Hannah Howell (2 page)

“I am sorry, Miss Sherwood,” John murmured, stepping forward.

The sincerity in his pleasant face made Clover smile. “Except for the fact that we had pinned our hopes on him, there is really no call to be sorry. In a way, ‘tis best to find out before the wedding that his heartstrings are so firmly tied to his pursestrings.”

“Perhaps it is better for you that you will not be his wife.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing. Just referring to his obvious fickleness,” John stuttered, then blushed before he collected himself. “What will you do now, Miss Sherwood?”

“That is going to take a great deal of thought.”

“What about your sister, Mrs. Lavington? Could she not help?”

“She could, but she will not. Family loyalty was never one of Alice’s strong points.”

“Well, if I hear of anything that could be of help, I will be sure to tell you.”

“Thank you very much, John. I had best be making my way home.”

“You be careful, Miss Sherwood. There is a rough group of men in town today.”

Rough men was correct, Clover mused as she left Thomas’s offices. Unfortunately, the men were spreading outward from the docks. She was going to have to walk past several knots of them on her way home. Straightening her shoulders and silently cursing her small stature, she started off. Just because the men looked rough did not mean that they were rough, she told herself firmly, not allowing them to frighten her.

She was just about to breathe a sigh of relief, certain that she had passed them all unscathed, when a large bearded man suddenly blocked her path. The three men with him chuckled softly as he grinned at her, revealing a mouthful of blackened and broken teeth. She wrinkled her nose as she caught the strong scent of rum, just one of the unpleasant aromas emanating from his bulk.

“Here now, little darlin’, where are you going?” he asked.

“Home,” she replied, “if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my path.”

“Feisty little thing, ain’t she?” He laughed heartily, as did his three hairy companions.

Clover attempted to sidle around the huge man and suddenly found herself encircled by two burly buckskin-clad arms, then slammed up against a hard chest. The man was even more aromatic than she had first thought. Her concerns about his odor were overridden by the discovery that he was holding her
so tight that she could not even attempt to wriggle free. In fact, she was beginning to have trouble breathing. She was able to kick her legs against his, but without any apparent effect on him.

She could not believe that fate could be so cruel. Her family had already been scarred by scandal, suicide, complete ostracization, and dire poverty. It now appeared that her rape was about to be added to that list of woes.

“C’mon, darlin’,” her captor said. “You and Big Jim gots some fun to attend to.”

“Put me down this minute, you foul-smelling heathen.” Her last word ended on a screech as he abruptly tucked her under one massive arm.

After her first shock, Clover tried to pummel him, but the pounding of her small fists against his bulk only made him laugh. Just as she opened her mouth to scream, though she doubted anyone near at hand would come to her aid, he clamped a filthy hand over her mouth. He had barely taken two steps, however, when he suddenly stopped. Clover glanced up and her eyes widened. A hand was tangled in her captor’s greasy black hair, pulling his head back, and a very impressive knife was pressed against his thick, dirt-encrusted throat.

“Put the wee lass down, Big Jim,” drawled a deep voice.

An instant later Clover found herself sprawled facedown in the dusty road. She turned to sit up and stare at the man who was now holding Big Jim. Slowly the man released Jim. Her rescuer was a lot better dressed than Big Jim and his friends, but she did not need her assailant’s recognition of the man to tell her that he too was from the frontier. He had a distinctly
uncivilized air about him. Although he had come to her aid, she was not sure that his acquaintance with Big Jim boded well for her.

“Ain’t no need to take a knife to me, MacGregor,” said Big Jim.

“I am wearing my courting clothes, Big Jim. I wasnae of a mind to risk messing them up by ‘discussing’ things. Ye all right, little girl?” he asked Clover.

Again she cursed her diminutive size as she stared up at her rescuer. For a reason she could not even begin to understand, it deeply troubled her that this man called MacGregor thought she was a child. Another thing that puzzled her was the way his deep, smooth voice with its attractive Scottish burr made her feel decidedly warm. She hastily gathered the wit to nod. As she reached out to accept the helping hand he extended, she caught sight of a movement to his right.

“Look out, sir!” she warned, then realized the words were unnecessary, for even as she spoke, MacGregor swung, blocking Big Jim’s stealthy attack and sending him sprawling in the dirt.

