.

  You love him, do not try to deny it. She’d even spoken as much aloud. Closing her eyes, Anna yearned to crumple the memory from her mind and watch it curl to ash in the fire. The moment the words had left her mouth, he’d changed. No longer near and warm, but distant, like the sun on a winter’s morn—present, but ever so far away.

  She shook her head and continued on. “’Tis true that my concerns of being discovered are never far from my mind.” Anna braved a look behind and caught his gaze. “But you must know I fear for your safety, William. For no other reason than my desire for you to be well.”

  William looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger. “There is more at risk than simply my welfare and yours, Anna,” he said, looking up. “People yet to be born will thrive in this liberty we now hazard to give. ’Tis a freedom we have never known.”

  Anna turned the ring against her finger, studying how the orange flames turned the brown log to black. She looked to her husband, praying he detected the concern with which she laced her words. “You would give your life for such a thing? Something you cannot even be sure will be realized?” She scowled, staring at the ground. “That boy is dead. His future is no more. His parents will learn of his passing and grief will become their companion for the rest of their days. Will they believe his death was worth the pain once they realize this war is waged for a lost cause?”

  William sat back against the chair, not looking to her as he spoke. “You believe the cause is lost? I tell you, it is not.” ’Twas then he turned to her. “Liberty will be the victor.”

  Deep within, a swelling began. ’Twas so foreign, Anna stopped breathing to detect its origin. “So you will keep on? You all will keep on, though one of you may be killed?”

  “I will keep on at any cost, Anna. I am driven, as all patriots are, by the image of our children—”

  Anna froze, his words gripping her motionless. A cutting silence slashed between them. She dared not look at him for the tears that burned behind her eyes. Seeking refuge in the dark of their room, she darted for the door.

  William reached out, gripping her arm with firm but tender fingers. “Anna, forgive me. I didn’t mean to pain you.”

  “Nay, ’tis I who am to blame.” She lowered her tone, hoping the hollow resonance would dispel the hurt from her voice. “Had I told you before we took our vows, then you would have been able to choose a different wife and have the joy of a posterity to fight for.”

  She felt the warmth of his stare upon her, but still she hadn’t the strength to look up. Her middle pinched with grief and her knees threatened to buckle. “I am tired.”

  She turned to leave but the grip on her arm tightened and William’s voice warmed her like the fire in front of them. “I cannot let you go. Not until you are assured I meant no harm.”

  Of course he had not. But her bare womb would haunt her, and therefore him, until the day they left this world for the next. She’d endured the pain of this curse since her youth, but he had only just learned that he would never father a child.

  Her courage began to lose its grip on the cliff of her grief, the weight of pain pulling harder, but she clung tighter, finding the strength to lift her eyes and meet his gaze. When she did, the pity she prepared to find was not there at all, but something she couldn’t name. Compassion? Tenderness? Whatever it was seemed to reach from his fathomless blue eyes and twine around her wounded spirit, bandaging it with the kind of caring she’d never known.

  Releasing his fingers from her arm, he reached to her cheek but pulled his hand back before his skin brushed hers. “When I accepted you, I accepted everything—the known and the unknown. I must be prepared for anything must I not?” The last of his words lacked warmth, as if the coals of his charity were extinguished before he’d finished speaking.

  Truth, but still it pained, for his words said more than the mere syllables he’d spoken.

  “’Tis every man’s wish to have a son of his own,” she said. “A joy you will never know.”

  He shook his head lightly. “This liberty we sacrifice for has value for all and is worth our efforts whether our name continues or not.” He trailed his vision down her face and neck and arm before reaching to take her hands in his. He stepped closer. “Mankind needs this freedom. We must live truth. Fearlessly. Since we are all brothers and sisters in Christ, should we not go on in so great a cause?”

  Her heart turned to liquid, spilling out the heated blood in her chest and flooding her limbs. She stared up at him, wonder cascading down her spine. This was not freedom for the colonists alone. Freedom was for mankind. The veracity pricked her spirit, and for the first time, the roots of truth took hold in her mind. But a thought from her center cut its way through the sprouting vines, and the words slipped from her tongue before she could stop them. “But if you are killed…and if I am taken…”

  “That is a thought on which I refuse to dwell.” His jaw squared and his soft timbre coated her fears like a cloak in winter. “But I am willing to take the risk. Are you?”

