Embrace The Dawn

She had nodded, knowing her father wanted her compliance, but God’s bones, she would never learn how to be patient. Besides, she really never wanted to understand the madness of politics that branded a man like her father a traitor. Still, instead of speaking her mind, she had stoically watched him go.

A cold shudder crept down her spine despite the fact the afternoon was unseasonably warm. What was the matter with her? She had been whisper close to her father’s enemy, yet she had felt something so extraordinary it had taken her breath away.

Outside the buttery door the kitchen maid, Daisy, sat peeling apples and batting her eyelashes at several admiring soldiers. Anne gave a short huff. Apparently Uncle George or anyone of importance must not be around, or those soldiers would never dare loll away in such a manner.

She straightened her prim white collar, brushed the chaff and weed seeds from her skirts and gingerly strolled across the cobbled path toward the darkened buttery. Humming softly, she made her way, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Without glancing at Daisy, she knew the servant would be much too involved with her own pastimes to pay her any mind.

Anne pushed open the buttery hatch. Smells of fermenting ciders and acrid pickles in brine rushed at her. She ducked around the table filled with covered crocks, cringing as she always did at the huge flies humming at the windows.

In the hall, boot steps clanked along the floorboards. Her pulse quickened as she waited, ear to the door, until the footsteps faded down the hall. Quiet. She drew a deep breath, hiked up her skirts and dashed toward the stairs. Grinning with success, she bolted up the steps, two at a time.

“Mistress Anne?” Uncle George called from the doorway of his study, down the hall. His ruddy face appeared more crimson than usual. Anne’s spirits sank like a rock. She stopped dead still, her eyes wide.

“Mistress Anne. You’re late. Come here this instant!”

Her mouth felt dry as she answered, “Yes, Uncle George.” She patted the damp tendrils of hair that threatened to spill from under her cap, straightened her creased apron and turned to meet her fate.

Chapter Two

Fear and apprehension mixed in the pit of Anne’s stomach as she strode toward her uncle, who scowled from the doorway.

Her mind scrambled for an excuse while she prepared herself for the violent tirade she knew was coming. “I’m sorry I’m late, Uncle George,” she said as she came before him.

“I’ll be interested to hear your explanation later, but I’ve something much more pressing to discuss with you.” Although his tone was amiable, the hard lines of disapproval in his face betrayed his intent.

Anne eyed him suspiciously as she swept past. No sooner had she crossed the oak-timbered threshold of the study than she understood why her uncle had put off meting out her punishment. There, in front of the crackling hearth, sat Mrs. Jane Herrick, her uncle’s goddaughter. Of course he’d never discuss his niece’s errant behavior in front of company, she thought wryly.

Her relief for the slight reprieve mingled with curiosity. Usually, when George had important guests, Anne was excused from attending. She knew he believed that her presence would remind her uncle’s friends that his older brother was an enemy of Cromwell’s Commonwealth.

“Mistress Jane, you remember my niece, Anne Lowell?”

Jane dimpled beguilingly, the black silk fan in her hand fluttering in response. “Of course, Master Lowell. How could anyone forget your charming niece?”

Charming? Anne exchanged glances with her uncle. Although his eyes were unreadable, she guessed he thought Mrs. Herrick too refined to regard the gossip that blazed across Parliamentarian hearths about his rebellious niece, abandoned by her father like an unwanted kitten, for him to raise.

Anne bobbed a curtsy and took a seat as far away from her uncle as she could. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched George gaze with adoration as Jane charmed him with small talk that Anne usually found wearisome.

Anne pushed back a defiant red gold curl from under her cap as she studied the young woman. According to George, Jane exemplified everything a young Puritan woman should be. A few years older than herself, Jane had married a physician several months ago. A pristine cap covered Jane’s silvery blond head. Her white skin with a pink rise to her cheeks contrasted becomingly with the Puritan black gown she wore. Her pale gray eyes and narrow chin spoke of an obedient nature, George had remarked more than once. For once, Anne had to agree with him. The woman was as perfect as an April crocus.

She felt like a toad by comparison. Anne nibbled her lip as she considered her attributes. Her mouth was too full to be considered comely, she knew. Her skin might be worthy except for the spill of freckles, Satan’s tiptoes, George had called them, that peppered the curve of her cheeks and upturned nose. Who could blame her uncle for being ashamed of her?

