For Love or Country: The MacGregor Legacy | Book 2 (6 page)

“I never took you for one.” He gripped her shoulders and forced her to face him. “But I can promise you this, as your protector, I can ensure you and your mother will be treated with the utmost respect, but I cannot guarantee the same treatment from other fellow officers assigned to your Patriot friends.” He gave her a gentle shake. “Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?”

“Yes, I understand you are an honorable man.” She nodded. “And you intend to prove it, or I shall be forced to become the War Woman once again.”

“Is that so?” He grinned with a slight chuckle as his eyes sparked with interest, raising a brow. He turned, stepped in line beside her, and offered his elbow. “Shall we go in to dinner before our prolonged absence is noticed?”

“Indeed.” Tyra nodded, slipping her hand around his strong arm. “I am quite ready. You may lead me into the lion’s den.”

“Guard your words carefully,” he said. “I imagine Major Craig will try to gauge your every expression and trick you into saying more than you intend. He would like naught more than to learn the secrets of the Patriots.”

They stepped into the hallway and passed painted portraits of men and women before entering the dining room on the right. Conversations carried around the oblong table. The shiny silverware sparkled in the candlelight spaced down the middle of the table. Major Craig sat at the head and gave them a welcoming smile as Hugh escorted her to the empty seat beside his superior. Tyra imagined a cold indifference beneath the facade he displayed. His white hair reminded her of a powdered herring, if there was such a thing.

Hugh pulled out the wooden chair for Tyra and motioned for her to sit in the space by Major Craig. She gritted her teeth and tried to conceal her dislike as she settled on the upholstered cushioned seat. Hugh walked around and sat across from her, meeting her gaze. Somehow his expression gave her reassurance. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin.

“I was not aware we were now cavorting with the enemy.” Miss Kelly Gordon glanced at Tyra from across the right side of the table. As children they had attended the same school and even played together as friends, but once the war broke out and their families took opposing sides, Tyra assumed they would now be forever divided.

“The enemy?” Hugh turned to Kelly sitting on his right. “This courageous lady saved my life. Regardless of her family’s choices, I would not call her an enemy. I would stake my life on it . . . again.” He winked at Tyra with a grin in an attempt to lighten the mood.

All conversation grew silent, and the gazes around the table turned toward Hugh. He met each eye with unflinching dignity and held his head up, his back straight, and showed a confidence she had only imagined in storybooks. As long as she lived, Tyra would not forget this moment, and she prayed God would remind her if she was tempted to forget—even for a moment.

“Do not worry about the Patriots.” Major Craig’s strong voice carried down the table. “We are well aware of where loyalties lie in the city of Wilmington.” He gestured toward Tyra. “But as gentlemen officers of His Royal Military, we are honor-bound to reward good deeds on behalf of His Majesty. Therefore, Miss MacGregor is an honored guest.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tyra looked into his dark eyes, hoping to judge the thoughts he didn’t speak aloud. When his stoic expression revealed nothing but a dangerous distrust that made her uneasy, Hugh’s warning came back to her remembrance. Her gaze traveled around the table at other British officers. Their expressions were a mixture of curiosity, interest, distrust, and contempt.

“I must confess, it feels strange to be referred to as an enemy by people I have known all my life, especially those I went to school with as a child.” Tyra shifted her gaze toward Kelly, who looked down at her plate in shame. “I did what was right in helping Captain Morgan, and I would do it again.”

“Well, in this case, anyone who defends His Majesty’s soldiers is a friend to us.” Mrs. Isobel Gordon said, glancing at her daughter from the corner of her eye.

“I daresay,” said a British officer beside her. “The next time I am on the battlefield, I would do well to have Miss MacGregor by my side.” Laughter erupted in the dining room.

“Indeed.” Major Craig rested his elbows on the table and gave her a pointed look as he linked his fingers. “I believe it would be a boon to have the War Woman around. I, for one, would be most interested in seeing what she is capable of.”

Fear slithered through Tyra like a boa constrictor tightening the noose around her neck. His tone was almost a direct challenge. Did he intend to provoke her?

