

### Scamp's Lady

### Jackie Walton

To Dick, with lots of love

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Jacquelyn Walton

Cover art by Lauren Manning

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27 For the History Geeks

Chapter 1

It was a glorious day to be out for a ride, even if it was in an old farm wagon with her older brother for company. The day had blossomed crisp and clear, and bloomed into the kind of day that made it a pleasure to be alive. In this first week of October 1780, the leaves in the farm country north of Lancaster, South Carolina, had on their red coats, but she forgave them this disloyalty because the sky over shown everything with a Patriot blue. Besides, it was too beautiful a day to dwell on the damnable British.

If it weren't for those awful redcoats, Deborah mused as she worked another row on the stocking for Adam, this would be an enjoyable ride, in spite of his uncanny ability to find every hole in the road with the north-bound wagon.

She silently damned the British. Her mother would have her head if she ever said such a thing aloud. It was impossible to stop thinking about them. The war had been going on for over five years now. The Colonies were no closer to independence from England then they were at the beginning. Maybe even a little further away.

"I don't know how I'm going to keep an eye on Joshua for Mama if he goes off to join Sumter," Deborah complained. Thomas Sumter led the Rebel raiders operating in South Carolina somewhere between the towns of Ninety-Six and Camden.

"Now look, little chick, Josh can take care of himself. You're a mite young to be his wet-nurse."

She bristled at the diminutive. He always called her that. They all did. She was fairly tall for a woman, but with three very large, older brothers and a giant of a father, they felt it their right to emphasize her relative smallness.

"Besides," Adam continued, "Sumter need his tracking skills. You know Josh's the best tracker in the Shenandoah Valley."

Mention of home got Deborah back on track. "You know I promised Mama. And you did too." Even before they obeyed their father, the boys would comply with their mother's wishes. Abigail Morgan was a tiny woman, with a soft voice and soft ways, but every male in the household jumped to her bidding. And not because they feared her...

"You know Mama wanted us all to stay with Papa. She told me to..."

"Ah, the little chick has become a mother hen. Do you really think you're big enough to handle it?" She jabbed him in the ribs, and he pretended to swoon. As he went toppling over, the reins slackened, and the horses swerved to the right.

"Adam!" She dropped her knitting and grabbed for the traces. He leaned further to his side, holding the reins just out of her reach and keeping the horses on the path, generally speaking.

"Adam!" came out with less terror and more exasperation. She straightened up and slapped at his arm.

"Oh, sorrow and pain! She strikes her beloved brother, wounding him to the core and doing grievous damage to his person." His eyes twinkled. "I won't be able to lift a rifle and hold my position, and so the whole unit will be overrun and the battle lost, and we'll all be slaughtered, and it'll all be your fault." She stuck her tongue out at him as he wasn't quite keeping the laughter out of his voice. "Will you grieve for me dear sister? Will you throw yourself on my grave and weep for me?" A mournful expression decorated his face.

"Idiot." She shivered, none the less, despite his teasing, for it was a possibility she lived with any time her loved ones went into battle against the damnable British. "Enough, I don't need that, particularly since we're so close to the British camps." General Lord Charles Cornwallis was still in the area of Camden, the site of Cornwallis's crushing victory over General Horatio Gates, some miles south of them. Picking the soon-to-be sock off the footboard, she inspected it for damage. Thankfully, there was none.

Deborah Morgan knew they had reason to be concerned. She also knew that Adam, despite his levity, was also keeping a sharp eye out for British troops or their Tory collaborators. He had not wanted her to come along on this mission, but she had insisted. How much more innocent than a brother and sister taking supplies home from the market, she had argued. Their father had agreed. Only the supplies were going to more bodies than there were at home, but the British didn't need to know that. The siblings were headed for the rebel camp at Charlottesburg.

Their father, Daniel Morgan, had fought for independence from the beginning. But as the war progressed, those patently less worthy had been promoted over him for political reasons. In addition, his rheumatism had progressed from annoying to unbearable. A year ago he retired. Now General Washington and Gate's successor, General Nathaniel Greene, had offered him the general's rank he deserved. They needed his affinity with the backwoods riflemen who were experts at the hide and shoot type of warfare that confounded the British. Daniel Morgan was an expert at it; after all, who taught Joshua to track?

The rheumatism, however, had not gone away. A goodly part of Deborah's function was to make the pain bearable for her father so that he, in turn, could do his job. Her skills with herbs eased the pain. Both of her parents knew she wanted to win this war as badly as her brothers did. The elder Morgans agreed to let her accompany her father, but her mother designated her watchdog, guardian, and yes, mother hen to three of the world's four most stubborn men. Eli stayed to tend the farm with his mother and waxed jealous of his brothers.

Adam began to whistle tunelessly and then struck up a song.

Sir William, he, snug as a flea

Lay all this time a-snoring

Nor dreamed of harm, as he lay warm

In bed with Mrs....

Deborah shushed at him and tried to swat his arm again when she realized the direction of the ditty, but he finished his song, a tribute to the welcomed inaction of the British Commander-in-Chief, Sir William Howe. Until he was, unfortunately, relieved in 1778, General Howe saw most of his action with the lovely Mrs. Loring.

Birds chirped happily in the trees and every once in a while, the flick of a squirrel's tail was visible through the branches, storing the fall's harvest of nuts against the winter. So peaceful, so tranquil, she thought she'd...

Hoof beats sounded around the bend in front of them. "Redcoat troopers," whispered Adam as he handed her the reins. "I'm an idiot, and we're going to Rock Hill from the market in Lancaster, remember." Adam vanished before her eyes, replaced by a slack-jawed, slump-shouldered lump staring vacantly out of wide, brown eyes. Deborah only had a second to marvel at the stranger beside her, when a hand full of British soldiers galloped toward them. She stuffed the knitting under her skirt. As they drew near, the one in the lead signaled for his men to stop and then gestured for Deborah to also halt.

She stared, fascinated, at his blood-red coat and pristine white breeches and all the gold buttons. And then she looked at him. He was barely more than a boy! A pink-cheeked, fair-haired boy, he looked significantly younger then her own twenty-two years. But a red coat, she cautioned herself.

"Good day to you, sir," she said, putting on a smile. "Can I help you?" Adam shifted and grinned and scratched himself in a place that would have earned his mother's censure. The soldier trotted alongside him.

"Good day to you, too, ma'am. I'm Lieutenant Harvey of the 7th Foot. I'm afraid I must ask you to allow us to search your wagon." The cultured tones of the well-bred English upper class saturated every word.

Deborah froze, but knew what she had to do. "Why, of course, Lieutenant, we have nothing to hide." He gestured his men to the wagon. They moved without expression to obey. "We're just fetching the supplies from Lancaster to our place on" she coughed to gain a moment to think, "Pine Creek south of Rock Hill. Is there a problem?" A light brown strand of hair escaped its braid, and she tucked it behind her ear.

"No, ma'am. We just have standing orders to inspect all traffic on this road. Rebels, you know." Alongside the lieutenant, Adam picked his nose. The young soldier curled his lip and looked off at his men.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure, but we don't know too much about them. We just try to go about our business." She wanted to sound loyal, but not so much as to arouse the young man's suspicions. Glancing back to the wagon, she wondered when they would be finished. How long did it take to see that there was nothing overtly suspicious in it?

Adam reached over to touch a gold button with the finger that had been exploring his nose. "Purty."

Lt. Harvey jerked back. "'Od's blood! Can't you keep him on a leash or something?"

Deborah grabbed Adam's hands and put them on his lap. Surreptitiously, she pinched his leg. "Sorry, sir, he doesn't mean any harm. He's just a little touched in the head, you know."

Harvey humphed, but a soldier came forward to report, so he let the matter drop.

"Sir! Just food and clothes, blankets and stuff of that sort, sir!" The man's face was blank and his back like a board.

"Yes, well, all right. Be on you way now."

"Thank you Lieutenant and good day to you."

She gathered up the reins and let the brake go when the sound of more horses around the bend reached them.

"Sir, riders, sir!"

"Yes, I know, you dolt."

In a moment, three riders came into view, the lead man distinguished by his plumed hat and green jacket. They drew to a halt in front of the wagon.

"Col. Tarleton, sir!" Lt. Harvey snapped. Nature had played a trick on Banastre Tarleton. He was too pretty for a man. Now, along with his reddish-blond, wind-tousled, hair, his classically beautiful features were delicately flushed from the ride.

Deborah stiffened and groped for Adam's hand. He squeezed it gently and went back to playing with a sliver on the wagon seat.

"What's going on here, Lieutenant?" Tarleton asked. His horse danced aside, and he hauled brutally on the reins.

"Just a routine road inspection, sir. I was just sending them on their way."

One of the other men with Tarleton nudged him in the ribs. "Well, Ban, you're the one who said you were going to butcher more men and lay more women than anyone else in the Army. Here's another chance." He leered at Deborah and snickered at Adam.

Deborah knew right then that they were in very great danger. Banastre Tarleton had become the most hated man in the Colonies after the recent battle at Waxhaw, South Carolina, where Col. Abraham Buford's 400 men were slaughtered under flags of surrender. A man like Tarleton was capable of anything, and here he was in front of her, assessing her like a particularly scrumptious desert.

"Stifle it, Hanger. You'll frighten these good folks. What are they carrying, Lieutenant?" Tarleton inquired, ever so softly.

"Farm supplies, Colonel. They've been to the market. I believe them to be loyal subjects of the King, sir. They're ready to go on their way."

"Yes, I see that Lieutenant, I see that." Tarleton rubbed his thumb along his elegant jaw and grinned back at his friends. "However," he drawled, "there are reports of rebel troops in the area. We would be remiss in our duty to the King if we allowed this fair lady to go on unescorted. Unfortunately...we are unable to escort your to your destination, so you will have to accompany us back to our quarters in Camden."

"Sir!" Lt. Harvey, obviously ill at ease with the turn of events, began, swallowed, and hurried into his thoughts. "Our patrol was ordered north. We can..."

"That's enough, Mr. Harvey. Continue with your duties. We'll take care of these good folks."

His smile confirmed what Deborah suspected. "Thank you, sir, but we'll take our chances on the road ahead. We really must get home."

"Turn the wagon around, miss."

"There's no need for this, I assure..."

Tarleton drew his pistol. "Turn the wagon around."

Deborah swallowed hard. She glanced at Lt. Harvey, knowing, even as she did, that he was as powerless as she. He was looking at Tarleton, his mouth drawn into a hard line. She could guess his opinion of his superior officer.

The young man made one last try. "Sir, don't you..."

"Lieutenant, get on with your patrol. Damn your eyes, I don't want to tell you again."

"Yes, sir." He wheeled his horse, shouted to his men, and rode north on the trail.

Tarleton grinned back at his companions and then turned to Deborah. "Allow me to introduce myself, my dear. Col. Banastre Tarleton of the British Legion, at your service." His smile promised just exactly what kind of service he would provide. "My friends," he gestured towards the others, "call me 'Ban.' Please consider yourself my friend."

She considered her options and knew that there was only one, and a risky one at that. "Thank you, Colonel, I am Deborah Morgan." She glanced at the gun, still in Tarleton's hand, now lying across his saddle. Gathering the reins, she began to turn the wagon. "Excuse me, sir, but I will need some room to turn."

He holstered the gun and moved his horse.

"How is it that such a lovely lady is out in the middle of rebel country alone?"

Tarleton's smile would make the angels cry, she thought. Even the unholy light in his eyes couldn't dim the perfection of his cheek or the symmetry of his jaw line. "I had to go to market, and I'm not alone."

"He couldn't protect you from a three-legged mouse," he snorted, nodding at Adam. "But now you have the protection of the King's finest."

Keeping her eyes on the horses, she nodded acknowledgement, and tried not to wince at the double entendre. His notion of "protection" and hers differed greatly. She hoped that by not answering him, he would get bored and spread his attentions elsewhere, but there was little hope of that. He'd been pestering her with questions and gossip and the names of the great and powerful that he was on intimate terms with for the better part of half an hour now. Tarleton obviously like the sound of his own voice so much that he didn't notice that she said almost nothing.

"Mistress Morgan, I personally, will take..."

Adam's raspberry and bouncing on the seat not only stopped the chatter but startled the Colonel's horse. Yanking the animal's head around, Tarleton subdued the agitated prancing. "Can't you control that idiot any better than that? My horse almost threw me."

"I'm sorry, sir. He doesn't know any better." Her own placid mare had stirred in the traces and Deborah saw her opportunity. "I am not so adept at handling horses as you, sir. Mathilda, here, is a little shy around other horses. You must excuse me, but I really need to concentrate on the reins." Tarleton pursed his lips but urged his horse up to join his companions in front of the wagon.

After awhile, they stopped for a break. Deborah desperately needed some privacy. Discretely, Adam nudged her over toward some bushes. Through the branches, she watched him standing guard while she lifted her skirts to take care of matters. The tallest member of the group noticed her absence just as she was finishing and came over to investigate. Adam had his back to her while she hurriedly started to adjust her clothing. The sound of water splashing on the leaf carpet caught her attention as Adam swayed back and forth. He was...he was...

The tall soldier jumped away, cursing and threatening.

"Adam! Adam, stop that this instant!" She ran around the bushes, knowing that she now had to rescue him. Adam turned away at her approach and put himself back together. She gathered him in her arms, leading him in a wide circle around the enraged officer and back to the wagon.

Shoving him back up onto the seat, she folded his hands and grabbed the reins. "Don't ever do something like that again," she hissed. "He will happily kill you. You could have done something less drastic if you had to."

"It worked, and that's all that matters." His voice was hard and low and predatory. She looked sideways at him; the cold light in his narrowed eyes was something she'd never seen in her happy-go-lucky brother. It was time to get moving, before he attacked the British dragoons barehanded.

Tarleton and Hanger were laughing at the tall one. Their raillery had succeeded in defusing his anger, at least for the moment.

"Damme, how can she stand to be near such a revolting creature?'

"How can such a lovely morsel be related to that degenerate?"

"Ah," Tarleton interposed, "but he's not going to be around all the time."

**

It was near lunchtime when they stopped at a roadside inn. A number of horses were tied around the inn courtyard, and a handful of British troopers lounged under a tree on the other side of the yard. Two ostlers rushed out to take the horses. Tarleton escorted her into the dining hall with Adam trailing behind. A figure stood up from one of the tables, but in the relative darkness, she couldn't see who it was.

"Sir!" She recognized the youthful voice of Lt. Harvey. "We just arrived. Our host is just preparing luncheon. I'll have him set more covers."

"What the hell are you doing here, Harvey?"

"Why, sir, I thought you realized, our patrol was only supposed to go a short ways past where we met up with you. We turned around, came down the west road and arrived just before you did." Tarleton looked suspicious. "Must have traveled faster without the wagon along, sir."

Deborah had never seen such innocence before in her life. With that look on his face, the young man could have told Tarleton that General Washington was a loyal subject of the King, and the Colonel might well have believed him. She could only hope that their horses weren't too blown, or the dragoons would know his tale for the lie that it was. Deliberately, she walked over to the table near him. When he stood aside to seat her, she looked him directly in the eyes and said, "Thank you."

Young as he was, he didn't miss her meaning. "My pleasure, ma'am."

Lunch was a quiet affair. Tarleton attacked his food like it was a rebel soldier and no one was foolish enough to gainsay him. In short order, they were back on the road.

Several hours later, Deborah saw the perimeter pickets for the British camp at Camden.

Chapter 2

More and more British soldiers appeared on and near the road as they rode into the camp past a palisade wall and a ring of redoubts. Camden lay just south of them. This appeared to have once been a very prosperous farm. The main house, set up on a rise, was large, three stories, and painted cream with a blue-gray trim. Two porches, one atop the other, crowned the main staircase. Another wooden palisade profaned the Georgian lines of the house.

Tents of varying sizes radiated out from it as far as she could see. There were horses and men everywhere. Not all wore the hated red jackets; many were in the distinctive uniforms of the various companies that were under Cornwallis's command at the moment.

The small parade stopped in front of the house, just as two officers walked out of the main door. The taller one frowned at a set of papers. He looked up and glared at Deborah, her brother, and the obvious military escort. Lt. Harvey drew up beside them. The officer looked down on his subordinate from the top of the stairs. "Well, Harvey, what breed of rebel scum have you brought in this time?"

"Halloo, Kit, Bulldog," Tarleton trotted up to the bottom of the stairs. "We found these good people on the road without any protection, right in the middle of rebel country. Had to give them an escort, of course, but that led them back here. Not to worry, we'll get it sorted out soon enough. I'll see to their quarters while they're here."

Before the officer could reply, Harvey dismounted and handed to reins to a soldier. "Sir," he addressed the taller officer, "I'd like to make my report as soon as possible, now if it's convenient to you."

The officer's eyes narrowed on the young man. He watched him glance toward the wagon. "Come in, Lieutenant. Thomson," he shouted over his shoulder, "...Find these two a campsite. I may want to talk to them." Turning back to the group, "Ban, I'll want to talk to you, later. Harvey, inside. Thanks, Bulldog." His shorter companion saluted awkwardly and wandered away.

Tarleton made a face at Deborah and gave her a flourishing salute. "I'll check that your accommodations are satisfactory later, lovely lady, but for now I must see to my duties."

Deborah offered him a frosty nod. Luckily, Thomson (at least she assumed it was Thomson) came up to the wagon. A big, bear of a man, he nodded respectfully. "This way, ma'am." The rumble of his voice matched his size.

Deborah turned the horse to follow the human bear while Adam looked around, chin up, and eyes wide, with a blank sort of interest. As he looked around past her, he whispered, "Just do as they say. I don't think the head man wants us here any more than we want to be here." He turned towards Thomson, who'd come up to the wagon, and gave the man the biggest grin he could manage. Pointing to the band of gold buttons on the uniform sleeve, he gurgled, "Purty!"

"Like that, do ye, son?" Thomson lifted his arm so Adam could see it better. "Tha' shows Ah'm a somebody around 'ere, an' mighty proud of it, Ah am, too. Anybody gives you two grief," he made sure Deborah knew he was talking to her, too, "ye just yell up old Thomson, an' Ah'll take care of it." He leaned a little closer and looked at her. "However, for safety's sake, ye'd best be steering clear of Col. T. Being the pretty lass that ye are, and all."

"Thank you, Mr. Thomson; I'll keep that in mind. I'm Deborah Morgan. And thank you for being so kind to my brother, Adam, here. Not everybody is, you know."

"Well Ah do, ma'am. Ah once 'ad a little girl cousin. Prettiest thing ye've ever seen, but muzzy in the noggin, if ye knows what Ah means, and Ah knows ye do. She loved everybody and everything."

The sorrow in his voice touched her heart. "What happened to her, Mr. Thomson?"

He cleared his throat. "Some boys from the town nearby hurt her real bad, and she died. Tha' was just before Ah took the King's shilling."

It was his tone that told her that a great deal of significance had happened between the little girl's death and his joining the army. She didn't think she wanted to know the details. She took another tack. "You loved her very much, didn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're a good man, Mr. Thomson." They moved through the camp in silence for a few minutes. "Could you tell me who the officer at the house was?"

"Certainly, ma'am. Th' one that spoke to ye was Col. Christopher Marshall. 'E's Gen. Cornwallis's Chief of Staff, sort of runs things around here, 'specially wi' General Cornwallis feeling poorly these days, if ye knows what Ah means. Ah suspect Col. T'll get a rare...humph! Ah should say, Col. Kit likes things done right, if ye knows what Ah means. Th' other gent was Major Patrick Ferguson, 'Bulldog' t' his friends. Now that un's a real gentleman. Always a good word t' the men, none too 'igh in the instep, neither. Course-ways, some o' th' officers think 'e's a fool to 'ave anything to do with t'men, but Col. Tarleton's been wrong before."

"What happened to Major Ferguson's arm? Is it broken?"

"No, ma'am. 'E got 'isself shot in t'elbow, and it don't work well no more."

"Oh."

"T' young sprout, Lt. Harvey, his uncle's Adjutant General, but the lad's got plenty o'bottom."

"What about Col. T?"

Thomson slowed his pace too a stop and stared her full in the face. Then he turned and spit, "What o'im?"

Deborah hesitated, "What...what's he like?"

Thomson stared at her a moment longer. "Ye steers clear of 'im missy, y'ear?"

Deborah pursed her lips and nodded. "I hear."

They put the wagon in a small, open space, not too far from the main house. Thomson assigned them to a campfire for meals, giving the soldiers there strict instructions and prohibitions. The men watched her avidly, but she felt more uncomfortable with Thomson's promise of the lash for the men than with their hungry, woman-starved looks. Even so, those promises, she knew, were for her own protection.

Adam wandered among them as she settled the wagon. "When did he get to be such a good actor," she muttered well under her breath. She watched as he firmly established his idiocy among the men.

He played with a Brown Bess rifle, stacked cornstalk-fashion until the nearest soldier pushed him away. "Purty," he gushed. "Show Adam!"

"No, ye bleedin' mooncalf," the soldier yelped. "T'sergent'll 'ave yer 'ead an' mine!"

"Adam, come here and help me." He hunched his head down into his shoulders and cowered a bit at her tone. "Now, Adam."

He lumbered over to her like a naughty child, casting occasional wistful glances at the stack of rifles.

"Don't overdo it!" she hissed. "I'm going over to the headquarters and see if I can talk that colonel into letting us go. Stay here and don't get into trouble."

"Yes, little chick. Take care."

As she walked away from the wagon, she turned as if to admonish him, "Now stay there."

Deborah climbed the steep stairs to the lower porch of the house. Large bushes on either side softened the sharp changes in level between the house and the ground.

Preparing to knock, she reviewed the decision she'd come to on the way over here. The best approach would be an appeal for a speedy release to tend to her sick mother. That would work well. Loud voices tumbled out the open window near the porch and stopped her knock.

"I'm more than four, Ban. I know exactly what's going on under those blond curls of yours."

"Aye, I'll bet you do, Kit. She's quite a little beauty, our colonial farm girl."

"Damnation! This is an army camp, not a brothel, and I'll thank you to remember that!"

Tarleton snorted, "And what of Ferguson's two private body-birds?"

"They're here because they want to be. Mistress Morgan is not."

"So?"

Marshall curled his lip. "Your enthusiasm may serve you well on the battlefield, but it does you no credit in this case. Therefore I will repeat myself. The girl and her brother will leave tomorrow with no encumbrances and in exactly the same condition as when they arrived. Do I make myself clear, Col. Tarleton?"

"Yes, sir!"

Marshall's voice softened to a reasonable level. "Ban, you've got a job to do. I suggest you do it and stop harassing the local peasantry."

He sounded tired and harassed but the angry footsteps alerted Deborah, and she had no time for sympathy. She scrambled down the steps and hid behind one of the bushes, praying. Tarleton stomped out, down, and away, red-faced and swearing at everything in his way, including a hapless young coronet who looked about 14 years old.

After a moment, Deborah peeked around the bush. Tarleton was nowhere to be seen. Not knowing when he would reappear, she scurried up the steps. Tarleton had left the door ajar. After a short debate on the proprieties, she opened the door. The first room on her right was where she'd heard the argument. She smoothed her clothes and rapped on the closed door.

"Come in." He sounded irritated (not that she blamed him), and she wondered if this might not be the best time. But, there was no help for it now.

He was sitting with his back to the window at a massive desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The blackish brown hair in his queue reached to his shoulder blades. The black ribbon was barely visible. His jacket had been tossed over a neighboring chair. On the edge of the desk, a roll of maps was held down by a tea cup, an ink well, a stack of papers and a snuff box. Paper covered almost every surface of the desk. In most of the places, it was several layers thick.

The room had obviously been a library at one time. The owner of the house must be a wealthy merchant, since only they bothered with the formality of a desk. The furniture was still there, only stripped of all décor to make room for work area.

"Col. Marshall, can I speak with you for just a minute, please?" Merciful heavens, but you sounded missish, she admonished herself. He's your enemy, but you don't have to cringe in front of him.

When he heard her voice, he glanced up, frowned, and lunged for his jacket. He stood up and shrugged into the coat. She hadn't realized he was so tall; he was at least as tall as her brother Eli. His face would have been harshly handsome if not for the exhaustion washing over it.

"What can I do for you, Mistress...?" He resumed his seat without inviting her to do likewise..

"Morgan, sir, Deborah Morgan." He certainly didn't want to do anything for her, but maybe, just maybe, she could convince him that she could do something for him. "Colonel, I'd like..."

"Mistress Morgan, unless you wish to become a camp follower and the current, if short-lived, favorite of Col. Tarleton, you will be leaving here in the morning. As far as I am concerned, you and your ah...companion..."

"Brother." Her recent thoughts of promoting a cordial, if quick, leave-taking evaporated with every word that blasted redcoat spoke. By camp follower, he meant prostitute. How dare he! She worked in the American camp and was proud of the work she did. So was her father. Camp follower, indeed.

"Yes, brother...are just two more mouths to feed...not counting the horse. I'm going to let you keep it simply because I'd rather be rid of you than confiscate the animal. Whatever danger the colonel saw on the road is probably long gone by now. I cannot spare the men to give you an escort. Therefore..."

"Thank you, Colonel." Winter came a little early in this small corner of North Carolina. It was in her voice.

He drew himself up, affronted. Whether it was because she had the temerity to interrupt him or because he had expected an argument, she didn't know, nor did she care. She had what she came for. "We will sleep in our wagon, thank you for our breakfast and be gone first thing in the morning. Will there be anything else?"

He sprawled back into the chair. Steepling his fingers, his grey eyes glared at her for a few moments. Deborah fought a moment of panic when she thought he might change his mind.

She knew what he saw as he studied her. If Tarleton had thought her beautiful, he must have been spending too much time with his men lately. Her skin was unfashionably tanned, a mellow, golden color that would do her no credit in his upper-class British eyes, but then, she was a colonial. The other consequence of her hours in the sun was that the light brown of her hair burnished to a gold. Her eyes were brown, her mouth just a mouth, and her cheekbones and nose were...ordinary. Her figure was acceptable, but nothing to make men stop and stare—at least she'd never seen any. But then, she rarely looked behind herself as she walked. She was also usually in the company of one or more males of her family. No one dared look—too obviously.

There were none of her family around now, Adam-as-idiot didn't count, and Col. Marshall was looking his fill. She studied him as she waited for whatever he obviously had to say. Unlike her brothers who were big and muscular like her father, the colonel was long and lean. Before he'd thrown on his jacket, she'd caught a glimpse of muscles stretching and bunching under the fine lawn of his shirt. Lean, yes, but she'd hate to pit one of her brothers against him in a fight.

She moved around so that the sun didn't back-light him. He knew where he was sitting, and he knew what it did to people standing in front of him; a subtle proof of power that she disliked intensely and worked to negate. He watched her as she shifted, a cynical smile pulling at his mouth and a bored look in his eye. He'd be handsome, she thought dispassionately, if he wasn't so busy acting the British lord and master. Heavens, he was now even drumming his fingers on the desk. Did they teach rudeness as well as arrogance to their children in the cradle?

Finally, he broke the silence. "Yes, Mistress Morgan, there is something else. It has come to my attention that Col. Tarleton, how shall I say, finds you worthy of his attentions. Now, I don't particularly care if you share your attentions with half of my troops."

She drew a sharp breath. His smile didn't reach his eyes, but he continued. "What concerns me is the reaction of the other half of my troops. The ones who don't have such...privileges are going to be very unhappy, and that makes for bad morale. Therefore I am forced to go to the effort of separating you from the Colonel while you are here."

"I have no interest in that...that...person or anyone else in this camp, and I resent the implication that I do! You have no right..."

"On the contrary, I have every right, and I intend to exercise those rights. I cannot have you wandering the camp, having him and every other soldier here slavering over the sight of a beautiful woman and wondering if they can get away with raping you."

"What?"

"You heard me. These are fighting men, restricted to camp and without a great deal of feminine companionship. I can't let you out in the camp. I'm confining you to this house until such time as I can send you on your way. You will take an escort, return to your wagon, get your gear or whatever you need and return to this house, and you will do it quickly. Thomson!"

"But...but what about Adam?" He was her best protection, although Marshall didn't know it. And she had to keep up the concerned sister masquerade.

"The men will make sure he's fed and bedded down. Don't worry about him. Believe me, madam, I will be ecstatic to see you both take your leave.

"Thomson!"

"But...but..."

"I don't believe there is anything else.

"Yes, sir!" Thomson said as he opened the door.

"Ah, Thomson, escort Mistress Morgan back to her wagon and then return her here, in short order. That will be all."

**

He didn't turn back to his desk, but watched them leave the library. As they came around in sight of his window, he turned to watch them go towards the wagon. His fingers drummed on the desk. It irritated him to have to take these measures, but he knew it was for the best. He wouldn't tolerate rape, by Tarleton or anyone else, if he could help it. However, he had cause to thank the heavens Claudia had just left. He'd sated himself on her luscious body. Mistress Deborah Morgan, even with her laughable colonial pride, was enough to tempt the saints, let alone him. That hunger had been dealt with very efficiently by his lovely mistress, even under her husband's nose.

On the other hand, General Cornwallis, one of the other occupants of the house, had been pretty much of a monk since the death of his wife two years ago. Kit suspected he was still grieving. Why anyone would grieve over such a mouse of a woman, he couldn't say, but there would be no problem from that quarter. Ban would be there at the dinner table, having quarters in the house, but Kit felt he could control that situation.

One night, a bite of breakfast and off his problem went. Very neat, if he said so himself. But he still watched her until she passed out of sight.

**

Deborah strode to the wagon in a silence that Thomson respected. As they neared the site, he glared at a bunch of lounging soldiers. "Scuse me, m'um. Ah needs to attend t' one small matter an' then I'll be right with ye."

Adam seemed to be sitting against the wheel, asleep. However, when she got up close, he murmured, "Humm?"

"You'll never guess what just happened to me." She was incensed. As she recounted the recent events, he snickered and gave her a couple of sharp glances. When she finished, he sat and twiddled his thumbs for a moment, but she knew he was thinking.

"Well, I guess you'll be safe enough there for one night, certainly more so than around here. That had me worried for a while, especially if somebody tried something. Now I want you to keep..."

Thomson walked back to them. "Need some 'elp?"

"No, Mr. Thomson, thank you. I would ask a favor, though. The colonel wants me to stay at the house tonight for my protection. Could you see that Adam is fed and taken care of and stays where he's supposed to? He's rather like a small child about some things."

"No problem in the world, m'um. No problem t'all. T'men around 'ere'll keep an eye on 'im."

"Thank you. I'll sleep much easier for it." She turned to gather up a few clothes, her knitting and a shawl. "I'm ready now. Adam, you stay right around here and do exactly what Mr. Thomson says, you hear?"

He nodded enthusiastically, and they turned to go.

**

Deborah put her few things away and went downstairs to the drawing room. A man sat in one of the brocade wing chairs near the roaring fireplace, a blanket covering his legs. His long face was rounded, the skin strangely smooth and unlined. Just from his appearance, she might have guesses him to be 35 or 40, but something her father had said made her place him around 50. If she guessed correctly, she was staring at Lord Charles Cornwallis, Second Earl Cornwallis, Commanding General of the British Army in the South, and a very sick man. His face was flushed with fever, his eyes glowed with an unhealthy brightness, and he looked like he was going to fall out of the chair at any moment. She hesitated in the doorway, thinking she'd rather not meet him, when he looked up and beckoned her into the drawing room.

Thomson bustled in carrying a tray with a cup of tea and some biscuits. "Ah brung yer tea, sir, but ye still should be a bed."

The fingers of one hand lifted slowly off the arm of the chair in dismissal of the complaint. Cornwallis seemed to have to gather himself to speak. "Thomson, can you tell me what's going on here?"

The soldier gently set the tea tray on the small tilt-top table next to the General's chair. "Well, sir, Mistress Morgan, 'ere, 'as found 'erself in our care and the Colonel decided she'd be...more comfortable in the main 'ouse, 'ere."

The General dropped his chin and stared up at Thomson, as if waiting for something else. The soldier just shrugged, and his superior turned his attention to Deborah. "Well, young lady? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Deborah knew she ought to be frightened out of her wits. This was General Cornwallis, second in command only to General Clinton, and the man who was maneuvering his troops to destroy her father, her brothers, her fledgling country, and if he knew, her very self. She should be staring down her enemy...but all she saw was a very sick man.

"Not an awfully lot, General. Col. Tarleton detained my brother and myself and brought us here. Col. Marshall felt I would be safer here in the main house until we can leave tomorrow."

"Humm, well, sit down. You may as well keep me company. I suppose I could do a lot worse than a pretty girl."

"Begging your pardon, General, but you shouldn't be keeping company with anything but your bed. If you will permit me?" She walked up beside his chair and held her hand to his forehead. Studying him, she said, "You are very hot. I'll bet every bone in you body hurts, too." He grunted. "You really should be in bed. This is probably the influenza. It's not something to be trifled with, you know. People, even strong men, die from it." He eyed her resentfully, but said nothing. She turned to Thomson who watched her, fascinated. "Is there any boneset or meadowsweet growing around here?"

"Huh?"

Obviously he had no knowledge of plants. "Are there any willow trees?" Maybe he would recognize that.

"Uh...yes, m'um. Over nears the stream."

"Good. Get me a branch about six inches long and as big as your thumb, strip the bark off it, and boil it in about 2 cups of water." She turned to Cornwallis. "This will help the fever and ease the aches, but I must insist you get into bed and try to sleep." Thomas manfully tried to suppress a grin as he walked from the room. A strange bark erupted as he closed the door.

"Young lady..." Cornwallis began.

"Don't 'young lady' me, General. Your job and mine are exactly opposite. I try to ease pain and suffering and keep people from dying. I do know what I'm talking about."

He grimaced at what she left unsaid, but grunted. "Oh, all right. I've never been petticoat-lead, and I don't intend to start now, but I'm certainly no use to anyone at this moment." She nodded. "I'll go up after I drink your tea. Here," he gestured to the tea on the tray. "Why don't you enjoy that? I'll float away if I drink it, too."

Deborah briefly debated the philosophical implications of a rebel drinking English tea with an English general and then reached for the cup. "Thank you."

He pursed his mouth. "Do you always boss your elders around?"

"Only when they need it." He laughed, and it came out as a cough. "My father...can be a truly abominable patient. Men, in general, are frequently like little boys when they get sick. They must be bullied unmercifully if they are to get better."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed what, sir?" Col. Marshall strode in the parlor. Deborah stiffened but couldn't quite control the flash of awareness. Fortunately, she thought, the men looked at each other. She reached for the tea cup but had to set it and the saucer in her lap until she could control the slight tremor in her hands.

Cornwallis was talking, but she didn't hear him. What was wrong with her? She'd never reacted this way to a man, and heaven forbid, a British soldier. She'd heard some of the girls back home talking about boys they were stepping out with, how they made them feel all wobbly and wiggly inside, but she'd dismissed it as part imagination, part braggadocio and part wistful thinking. And they were talking about young men they liked! But Col. Marshall...well it didn't bear thinking of. The shiver that traced so deliciously up her spine must have been a draft from the window or a shaft of fear at his interruption or a spider crawling up her neck or...or...or. What ever it was, it was not...

"So you've been baiting the General, Miss Morgan. That's very brave of you. There are any number of rebel troops who have tried that to their dismay."

"I'm not a rebel soldier, Colonel. I'm a healer, and I was trying to convince the General to act sensibly under the circumstances."

"And what might that be?" He leaned against the fireplace mantle and crossed his arms.

Who was baiting whom? "It must be obvious to the meanest intelligence that the General has the influenza. If he intends to get better, that means that he has to take care of himself for a few days, and that means to stay in bed."

"If you can accomplish that, then you will have succeeded where his whole staff has failed."

"I was just doing that!"

"Children, children, I will take to my bed, if nothing else, than to escape your bickering."

"Please do that General. I for one will retire to my room. If you will excuse me?" Deborah nodded to the General and walked by Col. Marshall as if he were a piece of furniture.

**

There was little to be done about her clothes and precious little more to be done about her hair. Nevertheless, Deborah ordered her garments as best she could and brushed her hair. This was going to be difficult, she knew, and she didn't even have the armor of the correct clothes for "dinner." Her navy blue jacket closed in the front and flared gently over the light beige petticoat under it. An apricot colored kerchief wrapped around her shoulders. It was clean and neat, but she knew that she was not up to the usual standards of a bunch of aristocratic British officers. Oh well, food was food and she was hungry.

The curved stair rail was smooth and cool under her hand. Voices drifted up the stairwell. Tarleton's overrode the others. "...and I say we need to teach these bloody colonials a lesson they'll never forget. We need to hit them so hard they'll never dare raise their eyes, let alone their hands, to an Englishman."

He was standing with his back to her as she came through the door, but Major Ferguson saw her and jumped to his feet. "Ban, I really think we need a new topic for discussion." Everyone turned to follow his gaze. "We have a lovely lady present." Col. Marshall rose, and General Cornwallis pulled at his lap rug, as if to follow suit.

He was still in its voluminous clutches when she hurried over and gently replaced it. "No, sir, we will take it as done that you have risen. If you must be out of bed for supper, then you will at least keep warm."

"Young lady, you..."

"General, we may live in the Colonies, but we are Englishmen just like you and we respect manners just like our cousins across the ocean." She didn't look to see what effect her barb had on Tarleton. "However, even good manners must sometimes bow to good sense." Cornwallis again gave in to her wishes.

Ferguson grinned. "Ah, sir, you've been bested by a colonial lass. What will General Clinton say to that?"

She smiled at his Scots brogue that his English schooling couldn't quite overcome. "The General will undoubtedly say that he is exhibiting a superb command of tactics to know when to retreat and regroup his strength."

Turning back to Cornwallis, she readjusted a corner of the blanket to her satisfaction. "How are you feeling?"

"Humph!" he snorted and then conceded, "I'm doing better, thank you. Your tea seemed to help. I actually slept after you went to your room."

She lightly touched his forehead and the side of his face. He was still warm, but less so than before. "Early to bed with some more willow bark tea, I think."

He grunted, but didn't contradict her.

Tarleton sidled up in back of her elbow. "Are you to be our new camp surgeon? I might even consider getting sick myself if you'd minister to me."

Startled, she jumped away. His smile didn't inspire any confidence in her and the fumes on his breath suggested that he had already formed a deep friendship with a certain bottle this evening. And his remark about being the British camp surgeon almost made her gag.

Cornwallis frowned. "Ban, I think..."

A throat cleared in back of them. She turned to see a smallish, black man in livery standing stiffly in the doorway. "Madam, gentlemen, dinner." His hand swept into the dining room behind him. Obediently, they all turned to go. Tarleton ostentatiously offered his elbow, but Cornwallis pushed himself up off the chair, saying, "I believe that the honor is mine."

There was no polite way to refuse, so Deborah proceeded into dinner on the arm of the most aggressive general in the British Army, the flower of the British aristocracy, and her father's bitterest enemy.

**

Dinner was a strained affair from the very beginning. She was seated at one end of the large table to the right of Lord Cornwallis, who took the head of the table. Col. Tarleton sat next to her, Col. Marshall across the table and Major Ferguson next to him. Others ranged further down the table. Deborah knew it was going to be difficult from the moment Tarleton slid his chair into the table to the left of its original position. He was close enough to brush elbows. And his wine glass was never empty for more than a second.

While the other men quietly discussed minor camp problems, he tried to engage her in conversation. During the soup, he tried gallantry. During the fish, he tried bravado. During the roast fowl, he tried imaginary injuries requiring her immediate medical attention. She refused to rise to his conversational gambits and paid strict attention to her meal. Finally he reached across her shoulders and tried to whisper in her ear. She never heard what the topic was because she jerked away from him.

The movement caught Cornwallis's eye. He was half way through his second glass of wine. "Col. Tarleton, what are you doing?"

Tarleton looked up at his superior, but his head wouldn't remain still for him to focus his eyes. "Wha...What do you think I'm doing? I'm tryin' to talk her into bed with me."

Cornwallis's smooth-skinned face took on a set of wrinkles. "Mr. Tarleton! I will not tolerate that type of talk at the table with or without a lady present, but the presence of a lady..." he stressed the word, "makes it doubly offensive. Please retire immediately."

Grumbling under his breath, Tarleton heaved himself up and braced himself on the table before he could stand upright on his own. Deborah refused to watch his exit, but the gentlemen had no such compunctions.

"Can't help but not like the guy," Marshall muttered.

"Ay," Ferguson replied, "but remember that you have to work with him on the morrow."

She listened with half an ear to Marshall's distaste of Tarleton's battle tactics. What had piqued her attention was the Butcher's implication that she was going to serve the British army in a professional capacity. She had offered help to a British soldier. He was getting over his influenza with her help. He would be better able to fight her family because of her help. What had she done? She had given aid to the enemy! Yes, she had, and it was treasonous, at least in her mind. The self-condemnation roiled through her thoughts. The implications of her actions hammered at her patriotism and turned it all to naught.

She was quiet, and the men forgot she was there. The topic turned back to the one they had been discussing before she came down the stairs. Names and words intruded on her recriminations: André... West Point...Arnold...hanging.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, what happened?"

"This is not really suitable for ladies, ma'am," Ferguson temporized.

"This entire war is not suitable for ladies or children or gentlemen, but they are all involved. Now kindly tell me what has happened."

Marshall leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. After studying her for a moment, he said, "We just received word that your General Benedict Arnold has very wisely renounced his treason and returned to the British fold. Unfortunately, Major John André, who assisted him in the attempt to turn over West Point, was captured and hung by the rebels. Now, did you really want to hear that?"

Her eyes had closed during his brief summary. General Arnold had been one of Washington's foremost officers. His disowning the cause would hurt them greatly. "No, I did not, but I've found that one can rarely hide from the truth."

"André was a good man, and he did not deserve what they did to him."

"I don't like to see anyone die, especially like that, but I gather, from what you said, that he was a spy."

"He was an officer and hanging is a dishonorable way to die."

"Didn't your people hang Nathan Hale for much the same thing?"

"Are you, by chance, a rebel sympathizer, Mistress Morgan?"

"I am simply trying to be even-handed."

Ferguson looked thoughtfully at her, but said nothing. Cornwallis stretched. "Come, come, Kit, we don't need to be tossing accusations of that nature at the dinner table. After all, you make it so easy for someone to argue with you."

"Ferguson, I assume that preparations for your mission north are coming along?"

Kit listened to the discussion, but his attention was on the lovely possible-rebel across from him. Ban was right, damn him, she was a beauty. The battle light in her eyes when she argued with him only accentuated it.

After the deliciously frantic week he had spent with Claudia, he should be thoroughly sated. His body shouldn't be acting like this. He was grateful he was sitting down. With an effort of will, he tamed his thoughts and, to a lesser extent, his body and rejoined the discussion.

"Are you still sure the rebels are up near Shelby and Kings Mountain?" he asked Cornwallis.

"As sure as we can be. The latest reports still tell of a large number of men gathering there. They are mostly rabble from the hills. They shouldn't be much of a problem. When Patrick finishes with them, he can take his troops over to Winnsboro. By then, Tarleton should already be there with his men. I'll wait here with you, Kit, until I'm back on my feet, and then take the last bunch over there myself. Kit, are you sure we're leaving you enough horses? After all, you'll have almost a third of the men here?"

"I'll be fine. If I need anything else, I'll requisition it from the people here."

"Patrick, I'm still not completely sure that you shouldn't take the main body of men over to Winnsboro. You're much better at handling the men than Tarleton is."

"Thank you, sir, but I'd really like this turn on a mission. Ban had his last with the Waxhaw engagement. We agreed I'd go this time."

"Sir, Bulldog will do fine, and Ban knows that if he messes up something as simple as establishing a winter camp, you'll have his head on the table."

Deborah listened and ate quietly. It was almost as if they had forgotten she was there. After almost being accused of being a rebel sympathizer, here they were talking of troop movements in front of her! She could barely contain her excitement. This information had to get back to her father and General Greene. She wanted to jump up from the table and head for Charlotte immediately. The urge nearly had her popping out of her chair. Control yourself, twit, or they'll figure out that you're listening to them. She dropped her gaze to her plate and concentrated on sitting quietly. And listening.

They were talking about supply lines when Cornwallis suddenly called for some of the willow bark tea. "Gentlemen, I think I am going to find my bed. With the help of Miss Morgan, I may feel better on the morrow." She nodded graciously. "You have been so helpful, my dear, that we just might keep you around. I do regret, though, that we have been such dull company for such a lovely lady."

"Your hospitality has been most welcomed, sir. My brother and I will be leaving in the morning, but I was delighted to be of help." She rose from her chair and every man at the table stood.

Cornwallis pursed his lips, but nodded. Deborah made her curtsy, studiously not looking at Marshall, and headed for her room. Her stomach had begun to knot. The General had reminded her that she had helped the enemy. The only way she could clear that off her conscience was by getting the information she had learned back to her father.

Chapter 3

Deborah woke and stretched, but kept her eyes closed, savoring the sensations. The featherbed was not her own, but it was soft and enveloping. As she wiggled around onto her side and pulled the quilt up under her nose, she realized there was a soft, rapid tapping on the window. For a moment, she wondered what it was. She opened one eye to investigate. Rain. Just...RAIN! And not just rain, but torrents. The clear blue skies of yesterday had disappeared overnight.

The consequences of the rain struck her. The events of last night and their implications followed in rapid succession. She and Adam had to leave today, but how could they in the storm? And the road was going to be a swamp!

She dressed quickly, grabbed her shawl, and hurried down the stairs. No one was around and she slipped out the door and headed towards the wagon. She had to find Adam and make some plans to get out of the camp. The rain was beginning to slow, but still came down steadily. Of the few soldiers outside their tents, some nodded respectfully, but most just stared at her. No one stopped her.

In place of the wagon was a low-lying, rectangular tent-like structure. There were shallow ditches around the base of the "tent" that carried the water off. It took her a moment to realize that the wagon had been covered with tarps. "Adam, Adam," she called softly. One corner of the tarp lifted.

As soon as she was under the wagon, Adam grinned. "Welcome to my humble abode, little chick. It's not quite as grand as that of the great ones, but it did what was needed." His voice barely got above a whisper. He gestured her to a blanket spread on the dry ground.

She shook out her damp shawl as well as possible under the cramped conditions. "Whew! What a storm. Getting out of here is going to be awful."

"I don't know if we can. From the look I had outside, the roads may well be impassable for a day or two."

"We have to." She told him of the dinner-time conversation, emphasizing the expedition to Shelby and the troop split for winter encampment.

A low whistle greeted the end of her story. "And I thought the bored soldiers around here rattled on without a care. I was amazed at what they said, but this is important, for sure and certain." Leaning back on the blanket, he braced himself on his elbows and studied the bottom of the wagon for a few minutes. "Yup. We need to get that back, but we can't leave today."

"We have to leave, Adam. We have to get this to them as soon as possible. It's absolutely..."

"Not today. Ferguson isn't going anywhere today. These are his troops all around us. If they were leaving today, all that around us would be empty space. And if he's not going, then it would look mighty strange if we up and tried to travel through this mess. Think about it. The only people that are going to travel today are those who absolutely have to. The British aren't stupid. If we left, they'd figure out mighty quick that we had a pretty pressing reason to be leaving. We don't even have the excuse of food in the wagon. About the only thing that has to get out of this camp that quick would be information. They'd be after us before we got five miles down the road."

"But..."

"Don't worry. The immediate thing is Ferguson, and he's going to be delayed getting out of here, too. There's still time to get the information back in time for it to do some good."

She acquiesced. That left nothing to do, and the day loomed long and dreary and dull. She went back to the house for breakfast, promising to return after mid-day.

**

The kitchen was a small building connected to the back of the house. Deborah didn't feel like facing the British officers in the main house, so she headed for the smaller building, hoping to cajole the inhabitants into a bite to eat.

As she neared it, she heard a tremendous crash and a screech. Lifting her shirts, she ran the few yards and yanked open the door, expecting to see at least minor injuries.

"Damn that man, damn his red-coated, gold-buttoned hide!" The words lost volume, but the woman facing the cluttered counter away from Deborah still awkwardly brandished the large frying pan. "Treated like a..."

"Can I help you?"

The woman whirled and the contents of the pan went flying. The cannonade of eggs barely missed Deborah.

"Oh! I'm sorry. Who are you? What do you want?" The words tumbled out, the last bunch with a touch of hysteria.

"Pardon me, I heard a crash and thought someone might be hurt." The woman was handsome enough, but the gaping mouth spoiled the image. A little startled at the woman's reaction, Deborah hurried on, "There's no problem with my dress, I assure you. No damage done."

The woman's mouth finally closed. Her eyes narrowed. "Who are you?" she demanded, again, suspicion coloring the words.

"I'm Deborah Morgan." When that didn't ease the glare, she went on, "My brother and I were escorted into camp yesterday. We'd hoped to leave today, but..." She shrugged and gestured vaguely outside. "I wanted to see if I could get a bite to eat."

"Humph, yes, well I'm sure you and everyone else around here wants something, but I'm neither the tavern maid nor the cook." She looked at the raw egg dripping from the walls next to Deborah. "Abigail! Get in here!" She surveyed the chaotic and somewhat dirty kitchen trappings and muttered "Though those redcoats think I am and in my own house."

Something didn't add up to Deborah. The woman was somewhat older than herself and well-dressed, but not elegant. Although she was in the kitchen, working, she seemed out of place. Deborah cocked her head. "Ma'am?"

The woman snapped her head around. Her eyes widened. "Oh, the British brought you here. Oh, well, for heavens sake." Her hands fluttered...and the frying pan with them. "Pay me no mind, I'm just upset and flustered and frazzled with all these...guests." Shoving aside a carving knife and fork to make some room, she put the pan carefully on the counter. "Breakfast will be served in the dining room in a few minutes, if you'd care to go into the house."

The sudden formality and the apology and the nervousness made sense in that instant. The woman thought she was a British...uh guest. Deborah realized she faced the angry, but frightened, owner of the requisitioned house.

"Mistress...?"

"What, oh, Kershaw."

"Mistress Kershaw, I am an unwilling guest of the British, just as Col. Marshall is unwilling to serve as host. They can't want me out of here any faster than I want to be out of here, but I'm afraid it may not be able to be today. Since that's the case, may I be of some service to you? You seem to be a bit under-staffed at the moment."

**

The rain stopped while she worked in the kitchen, and the clouds started to thin. She and Adam decided to walk the perimeter of the British camp, as much from boredom as from a desire to estimate the British strength. The dung patties and trampled crop fields testified that the camp had once been a working farm. When they were out of earshot of the troops, they talked.

"You have to credit these lobster-backs. I was watching one of them clean their uniforms. Do you know they keep those trousers white with a brick of dampened chalk? Can you imagine walking around with wet pants during the winter?"

"Why do they do it?"

He grimaced. "Because they're told to. Being a British soldier is a lot like being a slave. You can't get out, and you have to follow orders. Must say though, they've got the system down so well that they have a very efficient fighting machine."

"But our soldiers don't just blindly say 'Yes, sir!' Why, I say one man arguing with Captain Wilcox just before we left camp."

"That's rather dangerous here." He glanced sideways at her. "I wasn't going to tell you, but you may as well know because you may come on it yourself. One of the men did talk back to an officer today and got a taste of the lash for his troubles."

She sucked in her breath. "Oh, no."

He stared at a nearby bush for a long moment. "Father's told us about his flogging, but the healed scars are rather tame compared to the raw holes in this man's back."

She looked back towards the camp. "Should I..."

"No!" He softened the explosion with a smile. "We don't want you doing that for them. You're much too valuable doing it for us."

She looked back again and took a step. He took her arm, turning her back in the original direction and found a new topic. "What have you been doing?"

Allowing herself to be maneuvered, Deborah described her meeting with Mistress Kershaw and the eggs. "I don't know if she's Tory or Patriot, but I do know she's irritated. Besides appropriating her house and her lands, they've drafted her male servants to take care of the officers scattered around the camp. One maid servant decided that she could do better as a camp whore..."

Adam choked, but recovered.

"...and her cook has caught the influenza, she says from Cornwallis, himself."

He snickered, "Mayhap that's how he'll win the war for the English, make the colonials so sick they can't hold a rifle."

Smiling, Deborah said, "Even so, she is the only female I've met in this oppressively male place. She's going back to her house in Camden tomorrow. She likes to check on things here but they don't exactly make her welcomed. Still, I'll miss her."

"God willing we'll be out of here, too."

Their stroll took them closer to the camp borders and Adam slipped into his role.

"Mistress Morgan," a voice hailed them. She turned to see Thomson waving from behind a tent. He said something to someone on the far side of it then came over to walk with them. "'Ow have you and the young man been faring?"

"Well, Mr. Thomson, well. We were supposed to leave this morning, but..." She shrugged, and he laughed. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Well, yer kinfolks' loss is our gain. Ye've a lovely face to brighten a cold camp."

"What a flatterer you are Mr. Thomson, but thank you."

He saluted with two fingers and walked off. She laughed and said to Adam, "He's so nice, it's hard to think he's...Look Adam, Major Ferguson is looking in the wagon!"

"Don't get excited," he muttered. "That would give the game away for certain. But damnation, I don't like him nosing around there. I don't trust him. He's a reputation of being smart. Made a rifle that could win the war for the British if his estimable superiors had the good sense to outfit the troops with it. Thankfully they don't."

"At dinner, I had the feeling that he...was watching me."

"Ummm."

Ferguson saw them coming and waited politely by the wagon. "'Afternoon, Mistress Morgan." He bowed. "Are you and your brother seeing the sights, such as they are?" The faint traces of Scotland in his soft voice went well with the cheerful smile on his face.

"Yes, Major, I had to get Adam some exercise. He's like a child—he sits for too long and he gets fidgety, you know."

"Yes, I have a young nephew who bounces up almost as soon as he sits down."

Deborah found the small talk more irritating than usual. They had nothing to say! When would he leave? "If the weather holds, we hope to be leaving tomorrow morning. I'm sure Col. Marshall will be delighted to see the back of us."

"Don't mind Kit, ma'am." He laughed. "He's juggling more eggs right now than he cares to think about. Bound to make a man a little edgy. Shouldn't have let you have the sharp side of his tongue, though. Isn't done to a lady. I apologize for him."

"There's no need, Major. The Colonel and I are traveling to the same town, even if we're going by different roads."

"My compliments, ma'am," he swept her a bow, "you are dealing with a...a difficult situation with grace. Good day to you." With that he left them.

**

Ferguson's strolling pace belied the directness of his route to the main house. He found Marshall at his desk, writing. The Colonel did not look up. Ferguson leaned against the desk edge and toyed with the silver whistle he used to signal battlefield orders to his troops. After awhile, Marshall thumped the quill down on the blotter and looked up at his friend, with a mixture of exasperation and resignation. "Well, Patrick, out with it. You didn't earn your nickname for nothing. You've got something to say and you're damn well going to get it said eventually, so you might as well say it and let me get back to work."

"Kit, Mistress Morgan..."

"Has she gotten to you, too?" Ferguson looked at him strangely and Marshall retrenched. "You and Tarleton."

Ferguson brushed a bit of dirt off his knee, but looked up. "Umm, I know she's a fetching little creature, but the thing is, I was looking in the wagon earlier..."

"Umm." Marshall sifted through some papers.

"Kit, are ye listening to me, mon?" Patrick wielded his Scots like a judge wielded a gavel. They both got attention.

"Yes, of course, Patrick."

"Well, I was thinking. They are farmers, no?"

"Yes." He pulled a paper from the stack and began to make some notes on it.

"Just how many blankets can one farm use in a winter?"

The Colonel kept writing and then stopped abruptly. He leaned back in his chair. "I can't do it right now, but I think I'd better take a look at those supplies before they leave in the morning."

"How early do you intend to get up?"

