The Colonel's Lady

  What if she . . . hurt herself?

  What if his confession, coupled with her grief and love for him, made her rash? The day she’d drunk the tainted tea returned to taunt him. He’d never fully understood why she’d risked her own life in the wake of nearly losing his. Till now. If she hurt herself—if she died by her own hand—he died with her. Life meant little without her . . .

  His fist grew sore from beating on the wood. He was a broken, sodden mess—half dressed, his voice hoarse from shouting, making a spectacle of himself before the sentries on the banquette above. But he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but that she was safe and sound. The image of her father’s pistol, kept in her cabin, shattered what was left of his composure.

  “Roxanna—for God’s sake—open the door!”

  Though his voice held strong, he’d never felt so defeated. The weight of it rolled over him till he felt he was sinking in the mud, mired in utter helplessness. Pushing away from the door, he looked across the blackened parade ground to the kitchen, where a light still lingered.

  Bella.

  At any other time, Cass might have wondered why Bella sat by the hearth’s fire at nearly midnight, cradling a cup of tea in her bony hands. When he came into the kitchen, dripping water onto the plank floor, his boots more mud than leather, she stared at him as if he were naught but a ghost. Excruciating seconds ticked by as he crossed his arms and tried to herd his thoughts into a logical formation.

  “’Tis Roxie,” he said with difficulty.

  Her eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Earlier tonight she came up the hill to the house. I bade her stay . . . things were said.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In her cabin. She won’t come out.”

  “She disobeyed your orders to open the door, you mean.”

  “Aye.”

  “And you want me to keep an eye on her, make sure she don’t do nothin’ rash.”

  He simply nodded, running a hand over his wet jaw, wondering just how much Bella knew. Had Hank told her about Richard Rowan’s last day? He remembered Hank was standing near him when he’d fired that fatal shot. Did Bella know that he loved Richard’s daughter beyond all reason? And that was why he stood dripping wet in a cold kitchen, nearly begging her to help set things right?

  “I’ll do what I can, sir,” she said, rising and setting her cup aside. “You’d best go on back up the hill.”

  26

  ’Twas Monday and Cass had come down the hill early, surprising the sentries and even Hank. He slipped through the sally port and entered the dark, chill blockhouse, sending the orderlies scrambling to kindle fires and candles long before dawn. That done, he could see that someone had taken advantage of his rum-soaked revel to rummage through his desk, disturbing the carefully placed documents he’d planted for that very possibility.

  He reckoned he deserved the trespass given his lapse, but it was maddening that he still hadn’t an inkling who was spying—even after a poisoning. Blast, but the man deserved some sort of medal! If the British had an operative in this post, he was a believable one and aroused no suspicions. In the dark about the spy’s identity, Cass knew his only recourse was to plant false information to confuse and thwart.

  Turning to the fire, he kicked the front log with his boot and contemplated the day ahead of him. This dreary April morning, he had an unknown enemy within fort walls, a known enemy in the middle ground, a shortage of fresh meat, two regulars awaiting court-martial for stealing rum, men stacked like firewood in the infirmary from a mysterious fever, no post physician, unceasing spring rains, and a courier who hadn’t come back.

  And the only thing he could think of was the woman whose heart he’d rent in two.

  Since she’d fled the stone house Saturday night, the ensuing hours seemed to echo with regret. He thought the Sabbath would never end, the only respite being Bella’s word that Roxie was in her cabin sleeping. Visions of violet-scented shoulders and pitch-black hair and the sweet, almost honeyed taste of her kept him wide awake almost as much as his latent confession. Both bruised his thoughts, nearly driving him to her door a second time. But something kept him at bay. She needed time. Time to sort through the bitter truth of what he’d told her. Time to compose herself. Time to extend forgiveness—or not.

  As the ebony hands of the corner clock stretched to eight, he found himself as tightly wound. She’d never been late, not once, and for a few tense moments he feared she wasn’t coming at all. He didn’t blame her. If she never entered headquarters again, he well understood her reasons.

  Going to the window on the pretense of opening it for fresh air, he saw her walking briskly across the common, head down, every lovely curve of her snug in sky-blue linen, a little lace cap covering the gloss of upswept hair he still ached to thread his fingers through.

