The Indigo Blade Page 6

  Mary, still fully clothed in a dark green day dress and shoes of embroidered damask, was settled on the window seat, and her face was as blandly indifferent as it had been all evening. “You're marrying the richest man in Charles Town,” she said softly. “Of course Father's come around nicely."

  Mary hadn't been her usual cheerful self since the Lowrys’ ball. Considering that she'd always been moody, Penelope had dismissed the uncomfortable situation until now—but Mary had never maintained a sour disposition for this length of time. She should be dressed for bed herself, and sitting with Penelope on the bed as they discussed plans for the wedding. Instead, she positively sulked.

  "Is something wrong?” Penelope asked bluntly. “You're not upset by my impending marriage, are you?"

  "Upset?” Mary gave a tight smile. “Why should I be upset?"

  "I don't know."

  Mary cocked her head, and a soft curl danced across one cheek. “Do you love Maximillian Broderick?"

  Penelope set her hairbrush aside and gave the query her full attention. Did she love Maximillian? This had happened so quickly, and there were times she was afraid to ponder the question too closely. Her courtship was a whirlwind she rode on aimlessly and happily unaware. “I can feel myself falling in love, a little more every time I see him, a little more every time he smiles at me or makes me laugh.” It was true, she knew as she said the words aloud.

  "He just seems so witless."

  "Not all the time,” Penelope said defensively. “There are moments when I see glimpses of a very different man from the dandy Maximillian appears to be.” Moments when she saw untold depths of emotion in his eyes, intelligence, caring, true love.

  "What if you're wrong? Maximillian Broderick may very well be nothing more than a very rich fop with nary a thought in his head beyond his wardrobe."

  "I don't believe that's true.” Penelope knew there was something more to the man who would be her husband, a depth of feeling no one had seen but her, a man to cherish.

  "Victor will be very upset."

  Penelope had given very little thought to Victor Chadwick, but Mary's mention reminded her that she still had to face him. Oh, Uncle William would break the news to Victor, but she would have to meet with him herself, eventually. “I don't really care. You know I never felt anything for Victor beyond friendship. Oh, Mary, perhaps he'll turn his attentions your way now that...” She stopped suddenly.

  "Now that you're promised to another?” Mary snapped. “How flattering it is to be forever second choice. If you must know, I wouldn't have Victor Chadwick if he got down on his knees and begged me to be his wife."

  Penelope ignored the bright tears in Mary's eyes, because she knew her cousin did not want or need sympathy at this moment. “I didn't mean—” How could she have been so thoughtless? Mary, who on occasion seemed to have not a care in the world, was sensitive where Victor was concerned and always had been. “You're right, of course,” Penelope said sensibly. “He's not nearly good enough for you."

  Mary stood quickly and left the room without so much as uttering good night, and a confused Penelope was left staring at the door her cousin closed forcefully behind her. Where was the bright and happy girl she knew?

  This surely had something to do with Victor. Mary might say she wouldn't have the councilman for a husband, but Penelope knew how much her cousin admired him. Did Mary think Penelope was somehow wronging Victor by choosing to be Maximillian's wife? Or was she afraid that even now Victor wouldn't pay her the attentions she craved? Whatever the reason, Penelope was certain Mary would be her cheerful self very soon.

  By the light of a single candle, she crawled into bed. Snuffing out the flame, she sank deep into the mattress and pulled the coverlet to her chin.

  Not even her emotional and unpredictable cousin could ruin this day for her.

  Married to Maximillian Broderick. It was an unexpected and wonderfully suitable turn of events. Who would have thought, when she watched him enter the Lowrys’ ballroom, that she would, a mere two days later, find herself betrothed and smitten?

  After two weeks, she would no longer be sleeping alone. She and Maximillian would share a bedchamber and a bed and all the intimacies a husband and wife were meant to share. The thought excited and frightened her. She had no mother to instruct her, and her aunt had been gone these many years. She'd heard the servants talk, and she knew—in essence—what happened in the marriage bed.

