The Colonel's Lady

  Oh, Bella, where are you?

  Briars nicked her skirt and bare ankles as her captor tore through the brush, intent on some horses half hidden beneath a blind of trees. Hank was waiting, binding her mouth with a strip of linen, so tight she felt strangled. When her captor heaved her atop his horse, she thought she might be sick. Stunned, she stared at Hank like she was seeing a ghost. Only the ghost was solid and unsmiling and wore a red coat.

  They went at a blistering pace as if expecting Bluecoat scouts to waylay them at every turn. With every step Roxanna felt further wrapped in disbelief. Hank . . . a spy. The spy. The malevolence behind the tainted cinchona. The robber of the tooled leather chest. And his allegiance was to . . . Liam?

  With shock and exhaustion pummeling her, they at last came to the edge of the enemy camp. Dismounting near an enormous tent, she took in more men than she’d ever seen milling like insects over the surrounding ground—so many men and tents and artillery she knew Cass’s Bluecoats were doomed. Stomach quaking, she found it hard to stand on her shaking legs, though the half blood’s brutal grip braced her. Hank refused to look at her, tending to the horses, while her captor removed her gag and pushed her toward a large marquee tent.

  She entered reluctantly, unsure of what awaited, eyes immediately drawn to the sole person inside. Not Liam, whom she dreaded, but a woman in raspberry silk and lace, eating sweetmeats from a silver dish.

  Her narrowed eyes swept over Roxanna, and surprise softened her sullenness. “Surely there’s been some mistake. This looks like a common camp follower, certainly not the mistress of Colonel Cassius McLinn.”

  On her lips his melodious name sounded like an oath. The half blood she’d addressed had vanished, leaving them alone, but Roxanna was too intent on staying upright to answer. She gripped a tent pole, her surroundings shifting like she was aboard ship.

  “Hank has told us all about you,” the woman continued with a slight smile. “And since Liam was anxious for an introduction, we thought to bring you here. I wasn’t sure it could be arranged, but Hank rose to the challenge.”

  Such sarcasm turned the sweltering tent unbearable, and Roxanna sat down hard on a near barrel, the splintered wood grazing her thigh. Lifting the hem of her apron, she wiped her brow with trembling fingers, bitter words pooling in her mouth.

  “I’m Millicent Ashe,” the woman continued, taking out an embroidered handkerchief and dabbing her own pale forehead. “I’m Liam’s . . . well, suffice it to say, I’m an old friend from Ireland.” When Roxanna said nothing, she continued, “Pardon my manners. Would you care for some refreshment?”

  To Roxanna’s relief, Millicent reached for a pewter pitcher and poured water, not spirits, though addled as she was, spirits was what she needed. Crossing the tent, Millicent moved gracefully around half a dozen camp chairs and a large field table before extending the pewter cup. Roxanna thanked her, hardly believing she had. But good manners were so ingrained—and she was so rattled—she hardly knew what she did.

  Before she’d taken two sips, a figure appeared at the tent’s opening and an officer stepped into the room. But for the scarlet and white of his uniform, the likeness was so jarring tears sprang to her eyes.

  Liam.

  “Comparing me to your beloved and finding me lacking?” His voice was so low she doubted even Millicent heard, but it was like acid.

  She felt heat flood her face, for that was exactly what she’d been doing. Identical, yes . . . yet there was something cold and hard, almost reptilian, in Liam’s features. A freshly minted scar pulled at one cheek, marring the generous curve of his mouth. His eyes darted round the tent before returning to her, and she saw they were a rich if rocky blue-gray. Her soul went still. They were Abby’s eyes . . .

  “Miss Rowan, I presume,” he said, looking her over, his assumptions plain. “Colonel McLinn’s paramour.”

  “I’m not”—she struggled past her fear, hating that her voice wavered—“your brother’s mistress.”

  “A pity,” he said, taking a camp chair and giving Millicent a half smile. “Such an arrangement does have its rewards.”

  They were sitting in an awkward sort of circle, just the three of them, and Roxanna could better see Millicent’s extravagant gown. The excess of silk alongside her own plain linen was so startling it made her feel even smaller. They seemed to regard her with a sort of amused interest, as if trying to decipher what Cass could possibly see in her.

