A Familiar Menace
"You're not going to hurt my mama again!" Joshua's small hands trembled as he aimed the heavy flintlock pistol at his uncle. "I'll kill you if you do," he said. Tears ran down the child's flushed cheeks, but his wide gray eyes held the glint of polished steel.
"Joshua!" Sarah cried.
"You little bastard." Isaac lunged bearlike toward the boy and then froze as the child used one hand to force back the hammer of the old-fashioned flintlock. The ominous click of the pistol brought a hushed silence to the tavern as Isaac's bulging Adam's apple quivered and his mouth hung open in stunned amazement.
"Joshua." Sarah's voice was strained. "Put the gun down." Slowly, she took a step in her son's direction. "It's all right," she soothed. "Just lay the pistol on the floor."
The boy shook his head stubbornly. "No." The barrel of the flintlock wavered slightly. "Uncle Isaac's a bad man. He hurt you."
Isaac's growl was more animal-like than human. "Drop it," he warned. "I'll whip the tar out'a you."
A man coughed and Joshua flinched. The boy's breath came in heaving sobs as the tears flowed harder. "Not . . . not if . . . I pull this . . . trigger you won't. You . . . you won't hurt my mama . . . and . . . and you won't hit me no more."
Sarah's breath lodged in her throat as Joshua's words registered. Time seemed to stop, and one by one her senses became acutely aware of the smell of spilled ale and men's sweaty bodies, the metallic taste of fear in her mouth, and the feel of the baking August heat against her skin. Sarah's legs seemed to be made of lead as she willed them to move . . . forced herself to take one step at a time toward Joshua. Her mouth was dry; her tongue felt swollen twice its size. "Don't be afraid," she whispered hoarsely. "Put the gun down." Her vision blurred with moisture, distorting her son's small, frightened face. "Joshua . . . please."
In the blink of an eye, Forest's solid form appeared in the doorway behind the child. In a single fluid movement, the man's strong arms closed about Joshua and his steady hands took possession of the deadly pistol. Before Sarah could draw a breath, Joshua flung himself against her and clung to her skirts, sobbing. Forest planted himself, legs apart and shoulders squared, between them and Isaac.
"Give me that little bastard!" Isaac roared. "I'll—"
"Damn fool kid," Forest agreed, dangling the pistol carelessly in front of him. His finger remained locked on the trigger, and the muzzle hovered alarmingly close to Isaac's crotch. "I'd take thet young'n t' the barn and wale the dicken's out'a him, was I you, missus."
Sarah gathered Joshua in her arms, trying to still the tremors of his small body. He buried his face in her neck and continued to weep.
Forest shot a meaningful glance at Sarah. "Good whipping is what he needs fer certain," he repeated loudly. "Needs to show respect fer his elders. Leather quirt hanging in the tack room, Miz Sarah. I kin thrash him fer ye if ye want. A woman's hand is too soft fer raisin' young'ns, my pa always said."
"No." Sarah's eyes caught the gleam of mischief in Forest's. "I'll do it. He's my boy, and I'll learn him his manners." She moved toward the kitchen door with Joshua. "Tend to these gentlemen, Abe."
"By damn—" Isaac began. The flintlock brushed the cloth of his stained durant breeches, and Isaac snatched the gun from Forest's hand. "This is Obediah's pistol," Isaac snapped. "Didn't he take this pistol with him when he went north to fight the rebels?"
Sarah stopped with her hand on the door. "No!"
"No, hell! It's Obediah's pistol all right," Isaac insisted. "See this crack in the butt?" He scowled. "How did the brat get hold of it?"
"Of course it's Obediah's gun," Sarah said, stalling. "But . . . " Her mind raced frantically for a believable lie. "He—"
"Sometimes they gives out regulation muskets, so I hear tell," Forest interjected. "Maybe Master Turner figured t' get a new pistol, too."
Sarah rushed to agree. "That's what he told me. He said this flintlock had misfired on him too many times. I might as well keep this one here at the inn. Josh must have seen where I kept the gun hid in the flour barrel." She gave the boy a shake. "I'll teach you to touch what's not yours," she threatened harshly as she hurried him from the room.
