dropped something creamy and soft into her lap.
Bryony made haste to obey. It was a tunic of doeskin, the kind worn by Indian women, and it was the most comfortable garment Bryony could remember having worn. “It’s lovely. Where did it come from?” She smoothed the butter-soft hide over her hips. It came to just below her knees and seemed to accentuate the slimness of her calves and the neat turn of her ankles, she thought with complacent vanity, tossing back her hair and smiling at him.
Benedict laughed. “You vain creature! However, it does suit you quite admirably.”
Bryony flushed both at the accurate accusation and the compliment. “But where did it come from?” she asked again.
He shrugged. “A friend of mine. I acquired it last night.” He took a kettle from the fire and poured boilingwater onto coffee in a pewter jug. “How does fried hominy appeal?”
Bryony frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t think I have ever had it.”
“Not a sufficiently refined dish, presumably,” he observed with a dry smile. “Pour the coffee.”
“I do not see why you should make mock in that manner,” she retorted, stung. “I would imagine that in your past life, you were too refined to eat it, also.”
If she had hoped for a reaction, she was disappointed. He merely shrugged and said, “Possibly.”
“What do the initials
B.C.
stand for?” There seemed little to be lost by the question, but Benedict sighed wearily.
“If you are going to persist in this inquisition, lass, we are going to have another falling out. I have told you that my private affairs are just that. It is for your safety as much as mine.” He spooned a mess of maize porridge onto a wooden trencher and handed it to her, advising, “Use your mouth for something other than questions.”
Bryony scowled but accepted the inevitable. The hominy was quite palatable, particularly when one was ravenous. She cleared the plates and utensils afterward without Ben’s prompting, but when she returned to the glade, it was to find him slinging a musket over his shoulder, counting bullets in the palm of his hand before dropping them into the deep pocket of his coat.
She felt a sudden flash of apprehensive premonition. “Where are you going?”
“Business,” he said shortly, and it was as if the morning by the creek had happened to two other people. “Do we have to go through the lesson of last night again?”
She bit her lip, hating to give in, yet knowing she hadlittle choice. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “I will stay by the cabin.”
Benedict’s face cleared with relief. “I know it’s hard for you to accept, lass, but just trust me.”
“Oh, I do,” she replied with complete truth. “I trust you implicitly, which is why I don’t understand why you will not trust me.”
“It is not a question of trust,” he said quietly. “I do not know exactly how long I will be. If you become hungry, you will find bread and cheese in the stores.”
“But it is dangerous, what you are going to do, isn’t it?” She looked at him, the blue eyes clear and determined, showing no fear of the answer.
Slowly, he nodded. “But no more than usual.”
With that, Bryony must be satisfied, and she turned back to the cabin, strangely unwilling to see him out of sight. It was while she was putting away the dishes from their breakfast that she remembered something. It was nothing that seemed to have any direct relevance to herself; at least, it turned no keys in the locked area of her mind. But it seemed to have relevance to a great many other things. Bryony remembered the war.
It had been going on for just over four years, ever since British troops had arrived on a military exercise in Lexington, Massachusetts, where they had come across some seventy American minutemen gathered on the common in the mist of early morning. A series of blundered orders and misunderstandings, a volley of musket fire from each side, and eight minutemen lay dead in the
Bryony made haste to obey. It was a tunic of doeskin, the kind worn by Indian women, and it was the most comfortable garment Bryony could remember having worn. “It’s lovely. Where did it come from?” She smoothed the butter-soft hide over her hips. It came to just below her knees and seemed to accentuate the slimness of her calves and the neat turn of her ankles, she thought with complacent vanity, tossing back her hair and smiling at him.
Benedict laughed. “You vain creature! However, it does suit you quite admirably.”
Bryony flushed both at the accurate accusation and the compliment. “But where did it come from?” she asked again.
He shrugged. “A friend of mine. I acquired it last night.” He took a kettle from the fire and poured boilingwater onto coffee in a pewter jug. “How does fried hominy appeal?”
Bryony frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t think I have ever had it.”
“Not a sufficiently refined dish, presumably,” he observed with a dry smile. “Pour the coffee.”
“I do not see why you should make mock in that manner,” she retorted, stung. “I would imagine that in your past life, you were too refined to eat it, also.”
If she had hoped for a reaction, she was disappointed. He merely shrugged and said, “Possibly.”
“What do the initials
B.C.
stand for?” There seemed little to be lost by the question, but Benedict sighed wearily.
“If you are going to persist in this inquisition, lass, we are going to have another falling out. I have told you that my private affairs are just that. It is for your safety as much as mine.” He spooned a mess of maize porridge onto a wooden trencher and handed it to her, advising, “Use your mouth for something other than questions.”
Bryony scowled but accepted the inevitable. The hominy was quite palatable, particularly when one was ravenous. She cleared the plates and utensils afterward without Ben’s prompting, but when she returned to the glade, it was to find him slinging a musket over his shoulder, counting bullets in the palm of his hand before dropping them into the deep pocket of his coat.
She felt a sudden flash of apprehensive premonition. “Where are you going?”
“Business,” he said shortly, and it was as if the morning by the creek had happened to two other people. “Do we have to go through the lesson of last night again?”
She bit her lip, hating to give in, yet knowing she hadlittle choice. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “I will stay by the cabin.”
Benedict’s face cleared with relief. “I know it’s hard for you to accept, lass, but just trust me.”
“Oh, I do,” she replied with complete truth. “I trust you implicitly, which is why I don’t understand why you will not trust me.”
“It is not a question of trust,” he said quietly. “I do not know exactly how long I will be. If you become hungry, you will find bread and cheese in the stores.”
“But it is dangerous, what you are going to do, isn’t it?” She looked at him, the blue eyes clear and determined, showing no fear of the answer.
Slowly, he nodded. “But no more than usual.”
With that, Bryony must be satisfied, and she turned back to the cabin, strangely unwilling to see him out of sight. It was while she was putting away the dishes from their breakfast that she remembered something. It was nothing that seemed to have any direct relevance to herself; at least, it turned no keys in the locked area of her mind. But it seemed to have relevance to a great many other things. Bryony remembered the war.
It had been going on for just over four years, ever since British troops had arrived on a military exercise in Lexington, Massachusetts, where they had come across some seventy American minutemen gathered on the common in the mist of early morning. A series of blundered orders and misunderstandings, a volley of musket fire from each side, and eight minutemen lay dead in the
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