Moss Rose Read online

  Moss Rose

  by Scottie Barrett

  Copyright © Wendie Hensley & Debbie Elfman, October 2001

  Cover art by Eliza Black

  ISBN 1-58608-305-8

  Gemstar Edition ISBN 1-58608-425-9

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, Ga 31636

  http://www.newconceptspublishing.com

  The Bordeaux Merchant sliced the gray, murky waters of the Chesapeake Bay bringing the wharf into focus through the clammy mist.

  "Freedom," Jensen whispered to herself and squeezed through the passengers huddled by the prow, wedging between a scrawny sailor and a bearish Scotsman, a sun-bleached plaid draped over his shoulder.

  In hopes of getting a better view, Jensen found a tenuous toehold on the wood slats and leaned precariously over the railing. Her head was dizzy with hunger, her jacket lining held the most meager of coinage, and she hadn't the faintest clue how to exit the boat unnoticed, yet she was absurdly glad to be arriving in port.

  The crewman beside Jensen hawked a revolting wad of tobacco into the sea, and she inched closer to the Scotsman. When the annoying little man favored a cluster of heavily painted women on shore with an ear-piercing whistle, Jensen startled, lurching forward, slamming her hips against the railing.

  The Scotsman grabbed a handful of her coat to yank her upright. "We're all eager to get to solid ground laddie, but there's no reason to go headfirst, eh?" He settled the coat back on her shoulders and made a great show of dusting her lapels. "Forgive me, I dinna intend to ruffle your fine, English garments," he chuckled.

  Fine garments, indeed, Jensen smiled faintly. Wrinkling her nose she looked down at her sorry state. Before leaving England, Jensen had sewn layers of padding into her brother's velvet-trimmed frock coat and satin breeches. The elegant fabrics, though, were barely discernible beneath the splatters of grease, food, and vomit. To think, Cyril had worn these very same clothes to a party held in honor of her betrothal.

  She smoothed what was left of her dingy neckcloth. "Yes, one must always look one's best when traveling abroad." Her husky voice cracked in amusement.

  The Scotsman responded with a booming laugh.

  This adventure had actually made Jensen grateful for her naturally boyish voice. A voice, Brant had termed the icing on the cake with an unsettling look in his eyes. Without it, she doubted her disguise would have fooled a soul.

  Jensen thumbed up the brim of her tricorne. The hat had become so saturated with salty sea air it often drooped low over her brow, obscuring her vision.

  Initially, she had worried that her slight stature and expensive clothing would lead to suspicion among the ship's crew and passengers. But, numbed by their own misery, they had been indifferent to the odd, timid, little Englishman traveling alone.

  Fleeing Shadwell Hall on that starless, spring night had been an exhilarating experience. The stark reality, though, of a forty-day voyage aboard a creaky schooner had thoroughly dampened Jensen's spirits. She had spent most of her journey below deck in the dank, rat infested steerage hold, draped over a chamber pot, retching up what little food and drink she had managed to consume.

  For the hundredth time, Jensen patted her pocket, making certain that it still contained the small, metal box. Through the jacket's threadbare material she could trace its scalloped edges and reassured herself that she would soon be free of the box's crucial, yet incriminating contents. A wave of hopelessness washed over her--so much time had passed since first receiving her aunt's desperate letter that she doubted her mission would prove successful. She couldn't stop a weak smile, though, from forming on her lips as she reminded herself of the second, far more selfish reason for quitting England so readily. Freedom.

  Freedom from her uncle's iron-fisted control, and most especially, freedom from marriage. Just thinking about her intended mate made her blood run cold. Brant Mansfield was more than tolerable to look at with his broad shoulders and Wedgwood blue eyes. Not to mention that his potential inheritance made him the most sought after bachelor in the entire county. But he was also greedy, self-serving, and possessive. She had dreaded becoming one of his trophies, sitting prettily on a settee in the parlor, entertaining his dull friends and their even duller wives.