Forest grinned disarmingly. "You gen'l'men will be wantin' somethin' to quench yer thirst. I'll fetch thet brew from the kitchen."
"You're damn right ye will," Isaac threatened.
"Ye look like ye could use something stronger than ale." Reynolds guffawed and slapped the table in unconcealed glee. "Yer face was white as a two-day corpse when thet kid had the pistol pointed at yer gut, Isaac." The others joined in his laughter.
"God rot your greedy bowels!" Isaac slammed the pistol down. "If Sary doesn't stripe the little bastard like a skunk, I will."
Forest scooped the flintlock off the table and ducked back into the kitchen. From outside, he could hear the sounds of Joshua screaming, and he grinned, thinking, I'll bet the profits of an island's run with my new schooner that she isn't within arm's length of the boy with that quirt.
Quickly, he set about filling clean jacks with ale. There was silence from the backyard, and then he heard Sarah's footsteps on the porch. "Give that young'n a proper hiding?" he asked innocently.
Sarah set her lips in a hard line and nodded.
"Taught him a good lesson?"
"Yes," she lied softly.
"Hope ye told him to make hisself scarce 'round here."
"I sent him to Martha's." Sarah laid a hand on Forest's forearm. "Thank you," she whispered. "For what you did in there. I . . . "
"No need to carry on, Miz Turner." He winked at her and motioned with his head toward the public room. "Ye know I got a soft spot fer Josh. I couldn't let nothin' happen to the boy."
Sarah's chin quivered and she bit her bottom lip. "It was wrong of him to take the gun."
"I know Josh. He wouldn't have done it without good reason. Whatever Isaac did, I'll try and make certain he doesn't do it again."
"No." Sarah shook her head. "Stay clear of him, Forest. I can handle Isaac; I always have."
"Maybe so, but you couldn't have been doing too good a job managing him or that boy wouldn't have felt the need to take on a man's job."
Sarah felt her face flush. "You listen to me, or you'll be sorry. Isaac is a dangerous man."
"Ale, damn it!" a male voice roared from beyond the door. "Do we have to come out there and pour it ourselves?"
"Coming," Sarah replied. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the public room door.
For the next two hours Sarah and Forest were kept busy preparing and serving food and drink for Isaac and his men. Forest was able to catch only snatches of the Tories' conversation, but he was certain he heard the name Simon Gist and references to a hidden "fort" in the forest.
Evening came without any sign that Isaac intended to ride on. The men grew rowdier as they consumed all the wine Sarah set out and drained the bottom of the ale keg. Forest had just entered the public room with a platter of fried catfish when the hounds set up a wild baying at the dock. A few minutes later, three more hard-faced men sauntered into the tavern and were greeted by shouts of welcome from those already there.
"Geordie! Is it true?" Isaac shouted above the din. "Is the British fleet at Head of Elk?"
The stocky man seized a mug of cider from Sarah's tray. "Aye. I saw Howe's ships with my own eyes." He threw back his head and drank deeply, wiping the foam from his beard with a dirty sleeve.
"How many ships?" Reynolds asked.
"More'n you can count," replied another of the newcomers, a small, dark-complexioned man with protruding front teeth. "Have you no rum, woman?" the man complained. "This horse sweat's not fit for suckling babes."
"You heard the man, Sary," Isaac bellowed. "Bring us some of that Haitian rum you got hid back for fancy folk."
Sarah threw her brother-in-law a look of pure loathing. "It's gone, Isaac. You drank the last of it weeks ago."
"Lying' bitch," Isaac growled. "She plays this game with me all the time. Bring out the rum, Sary, afore we have to hunt for it."
Forest's shoulders tensed as white-hot anger surged through him. Unconsciously, his lean hands clenched an empty pewter mug until the handle twisted under the pressure. Shocked by his own display of emotion, which should have remained hidden, Forest stared down at the ruined mug in dismay.