  Her only weapon, she decided, was words. “You’ll gain nothing from bringing me here.”

  At this, Liam’s eyes lit up, his voice a lazy, lilting drawl. “On the contrary, I’ve gained a great deal. Your absence has robbed my brother of more men, as a search party has gone out after you. When you fail to turn up, he’ll be rattled indeed. For a besotted Bluecoat commander, such a distraction could prove disastrous.”

  Roxanna wanted to curse her folly. Whatever had possessed her to follow Cass in the first place? He’d called her a distraction, and she was. He felt such a crushing responsibility for her given her father, might he surrender in order to save her?

  The officer before her melted into a puddle of scarlet and white. She was trapped, pure and simple, and if she even tried to run from the tent, she didn’t doubt he’d shoot her in the back and hang her from a gibbet for all to see.

  He fixed cold eyes on her. “How many men does Colonel McLinn have?”

  “More than you,” she answered, unashamed of the falsehood.

  “Artillery?”

  “Six-pounder cannons—too many to count.”

  He laughed and leaned back in his chair, regarding her with heightened interest. “You’re lying.”

  “What do you expect me to say?”

  “You’re in love with him, aren’t you? Yet Hank tells me you refused to marry him.”

  “What does that matter to you?”

  “I’m always interested in my brother’s affairs. ’Twould seem a rustic like yourself would jump at the chance to marry an Irish aristocrat.”

  The condescension in his tone brought her upright, but it was the sight of Hank just beyond the marquee tent that stiffened her back. “If he is an aristocrat, his fortunes are now in reversal. I’m well aware that what was left of his inheritance has been stolen by Hank and given over to you.”

  “Aye . . . even you.” His face was tight, almost feral looking, setting off little alarm bells inside her. “Since you’re here, we might as well settle a few more matters. You’ve obviously surmised that Hank is a British spy and has been since the start of this war. What you don’t know is that I killed your father, Miss Rowan, not my brother.”

  Though every word was enunciated clearly, they might have been spoken in Gaelic—they made no sense. She simply stared at him, heart pumping erratically, black spots spoiling her vision.

  “Hank may have pulled the trigger that day, but ’twas my order that Richard Rowan die. Your father made the fatal error of naming Hank as the spy in his journal. I had little choice.”

  The words continued—sharp and piercing and utterly unremorseful. She looked away from him, remembering Cass’s anguish after the campaign and his heartrending disclosure in the study of the stone house, so different than Liam’s own.

  “’Twas easy enough to accomplish, given what transpired. A great many shots were fired that day. Hank was standing behind my brother when it happened. And Cass, bless him, has ever been plagued by a keen conscience. He believed it was he who delivered that deadly shot. We were only too glad to go along with the ruse.” Leaning toward a camp table, he uncorked a bottle and poured himself some brandy. “I’d hoped that there would be an outcry among his officers and he’d be stripped of his commission and prevented from being reinstated under Washington’s command. But alas, his men are a loyal bunch.”

  Millicent stirred in her chair and sighed. “Ah, the games these brothers play! I’m ready to see it end and get back to the city.”

  “Soon, my love,” Liam said, eyes never
leaving Roxanna. “New York will wait for us.”

  His scrutiny made her stomach knot. Though she lowered her eyes to her lap, he continued to study her as if contemplating how best to use her. She sensed it—and feared it—and felt smothered by panic.

  Strangely, there was a telling sympathy in Millicent’s voice when she said, “Miss Rowan is tired, Liam. Don’t you see?”

  Pushing up from his camp chair, he stood. “Till dinner then.”

  Amidst the candlelight and crystal of Liam’s table, Roxanna thought of Bella’s beans and corn cakes. Here, inside another marquee tent between two Redcoat officers, stuffed into one of Millicent’s too-tight gowns, she sat in a sort of awed disgust as platters of meat and cheeses and sweets crowded the linen-clad table. Light-headed though she was, she refused to eat a bite, her empty plate shining in silent protest.