  She closed her eyes, reliving the pain of that final scene with her uncle. Furious at her decision to refuse the betrothal, he had demanded her immediate presence in his office. Sitting imperiously behind his great mahogany desk and flanked on either side by her brothers, he had methodically sanded and sealed a letter before acknowledging her. His face a mask of stone, he'd leaned back in his chair and stared unblinking at her for so long she had had to remind herself to breathe, icy fear twisting around her heart as she recalled her uncle's violent temper.

  "So, you plan to reject Brant's offer of marriage, do you?" he'd said, his lips tightening into a thin, bloodless line.

  Her usual courage and sharp tongue had deserted her, and she had whispered a spineless, "But, I don't love him," in her defense.

  She shivered, remembering how he had fondled the ornate ivory handle of the letter opener before plunging it viciously into the leather desk blotter. His final words still reverberated in her ears, "Damn fool, you will have the man I choose or find yourself begging in the streets of London."

  Even her dearest brother Cyril had tried to persuade her that a marriage of love was just a fanciful notion. "Be reasonable, Jensen. Not one girl in a thousand makes such a propitious match. I fear your stubbornness will bring you nothing but unhappiness," he'd said, his frown lines deepening as he added, "Besides, this is foolish talk. You know as well as I do, you have no real choice in the matter."

  Coming to the hateful conclusion that he was right, she had reluctantly accepted Brant's ring. But a mere week before the wedding, Brant had done something so cruel, so unforgivable, that she felt she'd rather die than see herself wed to him.

  Just when her future had seemed the darkest, she had received an answer to an ad she had placed in a colonial newspaper. A miraculous reprieve in the form of paid passage to Virginia.

  Pungent odors wafted from the bay jolting Jensen from her thoughts. Barrels brimming with oozing oysters and terrapin stood abandoned and rotting in the early morning sun. The feeling of nausea returned, and Jensen covered her nose and mouth with her filthy handkerchief, hoping to mask the stench.

  As the vessel veered toward the dock, she hastened to locate the two small satchels that held her meager possessions and joined the line of weary travelers waiting to exit the boat.

  Captain Walker, his ominous black eyes set deeply in his sun-darkened face, shoved his way through the dazed crowd to the passageway where the gangplank was being lowered. From the start, Jensen had stayed well clear of the harsh, intimidating man. She was surprised to find that even he had not escaped the ravages of the voyage. His once crisp, snug-fitting uniform now looked as limp as the slackened sails.

  Raising his arm high, he waved a tattered piece of parchment. "Quieten down, you fools," he bellowed over the drooping heads of the crowd, although there was barely a murmur to be heard. "Listen ye good for nothin' blighters, this here's a list of the people who will be released when their owners come for 'em. The rest of ye will stay aboard the vessel 'til ye be bought and paid fer. Although lookin' at the lot of ye," he said with a scowl of disgust, "I'll be makin' the soul driver happy this round."

  "Show 'em up," he directed his crewmembers.

  Instantly, heavy footsteps resounded up the gangplank. A handful of handsomely garbed colonists, who had been alerted to the ship's imminent arrival, boarded the schooner. Jensen feared that the plantation owner who had purchased her contract might be amongst them and suddenly realized it would be harder than she thought to slip away undetected.


  A sudden gust of wind whipped across the deck billowing the flaccid sails. The gold braiding of Captain Walker's cocked hat flew loose, and he cursed and swatted it away with annoyance. He snarled names, among them the Scotsman's.

  "Aye," the big man answered, squaring his shoulders confidently. He looked completely out of place in the midst of the other passengers who resembled obedient dogs as they shuffled forward.

  As he strode past Jensen, he chucked her chin good-naturedly with his knuckles. "Luck to you, my lad. Looks like we'll all be needin' it."

  Jensen swallowed hard, thinking it would take more than luck to survive this ordeal.

  Those rich colonists, pleased with their new purchases, did not even spare a backward glance for the frail souls left behind. Others surveyed the less desirable as though they were heads of cattle, examining every inch of visible skin and gumline. All Jensen received was an odd once over and a snicker or two.