Unaware of Forest's blunder, Sarah pushed a strand of hair away from her damp face and shrugged. "Hunt all you like. You'll find nothing unless you can make wine from water."
Against his will, Forest fixed his sympathetic gaze on Sarah. She was bone-weary; it showed in the tightness about her mouth and the dark shadows beneath her huge, expressive eyes. Sarah had cooked and fetched and carried for this ungrateful band of crude backwoodsmen for hours, and the only thanks she'd gotten were insults and curses.
Forest hid the damaged mug beneath the others he picked up off the table and forced himself to appear unconcerned, as he seethed within. Sarah might be the wife of an enemy of the cause—hell, she might be his enemy—but it went against his grain to see any woman treated so rudely. For now, he was powerless to do anything in her defense without breaking his cover, but he carefully studied the faces of the worst offenders, retaining every line of each man's face and mannerism of speech. Forest had a long memory. If and when the right time came, he would make certain Isaac Turner and his henchmen paid a high price for abusing a helpless female.
The thought that his concern for Sarah might be more personal crossed Forest's mind, and he pushed it ruthlessly away. He'd always been quick to come to the defense of women in trouble. Why, once he and his brother, Chad, had come across . . . Pain knifed through Forest's gut as it did whenever he remembered his brother. The hurt of Chad's death was too raw.
He drew in a deep, aching breath. Remembering Chad was what he needed. He must remember his brother and remember why and how he died. He could tolerate the pain . . . could learn to live with it. He had to.
Forest wiped an ale-soaked rag across the uneven table and grinned stupidly at the beaver-toothed man. "Seen the king's ships wit' yer own eyes, did ye?" he urged. "Must 'ave been a sight. How many of them redcoats do ye reckon there was?"
Hours later, Sarah stood in the kitchen doorway and listened with relief as the last of the horses galloped away down the dirt road. The men in the sloop had departed with the rest, taking the boat back downriver. Only she and Forest remained at King's Landing. When Forest offered to finish cleaning up the public room, Sarah had gratefully accepted. Daylight was only a few hours away, and if she didn't get some sleep soon, she'd fall flat on her face.
"What of the boy?" Forest asked, coming into the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes. "Shall I fetch him home from Martha's in the morning?"
"No!" Sarah's head snapped around. "No. I'll go for him. You stay clear of Martha Green's plantation." She wiped her face with her apron. "Martha's my friend, but she's a dyed-in-the-wool rebel. There's no one left on her place but Martha and her sixteen-year-old. Johnny was kicked in the head by a cow when he was Joshua's age, and he's not right. The boy's slow, but there's nothing wrong with his aim. Martha's rightfully nervous with all the raiding going on around here. She's told Johnny to shoot at the first sign of a stranger. If you want to keep breathing, you'll stay away from Martha's."
She crumpled her apron into a ball and dropped it onto the wooden bench. "You look like you could use some sleep yourself. Leave the ready'n' up until tomorrow."
Forest wrapped a pad of leather around the iron handle of a kettle of boiling water and carried the pot to the table. "I'll finish washing these mugs first and then use the water to clean up the tables. If I leave it, the inn will smell like a dockside tavern."
Sarah sighed, knowing the truth of what he said. She turned back to help, but Forest shook his head firmly and pointed toward the door.
"You're a woman of flesh and blood," he said. "Work yourself into a sickbed and where will that son of yours be?" He grinned. "You can trust me not to rob you blind in the night."
"Can I?"
"Aye. A scoundrel I may be, but I'm no thief." He ran a hand through his tousled auburn hair. "Besides, you've made it clear you keep no coin in the inn."
"All right," she agreed. Her back ached and she could hardly keep her eyelids open. Without waiting for Forest's reply, she turned and walked across the yard toward her cabin. She needed no candle to light her way; she knew every step by heart.
The pitch-black night was misty hot; no trace of moon showed through the clouds overhead. A mosquito droned around her head, but Sarah was too weary to slap at it. I'm getting as bad as an old woman, she thought. A stone turned beneath her bare foot, and she winced as it bruised her instep. She limped the last few paces to the door and fumbled for the latch.
