The Colonel's Lady (14 page)

“I’ve been on a few battlefields. And we were winning for a season. But now . . .”

She said nothing, waiting for him to finish, wondering if he’d tell her about the trouble that brought him west. Wanting him to.

Instead his eyes turned wintry again. “You might as well know I’m considering resigning my commission in the near future.” He shifted on the bench and his knee brushed hers. “But not until I see you safely settled.”

Somehow this didn’t bring the solace she craved. Thinking how she’d just turned tail and run from the guns still shamed her. “I don’t want you to make your plans around me. Nor do I mean to keep you from military maneuvers or anything else. If there’s an opportunity for you to leave this place, I urge you to take it.”

“And where would that leave you?”

She balled up her hankie again and avoided his eyes. “Colonel McLinn, I’m nearly nine and twenty, more spinster than schoolgirl. My father was wrong to bind you to that promise.” She paused, resurrecting something Olympia once said. “And given all the solitary men on the frontier, I’m sure making a match here would be as easy as falling off a log.”

“Aye, I’m sure any of my men would gladly wed you, Miss Rowan. Not that any of them would pass muster. As for the locals—frontiersmen, trappers, and convicts—you can put that out of your head. Your prospects here are bloody few.”

Her shoulders straightened, and she locked eyes with him again. “I’d much rather talk about your prospects, Colonel. My father once told me he considered you the finest commanding officer he’s served under since the French and Indian War. He followed you to the frontier because of it. If you can leave this place for a better one, I suggest you do so and not give my situation another thought.”

“You underestimate me, then.” Leaning back slightly, he crossed his ankles and folded his arms. He was the commander again, challenging her, staring her down, forcing her to retreat. “What kind of an officer—and a gentleman—would deny a man’s final request to see to his only daughter?”

Oh, they were back to her father again. There was no undoing that final promise.

Stifling a sigh, she made the last appeal she could. “You aren’t ultimately responsible for me, Colonel. God is. Even if you were to renege on your promise, He would not.” She got up and crossed to the corner where the lap desk rested. Opening the top, she touched the spring that released the secret drawer. She took out the leather-bound book and sat down beside him.

“There’s another reason you should leave this place. You may have an enemy within these very walls. My father felt your life was—perhaps still is—in danger.” She leafed through the worn pages with nervous hands, head bent in concentration. “When I saw you riding in front of all your men and all those muskets, knowing at least one of them might mean you harm, I couldn’t stand there and watch . . . so I ran.”

Passing him the journal, she took a long, unhindered look at him as he contemplated the offering. Hands in her lap, she stifled the urge to reach out and ease the tense lines of his brow, smooth away his every worry. The heady scent of bergamot mingled with the sharp but subtle tang of lye and sent her senses swimming. She could no longer remember what Ambrose looked like, or smelled like, or was like. All she knew was Cassius Clayton McLinn.

All she wanted began and ended with him.

Hank had laid a fine fire, full of snap and fury, and its bold light flickered over the blue paneled walls in such a merry dance it nearly shifted Cass’s pensive mood. Of all the rooms in the stone house, the study was his favorite. Here some of the finest craftsmen in Kentucke had left their mark. He took in the deeply recessed bookshelves, the elegant moldings and cornices, and the polished walnut floors, feeling the filth of Fort Endeavor recede with every step.

Removing his linen stock, he made for the wing chair nearest the hearth and eyed the tilt-top table bearing a crystal decanter. Hank hadn’t forgotten his brandy, but he’d forgotten to have Hank help him with his boots. Scowling, he looked down to find he’d left a muddy trail across the needlepoint rug, and ground his back teeth in frustration. Bella would have an unholy fit.

But Roxanna wouldn’t.

