"You'd best not be lying to me, Michael O'Ryan," she muttered. "If you are, you won't need a judge and jury to hang you, I'll finish you off myself." And then she took a deep breath and went out to do what had to be done.
* * *
Anne knew when it was time to cut the tobacco. She might not remember everything about cultivation and curing times, but she'd followed her father through the fields every September since she was old enough to walk.
Cutting the precious tobacco had to be done at exactly the right stage. Some of this year's crop had already been choked by weeds or had gone to flower before it had been topped, but what was there looked good to Anne. The leaves had to be ripe, not too green, or they would never dry properly. And if an early frost struck, the cold could destroy the plants before harvest.
Anne allowed O'Ryan to direct the laborers. She let him instruct his Irish to build a hog barn and pen in the south pasture. She even permitted him to trade some of their remaining riding horses for mules. But she would not listen to him or to Nate when it came to making a decision about the right day for cutting tobacco.
On the whole, the new arrivals were proving to be dependable laborers. There were normal disputes between the new employees and the old, and some of the immigrants didn't understand the difference between free blacks and slaves. Women argued over chores and where to string their clotheslines, and some children wandered into mischief while their parents were at work. One family spoke no English at all, and Anne required an interpreter to communicate with them.
Today, every hand, young and old, had been pressed into service to bring in the tobacco crop. Anne, astride her little bay mare—the one she'd spent a solid hour the day before to talk her husband out of selling—rode up and down the fields giving instructions. Her hired black workers knew their tasks well; they could swing machetes from early morning until the noon break without stopping. The Irish were not only slower, they tired more quickly.
"We aren't getting enough of the field done," Anne protested to O'Ryan. "At this rate, it will take us days to finish. You must get them to work faster."
O'Ryan had stripped to the waist and joined the lines of sweating men moving slowly down the rows. Muscles rippled along his chest, arms, and broad shoulders, making it hard for Anne to keep her eyes off him.
A few had stared at Michael's scarred back and whispered among themselves when he joined the cutters. "Do you think that's wise?" she'd asked him. "If the sheriff comes looking for you..."
She hadn't been able to keep Mary's letter a secret. After much thought, she'd shown it to Michael the night before. She was fully committed to him. No matter what he'd done in the past, she was prepared to stand by him, even if it meant breaking the law.
"If the authorities come, we'll deal with them," O'Ryan had answered. "They'd have to prove I'm Cormac Payne and not Michael O'Ryan before they could arrest me. For now, I'll be damned if I'll try to chop tobacco in a shirt."
Women, white and free black, followed the men with the long knives. Their hair tied up in kerchiefs, skirts girded, the wives and daughters of the field hands cradled the leafy stalks as gently as babies and laid them in the beds of horse-drawn wagons.
Once a wagonbed was full, a driver delivered the leaves to a curing barn, where still more men hung them from the rafters to cure. Later, when the tobacco was dry, workers had to strip the leaves from the stalks and remove the biggest stem fibers. Next they would pack the cured leaves into wooden barrels to be pressed tightly before shipping to market.
At any point in the process, something could go very wrong. Anne knew she couldn't afford to lose a single hogshead of leaf. And with clouds hanging low over the bay and a brisk wind blowing, she had a real fear that the weather would turn against them before they could complete the harvest.
At noon, men and women stopped to eat cold bread and meat. No one went back to their quarters or to the house for dinner. Anne and O'Ryan ate in the fields with their help, washing down the simple meal with water from the well.
If she'd had her way, Anne would have gone immediately back to work, but O'Ryan shook his head. "Many of these men have gone without proper food for months. They need an hour of rest, and we have to give it to them." He wiped the sweat from his brow and tied a red handkerchief around his hair in pirate fashion to keep it out of his eyes.
"I'm going to drive one of the wagons," she said. "That will free Dave to join the cutters." She tied the ribbons of one of Kessie's old straw hats under her chin and pulled on a pair of leather gloves.
"You're trying to do the work of two," he said. "You'll wear yourself out."
