Emeline walked through a field of wildflowers shining in the noonday sun—marigolds, asters, and daisies, a symphony of purples, yellows, and reds. A light breeze danced through their petals as she twirled among them, enjoying the beauty and the warm sun. Birds warbled a melodious tune, frogs croaked near a distant creek that gurgled and slushed on its way. She knelt to smell a flower. How had she come to be here? She felt such peace, such freedom! She never wanted it to end.
Then the sky blotched with gray as if the Creator dabbed a paintbrush over it, blocking out the cerulean blue and casting a dismal gloom over the scene.
Stomp, stomp, stomp … stomp, stomp, stomp! The rhythmic sound of marching thundered across the field. Flowers shook, birds went silent. Emeline stared toward the edge of the forest where a line of redcoats emerged from the green leaves like tentacles of a giant squid bursting from its cave. Before them, riding a horse, was Sergeant Herod, his malevolent gaze leveled upon her.
Lightning cracked the sky from east to west, splitting the earth in two.
Emeline spun, gathered her skirts, and sprinted across the field.
Maniacal laughter followed her, pushing her onward through pines and elms. She leapt over a creek, across a muddy clearing, terror rushing like madmen through her veins.
The stomp, stomp grew louder and louder, the laughter closer and closer.
She came upon the cabin, rushed through the door, closed it, and slammed the wooden bar across it, then backed away.
The stomping halted. Had they left? Silence was more frightening than noise. Slowly, she approached the window, trying not to make a sound. She peered out.
Lieutenant Dimsmore’s face leapt into view on the other side of the glass, his grin evil, his eyes crazed. “You’ll hang, missy. You’ll hang as the traitor you are!”
She screamed and stumbled backward, tripped over a chair, and fell to the wooden floor.
Flames engulfed the house, hungry flames licking the wooden walls and creeping over the floor.
The muzzle of a cannon broke through the front window, shattering the glass.
Boom!
Emeline leapt from her chair. Her heart pounded. Her breath heaved. She shoved a hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking. Too late.
Owen was by her side within seconds. Against her will, thick arms encased her, pressing her against his chest.
“Only thunder, Emeline … only thunder.”
She thought to push from him, but in truth, it felt far too good in his arms. Not frightening or restrictive like she’d always thought it would feel trapped next to a man, but safe, comfortable, exciting.
Raindrops pattered the roof. Wind whistled past the walls. The coals in the hearth sizzled.
The beat of Owen’s heart through his waistcoat settled her nerves.
He rubbed her back, tangling his fingers in her loosened hair.
“Ouch.” She half laughed and backed from him, grabbing the wayward locks.
“Forgive me.” He smiled and looked down. “I suppose I need practice in comforting women.”
“Glad to hear it.” La, had she just said that? Proper ladies didn’t speak so boldly to men.
He led her to sit in the chair beside the bed and then knelt before her. Light from the fire flickered across his dark eyes as he looked at her with such admiration it set her aback. Who was this man, this enemy who seemed to despise her one minute and make her feel like a princess the next?
A day’s stubble roughened his jaw, and for some strange reason she longed to run her fingers over the coarseness. Dark hair grazed his broad shoulders, still damp from the storm. They sat looking at each other far too long for propriety’s sake—as if they were communicating in any way but words.
Ashamed, Emeline broke the spell between them and glanced at Mr. Oakes lying on the bed, looking so pale, his breath labored.
“You did all you could,” Owen said.
“I hardly did anything.” The poor man had been beaten near to death and then, from the looks of his back, dragged over rough terrain, probably by a horse. Emeline didn’t want to ask his wife the details.
“All I could do was clean his wounds, stitch him up, and give him some laudanum for the pain. But I fear he already has an infection. His fever is rising.”
Owen sat on the side of the bed and stared at the man with more sympathy than Emeline would have expected.
“You disapprove of preachers?” she asked, throwing propriety to the wind yet again with this intriguing man.
He jerked his gaze up to hers. “What makes you say that?”
“I saw your reaction when Mrs. Oakes mentioned her husband’s profession.”
His lips flattened, and his gaze wandered back to the man.
Thunder rumbled the cabin walls, joining the snoring coming from Dimsmore as he lay before the fire, fast asleep. Poor Mrs. Oakes and both her children were snuggled up together on a quilt in a corner beyond the hearth. Thank God she was able to finally sleep. Mr. Ryne was no doubt outside on watch.
Aside from the hearth that took up an entire wall, there was a table and chairs, a wooden cabinet filled with now-broken dishes, a bench, and the bed Mr. Oakes lay upon. Shelves along the wall and in the cabinet loomed empty. Areas in the room sat vacant where furniture must have been. The British had left a few pots, pans, and other cooking utensils, a clock, a mirror, and some clothing hung on hooks. But they had stripped this family of everything else. Emeline had difficulty quelling her anger. Though she kept repenting of it, it kept rising with more fury like a persistent storm. Like the one now blaring outside.
