Surrender the Night (17 page)

G
ripping the banister in one hand and the folds of her nightdress in the other, Rose crept down the narrow stairway. The aged wood creaked beneath her bare feet and she halted, holding her breath. No sounds met her ears save the slight hiss of wind swirling about the outside of the house. She inched down a few more steps. From the parlor on her right, a single candle sent flickering ribbons of light out the door onto the dark foyer floor. She eased to a spot halfway down the stairs.

Then she saw him. Mr. Reed.

A traitorous wave of relief sped through her, for she had assumed she would not find him at his post. Sinking onto one of the stairs, Rose positioned herself for a better view and drew her knees to her chest. With only a single candle to light the parlor, Mr. Reed stood by the fireplace, one boot atop the base of the hearth, her uncle’s Brown Bess stiff in his arms.

Wide awake and guarding them like a protective father … or
husband
.

Despite her angry demands that he join the British raiders, he had ushered her inside the house and once they had gathered Amelia and Aunt Muira, he had assured them that in Uncle Forbes’s absence,
he would guard them with his life. Amelia nearly swooned in his arms, while Aunt Muira remained the epitome of feminine courage. Rose wondered how brave her aunt would be if she knew it was a British naval officer who offered them his protection.

But when her aunt had handed Mr. Reed the Brown Bess that hung over the fireplace in the dining room, Rose’s fear had risen another notch. It was bad enough to have an enemy in their home, but an armed one was beyond the pale. Now he could do with them as he pleased or worse, hail his compatriots wandering about in the forest to come join in the siege.

But no. Rose no longer believed that.

Mr. Reed let out a long sigh, rubbed his eyes, then took up a hobbled pace across the room. Raindrops pattered on the roof as he paused at the corner of a window and lifted a flap of the wooden shutters to peer into the night. Releasing the tab, he resuming his shuffle. Fatigue tugged at his stern features. At well past midnight, the man must have been beyond exhaustion. Especially after all the hard work he’d done that day—work Rose had forced upon him. Guilt pinched her heart. She had expected him to either be gone or fast asleep. Certainly not standing his post as if he were on watch aboard his ship.

With musket propped in one arm, he took a turn about the room. Lines of concern edged his face. Concern for them? Concern for his countrymen? Confusion threatened to crush Rose’s disdain for this British man. He moved out of her sight for a moment. His boots thudded over the floorcloth of coarsely woven wool. But then he emerged once again on the other side of the parlor. He stretched his neck and eased back his broad shoulders. Despite his limp, with his head up and stubbled chin jutted forward, he walked with the authority of a man in command. A man who was well equipped to deal with any situation that came his way. She envisioned him in his dark blue navy coat with brass buttons and service sword at his side, and a burst of warmth flooded her—no doubt due to the hot humid night.

Surely as a second lieutenant aboard a British warship, he carried a great deal of authority. The weight of that responsibility seemed to sit heavy on his shoulders tonight. Or perhaps it was the dichotomy of protecting Rose and her family against his own countrymen. She had
not considered, until now, the conflict the poor man must be suffering.

Because she had not considered that he would protect them at all.

Reaching the fireplace again, he leaned one arm upon the mantel and released a sigh. He rubbed his tight jaw and gazed across the room. Resolve and deliberation reflected in his hazel eyes. And something else—an anguish that set Rose aback.

Her thoughts drifted to the way he had looked at her in the barn. A look that had sent her belly aquiver. A look as if she was something precious to cherish and protect.

Rose squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. No. What was wrong with her? He was a British enemy. A spy, most likely. And he would soon be gone.

A sob caught in her throat at the thought. He froze at the sound and glanced her way. Rose’s pulse quickened. He approached the door, peering into the darkness. Leaping from her seat, she darted up the stairs into her chamber and quietly pressed the door shut behind her. Her heart crashed against her chest as she leaned back against it. But no creak of stairs sounded. When her breath settled, she grabbed the lit candle on her desk and dropped to the floor beside a trunk at the foot of her bed. Lifting the lid, she rummaged through the contents: a stack of books, an old jewelry box, a deck of cards. A cool musty smell saturated the air. She grabbed the blanket her mother had knitted for her when she was a child and drew it to her nose, but her mother’s lilac scent had long since faded. Beneath it, the McGuire family Bible stared up at her. Setting down the candle, she began sifting through crackling pages—pages she hadn’t read in years. There, stuffed somewhere in Psalms, was the letter.

The letter she needed to rekindle her hatred of the man downstairs.

With tender care, she fingered the broken wax and gazed at her mother’s name on the front. Tears filled her eyes as she opened it and read.

Even through her tears, a slight giggle choked in Rose’s throat at her father’s last sentence. Like warm summer days, countless joyful memories passed across her mind of the hours she’d spent playing cards with her father in the sitting room of their home.

But those days were gone forever.

She folded the letter and pressed it to her breast. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she placed the faded letter within the Bible—the Bible she hadn’t read since her mother died. Then clinging to the holy book, she lay down on the floor and placed her head on her mother’s blanket.

Sometime later, in the midst of nightmares filled with cannon shots and British warships, she was awakened by the sound of her uncle’s voice—its comforting cadence nestled around her like a warm blanket and she drifted into peaceful sleep.

