Angel's Flight (8 page)

“And the name of the fellow that carried you off, miss?”

“Major George Armistead.”

The old man shook his tangled locks. “Wild doings! Wild doings! Why, a few years ago, British officer or not, a man daring to lay a hand on a TenBroeck girl would’ve ended floating in the bay. But tell me true, do you trust this here fellow? He looks like a soldier to me.”

“Yes, but I trust him.” Mad, perhaps, but true. “He has had opportunity, but has offered me no insult.” Angelica thought of the embrace, the kisses, that had begun this very day. She hoped she wouldn’t blush.

“As to his being a military man,” she continued, hoping to get past the feeling, “he has recently resigned a commission.”

“But, miss, what of your reputation?” With this question, the captain’s face assumed an expression as severe as any blood relative. “You must not go a step further in the company of a stranger. I, myself, shall see that you get safely home,” he said, drawing himself up.

“And how will you do that, captain? I understand the British will not let you pass beyond Verplanck’s Point.”

“You will see how it’s done, miss, when the time comes.”

A loud roaring and banging overhead interrupted their
conversation. Captain Vanderzee spun around on his wooden leg.

“Mr. Brandt!” he shouted. “What are you about, sir? The wind’s
gone north by northwest! Excuse me, miss,” he added.

In the next instant he was thumping away, roaring orders that sent several skinny, tow-headed youngsters scurrying up the dizzy ratlines.

“I think you chose your ship well, Miss TenBroeck.” Jack surprised her, abruptly emerging from behind the deck box against which she and the captain had braced themselves to have their talk.

After tugging his tricorn down against the wind, he took her arm and they walked forward. Above them, at a fearsome height, sailors were hauling and bundling one sail and letting down another.

Wind and spray showered them. The ship surged and slapped. Jack turned and flashed a smile.

“Even with this wind, in a couple of days we ought to have passed the Hudson boom and you’ll be well on your way home. Although—” His smile faded. “—I believe I know what his cargo is—and the knowledge doesn’t comfort me.”

“His cargo?” Angelica looked around at the innocuous looking barrels.

“Captain Vanderzee is a smuggler.”

“Of what?”

Jack lowered his voice and leaned closer. “In plain language, we’ve taken refuge on top of a powder keg. I smelled it while I was getting Hal settled. I believe Vanderzee is running ammunition to the rebels.”

“Good Lord!” Angelica was too alarmed to argue about his use of rebel. “What if we’re boarded?”

“Worse.” Jack looked grim. “What if we’re fired upon? Can you swim, Miss TenBroeck?”

“Not a stroke, or I would’ve jumped when Armistead’s men came,” she replied, shuddering.

The ship cut a hissing, spraying path through water that suddenly seemed bottomless.

They were the only passengers, although there were cabins for human cargo. These, however, were presently full of barrels of molasses. One had been cleared for Angelica’s use.

It was exactly like the cabins in which she’d stayed on her many peace time trips back and forth to the city: narrow with bunks stacked against the inner wall. The ship’s boy had made a determined search for clean linen, and tonight, Angelica would sleep on sheets—and in solitary splendor.

As they moved about the deck, trying to stay out of the path of the sailors and away from the worst of the spray, Angelica noticed a pair of strange looking donkeys. Their round, fuzzy heads struck up through the hatch of a shallow hold at the stern. They were large, larger than any she had ever seen before.

When she wondered about them, Jack explained these were Spanish donkeys. The captain, who’d reappeared again, added that this pair were on their way to a farmer at the inlet near the Van Cortlandt Manor.

Spanish Donkeys were an expensive rarity used for breeding mules, far superior to horses in the heat of American summers.

“We shall disembark these tall fellows tonight and sail north again tomorrow,” Vanderzee explained.

He gave Jack a long somber look, as if considering something, then said, “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you, Mr. Livingston. If you are just out from England—to what party was you attached—Whig or Tory?”

Jack’s reply was candid, and his tone respectful. “I have been a soldier for better than half of my life, captain. My allegiance is to King George.”

His eyes never left Vanderzee. Angelica felt a wrench, not only at his words, but at the way he said them. Clearly, this was a loyalty that would not change.

Oh, after so many years, when her frozen heart had just begun to feel springtime! In spite of the danger, when I’m with him, I feel such joy...

His words, however, signified that this fragile, newborn feeling was doomed to wither, like flowers that too early brave an upstate winter.

