The Emerald Embrace Page 3

  The man’s lewdness frightened me—and his words about the battle frightened me more.… What if the fight did go the wrong way?

  With a sudden burst of energy, I ran to push through my gate. In the house, surrounded by familiar things, I felt soothed a little. But the loud groaning of unoiled wagon wheels and the shouts of refugees were hideously loud.

  If only Father were here, I thought.

  Out of a need for reassurance, I knelt by Father’s Egyptian chest. I had never opened it before. The iron key worked with difficulty; the oak lid was heavier than I had imagined.

  Yellowing notes were stacked high, and stored in one corner were neatly tied packages of letters from England and France. The war had made correspondence difficult, but not impossible. Sitting on the blue drugget rug, leaning against the chest, I slipped a letter from an envelope. It was written in French, and the contents absorbed me. Soon I opened another letter. Around suppertime, I heard Mrs. Yarby’s two remaining boarders calling out instructions to the hack driver as he loaded on their trunks. I paid little heed.

  Lost in the rusty-inked handwriting of a Monsieur Champollion, I read until it was too dark to see.

  Four

  I don’t know how long I had been asleep when loud banging awoke me. Starting up, I remembered the alarms of the day. But outside, in the silvery shadows of a half moon, the city was quiet. The door knocker clapped again. I forgot Mrs. Yarby’s warning not to answer. Positive that her son-in-law’s young clerk was returning earlier than expected to bring me to Georgetown, I struck a flint to the candle.

  Pulling on my wrapper, I tied the sash under my breasts and hurried slipperless down the narrow staircase to unbolt the front door.

  As I swung open the door, I gazed stupidly across the candle flame at the massive figure impatiently thumping a riding crop’s silver handle into a gauntleted palm.

  It was Amos Thornton.

  In my shocked surprise, questions whirled around my brain. How can he be here? He’s in command of the Maryland Militia. Aren’t they stationed in Baltimore? Has he deserted? No, I thought instantly. Whatever his faults, Amos Thornton’s no coward. My free hand clutched the ruffled neck of my wrapper yet higher under my chin.

  He stared back, obviously as surprised as I was. “So you are still here!”

  I took a breath to steady myself. “Didn’t your coachman tell you?”

  “Domitian explained you weren’t here when he called to get you, and your godmother told him she didn’t know where you were. I assumed—hoped—you’d had the good sense to leave Washington. Everybody’s been evacuating.”

  “A lot of people have stayed,” I said, and then wondered if this were true. Beyond Amos Thornton’s thick shoulders were only moonlit shadows, no lantern light or other signs of life. “If you thought I’d gone, why are you here?”

  “I was afraid of this willful, feckless streak of yours. Have you any idea how your idiocy distresses me?”

  Amos Thornton’s riding cape with its three-tiered collar made him yet more enormous. Within me stirred that oddly physical revulsion that was in part fear, and as usual fear prodded me to show a brave face.

  “I’ve been reading some of Father’s correspondence,” I said. “A Monsieur Champollion in Paris considers Father’s book a most important contribution to Egyptology. Monsieur Champollion, feels that if we could read the ancient writings, Father’s theory would be instantly proved. As it is, he believes that a careful study of the tomb drawings they do have will show evidence of widespread Egyptian trade routes. And there are packages of letters from other scholars. I haven’t read them yet, but I’m sure they’ll agree with Father, Mr. Thornton, not you.”

  “Women cannot comprehend scholarship,” he retorted. “And I didn’t come here to discuss Egyptology, Liberty. I’m not in the habit of talking in doorways.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to let him in the house. So instead, I went outside, edging by him to set the broad-based candlestick on the windowsill, moving as far from him as I could get, standing at the end of the porch.

  “Well, Mr. Thornton, has the Maryland Militia been posted here?”

  “We’re part of the line defending Bladensburg.”

  “Oh? So then you’ve deserted?” To prove a boldness I was far from feeling, I gave a small laugh.

