29

Cass watched Roxanna walk down the hill, shoulders stooped and steps slowed, as if he and not she had just refused an offer of marriage. Gut instinct told him to go after her, that his hold on her was solid enough she might give in if he asked a second time. But the sting of rejection was too strong, so he shoved sentiment aside and thought of how he’d erred in his asking and might have mounted a better offensive. Despite his best intentions, of not wanting to hurt her from the first, he’d created a double tragedy with his blatant confession and proposal. Her heated words chipped away at any hopes he had of their future together, however brief, and left him hollow, even a bit breathless.

You were wrong to ask, to presume I would forgive you—continue to love you. I don’t—and I never will.

So hopeful he’d been that she’d forgive him—accept him—that he’d told Hank to ready the ballroom and his best dress uniform. Best reverse that order, he thought ruefully, before Hank got to Bella and Bella got to the fort.

Entering through the back door, he heard Hank’s footfall upstairs, high on the third floor. “Hank!”

“Comin’, sir,” came the answering call.

Cass met him on the landing, removing his cross belts and handing them to Hank before unbuttoning his uniform coat. “Shut the ballroom down. There’s to be no celebration.” Though Cass had never said the word wedding, Hank had been hard at work ever since Cass left the stone house for the Sabbath service, clearly as confident as he. And now that it was off, he looked as crestfallen as Cass felt.

“You sure, sir?”

“Aye, as sure as the Redcoats are over that river.”

“I’m awful sorry, sir—’bout Miz Roxanna and them Redcoats.”

“You no doubt saw us in the orchard.”

Hank’s face crumpled in concern. “I surely did, though I didn’t aim to. I was airin’ out the ballroom and just happened to look down—”

“I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention it—not even to Bella.” His stern look reinforced the order.

“Guess a man’s got a right to keep his heartache to hisself,” Hank lamented.

Shrugging off his coat, Cass felt the damp linen of his shirt clinging to him in places. The day was too warm for wool, but ’twas his angst over her refusal that left him sweating, not the heat. “The course of true love ne’er did run smooth, so Shakespeare said.”

Hank hung his head. “You be wantin’ some whiskey, sir—or a bit o’ brandy?”

“Nay, spirits are a poor substitute for what I want.” With that, he passed into his room and shut the door, then in one glance wished he hadn’t. He’d walked into a bridal bower.

Flowers spilled out of vases about the room—clusters of redbud and white dogwood in full bloom, and hepatica looking like the sky turned upside down. Fresh linens graced the immense canopy bed, and his best uniform was waiting just as he’d asked. The scent of early summer was everywhere, and the joyous sunlight slanting through the open windows onto the clean plank floor seemed to make a mockery of his misery.

Passing a hand over his jaw, he pondered his next move, then went out and down the curving steps to the sanctuary of his study. Going to his writing desk, he took out a piece of paper and stub of pencil and began to empty his mind of the memory of her. He worked hard and fast as if doing so could expunge his need—a heavy stroke of dark hair here, the thoughtful brow and expressive eyes there, the full, kissable mouth, all contained within the graceful oval of her face.

Finishing, he reached into his breast pocket, removed the locket, and flicked it open. His own rendering was, vanity aside, the superior of the two. He’d captured her just as she’d been in the orchard half an hour before. Vulnerable. Broken. Heartrendingly lovely.

And amazingly resolute.

Leaning back in his chair, he expelled a ragged breath. For the first time in his military career, if not his life, he had no game plan, no counteroffensive. He was left to lick his wounds in private. Roxanna Rowan was proving a formidable opponent. He was more in love with her than ever. And more convinced he didn’t deserve her, or her forgiveness, even had she offered it.

Come Monday, Roxanna had composed herself enough to sit with her lap desk on her knees and write with a steady hand. As if Cassius Clayton McLinn had merely taken her into the orchard to admire the apple blossoms, not propose marriage. She kept her eyes down lest he see straight to her soul and, in his astute way, discover her conflicted feelings for him had only deepened in the ensuing hours, not dwindled. The fact that she’d lied to him—had used her hurt and anger like a weapon against him—stole her peace. His poignant words returned to her again and again, tearing at her heart.