He pictured her standing beside him, hands pressed together in quiet delight. Somehow he knew she’d simply shake her head and smile at the mess he’d just made. Or scold him just a bit. Thinking it, he roamed the cozy room with new eyes—her eyes—and felt a deep appreciation. The colorful gros point rugs, the walnut spice cabinet with its little silver key, the blue brocade chair that was twin to his own, the multitude of leather-bound books lining the walls—they would all work to woo her, given he wanted to.

He’d had the house built for many reasons, mainly as a statement of permanence and to put up river travelers. In fair weather, when the Indian threat wasn’t too high, an interesting assortment of courageous guests spilled onto the Kentucke shore. Most sought refuge in the fort, but military men like Generals Hand and Lafayette, and visiting dignitaries like the Spanish governor in Missouri territory, preferred this. And they all said the same thing—the house badly needed a mistress. But he was too preoccupied to play host . . . or wed.

He’d come close on one occasion. But Cecily O’Day wouldn’t have lasted in the wilderness. Nor the colonies. Though the daughter of a British general, she hadn’t the stamina or spirit of her colonial cousins. Women like Kitty Greene, who’d been at her husband’s side at Valley Forge. Or Martha Washington, with her long-suffering cheerfulness. Or Lucy Knox, with her ebullient humor.

Unlike Roxanna Rowan, Cecily would never have entertained the notion of coming downriver four hundred miles into the very heart of danger. Nay, Cecily seemed a hothouse flower in comparison. ’Twas well their foolish passion ended when it did. A few kisses. A few letters. And then she’d wed another. Lately he’d given it little thought.

Aye, he had other things to think about. Like the enemy. And who Richard Rowan thought posed a threat. Ignoring his boots, he took a chair and withdrew the small journal from his waistcoat pocket. Since leaving Roxanna’s cabin this morning, he’d carried the book about with him as he drilled his men, ever conscious of its subtle weight, his curiosity at fever’s pitch.

Shelving all correspondence for the time being, he’d given her the rest of the day off, wagering she’d disappear into the blockhouse kitchen soon after. At supper he’d been rewarded with roast turkey so succulent it fell off the bone, buttery spoon bread, and apple tansy, followed by coffin pie and strong coffee.

“Maybe you should let yer scrivener work nights, Colonel, and keep ’er in the kitchen days,” one of the regulars joked.

“And I’ll remind you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Private, or you’ll find yourself on double duty,” he shot back with a scowl.

He’d lingered longest at table and then, when the room was empty, he’d gone into the kitchen to thank Roxanna, only to find Bella and the Redstone women up to their elbows in dirty dishes—and no sign of Roxanna Rowan.

With a sage look, Bella said, “If you’ve come to thank Miz Roxanna for the fine meal, she’s done gone to her cabin.”

Disappointed, he’d left out the sally port, acutely aware of the guard flanking him. Hank threw open the door just as he’d done nearly every night for the past two years or better, bridging the darkness in welcome. As he did, a recurring thought struck Cass hard as a fist. What if the enemy opened the door instead? What if he came face-to-face with a British bayonet? Or an Indian arrow?

Now Richard Rowan’s journal seemed heavy in his calloused hand. He thumped it absently across one knee of his breeches while he reached for the decanter of brandy with his other hand, pouring half a glass. The liquid disappeared in two swallows.

Would that this traitorous talk could vanish as easily.

Eyes fixed on the fire, he court-martialed each of his men in his mind. Micajah Hale, though cross-grained and vain, he trusted with his life. Patrick Stewart was too lazy to make much of an enemy—and too busy wenching to turn loyalist spy. As for Jehu and Joram—the Herkimer brothers, both captains—he’d safely turned his back to them more than once. They’d served as fellow Life Guards before reenlisting under him at Washington’s urging.

His remaining officers seemed unswervingly loyal, intelligent, and refined, expert marksmen and swordsmen like himself. Not once had they given him pause. As for the rest, he kept them in order with verbal threats and frequent lashings. They were a rough, ragtag lot as regulars went, but he liked most of them and they in turn respected him.