“I was commenting to your uncle,” Jane cooed, “how splendid the autumn foliage appeared this morning when we rode through the woods. The beech woods have turned a bright gold and the oaks—”

George pounded his fist on his knee. “I fail to understand how your husband thought it safe for you to ride without escort,” he blustered, ignoring Jane’s shocked surprise.

“Master Lowell!” Jane sat up with a start and touched her cheek with the tip of her fan. “I was perfectly safe. Besides my husband, our two menservants accompanied me.”

“Humph! You are to be commended for your faith, dear lady, but your husband should have had the good sense to accept my offer of a military escort. The roads are teeming with ruffians, not to mention that... that...highwayman, the Black Fox.”

“The Black Fox!” Anne’s voice held a reverence that caused her uncle to shoot her a quelling glance. She had overheard Daisy, the scullery maid, say the outlaw robbed Roundheads of their gold and gave it to the Royalists for their fight to restore King Charles to the throne.

George snorted. “Enough of your dreamy thoughts, mistress. He’s the highwayman who had the audacity to lighten the purse of Colonel Twining and his valet, Babson, only last week.”

Anne stifled a laugh behind her hand. How she wished she could have seen that. The thought of a common rogue getting the better of that arrogant Twining was exhilarating. She despised the colonel, contrary to most females, if Daisy could be believed. Anne felt her cheeks flame with outrage as she remembered how Twining had leered at her whenever he had thought her uncle wasn’t looking. But what truly irked her was that Uncle George had refused to take her complaints seriously.

Jane smiled reassuringly at Anne. “There’s no need to worry, my dear. You can be sure the Black Fox is far from Wycliffe Manor since Colonel Twining and his soldiers have arrived.”

Anne’s gaze shot to her uncle. “Colonel Twining? You didn’t tell me he’s been invited to dinner.”

A strange look passed between her uncle and Jane Herrick. Finally George cleared his throat while his gaze dropped to his lap. “Mistress Anne, I’ve something to tell you. Mrs. Herrick has kindly answered my request to coach you in the proper deportment for your appearance this evening.”

A flash of foreboding skittered up her spine. “If you’ve paired Colonel Twining as my dinner partner again, then I’d prefer to remain in my chamber and go without food for a week.”

George’s ruddy face darkened. “Don’t tempt me.” He craned his neck and rubbed his finger along the inside band of his shirt, then glanced with pleading at Jane.

Jane dimpled back at him, then turned the dazzling smile on Anne. “Your uncle only wishes that you make your finest impression on his guests this evening. I thought we’d practice some polite phrases you may wish to use during dinner, and perhaps we might subdue your hair—”

“Aye, do something with her hair.” George scowled back at Anne. “God’s teeth! She looks like the devil’s own spawn with that wild mane.” His black brows knotted together. “Look how it threatens to unfurl from her cap like Lucifer’s red banner fluttering on a windy Sabbath morn.”

Jane smiled. “When I’m finished managing your niece, she’ll be the paragon of acceptability. I assure you, sir.”

Anne curled her fingers into the tufted ends of the chair. “Uncle George, I demand to know what’s going on.”

“You’ll demand nothing!” George answered. “You’ll do what Mrs. Herrick says. For once, you’ll behave without embarrassing me when...when I announce your betrothal at dinner.”

Nothing could have prepared Anne for the shock that coursed through her. She shook her head numbly. “Betrothal? To whom?”

“Colonel Twining has offered for your hand,” her uncle continued, “and I’ve accepted for you.”

Anne gasped, unable to get her breath. She could only stare at him while she tried to take in what he was saying. Her uncle continued speaking, but her mind blocked out his words. Betrothal? She was to wed Colonel Twining?

Shock and panic mixed with betrayal. Anne sprang to her feet, her knees shaky. “Uncle George, certainly y-you can’t m-mean to wed me to that...that...”

“It’s well time you’re wed.”

Anne rushed to him and knelt at his knees, her gray skirts billowing out behind her. “Please, don’t do this. I promise I’ll never disobey you again.” She swiped at another rebellious curl. I’ll do anything—”

George stood and jerked her to her feet. “Anne, calm yourself. Your behavior is unseemly.”

