Love Finds You in Annapolis, Maryland Page 13

  “Spontaneity fends off boredom. And hurrying fends off the cool air. I maintain my approach to life is the proper one, and the rest of society just has yet to realize it.”

  Lark replied only with a laugh, since they were even then hurrying up North Street. Approaching the State House this time didn’t cause quite the reaction it had before. There were no other residents approaching, dressed in their best, no men in army uniform, no expectation of General Washington arriving any moment. As they circled around to the entrance, the place felt barren and quiet.

  A flash of something caught Lark’s eye as Sena pulled her toward the door. Deep brown hair, a familiar stride—nonsense. Lark shook her head, but she couldn’t keep her shoulders from tensing. When would she stop imagining Emerson every time she turned around? When would that dual hope and fear stop pouncing on her? Bad enough he continued to fill her dreams, but seeing him everywhere she turned…it was embarrassing, even if no one else realized she kept doing it. She knew.

  Their escort was staring off too, toward a group of boys that looked about his age. Sena smirked. “Go ahead. Just be back here in an hour’s time, so we can go home together.”

  The boy smiled. “One hour. Thank you, Miss Sena.”

  Lark sent her eyes heavenward at Sena’s determination for independence and let herself be steered through the large doors.

  “Ah, Miss Randel.” A gentleman approached with a smile. “How fortuitous I happened by. Might I assume you have my speech from your father?”

  Sena presented it with a flourish. “I certainly do, Mr. Lloyd. I am sure, had I given him the chance, he would have sent me with a message of greeting to accompany it, but alas, he said the word ‘trouble,’ and I was off seeking it too fast to hear him out.”

  The congressman loosed a belt of laughter and accepted the papers. “Well, you may give him my message of thanks, and well wishes. How is your mother and the baby?”

  “Both lacking in sleep but otherwise perfect.”

  Mr. Lloyd turned to Lark. “And good to see you again, Miss Benton. I trust your new friend is not leading you into any trouble from which she does not proceed to extricate you?”

  Lark chuckled. Good humor seemed to flow wherever Sena went. Even here, where it surely wasn’t the daily order of business. “Thus far, sir, though I daren’t make any assumptions about the future.”

  “A wise young woman.” He turned when someone called his name from down the hall. “Ah, I had better hasten back. Jefferson’s determined to send out express riders to badger the missing delegates. Thank you again, Miss Randel, Miss Benton. I shall be by to see your father soon.”

  They exited the State House once more through its tall wooden doors, the sunlight reflecting off the new snow blinding Lark for a moment when it struck her eyes.

  “Lark!”

  She halted with one foot on a white marble square, one hovering over a black. The door behind her thudded shut. She blinked to refocus her vision, looked around. Sure that, whoever called her, it was not the someone she thought it was.

  A theory that lasted only a second, before Emerson came bounding up the steps. “Lark! It is you. For a moment I thought my eyes deceived me, so set was I on greeting you at the Randels’. You cannot know how glad I am to see you.”

  He reached for her. Actually reached out, as if expecting her to put her hand in his or perhaps even rush to embrace him. Feeling each muscle in her face go tense and hard, she retreated a step instead. “What are you doing here, Emerson?”

  “Emerson?” Sena’s eyes went wide. Then, in true Sena fashion, she tilted her head and narrowed them again. “I would have expected horns and a tail. Or at the very least a pitchfork.”

  Perhaps, if she weren’t numb with shock that Emerson stood towering over her when he should have been in Virginia, Lark would have taken the time to grin.

  Emerson barely glanced at Sena, just locked that beseeching gaze on Lark. “I deserve your disregard, your anger. I know that. But please, darling, give me the chance to explain why—”

  “You dare to call me that?” Fury built inside like steam in a kettle, more intense than any she had felt save that night in the library. “You dare to come here and pretend humility, to ask for anything, after the way you acted?”

  “It is not pretense.” He took a step toward her. She took another back. “Please, d— Lark. Hear me out.”

