Rowena froze in place; the waves grew colder on her feet. Was he really behind her? The once-called Black Devil? She quivered then turned, skirts still clutched above the water.
The Welshman stood tall, framed by the blue sky, attired in his usual black breeches, frock coat, and high black boots.
“What say you, staring at a girl’s legs?” She forced a teasing tone into her question.
Derec started down the slope and she felt an unusual twinge low in her abdomen.
She stepped out of the surf and lowered her gown. Nerves prickled through her.
“A man has his vices, aye?” His wry smile reached deep inside her, stealing her breath. His face even sharper as if he hadn’t eaten well in months, faint lines crinkled near his black eyes. “When pretty women are about.”
Sam and Daphne quickly crouched and removed food from the basket, including a flask of lemonade. “That’s Mr. Pritchard,” he whispered to his sister.
“What are you doing here, sir?” Rowena shook out her skirt and released it, eyes averted as she strained to compose her thoughts. “And enough with your flummery.”
Derec laughed. “Flummery, ye say? I tell the truth.” He stepped close and bowed. “Rowena, maid of the mist. Yer no longer a girl, a geneth, but a woman.”
Her knees nearly melted. She stiffened her body before she might collapse. “You didn’t answer me. What are you doing in Florida?”
“Yer not overjoyed to see me?” Hands on his hips, Derec cocked his head. “Should I say I’m here to spy, or I just wanted to check on the welfare of a former hoyden?”
Rowena disliked silly flirtation, especially with this man she cared too much about. “The hoyden is a woman, as you stated. Have you come to see me?”
“Aye. That, of course; and I might need yer help.”
She should have known. He required something other than what she’d hoped. Anger flared at her foolishness. She fisted her hands in her skirt. “You taunt me, sir. Your words false.”
Derec gestured toward the others. “Indeed, I do not taunt, Rowena. I would speak with ye alone.”
Sam hopped to his feet, dragging his sister with him. “We will walk the shore. Sit, Mr. Pritchard, and enjoy this repast.” The two hurried off, Daphne darting a look over her shoulder.
Filled with confusion, Rowena sat on the blanket and lifted the flask; she pulled out the birch stopper and splashed lemonade into a pewter cup. She raised the cup to him.
He folded his long legs and sat as well, taking the drink. He sipped. “Tart an’ tasty.” His dark eyes appraised her.
She poured a cup for herself though didn’t partake. “What help…do you require?”
He stretched out his legs, his boots badly scuffed. “’Tis a good spot here; the sea, the air, a maiden fair.”
She almost tossed her lemonade in his face. “I won’t be made a jest of. Are you on a mission?”
“Two missions, geneth.” He sipped again, slowly. “I’m not a man who is easy with the finer ways or words of life. I’m blunt. I came a long way to accomplish an important assignment, but I’ve finally realized I need the Mist Lady by my side.”
Her heart twitched. She swirled the liquid in her cup. The breeze off the ocean tossed her hair about her cheeks. “You’re blunt, you say; then explain exactly what you mean.”
“I’m rough, no frippery, but so are ye when needed. Impressed, I am—and have been.” He dug around in the basket and pulled out an orange. “We might have to leave America if the war keeps turning like it is. Where will we go?”
He still danced around the question she wished wasn’t so important to her. Is there a future for us?
The surf went in and out like a breathing lung.
She sipped the tart beverage, which barely slid down her constricted throat. “I’ve wondered the same, if the rebels or Spanish chase us from here. My father rented a small house on the outskirts of St. Augustine, finally, after over two months here. We’re repairing it to make the cottage livable. But we’re always on guard with the changes of fortune, battles won or lost.”
“Our enemies close in.” He raised a knee and put his elbow on it. “I’ve been up in New York, at West Point. Talked some with Arnold before he fled. Don’t think he did us much good. Then I helped a major spy escape his shackling in a dungeon, to back behind the British lines.”
“Significant work.” She sifted sand, like ground sugar, through her fingers.
“Nevertheless, New York is full of corruption, British officers wasting time an’ money. We might have won by now, but…”
“Terrible to hear.” Her father would be disturbed by such news. She had to sort through her reaction, her waning commitment to the loyalist cause.