Marshall stuck his lower lip out as he thought. "I have it..."

"Good. I'll leave you to it, then." He clapped Marshall on the shoulder as he strode out.

Kit turned away from the contact and hoped, even as he did it, that Ferguson didn't notice the movement. Patrick was a friend and divided his free time between two very devoted ladies both named Sally, so Kit knew the touch wasn't anything...personal. It was just that he only felt comfortable being touched by one or two men, mainly his father and brother, these days. Anybody else made his skin crawl. He shrugged away the momentary lapse and set out to implement his plan.

**

Deborah puttered around the wagon trying to create tasks where there was no need. Ferguson's visit bothered her, but she couldn't say why. Like a mosquito bite that becomes more irritating the more it is scratched, the disquiet grew as she puttered and thought.

"Adam, I'm concerned about Major Ferguson's visit. He didn't say a word to us about going through the wagon. You'd think he'd at least acknowledge it or apologize since it's obvious we saw him."

Adam sat on the grass and stripped the seed heads off a grass stalk, as he had been for the past few minutes. "I thing you're right." He studied the dirt under his bent leg. "Why don't you go get the horse? We'll tie it onto the wagon. You can stay here tonight. Tell them we want to get an especially early start in the morning, which we do. I want to be gone so early that we'll wake up the pickets on guard duty."

Deborah went off and returned a few minutes later, empty handed. Adam could see the carefully controlled panic in her eyes as she dropped down beside him. "The guard said that he'd just gotten orders that our horse wasn't to be released until Marshall gave permission. He told me to go, earlier. What happened?"

With his head down as he played with the grass, Adam looked up. "He's suspicious. He hasn't got any proof because there's nothing here. Ferguson must have seen something that set him off. But what? What did he see?"

"There are just blankets here, nothing else."

Adam thought for a moment. "Yup, that's it. How many people would go to market and just get blankets?"

"Oh...oh! Well, we could say that...that the storage shed with all the worker's blankets caught fire, and we had to replace them quickly before winter."

"That'll do." He went back to playing in the dirt. She worried about the possibilities this new complication created. "What do we do if they don't let us go?' He didn't answer, but she knew he had to be thinking about the same thing. "That information has to get back." He grunted. She hesitated, gathering her arguments because she knew what she was going to propose would generate a skirmish. "Could you sneak out of here tonight?"

He glanced at her and then returned his attention to the dirt. "I could, but I'm not leaving here without you."

"You have to. One of us has to get that information back. You can steal a horse and travel faster than I could, even if they do let us go tomorrow."

"No."

"The information has to get back now. If we wait for them to release us, it may be too late. They may take days to let us go."

"Deborah, I'm not leaving you here. It's too dangerous. Remember Tarleton?"

She paled. "I can deal with him."

"Sure you can. You'll just give him the sharp edge of your tongue." He wasn't going to tell her how much protection that would be. "But think about me. The General, hell, both Generals, would have my hide."

"I'll be fine. I'll tell the British you wandered off, and I have to look for you. They'll let me go with no problem. I'll be out of here right after you."

"No."

Time to bring up the artillery. "Adam, if you don't go tonight, I will."

He stopped his drawing in the dirt. Taking a deep breath, he capitulated. "You got more than your height from Mama, little chick. How I'm gonna explain this to Pa, I'll never know."

"Tell him the truth!"

"What? That his little slip of a daughter strong-armed me into doing something against my better judgment? I'll be lucky if he hangs me."

"Sure." She grinned. "He'll believe you." She grasped his hand. "I won't see you again before you leave. Good luck and God's speed."

She rose and left before he could say anything else. She couldn't let him see that she was more scared than ever before in her life.

On her way into the house, she asked for a tray in her room for dinner.

Shortly after 2 o'clock in the morning, Adam stole a horse.

Chapter 4

Ferguson left early. The noise of the troops breaking camp awakened Deborah well before sunrise. She threw back the comforter and lit the lamp, anxious to get started as soon as possible. The braided rug protected her feet as she rose. She admired it as she walked over to the window. Much finer in color and quality than the usual motley of scrap fabric used for them, this rug was all the same shade of green, matching the curtains and the counterpane. The floor was cold where she stepped off the rug, but she wanted to peek out the window. Troops, wagons, and horses clogged the field and the road that she and Adam had to take.

Of course! Ferguson had to follow that road for 20 miles or so before he could bear northwest toward Kings Mountain. From the looks of things, she and Adam wouldn't be able to follow them much before dawn. With a yawn and a shiver, she crawled back in bed for awhile.

**

"Adam, Adam," she called softly, even though the troops in this area were gone. She'd seen no one she knew on her way to the wagon and just as well. She felt she had to tell her news to someone or pop like a roasted kernel of corn. Having to talk politely to a British soldier would have been impossible to bear.

"Adam!" She was getting irritated. He knew they had to leave and why. She lifted the "tent" wall. No Adam.

Oh, my Lord, he's left without me!

Just as he was supposed to do. She'd forgotten he was going to slip out during the night, didn't think he'd really do it. Now...now it was her turn to get out and back to the American lines. She had a part to play in this drama, and she had to play it well. The discussion of André and Hale floated through her mind. She ruthlessly squelched it. Yes, the part had to be played perfectly to the last curtain. Her life depended on it.

Backing out from under the wagon, she looked around. Two soldiers were outside a tent some distance away, one chalking the other's white breeches. "Excuse me, have you seen my brother? This is our wagon."

The one having his breeches cleaned just looked at her. The other rose from his crouch and wiped a hand across his face, spreading chalk dust across his forehead. "No, m'um, we hain't. "Appens tho 'e may be at the latrine, down that way. Couldn't say fer sure, tho."

"Thank you, gentlemen. If you see him would you tell him to stay here?" He nodded, and she headed for the latrine.

Halfway there, she spied a familiar face. Mr. Thomson was coming from the latrine, hitching up his breeches and adjusting his coat as he stopped by a slatternly camp follower who was stirring a pot over an open fire. Deborah couldn't hear what Thomson said, but the woman's "G'on" and playful punch to his arm told its own story.

He laughed and strolled off, spotting Deborah a moment later. He hailed her. "Good morrow to ye, Mistress Morgan. Will ye be leavin' us today, too? Ah 'eard Mistress Kershaw went back to 'er place in town."

Here it begins, she thought. "Good day to you, Mr. Thomson. We'll be leaving just as soon as I can find my brother and my horse. Have you seen Adam? He seems to have wandered off."

"No, m'um, Ah h'aint. 'As the wee lad wandered off? Hi'll surely..."

"I'll deal with this, sergeant."

Both Deborah and Thomson startled at Marshall's harsh voice. "Yessir!" The sergeant saluted and walked off with a small frown on his face.

"Thank you, Colonel, I wouldn't expect you to concern yourself with something so small as my brother's disappearance."

Marshall stood there with his hands behind his back for a few moments. Deborah thought he looked like he was going to bite her. His clear gray eyes narrowed as he studied her. Oh, my God, he knows! What am I going to do? How did he find out? He must have Adam.

"You're right, Mistress Morgan, normally I wouldn't concern myself with this kind of a matter. Unfortunately, though, a horse has gone missing, and at the very same time your brother. Now, normally I wouldn't concern myself with that, either, but this horse happens to be mine! One of my best, in fact."

He doesn't know. But, oh Adam, what have you done? She closed her eyes for a moment.

"That's right, Mistress Morgan, I believe your idiot of a brother has stolen my horse."

"Colonel, I...I'm so sorry. But you have to understand that Adam is just like a little child. It would be just like him to have taken it. He sees pretty things and he just...plays with them. He has the body of a 24 year-old and the mind of a four year old and it's sometimes very difficult to remember that. He didn't steal the horse; he just wanted to play with it. You can no more accuse him of stealing than you can a normal four year-old. Don't you understand?"

Marshall stared down at her and pulled down one side of his mouth. Deborah took it as positive that he wasn't accusing her outright of lying. "The most important thing now is to find them: to return the horse to you and to take Adam home before he can get into any more trouble. I'm going to take the wagon and go look for him. I suspect that he headed up the Lancaster road, because that's where we came from, and he is at least somewhat familiar with it. When I find them, I will send the horse back to you and..."

"No."

"What?"

"I said 'no'. You are not leaving until this mess is straightened out. I have a number of questions, and they all don't have to do with your brother."

"But, Adam..."

"Mistress Morgan, you will remain at the main house and on the grounds of this encampment until I personally give you permission to leave. Is that clear?"

"But, Colonel..."

"Is that clear?"

"Adam is lost out there, and he can't take care of himself."

Marshall studied her, obviously weighing the possibility that she might be telling the truth. "I will have my troopers searching for him. In the meantime, are my orders clear?"

Deborah realized that he must have suspicions about her. To protest any more would only make him wonder more. "Yes, Colonel." She took a few steps toward the wagon and then turned back. "But please remember that he is just a little boy, even if he looks like a man."

He bowed his head. She could feel him watching her as she turned to walk away. Ferguson must have planted suspicions in his head.

Her knees shook as she walked to the wagon. She wished it was simply a normal fear of being trapped in the enemy camp by a suspicious officer. That should have been enough to make her knees shake all by itself.

Oh no, the state of her personal safety was not the main reason for wobbly knees and a pounding pulse.

She was honest enough to admit that it was gray eyes the color of a stormy winter's sky and a mouth as finely chiseled as the hope chest in her bedroom. Something about just being near him sent her normally quiet, controlled emotions into a tizzy.

An irresistible impulse had her looking back. She tried to see him. He wasn't there. Near where they had been talking, a group of soldiers were pushing against a wagon mired axle-deep in the mud. Someone yelled "Once more, lads," and they strained together. The wagon broke free with a slurp and a pop that carried all the way to her. The men cheered and one broke away to retrieve his jacket from the safety of a tent pole. He looked up and saw her immediately. He continued to stare as he shrugged into his jacket with a colonel's epaulets on the shoulder. He continued to stare until she whirled and fled to the wagon.

**

For the next few days, she kept out of Marshall's way by the simple stratagem of remaining out of the public rooms when he was most likely to be there.

Cornwallis recuperated slowly. His exhaustion following her first dinner at the house convinced him to return to bed. By the end of the week, he could get up for short periods, but tired easily. In the manner of all men since time immemorial, he was querulous and irritable with his confinement. Although she tried to avoid it, she frequently found herself dragooned by the General into a chess game. He was a formidable opponent and made her work for her few victories. He was also an excellent conversationalist. She found herself almost liking him in spite of herself.

Shortly after lunch one day, they sat in the two wing chairs in front of the fire with the chess board table between them. The pieces, mid-game, were scattered across the board, but abandoned in favor of discussion.

"Politics aside, wars are still fought by men who may or may not agree with the cause or the politics they fight for. Witness our Hessian mercenary troops. Now these..."

"It's a horrible thing to fight and possibly die in a war where you have no interest in the outcome. It's immoral." Although she was aware of the mercenary troops fighting for the British, Deborah had never thought of the implication. To her and to those around her, a war meant a major personal commitment.

"I'm not disagreeing, far from it. In fact, I sometimes find the reasons we are here a long way from logical."

"Then why fight?" She knew she was pressing him, but the question had to be asked.

He thought for a long time. "A man has to stand somewhere. That is his place. That place may be solid rock, it may be marsh, it may be sand. It may flood in winter and parch in summer, but it is his place. Its part of what he is. The place he has may not be perfect, may not even be of his own choosing, but he must make the best of it. That includes standing up for it, even when the conditions are not precisely what he would like."

"Have you ever though about..."

Cornwallis would never have the opportunity to think about it. Col. Marshall strode in, leaving a trail of mud from the doorway, flushed, harried, and searching for something. He found it when he spotted Deborah. The gray eyes fastened on her, and she stiffened at the rage in them. What had he found out?

"Marshall?" Cornwallis demanded.

He stopped in front of them. "Sir," he addressed Cornwallis but looked at Deborah. She held her breath. "There has been a fire in one of the tents. Several men have been burned badly. The camp's surgeon is drunker than a Haymarket whore and totally useless, but I'll deal with him later. I've come to ask Mistress Morgan to lend us her aid."

He hadn't come to denounce her! The relief held her immobile for several moments.

Cornwallis misinterpreted it. "Madam, some of my men are in pain. Can you disregard your...feelings and help them?"

She started at his voice. "Of course, sir, I...I was thinking where to get the supplies I need. How many were hurt?" She looked up.

"Nine, all total."

Grimacing at the number, she said, "Fetch me what ever you think might be useful from the surgeon's supplies, and I'll see what medicines Mistress Kershaw has left here." He nodded and left, and she hurried to the pantry, the usual place for those things. With the help of Rogers, she found aloes, laudanum and clean linen for bandages.

The injured men were lying or sitting on the ground near the burned tent. Thomson was shouting orders at the men milling about. "Get these men onto clean blankets," she ordered. "Get me water and soap and clean towels."

"H'abbot, Simons, Lawrence, move," Thomson bellowed to the three nearest him to fulfill the orders. He grabbed a blanket out of the nearest tent and whipped it onto the ground. "'Arrison, Bailey, giv' a 'and 'ere." The men were supported or carried off the bare dirt.

One of the men, she knew, would not make it through the night and could only be made comfortable. She directed Rogers in the mixing of laudanum for him. Dropping down near the next most serious man, she began to gently pull the edges of charred fabric from the wound on his arm. Thomson crouched beside her. "What can I do, m'um?" he asked softly.

She looked up, startled at the abrupt change in tone, but replied, "Pull the burnt clothes away. Gently wash the burn and the area around it with soap and cool water. Gently."

She felt, rather than saw Marshall come up behind her. "About all I found was some laudanum. That place is a pig sty. What can I do?"

She gave him the same directions as Thomson and added, "I'm glad you found laudanum. We're going to need it."

He glanced at some of the burns and grunted. Between the three of them, with Rogers mixing continual doses of the narcotic, they got the wounds cleaned, dressed, and bandaged. Two more men who had helped put out the fire came forward with minor arm burns. One was the young Lt. Harvey, who had first stopped her on the road and had tried so gallantly to dissuade Tarleton from hauling her into camp. He grimaced as she bandaged his wound, but bravely said nothing. He shyly thanked her when she finished but couldn't quite look her in the eye.

Those who needed continual care she ordered moved to a slave cabin near the house where she could check on them. Thomson drafted a young soldier to keep watch on them. After checking one last time that they were as comfortable as possible for the moment, she walked out into the half-hearted sunshine and stretched her aching back.

"Thank you."

She stopped mid-stretch. "Ahh!" Why couldn't Marshall leave her alone? And why did he have to sneak up on her like that? It was one of his more despicable character traits, besides being British. He had changed his grimy clothes, and she had to admit he did look good. While she was covered in ash and blood and just plain dirt, he was again immaculate in his scarlet jacket and gleaming white breeches. They looked clean, not just chalked. The gold of his buttons and braid caught the weak sunshine and threw it back like fire. It just wasn't fair for a man to look that magnificent.

"I said, 'thank you' for lending a hand today." She began walking towards the house again and nodded a gracious acknowledgment, but... "It was good of you to put aside your rebel sympathies to help."

She pulled up short. Rebel sympathies? Could he know? How could he? She had to brazen it through, but suddenly she remembered the tone of some of her discussions with Cornwallis. She had defended the rebel cause, not enough to be treasonous, but perhaps enough to encourage suspicion. "Rebel sympathies, you say. Well, I dare say I wouldn't go that far, Colonel, but I must admit my...um...sympathies have undergone a reevaluation since I was...encouraged to share your 'gracious' hospitality." She had to be very careful with her words. "Although I began as a loyal subject of the King, if what I have seen here is any indication, I may have to acknowledge that the rebels may have some basis for their complaints."

"Devil a bit!"

"Think!" She raised an eyebrow and warmed to her subject. "I and my brother are peaceably going about our business, and we are forced to detour to your camp by a British soldier with obvious lechery on his mind. I am informed that it is acceptable for you to execute a countryman of mine, but woe betides when the tables are turned under the exact same circumstances. You have taken over poor Mistress Kershaw's house. Oh yes, it's all very legal, but we don't even have a say in making those laws. You have..."

"Enough!" He raised his hand, the image of the imperial Englishman.

"Do you think so, Colonel? Have you ever thought of how you would feel if the conditions England has imposed on us were repeated in Sussex or Essex or Lancaster or where ever you come from?" She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. He had a talent for making her furious.

"Gloucester. And this is of no consequence. Besides, it would never happen. That is England, and this place is only a colony. Englishmen have rights."

"What do you think we are?"

"Colonists."

"Oh, you thick-headed male!" she sputtered and stalked off toward the house. After a moment he followed her.

He caught up to her as she climbed up the front steps. He opened the door and bowed her through, somewhat ostentatiously to her mind.

As he pushed the door closed, she rounded on him, "So now, are you going to denounce me as a traitor because your own actions...Ouch!"

The partially closed door was flung open, hitting her in the elbow. A very young, very frightened soldier barreled to a stop with his nose braking on the second button of the Colonel's uniform.

"Where's Cornwallis?" He finally recognized the wall he'd run into, "Sir!!"

"The General is here." Marshall gestured vaguely, his eyes narrow.

"Please, sir."

"Come." Marshall strode into the parlor, the most likely place for the General at this hour. Deborah followed, curious as to the turmoil. Cornwallis sat by the fire, reading some dispatches. Tarleton stood by the sideboard pouring a snifter of Mr. Kershaw's excellent brandy.

"What the meaning of this?" he demanded taking a menacing step forward.

The young soldier quailed and gulped but turned agonized eyes toward the General. Fumbling a salute, he stuttered, "S...Sir!"

"Yes, soldier, get on with it," the General said, not unkindly.

"Sir, sir, I jus' come away from Kings Mountain up north," the words tumbled out, "an' we met t'rebels, and Major Ferguson 'uz so brave, an' we met 'um brave an' true, an' they shot Major Ferguson full o' oles, an' 'e died, an'...an'...an' there hain't nobody left." The final words broke on a wail and he burst into tears.

The only sounds in the room were the young man's sobs and the fire's crackle and the shattering of Tarleton's glass in the hearth.

Chapter 5

She knew dinner was going to be a painful affair when she went down the stairs and saw the camp's senior officers gathered in the parlor. She debated for a moment whether to go back upstairs and ask for a tray in her room or head directly to the kitchen and cobble together whatever she could find. The realization that all the servants would be frantically trying to wait on the extra-large group at table made her decision easy. Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, she headed for the kitchen. She straightened her kerchief around her neck, confirmed that the spot-cleaning she'd done was dry, and shrugged. It would do for supper alone.

"Mistress Morgan, you are planning on joining us for dinner?" It sounded like a question, but coming from the General, it was more on the lines of a polite order. The gold buttons on all the blue and scarlet and green jackets immediately swiveled toward her. "We are going to have a memorial dinner for Ferguson. Come in. Kit, do the pretties."

"Ah, General, I'd rather not intrude on your, umm, dinner. It sounds like a private affair."

Marshall loomed at her elbow. "The General requests your presence," and gently, but inexorably, escorted her into the parlor. "Gentlemen, let me make you known to Mistress Morgan. Ma'am, I give you Major Smythe, Col. Johnson, Lt. Bradley, Lt. Claiborne, Lt. Harrison ..."

The names rattled in Deborah's head, but she acknowledged each with a nod or a slight smile. Each of the heads dipped in elegant bows. "Lt. Harvey and I have met. It's a pleasure to see you again, Lieutenant."

Harvey blushed almost the color of his jacket and got a few nudges for his pains. "Delighted to see you, too, ma'am. I hope your stay with us has been pleasant."

She mumbled what she hoped sounded like an affirmative and Marshall continued spewing names. Only Tarleton, sprawled in a chair next to his good friend, the brandy decanter, failed to greet her. She figured it was not a great loss.

Marshall drew her toward the sideboard laden with decanters. "Can I offer you something to drink?"

"Sherry, please."

He poured hers and one for himself. "I see you've made another conquest."

"A what?"

"Mr. Thomson is a man grown and can well fend for himself, but Harvey is just a green boy. I'll not have you weaving snares around him." His voice matched his glower.

"Thomson? Harvey? What are you talking about, sir?"

His cynicism showed in every word. "You know very well what I'm talking about."

"I do no such thing." She bit out each word. "Mr. Harvey happens to be the first person I met here and he was very kind to me. I appreciate that."

"Appreciate someone else. Harvey has barely started shaving. I happen to know his parents, and I'm sure they wouldn't like a grasping little colonial of dubious loyalty as a daughter-in-law."

The sip of sherry went down the wrong way. Between coughs, she choked out, "You what?" Cough. "Why you..." Cough, cough. "I've never..." Cough. The fury registered in her voice, even though the misguided sherry kept it to slightly more than a whisper. It was just as well. Here in the midst of Cornwallis's men, she could hardly start berating his senior officer like a fishwife. She whirled and walked away. A small group of officers welcomed her into their discussion. She should have felt uncomfortable in the old, none too clean frock she'd worn since she'd left home, but fury stiffened her spine so that she might have been a duchess.

**

Kit knew the moment the words popped out that, not only was he wrong, but if a male of the lady's family was within 50 miles, he would have been facing him over pistols at dawn. And rightly so. In fact, he was extremely lucky the General hadn't heard it. The old man was a stickler for propriety and was reputed to still be a crack shot.

He watched when Lt. Harvey offered his arm as dinner was announced. She smiled and gently set her fingers on the sleeve of his red jacket. Kit set his teeth. The younger man seated her next to Cornwallis who was at the head of the table. Kit took his customary place to the General's left. The dozen or so other officers filled in the table.

**

Deborah discussed the weather with Lt. Harrison on her right, inquired after the General's health, bickered good-naturedly with Lt. Bradley sitting kitty corner across from her over the relative merits of English and American ham, and acknowledged without reservation the grief of these men who genuinely liked Major Patrick Ferguson. Marshall, she ignored.

Tarleton ignored everyone except his good friend, whom he brought to the table with him. He even ignored the food.

The dinner, however, was superb. Besides thin-sliced ham with apple butter (which everyone agreed was quite tasty, despite ham being considered a lower-class food by the British), there was a delicate consumé, trout with Cardinal sauce, roast saddle of mutton, cucumbers and the cruets, peas in cream, pumpkin soufflé, quail eggs in aspic jelly and finally the meringues, nuts and fruits. Even after taking only a small portion of each, Deborah thought her stomach was going to pop.

Of course, all during dinner, the gentlemen would take wine. Catching one another's eyes, they would lift their glasses, "To Bulldog," "Ferguson," "To a damn good officer," sounded all through dinner. Sometimes the entire table would join in the salute. Deborah realized early on that merely touching the wineglass to her lips was the wisest acknowledgement of the toast.

Through it all, she ignored Marshall, and Tarleton continued to ignore all but his friend.

Lt. Harrison cracked a walnut for her and presented it with a gallant flourish. As she plucked the succulent nutmeat from its shell, she looked around and said, "Gentlemen, I will leave you to your port and your happy memories of Major Ferguson. May he rest in peace."

"Amen" sounded around the table.

"Goodnight, gentlemen, General." They all rose for her departure. Even Tarleton got out of his chair, aided by what looked to her to be a kick to his shins. He glowered at her, rose halfway and then plopped back in the chair. Deborah ignored him, made her curtsey, and thankfully retired.

**

In that grey area between wakefulness and true sleep, small noises and minor discomforts frequently become incorporated into dreams. Kit Marshall stood before her, cold and arrogant, in full dress uniform. He drew his sword. "Traitor, traitor, traitor," he intoned. "What's the penalty?" He began to swing the sword over his head, and the blade grew larger with every stroke.

She knew she should run, but her stockinged feet stuck to the ground. Strangely, she wasn't afraid. Step by ponderous step he approached, his face as blank as a statue.

From out of a clear sky, a single hail stone dropped on the board-sized sword. The rock of ice clicked as it hit the blade and rolled to her feet. As the sword swung past her, the draft made her shiver.

"Where's the panic?" she asked herself. There should be panic. Sunlight bounced off the sword, and the whole area burned bright yellow in the reflected blaze. She turned away from the irritating glare, annoyed but unafraid.

But it was the drop of hot wax on her neck that woke her.

"Wha? Who?" Half asleep, disoriented, she saw only a dark looming figure above her, the face distorted to a caricature by candlelight. Marshall's name sprang to her lips, but the man slapped a hand over her mouth. Bouncing onto the bed, he half-rolled over her to put the candle on the single table on the other side of the bed, pinning her in the process. She could see him now.

Tarleton.

Brandy fumes choked her. "Alright you little tart, let's see what you've got."

Freeing one hand, she beat on his shoulder. His laugh was ugly. "That's right, show a little spirit." He yanked the comforter down to her waist and grabbed her breast through her shift, squeezing painfully. She tried to buck him off, but he held firm. He released her mouth. She drew breath to scream, but he stoppered it with his mouth. Prying her mouth open further, he ground down and thrust his tongue into her. Tasting blood and nearly gagging, she continued to beat on him.

Finding a handful of hair, she yanked as hard as she could. He pulled back with a yelp. "Bitch, I'll get you for..."

She screamed. He slapped her, snapping her head around. His hand grabbed her shift and ripped. Once again his hand captured her mouth as he bit the upper curve of her breast. The pain barely had time to register when the door slammed back against the wall, and Tarleton levitated off her.

She turned onto her side, pulled the comforter up, and squeezed her eyes shut, only to have them pop open at the jarring thud that rattled the furniture. Tarleton slid slowly down the wall, holding his face. Blood flowed between his fingers. Marshall stood over him, fists clenched, looking for all the world like the Archangel Michael defeating Lucifer. His bare, heaving chest and feet and half-fastened breeches didn't lessen the image. "God damn you, Ban. What the hell's gotten into you? The old man'll have your head for this."

"The 'old man' was thinking of another part of his anatomy that wouldn't necessarily ruin his value as a soldier, but would forestall any further occurrences such as this." Cornwallis, still fastening his dressing gown, glowered. "Throw him in the bridewell, and I'll decide what to do with him in the morning." He turned to leave.

Marshall snatched a towel from the commode and tossed it at Tarleton. Kit took a deep breath. "Sir." Cornwallis stopped and turned. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. While it might be satisfying to know that his repose in the jail was less than comfortable, it might not show well to the men."

Cornwallis ducked his chin and pursed his lips. Doing so formed the only lines on his baby-smooth face. He looked up at Marshall from under his eyebrows and grunted. "Confined to quarters and a guard on his door."

He turned away but changed his mind. "My apologies, Mistress Morgan. This won't happen again." With that, he brushed past Thomson who had come up behind him, and left.

Kit hauled Tarleton to his feet and threw him out the door. "Mr. Thomson, escort the Colonel to his quarters and post a guard on the door." Stony-faced, Thomson grabbed Tarleton's elbow. The officer jerked it away and stumbled off on his own, still daubing blood from his face.

Deborah watched it all from underneath her covers. They might have all been in a play, for all that the commotion seemed to affect her. She just sat and watched, with one shoulder bare where Tarleton had ripped at her clothes.

Marshall turned his attention to her, but she could tell his eyes weren't on her face, but her shoulder. He slowly shook his head, rather like a bull contemplating a charge. Still, his eyes never left her. His arousal tented his half-fastened breeches. He took a step towards her. A foot-fall sounded outside the door, and he stopped. He glared at her and followed his fellow officers.

**

She awoke with a start. The memory of the night's events had her throwing off the covers before her eyes ceased functioning independently of each other, as they were wont to do first thing in the morning. Jackknifing upright, she looked wildly around the room. The normalness of everything annoyed her. "It should look like mayhem happened here," she muttered before sliding out of bed. Tarleton had mauled her, but no permanent damage was done.

After a quick mending job on her shift, she checked on the burned soldiers. The worst-burned man had died just after sunset. One more looked like he might not live. Three had been sent back to their tents with bandaged wounds. The others were sedated but looked like they too would live.

The entire process took about an hour and a half. Mending her shift took a few minutes. Now it was not yet noon, and her knitting was almost finished. Even with her brother's big feet, there were still only a few rows to go. What would she do to occupy her time? It certainly didn't look like she'd be getting out of here anytime soon. The prospect of cowering in her room or the relative safety of the parlor with nothing to do would drive her lunatic. And hers, unlike Adam's, wouldn't be pretense. Leisure time only made her think of Major Ferguson, and she didn't want to grieve for an enemy soldier, even if he was a nice man.

She had the parlor to herself and chose a chair near the window. Marshall was somewhere. She didn't care so long as it wasn't near her. "I can't stand the sight of the man."

"Pardon me, ma'am?" Deborah gasped and looked up to find Rogers in the doorway. "Did you want something?"

Finding her breath, Deborah responded, "No...No, thank you, Rogers. I was talking to myself." Absurdly she noticed that his waistcoat was of the same maroon brocade as the wall covering here in the parlor. The old black man barely came up to her nose, but he stood ramrod straight. White hair gave him a halo, but his eyes were sharp and clear. Even thought the house had been commandeered, here in the midst of the enemy, Mistress Kershaw's servants were not to be trusted, Rogers in particular. The British had promised freedom to any black who took service with them.

"Very well, ma'am," he replied before turning with great dignity and going through the doorway.

She went back to her knitting and her thinking, this time completely by herself.

Cornwallis had gone out to inspect the preparations for the majority of his forces' removal to Winnsboro's winter headquarters. It was cold and drippy. He'd gone out against her advice and would probably be in bed again before the week was out. Why should she care? He was the enemy and a man and a lord and if he did land himself in bed again because of this foolishness, after all her work to get him healthy, she'd strangle him herself.

How dare he! After all the time she spent trying to get him healthy, he just ignored her advice. Why, the next time he wanted her help, she wouldn't give it. In fact, she'd just...leave.

Leave! Escape. She shouldn't waste her energy trying to outfox the British; she should use it trying to...

"Mistress Morgan, I'd like a few words with you!"

She jumped and dropped a stitch. Damn the man, he always did that to her, sneaking up on her and sending her heart racing. "Certainly, Col. Marshall." Picking up the stitch was a good excuse not to look directly at him. "Please sit down."

"I prefer to stand, if you don't mind, thank you." She did mind him towering over her, but she shrugged her indifference. He braced his feet apart and clapped his hands behind his back. He didn't say anything for a long moment.

She looked up and found him studying her. She thought she knew what he saw. Her mother's elegant wall mirror told her that her hair was light brown, her nose has an obnoxious spray of freckles, and her mouth was, well, a mouth. Everything else was put together in reasonable order. There were no surprises. "Well?"

**

What he saw was the sunshine burnishing her hair with hints of old gold, a nose that was unfashionable, but nonetheless patently adorable, and a mouth that was designed exclusively for kissing. He jerked himself back to business before the king in his breeches sat up and demanded attention...

**

"There are several items I need to discuss with you." The formality in his voice startled her, but she said nothing, and he continued. "The General wishes me to, and I wish to, extend apologies for the events of last night. Tarleton's actions were unforgivable. He has been confined to his quarters for the next week."

"What!" She dropped her knitting on the cherry side table and jumped to her feet, nose to collarbone with him. "Confined to quarters! That man's an animal. He should be tied up and...and...gelded."

Kit tried to cover his bark of laughter with a cough. "Believe me, Mistress Morgan," his expression was rueful, "for a man of Tarleton's character, seven days alone with nothing to do is a most exquisite punishment. That and the gossip. In any case, this will not happen again."

"Colonel, if you release me to find my brother, it most assuredly will not happen again." She sat back down and picked up her knitting, only to hold it in her lap.

"Ah! That brings me to my second item. I gather," he hesitated and pursed his lips, "that the contents of your wagon consisted solely of blankets. A market trip does not usually procure a single type of item, but rather an assortment of supplies. I'd like to know why not."

"Pardon me! You want to know why I have blankets?" She tried to make her voice sound as incredulous as possible, but oh, but if he only knew how dangerous, and appropriate, his question was.

"Yes. We happen to be at war here and it is my duty to investigate anything suspicious."

"But why should my blankets be of any interest to you? They are just blankets, for heaven's sake. I'm not carrying pistols or gunpowder or anything like that. People need blankets, even in...unpleasant times."

"I agree...but a whole wagon-load of them?"

"Yes, a whole wagon of them. The storage cabin for our workers caught fire a few days ago, and all their winter supplies were destroyed. We have to replace the blankets immediately with winter coming on, and we heard there was a supplier in Lancaster that gave a good price. That's all there is to it. Nothing worthy of the might of the British crown or its officers." She hoped her look bespoke irritated and outraged innocence.

**

Ah, Kit thought, she looked pure enough to model for a portrait of the Madonna. On one hand he wanted to believe her, wanted her to simply be going about her business after a small crisis. But then, he would have no excuse for keeping this maddening little female in camp. She was beginning to dominate his thoughts more and more. He was masculine enough to be titillated by the possibilities.

A gut-wrenching vision of Tarleton on top of her, pulling at her clothes, made him retract from visualizing himself in that same position. That did not, however, mean that he was prepared to let her go entirely.

On the other hand, if the odd supplies were indeed destined for the rebel troops in Charlotte as Ferguson had speculated, the consequences of naming her a liar and a rebel were not even to be thought about.

"Bye the bye, Colonel, have you sent out anyone looking for Adam? I certainly haven't heard of any massive search effort."

"All patrols have standing orders to keep an eye out for him."

"Colonel, I need to find him."

"We'll find him, don't you worry.

"Harrumph," Kit cleared his throat. He walked over to inspect the curved mantle over the fireplace. Then he inspected an elegant landscape on the wall.

**

Deborah watched him wander. She had no idea what he was thinking, but she had a feeling she wasn't going to like it.

Marshall turned to face her, clasping his hands behind his back. His feet were spread; he rocked back and forth. Deborah's apprehension grew with every sway.

"I want to thank you, again," he began, "for your excellent...ummm...care of the burned men and also the General. Your service to the Crown is appreciated."

Nodding graciously, she replied, "Thank you, Colonel" Where was this leading? He was making such a production about it.

"The General and I were so impressed by your skills that we would like you to stay on in place of Gordon as the camp doctor." When she stiffened, he hurried on, "You will, of course, be compensated."

Deborah stared at him, blinking with astonishment. The idea was ludicrous, especially since she had the same job with the opposing army. Shaking her head, she politely began, "I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Before you decline," he interrupted, "you might consider a few things. First, I could view your brother as a horse thief to be hung when caught." She knew the shock must have shown on her face because satisfaction began to spread over his. "Or I could view him a young child who is not responsible for his actions. Second..."

"This is outrageous."

"...With you here on our staff, I will personally direct the search for your brother to ensure his safety. Third, the presence of only blankets in your cart could be considered suspicious in time of war. Those suspicions could be the basis for a charge of treason, the penalty for which is also death."

"This is barbaric."

"No, this is war. In any event, Mistress Morgan, and whatever you decide, you will not be leaving this camp. Now, we can make it a...umm...pleasant stay, or we can make it otherwise."

"Oh! This is intolerable! I can't believe I'm hearing this from a British officer. How dare you? You want to hold me prisoner for some imaginary offence and then you want me to help you for the privilege. This is monstrous." She paused, the seed of an idea taking shape. "But then, again, maybe this is to be expected of a British officer. Col. Tarleton is also well known for his unscrupulous dealings with both soldiers and civilians." She allowed her voice to trail off as the barb hit its mark. She watched his eyes narrow and his jaw clench. Perhaps she had played that card a little too...

He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Then, again, maybe she hadn't. "I find this behavior intolerable, even in time of war. You have no cause to subject me to this kind of intimidation. I'm sure the General will have something to say about this outrage." She pushed past him and flounced out of the house in search of Cornwallis. Marshall followed at a much more leisurely pace, but still managed to stay just behind her. Young Lt. Harvey walked toward the house.

"Where's the General?" she barked at him.

"Uh, ma'am, he's over with the 63rd Foot, there." He pointed over her left shoulder. She picked up the hem of her skirts and marched in that direction. With his mouth opened like a codfish, he watched her go.

"The very idea!" she said to no one in particular.

Harvey looked at his superior with the kind of expression that very young men and beaten puppies wear so effectively. "Sir?"

Marshall shook his head briefly and muttered, "Women!" He also continued in the direction of the 63rd Foot.

"Sir?"

**

Cornwallis thought it was a capital idea.

Chapter 6

The sky was already light when she came downstairs for breakfast. After several days of passive resistance to her new duties, and a great deal of soul searching, she decided that the British troops were still human beings, however much Tarleton and his friends tried to obscure the fact. She had made it her life's work to heal, and war or no war, that's what she would do.

Cornwallis was taking Tarleton to Winnsboro today. One thorn in her flesh was pulled. With him gone, she felt less resistant to dealing with the British.

She took a plate from the oak side board and looked over the selections of breads and other items. Clearly, other members of the eclectic household had broken their fast before her. The platters of ham, muffins, and eggs were half empty. Used plates and flatware littered the long table. The door to the kitchen opened, and Rogers entered with a carafe.

"Tea, ma'am."

"Thank you, Rogers. How did you know I was here? There's no one else here for that tea."

He poured. "I was about to clear the table when I heard you. The sixth step squeaks even with your light tread. Would you care for anything else?"

"No, thank you. Um, yes, do you have paper and pen nearby?"

He took several sheets from the sideboard drawer and the ink stand from a cupboard below. He bowed at her thanks and left.

With winter soon on them, Deborah needed to insure her supply of herbs was adequate for the challenge. Many of the things she needed grew wild or cultivated on the Kershaw property. She wrote them down and their uses, the better to gauge the kinds of things she would have to purchase. Passionflower made an excellent sedative. The bark of the sassafras tree would help heal the sores soldiers acquired during long marches. Woundwort lived up to its name. The leaves of turtlebloom helped constipation and bayberry eased the inevitable winter colds, as did some bee balm she was lucky enough to find. Boneset, her choice for fever, was her prize find.

She needed a number of herbs that had died back with the cold weather and some that she just couldn't find: mustard, lobelia, spotted dog, and others. A trip into Camden town was required.

The one item that she simply noted on her list with no explanation was buckthorn. If she knew that a big battle was planned, a little buckthorn, strategically administered, to loosen the bowels of the right people might come in handy. No need to commit that use to paper, though.

Slowly cracking her hard-cooked egg, she thought about the ramifications of a little medical sabotage. If Rogers was still loyal to his old master, perhaps he might be able to help dispensing the "medication." She would have to talk...

The door swung open with a bang, and she jumped. Marshall strode in and headed purposefully towards the food, without so much as a glance or a by-your-leave. He grabbed a plate with one hand and a biscuit with the other. Stuffing the biscuit in his mouth, he began to take some of everything.

Eyes wide, sitting so rigid she shook, Deborah watched him fill his plate. Her shaking hand hit the flatware and the small noise alerted him to her presence. He whirled, barely keeping the food on the plate. He stopped chewing and a red flush crept up his face. Trying to swallow, he studied her. Finally the food went down, and he went on the offensive. "Thinking bad thoughts, Mistress Morgan?"

Of all the...Deborah fumed. Just being around him threw her normally refined thoughts into complete chaos. Without thinking of the consequences, she said, "My thoughts are no worse than your manners, Colonel." Two could play at that game. Besides, she had no intention of answering the question.

He bowed slightly. "Honors to you, madam," and moved to the other side of the table. "My apologies. I have been up for several hours, getting Claiborne and his regiment on their way with Cornwallis. This is the first chance I've had to eat." He rescued a slice of bacon slipping off his plate. He sat down across from her.

She nodded graciously, if a little wobbly. The folly of verbal sparring with the man who practically accused her of treason reawakened her good sense. She returned to her list.

Kit watched her make a note or two. Rogers came in, silently poured him a cup of tea and left. "I was under the impression that most colonials couldn't read or write. I'm impressed."

Deborah carefully replaced the pen in the ink well before she looked up at him. "Do you read and write, Colonel?" He lifted a dark eyebrow. "Roughly the same proportion of people are literate here as in England. Our social systems are very similar, since, until recently, we all considered ourselves English. Those who can afford education get it. My father did not learn until he was an adult, and he made very sure that we did. I presume that your father saw you educated, too."

With a smile slightly off-center, he nodded. "Again, I am sent down in disgrace." He gestured at her paper. "What are you doing?"

"As it turns out, something that concerns you. There are a number of herbs and supplies that I need that I am not able to obtain here. I shall be obliged to go into town to get them."

"Really?"

"Do you wish your men properly cared for over the winter?"

"Yes."

"Then really."

"Let me see your list." She passed it over to him. The "haves" and the "needs" were precisely labeled. "That quack Gordon may have had some of this among the pile of stuff he requisitioned. He won't be there to help you, but I can't say I'm sorry to see him gone. Take a look through the supplies first." He sat back and played with his tea cup for a moment. "We'll go into Camden after lunch."

**

Shopping list in her skirt pocket, Deborah adjusted her lightweight shawl around her shoulders as she stood next to the wagon. It wasn't her horse hooked up. This one didn't look quite as well cared for as the bay that brought Adam and her down here. The sky was clear and blue, but a gust of cold wind blew through the shawl, and she shivered. The weather was going to change soon.

Strong capable hands grabbed her from behind and lifted her into the wagon. She shrieked and tried to kick free just as the hands shifted her towards the bench.

Not being quite over the seat, Deborah had to scramble to keep from toppling ingloriously to the dust. She ignored the groan behind her. Furious at her mishandling, she rounded on her assailant. "Why you..."

Marshall hung on the side of the wagon with one white-knuckled hand. Bent over, he was breathing hard through his teeth. As she watched, he straightened partly and looked up at her with his head cocked. "Madam, while I am only second son, my mother has made it abundantly clear that I am to produce as many grandchildren as possible for her to fondle. I pray that you will not make it impossible for me to oblige her."

She stared at him blankly for a moment. His grimace and the arm still protecting his loins told their own tale. "Oh my, oh heavens..., I didn't mean..." She reached out and then withdrew her arm in embarrassment. "I hope you're..., that is to say..., I would never have..., please forgive me..., this is terrible..., do you need..."

He held up the hand that had cradled his injury to stop the torrent of words. "I will survive, and so, I trust will my mother's hopes. I acquit you of deliberately trying to sabotage them, but please look before you go on the attack the next time."

Marshall slowly walked around the rig and hauled himself onto the bench. He looked at her, huddled on the far edge, just as another gust sent her shivering. His eyes narrowed, "Don't you have anything warmer?"

"No, I should have been long home by now," she snapped, half indignant, half defensive.

He turned and jumped to the ground. With some care, he straightened and then strode briskly into the house. A few minutes later, he returned with a striped, wool blanket that he draped around her shoulders.

His consideration so shocked her that she could barely speak. She just stared at him. He watched her without a word. That he should be thinking of her comfort after...after... It dumbfounded her. He was a British soldier. He wasn't supposed to be...nice. Suddenly she found the horse's tail to be of incredible interest. "Thank you," she whispered.

Silence reigned during the drive through the camp. Row upon row of troop tents filled what had been the Kershaw's carefully tended gardens and fields. Roughly two-thirds of the men marched west to Winnsboro for winter quarters with Cornwallis and Tarleton. Marshall commanded those remaining in Camden.

Off to the right, a battalion drilled. She could hear the orders and curses bawled by the drillmaster. Tents gave way to bare dirt, the foot-pounded pathways and blackened campfire rings stretching out beyond the road gave mute testament to the size of the army her father and brothers faced.

The forest, from which the formerly-lush fields of the Kershaw estate had been carved, loomed up over the edge of the tent city. Deborah knew that in the summer, this place would be green and lush, but now the denuded trees looked sad, almost as if they sensed the turmoil going on around them and mourned for the ravished land. Still, in its own way, there was a stark beauty to the forest. The lines of the tree branches showed clean and clear, with no leaves to obscure them. The forests around her home near Charles Town, Virginia looked very similar to these, a combination of oak and pine, although with possibly a few more pines in the mix. The thoughts of home made her sigh.

"A shilling for your thoughts."

"Humph. At that rate, you'll be almost entirely without funds in a fortnight." She turned her attention to him. Even here in the humble, old wagon his demeanor gave witness to an upbringing full of pride, position, and money. He held the reins, loose and confident, as though a blooded stallion pranced between the traces instead of a broken-down cob. His uniform, set before the brown of the forest, gave him the look of an imperious cardinal among sparrows. The few strands of dark hair blown free from his queue did little to soften the image.

"Very well, so be it. But I insist on getting my money's worth."

Although she hadn't abandoned her position on the far end of the bench, she was still much too close to him for true comfort.

"I was just thinking how much this looks like the land around my home and how beautiful it is, even in winter."

"Oddly enough, I was thinking something along those same lines. This reminds me of a forest on my family's estate in Devon. My brother and I used to race our horses hell-bent down the lane until one day we nearly ran into my mother's gig. When my father found out, he birched us both until we could barely sit and sent us to our rooms without supper. Mother brought us up something later; I don't think my father knew," he chuckled at the memory. "At least he didn't know until after the fact. Anyway, there wasn't much that he could do to us that we hadn't already done to ourselves. I don't think Stephen or I have ever forgotten the look on her face as we bore down on her that day."

She could hear water gurgling. He guided the wagon around a bend, and the creek came into view on their left. It was high after the recent rain.

Entranced beyond her wishes at his vignette, Deborah found herself curious about him. "You have the one brother?"

"Yes. At one time, I think my parents wanted a houseful of children. As time went on, I rather suspect that they were profoundly grateful that God only 'blessed' them with two. A couple of hell raisers."

"Mine didn't stop with two. I have three insufferable older brothers."

"Um, what's his name, Adam, is older than you?"

"Yes." Whoops, a slippery slope, she thought. "He apes his brothers and they can be unbearably...male on occasions."

His laughter startled a nearby bird into flight. Deborah jumped with the bird, startled beyond words at his amusement, but the sound was entrancing, for all its uniqueness.

"My mother would agree with you entirely."

"She sounds like an exceptional lady. But, being a mother, I can't imagine she was entirely pleased with you going off to war."

"Um, no, but she realizes that there are very few good opportunities for a second son, and I have no leanings toward the church."

"Why aren't there?"

"What, oh, opportunities? Well, the core parts of English estates are usually entailed." At her quizzical expression, he explained. "Under English law, it is possible for estate inheritance to be set up under the conditions that it is passed on in its entirety to following generations. Those properties have to be transferred to the eldest son. Sometimes there are other properties that don't fall under the entail, and they can be sold or bequeathed away. Most families don't like to break up their properties, though, because of the interlocking financial situations that usually develop. So, younger sons generally have to shift for themselves."

"I guess it makes sense, but it does seem rather harsh, just because of an accident of birth. We don't do that here."

"Maybe so, but that is the way it is in England. It prevents the gradual breakup of the estates."

"So, why did you choose the army?"

"I'm not particularly partial to ships, so it was better than the navy."

The road turned again and went over a narrow bridge. He gave it his attention. She glanced over at him while he focused on the road. He really was an exceptionally good-looking man. His hair glinted when a sunbeam, sneaking through the trees, caught it. If only he weren't a redcoat, she'd be quite partial to...

Whoa, none of that my girl, she admonished herself.

After crossing the bridge, they quickly broke out of the forest. Camden lay before them. It was a goodly-sized town in a land where most outposts of civilization were small and sparse. She could see at least two steeples rising high above the town. From the dispersal of the buildings, there appeared to be a number of cross streets and parallels to the high road.

Their first stop was the chemist's. Deborah found most of her herbs and supplies there. When they continued on into town, she looked at him with her eyebrows raised. "We still have some things to get," he explained cryptically, and she knew no more that before.

Kit stopped the wagon outside Kershaw's Dry Goods Emporium. "Might as well do business with our hosts." Kershaw's was one of the largest businesses in Camden, providing the basis for the fortune Joseph Kershaw spent on the estate the British army currently occupied.

She followed him into the store, mentally ticking off the necessary items to be found here: bandages, splints, a sharp knife, and other things. Gordon's medical supplies consisted of one bloody, smelly mattress; several lumps of wet, molding gauze; a number of rusted bone saws; and a jar of dead leeches.

Since it was the middle of the day, mostly women were in the store. The obvious customers with baskets on their arms greeted Col Marshall with either an ingratiating titter or a frosty nod. Two women were not customers. Mistress Kershaw stood behind the counter, making entries into a ledger. The younger, a bonny lass of about fifteen, was dusting some bottles near the front and greeted them politely, but without any great warmth. "Good day to you, sir, ma'am. May I help you?"

Kit spoke first. "Good day to you, Mistress Kershaw. May I present Mistress Morgan? She is assisting us and requires some supplies and other items."

Watching her, Deborah saw the young woman's eyes narrow before her expression resolved into a shopkeeper's polite blankness. Behind them, Deborah just caught the older woman's glare before she turned to adjust items on the shelf behind her along the back wall.

She could imagine her own feeling on being summarily evicted from her home by British troops. It didn't mean they were patriots, but she doubted they were Tory sympathizers. Deborah didn't blame them for being angry.

"What were the items you needed?" Marshall addressed her. Deborah turned her attention to her list. She and the younger Mistress Kershaw wandered throughout the emporium, seeking out the items, leaving Kit to his own devices. When they reached the counter to tally the items, there was a hodge-podge pile of fabric bolts in marvelous colors lying there. Deborah could see several wools, a fine lawn, and what looked like linen on the top. Marshall leaned one elbow on the counter next to them. "Finished?" he inquired politely.

"Yes, I think so," she replied, glancing curiously at the stack of fabric that had not been there when they came into the store. She stacked her items a little ways away from the fabric pile.

"Good. Mistress Kershaw, would you kindly cut lengths for dresses and shifts and, oh, a cloak for Mistress Morgan?"

"What?" Deborah burst out, indignation flaring from every ounce of her being. "Absolutely not! I will not have some British soldier buying..."

"Do you intend to go through the winter in that one lightweight gown?" One arrogant eyebrow lifted, and his other elbow found a resting place on the counter.

She remembered how cold the ride into town was and how the worst of the winter was still well in the future. There was little chance she could escape as Adam did. Marshall had her trapped as neatly as if he'd clapped her in irons. It didn't look like she was going to get back to the colonial army or her own clothes any time soon. The winter would be difficult, if not impossible, without suitable clothing.

"Very well," she grumbled. She had to accept it, but she didn't have to be particularly gracious about it.

"This is a first," he quipped. "A lady not wishing new clothes."

The Kershaw women were listening avidly to the discussion. The older watched them stony-faced, but the younger smirked before turning away.

Deborah knew he was laughing at her and her temper flared. "Yes, a lady. And a 'lady' does not accept such personal items from a stranger! Nor does a gentleman offer them."

She could almost see the outrage hit him between the eyes. She suspected the he probably had taken a number of women under his protection who did not claim the title of lady and who did accept personal gifts from strangers. His head jerked and he straightened. She was right.

He quickly worked through the implications. Sketching a brief bow, he said, "My apologies for any misunderstanding. I meant no insult, although my remark was less than...umm...proper.

"However it doesn't change the fact that you will need warmer clothes for the winter."

"I know that," she snapped. Taking a deep calming breath, she continues, "And that is the only reason I am permitting you to purchase the fabric."

He bowed again. "I thought these," he gestured toward the bolts, "might be acceptable for a lady of your coloring. Don't forget the cloak. Anything else, we can get at the dressmaker's."

Deborah had been attracted to the colors when she first saw them, but knowing that they were for her made her wonder at his skill in choosing just the right shades for her. She briefly mulled the question of just how he had acquired that skill, but shoved it aside in favor of organizing the colors and fabrics into garments. The mahogany wool would do wonders for her amber eyes, and the olive green would make a spectacular cloak.

Almost absently, she replied, "I can do these myself, but I'll need..."

"I wouldn't dream of asking you to sew them."

She shook off her reverie to demand, "Well, just how do you expect them to get made? Magic is generally considered to be a poor option."

"We will take them to a dressmaker, of course." He looked totally confused by her objection.

"There is no 'of course' about it. I frequently sew my own clothes, and I will sew these. I am accounted a fair seamstress."

"Yes, of course, but...."

"Then 'of course' I will do them. I simply need a few supplies."

"I have every intention of providing dresses for you, not just hunks of cloth."

"That's perfectly all right. Quite frankly, I do need clothes for winter, but I do not wish to be indebted to you for any more than is absolutely necessary, Colonel."

"Since you are with the army, you are entitled to a ration of clothes. I'm providing it now. Using the services of a dressmaker would only speed the production of them."

He was beginning to get riled and Deborah decided that a different tack was needed. "To be honest, sir, I have a great deal of time on my hands, even with my duties. This project will give me something constructive to do."

Having gained his objective, even though he lost the final skirmish, Marshall sued for peace. "Very well, what else do you need?"

She specified her fabric lengths and found her pins and needles. The store did not have the correct color thread or the tapes to fasten the dress. She also needed a fastener for the cloak. They would still need to visit the dressmaker's.

She was glad to get out of there. The Kershaw women didn't say anything overtly rude, but she could see condemnation in their eyes. It was an uncomfortable feeling; one that she knew, from their perspective, she deserved. At some point she would have to figure out how to make restitution to her own conscience which was making the same accusations.

War or no war, the high road through Camden was busy. Shoppers, merchants, busy-bodies, and soldiers went about their businesses. An older man in a cassock-style greatcoat argued in front of the Green Goose Tavern with a younger gentleman holding the reins of a fine chestnut horse. Deborah thought she heard horses mentioned. An angry matron with a taffeta mantelet over a lace-trimmed skirt with a quilted petticoat showing in the front stood nearby. Her daughter looked very much the lady in her Watteau sacque with its wide neck-to-hem pleat in back. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the dollop of mud on her sleeve and the rock held carefully out of her mother's view.

The mother brightened considerably as Col. Marshall approached. She greeted him coyly, but he only nodded and did not stop. Deborah wondered if it was politics or something more basic that attracted the young woman.

Marshall gallantly carried her bundle as they walked up the side street to the dressmaker's shop. There was something she needed to do, even though the words almost stuck in her throat. "Thank you for getting me these things, Colonel. But more over, thank you for thinking about the fact that I needed them."

He hadn't said anything since they left the dry goods store. "You are most welcome, ma'am. If I may say so, you are a most unusual woman. In fact, I think you are unique in my experience. I don't think that even my mother, who is a most competent individual, would have insisted on making her own clothes when presented with the option of having them made for her. My compliments."

It took her by surprise. "Um, thank you. I guess that here, we think more in terms of doing for ourselves than having things done for us."

They were crossing a small alley. She looked down it to avoid his gaze. They were in front of the next building when she stopped abruptly and went back to the alley. "Oh my heavens!" She pointed to the far wall.

Marshall peered into the gloom and saw what she had noticed. "Damnation!"

A young woman's body lay sprawled next to the wall, her dress bunched up around her thighs, and her throat cut.

Chapter 7

They both rushed into the shadowed alley.

He tried to push her back toward the street. "Get out of here. This is no place for a woman."

She wrenched her arm from his grasp and shoved him away. "It's the place for her." Deborah pointed at the figure in the shadows. "And she's a woman."

"But she's been..."

"Yes, and if it were me sprawled out here, I'd certainly like some understanding, and preferably female, hands to give me some measure of compassion and dignity. Now get over here and stop arguing." Simple, clear orders always worked best with the male of the species; it was a trick she had learned from her mother. She put it to good use now. It worked, again.

Dropping down next to the body, Deborah put her hand on the woman's chest. There were few doubts about death, but it was wisest to check. Nothing. Marshall crouched on the other side of the body. She pulled the young woman's skirt down. Gently, Deborah brushed the girl's dark hair from her face and closed her eyes.

Deborah grasped the cooling hands, both in fists. "I'd guess she's been here for no more than an hour or so." When she moved the fingers, a round, gold object rolled out of them.

Marshall lunged at the object and caught it before it rolled off the body. He examined the thing as he spoke. "How do you know?'