Roxie, what do we have in this life—except each other?

Even now ’twas nearly more than she could bear. She’d considered telling him she could no longer serve as scrivener and thus escape to the kitchen, but he’d behaved so honorably in the face of rejection she couldn’t act dishonorably with him. He’d not been drinking, she knew. The lackluster look brought about by a binge was missing this morning, and she felt profound relief. He was sharp-eyed, terse, and almost unbearably in charge, while she was a quivering mess of contradictions.

Numbly she sat, the officers around her, Cass among them, listening as they discussed the latest reports out of the Ohio country. Despite her heartache, she felt at home in this room, lap desk before her, the scent of leather and smoke and tobacco like old, familiar friends. This was the pulse of frontier life, and she was a part of it. Fort Endeavor’s rise or fall depended on the efforts of everyone present, even she herself in her own small way, and she wanted it to survive if only for his sake.

As she sifted sand over wet ink, she stole a look at him. His arms were folded, his chin tilted toward his chest, eyes upon a detailed map of the middle ground spread across his desk. She wondered how he could stand there looking so nonchalant as if contemplating little more than a game of chess instead of the enemy across the river.

The scouts were speaking in low tones, but the news they brought was chilling. Redcoats were amassing in large numbers at the northern post commanded by Liam McLinn—and so were a great many Indians, not only Shawnee but Wyandot, Miami, and Delaware. Fort Endeavor’s reinforcements were en route from Virginia but still unaccounted for. There were also reports of some schism among the Shawnee—those septs who wanted war and those who pursued peace. Her head seemed to swim with all the details.

“Even if the promised reinforcements materialize, we’re outnumbered twenty to one,” Cass told them. “With so many Indian allies among the British, the war will be waged a far bloodier way. No Redcoat commander, not even Lucifer himself, will be able to keep them in check.”

Joram Herkimer nodded, face grim. “Recent reports of the British and Iroquois fighting the Americans in the east seem to bear that out.”

“I say it’s suicide to cross the river and meet them. They’ll mow us down,” Micajah murmured. “Surely—”

Cass silenced him with a look and gestured to the map spread on the desk. “So you advocate staying put and letting them destroy the settlements instead?”

Roxanna tensed as the next half hour escalated into something of a debate over strategy, Joram and Micajah eyeing one another with barely veiled hostility. It was clear the two men had no great liking for each other. When Cass stepped outside with the scouts, Micajah grabbed the lapel of Joram’s coat, tearing free a brass button. It rolled toward Roxanna and she bent to retrieve it. Before she could right herself, a sudden blow sent Joram reeling backward. He missed her but collided with her lap desk where it perched on a stool. Inkpots, quills, and sand scattered in all directions as an orderly rushed to her assistance.

No one heard Cass enter. They were too intent on Joram as he righted himself and charged Micajah like a wounded bull. Cass stepped into his path, blocking the blow, then took Micajah by his coat collar and propelled him toward the open door.

“Out!” he shouted. “Every man present!”

His voice ricocheted round the room like a spent musket ball and sent them all shamefaced and scrambling onto the parade ground. Only Roxanna remained, gathering up the wayward quills and pots the orderly had missed, watching the spilled ink bleed into the wood floor. Cass knelt beside her and made short work of the mess, but she could feel his anger override his calm of minutes before.

Afraid to say much of anything, she did manage, “I can clean it up, Ca—Colonel.”

“Cass—or Colonel?” He straightened to his full height, her forced politeness seeming to rile him further. “I will not play these games, ye ken. You’ll always be Roxie to me, not Miss Rowan. And I’m still in love with you—and wanting to make you my wife—and I’ll be hanged if I pretend otherwise.”

