Paxton's War (6 page)

“You shouldn't have bothered,” Buckley said as Colleen passed it to him. “My servants have prepared a feast of pheasant for us.”

“But I prefer chicken, thank you,” Colleen said, knowing that her modest meal would irritate him. “Besides,” she added with a coquettish smile, “I must have a basket to be auctioned off.”

The prospect of being forced to participate in the rustic custom of luncheon auctions bored Buckley nearly to distraction, but he smiled gallantly and took her arm. “I can assure you,” he promised, “that I shan't be outbid. Good day, Doctor,” he added with a hint of a nod in Roy's direction.

“Papa,” Colleen murmured, kissing him good-bye.

“Be gracious,” Roy whispered in her ear. “And dare ye not discuss a word of politics,” he added as Buckley whisked her out the door.

The ship. Where is the ship? Where is the song?

Colleen sat well to her side of the carriage, listened without paying attention to what Buckley said, and made what she trusted were appropriate, if noncommittal, answers. The winding road took them from the McClagan property to the coast, where the rolling, bud-green farmland gave way to a series of flat, reedy marshes. For the mile south to the village of Brand-borough, the well-worn dirt coastal road, barely wide enough to hold the carriage, separated the marshes from the beach. Colleen breathed in the clean, tangly smell of salt water and looked beyond the sand dunes that rose out of the ocean like miniature islands. Her eyes swept the seascape for a sign of the ship, but it wasn't to be found. She struggled to bring herself back to reality, and to Buckley.

The picnic, to be held in a meadow a little over a mile south of Brandborough, would be amusing, she tried to convince herself as Buckley told her how his father's latest stroke meant that control of more than half of one of the South's mightiest business empires had effectively been passed on to him. His growing domain, however, was of no interest to Colleen. She was unimpressed by his fine clothes and his expensive, powdered, perfumed wig. She ignored his declarations of self-importance, and when he spoke of his ties to the British command and the signficance the Crown placed on Somerset loyalty, she held her tongue. And though she feigned interest, she couldn't keep her eyes from the great expanse of the ocean, nor could she stop searching for the long-awaited ship that she hoped bore Jason home to her.

“Drab business, these matters of property and state,” Buckley said laconically, “but necessary under the circumstances, for they concern another issue of great importance to me and, I trust, to you. Of course,” he said, sliding toward her and taking her hand, “tradition has it that the matter take the form of a question.”

He certainly hadn't wasted any time, Colleen thought. The question for her was: Should she tell him no immediately, or attempt to humor her father by telling him she'd consider it, and then turn him down later? Whichever she did, she hoped he'd get it over with quickly and move away from her, because his touch annoyed her as much as the political opinions he espoused.

“The question,” Buckley continued, absolutely certain that no woman, not even Colleen McClagan, could refuse his proposal, “has already been posed to your father, who was quite pleased by the prospect.”

Or
, Colleen thought, grasping at straws,
I could simply evade the question for as long as possible
. “When we arrive in town,” she said, flashing him her warmest smile, “do you think it would be possible to take a small detour and ride by the docks?”

“What?” Buckley asked, taken aback.

“I said, when—”

“I know what you said,” he snapped, irritated by the abrupt change of subject. “But for what purpose?”

“I spotted a ship approaching this morning, and since I've been expecting something important from London, I thought we could ride by to see if it's arrived.”

Buckley fumed inwardly, but forced himself to smile. She was such a child. A beautiful, willful, naïve child, totally beyond the temptation of property and station. How utterly refreshing! His heart filled and his head whirled. To think that one day, and soon, he would win her, carry her away as his bride … “Of course,” he acceded, patting her hand and then moving to sit across from her so he could see her face better. “It won't do any harm to pass by. But remember,” he added playfully, wagging a finger at her, “there's still that question …”

Dear God, but what kind of an idiot does he take me for? How is it possible for such preposterous buffoons to hold the high positions they do? Very well, fool. We shall see who plays this game best
.

“… and I don't intend to let the day get by without asking it.”