"It's a cool day, but she's still quite warm. What's that?"

Silently, he held out his hand. A brass button. "From her attacker, do you think?" she asked.

"Very likely."

A scream rang out from the street. Marshall turned and stood. A man and a woman, a farm couple from the look of them, hovered at the mouth of the alley. Kit strode up to them and addressed the man. "Get the constable." When the farmer goggled at the sight in the alley, Kit grabbed the man's shoulders and shook him. "Now, man." The farmer took a few steps backward then turned and broke into a run. Kit escorted the lady away from the sight and dragooned another man to keep the alley's entrance free of the merely curious.

Deborah finished straightening the body when he came back and knelt beside her. She brushed a few light hairs off the girl's bodice.

He had a curious, preoccupied look on his face. "A shilling for your thoughts," she said.

"Hmm, this button may help us find the killer."

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but looking for a missing button from all the coats in Camden may be an impossible job."

"True," he said, "but I may be able to narrow the field a bit. This is a button off of a British army jacket."

**

Augustus Brightman, the shoemaker, and his sobbing wife collected their daughter Penelope's body. Deborah tried to speak a few words of comfort, but there was little she could say under the circumstances.

She and Marshall both gave their statements. He discussed his suspicions with the constable. Thaddeus Conner knew his job, but he also knew when to abrogate his responsibilities in the face of force majeure. Conner had the air of a man who knew exactly where his place in the world was. He knew how to deal with an aristocratic British officer. He listened deferentially to the quality's tale of finding the body and the button and of the latter's significance. He acquiesced when the Colonel took the problem of apprehending the culprit off his hands. The times when the nobs made life easier were few and far between, so Connor made every effort to accommodate him. He agreed to downplay Kit's role in the discovery and not to mention the button in the public report of the incident.

The one item of interest he added to the discussion was the fact that there had been three other similar murders of young women. They had all been prostitutes, so little effort had gone into discerning the similarities or finding the killers. Penelope's murder, the first respectable girl, followed closely on the last one. Because respectable people were now involved, Connor finally put the pieces together.

Marshall left with information on the other victims. With any luck, he might be able to find the culprit before the killer realized that he had left a damning clue behind.

The sun lay low in the sky by the time they finished with the constable. Two very tired people, mentally and physically, started on the road back to the Kershaw farm. They said very little until just before they reached the bridge over the creek.

Deborah shifted the somewhat muddy bundle in the foot well. The movement caught Marshall's eye and he burst out, "Damnation, we forgot the dressmaker!"

She startled and then relaxed. "Oh, is that all?" She brushed the omission aside. "I'm sure Mistress Kershaw has some supplies at the house. I can use them to get started. It shouldn't be a problem." She thought briefly about Mistress Kershaw's animosity and wondered just how gracious such sharing would be if the lady actually had to be asked to provide the items. Mercifully the Kershaws stayed in town. Mistress Kershaw would probably never know about it. She chuckled at the thought.

Kit looked at her and smiled. "What's...?"

A whine came from near the creek. He turned to listen to it. "...That?"

She heard the same sound. "A dog?" She looked past him towards the source of the sound. A distressful yip came this time.

"There it is," he said, pointing towards the water.

"Oh, stop, please. We can't just let him drown!"

He glanced sideways at her as if to say "Can't we?" However he stopped the wagon and got down.

Deborah jumped down without waiting for assistance and raced to the bank. She picked her way down, mentally seeking the most efficient path and planning her rescue attempt. Halfway down the bank, he grabbed her arm. "I'll get it," he grumbled. "You stay here or you'll get soaked." He stripped off his uniform jacket and hung it unceremoniously on a bush.

She ignored him and continued down to where she could see the cold, wet, little dog clinging to a rock part way out in the stream. It slipped and clawed its way back up to the meager safety on top of the rock. Attaining its goal, the dog sprawled on the rock, shivering, exhausted. When it finally lifted its head and saw the people, it yipped, as if to say, "I'm all right, but please hurry."

It wasn't that far away, but Marshall would have to get into the stream to get the dog on his own. "Let me anchor you," she suggested. "I'll hang onto this tree and hold your hand and then you can step on that root and pluck him off the rock."

He didn't say anything, just looked at her. Deborah knew he was thinking "Certainly and I'll land in the water for sure that way," but he got into position facing the dog and extended his arm to her. Squatting down, he stepped out onto the exposed root out in the water. Water swirled around the root, and his foot slipped a bit. A little balancing steadied him, and her arm held firm. He scooped the dog from the rock and plopped it onto dry land, with only a wet boot for his troubles.

Standing up, he tried to push off the root and whirl onto the bank, but he'd forgotten the dog underfoot. Trying to avoid the exhausted pup, he twisted. Crashing into Deborah, they both lost their balance and fell, pinning her under him.

"Umph." She thought he was going to push her through the grass. His hands wound up on the ground, framing her head, imprisoning her. His legs straddled hers, and his body stretched full length on her. She could feel every muscle and every sinew frozen into corded tension. His face was scant inches from hers, and she could see the dark rim around his gray eyes and the small scar in his eyebrow. Though he barely breathed, she could feel his heart pounding. Or was it hers?

He shifted slightly, and his hard maleness pressed into her belly. Her breasts, the nipples now plump and full, brushed against his chest. She watched his eyes focus on her mouth, then look up and back to her eyes. Her lips parted under that visual touch.

His fingers teased wisps of hair that had fallen onto her face. Each time he toyed with one, he caressed the skin just underneath it.

Slowly, painfully slowly, his mouth descended towards hers. She could feel the breath from his parted lips mingle with hers. She breathed a sigh. His mouth touched hers with the delicacy of a feather, but she felt its electric tingle all the way to the center of her femininity.

Another whisper of a touch.

And another.

And another big wet one up the side of her cheek.

Kit launched himself off of her to stare at the dog, soaking wet, and standing with his front paws on Deborah's arm. They both goggled, open mouthed, at it as if it were a strange and wondrous creature—until the dog shook itself and sprayed them both with water

Deborah could feel the laughter bubble up through her and finally it escaped, first as a giggle and then a most unladylike snort and finally gales of laughter. Kit dropped back down to the ground and held his belly while the laughter convulsed him.

And the little dog jumped and barked and wagged his tail at his new-found friends.

**

Wrapped in the blanket, the dog slept on Deborah's lap as they road back to the British camp. They were both quiet, but it wasn't an uncomfortable quiet.

"I think I'll call him 'Scamp' because he certainly is one," she said as she gently petted one pointed, erect ear. He, as it turned out, was not much more than a puppy. With a wiry wheaten coat that was flecked with gray, he looked like a little old man, but his eyes were clear and bright, and his paws puppy-large.

"So, you're going to keep him."

"I can't very well throw him back in the river or just let him go, can I Colonel? He's probably been washed quite a ways downstream, and he'd never get home."

"Umph." He reached over to pull the blanket off Scamp's face. "I suspect he's a Norwich terrier. One of our grounds men had one as a ratter. Good dogs, but quite fearsome if you consider they don't come up to the top of my boot. Can't say they win any beauty prizes, though."

Replacing the blanket, he returned his attention to the road. "Since you're calling him something as...amusing as 'Scamp,' do you think you could come around to calling me 'Kit'?"

If she hadn't heard him, she would have thought his attention was wholly and completely on the road. She stared at him for a moment, but he appeared to be concentrating totally on the path. To call him by his Christian name, and a diminutive at that, invited familiarity. "Um, I'm not sure that would be a good thing. I am theoretically working for you, and I don't really think..." Her voice trailed off in confusion.

"I understand completely. Please forgive the impertinence."

The rest of the journey continued in silence. When they came to the camp outskirts, Deborah remembered more important problems than a half-drowned pup and a man she was much too attracted to for her own good.

**

Deborah's mind whirled as they drove through camp. An almost-kiss from a man she should despise, but couldn't. A dog rescued by that same man. Working for the enemy, that same man. An escape from that man, and all he represented, that she still had to accomplish. And a dead girl.

Of all those things, she knew that she owed it to the dead girl to help find the killer. Something about the girl, Penelope Brightman, struck a cord with her. Deborah had never had a sister. A baby girl had been still-born when Deborah was five. She had wanted a baby sister desperately and mourned the baby, even at her young age. Penelope was about the age her sister would have been. Deborah's long-ago, but not quite forgotten, feelings for her sister resurfaced. Melded with the horror and sorrow she would have naturally felt for Penelope anyway, she knew she could not even attempt an escape until she did everything she could to see justice served for Penelope Brightman.

**

As soon as they arrived back at camp headquarters, Kit called a meeting of all his senior officers. Deborah moved to retire to her chamber, but he motioned for her to stay.

When they were assembled he addressed at them. "Gentlemen, today, shortly after midday, Mistress Morgan and I stumbled across a brutally murdered young woman in town."

Major, the Honorable George Hanger, a friend of Banastre Tarleton, sprawled back in one of the delicate Chippendale chairs that formed the dining set. "So?" he drawled, "What's it got to do with us if some colonial wench sticks her spoon in the wall?"

Col. Marshall looked at him for a moment before replying. There was a slight twist to his mouth. "Plenty, if the young woman is clutching a button from a British army jacket in her hand."

Hanger sat up straighter.

Passing the button around, Kit asked, "Whose regiments have buttons with the insignia on that button?"

"Volunteers of Ireland."

"New York Volunteers."

"Ban's Tory Legion does, but they're in Winnsboro, now."

"Is that all?" Kit asked. Heads nodded around the table. "All right. There's nothing we can do about Ban's group. I want you to muster the men here first thing tomorrow morning. What shall we tell them...inspection? Make sure everybody's accounted for. I want every man there or know why for. Check sleeve and front buttons. Muster out anybody who's missing one. Bring them here for interrogation. Any questions?"

The officers filed out by one's and two's. Deborah, still clutching Scamp, rose to go. Col. Marshall intercepted her before she got to the door. Leaning negligently on the door jamb, he blocked her way.

"Mistress Morgan." A smile played around his mouth as he reached over to scratch Scamp's ears.

Deborah flinched at the nearness, but held her ground. "Excuse me. Scamp needs to go outside." When he didn't move, she added, "Now."

"Certainly. But I don't need to remind you that we have one or two matters to settle between us." His hand moved down the dog's back and closer to her breast. He seemed to enjoy the tightening muscles in her face. "Even if you decline the familiarity of using my Christian name."

"Why you! Of all the miserable, loathsome, disgusting things to say!" She wrenched away from him. "You are an outrageous excuse for a gentleman, you...you...lobsterback!"

Kit was openly grinning as she flounced around him and out the door. "We have an appointment with the dressmaker, remember."

"No...we...don't." And she marched out the front door.

"Oh yes we do," he whispered to himself.

Chapter 8

Deborah dined in her room. Scamp jumped and played and wiggled and finally went to sleep on her bed. She, on the other hand, spent the time fuming and stewing and worrying and daydreaming and plotting. How any man could engender such a mixture of fear and gratitude and just plain old-fashioned lust, she would never comprehend. In the end, she gave up and also went to sleep.

**

Kit didn't even attempt to go to sleep.

He knew from long experience that the effort would be useless. So many things had happened, good and bad. They whirled in his brain.

But he knew the good wouldn't outweigh the sight of that young woman, lying dead with the evidence of rape on her thighs. Even if he did manage to get to sleep, the nightmares would come to claw at him.

Except, he knew that the nightmares were real.

The time was better spent going over the army's books and planning his next offensive.

Finally, as he sat reading on his bed, in the small hours of the morning, when a man's waking defenses are at their ebb, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Alleys and dogs and bolts of material floated through his night world. Kit watched a pair of figures at a distance, one on top of the other. His throat closed because he knew what was happening. At this distance he was helpless to stop it.

Helpless, always so helpless.

He ran, his heart pounding with the exertion. As he got to the figures, Ban stood up, laughing.

The man in his dreams looked down, and Kit could see what was at his feet—the raped and lifeless body of Deborah Morgan.
Kit sat straight up, eyes wide open and beads of sweat already cooling on his face. Hauling in deep gouts of air, he just sat for a moment and stared at the window opposite his bed.

As his breathing slowed, he realized it was almost dawn.

**

By the time she had walked Scamp and finished breakfast, the troops still stationed at Camden were in inspection formation. Her fingers were itching to start the cloak and dresses, but she took time to watch one of the units as their officers checked the men. Loyalist detachments, generally in their own clothes, received cursory attention. The regulars, in uniform, underwent rigorous scrutiny. Every once in a while a man was pulled out of the line and sent to another officer. They separated four men out of the unit and marched them to the house for interrogation. Other units sent more or less similar groups.

Deborah went up to the workroom to begin measuring and cutting. The cloak seemed the reasonable starting point.

Sewing makes use of real thought only on an intermittent basis. As a result, she had plenty of time to contemplate the scene by the river. As the shears crunched through the fabric she recalled the masculine strength of his body as he held her, the slight scrape of his beard, and that age-old scent of the male.

He had wanted her. He had lain down with her in a secluded place. His hands had gently worshipped her body, making her truly aware of her femininity for the first time. His mouth had been poised to touch hers and she had strained to complete the union when Scamp interrupted.

What was she thinking about? That dog had more sense than she did. This man was a British colonel! What in heavens name was she doing? She shook her head as if to dislodge the delicious, but dangerous memories. The shears stopped for a moment and then continued their cut, as if they knew that their wielder's lapse of attention was only momentary.

Scamp wanted to wrestle with the material, so Rogers earned her undying gratitude when he brought a bone, placed elegantly on a silver salver, for the dog. As the morning wore on, she glanced out the window to see soldiers going out of the house, some sweating, some pale, some shaking so hard they could barely stand. But they were the lucky ones.

Stopping for lunch, she went downstairs. Scamp barked at the seven very frightened men lined up under guard in the hall. Sgt. Thomson supervised the proceedings. He nodded politely to her, and returned his attention to his detainees.

As Col. Marshall left his office, Scamp yipped and bounded over for a petting. Kit had to bend a little, even with the dog stretched full length up his leg. He took longer than necessary petting the dog, but he wasn't looking at Scamp. He stared at Deborah, so long and so hard that she wondered if he'd received some damning information about her. He shook his head like a dog might shake off a fly.

Walking over to Deborah, he said, "These are the ones who can't account for their missing buttons. We'll have another go at them after lunch to see if they can account for their whereabouts."

She looked at him rather thoughtfully but nodded in silent understanding and turned to contemplate the men. Some were older; some looked like they were barely out of short pants. "I guess things would be a lot easier if you could just look at them and tell which one is guilty."

His laugh sounded more like a bark, and he signaled to the guards to lead the men away. "Definitely." He took he elbow to lead her to the dining room, but she resisted going, watching the men as they filed out of the house. "Is something wrong?"

"No, yes," she said as she finally moved. Again, she stopped and looked at the now-closed door. "I don't know. Something's wrong, and I'm not sure what it is. Something just...just tickles the back of my mind."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe it'll come to me."

They walked into the dining room, with Scamp running round and round his new people.

**

After lunch, a small detachment road back into camp, somewhat the worse for wear. They had engaged some of Col. William Washington's men near Rugley Mills. While the engagement seemed to have ended in a draw, some of the British soldiers were wounded, including Lt. Harvey, the young man who had precipitated her misadventure.

"How many wounded do you have, Lieutenant?" she asked as she entered the dim infirmary cabin.

"Three, ma'am. And may I say that it's a pleasure to have you treating my men rather than...uh hum, that is to say, I'm delighted that you're assisting us...ummm...I mean, in spite of you're being detained and...everything..." His voice trailed off.

Taking pity on him, she sought to reassure him, "Thank you, Lieutenant. I understand everything you're trying to say, and I appreciate it." She laid a consoling hand on his arm, only to have him flinch. Her hand came away bloody. "You're hurt!"

"I'm quite all right. If you would be so kind as to see to my men?" He was pale, but holding his own.

"Yes, of course." She quickly looked over the three men. The injuries were serious, but none of them was immediately life threatening. Her assistant, as he had been trained to do, disrobed and cleaned the injured soldiers. She nodded her approval of his efforts and examined the saber cut on the first man's leg. "Yates, when you're finished there, the Lieutenant also needs treatment. Sit, Mr. Harvey." Not looking to see whether her orders were followed, she dug into the supply chest for a needle and thread.

The three soldiers were resting, and Deborah was finishing the bandage on a shirtless and very red-faced Lt. Harvey's arm, when Marshall walked into the tent. The four wounded men began to struggle to their feet when she barked, "Lie back down. Col. Marshall's consequence will survive your convalescence."

The object of the discussion grinned, "Well men, this shows you what happens when you put a woman in charge."

The shocked and apprehensive faces on the soldiers changed to grins when they realized their commanding officer wasn't standing on formality.

"How are you men doing?"

"Jus' fine, sir," the first-bandaged man replied, "Mistress Morgan's got nice, soft hands, and she's done us up good."

Marshall nodded and watched as she cut the excess bandage off Harvey's arm. Immediately, the young man reached for his shirt.

"Young man," Deborah began in her severest this-is-the-tone-I-use-when-I'm-dealing-with-my-obstinate-father voice.

"Thank you, ma'am, but I have duties that require my attention." Harvey didn't look at her as he struggled with his shirt. "Yates, come and give me a hand with this blasted thing." Silently Yates assisted him into the shirt and fastened it. Deborah watched him, arms crossed over her chest and feet tapping.

Harvey was still pale, but she realized that she wasn't going to be able to keep him any longer. She was dealing with a combination of embarrassment, the British inbred and overblown sense of duty, and a young man's striving to fill shoes that were still a little too big for him. With rueful honesty, she realized that her own words had forced him into proving his manhood.

"All right, Mr. Harvey, you may leave on one, no, two conditions." Wary, he waited for her to finish. "One, you must go to your tent and sleep for a minimum of two hours. You've been injured and your body needs sleep to help it heal. Two, you must use the sling that Yates will prepare for you for at least one week. Agreed?"

Harvey looked over at his senior officer who was staying aloof from the skirmish. Yates was fetching the required material, and the other men were wisely asleep. "Very well, ma'am."

She nodded to Yates, "I'll come back to check on them in a few hours."

Marshall followed her out of the hospital. When they were some yards away, she let out a long breath. "I'd forgotten just how sensitive an intrepid young male is."

"Yes, we tend to be a rather easily-bruised species."

Suspicious, she glanced at him, but his face was bland and innocent. Too bland and innocent. Laughing, she said, "Yes, I know I stepped on his fragile manhood, but males tend to be all too caught up in maintaining their illusion of manliness instead of using common sense."

"Oh, to be considered a poseur as well as touchy." He lifted the back of his hand to his forehead in dramatic grief.

His smile, slightly higher on one side as usual, tickled something deep inside her. "Just so." Even as she teased, she knew that it was something he could joke about but never be accused of.

They passed the gaol, a dismal structure with a single window and a well-guarded door.

Kit noticed the direction of her gaze and commented, "We've cleared two of the men. We're still interrogating the other suspects, but unless someone confesses, or we can find a witness, I'm not sure how we'll get our man."

Deborah stopped and pursed her lips. "Something's wrong."

"Yes, we may not be able to hang our killer."

"No, I mean that something's wrong with the men you have in custody."

He stopped and studied her face. "You mentioned this yesterday. Do you know something?"

"No, I don't know anything. I felt it yesterday, very vaguely. But today it's really strong and I'm not precisely sure what the problem is. I have this feeling that...that the men you have just don't fit into the puzzle correctly. There's something we've overlooked."

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Worried, she reached out and lightly touched his sleeve. "Just promise me that you won't do anything drastic until we can get more proof."

**

He'd heard his father joking about it, half seriously, half mockingly, but Kit had never in his wildest dreams thought that he would ever want to promise a woman the moon and the stars, just because she looked at him with wide, earnest eyes. It took a considerable amount of will power to simply assent.

Disturbed by sensations he didn't comprehend, and not being completely sure he wanted to comprehend them, Kit continued on towards the house. Deborah followed.

**

A few steps gave them a view of the road to Camden and the carriage coming toward them. As the carriage drew closer, Deborah was surprised to see a woman holding the reins. Times were chancy enough to go about with a man at your side. Deborah knew that from personal experience! But a woman alone, no two women, was tempting the fates.

The carriage pulled around the circular drive leading up to the house. Mistress Kershaw and her daughter stepped down as Kit and Deborah drew near the house. Deborah could see several boxes in the back of the vehicle.

"Good day, ladies," Deborah said as she and Marshall drew closer.

Mistress Kershaw ignored her and turned directly to Marshall. "Col. Marshall, it is imperative that my daughter and I take up residence in our own house! There has been another murder and Camden is no longer safe, even for respectable young women."

The younger Mistress Kershaw glanced nervously from her mother to the British officer. Clearly she was not happy about the prospect of returning to her home, but staying in Camden was no longer an option.

"Yes, we know about Mistress Brightman's murder. We were..."

"No! There has been another discovered since poor Mistress Brightman, just today."

Marshall looked at his toes and muttered, "Looks like that changes matters." Deborah looked at Marshall and found him returning the regard. "Seems your feelings were correct, madam.

"What happened?" he directed the question to Mistress Kershaw.

"Colonel? Could we get the ladies settled before we get too involved? I'm sure this has all been very difficult for them."

"Of course. We will talk more at dinner. Ladies." He bowed and strode away from the house.

Deborah smiled at the younger Kershaw lady, but it wasn't returned. "Well, shall we get you settled?"

"Young woman, this is my house. I am perfectly acquainted with it." The older woman's back was unbent and so was her voice.

"Certainly." Deborah's level look lasted a few moments. "I only wished to inform you that the back two bedrooms are unoccupied. I will see to your luggage." She left to inform Rogers of the development.

**

Dinner was funereal affair. The two junior officers said little more than necessary for civility. As the meal finished, the sole topic of conversation was the death of yet another young woman. She was a prostitute, evidently one well-known to some of the officers. Unfortunately, the decayed condition of the body put her death before the round-up of the suspects.

Rose and her mother, probably, disliking both the company and the conversation, left the table quickly.

Deborah soon followed. She settled into the settee in the parlor to put the finishing touches on her cloak. This was perhaps her favorite room in the house. It was gracefully appointed, but without the opulence of the main salon. The fire crackled merrily. Scamp snored on his bed near the fire. The wind had come up, even though the day had been fairly mild. She knew it wasn't going to last. She needed to have this finished.

Marshall walked in as she put the final stitches in the first ribbon. He went straight to the brandy decanter and poured a glass. Moving to the fireplace, he leaned against the polished wood mantel and rested one foot against the fire dog. Scamp open one eye, wagged his tail, and promptly fell back asleep.

"Well," he began, "we are either holding a bunch of innocent and very frightened men, or we have an imitator on the loose, or we are barking up a totally wrong tree. Which do you think?" He took a swallow of brandy.

"I'm going into town tomorrow to confer with the constable. I want you to go with me."

He had stepped closer, and she made the mistake of looking up the long length of him. His grey eyes seemed to will her to say yes. She rose too quickly, stumbling backward. His hand shot out and caught her elbow. She sat back down, rather ungracefully.

"Thank you, sir, but I have a great deal of work to do here."

"I would appreciate your company."

Still she hesitated.

"Please."

"When do you want to go?"

**

Deborah couldn't sleep. Her mind whirled like a carriage wheel drawn behind galloping, blooded horses. The clock in the hall had struck 1:30 a short while ago, and the house was quiet.

That morning she and Marshall had gone into Camden. They consulted with the constable and then gone to the dressmaker's. He ordered several dresses for her, over her objection. Short of creating a scene (the likes of which she had always detested), there was little she could do as he conferred with the modiste about the garments.

When they returned, she had marched up to her room and pounded the bed pillows. Scamp had jumped up to lick her face. She took him with her later on her rounds. It was hard to be angry around that perpetually wagging tail. She did it though.

To make matters worse, now she was hungry. She nibbled at dinner because she wasn't hungry, but now she was most definitely hungry. Ravenous, if she wanted to be accurate.

Lighting the candle next to the bed, she stared at the embroidered sampler on the wall. "Bread of wheat and fruit of the vine, Cannot compare with Love Divine." The motto inspired her, but not as the writer intended.

"I don't know about 'Love Divine,' but I could sure use some of that bread or a piece of fruit. Or just about anything, for that matter."

Decision made, she swung her feet off the bed and searched out her shoes with cold toes. Pulling her shawl off the clothes peg and expertly flipping the material into a triangle, she wrapped it tightly around her shoulders against the chill. She walked to the door, hesitated, and went over to lay another log on the fire. "Might as well not freeze when I get back up here."

Her candle was the only light in the hall. No glow showed from under doors or around corners as she walked quietly through the house and down to the attached kitchen. Mr. Kershaw liked his food hot, so he wagered the taste of his food against a kitchen fire burning the kitchen and the house with it. For Deborah's purposes, it meant that she didn't have to traipse out into the cold in order to get her midnight snack. Mercifully.

She opened the door to another candle on the worktable. Deborah stopped in the doorway and stared at Mistress Kershaw standing over a middle-aged, shirtless man with a bloody cloth around his upper left arm. Mistress Kershaw smothered a small shriek, but the man had more presence of mind. He pulled a pistol off the table and cocked it in the same motion. He aimed it straight at Deborah.

No one spoke for a count of ten. Then the man smiled faintly and the tension drained from his body, leaving him tired and drawn and...wounded. He lowered the weapon. Deborah stepped forward, her healer's instincts coming to the fore. Mistress Kershaw had not taken her eyes off Deborah until she moved into the room. Grabbing a knife from the table, the older woman raised it high and advanced on Deborah.

Before Deborah could react to this second attempt on her life, the man grabbed Mistress Kershaw's skirt with his good arm as she passed.

"Ahh, stop, Sarah. Put that down."

She stopped. He sank back and grabbed his arm, his face paling with pain. "Isaac, she's a Tory whore and a spy and a..."

"Nonsense. Put that down, Sarah. Mistress Morgan's no more a British sympathizer than you are."

Deborah advanced slowly and carefully, keeping one eye on the lowering blade and the other on this increasingly familiar man. "You're...you're...I know you. You're..."

"Captain Isaac Montgomery, ma'am. We met some weeks ago when you helped with a small problem of mine." He smiled slightly, and Deborah remembered that the "small problem" had been an ugly boil in a most uncomfortable and delicate position.

"Yes, I remember. What happened this time?"

He grinned, "Stupid me! I was checking on the number of troops left here in Camden. My horse threw me, and I sliced my arm on a branch. Figured Rogers could fix me up. I didn't realize Sarah was back here."

"Isaac!" Mistress Kershaw exclaimed. "What's going on?"

Deborah put down her candle and bent to examine the wound

"Sarah is my sister," he explained to Deborah, "my older sister. She feels that gives her the right to be bossy." He had an affectionate twinkle in his eye, even through the pain and exhaustion. "Sarah, may I present Mistress Morgan..."

"Yes, yes, I know who she is."

"...The daughter of General Daniel Morgan of the Continental Army."

Mistress Kershaw breathed an "ohhh."

"Until recently she was patching up Continentals and keeping her father so as he can sit a horse. How did you get here, young lady?"

Deborah explained about Adam and her blanket-buying mission for the army, their capture, and his escape. "Marshall has pretty effectively blackmailed me into staying and doctoring his men."

The side door to the kitchen opened and once again Captain Montgomery reached for his gun. Rogers appeared in the doorway with a cloth bundle. The captain laid his weapon aside. Deborah, realizing the servant was part of the conspiracy, finished her bandaging.

Rogers took in the scene with his usual serenity. "Good morrow, Mistress Morgan." Turning to Mistress Kershaw, "Here is the shirt you requested and the sack."

Montgomery looked up at him. "My thanks, Rogers. I knew I could count on you."

"Always my pleasure, sir. Although I could wish that you might have more of a care for your...uh hum...carcass."

Montgomery snorted to stifle a laugh. "Rogers, you never change, do you?"

"No, sir, not if I can help it."

Deborah stared at this aspect of a man she had viewed as simply part of the furniture.

Isaac shrugged painfully into the shirt. Rogers took the bag his mistress had filled with food.

Montgomery was still pale, but moved easily. "Time to go. Thank you, Mistress Morgan. I will tell your father how I found you. Maybe he'll stop tearing a strip off you brother for leaving you behind. You seem to be safe, but have a care. They are still British."

Deborah nodded. He kissed his sister, gathered his gun and hat, and went quietly out the back door with Rogers. Mistress Kershaw stared at the closed door.

Deborah put her hand on the older woman's arm. "He'll be all right."

Sarah turned. Fear and love and grief were all in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so very much. I was so very wrong about you." A tentative smile played around her mouth.

Deborah smiled back. "Well, I came down here for a snack, but we'd better get cleaned up here."

Sarah waved at the table. "I'll get this stuff; you get what ever you wanted." She gathered the scissors and bloody towels and shirt. "Thank you again and good night."

After she left, Deborah rolled her shoulders to loosen the tension. She wasn't that hungry any more, but was too keyed up to go back to her room. Finding a biscuit in the cupboard, she sat down at the table to eat it. As she munched, she hoped Montgomery got safely back to the Continental lines, not only for his sake, but for her father's peace of mind. She rolled her head around again. As she did, she noticed a bloody cloth under the seat Isaac Montgomery used. She picked it up. The kitchen fire was banked, so she decided to take it up to her room and use her still-burning fire to dispose of it.

Taking her lamp, she headed back through the public rooms to the stairs. Up above her the stair creaked. A figure loomed above her. Deborah gasped.

"Anything interesting going on at this time of night?" Marshall inquired. His shirt was loose, his stock discarded, and he had crept up on her because he wore only socks on his feet. How could a man in his socks look so formidable? Or so interesting?

His gaze traveled over her with a hungry kind of intensity...until it stopped on the bloody cloth in her hand. His eyes became wary, professional. "Hum?" He stepped down to the floor directly in front of her with a fluid masculine grace that was both entrancing and deadly. A finger reached out to lift her chin so that she looked up right at him. "Hum?" More insistent this time, he increased the pressure of his finger.

Deborah frowned and leaned her head away from him. She crumpled the towel. "Woman's matters!" she snapped.

Marshall jerked his hand away as if he'd been stung. "Um, yes, well..."

"Excuse me," she muttered and marched up the stairs, leaving a hopelessly outmaneuvered male in her wake.

Chapter 9

December was proving to have moments of bone-biting cold. Much as she hated to admit it, Deborah was grateful beyond words for the warm cloak. She and Scamp visited the infirmary. Lt. Harvey's men were healing nicely, and even he was coming along, despite his refusal to take more than a token rest.

Scamp reveled in the outing. He investigated, and blessed, all the bushes in the area. Deborah had generally kept him inside for a few days, until she was sure that he had no lingering ill effects from his sousing. Now, he made up for his enforced confinement.

Deborah watched him, hands on her hips, streak down one of the camp paths to where Sgt. Thomson strode towards her. The dog's path led him in a gigantic spiral that funneled both him and the man towards her.

She was glad that it was Thomson coming toward her and not another British officer whose name she didn't even want to think. She had, after all done entirely too much thinking about that unnamed officer. With some measure of disgust, she acknowledged her own gut-twirling response to him. Grimly, she reminded herself that giving in to that response, even in the slightest, could land her in a whole dung heap of trouble. No man was worth that.

They were on opposite sides of an ugly war. If he ever found out that she was anything more, or less, than an innocent girl on a family errand gone badly, well... Plus, he was a British aristocrat. The British upper class made no secret of what they thought of their overseas brethren. The American colonies existed solely to benefit England. Colonists were all one step up from farm animals, and to be utilized in much the same way. Deborah knew of several people who had an unacknowledging English milord on one side of the family tree and a colonial mare on the other. She would take a peasant and present father for her children any day. Lastly, she was a young woman, far from the protection of friends and family, and he was a man. Enough said about that.

She plucked a leaf from a nearby bush and began to shred it as she thought. Adam was safe, if somewhat discomforted, with her father. Knowing that gave her more freedom of action than if he was still hiding in the area. It was her turn to get back to the rebel lines. How? Marshall hadn't sent out any search parties, as such, and none of the patrols had, naturally, made any report of Adam. This could be put to good use, she mused: a sign of British lack of commitment to finding her brother. Perhaps it was time to start getting very worried about her poor half-wit brother. If she couldn't out-think this Britisher, than she didn't have any business fighting a war. Yes, it was definitely time.

"Good day, Mr. Thomson. Is your cold better?" He walked her to the house.

"And a g'day to you, m'um. Thank ye, aye. Ah be feeling much more t'thing. Tha' coneflower brew tha' you sent over's bitter as t'thoughts of 'ell, but Ah most certainly feel better fer taking it."

"Yes, it certainly is disagreeable to drink, but it does work." They climbed the wide staircase and pulled the doorbell. He bent down to scratch Scamp between the ears.

"Umm." While they waited for a servant to open the door, a rumble of wheels caught their attention. A large coach with outriders entered the camp. "Wonder who that be."

"I don't know, but it certainly is a fine equipage."

Rogers opened the door, but they all waited in the doorway. The coach drew up to the house. One of the footmen riding on the back jumped down to open the door. No one emerged for a moment. Then a vision enveloped in pale blue wool and white fur muff emerged on the footman's hand.

Thomson groaned, and Deborah looked at him, startled. "Oh no, not 'er, again" he muttered.

Deborah unabashedly studied the newcomer. With one hand, the woman threw back the fur-trimmed hood of her cloak to reveal rich brown hair styled into a fashionable riot of curls and ringlets around her face. Her other hand lay buried in the fur muff. The face was exquisite, fine boned, and delicate as porcelain.

For her part, the woman ignored Deborah and the sergeant. Instead, she surveyed the house and immediate grounds with a distinct air of satisfaction. A man clambered out of the carriage behind her. Shorter than the woman and as stout as she was slender, he offered his arm to her, and they started up the steps. A non-descript mouse of a woman followed them.

Scamp barked twice and ran down the steps towards the newcomers. Deborah followed at a more sedate pace. As she drew closer, Deborah gasped, for the woman's muff moved. A small white dog was the magnet for Scamp.

Deborah opened her mouth to greet the couple. In her experience, people with dogs as pets tended to be friendly and approachable. "Good..." The words caught in her throat as the woman lifted the hem of her skirt and kicked Scamp. The pup yelped, rolled, and staggered to his feet before scampering up the steps to the relative safety of Deborah's skirts.

"Keep that mongrel away from me!" the woman ordered in a voice that dripped English upper class.

"He's not a mongrel, he's a Norfolk terrier," Deborah retorted.

"I'm sure I don't care what he is, just get rid of him."

"That may be difficult since he lives here."

"Not for long," the woman muttered. "Here," she shoved the white dog into Deborah's arms, "walk Fluffy, then feed him, and then you can unpack my things. I suppose I'll have to watch you to make sure that you don't steal anything."

Deborah's jaw dropped, and she scrambled to keep from dropping the dog. The woman didn't see her bobble the dog because she had already turned to mount the stairs.

The little Maltese licked Deborah's hand, and she automatically petted him. Scamp jumped up her leg to investigate the new arrival. "Down, Scamp. You can't play now."

The woman turned at the words. "Keep that ugly mutt away from Fluffy!"

"I have a better idea!" Deborah growled as she stomped up the stairs. "Keep Fluffy away from Scamp." She pushed the dog at her owner. "And unpack your own clothes." With that, she whirled and marched down the stairs. Sgt. Thomson followed her.

After they were out of earshot, she looked up at him. "Is discretion still the better part of valor, Mr. Thomson?"

"Indeed it is, m'um. Indeed it is."

"Pity. Now, pray tell," she cocked her head as she looked at him, "who was that charming, gentle lady?"

He grimaced and cleared his throat before answering. "Well, now, m'um, tha' be Lady Claudia Grant and her husband, Sir Oliver Grant."

There was more, she could smell it. "And they are...?"

"H' be a victual supplier."

His voice had trailed off as he spoke, and she knew there was still more. "And...?"

His shoe scuffed a pattern in the rocks of the path. "T'ain't fitting, m'um."

"Sergeant," she growled.

"M'um!" he wailed.

"Tell me! I'd rather find out now than fall into something squishy and disgusting." What could this man possibly be? An inspector? A Crown agent looking for rebels?

"T'Lady Claudia's a special friend of the Colonel."

"A 'special'...Oh, oh my heavens. She's his..." Deborah clapped her hands over her mouth. Young ladies were not supposed to know about that sort of thing, let along talk about them. Her shoulders began to shake and Sergeant Thomson reached out in alarm.

"M'um!"

The laugh popped out of her. His expression grew more concerned.

"Oh my, oh my." As soon as she gained control, she waved off his fears. "It's just that she is so much the..." she lifted her arm with the hand held limply from the wrist, "...lady."

"Aye, m'um, she is." He smiled, but his voice was somber. "But you jus' remember. She's got t'claws of a right mean cat." He nodded and walked off towards the encampment.

Deborah smiled to herself as she walked around the house. That cat would keep the good Colonel busy stroking her. In addition, the house was going to get quite full, what with the Kershaws in residence. This was a fine time to make the case for her leaving.

Her smile faded. Why did the prospect depress her?

**

In the infirmary, Deborah ground some dried comfrey into powder. It was destined for poultices to help heal the bruises, sores, and fractures that the cold weather and icy ground guaranteed.

Dinner was going to be something to be endured. To escape would be tantamount to holding up a white flag, she thought. To attend would be walking into the lioness's den. Sarah and Rose Kershaw would be there, but they had access to appropriate gowns for the occasion. Deborah's new dress was only half finished and not really suitable, anyway. All her lovely dresses that would have been perfect for the occasion were almost four hundred miles to the north. Going to dinner, and it was going to be a formal dinner, in the only clothes she had was unthinkable. The gentle Lady Claudia would make mincemeat out of her.

She ground the comfrey harder with the force of her chagrin.

"Hey, if you're not careful, bits of the mortar stone will make an interesting addition to whatever you're making." Sarah poked her head around the door.

"Um, sorry. I try to take out my spleen on inanimate objects. They don't yell so loudly when you beat on them."

Sarah came into the still room, folded her arms, and cocked her head. "Met the newest guests, have we?"

Deborah just growled.

"I'd say that was an adequate summation of the situation. Rose and I are now sharing a room. I love that child, but she does snore. And poor Major Smythe now has the privilege of sleeping in the servants' quarters." At Deborah's questioning glance, she added, "Sir Oliver requires a private room, or is it Lady Claudia who does?"

Deborah raised her eyebrows. "Yes, I hope to use that as a little extra incentive behind my request to get out of here. I'm going to tell the Colonel that I just have to go after Adam. In reality, I'll have to chase him all the way back to Charlotte."

Sarah snickered. "I bet you will." She pursed her lips, ducked her chin, and stared up at the younger woman. "That should make you happy."

Deborah put down the pestle and straightened her shoulders. "Yes, but that still leaves dinner tonight. I suspect you heard about my little altercation with Lady Claudia?"

"Rogers," Sarah nodded, "said you acquitted yourself rather admirably."

"Well, after that, I have to go to dinner, if nothing else, to prove that I'm not a servant. The problem is that this," she looked down and spread her skirts, "is all I have."

Sarah, understanding the uniquely female dilemma, stroked her chin and looked Deborah over with an experienced eye. "I think we can do something about that. Wash your hands and come with me."

**

Deborah felt a little more pleased with the world than she had just a few short hours previously. Sarah had been more than generous with her clothes and accessories. Deborah could sit at table this evening and hold her head up high.

She wanted to check on an infusion she was preparing in the infirmary, so she grabbed her cloak. As she walked down the hall to the front door, Marshall strode around the corner from the parlor and stopped abruptly.

"Ah, just the person I wanted to see!" He sounded much too pleased with himself for Deborah's taste. "I have some time on my hands, and I thought you'd like to take a stroll around the camp. It's a fine day, if a little chilly, so it's good that you have your cloak."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I must check on something in the infirmary."

"Always business, eh? Well..." He drew out the word and pursed his lips, but his eyes danced. "I would like to do an inspection of the general health of the troops. So, without further ado, let's..."

"La, Kit," came from the top of the stairs. "I'm sure I've been frantic to see you!"

Deborah watched Marshall squeeze his eyes shut. His shoulders slumped, and he slowly turned around to greet the newcomer.

"Hello, Claudia. I didn't know you were here."

The lady in question waited to answer until she reached the bottom of the stairs. She rushed toward Marshall in a flurry of powder, crinoline, and perfume. Deborah stepped out of the way.

"Where else would I be? You're here. We arrived this morning. This place is such a horror, I'm sure I'm amazed that you can stand it." She never glanced at Deborah. "I've been in such a panic to see you again."

With that, she threw her arms around him and kissed him.

Deborah waited for her to finish. And she waited. And she waited. She couldn't see to shove a hatpin between the two of them. Lady Claudia's mouth twisted and opened and slithered. Her hands framed his face as she devoured him. Deborah had been raised in an affectionate household, but not that affectionate.

Embarrassment and irritation warred in Deborah's mind. She did agree on one thing, though. She left.

**

Marshall nodded at her when Deborah came down in her borrowed splendor. She knew she looked her best, but he offered no compliment on her appearance or surprise at her garments' sudden appearance. Lt. Bradley was not so niggardly.

"I must say, ma'am, you're looking splendidly this evening. That gown is most fetching on you."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. You are most kind."

At that moment, Lady Claudia turned her head from her conversation with Marshall. Her gaze swept down to Deborah's toes and away. Deborah had made her point. She was not a servant.

"La, Kit, I'm sure you lead the most fascinating life," Lady Claudia looked up at him through her lashes and smiled that oh-so intimate smile of hers that made Deborah want to slap it off the good lady's face.

**

The diners were well into the fish of this twelve remove dinner, in contrast to the usual, more abbreviated, meal to which the eclectic diners at Kershaw House's table were accustomed. The formal dining room blazed with candles whose light sparkled in the polish of the long table and the side boards. The candlelight glinted in the gleaming gold buttons of the officers' dress uniforms and the large diamond earrings that Lady Claudia frequently fondled. Deborah noticed the satisfied cat smile of the lady and the way the colonel's eyes followed the movement earlier in the evening. Everything she observed confirmed Sgt. Thomson's analysis of the situation.

That depressed her to no end.

Lady Claudia flirted shamelessly with Marshall while he leaned back in his chair with a suggestion of a smile, sipped his wine, and lapped up the attention. Deborah noticed that Sir Oliver watched the scene from the other end of the table, his expression benign. Merciful heavens, she thought, he actually approves of his wife practically seducing the colonel in the middle of the dining room! She knew London Manners were different from those in the colonies, but this was outrageous.

She glanced across the table at Sarah. Discretely elegant, Sarah's forest green Watteau sacque didn't show a fraction of the décolleté of Lady Claudia's crimson finery, but still stood in the height of fashion. Deborah was profoundly grateful to Sarah and Rose for the loan, and quick alteration, of a royal blue gown with a silver embroidered stomacher.

Sarah caught her eye, gave an infinitesimal nod towards the head of the table and a quick roll of her eyes. Deborah smiled her agreement.

**

Kit twirled his wine glass as he surveyed the table and listened with half an ear to Claudia do everything but proposition him in public. He wished he could ignore her completely, but common sense prevailed over that course of action. He remembered a scene or two that she had caused and prayed most devoutly that he would be nowhere near when the next one occurred. His eyebrow lifted as he contemplated the chances he would be able to avoid the conflagration.

She had only been here a few hours and already Claudia was beginning to bore him. It just didn't make sense, he thought. She was just as beautiful as ever. He glanced over at her as she gleefully prattled on about the social downfall of the luscious Mistress Elizabeth Loring, when her protector, General Sir William Howe, was sent back to England under a cloud. Kit didn't give a tinker's damn about Mistress Loring, and Howe was a fool who got less than what he deserved, but Kit nodded encouragement to Claudia as she embellished the hurtful little tale.

God's back teeth, would that woman never shut up? She was truly a diamond of the first water. He had never questioned his attraction. It was only in the last few hours that Kit realized that they had spent very little time talking when they weren't in a social situation. Perhaps, Kit mused as he surveyed her tall, elaborate hairstyle, that was why he hadn't noticed that she had much more hair than wit. His own poor taste appalled him. He was rapidly coming to appreciate women who...

"Colonel, I say," Lt. Bradley began, "Mistress Kershaw and I were just discussing the problems of supplying the main house here. We were wondering if there were any actions planned that would change the number of people to deal with here."

Kit thankfully withdrew his attention from Lady Claudia. "Perhaps, if Harvey down there at the end of the table can stop flirting with the lovely Mistress Rose, we'd be able to mount one."

He didn't know what evil genius urged him to continue. "By the by, Mistress Rose, you are looking most fetching tonight. If I were seated at that end of the table that young pup would have some competition."

The young lady blushed most prettily, Harvey, seated next down from Deborah, paled at the implied challenge from the senior male. Claudia, Kit saw from the corner of his eye, looked like she was going to have an apoplexy. Far more important was the reaction of the young lady in blue next to Harvey. Etiquette decreed that he not converse directly with someone so far away, but her startled first response, followed by an amused grin, was most gratifying.

"At ease, Mr. Harvey, I was just pulling your coat tails. You will be staying here and may flirt with Mistress Rose at your leisure. But, to answer your question, Bradley, I'll be taking a couple of companies out towards the Congaree Swamp in a few days. We have news that Francis Marion is making mischief near there, damn his eyes."

"Oh no, Kit, I'm sure you can't leave now. I just got here." Lady Claudia laid a hand across his arm as if to prevent his departure.

"Duty calls, my dear." He lifted the small, white hand to his lips. As his mouth brushed her fingertips, he looked over them and down the table. Deborah had suddenly found her food very engrossing. Her inattention irritated him. He turned back to Claudia.

**

Rogers placed the fine china dish of syllabub before Rose. Deborah watched her smile up at the servant.

"Oh, Rogers, you know this is my favorite!"

"Just so, Mistress Rose."

Deborah smiled at the exchange. Rose, she thought, thinks of him as an indulgent uncle and he revels...

"Ugh, syllabub! How disgusting! Take it away and bring me something else. Some fruit."

Deborah only closed her eyes at the complaints from the other end of the table. When she opened them, she saw Sir Oliver happily accepting a dish of the confection. She wondered if her expression must have been disapproving when he spoke up, but he was leaning toward Rose.

"I realize my dear Lady Claudia is not partial to sweet deserts, but I have a definite weakness for them." He patted his ample stomach and then reached for his spoon. Deborah had already decided that it would be hard not to like the affable, if somewhat silly, Sir Oliver. His kindness to Rose only reinforced that feeling.

Rose looked over at him, smiling shyly. "I think you'll like this. Cook has an exceptionally light hand with the macaroons, and her Madera cream has just the right touch of lemon."

From the other end of the table, Lady Claudia declared, "I'm sure that child has the manners of a barbarian. Her taste is abominable, both in her food and her clothes. I'm surprised you, Kit, of all people, would allow such a schoolgirl at your table."

In-drawn breaths and outright gasps hissed around the table. Rose curled up into herself and said nothing.

"Lady Claudia!" Lt. Bradley exclaimed. Horrified, he gaped at her for a moment, but finally shook his head, closed his mouth firmly, and returned to his syllabub.

Mistress Kershaw had no such compunctions. "What do you think you are about, madam? People of quality do not sit down at table and proceed to insult members of the family, or anyone else present! This is my house and my table, despite the presence of His Majesty's officers; I do not permit such ill-bred remarks here."

"Who are you to lecture me," Lady Claudia drawled, "you colonial nobody? Your husband is a known rebel, and the crown for treason has rightfully escheated your house. You have no rights and no authority here. You have no title, and you certainly do not have the status to question my judgments."

"You..." There was little Sarah could say since at least part of Lady Claudia's assertions were correct.

"Lady Claudia, if I might explain?" Deborah interrupted in her pedantic best. "Sarah, Mistress Kershaw, speaks from a different perspective than you, I fear. You both refer to the title 'Lady,' but I'm afraid you are working with vastly dissimilar definitions of the term."

The pedantic tone continued, "You, madam, refer to the condition into which you are born into, or marry, into. You feel this accident of birth or success in marriage entitles you to more than the average share of respect and deference and...well, everything."

She heard a snicker somewhere, but ignored it. Lady Claudia's face was grim.

"Now here, in the colonies, we don't see a lot of titled ladies, so we made up our own definition of the word. To us, a lady is someone who is unfailingly polite, kind, and helpful. Mistress Martha Washington is a true lady. Samuel Adam's wife, Abigail, is a lady, a bit outspoken, but kind none the less. Mistress Kershaw is also a lady."

She paused, and Lady Claudia's expression grew black. "You, on the other hand, have a tendency to kick innocent dogs, give orders to those you assume are you inferiors, and insult young women. You, unfortunately, are not considered a lady here."

"You whore," Lady Claudia hissed. She grabbed her water goblet and threw it at Deborah. Lt. Harvey, young and quick, reached across Deborah to bat the glass away.

Fine crystal shattered on the floor. When the sound died, silence reigned.

"Claudia," Col. Marshall said quietly, "I think you might be more comfortable if you retired."

Claudia glared at him, too, but could not refuse. She shoved her chair back before a servant could assist her, and it fell. Sir Oliver hurried after her, muttering soothing things. After she stormed out, the servant picked up the chair. He was too well-trained to even gape at the scene. No one spoke for half a minute.

Finally Marshall grimaced and turned to Sarah. "My apologies." He nodded at Rose, Sarah, and finally Deborah.

Sarah replied, "Thank you, sir, but there is no fault to you so no apologies are necessary from you. I might note, however, that the addition of Lady Claudia to the household is most unsettling. I'm already receiving complaints from the servants' hall."

"I regret that relieving you of her presence is not as easy as it might be. Her husband is here on official business as a major supplier for His Majesty's army. It might be easier and more comfortable for you and your daughter to return to Camden for awhile."

"I have no wish to expose my daughter to the murderer in that city."

"If you go outside the house only with a companion, you should be perfectly safe."

Sarah looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yes, given the choices, I think that would be best. Deborah can come with us, too."

Deborah smiled at Sarah.

"No, Mistress Morgan remains here."

Deborah turned to him, open mouthed.

"She has duties here and I will see to her protection."

Deborah exploded. "You can't possibly protect me from that...that woman twenty-four hours a day. You know that."

"Nevertheless, you stay."

"Colonel, this is..."

"No."

Conversation subsided, and the party broke up shortly. No one seemed interested in the usual postprandial activities.

Stiff-backed, Deborah moved to leave.

**

"Mistress Morgan," Col. Marshall murmured, as he stood with his hand on the wooden chair back. "One of the patrols reported a sighting of a man fitting your brother's description riding a horse looking like mine. He was headed north on the post road a few days ago. I think we can safely say that for all his deficiencies, your brother knows the way home."

Deborah opened her mouth and then turned without saying a word. Her brain whirled. Adam? No, the patrol probably saw Isaac. It was good that he'd successfully escaped, but Marshall had just knocked one of the legs out of her argument for escape.

"Lady Claudia kicked a dog?"

She grimaced and looked back at him. "Yes, she kicked Scamp this morning when they arrived. Sgt. Thomson was there, ask him," she added defensively.

"Oh, I don't doubt your word. Not at all."

Deborah opened her mouth to retort, but he was looking thoughtfully at Lady Claudia's chair and rubbing his finger over the back of his chair. She left quietly, knowing another head on the chimera of her problems had appeared.

Chapter 10

At breakfast, Rogers told Deborah that Sarah and Rose were preparing to go back to Camden. She felt what little congeniality she'd found in the midst of a British camp evaporate.

Even Scamp's antics couldn't lift her spirits as she trudged up to the room Sarah shared with Rose.The room definitely belonged to a female, which explained why the officers avoided it. The bed's canopy was a beribboned pink; the fluffy down comforter's duvet was pink; the curtains were pink. The dressing table skirt was pink.

Deborah studied the room briefly and then turned her blandest expression on Sarah.

The older woman must have seen her looking around and guessed her thoughts. "Don't look at me. I didn't do the decorating here. This is normally Rose's room, as I'm sure you can tell. We're sharing these days." She added with a grimace. "I love my daughter dearly, but her taste is very...pink."

With a snort of laughter, Deborah wandered around the room. She picked up a small glass pot from the dressing table. Examining it without really seeing it she replaced it none too gently on the table.

"God's teeth!" Deborah borrowed her father's favorite turn of phrase. Sarah, bending over a dress she was folding, looked up at her friend's indelicate vocabulary, but said nothing.

"I finally find one person I can talk to in this awful place, and now you're going."

Sarah chuckled, "And that, my dear, is a synopsis of life."

"Who am I going to talk to? And that witch, how am I going to deal with her? Not to mention our gracious Colonel who won't release me because I'm the only one he can find to treat his wounded.

"I have an idea! If you can inquire in Camden for a Tory doctor who would be willing to come out here, I would be able to convince Marshall that I'm not indispensable. If he's forgotten about questioning the number of blankets in the wagon, or accepted my explanation, maybe he'll let me go."

"I'll ask," Sarah agreed. She walked to the door of her chamber, casually looked up and down the hall, and softly closed the door.

"You realize," Sarah said slowly and quietly, "how valuable as a source of information you are here. If you can get to me in town, I can easily send information to General Greene."

Deborah stiffened and watched her closely. Then, sitting on an uncluttered spot on the bed, Sarah folded her hands on her lap and stared down at them for along moment. Deborah could see that there was something weighing on her friend's mind, so she waited for Sarah to gather her thoughts.

Scamp jumped up on Sarah's lap, and she absently petted him.

"It would be dangerous," Sarah continued, "very dangerous, but you are in a unique and sensitive position to gather information on British troop movements."

Deborah walked over to the window and pushed aside the damask curtains that partially closed out the sight of troops drilling alongside the house. She stared out the window but saw nothing. Sarah was suggesting that they become spies. She could barely think of the ramifications of such an endeavor.

Remaining at the window, she cocked her head to listen.

"I'm aware that I'm asking you to take the most vulnerable position, since they already suspect you. And if they ever found out about your father, well...they'd know for sure." Sarah plucked at the shawl next to her and then tossed it aside in an angry gesture. "This may be a fool's game. You know what happened to Major André and poor Mr. Hale. Maybe we should just forget it."

Deborah knew that here in the British lion's mouth, she might be even more valuable than the two executed men.

This was war. There were great risks, but there was also the promise of great rewards.

Her father would be furious.

Turning back, she said simply, "All right."

"Just like that?" Sarah goggled.

"Just like that. You do know that the risks are going to be the same for both of us. They may look to me first, but they know your husband's in exile because of his connections with the Continental Congress, and that we're friends. They'll look to you a very quick second."

Sarah nodded.

Deborah added, "You might want to get Rose out of town. Do you have any relatives that she can stay with?"

Sarah pursed her lips and nodded again.

"I'm sure I can get into town. I can go get supplies or just go on a social call. Can you arrange a courier out of Camden without putting yourself at risk?"

"People are in and out of my shop all the time. I know several trustworthy patriots who could get the messages through without calling attention to themselves."

"Hmm, good. Marshall is going to be going down towards Congaree Swamp in the next few days. Could you get something arranged in time to take that news to Marion?"

"That's awfully quick, but I'll try."

"Good." Deborah picked up a petticoat and began folding it. She admired the fine embroidery on the front where it would show between the front panels of a skirt.

"Well, we've planned that battle; now how about the battle with Lady Claudia? That may be even more difficult." Her tone was light, but her eyes narrowed grimly. "You realize that you're leaving me to fight that one alone."

"I know, but there isn't much I can do about it. It's for the best, anyway. I'm sure you will acquit yourself admirably."

**

Deborah waived Sarah and Rose off shortly before noon. "Remember to ask about a doctor. No, better not."

"Yes, I will. I want you to tell the Colonel that I'm looking. It's consistent with you wanting to leave."

