Before the Scarlet Dawn: Daughters of the Potomac, Book 1 Read online

“Why not?”

  “Because I do not love you.”

  “Love? That should not matter, at least where you are concerned. I do like you exceedingly, even though I’ve never said it before now.”

  She laughed. “Like me? How can you feel anything for me when we have never said more than hello or goodbye in chance meetings either at church or in the village? And I cannot marry a man I know nothing about.”

  “You shall get to know me, beginning today.” He smiled with a glint in his eyes.

  She ignored him and cinched the saddle. “And I cannot resign myself to a life of boredom, shut up in some London house, with nothing to do all day but sit and sit.”

  He moved closer. “I will find plenty of diversions for both of us.”

  Eliza pulled her horse forward. “I am not of your society.”

  “You will be. I am taking a risk, I know, by marrying a vicar’s daughter. People will say I could have reached higher. But I do not care what the gossips may spread. It is a challenge I relish.”

  Turning to face him, Eliza lifted her chin. “What do you mean?”

  “I should like to change you, take you like a piece of clay and mold you into a wife suitable to my status. With my money, you shall have plenty of silks, and a string of pearls that shall be envied.”

  “Change me? Mold me? Now I know a union between us would be a disaster. And I do not like silk. It stains too easily. And I cannot abide lavish balls or dinner parties. I am not right for you.”

  His jaw stiffened. “But I desire you, Eliza. Doesn’t that count for something? Is that not what a woman wants? That, and a rich husband?”

  She huffed at him. “Surely it is an infatuation on your part. What you see before you on the outside will fade in time.”

  Frustrated, he breathed out and took her roughly by the arms. “What I see is the most beguiling woman in all the world. You would end up an old spinster if not for your body, which I can only imagine is luscious beneath this dress. And that dark hair of yours—I’ve thought of it flowing over your bare shoulders. And those violet eyes to tempt me with. Can’t you see I want you?”

  “I can, and in a manner I do not welcome.” She resisted his embrace and pushed him back. His lustful words caused her to wither. She squirmed out of his arms and stepped away.

  He slapped the stable wall. “One day you will regret your refusal, Eliza.” He mounted his horse and rode off. When he was finally gone, Eliza climbed onto her mare’s back and nudged its side with her heel. Her eyes pooled with angry tears that slipped from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. If only he loved her for what thrived deeper than skin, perhaps then she would have considered his proposal. His handsome bank account was not enough to tempt her, nor his promise of a secure future.

  Langbourne proved to be no different from the others who had courted her affections. They wanted what they saw on the outside—a body as desirable as an artist’s model, seductive lavender eyes, hair the color of black silk, and skin as light and translucent as morning mist.

  She reined in her mare and dashed the tears briskly from her face. With a heart that yearned and sought God’s plan for her life, she stared at the downs that stretched far into the distance, and drew the cool, damp air deep into her lungs. Determined to make her own choice, she kicked the mare’s ribs with her heel and raced it across the windswept heath.

  2

  The shrill throaty call of a hawk caught Eliza’s attention. She halted her horse and gazed at the slow sweep of the hawk’s wings as it soared across the clear blue sky above Hope Valley. It hovered a moment, then dove straight toward earth and snatched up a gray field mouse in its talons.

  “You see that, Lord?” She ran her gloved hand slowly along the mare’s broad neck. “Langbourne is like that hawk. Please, do not let me be that poor little mouse.”

  Beyond the outstretched wings the bird spread into the wind, the sun pierced a pale beam through a cluster of blue-gray clouds. Eliza marched her horse on, toward the River Noe. Wild comfrey grew along the riverbank, and she dismounted when she spied a spray that was dead from the winter cold. The dried leaves would suffice to comfort her father’s malaise. Pinching the base with her fingertips, she plucked the stems from the ground and put them inside a canvas pouch fastened to her waist.

  The wind, smelling of rain, damp moss, and turf, rushed through her hair and blew it back off her shoulders. She had been gone too long, she thought, and mounting her horse, she turned back, hoping to reach home before dusk.