Chapter 6

6

H
ugh faked a chuckle trying to ignore the fear of betrayal in Tyra’s wounded green eyes. It had to be hard to have longtime friends turn against one’s family. His family never had many friends to lose. Their poverty and his father’s drunken behavior made sure of it.

He needed to distract everyone’s attention from her and lighten the mood in the room. Servants came in and served the first course of potato soup, starting with Major Craig. While he was distracted, Hugh seized the opportunity to steer the conversation from the MacGregors’ loyalty to the Patriots.

“What kind of fool would think of Miss MacGregor as the War Woman?” Hugh lifted his glass, meeting the gazes around the table. “I daresay, those Indians have quite lost their minds. I am tempted to hunt them down for what they did to my men.”

“And I share in your sentiment, lad, but I already gave you your orders.” Major Craig nodded in Tyra’s direction. “Your responsibility is clear. However, if we do come upon any savages, we shall finish them off.”

Tyra gasped and leaned back in her seat like a rigid pole made of iron. Her expression paled in stark comparison to the bold red hair framing her face in thin curls. The rest had been swept up in combs and piled on top of her head in a lovely way making him want to stare. Instead, he forced his gaze away, hoping she realized he had no serious intention of pursuing her Indian friends.

“And I will take my orders with the utmost attention, I assure you.” Hugh leaned back as a servant placed a bowl of potato soup before him. He would have to be careful not to show how much interest and care he felt toward Tyra MacGregor. Otherwise, Major Craig might be tempted to station him elsewhere. In spite of his growing attachment to her, Hugh could not afford to fail in the attempt to rescue his brother. Eventually, he would have to move on and carry out his plans to rescue his brother as soon as he could convince Major Craig to give the order.

The conversation turned to other pleasantries as they finished their soup and the main course of roast pork, stewed vegetables, and buttered bread was served. He wondered how much of their meal had been stolen from nearby farms and plantations. His stomach churned, and he had to swallow down the angry thoughts. War had always been a harsh reality for the civilians caught in the midst of it. None of this was any surprise to him, so why did he have an inconvenient conscience all of a sudden?

His gaze strayed to Tyra as she sipped from her cup. The glow from the candlelight masked her light freckles into her smooth marble skin. Her dark lips curled into a smile and her green eyes lit like lanterns at a tale Sergeant McAlister shared about some pirates on the high seas.

Without warning, her knowing gaze flicked to Hugh and his heart raced as if being caught at something he should not have been doing. She blinked pensive eyes at him as she studied him in an open manner. The woman was direct. Such bold courage was considered an advantage for a man, but could be a curse for a woman. If it wasn’t for the time he had spent in her company to know how innocent she was, he could have mistaken her manners. A less honorable man might not have the discipline to rein in his thoughts on her. It was another reason he feared her being in the company of his fellow soldiers for too long. The sooner he got her home, the better.

“Miss MacGregor, you have lived here on the coast your whole life. Have there been any pirates to scavenge your shores here?” Sergeant McAlister turned to Tyra. He smiled at her through his trimmed beard and mustache as if he doted on her. “I understand you live outside Wilmington, closer to the sea.”

“Indeed, I do.” Tyra nodded as she set down her glass and folded her hands in her lap. “I am afraid to disappoint you, sir. Most of the pirate days were before my time. The elder folks in these parts tell tall tales about how the fearsome Blackbeard roamed the Carolina coast and spent time living on Ocracoke Island. He anchored the Queen Anne’s Revenge off the shores for weeks at a time.”

“Do you suppose there might be buried treasure around here?” Corporal Jackson asked, as he leaned forward, his brown eyes beaming. Unlike the sergeant, he had no beard, only a thin brown mustache making him look even younger than his score and one year. “I am sure he had to store it all somewhere, and he would not have wanted to share most of the bounty with his men.”

“People have been talking about buried treasure for years and naught has been found.” Mrs. Gordon waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss the subject. “Not as much as a single map has been discovered.”

“True. Lots of disappointed hopes have been dashed on the idea of finding Blackbeard’s treasure,” Tyra said, covering a yawn. “Please forgive me, I am growing quite weary.”