"And you don't?" She touched his shoulder affectionately. "You cut twice as much tobacco as any of the others."
"We'd have none cut at all if it wasn't for your idea to bring in the immigrants." He smiled and rubbed the small of his back. "These Irish of mine prize land above all else. Ten acres for every grown man and woman who will stay five years, twenty-five acres if the family has children old enough to work. It's more than fair."
"Now we have to make certain we don't fail to pay off the mortgage. We can't let them down after I gave my word," Anne said.
"Don't worry. This new strategy will work. Baltimore is a growing market. Our beef and wheat will bring top prices. In five years you'll have your land free of the mortgage. I told my countrymen the risk, but they're willing to take it."
"I thought of the Irish, but changing Gentleman's Folly to a beef and grain farm is your idea. I would have gone on growing tobacco and falling further behind every year."
He grinned at her. "Are you saying that we make a good team?"
Her dark eyes sparkled. "Maybe we do."
It was something that he couldn't get out of his mind. The thoughts of staying here, of making Gentleman's Folly his true home, of someday having children with Anne seemed like heaven. But always his other concerns crowded in to shadow that dream. His responsibility for Kathleen and her child. And there were the charges of murder against him in Philadelphia.
He'd assured Anne that he could manage, but there was only one way to protect her home from his past—to run, to change his name and identity again. He could never go to trial, never face the inquiries into his past. And he cared too much for Anne to drag her down with him. Her reputation would recover from being abandoned by an Irish scoundrel, but not from being the widow of a hanged criminal.
In time, Anne would get over his leaving. She might hate him, but she would eventually find someone else, someone without a haunted past, someone worthy of her. If anyone deserved happiness, she did.
He'd not abandon her now. First he'd save her home and security. Then he'd give Annie the greatest gift he could—setting her free.
Chapter 22
Anne, Michael, and their crew cut and hung tobacco until it was too dark to see. In fourteen hours they had finished three-quarters of the smaller field. Michael estimated that it would take another whole day and most of the next to finish the harvest.
When they got back to the house, they found that Gerda, Grace, and two of the Irish women who were too old for heavy labor had prepared kettles of oyster chowder, pitchers of cool buttermilk, and fresh-baked bread for everyone.
Anne was too exhausted to eat. The leather reins had left blisters on both hands. She'd been bitten by mosquitoes, and she'd fallen while getting down from the wagon and scraped her knee. She could barely keep her eyes open long enough to strip off her dirty clothes and wash in cold water before falling into bed. She never stirred when Michael crawled between the sheets nearly an hour later.
In the darkest hour between dusk and dawn, the urgent clanging of the plantation bell pealed an alarm. Michael leaped up and ran to the window, pistol cocked and ready. "Anne!" he called. "Wake up!"
Her heart pounded in her chest as she fought her way out of a mist-cloaked stupor. "What is it?" she cried. "What's wrong?"
A woman's scream turned Anne's blood cold.
Michael thrus
t the weapon into her hands. "It looks like the tobacco field is on fire. Take this gun, and stay in the house." He reached for the coarse trousers he'd worn the day before.
"Fire? How?" She laid the pistol on the table, barrel turned toward the wall, and fumbled for the lamp.
"No! No light."
"Why? If there's a fire—"
"If there's someone outside who means us ill, the light will make you a target. No lamps and no candles."
"But the tobacco. How could the field catch fire?" She ripped off her nightgown and felt her way to her dressing closet. There she donned the first dress and shoes she could find.
"Stay in the house!" Michael insisted. "And lock the door behind me."
"I can help put out the fire. We'll need every pair of hands. We can't lose—"
"For once do as I say, woman!" He broke into a run, and she heard his footsteps fade away.
"Blast that man," she muttered under her breath. Did he believe her useless in a crisis?
She found her way back to the table, eased the hammer down on the pistol, and shoved it under the mattress. She didn't particularly like guns, and she didn't think she needed one now.
Shannon followed close behind as she entered the passageway. "No," she told the dog. "You stay here." She pushed Shannon back inside and shut the door.
