The Turning of Anne Merrick (14 page)

“Of course I understand. Tomorrow it is, then.” Smiling, Geoffrey Pepperell moved in to claim a kiss, which Anne managed to avoid with an adroit step out of his orbit, and an offer of her hand.

“Until tomorrow, Captain.”

Pepperell placed a tender kiss at the very center of her palm. “I’ll call for you at dusk… and I will hold you to your promise.” Bowing with a courtly sweep of his arm, he snatched up his lantern and threw her a kiss. “Sleep well, my sweet.”

“Convey my regrets to Mrs. Lennox…” Anne waved. Pepperell spun an about-face and marched away with a chipper bounce in his step.

Keeping her eye on the British captain, Anne backed away to take a stand at the tent door, until the glow from his lantern disappeared among the many pinpricks of yellow light in the distance. Ducking inside the tent, she found her writing box thrown open, and Sally scribbling like mad with a lead pencil on a sheet of foolscap.

Anne puffed out a breath. “He’s gone.”

Grim-faced, Jack stood upright and, without a word, snapped a mean-looking blade back into the beaded scabbard hanging from his belt.

“I got rid of him,” Anne added. “He won’t be back.”

Jack looked up, his dark brows knit into a single line. “At least not until tomorrow—
my sweet
—”

“Don’t…” Anne held up a hand. “I have no choice but to court the man’s favor. He’s our best source—”

“
And no wonder…” Jack interrupted, aping her voice with exaggerated inflection. “‘Oh, Geoff! I would truly love to spend the night with you!’”

“Mind yer wicked tongue.” Sally slammed her pencil down, her eyes fierce. “Annie’s but doin’ the work she was sent to do. Ye ought t’ be proud of her—be it the camp laundress, sutler, or Burgoyne himself, she kens exact how to gull these Britishers to eatin’ out of her hand…”

“Literally.” Jack swiped his hair from his face, his glare unforgiving.

Anne flinched as if she’d been dealt a slap to the face. Mired in a muck of guilt and regret for kissing the Redcoat captain the night before, she scrubbed the palm of her hand to her skirt, unable to muster any defense. Sally, however, held no such compunctions.

“D’ye hear yerself, Jack Hampton? Ye can oft times be sech an utter arsehead.”

Jack’s shoulders sagged a bit, and his mouth lost its hard edge. Closing his eyes for a moment, he sucked in a deep breath, and let it out in a slow whistle.

“You’ve only the half of it, Sal. I’m a thoughtless, stupid, and selfish arsehead.” Clasping his hands behind his back like a contrite schoolboy, he turned to face Anne direct. “I’m so sorry, Annie. I
am
awful proud of you and the work you do, and the good that comes from it, and that’s the God’s honest truth.” He shrugged. “It was probably not a good idea—my coming here. I should go.”

“Already?” Anne’s voice wavered on the single word, and she dropped down to sit on the edge of the bed, lacing her hands tight to keep from bursting into tears.

“No call to linger—” Jack retrieved the
gustoweh
from where it rolled under Sally’s bed, and offered it up with a weak smile. “Ned’ll have my hide if I leave this behind—said it took him a year to collect the proper feathers…”

Anne nodded, the lump in her throat too great to overcome with words.

Jack brushed dirt from the hat and fiddled with straightening the feathers. “
I’m wondering—though my borrowed plumage is nowhere near as fancy as your Captain Feather Hat’s…”

Anne groaned. “He’s
not
my captain!”

Jack winced. “… And though I continue to be a first-rate arsehead to boot—maybe, Annie … Maybe you might consider going for a walk with me this night?”

The sincere earnestness of his apology combined with the self-deprecating invitation washed all the ill feeling from her heart. Anne looked up into his soft brown eyes. “I’d like nothing better.”

Sally threw up her arms. “Now, tha’s a brilliant scheme, in’t it? Him an Indian, and you a white woman, strollin’ about the camp thegither la-di-da—are yiz both daft?”

“Not to worry, Sal.” Jack grinned. “I have it all figured, and I’ll have Anne back safe before the drummer boys beat reveille.”

“You see, Sal? Jack has a plan…”

“Why am I not surprised?” Sally creased the letter she’d written into a square, and handed it to Jack. “Not a single damning word—ye’ll no’ hang for anything writ on this page. Carry it to David for me?”

