“Please, Mr. Church,” she said, pausing to look up at him.
“As you wish, Mrs. Church,” he replied, as he turned. “But someday, when we are settled, we shall share our bath, and have it in a big, wooden laundry tub in front of the fire.”
After, while she was balancing, drying a foot, he returned to her. Embracing her, he exclaimed, “Where are your wings, my angel?”
“I believe you’ve removed them,” she replied, nestling against him. She loved his loving—loved his eyes, his face, his warm, tender hands. Trusting, she’d let those hands guide her along passion’s highroad.
Reaching down, he drew the shift out of the pile of clothes on the floor. “Here, love, put this on before you take a chill.”
Then he sat cross-legged behind her on the bed and began to work at the tangles in her waist length gold.
“Would I have had this pleasure if we’d been married properly?” he asked after awhile. “Some nosy and giggling female relative would’ve chased me out of your chamber this morning.”
Angelica smiled, imagining it. “Do you like to play hairdresser, sir?”
“Yes, I believe I do,” he said, starting the braid. “Especially when it is with such a glory as this.” He lifted a long golden tendril and formally kissed it. “Blonde hair is often fine, but this is thick as Hal’s tail.”
“Your Mama must have good hair for yours is also thick.”
“Yes. When the family was not groaning that I must have been sired by the devil—it was generally acknowledged that I favored her.”
After she’d got her cap on over the coiled braids, they began their breakfast. The steady drip of rain sounded. It was too chilly and wet to leave the canvas pulled back from the broken window, so they remained in candlelight.
“You sit that way easily,” she observed, gazing at her cross-legged husband. “Like an Indian, or a man just back from trapping.”
“It’s all my time in the Canada s , in various log-and-dirt groundhog holes. The largest fort I was at was Fort Brewerton. I have seen Fort Johnson, too, and met the famous Sir John and his Mohawk family.”
“You know western New York?”
“Pretty well.” Jack, apparently not inclined to pursue this topic, did not elaborate. A knife flashed as he lifted it to cut another piece from the slab of beef.
“Not a bad breakfast,” he said. “But a little different, I believe, from what you would serve me.”
“Yes.” Angelica smiled. She had been ignoring the oozing beef and, instead, eating fried mush. While grateful it was hot, buttered, and not too full of grit, she found herself very much wishing for something luxurious to spread upon it.
“At home, we have an entire shelf of conserves. We keep bees, too, and have a fine dairy. We have a wonderful little fawn colored English butter cow. She gives the richest milk anywhere.”
“Do you bake?” Jack asked, smiling into her blue eyes. “My Mama is always in her kitchen. Papa fussed about it. He thought it was undignified for a gentlewoman to do such work, but he clearly preferred her baking to the cook’s. ”
“My Mama made us cakes, pies, bread and oleykoeks. This morning I confess to entertaining visions of future breakfasts complete with oleykoeks.” He paused and gave her a hopeful look she found endearingly boyish. “Can you make them?”
“I can indeed, Mr. Church,” she happily declared. “And very good ones, too. But what Dutch wife raised in this valley cannot?”
As they shared a lingering kiss, Angelica had a wonderful vision of a well-ordered, clean kitchen, the room fragrant with hot fat, a bubbling kettle filled with rising cakes.
Jack will sit nearby, his elegant legs in riding boots, leaning back in his chair and smiling his beautiful smile. There will be a steaming pot of tea and four small dishes, each with its own silver serving spoon. One dish will contain whipped cream, one, plum conserve, one, blackberry. The last will hold a dripping chunk of fragrant honeycomb...
“Oh, Jack,” she whispered as their lips parted, “how do we get from here to quiet breakfasts with preserves and oleykoecks?”
His mouth brushed her forehead. “Yesterday,” he said in a low voice, “when I was roaming the woods alone, I came upon a Mohawk brave. Or rather, he came upon me,” he amended with a soft chuckle.
