| |
Nothing is so strong as gentleness: nothing so gentle as real strength.
— St. Francis de Sales
The man driving the carriage appeared to take no notice of Sophia, but nodded at Briggs as helped her into her seat. “Have a safe journey, my love. I'll see you soon.” Major Briggs smiled mockingly as he began to close the door, but Sophia stopped him. “You will not harm him,” she said as unemotionally as she could. “You gave your word you would release him.”
“Of course my dear.” The grin he shot her made her cringe. “He will be released once we are wed. Now hurry on to Kensington and prepare for me. I’ll be along shortly.”
He started to close the door, but she grabbed his hand. “You realize I am asking a polite favor,” she said, forcing a smile, “not making a demand.”
Briggs seemed surprised at her sudden kindness and patted her hand as if she were a child. “No need to worry, darling.”
As soon as the door clicked shut, the driver rapped the reins on the horses’ backs and they were off. Sophia sat back in the seat and closed her eyes, but could not relax. Never had twenty-four hours stretched out before her in a span that seemed so immeasurable and unending.
She would be married within a day to a man she despised. Her life would never be the same. And yet she could take some consolation in the fact that no matter what became of her, she had spared the life of Colonel Grant Morgan.
Sophia breathed slowly and not very deeply against the pressing ache in her chest. When her hand grew numb to the fingertips, she realized she was gripping the side of the carriage as it lurched over the rutty road. She heard the faint sound of a dog barking nearby, but it soon faded away, leaving nothing but the clatter of the horses as they trotted methodically down the rough and uneven road.
It seemed they had only just begun their journey when the carriage slowed down and then came to a complete stop. Knowing they could not possibly be at their destination, Sophia opened the door and saw the faint outline of people milling about. A murmuring of many voices, sounding to her like a beehive, arose from the darkness. Along a row of trees stood the dark shadows of dozens of men and horses.
“Why have we stopped?” she demanded of the driver.
“I’m resting the horses,” he answered gruffly.
Sophia’s heart dropped. “But we are not yet at Kensington Hall!” She sounded anxious and shrill even to her own ears. “We must keep going!” Her only thought was what the delay might mean for Colonel Morgan.
“I’m just following orders, miss.” The man seemed completely indifferent to her concern as he casually tied off the reins.
“Whose orders?” she screamed as pure terror and panic seized her.
“My orders, Miss Adair.”
Sophia whirled around and watched Colonel Morgan striding toward her with the calm, confident look of a steadfast soldier. Walking tall and erect with martial bearing, he had a monstrous-looking long rifle in each hand, a hatchet dangling from a belt on his waist, and a grim smile upon his face. She had never laid eyes upon a more physically imposing man, and found herself revering and fearing him in equal measure.
“My apologies for the lack of ceremony,” he said, stopping in front of her. “I’ve not had a lot of practice rescuing damsels in distress.” He paused and studied her a moment. “Remember?”
He seemed to be trying to make a joke about a conversation they had upon their first meeting, but Sophia stood trying to decide if she were asleep or awake, dead or alive. She looked back over her shoulder from where they had come, toward where she had last seen him, and then back again, thinking he would surely disappear in that space of time. Yet he still stood there, staring at her now with a look of impatient concern. “But how—”
“I took a shortcut,” he said matter-of-factly now. “I’ll explain later.”
The commanding attitude assumed by Morgan and the authoritative tone of his voice, did not fail in their effect on Sophia. She removed her gaze from him and began to take in her surroundings. A few candles cast a dim light from what appeared to be a small, stone church, but outside all was dark. Moonlight revealed only the dusky moving forms of men hard at work, their stern faces and rifle barrels gleaming eerily in the subdued light. From the corner of her eye she saw the driver of the carriage taking off the red coat he wore and dashing it to the ground as if it were repugnant to him.
“We’re going to make a stand here if they come.” Colonel Morgan’s voice fell again upon her ears, sounding as reassuring and calm as if he were telling her the menu for dinner. She stared incredulously as she beheld the potent aura of the man—a vibrant power that captivated her as much as overwhelmed her. It seemed that whether in repose or in action, his eyes were lit with fire, his bearing always personifying a man carried away by duty.
“If they come?” Sophia felt like she was in a trance, unable to speak or think, but merely repeat his words. How could he stand there so solitary and strong in the midst of all this chaos?
“When they come,” he said, correcting himself while gazing at her with a look of calm authority. He raised his eyes to stare musingly at the road behind her. “I fear we shall not long be idle here.”
“But... you can’t. I mean, they’re after me.” Sophia knew Morgan did not have enough men to defend against what the British could bring to fight him. A shiver ran down her spine as she realized he probably had very little time to regroup and certainly no place to hide. To advance was unthinkable, to attempt to retrace their steps without encountering their foe, impossible. Disaster was approaching, inevitably and soon.
Her gaze drifted back to the church, to the men hard at work fortifying their positions. They toiled steadily, and by no means leisurely, in preparation for what was to come. When she returned her attention to Morgan and studied his face, it seemed to say what words could not. There would be no quarter for either of them—or any of them. They wouldn’t be fighting to hold ground, but to survive. Safety lay in victory alone.
“They’ll have to walk over my dead body to touch you.” He no longer sounded jovial, yet neither did he sound troubled. He seemed calm and collected, as if facing death was nothing out of the ordinary for him.
She knew he had every reason to be exhausted, yet he did not appear conscious of the slightest need for rest. She recognized within him a steadiness, a shielding comfort, and the imposing force of command.
Something inside Sophia thumped violently, nearly choking her, as if a lighted match that had lain dormant in her heart had at last sparked something in her soul. It flickered and flared, leaving in its wake a reassuring feeling of peaceful certainty.
“Can you shoot one of these?” Morgan said in his next breath, holding up one of the guns. “Or load one? I’ll teach you.”
Such a question, following after such things as she had endured, was too much for Sophia’s nerves. Morgan took another step toward her, but his figure began to dissolve before her eyes, appearing like a vapor with no beginning and no end.
“Sophia, look at me,” he ordered, his voice no longer calm. She saw him drop the guns and reach for her, and was surprised and comforted by both his strength and speed. “Don’t—”
That was the last thing Sophia remembered before a huge wave of disbelief—and relief—washed over her and swept her away.