He opened the journal, recalling how Roxanna had done the same, only her hands had been shaking. He’d gladly take the blame for her trembling and her tears, racing down the line as he’d done and scaring her out of her usual composure. She hadn’t known it was his usual way of doing things—with a hint of danger to ease the boredom and keep the men sharp and on edge.

A
ugust 18.
A
nother courier missing.
C
ass down with malaria.

A
ugust 23. Suspicions grow.
A
crucial document concerning the
O
hio campaign is missing.
H
esitant to tell
C
ass just yet.

S
eptember 4.
R
ec’d letter from
R
oxie.
G
od be praised—the westbound courier came through.
C
ass preparing for winter campaign.

The terse words—and the scrivener who’d so carefully penned them—returned his grief to him tenfold. He read on with wet eyes, a swelling remorse in his chest. But ’twas more than this, truly. ’Twas a feeling of his own impending doom, born out of an Irish sixth sense that he couldn’t shake. He’d felt it shadow him since coming to Kentucke, and he felt it now, pressing down on him like a leaden weight.

S
eptember 17.
N
ews out of
D
etroit troubling.
T
he
B
ritish are paying even larger bounties for settlement scalps and supplying tribes with weapons and munitions to drive the
K
entuckians out.

October 6. Official papers not as
I
left them.
D
ocuments seem to be disturbed.
F
eel a foreboding . . . must tell
C
ass.

Cass read each entry through once, twice, three times, increasingly perplexed. Richard Rowan had not been a man whose suspicions were easily aroused. Meticulous, exacting, of excellent memory and sound judgment, Richard Rowan hadn’t the time or temperament to dream up danger.

At the back of the journal, Cass noticed there were several missing pages and then a final entry almost eerie in its brevity. In the same fine hand was written:

Psalm 140. Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man: preserve me from the violent man; which imagine mischiefs in their heart; continually are they gathered together for war.

He shut the words away and stared into the hearth’s fire. The matter was imminently simple. If Richard Rowan thought there was an enemy within fort walls, then there
was
an enemy.

14

In the dank winter’s chill, Roxie knitted as Bella peered closer in the dim confines of the tiny cabin. “Them baby things for you or Dovie?”

“Bella!”

Bella chuckled, her dark face lit with amused mischief as her bony fingers caressed the tiny yellow cap and stockings. “No need to get uppity now. There’s just all kinds of talk swirlin’ since Colonel McLinn abandoned his men at maneuvers and come to yo’ cabin like he did. You know what folks are startin’ to call you, don’t you?” She darted a sly look her way. “ ‘The Colonel’s Lady.’ ”

Roxanna returned to her knitting, trying to keep any surprise or pleasure from showing on her face. “He simply offered me an apology for frightening me.”

“Some say he’s smitten and was offerin’ a proposal.”

“So who are you going to believe, Bella?”

“I believe,” she said with a smug smile, “that he was makin’ you an apology, but what he was wantin’ to do was offer you a proposal.”

“I beg to differ,” she said, feigning disinterest. “He doesn’t seem the matrimonial sort.”

“I ain’t talkin’ ’bout
that
kind of proposal.”

Tying off the loose strings of the knitted cap, Roxanna refused to take the bait. “Since his apology, I’ve hardly seen him except for meals. That should shush any nonsense about his being smitten.”

“He’s been drillin’ his men nearly night and day and ain’t had no time for dictatin’ to you. Hank says come spring he’s goin’ to push hard into the middle ground against them Redcoats and redskins and is gettin’ in fightin’ shape to do it. Maybe even go as far as Detroit and scare ol’ Hair-Buyer Hamilton out o’ his lair.”

“Sounds ambitious,” she said, thinking of all he’d confided right here in her cabin.