  “You cannot have anything to say that I wish to hear.” She looked over her shoulder. Two more steps back before she reached the steps on the southeast side, opposite the ones they had come up a few minutes before.

  “Your family misses you. Please, come home. For their sakes.”

  Oh, he was using all his skill, to be sure. The wide eyes, filled with emotion. The slant of his shoulders, conceding defeat even as he took another strong step toward her.

  She was in no mood to be manipulated. This time she stepped forward and poked him in the chest. “You think I don’t know what you are about? You may have never paid a jot of attention to me, but I know every trick of charm in your stockpile. I will not be talked into anything, no matter for whose sake you say it is. So you go home. I am going to stay right here, where people recognize I am something more than Wiley’s quiet sister, until I am good and ready to leave.”

  What reaction had she expected? Surprise, most likely, as he showed on her birthday when she refused the diamonds. Perhaps anger. Maybe a bit of confusion. Certainly not the light that danced in his eyes, as if she were some great diversion.

  She didn’t just poke him now—she shoved. “Am I amusing, Mr. Fielding?”

  The mirth took a sharp turn to something warmer, even as a smile played on his lips. “Sadly, I do not know, Miss Benton. But I would very much like to find out. Let me walk you back—”

  She cut him off with a screech of frustration and spun away, running down the steps speedily enough to earn a hoot of approval from Sena.

  He called her name, then a request for a pardon. Lark glanced over her shoulder long enough to see Sena had stepped into his path, and he was trying to sidestep her without knocking her down. All without taking his eyes from Lark.

  He chose now of all times to keep his gaze on her? Well, it wouldn’t do him any good. If Sena was going to risk getting tumbled to the ground so she could escape, Lark would make it count. She sped along a path through the snow-covered lawn.

  “Lark, come now. Hold up.”

  She darted a glance back and saw him leaping down the stairs in a single bound. Her legs pumped faster.

  “Lark!” His voice sounded incredulous. “Why are you running? I only want to talk.”

  “You had two years for that, Emerson.” With a bit of impishness to her smile, she charged toward Cornhill Street. The only area of Annapolis in which she could hope to lose him was Market Place. Then, once he’d given up the chase, she’d return to Randel House and let Sena’s father bar him out.

  Behind her, he let out a half sigh, half laugh. As if he found her attempt to escape utterly ridiculous but was willing to indulge her. No doubt he thought he’d catch her within a few steps.

  Little did he know she’d been getting such exercise daily.

  She sped down Cornhill, dodging a carriage stopped before one of the two taverns on the street and weaving around a handful of chatting gentlemen. One of them tipped his hat to her and called out, “Good afternoon, Miss Randel…’s friend.”

  Lark would have laughed, had she the breath. Obviously the residents of the town would suppose it Sena flying past them. They wouldn’t think twice about a young lady charging down the avenues.

  Though they wouldn’t be used to young men running after said young lady. She heard the same gentleman speak again. “Say, now. Hold up there, you.”

  Emerson’s voice came out with a hint of frustration. “Step aside, I beg you, sir. She is my betrothed.”

  She caught something to the effect of “Merry chase” and “New meaning,” though she was too set on seizing th
e chance to put distance between them to worry over the words between. Directly ahead lay the half turn where Cornhill and Fleet Streets collided, marked today by a snowbank. She could turn up Fleet and perhaps trick Emerson, if he didn’t see it. But that would deliver her back to State House Circle, and he would surely catch her in all that open space.

  No, better to stick to her original plan. She skidded into Fleet in the direction of Market Place and headed toward the bay.

  Footsteps pounded behind her, but she wouldn’t risk looking. She flew into the open market area, grateful the sunny day had brought the Annapolitans out in droves to stock up after the snowstorm.

  “Lark, hold up.”

  Instead, she careened toward the thickest group of shoppers and used them as a blind for a moment or two. That worked long enough for her to take cover behind a grove of snowed-in barrels. She kept moving in a crouch. A peek from behind the barrels told her Emerson was near but had no idea where she was. He craned his head this way and that, brows furrowed.