“Cass, please . . .” His candor made the heat crawl into her face, and she felt a fresh rush of tears.

“Have a seat,” he told her, jaw tight.

She obliged, taking the chair he offered, surprised when he took the one opposite and sat nearly knee to knee with her. She kept her eyes on his hands as he reached inside his coat and withdrew a letter.

Without preamble, he said, “I’m replacing you as scrivener.”

Her eyes fastened on his face, his words hammer-hard and hurtful. She heard herself say calmly, “That is your right.”

His gaze was like river rock, so cold it seemed he’d never been tender toward her. “A soldier’s daughter to the end, aye?”

She didn’t flinch. “What would you have me say? I’ll not beg to stay.”

He opened the letter. “Then perhaps you’ll be more agreeable to my second offer than my first.”

She realized then how much she’d hurt him by her refusal to marry him, and it softened her toward what he was about to say. Likewise, his voice lost some of its heat, and he leaned back in his chair and looked toward the doorway to make sure they were alone. “Soon after your father died, I dispatched a courier to Philadelphia. I have close friends there—devout Patriots by the name of Alexander and Ruth Hazen. They wrote me back straightaway, but I’ve only just received their reply.”

She took the letter from him, wonder unfolding inside her. Was this the answer to her prayer? The handwriting was a woman’s—light upon the page, as fragile looking as lace. Within the elegant prose was an invitation. The words were so heartwarming they hurt her. She scanned past the introduction to the poignant summons beneath.

Alexander and I lost a beloved daughter last year, and all the life and light in our house seems to have passed with her. It would be a privilege to have Roxanna come and stay with us for as long as she likes—for the war’s duration, perhaps permanently. We are saddened by hearing of her own loss. Perhaps we could be of some comfort, each to the other . . .

She stopped reading, the words a blur of black ink. He’d replaced her as scrivener. She had a chance to make a home elsewhere. The opportunity to escape this dangerous place was open to her as never before . . . and she felt nothing but a gaping emptiness.

Oh, Lord, is this what You have for me, then?

Eyes on the letter, she asked, “How would I get there?”

“A keelboat from Fort Pitt is due any day with a supply of guns and a replacement scrivener. The captain and crew will take you back upriver. ’Tis dangerous, but safer than staying here, ye ken.”

“You want me to go.”

“I want you out of harm’s way.”

“’Tis so . . . unexpected.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized their irony. She’d wanted to leave here the moment she learned of Papa’s passing, and now, mere months later, it seemed a punishment to do so. The realization left her reeling. “Thank you,” she murmured, folding up the letter and pocketing it.

Her mind—and heart—were already leaping ahead to Philadelphia, to a new life, albeit reluctantly. The blockhouse receded, and she envisioned elegant papered walls and a sitting room in the Hazens’ fine town house. Music. Books. Dancing. Sparkling conversation. Only she was still a spinster, filled with bitterness over what had befallen her here, her every thought of him . . .

“Roxie.”

The empty scene snapped shut, and she looked at him again, obviously unrepentant and bent on sending her away. But his tone was tender, and his eyes, such a startling, soul-arresting blue, held hers as only a man in love could do.

Could it be?

“’Tis best for the both of us, ye ken,” he said.

There was no denying this. Once apart, they could get on with their lives . . . forget. She’d go to Philadelphia and he’d return to Williamsburg, or Ireland perhaps, though he might well be hung as a traitor there. Truly, the Hazens’ invitation seemed a godsend. She’d think no more about his plans or the future he claimed he wouldn’t have.

He stood and his voice rolled over her, crisp in its finality. “I’ve no more need of you today. I have to discipline my men.”

She glanced down at the ink stains on the floor and felt it was her heart twisted and bleeding upon the pine planks instead. Setting her lap desk aside, she stood and forced herself to say, “Thank you for making the arrangements for me.”

