Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

T he only thing worse than being forced to shelter at a Patriot fort in the wilderness would be spending the night in that wilderness with two strange men. Yet that was exactly the prospect Tabitha faced. As soon as the broad-shouldered sergeant with the thick queue of auburn-brown hair had ascertained the Loyalists had surrounded Fort McIntosh, he’d waved them back the way they had come.

As if that weren’t bad enough, a light rain had begun to fall.

Finally, Sergeant Lassiter paused, removed his hat, and looked toward the rising moon visible through a break in the cloud cover.

Tabitha dared a whisper. “Where are we going?” Maybe he sought a trail that would lead them north.

“I know a place we can overnight.”

“Overnight?” Her question had squeaked out too loudly.

Sergeant Lassiter whirled and clamped his hand over her mouth. “Hush, woman. Do you want to get us killed?” Had a whisper ever held such harshness?

She pushed his arm down. “Do not touch me, sir.”

“Then pray, be silent.” His forbidding manner stifled further questions as he set out again, leading his horse.

Tabitha stood frozen beside Cora, her middle hollowed out like the gourds that Annabelle had hung around her kitchen garden. Could she trust these men? Even if she could, should anyone learn of the time she’d spent alone in their company, whatever remained of her reputation would be ruined. Good thing she had no intention of marrying again.

The private who’d confiscated her pistol touched her arm. When she looked at him, he gave a small nod. Reassurance? That must be his intention, as it was too dark to read his expression. ’Twas enough encouragement for Tabitha to draw a deep breath and set her feet in motion.

She followed the sergeant through the forest as he avoided patches of palmettos and underbrush that could give away their movement. A chuck-will called from a nearby tree. Tiny rustles all around put Tabitha in mind of creatures that only stirred at night, and she suppressed a shudder. When Sergeant Lassiter led them toward an embankment that curved out over the river, she froze. Did he intend them to cross in the darkness, taking her even farther into the wilderness? He turned and looked back at her.

She shook her head. “I’m not going down there.”

“The bluff will provide some shelter.” Sergeant Lassiter spoke in a soft voice but not the whisper she’d used. And at least he did not mean for them to ford the water.

“What if there are gators?” In the winter, the deadly beasts sheltered in muddy dens along inlets and banks just like this one. Tabitha had always avoided solitary walks along the Altamaha for just that reason.

“Gators are docile in this weather. They won’t even know we’re there.” Was that humor in his voice?

Tabitha drew back. She wasn’t willing to take that chance. Desperation clenched her chest, and she flung out her hand. “Why are we not riding north? To Fort Howe?”

The man let out a sigh. “Believe me, I’d like nothing more. Not just to deliver you there, but to seek reinforcements for Fort McIntosh.”

“Then let’s go.” Tabitha clutched Cora’s reins. Had the sure-footed mount not brought her safely through the swamp Cyrus and Dulcie must have gotten lost in? Her heart squeezed. What if they had been injured in that tangled bog? They might need help as much as the men at the fort. And they were her responsibility, same as the soldiers were this sergeant’s.

“Ma’am.” The burly private drew her attention. “We cannot chance runnin’ across a patrol or a picket in the dark. Sergeant Lassiter is right. We must bed down for the night.”

A shuddering breath betrayed Tabitha’s anxiety. She laid her face against Cora’s, seeking the warmth and reassurance of something—anything—familiar. What nightmare had she gotten herself into?

“Dinna fash.” The private stepped closer, his Scottish brogue a comforting murmur. “We will keep ye safe. I will scout the bank before we go down.”

Tabitha lifted her head. “Thank you, sir.” Her voice quavered.

Before the man could move away, Sergeant Lassiter held up his hand. “I will go.” The impatience in his tone made clear his gesture was not a sacrificial one. No, most likely, he simply preferred not to be left alone with her, even for a moment. He measured and snipped off every word he spoke to her like a grumpy tailor cutting a length of cloth. She was an inconvenience, a burden. An impediment to his mission. He handed his stallion’s reins to the private. “Tether the horses.”

As he disappeared down the bank, the shorter man tipped his head toward Cora. “Best get what ye want from her packs.” He pulled a length of rope from his own saddlebag.

Tabitha rooted for the Johnny cakes and salted ham Cyrus had provided them for the journey, slipping the wrapped bundle into the pocket of the oversized frock coat she wore. At first, she’d resisted his suggestion that she and Dulcie don his clothes, but Dulcie had assured her doing so was the wisest choice. Apparently, ladies did not venture south of the Altamaha.

Sitting the horse had been much easier in breeches, but Dulcie’s hope that the masculine attire would deceive anyone they came across had proven futile the moment the private knocked the hat from Tabitha’s head. Now she was at the mercy of these men…the very thing she had vowed to avoid. While they seemed unlikely to harm her, the private for his kindness and the sergeant for his disinterest, she’d feel a whole lot better if she could get her pistol back. Maybe if she could remember how to charm a man…

“I do not know your name, sir,” she said as she untied the blanket from behind Cora’s saddle.