Forcing his leaden eyelids to remain open, Alex circled the quaint but rustic parlor one more time, if only to keep himself awake by invoking the pain in his thigh. He knew if he dared to sit on the sofa or one of the cushioned wooden chairs, he’d be done for and the slumber that beckoned him would win. With each turn of the room, however, his anger grew at Mr. Drummond’s complete indifference
toward his family’s safety. During such harrowing times, and especially after warning bells had been sounded, the man of the house should be home standing firmly in defense of those he loved. His behavior was reprehensible! But what did Alex expect from a former thief and indentured servant? Alex would never tolerate such a lackadaisical attitude on board his ship. However, it angered him more that he could not order the man to step up to the task. In fact, as a servant, Alex possessed no power at all.

A first in his life.

A floorboard creaked beneath his boot. His spine stiffened. What was wrong with him? Egad, fatigue must be tying his nerves into knots. As his thoughts had done to his gut. All night long, he’d pondered what he should do if British raiders attacked the house. And he had come up with only one possible course of action—a course that frightened him to the core, for that course was spurred on by a pair of luminous turquoise eyes.

No, he could never allow harm to come to Miss McGuire.

He halted at the fireplace yet again and ran a hand through his hair, tearing strands from his queue. What kind of British officer was he? What sort of man could be swayed from loyalty to his own country by a lady who had nothing to recommend her but a plot of land and a bevy of farm animals?

He chuckled as he pictured Miss McGuire petting the chicken in her lap.

The clomp of horse’s hooves jolted Alex to attention. He cocked the musket and lifted the flap of the shutter to see Mr. Drummond’s horse enter the stable. Finally.

Minutes later the elderly man burst through the front door, a draft of wind spiced with rain swirling on his heels. Shrugging out of his coat, he ambled into the parlor. “Mr. Reed.” His gray eyebrows leaped. “What are you doing in the house at this hour?” He motioned toward the musket in Alex’s hand. “And with my Brown Bess.”

Alex cleared his throat to stifle his annoyance. “I am protecting
your
family, sir, as you ordered.”

Mr. Drummond approached Alex and handed him his coat. “Ah, yes, the warning bells. Very good, Mr. Reed. Very good indeed.”

Hot blood surged through Alex’s veins as he took the garment.

Mr. Drummond should be the one hanging up Alex’s coat, not the other way around. If the man knew he entertained the son of a wealthy viscount, he’d no doubt be buzzing around Alex, seeing to his every need.

Or would he?

Something in Mr. Drummond’s light brown eyes bespoke of a humility not easily impressed by rank and wealth.

“Have you seen my spectacles, Mr. Reed?” The old man patted his pockets. “It seems I have misplaced them again.” He stumbled over the edge of the rug then shook his head with a chortle.

“No sir.” Alex’s impatience rose at the man’s lubberly behavior.

Blowing out a ragged sigh, Mr. Drummond sank into one of the cushioned chairs beside the fireplace and spread his hands over his portly belly.

Tossing the coat onto the back of the settee, Alex circled the sofa, intending to chastise Mr. Drummond for his negligence of duty and family. But he halted when he saw red splotches marring the old man’s wrinkled hands. “Is that blood?” he asked.

Mr. Drummond gazed up at him, his tired eyes distant with sorrow. “Yes. But not mine. There was a bit o’ trouble down at Gorsuch’s Tavern tonight.”

Alex flinched. “The British?”

“I wish it had been. That enemy I know how to fight.” Mr. Drummond huffed then gestured toward the sofa. “If you intend to stay, have a seat, son. Your leg surely could use the rest.”

Son?
Alex cringed at the man’s familiarity, yet the tender way in which he spoke the word filled Alex with an odd longing. Alex obliged him and lowered himself onto the soft cushions. Immediate relief swept through his tired legs.

“No, my enemy, Mr. Reed, is far more formidable than the British military.” Mr. Drummond took a brass-tipped poker and began stirring the lifeless coals in the fireplace.

Alex restrained an insolent chuckle. “Upon my honor, sir, what or who could be more formidable than the British?”

“The powers of darkness.” Mr. Drummond’s quick and solemn reply startled Alex. “The powers that lure a man to drink too much, to steal, to curse his fellow man, and even to kill.” He poked at the dark
chunks of coal like a swordsman against an evil foe.

Alex snorted.
Simple-minded Americans
. “You speak of the devil, sir? But I doubt he exists.”

Intense brown eyes snapped his way, the candlelight reflecting an intelligence that surprised Alex. “He would love for you to believe that, Mr. Reed. But he exists, I assure you.” He turned back to the fireplace. “I have seen his work too often to deny it.”

Alex studied the man. Short and bulky of stature with a full head of rebellious gray hair, and a beard to match, he normally exuded a kind, benign demeanor. But tonight as he stared deep in thought at the dark fireplace, he seemed burdened by an enormous weight. Lines folded across a ruddy face that possessed a wide forehead and a stout nose. Perhaps there was more to this man than Alex had first assumed. “What happened tonight?” Alex leaned forward.

Mr. Drummond expelled a long sigh. “Too much drink, too much anxiety about the war, too many opposing sides.” His shoulders slumped. “Add to that mix those who have lost friends and family in recent battles. And before I could settle things, someone ended up with a knife in his gut.”