After she watched the carriage disappear in the distance, Deborah went to check on the injured men. She didn't want to stay in the house any more than necessary since Lady Claudia had already established her court in the main salon. All but one of the burned men left were fit for duty, so it was with some relief that just as she was about to leave, a soldier stumbled into the infirmary, leaning on another man and holding his bandaged right arm stiffly. A quick glance at the red and yellow-stained bandage told her that the man had an infected wound.

She sat the soldier down on a stool and gingerly began to unwrap the cloth.

"What happened here?"

The injured man gazed at her stupidly and started to topple. She and his escort caught him and dragged him to the nearest bed. Feeling his forehead, she realized his blank stare resulted from a raging fever. She sniffed and grimaced at the stench coming from the wound.

"Beggin' yer pardon, m'um," the man's companion began, "we was choppin' wood las' week. "H'Allen, 'ere, was 'olding han Oi was choppin.' Musta 'it a knot or sompum, cause the hax jus jumped an' caught 'im just above the wrist. It bled sompum fierce, but we got 'im bound up. We're gonna brin' 'im in ri' den, but Major Smythe said no."

"I'll deal with the Major later." Upon inspection, the wound proved to be red and infected and ugly, but without the spidery red streaks that would have pushed the infection past her skills. She looked at Allen's friend. "I won't try to pretty this up." She began to clean the cut. "He's badly hurt, but it could be much worse."

After cleaning it, she took several maggots from the precious supply a grateful soldier had shared with her a few days before. They would eat the dead flesh and avoid the living, cleaning the debris from the wound.

"Thank you for bringing him in," she told the man. "I'm going to keep him here for a few days. If the good Major has a problem, send him to me. I'll deal with him. And thank you again. You're a good friend." She laid a sympathetic hand on the man's jacketed arm and froze.

The man sensed her withdrawal. "M'um?"

Deborah stared at the blond hair on the jacket sleeve. It was Allen's blond hair, left on his escort when he supported Allen on the way to the clinic. She clawed at his sleeve. The poor man looked at her as if she had lost her wits.

It was a blond hair such as this that Deborah remembered brushing off Penelope's body in the alley.

This was what had bothered her about the men in custody. All of them had brown or red hair. The killer was a blond.

Marshall had to be told. She chivvied the man out and made sure Allen was as comfortable as possible. Grabbing her cloak, she flew out the door. Five paces out, she heard a hail directed at her. A camp follower had broken her leg.

It was almost the dinner hour by the time she was able to leave.

Marshall wasn't in camp, not then, not for dinner. At least Lady Claudia and Sir Oliver were also absent from the table. She thanked Heaven for that smallest of mercies.

**

The next day blossomed cold and bright, with the crystalline clarity that only winter can bring. Before breakfast, she went to check on Allen. Attending him took longer than she'd anticipated. Over her late breakfast, Rogers informed her that the Colonel was already out and about. He quietly added that Lady Claudia was with him.

Deborah grimaced, but when out in search of them. Scamp danced along beside her, reveling in the exercise, as well as the soldiers' and camp followers' petting. She had a somewhat heavier tread. Nevertheless, she responded civilly to the greetings from the men and women in the camp.

She spotted her quarry near the artillery depot. He appeared to be showing off his big guns to Lady Claudia. The "lady" stood close enough, Deborah observed sourly, that if she took a deep breath, her breasts would brush the Colonel's jacket. Claudia appeared to be entranced with whatever Marshall said. He didn't appear to be objecting.

"Fine, lovely," Deborah thought. "Looks like Madame is renewing old acquaintances. Seems her redcoat was just killing time with me. Just as well. I don't need him, that's for sure. I'll just deliver the information and get back to the house. I don't need to come between these two. I don't want to come between these two."

Her steps slowed as she approached the artillery. Common sense told her to deliver the message and leave. Non-sense told her to give Lady Claudia the kind of Yankee disapproval that her mother used to administer when the situation warranted it.

Even Lady Claudia's attentions couldn't prevent Marshall from seeing Deborah approach. He greeted her politely, but made no attempt to distance himself from his companion. When Scamp pranced nearby, he called the dog over to scratch his ears. Deborah held her breath until he maneuvered Scamp away from Lady Claudia.

"Colonel, I need to talk to you right away. It's urgent, and I couldn't find you anywhere yesterday!"

Lady Claudia looked over Deborah with the air of someone confronted with a faintly disagreeable odor. "Kit, darling, do your camp followers always keep such good account of where you are? I'm sure she could find someone else to service her."

Deborah decided that the other woman wanted to be the first one to fire in this skirmish of their undeclared war. Deborah didn't mind, so long as she was the one to fire last. She didn't mind in the least that Marshall might get caught in the crossfire. She opened her mouth to return fire, but Marshall spiked her guns. "I presume this is official business?" Deborah nodded. "Lady Claudia, please excuse us. Sergeant," he called over his shoulder, "escort Lady Claudia back to the house."

With no option, the woman turned and headed back to the house.

Deborah waited until Lady Claudia was out of earshot. "Camp follower? I won't be spoken of like a strumpet, especially by someone like her."

The expression on his face said that he was losing patience with the female squabbling. "What did you want?"

His voice was so cold that she straightened formally and looked him in the eye. "Release the men you are holding in detention for Mistress Brightman's murder. Something has been bothering me about them. I just realized what it was. When I held her body, I brushed a blond hair off her. She had brown hair. The men you are holding all have brown or red hair. I don't think any of them..."

"Is the murderer." He finished for her. "You're sure about this hair?"

"Yes. When it happened, I didn't think too much about it. I just flicked it off her."

"I understand."

"I was attending a soldier yesterday who had a light hair on his sleeve, and it struck me. She had blond hair in her hand, as if she'd fought and torn out some hair."

"Yes, I see your point."

"Are you sure you inspected every man in the camp?"

"Yes, we did and that means that we are looking for blond deserter."

"Or possibly a scavenger."

"My money's on a deserter. The last engagement near here was the battle of Camden in mid-August. A scavenged uniform jacket, worn out of uniform, would have stood out by now. Soldiers go into town fairly regularly. No one of them would stand out there, so a single deserter in uniform just might be able to hide in or near the town."

He thought for a moment. Almost to himself, he muttered, "Unfortunately, that means our man is still out there and liable to kill again."

Looking at Deborah, he said, "I need to go into town to warn the mayor to keep his patrols up. But it's not going to be today. Don't you have some unfinished shopping to do in town?"

"Yes." Her word was hesitant because, after the scene and his attitude earlier, she didn't think she wanted to do anything with him.

"Very good. We'll leave after breakfast. I want you to present this development to the town fathers."

"But I..."

"Good day, Mistress Morgan."

He turned and walked away, leaving Deborah flapping her mouth after him.

**

In spite of the cool winter air, Kit desperately wanted to wipe what felt like sweat from his face, but pride kept his hand swinging at his sides. A murder investigation he could handle, but a cat fight between two women was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. Facing colonial muskets didn't hold half the belly-roiling fear of that debacle.

Still, he congratulated himself for avoiding the worst of it. Damme, he thought, if I can do that, maybe I have a brilliant future in diplomacy or perhaps even politics.

Keeping the two women separate seemed to be the key to the thing. At least it worked this time. But how to keep it up?

He didn't want Deborah hurt. He'd seen all too often the damage inflicted by the claws of the ladies of the ton. Claudia seemed bent on reviving their affair, using her husband's dealings as a flimsy excuse for propinquity. Somehow, the thought of that left him unmoved. Her claws were among the sharpest he'd ever seen. Unfortunately, he couldn't remove her from the camp because her husband had a legitimate, if not imperative, reason for being there.

Well, the problem couldn't be too difficult, could it? After all, he'd successfully diffused the confrontation this afternoon.

Now he needed to set his mind towards finding a murderer. He glowered as he strode between the tents, towards the quartermaster's tent, twisting the problem around in his mind.

The woman stirring a cook pot curtsied as he passed and watched him warily. He barely noticed her.

He would convince the town fathers that it was in their best interests to allow a search, especially of the less desirable parts of town. Their quarry most likely had a bolt hole in among the stews. The British Army would play ferret to his rat.

"Damnation," he muttered, "I thought I had brought this mess to heel." His failure to have the culprit in custody galled him for several reasons.

First the murderer was probably one of his own and therefore his responsibility. The quartermaster would know recent deserters and could get descriptions from the officers.

When he looked on the recently ravished corpse, two thoughts had coursed through his mind, either of which would have been sufficient motivation to bring the killer to justice. Marshall knew the horror she must have gone through. He had mercifully escaped. He had survived. Now he'd rot in hell before he allowed another to suffer the same fate or go unavenged.

The other half of that thought was that the young woman sprawled dead and abused in some god-forsaken alley could have been Deborah.

He would protect his little camp follower tomorrow. She wouldn't be out his sight.

Walking through the camp, Kit whistled at the thought of spending the day with his little camp follower. Camp follower? Humph.

He might have to do something about the luscious Lady Claudia after all. But what?

**

As dinner progressed, Deborah wondered if simply obtaining sustenance was worth the torture they called a formal dinner. More than once, she longed for the solitary bliss of dinner in her room. Each time she reminded herself that such bliss would be interpreted as capitulation. That was unacceptable, so she suffered.

If the table conversation was any indication, others shared her feelings. Few, aside from Lady Claudia, had anything to say. She hardly closed her mouth.

"...And we'll get bay and holly and, of course mistletoe, to decorate the house and invite all the quality in the area for dinner and dancing on Christmas Day. And I'm sure we can have another party on Twelfth Night, too."

Marshall drawled, "I believe that the owners of this house, the Kershaws, are about as 'quality' as you are going to find in this part of the world. Are you going to invite them?"

'La, Kit, of course I mean Tories. Anyone else is simply not quality."

Deborah looked up at that comment, but decided wisdom and discretion should be her sword and buckler at this particular moment.

With none to gainsay her, Lady Claudia forged onward. "I'm sure we can get some of your soldiers to form a choir. I do love 'I Saw Three Ships' and 'The Snow Lay on the Ground.' They can cut some branches to decorate the church. It's so delightful to come into a church smelling of rosemary or pine at Christmas time."

"Lady Claudia, let me remind you that we are in the middle of a war. My men are not at your disposal to decorate for the holidays."

"But, Kit..."

"No."

**

Deborah opened the curtains and confirmed what she suspected: it rained overnight. She hoped that today's city excursion would be canceled accordingly. Reality reared its ugly head and hissed and slithered her forlorn hopes away. Marshall was as immutable as the sun, when it was shining.

Scamp jumped up on the bed with a little assistance from the footstool, and landed squarely on top of Deborah's stomach. "Oosh! How is it, young man, that all the males I know are so good at making their wishes known. For example, I bet you want some breakfast and a walk, not necessarily in that order, hum?"

"Yip." The young man in question ran around in a circle on the bed and then flopped down to contemplate the efficacy of his demands.

Slipping out of the bed so as not to disturb his unusual stillness, she poured water from the pitcher into the basin on the commode. For a moment, she glared at the cold water with distaste, as if it were responsible for all her problems.

Things were so complicated. She wanted to get back to her father. At least Adam was back safely. She wanted to stay to relay any information.

She wanted to get back to her duties with the Continental Army. They needed her. She had people among the British who depended on her services. Helping the enemy went against her desire to defeat the British, but the idea of vetting her patients political standpoints before helping them went against every moral, religious, and ethical principle she had.

She wanted to get away from the burr that was Lady Claudia, yet the newfound friendship of Sarah Kershaw was something she would willingly cultivate.

And then there was Col. Christopher Marshall. She knew she should get away from him. He personified all the problems weighing on her. But oh, she thought, he makes me feel so alive when he's with me. Arguing with him was more exhilarating then all the compliments she'd received from all the callow young men in her life. It was a sensation she'd never experienced before. Could she give that up?

Suddenly, the proposed trip to Camden took on a new attraction.

She splashed the water on her face and set out to enjoy the day.

Chapter 11

Deborah sat back in her chair as she nibbled at breakfast. Scamp clearly knew something special hung in the air. He wiggled, squirmed, and charged the main door to the dining room. Col. Marshall came into the dining room, chose a Spartan meal from the offerings on the sideboard, and sat across from Deborah. Scamp nearly vaulted into his lap. The colonel gently pushed him down and appeased him with a morsel of ham. The pup gobbled it and then settled by his hero with a gaze born of either worship or hunger.

Deborah acknowledged the officer with a nod, "Keep your mouth shut, girl," she told herself angrily. After admitting to herself just this morning that she was almost as willing as Scamp to "roll over on her back and have her tummy rubbed," she needed restraint. He was a little slut about tummy rubs, and she knew she could easily become one, too.

Marshall interrupted her moralistic musings. "Are you ready to go, Mistress Morgan?"

She noted the warmth of his gaze. "Of course, sir."

"Good. We should stop by Mayor Beely's house and request a meeting of the town fathers later. In between, we can run a few errands and perhaps have lunch at Celia Garth's Tea House. I understand it's..."

The door opened and Lady Claudia sailed in, her dog in her arms. "Kit, love, how wonderful to catch you here. I have so many ideas for the holidays that I'm sure I must discuss with you. It will be absolutely glorious, especially if this wretched colonial weather will cooperate with snow." She put her dog on the chair next to Marshall.

"Where are those servants?" With none at hand, she went to the sideboard to daintily pick and choose her meal. She wrinkled her nose at most of the items.

Scamp, a fast learner, circled around and under the table to reacquaint himself with the new arrival. When Lady Claudia flowed back to her place, he scampered over to the protection of Deborah's skirts.

Deborah watched in growing amazement as Lady Claudia set her plate down and took a link of sausage from it. She placed the meat on the polished table next to her plate and lifted the dog onto the table. He sniffed the link and, deciding it was acceptable, settled down to eat it.

Deborah recoiled in distaste, but she bit her lip. Glancing over at Marshall, she saw him nod to her as if commending her for her forbearance.

"Shall we go, Mistress Morgan?" He began to rise.

"Where are you going, Kit?" Lady Claudia demanded.

Morgan straightened his jacket cuffs as he walked around the table. "Mistress Morgan and I must wait upon the mayor of Camden."

"The mayor? With her? What in heaven's name for?"

Before replying, he helped Deborah with her chair. "We need to discuss certain developments in the recent murder with the mayor and his town officials."

"Well," Lady Claudia considered, "I'm sure his wife is a jumped up mushroom of a woman, but there is so little true quality in town, I guess she'll have to do. I will go with you."

Deborah, who had turned from the table, gave Marshall her blandest look. He narrowed his eyes at her but turned civilly to Lady Claudia. Taking his pocket watch out of his white waistcoat pocket, he glanced at it for a moment before snapping it shut. "We will be leaving in precisely five minutes. If you are ready to go, you may."

"Five minutes!" she exclaimed, horrified, "but neither Fluffy nor I have eaten. I'm sure I have to change."

"Five minutes. And the dog stays here." He looked at Deborah, and she nodded acceptance.

"Five minutes." Deborah scooped up Scamp to take him to Rogers. She knew the old servant would happily spend the day spoiling her dog during her absence.

**

Deborah met Marshall at the front where the carriage waited. She wrapped her new cloak around her against the damp wind's bite.

Marshall took out his watch and nodded. "Most prompt. I approve of that in a woman, or anyone else for that matter."

Deborah sniffed, "Promptness is only common courtesy." She hesitated and then asked, "Will Lady Claudia be coming?"

He offered his arm to assist her into the vehicle. "Sometimes one's prayers are answered."

She studied his face for some explanation of his cryptic statement, but before she could find an answer, Lady Claudia tottered down the steps, her patens strapped to her shoes.

Deborah thought she heard, "And sometimes they aren't," but Lady Claudia's complaints about the short notice overrode everything else.

Lady Claudia's complaints lasted most of the journey into Camden. She glared at Deborah who had taken the seat traditionally reserved for ladies, that facing the horses. After seating herself next to Deborah, with Kit facing them, she ostentatiously folded her cloak away from Deborah. Then she proceeded to complain about the early hour, the lack of company, the weather, the quality of service at the house, and finally Kit's lack of interest in the Christmas preparations.

Deborah watched Kit calmly nod in response to each indictment. When he gave her a small, wry smile, she sat back to be amused and ignored.

Col. Marshall requested that the mayor convene the town officials at one o'clock and that the equipage be stabled for the day. Mistress Beely was not receiving yet so they did not stay.

Marshall gallantly offered an arm to each lady as they stood on the street. He looked at Deborah. "Anywhere in particular you wish to go, ma'am."

"Yes, I would like to visit Mistress Kershaw's establishment. I need some more gauze for bandages." What she didn't add was "I also have several pieces of information to deliver to her."

"Absolutely not!" exclaimed Lady Claudia. "I refuse to associate with that woman." She tugged at Kit's arm. "Kit, you and I can stroll down the main street and see what's to be seen in this little town. I'm sure your little friend will enjoy calling on small-town shopkeepers."

"Shopkeepers!"

Kit momentarily tightened his grip on Deborah's arm, and she refrained, so he said, "Lady Claudia, I would prefer you stay with us. While the risks are slight, there have been some problems with unaccompanied ladies here in Camden."

"Well, that won't be a problem if you escort me. I'm sure she," Lady Claudia flicked her head at Deborah, but never took her eyes off Marshall, "can find her way to the Kershaw's without any assistance. Why, I'm sure, even in London someone of her status can walk about unescorted. Let's go, Kit!"

Marshall stood his ground against Lady Claudia's tug on his arm and against Deborah's attempt to extricate himself from his other arm.

Deborah stopped pulling and drew herself up. "Colonel, if you will excuse me, I'll be on my way." Her eyebrow lifted, and she hoped Marshall would let her go on alone. Some of the things she had to say to Sarah did not require a British army audience. She looked at him expectantly.

Marshall studied each woman. He appeared to make a decision. "Lady Claudia, Mistress Morgan has business at several establishments around town. You knew we had business when you joined this trip. You may come with us, or you may secure an escort from the mayor or one of your friends. Perhaps the people we dined with the other night...I disremember their name."

"Sanders," Lady Claudia provided coldly.

"Very well. The choice is yours, but I do not wish you wandering around town unescorted."

Deborah tried again, "Colonel, please, it is not necessary for you to escort me. The Kershaw's are only two blocks over, and I will simply remain there until the time for our meeting."

"No! The matter is settled. We're going."

"No, Kit, we are not." Lady Claudia was outraged. "I have no wish to associate with known traitors. I shall go to the Sanders' until one o'clock and then I will return to the mayor's house."

Kit looked unconvinced, but Lady Claudia simply turned and walked away, her pattens slurping in the mud with every step.

Deborah looked after her, slightly envious of the wooden pattens that might keep her feet out of the muck. "Ah well," she thought, "if I'd wanted to act the lady, I'd have brought..."

"Shall we go?" Marshall interrupted her rationalization.

"Oh, yes, of course." She looked warily at the water-filled carriage ruts in the road. "Could we go down a little ways to cross? There are fewer puddles over..."

"I can fix that problem," he laughed and bent to scoop her into his arms.

Startled, Deborah sucked in her breath. "Colonel!" He is lifting me as though I were a goose-down pillow, she thought. He's so strong and he's... All coherent thought dissipated as he curled her around his chest. The iron muscles of his arms cradled her into his warmth.

"Put your arms around my neck and hold on," he chuckled as he straightened.

As her body curved to his, the mirth faded from his eyes. "Maybe this wasn't such a brilliant idea," he muttered.

**

Deborah's bubble popped. Wiggling, she demanded, "Let go of me. I never asked you to pick me up. Let go!"

He snorted. "Stop squirming. I don't want to drop you. Besides," he looked at her furious face, "I don't think I could let go of you now if I tried." He started across the muddy street, his polished boots sucking up mud with every step. He never noticed.

"What do you mean?" she hissed. "You're the one who said this 'wasn't such a brilliant idea!'"

"It wasn't," he replied as he set her gently down on the drier side of the street. "In public." His hands slid to her waist and held her, a shade too close for propriety

Her eyes never left his face. For a moment, she couldn't move to save her life.

A wagon squelching by reminded her that they were indeed in public. "Yes," she started to breathe again, "I see your point."

He, too, drew a deep breath and, with a crooked smile, offered her his arm. "I thought you might."

She laid her arm on his. When he captured her hand with his free one, she surprised herself by not objecting.

For awhile, they walked in silence except to exchange casual greetings or lifted hats with passersby who, no matter their politics, had no desire to be perceived as cutting a British colonel. On this side rode, they passed several prosperous looking houses mostly painted in white with blue-grey or dark green or red trim whose fronts came up to the street. Deborah felt the silence comfortable. Marshall appeared to as well, since he did nothing to disturb it.

"Tell me about yourself," he demanded, not unkindly.

For a moment she was startled. "Why?"

"Why? Why not? I like to know about the people who...work with me. Helps me understand them." He pursed his lips. "If you have something in common, people just tend to work better together."

He shrugged, to Deborah's mind, a little self-consciously. She decided an edited version of her life would do nicely. "Well, I have three older brothers. You've met Adam." He nodded. "The others alternately treat me like a bratty little sister or like a bond maid they can order about. They can be very sweet, though." A wistful look crossed her face. "My parents have a farm, and we're all still at home, although Eli, the oldest has his eye on a girl. Papa's a big, blustering guy, but it's Momma who rules the roost." She shrugged.

"Now, what about you? How did you...why did you decide to become a healer?"

"Why? Well, I've always been interested in helping people feel better. When I was a little girt, I used to set my doll's broken arms and legs. I guess it just progressed to the real thing. My mother taught me, of course. I mean, most women here know the basics, just as a matter of necessity. And then I've done some reading and talking to doctors."

"Impressive," he hesitated, "Is there anyone waiting for you at home?"

She looked at him, noting the hesitation that was so unlike him. "No, there's nobody but my family."

"Umph."

They walked on a few more steps, turning into the high road with it's boardwalk between the shops.

"So how, with a family that's as everyday as tea and scones, did you get mixed up in this ha'penny rebellion?"

"Ha'..." She stopped herself. "As to how I got myself involved with the British Army, you must consult Col Tarleton on that."

"Mayhap I have more to thank the old sot for than I once thought."

**

Kit watched Deborah as she selected some yarn with Mistress Kershaw's help. The two of them seemed sufficient unto themselves for the transaction, so he leaned back in one the store's chairs and watched them. He knew the two to be friends, so he expected a certain amount of female gossip and small talk. They didn't disappoint him.

Unfortunately, he was almost positive that Mistress Kershaw was corset-deep in her husband's rebel sympathies. After seeing her confrontation with Lady Claudia, he was sure her sympathies weren't passive.

His "little camp follower" had a streak of the rebel in her, too. Oh, she was reasonably discrete about it, and there was no one thing that could definitely be termed treasonous. It was, however, a pattern of small things: the blankets, her brother's disappearance with the best horse in camp (namely his), her friendship with Mistress Kershaw which started right after the sighting of an unidentified man near the camp, her admiration of rebel leaders' wives, and now her attempt to send him off with Lady Claudia.

He wouldn't leave the store after escorting her, so she'd effectively banished him to the chair on the other side of the store. She and Mistress Kershaw were head to head in a very quiet discussion.

It was his job to be suspicious, even of his maddening little wench. However, suspicion was one thing. Proof was another. Letting her get away with anything was quite a third. And speaking of that, letting her get away at all was not to be borne, especially with his leaving in a few days.

He had, as he saw it, several problems to solve. He had to keep her, he had to keep her out of trouble, he had to keep her from causing trouble, and he had to figure out how to get her to acknowledge his claim on her.

He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. Keeping her didn't present a major problem. Mistress Kershaw provided a perfect hostage. A few subtle hints and Deborah might as well have a chain holding her in camp while he was gone.

Keeping her out of trouble pretty much meant keeping her from making trouble. He didn't think she'd hurt the men with her doctoring. She was too serious about her craft to do that. However, she stood in an excellent position to pass on information. That could be dangerous for both of them. Mistress Kershaw seemed to be the logical conduit of any information. Contact between Deborah and her friend would have to be minimized or at least closely supervised.

Satisfied that he had his bird in his net, he turned his attention to what to do with her. She would have to be finessed into his bed. The more usual inducements of rank, gifts, or money were not going to be effective.

Thinking about the rewards of his persuasion made things a little uncomfortable. He shifted in the chair to relieve the tightness in his britches. It was obvious that he had to do something more active to ease the problem. Soon.

**

"Getting into town won't be a problem while he's gone. If you can get me out here quickly and quietly, I can get up to the Continental encampment." They both spoke in whispers.

Deborah's flat assertion that she had to get out of the British camp took Sarah by surprise. "You're a tremendous asset there, but if you have to..." Sarah thought for a second. "It'll be risky, but I think I can manage it."

"Good. I have to get out of here. That woman is concentrating on making my life a living hell."

"I understand perfectly. Remember, I left, too."

Deborah laughed ruefully. "It's not only that. I'm, getting more and more involved with them. It's getting harder and harder to pull away, professionally and personally."

Sarah nodded, "Don't wait too long, then."

"I hate to leave you in the lurch, though."

"That's the least of your worries. I have other sources."

Sarah deftly wrapped the package and gave it to Deborah. "Let's get you going. Marshall has been watching you like a hungry cat watches a bird."

"I know. That's what I'm afraid of."

**

Kit gallantly took her package as they left the shop and walked down the street toward the teahouse.

Deborah smiled at him as he took the parcel, but her thoughts whirled elsewhere. Part of her exulted in the simple act of putting her escape plans in process. And part of her rejected the notion of leaving altogether. To be perfectly honest with herself, she didn't know what she wanted.

One thing preyed on her mind, though. She thought she should air the linen. The only problem was that she wasn't sure how to do it or even if she wanted any particular result. She only knew that, at some level of her being, she needed an answer. "I'm sorry if my...ah, working for you has upset your...friendship with Lady Claudia. I know you and she have a long-standing...um, relationship that I would hate to destroy." She rushed on, "...Because she misinterpreted our working association." The words tumbled out, landing on top of one another. She hoped against hope that he would understand what she was asking and prayed that he would take her query at face value.

The buildings in this area stood separated from each other, and he drew her into a small, deserted alley, away from curious eyes. Weighing his response and choosing his words with care, he said, "My relation to Lady Claudia is only what courtesy, and politics demands that I accord the wife of a peer and an army supplier. I won't deny that in the past we have had a...an association, or that she would like to continue that association, but it is not going to be. Does that ease your conscience?"

She looked out toward the street and at his sleeve, anywhere but at him. In a low voice, she replied, "I don't have any right to question your relationship..."

"Yes you do. You have every right, because I'm giving you that right."

Deborah stared up at him. She stood perfectly still. This was more than she wanted or needed at this point. She was going to escape, for heaven's sake. "Colonel..."

"Kit."

"Kit. I," she swallowed. He stared at her as though he could read her response in her eyes. "I can't, won't take over Lady Claudia's place in your life." Why did she say that?

He nodded slowly. "I don't want you to. That was dross. I think I want something much more from you."

She searched his eyes, her own feelings troubled and in turmoil. "I don't know if we can..."

A scream split the cool air of the morning. A nearby scream.

Chapter 12

Deborah sucked in her breath. Kit's head snapped up, and his chin scrapped her nose. She barely noticed it.

"Where?" he muttered and cocked his head, trying to localize the vanished sound.

Deborah thought for a fraction of a second. Where was the scream? "That way." She pointed out the far end of the alley. "To the left, I think."

He dropped her parcel as he charged down the alley. She ran after him, holding her skirts up so she could move quickly. In a quieter time, it would be indecent; now it was expedient.

As she gained the street, Kit slowed to peer into the next alley up the road and then accelerated past it. People nearby stared at the redcoat pounding down the street. He passed the second alley like the first. A man hailed him, but Kit didn't stop.

He looked down the third alley to his left and started to continue down the road. Something must have alerted him because he glanced across the street at an alley opposite and charged across the street.

She rushed after him, turning the corner into the alley just in time to see him reach into a writhing mass of clothing half-hidden behind a pile of wood and garbage and haul out a red-jacketed man.

By the time she reached the scene, the battle was in full swing. She edged around them as Marshall's fist sent the villain back against the wall. Muffled sobs emanated from the pile of clothes told Deborah the man's victim still lived. "Thank God," she whispered. Keeping one eye on the fight, she crossed back to the side where the woman huddled, curled into the corner with only her muddy back visible.

The two men seemed almost equally matched, with Marshall's size advantage balanced by the other man's desperation. She winced when Kit took a blow to the face. He staggered back but stayed on his feet.

She dropped to her knees beside the woman and wrapped her arms around her. The stench of the garbage warred with the woman's perfume. Mud squished all around her. The woman stayed curled into the wall, her arms curved over her face. Deborah's quick scan showed no blood. She glanced up at the men and smothered a shriek. A ball of furious males with arms and legs flailing rolled through the mud toward them. She fell over the woman to protect her. Grunts and the slurp of mud sounded in her ears, but she kept her head and body curled around the trembling unfortunate. Something struck her back before she felt the furor of the fight move on down the alley.

She peeked out of her cocoon to see where they were. A few yards away, the assailant used his locked hands as a club to knock his opponent off him and back into the mud. Seeing the opportunity he started to start to crawl to his feet, but Kit rolled toward him and knocked his arm out from under him; the man fell. Before the attacker could recover, Kit hauled up, drew back his fist, and smashed him in the mouth. Blood spurted, and the man collapsed.

Deborah drew her first easy breath since she first heard the scream. Turning her attention to the woman, she loosened her protecting arms and looked into the face of Lady Claudia.

**

Deborah sat back in the tub of deliciously hot water and let the heat drive out the cold and mud and soreness. Slowly, the heat chased the tension from her body.

Thank heavens for Rogers. That man was an angel. Lady Claudia had bellowed for the tub as soon as they arrived back at the house, but Rogers saw to it that the coveted item arrived at Deborah's room first, along with a copious supply of very hot water.

Deborah let her head drop back as she thought about the aftermath of the fight. As soon as Lady Claudia realized that she wasn't in any more immediate danger, she began screaming and sobbing and yowling. Mercifully, Deborah thought, most of that was simply undecipherable noise. When the lady's wits cleared, the situation changed.

"What took you so long? That lunatic could have killed me.

"Where have you been? You've been gone ages.

"I'm freezing! Get me a blanket.

"Aren't you going to kill him?

"Kit, you took off with your little hussy and look what happened to me!

"Pay attention to me!

"Get rid of these gawking yokels."

The squawks went on while reinforcements came to deal with the man and while Kit stood with the mayor in the alley and explained would happen to the miscreant under military law. It went on while Kit had Deborah's mislaid package recovered and while she tried to attend to his bloody mouth. It went on while the carriage was summoned. It went on all the way home.

Deborah tried to be grateful that all she had to do was listen to it and stay out of the way. It was difficult.

The cooling water induced Deborah to get out and get dressed. With clean clothes, her thoughts turned to the present. Sighing, she thought about Lady Claudia's attacker. A little on-the-spot persuasion in the alley cleared up the murders of Penelope and several other less reputable young women. Deborah knew justice was going to be swift and final, but she still mourned it. The loss of human life during the war reached a number so appalling that even this one more was regrettable, even if he richly deserved his fate.

However, there would be an end to the whole thing, and her debt to the young woman she'd known only in death would be paid. Deborah could finalize her escape plans with a clear conscience.

**

Dinner was subdued. Deborah heard the burst of rifle fire late in the afternoon that signified the end of Guy Foley, deserter, rapist, and murderer. Its aftermath did not make for a very convivial evening.

Col. Marshall now wore a red jacket and white breeches, as opposed to the matched brown set of the afternoon. He ate slowly and deliberately, probably out of respect for his bruised cheek and cut lip.

Lady Claudia was inordinately quiet. Sir Oliver gave what comfort he could by awkwardly patting her hand throughout the dinner. About half way through, it struck Deborah as unusual that the lady would allow it. They were not an affectionate couple. Knowing what she did about their marriage, she gave Sir Oliver credit for his support of his wife when she needed it.

Just as dinner finished, Marshall cleared his throat in a bid for the table's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, as I may not see you tomorrow morning, I will take my leave of you now."

Deborah glanced around the table. The senior officers sat impassively, while the younger officers and civilians looked startled.

Lady Claudia showed the first sign of life all evening. "What do you mean, Kit? I'm sure there must be some mistake."

"No, Lady Claudia, there is no mistake. Lt. Bradley and I are taking some troops out on patrol. We hope to be back before Christmas, but I can't guarantee that. In the meantime, Col. Johnson will be in charge."

"But what about all our plans!"

Marshall leaned back and looked at the ceiling for a moment. "I," he emphasized, "have no plans for Christmas. I am fighting a war." He looked directly at her. "My men are fighting a war also. You may not dragoon them to assist in producing your Christmas pageantry."

"But, Kit. I'm sure they wouldn't mind if..."

"But I would."

"Kit!" she pouted, but he simply toyed with his wine glass and looked at her.

Deborah watched the scene silently. She had to use every ounce of control to keep from singing hosannas. If the Good Lord watched over her, her elation wasn't showing on her face. Marshall was going to be leaving Camden. Not only would his absence make it easier for her to get away, but she wouldn't have to deal with this growing attraction for him.

Thoughts and plans and scenarios rolled through her head. She glanced up from this happy jumble to see Marshall's brooding gaze focused on her.

Something told her there was going to be a problem.

**

"Mistress Morgan," Kit summoned her as they left the table. "A moment in my study, if you please."

Deborah wasn't sure she wanted to hear whatever he had to say, but she followed him. Maps, pens, record books, and a few weapons cluttered the room. He offered her a seat but remained standing himself.

"I know you have a great desire to leave here," he began baldly. "Unfortunately, I am unable to grant that wish."

"Why not? Surely you have no reason for holding me here."

"I need your services."

"You can get a doctor in Camden if you need one. A real doctor!"

"But I have you here, and I intend to keep you."

"This is absurd!" She shot to her feet.

"You may be right about that. Nevertheless, you will be staying."

"I..."

"I want you here when I return."

"But I..."

"Or your friend Sarah Kershaw, wife of known traitor Joseph Kershaw, and a rebel sympathizer in her own right, will bear the brunt of my displeasure."

She whispered, "You wouldn't."

He moved up to a hand's breadth in front of her. "I wouldn't want to. Don't make me. Don't think about the possibility of making me."

She stared at him, open-mouthed.

He ran his finger lightly down the side of her face. "If you think about it you'll get angry, and I don't want to leave with you angry at me." He bent his head towards her. "I'd prefer you looking forward to my return."

Gasping, she pulled away. "How can you think...?" She stared at him for a moment and then whirled and raced for the stairs.

She did not sleep well that night.

**

The next morning, Marshall and a goodly bit of the encampment were gone when Deborah arose.

Lady Claudia complained bitterly. Finally she left for a few days in town, along with a mountain of luggage and Sir Oliver in her wake.

**

The full moon turned what was left of the front lawn a silvery gray. Standing before the window in the dark parlor, Deborah could see an occasional fire in among the soldiers' tents farther away. Here and there a soldier or a camp follower moved among the stillness.

Deborah pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. Although the house was chilly, she resisted lighting a fire in the sitting room. She kept telling herself that it was time to go up to bed, but, for some reason, her feet refused to take the hint.

The stillness, the moonlight, made her think of her own home on just such a cold, clear winter's night.

Once, when she was little, Papa tied some ropes and a piece of wood to a high tree branch for a swing. He would push her up, up, up, until she was shrieking with fright and excitement. Then the swing came down, down, down. The wind whistled through her hair and billowed her skirts. As she wiggled and giggled, her way down towards her papa, she seemed to leave her stomach somewhere up among the branches.

When she was a child, the up and down, fright and delight, were thrilling. Papa would say it was time to get off, and she would beg him to continue.

Now, this swing of life alternately terrified and delighted her. Christopher Marshall was central to it. She was terrified she would give in to him and afraid she wouldn't. She wanted to always be with him and feared his interest was temporary. She wanted to help her country and knew there might be huge consequences both in and out of his clutches. Deborah didn't know if he was the swing, the pusher, or the wide blue sky; but she did know that, with him, the highs promised to be exquisite and the lows devastating, perhaps even fatal.

In the distance a woman gave a soldier a quick hug.

She thought of her mother, undoubtedly managing the farm with her customary quiet competence. Dearest mamma, who could make the most monstrous of childhood tragedies better with a kiss and a big hug, where are you now that I need you so desperately? Maybe you can't make it go away with a smile, but just your ever-available shoulder to cry on would be a help. I need you, mama.

She sniffed back incipient tears and grimaced. She was old enough to be a mother, herself, and here she was crying for her mama. Angrily, she pushed the thoughts away and stood up a little straighter. She needed to think about what she could do, not cry over what she couldn't.

The door to the sitting room opened and Deborah whipped around with a gasp. Rogers came in, holding a candle.

"Begging you pardon, ma'am. I hope I didn't startle you too much. Why are you standing here in the dark? Do you require a candle?" Carefully he closed the door and placed his candle on a nearby table.

"I was just thinking, Rogers. I'm fine."

The black man nodded. He watched her for a moment with shrewd, but compassionate eyes. "Very good, ma'am.

"A message just came from Mistress Kershaw. She has arranged transportation for you one week from today."

Deborah thought for a second. "That's Christmas Eve."

"Yes, ma'am."

For that moment, elation lanced through Deborah. Reality closed in quickly.

"Rogers," she hesitated, knowing she was tossing away her best chance at freedom. "Col. Marshall said that if I try to escape, he'll hold Mistress Kershaw responsible. I believe him, and I can't risk harming her. Tell her not to make any arrangements. Maybe an opportunity will come along later."

"Very good, ma'am." He bowed slightly. "And I'm sorry."

It was one more cycle of the swing.

**

Deborah wrapped the gauze around the woman's cut hand. After adjusting one of the windings, she tore the end lengthwise and tied it off. "The St. John's wort will speed the healing. Keep it dry and I'll change the bandage tomorrow."

"'Right ya are, an' methanks, m'um." The camp follower's grin showed two teeth missing, but the smile was genuine. "By the bye, ya got anything fer, ya know, female complaints? I been having some mortal fierce belly aches wi' me monthlies."

"Of course. When your time comes, I can give you some bee balm tea that may help."

They both looked up when the door to the infirmary opened. Lt. Claiborne strode in and hesitated. He looked around and swept off his hat when he spotted Deborah. "Ma'am."

The camp follower appraised the red-haired young man with blatant appreciation, then grinned again and winked at Deborah before scuttling around the officer and out the door.

The red-head's curse flared up his cheeks as he watched the woman's antics. He swallowed and launched into his proposal. "Mistress Morgan, I was wondering if you would care to, and you've nothing better to do, that is, if you have the time, I thought you might like, if it pleases you, to come, if its not too cold for you, and you wouldn't mind to...to..."

Deborah cocked her head. "Yes?"

"Towalkaroundthecampwithme?"

She ruthlessly suppressed a smile. "Why thank you, Lieutenant. I do believe I'd like to stretch my legs. Let me get my cloak."

**

Scamp curled in his usual place before the fire. The sitting room was warm and quiet except for the rhythmic clicking of Deborah's knitting needles. The white wool yarn hadn't fared too badly from its stint in the mud while Lady Claudia was being rescued. It was almost a week since that incident. She stopped a moment to look at her progress on the long scarf. "Humph." Usually I can knit things faster than this, she thought, especially a relatively simple piece like this, she thought. There's nothing to it, and yet I still haven't finished it. Been busy with winter problems, even with fewer men in the camp. Still, there was another, um, four or five inches to go and then the fringe. It'll look nice.

She fingered the rows of slipped stitch ridges that gave the scarf a little interest. It wasn't a fancy thing, more suited to a man than a woman, really. She pushed that thought away and went back to knitting and watching the activity in the camp from the large window.

Through the open door, she could hear the rapid patter of booted feet, Lt. Harvey, from the sound of it. As she got to know him, she realized that he rarely walked anywhere. His slowest pace was a canter. He rushed into the sitting room, greatcoat flying around him, and stopped. The flapping coat settled around him like a lover. In the doorway, he fidgeted.

"Can I help you, Lieutenant?"

He looked like he was going to expire of heart failure right there. Deborah put her knitting aside and got up.

"No, ma'am. I just...I mean, I wanted..." The hand that had been partially hidden by the folds of the greatcoat whipped out with a fistful of pansies in it. "Here, these are for you," he blurted.

"Oh!" Relief, surprise, delight. "They're lovely. Let me find something to put them in. Thank you."

"Pleasure, ma'am." He fled in a rush of blushes.

Dumbfounded, Deborah looked at the bunch of flowers in her hand. She shrugged and went to find a vase.

Chapter 13

It was Christmas Eve. Deborah finished lunch, her current work in the clinic, and the muffler she knitted. Everything that had to be done was done. Now, she toyed with the scraps from her cloak. She'd spread the material out in the study on the table that had formerly sported maps and dispatches. Paper pattern pieces for a waistcoat lay on the blue wool, carefully interlocked for optimal use of the material. The lining awaited its turn, but is would be trickier since the piece was smaller.

Deborah hummed Christmas carols to herself as she stepped over Scamp and around the table. She tried to be extra careful, since Scamp's proclivity for plopping himself directly underfoot had already led to one tail-stomping episode that morning. He'd done justice to the knuckle bone the soft-hearted cook had bestowed on him earlier and was now softly snoring. Bending down, she gave his ears a quick scratch.

The pattern pieces were falling into place. More importantly, the pieces of her life had fallen into place last night as she sleeplessly stared at the ceiling.

The problem of Christopher Marshall simmered in her brain for days while she deliberately tried not to think about it. Last night it arrived, done to perfection and ready to enjoy.

She would have to be careful, very careful, or risk becoming a moth flying into the flame. Perhaps that danger formed part of the attraction; she didn't know if he was a foolish infatuation for her. She would have to deal with those consequences in the future.

The shears crunched through the wool when a forced cough sounded in the doorway. Sgt. Thomson stood there, shifting from one foot to the other.

"Beggin' yer pardon, m'um. Ain't intrudin', am Ah?"

"Of course not, Mr. Thomson, come in. It's been several days since I saw you. I know you've been busy."

Scamp heard the familiar voice and awoke with the speed and vigor only the young of any species can muster.

Thomson reached down with his empty hand, trying to pet the pup as he jumped around. "'Eydee ho, my fine lad. Ah've got something for ya," he looked up at Deborah, "wi' yer permission, of course, m'um."

Intrigued, Deborah put down her shears. "Why, yes, Mr. Thomson. What is it?"

Thomson knelt down beside the ecstatic dog. "Well, Ah've been thinking. The lad, 'ere, 'as been running around like a little 'eathen, 'e 'as. So's Ah made a collar and leash outta some scrap leather we 'ad. After all, it be Christmas." He opened his hand to show two strips of braided leather, one long, one short. The shorter one, a collar, had a well-worn, but lovingly polished buckle on it. The longer had a loop for attaching it to the collar.

"Oh Mr. Thomson, they're beautiful." She touched one of the handmade strips. "So carefully crafted." A British soldier had given her a present. Gulping back the emotions, she continued, "That was thoughtful of you." She took the collar from his hand to look more closely at it.

He blushed and grinned. "Ah likes t' little nipper an' Ah done some work wit' dogs, so Ah's thinkin' you might let me work wit' 'im, trainin' an' t' like."

"Do you think you could? I mean, you want to? He is a bit of a barbarian, if a sweet one."

My pleasure, m'um."

"Here," she shoved the collar at him, "You do the honor of putting it on him."

"Ay, m'um. Now 'old 'im, 'E's not gonna like this at first, but 'e'll get used to it, right quick." He showed her how to adjust it to fit properly.

As predicted, Scamp pawed at his new accoutrement. Thomson slipped the loop of the leash onto the collar and offered it to Deborah. "'Ere, take 'im out for a bit of a brisk walk an' 'e'll soon forget to fret on it."

"Come with us. You can show me what to do with him."

Mr. Thomson began by running Scamp around the outside of the house. By the time they returned, Deborah could see that Scamp had forgotten his irritation in the sheer joy of the run.

Thomson blew out a breath and grinned; "Now we can go for a proper walk."

**

"'Od's blood, he was tired.

And cold.

And saddle sore.

And acutely aware of his own mortality.

His father would be proud of him. Throughout his twenty-six years, his father had been trying to inculcate that elemental fact into his son's thick skull.

Well, a sniper's bullet close enough to brush his week-old beard had certainly brought the lesson home. Kit rubbed his cheek where the memory of hot lead streaking by before burying itself in the tree behind him still lingered.

His father would approve of the end result, even if he might not think too highly of the means.

An officer rode up next to him. "That was a damn lucky miss, sir." Lt. Bradley nodded at Kit's questing hand.

"Um."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but doesn't it seem rather strange?"

Kit looked sideways at the younger man but made no response.

"I mean, sir, you were a perfect target with the campfire and all. The sergeants seem to think that all the muskets were accounted for, so it wasn't one of ours. But, it wasn't an ambush, either. Just one shot—at you."

The camp jumped into chaos. Men scrambled for their guns. Someone, Kit never saw who, pulled him to the ground. One of the sergeants had a patrol headed out in the general direction of the shot even before Kit could get back to his feet. The dispassionate part of his brain made a mental note to compliment the man.

Kit ordered a square in the center of the camp. If an ambush was in the offing, the box of men could defend against an attack from any quadrant. The inside and outside ranks, firing alternately, could keep up an almost continuous fire.

But there was nothing to fire at. The only hint of movement was the increasingly distant sound of the patrol. Kit waited.

When the sergeant returned, the men just scratched their heads. It was an accepted battle tactic, to pick off the officers; but there was no battle, not then, not later.

"Sir, the one set of boot prints behind the large tree and the droppings of a single horse a ways further on...?"

Kit looked at Bradley. "Precisely, Lieutenant. I've spent the past few miles contemplating exactly that." Suddenly Kit was very glad that Camden and the camp lay just ahead of them. He had one errand to do in town and then he would be home.

**

Deborah saw the first troops coming up the road. "Mr. Thomson, they're back!"

"Aye, m'um, so they be." He cocked a knowing eye at the lines of men. "An' in tolerably good shape. Ah don' think to see t' Colonel, though."

Saluting, he hailed Lt. Bradley in the lead. "All in one piece, sir?"

Bradley reined in his horse and sketched an absent-minded salute that continued up to remove his hat. "Good day to you, ma'am. We're all present and accounted for, with only a few bumps and bruises to show for our pains." He noticed Deborah scanning the company. "The Colonel stopped in town. He should be along soon."

She smiled up at him but was alarmed at the thought that he might think she was sweet on his commanding officer. That wouldn't do. "It's good to see you again. You have no injuries?"

His eyes brightened at her interest as he tugged at the bridle of his fractious horse. The passing troops were kicking up dust and the horse probably wanted nothing more than to get to his nice warm barn and a pile of hay. "No, ma'am. I'm perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern."

She smiled again. He seemed so young and eager, even though he was probably older than she was. And so innocently self-centered. "Wonderful. Do any of your men need medical attention?'

"Only O'Toole. He went off in the middle of the night to take a...um, uh, that is to say, for one reason or another, and twisted his ankle. Been wailing like a baby over it, too."

"I'll see to it. Did you have any...engagements?"

"'Od's blood, we chased..."

A bird flew by, starting the already-edgy horse. Bradley ruefully controlled him. "Better see to the men just now. I'm sure to see you at the dinner table."

She waved as he bowed in the saddle and continued on to his duties.

**

Marshall rode into camp just behind his troops. His present had been ready to go. He was pleased with it. They were perfect, not too much, not too little. He was on his way mercifully quickly because standing in the store brought back memories of other stores and other gifts heedlessly bought to curry favor with one mistress or another. He purchased this gift with the sole purpose of making Deborah smile. On the road from town, he found himself grinning idiotically in anticipation, the fatigues and the irritations forgotten.

He saw Deborah at the side of the road. She waved to Bradley like a long-lost lover and then walked off with Thomson. They were snuggled together, hand in hand, oblivious to the rest of the world. She was behaving like some of the most notorious lightskirts in London, and Kit certainly knew about them.

"How dare she!" he muttered as he spurred his horse down the road. How dare she, when he had not so much as looked at another woman in weeks?

Why, even just days before he'd left, Claudia had come to his room one evening. He'd answered the knock at his door, and she'd slipped into his room before he could either close the door or stop her. It was quite obvious, after the first startled moment, that she had little on under the wrapper she wore.

"Claudia! What are you doing..."

"What do you think, darling? Oliver has already drunk himself senseless," she sneered in disgust, but immediately brightened. "And that means we have all the time in the world." She closed the few paces between them. Rubbing herself against him like a cat in heat, she walked her fingers up the front of his shirt.

Thinking back on it, he excused himself as being only human. His body reacted as any man's body would when a beautiful woman offered herself to him. He was only human.

Once he would have taken her up on her very generous offer. Once he would have stripped them both and reveled in the erotic pleasures Claudia practiced so well. Once...

Oh, but not this time! This time he was virtuous and withheld himself for something better. He'd even tried to be tactful.

"Claudia," he captured her prowling hands. "It's very late, and I'm exhausted. I have to be up early tomorrow. You are...delightful but not tonight."

"What do you mean, 'not tonight'? Since when have you been too tired for pleasure? Even if it is late, we could do something quick to help you get to sleep in a few minutes, humm?" She tried to wriggle her hands free.

"No, I'm sorry."

"I'm sure you can..." He tightened his hold on her fingers. "Ouch!"

He watched the understanding of the finality of his answer grow in her face. Fast on its heels came rage. "Why you miserable bastard! It's that colonial whore, isn't it? I'll make you regret ever having...Agh!" She cringed under the crushing pressure on her hands.

"If...you...cause...a...scene, now or later, I will cause you to regret it like nothing you have regretted in your entire life. I will not be coerced. Do you understand?"

She nodded. Pain stilled her voice, but he could read the fear in her eyes. The pressure on her hands decreased, but he didn't release her.

His voice softened. He knew that if Claudia left with vengeance on her mind, anything could and would happen. "My dear, I'm tired. Bone tired. I couldn't do you justice, and you are a demanding taskmistress in certain situations." He glanced meaningfully at the bed and lightly touched her cheek. "I'm afraid the army is my only mistress at the moment. You understand, don't you?"

"I don't like it," she pouted, "but I do understand."

"Thank you, I knew you would." He opened the door and checked the hallway. "It's clear. Good night."

He closed the door behind her, thinking how inane his excuses had sounded. However, they worked and that's what counted.

He'd felt very virtuous that night. Now he just felt like a fool.

**

"That's right, m'um. 'Aul 'im back when 'e trots off like that." Thomson watched her perform the maneuver. "Good, good."

Deborah looked up from her efforts and grinned. As she did, Marshall approached. "Oh, look!" She waved. "The Colonel is back." He didn't return the salute, and she cocked her head, wondering if he was all right. Drawing near, she saw his black expression. "Something is terribly wrong," she whispered to Thomson.

"Aye, 'is lordship's got a bee in 'is bonnet fer sure."

She snickered at his sarcastic title and walked over to Marshall. Thomson followed a bit more slowly, but Scamp yipped and tugged at the leash. What he lacked in good dog manners he made up for with enthusiasm.

"Colonel, how did your mission go?"

"Sir!" Thomson saluted.

Marshall reined in his horse. For a moment, he sat motionless, looking down at them. "Mr. Thomson, don't you have duties? If you don't have a work detail, I'm sure I can find something for you to do."

Deborah, who had been lifting her hand to pet the horse, stiffened. The cold, clipped tone shocked her. Mr. Thomson didn't have anything to do at the moment. Marshall had never been petty or vicious in her presence; hard, demanding, yes, but not this despicable arrogance. Vaguely, she heard Thomson's "Yes, sir" and felt, rather than saw, his retreat.

Stepping back, she lowered her hand. She looked up at his face, his smug, domineering face. His British face. With that, she remembered how she got here and why she was still here. He's British, she admonished herself.

Scamp tugged at the leash, claws scraping in the dirt for purchase. "Sit, Scamp." She jerked the leash with more force than necessary and immediately regretted it. Scamp hadn't done anything wrong. He couldn't understand that one of his friends was being cruel to another of his friends. She petted him to make amends. "Good boy." A tail wag told her she was forgiven.

The man on horseback continued to loom. She looked up at him again. "Good day to you, Colonel. Scamp and I will continue our lessons as best we can without our teacher." She turned. "Heel, Scamp."

She went a few paces, muttering softly, "Was I really waiting for this scoundrel like he was the most precious person in the world to me?" Behind her, she heard the creak of saddle leather from a rapid dismount. Deborah knew she'd be his next target. He can't do anything in front of his men, she thought. Veering toward the nearest bunch of soldiers, she repeated, "Heel, Scamp," and increased her pace.

Two more steps and he caught her gently by the elbow. His grip was gentle but inextricable.

She tossed her head and stopped. Nothing but distain poured through her as she glared first at his face and then at the hand detaining her. "We have nothing else to discuss, Colonel. Please release my arm." She looked coldly down at his hand and then up to his face, but he held firmly.

"No, Deborah, listen..."

"I didn't give you leave to use my name. Please refrain from doing so." I can play the grande dame when I have to, she thought. The British aren't the only ones.

He ground his teeth and shook his head as if to clear it. "Mistress Morgan, I need to talk to you."

Eyes flashing, she snapped, "The only thing I wish to hear from you is that you're not going to prevent me from going home!" Staring off into the distance, she spotted a very interested, and not too far distant, trio of men. Her back straightened at the eavesdroppers.

Marshall caught her inattention and the reason for it. "Let's go somewhere we don't have a significant number of God's children for company."

"You realize that there is some debate in certain religious circles as to whether or not British soldiers are God's children?"

He snickered.

"However," she continued, "Without commenting on the outcome of that debate, I have no wish for an audience for this conversation."

Marshall passed his horse off to a nearby soldier, with instructions for its care, and escorted her out of camp. The hand on her arm tightened, assuring her he would brook no resistance. They walked in silence until they were out of the sight and hearing of the interested spectators.

Leaves crunched underfoot. His pace slowed near a fallen tree trunk under a canopy of bare branches. He led her over and motioned for her to sit. For a moment, he stood before her, hands on his hips, staring at her shoes. "First, I want to apologize."

Deborah straightened. This was the last thing she expected. When he took a deep fortifying breath, it struck her that apologizing was something very unusual and difficult for him.

"Snapping at you and Thomson was uncalled-for. I'm sorry. The only thing I can say is...I thought... he looked like he was...Hell's teeth, I saw you two smiling at each other and touching, and I thought...I thought..." His voice faded away.

After a moment, she said quietly, "Mr. Thomson had made Scamp a collar and leash. He has some experience with dogs, and he was showing me how to begin training him. He's a very nice person, but that's all there was to it."

She studied the bark on the tree trunk, and Marshall watched a cloud float behind a branch.

"Made an ass of myself, didn't I?"

"I won't argue the point, but I don't think it's fatal. Apology accepted." Her smile had a wry twist to it.

"What's wrong? Do I have to grovel more?"

There was a teasing quality to his question and Deborah briefly wondered if he really would. "No, you've abased yourself sufficiently, but I still want, need to leave."

"No!" His boot rammed into the log as if to trap her.

"You have no right or reason to hold me here." She silently begged God's forgiveness.

"Of course I do!"

"What? Carrying blankets? Oh that's definitely treasonous. My brother? Colonel, even you wouldn't stoop so low. Mistress Kershaw? Well, with the exception of the camp followers, she was the only female to talk to me. Lady Claudia certainly didn't set herself to be cordial. What else? You need a doctor? I happen to know that there is at least one very loyal gentleman in town who could fulfill your needs much better than I ever could. I'm sure an appeal to his patriotism would procure his assistance." She was angry now and didn't particularly care if he knew it.