Jane leaned forward in the chair, the black fan in her hand flitting like a wounded bird. “There are worse fates than to marry a handsome, wealthy man such as the colonel, my dear.”

Anne jerked free and turned to face her, aware suddenly that not only Mrs. Herrick, but everybody must have known of the betrothal except herself. She felt like a fool, as well.

“Twining is a lecher and I’ll never marry him!”

George glowered down at her. “Oh, yes, you will!” Then he turned and forced a smile at Jane. “Forgive me, my dear, but would you allow us a few minutes alone?”

“Of course, sir.” Her gray eyes slanted toward Anne, her expression sympathetic. Then she folded gracefully into a curtsy before closing the door behind her.

George’s blue eyes snapped with anger. “Your wedding will take place six weeks from tomorrow, and that’s final. Now follow Mrs. Herrick and do everything she says. For once, you’ll behave as your position dictates.”

Anne squeezed her fingers on the edge of the chair. “What would my father say if he knew you’ve betrothed me to a—”

“Hold your tongue!” George’s voice rose as his attempt at constraint dissolved before her. “I hold no loyalty to your father and you’re old enough to have loyalties of your own. You’d best appreciate a man like Colonel Twining, not a dandy like your father, a fop who’s disgraced himself and his family, flying his plumes against the Commonwealth.”

Anne returned her uncle’s fiery gaze with one of her own.

“How can you say that about your own blood?”

“A sorry fact I’d like to forget. He would rather chase romantic rainbows than be a father to you. He never wanted you or your mother. He’s never coming for you, and the sooner you understand that, the better you’ll be.”

“How dare you speak of him so!” Anne squared her shoulders and faced him down. “He’s been fighting side by side with the king at Worcester. For all you know, my father may be dead—”

“I pray to God every day that he is!”

A wash of renewed anger coursed through her. For the first time, she realized how vast was the well of rage and resentment that festered beneath her uncle’s reproach. Her eyes stung with frustrated tears, but she blinked them back. “Nothing I do will make you accept me, because I’m your brother’s daughter. You can dress me as a Puritan, threaten to bend me to your will, but I’ll always be a Royalist’s daughter. Unlike you, I’m proud to know my father is a man who had the courage and vision to stand with King Charles against the tyranny of Parliament.”

Anne picked up her skirts and whirled toward the door to find Colonel Twining, resplendent in a crimson wool uniform, blocking her way. His granite gray eyes bored into her and she knew immediately that he had heard everything.

She felt like a chick with a hawk circling overhead.

Well, so be it! Maybe if he knew of her repulsion for him, he’d break the marriage contract. The idea gave her hope.

Anne pushed past him, but Twining grabbed her arm and half dragged her back into the room.

“My dear, what has upset you?” His stare glittered with feigned expectation.

“You know very well!” Anne’s chin rose defiantly. “I’ll never marry you!” She tried to wrench from his hold, but his grip tightened on her wrist like a vise.

“I wouldn’t be so hasty, if I were you,” he replied silkily.

“Let go of me, you...you...weasel-faced lecher.”

Twining’s thin lips lifted in amusement. “I’ll overlook your passionate expression, my dear, as long as we understand each other.” He pulled her closer, his voice as final as a death knell. “By Christmas, you’ll be my bride.” She grappled against his grip. His mouth twisted in what appeared to be enjoyment. “You may take your leave, my dear, but return to the study within the hour, when I’ll escort you into the great hall for dinner.”

Anne stopped struggling. His hawklike sweep of the nose and the square jaw quivered as if he were in pursuit.

“And if I refuse?” His smoky eyes sparked as though fired by her challenge. She almost thought he hoped she’d defy him.

“You’ll obey,” he said finally. “Because I’m planning a very special wedding present for you, my dear.” His hard gaze raked over her. He was so close she could smell the tobacco and what she thought might be brandy. She was afraid if she didn’t hurry and leave she might be sick.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she managed to reply.

His black eyebrows flicked up. “Very well, if that is your wish.” His gray eyes glittered. “But I’ve already submitted a petition to Lieutenant General Cromwell to pardon your father from the charges brought forth by the Commonwealth.” She heard a stifled gasp from her uncle sitting nearby.

Twining’s face lit with amusement. “That’s right, my dear Anne. When we’re married, your father will receive a full pardon. That is, if you comply with your uncle’s wishes.”

