Fear and Honor

by M. S. Parker

  Then there were the more personal issues with two of the guests. Our guest of honor, of course, Corporal Quincy Axe, still watched me every chance he got, and he didn't even try to hide the lust in his eyes. The cherry on top, however, was the fact that Clara was on the invitation list. That was Roston’s doing, and that wasn't speculation. He told me so personally, looking pleased with himself the entire time.

  I wished I could plead a headache and remain in my room for the entire evening, but I knew that wouldn't fool anyone. So, I gritted my teeth and went about overseeing all of the preparations. Like a good wife. Titus would've let me flounder if one of the soldiers hadn't made a comment about the poor quality of pretty much everything. While the steward still despised me, his concern for the family's reputation meant more, so he offered me his wisdom, caustic as it was.

  Now, the night was here and the last thing I had to do before guests began to arrive.

  Dress.

  My gown was made of a deep royal blue silk that I would've loved if it'd been in a different style. And if I didn't have to wear all of the uncomfortable shit underneath. Aside from being unused to how the clothes constricted my ribcage, the layers in the summer heat was nearly overwhelming. I'd dealt with desert heat before, but not when wearing anything like this.

  I was attempting to do something with my hair when Gracen came up behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders and leaning over to plant a kiss on my neck.

  “You're beautiful,” he whispered.

  I didn’t feel beautiful. I felt awkward, like I was playing dress-up. I didn't fit here, and these clothes didn't make me feel any more comfortable.

  “Is that rosewater?” Gracen murmured as he nuzzled behind my ear. His hands rested on my waist as his teeth scraped my earlobe. After a moment, he raised his head, as if sensing I wasn't responding to his attentions with my usual enthusiasm. He frowned. “Are you all right?”

  I chuckled dryly. “Your father is hosting a party for Loyalists, British soldiers, and your former fiancée. All right isn't exactly the term I would use to describe how I'm feeling right now.”

  Gracen straightened, removing his hands from my shoulders. “It’s not what I would wish for either, Honor, but we have to make the best of it. In a few days, those soldiers will be gone.”

  I shook my head. “You don't get it. They may say they're only here for a little bit, but the Brits have their soldiers lodged in colonist homes pretty much non-stop. It's one of the things the Constitution will prevent from happening in American.”

  He gave me a puzzled look.

  I simplified it. “Soldiers can't just barge into a person's house and demand room and board.” I yanked the ribbon out of my hair and scowled at it. “But none of that matters if I fuck up tonight and say the wrong thing or if your father decides to tell people what you said to him at dinner or...”

  Gracen took me in his arms, and I relaxed into his embrace. I wasn't in this alone. He might not have been from my time, but he was with me on this. I just had to keep reminding myself of that.

  “I will be right there with you, my love.” He pulled back to look me in the eye. “Do you trust me?”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck. There was only one response to that question. “Yes, Gracen, I trust you.”

  I was able to pick up on Quincy’s trivial, domineering chatter before I even set sight on his loathsome face. It didn’t help that a highly aristocratic group of Loyalists had immediately demanded my husband’s attention the moment we set foot into the ballroom. I tried to stick close to Gracen, but in the span of a few seconds, a member of the group had taken him away from me, and I, unfortunately, found myself face-to-face with Quincy.

  He held a glass of wine in a slightly quivering hand, taking his sweet time shamelessly eyeing me from head to toe. Shit. He was utterly insufferably sober, and I knew an intoxicated Quincy would be even worse. While the party hadn't technically started until a half hour ago, Quincy had been availing himself of Roston's finest liquor since mid-morning.

  I'd taken a couple glasses myself, but I knew my limit, and I hadn't gotten there yet. I actually had a fairly high tolerance for alcohol. I remembered one time on leave when Wilkins, Rogers, and I ventured into the city, and Wilkins had come up with the brilliant idea to go to a bar to see who could drink the most shots while still managing to be able to say a tongue twister without faltering. Since Rogers wasn’t much of a drinker, Wilkins had appointed him the judge of the “contest.” Wilkins had only proposed that we try such a thing because he seriously believed that he’d beat me. He’d been very wrong.

  I'd still been aware of my surroundings and in relative control of myself when Wilkins began to ramble in the middle of the twister, and Rogers had declared me the winner.

  I took a moment to be grateful for my tolerance as Corporal Axe leaned toward me, the stench of alcohol wafting off him enough to make my eyes water.

  “May I say, you’re a heavenly sight if I ever did see one, Miss Honor.” Quincy leered at me in a manner I was sure he thought women liked. “We gentlemen of the battlefield rarely get to behold such visions. It’s a hard existence, I tell you, but, it is a worthy one, to serve King and Country.”

  I kept my mouth shut, didn't even smile, hoping he’d finish with whatever it was he had to say. No such luck came my way.

  “It would seem that your husband isn't one to agree with me though,” Quincy pressed. “Thinks himself too good for the army, does he?”

  I clenched my jaw but stayed quiet. Even if it hadn't been a rhetorical question, I wouldn't have given him an answer because he sure as hell wouldn't like what I had to say. I knew what it took to be an honorable soldier, and Quincy didn't have it.