Sarah wondered if she'd be able to sleep once she crawled into bed. Despite the fatigue of her body, her mind raced with tumbling, confused emotions. It was not just the terrifying incident with Joshua and the pistol that disturbed her; it was more than the visit of that pig Isaac and his foulmouthed cronies.
As frightening as Joshua's close call had been, Forest had prevented anyone from being hurt. Joshua was safe, and she doubted he would try such a fool stunt against his uncle again. Isaac believed the boy had been punished; he should be no more danger to Joshua than he had been since Obediah went away.
Sarah barred the door behind her and began to undress, too tired to bother with a candle. Tonight, she would wash in cold water. In the darkness, her fingers found the battered tin basin and her hairbrush.
Isaac had come and gone. Once more she had kept him at bay. She had accepted Isaac's taunts and arrogant demands without letting him push her into doing something foolhardy.
Isaac was a bully, a man with few redeeming features . . . a man who took pleasure in his control over her.
Sarah laughed wryly as she let down her hair. When had it ever been different for her at King's Landing? She hated Isaac as she had always hated her husband, Obediah, but she feared her brother-in-law more. In the years since Joshua was born, she had found ways to control Obediah, to put an end to his abuse, but Isaac was no puffed-up bully. Isaac was capable of carrying out his most dire threats.
"Joshua," she whispered into the blackest corner of the room, and her heartbeat quickened. "My Joshua."
She had done it all for Joshua. She would best Isaac as she had conquered Obediah in the end. Her husband could haunt her dreams as much as he liked, but if she held firm she could secure a safe home and a future for herself and her beloved son.
Last night she had awakened in the witching hours with the sound of Obediah's voice in her ears and the rank smell of his unwashed body in her nostrils. She had wept dry sobs into her pillow, stifling her sounds so as not to alarm Joshua. The dream had been so real that she had gotten up and lit a candle, examining her face in the cracked mirror . . . foolishly looking for fresh bruises.
Giving a snort of derision, Sarah finished her ablutions and made her way slowly toward her bed. Ghosts didn't frighten her; the pain she'd felt in this life had all been caused by living, breathing men.
She rubbed her cheek, reassuring herself that the bruises were no more. Obediah Turner had abused her when she was a frightened girl; he'd been no match for her once she became a determined woman. At times she'd suspected he might even have feared her.
Naked, she crawled between the clean, sweet-smelling sheets. Since she'd slept alone, she kept her spare sheets in a chest with tiny bags of dried spearmint. Her mother had always followed the practice; she'd said it kept a house free from disease. Obediah had hated the scent of mint and forbidden Sarah to use it. She smiled as she curled on her side, inhaling traces of the familiar herb.
Now that she was truly mistress of King's Landing, she did as she pleased.
Sarah closed her eyes and sighed. The tick under her was as soft as an angel cloud must be. There was no man to pull her roughly to his side of the bed and use her as carelessly as though she were a dumb object with no mind or soul. Nor would there ever be. She had fought too hard for her freedom.
The sound of a man's deep voice singing drifted through her open window. Forest! Instantly, Sarah's eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright.
. . . parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.
Remember me to one who went there . . .
Unconsciously, her lips moved, her words barely audible, as she continued the soulful lyrics of the old ballad.
. . . a good friend of mine.
Forest's parting words hung on the thick, ethereal mist.
. . . Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Fighting the unfamiliar desire that curled in the pit of her stomach, Sarah caught her breath and listened. Except for the hunting cry of a nighthawk, all was quiet. After what seemed like a long time, she began to breathe again. Bunching up her pillow, she lay back down and closed her eyes. They flew open at once, and she found herself staring into the darkness over her head.
Who was Forest, and why had he come to King's Landing? Was he a deserter, as he wanted her to think? Why had he helped her—not once, but repeatedly, even at the risk of his own life? What did he want from her? And worse . . . what did she want from him? What would be the price if she reached for it?