by Beth White
Pleased that horsemanship seemed to come naturally, he kicked the stallion with his heels and caught up to the girls, who rode abreast. “He’s a splendid mount, Fiona,” he said, leaning up to pat the horse’s neck. “Some officer will be a lucky fellow.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you think so. Bonnie’s his dam, and he was sired by my stud, Washington—Léon usually rides him.”
Charlie nodded, watching the Indian girl manage her horse. Sehoy wasn’t as graceful a rider as Fiona, but she kept up well enough. Her thick black hair hung down her back in a braid tied with a blue ribbon to match the overlarge dress, and her expression remained cool, almost stoical. He didn’t know much more about the girl than Fiona had told him the day after she arrived—that she was a refugee from some sort of massacre perpetrated by American militia in Indian territory. He guessed her to be fifteen or sixteen years old, possibly old enough to be looking about for a husband. Women got left alone, orphaned or widowed, every day. He wondered if she planned to stay here with the Laniers indefinitely.
He addressed her. “Do you mind telling me how your families are related? I confess to some curiosity.”
Sehoy glanced at him, lips pursed. “It goes back several generations. My father’s father was an Irish trader who lived with the Creek, but my mother’s grandmother was sister to Fiona’s great-great-grandmother.”
“Irish?” Charlie looked in vain for any hint of European ancestry in the exotic features.
Sehoy’s expression lightened. “Aye, laddy, I’m a Ferguson. One quarter, at least.”
He shook his head. “I don’t mean to be . . . that is, I suppose intermarriage does occur.”
Fiona and Sehoy exchanged amused glances. “Indeed it does,” Fiona said. “My ancestors are French, Indian, Spanish, and African. You can’t get more mixed than that. You Brits, with your bloodlines—”
“He’s British?” Sehoy stared at him.
Fiona’s eyes were wide with dismay. “I mean—”
“Honestly, Sehoy, I’m not sure where I came from. I was born in Scotland and spent my boyhood there, but that doesn’t account for the last ten or so years, which I can’t remember.” Charlie shrugged. “Please, forgive my rude comment and put it down to brain injury. My mother would be appalled at my manners. Now if you ladies will excuse us, Tully and I would like to go for a run.” With a loud whoop, he loosened the reins, leaned forward, and pushed his heels into the horse’s flanks.
As Tully leaped forward over the sand, Charlie reveled in the motion, the wind in his face, the throb of excitement in his chest. He’d always thrived on danger.
And he was British, he knew it in his bones, no matter what he’d told Sehoy. From conversation amongst Fiona’s family, he gathered that England and American were at war. Mobile and her environs sat in the middle of contested territory—Louisiana and West Florida having in succession belonged to France, England, Spain, and the new United States of America. Spain still claimed Florida to the east, but had ceded the giant western Louisiana Territory to France, who then clandestinely sold it to America before Spain could object or officially determine its boundaries. There was concern that England wanted her finger back in the Southern territorial pie, and had started gathering forces toward that end.
Charlie could feel the pouch underneath his shirt bouncing against his chest as Tully pounded along the water’s edge. He was British by birth, and he was some sort of spy, that much was clear. But what if, as he had implied to Sehoy, there was a possibility his recent loyalties had swerved from King George? He dare not make a move until he knew for sure what that message said. And until he could remember to whom he’d intended to deliver it.
In the meantime, he would listen, absorb, and learn as much from his American hosts as he could.
He tugged on the reins, slowing the horse to a canter, a trot, and then a stop. Breathing hard, he turned and waited for Fiona and Sehoy to reach him. Two pretty young women on a sunny beach in paradise. How hard could it be?
AUGUST 20, 1814
Watching Charlie grow stronger every day and aware of her menfolk’s impatience with his continuing denial of any memory of his identity, Fiona struggled to maintain neutrality. Because she had expected never to see him again, as she grew into maidenhood the golden boyish figure from her trip to England had turned into wistful, romantic daydreams of a knight come to sweep her off her feet.
