Emily's Vow (13 page)

"Is there a problem, my dear?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Is my nose grown too long, perchance?"

"If it had, I would not tell you," Emily replied with a hesitant grin. If she could joke her way out of this uncomfortable conversation, it would be the best solution. "Given how utterly mean you've been to me lately."

The big man laughed out loud. "I'd do anything in the world for my daughter."

"I'm sure, sir, but I believe dinner is served." Mr. McAlester rose and offered his hand to his wife. "Dearest?"

Rising easily, Mrs. McAlester swished her way out of the room on his arm. Emily watched the obviously loving couple leave, followed by Samantha and Captain Sullivan chatting amiably. That left Frank, standing too near her, waiting to escort her to dinner. She looked up into his smiling eyes, and his charms pulled her in despite her resolve. Stiffening, she stepped away from him, intent not on fleeing so much as not staying. She only needed to survive dinner and then her home, her safe haven—now essentially her prison—awaited.

"Em, you've forgotten something." Frank's voice made her pause.

Her cheeks warmed at his arrogance. She had not given permission for him to speak to her thus. "Do not refer to me so familiarly." At his nod of acquiescence, she said, "Now, what is it you think I've forgotten?"

"Me."

He winked at her, his fingers closing around her elbow in an electrifying embrace. She eased away from him as she admitted silently to herself that Frank most definitely showed interest in her. As her heart quivered at the prospect, she managed a small smile, though despaired of its sincerity. He stood before her, grinning sheepishly. Her body's reflexive reaction to him dismayed her. She would not allow her physical response to dictate her life, her future. Fiddlesticks, he meant nothing to her. Honestly.

He was just a man. A handsome, witty, intelligent, and, yes, a very dangerous man.

Chapter 6

"The McAlesters prepared a lovely dinner, didn't they, Miss Emily? Perhaps next time you'll permit me to escort you home as well, my dear." Frank tugged on his sleeves, mechanically straightening the froth of lace draping from each cuff, his eyes fixed upon Emily. "Such a lovely evening begs for sharing with one's special someone."

Despite the tiny pang of guilt that shot through her heart at the pained expression he wore, his flirtations met their match in her determined resolve. "I'm sure you understand my desire to spend time with my father." Emily gripped her hands together.

She would not succumb to Frank's advances. She'd made her vow to protect herself from marrying and risking her life in childbirth. Her emotions did not matter. She could tame them, given enough time. Men tried to understand, perhaps, but they did not risk death each time they wanted to have children. No, they planted their seed and waited for the results. Her father's attitude proved a case in point. Would the woman, and the child, live or die? They may as well roll the dice to determine the outcome.

She sniffed. She could never share her thoughts with her father, who glanced at her questioningly. She shook her head at his silent inquiry and returned her gaze to Frank as he stood uncertainly on the steps. Behind him the full moon floated amid the stars of a clear late autumn sky. A nightingale sang from some hidden place in the trees surrounding the cozy home.

"I must apologize, but I am not feeling well," Emily said to Frank instead. In truth, she never felt quite herself when she stood next to Frank, always on edge, heart aflutter, heat suffusing her entire being. "Father is anxious to see me home. If you'll excuse us?"

Her father's perusal warmed her face into a blush. She blatantly bent the truth to the point of breaking, but he said nothing. Instead he focused on Frank.

"Come see me when you return," her father said. "I know you're anxious to check in at the printing office before retiring this evening."

Frank bent in a half bow. "Yes, sir, I must ensure Sawyer accurately prepared the broadside for the press in the morning. I shall seek you out in about an hour at the house."

Emily's stomach tightened at the reminder of where he intended to sleep that night. In the room next to hers. Her cheeks warmed, thinking of him lying in bed next door. Hearing any sound she made as she moved about her room. Her own feelings aside, he remained the one fully responsible for little Tommy, and he planned to risk the nighttime streets. "Be careful, Frank. As you both insist on reminding me, the streets won't be safe until the British leave."

"I will seek the safe haven of your home posthaste." Frank's teeth flashed against the evening darkness. "At your sweet request."

Emily bristled at the innuendo echoing in his words as he strode briskly toward his office. She stared after him, steeling herself for the night ahead.

"Are you sure you're feeling ill?" her father asked, gazing at her. "Is something amiss?"

Clasping one hand around his arm, she smiled at him though her thoughts stayed on Frank. Her heart calmed without Frank's heat and energy surrounding her, and she shivered with the loss of warmth. "May we go home, please? I am tired."

"Of course, my dear," her father said as they strolled down the street. "You said you wished to speak with me on a pressing matter?"

The moment had finally arrived to reveal her wishes to him. "Yes, sir, I need your assistance to effect a plan for my future."

"Plan? What sort of plan?" He glanced at her, then scanned the way before them.

"I wish to open a shop, Father, but I need your blessing to do so." The words hung in the air, tantalizing and awful.

Her father barked out a laugh. "My dear, I thought you had some terrible news to tell me, not this joke. Come, let's get you home."

"I'm not joking, Father." She let him propel her toward their house, feeling as though he'd slapped her. She had anticipated it being difficult to convince him, but she hoped he would at least take her seriously. Not refer to her plans as a joke. "The Widow Murray's old shop has perfect dimensions and lighting to suit my needs."

