Almost at once they were sailing again, ripping along in the wind. After they’d bound her, her captors, evil looking they were, did not touch her again. The rope cut into her wrists. Angelica prayed her cousins would know the better part of valor, and that the cold river water would not overwhelm them.
They’d landed upriver a few miles more, sailing to the jetty of an old two-story house. As the men had dragged her out and pushed her along the path, she saw, with horror, a long, lean man wearing an all too-familiar grin coming to meet her.
***
“Give me back my locket, you monster!” The skin of her throat burned as if she’d been garroted. His first act, after dragging her up the stairs, had been to tear away the locket she always wore—the one with that last precious lock of ‘Bram’s fair hair.
“How foolish to carry a dead man over your heart!”
“Who dared to tell you that?”
“Money buys everything, my dear, don’t you know? But it doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ll not need this anymore. I’m the man in your future.”
Jamming the locket into his pocket, Armistead came at her like a whirlwind. Angelica seized a chair and held it in front of herself, attempting to ward him off. He pinned her and the chair together against the wall. She was not certain how long they’d been trapped in this mean little room together.
“My descent,” she raged, gripping the ladder back for dear life, “is from the first Patroon. The insult you offer me will bring the wrath of every gentleman in this state—Tory or rebel—down upon you.”
“Marriage with a gentleman of my stature is hardly an insult, miss. Wouldn’t you like to be presented at court? Think of that! I have a charming little house in London. You can go there as soon as our solemnities have been adequately...celebrated.”
The chair was torn away and tossed. Major Armistead seized her, a handful of golden hair and one wrist. She was learning his rules— struggle was rewarded with pain; submission led to brutal lovemaking.
Exhausted, she let him force a kiss. It was hot, wet, and meant to be persuasive.
When he drew back, Angelica spat full in his face. His pitted skin reddened furiously. Although he roughly jerked her head back, he didn’t slap her.
The glow in his eyes seemed to say that there was, for him, a certain enjoyment in this mingling of pleasure and pain, this game of cat-with-a-mouse cat and mouse .
“I think, my stubborn dear, you ought to consider that after this unfortunate, little American skirmish is concluded—when General Howe catches that fumbler, Washington—”
“General Washington, damn your black heart!”
“Scold away, miss. But when your uncle and all the other traitors are about to be hanged for treason, perhaps you’ll see where prudence lies. Your family will be stripped of their property and lose their lives. That is, unless you have me. I am, after all, a friend of the Prince of Wales.”
“Boast away, sir,” she cried. “We will not lose, for we’re in the right.”
Armistead snorted contemptuously, but rage had boiled away all Angelica’s fear. “As for your inducement of saving my uncle from hanging and our lands from impoundment...why should I trust promises made by a kidnapper?”
Armistead shook his head back and forth, like a bull trying to get a fix on a barking dog.
“I must say your resistance shows admirable spirit,” he said. “And spirit is exactly what I desire—both in my horses and in a lady upon whom I shall certainly sire some magnificent sons.”
He came down deliberately and pressed a kiss against her neck with his thin lips. Angelica accepted it without a struggle, allowing his passion to rise. Then, as hard as she could, she jerked up a knee.
As he doubled, gasping, she tore herself free. Swirling to the washstand, she grabbed the full pitcher and heaved it at him.
Armistead let out another shout, but recovered himself sufficiently to get out of the way of her cumbrous missile. Arc harmlessly completed, the blue-and-white pitcher burst upon the floor. A shower of crockery and water exploded, splashing everything, both her checked calico skirt and his high black boots.
“I regret,” he choked, “that I have not the leisure just at this particular moment to begin your education.”
He was nursing the injured part, a bulge huddled between the four buttons of his trouser drop. He will not, she thought, with satisfaction, walk with ease for some time.
She thrust her hand into her pocket. There were her needles, her thread, the folded center with the sateen she’d pieced with Aunt Laetitia just yesterday. At the bottom, she found her scissors. Short— but sharp—a weapon of last resort.
Maybe, if I am quick, I can drive them into his neck.
Limping to the door, his pale, hairy hand went to the latch and gave it a sharp rattle. “Mrs. Crimp,” he called. “Let me out.”
The woman must have been waiting, for at once there was the scrape of a key.
“What’s broke?” she asked. “Damn it, major! You Army gentlemen are always bustin’ up my rooms.”
“Just a pitcher, ma’am,” Armistead soothed.
The madam’s fat, gaudy figure was momentarily visible as he ducked through the opening.
“Do not open that door for any reason. I’ll be back about seven to continue this—discussion.”
“By morning, I’ll warrant,” the woman said, with an appreciative chuckle, “a fine gentleman like yourself will certainly make yourself understood.”
This remark sent Angelica careening against the door. She knew she couldn’t get out, that nothing she said or did would help, but it was impossible to stop.
“Monster!” she shouted, hammering the dark wood with both fists. “Criminal! I shall never agree to marry a man without honor!”
“Now, now, Miss TenBroeck! Don’t excite yourself. When I return, we shall have a lovely supper together. Then we’ll talk. Reasonably, I hope, but if not—well, one way or another, by morning I promise, we shall be on far more intimate terms.”