“Good God! Why haven’t you said?” she added, as a sweaty host of childhood terrors came crowding in. “Where there’s one savage, there’s sure to be more.”
“Yes.” Jack went on stroking, composed as ever. “In this case, however, he was a scout for the king. It seems there’s a band of loyalist militia scouring the area, working in concert with the troops who almost caught us at Anthony’s Nose. They’ve been searching for the gunpowder M’Bain captured because they’d like to use it to attack Putnam at West Point.”
“How on earth do you know all that?”
“Because he and I talked.”
Angelica stared at him incredulously. Apparently, he had done far more yesterday than take a bath, elude a guard and save her from Nancy, Bet and Jen.
“M’Bain is shortly to have a rude awakening,” Jack said. “In my very best Mohawk, I told the scout where his sentries sit.”
“Jack!” she gasped. “How do you know the loyalist militia won’t take me prisoner? That Armistead won’t be down on the river waiting for me?”
“You’re Mrs. Church now. If he wants you, he’s going to have to kill a certain very possessive husband first.”
Angelica, remembering the backward step at the assembly, the mortal way the eyes of the two men had locked, shivered. Leaning against his chest, she breathed in the comforting scent of him. Her thoughts tumbled wildly.
“Today we need to lie low, to rest,” her husband continued. “They might come as soon as tonight, but I think, if I understood the scout a right, it won’t be until dawn tomorrow. We don’t want to be taken hostage, so we’ll have to leave. If it doesn’t stop raining, it’ll be a miserable night in the woods, but I don’t want M’Bain’s men shooting us or taking you with them if they get a chance to run.”
***
Angelica inched backwards along the slippery roof in the damp darkness on her belly. The pocket riding in her shirt was a fat package with all that she had added to the quilt in the nervous make-work of that rainy day. Her shoes she’d tossed down earlier. She was breathing hard, nearly blind with fear, toes and fingers testing each slick shingle. It was a long way down if she slipped.
When someone stopped below, she lay still, listened as they made water against the side of the house. To her great relief, after a drunken hiccup, whoever it was had gone inside. His progress was marked by a slam of the door.
Jack had already gone down, about a half an hour earlier. She’d heard him quieting an inquisitive dog.
Slowly, she continued backing, extended her feet over the edge. It was like being an inchworm, moving with belly waves, in the smallest increments. She was wet and cold from hugging the aging roof, but heartily glad for the noisy conversation indoors.
As she let her legs over the edge, she began to slide. Choking off a scream, Angelica spilled over the edge and dropped into the darkness. As she fell, she prayed she was where she was supposed to be, over the pile of moldy hay the careless reivers had left heaped up by the cabin.
She landed with a dusty scattering thud, tumbling backwards. For a moment she lay there, gasping for breath, feeling an all over chorus of tingles and shocks.
From the cabin came a shout of laughter, but this seemed unconnected with her fall. Almost at once Jack’s breath came warm against her ear.
“Are you all right?” he whispered. “Can you walk?”
“In a minute,” she whispered back, sitting up and rubbing the ankle that seemed to have taken the worst of it.
A chilly gust began a watery patter in the forest. Angelica shivered as he handed her the shoes. As she put them on, across the way, the door to the cook shed swung open. Light filled the street.
“Let
’s go,” Jack said, pulling her. As if he had cat’s eyes, he walked her to the back of the cabin. From there they continued directly into the dripping, weedy darkness.
“Slowly,” he whispered. “Slowly.”
They tried not to step on anything that would crack. As they moved away from the covering sounds of the outlaw camp, the springtime chorus of peepers grew deafening.
Near the edge of the clearing, Jack directed her gaze. About halfway up a tree, she saw the muffled gleam of a lantern. Only a few steps farther, the light winked out. Angelica understood they had just passed the sight line of a sentry.
Jack squeezed her fingers to steady her nerves. They continued on, testing every step, bending branches out of their way and carefully letting them go behind.
