The Colonel's Lady (21 page)

21

Within a fortnight, a convoy of keelboats came downriver, making good time in the watery spring rush, bearing a wealth of supplies to the half-starved outpost. Tucking his spyglass in his coat pocket, Cass trudged up the muddy bank a quarter of a mile or more to where the regulars waited with wagons. It was too soon to fire a volley and welcome the vessels in. Though they were well beyond the reach of Indians and river pirates this close to the fort, other watery dangers awaited. Just six months before on this very spot, he’d watched a scow, loaded to the gills and almost to shore, become impaled on a snag and sink with crew, cargo, and all else.

Contemplating it, he looked over his shoulder and took in a far more pleasant prospect. Beyond the fort’s west wall, on the gentle rise of ground leading to the stone house, stood Roxie, hoe in hand, her cranberry-colored skirts swirling around her ankles in the fickle mid-March wind. With the Indian threat so high, he’d assigned a double detail to guard her, and they stood at the garden’s four corners, acutely aware of his scrutiny and making a show of looking at the river when they’d been looking at her moments before.

He didn’t blame them, starved for feminine company as they were, but he didn’t fancy the way it made him feel. He’d have to keep a careful watch on her once the polemen came ashore. These free-spirited Frenchmen, whom he liked well enough, became absolute devils when drunk, their antics so spectacularly sinful they made his most hardened soldiers blush.

Shading his eyes against the blinding glaze of green water, he watched the lead boat round a final bend before its brown bulk came sharply into focus. This particular vessel was a floating fort—loopholed and armed with four one-pounders—and coming straight at him. He heard a litany of French profanities as the captain lost a setting pole in the shallows, but after several more precarious minutes, they dropped anchor and came ashore, the regulars helping place the gangplanks.

“Bonjour, mon colonel!”

“Bonjour, Captain. Any trouble coming downriver?”

The wiry Frenchman shot Cass a grizzled grin. “Ah . . . nothing that a well-placed cannon couldn’t cure.
C’est la vie.
”

Grinning, Cass took the bill of sale and perused it as they began rolling out barrels. Micajah stood at his elbow, ready to assess the condition of the long-awaited supplies. Half an hour passed in mutual satisfaction, and Cass left him in charge so he could return to the fort. But the sight of Roxie in her garden proved too great a temptation, and he veered toward her.

She was kneeling, the bright circle of her skirts looking like a discarded blossom atop the freshly tilled ground, the tilt of her straw hat eclipsing her pale features. He felt his heart give a sudden lurch when she looked up at him, her delight so plain that he felt almost smothered with guilt.

He’d shot her father and she didn’t know. He carried her locket in his breast pocket and she didn’t know that either
.
He should confess the former and return the latter, yet if he did, she’d never again look at him in that winsome way she had, and it would be like shutting all the sun out of his dreary life. Recently, after their hair-raising return from Smitty’s Fort, he’d nearly confessed everything. And then feeling nearly capsized by his emotions, he’d changed course.

He dismissed the guard, and there were just the two of them in the little sunlit meadow, and for a moment he was nigh speechless. Ever since he’d gone after her—had contemplated her bullet-ridden hat and how close he’d come to losing her—she’d gained a firmer foothold in his head and heart, and nothing could shake her loose. She’d begun to matter in ways he couldn’t explain and was increasingly uncomfortable with. The sooner she could go east, the better.

Standing, she smoothed her skirts, proudly pointing to the rows she’d just planted. “Peas. Beans. Melons. Squash. Soon, Colonel McLinn, you’ll have a fine table.”

He shot her an apologetic glance. “And you’ll hear no more of my complaining about the lack of provisions.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Good humor makes even one dish of meat a feast, or so my father often said.”

“Aye,” he answered thoughtfully. “Scripture runs along the same lines. Something about a merry heart being good medicine, if I remember
.
”

Surprise softened her features. “Good medicine, indeed.” Looking toward the river, she asked, “How are the supplies coming?”

Swinging his gaze from her to the keelboats, his answer was cut off by Micajah’s sudden shout. “Colonel, sir!”

Not wanting to leave her alone or be alone with her, he motioned for her to come with him. She abandoned her hoe and they walked down to the bank, his hand on the soft ruffle of her sleeve.

Micajah stood over an open barrel, clearly perplexed. Beside him, the keelboat captain’s features hardened as he sampled the contents, then spat onto the muddy ground. Immediately Cass rued inviting Roxanna along.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” the Frenchman apologized, seeing Cass’s features darken. “But thees barrel ees no good.”

Cass caught the stench of spoiled meat from where he stood. Running a practiced eye over the casks of brined beef and thinking of the ten or more men lying ill in the fort for want of good meat, he felt a tremor of fury. He’d been in worse straits, down to half a cup of parched corn and a fragment of jerky as a daily ration, but this was sheer stupidity.

Counting the casks, he measured his response, swallowed down the oaths in his throat, and forced cordiality into his tone. The keelboat captain and Micajah were eyeing him warily, awaiting his usual tirade, no doubt.