  After all the bartering and purchasing was completed, the captain surveyed the unwanted goods with derision. "The rest of ye, I've posted notice in town. Be warned, any fool that has a notion to leave this ship without permission will find themselves at the end of this point." He unsheathed his dagger. Lunging forward, he yanked the long stringy queue of an unsuspecting deckhand and demonstrated its lethalness. The humiliated sailor kicked over a bucket of water before stomping away.

  Dangling the lank tail of hair, the captain's face broke into a mirthless grin as he directed their eyes to where a crewmember's sword tapped an ominous rhythm against the heavy chain spanning the exit. Jensen thought grimly, if she didn't mind walking ashore with her head in her hands, fleeing the ship would not be a problem.

  As the days wore on, Jensen found herself longing for a cooling, English rain shower. The lowered sails no longer provided the luxury of shade. The wood planks absorbing the heat of the sun made it impossible to stand too long in one spot. But there was nowhere else to go. Jensen could only imagine what it was like below. The rank odors were seeping up through the deck.

  After sipping her ration of warm water from the moss-lined barrel, she followed the slim line of shade that the mast offered. Eventually, she tucked herself between two piles of rigging. Resting her head on her satchel, she curled up like a cat. Jensen dozed off thinking she had not felt such despair since her parents had been killed in a carriage accident when she was twelve.

  The captain's loud, incredulous snort woke her from a sweat-soaked sleep. "That spindly little, whey-faced dwarf of an Englishman is your new stable manager?!" Captain Walker managed to spit out the words between bouts of choking laughter.

  Jensen, hearing the captain's remark, peered up over the mound of rope and squinted into the sunlight, drowsily focusing on the man standing beside him. Her mouth grew dry at the sight.

  The towering man looked dangerously feral, outfitted head to toe in worn buckskin. His knee-high boots were tethered with leather lacing. His profile was turned to her, and she could make out little of his face. His hair, though, was like black silk hanging loose to his shoulders.

  The stranger's arrival caused a sudden commotion aboard ship. Even the oldest, most seasoned sailors seemed intrigued, warily circling the newcomer. Jensen glanced hurriedly in the direction of the exit. She trembled in anticipation, the sword-wielding crewman had abandoned his post to get a better look. Her heart pumped feverishly knowing this was her chance.

  With everyone's attention fixed on the Virginian, Jensen wormed her way through the small group of remaining passengers and launched herself over the chain, her ill-fitting shoes hit the gangplank running.

  Too frightened to look back, she elbowed past the fishermen, servants, and merchants crowding the quay, her heels slipping as she squelched through the muddy shoreline. Too close, she could hear someone repeatedly shouting, "Hawthorne," interspersed with violent cursing. She kicked off the annoying shoes to gain more speed. The dense forest loomed before her. Hugging her bags tightly to her chest, she raced toward the shelter of the cypress groves. The soles of her feet, cut and scratched by the sharp bracken of the undergrowth, soaked her silk stockings with blood, but she pushed on. Fortunately, she could no longer hear the voice calling after her or the footsteps of her pursuer. But then, she doubted whether she could hear a giant's footsteps over the sound of her pulse thundering in her ears.

  The promise of the protective thicket was in reach when a tremendous force knocked her flat on her face. God's blood, it had been a giant following her, she thought, as she gasped for breath. Her ribs ached as she struggled to squirm free.

  "Where the devil were you off to Hawthorne?" a voice growled in her ear.

  "If you would be kind enough, sir, to get off me," she said in a strangled tone.

  "You won't run again, will you?" the giant said without shifting his weight.

  "I daresay, t'would be useless to try. Considering you've just about smothered the breath from me."

  With that, her captor slowly rolled off her. Jensen sat up, momentarily stunned and swallowing air like a landed fish. The shadows of the evergreens obscured the man's features, but she could make out his formidable size and realized he was the man she'd seen speaking to the captain. With what she hoped was a discreet movement, she inched backwards on her bottom away from him.

  Although certain of his answer, she inquired politely, "Enlighten me sir, whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" She hoped her mock civility would somehow disguise the tremor in her voice.

  "I'm Levi North, you sod."

  She extended her hand but quickly withdrew it when she noticed how his eyes narrowed suspiciously at the sight of the over-large glove. "Pleasure to meet you, sir. Duff Hawthorne."

