Susanna Fraser (4 page)

“The necklace?”

It was still gripped in her right hand. “I have it.”

“Hide it well. Though, I should tell you—Lewis knows about it, too. He came upon us at the last. I swore him to secrecy, and I hope he remembers.”

Rose frowned. There was no harm in Lewis, yet he could be thoughtless. But the rubies, the kiss—it was all too much to take in. “I’ll hide it,” she promised. “I know the perfect place.”

“Good night, then. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t speak of it.” Turning on her heel, she fled for her tent.

Chapter Four

“Fool,” Elijah muttered under his breath as he stretched out on the most level bit of ground he could find and wrapped himself in his blanket. Of course Rose hadn’t meant to kiss him. They’d simply both turned at the same time, and their lips had collided with no more intent than when a man came around a blind corner and crashed into another.

He should have drawn away. He should’ve tried to laugh it off. What had he been thinking, to grab her by the hair and try to make an awkward blunder into a true kiss? She didn’t want that, couldn’t possibly, not with her husband dead less than a day. Not a minute before, she’d said she didn’t want to marry again at all. Moreover, she’d rejoiced in her freedom.

Though he was far from comfortable, he held himself perfectly still while Rose yet stirred in her tent. The celebration around the big tents had at last quieted to a few low murmurs and the occasional bark of laughter, so he could hear her every move as she lay down and then tossed and turned, trying to compose herself for sleep.

His cock stood to attention, so he thought of ugly, miserable things—of winter marches followed by nights camping cold, wet and hungry, of the look and smell of a battlefield once the fighting was done, of adding the names of the dead to the regimental account books—until his willful member took the hint and went slack again. He’d taken this post tonight to keep unwanted suitors
away
from Rose, not to join their ranks himself.

Damn Farlow for even mentioning the notion that he, Elijah, might marry Rose. He’d been doing such a good job, almost from the moment he’d met her, of concealing his desire for her. She and Sam had come to the army together as part of a draft of recruits sent from England almost four years before, with her one of the fortunate few wives who won the lottery to accompany their husbands, to draw rations for herself and her children and to earn what coin she could doing laundry and mending—and in Rose’s case, cooking—for the officers.

Everyone had noticed her. Elijah had even heard Colonel Dryhurst praising the beautiful Mrs. Merrifield to Major Upjohn, not lustfully, but saying that looking at her was like looking at the best parts of England itself, all rich and growing and fertile.

Elijah had done his best not to stare at her too much in those early days, and he’d refrained from adding his voice to the chorus of admiration of Rose and envy of Sam that had risen up through the company. But about a week after the Merrifields’ arrival, he’d awakened from a vivid dream in which he and Rose had been all alone, and all naked, in a vast green meadow near Shorncliffe where the regiment had sometimes gone for maneuvers. For the next two months he’d avoided her presence as best he could in a company that, even with all its wives, children and followers, numbered barely over a hundred souls. Then one evening, Sam had diffidently invited him to dinner. Elijah had heard much praise of Rose’s cooking by then, and his curiosity and desire for something better than the usual camp swill had overcome his reticence lest he get in the habit of seriously coveting his neighbor’s wife.

After that night, he’d almost been able to regard her as nothing more than a friend. It had helped that by then she’d been heavily pregnant with Jake. It hadn’t made her any less beautiful, but it had served as a stark, tangible reminder that she belonged to someone else. So he’d managed to appreciate that she was not only beautiful, but clever and practical and good-humored, without wishing for what couldn’t be.

Until now. When it wasn’t wrong anymore.
No
, he corrected himself. It was still wrong. Just because it was no longer a violation of the laws of God and man alike to want her didn’t make it
right.
He allowed himself to toss and shift now until he found a more comfortable position. Rose was asleep. He could hear her breathing, so near she was and so still the camp had grown. Good God, how he wanted her.

But he couldn’t have her. He closed his eyes and made himself breathe, breathe and not think. Eventually the hard labor of the day caught up with him, and he drifted off to a fitful slumber.

He awoke when someone tripped over him in the deadest hour of the night.

Everything seemed to happen at once. The intruder let out a startled “Oof,” little Jake whimpered, and Rose cried out. Meanwhile, he came to alertness, shook off his blanket and pushed the man bodily off him.

The intruder had brought a rushlight, damn him, and its flames were beginning to lick at the tangled canvas of Rose’s tent, which had collapsed when he blundered into it.