  As she neared the rocks that threw long shadows across the moors, a long howl rose out of the wind. At first, she hoped it was not a wolf prowling the grasslands far from the forest. Then off in the distance, her eyes caught sight of a spotted boarhound bounding after a rabbit. She nudged her horse on with a click of her tongue and came around a sharp bend in the road where a cart barred the way. One man jumped down and thrust his hands into his pockets—the other drew off his hat and gave her an insolent bow. She went to turn her horse, but the younger man leapt forward and grabbed the halter. The horse snorted and stamped its hooves, as the one man held it fast and the other looked at Eliza with a wide grin.

  “Well, if it isn’t the vicar’s raven-haired daughter. Good day to you, miss.”

  “Jack Fie, let go my horse.”

  “Not until you tell me something I’ve been dying to know. Are you as pure as they say, or have those beautiful violet eyes gotten you into trouble?”

  She smacked him across his shoulder with the reins. “Let go, I said!”

  “Oh, let the lass be, Jack,” said the older man, who clenched a pipe between his teeth.

  “Only havin’ a bit of fun. Come down, Eliza Bloome, and kiss me.”

  Relentlessly, he attempted to pull her down from the saddle. The mare twisted, and Eliza pressed her knee hard into its side.

  Suddenly, a pistol snapped and lead whizzed straight past Jack Fie’s head into his seat in the wagon. His companion yelped. Fie jumped back and hurried to his place in the cart, and with his cohort sped off as quickly as their shaggy workhorse could carry them.

  Heat rose in Eliza’s cheeks as a man on horseback galloped up to her with the hound hard upon his mount’s flanks. He shoved his flintlock pistol into his belt and looked at her with a smile. He wore a dark blue overcoat, tawny breeches, and black riding boots. His eyes were deep brown beneath a strong brow. His hair, dark as the wings of the hawk that flew above, lay tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon.

  The boarhound barked, and Eliza’s frightened mare reared and beat its hooves—its eyes huge and fearsome. Stamping its hooves deep into the sod around the dog, the mare bolted off and went racing across the downs. The rider caught up to her, reached for the bridle, and brought the mare against his boot. It twisted its head with a whinny and skidded to a sudden stop. Thrown from the saddle, Eliza landed on the ground. Dazed, she gasped for breath and slowly sat up.

  The gentleman alighted and commanded the hound to be silent and stand down. His shadow fell over Eliza as she put her hand to her brow to steady the dizzy feeling swimming in her head.

  “Are you hurt?” His tone hinted of sincere concern, but also amusement.

  She looked at him and was struck with the strangest sensation. Flushed, she glared at him. “I do not believe so. Your dog is to blame for frightening my horse and causing it to run off like that. You should control the beast. I could have been killed.”

  He reached his hand down to her. Reluctantly she took it, and he pulled her up.

  “He’s really gentle in most instances.” Eliza’s rescuer slapped his thigh with the palm of his hand, and the hound came forward to have his ears stroked. “You are a sprite of a woman,” he went on. “So I imagine you could not control your mare.”

  His arrogant half-smile caused her blood to simmer. “Normally she is as docile as a lamb. I have never had a problem with her before, not until your animal accosted her.”

  “Though you are not afraid to speak
your mind, girl, you should not be out here alone. Those ruffians could have done you more harm than my dog ever could.”

  Eliza brushed the dry grass from off her cloak and stepped away. “I do it all the time.”

  With a quick flick of his wrist, he tossed a stick into the field, and his hound ran after it. “I suppose it is acceptable with your class of person to ride unattended.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “My class of person, sir, does not sit idly at home staring out of windows. And I would have done just fine without your interference.”

  His laugh infuriated her to the point that her blood boiled with disdain. “Oh, is that what you call it? I beg your pardon, but I seriously doubt it. A woman is no match for two fellows like that. Where were you going, anyway? To the market for your mistress?”

  Proud, she raised her chin. “I am my own mistress.”