Had he changed his mind about resigning his commission since she’d given him Papa’s journal? Or had he simply shared his plans with her to see what she’d say? She felt such a surge of curiosity, borne out of a week’s waiting, that she’d almost followed him out the sally port to the stone house but an hour ago. The fact that she’d yet to plead Dovie and Johnny’s case gave her a ready excuse. If she showed up on his doorstep in the winter dark, he’d have had little recourse but to let her in. But Bella had been her salvation, coming in just as she’d put on her cape.

Restless, she watched Bella’s gnarled hands hitch the teakettle to the crane over the flames. Getting up, she set out the thistle cup and saucer and a plain pewter mug. “Sassafras or Bohea?”

“Sass,” Bella replied. “I can’t stomach that Bohea without sweetenin’, and we just run out.”

Roxanna poked around in a corner cupboard for some sugar of her own. “A supply convoy’s due any day, isn’t it?”

“Overdue. We’ll be eatin’ powder and lead shortly.”

“Not with all the game in the woods, surely.”

“There ain’t nearly as much game as there used to be. That’s one of the reasons them savages are so fired up. We’re sittin’ on their sacred huntin’ grounds and drivin’ all their eats away.”

Roxanna’s thoughts turned to the Shawnee in the guardhouse, encased in leg irons yet still able to raise the hair on the back of her neck. She wouldn’t ask Bella if she knew the colonel’s plans for them. It wasn’t any of her business, and she didn’t want to encourage Bella to gossip or relay anything Hank might have told her in confidence. Nor would she dare mention a spy. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking about something a bit more benign.

Taking a seat, she said quietly, “Bella, tell me about the stone house.”

“The stone house? If I tell you, mebbe you’ll want to be up there on the hill.” She paused, lips pursed in contemplation. “I been ponderin’ that. I heard all them rumors ’bout General Washington and Kitty Greene dancin’ the night away for hours on end back east. Here lately I been worryin’ mebbe the colonel will follow suit and try to make you his mistress.”

Roxanna swallowed down a too-hot sip of tea as if to brace herself. “That’s utter nonsense about Colonel McLinn.
And
Kitty Greene and General Washington. He’s a happily married man who simply has a penchant for dancing. I believe we were talking about the stone house.”

“All right, then,” Bella grunted. “What exactly do you want to know?”

The question was tempting as treacle. The stone house had assumed such lofty proportions in Roxanna’s mind that she’d begun to think of it as McLinn’s castle. ’Twas so grand, so out of place in the wilderness. So reminiscent of home. “I was just . . . well, wondering what’s beyond that handsome front door.”

“In the foyer, you mean?” At Roxanna’s nod, Bella got a rare glint in her eye and seemed to forget all about her tea. “Law, it’s like steppin’ into somebody’s dream. Don’t know if I can do it justice. First there’s a fine walnut floor runs all the way to double back doors. And a curved staircase as high as the heavens along one wall. On the third floor is a ballroom, long and fancy, with painted paper walls—sorta lavender and pale green flowers and leaves. But my favorite room’s the kitchen. It’s got runnin’ water piped from a spring beneath the house and lots of clean, white cupboards, pretty as you please.”

Hearing it didn’t quell Roxanna’s curiosity as she’d hoped but stoked it into a still-sharper yearning. Her knitting needles stilled. “And the study or sitting room . . . does it have an abundance of books and wingback chairs?”

The startled look on Bella’s face would have been amusing if Roxanna hadn’t been so serious. “Law, Miz Roxanna, did McLinn let you in? Or you been peekin’ in them winders?”

“Of course not.”

“The study’s the room the colonel spends the most time in, lest he’s sick in bed with the ague or down here at headquarters. It has all them books and chairs you’re talkin’ ’bout. How’d you know?”

Bending over her basket, Roxanna took out a skein of yarn dyed a deep indigo. “I’ve a good imagination, is all. And the colonel’s house reminds me of our own back in Virginia, only ours wasn’t nearly so grand. ’Twas simple stone and had a sitting room with a few books and a fine fireplace.”

“Did it have a gros point carpet and a sugar chest with a little key?”