  Perfect. The moment he looked away, she made a dash toward the next large group.

  The smell hit her before her eyes could register that this wasn’t the kind of group she had expected. Bodily odor permeated the air, and now she could see the filth on the press of figures, the ragged clothes, the ropes binding ankles together, and the dark skin of each person surrounding her.

  She’d run pell-mell into a slave auction. Which wouldn’t have been nearly so terrifying if this group weren’t obviously straight off a boat from Africa. One hurled a strange-sounding phrase at her and glared, another spat at her feet.

  A whip sounded. “You treat your betters with respect, boy!”

  A shriek escaped Lark’s lips when another whip crack brought the black man to his knees. Why in the world did the auctioneer think that was the answer? The slave gazed up at her with pure hatred, his lips curled back to reveal vicious white teeth.

  She pressed a hand to her mouth and stumbled backward. Of course he hated her—why wouldn’t he? In his eyes she was naught but an oppressor, one blind to his plight.

  A plight far worse than hers. “I am sorry. So sorry.” She couldn’t be sure he heard her over the rising voice of the auctioneer, or that he would understand her even if she did. But her stomach roiled, forcing her back another step. Not from the smell, not from the resentment he still leveled on her.

  From the cruel-eyed white man behind him, with whip in hand and greed on his face.

  A shiver coursed through her, and tears surged to her eyes. She must escape. She spun, ran as fast as she could without caring where it took her.

  “Lark! Lark, watch out!”

  The urgency in Emerson’s voice brought her head around to find him, even as her feet kept moving. She saw the horror and fear in his eyes a moment before she felt her shoe slip on a patch of ice.

  Snapping her attention back to what was in front of her, she realized nothing was—nothing solid, only the choppy gray waters of the bay. She screamed, flailed, but to no avail.

  The icy water swallowed her whole.

  Chapter Twelve

  A million images of terror flashed before Emerson’s eyes. Friends walking barefoot through ice and snow in pursuit of the Redcoats. Men dropping unconscious before him from hunger or illness. Blood, cannon smoke, impending disaster. And always, always those screams of pain and fear.

  Exactly like the one that spilled from Lark when the water first touched her, before it rushed over her head.

  He must have screamed too. He felt it build in his chest, felt the burn of it in his throat, but his pulse hammered too loudly to hear it erupt from his lips. The world around him seemed to slow as he charged toward the slippery dock and dropped to his knees at its snowy edge.

  “Lark!” He knew she couldn’t hear him, just as he knew the weight of her dress and cloak would pull her relentlessly down. Lying flat, he thrust an arm over the side, hoping and praying his fingers would snag her hand, her clothes, her hair, something.

  Nothing but water cold as ice wrapped around his hand.

  No choice, then. He pulled off his boots and cloak, tried to discern her shape among the shadows of the dark water, and jumped near where he thought she was. Daggers of ice pierced every inch of flesh, but he had no time to acknowledge the pain. Please, Lord, let me not hit her. Help me find her.

  Something brushed his foot. He had no way of telling whether it was Lark, but he dove under in the direction it had been. The water was too dark for him to see, but he waved his arms all around as he kicked himself deeper.

  A strand of something smooth and long twined around his fingers. He grabbed the hair, tugged enough to slow her downward path, and forced himself lower until he found her head, her shoulders, her arms.

  She lashed out, nearly striking him, but he managed to twist behind her and wrap an arm around her torso. And if he cursed women’s voluminous gowns as he struggled to propel them back to the surface, he figured the Lord would forgive it.

  They finally broke through, though he could feel the weight of her dress dragging them back down. He had no idea how he would manage to keep them both afloat, but before he could wonder about it, multiple hands appeared in front of his face, reaching for Lark. With one final burst of strength, he pushed her toward salvation and sucked in a deep breath of relief when two men hauled her up.

  Hands reached for him too, and he accepted the help. Neither did he argue when someone draped a foul woolen blanket around his shoulder. Noisome or not, it would block the wind.