  "Hell, I know who you are. I paid your damn passage." He flung her shoes at her stockinged feet.

  "Forgive me, Mr. North. 'Twas foolish to run, I know. 'Tis just . . . ." She scrounged for her hat amid the dried leaves and pine needles littering the forest floor. Relieved to find it, she pulled the brim of it low on her forehead, concealing her shapely brows.

  "Well?" he said impatiently.

  "'Tis just that after several days in port, watching as most of the bondsmen were sold off, and no one from Moss Rose Plantation coming to claim me, I thought I might risk escape rather than suffer another day aboard that filthy ship. The captain threw your letter guaranteeing payment in my face. He warned me that if someone didn't buy me soon I'd become the property of the soul-driver. When I caught sight of you, I was determined to flee."

  "Why the devil . . . ?" he said, his bemusement tinged with anger.

  "Well, the captain and crew seemed so struck by your arrival I thought you were he."

  "Who?!"

  "The soul-driver, of course. The man that herds the poor left-over souls and peddles them to farmers too desperate for labor to be choosy."

  "Christ, I know what a soul-driver is," he said in exasperation. "Didn't you hear the captain speak my name?" He cocked one black brow in disbelief.

  "No, I didn't, I swear," she lied, for she had heard the awed whispers of the crew. That's Hawk North, filthy rich and fierce as a bleedin' savage, they'd said.

  "Enough." He waved his hand in dismissal. "We need to be on the road before nightfall."

  "Might we stop at a tavern for a pint before our journey. I am thoroughly parched."

  "Where the devil do you think you've landed, Hawthorne? This is not your precious London. I doubt you will find our watering holes to your liking," he sneered and thrust a silver flask at her. "Have a swig of this."

  Desperate for something to quench her thirst, she chose to ignore his despicable manners and eagerly snatched the flask from his large, brown hand. She swallowed rapidly, realizing too late that the liquid had not been water as she had assumed but some horrid, bitter drink that felt like fire scorching her throat. She ran frantically toward the swampish creek she'd spotted snaking through the forest. Falling to her knees, she cupped the turbid water and brought it to her mou
th swallowing in great, choking gulps and soon found herself gagging on water as briny as the sea's. A derisive laugh coming from behind made her freeze with embarrassment. Levi North's reflection loomed in the slow-moving water. She took in the unshaven-squared jaw, the piercing eyes, and the cruel smile curling his sensual lips.

  "I reckon our distilled spirits are a bit more potent than your weak English ale," he said scornfully.

  Jensen's head was spinning. She attempted to stand upright using a fallen log for support, but her knees buckled. He quickly grabbed both her arms, preventing her from plunging headlong into the creek.

  "Small, frail, and weak-kneed, too. For God's sake man did you honestly think you could survive in the colonies?" Levi North thundered. Not waiting for an answer, he yanked Jensen to her feet nearly lifting her off the ground. Even though she had padded herself with layers of clothing hoping to fill out her brother's frock coat, his hands were so large that they wrapped completely around her arms.

  "Damn Hawthorne, what am I to do with you? " He spun her forcefully around to face him, jolting her neck back with a snap. Her silver-trimmed tricorne nearly slid off, and in the moment it took her to right it, she caught a glimpse of his steely gray eyes, shadowed by heavy lashes. He shot her a bewildered glance. She held her breath, expecting him to explode with rage at discovering that he had been duped. But instead, he released his grip, and Jensen landed on the balls of her feet, tottering before she regained her balance.

  "I can't believe I've traded good tobacco for such a weedy, little specimen of a horse manager. Unfortunately, it seems I'm stuck with you." With that, he turned and walked purposefully back toward the wharf. Jensen scrambled to keep up with his long strides.

  "Make haste, Hawthorne, there's your mount." He pointed a long finger at a mare grazing in the brown scrub. A rather sway-backed, unimpressive example of horseflesh, she thought.

  "Mr. North, if this is one of your broodmares . . . ." She cleared her throat rather sarcastically. "Mayhap you should not take this horse business too seriously."