  Unruffled, he leaned against a post, replying, “There’s no danger of a battle tonight. The British have too much sense to attack at night in unknown territory. But yes, Liberty, I’ve left the men under my command. I had to. Now you know the full extent of my worry about your insane behavior.”

  “My welfare’s no concern of yours.”

  “It is,” he said, putting the riding crop on the porch rail, throwing back his cape to reach into his gold-laced uniform jacket. He brought out a long fold of paper. Shaking it open, he displayed a dark blob of wax attaching a ribbon.

  My mouth went dry. “What’s that?”

  He moved into the pool of yellow candlelight. “It reads: ‘Until her eighteenth birthday, the person of Liberty Moore, orphaned minor under the law, is remanded to the custodial guardianship of Amos Thornton, landowner, Willowood, Claibourne County, Maryland. After that date said Amos Thornton has sole legal control of any funds said Liberty Moore may possess until such time as she marries.’ It’s signed by Judge Lee, and witnessed.”

  He held out the document. I could see the clear, round writing. I shrank back into the sweet-odored honeysuckle vine, remembering as if from another life three mornings ago, when the District Militia had been called, and I had run to Mr. Key’s house. I hadn’t gone to see Mr. Key again. I’d been too ashamed to press my personal problems on him when he was involved in grave matters of our national defense. I should have kept trying, I thought bitterly. Maybe he couldn’t have helped me—but I should have tried.

  Amos Thornton folded the letter back into his jacket. “Judge Lee,” he said, “approved of my heartfelt desire to do this last service for an old and cherished friend.”

  “You destroyed Father’s reputation and drove him to his death, you pious fraud!” I cried.

  That pierced his complacency. “I’ve had enough of your impertinence and your obstinacy,” he snapped. “You’ll go upstairs this minute and dress. Then you’ll come with me to my house. The carriage is already harnessed. This time I’ll make certain you end up at Willowood!”

  I shuddered in the warm night air. “Mr. Thornton, tomorrow my godmother is sending a clerk to take me to Georgetown.”

  “You mean the boardinghouse keeper’s not here?”

  “She had to leave this afternoon. Her daughter … it’s something to do with … uhh, having a baby.” I stumbled over the embarrassing words.

  “Providence sent me here tonight.” His tone changed to one he might use in reasoning with a very young child. “You’ve been given into my care, and it’s a wonderful thing, Liberty. Someday, you’ll realize it.”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to Georgetown.”

  “You’ll do as I tell you,” he said. The boards of the porch groaned as he crossed the few feet separating us. He grasped my shoulder, his gloved fingers digging through the wrapper into my flesh. His physical nearness was overwhelming, frightening. “You’ve wasted too much time. Do as I say. Dress. Don’t pack. I have a fine seamstress at Willowood—she cost me a thousand dollars. She’ll outfit you. Now hurry. There’s a long ride ahead of you.”

  He believed absolutely in his own virtue. In my weakened state it seemed the only way to escape him was to make him understand his own inner motivations.

  “Mr. Thornton,” I said in a low voice. “Don’t you realize why you had yourself appointed my guardian?”

  “Responsibility.”

  “Would you have felt responsible if I were lame, or harelipped?”

  For a moment there was a silence so acute that I could hear my own hammering heart.

  He gazed at me, consternation, anger and something more in the close-set eyes. “What are you tr
ying to say, Liberty?” he demanded.

  “The truth,” I murmured.

  “What truth? That Professor Moore petted you and indulged you and gave you no firm, intelligent masculine guidance?”

  “Are you too much of a hypocrite, then,” I whispered shakily, “to face your own urges?”

  His small mouth drew into an expression that I couldn’t yet comprehend, for I was too ignorant of the sexual side of men. In that heavy, contorted face, I could barely recognize Amos Thornton. And too late I realized the danger of throwing the naked truth at a man so dedicated to his own self-image.

  His other hand descended on my shoulder, and he shook me until my teeth rattled and my hair, undone for bed, blinded me. Then, abruptly, his arms went around me, curving my torso to his body. He braced his legs, which were thick with saddle muscles, on either side of my thighs. Never having been held in such a way by a man, I was surprised and revulsed by the unexpected hardness coiling within his trousers. He jammed himself against me.