  In total disregard to my obvious...displeasure, he laughed, splashing some of the wine in his glass onto the cuff of his immaculately pressed coat. He took a step toward me, and I shuffled back, trying to keep the distance between us without looking like that was my intention.

  “Some would see his actions as little better than treachery.” He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder.

  I was suddenly grateful for the extra fabric that kept him from touching my skin.

  “I see them as cowards.” His fingers dug in. “Enjoying the privileges that come with his name but never risking anything to protect or defend. And he still somehow manages to find a beautiful woman such as yourself. How is that?”

  It was definitely time to get away. With a tight smile, I shook off his hand and stepped past Quincy, scanning the room for my husband. When I finally did spot him, however, I stopped short. Clara had joined the circle of men who’d been monopolizing Gracen since he set foot in the ballroom, and the only description I had for what she was doing was working the room. She was conversing animatedly with all of them, her constant laughter reminding me of the clinking of the crystal wine glasses – high-pitched and sharp. The men, on the other hand, appeared to find it enchanting, at least judging by the rapt attention they were paying her.

  I couldn't do that. I could figure out how to organize and issue orders so that things would be done on time and done well. I could tell Gracen about the future: the primary battles in the war, as well as advances that wouldn't come about until both of us were dead.

  Which, oddly enough, happened to also be before I was born.

  But none of that made me a good hostess. Not the way Clara would have been.

  Even as I thought it, Clara turned to Gracen, placing her hand on his arm. I saw the gesture as proprietary but told myself I had to be mistaken. She wouldn't do something so inappropriate in front of all of these people. She said a few words that I couldn’t make out and Gracen chuckled. Clara added something, causing the other men to laugh again. And her hand didn't move.

  Hell no.

  I made my way over to the group, smiling hard enough to make my cheeks hurt.

  “It sounds like everyone over here is having a good time,” I said once I was close enough to be heard. I caug
ht Gracen looking at me out of the corner of his eye, but I ignored him. My temper bubbled under the surface, and I was getting tired of having to hold back. Girls like this pissed me off in my own time. Here, it was worse because the person I'd been in the past – or was it the future? – wasn't someone I could be now.

  “We were speaking of the bravery of our men in arms,” Clara said, her eyes holding a clear challenge. “And I was telling the gentlemen how fortunate we are to have some of our men actually here in our arms.”

  The men laughed again, apparently finding her play on words just as delightful this time as it had been the first. I opened my mouth, caught a glimpse of a warning in Gracen's eyes...and ignored it.

  “And which of our men has been in your arms, Clara? He would have to be a soldier from a good family, wouldn’t he? You’d scarcely be able to accept a man of a station any lower than yourself. Come to think of it, though, your family is held in such high esteem that it must be difficult to find any man suitable enough.”

  I said it all with a smile and the sweetest tone I could muster, but I knew nobody was fooled. Even if they hadn't known about Honor and my encounter shortly after Gracen and I had returned, nearly everyone in the area knew Clara and Gracen had been engaged first.

  Gracen's fingers clamped down on my upper arm. “Excuse us, please.”

  He practically dragged me away from the group, the smile on his face more fierce than friendly. More than one person stared after us, whether because they'd heard what I said or because of the way Gracen was trying to hurry me from the room, I didn't know, but we were definitely attracting a lot of unwanted attention.

  When we finally reached a semi-secluded corner, Gracen spun me to face him. “What were you thinking, Honor? Would you care to explain yourself?”

  I lifted my chin in defiance, refusing to let myself feel bad about it. “No, I wouldn’t care to. She's a guest here, not the damn Queen of England.”

  That would've been funny if I hadn't been so pissed.

  “Honor, we talked about this,” Gracen said, his jaw clenched. “You need to attempt to be socially acceptable with these people. We are literally surrounded by people who could have us arrested with a single word. Your petty jealousies are not worth the risk.”

  I stared at him as he turned away, heading toward a distinguished-looking man with a pipe. What the hell just happened? Had Gracen seriously scolded me, then left me standing here like he'd given me a fucking time out? He hadn't said a word to Clara when she'd been touching him, but I said something he didn't like and he treated me like a child.

  I leaned against the wall in a woefully unladylike fashion, watching my husband as he fell into conversation once again. He conversed effortlessly with everyone he spoke to, his manners perfect, his demeanor relaxed. Dealing with events like this was probably second nature to him. After all, this was what he'd been raised to do.

  Except I’d changed all of that, turned it all upside down and inside out. My arrival had interrupted the natural course of things, changed destinies. Clara should have been the host of this party, smiling and talking as she moved around the room on Gracen's arm. No matter how angry I was at her, I knew if she understood the truth of what really happened, she would have every right to hate me even more than she already did.

  I sighed and pushed myself off the wall. I'd made a mistake, thinking I could do this. The next moment I saw Gracen free, I'd tell him that I had a headache, then head upstairs, leaving him to make apologies for me. The men wouldn't think twice about it. After all, we women were such delicate creatures.

  Before I could put my plan into action, however, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I felt someone's eyes on me.

