The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (23 page)

Bridgers and Lady Strathmore? Paul Bridgers?
It was incomprehensible. Lady Clara Strathmore was refined and educated. Paul might have been a handsome, friendly chap, but he was … well, a whoremaster to put it bluntly. It was the most unlikely pairing Sam could think of. But, then again, Paul was masterful when it came to women, and Lady Strathmore, with her beauty and beguiling innocence, was quite a prize. For a brief moment, Sam imagined Bridgers and the viscountess together. Then, finding it possibly the most inappropriate thought to have while consoling the grieving girl over her lover’s lifeless body, he shook away the reverie.

Ethan approached the pair. “My lady, please accept my sympathies.”

“Thank you, Ethan,” she said, wiping her tear-stained cheeks. She grabbed his arm in entreaty. “Ethan, the day of the fire, when Paul left me in the woods, what was the shot I heard?”

Ethan pursed his lips. “The British soldiers dragged me from the house and chained me to the hitching post. Mr. Bridgers had to shoot the chain in order for me to move.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “There was fire all around and he had to shoot though two chains because of the iron ball at the end of one of them. The shots caught the attention of the soldiers and we had to hide.” He searched her face with apologetic eyes. “Please believe me that we looked for you, but it was too late.”

“I understand, Ethan,” she said gently.

“I have something for you, my lady, a letter from Mr. Bridgers. He said I should give it to you in case he didn’t make it back to the fort.” Ethan handed her a tightly folded piece of paper.

“Thank you,” she said, with fresh tears. She looked at the letter and, with a tremulous hand, put it in her pocket.

“And one for you too, Sam.” Ethan held out a note.

Suddenly, sorrow overwhelmed Sam. He choked back the sobs that threatened to burst forth. He was the captain, after all. He motioned for one of his soldiers to come forward. “Have him buried as quickly as possible,” he said, trying to steady the shaking in his voice. “You might have to wait until dawn.” He put an arm around Lady Strathmore’s shoulders. “Come. Upstairs.”

Only once inside his quarters did Sam allow himself to cry. He would never have known Paul if it hadn’t been for the war—their backgrounds, their social circles, everything about them was too dissimilar. Yet Paul had become not just a trusted ally, but like family, sometimes a nagging father, more often an advice-giving older brother. Most of all, Paul had been a confidant and a good friend.

It seemed it was the same for Lady Strathmore.

She lay on his bed and sobbed into the pillow. Sam stared at her wretched form as he sank into his desk chair, then opened his note from Paul and stared at the words by the light of a flickering candle. It was written on the back of a page from one of Paul’s ledger books. Those he kept in the kitchen building, to ward off suspicion from his various enterprises. The brick and stone structure must have burned last.

In his letter, Paul briefly explained the kidnapping and that he had given instructions for “Clara” to go to Sam. He had only recently heard she had arrived at the fort safely.

I know you’ll see her person as a military opportunity, but Sam, you must reconsider. She is perfect for you. I’m sure you know that by now. After I realized she and I could never be together, I knew she could be—she would be—happy with you.

Jealousy faded into envy. Paul had been a lucky man.

Sam returned his attention to the woman lying on his bed. She had exhausted herself and was sleeping, albeit somewhat fitfully. Paul was right. She was perfect for him. Except for the fact that she was already married to a loathsome monster. A monster Sam had just sent a dispatch to requesting negotiations for her return. His fingers pressed and massaged his temples.
What the hell have I done?

He went to the bed and folded her in his quilt. He then took off his shoes, hung up his jacket, grabbed the woolen blanket and pillow from her cot, and laid down on the other side of the bed next to her, staring at the ceiling and wondering what he was going to do next.

Chapter Seventeen

Clara did not know how long she had been sleeping, but it was the most comfortable night she had spent in a long time. She stretched against the feather mattress. The familiar feather mattress…

She sat bolt upright and saw the captain sitting at his desk, disheveled from slumber, holding what looked like a page from a ledger book. Then she remembered. It hadn’t been a dream. Her beloved Paul, her Mr. Bridgers, was dead.

“Did I sleep here all night?” she asked, not really sure what else to say.

“Yes,” was his glum answer.

