Chapter 14
Murphy’s Laws of Combat # 19
“If you insist on fighting, be sure to pick an enemy you can beat.”
Late Afternoon, December 31, 1808
Melissa awoke to the sound of even breathing and a breeze rustling the leaves overhead. With one eye open, she could see the gray clouds tumble across the sky, great billowing ridges beyond the edge of their tarpaulin roof. It all seemed so far away, the light snow creating a bed curtain between her and the outside world. She realized she was huddled tight up against Captain Starke’s chest, his thick arm under her bad one. Spooning, they were. His chest felt hard, broad, and warm against her back, like a sun-drenched stonewall that breathed. She didn’t move, afraid to wake him, unwilling to give up the temporary, but couthy sense of being warm, snug, and safe.
A man had never held her like this. The closest experiences were quick hugs from her father and uncle. This comfort felt far different. This must be how it felt to share a man’s bed. She glanced over her shoulder.
The captain’s face wasn’t so intimidating up close. He appeared very human, braw, and noble asleep, an avenging angel in repose, even with the shadow of a birthing beard darkening his jaw. The weight of his arm pressing her closer made her as loose-limbed as strong drink. Any woman would be impatient with the day if the comfort of such a man awaited her each night.
Melissa closed her eyes. She wanted this, needed it, and cursed herself as a wanton for the desire. If she weren’t careful, she’d become exactly the kind of soiled bobtail the captain must assume she was. He’d made plain his opinion of her, with his scowls, biting words when she hesitated to sleep next to him.
He thought she feared him. Well, she should, him so big, so strange, an accomplished soldier from a miraculous future. She bit her lip at the thought. But no, she feared her own self, what she might do instead of safeguarding what social deferencewas left her. Nevertheless, she soaked up the unique solace of his body, however unconsciously given.
What kind of lass did he prefer? She wondered what were women like in his time. From the few things she knew of him, she felt certain they were far more remarkable than any woman she knew. Not that she had more than an inkling of how to attract a man of her own time, much less one from the far future.
A gust of wind rattled the trees, pulling her out of her reverie. She sighed. This man would certainly return to his age, and understandably had no interest in the likes of her. All for the best. Before her urges got the better of her, before she did something foolish and dangerous, she gently pulled away and wiggled out of the sleeping bag. The captain frowned but continued to sleep.
She quickly dressed in the frigid air, throwing on one of the French cavalry capes as a skirt. Her frozen boots were difficult to pull on one-handed. She began a small fire with wood the captain had set under the shelter, laying out her damp skirt and petticoat, hoping they would dry by the fire, as the snow had ceased. The spigot to his pack’s water bag he called a camel-back proved to be frozen, so she melted some snow for tea. While the water came to a boil, Melissa stood up to get the cups and her heel snapped one of the twigs she’d collected for the fire.
Instantly, the captain was up on his elbow and pointing his pistol at her. She froze, astonished at how fast he moved. They stared at each other across the fire. He slowly lowered the gun and closed his eyes with a groan, gingerly rolling his shoulder. She began breathing again.
“Pardon me. I didn’t mean to wake ye.”
He grunted as he slowly sat up. “No problem,” he said sardonically, “I’m just glad I didn’t shoot you.” He rubbed his leg. “I should have been awake long ago.” Then instead of rising, the man sat there and watched her as she returned to making tea. Her stomach fluttered to have him study her in such an untoward manner.
She brought the tea to him with a biscuit. When he examined it dubiously, she said, “Dunk the biscuit in the tea to soften it. It’s ta eat, not admire.”
He gave her a wry half-smile but tried it. Seconds later, he tossed it in the fire. “Man, that is not what I want to wake up to.” He reached into his pack and retrieved a brightly colored package, like the jerky pouch. He pulled out a number of small orange objects and offered her some.
“Dried apricots. I always have them along with beef jerky. I’ve been saving them.”
Mel nodded her thanks over the rare treat and retrieved her tea. The apricots were wonderful. It had been an age since she’d enjoyed any fruit, a bunch of grapes hanging from the rafters in a Spaniard’s hutch weeks ago.
The two of them ate in silence, he in the lean-to and she in his coat and French cape on a log by the fire. He continued to study her as they ate.
“What are you doing here, Miss Graham?”
She started at his voice, dropping her apricot. She gave him a speaking glance as she cleaned the dirt off it, mumbling “Ye insist on reddin’ the fire.”
“What?”
“I’ve already told ye why I’m here.”
“No, why are you in Spain with the British Army in a war zone.”
“A war zone?” she said, speaking the words like a foreign language. “And why shouldn’t I be with the Army?” She washed her hands in the water left in the captain’s silver pot and closed the soldiers’ packs.
“You aren’t a soldier, so what is a civilian doing here?”
She thought that an odd comment. Of course she wasn’t a soldier. “Women travel with the army on campaign. They don’t in your time?”
The captain shook his head, finishing repacking his rucksack. “Only those women who are in the Army.”
Mel nodded. “Aye, four women with a company or squadron.”
“To do what?”
She blinked at another silly question. “To cook, clean clothes, and more. Wives of officers also travel with us. Is it not the same in your army?” When the captain shook his head, she gasped, “Ye cannae mean women enlist as soldiers?”
A smirk accompanied his nod. “Absolutely. One of my sergeants in boot camp was a woman.” When he saw she didn’t understand, he smiled. “My training to be a soldier.”