Their eyes met and held, and then she looked away. For a few seconds she thought he might take back the letter and throw it into the fire. His expression was, for the briefest of seconds, besieged. She tried to translate that look and couldn’t, for it didn’t match the man she’d come to know. Certainly not the man in charge of the entire western frontier. Seeing him thus shook loose what little security was left in her ever-changing world.

In the golden half-light of dusk as she left the necessary, Roxanna felt someone shadowing her. Taking the lavender-scented handkerchief from her nose, she turned to see Graham Greer standing by the corral where the officers’ horses were milling restlessly. Cass’s Shawnee stallion snorted and blew as she passed, as if chastening her for the apple peelings she’d forgotten.

“Might I speak with you, Miss Rowan?”

“Hello, Private Greer.”

He removed his tricorn and held it over his heart. A charming gesture, she thought, even if he hadn’t meant it to be. They’d not spoken since the Sabbath service, though it seemed he was intent on doing just that in the fading light. When he hesitated, she was struck by a latent realization. Was he truly smitten?

Her own throat felt bone-dry, but she managed to say, “’Twas a fine Sabbath service—and well attended.”

“I’m afraid it’s to be my last.”

“Oh?” She felt a strange twist of regret. “Are you leaving?”

He smiled and offered his arm. “We’re leaving, Miss Rowan. Colonel McLinn assigned a guard to guide you to Philadelphia. I’m personally responsible for seeing you safely to the Hazens’ doorstep.”

Her steps nearly faltered. “He—what?”

“Half a dozen regulars received orders to that effect today. I have a letter of introduction right here.”

“Yes . . . of course.” Feeling caught off guard, she tried to summon good sense. Since learning of the Hazens’ invitation this morning, she’d been unable to push past her hurt to think of the particulars. Of course Cass would have assigned a guard—he’d not leave her unescorted with polemen of questionable character. “Thank you for telling me.”

They walked slowly past the sally port, moving under the deep eave of the commissary that afforded more privacy. She was barely aware of katydids croaking a throaty tune beyond the walls and bursts of laughter erupting from a near porch. A multitude of eyes followed them from every quarter. One thing she wouldn’t miss upon leaving Fort Endeavor was the utter lack of privacy.

“What will you do once you see me safely there?” she asked quietly.

“I was hoping you’d ask that.”

The conversation had taken an intimate turn. Graham’s gaze held hers in a way only a man with romantic notions would do, and she found herself studying him in a new way. His eyes—were they blue or brown? Why hadn’t she noticed how attractive he was? The answer sprang to mind in a heartbeat.

Because she’d been drowning in Cass McLinn.

“I’m thinking of staying on in Philadelphia for a fortnight before making my way back to Virginia,” he said.

“I heard you have a farm in Fairfax County.”

“Aye, on the main road near Thistleton Hall.”

Her heart did an absurd little dance. Home. “I know it well.”

“Mayhap this is too soon, but I’d be pleased to take you there.”

She paused, a bit lightheaded. Since Cass’s confession—and proposal—she’d hardly eaten, and now, amidst this turn of events, she felt faint. Lord, is this my way of escape? Relief and grief tugged at her so fiercely that tears came to her eyes.

He studied her in the half-light. “If you don’t mind my saying so, there’s a bit of talk about the fort that you and the colonel have parted company. I wouldn’t press my suit otherwise.”

She bit her lip and balled her hankie into a fist, glad when they resumed walking. “I’m flattered by your offer, but my life is in such disarray I think I’d best ponder it all before making any plans.”

“I understand,” he replied. “But if it’s any consolation, I’ve been praying and feel the Almighty has brought us together for a purpose.”

Had He? Graham sounded so sure, and she clung to his words like a drowning woman being thrown a bit of ballast. She was about to embark on yet another journey. If she made it to Philadelphia, what then? The Hazens’ home shone bright as a beacon in her stormy thoughts. If she was ever to forget Cass, might she meet someone in the city? Or should she simply accept Graham’s invitation and return to Virginia?

Oh, Lord, things are happening so fast. Please make the path plain to me.