Chase the Dawn (30 page)

Ben had known these facts as he had stood on the wharf, had recognized in Martin the savage inhumanity that he had fought against in Ireland and that had brought him to this fate; he had known absolutely that his own arrogance and his refusal to yield were a challenge that the man would take on with a pleasure that would be an added bonus to the acquisition of slave labor. Yet he could not bring himself to offer the submission that might cause Martin to move off down the line deciding to look for more worthy grist to his mill. And, in spite of the privations of the voyage, Benedict Clare, now known simply as Nick, the distinguishing Irish lilt disguised, was in good condition beneath the filth, the shoulders strong and broad, his limbs straight and powerful. He would provide many years of labor before deprivation and unremitting toil took their inevitable toll.

And for nearly two years, Nick the bondsman had slaved and sweated through all the hours God made, had been taught to lower his head and walk like a man owned, because defiance brought humiliation far worse than submission, until the day Miss Margaret had demanded that he serve her, too. For months, he had accepted his role as tame lapdog for the young lady of the house, who had so manifestly inherited her father’s viciousness. He fetched and carried to order, drove her
pony cart into town, groomed her horse, held his palm for her booted foot when she mounted, stood rigid, seemingly without ears or feelings, while she taunted him in front of her friends, boasted of how amenable he was, how he would attend to her every need. And the sniggers and the prods and the covert glances had apparently left him unmoved. Until that August afternoon when he had refused her, and they’d strung him up to the oak tree …

Ben slowly came back to himself in the quiet, sun-filled chamber in the orderly guesthouse of Sir Edward Paget. He had sworn that one day he would ensure the death of the man who had broken him. The paralyzing rage had left him, now that he had revisited the memories with the detachment that Paul Tyler had taught him, and his mind was clear. The first rational thought concerned the degree of danger. Martin had sensed something familiar about the clean-shaven Irishman, but he had been easily put off. He would never, not in his wildest dreams, see his runaway bondsman in the person of an Irish aristocrat, and if he was not looking for it, then surely he would not find it. But what if he did?

The consequences of that happening were not to be borne—to be dragged back in shackles, to face torture again, an inevitable, pitiless death. Was the risk unacceptable? Should he make his excuses and leave immediately to join Gates’s forces? Leave Bryony this time, in haste and without explanation, once and for all? There would be no coming back to tie up loose ends—not this time.

If he stayed, then the opportunity to revenge himself upon Roger Martin might well present itself. He would
have time to talk with Bryony—to love with her just once more so that they could part with grace.

The decision made itself. He left the guesthouse and returned to the great house, where the men were congregated in the library. Major Ferguson, with his band of Tories and loyal American militia, was planning a campaign that would reinforce the British expeditionary force in South Carolina—a force that, it was now presumed, would proceed to roll up the Southern colonies one by one.

Francis Cullum sat quietly, listening as the discussion tensed under competitive offers of financial support, and those who were either less willing or less able to pledge grew heated. Benedict Clare sat opposite him, tapping a fingernail on the cherrywood tabletop, a frown between the well-drawn brows denoting both interest and question.

“You have said nothing, Mr. Clare.” Sir Edward spoke in his position as unofficial moderator. “We would welcome your opinion.” He turned with a frown at the sound of the door opening behind him. Then the frown cleared. His daughter smiled, offered a small curtsy to the room at large, and quietly began to refill the table decanters from the bottles on the sideboard.

“I think Major Ferguson’s plan is a sound one,” responded Ben. “It seems wise to concert both British and Tory forces in the South, although one assumes that General Gates could be no match for either.”

A rumble of satisfied agreement rolled around the table. “Can I count on more than your approval, Clare?” Ferguson demanded suddenly. “I could use a man of your caliber on my staff. There’ll be little fighting in that position, I fear—can’t afford to waste good planners. But
if you don’t object to being denied the opportunity for heroics, I’d welcome the opportunity to pick your brain.”

Bryony’s hand held in midair, the bottle of port angled toward the neck of the decanter. Ben bowed his head. “You do me too much honor, Major. I will serve you in whatever capacity you require.” His smile was bland, and only Bryony noticed that it failed to touch his eyes.