“But the night is still young,” Major Craig said. “I intend for us to retire to the drawing room and play a few games and have a glass of port.”

“What a delightful idea!” Kelly brightened. “Shall we play a game of whist?”

“I shall be fine,” Tyra said, ignoring Kelly. “All I need are a few moments to freshen up. It has been a long time since I have visited this house. Is there a water closet?” She lifted an eyebrow as she regarded Major Craig from her angled profile.

“There is a water closet with a wash basin and towel down the hall toward the back of the house, but the facilities are actually outside. You will need to go down the back stairs to the first floor,” Major Craig said, as Tyra rose from her chair. “One of my servants will attend you.”

“No need.” She waved his concern away. “I am used to functioning without a servant for every minute detail. I am sure I will manage on my own, thank you.” She bowed into a brief curtsy and retreated to the open threshold.

Hugh watched her, wondering if she was all right.

***

Tyra lifted her chin, straightened her back, and walked out of the dining room before Major Craig could think of a reason to stop her. She had heard from her neighbor, Mr. Simmons, the British were keeping Patriot prisoners in cells below the house. It was well-known the house had been built over the foundation of a former jail. If she could figure out the layout of the rooms on each floor, the knowledge might prove helpful for the Patriot supporters brave enough to attempt a rescue.

She committed to memory each room she passed and came to a set of stairs at the back. It looked as if the plain, wooden steps led down to the servant quarters. The temptation to follow them gnawed at her until she realized it would be necessary to go downstairs in order to visit the outdoor facility. It could certainly serve as a proper excuse if she were caught. The opportunity would also afford her the ability to seek the entrance to the secret tunnels existing beneath the house and leading to other parts of Wilmington.

Childhood rumors were filled with such stories about the underground tunnels and the so-called ghosts who haunted them. Tyra assumed they were simple, make-believe stories until her father confirmed their existence. He had used them once to visit her mother’s father after he was jailed for killing his son, an accident from which he never quite recovered.

As she descended the steps, she prayed her weight would not cause the boards to creak and draw attention. The steps led into a brick layered hallway with a rounded arch. A lit lantern hung on an iron peg encased into the wall. The brick floor did not provide a smooth surface, and Tyra had to lift her skirts to ensure her steps were stable. Men’s voices carried from the end where she witnessed black iron bars. A guard in a redcoat sat in a wooden chair where he leaned back against the wall slumbering.

Tyra kept to the shadows so no one would notice her. She didn’t want to give the Patriots false hope, since she didn’t know if she could do anything to release them. The damp cold seeped into her bones, so she could only imagine what these men must be enduring without proper winter clothing. She inched her way along the wall, hoping she didn’t come into contact with any disease-carrying rodent. If only she had spent more time here as a child, she might know where to begin looking for the small door in the floor.

Footsteps sounded down the hall as two maids approached carrying a large tray each. Tyra held her breath and pressed herself even further into the shadows, praying she wouldn’t be noticed. As they passed the single light, Tyra could see they both wore gray service gowns and their hair was pulled back into a bun at the crown. The first tray was filled with about ten small plates of crusty bread, while the second had tiny bowls Tyra assumed might be soup. No appetizing aroma accompanied the food. Instead, the dank musty smell mixed with old urine filled the place with a nasty stench.

The guard woke at their approach and the low murmur of his conversation with the maids echoed through the brick walls, giving Tyra the momentary distraction she needed to sneak back upstairs. She inched her back toward the stairs. Footsteps appeared on the steps, and Tyra was forced to crouch low. Her fingers crawled over the brick floor to a wooden door by her feet.

“Hey! Have any of you seen a young woman slip down here?” A man’s voice called. He paused on the lower steps, but didn’t come all the way down. “There seems to be some concern she might have gotten lost.”

“Of course not,” the guard replied with a chuckle. “I cannot imagine she would want to be down here for any reason.” A set of keys jingled from the guard’s hip as he stood and stretched.

“Aye, what a nasty place this is.” One of the maids giggled beside him. “Ye know those sort of women would faint at the sights an’ smells down ’ere.” She walked over to the first cell. “Not strong as me.”