"I miss my family. I'm here among strangers. Some of them very nice, but strangers none the less. I've been insulted by your, uh, lady friend, and I've been dragooned into substituting for your doctor."

He flicked a fallen leaf off his upraised knee. Grimacing, he nodded understanding of her assertions. "You're right. You're right about everything. And all I can say in my own defense is that I don't think I can let you go. It has nothing to do with the army. Don't ask me to explain it," he raised his head, "I don't thing I can. But I'm as sure of it as I am of my own name."

Deborah stared at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She swallowed. "I won't pretend to misunderstand you. I feel the," she shrugged, "pull, too. I won't lie to you about that. And I still think I should leave, maybe even more so because of what's going on between us."

"I understand, I really do, because I miss my family, too. Like you, I'm among strangers. Some of them would like to stick my spoon in the wall for me."

That shocked her, and she reached out her hand. "Don't worry. He just parted my hair for me." He leaned down and grasped her fingers. "Stay. Please."

Deborah couldn't think for a moment. She knew what she should do, what she had to do, what she wanted to do. "I won't be a replacement for Lady Claudia!" It popped out.

"We agree on that." He grinned and then grew serious. "I only want you to stay. I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do."

She nodded. Then she reared back. "'Parted your hair'?"

Chapter 14

"I want you to have this."

Deborah started and nearly dropped her fork on her eggs. "Dear me! I didn't hear you come in. I was just thinking, and you startled me." You're babbling, she scolded herself. She looked at the small box in his hand. "Is this for me?"

"Yes. It was ready for me when I came into town yesterday."

"Ready for you?"

"Umm, I'd ordered it before we left." He watched her as he sat down next to her.

"Oh! That means..." That meant he'd been planning the gift for quite a while. The thought thrilled her. She could see that he was pleased by her reaction.

"Well, don't just look at it. Go ahead and open it."

"Yes, of course, but..." She reached under the table and pulled up a bulkier package, "I have something for you, too." It was finished and had been intended for him. It would have been petty to retain it. Besides, something in her really wanted this truce between them to work. She didn't know where the armistice would lead them, but some deep-seated instinct drove her to cultivate it.

He was surprised, but pleased and immediately began to pull off the string and muslin surrounding it. He pulled out the muffler and unfolded it, stroking the soft white wool as he did. "This is fantastic. You made it?" Even his ear-to ear grin had an endearing one-sidedness about it.

She nodded shyly.

"Then it's doubly wonderful. Thank you. You know I'll be wearing it. Open yours."

The string on the store's box did not yield its contents as easily as did her muslin.

"Where's Scamp?"

"Oh, he was running around like he had to do something important, so Rogers offered to take him for a walk."

When the string finally surrendered, she hesitated before lifting the lid. She glanced up at him, and he smiled. Looking inside, she found shoe buckles. "Ooooh! They're beautiful." Even as she thrilled to the glorious sterling, she knew that these were no simple gift. "But you really shouldn't have gotten..."

He silenced her with a finger across her lips. "Yes, I should, and they are a perfectly acceptable gift."

"But they're silver!"

"Yes,' he drawled with a teasing note in his voice, "did you expect them to be wood?"

She giggled and lifted the two shining, engraved buckles. "They're much too expensive for a present to someone you barely know."

"Ah, but I want to know you much, much better."

His tone was intimate beyond the spoken words. Deborah's eyes widened, and she groped blindly for the box. Dumping the buckles in, she swallowed and pushed it towards him. Mutely, she closed her eyes and shook her head.

"What's wrong?"

Unable to contend with the message she thought she heard in his words, she kept her eyes squeezed shut, still shaking her head

A door opened behind them. "Get out!" he snarled, and the door closed with dispatch.

Deborah used the interruption to try to push away from the table. Kit manacled her wrists and wrenched them around toward him. "What's wrong?" He wasn't going to brook any opposition.

"I can't...I won't..." She tried to pull away.

"God's teeth, we've been through this. What's wrong? You know I'm not going to let you leave on some whim." He shook her until her head snapped backwards and her eyes flew open.

"What's...?" The word contained all the frustration and anger in him, but it died even as he spoke it. For a moment, he just studied her eyes. "You're frightened out of your wits. I don't understand. Why?" One hand lifted to caress her cheek and smooth the hair he had shaken loose. "I'm sorry. I won't hurt you. I promise. Only why are you so frightened?" She might have been a distressed child.

"You're just looking for a mistress. This is all a ploy."

"I won't deny that I want you in my bed." She jerked away but the gentle manacles held fast. "But my intentions are strictly honorable. If your father were here now, I'd be speaking to him."

Her panic fading rapidly, Deborah almost laughed aloud. Her father here! Wouldn't that cause a commotion? But wasn't that part of the problem?

He leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips. "Can you accept them in the spirit they were given? Hmm?"

"I..." Another feather-soft kiss. "I..." He delicately suckled her lower lip. "Yes" was more a breath than a word.

"Damme, if you're not more work than I ever expected." A wry grin slid over his mouth. "But you're worth it.

"And I still have a camp to run. Go get your cloak. We'll do an inspection tour and spread a little Christmas cheer." He helped her to her feet.

She started toward the door and then turned. "Thank you."

**

The circle of last night's bonfire smoldered slowly in Boxing Day's wintry sun. Everyone joined around it last night, sharing Christmas carols and the extra rations of rum Kit ordered.

Deborah wrinkled her nose at the smell and the memory. She definitely didn't like rum, but tried it on the urging of several of the camp followers. Kit roared with laughter at her disgusted expression.

He was in such a good mood that the only reaction to her gift for Mr. Thomson was a raised eyebrow. He kept hold of her hand, her arm, or her waist the whole time they strolled among the celebrating company. She had no objections.

There were a few minor injuries left over from the celebration: a split lip and a broken rib from a brawl, a burn from a skirt danced too close to the bonfire, and several excruciation but not fatal hangovers.

She had some time to work on her waistcoat before lunch, and all was good with the world.

**

Scissors, spool, and pins on the tea table provided a disheveled counterpoint to the elegance of the parlor. Deborah promised the formal portraits on the far wall that she'd clean up and then giggled at her absurdity.

She was still smiling when Kit strode in wearing a grim expression. "Deborah, I have to go out to the coast. There's been some trouble at Georgetown. We'll go by boat and overland, so it shouldn't take too long." He dropped to one knee by her chair. "Will you be here when I get back?"

She set her sewing aside and grasped his hand. "Yes. You know I..."

A pounding came from the direction of the main door.

"Who the hell can that be now?" He looked up and then shrugged. "We leave first thing in the morning. Thomson will stay here with you. I've attached him to me personally, and you can use him for anything..."

"Where's Col. Marshall?" The voice was all too familiar.

"Oh, no, not her again," Kit groaned before he stood.

Rogers opened the door, "Lady..."

"Kit, darling, I just heard that you were back, and I couldn't wait to see you. You wouldn't believe the rumor I heard in town about..."

"Lady Claudia, I'm trying to run a war here." He grasped her arm and turned her back toward the front door. "I really don't have time for town rumors. I must insist that you leave immediately." He stopped at the door, and Rogers opened it for him. "Good day." With the briefest of nods to Rogers, he turned and went back to the parlor.

Deborah could hear Rogers' soft, "This way, Madame," and finally the carriage door closing. She watched Kit roll the tightness out of his shoulders. "Well done, sir, I'm impressed."

**

Kit waded through paperwork most of the evening. She kept him company and sewed.

As they were putting things away, she broached the topic that had been bothering her all along. "Kit, there's only one problem with me waiting for you. My...umm...family, we're not Tories."

He pulled her close and nuzzled her hair. "I think I guessed that one already."

"No, Kit, you don't understand. They have no royalist sympathies whatsoever. Plus, you're an aristocrat. I could well be a liability to you in England."

"That is the least of my worries. You've been brought up as a lady, obviously, and my family will accept you for what you are, if not for my sake. As to your family, it's not them I want to marry. We'll work any problems out, agreed?"

She nodded as she reached up to caress his cheek. He captured that hand and turned slightly to drop a string of kisses from her palm to the tips of her fingers. She explored his lips and they parted under her gentle investigation.

Slanting his mouth away from her questing fingers, he inched toward her. His breath sent butterfly wings of pleasure across her face. The thrill of his lips grazing hers forced a gasp from her, and he chuckled deep in his chest.

"Good, good, I want you as wild for me as I am for you."

"Oh, yes."

"We still have long way to go, but this is a good start." His hands threaded through her hair as he deepened the kiss, sending her cap askew, though neither noticed it. He explored up the side of her face to his goal, just behind her ear. Little kisses and nips surprised her with a delight that jellied her insides and made her cling even more tightly to him.

He ran his hands up and down her back, crushing her into his hardness, making her acutely aware of his arousal. He might have been trying to meld the two of them by the very power of his arms, and she added all her strength to the effort.

Once again his mouth found hers; it opened like a flower under his urging. His tongue dipped in to touch hers, and she gasped deep in her throat. Frightening, exciting, delicious, extraordinary, having him inside her body only made her want more, and she sought to explore his mouth.

As she sought to gain entry, he pulled back.

"What?" She was disoriented, bereft.

Drinking in great gulps of air, he laid his head on her shoulder even as he held her close. "Christ and the saints preserve me!" With one last breath, he lifted his head and cradled her face in his hands. "If I don't stop now, I won't be able to. That's for bloody sure."

Deborah thought he was trying to look into her soul as he held her there. Finally he pushed her away.

"Get you to bed, woman, or I won't be responsible for my actions."

**

It was cold and dark as they prepared to leave. Scamp capered heedlessly among the men and horses. After a few minutes of socializing, he seemed to realize that something was amiss with his mistress. He took up his position next to her.

Deborah bit her lip to control the tears as she huddled in her cloak and watched the final preparations. They were traveling light and fast, so there was little to be done, and they finished quickly. Too quickly.

He was at her side for a farewell. No amount of physical pain could stop the tears. Without taking his eyes off her, he scooped one off her cheek and brought it to his lips. No words were necessary.

With a cry she launched herself at him, holding him as if it were the last time. She rained kisses over his face. He finally stopped them with one of his own. His hand cupped her chin as he drank in her face.

"Dream of me," and he left.

**

The year of Our Lord 1781 began with a light snowfall. Deborah admired it and went back to what she'd been doing for the last week: sewing, reading some of the many books in Joseph Kershaw's bounteous library, and tending the winter crop of illnesses. January's days grew apace with the household cat's pregnant belly and about as fast.

One day seamlessly merged into the next, indistinguishable and unremarkable. Deborah knew she had to leave and knew she had no wish to. Day after day it ate at her.

January's date poised to add a second digit when she finally approached Mr. Thomson. "I've got to get out of here. I realize the Colonel doesn't completely approve of Mistress Kershaw, but she's the only woman I'm acquainted with here, excepting a few of the camp followers. Will you escort me into Camden tomorrow?"

Thomson had spent the last week watching her alternately fidget her fingers raw or stare blankly into the fire, did indeed know of the Colonel's antipathy toward the Kershaws, traitorous exile and his wife. He sucked in his lips as he thought.

"There's a tavern across the street from her shop," she noted. "You wouldn't have to dance attendance on me."

"Humm, I'm supposin' we could."

"Oh thank you. I just have to escape for a little while."

"Aye, m'um." The Colonel had briefed him on the situation with Mistress Morgan and escape was one of the items his lordship had touched on. Best be taking a man or two along to keep an eye on things. Thomson didn't think the lass would do anything foolish, being head over heels in love, and fighting every minute of it, but it was best to be careful. "T' Colonel 'ould 'ave me ears if aught went wrong," he muttered.

**

Thomson guided the gig, flanked by two outriders, past the end of the palisade surrounding the house. Deborah enveloped Scamp into the folds of her cloak, finally getting him to settle down. He was almost as excited about this outing as she was.

"Why do we have two escorts, Mr. Thomson?"

"Humm, there's been some talk, just talk mind you, o' some strange riders in t' harea. Best not t' take chances."

Deborah looked up from the dog. "This isn't going to be a problem, is it? We could wait if you smell trouble."

"Naw, t'aint no danger. Jus' taking care o' t'Colonel's..." He swallowed the rest of the sentence.

"What?"

"Umm, business, m'um, his business."

Scamp poked his head out of her cloak, and she leaned down to pet him.

**

Unfamiliar faces populated Kershaw's Store. After a moment, Deborah tentatively approached one of the shop girls.

"Oh, the mistress is up in the office."

Minutes later, Deborah and Sarah fell into each others' arms, and the girl withdrew.

"How are..."

"What's going..."

"I've been so worried..."

"Are you all right?"

"Tell me..."

They broke apart with adolescent giggles. Sarah stepped into the breach. "It's so good to see you! You look..." Sarah's eyes narrowed as she examined Deborah's face. "I want to say wonderful, but there's something else. Come sit and tell me everything."

The office, usually Joseph Kershaw's stark domain, did have the comfort of a settee. Some time and a pot of tea later, Sarah took Deborah's hand. "You love him, don't you?"

Deborah could only grimace, stare at the hands, and nod.

"You think he's looking for marriage and not..."

Again, she nodded.

"Then you're going to have to make some decisions and stick with them. If you decide to leave, we can get you out without any obvious connection to me. It'd best be while he's gone, but it can't be too soon. We'll..."

"No." Quiet, firm, final. Deborah cleared her throat and looked up. "I want to be with him. These days without him have been like...like unsalted porridge. Ugh!"

Sarah smiled wryly. "Oh, my dear, if this was a sickness of the body, I'd be calling the parson and the undertaker."

Deborah smiled through a laugh and nodded. "I've got a very bad case of whatever it is."

"We both know what it is." Sarah hesitated and then continued, "It's not going to be easy. The war stands between you. You're going to have to tell him about your family and your feelings at the earliest opportunity. That in itself is going to be risky. You haven't actually done anything, so they can't hang you for a traitor, but it could be a death sentence for your hopes."

Deborah hesitated. "I know, and I've been thinking about it. I'll have to risk it, won't I? I think he'll come around."

"Even if he does, he comes from very different stock. He's an English aristocrat, and you're an American aristocrat." Deborah looked at her as if she'd sprouted horns. "Yes, indeed. You're father's a general, and your breeding is obvious.

"My point is that even with your upbringing, it's still going to be like marrying a foreigner. You might live in England. That's taking 'leave your mother and father and cleave only unto him' to a fine point."

Deborah looked startled and then resigned. "I suppose I've known that. It's just scary to hear it put into words."

"Can you do it? It could be a very different life style, even if he is a second son. As a career officer, it may mean moving, especially to places where there's trouble. Then there are the risks of being a soldier."

Opened mouth with horror, Deborah couldn't respond.

"I think that's enough." Sarah rose and pulled Deborah to her feet. "I've given you a great deal to think about. Let me know if you need me." She guided her friend to the door.

"Now, do you have any shopping to do?"

**

Sarah had wanted to gift her with the items, but Deborah insisted on a credit agreement. With no money, American or English, and nothing to barter, she refused to make any purchases without a promissory note.

Cutting began on Kit's banyan with a clear mind. She'd chosen navy blue wool for the T-shaped robe. It would have a matching belt and negligee cap cut from wedge-shaped quarters with a turned-up band. Sarah had insisted on including some thread for embroidery. The design would take more thought.

The fabric stretched along the parlor floor from the door to the opposite wall. She had just laid out the lines when the door opened.

"Stop!" she shrieked. "Don't come in here. This is all laid out."

"M'um," Mr. Thomson's voiced reached through the door. "A dispatch just arrived from t' Colonel and there's a letter in't for you."

Deborah yanked open the door, scattering pins and chalk and scissors. "What? Where? Oh!" She grabbed the letter from his hands and slammed the door shut. As it reverberated, she heard a quiet chuckle on the other side, but paid it no heed. She sat on the floor, right on top of her unnoticed pin box, and caressed the letter. Carefully, she broke the red seal with its shield and sword imprinted on it.

My Dearest Deborah,

We are relieving the garrison at Georgetown on the coast. They've come

under several attacks by a small contingent of William Washington's men.

Things are going well, and we should be finished in a few days. I think of

you frequently, but there is much to be done so this is written in haste,

Y'r (loving) servant, Kit

The "loving" had been inserted over the rest of the line. Deborah caressed it with her fingertip and then pressed the letter to her breast, rocking back and forth over it. She looked back down at the letter and noticed a postscript: Some local Tories mentioned that Gen. Morgan seems to have resigned his commission due to health problems and returned home. Thank God if it's true. K

Chapter 15

Deborah examined her new nightcap critically. The candlewicking embroidery she'd applied to the cap's edge pleased her. The small flowers gave it a richness that normally would have been achieved with lace. However, she sighed, lace was almost impossible to come by, as was the more conventional embroidery materials. Candlewicking had been developed by colonial women to circumvent this problem. They twisted candlewick thread, readily available, into a series of knots, forming the design.

Her mother would be proud, both of her design and execution, but also of her rather subtle support of American aspirations to be free of unwarranted taxation. After all, Mother taught her how to candlewick.

The cap wasn't much as far as a trousseau went, she thought. A goodly number of things lay carefully packed in her hope chest back home in Winchester: linens, towels, table cloths, silver hollowware, trays, and a few other more prosaic items. Kit might be of aristocratic stock, but he was a soldier now. Her thrifty colonial ways would prove useful in the years to come, hopefully not on American soil. She didn't think him extravagant or spendthrift. They should march on well together.

She stretched one more time before crawling up into the high, pillowing mattress. Only one problem niggled at her contentment. Kit had not been able to formally ask her father for her hand. That might be a sticking point. Telling Kit that her family didn't have the smallest of Tory sympathies merited understatement of the year. Would Kit baulk when he found out just where those sympathies lay?

Something caught her attention. She stopped to listen to the noise. Horses and men marched in the distance. Coming into camp at this time of night, it could only mean problems.

She threw her clothes back on and rushed downstairs. Mr. Thomson, in shirt and britches, stomped into his boots as he left his room. "There be trouble m'um."

"Indeed, sir. Have a rider go into Camden to Dr. Alexander Garden on South Broad Street. Toss the doctor out of bed if necessary." Deborah looked toward the edge of camp where torches were flaring to light the way. Several carts flanked by soldiers were in the vanguard. She glanced at Mr. Thomson.

"Wounded," he pronounced grimly.

"Send for the doctor, now." She left to organize camp followers as nursing staff and gather the supplies.

**

One man was dead before they got him out of the cart. It was Prissy's husband, and from the wails behind the infirmary tent, Prissy was there. Deborah grieved for Prissy's loss, but knew that the woman wouldn't remain a widow long, the situation being what it was.

Prissy's husband had gone with Kit, but Deborah hadn't seen him yet, in all the confusion.

She had little time to worry. Three men were beyond her help. All she could do for them was to give them laudanum and blankets: oblivion and warmth. Seven other required a combination of cleaning, stitching, and bandaging. Three more required a surgeon. As she separated the men for treatment, she realized that some of the wounds were several days old and some were very, very new. Whatever, she thought; they still need to be patched up.

Camp followers cleaned bandaged and fetched under her direction as she stitched. She was far from finished when the last of the men marched into camp. The doctor arrived about the same time.

Dr. Garden's head barely came to her shoulder. He made two, or three of her in girth, and his smile set her teeth on edge. She watched him carefully for a while, painfully aware that the title "Dr." had nothing to do with competence. He impressed her when he washed his hands and, after a few minutes, she left him to his own stitching.

The camp follower understood how to bandage the man Deborah finished stitching, and she moved on to the next man. The flap of the tent flew open and Deborah's face lit with pleasure to see Kit, until she saw Lt. Bradley under his arm, holding him up. "Merciful heavens, what happened? Bring him here." She led them to a generally clean cot and helped Bradley lower him onto it.

"Damned, stupid fool," Bradley muttered.

"I'm fine, you cretin," Marshal slurred.

Deborah soothed his head and gently pushed him down onto the cot. She ignored his outburst and paid Bradley only the slightest of attention. She hunted for the scissors to cut off Kit's bloodied breeches, propriety be damned.

The doctor, seeing the injured officer, bustled up to care for him.

"I'll take care of him," Deborah snapped.

The doctor pointedly looker over at her hand on the patient's leg, nodded, and went back to work elsewhere.

Marshal tried to push her away. "No'fitting. Go 'way, le'be."

She gently batted his hands down. "Laudanum, Sally, two drops here," she called to a camp follower.

The wound opened long and red before her, and the reality of it struck her. Her hands began to tremble.

Bradley leaned over her, "Let me get the physician."

"No!" A deep breath and a hard gulp, and she was ready. "I'll take care of him myself.

"Lift him up and give him the laudanum. He's almost out anyway, but this will help."

She watched as Kit struggled against the drink. "No," he slurred, "no laudanum." Bradley and Sally struggled to subdue him.

"Wait," Deborah demanded. "Kit, it's all right. You're with friends, and we're going to help you, I promise."

Sally tried to give him the drink, but he still mumbled and pushed it away, again. Deborah took the glass and gestured the woman away. "Kit, listen to me. It's Deborah. Do you know me?" He nodded, and she continued. "We're going to help you. This will help you sleep. You need to sleep to let your body heal." She held the glass to his mouth. He sipped and made a face at the bitterness. Awkwardly, he lifted a hand and closed it around hers. He drank as he watched her, his eyes working more or less independently. Slowly, those eyes closed. Deborah bowed her head and went to work.

She gently sponged blood from the five inch gash. It was long, but relatively shallow, a probable saber slash, probably while he was on horseback. She'd seen this kind of wound before. He'd lost a fair bit of blood, as evidenced by the small amount of white on the now-red breeches and stockings.

"Sally, get me some thread..." Sally placed the bowl with a needle and thread sitting in a puddle of alcohol next to her. "Thanks, Sal."

"Aye, an' you be wanting me here?"

"No, no, start cleaning that one." Deborah nodded to the man on the left.

Deborah took a deep breath and glanced up at Lt. Bradley. "Hold him, just in case." She set the first stitch. "What happened?"

"He sent me ahead with a detachment and the wounded, 'cause when we left Georgetown there was some rear-guard harassment. He stayed behind with the main body of the troops. We hadn't seen anyone for two days, so when we were about 20 miles away, he sent more troops ahead, thinking the raiders had been left behind. He should have kept them all! We didn't need them!" Bradley's young face contorted in grief and remorse. "I didn't think we needed them in the rear. Some of the men were from my company, and I wanted them with me, under my command. Not under his." He lifted a hand to gently stroke Kit's arm.

Looking up to Deborah, he wailed, "He's my friend, and I left him to get hurt, maybe killed."

"Did they catch up with you?" She thought to lead him away from his guilt.

"No, it was a bunch we'd never seen. They weren't the soldiers from Georgetown, I'll bet my spurs on it. They were locals, a rag-tag bunch, even for Continentals. We rode right past them, never even saw them. Then they ambushed the tail of the column. When I got back there, they were swarming around Kit. He took the saber slash before we could beat them off."

Deborah finished her stitching. As she turned around, Sally was at her elbow with a tray of bandages. "Is 'e gonna be all right, m'um? Me Georgie thinks 'im a right fair man for an officer."

Deborah smiled tightly, and Sally patted her arm before leaving.

Images of the sword bearing down on him paraded through her thoughts as she bandaged Kit's leg. She ripped the fabric lengthwise to form the tie ends and finished it. I have to get to the others, she thought, but made no move to leave.

Bradley pushed his dark brown hair out of his face as he surreptitiously wiped his eyes. Deborah started to rise, knowing she had to tend to the other men, too, when he spoke. "I keep seeing it over and over again in my head. All the attackers were crowded around him. They weren't trying to engage any of the others: it almost seemed like he was their target."

Deborah plopped back on the stool. "What are you saying? They went for him specifically?"

Bradley thought for a moment. "Yes, that's exactly it. When I rode up, there were several men around Kit, and the others appeared to be their rear guard."

"But that's how it's usually done, right; go for the officers, first."

"True, but they barely paid any attention to me."

Silence. Deborah tried to explain to herself why any one would attack Kit.

"Did he tell you that this was the second time he's been targeted?"

"What?"

"The last patrol, somebody took a single shot at him and then took off."

"Oh, my..."

"Mistress Morgan," Dr. Garden bellowed, "I need help here now!"

Deborah whirled to see the Doctor dealing with a fountain of blood. The stool tangled her shirts, and she kicked it aside as she ran to help.

**

Despite her worries over Kit's leg, Deborah later recalled the time as three gloriously happy days. Kit conducted his business from a makeshift day bed set up in the drawing room. She would stay with him when her duties allowed, sewing and trying to limit his activities. In this, she had the willing collaboration of Mr. Thomson, Lt. Bradley, and Rogers.

In the evening, the two of them would sit and talk. They debated the causes of the war, the tastiness of the local hams, and the value of universal education, among other things. Deborah learned more about him in three days than she had in three months, and liked every bit of it.

On the fourth day, January 18th, Kit requested a pair of crutches from Rogers and ventured out into the clear, crisp winter air to inspect his troops.

"Kit, please, you know you shouldn't be on that leg. It has to heal."

"And it's healing beautifully, by your own admission and through your dedicated ministering." He reached down to grasp her hand and brought it to his lips.

"Kit!" She snatched her hand away. "Yes, it's healing nicely, but it's not healed yet. You could still have problems."

"I'll go easy, I promise, in fact the gig's coming around as we bicker." She smiled. "I have to walk the leg some though, or it'll stiffen up on me."

Rogers drove the gig around the corner of the palisade.

"Care to accompany me, madam?" Kit bowed as far as his crutches would allow him. "I promise I'll ride as soon as the leg gives out on me." She looked skeptical. "Promise. I need the exercise."

Deborah glanced up at Rogers who stared off into the distance while valiantly smothering a smile. "All right, but only for a little while." They started off towards the tents, her hand lightly covering his on the bracket of the crutch.

**

A little surprised by how quickly Kit capitulated to the demands of his leg, Deborah allowed Rogers to assist her up into the gig. He then went around to discretely provide any help the Colonel might need. As Kit tried to decide how to clamber up to the seat, the thunder of hooves heralded some 20 horsemen riding into camp at full speed.

"What the duce?" Kit peered into the distance. "It's Tarleton. What the hell is he pulling, riding in like that?"

Even at a distance, the bottle-green jacket, now dirty and torn, and the wild blond hair well in front of the pack were readily recognizable. The distinctive plumed hat was nowhere to be seen. The horse was lathered and very nearly blown.

Tarleton saw them and charged toward the gig.

"What's wrong with him? Is he insane?" Deborah whispered.

"I don't know. I got a dispatch saying he was hunting Greene up on the Broad River near the North Carolina border. Guess we'll find out." He gave up trying to get into the gig and walked to the front of the horses. Rogers followed at a discrete distance.

Deborah wondered if she should join Kit, but decided she didn't want to be any closer to Tarleton than she had to be. She watched Tarleton bear down on Kit. Closer and closer. The horse's spittle streamed from his mouth as he continued the wild charge. Deborah, alarmed, started to rise. "Kit," she warned. A slight lift of his hand told her he heard and understood her concern.

Tarleton hauled up on the horse's reins a few yards from Kit, and he jumped to the ground. The horse danced and tossed his head, obviously annoyed at the cavalier treatment. Sweat sprayed everywhere. Tarleton close-hauled the reins and yanked the horse's head down. "Damn you," he snarled.

Quietly, Rogers stepped forward to take the reins. Tarleton threw them at the servant and then ignored him. Rogers moved the horse a short way, stroking and calming it. Behind him, the rest of the troops rode up in varying stages of exhaustion, health, and disarray.

"Damn the man," Tarleton raged. "Damn him to the deepest pits of hell. I'll get him," he jabbed a finger of outrage in Kit's chest, "and when I do, I'll..."

"Ban!" Kit shoved the hand away.

Tarleton growled and bent to pick up a fist-sized rock off the path. He hurled it toward the group of gawking men gathered at the other side of the road. A yelp from one of them prompted Kit to grab his fellow officer.

"Ban! What the hell are you babbling about?"

Tarleton shook off the restraining arm and prowled back and forth in front of the gig. "Braddock should have strung that bastard up when he had the chance. They shouldn't have stopped with a whipping. They should have flayed the peasant and left him for the Iroquois to play with."

Kit watched him, puzzled and uncomprehending, but Deborah knew with increasing certainty who Tarleton was talking about. She muffled her cry of recognition and concern. She knew the scars from the whip well. They decorated her father's back.

"Ban, damn you! Tell me what's going on."

Quietly, she climbed from the gig, wanting to hear every word, even though the two men were shouting at each other by now. She crept up behind Tarleton.

"We thought we had him. It was the perfect place. He had his back to the river. We even had him outnumbered."

"Who?" Kit bellowed.

"Morgan, you stupid sod, Morgan!"

"Well, say so!"

"I'm trying!" Tarleton still addressed the entire camp. He stalked off a few paces and then back. Deborah held her breath, but he never noticed her.

"God, I was sure we had him caught like a mouse in a trap. It's a place called Hannah's Cowpens, of all the idiotic things. I was sure it would serve to our advantage. I left 200 cavalry in reserve and we charged 'em. Our men cheered but their damn militia didn't fire until we were 40 yards from them. The front ranks gave a few shots and then ran for cover. I sent the 17th Dragoons after them, but that Washington pup came up with his cavalry from around the rise and drove the dragoons back.

"Well, the infantry still advanced," he waved an arm, "but things weren't going well so I brought up the dragoons and cavalry on Morgan's right. He withdrew like the coward that he is. All of a sudden, they turn and fire, and all my troops just give up. The bloody bastards just throw down their rifles. Some of the officers and I tried to get to the cannon, but it was too late.

"There can't be more than about 100 of us that got away." He raked at his hair.

Kit stared blankly at the ground. "Ordnance?"

"Everything, two bloody cannon, 35 wagons, and a hundred horses."

"His losses?"

Deborah could see that he hoped to salvage something from the debacle.

"I didn't see more than a few dozen."

Tarleton's rage faded as exhaustion and defeat doused the flames. "Hellfire and damnation, he sat there on his great big horse and hollered, "They gave us the British hallo, boys. Give them the Indian halloo, by God!' like he was riding to the hounds."

Deborah stifled a gasp and closed her eyes, and whispered, "Oh, he's all right."

Unfortunately, it wasn't whispered softly enough. Tarleton heard her. She looked up to see Tarleton whirling toward her, rage and hatred burning in his eyes.

"Morgan?" Comprehension dawned. "Morgan! You're Morgan's daughter! That God-forsaken bastard is your father. Why you miserable little whore!" His hands raked his tangled yellow hair.

Kit stared at her. A basilisk might have frozen him.

Deborah drew herself up. She knew what was coming. Her legs were watery, but her knees locked. It served to keep her upright. She was determined he would see no fear in her. "Yes, he's my father and I'm very proud of him."

Tarleton started towards her with a rising growl, his hands reaching for her neck. She stood her ground, as her father had, but there would be no brave William Washington to come charging around the rise. Tarleton thought her completely defenseless, but her brothers had taught her a few tricks. She wouldn't go down without a fight, even a losing one.

As he grabbed her throat, she reached up, fingers rigid, to claw at his eyes. Just as she made contact with his face, she heard a thwack, and he jerked back, like a puppet on a string, and dropped to his knees. She backed away.

Kit, watching Tarleton, changed his grip on the crutch and replaced it under his arm. Rogers and several soldiers came running. Rogers watched her, but assisted the officer to his feet. The servant solicitously kept a firm grip on Tarleton's arm.

"What the hell are...?" Tarleton spit.

"Forget it, Ban." Marshall's words were measured and flat.

"I want to..."

"I don't care what you want."

"You heard who she is?"

"I heard and I don't care who she is. You will not touch her or harm her in any way, is that clear?"

"But..."

"Is that clear?"

Tarleton wrenched his arm free. "Yes, sir. Perfectly clear, sir."

"Go get cleaned up and see to what's left of your men."

Wordlessly, Tarleton stomped off to comply. Deborah took a step towards Kit.

He turned to her, his face devoid of all expression. "Get out of my sight."

Chapter 16

Three days in her room were taking its toll on her. Three times a day she saw another person face to face when Rogers brought up a meal. He kept her up with the events of the day, brought her books, and teased her gently. But he couldn't fill her hours; he couldn't fill her thoughts.

The elegant room grew oppressive. Instead of engendering thoughts of spring, the coordinated green room looked like previously eaten split pea soup. The brocade-covered chaise even felt slippery and lumpy.

The view out of her window, tents and soldiers as far as the eye could see, simply depressed her. The men and scattered women going about their early morning business reminded her of her own imprisonment in among them, the enemy. They were the enemy and yet not the enemy. She had treated too many of their hurts, held their hands while they endured excruciating pain, comforted their friends when they died, to look on them as the enemy. Enemies were people you hated. She shook her head in realization: you couldn't hate people who shared your joys and sorrows.

And that brought her to the main question. How could she again think of Kit as the enemy? It was going to be difficult, perhaps impossible, but she had to try her hardest. Everything was over between them. He despised her, distrusted her, probably hated her now. If nothing else, three days alone in this oppressive greenness had given her the chance to come to that conclusion. A lot of pillows had been punched in the process and a lot of tears shed. Now her eyes were dry. She could sit still for more than a few seconds before jumping up to pace the confines of her green cell.

A dull, aching lump under her breastbone started to grow as the tears dried. Intellectually, she knew it would take a long time for that particular pain to disappear. At the moment, it seemed to compress her heart and slow her breathing. Someday, she would be able to excise it; some day she would be able to look at it objectively, dispassionately. Someday it would heal over and leave a small scar. Not today, though.

Today she had other things that had to be done. Her heart had to be carefully cauterized so she could concentrate on convincing him to release her

All her belongings were tied in a cloth and ready to go.

The tapes fastening her pocket around her waist loosened as she slipped on her shoes. The pocket slipped down her leg and landed next to her shoe. She stared at the shoe next to the cloth bag. A silver buckle glittered on the top of the shoe and its mate.

Christmas presents given with joy, hope, and love.

How swiftly they had died. Deborah marveled at the brittleness of those feelings, to have died so quickly. But, she thought as she retied her pocket and bent to remove the buckles, it was better to have found out sooner than later. She replaced the simple metal buckles and shivered. What hell would her life have been if this came out after the vows were spoken?

She dropped the silver tokens in her pocket and went downstairs.

Marshall was in the library, as usual, writing reports when she walked in. He didn't look up, but she was pretty sure he knew she was there, even though he continued writing. When he finally finished writing, and sanded the document, he straightened. She could see how cold his eyes were. It didn't bode well, but no matter.

"Col. Marshall, I'm going to leave today."

He leaned back and regarded her with grim amusement. "Think so?"

"Yes. I think so. You have no cause to keep me, unless the British Army has stooped to holding hostages?" She challenged him with a raised eyebrow.

"I don't believe that's listed in the Manual of Tactics, but I'm been a firm believer in improvising when necessary."

It wasn't quite the solid admission she wanted, but she had a trump card. "General Cornwallis is an honorable man, unlike some of his men." She watched him bristle at the implication. Good, the barb hit home. "I don't think he would be particularly happy to find you harassing innocent civilians. Particularly a defenseless woman and especially one who had done him a personal service." His jaw clenched and she knew she had scored a major point. "I will go with my horse and wagon, or I will go on foot, but I will go. Today." Not waiting for an answer, she turned and marched to the door.

"Oh, I forgot." She dug in her pocket. "Here, I don't want them." She stepped back, threw the buckles on the desk and left.

**

Kit stared at the buckles for several minutes, his mind refused to acknowledge their significance. A crash somewhere outside the house broke his inertia. Snatching the buckles, he hurled them into the roaring fireplace.

**

Bundle in hand, she went in search of her rig. A soldier was hitching the horse to the cart as she approached.

"Thank you. I assume this means your Colonel had approved my departure."

The soldier tugged his forelock. "Yes, m'um. Gotta say we're mighty sad t' see yer go. Yer a right fine lady, an' we're right gratified fer yer help."

She climbed up and nodded her acknowledgement.

Halfway through the camp, Mr. Thomson hailed her.

"Tis a sad day, m'um, a sad day. Ah really thought you'd be t'making of 'im."

Deborah smiled sadly. "It wasn't to be, Mr. Thomson. There's just too much between us. Anyway, thank you for everything, including being my friend." She extended her hand and grasped his. "Goodbye."

**

I just want to crawl in a hole and die, she thought as the wagon bumped along the rutted road to Camden. Scamp curled inside her cloak. She held him tightly. At a particularly rattling pothole, she squeezed him, and he yelped. Her grip eased. She lifted him up to nuzzle his warm fur and get a doggy kiss.

Her soldier-escort, that Mr. Thomson insisted upon, was young, considerate, and curious. He tried asking her questions, but Deborah felt that if she opened her mouth, she'd crack into a hundred pieces. Instead he talked about himself, but all she heard was babble. Wearily, she dismissed him when they tied the rig in front of Kershaw's Store.

Inside, she asked the sales girl for Sarah.

"M'um's upstairs right now. She said she wasn't to be disturbed."

Deborah nodded and headed toward the corner stair well.

"Please, Mistress, you can't go up there!"

Deborah lacked the strength and will power to reply, so she just looked at the girl and then kept walking when the young lady backed away. As she opened Sarah's office door, a voice barked, "I thought I told you not..."

Sarah looked up from her account books, ready to lambaste whoever dared to interrupt her work, and froze. Her look went from executioner to mother hen in the blink of an eye. "Oh, baby girl, what happened?"

**

Sarah offered to let her help in the store in order to pass the time. It might help, but sometimes a body just needed to be alone. Today was one of those days.

Scamp snuggled under her left arm as she sat on the bed, really nothing more than a cot, in the spare, cramped room above the store. He seemed to understand as he occasionally whimpered and gave her tiny licks, quite unlike his usual exuberant slobbers. In her right hand was a cup of rapidly cooling tea that Sarah had pressed upon her before she left. The older woman ruthlessly coerced the story out of her, on the theory that it was better to get it out in the open than to hold it in and let it fester. Sarah, too, seemed to understand, leaving Deborah to her tears after dropping a kiss on Deborah's forehead.

The rooms above Kershaw's Store functioned primarily as a storeroom and offices. This was a storeroom with the table and bed thrown in. It probably served as a clerk's bedroom in happier times. Merchandise sat in crates and on them. Deborah didn't mind. Shelter was shelter. She couldn't afford to be picky now. It wouldn't be for long, anyway. Sarah's contacts were preparing for Deborah's departure, even now.

"What am I going to do?" She whispered to Scamp. She picked him up and put him on her stomach, then leaned back against the headboard. "What am I going to do?" Oh, she'd be going back to her family, but that would be simple existence. All the joy in her life would be back here, just outside of Camden.

The afternoon sunbeam coming through the window struck the discarded, still-full cup when the sound of boots on the stairs and agitated male and female voices roused Deborah from her lethargy.

"Leave her alone! Haven't you done enough?" It was Sarah.

"Where is she?" Marshall roared.

One door opened and slammed shut. Panic shook her fully awake, and Deborah scrambled off the bed. Her door was next. Scamp recognized the voices and ran to the door.

Why was he coming after her? What could he possibly want, except to take her back to camp as a prisoner of war, a spy? She looked around wildly; there was no escape route but the door.

"Get out of here!"

"I'll find her myself."

The door banged open. Scamp, startled, dashed behind her skirts. There was nothing between her and Kit. He looked...

"Finally!"

...relieved?

"Get out! You can't come barging in here. I'll have you arrested, even if you are a British officer." Sarah pounded on him rather ineffectively from just outside the door.

Kit turned to her. "Mistress, you will leave now. This doesn't concern you."

"It very well does concern me," she screeched. "This is my establishment, and Deborah is my guest."

"God's blood, mistress, you talk too much. Get out." He grabbed her arm to haul her out the door.

"Col. Marshall," Deborah, standing straight and still, spoke quietly. "We have nothing to say that hasn't been said. Unless you're here to arrest me, please leave."

"Leave?" he snarled, "the only person who's leaving is this busybody." He pushed Sarah out the door and closed it. "We have a great deal..."

The door popped open. "Who do you..."

Marshall again put her out and looked around quickly. He shoved a large chest in front of the door before it could be breeched again. The pounding and yelling on the other side told of Sarah's frustration. Marshall waited, breathing hard with the light of battle in his eyes, until retreating footsteps and silence told him he'd won. The menace remained when he turned full on Deborah. "We, on the other hand, have a great deal to talk about."

"No! We have nothing to talk about." Anger kindled in her. What right did he have to barge into her life again? "Arrest me or leave! We have nothing to say."

"I may beat you, Deborah!"

Her eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare!" She scanned the area for something to use as a weapon: flatirons, just to her right. She edged toward them and reached behind her to grab one. Marshall followed her movements, but jumped back as she swung the heavy metal at his head.

"Be damned, woman, what are you trying to do, brain me?"

Deborah saw him move in to grab the flatiron. She tried a backhanded swing. He caught it just as it arched toward his chest and twisted it out of her hand. It thumped on the floor. She heard Scamp's claws clicking as he scrambled for cover. In a heartbeat, Marshall's hands captured her shoulders, reminding her just how strong he was.

"I'm the one who's damned," he growled as he hauled her against his body. One of his hands imprisoned her head while his mouth plundered hers. Nothing in this kiss was gentle; this was the punishment for rebellion.

Deborah's gasp checked in midstream when Kit's mouth descended on hers. His mouth, hard and hungry, pushed her lips back from her teeth. She stood there, transfixed with the shock of the assault. She tried to draw breath, but he seemed to suck all the air from her. Her thoughts reverberated in her head as a wordless scream. This couldn't be happening to her. A kiss was supposed to be a joyous thing, not this domination.

For a moment, the only coherent images were his eyelashes, twitching as his face contorted. She felt the pressure of his hands on her shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. The unmistakable evidence of his arousal plowed into her belly. His mouth ground into hers until she tasted blood.

He forced her mouth apart, a prelude to the invasion of his tongue. The breech in her fortress rallied her defenses. No, he couldn't do this to her, not without a fight. Twisting away, she managed to break his hold. The bed caught her behind her knee as she pulled away, and her own momentum laid her flat on it. She bounced up, but he followed her down, determined to reclaim his prey.

The cot gave under his knee when he pushed her down. His arms became prison bars on either side of her. He bent down for more plunder.

And stopped.

He stared at her mouth with a mixture of horror and revulsion. One finger, tender and gentle, wiped the drop of blood from her lip. He jerked upright, stomping away, only to be stopped by a large chest. From the back, she could see his hands flex and clench repeatedly.

His palms hitting the wood sent her bolt upright.

She saw his right hand quickly back from the impact, but his words grabbed her attention.

"I was so furious when you left, I don't think I've ever been so completely consumed with rage in all my life." He drew a deep breath. "After you left, I sat there feeling angry and sorry for myself. I felt used and betrayed. I mean, your father was a rebel general who had just thrashed one of our best officers. You had obviously been taking the supplies back to the rebel lines. I convinced myself that everything you'd said and done was a lie and a cheat. Then you had the nerve to leave! I'd just finished convincing myself that I'd been a duped fool when I saw the buckles. I'd worked myself into a rage, so I picked them up and threw them in the fireplace." He turned, slowly and hesitantly. If Deborah didn't know him better, she'd say he was afraid

"All of a sudden, everything was quiet, still. It's one of those rare moments in a camp. Only it felt empty to me. Empty like my life was before you and like it was going to be now, unless I did something very drastic. I was still roaring angry, but it only took me a second or so to finally realize just where my priorities lay. I had to get you back, even if my first impulse was to shake you.

"I grabbed the buckles out of the fire, but they were a little warm." He looked down at his hand and began to shake it gently. His right palm and fingers were bright red and blistered in patches.

Her indrawn breath hissed. That's why he had been favoring his right hand. She got up slowly. Healing instincts demanded she soothe his hurt. Common sense told her to stay as far away from him as possible. No good would come from getting close to him, physically or mentally, now or in the future. He wasn't in any great danger, but she was.

Give him sympathy and stay away.

Healing won, although common sense demanded she concede distance. "Are you all right?" You have to get that taken care of right away."

"Yes, I have to take care of it right now, but not the hand. It can wait."

He grimaced, and her common sense yielded the field. She rushed over to examine his burned hand. Heaving a sigh, he whispered, "Can you forgive me?" He used his free hand to retrieve the blackened buckles from his jacket pocket.

She stared at the ruined metal for a moment. "I...I understand why you felt that way." She touched the silver then withdrew her hand. "I'm not sure it can ever work, though."

"I think," each word came slowly, "that, for the sake of my sanity, we have to make it work. If this morning was any indication of my future without you, I don't want to be a part of it."

"The past few days have been..." she thought for a second and then chose one his words "...empty. But it was a wretched emptiness because I knew what it was like to be full of happiness." There, she admitted it.

He heaved a sigh and his chin dropped to his chest. Deborah watched his eyes close.

"I do love you, you know. Even when I was furious, I couldn't stop loving you."

"And I you." She let go of him to wander over to another stack of boxes. A desultory swipe of her fingers picked up a layer of dust. "This isn't going to be easy. Look at Tarleton."

He snorted, "Ban can be a pain in the arse, but you must admit, he was provoked."

"Yes, he was provoked. He was provoked because my father is a Continental general."

"A general who sent him flying off the field of battle with his tail between his legs, if reports are correct." Kit sounded rueful.

"You're missing the point, here," she stamped with frustration at his obtuseness. His grin didn't help her annoyance. "My family is not only colonial, but rebel."

"And a most delightful rebel you are, my love, especially when you get angry."

"Kit, be serious! Do you think your family is going to be happy about me, a colonial nobody?" She planted her hands on her hips, "Will General Cornwallis question your loyalties? Look what Benedict Arnold did when he married a Loyalist! Are you going to be able to do your job knowing that the next Continental soldier you kill may be your brother-in-law?"

He rubbed his mouth as he contemplated the dilemma. "There is a solution." He hesitated; she could almost see the thoughts roiling in his head. "I'll sell my commission."

"What! But this is your life!"

"No, this is a position. There's a difference. I wouldn't object to selling out." He grinned. "How would you like to be the wife of a small landowner in Lincolnshire rather than a British Army Colonel?"

"Oh, Kit!" and hurled herself into his arms.

"I'll take that as acquiescence," he laughed. "The banns have already been read, you remember."

She nodded and a smile blossomed on her face. "Let's go tell Sarah. She'll want to know." She must have squeezed his hand because he flinched. "Oh my, I forgot. Let's get that fixed first."

Arm in arm they left the room. They had only gone a few paces when a cacophony of booted feet and raised voices came up the stairwell. Scamp, deciding all was well, bounded after them.

"...Dangerous, I tell you." That was Sarah.

"Gently, Mistress Kershaw, we'll deal with him." Deborah couldn't be sure, but it sounded like the constable they'd dealt with when Penelope Brightman was murdered.

The constable saw them as he reached the top of the stairs. "Stop! In the...," his voice began to fade, "name of the King." He cocked an eyebrow at Sarah. "Mayhem and murder, I believe you said, Mistress?"

"It was," she muttered and eyed Kit balefully.

"Sarah, it's all right. We have some wonderful news."

Sarah, stone-faced, said nothing.

Chapter 17

A messenger for Kit arrived shortly after she told Sarah the news. Cornwallis had arrived in camp and wanted to talk to Kit...now.

"Yes, yes, I'll explain everything to him," he repeated. "There won't be a problem."

"But what if he..."

"He won't, but if worse comes to worst, I can resign my commission right there and then."

It was the best she could hope for, since Kit couldn't refuse a direct summons. He left promising to arrange for the ceremony at the house. Her job was to secure the minister for 5 o'clock that afternoon and be back in time to change clothes.

**

"Sarah, you can't 'not come.' You're my only friend! Please."

"And because I'm your friend I can say I think you're making a major mistake. This marriage is an abomination. If I thought I could kidnap you to prevent it from happening, I would."

"How can you say such a thing? I want this more than anything."

"You're being foolish, and you know it. He's British, for pity's sake!"

"Yes, and he knows I'm not."

Sarah paced the length of her small office. Deborah sat in the visitor's chair and watched her friend. Would Sarah ever understand?

"At least postpone it! You barely know each other, and marriage is for a lifetime. 'Marry in haste, repent at leisure' is not just a saying."

Deborah wondered at the bitterness in Sarah's voice, but didn't feel she had the right to inquire as to its source. "Everything is arranged for this evening. If I don't marry him, I know I will repent even more."

Sarah started to say something and closed her mouth with a snap. She glowered at Deborah. "Look, I'm old enough to be your mother."

"Sarah!" Deborah was getting annoyed.

"I'm not going to change your mind, am I?"

"No, you're not."

Sarah stared out the small window. Deborah could see the way her mouth pulled at the side. "All right. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Oh, Sarah, be happy for me." She jumped up to hug her friend. Sarah's embrace came more slowly.

**

"I know Mr. Thomson is your friend, but rank has its privileges. He may stand as your witness, but you will go to your bridegroom on my arm." Charles Cornwallis's eyes twinkled, but Deborah knew enough of generals to know he meant every word of it. In truth, she was glad he didn't raise any objections.

She smiled, but the general sobered. "We need to talk. Before I start, let me say that I'm delighted that you two young people have found each other. I knew there was something between you even as you scratched and clawed at each other. I hope you are as happy as my wife and I were.

"Did Marshall have a chance to talk to you before he went to tend to things?" He looked down at Scamp standing by his knee, excited and scruffy. Cornwallis raised his eyebrows and studied the little dog. "A Norfolk Terrier, excellent ratters." A hand dropped down to pet Scamp.

Deborah shook her head as she poured his tea in the library. Sally had commandeered the salon, being the largest room. On hearing the news, that worthy, ably abetted by a grinning Rogers, immediately set about rearranging and decorating for the ceremony. She had soldiers, servants, and camp followers working frantically.

"I'm going to do two things that might make you angry, my dear." Deborah froze in the act of pouring her tea and then gently put the pot down. "First, Kit cannot sell his commission immediately, at least not until he returns to England. I need his services and have convinced him not to resign immediately. He will, after all, need the proceeds from the sale. I will, however, endeavor to keep him out of the thick of the action, as far as I am able. That I can promise you. Even so, this is still war, and your family members are still combatants. At the earliest opportunity, I will release Kit to return to England and dispose of his commission. Is this acceptable to you?"

Deborah nodded.

"Second, I want to talk to you." Cornwallis's normally round, smooth face contorted and wrinkled as he pursed his mouth. "Have you two discussed the personal ramifications of this war?"

"We have."

"I wonder. Your relationship seems to be able to survive war, but I question (with all affection and respect) whether it can survive peace." Deborah looked quizzical. "One side of this conflict will have to lose. At this juncture, it appears that it will be yours. There may be consequences for your family as a result. Terrible consequences. I don't wish them, God knows. I will do what I can to help, but they may happen none-the-less. Can you live with Kit if the worst happens?"

"I believe that..."

"Don't answer immediately. This is something that requires thought. You have a small amount of time now. I want you to think carefully about how you would respond if the worst should befall. No one would be happier for you than I, but you must go into it with your eyes open."

Cornwallis studied her. "If you do decide to go forward with this marriage, I want your word, as the daughter of a man I know to be honorable, that you will take no action, overt or covert, against the British Crown while Marshall retains his commission."

"You have my word on that, sir. I will remain completely neutral."

"Very good."

She needed to clarify one thing. "Be aware, sir, that I will give medical attention to anyone who needs it...without betraying them."

"Fair enough." He paused. "After he sells his commission, you're his problem."

Deborah stared at him and then broke into giggles.

Cornwallis smiled and then sobered. "Go, child, you have much to think about."

**

Deborah knew she should give serious consideration to Cornwallis's warning prediction. She knew she should find a quiet spot and think. The possibilities he presented frightened her out of her wits. The British government was not known for its easy tolerance of traitors and revolutionaries.

But Sally wanted her opinion of the decorations in the parlor, Rogers wanted her approval of the refreshments, the Reverend Mr. Lorrimer wanted to give her instructions, and everyone she passed wanted to offer their sincerest congratulations. Except Sarah. Sarah sulked.

Rose, allowed to come to the farm for the ceremony, shyly offered to assist Deborah with her dressing. The gold ball gown floated over the curls Rose had painstakingly fashioned. As Deborah's head emerged from the gold froth, she saw Sarah standing just inside the door. For a moment, she stared at her friend. "I hope you can be happy for me."

"Of course, of course, love." Sarah walked over and enfolded her in a careful hug. "You know I only want your happiness. I just don't want you to make a mistake. Marriage is for a lifetime, you know."

"I know. The General pointed out some of the consequences to me earlier."

"And did you listen?" Sarah smiled ruefully.

"I listened." In a flash, Deborah realized that she had indeed listened, weighed the consequences, and come to a conclusion, all without conscious thought. "Cornwallis pointed out the consequences if we lose. Marrying Kit won't affect the outcome of the war. If the Continental Army loses, and something happens to my family, I'd rather grieve with Kit at my side than by myself. I love him, Sarah, and he loves me. We know each other's politics, so there are no surprises there. We'll see it through together."

Sarah sighed and nodded.

**

The rumble of the crowd penetrated the house. As she walked down the curved staircase at the far end of the foyer, she saw people crowded around the double-door entry to the salon. They were all here for her wedding. She could recognize many of them by sight, if not by name. This one had taken a bullet, that one a catarrh, another a still-mending broken arm, and so they went. She didn't know their names, but they were here because of friendship. The thought buoyed her.

At the base of the stairs, Cornwallis waited, his round face smooth and composed, but his eyes shining. When she reached the bottom step, he proffered his hand. She took it, thinking that he meant to assist her, but he raised it. After he kissed it, he put his other hand on top and squeezed gently. Without saying a word he turned to escort her into the salon. Sarah watched from the doorway.

Deborah could only see over the crowded heads in the room. Green boughs and candles hung down from the ceiling over the guests, interspersed with brightly colored streamers.

Sarah entered the salon first and, from a corner, bagpipes started to play as joyfully as bagpipes can play. She carried a bouquet of holly berries against the emerald green of her gown. Deborah followed on the arm of General Cornwallis, and clutching a spray of pinecones and branches tied with a pink ribbon. Rose, happy tears in her eyes, had conjured it up as they left the bedroom. The crowd in the salon dissolved into a pathway before Sarah. At the end of that path, the Reverend Mr. Lorrimer stood in his white robes and stole. Deborah could see Kit with his back to her. He was fidgeting, his weight shifting from foot to foot, his hands never finding a place to rest. He's nervous, she realized. Is he having second thoughts about the wisdom of marrying her? A frown wrinkled her brow.

Then he turned.

**

Kit swore that his skin was going to, momentarily, get up and walk away without him. It itched, it tickled, it crawled. An agitation of the nerves—he snorted. Merdre, men don't get agitation of the nerves. I've stood through more battles than I care to count. Damnation, it's not like I'm facing a line of riflemen or risking my life in a battlefield sword duel. I'm not risking my life in...God's teeth. A brief glance down the road of his life flashed before him. It could be heaven or hell. It all depended on his choices. By all that was holy, he was risking his life. No, worse. A bullet was quick. He was risking his lifetime.

The bagpipe's drone startled him. For a moment the sound made no sense to him. Then he wheeled around to see the crowd melting apart.

Time slowed for him.

With her arm held by one of the most powerful British generals of the time, there stood his bride. Beautiful, desirable, scared. She was all that, and more. But why scared?

He watched her glance quickly at Cornwallis and then to himself. Why scared, indeed. It should have been her father's arm she held. Instead it was an enemy's. Saving Sarah, she didn't have any family or friends around her to help and uphold her. She was marrying a foe without the advice, consent, or support of those who loved her. Then again, so was he. His mouth pulled at the wry symmetry.