Francis breathed deeply. For a minute he had been afraid that his own plan was about to be rendered in part worthless. There was little point in removing himself as impediment to Bryony’s eventual conjugal felicity if the prospective bridegroom embraced the same dangerous course. But as a staff officer, Benedict Clare would not see much of the battlefield. Francis spoke firmly. “Major Ferguson, I beg to offer my own humble services as a member of your force.” He smiled. “But I would prefer not to be denied the opportunity for heroics.”

Applause and laughter greeted this statement.

Two members of the group, however, did not receive Francis’s pledge with overt signs of gratification. Sir Francis Cullum and Sir Edward Paget looked at each other, their shared thought needing no words between them. Neither of them could venture the opinion that a young man on the brink of matrimony, the only heir to the family name and fortune, had no right to endanger himself. With one accord, their heads turned toward Bryony, who was placing the refilled decanters on the table. She appeared quite unmoved, and Sir Edward felt that familiar tug of paternal pride. He had bred a worthy Paget, for all that she was a woman.

Major Ferguson, however, was less reticent. “I trust
Miss Paget is willing to accept your sacrifice, Cullum. It is always hardest on the ladies who are left behind to worry and wait whilst we are engrossed in action.”

“There are wives and mothers, sisters and daughters aplenty, Major,” Francis said soberly. “They all wait and fear.” A pair of black eyes were regarding him steadily across the table, and they contained both knowledge and acceptance. Francis Cullum, on the horns of an impossible dilemma, had chosen his own way.

“In such a matter of duty and honor, Major Ferguson, I would count my own wishes as naught,” Bryony stated formally, trotting out the expected sentiment even as her spirit revolted against this means Francis had chosen to resolve their problem. Francis was a Tory by default rather than invincible conviction. It was too slight a commitment to die for. But he had chosen his own way, and she had neither the right nor the power of veto.

“Not something women should have an opinion on,” growled Roger Martin, removing his mouth briefly from his tankard in order to make the pronouncement. “Man does what he has to, nothing to do with his women.” He glared at Bryony. “Seems to me, miss, you should be at your prayers with the rest of the ladies.”

There was a moment of silence while those around the table attempted to recover from this extraordinary rudeness. Sir Edward spoke with icy disdain. “You object to my daughter’s presence, Martin? I can assure you that she is here at
my
invitation.” He looked slowly around the table. “Please feel free to express an opinion, gentlemen, if anyone else finds Bryony’s presence inappropriate.”

“On the contrary,” Benedict said smoothly. “Such a charming and attentive addition to the company could
only be welcomed.” He smiled at Bryony, who felt a ridiculous urge to giggle as she murmured some vaguely grateful words and appeared suitably confused.

Roger Martin directed his bloodshot glare at Benedict. “Seems we have a courtier in our midst. Pretty words, sir, but pretty words don’t get a man far.” He snorted, oblivious of the contemptuous stares he was receiving from the rest of the group. “Demmed sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.” He buried his nose in his tankard again.

“Shall we return to business, gentlemen?” Sir Edward pointedly turned his head from the boorish Martin, excluding him from the question, and the discussion resumed.

Bryony slipped from the room, deciding that she had heard more than enough to occupy her thoughts for the time being. What puzzled her mightily was the change in Benedict. It was as if that cold stranger of barely an hour past had existed in another body. He looked his usual debonair, calm, controlled self, and his eyes, when they had rested upon her, had contained only warmth. What on earth had happened to bring about such a dramatic change? She would probably never find out, Bryony reflected gloomily, making her way upstairs. It would be just another of the mysteries that surrounded the man she loved.

And what of Francis? Had he decided to make such a sacrifice simply because of her revelation that morning? Her nimble fingers paused in their work of braiding the dark mass of hair tumbling over one shoulder. He could never back down now, not after such a public avowal. Bryony knew, in her heart of hearts, that Francis would ensure that he did not return. It was a cold, hard truth.
But why would he not take the way out she had offered? It was too late now, anyway. The milk was spilled, and Francis was going to war.