Mel frowned at the implications. “You mean . . . nae.” Impossible. The captain didn’t comment, but waited for her, which rankled. She went over and jerked the sleeping bag out from under his leg, then the blankets, folding them as he struggled to stand, giving her irritated frown. He stuffed the sleeping bag in its case.
“I know of a few women who enlisted in the army pretending to be men,” she said, a question in her tone.
He shook his head, while he took down the tarp. “They don’t have to pretend, not in the United States Army. I know some damn fine women soldiers.”
“In your Rangers?” She made to cross her arms and winced at the flash of shoulder pain when she failed. Embarrassed, Mel settled for adjusting the cape covering her legs as she sat on the log, sure he thought her a bumpkin.
He bobbed his head at the question. “Well, in a few positions.”
She paused, sure the captain was trying to fluster her, but women in uniform? Only the French allowed that with their cantinieres. She had heard Spanish women fought beside the men. But who could tell? She stared at him, attempting to imagine his life in such an army, the women in such a world—and failed.
She shivered. “There, there were far more wives than regulation allows on this campaign. Many battalion commanders proved soft-hearted. Officers also brought their wives and families such as I.” She looked away, then said in a disapproving tone, “Of course, there are the expected camp followers, both British and foreign.”
She flipped her hand, attempting to appear nonchalant. “Tis no strange thing.”
“Uh-huh. But you aren’t a wife, Miss Graham.”
Was he accusing her of being a camp follower? She narrowed her eyes in exasperation. “Why these questions, Captain? I told ye, I came with my uncle. I have tended to his needs this last year and a half, here and in Sweden. And the officers of General Moore’s staff, if it comes to that.”
“Why?”
She frowned at him. “Because, because unmarried, I lived with my sister and her husband, earning my keep by tending their children. It . . . It was no life for me.”
“But this is?” Rig scowled, his disapproval plain as he waved a hand at their surroundings and her arm. “Why would your uncle expose you to such hardships, such dangers? He was an idiot to bring you on such a hellish campaign.”
Melissa stood, teacup held in both hands. “What birse is this?” She glared at him. “Doan say another word against my kin.” She glared at him. “I desired it. I wanted to travel, Captain, to sail away, to see foreign lands.” She ladled herself more tea, her mouth tight. “Or is traveling abroad the exclusive right of men?”
“If it’s sailing into a war, it should be left to the professionals.”
She hissed under her breath, “A hae nae brou o this.”
“What?”
“Ye ha’ no mense, no right to say such things.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve said them.” He ate an apricot, gazing at the ground. “Speaking of wives, in this time, aren’t most women your age married?” He raised both eyebrows when she sputtered at his comment.
“Why aren’t you back in Scotland married to some deserving man? You’re certainly good-looking, and more than competent.”
“What backjaw—?” Melissa glared at him, certain he was making sport, but his gaze suggested he spoke in all earnestness.
She snorted in an unladylike fashion. “No, many women remain unwed in this time.” He stood waiting, which she found exceedingly vexing. “I am certain the same is true in your time with such men as ye aboot.”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “You cannot truthfully be ladling out such fulsome praise after those brazen questions, accusing me of being a bobtail.” She quickly rinsed her cup and spoon.
“A what?”
“A camp follower, a doxy.” She sighed, deciding to broach the subject of his disrespect. Unable to look at him, she said, “I realize that I am, am compromised in your eyes, but I wish you would grant me a modicum of respect. At least, address me as Miss Graham.”
“Compromised?”
“A poplolly.” The incomprehension on his face forced her to say it. “I am no longer fit for proper society, now disgraced, compromised.”
“Why, because we slept next to each other last night? Seriously?”
“Yes. No, because you saw . . . I’ve been . . .” Her Scots words which followed didn’t need translation. Her face grew red. Can he have forgotten the state he found me in or the fact we have been alone for more than a day?
“Because you were almost raped?”
“Och.” Mortified by his lack of tact, she made no effort to hide her rising ire. She changed a subject too embarrassing to explain.
“Ye can easily perceive I’m no beauty, Captain, and my temperament hardly attract offers of marriage from eligible gentlemen.” She banged pots and cups around cleaning them. “I can accept the misfortune, but it is excessively crass of ye to persist in such blethers, sir.”
Rig didn’t move. “Miss Graham, I do not consider you disgraced at all. The French are to blame, not you.” He pulled on his boots and took down the lean-to. “I don’t know what you are talking about. And in my time, you’d be considered hot.”
“Hot?”
He spoke slowly as he finished his tea. “You’re an attractive woman.”
Melissa made a tsking sound between her teeth and grabbed the cup out of his hand to rinse it. She then packed away the dishes, all without looking at him. Why would he say such things? Because he thought her a loose woman?
“You don’t agree?” His voice held a calm and sincere interest, which irritated her like a burr under her jirkinet.
“Captain, this cairrie-on cannae . . .” Melissa stopped and eyed the ground, realizing she would have burned his ears in a Scots Braid he’d have not understood, which would have been a grand waste. In proper English she said, “You’re purposely provoking me.”
~ ~ ~
Rig shook his head. “Am I?” This was one weird argument, he thought, like Jennifer Lawrence or Lopez trying to convince him she wasn’t pretty and unmarriageable. He found Mel damned curious.
“Your questions are unseemly in the extreme, and I’ve no desire to entertain them.”
“I do.”