Chase the Dawn (6 page)

From the bank, Benedict turned to look at her—standing waist-deep in the creek, her hand pressed to her mouth, her face the color of chalk, her eyes pools of horror. His lip curled; the black eyes seemed to flatten as all emotion left them. “Have you never before seen the scars of a flogging, Miss Bryony?”

She had. Many times. But never on the back of a white man. “Why?” she whispered. Her feet seemed to have taken root in the muddy bottom of the creek, and a shudder of cold and revulsion shook her, bringing goose bumps pricking on her skin.

“You will have to forgive me if I choose to keep my private affairs just that,” he drawled, pulling on his shirt, which clung immediately to his wet skin. “You were obviously not taught the difference between pertinent and impertinent questions.” He stepped into his britches, tugging them up roughly, pushing his shirt into the waistband.

“I am sorry,” Bryony apologized wretchedly. “I did not mean to pry. It was just such a shock.”

“You may count yourself fortunate if you receive no worse in your life,” he stated, thrusting his feet into his boots. “I am going to start the fire for supper.” He strode off through the trees, leaving the girl to uproot herself and stumble onto the bank.

Who was he? What was he? What could he possibly have done to invite that torture? She knew he was tender, caring, humorous. But he had tied her to the bed without compunction, and she also knew he had fired the barn where she, for some unknown reason, had been hiding. Had she been hiding? There were too many questions—all without answers.

Bryony dried herself with care, dabbing at her back, which had begun to sting again. The sensation brought renewed images of horror, and she bit her lip fiercely as she rubbed the water from her hair. Somehow, she had to discover the truth. And she was
not
going to accept his proscription on that wonderful activity to which she had just been introduced. Wrapped in the blanket, she marched determinedly back to the clearing, seeking refuge from her disturbing thoughts with action.

Ben was squatting before a fire laid in a circle of stones. A flat stone rested on the ashes, and on its hot surface lay the catfish. The marvelous smells of wood
smoke and broiling fish set her saliva flowing, and she swallowed, sniffing hungrily. He glanced up, and she saw with relief that the dead, expressionless look in his eyes had vanished. In fact, they held a gleam of understanding humor as he read her expression. “Hungry?”

“Famished,” she agreed, sitting down beside him.

“You must do a little work, too, you know, if you expect to be fed,” he said with gentle irony.

Bryony felt her cheeks warm, and she stood up again. “I am quite willing.”

He smiled at the stiff dignity in her voice. “In the cabin you will find a stone jar. It contains a loaf of wheaten bread. There is butter in the crock on the shelf, where you will also find knives and platters. There is a jar of cider in the corner, by the hearth, tankards on the shelf.”

“It would be easier to fetch and carry if I did not have to hold the blanket around me,” Bryony pointed out.

“There must be something I can wear.”

He frowned in thought. “I suppose you could wear one of my shirts for the moment. You will find one in the chest.”

The chest was battered, bearing the scars of rough handling and much use. Made of leather-bound cedar-wood, it was of the kind that Bryony’s selective memory identified as a sea chest. She knelt to open it. The sweet fragrance of cedar filled the air and had impregnated the stack of linen. There were shirts of holland, fustian, and kersey, but beneath these working garments was a pile of the finest lawn, sleeves edged with Mechlin and Brussels lace—the shirts of a gentleman, and a wealthy one at that. Not the shirts of a man who bore the indelible marks of the whip upon his back.

“Is there not a nightshirt in there, at the bottom somewhere?” Benedict spoke from behind her, and she started guiltily as if caught prying. “I have no use for them, so you may as well have it.” Bending over the chest, he flicked carelessly through the contents as if there were nothing at all extraordinary in the contrasts there revealed. “Yes, this should do.” He shook out the folds of a white linen garment as soft as silk, with voluminous sleeves and a high, lace-edged collar. “You will drown in it,” he said, chuckling, handing it to her. “You can use a cravat as a sash.” This the chest also supplied. Then, whistling cheerfully, he swung up the jar of cider and took it outside.

Bryony dropped the luxurious, cedar-fragrant folds over her head. She was of more than middle height, but the nightshirt did, indeed, drown her. She rolled the sleeves to her elbows, where the folds billowed over her forearms, and caught the skirts up at the waist, confining them with the linen cravat. It was a strange costume, but infinitely preferable to the blanket, and the body beneath felt wonderfully cool and clean. She combed her drying hair with her fingers, shaking her head vigorously so that her hair swirled around her face to settle in a shining blue-black cloud over her shoulders. Then, her makeshift toilet completed, she set about the task of gathering up the required articles for supper.

“Shall I set the table inside?” She popped her head round the door. Benedict looked up, and could not hide his astonishment. Gone was the waif, tattered and bruised in her blanket; in her place stood this radiant young woman. He had known she was beautiful, but dirt and distress had done much to conceal the reality. She was also older than he had thought.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty,” she replied instantly then gasped. “I remembered.”

“So you did.” He smiled. “Can you remember your birth date?”

Bryony shook her head. “That still escapes me.”

“It will come,” he said with confidence. “Where do you wish to eat?”

“Outside. I have spent long enough confined.”

He nodded easily and turned back to the fish. If only her memory returned soon, he could be rid of her before this damnable mess became even messier. And it would, he thought glumly. Never one to avoid the truth, Benedict was well aware that he would not be able to resist her if she decided to be irresistible.

A contented silence fell between them for the next half hour, until Bryony sighed with repletion. “That was wonderful.” She scraped the last morsel of fish from the wooden trencher with the tip of her knife and sucked it off. “I don’t think I have ever eaten anything so delicious.”