Inexplicably, her face lightened, and a smile grew slowly. As he watched, his world steadied. The smile spread, and whatever problems lay in the future shriveled to insignificance. When the light reached her eyes and the joy transfigured her face, he knew that however long God ordained his lifetime, his life would be held safely in two small hands.

**

Her senses still swam from his kiss. It had not been a formal, perfunctory peck. He hadn't released her, either. His arms remained close around her, even as the assembled guests broke into cheers. The noise thundered, and she hid her head in his blouse front. From behind her, she heard Cornwallis's voice boom, "Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to present to you the Honorable Col. Christopher Marshall and Lady Christopher."

The roar waned and waxed even louder, much to Deborah's amazement. People crowded around them. Something else caught her attention. She pulled her nose out of Kit's chest. "The Honorable? Lady Christopher?"

Lt. Harvey, beaming near Kit's shoulder, offered two punch glasses more or less to their hands. "Blimey, madam, 'course it's 'Honorable.' 'S always 'Honorable' when your fa...hic...ther's an earl." He paused a moment and his gaze turned inward. A strange, swelling look came over him. "'Scuse...don' feel so goo..." He pushed his way through the crowd and out of the room.

"I think he started the festivities a bit early," Bradley drawled. "He's not properly fledged yet." Laughter burst around them.

Mr. Thomson pushed by a camp follower. "Glad ye two got things straightened out." He addressed Kit, "Ye take good care of this little lady, mind you, sir."

"Absolutely."

"Earl?" Deborah could hardly get the word out.

"Umph." Kit dismissed the whole thing with a shrug. He pulled his mouth up in an ironic grin. "M'mother's going to have my ears with me denying her her baby's wedding, but it's worth it." He grinned. "You're going to love her. She's been after Stephen and me to marry and get her grandbabies to spoil for years now." He finally registered her shocked expression. "They're just my parents. A title doesn't mean they're ogres. They will both adore you, trust me."

"I, I knew you must be well-connected, since you're an officer, but I didn't think you were that well connected."

"My little love. My father's an earl, and I suppose I could take my place in the ton. The only problem is that I'm a second son and will, generally speaking, have to make my own way in the world. We'll be going to London on occasion, of course, but I'm afraid if you wish to shine in the ton, you married the wrong man."

"Shine in the... Of all the absurdity!"

Someone offered congratulations. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

She turned back to Kit. "I don't want that. I don't have any ambition to be the daughter-in-law of an earl. What would I say to him?"

Kit leaned over to whisper, "Well, I'm not particularly sure about my father, but Mother has always considered a hug and a kiss to be the proper form of greeting. Can't say that I kiss m'father that often, but I'm certain he'll find it acceptable from a pretty girl."

**

"Congratulations!"

"Ye'll make himself a foine wife."

"Oh, I'm so happy for you!"

The next guest engulfed her in a huge hug and dropped a smacking kiss somewhere between her cheek and her mouth. The embrace ended abruptly. Deborah looked up to find Mr. Thomson glowering at the bear-like grenadier.

"Blimey, sir, 'twas jus' gi'in t'little lady a mite bit o' t' appy."

Thomson nodded. "Jus' mind ye don' smother 'er in t'process."

Laughter greeted his remark and Deborah slipped away out of the well-wishing embrace. What have I gotten myself into, she asked herself. Before she could even begin to formulate an answer, the next well-wisher descended on her.

**

One more and her smile would crack.

A hand under her elbow gently pulled her away. Kit whispered into her hair, "Do you need to get away from this joy and celebration as much as I do?"

"Oh, please."

"Let's take a walk." With that he started toward the service door, graciously accepting congratulations but never stopping. Finally, they were free. Rogers met them in the passageway with cloaks.

"May I add my congratulations, sir, madam? And the west side of the camp seems to be the most empty."

"Thank you, Rogers, on all accounts."

He held the door for them and they escaped into the night.

Chapter 18

An evening breeze kicked up, and Deborah adjusted the hood of her cloak to provide a little more protection. The cacophony of the house fell behind them as the edge of the forest loomed in front. Dark sentinels in the moonlight, the trees guarded the camp, some tall and slender like cavalrymen, some as short and burley as a cannon gunner. They kept silent watch on the soldiers below them.

Neither Deborah nor Kit disturbed that silence. Neither had spoken since they left the house.

They strolled, together but not touching, over to one of the paths that led through the forest. The stillness of the trees enveloped them, and neither chose to break it. After a while, they reached the edge of a small clearing. From prior walks, Deborah knew there was a stump that served as an excellent seat on the other side.

Kit stopped at the edge of the meadow and caught hold of her elbow. "Are you terribly angry at me for not telling you?"

She thought about that as they headed for the stump. What did she feel? Anger, disappointment, excitement, panic? Her thoughts were a jumble as the dead leaves she kicked up as she walked. "I don't know." The moonlight accented the skeptical lift of his brow into weirdness. "Honestly. I don't. It's just such a foreign idea to me that I..."

"Foreign?" he snickered.

"Yes, foreign. I don't think the British have realized just how much their colonies have had to change their ways of thinking and doing things. Except for those institutions that have been imposed on us, all of our...Agggh!"

She stepped into the side of a hole hidden under the leaves Her ankle gave way. Toppling, she put out her free hand to break the fall. Kit's grip tightened painfully on her elbow as he pulled against her body's weight.

She fell and, as Kit bent with her to break it, a gun fired.

"Umph!"

Instead of pulling her up, he fell on her, his body a blanket against the bullet.

"Kit!"

He sucked in an audible breath. "Are you all right?" he murmured into her ear.

"Yes." His weight left her only a squeak's worth of breath.

"Stay here." With that he jumped up and raced in the direction of the shot.

**

Deborah was unhurt, albeit bumped and bruised. He'd deal with those later. Right now he had larger problems. The sting of the graze line on his upper arm reminded him where the shot should have struck. As he pushed off the ground, he felt the small hole that caused Deborah's fall. He took a split second to give thanks for small holes.

The bushes rustled where the sniper bolted from his blind. Kit crashed through the underbrush at the edge of the clearing. The shot had been from a pistol, from the sound of it, rather than a rifle. The sniper didn't have the head start a rifle's range would have given him. Good.

Twigs slapped at him. He barely felt them. He bore right, following the snapping and crackling trail the assailant made in his attempt at escape. He could see the man's hat flickering through the branches. Kit could tell he was gaining ground on the man, but the shooter knew where he was going. Kit pushed faster.

Up ahead, Kit saw the moonlit silhouette of a horse in a small clearing. The man ran up to the animal and untied the reins. He yanked the horse's head around so he could mount. The beast shied at the vicious treatment and tried to dance away. The man hauled its head down.

Kit was only a few yards away as the man began to mount. He only had one chance to stop him. The man vaulted into the saddle just as Kit got there.

He cupped the man's stirrup foot and, with a mighty heave, pushed him off the other side of the horse before he could get his right foot seated in the stirrup.

The attacker landed on his back with a thud and a whoosh. The horse bolted. Kit strode forward. He had a clear view of a face he knew. It startled him, but only for a moment. Even as the man struggled to rise, Kit had no qualms about putting his fist into that face.

**

Deborah followed the men. Between the noise and the disturbed branches, it was a trail a child could follow. Her father had made sure she was better at tracking than that. Unfortunately, her ankle was not making this easy. It wasn't broken, but the bruising from the sprain would be wickedly gaudy in a few hours. Plus, it didn't work very well, so her progress was unbearably slow.

Still, she had to find Kit.

Breaking through into the clearing, she spied Kit looming over a man sprawled on the ground.

"What in bloody hell inspired you to do something like that?' Kit roared. He bent down and grabbed the man by the shoulders. Kit hauled him up a few feet and shook him like a rag doll. The man's head flopped around.

"Kit! What's going on?" Deborah reached his side.

"Madam, my I present my cousin, Henry..."

Henry attempted to push away and earned a formidable right to the belly. He crumpled and landed cross-legged and curled into a ball.

"...Marshall. We go way back, but I must say we haven't always marched along comfortably, have we, old sot? He, my dear, is accounted a credible shot, but he didn't take into consideration the unpredictable effects of small holes in the ground."

"Is he the one who's been trying to kill you?"

Kit frowned for a moment. "What do you mean by that?"

"What?"

"'Trying to kill' me"

"Lt. Bradley thinks there have been several attempts on your life."

"Bloody hell!"

"Haven't there been?"

Henry maintained his hedgehog pose, but turned his head from them. Kit clouted him, sending Henry rolling in the leaves.

"Answer the lady!"

"Yes!" Henry snapped as he sat up again.

"Let me see," Deborah raised one finger, "the sniper shot when you were on patrol." She raised another finger. "The brigand attack." A third finger. "This...any more?" Henry shook his head. "For someone who's supposed to be a good shot, you've been incredibly inefficient. Zero for three. My father would have you at target practice for hours."

"Shut up, slut."

The words were barely out of his mouth when Kit hit him again. "Wife, Henry, wife, and I suspect her father would do exactly that." He drew his arm back for another blow when Deborah touched his sleeve.

"We need him conscious, darling."

Kit looked down at her with a puzzled look on his face. "Why? I was just beginning to enjoy this. Henry and his family have always been contemptible."

She shot him a repressive look. "There's one central question we need answered." The muscles of his arm relaxed under her hand.

"Aw, give over mama," the whine in his voice was at odds with the twinkle in his eyes. "Ah was jus' having fun." He pretended to think for a moment. "Can I pulverize him later?"

The barbarian was having fun with this, Deborah thought. For a moment she was appalled at him. Then she realized the value of his foolishness in defusing the tension of the situation. Well, at least he wasn't landing punches.

She's seen a side of him she'd never seen. It delighted her. The repressive glare couldn't hide the twitch in her lips.

Kit turned his attention back to his cousin. "Yes, Henry, let's get back to the main question here. Why the bloody hell have you been trying to kill me?"

In a flash, the pieces fell into place for Deborah. The attacks started just after that terrible woman and her husband left. A terrible possibility loomed. If she was right, she didn't want Kit out here, exposed, vulnerable. "Kit, let's get him back to camp, first."

"We will, I just..."

"Now, Kit." She needed an excuse—of course. "My ankle..."

Instantly, he agreed. Keeping an eye on Henry, he retrieved the horse that was searching the nearby grass for a tidbit. After Kit lifted Deborah to the saddle, he hauled Henry to his feet and they began the slow, silent march back to camp.

Deborah watched Kit's face loose its expression as he, too, worked through the possibilities.

**

Wedding guests still crowded the lower floor. Kit again chose the less populous servant's entrance. Rogers directed the activities of the women who had volunteered to help serve the refreshments. Kit called him over and requested that Mr. Thomson be sent up to his room as quickly as possible. Rogers started to say something, narrowed his eyes as he studied Kit's grim expression, and hurried off.

The only way upstairs was via the great staircase. Deborah limped into the hallway. Kit took her arm to help.

"I can make it. You look after him."

Kit snorted, "There's a house full of soldiers. Where's he going to go?"

Deborah acquiesced, and the small party made its way slowly up the stairs. A cheer went up from the crowd in the entry hall. The principals ignored it.

"Show 'er wha' a good British sword's for."

No response.

"Teach 'er 'ow to ride good and proper, now."

No response.

"Iffing you need some more company up there, gov'ner..."

"'Ten—tion!" Mr. Thomson bellowed. Every man on the lower floor froze. Thomson wormed his way through them to the base of the stairs. "Dismissed!"

Confused, the guests began to head toward the door. Thomson looked up the stairs. "Sir?"

"This way, Mr. Thomson." They arrived at the bedroom. Kit gestured him to a point on the wall opposite the door. "No one comes near here." Mr. Thomson nodded and strode to the wall, assuming a formal parade-rest stance.

Deborah's curiosity hummed as she waited for Kit to carefully seat her. She could feel the tension in his hands as he helped her. Finally, he turned to Henry.

"Well?"

In response, Henry reached into his jacket. Kit stepped towards him, radiating threat from his very being.

Henry stopped, and looked up wearily, "I've been a fool, but not that much of a fool." He pulled out a sealed letter and handed it to Kit.

He paused at the direction on the paper. Breaking the seal, he began to read.

He could only have read a sentence or two when Deborah saw his face pale and his hands begin to shake as he looked up from the letter. She doubted he finished it. Whatever it was... The pain in her ankle faded as the pain in her heart grew. He needed her now. She went to him, pushing the letter aside, and folded her arms around him. For a moment, he stood stiff and resisting. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he let his cheek come to rest against her hair and pulled her close.

She held him for a while, hoping that some of his unspoken anguish would drain from him into her. Finally he lifted his head and gave her the letter. She watched him go to the window and stare sightlessly.

With a quick glance at Henry, she began to read the paper imprinted with "Mary, Countess of Westridge:"

My beloved son: It is with the heaviest of hearts for both of us that I must tell you that your

father and brother were killed in a carriage accident...

Merciful heaven, she thought, his father and his brother. He must be devastated. She knew he loved them. The bottom has just fallen out of...

Henry shifted, and she glanced up. Where did the murderous Henry figure into this? This wasn't the scenario she'd envisioned, but it could be much worse. She limped to the door, "Mr. Thomson, enter at the slightest disturbance, if you please." Thomson's eyes narrowed with his sharp nod. She shut the door again and returned to the letter.

Their horse broke his leg, sending the phaeton into the ditch near the Bowler's place.

Stephen was killed outright, but your father lingered for two days. Although I will regret his

last few days of pain to the end of my life, the time did give us a chance to say our

goodbyes, something I was denied with your brother.

I realize you have duties with Lord Cornwallis, but I must ask you to consider resigning

your commission as soon as possible and returning to England. Cousin Henry has

instructions to provide funds and any assistance you need. Your loving mother.

For a moment she studied Cousin Henry. She could see the family resemblance around the eyes and the cheekbones. If she had seen Henry in his element, with his fine clothes and pride of place, she might have found him handsome, on first sight. He had the slender, angular look that seemed to pervade the British aristocracy, at least in their youth. His hair was a light blond, held in its now-scruffy queue by a black satin ribbon.

But standing next to his taller cousin, Henry faded into insignificance. Next to Kit, his cousin was faded, his mouth hinted of petulance rather than determination, and his slenderness was almost effeminate compared to Kit's lean battle-hardened toughness.

Tears in her eyes, she folded the letter with great care. Kit was standing with his arms braced on the sides of the window. She limped to his side. "I'm so sorry, dearest. I know you were close to them."

He didn't look at her, but nodded stiffly. After a moment, he hit the window frame with both fists and turned to his cousin. "Well, Henry, trying to get a coronet for you father, miserable bastard that he is?

Henry snorted, "The old bugger's dead. I finally helped him into his grave for doing to me what he tried to do to you all those years ago. I wouldn't help him to a cup of tea, let alone an earldom."

Deborah looked for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.

Nodding, Kit seemed to take the news of his uncle's murder calmly. Then it struck her. Henry's epithet wasn't simply an insult.

"So you're doing this for yourself. You killed three people; you tried to kill me, all for a title. But, you didn't just kill the Earl of Westridge and his heir," his voice rose and the veins stood out on his neck with fury. "You killed my father and brother, you cur."

Alarm flooded Deborah. "Kit!"

Her warning was too late. Kit's fist blasted Henry's chin and sent him sprawling across the bed, unconscious.

Kit stood over him, chest heaving as though he'd run a race. The door flew open, crashing against the wall. Mr. Thomson strode in, ready for battle.

Deborah stayed Thomson with an upraised hand and then rushed to Kit's side. "Kit, Kit, listen to me! He may have killed your uncle and he certainly tried to kill you, but he did...not...kill...your father and brother. It was an accident! An accident, Kit! She could feel his muscles relax, and he looked at her. She knew she'd gotten through to him.

Kit took one last deep breath and brushed his hands together. "No great problem, Thomson, just taking care of some unfinished business. Would you be so kind as to take out the garbage, here? Deposit it in the gaol if you please. I'll speak to the General about jurisdiction and a speedy trial shortly."

Thomson grabbed Henry under the armpits and dragged him off the bed. Kit politely held the door open for him. "I'll be back shortly."

"Highly unlikely," Deborah snorted, "and I don't intend to cool my heels here while you are closeted with the General." She limped through the open door before he could object.

The General lounged in the small parlor, a glass of what looked like port in his hand. "With all the commotion, I thought you'd be upstairs." He looked slightly surprised at Deborah's presence, but rose to offer her a seat. "Port, Kit? And for you, Mistress Marshall?" He turned to the sideboard in back of his chair.

"Countess of Westridge," Kit stated flatly. "Sir."

Cornwallis stopped in the midst of pouring the wine and turned. His face looked ashen. "Merciful God, your father?"

"And brother."

"What happened?"

Deborah handed him the letter and went over to finish pouring port for both of them; heaven knew she needed it. She gave Kit his glass, and he tossed it back. She blinked, but handed him the other glass and fetched the decanter to the group of chairs.

**

Cornwallis finished the letter, plopped in his chair, and upended his own glass of port. Kit cradled his glass and leaned forward. "He claims he murdered his father some time ago and decided to assist me to my maker when Father and Stephen were killed."

"Well, I can't say I'll miss your Uncle William. There were some unsavory rumors going around about him. But James and Stephen were first rate, though. True gentlemen in the old school. Much like you, my boy, ah, my lord."

Kit brushed the correction aside. "It now seems there are two problems, sir. The first is a trial for Henry. If is has to go through the local courts, it could take a while."

Deborah was hesitant to interfere, but she put in, "The second attach was an ambush on a column done by brigands who were disguised as Continental irregulars."

Kit looked at her quizzically.

"Bradley."

"Mr. Bradley's been very chatty," he mumbled.

Cornwallis brightened. "Ahah! That puts it into military jurisdiction. I'll handle this one myself. It will be my pleasure."

Deborah didn't like the unholy look on Cornwallis's face. Military justice was swift and frequently final. "Even so, this is a civil attempted murder case. May I make a suggestion?" Cornwallis nodded. "An indenture. We don't know for sure about his father, we have only his word, and that is a matter for the courts in England, anyway. This was, mercifully, an attempted murder. A long indenture on one of the Georgia plantations might be just the thing."

Cornwallis looked over at Kit, who thought for a moment and then nodded. Deborah squeezed his hand in thanks.

The General leaned back, stretching. "I'll deal with that in the morning. However, the second problem, I apprehend, is your lady mother's request." He sighed. "I'm sorry, but I must hold you to our agreement. I need you here, Kit. Your experience may be crucial."

Kit nodded, and Deborah saw her newfound hopes for getting Kit out of combat fade.

"I'm afraid you're wrong about the second problem, sir, even though your answer wasn't unexpected. The second problem involves just how Cousin Henry knew where I would be those times he tried to pick me off."

"Ahhh, yes. That would be a problem."

Chapter 19

Kit's arm around her waist provided both affection and support as they ascended the stairs. The house was quiet, and they were lost in their individual thoughts.

Deborah preceded him through the door of his chamber. With all the excitement, she just now remembered that this was her wedding night. This was the time that all those wonderful, mysterious secrets her mother had hinted at would be revealed. Delicious terror wafted though her innards. She would learn why her parents could still emerge from their chamber looking happy and full of life. She would learn those secrets with her Kit...her Col. Kit...her Earl Kit...her...her British lord who should have married an equally blue-blooded daughter of...

His arms closed around her from behind as he nuzzled her hair. "God's teeth, I thought I'd never get that door closed. It's been a bloody hell of a day, all things considered."

He sounded, she thought, exhausted and at the end of his tether. It wouldn't be right to trap a creature of his glittering, polished world with a little colonial nobody. She had to give him the option, even though it might rip her heart out. "Kit, things have changed so much in the last few hours." The words started to tumble over each other. "This marriage isn't really suitable for your rank. If you want to set it aside, there's still time."

He wrenched her around. The pain in her ankle couldn't compare to the pain in his eyes.

"You are the only woman I could ever want for my wife!" He gave her a small shake to emphasize his point. "Would you condemn me to look across the breakfast table for the rest of my life at a woman I detested or even just tolerated simply because she had an approved bloodline? I don't relish that future! I want to go to sleep and wake up seeing the face of the woman who cherishes my heart as much as I cherish hers."

He cradled her face to study her eyes. "The only reason I would even contemplate setting aside this marriage is if you didn't love me. Can you truthfully say that?"

"No!" The word popped out of her.

"Didn't think so. And that's a good thing. I couldn't let you go now if I wanted to." His mouth curled to that crooked smile she loved. All was well with the world.

"You weren't raised to be an earl's wife; well, I wasn't raised to be an earl. We'll muddle through. I mean, look at today. Having you at my side was the only thing that kept me sane through the whole thing. "Besides," he tapped the tip of her nose, "weddings are a form of torture a man should only have to suffer once in his lifetime. I've had mine."

That unseemly remark, she decided, had to be punished, and she reached up to tickle him. Amid the laughter, he scooped her up and whirled her around.

He lowered her to the ground and studied her face. "Frightened?"

"No, yes, maybe. I have a pretty good idea of what to expect."

"Do you?"

"I mean, I was raised on a farm."

"Well, horses and cows and pigs can teach you about...um, the mechanics, but they don't do so well in teaching you about, shall we say, the finer aspects." A supercilious expression ruled his face, but his eyes twinkled.

"I will, of course, be pleased to be your instructor in this matter."

Deborah looked up at him through her eyelashes. "Then I put myself in your hands, kind sir."

He brushed at the curls near her ear and grew serious. "I want you so badly my hands are shaking. I only pray for the strength to go slow."

She studied his face for a moment, then brought his hands to her mouth and kissed them. "I don't want slowly. Careful, maybe, but not slow. I've wanted this for a long time, too, you know."

"Not slow it is, then." He pulled the pins from her hair and tossed them on the floor. Threading his fingers through her hair, he tilted her face up to his.

Deborah shivered when his mouth met hers. He gently pried open her lips. Her arms snaked around him. She could feel the cords of steel in his back. His tongue tasted her mouth. This time, hers was ready. Their tongues played touching games until he groaned and whirled her around to work on her buttons. For a moment, the spin disoriented her. Kit's fingers dispensed quickly, if not neatly, with the buttons. A few pings told her that several buttons joined the pins on the floor. He turned her around and slipped the gown off her shoulders. It obligingly fell to the floor. Deborah thought she knew what a gaily wrapped present must feel like. She pulled and pushed Kit's jacket off him, determined to let him experience the delightful feeling.

Kit, obviously, had other intentions. He led her to a chair and silently removed her shoes as he watched her face. Almost reverently, he untied her garters and pushed the stockings down her legs. He drew her up and started on the chemise ribbon. It didn't succumb as quickly as he wished, so he snapped it. The chemise followed the dress to the floor. He picked her up and laid her on the feather bed.

He studied her body for long seconds. She could read the adoration and desire crystal-clear on his face. If she didn't feel the same way about him, the intensity written there would have terrified her, would have had her desperately trying to cover her body. But it wasn't fear she was feeling. She rose up on one elbow to watch him strip off his clothes with a speed that would've sent a valet into palpitations. When his breeches went the way of the buttons, chemise, and jacket, she stared at him in open amazement.

He followed her gaze, "I hope you are as ready for me as I am for you."

When she reached out one arm, it was all the reply he needed. Sliding in beside her, he gathered her into his arms. She pulled away slightly so she could run her hands down his chest. The masculine differences fascinated her: the coarse, springy hair and the muscles of the rock-hard chest. His nipples drew her attention, and she toyed, wonderingly, with them. A quiet, indrawn breath from him stopped her. She looked up.

"Don't stop on my account, m'dear. Play all you want." When she circled one pink nipple with her finger, he added, "Its delicious torture."

When her hand explored lower and brushed his hardened shaft, he grabbed the wandering fingers and brought them to his lips. "Let's save that. Tonight's for you." He sipped the sweetness of her mouth and gently nibbled down her neck and collarbone to her breast.

His mouth closed around it, and Deborah squeaked. "Oh!" He didn't release his prize, but looked up at her with a twinkle in his eyes.

He brushed the nipple with his tongue. "Liked that, did you?" Without waiting for an answer, he worshiped the twin, his tongue dancing circles around the hard berry. As he did, his hand caressed her belly and then gently spread her legs. He ran his fingers through the curly hair at their apex. His mouth left her breast, and he braced on his elbow to watch her. His hand dipped between her legs to explore the soft petals guarding her feminine secrets. Her body tightened at the intimate, unfamiliar touch, then loosened at the delight flowing from it, only to tighten again as his finger began a caress of her innermost core.

"Gently, gently, my sweet. Lord in heaven, you are so wet and ready for me already!"

Indeed, she could feel the dampness his finger produced. She only had a moment to wonder because his hand began a rhythmic caress. Instantly, her body reacted of its own accord, clenching around his hand in ever-increasing spirals of pleasure.

Just as she thought she would burst with the pleasurable anticipation, he stopped. She almost cried in that fleeting second, but he rolled onto her and entered her in one swift movement. A stinging flashed through her loins. He froze when she gasped and arched away from him.

"Gently, my love. Let it pass. This is the only time, I promise." He dropped tiny kisses all over her face until the tension in her body subsided.

His mouth slanted over hers and his tongue slipped inside. At the same time, his hips drove his manhood into her, mimicking the earlier motion of his hand, only larger, more powerful, more, pleasurable. Or maybe the hand was the mimic, she didn't know, because he was driving the hunger in her body to unbearable heights.

Pleasure burst over her in a thrumming rainbow of pleasure and joy and feeling so overwhelming that all she could do was wrap her arms and legs around him and hold on. A moment later, he groaned and buried himself as deeply as he could into her.

She was still enjoying the last of the small shivers racing through her body when he lifted himself off her and kissed her nose. When he got out of bed, she leaned up on her elbow to watch him. "Where are you going?" Deborah was half-afraid of the answer.

He went to the commode and looked back at her with a smile. "Going? The only place I'm going is back to bed." He dampened a flannel in the basin and did just that. He tried to spread her legs, and she resisted, a little apprehensive. "Here, don't fuss. This will make it feel better. The first time can be a little rough." He washed between her legs with the care a mother would lavish on a new-born. Finished, he tossed the cloth towards the commode and climbed in beside her, pulling the quilt over them. He slipped his arm under her head and drew her close. "Goodnight, wife." He kissed her gently.

"Goodnight, husband." Her arm snaked up over his shoulder, and she closed her eyes.

**

The next morning Cornwallis again sat in his chair in the small parlor. Lt. Harvey, at an improvised desk, prepared to record the proceedings. Officers and one civilian, who Deborah thought to be the local magistrate, stood about or sat in the available chairs. Talk was subdued, and there wasn't a smile in the room.

Deborah wasn't smiling either, but she was as happy as possible, given that her brand-new husband was leaving in a few hours. Last night, she thought, last night was more wonderful than anything she could have imagined. Her mother's hints and clues hadn't come near reality

Was it possible her mother hadn't known how wonderful...? No, that didn't ring true. No, her mother and father were just fine in that field.

For a moment, Deborah missed her mother more intensely than she had all these months. Sarah was a wonderful friend, but her mother... her mother was her confident, her confessor, and her best friend. Abigail would understand about the joys of new love as well as the worry over sending that love off to war. She would understand the intense relief at the removal of a threat to her beloved. She would acknowledge the sadness that the perpetrator had to be punished.

Scamp's wet nose under her hand drew her out of what threatened to be a maudlin reflection. He sat in her lap in their chair at the side of the parlor. As excited as he had been to see his people again, he curled quietly into her skirts, almost knowing something was wrong, and that his job was to comfort rather than play.

Sarah hurried in just before the proceedings were to start. "What in the name of all that is holy happened last night?" She took the chair next to Deborah.

Cornwallis called the court to order.

"You'll see," Deborah promised solemnly. Sarah opened her mouth to demand more, but Deborah turned toward her, face blank and unyielding. Sarah harrumphed, turned in her chair, and froze.

"This is a military tribunal convened in the case of the treasonable actions of Mr. Henry Marshall insofar as he did three times attempt to murder Col. Christopher Marshall, Earl of Westridge, including, but not limited to, instigating an attack upon a column of His Majesty's soldiers by brigands disguised as rebel soldiers, and two other attacks on Col. Marshall's specific person, the most recent being last night."

"God's blood," Sarah whispered in awe. She grabbed Deborah's arm in support and sympathy and then breathed, "Earl of Westridge!" She started to withdraw, but Deborah caught her hand and looked into Sarah's eyes. "Now, more than ever, Sarah." Sarah relaxed and their hands clasped over Scamp on Deborah's lap.

Kit, Lt. Bradley, a soldier she didn't know, and finally Henry testified. Everything went according to the script. Henry had been given his options with regards to his plea and wisely chose to admit his guilt with the resultant indenture. After all, his other option would have involved a rope.

**

The trial broke up and Sarah rounded on her, "What do you mean by...?"

Deborah rose, still holding Scamp. "Sarah, please, I ask your indulgence for just a few more minutes. They're leaving now. My husband's going to track down my father!"

"Merciful God, little one!" Sarah hugged her so hard that Scamp yelped. In a heartbeat, she released her. "Go!" she ordered.

**

All the way up to their chamber, Kit held her. He hadn't let go of her since she'd left Sarah's side at the trial's end. When they were alone, he gathered her in his arms, his face buried in her hair, breathing in the unique scent that was Deborah. The thought of leaving her was tearing at him, ripping at the foundations of this new life he was beginning. Hadn't it been rocked and shaken enough in its brief existence, already?

When he left his family in England, it was with the knowledge that he might not return. He had walked away from his mother's tears with only the smallest, quickly forgotten, regret.

This was as different as night from day.

When he pulled slightly away to frame her face, he could see Deborah's eyes were dry, but they looked like storm-ravaged lakes of grief and sadness. He didn't want to look and pulled her back to his chest. As he gently rocked her, he could feel the hitches in her breathing.

For the shortest of long whiles he held her. Then he kissed the top of her head. "I have to go, my love." She nodded into his chest, but didn't move away. He had to go. He never felt less like doing something in his entire life. Still, he gently levered her arms away from him.

Keeping one arm around her, he went to the armoire. Pulling out a packet, he handed it to her. "There are my...our papers: marriage lines, commission, financial instruments. This," he tapped the leather envelope, "gives you access to all the funds you could want. It also has my mother's directions. Could you write to her?" Deborah nodded. "I'm sure you'll want to tell your folks, too," he added with a wry smile. "I just hope your father doesn't forget Cornwallis and come after me personally for stealing his baby girl. I know I'd be inclined to if the positions were reversed." His thumb teased the slight smile on her lips.

"I've assigned Mr. Thomson to you personally. Use him any way you need to and, oh God, take care of yourself!" His arms locked around her with all his strength. Some small part of his mind said it couldn't be comfortable for her, but he had to keep her as close as possible for these last few minutes. She didn't object as he lifted her face to his. He rooted blindly for her mouth and found it. His mouth pried hers open so his tongue could taste her essence. He knew he wasn't gentle, but she aided and abetted his invasion. Her hands clawed at his hair and back, pulling him closer. He devoured her mouth and then started on her cheek, her nose, her ears, her eyes.

A yelled order outside dropped him back to earth.

"I have to leave now. Walk with me."

At first she refused to move. He tossed the document packet back in the armoire and gently pushed her. "It's time." He watched her bite the bottom lip that must be sore already. He rubbed it with one finger. "Take care of that lip. I want it in good condition when I get back." The quip earned him a watery smile. He urged her towards the door.

**

Dearest Lady Westridge

Too intimate—I don't even know the woman.

To my dearest Mother-in-Law

Merciful heavens, give the lady a heart attack as soon as she opens the letter.

She crumpled the paper and tossed it aside to join the others. Deborah looked at her attempts to simply begin the letter and grimaced. At this rate, she'd run out of sheets. This was not going to be easy. What exactly did she want to say? The facts were not in question; how she wanted to present herself was.

Putting the quill back into its stand, she sat back to think. Scamp pawed at her skirt, so she picked him up. Stroking his wiry, gray fur calmed her. He'd grown, she noted absently.

She tried again.

"Lady Westridge, It has been a tumultuous few days, so I ask you to bear

with me. Kit requested that I write to you because, yesterday, we were married. A few hours

after that I made the unfortunate acquaintance of Mr. Henry Marshall and his terrible

news..."

Deborah reread the letter. Hopefully the sincerity of her condolences and her feeling for Kit were plain among the chaos of the recent weeks.

The final signature presented an ethical question. The title of "Lady Westridge" belonged to her now, but Deborah couldn't bring herself to style herself that way. I'm no more a "Lady" than I am a frog, she thought. Her glance shifted to her hand, half expecting the finger her wedding ring rode on to be a pale green. She snickered. Yes, she could imagine a slight tinge of green. Nevertheless, she couldn't quite do it. "Deborah M..." a moment's hesitation, "...organ Marshall."

**

It snowed in mid-February. The temperature had dropped from discomfort to misery for the soldiers. During the day, and usually well into the evening, Deborah scrambled to care for the seemingly endless stream of soldiers with winter's illnesses: lung inflammations, head colds, and all the rest.

In addition, the number of burns went up: a baby, put too close to the fire for warmth, died. Deborah cried herself to sleep because something about her own body told her that things were different. She pressed the secret, the hope, to her breast. It wasn't something to share yet, she told herself. After all, her courses weren't due for a couple of days. But, still, something was different. She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was a feeling...

**

And so the time went. She wrote to her parents. That was an even more difficult letter than the one to her new mother-in-law. She'd spent several days thinking about what she wanted to say to them and how she wanted to say it. Deborah knew that her mother would cry for joy at her daughter's happiness, for sadness at missing the wedding, and just because it was incontrovertible proof that her baby had grown up. Her brothers, especially Adam, would be more suspicious, trying to read between the lines to see if she had been coerced or dishonored. They were brothers, after all. Her father, though, her father...she didn't know what her father would do. He was a romantic, at heart. Many times she'd thought of him as an apple pie: crusty on the outside, sweet and gooey on the inside. He wanted all things good and happy for his children, but he was still a hard-nosed, bull-whacking, Continental general, besides being a father. She could only hope.

Kit knew she was going to write them, but something told her that perhaps it wouldn't be wise to advertise her family's direction when the good Col. Tarleton could get his hands on it. Sarah could provide a more secure courier.

Several times Deborah dragged Mr. Thompson into Camden. The first time she just called for the carriage, thinking to go by herself. He got wind of it and caught up with her as she left the house grounds.

"Now look 'ere, yer ladyship. Ye know the Colonel wants me with you iffing ye leave t' camp. Don' be goin' and makin' me 'unt for ye, if ye please."

Deborah didn't know many people in Camden. Those who wanted to know her, she didn't want to have anything to do with. As a result, she spent the great majority of her time at the store, getting in the way, asking questions, taking up space, and wanting more of her friend's time than Sarah could afford and still run a business.

So, Sarah acquired a new shop girl. Those who knew the truth thought it a marvel that a countess should wait on customers. Sarah didn't complain, since her profits rose on those days Deborah came in. Deborah enjoyed having a little pin money to call her very own, even though the local banker confirmed that she didn't need it.

The day after she finished her parents' letter, Deborah tucked her it securely in her pocket before setting out for Camden.

Up in Sarah's office, Deborah reached inside her skirt and found the pocket with its contents. "Can you see that this gets to my family in Virginia? I'm not comfortable sending it through British channels. Col. Tarleton knows how to carry a mighty big grudge, and I'd just as soon not provide him with another target."

Sarah leaned back in her chair, a wry smile playing across her mouth. "I can get it there, may take a little time, though. I don't have a regular postal service." She took the packet and placed it in a small drawer on top of the desk. "So, you've decided that the British aren't all sweetness and light."

"No, indeed they aren't."

"I still can't believe you let that skunk's belly talk you into marrying him!"

"Sarah, please..."

"Sarah, please..." Sarah mimicked. Her look spoke of an admixture of disgust and disappointment. She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I just think you've gotten yourself into something you'll regret in the not-too-distant someday." She strode the two steps to the small window and peered out of the tiny pane. "As your friend, I feel I have to do something to save you."

"But Sarah," Deborah laughed, "I don't want to be saved."

"Yes, well," she turned and took a deep breath. "Let's get to work. Would you get the pans organized? Mistress Barnes pawed through them yesterday, and they're a disaster."

"Of course." She was relieved that the confrontation with her friend had ended so easily.

**

After Deborah left the office, Sarah took the letter out of its drawer. Turning once more to the window, she tapped the missive thoughtfully on the palm of her hand for a few moments. After reaching a decision, she sat down at the desk, pulled a paper towards her, and dipped her quill in the ink well.

**

In truth, that evening, Deborah felt a little guilty about not sharing her news with her best friend. However, she felt firmly that the father had a right to know first. The feeling that she'd had about her body being different, oh how right that had been. As soon as her feet had hit the floor the next morning, she'd experienced what her mother had delicately called morning sickness. She hoped the next nine months wouldn't follow this pattern.

After supper, she would begin the letter to Kit to tell him that around the first of November, he would be a father. He would be such a good father. She hugged the knowledge to herself and went downstairs to eat for two.

The table was even sparser than usual. The newest lieutenant, Collings by name, was out on patrol, being commanded by his much senior officer, Lt. Harvey.

Halfway through the meal, a soldier entered. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir," he addressed Major Smythe as the senior officer present, "dispatches arrived."

Smythe held out his hand. In addition to the single fat packet that he expected, there was a smaller letter. "Ah, my dear Lady Westridge, this is addressed to you." He made a production of going around the table to hand the letter to her with a bow. "I trust Lord Westridge is in good health."

Deborah nearly gagged. Smythe, who generally ignored her, had metamorphosized into a solicitously polite, obligingly unctuous sycophant. She'd liked him better when he pretended she was part of the furniture. "Thank you, I'm sure he is." Smythe waited expectantly for her to open the letter, and her fingers itched to do so, but she slipped it into her pocket. Some things were not for sharing.

**

Upstairs, she smoothed the letter on her lap. Even the feel of Kit's words were comforting. She hopped that her remark to Smythe was correct.

My dearest wife, I pray this finds you well. I am saddle-sore, but unharmed. Our mission

reminds me of chasing a mouse in a barn. We followed Greene and his troops to Danville,

but he seems to have doubled back on us. We continue to look. One piece of news I'm sure

you will be interested in, our informants tell us that General Morgan has left the Continental

army because of his health. I know you worry about that, but I'm sure you are relieved to

have him out of the action. I, too, am glad not to have to face my father-in-law on the field

of combat. The courier has my direction. In haste, but with all my love, Kit.

The messenger would be leaving in the morning, so she set to work telling Kit of the joyous news, as well as the more mundane events of the last month.

**

Deborah settled back into the routine of doctoring, working with Sarah, sewing and knitting, and trying not to expire from boredom. Sarah had taken the news of her pregnancy with joy, but with a strange overlay of alarm. Surely, Deborah wondered, a half-British, half-American child was not an unusual thing. She dismissed Sarah's worry and set to folding the pile of towels.

**

Days turned into weeks and February turned into March. A fortnight into March, a post rider delivered news. The Continental Congress had approved something called The Articles of Confederation. Details were sketchy, since the messenger didn't have an actual copy of the document, but it was obvious that a major change in the relationship of Britain and her American colonies had occurred.

The officers in camp walked around with grim faces for a few days. Deborah struggled to maintain a neutral air.

In another ten days, a dispatch rider raced into camp. News of a battle wafted through the camp, even before he had a chance to hand Deborah the letter.

The 16th of March---Dearest—Engaged Greene at Guilford Courthouse. Uninjured. We held

the field. K.

**

The next day, Tarleton road into camp. He was not in a good mood. Deborah sat sewing in the parlor when she heard him stomp into the house.

"Later, Smythe. All I want to know now is where Marshall's whore is." He burst open the doors to the parlor.

Behind him, Smythe snickered, "Ah, Colonel..."

"What, you simpering fool?"

"May I present Lady Westridge?"

Deborah put down her sewing and stood, just as Tarleton took one more step, hauled up and rounded on the major. "What did you say?" Each word held a knife cut.

Smythe reveled in his moment and bowed to Deborah over Tarleton's shoulder. "Our little Mistress Morgan married our dear Kit, only to find that his father and brother's deaths have left him Earl of Westridge. Hence...our new Countess."

"Countess, my left nut!" snarled Tarleton.

Mr. Thomson barreled in from the servants' area and skidded to a halt in the doorway. A quick look told him the situation, and he saluted the officers. Then, addressing Deborah, he said, "Begging yer pardon, m'lady. I 'ad me hands full when ye sent fur me."

Deborah understood what was expected of her. "Thank you, Mr. Thomson. I had been planning to go into Camden, but I think Col. Tarleton may have other plans."

"Bloody right! Fix this!" The Colonel shoved his right hand at her.

In all the commotion, she hadn't noticed the blood-soaked bandage around it. "Follow me." She led the way, with Tarleton spouting questions and curses in equal measure. In the kitchen, she pointed to the same bench where Isaac Montgomery sat so many...was it only a few months...ago? She smiled to herself as Tarleton plopped on the seat. When she chose a knife from the side board and tested its blade, he pulled his pistol from his belt with his good hand.

Gently placing the knife back on the side board, she folded her arms and leaned against the table. "If you don't want me to treat you, all you have to do is say so. No dramatics are needed."

"Like I've got any choice?" he snarled.

"Of course you do. You can go into town to Dr. Garden. I'm sure he'll take care of you. He's a confirmed Tory and only an hour or so away."

Deborah studied his ashen face for a long moment. He was near the end of his tether. The pistol dropped, and the muscles in his cheek twitched. He was at the end, and he didn't like it.

"Do it."

She picked up the knife again. The pistol popped up. "I can cut the knot of the bandage quickly and easily or I can tug and pull it to untie it. Your choice."

The pistol dropped again.

Deborah studied him and said, "Major Smythe, would you be so kind as to hold the pistol for the Colonel. If I injure him deliberately, you may, of course, shoot me, but I'd rather not have him do it accidentally."

Smythe chuckled, and Tarleton mumbled, "Bitch."

Deborah took Tarleton's right hand and quickly sliced through the bandage knot. She could feel him trembling. "Mr. Thomson, come around in back of him and hold his arm for me, please." She put her palm on Tarleton's forehead, and he jerked back into the sergeant's belly. "Be still, I'm looking for signs of fever." She felt his cheeks. They were not the hot or clammy cold she feared. Gently, she unwrapped the bandage. The bloody stumps of his last two fingers greeted her. Objectively, they didn't look bad. "What did this?"

Tarleton erupted, "Your bloody rebel bastards, you lack wit."

Struggling to control her own rising temper, she asked again, "Was this from a bullet?"

"No, a sword."

"Umm." That was good. A sharp sword cut cleaner than a bullet, which tended to shatter bone. The flesh was angry, but not unduly so. The lack of red streaking up his hand was encouraging, at least from a healing point of view. However, the clean end gave her precious little extra skin to sew closed. "Major, I'm going to need several more men; a large quantity of strong spirits; and two tweezers, needle, and thread from the clinic tent."

Chapter 20

Scamp needed a walk. He jumped up and down. "Mommy, I need a walk." She could almost hear him. The mid-March weather was brutal, and the setting sun offered only a modicum of warmth. Sighing, she put aside her book and grabbed her cloak and the leash.

**

Scamp ran out of the house like a racehorse. Promptly baptizing the first bush on the walkway, he barked at her and trotted off down the main road of the camp. She passed the stand of bay trees, now in bloom. Spring, the season of sneezes and watery eyes, would soon be upon them. In the meantime, the day was just cold. Deborah pulled her cloak around herself. Even with her longer stride, it was hard work to keep up with the dog's short, churning legs.

The dull, almost imperceptible roar that could only be horses' hooves alerted her to the possibility of a canine-equine disaster. "Scamp, come!" The puppy stopped, turned, and barked. Then he continued on up the road. "He minds just like my brothers," she muttered. She hurried after him, the sound of horses increasing in her ears. "Scamp, come," she roared in her best imitation of her father at his most commanding.

Scamp stopped again, but this time he began to trot back towards her. He looked back, but she focused on getting the leash onto him.

"Finally!" She looped her fingers into his collar and bent to fasten the leash. Scamp barked as the horsemen came into view. She glanced up. A moment's stare and the leash fell from her hands. She lifted her skirts to sprint down the road.

Kit rode at the head of the detachment.

He spurred his horse. The animal shied a bit when he hauled up on it in front of her, but it slowed enough for him to dismount. He closed the few feet between them and grabbed her up as she ran into him. She threw her arms around his neck as he twirled her around. Her skirts sailed out around them like a cloud. Nothing was more wonderful than the feel of his body next to hers. He was dirty and smelled of horse and sweat and his days-old beard threatened to rub her face raw. Still, she was so happy she started to cry.

**

Her skirts settled as he lowered her to her feet. Kit released her enough to frame her face with his hands and kiss her. If he was a starving man then she was the finest of feasts. He gorged himself on her, gulping huge gobbets of her essence until the raging hunger within him began to ease. He knew the hunger would never cease, but starvation is a fearsome thing. His mouth left hers and started to nibble across her face. He tasted tears. He'd seen enough happy tears on his mother's face to know what they were, but he still asked.

"What are these, sweetest? I told you I was unharmed." He brushed an errant hair from her face and kissed the end of her nose.

He held her away from his body and hesitantly touched her belly. "A baby?" His voice held wonder and joy. She nodded and placed her hands over his. Troops streamed by them as they stood there. Neither noticed.

With the gnawing ache in his heart moving towards satisfaction, if not quite satiation, Kit began to notice the rest of the world. In particular, he realized that he couldn't hear much except Scamp's frantic barking. About the same time he felt the scratch of dog nails on his pants leg as the puppy frantically jumped up and down in his bid for attention.

"Yes, Scamp, I'm glad to see you, too." He bent to pick Scamp up and got a face full of dog tongue for his pains. Laughing, Kit grabbed his wife around the waist with his free hand. "Let's go home."

**

"'Od's Blood."

Deborah figured that Tarleton was moistened just enough to remove the superficial layer of courtesy with which he usually veiled himself. He'd consumed a prodigious quantity of various spirits, but until just recently he hadn't overstepped propriety. She feared that situation would not continue.

The prior week, Tarleton brought his Green Dragoons into Camden after a patrol. They sheltered-out a late winter storm and proceeded to make themselves comfortable. Over that time, Tarleton's words and behavior had gotten worse and worse. He was barely tolerable in Kit's presence. In Kit's absence, he was vile. Deborah avoided being alone with him at all costs.

"A colonial chit! Any i...dea wha' people er gon' say. 'Spect North mide even have you ar...rested fer treason."

For some reason he seemed to find that funny and burst into laughter. He tossed back the better part of a goblet of wine and signaled Rogers for more. "Ges think of it The new Earl of Wes...tridge an' 'is new Countess rotting in the Tower of London. 'Course," he leered at Smythe who assiduously studied the curve of his wine glass, "he can wine away the hours getting 'tween 'er legs an' fuckin' up new little traitors."

Deborah watched Kit toy with the blade of his dinner knife. From the far end of the table, she knew there was little she could do, even though she'd managed once or twice to catch his eye and shake of her head.

Tarleton looked down the table to where Harvey crushed his napkin with the effort of holding his tongue. "Wha' 'bout you, Harvey, like to get between her legs, lad?"

Harvey was only sixteen, but generations of manners, and polite set-downs, had been bred into him. "Sir," he spoke slowly and deliberately, "Invidious invective from an inebriated reprobate merits only disparagement."

Smythe nearly spat out the mouthful of beef he chewed. Deborah blinked as the meaning of the remarkable retort penetrated. Kit burst into laughter. Harvey looked blandly at Deborah. If she hadn't been watching him, she would have missed the slight lift of his eyebrows.

"Wha' he say?" Tarleton peered at Harvey.

"Guess you're drunker than I thought, Ban. Probably a good thing," Kit leaned back, holding his wine glass negligently off the arm of the chair. "If I though you were in the slightest bit sober, you'd be facing me over pistols at an ungodly early hour tomorrow morning. As it is..." He rose and strolled over to Tarleton's chair. Turning the chair from the table, he hauled the drunk up, planted a left fist in his belly and a right up under his chin.

Tarleton flew backwards, rolled, and emptied his guts.

"I'll deal with this right now." Turning, he glanced towards the servant. "Rogers, I'm sorry to put you to more work..."

"No problem at all, my lord, no problem at all. However, may I recommend that you retire to the parlor? I will see that the colonel is escorted upstairs."

Kit signaled to someone outside the dinning room as he escorted Deborah out. Two troopers strode in with carefully blank faces. They lifted the newly sobered Tarleton, spouting curses. "Damn your eyes, Marshall, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing? I'll have your ass for this and your bitch whore, too."

Kit left Deborah in the doorway and, with a feral grin, strolled over to Tarleton. Grabbing the man by the lapels, he threw him at the wall. Tarleton bounced off it and back into Kit's grasp.

"The only reason I'm not calling you out," he growled, "is because I respect General Cornwallis, and I suspect he would be very upset at the idea of a duel. However, I am not going to tolerate your continued insults to my wife. I think it would be best if your Dragoons reported to the General. You'll be leaving before dawn tomorrow morning. Better get some sleep."

Tarleton sagged when Kit heaved him aside.

Kit rejoined Deborah, but turned back. "Don't even think about whining to the General. A full report is going out now. I'm not going to recommend discipline, but neither will I allow any further discourtesy."

"Bastard!"

"That's something my lady mother will take exception to."

**

Several maps lay on the desk in seeming random order. Paperweights, cups, and even a rock held all the corners down flat. That provided the only clue that the arrangement was, perhaps, not indeed random. Kit bent over one section, peering at the details, when Deborah brought a tea tray in that afternoon.

When he straightened, his expression was not the pleased smile that usually greeted her. The grimness around his eyes did not bode well. She poured the tea in silence.

"What?"

He pursed his lips as he accepted the cup. "I don't think there's any doubt. Greene's marching on Camden."

Deborah sucked in her breath. "Oh!"

"That idiot Clinton's got Cornwallis heading north from Wilmington to Virginia, so he's no help. We'll be taking him on by ourselves."

She stepped over to pet Scamp who dozed in the corner of the study, on a pillow provided by a completely infatuated Rogers. Growing boys still needed their mid-day naps.

"I'd like to choose the field. I need some advantage here," he remarked the next evening. "The scouts say Greene has 1,200 men near Hobkirk Hill. I've only got 800 men and that includes the walking wounded."

Deborah returned to the table to look over his shoulder at the map of an area several miles to the north. Shuttering, she finally admitted the truth to herself: nothing she could do or say was going to change what was going to happen. She'd spent a goodly bit of the day arguing, begging, demanding that Kit avoid the confrontation. It all fell on deaf ears.

Now, she could only seek to mitigate the situation. "I'll go check on the medical supplies." She dawdled her way to the door, half lost in her mental inventory. This would not be the first battlefield hospital she'd organized. "What time will we be leaving tomorrow?"

Slowly Kit looked up from his map. "We?"

"Huh?" It wasn't the answer she was expecting.

He looked over his shoulder at her. "You," he emphasized with a lift of his eyebrows, "will be staying right here. You will not so much as set foot outside this house until I return. Is that clear?"

Frowning, she said, "This place is too far away for a battlefield hospital. I have to be closer."

"You're not going anywhere near the battlefield."

"Of course not. You don't have a hospital in the battle, it's behind the lines."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'No'?"

"Just that: no! You're not going anywhere."

The rising voices woke Scamp who stretched and watched his people argue.

"You don't have much choice, unless you intend to take care of the wounded yourself!"

Turning, he leaned back against the walnut table and crossed his arms. "I will deal with that particular problem. It's no concern of yours. You will stay in this house where it is safe and await my return."

Not only did he think her a milksop, but he belittled her abilities. How dare the man, even if he were her husband! "Have you gone soft in the head? You need me there! You're going to have scores of wounded, British and Continental, to deal with. Even if you impress every doctor in Camden, you'll still need me there to help."

Kit's jaw worked. "Madam, I will brook no argument on this matter. You will obey me!"

"Obey?" The word might have been dog droppings in her mouth. "I'm not going to obey the ranting of a fool!" Deborah thought the candle's flickering light caused his expression to grow bleak.

"Was it only a month and a half ago that you promised to do just that? I wonder how much the rest of the promises mean to you?" He turned back to his maps.

For a moment, Deborah stood open mouthed. Picking up her skirts, she raced from the room. Scamp yipped and trotted after her.

**

Deborah dozed and woke all night long. The fleeting moments of sleep were filled with images of Kit accusing her of the foulest crimes against their wedding vows. The waking eons held the even more frightening realization that Kit might not come back tomorrow.

When the sound of troop movements finally pushed her out of sleep, she knew Kit had never come to bed. The sound of the front door closing impelled her out of the bed and to the window. The soldiers stamped out their fires as they hastened into formation. There was still enough light to see Kit's stiff back stride out to his horse and mount.

"Mr. Smythe," she heard, "if you please."

Deborah bit the side of her hand as she watched them go. Tears flowed down her face. "I can't lose him, I just can't."

Scamp pawed at the hem of her night rail. She picked him up and cried into his bristly fur. "Oh, God, what if he's..." She buried her face in Scamp's side again, unwilling to even say the word. He squirmed a bit and then licked her face. As he cleaned off the salty tears, her thoughts kindled.

"No!" she ground out and tossed the startled dog on the bed. "I'm not going to let him die out there, not if I can help it." She tossed her clothes on, and she dashed down the stairs, Scamp at her heels.

"His lordship thought ye might be tryin' somethin'." Mr. Thomson rose from a chair near the bottom of the stairs. She stopped on the fourth riser. "Ah've me orders, m'um, an' there be some very particular ones about ye not leavin' t'ouse." He approached the bottom of the stairs.

"I have to go! You have to let me out of here!"

"Sorry, m'um."

"Mr. Thomson, I have to go. I'll never forgive myself if something happens to him, and I could have helped him. And what' worse, I'll never forgive you. You may fear a court martial, but believe me, you'll be praying for one by the time I get finished with you."

A shadow crossed the doorway off the stairs.

Thomson shook his head sadly. "Sorry, m'um, Ah wishes Ah could 'elp..."

A frying pan collided with the back of his head He toppled up the stairs at Deborah's feet.

"With the British, sweet reason sometimes comes at the end of cold steel." Rogers hefted the skillet as he knelt with Deborah to check Thomson. "He'll wake up with a lump and a headache and a darned good excuse."

"Oh thank you, Rogers. I have to go now."

"Yes, ma'am. I've a little filly out back that's not up to a man's weight, if you'd care to try her."

"Oh, Rogers!" She moved quickly towards the back of the house.

Scamp followed. She tried to hold him, back but Rogers picked him up. "I'll keep him 'till you return."

With a wave, she mounted the pony, thankful for full skirts and hellion brothers she'd had to keep up with, and turned the horse after the troops.

**

Two miles north of Camden, she saw the British troops. They were advancing, shoulder-to-shoulder, on the barely-visible Continental soldiers. "Oh merciful Jesu, it's already begun," she whispered. "Where is the...there it is." The back lines and the field hospital appeared as she rode around a bend in the road.

The open-air hospital consisted of rows of cots and tables set back from the anticipated battlefield. Soldiers assigned as orderlies milled about, waiting for the first of the wounded to be delivered. Dr. Garden and another man talked near the center of the assembly. They had removed their jackets, despite the coolness of the morning, and replaced them with stained butcher's aprons. Dr. Garden broke off his conversation when he saw her.

"I didn't think you'd be here, Mistress, ah, my lady."

"Indeed, you aren't the only one." She gave him a level look.

He cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. "Well, you're here and heaven knows we'll be able to use your help."

"Wounded!" sounded up the track from the battle.