With a broad-shouldered shrug, he said evenly, “Green casks sour the brine and spoil the meat.”

Micajah’s skittishness faded to bewilderment as he gazed at the paper in his hand. “Even an idiot knows to pack supplies in seasoned wood. Who filled this order?”

Roxanna leaned over the open barrel in dismay. Of everyone present, she well knew the straits they were in from working in the kitchen. Game had become so scarce of late that they’d been anticipating this shipment all the weary winter like manna from heaven.

“They’re likely all the same,” Cass said evenly, aware that his second-in-command was now regarding him with far more interest than the ruined meat. But he was past the point of exploding now, and glad for the opportunity to further addle the men, he said with as much affability as he could muster, “We’ll light a
feu de joie
for our French friends—have some feasting and dancing and an extra gill of rum for every man.”

At this, Micajah almost gaped. Slapping him on the back to keep his mouth from hanging open, Cass turned and winked at Roxanna. “What say ye, Miss Rowan?”

Smiling, she looked up at him. “I say, dance on.”

Roxanna stood before the mirror in chemise, stays, pocket hoops, and petticoats, determined to style her hair in an inconspicuous chignon and not give way to the elaborate curls Bella insisted on. Moments before, Bella had disappeared so quickly she’d left the door slightly ajar, and raucous noises spilled through the crack from the parade ground just beyond. Roxanna crossed the cabin and shut the door, senses full of ribald laughter, French jests, roasting venison, and the unmistakable essence of whiskey and rum. The golden twilight held such a spring-like warmth she expected to see fireflies studding the shadows. Already the twang of fiddles beckoned and promised to relieve the outpost’s monotony. Thanks to the weather, the frolic would be held outside, not in the crowded blockhouse.

Sliding the last pearl-headed pin into the glossy knot of hair at the nape of her neck, she turned in time to see Bella enter, arms full of something splendid and silky. Her dark face lightened with a flash of white teeth. “I’ve brought you another dress from the stone house.”

“From your secret stores?”

“They ain’t so secret. A big ol’ flatboat bound for New Orleans sank within swimmin’ distance ’bout a year ago. I couldn’t let all that fancy cargo go to waste, could I?”

Roxanna started to protest, but when Bella held up the gown and shook it out, the words died in her throat. No doubt Bella had spent a few hours she didn’t have altering it to fit Roxanna. The dress was utterly breathtaking, too breathtaking to turn down even if she’d wanted to.

Reaching out a hand to touch the copper silk skirt, she said, “Bella, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were matchmaking.”

“Ain’t it a fine gown? Look at that blue silk petticoat peekin’ out underneath! Hank says he likes to see the colonel’s eyes light up when you walk in all gussied up.”

“Bella!”

“Law, I didn’t say it—Hank did! But he didn’t have to tell me so. I done noticed it myself.”

Biting back a retort, she let Bella drape the gown over her bare shoulders, dismayed to find the neckline so low. As Bella hooked the back, Roxanna took a deep breath. “Colonel McLinn simply likes to see something besides buff and blue. Put me in a room full of colonial belles and he’d not notice me at all.”

Or alongside an Irish beauty like Cecily O’Day . . .

Bella’s answering chuckle was a deep rumble in her throat. “You got some charms them spoiled belles don’t know nothin’ about.”

Oh?
“Name one,” Roxanna said softly.

“Namely the fact you don’t know you have any. Pure as spring water, you are. Skin like new milk and all that snappin’ black hair. Why, your eyes are bluer than McLinn’s.”

Warmed by the heartfelt words, Roxanna didn’t like the reminder nevertheless. Since she’d returned from Smitty’s Fort, she and the colonel seemed to have arrived at some unspoken agreement—formal but cordial, with mutual amnesia over their tête-à-tête in her cabin. Yet the thought of him always seemed to be hovering, intense and intimidating and totally unpredictable. He’d winked at her by the river’s edge—a meaningless gesture, truly—but it was done with such spontaneous charm she felt herself give way. And that she must not do.

Finished with fastening the back, Bella moved to smooth the ruffled sleeves. “You is right ’bout the colonel bein’ at them fancy balls. Word is he was mighty popular back in Williamsburg and Philadelphia. More than one lady lost her heart to him when he stepped into the room.”

Ignoring this, Roxanna pulled upward on the décolletage of her gown, the copper silk flashing in the candlelight. “Bella, ’tis simply sinful to expose so much skin.”

“Law, you sound like somebody’s mother,” she quipped, bringing something out of her apron pocket. “I almost forgot. This here goes around your bosom and hides what shouldn’t be hid.”

A length of fragile lace settled about Roxanna’s shoulders like a blue cloud, a twin to the blue petticoat far below. Still, she was self-conscious about stepping outside. She could hear Mariah’s distinctive laugh and a fife trilling an excited tune.

Taking a step toward the door, she was startled by a decisive knock. Suddenly stiff-limbed, she was hardly aware of Bella stepping around her to open the door. There was no longer any need for anyone to tell her how the colonel’s eyes lit up at the sight of her. She saw it plain, and the realization sent little tremors of alarm and delight through her.