"My dear daughter, please desist with this ribbing you're giving me. No daughter of mine will lower herself to the status of shopkeeper as long as I live. Your future is to be a good wife and mother of many children. You needn't worry your pretty little head with the dirty business of making money."

Emily started to reply, to counter his argument, but suddenly she detected the sound of British soldiers talking behind them. Her father stiffened and stopped his banter, maintaining an even pace beside her. He seemed focused on where the soldiers ranged behind them in the street. She assumed that due to his military experience, he anticipated their actions—and more importantly their motives—more than she comprehended.

Unease washed over her as she listened to the loud voices interspersed with boisterous laughter behind them. She wanted peace. To have her own shop and forge her own path in the world. Her father wanted to maintain his business, such as it was during wartime, so that he could provide for his family. There was nothing illicit about his objectives. Yet this bloody war meant she must focus on political aspects of life she'd rather leave to the men. Not that she felt unable to address politics, but she did not care for the sense of intrigue cloying to the clandestine aspects of the political arena. Women were fully capable intellectually of handling politics, but not every woman wanted to be involved in politics. Thus she did not relish the ongoing, never-ending war that dominated and directed their lives.

She really wanted to write her thoughts out to share with others. Not just lighter fare like the satire Frank refused to publish. She proposed that women should be considered equal to men throughout this fledgling country. The fight for independence involved more than merely white men having their freedom. Rather, everyone stood to benefit from the resolution of this conflict. All citizens. White men. Black men. Red and purple and green men. Likewise, all women. Indeed, all people, free or slaves. Surely the city leaders could understand that, if nothing else.

She had read an essay written by Judith Sargent, an insightful woman in Massachusetts who argued against the men of the colonies who believed girls, or women, did not possess the mental capacity to learn complex topics. The stupidity of the idea that women would become ill if educated equally to men angered her. That notion coupled with her father's belief, that the British soldiers and officers considered colonial women nothing more than spoils of war, increased her alarm for all women. Although she would continue to put forth a brave facade, she remained afraid. It meant more to her to be the woman her mother and her beloved sister would expect rather than the querulous soul threatening to emerge from within her. How did one endure a war with one's emotions, sensibilities, and sense of peace intact?

God help me.
She longed for quiet and the assurance of a peaceful life. That the British would be chased out of the colonies and the new country would take root. She believed it soon would happen. But the delay tried her soul, even so.

But what if the British didn't sign the peace treaty? What retaliation would King George inflict on the people who dared defy him? Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her bosom rose and fell as she attempted to quell her rising panic.
Oh my Lord, please protect us.
They would be ostracized, like the loyalists before the bloody British occupation. Her father and brothers who fought so valiantly would be punished for believing folks should control their own destiny. Perhaps experiencing the love of a good man, such as Frank, even if it resulted in death in childbirth, may prove better than succumbing to such a dire future. Death loomed before her, no matter the path she took. Her choice merely determined the means and timing.
I don't want to die! I have too much I want to do and experience.
She swallowed around the fear lodged in her throat, and clenched her father's arm.

"What, child?" he asked, looking sharply at her. "Are you all right?"

"What happens if," she said, though her breath caught in her throat, "the British win this war? I mean, what happens to us?" The last words came out on a quaver and a hitch.

"Do not fret." He patted her arm. He inhaled and exhaled slowly before continuing, as though hesitant to voice his opinions. "The British would not dare to blame you for any of the war. The men will bear the burden. You need not worry on that point."

"But that's not right, is it? I have an opinion as well as you do." Emily paused midstride to attract his undivided attention. "Why is my opinion not considered?"

Her father chuckled. "Daughter, you jest. Women have no rational understanding of politics, and therefore men could not chastise them for their failings." He patted her arm yet again. "You'll not be blamed for my actions. Now stop with the jokes this evening."

Bile bubbled to the back of her throat, burning so it brought tears to her eyes, making them sting and smart. Surely she'd choke on the disappointment consuming her.

How dare he, of all the men in her life, belittle her knowledge, her learning, her opinions? He and her brothers had taught her, for mercy's sake. However, he revealed a startlingly low opinion of her intelligence.

Damnation.

Bloody hell.

She closed her eyes, relying on her father to guide her as she attempted to cool her anger. She chewed her lower lip, forcing herself to remain calm so she did not trigger his temper. She did not believe he'd harm her, but with the British soldiers so close behind, the results may be disastrous.

"You there!" a deep voice called from behind them, tugging on her memory again. "Captain Sullivan?"

She pivoted to see who spoke to them, feeling as though she recognized the timbre of the voice. The bloody loyalist officer who had encouraged his men to accost Samantha and herself trailed after her and her father. He seemed familiar, and yet she couldn't place him. He appeared dashing and handsome, no doubt. But he wore the blue coat of a loyalist. His pretentious wig, that only those loyal to the king dared to wear, needed curling and freshening. His green eyes reflected no depth, no insight into his soul or what he valued. Yet he reminded her of someone she once knew. She searched his face, looking for recognizable features, but the echo of her father's words distracted her.

"To whom do we have the pleasure?" Her father stopped and pulled her closer as he addressed the major.