“Can't the questions wait, Buckley? Can't we just enjoy the ride along the sea? Don't you love the way the sandbars form such graceful designs, the way the sea oats bend in the breeze?”

Buckley couldn't have cared less about sandbars and sea oats, but the look on Colleen's face was another matter entirely. Content for the moment to feast on her beauty—his time would come, his time would come—he sat back and dreamed, as he so often had, of what their first night together would be like.

Home. Can it be true? My God, but I'd forgotten how beautiful this corner of the world is
.

The water was incredibly blue, the shoreline green beyond green. Brandborough had grown in the four years Jason had been gone. Six new buildings stretched the main street farther inland, and new houses had been added at either side. Horses and buggies and draymen's wagons clotted the waterfront, where his heart leaped in his throat—
No! No! It can't be!
—the British flag flew over the customs house.

The boatswain's pipe shrieked, a command rang through the air, and the anchor chain rumbled through the hawsehole. Aloft, the crew was busy reefing sails; below, a profusion of lighters nudged the
Shropshire
. Behind him, unheeded as he stared at the shore and waited for a ladder to be rigged, a fife and drum accompanied the measured tread of soldiers lining up in ranks preparatory to disembarkation.

“Jason Paxton! Down here, damn your eyes!”

Jason searched through the clot of small boats and spotted a barrel-chested man with one leg waving his hat at him. “Elton!” he called back. “How long does it take a fellow to get ashore around here? I've been on this tub for eight weeks. Must I wait eight more?”

Forward, a ladder snaked down through the air. Elton caught it, made it fast to his lighter. A minute later, after hurried instructions to send his trunks ashore at the earliest possible moment, Jason was scrambling down the ladder and into the embrace of the man who had taught him more about ships and the sea than his own father had.

“Damn me, but you're looking good, lad,” Elton said moments later as the lighter made its way toward shore. “Filled out. Put on a little weight,” he added, poking Jason in the midriff.

“Which will be shed soon enough, I warrant,” Jason said with a grin. “A week or two under father's tutelage, and I'll be fit as a fiddle again.” He gazed fondly at the older man facing him, remembered the hours they'd spent together as he'd learned how to tie knots and handle a small boat. “You haven't changed by so much as a wrinkle. Still the scourge of Brandborough?”

Elton winked. “The lassies like to think so. It's by God still as hard as my peg when I wake up in the morning.”

“Good for you. But where is everybody?” he asked, searching the dock for familiar faces.

“Where else on a beautiful Saturday in May? At the fair, lad. A fine day you've picked to come home.”

Moments later, Jason stepped onto the dock and, as Elton returned to the
Shropshire
, stood alone, his mind churning with a thousand thoughts. His ear was alive with sounds, old and familiar, new and wonderful—wavelets slapping rhythmically against pilings; a blind piper tooting a jocular ditty as he sat on a keg of rum; the deep, rich voices of slaves singing melodiously as they hauled and carried great weights of cargo. The sounds of the music of his home, long lost but never forgotten—birds singing merrily, mothers calling after children in decidedly American accents—swelled his heart and filled his head with wonder. And questions, he realized, sobering quickly. The British flag flying in Brandborough! What did that portend? And how, after the bitter letters he'd received, would his father greet him? And what of the strange, haunting song? What of Colleen? How had she changed in the four years he'd been gone? Would she …

Her eyes told him that it was she. Amber and piercing, those remarkably radiant eyes glowed with warmth and life. She stood only yards away, poised and regal, more beautiful than he could have possibly imagined. She had filled out and matured: she had blossomed into a desirable woman. And suddenly, he realized that all his other reasons for coming home—noble, well-intentioned reasons—paled in comparison to the sweetness of her face.

Massively sculpted in dark-hewn woods, its masts, booms, and rigging jutting high above the water, the
Shropshire
had been a distraction, and its imposing presence gave proof to the power of the mighty British empire. And yet, once she saw him and moved toward him, all the world's weapons of war seemed weak beside the wave of passion that washed over her. Her breath catching in her throat, she stopped, only yards away, and waited for his eyes to meet hers. He was so beautiful! His face was softer than she remembered, gentler, wiser than when he had left. He had put on weight, but his body was still lean and elegant with the grace of a tiger. His charcoal gray cape was dashing, and the marvelous curls that covered his head glistened in the sunlight. His sleepy, half-closed eyes appeared more romantic than ever. And finally, when his head turned and his eyes found hers, the song returned and swelled to majestic proportions.

