Angel's Flight

by Juliet Waldron

  Steps on the stairs interrupted her meditation. It was Jack and a lanky maid, carrying bedding.

  The young woman helped to lay out a mattress and tightened the bed ropes. The entire time she stared unabashedly at Angelica, who was relieved when a rising call for help from below summoned her away.

  “Thin, and stuffed with heaven knows what, maybe even milkweed, but it looks clean enough.” Angelica held the candle close to inspect the mattress.

  “Yes, and these blankets don’t look too bad,” Jack agreed. “I think we may pass the night safely.”

  As he spoke, a chilly finger of wind poked through some chink in the outer wall and flicked Angelica’s ankles.

  They laid out the blankets. Both were grateful when these proved to smell strongly of nothing worse than camphor.

  “Please don’t be alarmed at the suggestion,” Jack began, “but you should remove your dress and stays so you will be more comfortable.”

  “I should not remove a single item of clothing, if I am to sleep with you, sir. And you know it.”

  “Please don’t be stubborn,” he said firmly. “Your stays can be loosened, at least. A shift is adequate for modesty, Miss TenBroeck. The plain fact is you need to be rested tomorrow and ready for a long, hard journey. I caution you, tonight will soon seem like a dream of luxury. It’s going to get worse before it gets better. With all these soldiers about, we may spend our next night in a barn or upon the ground.”

  Silently, Angelica considered. She wished she could read his mind.

  “Allow me to help you. ‘Pon my honor, you have nothing to fear.” He smiled encouragement.

  In the thin light of two candle stubs, she sat on the bed and allowed him to begin. As gently and unobtrusively as any of Aunt Letty’s Laetitia’s maids, Jack sat behind and loosened her white linen back stays.

  It comforted her somewhat to hear his breathing hold steady even as his deft fingers worked. Still, the practiced way he performed the task did not seem a good sign.

  Over their heads rain roared harshly. “I hope it doesn’t leak,” she remarked, turning her attention to the ceiling.

  Now that the wind had risen, there was a definite draft in the room. Angelica felt it clearly as the stays dropped into her hands. Nighttime relief came with the release of her ribs, although it was well mixed with apprehension.

  “Give those instruments of the devil here,” Jack said, getting off the bed. “I’ll put them on this chair. I won’t look,” he added.

  In spite of his words, Angelica saw he was struggling with a smile as he turned away.

  “Please, don’t,” she replied primly, beginning to remove the blue check overskirt. Shift, shirt and chemise would remain. Hopefully, these would form an adequate defense.

  Eyes politely averted, he accepted the dress. Next, he took the pocket, a separate pouch attached to loops along the waist of the dress. It dangled heavily on the fastening ribbon.

  First, Jack laid the dress across the stays. The pocket, however, swollen as it was, seemed to amuse him. He held it up by the ribbons with a grin.

  “Good Lord, woman! What’s all this baggage?”

  “It’s my chatelaine, sir.”

  “What?” With boyish curiosity, he withdrew it—a broad band of lace and ribbon equipped with pockets and loops. Upon this band, scissors, needles, thread, and a round pincushion, were neatly and handily stored. “I’ve heard of women hiding all sorts of things in pockets, but I never have seen a gentlewoman carry a mending kit.”

  “A Dutch woman always carries her scissors, needles and thread,” Angelica retorted. Why would a lady of good breeding not carry a mending kit?

  “Ah, still this pocket has not given up all its cargo!” Jack exclaimed. With a flourish, he extracted the rectangle with the bluebirds. “Here’s a stray bit of English calico as well.”

  Four long strips—white background with a single trailing blue vine, pieced from Aunt Laetitia’s upholstery scraps—surrounded the original center.

  “It is neither stray nor English, Mr. Carter. And,” she added, irritated by his prying, “I will thank you to respect my privacy.”

  “Well, you never can tell what’s in a pocket.” Jack started to laugh. “Why, once I discovered a little pepper pot pistol.”

  A thrill of alarm shot through Angelica as he spoke. He was hinting at participation in other improper and, considering her current predicament, risky situations.