  Lark was coughing, collapsed into a ball in the snow under a filthy blanket of her own. Emerson crawled over to her and pulled her close. “Fool woman. Tell me you are well.”

  He half expected her to slap at him, but the water must have stolen her spirit. She sagged against him. “I am s–s–sorry, Em–m–m…” Shivering took over her speech.

  He must get her dry and warm, fast. She would probably prefer to be returned to the Randels’ straightaway, but by the time he could carry her there on foot—he could fetch his horse. But then, if he were to go to Middleton’s anyway, they might as well do their drying there. Especially since it lay directly across from them.

  Lark still in his arms, he staggered up. The same hands that had pulled them from the water helped him gain his feet. He nodded to the roughly dressed men. “We are in your debt.”

  The man nearest him had a face creased with concern. “You had better dry yourselves, sir, before the cold steals into your bones.”

  “I have a room at Middleton Tavern. We can go there.”

  That was enough to disperse most of the crowd, but the near man picked up Emerson’s discarded things and said, “I shall walk you over, in case your strength fails. That was quite a thing you did, diving in after her.”

  Emerson settled the shivering bundle of stubborn woman against him. “It was my fault she was running to begin with.”

  “You know the young miss?”

  “She is my betrothed.” They started across Market Place, and Emerson was glad for the company. Each step he took made him that much more aware of the failing strength of his limbs. Good to know there was help at hand, if he needed it again.

  Lark turned her face up to him. Her teeth still chattered, but fury sparked in her eyes again. “St–st–st–op c–c–c–all—”

  “Hush, love.” He grinned down into her anger, unable to help it. Where had this Lark been all these years? Never, as she sat quietly in the corner of a room without demanding a word from him, had he expected a creature of such fire to be lurking under her placid surface. Had someone told him a year ago she would argue with him even while dangerously wet and cold, he would have laughed at them.

  Had he been blind all this time, or had she hidden this side of herself from him? He had no idea, nor could he be sure she would give him a chance to make it right. But this he knew—had he never met Lark Benton before this day yet seen her as he just had, he wouldn’t have let her walk away. He woul
d have been too intrigued. And now—now he was driven to discover how spine and humility could coincide, how such a sweet-tempered young lady could toss aside demureness for defiance.

  Her chin made an attempt to jut, though the chattering stole its effect. “Wh–wh–when I am w–w–w–arm ag–g–g—”

  “When you are warm again, darling, you can tell me what you will do. For now, stop trying to talk before you chip a tooth.”

  Their guardian jogged ahead to open the tavern door, and Emerson sagged in relief. Truth be told, he could feel the shivers starting in him too, and his muscles burned.

  Heat from the fire and many bodies embraced him the moment he stepped inside. The proprietress rushed up. “Oh, look at the two of you! Whatever happened? It looks as though you were both fools enough to attempt a swim.”

  “Next time we try it, it shall not be in January.” Emerson leaned against the wall. Just for a moment. “I’ve a room where I can fetch dry clothes for myself, but if you could assist with the young lady, madam?”

  “Of course! She will be dry and right as rain in half a wink. You bring her back here, young sir, and then the two of you can warm up in our private parlor.” She took his things from their dockside helper and offered the man a pint of ale for his trouble. The stranger accepted with a nod and headed for the bar.

  Emerson followed her through the tavern area and into what must be the owners’ quarters. The woman indicated a small, neat room. He set Lark down upon a wooden chair. “There now, Lark. You will be warm soon enough.”

  She nodded, the fire gone from her eyes again, and shivered under the blanket still over her shoulders.

  The proprietress shooed him out. “Hurry yourself into some dry clothes, sir, and then come back down. Henry will have the fire a-blazing in there”—she indicated a room to her right—“and I will bring you both some good, hot coffee. Maybe with a nip of brandy too, eh?”

  As heat seeped in, it sapped his strength. He could only nod, then trudge toward the stairs and into his room. Josiah sprang to greet him with wide eyes. “Mr. Emerson! What—”