“Nevertheless,” Jack continued, and she could almost feel the gathering focus of his body. “I could not allow a British officer to abuse his position and take advantage of this lady. Politics was not the issue. Plain decency was. Upon my honor, this lady must and shall reach her home safely.”

“‘Tis good to hear you swear to it, sir.”

“After she is with her family again, I’ll go to my own property near Taghanic, and there I shall attempt to straddle the fence as well as I can. My first and only wish is to be left in peace on my farm.”

“I doubt if you shall have luck with that, Mr. Livingston. In America, it is a time of choosing sides. Perhaps—” Vanderzee’s eyes began to twinkle. “—after you’ve eaten our meat and drunk our water for a while, you’ll catch the contagion and find you’ve become one of us.”

Angelica became aware of a pair of sailors who had come up behind. The sudden awareness of them—and the intensity she felt from every side—made her shiver.

“Cousin—” she began nervously, but neither man paid her the least attention.

“Mr. Livingston,” the captain said, as if she hadn’t begun to speak, “as your goal and mine is the safe delivery of this lady to her family, I shall accept your promise, man to man.”

As they shook hands solemnly, the sailors who had so startlingly appeared simply drifted away.

“We shall heave up to the first boom tomorrow, if this wind holds.”

Angelica had heard that the Americans had stretched a boom of chain and logs across the Hudson, with which they hoped to control ship passage north. A general discussion of the effectiveness of this as a strategy began between the two men, while Angelica listened.

Something just happened between them, she thought. Although what...

“I’ll spend the night on deck so Hal can see me,” Jack was saying. “He does not like to sail.”

Chapter Seven

In the last light, the Judik had gone in to dock, tied up and discharged the precious parcel of donkeys to an anxious bailiff. A Negro groom and his boy came from Croton Manor to handle them.

Afterward, a sailor rowed to purchase food and drink at one of the cookshops whose greasy smoke trailed over the water.

As soon as he returned, they’d hoisted sail again and traveled slowly in a slack wind to a nearby cove. Here they joined other sloops lying at anchor for the night.

Jack and Angelica walked the short deck in an aisle lined with hogsheads and crates. The wind had died along with the day, and the Judik bobbed gently to and fro in the current of the river.

Water lapped softly against the hull. It was a pleasant change from the bucking, splashing ride they’d had all day.

The stars came out, a handful of silver cast into a lavender sky. They could hear the sailors talking, not only on their own ship, but voices echoing across the water from their neighbors, all small merchantmen like the Judik.

“You wouldn’t betray Vanderzee, would you?”

“No. He’s a gentleman and I shall treat him like one, for all that he’s running powder to the rebels.”

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that, sir. We are not rebels...we are patriots. Our rights as Englishmen are trampled upon when we are taxed and have no say in the matter.”

Jack smiled, but Angelica thought he looked condescending.

“Perhaps what you say is true, miss, but right or wrong, I think you’ll soon discover that denying king and parliament will prove the ruin—and death—of many of you.” To emphasize, Jack gestured at the sleeping peace of the spring countryside.

Somewhere ashore a dog barked, the hollow echo bounding back from the far side of Tappan Zee. Ashore, the fields were freshly plowed, brown blocks between squares of tidy orchard. Among the trees, dimly seen, were the reclining red shapes of ruminating cattle.

“So, in the end, might is right?” Angelica felt a flash of anger. “If you really believed that, Mr.—ah, Livingston—” She used the false name for the benefit of a passing sailor. “You would have left me to Major Armistead’s tender mercies.”

“Miss TenBroeck...” Jack turned to gaze seriously at her. “I do not wish to argue politics with you. As I told Vanderzee as he contemplated having me tossed overboard...”

Angelica’s jaw dropped, but Jack simply nodded as if, to him, such things were part of an ordinary day. “I’ve spent most of my life serving King George, a discipline I cannot leave behind. As I said to our captain, when I reach my mother’s land, I intend to keep my opinions to myself, turn like a weathercock, and hope to ride out the storm.”

“And so, again, we go from talk of loyalty and principles back to faint-hearted discretion. Excuse me, sir, but which is it?”

“Survival is what matters, as any fighting man quickly learns. Either that, or he doesn’t live to fight another day. Your amateur general—” With those words, Jack broke into a big grin. “—seems to have the hang of that tactic. Until General Howe catches George the Fox, the hunt and this war, cannot end.”

“Washington is not an amateur general! He was a major in the French and Indian War. And if he’s a fox—why, then, he’s a wise one.”