  Liam sat at the head of the long table, Millicent on his left, with no less than a dozen officers. Roxanna felt suffocated by the unwanted verdigris gown, the stifling heat, the officers’ attentions. Chatter and laughter flowed as freely as the wine—long-necked bottles of Montepulcian and Rivesalte—and for a few disorienting moments Roxanna felt they were celebrating a battle won before it had even begun.

  “Miss Rowan, I would suggest you try the tenderloin,” the officer to her right said in low tones. “You’d fancy you were in France and not the frontier.”

  “Thank you, no,” she replied, taking up a goblet and bringing the lukewarm water to her lips.

  “I understand,” he said between bites of beef. “If I were an unwilling guest of Liam McLinn’s, I fear I’d have no appetite at all.”

  She looked down at the napkin in her lap, struck by his apologetic tone.

  “I doubt our commander means you harm,” he continued, finishing yet another glass of wine. “He’s at war with his brother, even more so than the Americans, really. Bad blood, you know.”

  “’Tis a waste of two men,” she murmured, “and a good many more.”

  “Yes,” he replied, a wry twist to his mouth. “But you must admit he has just cause. If I’d had my inheritance squandered by an unscrupulous brother . . .”

  She turned to him, feeling she’d been jarred by a thunderclap. Seeing her confusion, he leaned nearer, but his words were nearly snuffed out by the conversations all around them.

  “Perhaps you are unaware of the exact circumstances. As the eldest son, Liam had the lion’s share of the family fortune. Till his brother lost nearly everything gambling. ’Twas a stroke of good luck to have Hank—our spy—return what was left of it.” He shot a triumphant glance at his commander deep in conversation with Millicent. “And now he’ll be able to settle the score once and for all on the morrow.”

  The unwelcome words gripped her and didn’t let go. What had Bella told her? That Cass was the eldest son by mere minutes, not Liam. ’Twas none but Liam who’d lost all but the little remaining in Cass’s trunk, gambling it away between Ireland and England and the colonies in one grand deception after another. Her thoughts whirled and settled like dust devils as she groped for the truth. In the past she’d often believed the worst of Cass. But now . . .

  “Your commander is nothing but a sham,” she said slowly and deliberately, meeting the officer’s gray eyes. “Liam McLinn is the second son of an Irish peer who stole his brother’s inheritance after losing his own—and is stealing still. General Washington dubbed him Lucifer McLinn for good reason. And you’re willing to blindly believe anything he says—even follow him into battle—and die for his lies.”

  Pushing back her chair, she stood, and the table quieted, all eyes on her as she turned away.

  “Take Miss Rowan to her quarters,” Liam said tersely, and an orderly at the entrance stepped up to do his bidding.

  As soon as she set foot outside, she could hear the empty conversation and laughter resume. Like sounding brass and tinkling cymbals.

  She stayed on her knees all night. Sharp stabs of hunger kept her awake, but the dread of dawn was the true culprit. Sequestered inside a tiny tent with only a cot and a canteen of water, she watched moonlight seep under the tightly pegged canvas and wondered where Cass was at that very moment. He’d need a miracle to face his twin and all his men on the morrow.

  Her head dipped toward her folded hands in exhaustion as Old Testament images flashed to mind. Joshua and the battle of Jericho. David and Goliath. Daniel in the lions’ den.

  Forgive me for lying, Lord. She’d greatly exaggerated Cass’s numbers and artillery in some ridiculous hope it would make a difference. They needed a miracle of Old Testament proportions. Till then she’d be fasting. Praying.

  Toward morning she heard the thunder of cannons. Pushing past the tent flap, she faced her guard, saber-tipped musket at his side, startled when a fine mist touched her face. Fog wrapped pale tentacles around the surrounding maples and sycamores, hovering over the near creek like a second skin. The morning was cooler, accounting for the sudden shift in weather, but quite unusual for June.

  “Ain’t gonna be any hard fightin’ today,” the guard muttered.

  Tents stood at attention all around them, and she could hear drilling and drumming on a far field beyond. By noon the fog was lifting, and she saw things she’d not noticed before. They were on a ridge, and in the sloping valley to the south, an American flag was flying on a liberty pole above Bluecoat mortars.

