Emily's Vow (8 page)

"Now be off." Mrs. Abernathy took Samantha by the arm and walked her to the door, calling over her shoulder, "Come along, Emily."

Frank waited for Emily, but she glared at his arm as if it were a rattlesnake before slowly gathering her skirts in her left hand and wrapping her right hand at his elbow. Resisting a sarcastic retort, Frank patted her hand and smiled at her.

"That was not so bad, was it?"

She looked up at him with indignation. "Let us go."

She waited for him to step off, but he hesitated. No warmth shown from her eyes, yet he could not allow her to venture along the street alone. The very idea of her putting her reputation or, worse, her life at risk chilled him. The barbarous British best not even touch her. What would Elizabeth have said if he allowed her sister to be injured? He glanced again at the solemn face with eyes of liquid sapphires.

Studying her silently, he realized she resisted his company. Her animosity hung between them, palpable and intense. She used to look at him with welcoming eyes but now those same eyes peered at him with distrust. He'd need to work on changing her opinion of him. For now, it mattered not. In the event, he had promised her father, and Frank's word was his bond.

Grimacing, he grasped her elbow and ushered her down the stairs and out the door.

He would see her safely home no matter her desires.

Chapter 3

Emily held her head high, neck stiff, as she endured the four-block walk through the wind and darkening sky to her virtual prison. She'd left the nasty bonnet at home this morning, unable to consider wearing it before it could be thoroughly cleaned. Gusts of wind grabbed her curls, whipping them about her face. Frank's charms entertained Samantha until they reached her home on King Street, and their lighthearted debate over the best herbs for curing a stomachache allowed Emily to nurse her resentment without being called upon for her opinion. Just as well, given her mood. After saying good-bye to her friend, Frank again cajoled her into taking his rigid arm. She easily ignored the familiar heat rising through his cloak and the iron muscles beneath her hand. However, the electrical current passing between them made it impossible for her to think straight.

Drawing on every bit of self-restraint Aunt Lucille had taught her, Emily schooled her expression and continued the normal sway to her walk, despite the unrelenting march of Frank's strides. Ahead of them, the slaves carried the loom and materials, racing the storm home. She would prefer to shake off his escort and make her way home alone after the way he treated her, if doing so would not prove his point. No, better to behave as a lady rather than succumb to the delicious temptation of giving in to her wayward thoughts.

A burst of wind sent her tresses into a chaotic dance, reminiscent of Medusa's snake hair. She tugged the mass from her eyes with one hand. The long skirts of her day dress whipped about her legs, plastering across her thighs and tangling with her cloak, making it difficult to keep up with Frank's pace. A broadside blew past, and he cursed under his breath.

"Frank, wait." She slipped her hand from his arm and stopped. Richard and Solomon, striding fast ahead of them, kept moving, glancing at the dark, tumultuous clouds gathered above. Jasmine followed the men at a dogtrot to keep up, one hand holding on to her kerchief covering her dark curls. Emily longed to be with them as they disappeared down the street. She glanced up through her rioting hair at Frank and saw the storm clouds gathering in his eyes as well.

"We have no time; the storm is nearly upon us," Frank said, reaching for her arm. "We must get ourselves safely home."

She started to follow, then blinked at him, confused, when his words seeped into her brain. "What do you mean
home
?"

"Not now, Emily. Let's go." Frank urged her to follow him, but she refused.

"Explain, or I'm not going anywhere with you." She set her jaw and braced her feet, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited. He couldn't possibly mean what he'd just said. A coldness having nothing to do with the increasing rain encased her bones. Fat drops made tiny craters in the dirt, which soon blended together at their feet as the rain fell harder.

Frank shrugged, water dripping from the points of his tricorne hat. "Your father invited me to stay at his house until I get settled."

She caught at her rebellious locks, glaring at him as panic rose to choke her. "You can't stay with us. I won't allow it."

"Mercifully, that is not your choice. It is your father's invitation I've accepted, not yours. Can we go inside now? You're soaked to the skin."

He was right, blast the man. She could feel the tiny bumps on her skin as she started to shiver. She grew cold to her core from the deluge and the horrific truth that she must share her home with this man. How could she possibly avoid him under her very roof? At least the spacious house meant less chance of contact. And surely he'd be about town, not in the house all day. She exhaled. All would be fine. She nodded mutely.

"Finally." Frank looked pointedly at his proffered arm once again.

Emily sighed, raising a hand to shield her face from pelting rain as she regarded him. Anger coiled in her stomach and pressed for release. How dare he be so patronizing? "Honestly, Frank, anyone would think you believe me incapable of walking on my own."

A sudden blaze of lightning rent the sky nearby, immediately followed by an explosion of thunder that rattled windows in the buildings around them. Despite herself, Emily jumped. "Oh!"

Frank nodded grimly toward the smoke rising in the distance from behind the buildings. "Seems if the British won't bomb the patriots out, Mother Nature will have her try. We must get inside. Now!" He tugged her along by the hand as they ran the last half block to the street door of her father's house. Without pause, he pushed open the door and pulled her onto the piazza. Bumping into one of the two imported rattan chairs, they hurried across the porch and through the door into the house.

"Next time, don't dally so." Frank closed the door harder than necessary.