Words failed her as she took in what he had said. The very generosity of his offer demonstrated his power. Would he truly grant his political enemy a pardon? His expression reminded her of a weasel crouched in the bushes waiting for the stray duckling. Certainly her father was too proud to take favors from the enemy—especially if he knew the cost.

His thin smile grew wider as she considered him. “And if I refuse?” she said finally.

The smile faded. “Then I’ll see you immediately shipped off to the Bay Colony where you’ll live with the Reverend and Mrs. Skylar.” He leaned his face to within an inch of hers. “And I promise you,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing her face, “you’ll never see your father again!”

She gasped, fear tightening her words. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears as her mind fought back the one thought she could never bear. For how would she endure if she were to lose the hope of seeing her father?

Anne caught the look of satisfaction on Twining’s face and realized he knew he had won. He released his grip.

She squared her shoulders before she glared back defiantly, then clutched her skirts and ran from the room.

George came beside Colonel Twining, who stared after Anne. “I’ll send for Mrs. Herrick. She’ll know what to say to her—”

“It won’t be necessary, old man.” Twining faced him, his thin brows arched with triumph. “You see, Mistress Anne is like a beautiful, high-spirited filly. Reckless, perhaps, but she has a fine head on her shoulders.” Twining flicked at an invisible fleck on his crimson sleeve.

Even the small gesture, George noted, the colonel did with a self-styled assurance. The coarse black hair styled in the bowl cut of the Roundheads gave him a striking demeanor, and did nothing to dispel the man’s aristocratic bearing. Maybe it was that haughtiness some women found attractive. For a man of forty-five, his virility was well-known. Rumor had it several married women had risked their reputations with him, and it was fact that the colonel kept several mistresses in London.

“Your niece realizes what’s at stake,” Twining said with conviction. “That proud filly will come back of her own volition.” He crooked an eyebrow. “Care to wager, old man?”

The thought of the dire consequences of denying this man anything brought a well of dyspepsia to George’s throat. “I’m not a betting man, Colonel,” he managed, his damp fingers pressing against his white collar. “But I’m certain my niece will do exactly as you foresee.”

Twining responded with a smug lift of his shoulder, then turned and strode out the door.

After he had gone, George sank back in his chair and let the relief flow through him. God’s teeth, Twining still wanted to marry his niece and he was pardoning Jonathan to boot!

For as long as he could remember, his older brother had been a bane upon his life. In one fracas after another, Jonathan’s reputation would have been ruined if their father’s influence hadn’t squelched the gossip. There had been some gossip involving Twining, now that George thought about it, but he never knew the details. God’s teeth, but what did it matter now?

And another question struck him, just as it had when the colonel first offered for Anne. Why would such a powerful man as Twining desire a hellion for a wife?

* * *

Nat crept around the corner of the manor house and paused in the shadows of the dense ivy that clung to the outer stone wall of the buttery. The last of the afternoon sun slanted across the diamond-shaped panes along the gabled front, mirroring the courtyard in its golden likeness. He glanced at his reflection in the windows, then he pulled the helmet down across his forehead, straightened the crimson sash across his chest. Finally satisfied, he stepped out upon the worn path toward the kitchen.

Ahead, the sound of spurs jingling alerted him to the two Roundhead privates before they approached from around the corner. Nat returned their hasty salutes as he marched past them.

The tantalizing aroma from a dozen meat pies cooling on the open windowsill filled the air. Nat’s mouth watered, but he brushed aside the thought that he hadn’t eaten since daybreak.

Parting the thick vines, he peeked inside the window. At least ten servants bustled about the vast room. A side of mutton sizzled noisily as it turned on the jack above the fire. Several black iron cauldrons bubbled softly.

Nat crept to the next window. In the small storage room, he saw Twining’s valet, Babson, hunched over a table, unpacking candles. Nat tapped on the leaded glass.

Babson’s snowy head shot up and his eyes widened with recognition. “Quickly,” he whispered, waving him inside. “Soldiers everywhere.”

“Don’t worry.” Nat gave the old man a crooked smile while he climbed through the window. “In this lieutenant’s uniform, I’ll fit right in.”

Babson’s worried frown melted into a wry grin, as though appreciative of Nat’s boldness.