“Ye can slide it through the bars and set it on the floor,” the guard said.

“Just following orders.” The man on the steps mumbled as he carried himself back upstairs.

Now they were looking for her, and Tyra realized she would have to hurry. She slid her hands along the wooden door where her fingers came across a metal latch. Could it be the entrance to one of the tunnels? It would make too much noise if she tried to open it. Suppressing the temptation, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she made her way along the wall to the steps. While they were busy sliding food under the bars of another cell, Tyra hurried up the stairs.

As soon as she returned home, she would sketch the layout of the house and the location of the tunnel door. If the Patriots intended to free the prisoners, the tunnels would be the best way to sneak in and escape without notice. Once upstairs, she took note of the time on the grandfather clock. It was eight-thirty. Now she knew what time they fed the prisoners. A plan began to form in her mind. She may not be able to fight in the war as a soldier, but she could certainly do her part as a spy.

***

Hugh felt a cold draft as he flipped the cover off his exposed thigh. He had been hardly conscious when Tyra sewed in the stitches, but now that she was about to remove them, a sudden discomfort settled around him. Perhaps he should have insisted the army surgeon do this. Doubt pressed him as she laid some metal scissors and tweezers on the table by his bed.

Since returning last night, Tyra had settled into a strange silence, and he longed to know her thoughts. As she broke her fast, she had eaten in silence until her mother and brother asked about their trip into town. Tyra gave vague answers. Hugh filled in details where he could.

“Do you need my assistance?” Private Truitt asked, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands linked behind his back.

“No, I shall be fine.” Tyra shook her head, towering over him. She wore an apron over her blue gown. Her fiery red hair was pulled back and twisted into brass combs with a rose emblem. Soft curls hung around her ears. Even now she had a way of distracting Hugh. At times like this, it was hard to imagine her as the War Woman. Even if others couldn’t see it, he recognized a softness betraying her caring nature and compassion. She had taken him in knowing he was the enemy, not knowing what kind of character he possessed or the harm he could bring to her and her family.

“Captain Morgan, I would like for ye to drink this.” Mrs. MacGregor sailed into the chamber carrying a cup. She wore a dark green gown that swished as she walked toward him. Slipping a hand behind his head, she tipped the container toward his mouth.

“But what is it?” He asked, eyeing her with suspicion. The smell of strong drink overpowered the honey scent of Tyra nearby on the other side. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, knowing the liquid would soon leave a trail of fire down his throat and into his stomach.

“Just a wee bit o’my husband’s homemade Scottish whiskey. We save it for times like these to dull the senses and ease the pain.” With surprising force, she once again lifted his head and tilted the cup to his lips. Hugh was forced to sip or let the contents dribble down the side of his mouth and chin. He swallowed the burning fire and took a deep breath to cool his mouth. The liquid jolted every dormant sensation in his body as it pooled in the pit of his stomach like hot springs. A few minutes later, she tipped it again and he swallowed the liquid fire. He burped.

Tyra’s lips twisted into a wry grin before she burst into laughter. “I thought you could handle a bit of strong drink.” She gripped his arm. “Removing the stitches will not hurt as much as putting them in.”

“I know.” He covered her hand and gazed into her green eyes. “I am ready. I do not need more whiskey. I never cared for it.” He turned to her mother. “But, thank you, Mrs. MacGregor.”

“Aye, lad. ’Tis the least I could do.” She stepped back. “My Malcolm would chide me for trying to ease his pain. Such a strong man, he is. And took great pride in it.” Mrs. MacGregor turned to stare out the window, but it would take a simpleton to miss the longing in her voice when she mentioned her husband.

“’Tis time.” Tyra picked up a small pair of scissors. She eased the tip under the first stitch and snipped it. With careful precision, she eased her way down the whole row of stitches. Each movement pinched his skin like a mild irritation annoying him. She took a set of tweezers and pulled out the thread. His thigh continued to sting until Tyra turned her attention to the wound at his side, and it took his breath away. Hugh gritted his teeth as she pulled the thread through his skin. For some reason, this part of his body was more tender.