**

It seemed like they'd been at it forever. Every able-bodied person was either stitching, bandaging, mopping, fetching or cutting something. The cloud of gun powder drifted over the hospital, pinching her nostrils and watering her eyes. Deborah was dirty and bloodstained and had long-since stopped flinching at the sight of each new mangled body. She cleaned and stitched and bandaged as fast as she could, trying to bring a small amount of comfort in the middle of hell.

She'd just tied off a bandage when a beloved voice bellowed, "Doctor!" Kit strode up carrying a slight body, dripping blood: Lt. Harvey.

"Here," she directed, starting to strip away shredded, gory cloth even before they put the boy down.

"Bloody hell, what are you doing here? I told you do stay home. Can't you..."

"I'm needed here." She looked up quickly as she knelt beside the young man.

Kit ran a filthy hand through is hair. "Damn you...I have to go." He rushed back to the battle, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he left. She caught a glimpse of red on the steel before she turned back to Lt. Harvey. A hand tightened around her entrails.

The relatively minor wounds on his arms and legs might have concerned her if not for the bubbling red hole in his chest. Blood already dribbled from his mouth He gasped for air he could not breathe. She wiped the dirt and gore from his face. There was little else she could do. His hand closed around hers. No power on earth could prevent what was going to happen. She could only provide comfort.

The other wounded men were faceless, nameless. This one she knew. He was a friend, and he would die in her arms. Tears fell from her face to dilute the blood soaking his blouse.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" he choked out.

Lies would serve no purpose, she knew. "Yes," she said as gently as she could.

He tried to speak and only coughed blood. She wiped it away. He tried again. "Tell," he coughed, "tell my uncle I died like a soldier."

Her voice caught in her throat, but she managed, "I will."

He tried to say "Thank you" but only succeeded in coughing more blood. She reached up to wipe his mouth, but he stiffened and then relaxed into death.

Deborah stiffened with him, knowing what was happening and unable to stop it. She felt as if she were in someone else's body as she folded his hands over the hole in his chest. An orderly dragged a sheet over the body. Deborah stumbled to her feet and blindly headed for the group of nearby trees. There were no tears, but her body trembled like an aspen leaf in a fall breeze. She looked around her. The trees in the grove were showing new buds. A dogwood in the group flaunted its new dress of white flowers. Her eyes saw it but none of it made sense. How could the world be springing to life with all the carnage around?

A shout and pounding hooves ripped her out of her brown study. She looked up to see three horsemen bearing down on her at full gallop. Startled, she took a step towards the hospital when a shout stopped her. The lead horseman looked...

"Papa!" She pulled up her skirts and ran towards them. "Papa!" Adam and Eli rode with him. The three hauled up their horses just in front of her. Each had a pistol in hand. "What are you doing...?"

Eli shoved his pistol in his pants and reached down. He grabbed her arm. "Get up!" he ordered and caught her around the waist. Even with the horse fidgeting he managed to lift her easily up in front of her.

"Let's go," General Daniel Morgan ordered.

"Papa!" Deborah yelled, "No!"

None of the men paid any attention.

**

At the edge of the battlefield, Col. Lord Christopher Marshall looked up during a momentary pause in the fighting around him to see three men on horseback abduct his wife. "Deborah!" he bellowed and started after her. A sword flashing on his immediate left gave him other things to think about.

Chapter 21

"Eli Morgan, we've been going flat out for half an hour. If you don't slow this horse down and tell me what's going on, I swear I'll have your worthless hide."

Eli smiled his shark's grin. "Aw, don't go doing that little chick. You know Margery Ashland has a fierce hankering for this hide of mine. Come to think of it, Anne Norris does, too."

He did, however, take a long, searching look over his shoulder at the road behind them. Adam and her father had each made obvious departures from the main turnpike before she and Eli had left it. No one followed them Eli finally drew the horse to a halt. He listened for almost a full minute and then turned his horse west.

"What is going on? How did you find me? Is everyone all right? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Don't ask me, little one, I'm just steering this horse."

After several stops, listenings, and direction changes, they arrived at a tumbled-down shack, half a mile past no-where. The only interesting thing about it was the familiar carriage parked at the side. Deborah sat up a little straighter as Eli drew the horse to a halt.
Daniel Morgan's bulk filled the door-less doorway.

"Papa!" She slid from the horse and ran to his arms.

"Gently, little chick, gently. These ol' bones have had a powerful shaking these past few days."

"Papa," she demanded as soon as she released him. "What's going on? Didn't you..."

"Later, little one. Let's get rolling." He addressed the latter to his sons. "Come." His skillet-sized hand pushed her towards the carriage.

Inside the comfortable, if conservative, carriage, Deborah turned on her father. "Papa, for the love of God, listen to me."

"Where did you learn that kind of language, young lady?"

"From you, of course...and all the other soldiers I've been around lately."

"Humph! Better watch it. Your mother will wash your mouth out with soap...and mine...if she hears it." His eyes twinkled, and he pulled her over for a big hug. "Lordy, it's good to have you back. I nearly took Adam apart when he came back without you."

"Papa, you have no right to abduct me like that."

"I have every right in the world, young lady. I'm your father. It is my right and my responsibility to protect you from unscrupulous, ravishing men."

"Unscrupulous...Papa, Kit's my husband. The only way he's 'ravished' me is the same way you 'ravish' Mama."

"He's taken advantage of an innocent young woman."

"Where did you get such drivel? Did Grandpa say the same thing when you married Mama?"

Morgan looked at her but said nothing.

After a moment, she burst out, "I'm just fine, Papa. Didn't you get my letter?"

"Yes, we got your letter, and we got the one that Kershaw woman wrote. Know of her husband. Damn fine man to be shipped off to Bermuda."

Deborah looked sideways at him. "Sarah sent a letter?"

"Of course she did. She's your friend, and all. Explained how you had to sound all cheery in the letter but that you'd been dishonored and coerced into a travesty of a marriage."

"What! You're teasing me! Sarah wouldn't say such things."

Wordlessly he looked at her and reached into his coat. The seal was broken and her father's direction written on the outside.

"Dear Sir; I am a friend of your daughter, Deborah Morgan. You may be acquainted with

my husband, Joseph Kershaw, a fervent worker in the Continental cause, now unjustly

imprisoned. As your daughter's friend, I feel it is incumbent on me to inform you of the true

facts behind recent events. Deborah has been dishonored and betrayed into marriage with a

disreputable British officer who now has the audacity to style himself 'Lord Westridge.' I

believe this was done with the sole purpose of tricking and coercing Deborah to betray you

and our glorious and righteous cause to the perfidious British. I am of the firm opinion that

once he has achieved his dastardly aims, Marshall, or Westridge, as he now calls himself,

will discard Deborah in a most callous and heartless manner. Please rescue your daughter

before this English monster succeeds in his most awful plan. Yrs respectfully, Sarah

Kershaw"

"I don't believe this! How could she write such lies?" Deborah stared at the empty seat across from them. How could Sarah write such things? She knew they weren't...

Small things dripped on Deborah's memory, like the last few drops from a summer storm. Sarah offering sanctuary. Sarah counseling to wait on the marriage. Sarah making cutting comments about Kit. Sarah saying she'd take care of the letter.

Her breath caught on a sob. "I thought she was my friend."

Morgan patted the clenched hand on her lap. "I suspect she is. She just views the situation a little differently than you do. If Mistress Kershaw's half the person her husband is, I reckon she really believes what she wrote to be the Gospel Truth."

Deborah scanned the misleading letter. "You're probably right. But that doesn't make anything she said true."

"No, it doesn't." At her look of outrage, he added, "I know my daughter well enough to realize that she couldn't easily be taken in by a conniving lobster-back. However, I did want to set your mother's mind at ease. It was time for you to come home, anyway. When this mess is over, I reckon your husband'll know where to find you." His face held a complacent look as he glanced out the window.

"As to your grandfather, he accused me of just that and to my face. He was right."

She shook her head. "Papa, you're going to make an absolutely outrageous grandfather this fall."

General Daniel Morgan's head snapped around, and his mouth opened as he stared at her stomach.

**

Kit watched the Continental troops melt away in retreat. His British gutter-scrapings had held the field. He leaned on a nearby tree branch, sword digging into the dirt, exhaustion seeping into his bones. For a moment, the field of carnage lost focus then he snapped up and ran toward the field hospital.

"Who saw my wife?' he yelled to the hospital in general.

One of the orderlies stepped forward. "Me thinks she done gone wi' at lack-wit brother of hers, only so's he didn't ride like no lack-wit I've ever seen."

Kit eyed the direction they'd gone. If the brother, Allen, no Adam, was with her, then the abductors were her family. The truly massive man among them was probably none other than Daniel Morgan, himself.

He sprinted towards his horse, and then slowed. He was exhausted, worse than useless, and his men were, too. The Morgans had several hours head start on him, and he had a battlefield to clean up. He stared off into the distance as the demands of his men warred with his desire to retrieve his wife. He shoulders slumped as he calculated the bottom line. His wife was safe; his men needed him.

Enraged at the choice he had to make, he flung his sword aside, much to the astonishment of the young soldier whose feet it landed near. Kit ignored the yelp as he stalked back to the cleanup...and congratulations.

**

"Eli, don't be a moonling. I had enough of that with Adam." Eli rode as an outrider. He'd been singing nursery songs for the last half hour. Deborah's irritation with her bored brother edged just short of fratricide.

Adam's bellow of outrage reverberated from the driver's seat throughout the woods. "I'll have you know that was a splendid piece of acting. I can still see Tarleton's face when I picked my nose and reached..."

"Adam," Eli retorted, 'if I hear that story again, I'll be forced to shoot you to put us all out of our misery."

At the mention of shooting, Deborah glanced at the two rifles on the opposite seat. Wickedly lethal in the hands of a trained marksman, they vastly out-performed the English Brown Bess in several recent battles. In these chancy times, it was foolish to travel without them or the loaded pistols in the door pockets.

The General did not expect trouble. The group had turned back west, to the edge of the hinterland before heading north. Few British troops bothered to venture so far west, but soon the road would take them back eastward. For the moment, he was able to nap, talk, and act as a referee among his three most raucous offspring. He thanked God for every minute of it.

**

Kit felt every bloody step the horse took. Each one brought him closer to an empty house. "She's gone, she's gone, she's gone," the hooves chanted until he thought he'd lose his mind.

**

Five days on the road made everyone bored and irritable. Charlottesville lay a few miles in front of them, but it was too early in the day to stop there. That meant taking pot luck on a road-side inn. Deborah didn't relish the idea. The last one boasted a substantial number of fleas as guests. Anyway, they'd been making good time, considering the mountainous terrain. With any luck, they'd be home late tomorrow.

In the meantime, she applied herself to her knitting. She'd whittled a pair of needles from a long, straight twig and purchased some yarn with a few of the coins left in her pocket. A baby blanket grew from the needles.

"We'll stop near Charlottesville for an hour or so."

Her father's words surprised her, and she raised an eyebrow in question.

"Benjamin Harrison, Patrick Henry, and Thomas Nelson are there with Thomas Jefferson at Monticello. I have a couple of ideas I'd like to put by them. I'd like you to have a look-in at Mrs. Jefferson. Tom said Martha is in the family way again and is doing rather poorly."

After a while, Deborah could see Monticello's dome rising above the trees. If nothing else, a break would be welcomed. As comfortable as Papa's carriage was, her bottom was getting sore. The stately house rose in the distance, but instead of green serenity, smoke billowed above the grounds. Shouting punctuated by screaming horses assaulted the tranquility.

Adam, riding at the moment, shouted a warning, and Deborah felt the carriage horses lurch into a gallop. A terrible foreboding filled her. The General reached for his fire arms and checked the loading. Deborah pulled hers from the door pocket and checked it, too.

Eli shouted down from the driver's seat, "Green jackets! Could be Tarleton and his bunch!"

Deborah froze. Tarleton hated every one of them, except Eli, with a deep, personal passion. This was not going to be just a professional skirmish.

Half a dozen or so men on horseback wheeled around the house, crisscrossing the great front lawn in front of the house. Bursts of gunfire from the nearby stables and trees showed the resistance. The great doors of the house were thrown open. As the carriage approached down the right-hand driveway, Deborah could see a man on horseback inside the entry hall. A group of black servants streamed out of the house like a covey of flushed birds, before the flashing sword of the rider. Tarleton! He raised his sword to strike at the nearest man. Adam fired his pistol. The shot missed but Tarleton turned to face the threat rather than the victim.

A dragoon rode towards Deborah's side of the coach, brandishing his sword. His attention focused on Eli at the reins. Deborah watched from the shelter of the coach door. The man's mouth opened. He must be yelling, she thought, but she couldn't distinguish the sound from the din. The horse tossed foam from his mouth. The dragoon lifted his sword above his head, preparing to strike. Deborah watched him, her eyes narrowed, her hands in her lap. He came in range, still she waited. They were both moving. The shot would be tricky. She needed to be close enough to be very, very accurate, yet not close enough to endanger Eli should she miss. About 10 yards should do it.

This must be how a hawk feels when it spots a rabbit. The dragoon wasn't a rabbit, more like a rabid wolf, and she felt more compassion for the hapless wolf.

She pulled the trigger just as the carriage hit a rock. With her aim off, she was surprised to see a red flower blossom on the man's shoulder. He tumbled off the horse, and that was all she saw of him.

All her loading supplies sat close to hand; she immediately reloaded. Tarleton barreled down the center of the lawn toward the coach. Even working left-handed, he still made a formidable fighting machine. Deborah glanced up, but reserved most of her attention for the pistol. Her motions were precise and deliberate. Finished. She raised her pistol to the window, bracing her hand on the frame and let him see her aiming directly at him.

He pulled up. He knew he was out of range. He knew she was the one on the other end of the pistol.

He father had just reloaded one of the rifles. She grabbed it and aimed it out the window. Tarleton went from safely thumbing his nose at her to being easy pickings.

He knew it. Shouting and waving his sword, he pulled back and gathered his troops. In a few minutes, all that was left of them was dust drifting across the road.

Jefferson and his cronies had been warned of the attack and escaped earlier. They left the womenfolk and slaves behind, perhaps under the impression that Tarleton wouldn't harm innocents. General Morgan had a few choice words to say about that, but he didn't figure the Colonel to return for an obviously fruitless mission.

Nevertheless, the Morgans changed their plans and stayed the night.

**

He knew Thomson was watching him. Thomson had been watching him for weeks now. Thomson danced around him like he was one of those obnoxious American creatures they called skunks. Kit knew if he had black and white fur, his tail would be straight up in perpetual annoyance and warning. He was ready to fire on anyone unlucky enough to be in range.

He knew this, but it didn't make him any easier to be around. After all, he'd "fired" on a large number of his men already. One poor sot got it because there was a miniscule smut on his white-chalked breeches.

He would have to get control of himself. Resting his chin on his hand, he sat alone, again, at the great dining table for dinner. None of the other officers dared join him. Only Scamp sat under the table, lonely for his lady and not completely at ease with his lord.

Kit, he muttered to himself, you really have to get yourself under control, old man.

Deborah's letter arrived two weeks after she was abducted. It, at least, reassured him of her safety. How he wanted to touch that blossoming stomach and swelling breasts. Unfortunately, she was there, and he was stuck here. Damnation! He had to get his mind out of his breeches and get to work!

This was all her fault! If she hadn't gone off with them, he could concentrate. When he got his hands on her, he would seriously contemplate the satisfaction of paddling her pretty little butt until she couldn't sit down! But first he had to get his hands on her.

The noise at the door barely dented his self-pity.

Roger's voice saying, "This way, my lady," had his head snapping up and hope dancing in his brain.

"Oh, my dearest Kit," Lady Claudia breezed in on a cloud of midnight blue silks and scents, "I was desolated to hear about your father and brother. I'm sure we shall have to console each other, for my dear Oliver has died, too." Lady Claudia shucked her cloak as she crossed the room and opened her arms wide.

"Shit," Kit muttered, "what evil genius sent you here?"

Claudia enveloped him in her embrace. She held his face and kissed him full on the lips. Her tongue probed his closed mouth, but he refused to rise to the bait. In fact, he had to work hard not to gag. The perfume that had led her charge on the room threatened to overwhelm his unarmored nose as she pushed her deadly décolleté against his chest.

Her hands wandered from his back to his chest, obviously seeking to rekindle old memories and desires. Kit stood still and silent as she kneaded and caresses. He marveled at his lack of response to this most blatantly sexual of females. Deborah would be proud of him. He knew it was a shade childish, and his mouth twitched at that thought.

Lady Claudia happened to be looking up. "So you like this, do you? You were always the man for me, just as I'm the woman for you."

Kit grabbed her wrists, especially since one of the hands was traveling in a direction that even his basic disinterest would find hard to ignore.

"So your spies have told you I've come into the title, eh?" He paused a moment, "Too bad they didn't tell you that I've also taken a countess. It would have saved you a trip."

"A countess! You've married? Who could you possibly marry?"

The look on her face told Kit she'd spoken before she thought. He couldn't resist, "Why I married the daughter of a general."

He could almost see the names racing through her head.

"Who? Is it that Friday-faced chit of Howe's? Or Clinton's? She's been on the shelf for years. They say she's avoided marriage because she doesn't like men."

Kit moved away from her and leaned against the dining table.

"Who is it?"

He grinned, knowing it would infuriate her. "Daniel Morgan's girl."

"Morgan? Where's he? Is he now here? Morgan...Bloody hell! Morgan!"

"Watch your language, my dear. Most unladylike. Yes, Morgan. Deborah consented to be my wife before we heard of my father's death." More to himself, he added, "Which is probably a good thing because she certainly wouldn't have if we'd heard before we were married."

"Deb...? You married that trollop that insulted me! You chose a colonial slut over...," she swallowed a word and drew in a quick breath," over all the titled ladies in England? How could you dishonor your name so?"

Kit's eyes narrowed. "Lady Claudia," he began most formally, "you forget yourself. The lady in question, and she is most undeniably a lady, is indeed the daughter of a rather successful Continental general. In addition, she does have a title. Lastly, and most importantly, she is my wife, and I will gladly give her all the protection and care that position allows me. Do we understand each other?"

Grimly, Kit watched her sputter through her apologies and protestations of friendship. He bowed and made all the polite noises when she left for Camden.

When he finally saw her out the door, he slumped against the entry table. "Whew! That was something I never want to repeat."

Rogers, who was closing the great door, bowed his head in respect and agreement. "Just so, sir, just so."

**

Deborah gritted her teeth. "Betty, if you don't stop fussing, I won't be responsible for my actions. You've been hovering over me like a mother hen with chicks ever since I got home."

Betty ignored her mistress's ill temper. After all her babies and all Miss Abigail's babies, she knew the reason for the outburst was sticking out in front of her little chick's belly. That it was the first of her charges to present her with a baby to spoil made it an event worth fussing over. "Don' you go giving me no sass, girl. You drinks this here posset while it's warm like I tells you, now you hear." Deborah's eyes rolled. "Go on, now."

Abigail Morgan looked up from her embroidery. "Best do as she says, Deborah. Betty has bossed more breeding women through their pregnancies than I can count."

"And that includes you, Miss Abigail. You go on and tell her now how easy things went, even with those three cockerel's of yours being half-growed when they hatched."

Abigail winced at the memory. "Yes, I remember it. I was there. Drink your posset, darling."

Betty watched the hot drink go down and removed the cup, muttering plans for "her" baby as she left the room.

"Mother..." Deborah began with a whine.

"Don't argue, my love," Abigail advised. "You won't win. Learn to limit your battles to those you can win. In your condition, she inevitably comes out on top."

Deborah looked down at her belly under the baby booties she was knitting. Lacings were a thing of the past at almost eight months gone. She sighed.

Masculine voices and the clomp of boots announced Deborah's father and Adam, Eli having left some weeks before to rejoin General Pickens. A bark of laughter suggested a successful day's hunting. The door to the parlor swung open.

Abigail did not look up from her embroidery. "Good afternoon, Mr. Morgan. Mercy just cleaned this floor today. I trust you have removed your boots."

The burly hero and his equally burly son stopped in their tracks. "Good afternoon, my love, we, ah, we forgot. We'll see to it, ah, immediately." They backed out, quietly retracing their steps.

Abigail Morgan smiled serenely down at her embroidery and then looked up at her daughter. Her eyebrows flashed up and down. "You just have to know how to handle them. They're really a bit like puppies. Get them young and train them right."

Female laughter sounded through the house.

**

16 September, 1781

My beloved wife: We have been reunited with General Cornwallis's troops at their position

near Yorktown. The General sends his warmest regards and holds forth some small hope of

allowing me leave to see you. I pray you and the baby are doing well. I miss you terribly. No

more so than when, just before our orders to remove here arrived, Lady Claudia arrived,

fully prepared to comfort me on the loss of my father and brother, as I was to comfort her on

the loss of her husband. I am proud to say that she left rather quickly, uncomforting and

uncomforted. Scamp is here with me, but he also misses his 'mama.' My respects to your

family and much love to you. K

**

Deborah sat on the porch with the housemaid Mercy, enjoying the fall weather. The autumn colors of the Virginia highlands never failed to enchant and the late October day framed them perfectly. Deborah found every excuse to be outside. The two of them were shelling peas and peeling turnips when Michael, the blacksmith who had gone into town on an errand, whipped his horse up the drive to the house. He was yelling something Deborah couldn't understand until he got close to the house.

"Cornwallis's surrendered at Yorktown; Cornwallis's surrendered at Yorktown."

Deborah jumped up, scattering peas all over the porch. For a moment, the world turned black. She grabbed the railing to steady herself then demanded, "When, what happened, was there a battle?'

Daniel Morgan strode from the house. "What's the commotion?"

Michael slid from the horse, gulped a breath, and repeated, "Cornwallis's surrendered at Yorktown on the seventeenth. Washington sealed 'em up tighter 'en a cork in a bottle. The limey's couldn't get through the French ships and Corny gave up wi'narry a fight. They say that's all the fight the redcoats ha' got in 'em.

Morgan nodded, "Yes, Clinton knows that Cornwallis had the only army worth the name. With it broken, the war is essentially over. Now, it's just a matter of convincing His Mad Majesty and his ministers of that fact."

Deborah pressed her hand to her bulging belly. Her pregnancy had progressed from the "blooming" to the "uncomfortable" stage. But, the only thing she could think about was that Kit would be paroled and out of the fighting.

Chapter 22

A black cloud hung over the British troops, even though the late October day shown clear and crisp. The bloody colonials had been singing "Yankee Doodle" and "The World Turned Upside Down" for two interminable days now. Kit thought he'd go out of his mind if he heard

"If buttercups buzz'd after the bee

If boats were on land, churches on sea

If ponies rode men and grass ate cows,

And cats should be chased into holes by the mouse

If the mamas sold their babies

To the Gypsies for half a crown

If summer were spring

And the other way around,

Then all the world would be upside down!" once more. It wasn't even good poetry. Cornwallis, damn his eyes, plead indisposition for the surrender and stayed in his tent, but the rest of the thatch-gallows had to march on with it.

Still, he couldn't complain too much. Life as a prisoner of war of the Americans, as they were calling themselves, could have been worse. The royal troops and officers were reasonably free to move about, provided they had given their parole and surrendered their arms.

He felt naked without his sword! And helpless! It was galling to think this bunch of farmers and silversmiths had control of his destiny.

Nevertheless, duty was duty, even under miserable circumstances, and so he continued his inspection of his men. Besides checking on them, it let them see him. They knew their officers were with them all the way.

Kit had just finished helping two soldiers re-stake a tent, earning their everlasting wonderment, when a large American officer bore down on him. The man stood tall and fair and bulky, but not an ounce of fat on him. Something about him looked familiar, but Kit didn't think he'd ever met him. Those eyes looked just...

"Damnation, it's another Morgan."

"Most certainly. Now, do I beat you into the ground or congratulate my new brother?"

"Do I have a choice?"

The Morgan cocked an eyebrow. "Since you've taken on that little spitfire, maybe I should just offer my condolences. Joshua Morgan." He offered his hand.

"Christopher Marshall, Kit to my family." Joshua's hand swallowed his, but the grasp was friendly. "Yes, she does have a mind of her own, doesn't she?"

Joshua grinned. "I see you know exactly what you got yourself into. Let's go talk."

**

Joshua secured Kit an interview with General Washington, himself. The General, in an expansive mood despite Cornwallis's refusal to attend the surrender ceremony, heard him out and granted him a safe-conduct pass. Offering his congratulations on Kit's marriage, he wished he could see his Mistress Washington.

As he prepared to leave with Washington's greetings to Morgan and Joshua's letter to his family, Thomson approached him with an offer to act as his batman, "or wha'ever it's the quality call it." Kit thought for a moment and took the sergeant into his service.

They pushed their horses as fast as possible from Yorktown to northern Virginia and made the trip in two days. They'd been stopped by Continental militia once, north of Fredericksburg on their second day, but General Washington's elegant signature on the bottom of the papers had them on their way in short order.

Kit reined his horse to a halt as they cleared the edge of the forest several miles south of Charles Town. Thomson pulled up beside his and gave a low whistle. At the sound, Scamp stuck his head out of the small bag strapped to the saddle. Thomson reached around to ruffle the wiry fur on his head. The dog's confinement was almost over.

"Who'd a thought it? That little waif came from this!"

They looked over a huge complex of buildings, not as elegant as Monticello, but impressive, none the less. Convenience and utility, rather than symmetry seemed to be the guiding principle of the layout. Kit recognized stables, a smithy, and corrals lining one side, while other, less identifiable structures faced them.

"Her father's a general, Thomson."

"Aye, m'lord, but Continentals don't pick their officers just from the swells. Look a' Morgan, here. 'E was a teamster for Braddock when we fought the Frenchies."

"Umm, but no one ever said the man was stupid. Ban can attest to that, much as he might not like it."

People working in the courtyard started to notice two British soldiers studying them. Guns appeared in a number of hands, and sharp or pointed instruments in others. Several horsemen charged them.

"Sir?" The soldier in Thomson waited for orders, but he was plainly worried.

"Stand your ground, Sergeant. Stand your ground. Give them no cause."

A horseman approached at a gallop. Thomson gasped, "Why it's..."

Kit straightened and then sat back in his saddle. "Yes, it most certainly is."

Adam pulled to a halt along side them, a wry grin on his face. "Welcome to 'Wagon's Rest,' Colonel. We've been expecting you. Sorry about the rather bristly welcome. We've had some deserters wandering through." He nodded to Thomson. "Good to see you, too, Mr. Thomson. I hope we can actually get to know each other." He wheeled his horse toward the house and started back.

They'd gone only a few paces before Kit spied the object of his search. He spurred his horse, leaving the other two in the dust.

Adam looked back at Thomson who was focused exclusively on the house. Reining in his horse so that he could ride abreast of the sergeant, he asked, "Gonna forgive me? I did what I had to do. Doesn't mean that I had to like it. I think you're a good man, and I would be proud to call you my friend. I'll even overlook your being British."

The latter, said with such sincerity, made Thomson smile, grudgingly at first, but the grin gradually grew.

"Aye, lad, ye did what ye 'ad to do. I'll not 'old that against ye."

**

Deborah came out to investigate the commotion. "British soldiers" was being whispered about in hysterical, if hushed, tones. The likelihood of an attack was small, but still very real. She stood on the porch, not wanting to go down the stairs. Stairs were becoming a real problem this late in her pregnancy. An officer, by the look of his hat, and a soldier sat astride horses at the edge of the clearing. Adam approached them. Something about the officer looked...It was Kit! Holding tightly to the banister, she lumbered down the stairs, cursing her slowness and awkward gait. He was here!

Kit charged straight across the lawn and hauled his horse more or less to a stop. He vaulted out of the saddle and swept her off her feet.

It wasn't comfortable, being held so close, but she was too happy to worry about small discomforts. Laughing and crying at the same time, all she could say was his name, over and over again.

Footsteps and the thump of a cane sounded on the porch. Her father's rheumatism was acting up today. He could be a bit testy, not that she blamed him, but she could have wished for a better mood.

"So, this is the scoundrel who thinks he can steal my little girl right out from under my nose, humm." The rumble of his voice rattled the window glass.

Kit set her on her feet, kissed her nose, and looked over her shoulder. "Yes, sir, I did, and I intend to keep her for a long, long time." He squeezed her waist, or what was left of it. "I hope you don't mind adding another son to your collection."

Morgan studied the two young people trying to meld into one. A pensive look swept over his weather-beaten features and then blew away.

Thomson released the barking, yipping dog from his traveling prison. Scamp made a bee-line for his lady. Kit bent down and scooped him up for Deborah to receive the obligatory dog kisses and tail wags.

"You just might do, Christopher Marshall, you just might do."

**

"What could they possibly be doing in there?" Deborah asked her mother. After dinner, the gentlemen retired to the library. That had been a while ago. Abigail and her daughter sat in the warm and cozy family parlor. Of course, Deborah would have been warm in a snowstorm. Pregnancy had her warm as well as uncomfortable. Scamp, however, took advantage of the fireplace to lie on the hearth rug in front of the fire and gnaw on a bone cook had slipped him earlier. Deborah made a mental note to talk to that soft-hearted woman, or Scamp would be rolling instead of walking through life.

"I couldn't say, my love, but I expect they will be finished when they are finished." Abigail stitched complacently on an elegant beaded purse that was to form part of Deborah's trousseau, if a little belated. The design was a subtle Bald Eagle, the bird that the Continental Congress had recently decided would be the national emblem. Ben Franklin had wanted the wily Turkey, but he was overruled in favor of the majestic eagle. The bag promised to be a fitting accessory for Deborah's new lifestyle, but Abigail did not want anyone to forget her daughter's roots.

The parlor door opened. Deborah held her breath. Her father entered, leaning heavily on his cane. Hellfire must be rioting in his joints. She made a mental note to get his tonic. He lumbered to his massive arm chair near the fire and dropped into it with a sigh. Adam came in next, looking...thoughtful? Although he was highly intelligent, thoughtful was not a word she would apply to her youngest brother.

Kit entered last. He'd looked better after he fought for his life against his cousin. Walking over to her chair, he put his hand on her shoulder. Smiling up at him, she reached to cover his hand with hers. He didn't return the smile. Worried, Deborah looked to her father.

General Morgan rubbed his knee, seemingly oblivious to the tensions in the room. Finally he spoke. "Well, Abigail, it seems your daughter has gone and gotten herself married to a rascally British lord all right and tight. Showed me his marriage lines and his letters of credit and all. He's bolder 'en brass and richer 'en God..."

"Daniel Morgan!"

"...But I think he'll do."

Kit squeezed Deborah's shoulder, and she squeezed his hand. This time he returned her smile.

"I am, however, none too pleased with his plans to take her back to England."

Abigail looked up from her beading. "What did you expect, my dear? That they'd stay here?"

"Well," he cleared his throat, "yes."

"Would you have stayed with my parents after we were married?"

From the side of the room where he leaned against a large curiosity cabinet, Adam snorted.

"Lord help me, no!" Morgan's gaze swept the room without looking at anything. Abigail looked expectant but said nothing. "Well, I thought...hoped we could arrange...dammit! I want..."

"Daniel." There was no heat in the word, no reproof, but Morgan slumped down in his chair, muttering, and reached for his pipe.

Deborah had seen her mother win arguments with her giant warrior before, and she just smiled.

Kit's mouth fell open.

Scamp looked up at his people and cocked his head.

**

"Hell and damnation, I thought they'd never leave us alone!" Kit kicked the door closed and grabbed for his wife in one smooth motion. Deborah turned into his embrace with less grace but equal fervor.

"Merciful God, I've missed you! I'd turn to say something to you, and all I'd see was that damned green-striped wall silk. Or I'd hear the door open and look up for you, only to find Thomson's ugly horse face staring at me. I thought I'd go out of my mind." He framed her face with his hands and kissed her with all the longing she's been feeling. His mouth slanted across hers, greedily opening them both to allow them to taste. "I've waited so long..." His hands snaked around her back to unbutton her dress.

"Kit?" He nibbled on her ear and for a moment she lost track of everything she was going to say. "Kit, you have to listen." She braced herself against his upper arms and pushed. Surprise and frustration at being denied showed on his face, but he granted her a few inches of space and his attention.

This time, she framed his face. "My dearest, we can't."

"Can't what?" He looked down at her in confusion.

"Make love." It was a bombshell of a statement. His eyes widened with outrage. "The baby—I'm too far along. It might hurt the baby."

She could see the moment realization struck. His shoulders dropped and his eyes closed. He turned away from her and ran a hand through his hair. "Oh God, of course. I forgot." Rubbing the back of his neck, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, I was so excited to have you back again, it's been so long..."

"I know, I know. It's the same for me." She crossed over and hugged his back.

He straightened and looked over his shoulder at her. "I think it would be best if I put up somewhere else. I'm not sure I could just sleep next to you." His expression was wry.

She walked around him and slipped his jacket off his shoulders. He resisted, but she pulled it off and tossed it on the chair in the corner.

"My love, this isn't such a good idea." His voice sounded strangled, and she gave him a wicked little grin.

"Well, my mother, bless her heart," she untied his cravat and tossed it aside, "happened to mention that," she undid several buttons of his shirt before he grabbed her hand, "there are ways," she loosed her hands and resumed her task, "to remedy the situation," she spread the shirt wide open, "for both of us." She looked up at him through her eyelashes, pulled him closer, and daintily licked around one hard male nipple.

He shuddered and groaned. "Oh, yes, there is. God bless your mother."

**

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Kit bolted from the bed. He tossed quilts and dislodged Deborah from the cozy nest she'd made in the hollow of his shoulder. He also terminated the first tranquil night's sleep she'd had in months. "Wha...uh...Kit...?"

Harvest moonlight seeping through the curtain barely allowed her to see his face. He was staring at her. His wild-eyed look banished any remnant of sleep she might have been harboring. He pointed at her burgeoning belly, "The...the baby kicked me!"

She blinked once and then burst into laughter. "The little monster has been kicking me for months. It's about time you got walloped now and again."

Kit ran his hand through sleep-tousled hair and chuckled sheepishly. "Well, I guess that, being a gentleman and a soldier of the King, I can withstand such a beating. But, bloody hell, that was a boot."

"Could just as well have been an elbow. Come back to bed."

**

A week after Kit's arrival, the Morgan clan headed out before dawn to the White's farm a few miles away. Mr. White's barn had been destroyed that summer when a horse knocked a lantern into a bale of hay. White's house sat up on a small ridge, while the barn was to go back on the flats below it.

Kit came along, partly because it was expected, but partly because he was entranced by the idea of a community coming together to build a barn. Along with the General's explanation last night of local custom, he had presented Kit with a Barlow jack knife. The horn of the casing sported carvings of flying geese. Kit guessed that it was quite old from the wear patterns on the handle even before Morgan told him the knife was his grandfather's. "A good knife is like a good woman. Treat them with care and respect, and they'll be an invaluable helpmate all your life."

For the time being, at least, Kit would keep the knife close, if only as a sign of appreciation.

The raising went well. Since the new barn simply replaced the old one, the foundation holes would be reused. The owner and his people had already dug them out. Although he had some basic knowledge of construction, Kit had no idea what was to happen. He noted men of all estates at the gathering, Thomson also came to help, but he blended more easily into the crowd. At first the men had looked on Kit in his British officer's uniform as something to be avoided. He was mildly surprised when the obvious gentlemen shucked their jackets and helped haul the pre-made wall frames into place. Kit shrugged and did likewise. That and the Morgan family connection gained him acceptance and a goodly measure of congeniality.

White tacitly acknowledged the General's precedence when he asked Morgan to call the orders of the actual raising.

The ladies prepared meals, provided drinks, and brought small supplies. In deference to her condition, Deborah was assigned the job of cutting and plating the pies.

By late afternoon, the four wall frames stood vertical, the rafters were nailed in place and the final delicate work of setting the ridge pole was about to begin. Kit stood with the General, White and several other men, discussing the best approach to the job. He observed that his formerly white breeches sported a ubiquitous shade of brown.

A shout of greeting rose at the edge of the gathering. Kit turned to see Eli ride in, not returning the greetings but obviously looking for something or someone. The moment Eli saw him, their eyes locked. Eli changed direction, and Kit knew that he was the goal of the search. The expression on Eli's face was not welcoming or even civil.

Dismounting, Eli yanked off his jacket and tossed it over his saddle. "Well, you bloody English bastard, one of Tarleton's boys got himself dished and became real chatty. He had a lot to say about the circumstances leading up to my sister's marriage." He was working himself up into a lather. "I think you have a number of things to answer for." With a snake-like punch, he sent Kit stumbling back into the men behind him.

"Eli, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Morgan demanded as he limped forward.

Kit regained his balance and rubbed his jaw. God, that man could hit! But no Marshall had ever backed down in a fight, and he wasn't going to be the first, especially with something so important at stake. "General, your son has a right to his opinion, even if his facts come from a disreputable source. Personally, I wouldn't trust one of Ban's men to give me the time of day, but that's just my opinion."

The General nodded and stepped back.

"I'd much rather talk to Eli, here," Kit continued, "but if he wants to be a pig-headed idiot about things..."

Eli bent and charged, intending to hit him with his shoulder. Kit sidestepped him with a push to the back, and it was Eli's turn to plow into the onlookers. Eli's roar of rage echoed in the buzz of the gathering crowd of men. A contest between two giants always provided entertainment, and a fair proportion of the audience obviously would not mind another American victory.

**

Deborah felt miserable all day. She did not want to be here; there was so much she had to do at home to get ready for the baby. Jeb White's barn did not rank high on her list of priorities. Besides, her back hurt, her legs hurt, her belly hurt, her skin hurt, Lordy, even her hair hurt. Even Scamp's comfort was denied her. He'd been left at home with strict orders to the cook. Deborah wanted to go home, but that wasn't possible. So she put on as cheerful a face as she could manage and sliced pies.

She watched the unfolding events from the house's rise where the tables were set up for food preparation and meals. At first she was delighted to see her brother, but it soon turned to trepidation and then down-right fury. "What the blazes does that big lunk think he's doing? I'm going to murder him!"

"Darling, let them solve it their own way," her mother advised.

"Not his time. Kit was put through the grinder once. He shouldn't have to do it again." She waddled off down the slope, her maximum speed somewhere in the neighborhood of a slow stroll.

"I'm going to kill those two,' she muttered, "if I get there before they do it to each other." She finally got within earshot. "Stop this instantly! Stop it, I say!" The crowd of men and a few women had closed in around the combatants, but no one could hear her over the yelling and cheering.

The man in front of her at the edge of the crowd didn't respond to her demand that he move, so she pushed him in the back. That got his attention, she thought. He moved aside for her. Just like a stubborn Georgia mule—hit it about its ears with a board and it becomes very reasonable. She used the same technique several more times until she got to the inner ring.

Obviously, they had both struck a number of telling blows. Kit's forehead bled and red trickled from Eli's mouth. Currently locked together, they punched at each other's sides.

"Stop, you two! Stop!" Nobody noticed her, not her husband, her brother, or her father who cheered and swore with the rest of the lunatics.

How could she break them up? In other times she might have stepped into the fray herself and pulled some hair or landed some punches herself to get their attention. That wasn't an option now. She looked frantically around, trying to find a reasonable person to help her. No one came remotely close to that description. However, a young water boy stood a quarter of the way around the circle from her. Kit and Eli were near him. Without thinking of the consequences, she "darted" for the pitcher of water. The roiling ball of fighters shifted just before she gained the boy. In an instant, they engulfed her.

She trod on her skirt as they pushed her into the crowd. Something hit the side of her belly. She began to fall. A strong arm caught her and gave her a chance to regain her footing. Unfortunately, it drove her into the crowd. Turning, she fought back to the water boy. "Give me that!" His attention focused on the fray, he didn't even notice her taking the jug

She found her quarry, still locked in combat. Stepping into the circle, she threw the water at them, and then the jug for good measure. "Stop it right now!" The giants unlocked.

"What the bloody hell!" Kit roared.

"Damn your eyes!" Eli bellowed in harmony.

They separated enough that she could step in and move between them, pushing them further apart with her palms. "That's enough! You're a couple of quarreling children! I won't have it!"

Groans and catcalls erupted from the crowd.

Deborah glared at the two men, eyes narrowed and ready to throw a few more punches herself. "I will not have...ahhh!" She bent double with the cramp in her belly. Kit grabbed her before she fell.

Chapter 23

Kit bent over the cradle to watch his new baby boy sleep. The baby fascinated him with the way he puckered his lips as he breathed; entranced him when he yawned; captivated him when he wiggled his swaddled bottom.

Kit adjusted the quilt then ran his hand along the lace lining of the cradle. It had held the brothers, then Deborah, now Timothy. He thought of the family cradle at Westwood. His mother was over the moon at the thought of filling it. Unfortunately, by the time Deborah would be able to travel, and they made the three month sea voyage, little Timothy might not be so little any more. He didn't think his mother would complain too much. A grandbaby, any baby, was her goal in life ever since he and his brother had reached their majority. The fact that it was an heir was just icing on the cake.

"If you wake him," a sleepy voice threatened, "I'll have your head."

He turned, smiling. "How are you feeling? I couldn't resist coming in to see him. Didn't mean to wake you."

"That's all right. I'm just tired and sore." She reached up to gently touch the purpling bruise on is cheek. "You don't look that great, either."

"You should see Eli," he smirked. Silently, she raised her eyebrows.

He took her hand and gingerly sat on the side of the feather bed, rearranging himself a few times before he was satisfied she wouldn't roll with his weight on the mattress. "We need to talk."

Sensing that he already plotted this discussion, she waited.

"We're going to have to leave for England shortly after you're churched."

The days of her lying-in, formally ended by her return to church services, suddenly seemed to collapse around her. Even though she knew that they would have to go to England, that day had always been a far-off thundercloud. She swallowed, the rainstorm of tears looming over her cheeks.

"I understand," he smiled crookedly, "Leaving your family is hell's own pitchfork. But, we need to be in New York to catch the spring sailings. I'll have some business to attend to there, and we have to take into account traveling with a small baby. If I send a messenger up there to purchase the tickets now, we can probably wait to travel until around the first of the year. How does that sound?"

He was giving her as much time as he could, and she loved him for the thought. With her chin up, she smiled and nodded.

**

Christmas time promised to be significantly more peaceful than in prior years, Deborah thought. While the guard on Morgan House still kept a careful eye for marauding Loyalists, the holiday preparations seemed joyful and carefree. The usual problems, a ferocious winter storm, straying animals, a deserter skulking around, a distempered bitch and her puppies that had to be destroyed, and innumerable colds couldn't dampen the holiday spirits.

Eli and her husband even managed to talk out their differences without killing each other. A stint repairing fences, ordered by her father, literally and figuratively, did the trick. Deborah used the time to work on Kit's Christmas present, a beautifully worked shirt and stock. With two weeks to go, she had plenty of time, but there were other things to do, too. Even though it wouldn't be in the first stare of London fashion, it would give him something to wear with the jacket and knee-breeches he had cajoled/bullied/bribed the Charles Town tailor to produce in the middle of his holiday rush. Just the change of clothes seemed to ease the tensions of having a British officer in the Morgan household. Anything she could do to aid and abet that goal was a good thing.

**

The General gave Kit and Eli their assignment for the day: cut pine branches to decorate the banisters and mantle. Kit felt reasonably satisfied with the truce between the two of them.

By mid-morning a large pile of branches graced the sled. They even had a clump of mistletoe Eli spotted. The two men tossed the lead ropes of the sled over their shoulders and started home.

A little apprehensively, Kit cleared his throat. "I need to go into town. Would you have the time to escort me?"

Eli snorted. "Can't make your own way?"

Kit looked over with exasperation. "I consider your father's instructions not to leave the estate without an escort to be eminently sensible. British soldiers, even those on parole, are not universally appreciated in these parts. Besides, I would appreciate your advice."

"Advice?"

"Humm. Unlike the members of your family, I do not have any talents for, shall we say, creating things. Given that and my time constraints, I will need to purchase gifts. Since I am not all that familiar with the family customs, I could stand some advice."

Eli stopped, forcing Kit to halt, too. "Why me?"

The question surprised Kit, but he nodded, acknowledging the validity of it. "We're of an age. If circumstances were different, we might have been friends. While I don't expect you to be my bosom bow now, I would like to be on cordial terms with my brother-in-law. Since Deborah, Timothy, and I are going to be leaving shortly after the holidays, I figure as I'd best get started, especially as we didn't exactly both mount that horse from the left."

Eli looked at him for a moment. "After lunch, then?"

**

Kit privately thought that it was a modest bauble for the new Countess of Westridge, but his wife had to have something This looked to be the best available. He was, however, wise enough not to speak any of those thoughts aloud. Eli graciously gave him ideas of the personal tastes of most of the members of the family, so they accomplished their tasks in good order. Only Eli, himself, was left.

A young lady approached them with a shy smile on her face. One brief look at Eli told Kit where the wind blew. After all, he should know. He knew he frequently walked around with the same look.

"Mistress Ashland, how won...ah nice to see you." Eli swept his hat off in a deep bow. "May I present Christopher Marshall, Earl of Westridge, Deborah's new husband?" He looked from one to the other. "Margery, ah Mistress Ashland is a long-time friend of Deborah's." He gazed at the young woman. "I'm hoping you'll be at the Christmas party."

Kit bowed. "It is my great pleasure to meet you, Mistress Ashland. May I prevail upon you to circumvent that mouthful and call me Kit, as do the Morgan family and friends?"

Margery Ashland blushed prettily and curtsied. "Pleased to meet you. I heard Deborah had had her baby. I planned to visit when she was stronger, but time got away from me. I will be at the party, though."

Kit smiled. "Eli, I'm going in here for a moment." He motioned to the glover's in back of them.

Eli nodded, but his attention obviously lay elsewhere. He didn't see the elegantly dressed lady who followed Kit into the shop.

Kit smiled to himself as he perused the leather goods. Mistress Margery was a tender little mouthful, and Eli looked only a hands breath from sweet surrender. Ah, to work. Doubtless the glover had the Morgan family's measurements.

"Kit, what a surprise!"

He turned as though he'd been stung by the hand gently laid on his jacket sleeve. "Claudia, what are you doing here?"

"I stopped in town for a few days." Her head tilted most seductively, and her eyes flirted. "Aren't you glad to see me?" The hand remained on his sleeve.

"Quite frankly, madam, no." He pushed her hand off his sleeve. Its presence there offended him. "You are in the past. I am happily married now and fully intend to stay so."

"That doesn't matter. We could..."

"I said no. Please leave." He wanted this to stop here and now. The very thought of a "we" made his skin crawl. A fleeting thought noted the about-face in his feelings.

"Is there a problem, Kit?" Eli strolled up.

"Not at all." Kit never took his eyes off Lady Claudia. "Just an old acquaintance that is leaving town almost immediately."

"Madam." Eli bowed, but nowhere as deeply as to Mistress Ashland.

Claudia's mouth hardened for a moment then she smiled archly. "Adieu, gentlemen. I'm sure I'll see you later, Kit." She whirled and walked out in a swirl of velvet.

"Now that is a wagonload of trouble."

"I couldn't agree more, my friend. Your timing is impeccable." Kit leaned against the display case and folded his arms. "My thanks. Now, would you be so kind as to go back and enjoy the fine winter sunshine for a few more minutes, even if Mistress Ashland has left."

Eli's laugh barked, and he slapped Kit on the shoulder. "I'll be on guard duty out here."

**

In Kit's humble opinion, the holiday festivities had been a smashing success. The Christmas party was a crush. Abigail's renown as a hostess rested secure for another year. Eli and Mistress Ashland announced their engagement just before dinner. Kit felt this was a good thing because the leash around Eli's neck grew tighter and shorter by the day. If only he could find it in himself to feel sorry for his new friend.

Life was good. Everyone took advantage of the mistletoe. Kit found it useful several times. He even caught the General kissing his lady under it. A mighty good kiss it was.

Timothy was passed from cooing woman to cooing woman and behaved like the true English gentleman that he was. Deborah shone in the silver necklace set with topazes and crystal. Even the General's rheumatism subsided with the dry weather.

It all faded into memory now. 1782 was still an infant, but he needed to get his small family to New York. Frounce's Tavern awaited them. There was his military commission to sell, bankers to deal with, clothes to purchase, a prince to present his new wife to, and a ship to board before the hurricane season.

Mr. Thomson agreed to remain in his service, and Deborah's maid Missy would accompany her. Missy was going to have her hands full for a while. Although assisted by a nurse, Missy insisted on caring for Deborah and Timothy herself. She'd be caring for Thomson, too, in a little while, unless Kit missed his guess. The old soldier had that now-familiar gleam in his eye. Damn me, Kit thought, marriage must be contagious! He and Deborah had agreed that Missy's freedom would be one of their wedding presents to the new couple.

First, he had to get past the tears and farewells. That part was going to be hard on all of them.

**

Frounce's cost decidedly more than the 5 shillings a night charged by most of the inns they stayed at on the road. Prince William, King George's third son, occupied the most impressive suite at the hotel. At least, Deborah assumed that it was most impressive. Their own suite occupied an entire floor. The main chamber and sitting room were flanked by rooms for servants. The bed boasted curtains of dark green velvet, echoed in the print of the painted wall cloth. In the garden outside their window, a huge tree brushed up against the building.

A gilt-framed mirror rose above the vanity. The moment Missy saw it, she raised her hands in awe and worship. "Lordy me, Miz Deborah, Ahse means Mah Lady. Think on all Ahse can do wif yer hair, here!"

Deborah saw the facilities and thought of all the hours she would sit there being tortured. There was a price to pay for being Countess of Westridge. Princes and the like were going to be a large part of her life now, whether she liked it or not.

But, first, Deborah had an appointment with Madame Collette, the most celebrated modiste in New York. Missy's fawn-colored fingers worked their magic in Deborah's hair in preparation for the event. "Da other maids say'ze M'am Collette she's da bes," Missy chatted away at her captive audience, "but one uh 'em sayze she's uppity 'n came from Paree by way oh da East End, wherever tha' be."

Deborah nearly tore the lock of hair Missy was curling out by the roots as she lurched forward laughing. She knew the name of the infamous London slum, if Missy didn't. "Ow!"

"Have ah care, Miz, Ahse mean Mah Lady."

"Indeed."

Kit and Mr. Thomson escorted them to Madame Collette's. Missy held Timothy in a snug basket, and Deborah took Scamp's leash. Even though he displayed the manners of a perfect gentleman, Deborah could see the energy of days cooped up in a carriage and hotel room begged to be exercised. As they parted company, she gave the leash to Mr. Thomson. Incongruous as the pair seemed, tall, cadaverous man and tiny dog, they were fast friends. Deborah watched the three gentlemen for a moment as they continued down the block to the tailor. Deborah wasn't the only one who needed new garments.

Madame Collette's establishment only had one customer, a rather plain young lady crowned with bright red hair and a milky complexion to match. She looked up from her desultory perusal of a fashion plate book to smile at Deborah.

"Good morning," Deborah offered, "Is that the latest book? I'm afraid I'm going to need several of everything." She laughed and the girl giggled with her. Deborah privately hoped the girl's new dress would be in something other than the pale blue she wore.

"Yes it is. Would you like to look at it with me?"

"I'd be delighted."

A shop girl scurried up to Deborah and curtsied. "May I help you madame?"

"I'm Deborah Marshall. I have an appointment with Madame Collette." The girl curtsied back the way she came. "What patterns are you looking at?" she asked the red-head.

"Oh, nothing in particular. My mother's here getting a fitting. I'm Amanda Vaughan." She flipped to a sketch, a bronze-colored riding habit.

"Oh, my, that would look stunning on you."

"Do you think so?" Amanda looked skeptical. "My mother says I look best in pastels." She gestured at the sleeve of her dress.

Deborah eyed the dress and looked at the bolts of material lining the wall. "Missy, could you pull down that bronze wool over there?" Missy, who'd been staring out the window, hurried to comply. Deborah pulled out a length of the heavy wool from the bolt and draped it around Amanda's face. "Look in the mirror here."

"Ohhh!"

"Amanda," a robust voice demanded, "what are you doing?"

Deborah turned. "Good day, ma'am. We're just discussing the effect of various colors on Amanda's skin. It is beautifully pale, and I was expressing the opinion that a bronze like this would set it off most elegantly. Don't you agree?"

The woman proved as robust as her voice. Deborah remembered Kit speaking of a General Sir John Vaughan. This must be his wife and daughter. Following her, most likely Deborah thought, was Madame Collette.

"Well...," Amanda's mother temporized, caught between the evidence in front of her and her own preconceptions.

Deborah turned to the dressmaker. "Madame?"

The woman took a step forward and made a show of examining Amanda's face. "I must agree with Lady Westridge. This is a most fortunate color for Mistress Vaughan." The French accent grated on Deborah's ears, but after an initial wince, she let it go.

"Lady Westridge? That's impossible. I'm acquainted with Lady Westridge, and she is a much older woman."

"I assure you most sincerely that I am Lady Westridge. My husband has only recently succeeded to the title on the deaths of his father and brother in a carriage accident. If you are acquainted with Kit, he should be along in a while. I'm sure he'd like to see a familiar face."

"Hummph, yes, well...yes, I'm certain he would. I shall be delighted to renew the connection. Will you be at the Nesbitt's soiree on Friday?"

"I plan on it, if I can convince Madame Collette to have a ball gown ready by then."

Madame Colette nodded most accommodatingly. As she did so, the shop door opened. Deborah caught her scent before she heard Lady Claudia's voice.

"I'm sure I saw Lady Westridge come into this little establishment. Oh, there you are. I just had to speak to you. I'm so delighted to see you..."

Deborah picked up the fashion baby from a nearby table and examined the miniature of the latest style in walking dresses while Lady Claudia rattled. There was something about being homesick and leaving for England soon.

"...But of course you're going to the Nesbitt's soiree and the Glass's musicale. This must be so exciting for you, being a little country girl. I'm sure a little dressmaker like this is the height of fashion for you. You'll find London establishments are ever so much finer."

Lady Claudia's words were like a stream, Deborah thought. They ran on and on and on.

"...Since you come from what serves as rebel aristocracy, with General Daniel Morgan as your father, I'm sure."

There's the point, Deborah thought, but the words kept flowing.

"...Sure I'll see you there."

Silence descended as the door closed behind her.

Lady Vaughan, who had not been addressed or even looked at, stood with a vaguely fishy open mouth. Amanda gulped, "How can you be a rebel, you're a countess?"

Deborah put down the doll and cocked her head as she looked at Amanda, "Everything she said is true, and I'm still a countess. My father is a retired Continental general, my brothers are officers, and I've done my part, too." Her voice was matter-of-fact. She turned to face Lady Vaughan. "If you were in our place, you might well feel the same way. How would you and your family feel if you home county had no voice in Parliament, had troops thrust upon you, had taxes you had no say in nor benefit from, and yet you were Englishmen, just like the chap in London. Where might Amanda's father be fighting, them? And for whom?"

Lady Vaughan's mouth closed.

"My origins and sympathies are no secret. I am proud of them. My husband knows them and still loves me. Are they going to interfere with our discussion of this color for your daughter?"

As she finished, a squawk rose from the basket. Missy lifted Timothy and tisked. Both Amanda and Lady Vaughan rushed over to coo.

"Le'me change him and thens yo cans hold him."

Lady Vaughan turned back to Deborah, obviously having made a decision. "I think this is a marvelous color for Amanda. What else would you suggest?"

By the time Deborah reached the hotel late that afternoon, she felt tired and happy. She had ordered two ball gowns, three day dresses, a riding habit, two morning dresses, various undergarments, some stuff for Missy to make herself some clothes, and two new friends.

**

Deborah's fingers were itching and she needed something to occupy them. It was rapidly becoming apparent to her that a life of idle luxury promised to have her tearing her hair out. She didn't expect the dressmaker's fitting today to occupy her either physically or mentally. A knit shawl, one of the type that fell in a point to the floor, would be a useful project and have the added benefit of keeping her warm in the morning before the fires took the chill off the rooms.