Confronted now with the reality of a charming but slightly damaged hero who willingly mucked stalls and fed her chickens, but still suffered bouts of dizziness and often forgot to wash his own dishes and pick his clothes up off the floor, she hardly knew what to think. He was a man, no more or less perfect than Uncle Luc-Antoine and her brothers. He would talk to Uncle for hours about obscure scientific references he remembered reading (though he couldn’t remember where or when he’d read them), he picked Léon’s brain about shipbuilding design, and he seemed fascinated by her experiments in improving the care and breeding of her horses. He also wanted to know everything that Sehoy, who by now had grown considerably warmer to Charlie, would tell him about the culture and beliefs of native Americans.
In short, he made himself useful, he went out of his way to blend into Lanier family life, and he remained an utter mystery.
Which perhaps explained how she came to be standing in the doorway of the kitchen storeroom, now Charlie’s bedroom, on a bright Saturday morning when everyone else had gone fishing. Charlie had nothing that hadn’t been given him, of course, but he had somehow made the little room where he slept a reflection of himself. The bed, a simple pallet Fiona had made from an old quilt stuffed with pine straw, was rigidly squared away against the wall, with a woolen blanket folded at its foot, and at the head a down pillow fluffed and smoothed without a crease. The trunk full of Sullivan’s clothes sat by the door, closed and latched with a piece of wire. The wire had been added since she loaned him the trunk.
Fiona hesitated, then crouched in front of the trunk to examine the knot in the wire. It went against everything in her moral code to breach Charlie’s privacy. He was a guest in her home. She had given him the trunk, at least temporarily. She had no right to pry, no real reason to suspect him of any nefarious purpose. His grandfather had saved Uncle Rafa’s life; therefore, their families were friends.
On the other hand, he was a citizen of England, with whom her country was at war. He could be lying to her, to them all, about what he did and did not remember.
She could look inside the trunk, just to make sure he hadn’t hidden something dangerous there, put everything back exactly as it had been, and no one would be the wiser.
After all, the Bible was full of holy spies. Joseph. Caleb and Joshua. The men who went to see Rahab the harlot, and perhaps Rahab herself. She fingered the wire. Was that kind of spying different from what she was about to do?
Uncle Rafa had been an agent during the War for Independence. So had her mother and father and Aunt Lyse. Fiona had heard their stories of danger, excitement, and romance. But they had all been under direct orders from a military superior, the Spanish Governor General Gálvez, to be precise. Nobody had told Fiona to come in Charlie’s room and break into a locked trunk.
This is my brother’s trunk. I gave it to him.
She twisted the wire, unlooped it, threaded it backward, until it hung loose in the upper half of the latch. She hoped she could put it back the way it had been. Fingers shaking, she lifted the lid of the trunk and breathed in the man-smell of Sullivan’s clothes combined with something uniquely Charlie.
The trunk was only half full. On one side lay the shirt and breeches Charlie had worn when she found him—laundered, mended, and folded. The other side contained a pair of plain dark stockings and a couple of white linen neckcloths on top of an extra shirt. Running her hand against the back of the trunk, she found a fine lace-edged handkerchief that she herself had embroidered for Sullivan’s sixteenth birthday. Holding it to her face, she struggled against tears.
&nbs
p; God, protect my brother.
Sniffing, she replaced the handkerchief and sat back. There was nothing of interest in the trunk, so she might as well close it up and—
“Fiona! Where are you?”
The lid of the trunk fell with a bang as her hand jerked in guilt. It was a woman’s voice, but not Sehoy’s, who wasn’t here anyway—she’d gone fishing with the men.
Fiona fumbled with Charlie’s improvised latch, desperate to get it back in its original configuration. “I’m in here—I’ll be there in a moment! Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Maddy, and—and someone I brought with me. Where are you, Fi?” Maddy’s voice now came from the kitchen, and Fiona could hear two sets of footsteps approaching the storeroom.
Why hadn’t she thought to at least shut the door?