The pup's anxious yips followed Anne as she hurried down the upstairs hall to the front staircase. Below, at the bottom of the steps, stood a small weeping wraith in a white shift.
"Oh, miss, it's awful," Grace cried.
"Where's your sister? And Gerda?"
"Charity's at Ma's. Gerda ran outside. I heard her yellin' for buckets. What should I do, Miss Anne? The master told me to stay here with you. He said to-—"
Without warning, a heavy thud sounded from the door opposite the front entrance, the back door leading into the garden. Before Anne could react, that blow was followed by the crack of splintering wood.
Grace screamed and fled up the stairs past Anne as a man brandishing a torch shouldered his way through what was left of the door. In an instant, Anne glimpsed two wild-eyed, bearded strangers, one with an ax in his hand.
Pirates!
Anne didn't stop to reason with them. Twisting around, she pounded up the steps behind the shrieking Grace.
At the top landing, the terrified girl stopped short. Anne seized her by the hair and dragged her along toward her own bedchamber. She snatched open her door, shoved Grace inside, and slammed home the iron bolt behind them.
The maid sank to the floor sobbing. "Devils." She moaned. "Devils. I saw fire and pitchforks."
Smoke, more screams, and the sound of gunshots drifted through the open window. Downstairs, Anne could hear furniture overturning and the crash of glassware. Shannon began barking furiously.
"Oh God. Oh God, help us," Grace whimpered.
"Stop that!" Anne ordered. "Help me move this chest in front of the door." Loud male voices and the scrape of feet echoed down the hall. "Now!" Anne warned. "Or I'll make you wish the devils had you."
"I'm scared."
Anne threw all her weight against the heavy piece of furniture. Something shattered in the adjoining room, and a drunken voice laughed.
Anne was so frightened that she was afraid she might throw up. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering as Grace threw her shoulder against the dresser and it slid, inch by inch, to block the door.
Anne's mouth tasted like ashes. Robbers were looting her house. Any second they might burst in. She didn't want to think what could happen to her and Grace if they got through the door. But worse was not knowing what had happened to Michael.
What if he'd been shot? What if he was lying in the field bleeding to death?
The doorknob rattled furiously. "This one's locked!" a man shouted.
White-hot anger burned away Anne's panic. "Grace, go into the dressing room," she whispered. "In the end wall is a loose panel. Move it aside. There's a ladder that leads to the attic. Go up there and hide. Quick now."
"You come, too. You know what they did to Palmer's slave girl. They'll ravish us. Then they'll cut our—"
"Grace, stop that talk. You do as I say." Anne retrieved Michael's pistol from under the mattress. This was her house, her bedchamber. She wasn't running anymore. "Go on!" she hissed at the girl. "Do you want the devils to eat you?"
Grace gave a squeak of pure fright and ran.
The knob turned, but the lock held fast.
"You gonna let that stop you?" asked a harsh voice on the far side of the door.
The marauder's words were heavily slurred, difficult for her to understand, but she recognized the accent: bay islanders. A wicked bunch, Papa had called them. Descended from redcoat deserters, criminals, and wreckers, they paid no taxes, knew no religion, and heeded no laws but their own. Even sheriffs and tax collectors gave the marshy islands a wide berth.
"Open up, little birds!"
Anne backed away from the door. The wood creaked as an intruder threw his weight against it.
"'Twill go worse for thee, do we have to smash this door!"
"I'm warning you, get out of my house!" Anne shouted.
Her answer was a burst of coarse laughter.
"I have a gun," she called. "I'll shoot."
A man swore. "Will ye now?"
"Maybe she'd change her mind, if she got a look at Jock's pizzle!"
"Stand away from that door!" Anne said as she cocked the hammer on the pistol. She extending her pistol arm and steadied her wrist with her free hand.
Another blow struck the door, and Anne squeezed the trigger. Fire flashed in the darkened room as the bullet tore through the wooden panel. A man howled.
"Shit!"