To her left she saw her own pillow and woolen blanket in a crumpled heap on the mattress. Startled by the implication, she looked at the captain.

“Lady Strathmore,” he said gently, “why did you not tell me of your connection to Paul Bridgers?”

His tone was not angry. No, instead he seemed sad. Very sad. Sorrow for the loss of Paul, or for the revelation of her relationship with him? Clara flushed at the thought. Why would Captain Taylor care about her and Paul?

“For very much the same reasons you never believed I was Lady Strathmore even when I insisted. There was really no reason for either of us to trust the other. This is war and anything and everything can happen.”

He stood and paced behind his desk. “He told you to come here, to find me. You should have explained all that to me.”

“And you would have believed my story?” She swallowed a sob. “Captain, I am the wife of an enemy officer, and you did not believe
that
until a patriot soldier you did not even know confirmed my identity. And why would you ever believe that I, a viscountess, would have a relationship with a brothel owner?”

“Touché, my lady,” he snapped. “You win. You are correct. I did not trust you, and I apologize now.” He raked his fingers through his hair, inhaling deeply, exhaling deliberately. He looked at her across the room, holding her gaze with his own. “I am so sorry, my lady,” he said with genuine feeling. “Please, believe me.”

“I accept your apology, captain.” Tears welled in her eyes. “And I am sorry, too.”

He stood motionless for a moment, studying her. “How long has your affair with Bridgers been going on?” he asked tentatively. “I mean, he only mentioned you once to me, that he met you in the village of Chesterton sometimes. And that your husband did not deserve you.”

Clara smiled. It was somehow satisfying to know Paul had mentioned her in conversation with his friends. “I found Paul rather appealing since the first time I met him. He was always so pleasant to me and Annabella, my maid. We saw him in the village one day, and Annabella told him I was with child.”

The captain gaped at her, his eyes wide.

“When Annabella and I were sent away for my confinement, Paul and Redmond—and Ethan too,” she reminded herself, “kidnapped us and took us to his property. We were kept apart, and Annabella was never told what it was all about. My husband owed Paul a considerable sum. That, and,” she drew in a fortifying breath, “his abhorrent treatment of Constance just pushed Paul over the edge. He knew my husband did not care a fig for me, but he did care about his unborn child. So Paul’s plan only came together when he discovered my condition.”

She tossed aside the quilt and sat on the edge of the bed.

“While I was with Paul, I lost the child. He took such good care of me. And then we—” She gulped air before letting loose a deluge of emotion. Her hands flew to her face, to hide the pain that twisted there. “Oh, Sam!” She slumped against the mattress.

Immediately he went to her, sat beside her, held her against him. “Shh, Clara.” He rocked her in his arms as he pressed his lips against her hair.

His warmth, his nearness calmed her. It was easy to slip her arms around his waist. She sniffled against his chest. “It was only then we started our affair. My husband’s troops set fire to the brothel while we slept in the kitchen outbuilding.” She looked up at him. “I presume you know the property?” she teased.

He chuckled, the deep sonorous tone reverberating through her. “Yes, my lady, I know the property.”

“We were able to escape, except that the soldiers had done that awful thing to Ethan, and Paul felt compelled to go to him. He left me in the woods, told me to count to three hundred, and, if he wasn’t back by then, to come here, to find you.” She nuzzled into him. “Sam, I was so frightened.”

He smoothed a hand slowly down her back. “Clara,” he began haltingly, “I saw the bodies of the two British officers you killed.”

She pulled back, terror-stricken. “Sam, no. Don’t use that against me, don’t. You cannot tell General Strathmore. He’ll have me hanged.”

“Shh, shh,” he soothed, stroking her hair. “I would never.” He stared at her, his eyes asking questions left silent on his tongue.

“They did not succeed in their molestation of my person, captain.” The memory broke the dam of fresh tears.

He clasped her close. “Thank God.” His hands spread against her back, warm and comforting. “I had feared the worst. Don’t worry. No one will ever know. This is war, anything could have happened.”

Clara drew in a long, deep breath. “Sam, my husband does not know I lost the baby, and I don’t know what he will do to me when he finds out.”