“I’m just getting something out of the storeroom! You can wait for me in the—” she looked around to find her cousin standing in the doorway with a tall, dark-haired, familiar-looking gentlemen peering over her shoulder “—parlor. Hullo, Desi. I haven’t seen you in ages.” She got up to hug Maddy. “Or you!” Shyly she offered her hand to Desi, who kissed it elegantly. He’d always had the nicest manners, even as a boy.
“It’s been a long time,” Desi said. “Maybe since Maddy’s wedding?”
“Yes, my last week in Washington before Mama insisted I come home with the family.” Fiona smiled at her cousin, who was as beautiful today as she’d been as an eighteen-year-old bride, though in a quieter way. “Sullivan was begging to go to sea, Papa missed his little duchess, and Mama said if I hadn’t turned into a lady by then, I was hopeless!” They all laughed, and Fiona peered over Maddy’s shoulder. “Where’s little Elijah?”
“I left him with Rémy and Giselle’s brood. Desi has been in town for a few days and asked about you, so I thought it would be a good day to visit. Are you busy?” Maddy glanced at the trunk with its dangling wire.
If the men came back from their fishing trip before Maddy and Desi left, the fat would be in the fire. Maddy would recognize Charlie.
“No! No, of course not, I was just putting some things away.” Fiona took Maddy’s hand and tugged her into the kitchen, and Desi followed. “Would you like coffee?”
“That would be lovely.” Maddy seated herself at the big kitchen table, and Desi sat beside her. “I’m surprised you’re not out with the horses on such a pretty day. Are the men all at the shipyard?”
“No, they closed it for the morning, and everybody went fishing.” Fiona moved about the kitchen, filling the coffeepot with water and setting it on the stove to boil. She dumped a handful of coffee beans into the grinder. “Maddy, did you know that Sehoy Ferguson has come to stay with us for a while?”
“Yes, Desi told me he escorted her down to Mobile.”
Fiona poured the fragrant ground beans into the boiling water. “Poor thing had quite a traumatic experience. I don’t know how one ever gets over something like that. It’s hard enough when—” She swallowed against a suddenly constricted throat.
“Oh, Fiona, I know. We’ve all had losses, and it’s never easy.” Maddy got up to pull Fiona into her arms. “First Uncle Simon and Aunt Daisy, then Sullivan’s capture. My Stephen. And of course Desi lost his parents when he wasn’t much older than Elijah.”
Returning her cousin’s embrace, Fiona closed her eyes. She sometimes forgot Desi wasn’t actually Maddy’s brother. Uncle Rafa and Aunt Lyse had taken the boy in when his mother and father—a fellow Spanish naval officer—had died in a fever epidemic.
After a quiet moment, Fiona sighed and pulled away, dabbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t often get so weepy.” She gave her cousin a wobbly smile. “It’s really good to have another woman to cry with!”
“Oh, well, if I am de trop, I’ll find something to do in the barn,” Desi said on a teasing note.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, it’s wonderful to converse with a man who can talk about something other than sailing and fishing.” Fiona served coffee to her guests, then sat down at the end of the table with her own cup. “So tell me what brings you back to Mobile. You said you’d been at Horseshoe Bend.”
“Yes. Interpreters were needed in the aftermath of the battle. General Jackson has taken command of the southern theater of war, and his plan is to remove the Indians west. The conflict with American settlers won’t end until they’re gone.”
“But surely—”
“Fiona, it was inevitable. If we don’t remove and resettle them, they will only continue to attack American forts and settlements. No one will be able to travel safely, including innocent traders and farmers and their families. The Indians don’t understand property ownership, it’s not in their culture.” Desi looked away. “They are merciless in war, they have no code of honor in battle. I saw that with my own eyes.”
Fiona thought of Sehoy’s grief and bitterness. “I hate it. It’s not fair.”
Desi leaned forward and touched her hand. “I’m not a soldier, and it does no good to argue. It has happened. My job is to help negotiate peace between the nations. I understand why your little Sehoy doesn’t like to forgive, but if she can bring herself to do so, she’ll be happier in the long run. You might try to help her,” he added gently.