“My father was a preacher.” Owen’s deep voice drew her gaze back to him.
Emeline kept silent, waiting for him to continue, but he seemed lost in his thoughts.
“That was a bad thing?” she finally asked.
“Only if you were his son … or his wife,” he added bitterly. “There were always so many rules, and I never seemed to be able to keep them.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “God’s rules must be followed, Miss Baratt.” His tone was cynical. “Or His wrath will be poured upon you and you will burn in hellfire.”
Emeline bit her lip. “How terrifying for a child to hear such a thing.”
“It was. And no matter how hard I tried to be good, I guess, well, let’s just say it wasn’t in my nature.”
She smiled. “I don’t think it’s in any of our natures, for I certainly haven’t been.”
His brows shot up. “You? Not good? Miss Rule-follower?” He teased.
She wouldn’t tell him that she often failed at following those rules. “What happened to your father? Is he still in Portsmouth?”
The fire crackled. Dimsmore’s snores increased. And Owen rubbed his eyes. “He left us when I was ten. Ran off with some trollop from what we heard.”
Emeline drew back, stifling her gasp.
Owen scratched his stubble. “Hypocrite down to his bones, he was. Left me and my mother without a penny in the till.”
No wonder the man wanted naught to do with God and especially with His rules. “What did you do?”
“My uncle took us in, cared for us, loved us. My mother still lives with him.”
“How on earth did you end up in the Royal Navy?”
He chuckled, and the sound of it settled on her like a soothing blanket. “I was nothing but trouble to my poor mother. My uncle was away often on business, and I fear I was a rather disobedient son, always getting into some kind of trouble or another. My mother had family in England with the right connections, and they got me a commission as midshipman when I was seventeen.”
Emeline blew out a sigh. “What a difficult change that must have been for you.”
“Indeed.” He ran a thumb down his scar, started to say something, but then stopped.
Fascinating man. He’d spent so many years with the British being pruned from a rebellious youth to an obedient officer. It was no wonder his loyalties remained with them. How could she blame him for that?
Still, he was her enemy. No matter how much she was beginning to feel for him. Fie! Insanity! Just more proof she needed to curb her wayward emotions. For they always led her into trouble.
“Tell me some of your boyhood antics.” She thought to lighten the mood.
He shook his head. “No deal, Miss … I mean, Emeline. It would only disparage your already low opinion of me.”
I doubt it, she wanted to say, but instead she said nothing.
He stared at her hands, seeming to want to take them in his. She held her breath. He started to reach for them but pulled back and rubbed his chin.
Dawn turned the black to gray outside the window. Mr. Oakes groaned, and Emeline placed her hand atop his forehead. “Dear God, help us! He’s burning with fever.”
“I’m not leaving this woman to watch her husband—” Emeline slammed her mouth shut and raised defiant brows toward Dimsmore.
Owen had been unable to take his eyes off her, ever since she’d stepped from the cabin onto the front porch, three-year-old Abigail in her arms. The little girl had crawled into Emeline’s lap soon after they’d broken their fast with hardtack and had yet to relinquish her hold. Now, the wee one laid her head on Em’s shoulder, her light curls a near match for the color of Emeline’s own hair.
For some reason the sight warmed Owen to his core.
That warmth instantly dissipated when he saw Dimsmore’s scowl. “We didn’t come ashore to nursemaid the en—farmers,” he seethed through his teeth, keeping his voice low, while his fiery gaze shot to Owen. “Surely you don’t agree with her. We have a mission to perform and a captain awaiting our return.”
Owen glanced over the farm. Raindrops as thick as honey continued to pound the ground that was naught but a muddy pond wherever he looked. Thick clouds rumbled overhead, dark and so low, it seemed one could reach up and touch them. Daylight revealed the total devastation the British raid had perpetrated on this poor family. Farm implements lay broken and strewn over the yard. Hay spread in the mud, fences destroyed, crops burned. So much of it done out of sheer cruelty rather than just taking plunder. It was getting increasingly difficult to keep the rage from making an appearance on his face—or in his voice.
“We can hardly travel in this storm, Dimsmore,” Owen finally said. “It will not only slow our progress considerably, but we will risk becoming ill in the process. I’m in command here, and I say we wait out the storm for another day.”
“Good,” Emeline said. “It’s settled then. While we are here, we should provide food for this poor family.” She gazed over the sodden farm. “Perhaps catch a chicken or two or one of those pigs. Mr. Ryne,” she addressed the marine who sat on a bench, his hat over his eyes.
He nudged it up just far enough so she could see his annoyed gaze.
“I recall Lieu—Luther here, my dear brother”—she smiled sweetly at Dimsmore—“telling me you were raised on a farm. Do you know how to catch a chicken or pig, sir? We could use your help.”
The marine looked at Dimsmore, disgust shadowing his plain features.