Wind rose softly, a fresh sigh from the north. As they reached the trees, they noticed a distant glow. A late rising moon pierced thinning clouds. At last they came to the wide, broken trunk of an ancient oak.
“There are guards on either side of us here, but at equal distance,” Jack murmured. “They aren’t likely to spot us here.”
Inside the rotting bole, the fresh green smells of the forest were overwhelmed by something rank and musty. “Possums,” Jack whispered, propelling her in. “But they’ll be out now, gone for their evening stroll.”
After they were both inside, they sat, huddled within their cloaks. No alarm came from the camp.
Suddenly concerned, Angelica slipped her fingers into the pocket and fumbled amid the wad of fabric. Did I lose my scissors in the fall?
She found them at once, the curving metal neck cool to the touch. The single, precious needle made it presence known with a sharp stab.
Satisfaction smothered the ouch, and Angelica removed her fingers from the pocket. The injured one she put into her mouth and sucked until she tasted blood.
She would find it amazing later, but despite the stiffness and chill in every limb, she actually dozed for a while, huddled inside that moldy place. Security, even here, could be found within the strong circle of Jack’s arms.
Memories of her frontier childhood came like a flash in the pan. Angelica rushed into a terrified consciousness.
She’d heard it on Schoharie, recognized it: a repeating whistle! It was sweet and familiar.
Sometimes, it is an ordinary spring bird singing an ordinary spring song. Sometimes, it isn’t...
Beside her, Jack was already on his feet.
“They’re here,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
The s S addlebag house in which they’d made love was a charred and smoking ruin. Bodies were being dragged from where they had fallen and laid out in rows. The soul-rending sound of keening came from the dog trot house where the women and children had been herded.
“Colonel Jack Church, at your service,” the man beside her said to the officer in charge. He saluted briskly.
In the light of a cloud chasing dawn, Angelica stood in her smudged and wrinkled dress, and rubbed her eyes. They smarted fiercely from the drifting, acrid smoke.
“And this lady?” asked the officer who had commanded the raid and before whom they now stood.
“This lady is under my protection,” Jack said. “We were captured on our way to Newburgh.”
“Not rebels, are you?” The officer asked, his features assuming an expression of distaste at just the word.
“No, sir. I am Colonel John Church, under orders to Brigadier General Saint Leger.”
Angelica blinked, stared up at Jack. He did not meet her eyes, simply held her arm more tightly.
Under orders? Saint Leger? The British commander who, with help from the Tory militia and Indians, was even now ravaging the New York frontier?
“I think it best, sir, if we talk privately,” Jack said. “I’m hoping you can help me, Major Campbell. The lady’s peril has delayed me.”
Producing a knife from his boot, he slit the hem of his jacket. First, a square of oilcloth appeared. Out of this, Jack unfolded a paper with seals.
The sparse eyebrows of the major raised as Jack handed these over. After a quick survey, he cleared his throat.
“Well! Ah, Colonel, just as you say, we’d better have a private talk.” He gestured to the shed where his men had set a camp table.
Now Jack turned his gaze to Angelica. “Please wait here, ma’am,” he said.
Her mind reeled, but somehow she found the words to reply.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “From now on, I will know exactly what is going on.”
“It’ll be safer if you don’t.”
“No!” Angelica retorted. Angrily, she seized his arm.
“Well, perhaps, as you’re going to have to continue traveling with me,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “At least until I can get you to your uncle.”
Angelica could find no words to reply. She was struggling with her composure, shaking as if she’d been struck by a fist.
Bad enough to have married a Tory, but now Jack had revealed himself as an acting officer! Worse—he was traveling in civilian clothes, which meant he must be th at e lowest, most despicable of all living creatures—a spy! As she clung to his arm, another stomach-turning thought struck.
Had marriage simply been part of his cover?
It did not help matters when Jack flashed a smile of dazzling playfulness her way before turning back to Major Campbell. “Sir,” he said. “Allow me to introduce Miss TenBroeck.”