  I hit and kicked, but his legs were cased in stout, knee-high riding boots, and my feet were bare. My struggles were ineffective against him.

  His lips lowered on mine, his teeth cut into me, and he was forcing his tongue into my unwilling mouth. I made incoherent, muffled sounds.

  While his kiss continued, he was pinioning both my hands behind me in one of his large fists. Then he raised his head to look down at me. During my frantic efforts at escape, the ruffles of my wrapper had parted. With his free hand he pulled the garment from one shoulder.

  “Stop it!” I cried.

  He pulled down the other side, exposing my nightshift.

  This shift, sleeveless and low-cut for summer, was so old that the pink floral pattern had faded into the muslin and the fabric had worn thin. My breasts showed and the pink rounds of nipples were clearly visible. He bent, pressing hot hurtful kisses down my pulsing throat to my terrified heart.

  When he lifted up, his face was no longer contorted. In the candlelight his broad features were relaxed and glistening. He was sweating all over and his body had a harshly acrid odor.

  “I do lust after you,” he muttered. “How could I not? The other night you snowed your breasts and tonight you came down half naked.”

  “But you do understand what it is you feel for me?” I asked. What did it matter whom he blamed, so long as he accepted that, with his feelines, the guardianship was impossible? “Then you must realize I can’t come to Willowood.”

  “It’s even more imperative. You’ll learn not to act the wanton.” He turned to blow out the candle.

  The moonlit shadows engulfed us. Mrs. Yarby’s boardinghouse was empty. For all I knew, all the houses in Washington had been abandoned. I was alone, completely alone, with Amos Thornton.

  Keeping my hands behind me, he shoved me along the narrow porch. I twisted, but couldn’t evade his grasp. He reached for his riding crop, then sat on the top step, pulled me down with him, pushing into the small of my spine and the back of my knees until I sprawled stomach down across his thighs. His huge, glinting boots were all I could see.

  In a wordless struggle, I slapped at him, thrashing, trying to get away. With his massive strength, he easily held me down with his forearms as he drew off his gauntlets.

  With a deliberate movement, he grasped my hems. Realizing his intent was not only to whip me but also to bare me, I twisted more desperately. He yanked my hair cruelly. I fell forward again.

  “No.” I whispered.

  “I must,” he said hoarsely.

  “Don’t.…”

  But he was raising my wrapper and nightshift. The air was warm on my legs. And then he bared me below my waist.

  I had never been exposed like this to anyone, man or woman. My struggles ceased. Tears of humiliation blinded me.

  “You’re a lewd, disobedient girl, Liberty. It’s my obligation to make your soul as beautiful as your body.”

  “Let me go.” My whisper was barely audible.

  “Do you know the law? When a man’s duty makes it imperative for him to beat his wife or his daughters or wards, he’s permitted to use a rod no thicker than his own thumb. That’s the law. This riding crop is thinner by far than my thumb.”

  I thought of that stout, rusty whipping post. For Amos Thornton, inflicting punishment seemed to be a form of pleasure. My mind whirled with the thought. I was drowning in the smells of his sweat.

  The riding crop whistled.

  I felt leather cut into my buttocks and there was a moment before the pain began. Then sharp agony shot through me.

  Instinctively, I was aware that Amos Thornton wanted me to cry out. To beg him to stop. I refused to give him the satisfaction. As the leather descended again and again, I clenched my nails into my palms.

  Finally he threw down the crop.

  “Now you’ll be my good obedient girl,” he muttered, caressing my hot, raw flesh, his fingers stroking near my personal crevice.

  Swallowing to keep back nausea, I jerked so his hand fell away. “You enjoyed it, you monster,” I said in a strangled tone.

  He picked up the crop and slashed with a force that drew blood.

  Dizziness overcame me and I couldn’t prevent a groan, a dry sound like a death rattle.

  “Now you’re learning to obey, now I’m teaching you,” he breathed. “I’ll teach you, teach you.”

  His gasps came with each stroke of the lash, a hard, agonizing rhythm.