“Hmm. We’ll figure something out.” He lifted her chin with one finger until their lips hovered apart by a hair’s breadth. “We’ll get some breakfast first, then we can discuss strategy with Pat.” He remained tantalizingly close for a moment, before releasing her.

“Right,” she smiled. “I must look a fright. Let me wash up.”

The cold water felt good on Clara’s eyes and cheeks, still burning with the salt of her tears. She didn’t want to cry anymore. She would have to dredge up the necessary detachment with which every proper English lady was instilled since childhood. She loved Paul, but she would have to put the grief behind her. She was still alive, and Paul would have wanted her to live her life. As she washed her face, she even felt grateful for the crude brown soap and, when she dried herself, for the worn linen towel. Suddenly, she wanted her whole body to be immersed in water, to cleanse herself of all pain and sorrow, and she wondered when bath day would come around again.

“If you are quite finished with the basin, my lady, I would like my turn.”

Sam’s voice was like a soft, warm blanket after being out in the rain on a cold afternoon.
Sam.
It was so wonderful to think of him as Sam. She looked up at him, smiled, and stepped aside.

He dunked his face in the water, then came up for air, one wet hand searching for the cake of soap he usually kept on the corner of the table.

“Are you looking for this, captain?”

Sam grabbed a towel from the shelf below and wiped his eyes. She stood before him waving the piece of soap.

“Yes, my lady.”

He reached for it and she pulled it away and behind her back.

“You, my lady, are toying with the wrong man.” He flung the towel over his shoulder.

He moved to snatch it around her right, and, as she stepped farther to her left, he lunged around her left. She stood trapped between his arms, his embrace no longer comforting, but imbued with seduction. Clara looked up into his eyes, the blue-gray clouded by desire. Her heart raced, his breath mingled with hers in the tight space between them.

It was wrong to want him. Paul was not even in his grave and here she was in the arms of another man. A man, who, from the hunger in his eyes, wanted her as much as she wanted him. She gripped the soap behind her back.

She wanted him to take her so she wouldn’t have to make the choice.

“By God, you are beautiful.” Sam dipped his face and brushed her lips with his own. She didn’t pull back, and he kissed her softly.

The soap slipped from her grasp and dropped to the floor with a dull thud.

His mouth ravaged hers, his tongue exploring, tangling, his hands spanning her back, supporting her as she arched into him, wanting, needing him to be closer, to feel his strength leading her along the path they both knew was right. She wrapped her arms around his neck and wove her fingers in his loose brown locks, pulling, holding, binding him to her. Carnal cravings ripped through her, arousing senses that had lain dormant the last few weeks. She lost herself in his embrace, wallowing in her body’s sensual response, nipples hardening against her cambric shift, a tingling heat spreading through her belly.

Sam broke from her lips and trailed kisses to her cheeks and down her neck. “Clara, I want you.” His breath was hot and damp on her skin. “I want you now.”

“Yes, Sam, oh, yes, please.”

His trembling fingers struggled with the bow of her short gown. The garment unfastened, he pushed it off her shoulders, off her arms, letting it fall to the floor. He bent over to kiss the pale flesh of her bosom peeking out over her stays, reaching behind her to loosen the garment.

A loud and insistent rap on the door stopped him cold. Clara froze in his arms, meeting his panic-filled gaze. Together they turned to the door.

The bolt had not been thrown.

* * * * *

The knocking continued in earnest. “Captain!”

It was Pat. Sam moved first, picking up Clara’s top and handing it to her. “Get dressed. Quickly,” he hissed.

Clara turned her back to the door. He gave her a mere few seconds before grabbing his towel and responding.

“Yes, lieutenant. Come in.” He pretended to be drying his face as Pat opened the door. “Sounds urgent. What is it?”

Luckily, Pat did not seem to notice anything was amiss. Instead he glanced worriedly at Clara as he closed the door behind him. “We received a dispatch from General Strathmore, sir. He’ll agree to our terms.” He once again cast an apprehensive look in Clara’s direction. “He wants to know if the baby is unharmed,” he said.

“Oh, God.” Clara fell to her knees.

Sam went to her, helped her up, then sat her down on the bed, taking his place beside her. “Pat,” he said steadily, “Lady Strathmore lost her child several weeks ago.” He took her hand in his.