Angelica shrank, lifting her slender fingers from the wood. She felt as if his touch might somehow reach her, sully her, straight through the door.
Next, she heard the sound of retreat—his booted stride and the woman’s heels, a speedy, shuffling clack, attempting to keep up.
Heart pounding, she ran to the open window and peered out, but she could see no foothold, no ivy, no nearby sturdy branch. What she did see were milling marines, laughing and joshing as two of their number, jacketless, their shirts hanging loose, emerged from a first floor window.
Then she heard something else—a creak—as if someone was still not only upstairs, but nearby. In a whirl of the serviceable blue-and - white check she’d worn to go boating with her cousins that morning, Angelica turned.
Yes! The delicate click of a lifted latch...
The sound was muffled, but close. It seemed to come from behind the folds of an ancient blanket draped across one crumbled plaster wall of her prison.
Holding her breath, Angelica retrieved the largest piece of the broken pitcher from the watery mess on the floor. It was a heavy chunk attached to the bulky handle.
The old blanket billowed. A man emerged. Putting every ounce of strength she had into it, she threw.
There was a momentary look of surprise on the face of this new intruder. Then, in a smooth, infuriatingly effortless gesture, his arm warded off what otherwise would have struck exactly where she’d aimed—his forehead.
The missile, deflected, fell to the floor and shattered. At the same instant, there was a dizzying flash.
His blonde good looks were marred by a long, fine scar...
With a finger pressed against his lips, he stepped forward. “Miss TenBroeck,” he whispered, “it’s me, Jack Carter. I’ve come to get you out of this damnable mess.”
Angelica stared. She hardly believed her eyes—much less her ears.
“Come.” He gestured with one of those strong hands, as graciously as if he were u
shering her out to dance. “We’ll go through here.”
To demonstrate, he raised the blanket. It concealed a low door.
What followed was a blur. Wrapping Angelica in her cloak, Jack led her through the door into the adjoining bedroom. Then, after a spell of listening, they made a quick march down the hall, through another door, and down a rickety outside stairway. From there, they dashed into the overgrown shrubbery surrounding the house.
They emerged by a rutted road, where the first thing Angelica saw was a well-dressed black servant holding two horses. After passing a purse and a few quick sentences with t his man—something about a ship and a letter—Jack mounted the larger of the horses, a tall, powerful bay with a magnificent black tail.
“We’ll double. Do you know how to go astride?”
“Well—” she began.
“Put your foot on my boot,” he directed, cutting off her explanation. “Daniel will help.”
In the next instant, the servant’s hands were on her waist. With his assistance and Jack’s hand on her arm, Angelica was briskly lifted to a seat behind.
Then, as she tightened her arms around his waist, they were away, trotting north. As she looked back, the last thing she saw was the servant and his horse. They, too, were traveling fast, kicking up dust, but they were heading south back to the city.
Chapter Three
They rode in silence. Angelica, who thought she ought to keep up her guard, found herself lulled by the strong body her arms enclosed, as well as by the loveliness of the warm, bright spring day.
The river on their left sparkled, each ripple capped with a glittering top. Birds sang in the high branches. Ducks bobbed in ceremonious courtship among the rushes.
“You were in the army, I understand,” she finally said. It was easier to make conversation then silently dwell on the events of the last two hours.
“His Majesty’s cavalry. For twenty years.”
“You must’ve been young going in,” she said, suddenly wondering if she misjudged his age.
“I was eleven.”
“Truly? ”
“I was formally an ensign, but my actual work was as a servant to a major. I blacked his boots and ran his errands. My first promotion was to cleaning up after his horse,” he said with a grin. “Old Cummings knew how to handle me.”
“What could a boy of eleven have done to merit such a punishment?”
“Well, I was in and out of scrapes from the time I could walk. When my father died, my grandsire, the general, could see my mother wasn’t up to coping with me and sent me to the army. It was, he said, an occupation well suited to a wild ruffian of a third son.”
“You seem quite orderly now,” Angelica said.
“I assure you, Miss TenBroeck—” He turned his head to smile at her. “—I am.”
“Have you seen action, sir?”
“Oh, yes. I started in Ireland, then was ordered to Lower Canada and, after that, I spent time in Germany. At first, I confess, I was enough of a barbarian to like the army. Time makes changes, though, and after Germany, I’d had enough. My mother felt it would be useful to her if I’d come to America and oversee her property.”
“You might’ve got a posting,” Angelica said. “Especially now.” “It was better for my purposes to be a private citizen.”
“I hope you do not find me rude, but I’ve heard there were other reasons for you to leave England.”
“Yes.” He turned his head to give her a thoughtful look. “It was prudent.”
“But a bad time to look into your business here—in the middle of all this.”
“Well, this was supposed to be over in a few months. At least, according to the Tory politicians.”
“I think the Tory politicians are in for a surprise, in spite of how badly we were beaten at White Plains.”
“I think there’s something in what you say,” he replied.
Angelica was pleased—and surprised—by that, for Jack didn’t seem to be humoring her, but simply assessing the situation.
