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A SHOT RANG FROM THE crowd on the road at the top of the rise. Laughter broke out in the back ranks. ‘Twas apparently a good-natured shot if ill-timed. There would be more before the day was done.
Thomas, on Dominic, looked down the rise toward camp.
“How much longer is he going to be?” Mac asked.
“How do I know?”
“’Tis a simple enough job. Be seen in camp with guns while we are gone to the wedding.”
“Regardless of the hires,” Thomas said, “ye and I should make an effort to get back here this afternoon.”
Mac nodded. “Sarah will nae doubt be ready to come home.”
Thomas would nae be attending the wedding now if he had his way. The last week without Elizabeth had been torture, and seeing her might well turn his mind. He could nae be held accountable for his actions.
From the back of the line, Indian war whoops erupted. Another rifle fired. Horses spooked and whinnied. Children screamed, and mothers begged them to calm. Loud laughter rippled through the crowd. A bawdy song was heard near the back.
“The Natives are getting restless,” Mac murmured.
“Aye. Some of them have been here since early this morning.” And they were bored and ready to process into town.
And still, William spoke with the hires.
The last week the mischief had turned dangerous. The new dogs were missing again. The wheels had been taken off the carriage and rolled into the creek. Fortunately, they were retrieved and dried before too much damage had been done.
The loosing of three rattlesnakes into camp, however, near did William in. “What was that Thomas, about ye being gone before any danger was brought to the rest of us?”
“I am sorry. I will be gone the day after the wedding.” He pinpointed his brother with a glare. “Unless ye want me to leave now.”
The man had not. He was determined Thomas would be his best man.
William mounted his black steed. He raced up the rise. The crowd cheered. The wreath of flowers around the horse’s neck bobbed up and down.
More shots were fired. The horses pulling the wagon, which carried Colina, Sarah, and Issy, stamped their feet and tossed their manes. William waved his hat and pulled between Thomas and Mac.
Thomas patted Dominic’s neck, careful to avoid crushing his own wreath. Mac’s horse had been decorated as well. Garlands had been hung on the sides of the wagon.
They reached the carriage gate to Baltimore Town to find a crowd had gathered. Cheers lifted upward. Arms waved in the air. They entered the town to more of the same. And then, to Thomas’ left and in the midst of a crowd, Matthew Hardwin stood.
Thomas’ gut tightened. He wanted to yank the boy from his horse. He wanted to ask why Elizabeth disliked him so.
He wanted to know if he was to be a threat once Thomas was gone.
“Thomas!” William called.
Thomas looked up the street. William and Mac were several feet ahead. A horse jostled into Thomas. A crowd of unruly men slowed to a halt at his back. Wheels, with nowhere to go, ground tight against the dirt. The earlier, near-deafening noise had now died.
And ‘twas his fault. When had he slowed Dominic?
He lowered his reddened face. He pulled the tricorn over his brow. He prodded his heels into Dominic and made his way to the front of the line. He hated everything about this day. And now, somewhere in the mile-long crowd behind him, Matthew Hardwin rode.
They turned south onto Calvert Street. They passed the caretaker’s cottage. Around the outside bandstand in the outside eating area, Elizabeth walked.
Nae, she struggled, one arm lifting and falling as she spiraled a strand of ribbon around the railings. Why did she no use the other?
She turned. Her left hand, wrapped in a bandage from her fingertips halfway to her elbow, hugged her waist. She winced with every move.
Thomas’ gut split in half.
“Tom,” Mac said. “She is nae your concern.”
William pulled ahead, as had others who were going to corral their horses in an empty lot on the eastern side of the tavern.
“Ye dinna mention she was hurt, Mac.”
“She was fine when I saw her.”
And what of the hand? Was it a cut? Broken fingers?
Or, God forbid, had she lost part of them?
He shifted in the saddle to dismount.
Mac grabbed Dominic’s reins. “‘Twill only cause trouble.”
Thomas cared not. He had set her here thinking she would be safe. Was she not?
From the back of the line, a commotion swelled toward them. Thomas shifted around to see a horse and rider break from the crowd. At the white picket fencing to the outdoor area, the beast danced to a halt.
Hardwin jumped from the horse. He leaped over the fencing and raced into the yard.
Thomas’ gut cleaved in half.
The boy was going toward Elizabeth.
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THE RIBBON DROPPED from Elizabeth’s good hand. She cared not where or how far it rolled.
She had not seen Matthew in two days. Monsieur West and Hannah had returned late Wednesday evening and closed the tavern to prepare for the wedding. That did not, however, stop the boy from asking after her, nor did it keep him from dropping flowers, candies, and perfume at her doorstep.