“Rose!” Elijah shouted. He scrambled to his feet and tugged at the canvas, heedless of the flames, until he pulled it loose from Rose and Jake’s squirming forms and flung it aside. The fire licked at Rose’s skirts. She screamed and kicked, but couldn’t beat it out while her arms were burdened with Jake. Elijah flung himself atop both of them, smothering the fire.

As soon as he was sure it was out, he sat up. He had to catch the intruder before it was too late.

He needn’t have worried. George Yonge sat on his haunches, gaping at the still-burning canvas.

Elijah tackled him, slamming his shoulders into the dirt. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same thing of you. Let me go.” Yonge squirmed and shoved, but Elijah held him down all the harder.

By then the camp had roused around them. More men had come with torches, Lieutenant Farlow at their head, clad only in a nightshirt. Jemmy Whelan had doused the burning canvas with a bucket of water and was stomping out the remaining flames with booted feet.

“What is the meaning of this?” Farlow asked in a ringing, carrying voice.

“This big black bastard tackled me,” Yonge cried, all affronted dignity.

Elijah bit back a snarl. “This
white
bastard,” he said as levelly as he could manage, “tripped over me, carrying a rushlight, trying to get into Rose’s tent, which he knocked down and set aflame. The rest, you can see.”

“And what were
you
doing in her tent?” Roberts asked.

There were some ribald mutterings from the little crowd surrounding them, but Rose’s voice rose above them, and above her son’s crying. “He was
outside
of my tent, keeping guard. I thought I might have...unwanted visitors tonight, so I asked him to stay. It appears I did right.”

Her voice shook, and in the flickering torchlight she was whiter than Elijah had ever seen her, the rosy cheeks that made her name suit her so well drained and bloodless. It could be fear and weariness alone, but he remembered those terrible flames licking at her skirt, and he saw the singe marks on the light-colored fabric almost up to her knee. “She was burned,” he said in place of any outraged self-defense. “I don’t know how badly.” Then rage took possession of him again, and he slammed Yonge back into the ground. “You could’ve
killed
her, you fool.”

“Corporal,” Lieutenant Farlow said in a low, level voice Elijah had never heard from him before. “He’ll be dealt with.”

It was enough to make Elijah see how he must look—dangerous, angry, possessed by the rage he never let rule him even on the battlefield where he was
allowed
to be terrifying. He took a deep breath and sat back, though not far enough to let Yonge get up.

Farlow’s quietness
worked
—of course it did, Elijah had used that trick often enough himself to know how effective it was. The young lieutenant had the entire attention of the score or so of men who’d gathered around. “Mrs. Merrifield, are you badly injured?” he asked.

She swallowed and shook her head. Jake’s sobs had almost ceased, and she held him in the circle of one arm while she ran her other hand down her leg. She winced and bit her lip, but she only said, “It’s not too bad, I think. Luisa has a salve.”

Luisa, standing beside her husband, nodded confirmation.

Elijah wasn’t sure how much he trusted Rose’s brave words—burns hurt like hell and could be dangerous. Evidently Farlow shared his concerns, for he frowned and said, “As you will, but if you’ve any doubt, you must go straight to the surgeon.”

At that she managed a tight smile. “No, sir. It may blister a little, but that’s no cause for sawing it off.”

Farlow bit back a laugh. “Have it your way. Now, Private Yonge, do tell us what business you could
possibly
have had, sneaking uninvited into a new widow’s tent at this hour of the night.”

“We all know what he was there for,” Elijah growled.

“I wouldn’t have raped her,” Yonge protested. “I only wanted to talk to her, before anyone else got a chance, and ask her to show me the jewels.”

“Jewels?” Farlow asked. From the look of blank bafflement on the lieutenant’s face, Elijah reckoned he was trying to work out whether Yonge meant actual gemstones or some bit of lower-orders slang for a woman’s private parts.

Elijah and Rose couldn’t share his confusion. Rose’s eyes widened, and her hand moved from her burned shin to a new spot, just above her knee. If that was where she’d hidden them, no wonder she hadn’t wanted to submit to a surgeon’s examination.

“
What
jewels?” Elijah demanded. Brazen it out, that was the only way.

Pritchard, one of the men in the group behind Farlow, cleared his throat and spoke up. “Lewis told everyone that as Sam Merrifield was dying he gave you some great fancy necklace with shining red stones to pass on to Rose.”