  She was hardly aware of Millicent coming to stand beside her. A British cannon boomed without warning, spitting a hot ball into a far Bluecoat entrenchment. Dirt sprayed in brown profusion, and she saw a man in homespun fall. Within seconds an officer leaped out of the ditch into the open. Cass. Stunned, Roxanna sucked in her breath. He shouted a terse order, enemy artillery erupting all around him.

  “There is no flinch in Colonel McLinn,” Millicent said with a tight smile, “nor has there ever been.”

  Her words were lost as Bluecoat sharpshooters took aim at the British gunners, the men frantically working to swab the cannon’s hot muzzle before reloading. Roxanna’s insides clenched tight as a fist. She had to open her mouth to breathe. And then, like a white curtain coming down on a stage play, fog filled the valley, and Cass and the Continental line were lost from sight.

  “What a royal view we have,” Millicent remarked, fluttering her fan in the sultry air, her fair features alight with interest.

  Roxanna shut her eyes, biting back a barb.

  “I can see you think me callous, but war is all I’ve ever known. My father was a British soldier. I’ve been surrounded by such all my life.”

  “And Colonel McLinn was once a friend—an acquaintance—of yours. Have you no feeling for him?”

  A smile softened her rouged lips. “I admire him—and pity him. His is a lost cause, as is that of all the Americans.” Concern clouded her lovely features, and she looked at Roxanna a bit anxiously. “I’ve been asked to keep an eye on you. Apparently there’s a plan afoot to steal you away.”

  Hope flooded Roxanna, only to be snuffed out when Millicent produced a silver-mounted pistol. “I shall do my part, of course.”

  Through the fog Cass could hear British drummers beating commands to control the movements of their troops. Rat-a-tat . . . rat-a-tat . . . rat-a-tat. Only Providence could have sent such weather, he reflected, and allowed his men to do what they’d done. Under cover of darkness, they’d made a nighttime assault on two enemy redoubts and captured four cannons. When the weather cleared, the enemy would find their own artillery turned on them. From the trenches his men could hardly contain their glee. He tried to smile, to share their excitement, but the expanding knot of anguish in his chest choked out any high feeling.

  Roxie . . . where are you?

  “Colonel, these Redcoat linstocks are a bit of a doodle compared to our own,” one of his artillerymen was saying, examining the long device that held the match to light the cannon.

  “Aye, but it fires the same. ’Tis all that matters,” he replied, eyes returning to a f
ar ridge now obscured by mist.

  He withdrew his spyglass as Joram Herkimer crawled out of the trench to stand beside him. They faced north, staring into a wall of white that gave no hint of altering. His second-in-command’s voice was low and tense. “Where do you think Lucifer is?”

  “If I knew that, the battle would be half won.”

  “Where is she?”

  The honest question felt like a blow. Cass’s jaw clenched. “That’s the better question.”

  If it were any other British commander—Gage, Howe, Cornwallis, Clinton—he’d have rested in the fact that they were gentlemen. But Liam’s take-no-prisoners policy made him especially dangerous. He’d never known Liam to kill a woman, but he was capable of it and would find satisfaction in it simply because he knew Cass cared for her.

  Turning away, Cass began to walk the trench, leaving heavy boot prints in the dry earth. The regulars in the ditch below were smoking pipes in a rare idle moment, awaiting his directive. Before he’d reached the midpoint, Jehu Herkimer found him, his face a contortion of disbelief and disgust. Every muscle in Cass’s frame tensed.

  “Simmons and Holt are back, sir—with news.”

  But it hardly needed announcing. The two scouts were barreling through the fog straight toward him, buckskins soiled and chests heaving, though it was Holt who got to him first. “Have a wee listen to this, sir. Hank is behind enemy lines, plain as day—I mean black as night.” There were a few snickers as he rushed on. “He’s in league with the enemy, he is. Practically lickin’ Lucifer’s boots. ’Twas him who led ’em to Miz Rowan.”

  Cass fixed his eye on the scout as the words rolled over him in a punishing wave. He was hard-pressed to keep the sting of surprise and regret off his face. He’d thought Hank dead. Better that than this.

  “They’ve got Miss Rowan keeping company with your brother’s mistress,” Ben Simmons said quietly. “Can’t remember her name . . .”