“Gladly.” Jack stuffed it into his pouch. “Handing off a letter is preferable to answering his thousand and one questions.”

Sally jumped up and gave Jack a hug and a two-handed shove to the chest in quick succession. “Have Annie back as promised, ye blackguard, or I’ll hunt ye down, scoop yer still-beating heart out with a spoon, an’ leave it t’ pickle in yon Hessian cabbage barrel.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” After saluting Sally with a knuckle to his brow, he turned and grasped Anne by the shoulders. “Wait a little time after I’m gone, then take your leave and head straight north.” He pointed to the back of the tent. “Do not carry a light; you don’t want anyone following you. Once you breach the tree line, count one hundred paces, and I’ll find you there. You understand?”

“I do.”

Jack slipped out of the tent. A moment didn’t pass before he popped his head back in and, with a wag of his brows, added, “Best bring your blanket!” before disappearing in a flap of canvas.

“
Good earth and seas!” Anne flung herself to lie flat on her back. “Could that damned Redcoat have picked a worse time to come calling?”

Sally plopped onto her cot. “Ye had it easy. I was the one stuck inside this tent with a madman.”

Anne bolted upright. “Do you have my brush?” She pulled the ribbon from her plait, finger-combing her hair to separate the braid-crimped tresses. “Why do you goad him so, Sal?” Exaggerating Sally’s brogue, Anne singsonged, “‘She kens exact how to get these Redcoats to eatin’ out of her hand.’”

“Och! It’s no secret what we’re about here.” Sally found the brush, and tossed it over.

Anne put the brush to work. “Did you hear him call Pepperell ‘Captain Feather Hat’? I can only assume he was watching us at the bridge this morning…”

Sally groaned. “And saw the kiss, no doubt.”

Anne stopped brushing. “Then he comes into camp at great risk, and finds the same man calling on my tent after dark.” She resumed the brisk strokes. “In this instance I have to allow Jack some understanding. I know it would be awful difficult for me, if our roles were reversed.”

“I swear, Annie, when Pepperell touched your cheek, Jack near went out of his senses.”

“I know.” Anne pressed a palm to her chest. “My heart’s still pounding double time.”

“If Jack means for us all t’ remain a success at this business with necks unstretched, he must learn t’ curb his jealous heart. ’Twas all I could do t’ keep yer man from leaping out with tha’ huge sticker he carries. ‘I’ll separate the bastard from his bollocks,’ says he, very near bringing the British Empire down upon us all. Poor Titus,” Sally clucked. “No doubt he has his hands full.”

Anne stood, her chestnut tresses falling in a crescendo of soft waves to the small of her back. “Do I look a fright?”

“Och! Yer only gorgeous!” Sally dug a blue ribbon from the mending basket. “Should we pull yer locks up?”

“I
think not. I know it’s altogether brazen, but he likes when I wear my hair loose.” Anne pinched her cheeks, splashed lavender water on her neck, and poured a drop down her décolletage, shivering as it trailed a cool trickle down to her navel. She dug under her pillow for her little half crown. Realizing she had neglected to tie on her pocket, she simply dropped the token down the front of her shift. Tossing on her shawl, she announced, “I’m off!”

“Wait!” Sally jumped up and rolled the woolen blanket on Anne’s cot into a sausage, handing over the bundle with a smile and a wink.

Tucking the blanket under one arm, Anne smiled. “You are the
finest
kind of friend.” Giving Sally a shoulder squeeze and a peck on the cheek, she scooted out the doorway. Careful to keep the tent betwixt herself and the neighboring Hessians, Anne ran the few yards to the looming wall of trees at the forest’s perimeter, her heart near bursting with joy that she would soon be in Jack’s arms.

She began counting her paces.
One, two, three, four…

The friendly, sun-dappled forest by day was transformed by a moonless night into an endless black cave. To assure she wasn’t being followed, Anne glanced back every few steps until the cheerful glow of illuminated canvas was swallowed in the inky wake of her trail.

Twenty-two… twenty-three…

Without a lantern to light her way, Anne stumbled forward through fern beds and shrubbery with arms outstretched—bumping into trees and low-hanging limbs with almost every other step. Once ensconced under the thick canopy of leaves, she was so completely night-blind, she could not make out her hand before her face. Forced to a complete standstill, she took a deep breath and blinked, willing her eyes to adjust to the spare starlight filtering through the overstory of leaves.