He swept his hat off his head. He gripped her good hand and dropped to one knee.
“Matthew, please,” she whispered. “You must get up.”
He kissed her knuckles. The heat scorched her face.
Conversations lagged. Heads turned to look at them. Fingal, his barks bouncing in the warm, heckling air, scuttled up and down the length of the fence looking for a way inside.
Matthew stood to his feet. “This past week, my lady, was only the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?”
“Our life together.”
She jerked her hand backward. Was this the price to pay for his help?
“Matthew, we must talk about this.”
“We will talk.” His grin stretched from ear to ear. “Much. And later.”
“Now, Matthew. We will talk now.”
“No. I have a surprise first.” He lifted his finger and tapped her nose.
She reared back. “I do not like surprises, and I have work to do.”
“For a time. Then no more.”
“You must not try to take me from it. I will be in trouble.”
“Elizabeth, I can do anything I want,” he laughed. “Money talks and I have plenty of it.”
He set the tricorn atop his head and turned. How it stayed on all that wavy hair she knew not. He made his way through the gate and to his horse.
Fingal swerved through the gate and toward her. He smashed his side against her leg and licked her hands.
The crowd parted for Matthew to ride through. People pointed at him. They pointed at her.
How had he gone from a friend to an ardent suitor in a matter of days? How was she to make him understand there could be no romantic attachment between them?
Her nerves crawled to the edge of a vast, unrelenting panic.
What if, this time, he refused to take no for an answer.
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THOMAS STARED AT THE lass’ back.
How much had Hardwin bothered her this past week? What was wrong with the hand?
Was the work here too hard?
But he dinna wish to ask any of it. Right then, he just wished to be near her. To smell her. To brush his arm against hers.
Or any body part for that matter.
To stop time.
He picked up the wooden spool.
“Elizabeth.”
She whirled around.
He stepped toward her, spinning the ribbon back onto its base as he went along.
He could have sworn, with every step he took, the lass became more unsettled. It helped not that she refused to lift her gaze. Could she not stand the sight of him? He could hardly blame her after their last conversation.
He held the ribbon outward. “It looks as if ye are not quite finished.”
“I am not, and I have to serve soon.”
Serve? How would she do so with that hand?
But he did not ask that either. Instead, he turned to the railing. “Let us get started then.”
“You do not have to—”
“Wheest, Lass. I will help.”
Still, she looked at him not. What was wrong with her?
He bent his back and lowered his head.
A Dhia! No.
He lifted her chin. A lash of purple and red swathed her cheek. Two parallel lines in the center were deeper and angrier than the rest.
He swallowed the rage into his gut. He was desperate for answers, but she would not likely tell him here and not as long as she had work to do. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the stage. He placed the spool in her hand, and he unrolled and wove the ribbon around the lower railing. It seemed to take a great effort for her to move in any direction at all. She winced at odd times. At others, a sickly pallor fused her face. And had she lost some of the weight she had put on since her seasoning?
He climbed upward and balanced atop the lower railing. He wove the streams among the upper spires as the lass and Fingal walked below him.
Thirty minutes later, they were finished. “Your face, Lass. What happened?”
“I turned and the doorframe was there.”
Not likely. He would lay bets someone struck her.
“And the hand?”
“I slipped in some hot soup.”
“I want to see it.”
She rolled her lips inward and looked away.
“Ye come willingly, or I will drag ye past all these people kicking and screaming.”
“Mistress Swain will not like it if she finds me missing.”
“I will take care of Mistress Swain.”
“Tu es impossible.”
“Aye. I am.” But she was worse.
He wove his fingers into her right hand. He pulled her alongside the cottage. At the back corner, he turned right and made his way along the sidewalk to the herb house in the opposite corner. ‘Twas far from the crowd and quiet. He pulled her inside and kicked the door closed. He grabbed her waist and lifted her to the work table in the center.
He reached for the injured hand. A wince rushed through her teeth. He unknotted the bandage. He turned the palm face up. He grabbed the end of the dressing.
Three rounds were left when he saw red, fiery patches. Another round was off when he saw raw, reddened skin.
He pulled the last of the rag away. Tears crimped her eyes.
Thomas cringed.
Angry red blisters ranged across her cherry red palm and fingers. Had there been a chair nearby he would have fallen into it. The pain must be unimaginable.
“What happened?” he choked.
She looked left to the storage wall. She looked past him and out the window.
Why would she not talk? He and she had done so from that first night at Fearnought Farms. Granted, most of the time it had been one round and another of fiery, ill-tempered words. But they had talked.