Roxanna cast a wistful look her way. “Nay, just some braided rugs and Windsor chairs.”

There was a conspiratorial hush, and then Bella said in a near whisper, “I can sneak you in—show you around—when the colonel’s gone.”

For a moment Roxanna almost gave in. Then she thought of coming face-to-face with Cass in the confines of his house, uninvited and speechless. The excruciating prospect nearly made her squirm. “Best wait till the master of the house invites me.”

“McLinn don’t invite nobody! Well, maybe his officers now and again.”

“What about those river travelers you’ve been telling me about?”

“The ones without lice and the like? There’s just a few of them, mostly military men. He puts them up, and me and Hank dance attendance till they’re gone again.” With a quick grin she bent down and lifted the hem of her homespun skirt, removing something from her shoe. Taking it out, she flashed it in the candlelight. “A gold piece from General Hand. He give it to me just before he went back east awhile ago.”

Her delight was so contagious Roxanna chuckled. “Then you’ll no doubt welcome him back again.”

“Oh, he’ll be comin’ round again once the Injun trouble dies down. Hand and McLinn get on like a house afire. He and General Washington are the ones who sent the colonel out west in the first place. Word is they consider guardin’ the frontier a plum assignment even if the colonel don’t.”

“I imagine he wishes he was back east fighting in the war—or still serving as a Life Guard.”

“Better that than fightin’ redskins and Redcoats right here, that’s for sure.” Giving in to a wide yawn, Bella drained her cup. “Enough talk about McLinn. What are
you
goin’ to do?”

The simple question seemed to weight the air between them. For a few seconds Roxanna was at a loss for words. How could she explain her changing heart to Bella without sounding smitten? “I don’t rightly know. And until I do, I need to keep busy. I’d like to help put in a garden.” Roxanna glanced at her trunk, recalling how hard it had been to get here in the first place. The memory of hovering at the mouth of the cave and looking down at the finely fletched arrow in the flatboat captain’s back returned with cold, crimson clarity. “I’m praying about it all.”

Bella’s face twisted in a grimace. “Law, but it’ll take a heap of prayin’ to get out o’ this place. Mebbe you should start a weekly meetin’ with them Redstone women and pray us all out o’ here.”

Roxanna sighed. “I’ve already tried, but they have, um, other matters to attend to.”

“All them men, you mean,” Bella nearly growled. Giving the fire a final poke, she went out.

The twin candles on the mantel flickered from an icy draft, returning Roxanna’s thoughts once again to the stone house. No doubt there were few drafts on the hill. With walls two feet thick, Colonel McLinn would be warm indeed sitting in his wingback chair before his own solitary fire.

Pulling herself out of her chair, she crossed the room and peered through the shuttered window, glad Papa’s cabin had been so perfectly placed. From here she could easily see the stone house over the fort’s northwest pickets. Tiny pinpricks of golden light limned the two first-floor windows. The study, she guessed. Leaning her head against the cold casement, she gave in to the temptation to think about him again.

Since Ambrose, she’d resigned herself to joining the family line of spinsters—those six Scottish sisters on her father’s side who had one broken betrothal after another, or none at all. Perhaps her growing attraction for Cass, as she’d begun to think of him, hinged on a sort of desperation. With him she felt girlish, attractive, alive. If only because she was one of the few eligible females within fort walls.

Pushing away from the window, she tried to think of a Scripture—anything—to supplant the intense image of him burned into her brain. Clear blue eyes hard as marbles one minute, then without warning, thawing and turning tender. Hair so glossy it couldn’t be confined in a tidy queue but like red silk slipped through. Continental coattails flapping and calling attention to every heart-stopping detail of all the rest of him. Little wonder settlement women risked danger and hung about the gates in warmer weather, or so Bella said.

At least she’d not be here to witness
that
spectacle, thank heavens. A telltale warmth crept into her cheeks.

Why did she suddenly wish she would be?