  As the leather cut faster and faster, a scream was finally forced from my throat.

  “What’s going on there?” asked a masculine voice.

  Five

  Through the blur of my tears and veiling hair, I glimpsed a man on horseback.

  Amos Thornton let out a thick drawn-out groan that shuddered through his entire body. His hold loosened. I slid from his lap. On his trousers was an odd stain, not my blood, but wetness.

  Crawling onto the porch, I rose to my feet. I leaned against a post, smoothing down my wrapper. My lower body blazed with pain. I was shaking all over, but I tried to control my loud breathing, hoping to hide the depth of my humiliation.

  Amos Thornton, too, had risen. Moonlight on his heavy features showed a sudden and frightening calm. Adjusting his trousers, his hands in front of himself, he planted his tremendous boots at the bottom of the steps as if I were a prize to be guarded.

  The horseman dismounted. At first I could see only his tall outline, but when he paused to open the gate, the silvery light picked up the white of his loose-sleeved shirt. He wore neither jacket nor cravat, and his dark trousers were tucked into slender boots.

  Pain and shock still held me, but all else seemed to fade as the stranger with exceptionally broad shoulders came up the path.

  I had never seen him before, yet I had the oddest sense of knowing him. I recognized the dark hair with the widow’s peak that made his deep-set eyes more compelling, and the perfectly delineated mouth, open as though to speak, showing teeth of exceptionally even whiteness. The nose had been broken and was ever so slightly off balance, keeping him from being too beautiful. There was a cool bravery in his expression, and somehow I knew he was a seafarer, so it was no surprise that he walked with easy, rolling grace.

  As he neared the house, his look changed from questioning courtesy to horror.

  “Are you aware, sir,” boomed Amos Thornton, “that you’re trespassing?”

  “I heard the young lady cry out,” replied the stranger in a pleasant voice that held the faint flatness of the Northern states.

  “We were talking,” Amos Thornton said shortly. “Now will you get off the property?”

  The man continued to gaze up at me. “Are you all right, miss?”

  I leaned against the post. Caught in the physical and mental outrage of the beating, I couldn’t reply. Dumbly I lifted my hand to my bruised cheek.

  “What happened?” asked the stranger.

  “Dear child,” Amos Thornton said. “Go inside. Ready yourself.”

>   “How were you hurt?” asked the man gently.

  I could neither answer nor look away. What gave me this sense of recognition? Certainly I would remember meeting a man so magnetic. A sharp pleasure momentarily warmed the pit of my stomach, then I was numb again.

  “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Amos Thornton glared up at where I leaned against the post. “Do as I tell you,” he said.

  “Is this your home, miss?”

  “It is!” snapped Amos Thornton. “And I’m her guardian.” He drew his great bulk yet more erect. “Amos Thornton, commanding officer of the Maryland Militia!”

  The beautiful mouth stretched with anger. “I don’t give a damn if you’re President Madison himself! This young lady’s terrified, and I intend to find out why!”

  “I forbid you to address my ward,” Amos Thornton roared. He came up the steps. Taking my upper arm, he turned me about, and propelled me toward the open front door. All at once he released me. I fell against the jamb.

  The man had Amos Thornton by the shoulders. He knew nothing about us beyond Amos Thornton’s rank and massive size. He was interfering in a family matter. It was an act of decency and instinctive bravery. The muscles under the white shirt bunched as the stranger shoved Amos Thornton down the steps. The larger man staggered, half falling onto the bricks, balancing himself with one hand, the other reaching for the whip that glinted where he had tossed it amid the tall hollyhocks. As the stranger jumped from the porch at him, Amos Thornton raised the silver handle to club at his face. Agile, the man jerked aside so that the blow landed on his shoulder.

  “A riding crop!” he snapped. “No wonder she’s terrified!”

  And with that he clenched his fists and began pounding swift blows at Amos Thornton’s stomach. Amos Thornton hit out again with the metal handle. Panting and hitting, the two scuffled onto the grass, where they were hidden by impenetrable black shadows. I heard rather than saw the fight.