  Returning to his desk, he stayed standing, leafing through the correspondence that needed answering, keenly aware of the moment she came in. As she crossed in front of his desk with a demure, “Good morning, Colonel McLinn,” he felt disbelief take hold. Her careful manner seemed to return them to last week, before he’d embarked on his drinking spree, making their tumultuous hours of Saturday eve no more substantial than river mist.

  “Miss Rowan,” he acknowledged, overcome by the lingering scent of roses in her wake.

  When she’d settled her lap desk on her knees and looked his way again, he saw that a slip of hair had come free of its pins, framing her face so fetchingly it took all his nerve not to set it right. The thought of the handful of hairpins he had dislodged in his ardor and now had in his breast pocket nearly made him groan.

  So this was to be his penance for all that had passed between them. A forced cordiality was not what he’d had in mind. She was going to punish him with the coldness of her presence. And he was powerless to do anything about it.

  “First letter will be to Tom Jefferson of Virginia,” he said in low tones, the bulk of the desk between them. “I have a court-martial at nine o’clock, which should give you sufficient time to compose three copies.”

  She simply nodded, eyes down. He tried not to look at her, but it was his habit to do so, if only to gauge how well she was keeping up with the dictation. Today she’d have no trouble, he wagered. He felt like a musket ball had lodged in his brain. The tables had turned. ’Twas his heart she held in her hands, and it remained to be seen what she would do with it.

  As soon as Cass left the room, Roxanna drew a bracing breath. If not for the orderlies still milling around, sorting through maps and perusing ledgers, she’d have put her head down on her desk and wept. An able actress she was not. Papa always said she wore her feelings on her sleeve, and the last hour had been a veritable battle to keep them hidden. Hurt and anger kept gaining the upper hand, but underneath was a far more encompassing and troublesome emotion. How, she wondered for the hundredth time, did one hide the things of the heart?

  Despite everything, each time he moved, her eyes ached to follow him. Whenever he spoke, her ears strained to catch the lilt in his voice. This morning he was immaculate in uniform, and the scent of him—clean and spicy and invigorating—reminded her unceasingly of his warm arms. Surely he’d noticed her unsteady hand and the uncommon number of mistakes she’d made in dictation. Blessedly, he’d left the room and she could rectify her errors in secret. At this rate, she didn’t know how she’d last through the day.

  Weary, she sat in her Windsor chair, second-guessing her decision to arrive for work this morning, yet pleading a headache and keeping to her cabin hardly seemed a refuge. Bella was coming by more than usual, and Roxanna felt certain Hank had told of her bolting from the house, hair askew, looking like she’d just been made love to. For once Bella held her tongue and hadn’t asked her outright what had transpired. Mayhap she didn’t have to. Cass’s coming to her cabin—banging and shouting loud enough to raise the dead—had informed the entire fort, surely.

  She finished the
three copies he’d requested, using an unprecedented amount of paper. She got up and threw her blunders into the fire, which crackled hungrily as she placed the correct copies on his desk for his signature. Till he returned, she could replenish her inkpots and sharpen a new quill.

  She looked about restlessly, wondering about the sudden commotion on the common. The orderlies stopped their work and went out, shutting the door behind them but leaving the window open wide. In moments Abby entered, looking like she’d been rolling in the corral with the horses.

  “Oh, Abby, I’m glad it’s you,” she said, tamping down her dismay over Abby’s appearance as the child moved to a table where a game of checkers awaited. “Would you like to play?”

  But Abby simply looked up, eyes shining with unshed tears, and pointed a finger toward a window.

  “Are you frightened, Abby?” Returning her penknife to her pocket, Roxanna crossed to the window and closed the shutter. “Two of the soldiers were caught stealing and must be punished. Colonel McLinn wants to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  The red head bobbed in silent understanding, and Roxanna knelt and put her arms around the child, sensing more was bothering her than soldiers meting out justice beyond the window. But how was she to know? Was Olympia mistreating her? Or simply neglecting her? Without a voice, Abby remained an unplumbed mystery. Roxanna held her close for several silent minutes, not only to comfort Abby but to seek comfort herself.