Angelica hated it when Tories made fun of General Washington, a gentleman whom she’d been honored to meet. George Washington was the noblest—and absolutely the tallest—gentleman she’d ever met. He had looked invincible seated on his steel gray stallion. With grave civility, he’d doffed his hat to her. Then, accompanied by two smartly uniformed aides de camp, he’d ridden down that New York street.

“I did not intend to mock your general, miss. I think he is doing the best a leader can
,
who has neither supplies nor any trained soldiers. There are famous precedents in military history for his strategy, you know. Fabius was a Roman general who saved the lives of his men and finally wore his enemies out by running away. However, while your modern Fabius runs, the civilians of America are in terrible danger.”

“I know all about Fabius,” Angelica replied haughtily.

Jack’s response was to chuckle and shake his fair head, apparently amused by the dogged way she kept at her arguments.

“You should read The Farmer Refuted,” she insisted, citing a patriotic pamphlet that had impressed her Uncle Jacob. “The author has a wonderful grasp of both Judge Blackstone’s work and the economic philosopher, Mr. Postlethwayte—”

“Good Lord, miss!” Jack burst out laughing in earnest. “By God, Armistead is right about one thing. This is a most amazing country! I’ve never, ever, had the names—much less the virtues—of either dry
-as-dust scholar brought up to me by a beautiful woman before.”

Angelica pulled her arm away from the pleasant resting place it had been enjoying on the warm crook of his. “And why shouldn’t a woman take interest in the fate of her country?”

“I would never say that,” Jack replied, cheerfully capturing her hand again. He attempted to bow an apology over it, but she yanked it away.

“Peace is the proper preoccupation of all womankind, for security is necessary for the nurturing of children,” he amended, smiling.

“And, therefore, is war the proper interest of mankind? The cruel and pointless sacrifice of his and other people’s children as—as a sort of blood sport?”

“By God! A philosopher!” Jack said, laughing again. Swiftly, he caught her hand again. “I thought Dutch women were like their German cousins—interested in little but babies, church, and cooking, and here you stand, arguing like a lawyer.”

“And here you are, a typical Englishman—smug, uninformed, and condescending.”

“Let’s not waste time on a quarrel.” Jack did not appear in the least offended. “In three or four days, if all goes as you and I and Captain Vanderzee wish, you’ll be home. Then this war, these damned politics, shall certainly keep us apart. And, I confess, I shall be more than sorry to lose you.”

A strong arm encircled her waist. In the next astonishing, dizzying movement, Jack had snatched her close. A hungry mouth met hers with sweet voracity.

At first, she struggled. She even tried to slap him, but, without pause, he captured her free hand, and effortlessly pinned it behind her waist. The kiss continued unbroken.

It wasn’t modest or chaste, the way her lips parted for the questing of his tongue, and the way she kissed back as he crushed her close. And when he freed the hand he’d seized, she simply slipped both arms inside his jacket and hugged him as hard as she could.

The need—the fire! It was of the unruly body—oh, yes!

His mouth moved upon hers, a practiced and sensual tasting, a diligent bee milking honey from a flower. She stroked his lean cheek, today scratchy with blonde beard.

“Ah, Jack!” Instead of the defiant anger she should have felt when his lips finally released hers, there was a profound and painful sensation—that perfect whole, now apart!

“Oh, yes, my very beautiful and learned Angel!” He was breathing hard—and so was she.

Spring blew a sweet breath from the shore, all wildflowers and apple blossom. His gray eyes, clear as the quarter moon above, held her still, rapt, exactly as he’d held her that morning in the inn.

Her face received a quick and tender brushing: nose to nose, forehead to forehead, cheek to cheek. He was retreating from this sweet and ever so successfully conducted raid, but when his lips came to take a last farewell sip, Angelica again parted hers.

Oh, it was folly! It was wrong, but how thrilling to exercise a coquette’s privilege and fan the flames of his desire!

Jack’s response was fierce, quick, and deep. She answered in kind, and they swayed together in the twilight, as if trying to drink all the bliss that was or ever would be in a last, hungry kiss.

Jack was the one to break off. He took Angelica’s arms in his hands, gently drawing them from inside his jacket. Then, carefully, he raised each hand and, one at a time, kissed the wrist. Blackness passionately swallowed the silver of his eyes.

As his lips worshipfully left her fingers, he murmured, “It would be best if you were to retire now, Miss TenBroeck.”

“Very pretty, by God!” a man’s voice exclaimed.

Spinning around, they met the captain’s glower. He came at them, his wooden stump banging the deck.