  Surprisingly enough, Quincy wasn’t holding a drink. If he had been, it would have most likely ended up all over my silk gown because his movements were jerky and unpredictable as he sauntered over to me, not stopping until the skirt of my dress was pressed against his pants. I stiffened, trying to slide away as imperceptibly as possible.

  “What are you doing over here all alone?” Quincy asked. His breath and voice were both thick with intoxication. “Did your coward of a husband desert you?”

  I turned to face him, hands curling into fists. “He's not a coward.” My voice was low with fury.

  Quincy rolled his eyes, leaning toward me. “There is no need to argue. I came here to ensure that the most beautiful woman here had the good fortune of dancing with someone worthy of her.”

  “I don’t dance,” I said. I wasn't about to tell him that hell would freeze over before he was “worthy” of me.

  Quincy moved toward me, snaking one arm around my waist and yanking me against him. “You wouldn’t deny a war hero one little dance, would you, Mrs. Lightwood? Surely not!”

  “Let go of me,” I hissed. I didn't care who he was. No one manhandled me without my permission.

  Quincy chuckled, his foul breath invading my senses. When he made a move to touch my face, I pulled my leg back, preparing to knee him hard in the groin. Before I had the chance, he spun us around so that my back was against the wall. My feet got tangled up in my petticoats, and I cursed the fashion of the day.

  “Come now, Miss. There's no need to pretend with me.” His free hand moved up to the front of my dress, squeezing.

  Or, at least, attempting to do so. One good thing I could say about all of the shit that went under this dress. It made over-the-clothes groping a little more difficult.

  “I'm not pretending.” I turned my face to the side, partly to escape his breath, but also partly because I didn't want him to see on my face exactly how I felt about him. “I don't like dancing.”

  “I believe there is another sort of dancing you and I could enjoy.” He breathed hot air on my throat with every word. “I have yet to find a single woman on this god-forsaken continent who can give me what I want. But I think you could.”

  “I'm a married woman.” I spoke from between gritted teeth. “And I want you to get your hands off me.”

  “Come now,” he rubbed against me, “no need to pretend to be coy.”

  Then something hot and wet slid up my neck, and I froze.

  He'd licked me.

  The British bastard had fucking licked me.

  “Corporal Axe.”

  Relief rushed through me at the sound of Gracen's voice. My previous anger at him melted away. It wasn't his fault that Clara wouldn’t accept that the relationship was over. And it wasn't his fault that his father was being such a stubborn asshole. We were both walking a fine line here, risking a lot. We needed to work together, not apart.

  All of that went through my mind in a matter of a couple seconds. Barely long enough for Quincy to shift his gaze to Gracen.

  “Your wife is quite the accommodating host, Mr. Lightwood.”

  “Is she now?” Gracen's voice was tight, and when I looked over at him, his eyes were cold.

  “Get off me.” I shoved at the soldier's chest. He leered down at me a second longer, letting me feel his erection before he took a step back.

  “Now, now, Mistress. You weren't protesting my attentions a moment ago.”

  Heat flooded my face, all fury, though it could've looked like embarrassment from the outside. “Gracen,” I started.

  “I believe my father is calling for the final toast,” he interrupted. “You'll want to be out there, Corporal.” His voice turned to steel. “No worries. I shall look after my wife.”

  As Quincy walked away, Gracen's eyes finally turned to mine, and I knew this was far from over.

  Chapter 8

  After the last guest had been escorted out, and the servants given their final orders for the night, Gracen and I said a terse goodnight to Roston before heading upstairs. We'd avoided looking at each other, touching each other, and judging by the smug expression on Roston's face, the tension between us was palpable.

  As we made our way up the stairs, I allowed myself a quick sideways glance. Gracen's shoulders were squar
ed, his body stiff. He was clearly furious, but he wasn't the only one. The events of the night hadn't exactly been pleasant for me either.

  I strode into the room first, yanking at my hairpins, unintentionally ripping out a few hairs in the process. I ignored the slight sting as I bent to pull off my shoes, hiding a flinch when Gracen slammed the door behind us. He stormed across the room, but I didn’t acknowledge his obvious frustration, instead resuming my work on my shoes. I straightened as he walked up to me. I could see him in my peripheral vision, but chose to continue ignoring him. If he had something to say, he could damn well say it.

  “How much further do you intend on damaging my reputation, my family's reputation? I understand that you are from a different time period, but I do not think it is too much for me to ask of my wife a single night of decorum.”

  I released an unladylike snort of disbelief. “Really, Gracen? You didn't seem to have a problem with flirting as long as you were on the receiving end of it. Or maybe that was just for wealthy socialites who want you in their bed.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Clara was acting the part of a hostess, which is more than I can say for you. Blatantly throwing yourself at an officer in the royal army. Anyone who cared to look could see how you chased after him.”

  I stared at him, shocked into silence for several seconds as I tried to process the accusation. “I went after him? Are you seriously saying that I wanted him to act that way around me?”

  Gracen crossed his arms, a deep flush working its way up his neck. “Why else would he put his hands on you? He's a commissioned officer who would have no difficulties finding a woman to return his affections. Why would he need to resort to forcing his attentions on a woman like you?”