“If ye dinna tell me what happened, I will find someone that will.”
She focused on the buttons of his waistcoat. “I told you earlier, I slipped in the kitchen on hot soup which had spilled along the bricks. My hand fell into some of it.”
“How did ye come to be in the soup on the floor? Were ye pushed?”
Her lips pinched tight.
He threw his palms to either side of her hips. He lowered his face to hers. “I assumed ye would be safe here since Alex is a decent man.”
“Alex is not to blame. Neither are you. You did what you had to do. I am doing what I must.” Her eyes tightened. “Now, please. The air makes the pain near intolerable.”
“Ye should let me take you to see my maither.”
“I know how to treat a burn.” She plucked the bandage from her lap and lifted it upward. “I have seen plenty of them while helping my father.” She lay the wrap to her palm. Water puddled in her eyes.
Thomas took the bandage from her. “Do ye know what to put on it so ‘twill nae infect?”
He lay the cloth to the burn.
She hissed in a quick breath. “What we use at home can be found here.”
He set to winding the rag. Each time he added another layer to the palm she flinched.
“What about the pain?”
She whimpered. “Nothing eases the pain.”
He swallowed the stone in his throat. He lowered her hand to her lap.
She wedged her hip forward. Her foot reached for the ground. Her dangling leg rubbed his inner thighs. He grit his teeth. She slipped from the table and fell against him.
He grappled for her waist. His fingers fired hot.
Her face lifted. Her lips parted.
A Dhia! Given a little stoking, his hands could consume them both.
But he could nae do so. He had been weak that day in the lupine field. He would not be so again.
He dropped his hold and stepped back. “I am sorry, Lass.”
“So am I.” She flung herself around and fled out the door.
He could do nothing but let her go.
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ELIZABETH STUMBLED from the shed. Garden pickets to her left spun past. Her lungs heaved in a desperate quest for air.
What was he sorry for? The near kiss? Her injuries? His leaving in the next few days?
She was sorry for all of it. For him finding her at Fearnought Farms. For her agreeing to come back to Baltimore Town.
For allowing him into her heart because she could not think with her head.
She reached the back corner of the cottage. Her path was blocked. She slowed and lifted her gaze.
Monsieur Mackintosh.
Her stomach crashed to her feet. She looked over her shoulder. Thomas stood in the doorway of the herb house. She half expected him to come after her. He was not known to take no for an answer.
“Ye dinna have that hand bandaged when I saw ye three days past.”
She turned back. Near the stage, Matthew Hardwin smiled and nodded at her. The irritation strained her nerves.
“Is it a cut? Is one of your fingers damaged?”
She told Mac the same story she told Thomas. Nothing more and nothing less.
“Ye were punished for sharing the herbs with the Neutrals. If things get too hard here, ye can send for me.”
“The only help you could offer you will not see fit to do.”
His mouth flattened. His eyes shrank to dark points.
Elizabeth jumped into the grass and stomped around him.
She had spent far too much time trying to understand Thomas. Just now, he had nearly kissed her again, but just as something raw and deep had ignited inside her, he had let her go. How many times had he done so? And why, each time, did she feel abandoned all over again?
She swerved back to the brick pavement. She was certain Miller Mackintosh speared her back with his dark, forbidding eyes. He was dangerous for entirely different reasons. He seemed upset she had been injured, but he still refused to do the very thing that would help her. Was it his loyalty to Thomas? And what did that have to do with her?
She stopped at the front corner of the cottage. Matthew smiled.
Her stomach tightened. He was dangerous as well. ‘Twas as if he had stones in his head, and his display of unsought chivalry frightened her. She could not allow him to make any more advances. She may well be abandoned by a man she loved and another she despised, but she would trade neither of them for Hardwin.
She was better off alone.
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THOMAS TURNED THE CORNER of the cottage. Elizabeth walked toward Matthew Hardwin.
He had let her leave, but having her go towards Hardwin was not part of the bargain. His nerves fired hot.
Mac grabbed his arm. “Let her be.”
“She is being hurt. I can feel it. And Hardwin is not helping.” Indeed, it seemed as if she was warming to the boy. Thomas rounded on Mac. “And why will ye no help her? Ye would never have to see her if she was with my mother.”
“If ye would quit being so stubborn and stay here and let William and I help ye take on Iron Gun’s warriors at the farm if they engaged us, ye could get through this and mayhap find your way back to her.”
“I thought ye dinna like her?”
“I dinna at first. She was awfully whiny.”
“She was ill.”