  It was going to be hard to set him straight while wearing only her shift, but Angelica knew she must try.

  “That was no lady’s pocket, Mr. Church. And please spare me the story of how you came to be in possession of it.”

  Jack laughed again. “So I soon learned. Pray excuse my curiosity.”

  After examining the material by the candle, he smiled and said, “Ah, I see! This is the beginning of a quilt. At first glance, I thought it was all one piece. The second row is very finely stitched.”

  Although it was nice when men showed respect for women’s skills and pleasures, the whole business made Angelica uneasy.

  Heaven help me if this man is a liar!

  As she watched Jack fold the fabric and return it to the pocket, the strangeness of the scene enveloped her again.

  Just this morning, I was on my way to Beekman’s. Caroline and I, my cousins and her family, should have had dinner. After waving goodbye to the boys in their sailboat, she and I would have sat and gossiped and searched through her scrap box for the material for the next two rows.

  And now! My cousins, my aunt, and perhaps even Caroline and kind Mr. and Mrs. Beekman must imagine me dead—or worse.

  “My mother is devoted to quilting.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. She made me a wonderful coverlet when I was a boy. It was a branching tree of life done in Broderie Perse.”

  In this method, bright scraps were pieced together to create a design—for instance, flowers, trees, or birds. After being cut out and sewn down onto a sheet of plain muslin, the composition was finished with lavish embroidery.

  He really does know about quilting! Angelica thought.

  “I just finished a Broderie Perse coverlet for my Cousin Trude,” she replied, feeling more than ever off center. “Of flowers.”

  “Perhaps,” Jack said slowly, his gray eyes fastening upon her. “You will show me some of your work when we reach Kingston.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, looking away. Abruptly, she felt an enormous wave of shyness.

  Chapter Five

  Angelica was nervous, but she was also terribly tired. Every part of her body—her scalp, too—throbbed from the manhandling she’d received that very morning. Rain drummed an accompaniment while Jack shed his jacket and waistcoat.

  How strange to be in such a scene, one in which she’d never imagined herself—at least, without a ring!

  A stroke of lightning backlit Jack’s muscular body. He, too, was undressing.

  When it came, the window-rattling boom made them both jump. “Do you think this will be gone by morning?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, but it’ll be colder.”

  Angelica remained sitting, hugging the blanket tightly to her bosom. Jack paid no attention, pausing on his way into bed only to blow out the candle. Angelica shrank as he joined her under the covers.

  “My word of honor, miss. You shall sleep in perfect safety.”

  Hesitantly, she inched down beside him. The room had been growing colder, so the warmth of creature comfort beneath the blankets was welcome.

  “Mr. Carter,” she whispered after a few minutes. “I’m very grateful to you.”

  She wished at once she had not spoken. A flash illuminated the darkness, and for an instant, she saw her companion perfectly—a man, and a virile one, too, lying beside her.

  “I have only done the duty of any true gentleman, which is to offer protection to a lady in distress,” he answered.

  She was grateful that in such proximity, he remained so formal. “I�
�I do hope,” she stammered, “that I—I may continue to rely upon y-your sense of honor.”

  Out of the darkness, a hand touched her face. Gently, with lingering tenderness, his fingers trailed slowly across her cheek.

  “‘Pon my honor, you shall sleep undisturbed, Miss Angel TenBroeck.”

  Then he put his back to her. She hunched onto her pillow and kept still, her body gratefully soaking up the pacifying warmth of his. They were alone in the flashing, drumming darkness.

  As Angelica lay, distrust and a great desire for sleep at war, Aunt Laetitia kept popping into her mind. She stared into the darkness, grimly pondering what this lady would say about putting so much trust in Jack.

  Angelica shifted position carefully, with due attention to her partner. The man lying behind her was as motionless as a stone, his breathing deep and even. Apparently, he’d fallen, without any hesitation, directly to sleep.

  His presence beneath the covers was a source of heat and solace in the chilly, drafty room. Gradually, memories of Aunt Laetitia and the ball were woven through with fancy. Angelica’s restless wakefulness merged with dreams.