  But in reality she didn't know what to expect. Her life was insulated, and she was and had always been sheltered and chaste. Maximillian's kiss upon their agreement to marry was the most intimate touch she'd ever known.

  Penelope closed her eyes and drifted toward sleep. If that kiss was any indication, marriage was going to agree with her admirably.

  "Word of the League of the Indigo Blade has reached Boston,” the man whispered, though there was likely not a living soul for miles around. The trees muffled any noise the two of them might have made, and the night cloaked their movements in darkness as they moved toward the rendezvous point.

  Max absently stroked his false beard. The disguise he'd worn had enabled him to walk unobserved through the farming community where this man had been held prisoner by British soldiers for more than a week. “We've done nothing spectacular."

  The man laughed softly in obvious surprise. “Nothing spectacular? You've saved half a dozen patriots from Victor Chadwick's hands."

  "Three, to be honest,” Max said blandly.

  "Four, now,” the man said gratefully. “And we've heard stories of a village that would have been ransacked without your assistance. I just want you to know your efforts are appreciated."

  Max nodded, anxious to get this rebel on board the sloop bound for Boston.

  "Who was that woman?” the man continued after a short span of silence. “The very tall one who was in the fray. She's one of yours, I guess."

  Max smiled. “Rebecca?” Beck would be mortified to realize that he passed so easily for a homely woman. “Yes, she's one of ours."

  "I thought so. Remarkable woman,” the man said with obvious awe. “Is she married, by chance?"

  Max laughed. He couldn't help himself. His laughter echoed through the forest, and the man he escorted jumped in his saddle and looked around suspiciously.

  "You needn't worry,” Max assured him. “The others led the British soldiers in the opposite direction. While you're sailing for Boston, those lobsterbacks will be up to their knees in swampland.

  "Let's just say,” Max returned his attention to the question at hand, “that there's a man in her life."

  "I hope he understands what a remarkable woman he has."

  Max decided to allow the subject to lapse. He was willing to fight and perhaps to die for these rebels and their cause, but he couldn't give too much away. He trusted no one beyond the circle of the league. And Penelope, of course, whom he trusted with his life and his heart.

  What would she say to the news that her husband was the Indigo Blade? Word of the mysterious man and his league was out now, thanks in part to Chadwick's public rantings about the rebel who was making his life so difficult.

  The idea of infuriating Chadwick brought another smile to Max's face.

  He'd found himself smiling frequently in the past two weeks. Every spare moment was spent in Penelope's company, sitting in her uncle's garden, walking down crowded streets and along the river, talking about everything and finding a new fascination in every small detail of life. Penelope loved her brother with an admirable unbending devotion, she respected her uncle and appreciated everything he'd done for her and Tyler, even though in Max's mind the man was undeserving of such respect. She painted for her own pleasure, but had a true artist's eye for form and color. She was beautiful and seemed not to know it. She was kind and expected the same of everyone around her. She had a sweet tooth and liked the color blue and invariably rose early in the morning.

  All these details and more he'd learned in the days since he'
d asked her to be his wife. The more he learned, the more deeply he desired her.

  He forced away thoughts of his beloved when at last they came to their destination. The waiting sailor, another seagoing friend of Dalton's, had weighed anchor at a dark and deserted spot on the river, and Max handed the rebel into his able hands. Only after they'd sailed did he remove the black wig and bulky jacket that was padded to make him appear much larger than he really was. He wiped the blacking from his teeth, and raked fingers through the long strands of his hair.

  In two days, the waiting would be over, and Penelope would be his wife at last. The anticipation matched any he'd ever felt, even though what awaited him now was not gold or danger or revenge. Penelope offered a different reward. Love, home, family ... comforts he'd never known and yet had secretly longed for in his heart. He'd seen them all in her dark eyes.

  Mary had seen Victor step into her father's study just a few moments earlier. She paced beyond the door, her lip caught between her teeth, her skirt in her hands so it wouldn't impede her movement.