"Tup me, Jock, the bitch has killed me."
Anne lowered the smoking pistol and crouched on the floor. Shannon whined and crept out from under the bed, then burrowed into the circle of Anne's arms.
A rifle blast smashed through the upper door, and window glass shattered. Shocked into action, Anne crawled across the floor, keeping her head low. She thought briefly of trying to escape up to the attic, but she couldn't leave Shannon to be murdered.
Directly below the windows facing the bay grew large boxwood. If she dropped the dog onto the bushes, perhaps—
Another shot rang out, this one from downstairs. Suddenly, the voices outside her door retreated, thuds and curses growing fainter as commotion grew on the bottom floors of the house.
Anne waited, heart pounding, unsure whether it was wiser to wait or to try to jump out the window. Then she heard Michael calling her name.
"Anne! Anne! Are you all right?"
"In here!" she shouted. "Wait until I unlock the door." Somehow, she managed to move the chest of drawers and ease back the bolt.
"Stand away," Michael warned.
The door shuddered and creaked, and then he was in the room and holding her. "Are you all right?" he asked as he crushed her against him and showered her face with kisses. "Are you hurt?"
Shannon frisked around them, yipping and barking. Michael paid no attention. "Annie, Annie," he whispered into her hair.
"You're breaking my ribs," she protested.
Instantly he let her go. "You gave me a fright, woman." The thought of those men putting their filthy hands on her had shaken him to the core. Even now, with her in arm's reach, he couldn't stop thinking how much he loved her and how close he had come to losing her.
"The tobacco?" she asked. "How much—"
"We lost some," he answered brusquely. "But the fools didn't reckon with the ditch that cuts across that end of the field. The fire burned out there on its own."
It crossed his mind that if she'd died during the attack, Gentleman's Folly would have been his. The thought was sickening. He didn't care about the tobacco or about the damned plantation. Compared to Anne, they were worthless.
"Is anyone hurt?"
"Nora Cleary put a pitchfork through one of the swine. I winged on
e with a rifle bullet, but his companions carried him off. Some of our people are roughed up, but the only one seriously hurt is Darby Gilmore. He has a broken arm. The fire must have been a decoy to get us out of the house so that they could sack it. Silver, slaves, money. It's what they've been stealing along the Virginia shore."
"Are you certain they've gone? Is it safe—"
Michael nodded. "They're away, more's the pity. The scum landed at our dock, bold as brass. Two open boats. And not nearly so tough as I expected them to be. You're sure you aren't hurt?" He knew he should be outside calming his people, but he couldn't bear to let Anne out of his sight.
"I'm fine, Michael." She tried to sound brave, but her voice was thin and thready. She located the fire kit on the bedside table and lit a whale oil lamp. "I think I shot one of them, too."
"Do you, now?" He took the light and went out into the hall.
Dark spots stained the floorboards.
"So you did," he said grimly, inspecting the blood trail that led down the hall. One dead, two wounded. It wasn't enough.
The outlaws, witless as they seemed to be, had come here, to his wife's house—to her bedroom—the one place she should have been safe. Cold rage simmered in his gut, but he forced himself to speak calmly. "Be glad you listened to me and stayed locked in here," he said to her. "If you'd have been downstairs—"
"You were right, of course," Anne replied. "But if I'd shot straighter—"
"You did fine. No man or woman could have done better." He swallowed, nearly overcome with pride at how strong she'd been. "You did exactly the right thing." He returned the lamp to the table.
She sank onto the bed with her hands in her lap. Her face was pale and her lower lip quivered. "Will they be back, do you think?"
"Not tonight. We bloodied their noses for them. They won't be so anxious to repeat the experience." Absently, he rubbed the aching bruise on his chin. His hand came away smeared with red.
"You've been hurt," Anne gasped and leaped up.
"It's nothing. But Nate's right. We have to put an end to them."
"Let the authorities handle these criminals," she said as she found a cloth and poured water from the pitcher into the washbowl. "We can file a report and—"
The Irish Rogue Page 24