“Weel, I reckon this means that Big Jim wants to dicker,” MacGregor said as he slipped out of his black dress coat and handed it to one of two companions that Clover noticed for the first time. “Hold this, Lambert. It seems our old friend Big Jim didnae learn nothing from the whupping I gave him back home.”

One of the slender buckskin-clad youths took Mac-Gregor’s coat. The other one grinned at her, then neatly grasped her under the arms and set her on her feet next to them. Just like a little child, she thought a bit crossly, before her full attention was
taken up by the ensuing fisticuffs. Mr. MacGregor looked too slender to best the hulking Big Jim, and she feared she would be the cause of some serious injury to him.

But Big Jim was quickly shown to be greatly outclassed. Even with her total lack of knowledge about the art of fist-fighting, Clover could see that. Mr. MacGregor was able to neatly avoid any damage to himself and his courting clothes while thoroughly beating Big Jim. The only part of Mr. MacGregor that came into contact with Big Jim was his swift and powerful fists. When Big Jim finally went down and stayed down, his friends hurriedly picked him up and scurried off, shouting curses as they left.

MacGregor returned to where Clover still stood and redonned his fine black coat. He had to be over six feet tall, Clover noticed, lean and possessing a wiry strength. She was a little disconcerted to discover that she only reached his broad chest. When he put one long finger beneath her chin, tilted her face up to his, and smiled at her, she became alarmingly short of breath. His rich green eyes seemed almost startling in his handsome, dark face. She noticed that the fight had not even disarranged the neat queue into which he had forced his thick ebony hair.

“Did he hurt ye, lassie?” he asked.

“No,” she managed to reply, her voice barely a hoarse croak, then she frowned. “Unfortunately, I did him no harm either.” He laughed, and it was such a rich, free sound that she was compelled to smile. “I thank you for your help, sir.”

“Ballard MacGregor,” he said as he took her by the elbow and started up the street. “The laddie on your
right is my brother Shelton, and next to him is my cousin Lambert Aldritch.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Clover Sherwood.”

“Now, I dinnae want ye to be thinking all Kentuckians are like Big Jim Wallis. He isnae much liked back in Pottersville.”

She nodded. “Every town has a Big Jim, I fear.” Curiosity got the better of her and she added, “You are clearly a Scot, yet Ballard, Shelton, and Lambert are not very Scottish names.”

“Our mother was English, an Aldritch like Lambert. She told our father that since she was the one bearing us, she would be the one to name us. Our father gave us a second name to placate our Scottish ancestors. Mine is Alexander and Shelton’s is Robert.” He winked at her. “Made our names as grand as the rich folk carry.”

She smiled fleetingly, then asked, “Where are you going, sir?”

“I am taking ye home, my bonnie wee lassie. Where do ye live?”

“Bolton Street. Do you know where that is?” She knew it was not an area of town the backwoodsmen usually frequented.

“Weel, hellfire, isnae that a quirk, eh? ‘Tis exactly where I am headed.”

“Do you know someone on Bolton Street?”

“Aye, a Miss Sarah Marsten. I am courting the lass.”

“Dang fool,” muttered his brother.

“That is enough out of ye, Shelton, my lad.” Ballard only briefly glanced at his young brother as they headed up the street.

“Weel, hot damn, Ballard, she isnae the sort of lass to be taking back to Kentucky.”

“Then what do ye think she is letting me court her for, eh?”

“How the hell should I ken what the lass is playing at?”

“Then ye can keep your yapping mouth shut.”

“I do not know what you need a wife for anyhow,” grumbled Lambert in a gentle, cultured English accent.

“I dinnae intend to spend another winter alone,” snapped Ballard.

“Ye are nae alone. Ye have us,” replied Shelton.

“My dear stupid brother, there are a few things a wife can give me that ye two cannae, and if ye dinnae ken what those things are, weel, I think ‘tis time we had us a long talk. But not in front of the wee lassie here.”

“Do ye ken this Miss Marsten?” Shelton asked Clover, ignoring his brother’s sarcasm.

“Er, not very well. We are neighbors though,” Clover replied.

“Of course she doesnae ken Sarah,” said Ballard. “They are nae of an age, are they?”