“Order him to comply,” Owen commanded. “We have to eat while we are here, don’t we?”
Emeline brushed a lock of hair from the little girl’s face. “And I shall find some yarrow to help bring down Mr. Oakes’s fever. In addition, we should fetch dry wood for the fire and leave a stack behind when we’re gone.”
“Miss Baratt …”—Dimsmore held his temper with difficulty—“as lovely as you are, I cannot tolerate this kindness toward our enemy.”
She cocked her head, green eyes flaring. “I fear you must, Luther, for as long as we are here, I intend to help them as much as possible.”
Braver men had not stood up to Dimsmore with as much pluck as this little lady. Her green eyes sharp, her chin steel, not a tremble to be found in either her voice or stance. Poor Dimsmore seemed out of sorts, and Owen had to suppress a chuckle.
“You realize these actions make me question where your loyalties lie, Emeline. Suppose there’s a woman with child and a sick husband at the enemy headquarters when you go to gather information. Will you suddenly tell them everything you know about our plans?”
“I know naught of your plans, Luther, nor do I wish to.” She flattened her lips and hoisted the girl a little higher.
“Nap off, Dimsmore,” Owen said. “The captain has already deemed her loyal. Kindness toward others, enemy or not, does not preclude loyalty to one’s country.”
Dimsmore’s lips curled as his insolent gaze shifted between Owen and Emeline. “Have a care, Lieutenant; your rank means nothing if you are a traitor. If Captain Blackwell knew how you coddled up to the enemy, tsk-tsk-tsk”—he shook his head then pointed a finger at them—“I will keep an eye on you two rebel lovers.”
“You do that, Luther.” Owen growled inwardly. “For now, we need food and firewood. See to it.”
Dimsmore snapped at Mr. Ryne and the marine leapt to his feet, grabbed his musket, and plunged into the rain.
Emeline stared after him and rocked the girl back and forth. “Rain or not, I must locate some yarrow root.”
The young lad Amos slipped out the front door, musket nearly as tall as he was in hand. “I’ll go with you.”
“Too dangerous,” Owen said.
The little girl whimpered in her sleep, and Emeline rubbed her back, shushing her gently.
“I’m the man of the house now, Mr. Masters, and I don’t answer to you. ‘Sides, I know where some yarrow root is.”
Owen glanced through the door the lad had left slightly open. Mrs. Oakes sat at her husband’s bedside reading to him from a book. “Is it all right with your mother?”
Emeline brushed past them. “I’ll check with her.” The lad followed.
Owen watched her place the child gently on a blanket by the hearth before she approached Mrs. Oakes, where Amos was already pleading with his mother.
Owen felt Dimsmore’s stare on him and faced his nemesis. “I know you don’t like me, Dimsmore. But don’t allow your personal sentiments to cloud your judgment. We are all on the same side here.”
“Are we?” Dimsmore huffed just as Emeline appeared, the lad at her side.
“Is there no cloak inside to cover yourself with?” Owen asked the boy.
He shook his head. “They took everything.”
“Then we’ll have to be quick about it. Come, lad, show us where this yarrow root is.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy grinned.
Hence, the lady who never ceased to amaze him, amazed Owen even still by tromping ankle deep in mud in the pouring rain through sodden forest and puddle-strewn fields. The boy led the way, as brave as any soldier Owen had met. When Owen was the same age as this boy, his father had abandoned him, and thus had begun Owen’s rebellion against all godliness and responsibility. Yet this lad had suffered even more, and he bore it with an honor and dignity Owen had yet to master.
“Over here!” the boy yelled above the rain as he gestured for them to follow him to the edge of a field. Emeline moved as quick as she could in her saturated skirts to the place where the boy stopped.
“There used to be some here.” The boy scratched his wet hair.
Sounds that didn’t belong sent alarm skittering down Owen’s back.
“Oh, here it is,” he heard Emeline say before she headed into the brush.
Instincts took over. Owen grabbed the lad, covered his mouth with his hand, and shoved his body against Emeline as gently as he could. Enough, however, to push her into a thicket. She stumbled in the mud, caught herself on a tree trunk, turned, no doubt, to chastise him, but then saw his face. Thank God, the woman was smart enough to keep silent. He stooped and gestured for her to do the same. The boy wiggled in his arms.
“Quiet. Be still.” He removed his hand from the lad’s mouth. The boy obeyed. The three of them crouched among the dripping shrubbery, their breaths mingling in the air between them.
Redcoats penetrated the forest like blood on a green blanket.
Owen could feel the lad tense in his arms. “Shh now, shh.”
Twenty men traversed the field they’d just been in. Not many, but enough that Owen wouldn’t be able to protect them.
Tromp, tromp, tromp. Splat, splat.
One of them coughed.
Tromp, tromp, tromp. Splat, splat.
They were nearly past …
Owen dared to let out his breath.
When the last man glanced their way.