So, Lewis had blabbed. Doubtless he’d been drunk when he’d done it, and hadn’t meant any harm. Still, when Elijah caught up with him, they’d have words.

“Wait,” Yonge said. “Did you not even tell her? Did you mean to keep them for yourself, you—you—”

“Of course he told me,” Rose protested before Yonge could say something truly unforgivable. “Don’t paint him with
your
brush.”

Yonge smirked. “I haven’t enough whitewash for that.”

Elijah balled his hands into fists and breathed deeply to keep himself from using them.

Farlow’s voice rang out a little louder than before. “Sergeant Turner, you will see that Private Yonge is confined until daylight, when his assault upon Mrs. Merrifield’s person and destruction of her property shall be addressed. Corporal Cameron, you will be called to bear witness as soon as a court-martial can be arranged.”

“I didn’t assault anyone,” Yonge protested.

“Oh? If anyone set fire to
my
tent in the dead of night and left me burned,
my
person would feel assaulted,” Farlow replied. “You’re in a deep enough pit already. I advise you to hold your peace and cease digging deeper.”

Elijah hid a smile. Farlow
did
have a way with words when he wasn’t obliged to write them down.

At Farlow’s nod, Sergeant Turner took the two stoutest men from the group that had gathered, and they jerked Yonge to his feet and led him away.

Elijah stood, too, brushing at the dust coating his uniform. He’d stopped the flames on Rose’s dress too quickly to be burned himself, but his coat and shirt were singed.

“Mrs. Merrifield,” Farlow said, “if you wish, you may gather your things, and you and your son may pass the rest of your night in my tent, since yours is so damaged. I give you my word you will remain unmolested, in all ways.” He cast a warning gaze around the surrounding audience.

Rose glanced at the charred, soaked remains of her tent and the little pile of gear and bedding she and Jake still sat among. “Thank you, sir.”

At a few more words from Farlow, Elijah and the other assembled soldiers shouldered Rose’s bags and trunks while the lieutenant himself pulled her to her feet and offered her his arm. She winced when she put weight on her bare, burned foot.

“That won’t do,” Farlow murmured. “And I daresay you shouldn’t try shoes or stockings on it.”

He hesitated, and Elijah guessed why. Farlow was barefoot himself, and though wiry, he was slim and slightly built, while Rose was tall for a woman and sturdy and curvy with it.

Evidently Rose saw the problem, too, for a flicker of amusement flashed through her eyes despite her pain and the awkwardness of the situation. “Here, sir,” she said, handing over Jake. “If you wouldn’t mind carrying him.”

“Of course not,” he said, settling the boy awkwardly on his hip.

Rose turned to Elijah and held out her arms. “Please?” she said.

He remembered their kiss, then. He’d almost forgotten, during the fire and its aftermath. Now he swallowed his desire and a few other things and scooped her up in his arms, after passing the trunk he’d been carrying to Pritchard.

“After all this, Rosie,” Pritchard grumbled as he shifted under the weight, “I think you should show us these famous jewels. It’s the least you can do.”

“She doesn’t owe you anything,” Elijah said. She indeed had the necklace clasped above her knee like a garter. He could feel the stones digging into his forearm.

“What foolishness!” Luisa said. “
I
will show you the jewels.”

The little procession to Lieutenant Farlow’s tent halted in its tracks, and everyone turned to gape at Luisa. But Elijah watched Rose, and her eyes widened with something approaching glee.

Luisa reached into the neck of her dress and pulled out a strand of red beads with a silver cross on the end. A rosary, that was the word. “Here is your
treasure.
Elijah gave it to Rose as Sam asked, but she did not want to keep it—she said it made her too sad. So I took it. I promised her I will use it when I pray every night for Sam’s soul,” she added piously.

“That’s
all?
” Pritchard asked.

“Yes, that’s all,” Rose affirmed.

“He said it was a great, shiny thing.”

“Lewis doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Elijah said, making his voice as scathing as possible. “It isn’t as though he’s seen so many fancy jewels in his life.”

“And you have, Corporal?” Farlow quirked an eyebrow at him.

“No, sir, I have not. But I saw this one, and Mrs. Whelan is telling you the truth.” He hoped he sounded convincing.

The lieutenant smiled. “Well, then. Keep that safe, Mrs. Whelan. It
is
a fine piece, and quite old, by the look of it.”