  “Why don’t you draw a picture or practice writing your name? You’re making your letters so nicely.”

  While Abby sat down with slate and pencil, Roxanna moved to peer through the shutter. Every soldier had assembled to watch an enlisted man, stripped to his breeches, being tied to a post near the flagpole. She turned away and shut her eyes as a great many lashes were meted out by Micajah Hale. That done, the next offender was brought forward. This time it was Cass himself who took a sword and broke it over the second soldier’s head.

  The humiliation of each act was palpable. Watching it seemed to shrink her spirit, reminding her of the harsh realities of military life and the man who enforced them.

  What, she wondered as anger thrust through her sadness, would the punishment be for an officer who’d shot down a fellow officer? And withheld the bitter fact? Pressing a trembling hand to her mouth, she bent her head and tried to pray, but all that filled her mind was the memory of him holding her, of how treasured and secure she felt before his shattering revelation.

  Oh, Lord, forgive me for hating him . . . and loving him too.

  27

  With the cabin door ajar, Roxanna could hear the spring peepers, something she’d always considered a happy sound, heralding humid days and honeysuckle-scented nights and summer’s return. But today hadn’t been full of fine things, just military discipline and endless drills that bespoke Liam McLinn and the coming confrontation in the middle ground. Cass hadn’t returned after the court-martial that morning, sending an orderly to tell her she was no longer needed, as he’d be busy with maneuvers.

  Strangely, the dismissal had wounded her to the very core, and she felt herself sliding further toward melancholy. She knew he was trying to avoid her. Since he’d told her about her father, she sensed his deep distress and sorrow in their every exchange, perfunctory as they were. Yet his remorse failed to cool her turbulent feelings. They trailed after her, destroying the sweetness they’d once shared, reinforcing the fact that she was naught but a bitter spinster, after all. Heavy-hearted, she escaped to her garden in the tepid sunshine under guard, the wide, empty river yet another reminder of her predicament.

  Now at day’s end, she sat and listened to the thwack of a bat on the parade ground as some of the men played base-ball, her fingers almost frantically working her yarn as she knitted more socks. Supper was over and she’d hardly eaten a bite, aware of the Redstone women’s eyes on her as she pushed her cornbread and beans around her plate. But it was Bella she worried about, sharp eyed and sharper tongued. It was only a matter of time before Bella began poking around, asking questions she couldn’t answer.

  “Miz Roxanna, can I come in?” Dovie stood in the doorway, her growing bulk half hidden beneath her hands.

  “Yes—please,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone. “I’m tired of knitting and would love some company.”

  Dovie looked about shyly. Most of the time Roxanna came to visit her. “Johnny’s playin’ ball on the common, and I’m restless as can be. Since we can’t walk out with the Indian threat on, I figured I’d talk to you.”

  Roxanna got up. “Would you like a cup of tea? I have some raspberry leaves if you need them.”

  “I ain’t feelin’ poorly no longer. But sassafras would suit me fine.” Drawing nearer the hearth, she began working the edge of her apron a bit nervously, eyeing Roxanna as she hung a kettle from the crane.

  Roxanna tried to smile, spying a shard from the thistle cup beneath one of the hearth’s dog irons. The sight tore at her, and she worked to keep her tone light. “I think motherhood suits you.”

  Truly, Dovie looked lovely. Her new dress was becomingly cut, and her face held a luminousness Roxanna hadn’t noticed, eclipsing the hardness of before. “This baby’s got a mind of its own, let me tell you. But I ain’t here to talk about me, Miz Roxanna.”

  The telling words nearly made Roxanna drop the tin of tea. Someone was whispering about her and Cass, then. What else could it be?

  Setting two cups on the table, she said casually, “Not me, surely?”

  Dovie perched on the edge of her chair. “I ain’t one for fancy talk, so I’ll just say it simple. Me and the other women noticed you ain’t been yourself lately. I know you’re still missin’ your pa and all, so I’ve been prayin’ for you.”