He tossed the orange in one hand. “Also, I’ve been in touch with my mother, thanks to British ships still bringing mail.”
She remembered him speak of his mother back in Wales, and his concern for her. “Is she well?”
“She is, I’m happy to say.” Derec set down his cup and peeled a strip of thick skin from the orange, the smell of citrus pleasant.
“And now you’re here, in Florida.” She strained to sound matter-of-fact.
“Aye. Ye peeled layers from me with yer bravery and spirit, Rowena. I could not forget ye, no matter how I tried.”
She nearly snorted. “I’d be insulted, but I tried to forget you with great effort, to no avail.”
He chuckled. “We’re at an impasse, aye?”
She shifted on the blanket, then picked up an eel pie. She could dance around, too. “I prepared these myself. They are quite flavorful.”
Derec peeled more from the orange. “Without the outer covering, the fruit is vulnerable.”
Rowena smiled, despite herself. “You do yourself a disservice. You can be poetic. The fruit is exposed, but does what it’s meant, supplying sustenance.”
“Clever an’ brave. What else could a man need?” He put the orange in his lap and snatched up a pie. He took a bite, his face a picture of satisfaction. “Ah, an’ she cooks savory dishes as well.”
She sucked in a deep breath and picked the crust from her pie; the fishy scent of eel rose, and her fingers were soon greasy. The dance should end, but which final steps to take? “What happens now?”
He met her gaze, all humor gone from his expression. He reached over and pressed her hand. “In good time for us, I promise.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “First, there is a secret service we must attend to.”
Fingers shaking at the warmth of his lips, she set the crumbled pie on the blanket. She pulled her hand away, unsure what had just transpired. Confusion crashed through her like the waves that slapped the sand. Could she trust his promises?
A chance at duty? She choked back her teetering emotions like bitter parsley and swept her loose hair behind her shoulder. “I’m ready to be of service to the crown.”
* * *
Two days later, Rowena strolled the ramparts of Fort St. Mark, the air cooler in the wind off the bay. She wore a light shawl around her shoulders, over her pretty muslin gown with the pink roses. The bodice was too tight now, the skirt short as she’d noticed before, on this gown she’d outgrown.
For disguise, she’d greased her hair back with pomade and powdered it white. She’d also applied Mrs. Torres-Novarro’s powder to hide her few freckles and lighten her skin.
Derec said they suspected the clerk in the army’s purser’s office of being a rebel spy. A man embedded here for at least the past year. She must find proof to expose him, though part of her feared it was too late to aid the British cause.
She leaned against the stone wall. The breeze rippled the pink ribbon on her straw hat. Had Derec only contacted her for this duty? His words and touches had intimated more. Irritation, that hid something more profound and painful, bubbled up. He might be using her for his own devices.
She blew out a breath and concentrated on her assignment. The weight of her muff pistol in the pockets tied around her shift gave her courage. Despite her disillusion, a spark of excitement at this role re-kindled inside her.
As she hoped for, a soldier in red coat approached her. She smiled at him.
He tipped his cocked hat. “Are you here alone, miss?”
“Sadly, sir, I am. My maid became ill at the last moment.” She turned to fully face him. “I’m here to seek a relative. You see, I’ve been told a cousin of mine works here. His name is Ewan Fergus. I’ve recently traveled to this colony and am anxious for word on family members who have reportedly gone to Nova Scotia.”
“We have many men working here, soldiers and civilians.” The soldier in his snug tunic wasn’t handsome with his long nose and receding chin; but he had the confident air of someone who believed he was. “Can you be more specific, pray?”
“He is supposedly a clerk in the purser’s office.” She shrugged one shoulder as if at a loss; a lady in dire need. Inside, she cringed at these puerile feminine wiles. “But how do I find such an office in this huge fort?”
The young man put his hand over his heart. “Well, I would be happy to escort you there.”
“How kind you are.” She grinned and plucked at the end of her hat ribbon. “What is your name?”
He bowed. “Sergeant Randolph, your servant, miss.”
“And I’m Miss Sally Babbit.” She curtsied. Derec had given her this name for her cover. He was supposedly watching through a telescope from an undisclosed location.
“Come with me then, Miss Babbit.” Randolph offered his arm, which she took. “Whom did you travel to East Florida with?”