She twisted the braid into a coronet around her head and put on a bonnet of Angoulême lace, which framed her face in a thoroughly satisfactory manner. Ben was going to war, too. Cold fingers touched her spine. He had offered his services to Ferguson, so obviously he was intending to leave here before being required to make good his promise. There was so much to be achieved in such a short time. But she would not be dispirited. Putting on a pair of lace-edged mittens and straightening her apron, Bryony prepared to go downstairs and join the throng gathering at the water’s edge for the boats that would transport them to the picnic spot up-river. It ought to be possible, in the crowd and during the riotous games that would be played, to snatch a little privacy with Ben. No one would notice if they slipped away from the festivities for a few minutes.

There was much laughter punctuated by girlish squeals as the house party boarded the flotilla of row-boats, each craft manned by two oarsmen. Hoops swayed, a mass of brilliant colors, as their occupants each tried to control the unruly garment that took as much space on the narrow thwarts as three individuals. However, good humor prevailed despite the cramped and occasionally precarious conditions. Canoes loaded with hampers, crates of wine, and servants accompanied the procession. The sun shone, bright and warm but without the savage battering power of its summer self, and there was a merciful absence of irritating insect life—an absence that would last for just a few more
weeks. It seemed as if nothing could occur to spoil their entertainment.

“May I assist you, Miss Paget?” Ben jumped lightly into a boat and stood, one foot on the stern, the other on the dock, holding out his hand.

“Thank you, sir.” She placed her mittened fingers into the strong, callused palm whose most intimate touches she knew so well. His hold tightened and, as she stepped onto the stern, his other hand went to her waist, firmly steadying her as the boat rocked beneath them. The entire surface of her skin seemed to contract, and the crowns of her breasts went small and hard, burning against the bodice of her gown. Oh, the power of passion, Bryony thought almost desperately as her eyes sought for the same reaction in his. It was there, and then his eyelids dropped. He pushed her lightly in front of him; she stepped down into the boat and he took his hands from her.

“Pray sit beside me, sir,” she invited, squishing her hoop with more hope than success. “Francis, will you take my other side? I’ve a mind to earn the envy of all with two such cavaliers.” Her tone was lightly bantering, acceptably flirtatious for such an excursion, and Francis smilingly obliged. Her hand found its way into his for a second in the wordless communication that was all that was available to them at present. The boat rocked violently, shipping water over the sides, and Bryony exclaimed indignantly, lifting her sandaled feet and the hem of her gown. Roger Martin, who had jumped with completely unconcerned clumsiness into the center of the boat, now pushed his way forward without a word of apology, depositing his large bulk on the bench opposite Bryony and her two consorts.

Bryony shot him a look of pure dislike and made even greater play of trying fastidiously to avoid the water slurping around her feet. Martin wiped his sweating brow with a none too clean handkerchief. “Demmed hot!”

“And wet, too, it would appear,” Bryony said with sweet venom. “But perhaps you do not object to wet feet, sir.” The gentleman merely looked at her in drunken incomprehension, but Bryony lost all interest in Roger Martin as her entire body became vibrantly aware of what was happening to Ben beside her. He had not moved a muscle, yet she could feel him coiled like a jungle cat waiting to spring. Worse was that miasma that seemed to surround him again, so that she fancied them both wrapped in cold, slimy tendrils of some defiling emotion more dreadful than anything she had ever experienced or could have imagined. Unable to hide her shock, she looked at him, but his expression was completely impassive, the eyes opaque. She nudged him, but he did not respond, and she realized that he was locked again in whatever nightmare world he inhabited on these terrifying occasions. If only she knew what triggered them. Deliberately, she put her foot on his and ground it down with all her might.

Benedict came back to himself with a jolt, removing his foot abruptly. He glanced at her in surprise and met the troubled question in her eyes. Only then did he fully realize how far he had slipped away in the last moments. “Do you know our destination, Miss Paget?”

He smiled, his gaze warm and reassuring, yet somehow Bryony was not reassured. She knew his body in all its moods, was attuned to his emotional self almost as if
it were her own, and Ben was somehow fragmented, the calm, certain core obscured.