Benedict laughed. “I am sure you have. But food in the open air always tastes better. Now, since I both caught and cooked our supper, you may take responsibility for clearing it away.”

Bryony gathered up the trenchers, knives, and pitch-lined leather tankards. She looked uncertainly at the pile of fish bones. “What do I do with these?”

“Throw them back in the creek before you rinse off the platters,” he told her.

“But I just bathed in the creek!” Bryony exclaimed. “I don’t wish to bathe in water full of old fish bones and grease.”

“Nature will look after it, lass.” He shook his head. “The water is changing constantly with the river tide. Obviously, your education has been somewhat limited.”

“I don’t think I have ever washed dishes before, either,” she declared, looking with distaste at her burdens.

“New experiences never did anyone any harm.” He lay back on the grass with a contented sigh, gazing up at the sky, where the first stars were just beginning to appear.

When Bryony returned from the creek with the now clean dishes, the sleeves of the nightshirt sopping wet where they had fallen over her hands as she had bent to her task, Benedict was on his feet with the air of a man on the move. “I am going to leave you for an hour or two,” he said without preamble. “And I want your parole before I do.”

“My parole?” She stared, her eyes riveted on the pistols in his belt. “But I am not a prisoner.”

“As I said this morning, that is a matter for definition.” This was the other Ben, the man who set fire to barns. “Since I will not permit you, under any circumstances, to leave the clearing except to go down to that one part of the creek, you might say that you are a prisoner.”

“Why?” Bryony was suddenly angry. She owed him her life, but that did not give him the right to impose imprisonment for reasons that were not vouchsafed. It wasn’t as if she had done anything to deserve it; quite the reverse, since it was his fault that she was here at all.

“My reasons are my own,” he replied quietly. “But they are sufficient. Will you give me your parole?”

“Not unless you tell me why I should,” she said, her mouth taking a stubborn turn.

“Because if you do not, I shall have to confine you as I did earlier, and I do not wish to do that.” There was patience in his voice, but it could not disguise the implacability of the statement.

“Tie me to the bed?” She glared in disbelieving anger.

“If you give me no choice.” He glanced up at the sky and frowned. “I must leave now. Your parole?”

“No,” Bryony heard herself say. “Not without a reason.” She yelled as he lifted her as if she weighed no more than a kitten. But her twisting and writhing, the curses and imprecations, availed her not a whit. She was dumped in the middle of the bedstead and her wrist secured with the rawhide to the frame.

“Give me your parole, Bryony.” He stood looking down at her, showing no satisfaction at his easy victory.

It was her last chance, and as much as she feared being left alone and helpless in this degrading fashion, the stubborn refusal to submit to what she saw as clear injustice, a reaction that Eliza Paget would have recognized instantly, made her shake her head in mute denial.

Benedict shrugged and lit an oil lamp on the table.

“What if something happens to you and you do not come back?” she demanded through a throat of leather. “There are bears in the woods.”

“I will be back within two hours.” Then he was gone.

Bryony wrestled the knot with her free hand, but it was an intricate series of twists that evaded all her efforts. There was sufficient play in the strap to allow her to sit up, even to get off the bed, and to lie in whatever position she chose. Still, tears of angry frustration not unmixed with fright poured down her cheeks. At least she was not in darkness. Had he any cruelty in him, he would have left her alone without the comfort of the
lamp. Instead, with an air of grim resignation, he had simply done what he decided he had to do. It was just another facet of the man, another piece of the jigsaw.

She fell into a fitful sleep eventually, and woke with pounding heart at the sound of the door opening. But it was Benedict. He came over to the cot and unfastened the strap from the bed, although leaving it attached to her wrist. “Do you wish to go outside?”

Bryony wished that she did not and could answer him by disdainfully turning away, but her body was not prepared to be accommodating. When she returned, he was standing quite naked by the table, trimming the lamp. Even in vexation, laboring under a powerful sense of injustice, she could not help the little thrill that ran through her at the sight of that slim-hipped, broad-shouldered, vigorous figure, where there was only muscle and sinew, the bronzed skin stretched taut over the large frame. In silence, she climbed up onto the straw-filled mattress and tugged crossly at the strap still on her wrist. Benedict brought the lamp over to the cot, setting it on a stool; then, as silent as she, he swung himself onto the bed beside her. Taking the free end of the rawhide, he calmly fastened it around his own wrist, blew out the lamp, and lay down, pulling the blanket over them.

Bryony lay rigid in the dark, feeling his warmth so close to her, the length of him, lean and muscled, against her softness, and her hurt and anger seemed to evaporate. He was going to win this battle of the parole because she did not want to fight with him; she wanted to make love with him. And that was clearly not a possibility in the present atmosphere. She edged closer, but to her disappointment there was no response. His breathing
was deep and even, as if he had slipped instantly into sleep the minute he had lain down. Of course, she was swathed in yards of lawn, so it was hardly surprising that he could ignore her closeness. But there was always tomorrow.

T
he wood exploded with the joy of the dawn chorus, and Benedict slipped the knot on the strap that attached him to the still-sleeping figure and propped himself on one elbow to look down at her. That coloring was very Irish, he thought again, resisting the urge to trace with a fingertip the delicate flush of sleep high on her cheekbones. But whatever her history, he would stake his life that she had no firsthand knowledge of that strife-torn land.

The penalty for treason, but not if you were a Clare. When a Clare rebelled against the Crown, he was condemned to hear that ultimate sentence for his compatriots and then to hear for himself the mercy of a court presided over by a judge in the Clare family’s pocket: fourteen years of penal servitude as a bondsman in the Colonies. And to spare the family further disgrace, he would no longer bear the name of Clare. That had been his father’s sentence, and the bondsman had bowed his head in submission.