  Her father was in the stables seeing to a lame horse, and would no doubt be with the stable boy a good half-hour more. Penelope was blithely packing her things into a trunk to be collected by Maximillian Broderick's servants, in order that her new home be prepared for her arrival. In two days, the much-anticipated wedding would take place, and Penelope would be the happy bride of the richest man in Charles Town.

  She stopped pacing when she caught a glimpse of Victor standing beside her father's desk. He tapped his fingers impatiently against the fine polished wood. Poor Victor; he'd never been very good at waiting. He'd waited for Penelope for more than two years, and it had done him no good at all. Sweet little Penelope had blindly and happily deserted him for that half-wit Broderick.

  Victor impatiently ran his fingers through his hair, brushing back a long and limp dark strand. She'd always thought him the most handsome of men, strong-featured and tall—though not quite as tall as Penelope's husband-to-be—with shoulders too broad to be refined and hair as black as night. She'd always been fascinated by his mouth, which was broad and cruel and tempting.

  She stepped to the open doorway and watched without further deception. He saw her immediately, and lifted dark eyes to her. They hadn't spoken since the night of the Lowrys’ ball, since the night he'd taken her virginity with all the care and love he showed the desk beneath his fidgety fingers.

  "My father has been detained,” she said calmly. “Perhaps I can entertain you while you wait?"

  Mary stepped into the room, gratified to see that Victor was uneasy. His nervousness gave her a feeling of power. She liked it.

  "That won't be necessary."

  She smiled, and that simple reaction caught him off balance. “But I have nothing else to do."

  "Mary,” he began hesitantly, “I've been meaning to speak to you about the night of the Lowrys’ ball. The incident in the garden was a most unfortunate mistake. I'd been drinking, and I'm afraid..."

  "Are you apologizing, Victor?” Her eyes were purposely wide as she stepped closer. She licked her lower lip and reached out to touch the sleeve of his black jacket, running her fingers over the expensive fabric. “I don't recall asking you to apologize."

  She stood on her toes to kiss him square on the mouth. At first he was so shocked he didn't move at all, and then he began to respond, with anxious lips and then a hungry tongue. His mouth was hard and wet, and Mary fought the urge to pull away. Instead, she copied Victor, met every thrust of his intrusive tongue with one of her own.

  "You promised to teach me more,” she whispered as she took her mouth from his. “You promised to teach me how to pleasure you and myself.” She took his hand in hers and lifted it to her breast, to lay it where he had grabbed her in the Lowrys’ garden. She wondered if Victor could feel the tremble of her hand or the fierce beating of her heart. If he did, he gave no sign.

  "Mary!” he glanced quickly toward the open door. “Your father might return at any moment!"

  She smiled. “Yes, he might.” Victor couldn't have Penelope—but he could have her. And this was his weakness, she knew that now. Physical sensation, need, sex. Mary knew she could give Victor something Penelope never could or would, and as she did so she could make him want and need her. She could take this power she felt and make it grow into something more.

  Victor grinned. He didn't have a warm smile. His lips moved and tightened, his eyes narrowed to mere slits, and he brought that animalistic smile toward her for another kiss. “Not here,” he whispered. “The carriage house tonight, after I've finished with your father."

  She mimicked him, flicking her tongue in his mouth and tasting the very maleness of him. The smells, the taste, the pain of that encounter in the garden washed over her without warning, and she knew a moment of panic. She buried the terror deeply, before Victor knew she'd felt anything at all.

  Victor Chadwick was a cruel, ruthless man. Demanding, coldly precise, selfish. For as long as she'd known him he'd been pursuing Penelope with unwavering and passionless devotion.

  With a self-indulgent force he'd taken from Mary the virginity a woman of her stature was expected to offer her husband on their wedding night, and he'd left her broken-hearted and cold and alone afterward. Sometimes she recalled that night with such terror it brought tears to her eyes.

  But in her heart she knew Victor was meant to be hers. There was more for them than pain and apologies that came too late. There had to be.