  ***

  All at once, it was dawn, cold and bright. A porcupine of noise rattled its quills beneath them, enough to bring her to consciousness. Angelica came drifting back with a wonderful sense of warmth and comfort abruptly ending when she realized the man in bed with her was now lying spoon fashion behind.

  She could feel his breath in her hair. One strong arm was clasped around her waist and his hard body had molded against her. The tops of his knees touched the backs of hers. Even this, ostensibly innocent, felt dangerously sensual. As soon as she understood, she tried to sit up, but his strong arm tightened, holding her right where she was.

  “Just a moment more,” he whispered against her hair.

  “Please, Mr. Carter,” she said, quivering. “This isn’t proper.”

  “Certainly not, Miss TenBroeck.” His smile she felt rather than saw. “However, admit that there is a certain measure of pleasure in our—situation.”

  So saying, he rolled her onto her back.

  “Mr. Carter!”

  A readiness to fight surged, a readiness that was strangely at war with another, equally powerful impulse. Jack’s face shone with boyish delight. The laugh lines by his gray eyes fairly danced.

  He is blonde, strong, handsome. So like my long-lost ‘Bram. Beautiful ‘Bram Ten Eyck, with whom I lay...

  “Hush, Miss Angel. I just want to look at you.” Holding her close in his arms, he studied her with an expression, not of desire, but of something like—absolute contentment.

  Angelica tried to rouse herself. There must be a hundred things she ought to do: protest, or box his ears! Instead, she lay quietly and allowed his questing, clear eyes to drink her in. Admiration poured over her like honey.

  “Don’t you like being called an angel, miss?” Jack said softly. “The compliment may be stale, but I confess that is what came into my head the moment I saw you at the ball. I’ve met other Angelicas, but never one whose name so perfectly matched the lady upon whom it was bestowed.”

  His finely chiseled mouth—the line of it long, yet exquisitely mobile—drew close. Angelica felt her heart make an astonishing, answering leap.

  “Mr. Carter,” she protested, trying to keep her breathing easy, even while blood pounded madly in her ears. “This-this does not inspire confidence.”

  He lifted her hand and carefully kissed it, the fair threads in his mutable hair catching a sudden ray ushered through the dusty attic window.

  “You are right, of course, Miss TenBroeck.”

  The tender touch of lips burned upon her hand. His long, dark lashes lowered lazily over those eyes of ice. Here, like the novels said, was The Male Incarnate—potent and barely reined in.

  If he draws me close, began to caress—oh!

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “I’m no Armistead. But I think,” he added, his smile brightening again, “you might unbend enough to call a fellow with whom you’ve slept the night , Jack.”

  “It doesn’t seem like a good idea to me at all.” Lame, but it’s the best I can do while every sense spills over—with him!

  “A perfect angel,” he repeated, ignoring the rebuff.

  “In the language of my forefathers, I am Engeltie, sir. I am named, as is proper, for my grandmother.” The response was prim and pedantic for she hoped to deflect what she sensed was on its way.

  He’d begun to stroke her cheek. He did it softly, starting with grazing fingertips. She lay still, mesmerized by the gentleness of his touch, by the intensity in his eyes.

  Fingers roamed to trace the sensitive shell of her ear. When she helplessly turned her face against his hand to stop it, his thumb moved and began a soft traverse of her mouth.

  “Oh, sir,” she whispered. “You must not.”

  “Oh, but miss, I must.”

  Then, in a world where everything moved as languidly as a sultry afternoon dream, he bent his head and kissed her. Sandy curls fell over his shoulders, down upon her golden braids. The kiss, like the caresses he’d given, was delicate, a tentative brush which irresistibly repeated.

  Angelica’s arms, as if moving by themselves, slipped around his neck. Her fingers helplessly wandered in his thick hair.

  Jack kissed harder, parted her lips, and began in earnest to savor. As he pressed her back into the bed, a kind of fragrance burst into the air, as if they had fallen into a field of fragrant spring flowers.

  Oh, I’ve had kisses from country cousins, from impetuous officers! There have been kisses hot and much desired, kisses of flame! For all the winters since I was seventeen and lost my ‘Bram, there have been no kisses I wanted.