  “By the look of you, I’d say a poor one. If you need work, come to Havendale. My mother may have something for you.” He went for his horse.

  “I am not in need of employment, sir,” she said. “My father and I are well situated at home. I hate to ask, or to impose on you any longer, but would you help me back on my horse?”

  He cupped his hands and placed them under the sole of her boot to lift her back into the saddle. “What is your name?”

  “I will tell you, if you tell me yours first.” No sooner had the words left her mouth than the wind ruffled his hair and she knew exactly who he was by the scar above his left eyebrow.

  His face had changed, grown older since the last time she had seen him.

  “Wait. I know you. You are Hayward Morgan. I recall the scar you bear. I am the one who gave it to you when we were children. I threw a stone at you for teasing me. Remember?”

  His mouth began to curve into a smile, and he touched the scar with his forefinger. She could see the memory rise in his eyes. “How could I have mistaken the raven hair and violet eyes for those of a gypsy, Eliza Bloome? You’ve grown into a woman since I last saw you.”

  She drew in a long breath. “Of course you know me. My father has been the minister at Saint Anthony’s for thirty years. He baptized you, and your brothers and sister.”

  “And buried them.”

  “Yes. It is sad indeed for your mother.”

  “I have never seen her shed a tear over much of anything. But I am convinced you are right. To lose so many infants gave her cause to make me the last.”

  It might have been the soft way in which he now spoke that caused her to drop her gaze and her blood to cool. “I am an only child as well. Do you regret it?”

  “Certainly. But I do have a half brother. I haven’t seen him in years. My father sent him away when we were young, and when he was old enough, he left England for the Colonies.”

  Eliza shook her head. “Oh, that is unfortunate.”

  She thought, How could any woman not show sorrow over such tremendous loss? “I remember seeing you in church when we were children. Every Sunday you were seated next to her in the first pew. The brass plaque bearing your family name is still there. I suppose someday you will be seated there with your wife and children.”

  His smile faded into a scowl. “Hmm. I have no such plan.”

  Eliza stared at him, confused by his admission. Did he not wish to carry on his family’s name? Why would he prefer a bachelor life, quiet and lonely, in comparison to a home filled with the pitter-patter of children’s feet and the company of a loving wife?

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “Hmm. I realize the rich are idle for the most part, but you must have some goal in life.”

  “I have. And I intend to achieve them all.”

  Eliza’s opinion of him heightened at this view. “You are an optimist. That is an admirable position.”

  Hayward called to his boarhound as it romped too far. He shoved his boot into the stirrup and climbed back into the saddle. They rode along slowly, side by side, and he turned to Eliza and said, “We never conversed much as children, did we?”

  “I was not permitted to speak to you.”

  “I tried and was punished for it with a riding crop across my back.”

  “Oh, that is a terrible thing. My father never laid a hand upon me.”

  “Mine did, and he sent me away to school—said I needed more discipline and to know my place. It was an enormous waste of my time and his money. You had a brother, did you not? Stephen, was it?”

  “Yes. He is in the army—in New York, from his last letter.”

  Hayward shook his head. “Revolution permeates the air in the Colonies. I know enough to be convinced it would be a righteous cause.”

  Eliza raised her brows. “Indeed? Righteous enough to stand against the King?”

  “Yes. I’ve just returned from Maryland and have seen with my own eyes the stranglehold His Majesty wishes to tighten around the throats of the Colonists. A tax on stamps for legal documents is outrageous, and the quartering of his troops in peoples’ homes, against their wishes, is not to be borne.”

  “You speak of treason.”

  “I suppose to you I do.”

  Eliza soaked in his words. She’d never heard any man speak the way he did, and it intrigued her all the more to see what kind of man Hayward Morgan had turned out to be. “You saw things, as you say, with your own eyes. You are that convinced to leave England for good?”

  “Why not? There is rich land there, and I have acquired a pretty tract with a mill, near the Potomac. Farmers pay good money to grind their grain. So, I shall do well.”

  “I would think it would be a lonely life living in the wilderness by one’s self. I have heard that the winters there are harsh and the summers unbearable. You would indeed starve.”