  In that moment, the valor she gleaned from his rich eyes, the strength that warmed her hands and up into her soul was enough to make her courageous in the face of anything. She gripped her fingers around his. “I am.”

  The twitch of a smile started at the corners of his mouth. “You are a true colonial then, no matter how your proper English betrays you.”

  The breath of a laugh eased from her nose as she finished her short journey to the
bedchamber. “That and much else betrays the truth of me, I fear.” Her words dropped in a heap at her feet and she all but tripped over them. Would he gather her meaning? She plucked a candle from the table near the door and entered the room, her pulse trying to find its calm.

  “There is something I’ve wanted to ask you.” William rounded the bed, leaning his shoulder against the tall poster on the side opposite. “How is it, if you were so poor as you claim, that you speak with the tongue of the wealthy?”

  Her cheeks grew hot, but she acted untouched. “I was unaware there is a difference.”

  “Aye, there is indeed.” He pushed away and started to unbutton his waistcoat. He eyed her with a sideways glance. His jaw worked as if he chewed on the words he wished to say, then with a large sigh expelled them. “There are many differences between the rich and poor, but those of us in lower ranks will never know all the particulars. For that I am grateful.”

  Anna sunk back at the anger that snarled between his words.

  He sat on the bed and began to remove his boots. “There is still much of you I do not know.” He stopped and turned to look over his shoulder, mouth firm, then turned away again to finish with his boots. No anger, only resignation in his tone. “’Tis hard to increase in trust when so much is still left unspoken.”

  The statement pricked like a stray needle. Aye, there was much she kept within, and with his renewed sentiments of disdain for the status of life she’d left, was not her silence well placed?

  Sighing, Anna sat on the front of the bed and looked down, turning the ring against her finger. The barb of his words left a small pulsing wound. How could he say such things when she had not prodded him for the truths he guarded?

  Let it be, Anna. ’Twas true that she had shared little. They were married, were they not? Should she not engender at least a spoonful of courage and share with him one small part of her?