“I’ll try.” Fiona forced a smile.
“Good girl.” Desi patted her hand and picked up his coffee cup. “But you asked why I’m in Mobile. I was hoping I’d be able to speak with Léon and your uncle Rémy. They need to be aware that General Jackson is coming this way, to establish his command at Fort Charlotte. He also plans to garrison and refurbish Fort Bowyer here on the Point.”
“What? I thought that rickety old fort was permanently abandoned last summer.”
Maddy shook her head. “There’s evidence the British are planning to attack Mobile and establish a base from which to take New Orleans. They’re already gathering like jackals in Jamaica.”
“They’re coming here first?” Terror took hold of Fiona’s stomach like one of those feral dogs. “When? How long do we have to get ready?”
“No way to know,” Desi said. “Sometime in September, maybe? But Jackson will arrive within the week, and you all will need to move into the fort. Or better yet, come with us back to Mobile. You’d be much safer there.”
Fiona clenched her cup so hard she thought it might break. “This is my home! The boys need me, and I’m not leaving my horses. I can shoot a gun as well as any of them.”
Maddy shook her head. “Of course you can, but don’t be a goose, Fi. You won’t be any good to anyone dead or—or—”
Fiona stood up, shaking. “I’ll move into the fort if Uncle insists. But no British redcoat is going to force me out of Navy Cove.” She wondered what Charlie would do when he found out soldiers from his country were prepared to invade her home. Would he keep quiet, sheltering with the Laniers inside Fort Bowyer, or would he slip away to join the British? She had to talk to him first, to let him know without being blindsided by the news.
The complications of the last few days had just become infinitely more twisted.
“Maddy, I have to tell you something,” she said slowly. “And you’re not going to like it.”
The sun was beginning its pink-smeared descent into the western gulf as Charlie, lugging a net full of redfish, trudged up the beach path behind Léon and Oliver. Sehoy and Luc-Antoine brought up the rear, each with a couple of fishing poles and assorted tackle.
“Can’t wait to see what Fiona’s going to do with that.” Oliver nodded over his shoulder at Charlie’s reeking burden. “She’s gotten to be a pretty decent cook.” He laughed. “Though she like to have killed us all while she was learning.”
“Now, boy, you be kind about your cousin,” Luc-Antoine admonished. “She puts up with a lot, our duchess.”
“I’ll help her with the cleaning,” Charlie said mildly. “Nobody should have to do that job alone.”
Léon grunted. “Too bad we couldn’t k
eep everything we caught. I’ll take some of it to the Cove and see if I can sell it or trade for hardware. Nardo’s always got something useful, and he’s always hungry.”
Within a few minutes the fishing crew reached the house and split up, Charlie to look for Fiona, and the others to take care of various errands before cleaning up for supper.
“Fiona!” Charlie shouted, depositing the fish in an iron pot in the yard. “Where are you? We brought in a big catch, and I need—”
“In here!” he heard her call from the barn. “I’m currying one of the mares.”
He followed the sound of her voice and found her in a fading patch of light, crouched beside the palomino Spanish mustang Fiona planned to breed with Tully before he was sold. “She’s a well-mannered little thing,” he said, admiring the horse’s Roman nose and fine, narrow muzzle.
“She is indeed. Did you have a good time on the water?”
“Yes, but I may be a bit burnt. My nose itches.”
She peered around the mare and laughed. “More than a bit. You’re going to peel.”
“The story of my life.” He grimaced, running his hands along the horse’s pale gold flank. “What did you do today?”
He almost thought she wasn’t going to answer. Finally she said, “I had more unexpected company.”
“Really? Who?”
“My cousin Maddy.” Fiona got to her feet, led the horse to the barn door, and released her. The mare trotted toward the pasture where the other horses grazed.
“Maddy?” Was that a name he was supposed to recognize?
Fiona stepped back into the barn but stayed in the shadows near the stalls. “Yes, you know, you met her whole family with me in England. I told you about her, that first day I found you on the beach. You don’t remember that?”