  And now! This!

  In Jack’s fair skin, in the muscles, in the all-over urgent hardening was ‘Bram. It was as if instead of dying, he had reappeared in his prime, returned from the world of shadow, to again hold her in his arms.

  She knew exactly how dangerous it was to let this go on, but every sense was swimming in a maelstrom of wine and honey. Jack Carter smelled right; he touched right.

  His mouth is full of heaven.

  As those seductive lips roved across her lips and cheeks and back again, his hand moved upon her breast. This was done so tenderly, yet so frankly, that the spreading warmth was well established before she was entirely aware of the liberty he was taking.

  Then, like a quick succession of sudden slaps, came three urgent knocks at their door. Sucking in a deep breath, Jack sat up. “Yes?” “Hist! Mr. Carter! Miss Carter! There’s some men—”

  With a tiger’s bound, Jack was across the room. Jerking the door open and catching the maid by the arm, he yanked her inside.

  “I didn’t say nothin’ to ‘em!” she gasped. It was the same tired, thin girl who had helped them with the mattress last night.

  “What did you see?”

  “Um—there’s some buzz about you. They’re looking for one lawless Mr. Carter that has carried off a young Dutch lady—a TenBroeck girl, they says—from down in the city.”

  “Has anyone remembered?”

  “My missus’ll soon fig’er it out. Ye’re lucky, though, for she tippled a bit too much last night. While she’s still a bit headachey and addled, you’d best go. Go straight down the stairs and pass through the kitchen. I slipped out to Davy in the barn an’ told him you was wantin’ your horse.”

  “Thank you, miss. You’ve been very kind.” Jack gave her his full attention and one of those sunny smiles.

  Angelica, pricked by a disturbing jealousy, watched as the girl melted. And I’m not a whit better! S s he scolded herself.

  “Don’t dawdle,” the girl said, “but don’t fear to go through the kitchen. It’s a tangle in there now because of market day. All the regulars is crowdin’ in for a bite. Hurry, and maybe no one’ll see.”

  Jack was already throwing on his waistcoat. From an inner pocket, he withdrew a coin and tossed it. With q
uick fingers, the maid caught it in mid air.

  “Good English silver!” she exclaimed, turning his gift around and around in her hands. Her face shone with absolute joy.

  “Gracie!” a woman’s voice screeched from downstairs. “Gracie! Where in God’s name are ye, girl?”

  “Good luck, young gentlefolk!”

  Grace dashed to the door, but spun round to give a last piece of advice. “And if ye haven’t,” she said with a wink, “git to the preacher soon.” There was a swirl of drab skirts and the wild clop-clop as her wooden clogs resounded in the narrow stairwell.

  Angelica was already out of bed and stepping into her dress, pulling it up over shift and chemise. Jack tucked in his shirt, threw on his jacket and jammed the tricorn down over his trailing locks.

  “Damn,” he groaned, bending to peer out the window, “They’re right across the way.”

  Angelica joined him, looking down into a Dobb’s Ferry street shockingly full of redcoats. In the midst of them, one officer, very tall and very lean, was in the act of dismounting a black horse.

  It was like a punch in the stomach to see him again. For one horrible, fascinated moment, Angelica stared as Major Armistead ducked to enter the low door of the inn across the street.

  Jack abandoned the window and went to pull his pistol buckets and sword from beneath the bed. Every move was efficient, but there was not a whit of worry or haste.

  “You’ve got to help me!” Angelica cried. She had gone to sit in the chair and pull on her stockings and garter them. “The stays—”

  “Grab them,” he commanded, dashing to the door, “We don’t have time to get you into them. Just tie your front laces tight. That and the cloak will have to do.”

  “Well, I can’t leave them.” Swiftly, Angelica ducked to collect her understays.

  “Don’t let anyone see them,” he cautioned, and she stuffed them under one arm beneath the cloak.

  In the next moment, they went flying down the stairs. .

  The staircase terminated in a corner of the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, they marched straight in. Just as Grace had said, everyone was frantically busy. Servants and a couple of black slaves were rushing between a roaring, spitting fire and a long table covered with plates.