He was right, but Clover decided it was not the time to tell Ballard MacGregor that she was a full year older than the much-sought-after Sarah. She wondered if her obscuring cloak was what kept him from seeing that she was not a child. She also wondered whether it was her place to tell him that Sarah was already entertaining a beau, then decided it was best if she kept quiet. It was not a triangle she wished to set herself in the middle of.

“Here is my home,” she said quietly, even as they almost walked past it.

Ballard stopped and smiled at her. “Weel, now, ye best be more careful where ye go. And dinnae go out alone.”

Clover found his scolding tone vastly irritating, but she smiled. “Yes, I will, sir. Thank you again.” She hesitated, decided there was nothing more to be said, and dashed up the brick steps to the front door.

“A cute wee thing,” Ballard murmured as the door shut behind Clover, then he scowled at his companions. “I dinnae need your help to do my courting.”

“I was thinking we ought to get to ken this Sarah lass since ye are thinking of marrying her and all,” Shelton said.

“Ye will have plenty of time to ken who she is on our way back to Kentucky. Now—git.”

As soon as Shelton and Lambert had disappeared down the street, Ballard straightened his coat and headed to Sarah Marsten’s house.

“Sarah Marsten,” Clover grumbled as she hurried into the kitchen, pausing only to toss her cloak over a padded bench in the front hall. “That witch is just playing with that poor man.”

She rushed to make up two glasses of lemonade. The drink was a luxury, but the plan she had suddenly concocted required such an extravagance. She was glad of the need to hurry for it kept her from thinking too hard about her wild scheme. It was so mad that it would undoubtedly crumble beneath any real scrutiny. If she paused, she knew she would grow cautious and hesitant, and she could afford neither.

“What are you going to do with that lemonade?” demanded a young voice. “Mama said we are not allowed to have it any more.”

Clover started, whispered a curse, and turned to face her twin brothers, seven-year-old Clayton and Damien. Two more reasons that she could not swerve from her impulsive plan, she thought, then sighed and answered Clayton’s question. “Yes, ‘tis very precious, but I have a real need for it now. You see, I have a plan and this could help. It is the best hospitality we can offer just now and ‘tis very important that I offer the best.”

“Are you getting us a new house?” asked Damien.

“Just possibly, dear. Just possibly. I cannot say for certain yet. ‘Tis still only a plan.”

She picked up the glasses of lemonade and started back toward the front door, the twins following her. Damien opened the door for her, but as she was about to step outside, her mother entered the hallway. Clover groaned. She did not have time for all these interruptions. She was certain that Ballard MacGregor would not be staying at Sarah’s very long, and she must be out on the steps when he left the Marsten house.

“Where are you going with that lemonade?” asked her mother.

“She had a plan, Mama,” Clayton answered.

“Oh, wonderful.” Agnes clapped her hands together. “Then I was right. Thomas did—”

“Thomas did nothing except get angry and rush off. You see, he was nearly late to court Sarah Marsten. Now, Mama, I cannot talk,” she said in a gentler tone, for her news about Thomas had clearly shocked
her mother. “I must get back outside. Please, just trust me. All right?”

“All right, dear,” Agnes said. “You do what you feel you must. Take your cloak.” Agnes draped it over Clover’s shoulders.

Clover breathed a sigh of relief and hurried outside. She set down the lemonade, then took off the cloak, spread it on the step, and she sat down. Considering what she was about to do, it would be best if Mr. MacGregor could see her face and form clearly. She felt fairly confident that Ballard Alexander MacGregor would not place undue importance on the size of a woman’s dowry in his search for a wife.

She looked down at her very slim curves and grimaced. Even there she did not have as much to offer as Sarah Marsten. A man might easily think she was too slim, too boyish or childish in form. It would be mortifying if Mr. MacGregor took another look at her and still did not realize she was a fully grown woman. She quickly shook that thought aside. It would only make her back down, and she could not afford to do that. Mr. MacGregor might well be her last hope to save herself and her family.

She prayed that her father could not see what she had been brought to. He would be eaten up with guilt. The elder Clayton Sherwood had been tragically naive, trusting people far too easily. In the end it had cost him his fortune and then his life. Clover regretted that he had lacked the strength to pull himself out of his black despair. When he had put the bullet into his head he had deserted his family, left them alone to face whatever misery lay ahead.