“My parents and younger siblings. We might stay here or move on to more distant environs.” She was thankful Randolph smelled pleasantly of sandalwood.
“How do you know if Fergus has the information you seek?” The sergeant walked her down a set of precipitous stone steps to the inner courtyard. A group of soldiers drilled past them, following an officer’s calls.
The fragrant aroma of baking bread drifted from somewhere.
“We stayed with an aunt in Georgia. She insisted that he might.” Rowena leaned close. “I will confide to you that we are hoping to connect with a rich uncle, to aid in our plight.”
“Were you displaced by rebels?” His voice gruffer, he guided her across the yard on a dirt path, and they entered a door.
“Mercy me, we were. Our home burned to the ground, along with all of our possessions.” In spite of her actually losing her beloved home, she couldn’t deny the thrill this acting gave her; she’d missed the spying game.
More so, she’d missed the Welshman. Ice slid up her spine. What were his ultimate plans? She’d demand to know.
Randolph showed her down a dim hall. He stopped in front of another door. “Here is the purser’s office, Miss Babbit.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Sergeant.” She clasped her hands together and dearly hoped he wouldn’t offer to introduce her to Fergus.
Randolph tipped his hat once more. “Perhaps we could meet someday, in town?”
“I am sorry, sir.” She pouted. “I neglected to tell you that I’m betrothed. My intended is a captain who serves with Lord Cornwallis.”
“I see.” Randolph’s chin receded further, his mouth tight. “I give you good day, then.”
“But if things change, I will keep you in mind.” She fluttered her eyelashes and hated herself for it.
He scoffed, gave a wan-smile, about-faced and strode back down the hall.
Shame washed over her. Sadly, using people was part of the ruse. She knocked on the purser’s door.
A man with the reddest of hair, his face a mass of freckles, opened it. “Good day, Miss. May I assist you?”
“I’m looking for a Mr. Fergus. Might you be him?” Again, she gave what she hoped was a beguiling smile. She resisted scratching her itchy, powdered scalp.
“I am he.” His fat lips did not smile. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Miss Babbit.” She stepped in without being invited. The office was cramped but orderly, a desk to the right, shelves of ledgers, and a smaller writing table to the left. Her nerves skittered. “Is the purser here?”
“Not at the moment.” Fergus watched her closely, his words officious. “How may I help you, Miss Babbit?”
Rowena brushed her hand over her rumbling heart. She must manage this man. “Are we alone then?”
“State your business here, please.” His tone remained polite though brusque. He shifted in his buckled shoes as if a man with much on his agenda.
“That depends. I might have a message to pass on.” She plucked at her pink ribbon. “And I was told you are the person I can trust.”
“What sort of message? I’m confused.” His words grew impatient and his fingers curled. “And who told you this?”
“I cannot divulge my sources.” She turned, swirling her skirt.
“What does the message concern?” He tipped back his head of fiery hair, barely contained in a queue. “Who sent you?”
If they were wrong about Fergus being a rebel spy, she could be the one arrested. Derec had warned her of the dangers, which she’d been well aware, but she insisted she was up to the task. “Mr. Fergus, you know very well that people must remain unnamed.”
He shut the door. “Don’t play with me, Miss Babbit. What do you want?” His anxious behavior seemed to paint him as guilty.
Her mouth dry, she forced herself to meet his pale eyes. “The message comes from someone high up. Someone in charge in South Carolina, in Willtown.”
“Willtown is a rebel stronghold. Why would anyone send me a message from there?” His pointed question and slow perusal of her encouraged her.
“I think you should know.” She had to remain vague so as not to tip her hand.
He stuck his freckled face close to hers. “Should I? What are you implying?” His breath smelled foul.
She felt sweat at her neckline. “Please don’t dissemble. They need your help.”
“What sort of help?” Now he sounded curious, a good sign.
Here was the moment; she stirred up saliva. “A list for the fort. Number of men, cannon, ammunition in the magazine.”
He snatched out a hand and grabbed her arm. “I’ve already sent that information north. I have a copy in my locked… What is your game, Miss Babbit?”
Rowena shuddered, her mind a tumble. Flesh pinched, she resisted jerking away.