  Roxanna added sassafras roots to the kettle through a haze of tears. “I appreciate your prayers, Dovie, more than you know.”

  “Well, there’s a man who’s wantin’ to meet you. He’s a friend of Johnny’s. One of the regulars.” Roxanna looked at her in surprise, and she hurried on. “Now I know he ain’t an officer or anything—”

  “Rank doesn’t matter to me, Dovie.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I thought you’d say. His name’s Graham. Graham Greer.”

  Graham. Roxanna liked the sound of it, feeling flattered in the wake of being deceived by Cass. She poured steaming water into the waiting cups. “He’s the man who married you, am I right?”

  Dovie nodded. “He’s not been here long but comes from Fairfax County, same as you. He has a farm there but joined the army after his wife died last year. He’s a believer too. And he says he’s goin’ to ask Colonel McLinn about holdin’ Sabbath services.”

  Truly? The mere mention buoyed her spirits. She’d often wished for a preacher since coming to Kentucke, thinking the fort needed a civilizing—saving—influence. Contemplating it, she passed Dovie the cup.

  “Right now he’s busy helpin’ out in the infirmary. There’s a passel of men down with a fever and Dr. Clary’s tied up.”

  They sipped their tea in silence, Roxanna wondering if Dovie was happy with Johnny but reluctant to ask her outright. It wasn’t easy living in a garrison with little privacy and less cleanliness. Roxanna craved the comforts of the stone house like she’d been born to it, and even now her thoughts turned traitorously to the hill.

  “Miz Roxanna, I don’t know how to ask you this, but there’s a rumor goin’ round . . .” She shifted in her chair, and a rare tinge of pink touched her cheeks. “It’s about you and the colonel. The colonel, anyway. Some folks are sayin’ he’s . . .”

  Ashamed to look at her, Roxanna fastened her eyes on her cup.

  “He’s smitten with you. Graham told me real quiet-like that he’s a bit afraid of Colonel McLinn and don’t want no trouble where he’s concerned.”

  Taking a swallow of tea, Roxanna tried to collect her scattered thoughts. “Dovie, you know what happened to my father.” She paused, the loss keener now than it had eve
r been. Somehow knowing the whole truth only made it doubly difficult. “Before he died, he asked Ca—Colonel McLinn to look after me. Any attention he pays me is simply out of respect for my father.”

  Dovie nodded, looking more satisfied than Roxanna felt. “That explains it, sure enough.”

  “Naw it don’t.” Bella’s voice seemed to boom from the open doorway, holding a challenge if Roxanna ever heard one. She wanted to wince but made herself turn and greet her with what little composure she had left.

  Bella drew up a stool and sat, arms crossed. “It ain’t got nothin’ to do with your pa and you know it. And I know it. And anyone with half a head knows it.”

  “Bella, please.” The tears burning Roxanna’s eyes reinforced her plea.

  Dovie suddenly stood, her tea unfinished. “I’d best be goin’, ” she murmured. “Lately the baby’s been makin’ me awful tired . . .”

  Cradling her warm cup and breathing in the sweet scent of sassafras, Roxanna heard Dovie shut the door as she went out. Across from her, Bella’s countenance softened, but it did nothing to ease the sting of her harsh words, or the frank ones she uttered next.

  “That man is in love with you, Roxanna Rowan. Why don’t you see it?” Roxanna said nothing, eyes averted, as Bella continued in hushed tones. “Hank says he ain’t had a drop of liquor since you left the other night.”

  Hearing it brought a warm rush of surprise. Not a drop? Those were her exact words to Cass. Yet she’d lost the game, not he. She hardly expected him to honor her request, particularly in light of his confession. If he’d ever needed reason to drink, ’twas now. With forced calm, she simply said, “Colonel McLinn is a complicated man.”

  “And you,” Bella replied, “is a complicated woman.” She opened her mouth to say more, and Roxanna tensed.

  Don’t ask me about Saturday night, Bella. I don’t want to lie to you.

  “You look sorta flushed. You ain’t comin’ down with that fever, I hope.” Bella reached out a hand and palmed her forehead, coming away with a tsk. “If you get sick again, the colonel will be beside hisself, for sure.”