Love Thine Enemy. Louise Gouge M.

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      “There’s a limit to my surrender, daughter. Look.” Scowling, he pointed out the window. “Customers are headed this way. Ye can take it when ye go for yer noon meal.” His expression softened. “Have ye noticed the mosquitoes come out in the evening? The tyke will be fine until then.”

      “Thank you, Papa.”

      Jamie left, and customers entered to shop. Several soldiers came to purchase tobacco, and one bought a new pipe. An Indian family, speaking in their Timucuan language, studied the various wares and selected a large cast-iron pot. The tanner’s wife bought a box of tea. One of the slatterns who followed the soldiers eyed the finer fabrics with a longing eye. Repulsed by her sweaty smell but also filled with pity, Rachel watched the woman move lazily among the displays. Papa greeted one and all as if they were old friends, even taking time to learn a few native words from the Indians.

      The morning passed quickly, and soon Papa gave Rachel a nod. She placed her bonnet over her mobcap, fetched the wrapped mosquito netting, and then hastened out the door.

      The sun stood at its zenith like an angry potentate pouring fiery wrath upon all who dared to venture beneath him. Perspiration slid down Rachel’s face and body, stinging her eyes and dampening everything she wore. Perhaps she should ask Jamie to bring her a new parasol from London, for her old one was bent and tattered.

      As she passed the large yard beside the inn, she heard a commotion—Sadie’s shrill voice screeched for help above the chaotic squawking of chickens and geese. Rachel hurried around the corner of the clapboard building, where she saw the young woman tussling with a soldier amidst the innkeeper’s fowls, a plump goose the object of their struggle.

      “Let ’er go, ya blunderhead.” Sadie tried to kick the red-uniformed man, without success. “Ya’ve no right to take ’er.”

      The man cursed and continued to grasp the goose’s neck. “Gi’ way, girl. I’ve a right as the king’s soldier to take what I need.”

      “Ya’ve got yer own provisions in the regiment,” cried Sadie.

      Her sob cut into Rachel’s heart, stirring memories of the time a brutish soldier invaded her sister’s house and took food from the children’s plates. Then he had threatened Rachel and Susanna with something far worse. Enraged by the recollection, she dashed toward the altercation.

      “Brazen wench, let go.” The soldier cuffed Sadie on the face, but though she cried out, she held on to the goose.

      “Stop it, you horrid monster.” Rachel dropped her package and, with hardly a thought of what she was doing, grabbed a length of wood from the nearby woodpile and slammed it into the man’s ear. Her hands stung from the blow, and she dropped the weapon as his tall, black leather cap flew to the ground.

      “Ow!” He grabbed his ear and released the now-dead beast. Turning to Rachel, he glared at her with blazing eyes and took a menacing step toward her.

      Lord, what have I done? Terror gripped her, and she searched for an escape.

      But he glanced beyond her and stopped.

      “What’s all this?” A familiar English voice resounded with authority behind her.

      Rachel turned to see Mr. Moberly astride his horse, staring down his aristocratic nose at the scene. His gray eyes flashed like a shining rapier in the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Despite the day’s heat, a strange shiver swept through her body.

      “Good thing ya come along, gov’ner.” The soldier tugged at a lock of his hair in an obeisant gesture. “This wench refuses me a soldier’s right to provision, and this ’un…” He waved at Rachel. “She done assaulted a king’s soldier, is what she done.” He stepped toward her as if about to return the blow. “’Tis a hangin’ offense.”

      “Take another step—” Moberly bent forward and pointed his riding crop at the soldier “—and you’ll be the one to hang.”

      The man stopped, his eyes wide. Rachel could see his fear in his slack-jaw expression. Did Moberly really have that kind of power?

      “Chiveys, gov’ner,” Sadie cried, “he just killed one o’Ma’s brood geese.”

      “I’ve a right to take provision as needed.” The soldier retrieved his tall cap and shook off the sand clinging to it. He winced as he placed it above his bloody ear.

      “I shall speak to Major Brigham about the matter.” Moberly dismounted. “I shall also see he requires you to repay the innkeeper for the loss of his goose.”

      “Repay—?”

      “Are you contradicting me?” Moberly’s stately posture forestalled any appeal.

      “No, sir, yer lordship.” The man stood straight and lifted his hand into a salute.

      “What is your name, private?”

      “Buckner, sir.”

      “Well, now, Buckner, get back to your duty.” Moberly pointed the riding crop toward the street.

      “Yes, sir.” The soldier hastened around the corner of the inn and disappeared from sight.

      Moberly stepped near Sadie, and his stern expression softened. “Hurry to pluck and dress it, girl, so it won’t be a complete loss.”

      Her face still flushed, Sadie cast a confused look at Rachel and then at Moberly. “Aye, sir. I’ll do that.” She curtsied to each of them. “Thank you, miss.” And away she dashed.

      Moberly now gave Rachel a gentle smile, and she thought the heat might flatten her on the spot. Gratitude for his rescue warred within her heart against her scorn for all things English.

      “I must say, Miss Folger, I have never seen a lady quite so, um, bold in defense of a less fortunate soul.” His gray eyes twinkled. “But I must also say I quite admire you for it.”

      “Indeed? I did no more nor less than the citizens of Lexington and Concord this past month when your British soldiers attacked them.” Rachel could not believe her own words. The man had just saved her from assault.

      Puzzlement swept across his face, as if he had no idea of the matter. “I beg your pardon?” Then his eyebrows raised in clear comprehension. “Ah. I see. May I surmise you favor the cause of the thirteen dissenting colonies?” His thoughtful expression held no condemnation or disdain.

      Before she could respond, the injury to her left hand began to sting, and she looked down to see several splinters embedded in her bloody palm.

      “Why, Miss Folger, you’ve been wounded in battle.” He stepped forward and seized her hand to inspect it. A frown creased his forehead. “I shall send my personal physician immediately to make certain no infection sets in. If left untended, this sort of wound can become quite serious, especially here in the tropics.” He drew a white silk handkerchief from his waistcoat and wrapped it around the injury. “This should protect it until he arrives.”

      Shame dug into her. Had she misjudged this man? She pulled her СКАЧАТЬ