He glanced up from securing a loose picket line between two pines. “Private Dougal O’Connor, ma’am.”

“’Tis nice to make your acquaintance. I appreciate your kindness.”

The man’s abashed spluttering was interrupted by the return of his sergeant, his tall form a looming shadow on the bank.

“And what should we call you?” Suspicion laced his dry tone.

Tabitha clutched the blanket in front of her. She couldn’t give her wedded name. These men likely assumed they were aiding a fellow Patriot whose cattle had been thieved by Loyalists. If they knew her husband had been an ardent Loyalist himself, who knew what they would do? “My name is Tabitha Scott.” That was who she wanted to be again, anyway.

“Scott.” Sergeant Lassiter tilted his head, and her breath hitched in her throat. Did he recognize her family surname? Her father was a well-known judge and a Loyalist to boot, but she’d gambled on the distance from Savannah providing some anonymity. “ Miss Scott?”

Ah, he simply sought the correct form of address. Tabitha’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Mrs. I was…I am married.”

Again, she’d almost erred. Best he think she had a husband—perhaps serving the Patriot militia or the Continentals like himself—who would not hesitate to address any grievances visited upon her person. The type of protection her sister enjoyed from her husband, Ansel Adams, now a captain of militia in St. George’s Parish north of Savannah. If only that had ever been the case for Tabitha. No, she’d sacrificed her chance for that sort of security when she’d surrendered her own hopes of Ansel to her twin. Her perfect twin, who would never have gotten herself into a situation such as this.

Before Sergeant Lassiter could inquire of this mysterious mate of hers, Tabitha straightened to her full height and changed the subject. “Given the presence of an army nearby, might I have my pistol back?” She held out her hand. “Should it come to it, I can shoot.”

He hesitated a moment, then gave Private O’Connor a quick nod.

The shorter man drew the weapon from his belt and placed the handle in Tabitha’s hand. She tucked it into the waist of her breeches.

Sergeant Lassiter swept his arm toward the river. “Now, then, Mrs. Scott. The bank is clear of gators and other unpleasant creatures. And you are armed should any surprise us in the night.”

Was he making fun of her? She clamped down on her query about how well he could have ascertained that in the dark. She knew better than to hope for a torch or a campfire. Not that one would have done much to warm or dry them if the steady rain that had already dampened their clothing continued. Tabitha took two steps and peered down. Except for a shimmer of moonlight on the water below, the darkness yawned like a bottomless pit.

Sergeant Lassiter let out a light breath, and his voice was gentler when he spoke again. “One moment, and I will assist you.”

Somehow, the first sign of softening from the man struck fear all through her. Maybe because fighting him forced her to maintain her guard. To dig deeper for a solidity within herself that must surely be buried beneath all the mush.

She waited while he fumbled about his mount’s saddle. After a moment, he returned with a bag and an oiled cloth flung over one shoulder. He offered the opposite arm, and with a burning deep in her abdomen, Tabitha accepted. Relying on a man for anything—especially one who would consider her an enemy if he knew the truth—stuck in her craw. With one hand clutching her blanket and the other his elbow, she edged down the approximately eight-foot sandy embankment.

Halfway down, one of her feet slid out from beneath her, and she grasped the hard arm beneath his linen hunting shirt. Muscles flexed beneath her grip, and the strong fingers of the sergeant’s other hand encased hers. Then he wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her up the bank against him. “Careful.” His breath stirred the hair on her neck.

When Tabitha turned her face toward him, she inhaled the scent of leather and pine.

“Lean on me.”

That was something she most certainly could not risk. She disengaged from him, lowering herself to a crouch and using her hands for leverage as she made her way down the damp bank—something she could never have done in petticoats. Sand skittered away beneath her fingertips, and damp tendrils of what she hoped were plants stuck to her palms, but she reached the bottom with a grunt of triumph.

When Tabitha turned to judge where the sergeant might end his descent, the heel of her boot caught on something. She tipped backward, arms flailing against the unknown. With a thud, she landed on her bottom. Her calves thunked onto what must be a fallen log.

“Are you all right?” The sergeant’s question conveyed his alarm…and perhaps even some concern. Maybe he wasn’t completely unfeeling, after all.

Tabitha drew her knees under her and shot to her feet, her pride damaged more than her limbs. She couldn’t even traverse a riverbank on her own. What a dolt. “I’m fine.” But her movement brought her toe to toe with the young officer as he hurried forward to assist her—stepping over the felled tree with no apparent hesitation. Did he possess the vision of an owl? When she raised her head, the front of her hat smacked him in the face. “Sorry.”

He made a spitting sound but secured her by the elbows. “If you will allow me to lead you, Mrs. Scott, I found a spot where we might shelter from the rain.”

“A cave?” Tabitha stepped back carefully this time, avoiding the tree.

“Nothing quite as nice as that, but there is a slight overhang where a large tree leans out over the river.”

“Very well.” Her desperation to get out of the rain grew apace with her exhaustion. When had she last spent a full day on horseback? Never.