“Do you have the maps?” Nat grabbed a shiny red apple from a wooden crate beside the table and crunched a bite.

“Aye,” Babson whispered, “an’ news, too.” He glanced over his shoulder before continuing. “The maps an’ notes are ‘ere.” He pulled the folded parchments from his green tunic.

Nat took them and rolled the papers inside his jacket.

Babson lowered his voice. “Last night, while I served brandy to Twining an’ ‘is aides, I ‘eard ‘im say that Cromwell believed the king would probably be ‘eadin’ back to France through Scotland.” Babson’s face beamed with satisfaction.

“Good they think it.” Nat took another bite out of the juicy fruit. “Anything else?”

“Aye. Twining said Cromwell ‘ad agreed to the requisition for extra troops. ‘E plans to stretch a trap to catch the Black Fox.” Babson’s eyes twinkled. “Later, I snuck back an’ copied the marked locations of the roadblocks from ‘is charts.” A smile crossed his thin lips. “‘E thinks I can’t read or write.”

“Good work, my friend.” Nat patted him on the shoulder. “It would seem the colonel hasn’t forgotten the night I lightened his purse in the name of Charlie Stuart,” he added.

Babson chuckled. “That pompous ass speaks o’ nothin’ else.”

“The added note I found in your purse, Babson, was well received. The list of the locations of their ammunition depots were clearly marked.” Nat’s expression became serious. “It’s a brave thing you’re doing, as well as a dangerous one.”

Babson beamed with pride. “I’m honored to serve our king any way I can, Nat.”

Nat nodded, feeling the familiar tug of kinship for the people who risked their lives for their king. “It’s almost time for me to leave. If you need to get in touch with me, you know how.”

“Aye, Nat, an’ God be with you.”

* * *

Nat had no sooner crept around the rear of the manor on his way to the stables than he heard footsteps pounding along the path. He darted back into the shadows and flattened himself against the shrubbery. The footsteps grew louder. Suddenly a young woman hurried past toward the rose bower nearby.

Anne Lowell! Nat frowned as he watched her dash across the leaf-strewn lawn, her gray skirts billowing behind her like a bell. Reason told him to ignore her. He had a job to do, and he didn’t believe in allowing personal feelings to get in the way of duty. Yet something he couldn’t quite explain drove him, instead, to want to follow her. It was more than the liking for clouds of coppery hair and blue-green eyes. She had gotten the best of him, and he couldn’t help admiring her for that. He glanced across the courtyard at the stables nearby. Aye, he had a few minutes before it was time to leave. Enough time, surely, to satisfy his longing to see her for one last time.

A sweet fragrance drifted from the last of the summer roses and invaded Nat’s senses as he approached the heavily entwined bower. The sound of muffled sobs came from the hidden bench; his heart went out to her, but he fought back the unreasonable response. She hadn’t heard him approach, and for a brief moment, he watched her weeping, before he spoke.

“Rather far from your flock, aren’t you, lass? Your sheep must be scattered all over the hillocks by now.”

Anne lifted her white-capped head. “You?” she gasped, straightening. Her cheeks pinked at the realization he knew by her proper dress she was obviously not a shepherd maid.

Her eyes darkened and he noticed how the dappled foliage heightened the emerald shards of light in her eyes.

Nat reached for her hand. “The lady weeps as though her heart were broken.” He brought her dainty fingers to his lips. “Agh!” He made a face. “How I hate the salty taste of tears.”

Anne jerked her hand back. “What an ungentlemanly thing to say,” she snapped, obviously forgetting her discomfiture. But when she saw his grin, she knew that he had made the joke only to take her mind off her troubles, and she rewarded him with her lovely smile.

“I’m glad that you’ve retrieved your...boot,” she said finally, the memory lightening her eyes.

“Are you?” He felt pleased to see a spark of her former spirit.

“Aye,” she answered, her fingers dabbing at her eyes. “And I’d be grateful if you said nothing to anyone of what happened this afternoon.”

He leaned over her. “Would anyone perhaps be your uncle? Your uncle,” he repeated with mock exaggeration, “Master George Lowell?”

He watched her pink blush deepen as she realized he’d known her identity all along. “Rest assured, Mistress Anne, you have my promise not to reveal our...adventure. However, to seal our bargain, little mermaid, there’s a price.”