Her heart hammered, his chest heaved. He felt his pulse quicken. She struggled for control, but it was no use. Suddenly losing her last link with self-restraint, she found herself running to him, throwing her arms around him and kissing him, tasting his lips, igniting memories and music …

“Colleen.”

His first word was her name. He remembered! He actually remembered!

“You're more beautiful than I remembered. More beautiful by far.”

“Oh, Jase,” Colleen whispered with a sigh.

“So this is the package you were expecting from London,” Buckley said, bulling his way through the crowd to their sides. The kiss had infuriated him, but he covered his fury with sarcasm. “I didn't realize you and Paxton were such good friends. Welcome home, Jase. Everyone will be most glad to see you've returned. We've been needing a reliable piano tuner around here. A most vital job in these troubled times. In fact, you've arrived just in time to play at our wedding.”

“Oh?” Jason asked, taken aback momentarily until he caught the slight shake of Colleen's head and read the look of denial in her eyes. A wry smile twisted his lips. Buckley was up to his old tricks, barging ahead as if he were royalty, making a fool of himself. “It appears I arrived in the nick of time, eh?” he said, extending his hand.

Buckley's fingers touched the dramatic break in his nose as his hand moved to accept Jason's. The automatic, nervous gesture provoked both men to memories of a dark, narrow alleyway in Charleston, where, ten years earlier and beneath a wrought-iron balcony twisted into the shape of twin peacocks, Buckley had slurred Jason's name by calling the Paxtons a pack of half-breeds and bastards spawned by renegades and whores. He had been shocked by Jason's sudden response. Never for a moment had he guessed that the farmer turned musician was a fighter—and a ferocious one at that. The two men had fought viciously—fought with bloody fists, fought until their knuckles were red with blood, fought until one final blow found its target, until Buckley felt the savage pain in his shattered, ruined nose, and fell to his knees before Jason, the surprising victor. A decade had passed, but the ill will hadn't.

“Well, then,” Jason said heartily, looking over his old antagonist, “I see you're prospering.”

“Better than even I had hoped,” Buckley said, his chest swelling. Impressed with himself, he put one arm around Colleen, whose eyes spoke only to Jason. “My fortune is on the rise. And yours?” he asked with a sarcastic bark of a laugh.

“That depends, I suppose,” Jason said, deflating Buckley's puffery, “on how many weddings I'm asked to play at. Ah, Peter!” he said, noticing his friend, who'd appeared at his side and was debating in light of their earlier tiff, whether to interrupt. “May I present Miss Colleen McClagan and Mr. Buckley Somerset. This is my good friend and companion, Peter Tregoning.”

Relieved that all was apparently forgiven, Peter smiled and clapped Jason on the shoulder. “So this is the ‘young girl' you spoke of. My great honor,” he said, kissing Colleen's hand. “Mr. Somerset. My pleasure.”

“And mine, too, sir,” Buckley said, shaking his hand. “And a double pleasure to see such a strong display of our sovereign's commitment to his grateful colony. I suppose you've heard already that Charles Town is safely under the Crown's control?”

Peter nodded. “A felicitous piece of news, sir. Given to me but moments after our arrival.”

“Charleston?” Jason asked, his heart sinking. “Taken by the British?”

“Much to the chagrin of the so-called Patriots, of course,” Buckley said, enjoying Jason's discomfiture. “You'll be undoubtedly pleased to learn that Brandborough is just as securely under the Crown's control. And your presence here can only reassure those whose long loyalty has been so bountifully rewarded.”

“We are duty-bound,” Peter said simply.

“And we're bound for a splendid picnic,” Colleen broke in. “Did you know, Jase, that today is the Brandborough Spring Fair?”