His fingers laced through hers. In her surprise, Tabitha narrowly resisted hissing in a loud breath. He only meant to avoid further clumsiness on her part. She allowed him to tug her a few feet along the sandy spit of land to where, just as he’d described, a narrow concavity had formed among the roots of a forest giant. She bent and peered inside. “Are you sure there’s nothing in there?”

“Not unless it crawled in during the last few minutes.”

Was that teasing in his voice? Tabitha couldn’t make out his expression in the dim light. The last time a man had teased her, she’d been a good bit younger than the sergeant. And he must be five or six years her junior. “You go first.”

He definitely chuckled. He dropped his saddlebag and shook open his oiled cloth. “First, this should help.” On his knees now, he spread the square material on the ground inside the overhang. Then he sat, scooted back, and held out his hand to her. “Come.”

Tabitha tossed her blanket at him. With his hands thus occupied, she crawled in next to him. The underside protrusion of a root snagged her hat, and when she looked up, dirt crumbled onto her face. She spluttered, settled onto her rear, and wiped her eyes with her sleeves. The gesture only seemed to drive the scratchy particles past her lashes.

“For heaven’s sake.” Tabitha groaned. “Could things possibly be worse?”

“Here.” Sergeant Lassiter pressed a square of cotton fabric into her hand. “And yes, that man might not have sneezed earlier. In which case, we’d be prisoners just now.”

Tabitha wiped her eyes until her vision—what remained of it in the inky darkness of the shelter—cleared. But no sooner had she lowered the handkerchief than tears flooded in. She couldn’t hold back a small cry of dismay. “But I’m supposed to be back on my land now, with Cyrus and Dulcie…and the cows meant to be sold in Darien.”

Sergeant Lassiter’s shoulder touched hers. Did she imagine it, or did he lean ever so slightly into her? “Mrs. Scott, I must ask…where is your husband? Why did he allow you to set off into this wilderness in the first place? No man worth his salt would endanger his wife in such a manner.”

The ire in his statement carried more than the expected measure of protectiveness. Why did the notion of her abandonment provoke him so? “My husband is gone.” Let him think whatever of that he may. Tabitha bolstered her resolve, handing back his handkerchief. “’Tis only myself I have to rely on now.”

A beat of silence met her pronouncement. Finally, he said, “Not while Dougal and I are here.” Something had changed in the way he viewed her. He spoke with calm determination. “In the morning, we will ride north. Where is your home?”

Home? A dingy cabin she’d barely glimpsed before riding off on this ill-considered venture? She had not allowed herself to think about it then. She mustn’t now either. And he mustn’t know where she lived until they reached it, for anyone who had bided in these parts for over a month would recognize Lord Riley’s land. “I can find my way from the Altamaha ferry.”

Sergeant Lassiter let out a puff of incredulity. “I may not be a gentleman born, Mrs. Scott, but I would never leave you alone in this unsettled territory.”

And yet that was exactly what her husband had done.

Thankfully, Private O’Connor’s arrival saved her from further explanation. He barely fit beneath the overhang, forcing her to scoot closer to Sergeant Lassiter, packing her so tightly between them that she could scarcely dig the parcel of cornbread and ham from her pocket to satisfy her cramping stomach. She ate a few bites off the napkin they were wrapped in, disdaining to touch the food with her filthy fingers. Dry crumbs lodged in her throat, causing her to cough. Moisture filled her eyes.

Tearing off a bite of jerky with his teeth, Sergeant Lassiter passed her his water flask. She’d forgotten hers in her saddlebag. Foolish. Now she had little choice but to unstop it and place her mouth where his had touched. Tabitha grimaced and bolted back a couple of swallows. She handed the canteen back to him, rewrapped the remainder of her supper, and tucked it away.

Every inch of her ached, and the scratchy, damp wool of Cyrus’s clothing stuck to her skin. Tabitha wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and seek the solace of sleep. But how was she to do that with a strange man on each side?

As if reading her mind, Sergeant Lassiter stashed away the rest of his jerky and reached for the cocked hat he’d laid on his lap. “I shall take first watch.” He took Tabitha’s blanket and spread it over her, tucking it beneath her legs. Then he scooted out from beneath the overhang, but he paused at the opening and looked back. “I will be close by.” Half warning, half reassurance.

He wanted her to know she would be safe with O’Connor. Perhaps his brusque manner earlier had caused her to misjudge him. Experience had taught her that a man’s actions, not the station assigned at one’s birth, determined whether one was a gentleman.

His absence allowed Tabitha to stretch out on her side facing away from the private, who had settled back with his hat over his face and his arms folded. Despite the sergeant’s reassurance, she ought not to trust either of them. Certainly not enough to sleep in their presence. She’d thought Lord Riley a man to be led by the nose, and look where that had gotten her. But for the moment, she had little choice. And she had her pistol, which she laid within easy reach.

She would not hesitate to use it. And while she was no longer the Loyalist she’d been when she married Lord Riley, she’d use whatever allegiances worked to her advantage. At least until she could regain some control over her life.