  Then, without bidding, the words tumbled from her lips. “I had a twin brother.”

  ~~~

  A twin?

  William’s brow tightened as he watched Anna, her mouth pinching and her throat bobbing as she struggled with emotion, though no tears glimmered in her eyes.

  He gnawed on the inside of his cheek, flogging himself for the veiled reprimand he’d spoken. ’Tis hard to increase in trust when so much is still left unspoken? Selfish coward. His conscience began a deep and thorough castigation. Did he really expect his wife to expose all of herself, when he could never do the same?

  “My brother was very kind to me.” She continued despite the cloak of hurt that draped her gentle voice. “I could not have endured so much hardship, if not for him.”

  She continued to stare down, twisting her ring against her finger. “Mother was a saint—our very angel on earth—offering us a haven from our father who never cared to disguise his disdain for us.” Her voice went deep and her expression dropped. “When we were ten years old, Mother became desperately ill and slowly, over the course of two years, slipped away from us.”

  With a choppy sigh, she pressed her hands to her knees and looked forward toward the fireplace. “She always wished for me to marry for love. Something she herself had not done. She made me promise that I would put all else aside and when the time came, give my heart to one that was worthy.” At this she stopped and looked again at her hands. “But after her death, my father’s disdain developed into cruelty and on my sixteenth birthday he announced he had chosen a husband for me. An older man who wished a companion but didn’t want the burden of siring a child.”

  Oh, dear Lord. What father would do that to his child? William clamped his jaw, refusing to take his eyes from her. The soft muscles of her face tightened and her dainty fingers knitted tighter in her lap. He yearned to reach out. Would she want to be touched?

  Releasing a long quiet breath, Anna craned her neck toward his side of the bed, a tight smile pulling at her lips. “All my life my brother was there for me—making me laugh, holding me when I cried—’twas almost as if he knew me better than I knew myself.” At this, a bitter laugh escaped her throat. “When he learned what father planned to do, he flew into a rage and promised me I would never be made to endure such a vacant life. That very night he stole me away and we rode toward London, believing that in the vast city we could remain hidden and begin our lives anew…”

  Her voice trailed away, as if the memory carried her with it. The color drained from her cheeks and she turned away again to stare at the far corner of the room, the past holding her captive. William could stand it no longer. Standing, he rounded the bed and rested beside her. He cupped her knee and she flicked toward him as if he had pulled her from the edge of a cliff.

  “You escaped him?” he gently prodded.

  She blinked and shook her head, speaking forward. “Nay. We had not gone ten miles when our father’s men apprehended us and forced us home. I was married three days later and lived as Edwin Rone’s wife for ten years until he died, leaving me his vast estate and all the misery that accompanied it.”

  She slammed her eyes shut and covered her face with her hand.

  William dropped his gaze, allowing the grievous truth to trickle down him like the cold, stale drip of melting ice. Her marriage had not been joyful. She hadn’t loved her husband as he’d thought. Pain for her and regret for ever having believed otherwise swirled into a vortex of guilt in his middle.

  “Anna, I’m—”

  “So now you know I lived a life of privilege.” She turned to him, harbored tears in her eyes. “I never intended to lie to you, I simply wanted to find a way to start anew. I should have told you so much—that I cannot bear children and that I cannot do all the things I led you to believe I could…” Her chin quivered as she held his gaze. “I was afraid, especially when I learned how you felt about the wealthy, afraid you would despise me. I am sorry.”

  The pain in her words ripped open what remained of his battered shame. He covered her hand with his. “I have known for some time that you did not come from the background you feigned.”

  “You did?”

  “’Twas not difficult to surmise. You…” He stopped, and cleared his throat, reevaluating his tact so his words would not cause unintended wounds. “Your abilities are different than those of a farmer’s wife. I have never seen anyone who was so adorably unaware of the risks of cutting an onion.” Allowing only the slightest smile, not the chuckle that rose from memory, he pushed up from the bed and pulled her to standing. “What woman of simple means would have occasion to study Italian? Your hands are far too soft, your speech far too—”

  “That is enough.” Her cheeks pinked and she lowered her head. “I can see now I was foolish to believe I could ever hide my past.”

  He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “Now that I know the truth from your own lips, I want to know more about the real you. With none of the charade.”

  She lifted her chin, her innocence, trust, and sudden nearness fogging his once clear mind.

  “I should like that very much,” she said. “Though I must admit I find myself ashamed, disclosing aloud what few skills I have compared to you.”

  Guilt clawed at his chest. If only she knew they were not so different. His spirit groaned and he clamped his teeth shut to cage the truth that suddenly wished to break free. He stared down at her, the swelling sincerity in her sweet face assuring the suspicious parts of him that she was not like the first Anna. Nay, in every way she was different.

  But you believed Anna Muhr sincere until the moment she—

  He stepped back and straightened his shoulders to slough off the barbs of memory, but they gripped harder. “We best prepare for bed.”

  Large eyes blinking, eyebrows slightly tipped, Anna swallowed and spun away. “You may, if you like. I have a few remaining chores that require my attention before I retire.”

  “Nay, allow me.” Passing her to reach the door first, he clenched his fists to keep from touching her. Any slight brush against her skin cou
ld topple the precarious wall of defense he’d erected. “I neglected to be sure the latch on the door is in place.”

  He left, still struggling to free himself from the snares of his past. In front of the kitchen fire, he closed his eyes and took long draws of air. She has given herself completely to you. But he could not do the same. Could he?

  Staring at the dancing flames, he cursed his cowardice. The longer he withheld the truth, the greater the chance of destroying not only her faith in him, but the life together they’d only just begun.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The cold early winter wind plumed into the hood of Anna’s cloak, biting her skin with its icy teeth. December now, and with it, the shorter days that followed. Six weeks had passed since the innocent child lay lifeless on the Watson’s floor, forever marking them. With one hand Anna clasped the fabric around her neck, still clinging to the laden basket with her other. She’d left the Watson’s only a few minutes past, but already the sun had started its doleful decent toward the horizon. Anna increased her pace, but the low murmur of nausea she’d battled for several days now forced her speed to abate. Swallowing, she fought the unpleasant sensation with a grimace, steadying her mind upon how she would tell her husband she’d promised Eliza to deliver this basket of supper to Thomas’s shop so Eliza and the baby needn’t traverse out of doors in such harsh conditions. As he’d made her vow never to venture into town without informing him, she determined to stop home first, despite the waning daylight.

  After several minutes more of chilled walking, she spied their house at the end of the road. A pit developed in her middle and not from mere physical discomfort. It had been so long since she and William had become one. The warm memories of fleeting rapture dissipated like her breath on the wind. William had been so genuine, so real, but the amiable affection he’d shown before they’d shared such intimacies had somehow turned as cold as the coming winter. Still kind, still caring, yet without the nearness or warmth. Without even the hint that perhaps he might once again renew his attentions to her.