“TenBroeck?” Campbell was now sharply interested. “Aren’t all the TenBroecks—”
“Patriots, sir,” Angelica completed his sentence proudly, and not as the colonel had intended.
Campbell raised an eyebrow. “Not the wisest thing to admit in present company, miss,” he said. “However, rest assured, I shall not make war upon you.”
“Which will make you unique in my experience of British officers.”
“She is a most outspoken lady,” Jack observed. “Actually, Major Campbell, I’ve made the most unforgivable error in my introduction. This lady has just become Mrs. Church. Only a night ago, in order to keep her out of trouble with these rogues, I had to marry her.”
Campbell, who’d been admiring Angelica, now gave a bark, a noise, which with him, probably passed for a laugh.
“Well, Colonel Church,” he replied, his expression swiftly changing to one of shrewd approval. “I cannot imagine that was exactly a hardship.”
Pushed beyond endurance, Angelica tore at the wedding band. She was further humiliated when it wouldn’t come off.
“You are no gentleman!” she shouted at Jack. “Every other word—No!—every word you’ve said to me has proved a damnable lie.”
“That’s the trouble with these provincials,” Campbell remarked with a dry chuckle. “No matter how much we do for them, they show no gratitude.”
“I will never be wife to a damned lobsterback.”
She began to whirl away, but Jack caught her by an arm and harshly jerked her back. It was frightening to feel, for the first time, his strength turned against her, but her fury knew neither bounds nor fear. As hard as she could, she slapped him, right across his square jaw.
“Don’t you dare touch me!”
“As you well know, madame, you are, in fact, my wife,” he said.
He’d taken the blow as if he’d deserved it, but even as he spoke, he seized her by the wrists and pulled her roughly against him. The eyes meeting hers had become as cold and hard as January ice.
“And, as I’m sure you remember,” he added, enunciating the words carefully, “we are bedded as well as wedded.”
On every side, Angelica saw grins and elbowing. Rage spouted through every fiber, like fire through a straw roof.
This man had rescued her from the contemptible Major Armistead—but only, it seemed, for his own low purposes. She spat with all the force she could summon.
Jack let go of one of her wrists. With the newly freed hand, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, apparent
ly as unconcerned as if the offending wetness had fallen out of the sky.
“I believe we are about to play a few acts of The Taming of the Shrew,” he remarked, sending a wink toward the colonel.
Campbell, failing at suppressing a grin, cleared his throat. “Your wife’s family lives by Esopus Kill?”
“Yes, they do,” Jack replied. “My mother owns a neighboring property.”
Although only held by one hand now, Angelica stood quite still. The fight had simply drained away. Suddenly, she felt dizzy, sick, and almost blind. She had been amused by Jack’s ability to play a part, to seem to be anything in order to get his way, but now...
What have I been but a pretty addition to a British spy’s civilian disguise? And, almost incidentally, an heiress fallen prey to a fortune-hunting younger son!
It made her want to sink to the ground, to break into helpless tears. She called upon every inner resource, refused to give in to the shame she felt. Lifting her chin, she attempted to blink away the tears already filling her eyes.
Conversation continued between the two officers. “I’ll send a rider out,” Campbell was saying. “Perhaps we can spare their property when the punitive expedition comes up river. General Howe has taken an oath that every rebel house and barn between here and Albany shall burn before the snow flies.”
“When do they start?”
“Soon. We’ve fired the American stores at Peekskill and broken the boom and chain at Anthony’s Nose. Putnam is in retreat from West Point, fled back into the mountains. I believe a brisk application of His Majesty’s justice will soon bring these fools to heel.”
The wind shifted and smoke billowed around them. On every side were redcoats, green-coated Tory militia and a contingent of outlandishly dressed Hessians, all in motion around the remaining houses of the Clove.
Stonily, Angelica fixed her gaze upon the crows rowed upon the roof of the dog trot house. Every few minutes they called and another pair came flying in. There was quite a line of them now, staring down in an interested way at the bodies in the street.
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