  She loved him.

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  Chapter Six

  This, of all nights, the rebels of Charles Town had chosen to raise their voices in protest, and the simple demonstration had quickly turned ugly. Rocks had been thrown by demonstrators, British pistols had been drawn, and when a stone had struck one soldier on the side of his head, sending him reeling, shots had been fired. Two of the dissenters now languished in Victor Chadwick's prison. Heath Lowry had been shot making his escape and was now missing.

  In the darkness of the stable, Max donned his costume for the evening, as did the others. What horrid timing. Tomorrow was his wedding day, and he would likely not get a minute of sleep tonight.

  "I don't like this,” Fletcher said lowly as he squirmed in the red coat of the Queen's Regiment of the Light Dragoons. Dalton's privateer friend had stolen the uniforms from a Boston fortification only a few weeks before.

  "Neither do I,” Garrick said as he stepped into tall black boots. “Our faces are not properly disguised."

  "It's dark in and around the building where Chadwick houses his prisoners, and we'll be in and out before anyone has a chance to take a close look at our faces. It's like the blackened teeth and the empty sleeve. These uniforms, the powdered wigs, that's what they'll remember."

  "I hope you're right,” John muttered beneath his breath.

  There was no time to formulate another strategy, and they all knew it. Chadwick had angrily declared that he'd send his prisoners before a firing squad in the morning. He had no right to do so, but of course a small detail such as legality wouldn't stop a man like Chadwick.

  What could the League of the Indigo Blade do but liberate the prisoners and replace them with a couple of Chadwick's own guards? Wouldn't Victor be surprised to throw open the doors to his small brick prison in the morning only to find two or three of his majesty's soldiers, bound and gagged?

  Max could only hope that Heath Lowry, the son of a loyalist merchant and the only one of the protestors wounded, had found his way to a safe place. There were more rebels in Charles Town than loyalists, so there was a good chance the lad had found his way to a friend.

  On seven of Fletcher's finest horses and in enemy garb, they rode toward the prison. It was late, and the few citizens they encountered had nothing but curses and spittle for the redcoats they hated. Max and his men provided no reaction to the insults, but rode with their shoulders squared and their eyes steady and straight ahead.

  The
people they passed were a reminder that the sentiments of rebellion grew with every passing day. Whispers of liberty and patriotism, of freedom, were becoming louder and more frequent. There would be war before long, and it wouldn't be easy or short-lived. War, just when he'd found a semblance of peace in Penelope.

  The two guards who were posted outside the prison were alert and well-armed, but as Max had predicted, they saw no further than their familiar uniforms.

  Garrick, who had been chosen earlier for this assignment, dismounted and faced the guards with the arrogant bearing of an officer. “We're here to relieve you of your charge.” He waited patiently for the guards to unlock and open the door. They didn't, of course.

  "We have orders to hold these rebels until morning,” one of the guards said hesitantly.

  "I have orders of my own,” Garrick said contemptuously, reaching into an inside pocket to withdraw a sheet of paper and wave it before the guards. One guard took the folded paper, while another set his rifle aside to lift their single lantern. Lewis and Dalton dismounted, smoothly, simultaneously, and the guards’ only reaction was to lift their eyes momentarily.

  John and Beck were next. Max and Fletcher waited, still mounted, to the rear. In a heartbeat, the guards were surrounded, and before they could make a sound—perhaps before they even knew of the danger—they were disarmed and immobilized.

  "Not a sound,” Garrick said, his pistol pointed at one guard's heart. “We'll take those prisoners, now, if you don't mind."

  The shorter guard was relieved of his key, and the prison door swung open a moment later. The sheet of paper Garrick had handed to the guard fluttered to the ground, unheeded.

  When all were safely inside, Max and Fletcher dismounted. Max scooped up the paper from the ground, unfolded it, and shook the dirt from the once pristine page, and by the light of the moon he once again glanced over the painstakingly elaborate lettering.