Awful quiet.

This thought very loud in her head. Even the constant cricket and tree-frog din seemed faint and muffled under the dense canopy, the night sounds absorbed by damp greenery, massive tree trunks, and the soft forest floor. The stillness, in company with the all-enveloping darkness set Anne on edge, and she shifted from joyful to wary. To
prove her mettle and to fill the silence, she began to whisper-sing a brash rebel song. Hugging the bedroll to her chest, and swaying from side to side, her voice grew in volume with every line—

A deep wing thumping suddenly skimmed right over her head—
fffoom, fffoom, fffoom
—sending her down in a squeal and squat and raising instant gooseflesh to race over her forearms and up the nape of her neck.

Just an owl,
common sense assured.

A big hairy, nasty bat,
unreasonable fear insisted.

“No more singing,” Anne decided with a shiver, drawing her shawl up to protect her hair from airborne nocturnals. Her eyesight had adjusted somewhat and infinite pitch black began to transform into an environment formed of shapes and shadows in shades of gray, purple, and deep blue.
Jack’s waiting.
She set out once again.

Thirty-one… thirty-two… thirty-three…

She pulled to a sudden stop. The sound of tumbling pebbles reached her ear, and she could hear a creature scratching and rooting around in the crunch of dead leaves just to her left—its musky odor wafting up to crinkle her nose.

“Thirty-four… thirty-five…” Anne scurried forward, counting aloud, cringing at the sound of her panic-tinged voice. At the forty-pace mark, she let loose a squeal and was roughly jerked to a standstill—her shawl caught in the claws of a brambly thicket.

“Drat!
Damn!
Bloody-damn-hell-shit!!
” Stringing together a stream of the foulest curse words she could utter, Anne yearned for a light as she untangled her shawl from the bramble’s clutches. It was hard to see, but she was certain she’d torn at least three holes in the only summer-weight shawl she’d brought on campaign, assuring a long evening spent in the company of her darning needle.

Resisting the urge to hurry, Anne narrowed her focus to the immediate path, and moved in a more deliberate wend through the monochromatic world of shifting shadows.

Where is he?
The uneasy twist carried in her chest was wrung tight and tighter with every step forward. Wrestling with the wisps of spider silk sliding over her face and arms, she kept her eyes on the path, maneuvering under jutting limbs, around grasping brush, and over tangles of deadfall—trying to avoid bumping her noggin, snagging her clothes, or tripping flat on her face.

“Goddamn it!” Anne stopped dead in her tracks, and, throwing her head back, she stomped her foot and railed at the dark. “I forgot to keep count.”

Spinning around, she gazed back into the black hole from whence she’d come, unable to see anything to help gauge the progress made since the encounter with the thornbush. She turned back, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Hohh…”

Ten paces ahead, haloed by a ghostly blue-green light, a monstrous hand rose up from the forest floor, pointing straight up to the heavens.

“What in the… ?” Anne leaned in, blinking and squinting. A few cautious steps forward provided eyes and brain with the information required to override wild imagination, and she heaved the answer in relief.

“A tree.”

The jagged, broken remains of a huge old tree—
a maple?
She moved closer.

Hard to tell.
Definitely one of the grandfathers of the forest by the great girth it had attained before being snapped in two by rot and
wind. The frightening apparition being in actuality a tree in no way explained where the curious blue-green light was coming from.

Just your eyes playing tricks…

Anne closed her eyes and counted to ten before blinking them open. The otherworldly light had not dissipated and she resisted the urge to run.

Jack is nearby. He’ll come and find me, and we’ll…

Anne unhunched her shoulders and smiled. She tucked her bedroll under the crook of her left arm, and took a few steps toward the glowing tree, calling in a loud voice, “I know that’s you, Jack Hampton.”

No reply.

Anne tried once again. “This isn’t funny, Jack.”

Like a tinker’s monkey attracted to a shiny object, she inched toward the glowing old tree, drawn to the comforting light it cast upon the surrounding phalanx of slim saplings and leafy branches. Close enough to see that there was a large patch of lady’s slippers in bloom near the base of the old tree, she reached out and dared to poke a fingertip to the trunk.