“I cannot say I approve of dueling,” she continued, daring to remark upon the gossip she’d heard.
“Even when it’s in defense of a lady?”
“Was that the subject of your quarrel?” Minerva had said “over a woman.” Now, the way Jack said it, it sounded different.
“Yes, and I would do it again. You know, miss, my mother is a widow. She sometimes complains about the lot of her sex. She has had offers for her hand, but she always refuses, saying she’d far rather be widow than wife. ”
“Still, until this spring, I’d never given her attitude much thought. Lately, however, I’ve come to the conclusion that the world is, in many ways, unfair to your sex. ”
Angelica had never heard a man voice such an opinion. Sometimes, her Uncle Jacob said the world was dangerous for women, especially for those “without a man’s protection.” He never, however, said this state of things was “unfair.”
“I confess, sir, it is true,” Angelica replied. “Although my Aunt Laetitia and my Uncle Jacob, too, both say I am not properly biddable, as a woman ought to be.”
“I will recklessly state here and now that no woman worth her salt is ever biddable,” Jack replied. “For instance, when I came from behind the curtain, you did not wait to see what I wanted, and you didn’t bother with screaming. Instead, you sensibly tried to knock my brains out.”
He kept turning his head to talk to her, always, she noted, showing her the side without the scar. Close against his back, she saw him in profile, his fair English complexion and one lovely, long-lashed, clear eye, etched about with the fine lines of good humor.
How hard he was, how muscular! After the terror this morning, it was unnerving to be so close to so much man.
“I was far too frightened to do anything else,” she replied, trying to keep her thoughts away from the virility her arms embraced.
“Fear is often good sense, not the same as cowardice at all. Had I known you were such a cool hand, I would’ve been more careful,” he added. “Still, the odds of a rescue were not very good. The best plan would’ve been to smash whatever head presented itself with the hardest object you could find. Worry about who you’ve knocked senseless later.”
“Truly?”
“Oh, yes. Surprise is always the superior tactic, Miss TenBroeck, especially when you are the weaker party. ”
“I will remember that.”
They shared a smile, then he turned to look ahead.
“Had you been in the house long, sir?” Angelica asked.
“Armistead and the madame were in the hall while I waited on the stairs. I confess, miss, one more bullying word from him and I would’ve knocked him down the stairs. And her after him.”
“Didn’t you also say that discretion is the better part of valor?” she teased.
“I’m better at giving advice than taking it,” he said.
***
There was company on the road now—first carters and drovers, then a tight square of marching redcoats. When Angelica saw them, she shrank and shivered.
Noticing, Jack ran a hand over her arm. “Don’t let them see you are afraid,” he murmured. “It might set someone wondering. Do you know why we suddenly have so much company?”
“We’re close to the ferry.”
In another half mile, they would encounter the narrow blue band of the Harlem River that cut off Manhattan Island from the mainland.
Jack made his way to the ferry master, who explained his next two trips were full of soldiers and supplies, but he marked them down for the third passage. They retreated to a place where they could rest, but remain inconspicuous.
Already waiting, a covered wagon festooned with pots and pans, sat beneath the trees. The father smoked his pipe while his wife sewed. Their children whooped and threw a ball for a cheerfully barking yellow dog.
Further along, however, they found solitude in the green shade of willows. Jack threw his leg over his horse’s neck and sl
id down, then turned to help Angelica. She went into his strong hands without apprehension.
He clasped her waist and let her down very slowly. It was as if he wanted to show off his strength by not hurrying.
As if he wants to hold me for as long as possible...
For one alarming instant, Angelica saw a playful flash in those silver eyes, as if he wanted to use the up-in-the-air moment for a kiss. Instead, with careful deliberation, Jack gently set her on her feet.
“Miss TenBroeck,” he said, formally bowing her towards a fallen tree. This, from the lack of bark, looked as if it was often used as a bench.
Angelica sat. She could feel her cheeks glowing, though she wasn’t sure why.
“I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough for taking me out of that terrible house, Mr. Carter—for getting me away from that man. I— I—”
Speech failed her. She was a lady, but hardly sheltered. Raised on a frontier farm among the sights of the barnyard, what Armistead had planned was no mystery. Moreover, hadn’t she read—with fascinated horror and many tears—the tragic novel Clarissa, whose heroine is abducted and then raped in a brothel?
Instead of words, she simply shuddered. The evil I have so narrowly escaped—
“Try not to think of it,” Jack said. “‘Tis the past.” In the ensuing silence, a warm hand came to enclose hers.
“You’ve put yourself in jeopardy for a stranger, sir,” she finally managed. His understanding, his touch, kept her throat tight. “And— and—such generosity from a loyal subject of His Majesty to a rebel’s child! Major Armistead said I was spoils of war, that anything could fairly be done to me.”
“A contemptible opinion from a contemptible man,” Jack replied. “He had earlier offered to marry you, I hear.”
“Yes, and he had just made that proposal again—as if I could believe anything said to me in such a situation. In a small way, I am an heiress, Mr. Carter,” Angelica confessed. “The major made it plain my property was a great attraction. He said after—after—I would have no choice but to marry him.”
Angel's Flight Page 3