"There won't be a next time if I can help it." She wrung the water from her waist-length hair. Shaking out her skirts, Emily focused on her sodden clothes as she started toward the parlor fire that awaited, and nearly collided with her father.

The burly man stood as though braced on board ship during a fierce storm, hands resting on his hips. Stunned by the worry in her father's expression, Emily gazed at him.

"Father?" She preferred to think her knees shook from the cold, wet clothes she wore and not as a result of his dark expression.

"Where have you been?" One of his massive hands cut a swath in the air before returning to his hip. "You should have been home before this storm hit. Have you no sense?"

Out of breath, Emily removed her wet outer garments and handed them to Jasmine. She took time to collect her wits before speaking. She knew better than to challenge her father when his mood matched the weather roaring about the house. She handed Jasmine the cloak. "Please dry these out for me."

"Yes, miss." Jasmine curtsied and cast a worried look at Emily's father, but stayed nearby.

Emily turned hesitantly to face his wrath. She drew a deep, steadying breath, preparing to defend herself. He watched her movements, brows pulled together in a frown as he studied her expression. While physical measures were out of the question, unlike earlier with the soldiers, her verbal persuasion tactics waited, ready to talk him around to her way of thinking. Though it wouldn't be easy. Emily opened her mouth to explain, when Frank cleared his throat.

"All is well, Captain." Frank took three steps forward. "I escorted Emily and Miss Samantha to their homes, safe and sound, as promised." He handed his wet cloak to Jasmine, who promptly fled the room, staggering under the weight of the wet garments. He ran a hand through his hair, drops of water falling to his shoulders and lingering before leaving a dark spot. "Though a bit wet, I'm afraid."

"Yes, I can see that." Her father indicated for them to follow, then strode down the hall and into the parlor. Once inside, he closed the door and faced Emily. "Young lady, it's a good thing I asked him to keep an eye on you after you went against my express wishes, traipsing around town like that last evening. What have you to say?"

Emily cringed at the umbrage in her father's voice. The patter of the slaves filled the silence as they moved about the house doing their various chores, low voices and distant singing weaving a sense of well-being that had permeated her home all her life. Tommy's coos and giggles from the upstairs room filtered through the wood slats of the ceiling and interwove with Mary's melodious tones as the young slave cared for him. Emily plucked at her wet skirts, trying to put into words why she felt compelled to rebel against his expectations. How could she explain something she didn't understand? She looked up at him with what she hoped was a serene face.

"I'm sorry, Father, but I had to. The only other person in town who did the weaving died in that awful bombing last year. With only two of us left, the ladies need me to weave the cloth they require."

"You are not a lowly seamstress, miss. You are my daughter, and you will do as I say. Not what the matrons of this town might ask of you."

"You would have me turn my back on my brothers and other men in need?" Her voice trembled, and she swallowed, refusing to allow her worry to show. He could not stop her from helping her own family. She pictured her brothers, in tattered shirts and trousers, shivering in the crisp fall mornings. She stiffened her cold back, warmth from her growing determination thawing her bones.

Her father's hands grasped his hips as he leaned toward her for emphasis. "No, but you must be more—" He paused, his gaze flicking to the ceiling, then returning to her face. "More circumspect about where you go and when you leave this house. The bloody British are desperate. I'll not have you suffer in their hands."

But his clouded eyes suggested he withheld his true reasons. She searched her father's expression, his worry and concern enveloping her. Thoughts of the loss of her long-dead mother and more recently deceased sister played in her mind, his losses as well. She glanced at Frank, who moved to the blazing fireplace to encourage his clothes to dry. The dancing firelight accompanied by pops and hisses from the burning logs created a cheerful atmosphere in the formal parlor at odds with the tension inside her. Her cold skirts clung to her legs, chilling her entire body, and she longed for the fire's warmth. But Frank lingered by the hearth, oblivious to her plight. Going to the fire with him standing there was as appealing as when she had a baby tooth yanked from her mouth when but a child. The memory of the resulting ache caused her jaw to tense. She wished he would move away.

As if he read her mind, Frank crossed from the hearth to sit on the stuffed divan in front of the shuttered window. Shivering, Emily started for the fireplace. Her father noticed her trembling.

"You're soaked through," he said gruffly. "How dare Lucille permit you to venture out into this storm? What was she thinking?"

"It was not her fault." Emily couldn't stop the glance at Frank. "The good captain was concerned about getting wet, because I slowed him down. That was not my intention, of course."

"What do you mean?"

"I was surprised to learn that Frank will stay with us." Emily searched her father's expression. Only curiosity and traces of annoyance lingered in his eyes. "He said you invited him?"

"Yes, once I learned he had nowhere else to stay." He tugged on his waistcoat to smooth it in place. "He will ensure your welfare when I cannot."

"Father." Emily placed her clasped hands before her. "Please, you must allow me to do what I can for the cause. Let me contribute something meaningful to show my support."
And receive support in turn from Amy and Samantha.

Her father shook his head slowly. "You do not realize. With events such as they are, I cannot allow you to leave the house alone. I will not risk losing my only daughter. Your safety is my primary concern."

His scowl warned her not to argue. He tugged on the pointed edge of his vest, straining the bone buttons neatly aligned down the front. His dark blue coat with gold piping on the cuffs and lapel edges indicated his intention to leave the house. He had arranged his hair into a simple queue, so his agenda did not include town business.