“I’ve not had much experience as a chaperon, but, I believe, miss, that your uncle would thank me for locking you in your cabin tonight,” he growled.

Jack was already obediently inclining his head. “I couldn’t agree more, captain.”

“And as for you, Mr. Livingston, or whatever—”

“Colonel John Church—retired. At your service, sir.”

Church? Angelica thought. Still dizzy from his lovemaking, her mind stumbled through possible interpretations of Jack’s latest bombshell.

John Church? This man changes identity as lightly as a snake sheds skins!

“Lie, will you?” The captain’s hand flew to his ancient, knobby sword hilt. Jack’s eyes acknowledged the gesture, but his hand didn’t so much as twitch.

But why did he lie to me? And—and—why do I know that name?

“Allow me to complete my introduction, Captain Vanderzee. My mother’s father was Gilbert Livingston, a son of Robert of the Manor.” Although keeping a close eye on the captain’s sword hand, Jack found
an instant to glance at her.

“You’re a damned Tory, sir, making love to a Whig girl!”

“Please, Captain!” Angelica moved to intervene. The gleam of drawn knives brought her to a sudden stop. Out of nowhere, those two burly sailors she’d seen earlier materialized at their captain’s side. “The gentleman meant no harm.”

“Oh? I may not be born high, but you and I share Dutch blood, young lady, and I know mischief when I see it! You, sir—” Vanderzee turned to address Jack. “—will be speaking to this lady’s uncle as soon as you arrive in Kingston.”

“Without fail, Captain Vanderzee.”

“Oh, without fail, is it? Good! For be sure I shall speak to Jacob TenBroeck myself, sir! Rely upon it.”

“What?” Angelica’s pounding heart nearly burst her chest. “But— but—Captain Vanderzee...Colonel Church...you cannot—must not—it is not possible...”

Just like the kisses, what Jack said was so right and, so wrong!

“Shut your mouth, miss!” roared the captain, reverting, in the stress of the moment, to a rude and literal Dutch. “Not another word! Get thee inside!”

“Miss TenBroeck, a captain is king upon his vessel. Please do as he says at once.” Jack inclined his fair head and extended his arm in a gracious gesture, directing Angelica away.

Safely in the stuffy little cabin, Angelica washed her face and hands. Then she extinguished the light and propped open the narrow, louvered window to catch night air. Next, she sat on the bunk, removed her demure, round cap, and unbraided her hair. With a comb the cabin boy had found and scrubbed clean for her, she slowly began to comb the waist-length wealth.

Much like last night, she was tired to aching. She knew the bruises from Armistead’s manhandling were rising everywhere; she could feel them throbbing.

I
J
am in love with a dangerous stranger!

Jack’s embrace was so strong, so tender! The way his kisses burned upon her lips, the honey and wine taste, the intoxicating blonde male scent...

But, oh, no matter how his kisses tasted, no matter what she felt in those strong arms, how could she ever marry a Tory? Her own feelings on that subject aside, Uncle Jacob would never agree.

She imagined Jacob, square and ruddy, sitting in his favorite wing chair by the fire at home, puffing away on his white clay pipe.

When she explained what had happened to her down in the city, Uncle Jacob would say that she, a beautiful, marriageable heiress, had better start listening to what her elders had to say. Marry Arent and be done!

If Jack Church, or whoever he was, asked for her hand as he’d said he intended, it wasn’t hard to imagine Uncle Jacob dragging in Cousin Arent and the Reverend Vandervoort the very next day.

Now, she asked herself, staring out at the crescent moon slipping coyly behind a cloud, what to do? What do I want? Can I actually, after a mere few days of acquaintance, be falling in love with a Tory? Even one so—compelling? Wasn’t allegiance to country the reason I rejected George Armistead?

No! All that chat was for the benefit of Aunt Laetitia. George Armistead is a brute. Jack—Jack—is different.

Or is he? A small voice needled as she picked at a snag in her hair and gazed out at the bobbing reflection of stars.

Church? Church? The name continued to nag at her, but nothing useful came. Gilbert Livingston? Son of Robert of the Manor? It all had an unnervingly familiar ring.

Except that he changes his name as other men change coats, what do I really know about Jack?

All I truly know is fire! Intoxication...

Her fingers traced her lips, remembering. The memory sent a shiver that went wickedly deep.

Angelica set the comb down. She drew a deep breath she hoped would be settling. I must stop this. Stop this feeling. I must think! Think!