“Ye doted on her too much.”
Thomas frowned.
“And I was certain she would nae survive here.”
“And now?”
Mac shot a fiery gaze at the lass’s back. “Oh, she will survive alright. She may cry a lot, but she has a spine of iron.” He sighed. “And she has been good to Sarah.”
“And ye still will nae offer her a job and a home?”
“If ye will stay and fight, then I will do so.”
Thomas turned back to the yard. Hardwin put his hand to the small of her back and steered her toward the tavern.
His innards unwound. “I canna risk the lives of the others.” He looked at Mac. “Or yers.” He could certainly not risk Elizabeth’s.
“’Tis what I thought,” Mac grumbled. “Come on. ‘Tis nearly time for the Run for the Bottle. ‘Twas what I came to get ye for.”
“I am not in a racing mood.” He needed to be alone to think. “Get someone to take my place.”
“Now come on, Tom. If ye dinna race, tongues will wag.”
“And if I win? Who will I give the wreath to?”
“Mama? Hannah?” Mac shrugged. “Even Issy would be pleased. And really, I dinna think ye wish to tell William ye are no riding.”
Nae, he did not. ‘Twas bad enough he and his brother were still at odds over so many things.
“Fine,” he spat. “I will race.”
But first, he would swig down some cider. ‘Twas a poor substitute for spirits, but it would have to do.
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ALEX WEST STOOD ON the steps of the outdoor stage. “And now folks, it is time to Run for the Bottle!”
The crowd roared. Children jumped up and down. Women fanned themselves. Men waved their hats.
A thousand ants may as well have been crawling across Thomas’ gut.
West bounced his hands. The crowd quieted.
“Normally, as you all know, the race is run about a mile from the bride’s house, but owing to the fact that my future son-in-law is staying north of town, and the fact the best most dastardly course is east of us, it was decided to run the race from here.”
The applause lifted again. Again, West silenced them.
“The bottle of spirits is hanging on Old Sassenach.” He lifted his right hand outward to point to an oak that was inside the fence but branched into the road. “The gentleman that takes the bottle will claim the wreath.” He swung his arm back. Hannah lifted a small circlet of flowers above her head. Blue ribbons, from the back of the wreath, buffeted her face. She swiped them aside and laughed. The crowd cheered.
The memories flooded Thomas.
His fingers scrappling the tree trunk for the bottle. His hands placing the wreath atop Catharine’s head. The daisy working loose from the wreath and falling to her breasts. Thomas plucking it up and tucking it behind her ear.
He had kissed her, and then he had waited impatiently as the others had done so in turn, all of them chastely on the cheek for they were too afraid of Thomas McQueen, and he had clearly, long before his win, claimed the lass as his own.
“Thomas!”
He swiveled his head to Mac.
“Are ye ready?”
He nodded.
“Then go, man. Get on your horse.”
Thomas lifted his gaze to see that most of the other eight or so men were already the other side of the gate and nearly to their mounts.
He turned back to the stage. Elizabeth stood beside Hannah. They were doing something with a basket on a small table.
Thomas knelt beside Fingal. He grabbed the dog’s head and whispered into his ear. “Cu, Ealasaid, siuthad.”
The dog barked, then dodged through the crowd and raced up the steps and toward her. Elizabeth smiled. She tickled the dog’s jowls. She reared backward from the dog’s tongue.
Thomas turned and made his way through the gate. He mounted Dominic and eased him to the starting point.
Already in line were Stout Billy John Taylor and gangly Malcolm Morris. Thomas had beaten them both. A third man could hardly hold his mount.
The others he bothered not to look at. He could take them all on even if they took a good head start. After all, he had never lost a Run for the Bottle. Not here. Not anywhere.
He filled the last space on the end by the fencing.
Ach! He was right next to Hardwin. The boy seemed to pay Thomas no mind, but lifted his hat upward and grinned. Thomas followed the man’s gaze.
Elizabeth’s lips pinched tight.
What game was she playing? He could have sworn earlier she had sought the boy after their fiery encounter in the herb house. Now, was she rebuffing him? And why did Hardwin seem not to notice?
Her gaze slipped sideways to Thomas. She quickly turned from him and back to Hannah.
How he wished he was free to give her the wreath, for winning it would be easy.
But I have to leave tomorrow.
If he did not, he would do something rash. And he had a life to end and more to save.
Alex West stepped before the line and pointed the rifle upward.
Thomas leaned over Dominic’s neck. “We are not racing to win old boy, for I shall never again grace a wreath on a woman’s head.”
Alex shouted the words. “On your mark, get set—”