At breakfast, she mentioned her errands to Kit. "I shall be delighted to escort you, my love. Besides, supervising you taking off and putting on garments," he wiggled his eyebrows in an imitation of a leer, "will allow me to ascertain the quality of the merchandise."

"If you haven't figured out the 'quality of the merchandise' yet..."

"Maybe we could retire to our chamber, and I could re-inspect it before we leave?"

Deborah glared repressively at him over her shoulder. "Not if we are to get finished before sunset." She lifted her chin. "However, there will be plenty of time afterwards for me to inspect my merchandise."

He saluted her with his tea cup. "Indeed there will."

**

They strolled arm in arm towards the dressmaker's shop, Scamp on his leash in front of them.

"What will life be like in England?"

He opened his mouth to answer and thought better of it. "What do you want it to be?"

"I don't know. I only know that an endless round of shopping and parties and gossip will bore me to death. I've always been useful. I was raised to be useful. I don't think I can stop now. Can one be wealthy and useful in England at the same time?" They hesitated a moment to allow Scamp to inspect a tree.

"I suppose one can be useful as easily as one can be frivolous. I know the family estates were in good stewardship when I left, but there's always..."

"Estates?" She emphasized the "s."

"Yes, there are, let me..."

"Ah, the soger and his camp follower!" The voice behind them sent shivers down Deborah's back as she turned to face it. Scamp barked warningly, and she shushed him. Tarleton's angelic face sneered at the small dog and dismissed him as a possible threat.

**

Kit's languid turn showed no concern. "Hallo, Ban. I wondered when you'd crawl out of whatever hole you were hiding in."

"Why you..."

"However," he crowded Tarleton into the store front, but his tone remained cordial, "if you insist on insulting my countess, I shall be forced to call you out. If I do, I promise you that I will do more damage than the Continental gentleman who took off part of your hand."

Tarleton pulled his right hand with its three remaining fingers out of sight, but not before Deborah saw the still-angry scar she had stitched and bandaged.

Kit continued, "Don't think you can take the coward's way and hide behind your wound, either."

Tarleton shouldered his way off the building and straightened his clothes. "Bastard!"

"I think I told you that my mother would disagree. But, in any case, you will be apologizing to the present countess immediately for your boorish behavior. Won't you?" A small step blocked Tarleton's immediate escape.

Tarleton glared at him.

"Won't you?"

Deborah's stomach turned at Kit's tone. She knew there were only two possible outcomes of this encounter. Tarleton never struck her as someone who would back down. She held her breath.

Tarleton turned abruptly to her, sketched a mechanical bow, and said, "Your servant, my lady. I apologize of I inadvertently caused offense." He brushed past Kit and was off.

"Oh my," Deborah breathed, "I would have hoped he had more sense."

"Ban? Not likely."

"Do you think he'll try it again?" The possibility and its ramifications panicked Deborah.

Kit rubbed his chin with his thumb. "Don't be too surprised."

Deborah sucked in air and straightened in alarm.

"Easy, my love," he soothed. "Ban's not stupid."

Deborah saw the muscle clench in his jaw and knew he thought "I hope."

Chapter 24

Kit sat back in the seat of the carriage he had hired for a season and perused Deborah with appreciative eyes. She smiled while looking out of the corner of her eyes. The low-cut neckline of her Robe à la Anglais filled lushly since she had been nursing Timothy. The peach silk flattered her skin, and Missy's talented fingers swept her hair high up off her face, with a few ringlets hanging down the back. Madame Collette may not be a true Parisian, but she knew how to produce a most excellent gown.

Kit obviously thought so.

"You will set aside several of the dances for me, will you not?"

"I will set aside two for you, including the one before supper."

"Only two?" He gave her a teasing look that was half pout and half frown.

"You know it's not considered the thing to dance more than twice with you spouse."

He dropped his chin to his chest and raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like I care if it's 'the thing' or not?"

**

In fact, he looked marvelous to Deborah. Although his uniform made for an incredible figure of a man, formal dress—dark blue satin coat over a snowy white ruffled shirt and silver-buckled breeches that fit like a second skin—created a truly mouth watering sight. She plied her fan more vigorously than fashion and the weather demanded and promised herself a real taste later.

The discussion became moot as the carriage halted at the Nesbitt's doorway. Robert Nesbitt, a wealthy ship owner, and his wife proved to be amiable hosts. A connection to Viscount Hollings made them socially acceptable in English society, despite being in trade. The ballroom glittered with hundreds of candles and the greenery fitted the winter theme.

Deborah leaned towards Kit and whispered, "She must have purchased all the white lawn in New York for the draping." Kit snorted and led her out into the next dance forming on the floor.

The movements of the stately saraband moved them apart and together several times when Deborah noticed Lady Claudia standing at the edge of the dance floor. When they next drew close enough for conversation, Deborah mentioned her.

"Yes, I noticed. She's been trying to catch my eye now for quite a while."

"Really, I had a most interesting encounter with her in the dressmaker's shop the other day." It took three cycles of the dance to relate the bare bones of the story.

"Looks like I'm indebted to the General and his lady." The dance ended, and he took her arm to lead her from the floor. He moved toward General Sir John Vaughan and his family. "Sir John."

"Marshall," the General acknowledged. He looked over Kit's clothes with a frown. "No uniform?"

"I've sold out, sir. Family estates to tend to and all that."

"Ah!" The General thought for a moment. "That's right, by Jove. Heard of your father's death...umm Westridge. Damned sorry about it. Fine man, your father. Lost your brother, too, didn't you. Condolences."

"Thank you, sir."

"Understand your lady made the acquaintance of mine recently. Your servant, ma'am."

He bowed and Deborah curtseyed in return. "It was my pleasure." She turned to Amanda, attired in her new bronze silk ball gown. "I knew that color would look stunning on you!" Amanda merely blushed, but the smile told Deborah she was pleased.

The door to the ballroom opened and the Nesbitt's butler strode in. "Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned. "His Highness Prince William."

"Met the Prince?" Vaughan asked after they straightened from their bows.

"No, I haven't had the pleasure. When I was in London, he was still in short pants. He's what, seventeen or eighteen now?"

"Humm, seventeen, I believe. Turned out to be quite a handsome young man. Hard worker, too. Always a kind word. Very unlike his older brother. Ahem! Didn't mean that like it sounded, sir."

"Mean what, Sir John? I'm sorry, I wasn't attending." Kit's eyes sparkled. "But I'm not disagreeing with whatever you said," he added in an undertone.

Deborah, who stood closest to them, looked strangely at her husband. "What was...?" He discretely held up his hand. Deborah knew he would explain later.

Sir John turned and saw the Prince making his way generally toward them. "Would you like an introduction?"

Kit nodded, and the group stepped forward..

"Your Highness."

"General Vaughan," the fair-haired youth said as he acknowledged the older man's bow. "It's been ages since I saw you last. This afternoon at lunch, if memory serves." The twinkle in his eye made Deborah like him immediately.

"And your charming wife. Lady Vaughan, it is always a pleasure to see you. Lady Amanda, you are looking particularly lovely in that dress. An unusual color, but it looks ravishing on you."

Amanda blushed again and smiled shyly while she curtseyed.

The General gestured to Kit. "May I present Christopher Marshall, the new Earl of Westridge, and Lady Westridge?"

**

The Prince continued to move through the crowd. Sir John looked at Kit, "Been in New York for a while now. Know of some houses if you'd care to rent 'em"

Kit thought for a moment. "No thanks, sir. We have a floor at Frounce's Tavern. I think we'll be all right for a month or two."

**

Neither of them saw Lady Claudia listen behind them and then slip away.

**

Another dance set formed on the floor. Kit bowed to Amanda, "May I have the honor...?"

Amanda blushed as usual. Deborah thought she looked for a moment like she would rather crawl into a small, dark closet. Nods from her parents and a smile from Deborah convinced her to take his arm.

"She does look lovely," Deborah remarked to Lady Vaughan. "I must say she certainly out shown me during our conversations with the Prince. I thought my knees were going to buckle."

"Nonsense, my dear, he was enchanted with you. Anyone who is able to persuade a royal to laugh like he did has made a conquest. With so many people fawning over them it is not easy to be noticed, and to be noticed means you have enchanted them."

"I didn't think it was that funny. It's just an old saying of my mother's. And its true, marriage is like an attempt to turn a night owl into a homing pigeon."

"Well, in any case, you have certainly succeeded in both goals: you have a delightful homing pigeon in your house and a social success in your hand."

"Lady Westridge, may I have this dance?"

Deborah stood motionless for a long moment. She could hardly believe her ears. Banastre Tarleton was requesting a dance. He didn't look foxed, but with Tarleton, a body sometimes couldn't tell. Doubtless he had already consumed a significant quantity of liquor.

"Thank you, Colonel, but I don't think that would be wise, under the circumstances."

"Pray allow me to make amends for my foolish words, my lady." His angelic smile in that angelic face would have melted the heart of a stronger woman than Lady Vaughan.

"Go on, Lady Westridge. The Colonel is well known to all of us. He even served with your husband, you know. Surely a dance with him would be unexceptional."

He reached out and grabbed Deborah's hand. She could not refuse without looking boorish. Couples set up for a quadrille. Kit and Amanda were across the floor with their backs to her. Deborah prayed for divine providence.

The music started right after they took their places. For the first few figures, Tarleton was all smiles and polite small talk. He looked over at Kit several times All of a sudden Deborah had a very bad feeling. The next moment, it came to fruition.

"Well, Lady Westridge," he bellowed in his best battlefield voice, "have you sent any interesting intelligence back to General Washington yet?"

Every head lifted, the dancing stopped, and the music petered out. For several heartbeats, not a sound could be heard. Deborah lifted her head and stared coldly at her tormenter. Hard steps broke the silence.

"Col. Tarleton, my sympathies are no secret. Nor is my family. But what you will understand here and now is that my loyalty to my husband is absolute." She held up her hand to stay Kit. "Unless you have some knowledge that no one else, including I, know about, I expect an apology immediately"

Tarleton simply stood there, an ugly smirk marring his beautiful face. Deborah waited a moment, lifted an eyebrow, and tilted her head. She then stepped up to him and slapped him as hard as she could across the face. His head whipped around.

Another moment of silence thundered. It was broken by a single pair of hands clapping. Deborah looked for the sound and saw Prince William. In short order, he was joined by every other person, save one.

"Well done, my love," Kit smiled at her as he began stripping off his glove. "Now it is my turn. Your Highness, with your permission?" The Prince nodded. "Mistress Nesbitt, forgive me." The lady gulped visibly, but made no objection.

Kit took one step towards Tarleton and struck him across the face with his glove. "Here and now?" As it was wartime, military officers wore functional swords at all times, but Kit and Tarleton were under parole and unarmed.

"Most certainly."

Kit looked over to General Vaughan. "Will you honor me as second, sir?"

"Absolutely!"

"May I also have the privilege?" Prince William joined the small group in the center of the ever-expanding empty space in the middle of the dance floor.

Kit bowed as Tarleton yelled for Haversham and Dyre.

Deborah put her hand on Kit's sleeve. "No, you can't have a duel!"

Kit lifted her hand and kissed it. "Of course not, my dear. A duel in Mistress Nesbitt's drawing room would be unconscionable. We will move to the garden."

"Kit!"

"Don't worry."

But she did. Tarleton was a noted swordsman, and the injury to his right hand did not diminish his sword fighting abilities one bit.

Kit nodded to the Prince who stepped in to take her elbow. The entire party made its way to the garden. It was cold, but Kit handed his jacket to the general and took the heavy cavalry sword from one of the other officers. Tarleton did likewise.

They lifted their swords in salute. Tarleton struck the first blow. Kit lifted his sword to easily parry it. In the first few minutes, the two tested each other. Then Tarleton executed a murderous set of strikes, driving Kit back. Deborah snapped the fan blades in her hands and stepped forward. Someone pulled her back as Kit came off the defensive and went on offense. Tarleton took blow after blow, but Kit was unable to get through his defenses.

Kit's blows drove Tarleton back to a tree. It looked like Kit might be able to win, but Tarleton caught Kit's sword over their heads and pushed him back. With his maneuvering room once again established, Tarleton pushed forward. His sword sliced up and down, never striking at the same place twice, but Kit ably defended against each stroke.

The fore and back rhythm began again. It could have been a macabre country dance, saving the music.

Kit pushed Tarleton back and near another tree. Suddenly Tarleton grabbed a low-hanging branch and slapped Kit across the face with it. Blinded for a moment, Kit stepped back, but not far enough. Tarleton's blow slices his left arm. Blood seeped down the pristine white sleeve.

"Kit!"

"Hush my lady, you'll break his concentration."

Deborah covered her mouth to prevent any more outbursts. She took some comfort from the small flow of blood on Kit's sleeve.

One thing was clear, though, Tarleton was not going to fight fair. She had to do something. Looking around, she spied the Prince's sword. It was ornate and heavy looking and might have a hard time with warm butter, but it would do the job here, if needed.

She turned quickly and drew it. Prince William gaped, "What ho! Give that back."

She shook her head and took a step out from the crowd of spectators. The murmur from them grew louder. Feeling a movement behind her, she raised the sword and again shook her head. The Prince backed off.

On the field of battle, Kit once again succeeded in driving Tarleton back. Tarleton gave ground until they came to a rock-lined path. As Tarleton backed across it, he slipped on one of the edging rocks and fell.

The crowd gasped as Kit pounded the sword from his opponent's hand and laid the tip of his own blade on Tarleton's chest.

"Kit! Don't!" Deborah rushed forward, still clutching the prince's sword.

"Westridge!" General Vaughan warned. "Don't be a fool!"

Kit, breathing hard, glared at the general. "I'm not generally considered a fool, but I want this to stop." He looked at the Prince. "If I spare his life, I want guarantees from him, and you both, that he will never so much as think an insult to my wife again. If he does, I want him permanently exiled," Kit drew a deep breath, "here."

The consequence of exile in the colonies was lost on no one. Tarleton's reputation here guaranteed a death warrant without a troop at his back. He squawked and tried to rise, but Kit's pressure on the sword held him fast.

"Done," Vaughan agreed.

"I will personally see to it," Prince William affirmed.

"Tarleton?" Kit demanded.

"You God damned bas..." He stopped when the sword point pushed a little further into his chest.

"Tarleton?" Kit repeated. "It would be no great hardship for me to let Vaughan think me a fool."

"Yes," he breathed, the sword restricting the rise of his chest.

"Yes, what," Kit enquired, a little too politely.

"Yes, you God damned..." Kit stepped on his sword arm, and Tarleton writhed as much as possible and still not impale himself.

"I want you to swear on your honor that you will never insult my wife or make so much as an uncomplimentary remark about her ever again."

"I swear!"

"I want you to apologize for this and all past insults."

"I apologize. I apologize for everything. It will never happen again."

Deborah read quite clearly the disgust on Kit's face as he stepped away from the fallen man. The prince's sword fell from her side as she ran to her husband. The hushed crowd burst into chatter.

"Oh, dear God, we need to get that..."

Behind her, Tarleton staggered to his feet. Clutching his trodden arm, he growled, "I'm going to kill you one of these days, you bastard."

General Vaughan bellowed for guards, who promptly escorted Tarleton away.

Prince William handed Deborah's broken fan to her. "I'm afraid they'll never be the same." Deborah accepted the pieces with a slightly hysterical laugh.

Kit nodded to the General and his prince as Deborah led him inside.

**

Lady Vaughan had mentioned a miniaturist near the wharf area who did the most exquisite of pictures. Deborah thought a miniature of Timothy and her would make a perfect present for Kit. Hopefully she could schedule the sittings so that it would be done before they had to leave.

Seated in the opposite seat of the carriage, Missy fretted about leaving Timothy in the hands of the nurse, even for an hour or two. "Wha'iffin he starts t' fuss?"

"He'll be fine." She looked out the window at the bustle of the wharf area. Rough didn't adequately describe it. Kit had been right when he insisted that Mr. Thomson accompany them. Ships, laborers, and New York Harbor stretched out beside the clattering carriage. "Mistress McGowan is perfectly..."

The horse squealed and Deborah felt the carriage jerk and accelerate down the embarcadero. She could hear John Coachman and Mr. Thomson swearing up on the box. Men and cargo flew by the side of the carriage, some by their own volition, some kicked aside by the out-of-control coach and horse. The water raced toward the carriage as it swerved toward the ships.

"Hold on, Missy! Hold on!" She grabbed a strap. Missy wailed but reached for her strap.

Deborah stiffened as she waited for the carriage to crash into something or someone or to dive into the water. After an eternal moment, the coach began to slow, the roiling ride stabilized, and eventually the carriage stopped. Deborah opened the door and climbed out. She looked back, looking for carnage. Mercifully, no bodies littered the road, but a number of boxes didn't look so lucky.

Mr. Thomson and John Coachman jumped down. John, going to the horses, said, "Methinks I saw something jus' before they bolted. Ri' over...here!" Deborah looked where he pointed. A jagged hole bled sullenly on the horse's flank.

Mr. Thomson gingerly poked a finger into the hole. "Damnme, begging yer pardon, my lady. He's been shot!"

**

Kit's fury made a rare sight. "It did what!?" Kit's explosion rattled the glass window panes in the comfortable parlor. His contorted face blazed; it looked like he had run up the stairs to their suite.

"We're fine, Kit, really." She put her hand on his arm to calm him. Since it had taken a fair while to calm herself, his upset was understandable. "Except for the horse," she muttered, "but he'll be fine. Mr. Thomson said the bullet wasn't in deep. They took it out, and I gave them a poultice to prevent infection. He'll be fine, really."

Deborah knew she was babbling and so, obviously, did Kit. He grabbed her by the elbows and shook her none-too-gently. She quieted with a small yelp, but he didn't notice, being too busy inspecting her for damage.

"Kit, let go! This hurts." He released her with a grunt, and she dropped onto the rust-colored damask settee she'd been sitting in when he burst into the suite.

"Sorry," he flexed his hands, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I'm all right."

Except for his opening and closing hands, Kit stood stock still with his eyes closed. Deep breaths and a furrowed brow told Deborah he fought for control. She waited while he won the battle.

He dropped to his knees in front of her and gently stroked her fore arms. "Tell me everything that happened."

In the end, he arranged for two armed soldiers to accompany Deborah whenever she left the tavern. She did not demurrer. In fact, she thought to commission Mr. Thomson to purchase a suitable knife for her pocket, but Kit offered the Barlow jack knife her father had given him.

**

The boulevard was not Rotten Row and the park on the other side of the street was definitely not St. James Park, but Kit was glad to get out of the hotel suite, luxurious as it was. They both needed some air and exercise, even if the sun had already started ducking behind the hills. Mr. Thomson, his own self-appointed bodyguard, and Deborah's two guards trailed them at a respectful, but watchful distance. Scamp, on his leash, pranced in front of Deborah. Unfortunately, the walk was not turning out as he had planned.

"I am not going to the Shippen's tomorrow night, and that is final!"

"Deborah, be reasonable. Edward Shippen is a very important man. He was Chief Justice of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, for heaven's sake. He and his wife may wind up on the same ship to England as we're taking."

"I don't care! I am not going to publicly acknowledge the family of Benedict Arnold's wife, and that's final." Scamp stopped to sniff a bush. Deborah tugged him along.

"You've crossed political sides in your marriage, why can't Peggy Shippen?"

"Neither you nor I have committed treason as a result of our marriage. Peggy Shippen actively seduced her husband...ah!"

As they crossed in front of an alleyway, a group of armed men stepped in front of them. Several wore British uniform coats, but a less likely bunch of soldiers Kit had never seen. Scamp growled and his hackles rose.

"Well, wha' we 'ave 'ere?" the obvious leader drawled. "A couple o' ta fancy, jus' right for ta pickin'."

Mr. Thomson and the guards came into sight. Weapons sprouted, and Kit's sword came out, too. He pushed Deborah against the wall, away from the ruffians and swung at the nearest one.

"Hey, wha's this?" one of the attackers demanded. "Were'n supposed to 'ave no 'elp nor stickers."

The fight was short and vicious. Kit heard a masculine yelp behind him, One of the blackguards shouted, "Let's get outta 'ere."

The group ran into the park, one of them limping and one holding his arm, except for one of their number who lay dead on the street. His head held the imprint of the guard's cudgel. Thomson and the guards followed, but Kit turned to Deborah. "Are you...Oh my God, you're hurt!" Blood spattered over her cloak and dress. He rushed to hold her.

"No, no, I'm fine. It's not my blood." She held up the small, but lethal blade from her father. "My father instructed me in the finer points of its use. I managed to acquit myself honorably in the engagement." Her words were flip, but he could feel the tremors begin to take hold of her body.

The soldiers returned from the park empty handed. Mr. Thomson blanched at the sight of the blood on Deborah.

"She's fine, man. Hail a hackney; I want to get her home. She's not used to this sort of sport."

Inside the coach, Deborah curled into his arms. Mr. Thomson, sitting opposite with Scamp, looked grim as he pet the dog.

"'Er ladyship's got bottom, fer sure, but damnme, she shouldn't 'ave t' be defending 'erself like that."

"I couldn't agree more." He stared past Thomson's ear for a moment. The look on his face made Thomson glad they were on the same side. "They had uniforms or at least pieces of them. Could they have been soldiers or deserters?"

Thomson looked up like a dog catching a scent. "Could be. Couple o'em fought likes they might be."

"Why did one bother to especially go for Deborah?"

**

At the hotel, Kit had Deborah tucked up with a hot bath, tea, maids, and guards. He signaled to Mr. Thomson, "You're with me."

The ride to the mansion the British commanders had taken over as their headquarters was made in silence. Kit strode in and found his quarry, almost immediately, in what had been the parlor, drinking and quite jolly.

Tarleton saw him and snorted, "Had enough of the idle..."

Kit hauled him by the cravat out of the chair. Mr. Thomson stood by to see they carried on their conversation undisturbed.

"You bloody bastard! Did you set your gutter-sweepings to hurt my wife?"

Tarleton pushed away and plopped back into his chair. The price of Kit's loosened grip was the tie of his neck cloth.

"Bloody hell!"

"Did you?"

"I did not!"

"What are you talking about, Westridge?" General Vaughan came up behind him.

Kit looked over at the General, his face murderous. "My wife and I were just attacked by a bunch of soldiers or deserters. Yesterday, her coach was shot at down by the wharf."

"My God!" Vaughan breathed.

"Well, I didn't do it!" Tarleton exclaimed with some relief. "I've been bloody well cooped up here since the Nesbitt's. Guess it's a good thing." He sat back with a look of satisfaction.

"He's right, Westridge. He's been here the whole time."

"You can vouch for him."

"Yes."

"Been here the whole time," another voice chimed in.

Kit looked around and nodded once. He turned to Tarleton. "Apologies." He turned and walked out.

Chapter 25

Kit brooding presented a fascinating, if unusual, sight. Deborah nursed Timothy as she watched Kit fidget and grimace and close his eyes and clench his hands. He'd given her an obviously abbreviated account of his visit to Tarleton. One thing was perfectly clear; having to apologize to Tarleton galled him. More important, to Deborah's mind, was that no one seemed to think it was even possible for Tarleton to have orchestrated one, or both, of the attacks.

Then who?

She knew only a handful of people in New York, and Kit only slightly more. Who would, or could, do such things?

Deborah finished feeding Timothy and rearranged her clothes. That Kit didn't even glance at her as she did was an indication of the severity of his mood. Timothy, diapered and changed, was ready for bed to mercifully sleep through the night. She tucked him into his cradle in the bedroom and went back to the parlor.

Kit popped out of his chair and began to pace. Scamp found a nice spot on the hearth rug and curled up in front of the fire.

Kit went to stare out of the window at the dark, bare silhouette of the tree by the side of the hotel. By now, the scraping sound of the branches against the wall didn't disturb, but Deborah still wished someone with a saw would trim the nearest branches. The sound was even louder in their bed chamber. Mercifully, it didn't bother Timothy.

She came up behind Kit and put her arms around his waist. For a while, she just leaned against him, feeling the broad muscles of his back under her cheek, and drinking in his uniquely masculine scent. Finally she felt the stiffness leave him.

He covered her hands with his and said, "I'm not sure which was worse, having to apologize to that horse's ass or realizing while I did it that I didn't have the bastard behind all this. Where do I look now?"

She heard the frustration ring in his voice and sought to mitigate it with a soothing caress. His rock-hard belly delighted her fingers, however unintentionally. Almost of their own volition, her hands expanded their caresses. As thin as the cambric of his shirt was, it proved too much of a veil to her hands and she began unfastening his buttons.

Kit cocked his head over his shoulder. "If you are intending to distract me from my megrims, my love, you have succeeded admirably."

Kit continued turning in her arms. His breeches did nothing to disguise the success of her distraction. "I'm most pleased and gratified by my success, my lord."

"In that case, I do believe that I shall practice my new career as lady's maid. Of course, with only one lady to practice on, I shall have to practice a great number of times."

He turned Deborah around and began undoing the numerous buttons down the back of her gown. With each button, he chose another spot on the back of her neck to kiss. When he nibbled the spot under her left ear, Deborah shivered and drew a quick breath.

"Ah, a most tender spot. I shall have to return to it." The kissing field expanded as the opened dress revealed her upper back and delicate shift. Finally he eased the sleeves down and the outer garment fell to the floor. Running his hands over her arms, he guided her to the dressing table and sat her in front of the ornate mirror. She watched his fingers glide up her shoulders and then over her collarbone. When she leaned back into him, she could feel his arousal pressing into her back. Deborah closed her eyes and swayed from side to side against him. He stepped away, and she opened her eyes to see him wagging his finger.

Ah, ah, ah! I'm the maid tonight. Tomorrow you can be my valet, but tonight I'm taking care of you." He unhooked the topaz necklace and set it on the table. "We'll see about some better trinkets when we get to London. The findings are rather scanty here."

"I don't need a lot of fancy jewelry, Kit."

"Perhaps, but I want to get it for you. And since you are madly in love with me, you will no doubt indulge me in my pleasures."

She glared at him in the mirror, but he wasn't paying her displeasure any mind. His attention centered on destroying Sissy's elegant coiffure. When the last critical pin fell prey to his depredations, Deborah's hair fell in profusion around her shoulders. He picked up a handful, turning and admiring the burnished gold locks. She could feel every hair he touched. He ran his fingers through them and bent closer to bury his face in the wavy profusion. "Ummm, better than a flower garden." He lifted his face to watch hers in the glass and then reached around to slowly untie the ribbon of her chemise. Deborah held her breath as he finally loosened it enough to be able to push the fine lawn off her shoulders. The material dallied on her nipples before sliding to her waist.

"Yes," he breathed as he reached around to cradle her milk-laden breasts. His thumbs caressed the tight berries crowning them. Shock waves of need from that tiny caress reverberated all the way down to Deborah's belly and exploded.

The force catapulted her to her feet, the shift sliding to the floor around her stockinged ankles. She turned, "Sir, I simply cannot countenance this advantage I have of you." She reached for his neck cloth, but he scooped her of her feet and headed for the turned-down bed.

"Mistress mine, this service is too willingly given for you to disregard it. Your most eager servant insists." With that, he playfully dumped her on the bed. As he untied his cravat, she reached over to pull the covers over herself.

"No, no, mustn't do that. I'm performing all services, no matter how mundane or how intimate for you this evening." He grabbed the comforter and pulled it aside. Propping his hip on the edge of the bed, he unbuttoned his shirt.

"Beast." The smile belied her word.

His eyebrow lifted, and he nodded slightly, "True, but I'm your beast."

She giggled, but when his breeches dropped to the floor, she realized that this was not a matter for laughter. The beast was magnificent.

He slipped onto bed beside her. "Cold?" She shook her head. "Good. I want to see every shiver of pleasure tonight."

**

He should be sated and sleepy. Kit folded his arms under his head as he stared at the dark void of the ceiling. The questions kept reverberating through his head: how, when, where, and most important, who. It didn't take the Admiralty Office to figure out that the gutter scum who attacked them weren't the driving force. He could keep cutting off the hydra's heads, but they could be replaced. He had to cauterize the monster to finish things. He'd even put the Barlow knife on the table next to him. It was more maneuverable than his sword. What else could he do? The monster's image grew on the ceiling as he sought to connect the diverse pieces of their lives that might point to the answer. People and events flitted through his mind and the hydra's head slowly began to coalesce...just before he fell asleep.

**

It was a lovely dream. He was chasing a ball his man had thrown. His lady laughed, and the small thing made baby noises. The small thing was a new element in their lives. It had to be cared for, just like his people, that he knew was a fact, but, by the bones, it could make a racket.

The dream faded, and that annoyed him. From his pillow bed under the window, he opened one eye. His people slept in the big bed. His people had been playing there earlier. He closed his eye. He'd tried to play with them over there, but they'd put him down and told him "no." They played with him other times, so he was happy. The small thing didn't really play. Maybe it would one day. Until then... A noise came from the window. Was that what woke him up?

He opened his both eyes and looked around. Everything was as it should be. He started to close them again. The window just above him opened quietly. Other than looking up, he didn't move. A strange boot came through the curtain. His instincts told him this was not as it should be. His ears went up, along with his hackles. Another boot came in, and the feet stepped on him.

"Yrrrooow! Ruff! Ruff! Grrrrr!" The grrs continued even as he bit the intruder's leg and held on.

"Ahh! Git offa me ya bloody cur!" The bad man tried to keep his voice down but Scamp's man heard him and bolted out of bed. He would know what to do.

**

Deborah, jolted out of a deliciously sound slumber by barking and cursing, couldn't conceive of what was going on in the dark. Kit jumped out of bed. Something scraped on the table next to him. The Barlow knife, she realized.

Trouble.

She rolled out of bed in the other direction. Timothy. She had to protect Timothy. The room was pitch black; she found the cradle by touch. Scooping him up made him whimper.

Grunts and growls and thumps and curses and scuffles came from across the room.

Blindly she scanned the chamber searching for a weapon. Fireplace poker, of course. Edging along the wall, she kept Timothy away from the fighting. No hint of how the fighting progressed came through the darkness.

Her bare foot touched the cold bricks of the hearth, and she reached for the poker.

Some light would be helpful, but...help. That's it, help. Mr. Thomson slept next door. She drew a breath, "Help! Murder! Help!"

Now some light. She pushed the poker into the banked fire. The coals glowed and she threw in some small pieces of wood. They caught immediately, throwing enough light into the room to see Kit grappling with an intruder.

A moment later, Mr. Thomson burst in brandishing a wicked-looking knife. Coming up behind the malefactor, the sergeant grabbed his wrists. Between the two ex-soldiers, the man was disarmed, tossed to the floor, and bound with the ties from Kit's dressing gown.

Deborah breathed a sigh of relief during the operation and then realized that she, like Kit, was naked. She found her dressing gown before Mr. Thomson had a chance to turn around.

Kit hauled the man to his feet. He must be freezing, and Missy would arrive in a moment. Deborah handed his breeches to him with a censorious, but still appreciative glance.

He was decent, barely, when Missy burst in. "Wha's goin'...ohhh!" She had a candle, so they were able to see the intruder clearly for the first time.

Deborah studied the wiry, ferret-faced man. "He looks, I don't know, familiar."

Mr. Thomson's eyes narrowed. "Blimey, 'e's one of t'blokes tha' jumped us. Weren't ye me fine cove?"

The intruder just glared at Mr. Thomson. Kit shook him. "Answer the gentleman."

"Bugger ye."

Kit rammed the man against the wall so that his head bounced off it. "Answer the nice gentleman."

"Yeh."

"That's better. It's a start."

The door burst open again. The innkeeper, in his nightshirt and night cap, held a candle aloft. "What in seven hells is amiss. I run a decent establishment here!"

Scamp growled at the new intruder, and Deborah called him over. There were entirely too many people here. "Mr. Thomson, would you be so kind as to hold this individual securely so that the rest of us might get dressed?"

"Aye, my'lady."

"Very good," Kit agreed. "We'll meet you down in the tap room in a few minutes." He nodded to the innkeeper and shuffled everyone out of the chamber.

Deborah gave Timothy to Missy, "Take care of him." When Missy started to object, Deborah continued, "I'll let you know what's going on later."

In the taproom, Kit spelled Mr. Thomson with the prisoner. When they were all dressed and gathered around the man, Kit addressed the captive. "By the by, what is your name?"

The sullen man hesitated, then, probably remembering his encounter with the wall, answered. "'Arris, 'Arry 'Arris."

"Well, 'Arry 'Arris, meeting you twice in one day under such, shall we say, enervating circumstances, is very interesting. One, I might condone, but twice, that makes me a little--what?--annoyed, angry, suspicious?"

Harris sat, hunched on the bench, and glared.

"Speak up, man," the innkeeper demanded.

"'N say wot? Didn't ask no question."

Mr. Thomson slapped him across the back of his head. "No way to talk ta yer betters, you gutter sweeping." He walked around, eyeing Harris. "M'lord, "Arris, 'ere 'as 'imself th' better part of a infantry uniform on, 'e 'as."

"Hum, a deserter, aren't you, Harry?" Kit demanded. Harris nodded, almost unwillingly.

The word "deserter" reminded Deborah of something. "There were some deserters hanging around my father's farm while we were there."

"'Arris," Mr. Thomson demanded in his best sergeant's voice, "that was you, t'weren't it?"

"Damn yer eyes, aye."

"And the shot at the carriage?" Kit continued.

"Aye."

"Blimey," the innkeeper muttered.

"And told Henry Marshall where I was going?"

"No! Ah don';t know wha' yer talking 'bout."

Mr. Thomson drew his hand back.

"No, Ah tells ye. 'Twere Cook. 'E's been braggin' as t'ow 'e got a few quid offa some flash cove."

"Cook, eh. That's the name Henry gave us."

"Aye, 'e's t'one wi'is brains bashed in."

Kit rubbed at his face. "Well, that's one piece of the puzzle accounted for." He stepped back and leaned against a table. He pursed his lips as he studied Harris. "Now, as far as I know, I've never laid eyes on you, Harris. Have you, Mr. Thomson?"

Thomson rubbed his chin, "Can't say as Ah 'ave, m'lord."

"I didn't think so. That means it's not something personal against me. So, why are you doing this now? Henry Marshall is out of the picture."

Harris examined the floor. After a moment, Mr. Thomson took one step forward and hit him in the jaw, sending him sprawling off the bench.

Deborah squealed "Oh!" and then subsided. She realized, as soon as the word was out of her mouth, that she couldn't interfere in this battle.

Harris struggled back to his seat, not a small feat with your hands bound behind your back and your mouth bleeding.

"This time 'is lordship did ask ye a question. Answer 'im!"

Instead of answering, Harris leaned over and wiped his mouth on his shoulder. Then he spat a mouthful of blood near Thomson's feet.

Justifiably enraged, Mr. Thomson lunged at him. Kit held him back with an arm braced across Thomson's chest. "Harris, I require a straight and complete answer on the instant, else-wise I shall escort my wife out of here and let Sgt. Thomson have his way with you."

At the mention of that particular military rank and all it implied, Harris's eyes opened wide. He looked quickly between Kit and Mr. Thomson and decided to save his skin, at least for the moment. "This gentry mort, she says Ah'm t'kill 'er ladyship or elsewise she'll turn me in. Said she'd gimme £50 iffin' Ah does it."

Deborah sat back in her chair with her mouth open. "A lady wants me dead? But that's absurd. Who, who? I haven't hurt any..." Her voice trailed off.

"Precisely, my dear. When I was single and only a younger son, she was content with a liaison. Now that she's single, and I have the title, she'd like a more, shall we say formal arrangement? Which brings up another point. Harris, did you murder Sir Oliver Grant?"

"No! Ah never stiffed no gentry cove. An' nobody cans says Ah did. Ye bleeding fancy cain't stick tha'un on me. No how, no way."

Kit interrupted his denial, "I believe you."

"Ye does?"

"When did you desert?"

"Jus' after Cornwallis surrendered. We was on patrol near Richmond an' jus' kept goin'."

Kit turned to Mr. Thomson. "Lady Claudia found herself a widow before we left Camden. At least you don't have that hanging," he emphasized the word, and Harris winced, "over your head."

Kit put his foot on the bench and braced his hip against the adjoining table. "Now that we know what happened, what do we do?"

Deborah's brain returned to functioning after its recent pummeling. "Kit, we have to prove this. The word of a deserter isn't going to convince anybody. I'm not entirely sure it's convinced me."

"She's got 'erself a point, she does, sir. The pieces might all fit for us, but whiles we won't be t'ones doin' sumthin' about it, we'll need more 'an t' word of a gallows fruit like 'im."

"True enough, true enough." Kit drummed his fingers on the table. "Innkeeper, would you be willing to assist us in this?"

"Aye, m'lord."

"Your testimony may be required in court."

"Aye, so be it. Ah runs a decent establishment and my good name's been sullied. Ah'll help."

"Harris, I could easily see that you were hung on any of several counts. However, in return for you assistance and your immediate surrender to military authorities," Harris yelped, "I will personally see that your punishment is relatively light."

Harris swallowed hard and nodded.

Kit turned to the innkeeper. "Did any of your people witness this night's events?"

The man shook his head. "Good, let's keep it that way. I may need you as a witness at a moment's notice. If I'm right, Lady Claudia will confirm everything we already know."

Puzzled faces looked at him. "Harris, here, is going to go back to Lady Claudia to report his success and collect his reward. On his way out of her house, he will be escorted back to barracks. We, on the other hand, will be known to be in seclusion. Missy and Mr. Thomson and you, Innkeeper, will tell only this to anyone who asks. I feel certain that Lady Claudia will be around very soon to offer her very personal condolences to me. When she does, it will verify Harris's statement because no one will know why we are in seclusion. Think we can do it?" He addressed the question to the group. "How about Missy?"

"Oh, aye, m'lord."

Deborah seconded Mr. Thomson. "I'm sure she can."

"Good, than Mr. Thomson, I want you to get over to General Vaughan's house. Wake him up if you have to, tell him the plans, and get an escort for Harris, here."

Mr. Thomson left on his errand, and the innkeeper fairly bounced with excitement. "Ah'm proud to be of assistance, m' lord. Anything else I can do?"

"No my good man, only don't say too much when you are asked. And I suspect you will be asked." He leaned back against the table and yawned. "Oh, and would you send up a nice bone for the small hero?" He dismissed the man with a nod.

"Well," Deborah sniffed as she stood, "I'm going up to the quiet of my room and explain to a soon-to-be-very-excited Missy what her part will be. I'll send her out tomorrow on an errand with a long face and much mystery. That will set the cat among the canaries." She looked down at her hands for a moment. "Then it will be over."

Kit smiled and nodded.

**

The next day Missy went on a series of mundane errands and spread the news of the family's seclusion, if not the reason, to every ear that would listen.

Next morning, a scruffy sailor-type fellow approached the innkeeper. "Oy, matey, 'ears as der new Hearl of Westridge be 'ere. Ah comes from dere and methinks to pay me respects." The innkeeper delivered his lines perfectly and, when the fellow left, rushed up to deliver his news with great relish.

**

Later that afternoon, the innkeeper sent word up that Lady Claudia arrived. Deborah quickly retired to the bedroom. Mr. Thomson very properly announced the lady. Kit felt a surge of pride in his soldier-cum-valet. His attention quickly focused on the problem, or rather lady, at hand. He rose and bowed solemnly as Lady Claudia swept into the room. Nodding dismissal of Mr. Thomson, and knowing that at least two and possibly four pairs of ears were glued to the doors, he greeted his former mistress. "Good day to you, Lady Claudia. It is kind of you to call."

"Oh Kit! I'm sure that I just had to come when I heard."

"How kind of you."

"Such a terrible thing, to be attacked in your own beds!"

Kit lowered his eyelids so she wouldn't see the triumph in them. This was almost too easy. He nodded to acknowledge her sympathy.

"Your child, I'm sure I don't remember his name..."

"Timothy," Kit grated.

"Yes, Timothy, he's unharmed!"

"Yes."

"That's wonderful. Your heir must be protected at all costs. And your dear wife—did she suffer?"

"No."

"I'm sure that's a relief to you." Kit nodded. "When are the services scheduled?"

Arrogant witch, Kit thought. "Day after tomorrow." Services were scheduled, just not the ones she assumed.

Lady Claudia rose and glided to his side. Kit rose automatically. "I'm sure I'll be there. You know I'm always there for you, no matter what." She grasped his face and kissed him on the lips, not without a hint of passion.

"Thank you, Lady Claudia." He rang the small bell on the side table.

"So formal, Kit, we're far beyond that."

Kit withdrew from her hands and bowed. "At the moment, that's how it must be. Thank you for coming,"

"Of course, I'm always there for you, Kit."

Mr. Thomson opened the door and bowed. "M'lady."

She swept out with a glance that was probably meant to be coquettish. Kit wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as soon as the door closed.

The bed chamber door opened almost immediately. Deborah slipped out as quietly as possible, given her elation. "Oh my, she is a brazen little hussy, isn't she?"

"Indeed she is. Did Missy hear, too?"

"She certainly did. I practically had to pinch her to give me some room at the door to hear."

"Good." Deborah glared at him. "Not about the pinch!" She snickered and he continued, "I suspect..." A knock sounded at the door. "Right on time."

Mr. Thomson and the innkeeper almost danced through the door together, a tight squeeze. The innkeeper gave way, but spoke first, bubbling with excitement. "She's hung herself right and tight."

"Ah, yes. Now, I would like Mr. Thomson to request General Vaughan's immediate presence at the magistrate's. Innkeeper, I would like you to arrange for our carriage at the rear of the inn and your presence in ten minutes."

"Right you are, m'lord. I'll be there in a trice." He whipped off his apron and wiped his hands before he and Mr. Thomson went off on their respective errands.

Kit turned to Deborah. "You and Missy will be required to give statements. You have a veil?"

"No, but it can be arranged. I'm so glad this is over."

Chapter 26

After almost a week cooped up in the hotel suite, Deborah jumped at the chance to join the Vaughans in their box at the theater. British acting and musical troops were loath to cross the Atlantic during the war, so most of the professional entertainment came from resident companies. Sometimes, even British soldiers found themselves drafted for entertainment duty.

This week's principal selection at The Theatre on Nassau Street, Hayden's new C Major Symphony, would be performed by just such a group of redcoat musicians. Deborah figured it was better than guard duty. Plus, if they were playing, they weren't shooting.

Deborah stretched a bit on the carriage seat. It felt so good to be out and about once again. Cabin fever was a fearsome thing. "I'm so glad we got that fuss over before Missy and Mr. Thomson's wedding. It would be terrible if Lady Claudia managed to spoil it."

"Ummm," Kit replied as the carriage stopped in front of The Theatre.

The theater was a two story wooden structure, with a pair of magnificent staircases leading up to the boxes lining each side of the hall. Managers Walter Merry and Thomas Kean wanted to impress their box holders, even if the seats on the first floor were simple benches.

The footman drew the crimson velvet curtain aside to allow Deborah and Kit to enter the box. Kit went forward to greet Lady Vaughan. Amanda jumped out of her chair and rushed to embrace Deborah with unseemly haste. Her mother hissed at her, but Amanda launched into speech. "Oh, Deborah, I'm so glad to see you. Mother and Father have been absolutely sotto voce every time your name was mentioned, and I've been forbidden to call, and then I overheard something about an attack, and nobody would tell me what had happened, and...and I've been so worried about you."

Deborah laughed and held the girl's hands. "I'm fine, as you can see. We were attacked by footpads, but no damage was done, except to my dress. Really."

General Vaughan had risen at their entrance. "Good evening to you, Lady Westridge. Delighted to see you in fine form after all your 'alarums and excursions.' Should be a fine performance this evening.

"Haven't located the lady in question, yet." He leaned over toward Kit. "Appears she's changed her place of residence. Still looking. Don't despair."

Kit looked out over the theater after kissing Lady Vaughan's hand. He was about to make a comment on the crowd when he spied a familiar face in one of the opposite boxes. "General, I do believe I've spotted out quarry." He watched Lady Claudia wave and then get up to leave her box. "I might even be so bold as to predict that she may come to us!"

He glanced out over the gallery. "Do you have any guards here?"

"No."

"Lady Vaughan," Kit said as he offered her his hand, "would you take Amanda to the next box immediately?"

She swallowed visibly, but complied, leading a querulous Amanda.

Deborah looked at him and said, "No." She did, however, move to one of the inside corners of the box.

Kit leaned negligently against the hip-high balustrade, and General Vaughan fidgeted with the buttons on his cuff.

For Deborah, the wait stretched into forever. Lady Vaughn returned quickly. She sat in her accustomed chair, fingers white around the strings of her reticule.

Deborah didn't know what was going to happen, but she, like Lady Vaughn, knew the confrontation wasn't going to be pleasant or easy. Some instinct, like that of the she-wolf protecting her mate, made her reach into her own reticule and quietly open the jack knife she'd retrieved after the attack. If all went well, it would sit unnoticed in her hand until Lady Claudia left, one way or another.

The curtain opened and brushed across her skirts, but Lady Claudia never noticed. "I'm sure I saw you, my dearest Kit. How bold of you to come to the theater during morning, but then diversion is always the best medicine for grief, isn't it? I'm sure I have just the solution for both of us. Why..."

"Lady Claudia," General Vaughan intoned solemnly as he rose from his hitherto unnoticed seat.

"Why, Sir John, I'm sure I didn't see you. How are you and your lovely wife?" She offered her hand.

The General looked at her extended fingers for a moment and then grasped her hand in a tighter-than-required-by-courtesy grip. Lady Claudia pulled back in well-bred shock. "Lady Claudia Grant, I hereby arrest you for thrice attempting to murder Lady Deborah Marshall, Countess of Westridge.

The shock held her still for a moment then she ripped her hand from his with a most unladylike violence. "How dare you!"

"I very much dare, my lady. We have the testimony of your hired assassin and the corroboration from you own mouth."

"I've done no such thing, you imbecile! Of all the absurdity!"

Deborah decided it was time to step into the fray. "Good evening, Lady Claudia. Your consolation of my widower is somewhat premature, I'm afraid."

"But you're..."

"Dead?" Deborah finished for her. "Not quite yet, despite your best efforts. I do, however, appreciate your 'taking care of' Kit for me."

Lady Claudia whirled, glaring at all of them. "You! What are you...? You whore!"

"Lady Claudia," General Vaughan tried to interject, "Lady Claudia, you must come with me." He grasped her arm.

She twisted back towards him. Her free hand whipped up and raked across his face, leaving three bloody furrows.

"Yieee!" he screamed as he flopped back into his chair.

His wife shrieked, "John!" but she remained glued to her chair with her hand on her bosom.

Kit tossed one of the vacant chairs aside and took two strides forward. "Claudia," he commanded, but she was digging frantically in her reticule. "Claudia!"

She looked up. As she did, she dropped her bag and raised the smallest pistol Deborah had ever seen. "You betrayed me, you miserable cur."

"Claudia, listen to me."

"I thought you loved me. I sacrificed everything for you, and you betrayed me."

Deborah could see the wild fury in Lady Claudia's eyes. The pistol and Lady Claudia's attention were both on Kit. She didn't stop to think, she just acted. Keeping as still as possible, Deborah baby-stepped the half-dozen feet to her target.

"Why did you do it? We could have been so good together. We could have had the ton fawning at our feet. Why did you ruin it? You ruined it. You! You!"

"Claudia, listen, this won't get you anything."

"Yes, it will...revenge!" She cocked the pistol with her thumb. Deborah rushed the last foot and lunged with the small blade. It drew bright blood on Claudia's shoulder. She screamed and fired at the same time.

The shot flew wide, into the gallery. A yelp from below started the sounds of a mass exodus. Pandemonium reigned.

With Lady Claudia disarmed, Deborah tried to restrain her from behind.

"No, you bitch, it's all your fault! I won't let you take me!" Grappling with Deborah, Lady Claudia managed to wrench the blood-slick knife away. She slashed at Kit, drawing blood on his hand and backed to the side of the box.

Lady Vaughan finally roused from her immobility. She rose majestically to her feet. Pointing her fan like a royal scepter at Lady Claudia, she intoned, "You wicked, wicked female! I shall personally see to it that you are never received in polite society again!"

With a strangle howl of rage, Claudia charged Lady Vaughan with the knife outstretched, intending to gut her.

Deborah and Kit both lunged to protect Lady Vaughan. Before they could reach her, Lady Claudia stumbled on the overturned chair. To Deborah's mind, the world slowed. With arms outstretched like scrawny wings and a small squawk, Claudia's momentum launched her over the balustrade and toward the stage. One flap of her arms and she disappeared.

For the length of a heart beat, the theater was silent, and no one moved in the box. Then all four of them rushed to the balustrade. Gingerly, afraid of what she knew she would see, Deborah looked over and down. She didn't think the noise level could have gotten any higher than after the shot, but it did. People crowded back around the sprawled, broken body of Lady Claudia Grant. The knife winked dully on the floor. Women screamed, and men shouted. They all pushed to get a better view.

Deborah could only whisper, "Lord have mercy."

"Amen," Kit added and put his arm around her shoulders. She dropped her head to his chest.

General Vaughan finally roused from his shock at being attacked by a female. The side of his face was a mess of half-clotted blood. He began, "Ladies," but the word came out in a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Ladies and gentlemen, by the authority of His Majesty, clear the area. Soldiers, you, you and you, guard the...um...body."

He turned to his companions. "Whole thing's clear as crystal. Self defense and accidental death. No problem there. Westridge, would appreciate your assistance in cleaning up the mess, though."

"Of course."

"Bernice, my dear," he laid a comforting hand on her arm. She took a deep breath and nodded briskly. "Escort Amanda and Lady Westridge to...to..." His sense of command failed him.

"Our hotel," Kit supplied. "There will be much to discuss, I imagine. The General will leave with me." He kissed Deborah on the forehead and gave her a push towards the door.

"Your hand!" She pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule and bound his sluggishly bleeding hand.

"Ever the healer. Go."

**

Very little was said on the way home. Deborah forestalled Amanda's questions. "After we get home. This is a tale to be told only once."

At Frounce's Tavern, she instructed the innkeeper to bring food, tea, wine, and himself. Missy wasn't in the room she formerly shared with Mrs. Gibson, but that worthy was also summoned. Knocking on Mr. Thomson's door, she heard a grumpy, "Yea," before he opened the door. He straightened when he saw her and began an apology.

She cut him off, "Get dressed, both of you, and get out here." A squeak behind the door told her that her guess was correct.

With the small group assembled, Deborah told them the events of the evening.

Missy fetched the vinaigrette for Mrs. Gibson who succumbed to a fit of the vapors on hearing the grisly fate of such an aristocratic lady.

When she revived, that worthy commiserated, "She was a Lady!"

"So she were," Missy responded, "but she sure weren't no lady."

Mrs. Gibson stared at her in confusion, but Missy waved her hand to indicate the end of the discussion.

Mr. Thomson shook his head with resigned acceptance. "Not to worry, m'lady. Tis for ta best. Ah means, what's t'do wit' ah gentry mort 'ata a murderer?"

Deborah acknowledged the truth of the statement. She'd been wondering the same thing. Kit had shown mercy to his cousin, but the attack had been on him. She had a bad feeling that these, on her, would not elicit such a response.

Finally the cacophony subsided and the crowd cleared out. Deborah assured Missy and Mr. Thomson that she and Kit could fend for themselves. It was quiet. Deborah picked up an agitated Scamp and sat down to pet him into quietude.

**

Kit found them there when he finally returned. Deborah had slipped down onto the side bolster, sound asleep. Scamp had obviously also been asleep, but the door's opening woke him. He stretched on her lap. At the movement, Deborah opened her eyes.

"Hello." Sleep thickened her voice.

"Hello, yourself."

Deborah stretched and Scamp jumped down to greet his master. Kit gave him an absent-minded stroke.

"That's no way to treat the hero of this tragedy. He deserves to be feted and petted."

Kit bent to pick up the tail-wagging dog. "Believe me, I know." Kit silently renewed his vow that Scamp would live the rest of his life like canine royalty. "Hopefully, that will be the last time he has to play the hero."

Deborah rose and put her arms around his neck, sandwiching the dog between them. "Sure there's nobody else hiding in the wings who thinks they deserve a coronet?"

Kit snaked one arm around her waist. "Reasonably so. I certainly hope so. I firmly hope to spend the rest of our lives in placid dullness."

She lifted her eyebrow and ran a finger along the outside of his ear. "Not too dull," she challenged.

He pulled free to put the dog on the floor. "I stand corrected." Wrapping one arm around her waist and threading the fingers of his other through her hair, he captured her mouth with his. His tongue swept in to taste the sweetness and then retreated to trace the outline of her lips. "Exciting, incredibly exciting."

Chapter 27 For the History Geeks

Reconstructions of the interior of Frounce's Tavern show it as a fairly functional, if not spare, establishment of four stories. A large box-like structure, it was actually located on Pearl Street. The Queen's Head Tavern attached to it was a notorious meeting place for Patriots. High-end hotels, as Kit might have patronized didn't make their appearance in New York until the next century. Frounce's was most likely a sailor's inn. Facilities and services were probably very basic. The Theatre on Nassau Street also existed at the time.

Lt. Harvey actually existed (his words to his uncle were recorded), although he died at Saratoga. Banastre Tarleton, Charles Cornwallis, Nathaniel Greene, Patrick Ferguson, Joseph and Sarah Kershaw, General Sir John Vaughan, Prince William (later King William IV), the Rev. Mr. Lorrimer, and Dr. Alexander Garden (both of whom appear on lists of confiscated Tory properties in South Carolina) also existed.

Daniel and Abigail Morgan had two daughters. He started out as a teamster for the British during the French and Indian Wars, receiving the whipping and commenting that it was, indeed, one short. His rheumatism forced his out of the war, but he ended life as a wealthy farmer and sometime Congressman.

The battles described, including Tarleton's attack on Monticello, Waxhaw, King's Mountain, Hannah's Cowpens, Hobkirk Hill, Cornwallis' chase of Greene that included Guilford Courthouse, and of course, Yorktown all occurred. Their time-line is fairly accurate here. The guerilla actions that Eli and Adam were involved in with Marion and Pickens kept the British off balance. Although Washington receives the lion's share of the credit for winning the Revolutionary War, these battles were critical in driving Cornwallis up to Yorktown. After that, the war was all but over.

Col. Christopher Marshall stands roughly in the position that Brigadier General Frances Rawdon served. For obvious reasons, he does not appear in the story, although he commanded the British troops at Hobkirk Hill.

Banastre Tarleton's character, at least according to American sources, was much as described. He went on to take over the Regent's discarded mistress, Mary Robinson. Later, he became Governor-General of India, as did Rawdon. No one said there was any justice in history. Tarleton actually left New York for England on Dec. 15 (I thought he needed another good trouncing, so I let him stay a bit longer.) along with Cornwallis and Hanger.

Kershaw House, in its reconstructed form, still exists, as do descendents of the Kershaws. One of them, Joanna Craig, is director of the Camden Historical Society. She graciously helped me with probable floor-plans and aspects of the original house, as well as other historical information.

Patrick Ferguson invented a rifle that, if it had been adopted by the British Army, would have gone a long way to insuring that we still sang "God Save the Queen" instead of "The Star Spangled Banner." His death, along with one of his two mistresses (each named Sally), at King's Mountain was a great blow to the British cause.

Cardinal Sauce is an egg yolk and cream-based sauce for fish.

The Bald Eagle actually became the national symbol of the United States a little later than depicted, in 1782.

Unlike Marshall, I personally think skunks are adorable, even if they have a ferocious set of anal glands. But then, my husband tells me I can't smell very well. I love him anyway.

****