  A curve tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It is true what you say about the seasons, but if you’d only see it for yourself, you would know that the farms and plantations of Maryland are as prosperous as any English estate. If I fail, as you seem to think I might, I have enough set aside to sustain me the rest of my life.”

  “Are you not angry your cousin has been awarded heir of Havendale instead of you?”

  The glint in his eyes darkened. “Of course I am.”

  “You could contest it when the time comes.”

  “I could. But I won’t.”

  She stared at him. “I am quite amazed to hear that. You prefer the wilds of Maryland to Havendale?”

  “It is said men grow desperate to marry in order to fill the lonely hours. A good wife to bear the burden with is needful if a man means to build his fortune in America . . . I see I confused you when I said I had no plans to fill my family’s pew with a family of my own.”

  “Yes, you did.” Eliza shook her head. “But I think I understand now.”

  “And what about you, Miss Bloome? I imagine you have plenty of proposals.”

  “None serious save for one. Your cousin has set his suit upon me.” Slowly she drew the reins through her fingers.

  “Yes, I know. I learned this day that you are not convinced of his intentions. You should marry him. He will have money and property. Do you have other offers?”

  She would tease him for his proud look and prejudiced ways. “Hmm. I know of one other—you, sir. You swore you’d marry me when we were children . . . beside the back door of the church when your parents were not looking.”

  An arrogant light sprang into his eyes and he stared at her a moment. “I’m afraid that for all your beauty, Miss Bloome, you are beneath me. Good day.”

  Eliza narrowed her eyes. He tipped his hat, kicked his stallion’s ribs, and raced off with the boarhound striding hard behind. Wind blew through Eliza’s hair and cooled her neck. It stung her eyes. Or was it the sight of him, the words he spoke, and the way he left her that caused tears to well?

  As he rode off, she called out to him, “In God’s eyes, I am neither beneath nor above anyone. But I am determined to rise above your prejudice, Hayward Morgan.”

  3

  By th
e time Eliza reached home, dusky sunlight flickered across the glass in the mullioned windows of the old vicarage. Prisms of color, amid the shadows of the trees, quivered in the breeze. She now knew she still had feelings for Hayward Morgan. He made her heart tremble. His eyes pierced straight through her and shook her to her core. His arrogance caused her blood to rise to a fevered pitch.

  She admitted his handsome looks drew her to him. Yet, something about his demeanor and cool attitude attracted her as well. Seeing him again sparked an even deeper flame within. Why would she feel this way if it were not meant to be?

  She looked up with a start when Fiona called from the threshold of the door. “Oh, my girl.” She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “If only you had come home sooner. I did not know what to do, how to find you, and there was no one here to send out looking for you . . .”

  A chill swept through Eliza. She jumped down from the mare’s back, crossed the flagstones, and hurried through the door. Fiona followed her inside, silent and forlorn as the deepening shades that had overtaken the foyer.

  Eliza climbed the staircase as quick as her legs could carry her. She turned and ran down the hallway to her father’s bedchamber. She rushed to his bedside. His hands, once strong and protective, lay over his chest. His eyes, once sparkling with fatherly pride, lay closed. She’d never look into them again.

  “He went peaceful, my girl,” Fiona said in a soft voice. “Without struggle. He called me over to him, asked for you, and then looked up at the ceiling with a light in his eyes that I cannot describe—as if he were seeing Heaven.”

  Fiona touched her shoulder. “He said to me, ‘Fiona, take care of my girl. Swear to me you will never leave her.’ And so, I did give him my promise. Then he slipped away content.”

  Overcome, Eliza dropped to her knees beside the tidy bed and clutched the bedclothes in her hands. “I should not have gone out.” The ache, that she had not been with him when he died, shot through her.

  A moan crawled up her throat, caught, and then the dam broke. It flowed from every pore, every corner of her soul. It tore, raked. Bitter tears welled in her eyes and fell down her cheeks. She gathered her father’s hand in hers, pressed her face against his fingers, and wept.