MEDUSA
Solomon Jacobs was a rarity among the sutlers providing provisions to the English army. Folk scorned his Jewish faith and mocked the little cap he wore atop his balding head, but his reliability was never called into question. He charged exorbitant prices, but the goods he sold were quality. If you bought oats, they didn’t come with mouse droppings; biscuits were guaranteed weevil-free.
The elderly Jew and his wife slept in a sturdy canvas shelter attached to the side of his wagon. No one ever molested Jacobs nor threatened his possessions, though many were jealous of his prosperity. Hannah wasn’t sure whether it was the pistol he kept with him at all times, or the terrifying presence of Esther Jacobs that deterred them.
She was a tiny, rotund woman with greying hair that writhed like a nest of snakes when she walked. One icy scowl from her ugly face could frighten the wits out of any ne’er-do-well. Hannah avoided her, reminded of the legend of the Medusa whenever their paths crossed.
Solomon made no demands on the women who rented sleeping space from him, save that they return the stock to the shelves come dawn. It wasn’t cheap or comfortable, but as Hannah had pointed out to Morgan, it was safer than most places in the camp.
She lay staring up into the dark ceiling, resigned to a sleepless night. Others in the wagon snored softly. Esther’s voice drifted on the still air. Hannah didn’t understand the foreign tongue, but it was apparent from the clipped, impatient words that the sutler’s wife was once again scolding her husband for some misdeed. He never answered back, though few in the camp would pick a fight with him.
As the evening’s chill seeped into her bones, she pulled the shawl up to her chin, wishing she was curled up in Morgan’s arms. She’d never felt the need of a man’s warmth and strength before, but there was no doubt the Welsh captain had insinuated himself into her heart. Hannah Kincaid without Morgan Pendray would be like…well, Solomon without Esther!
The notion elicited a soft chuckle as she carefully turned onto her side and clamped the fingers of one hand on to the wagon’s wooden frame. She’d only fallen off the shelf once and didn’t want to repeat that disaster, having come close to forfeiting her place after the resulting disturbance.
The soreness from her falls on the rocks had eased, but the hard wood seemed to come into contact with every bump and bruise. She found herself gauging the distance to Morgan’s tent. He was probably alone there, mayhap thinking of her. It wasn’t far—five minutes at most.
But in five minutes she could bump into a host of problems, all of them sodden with drink and looking for easy prey. And that was just within the camp itself. Who knew what the English soldiers might be up to? Abbott had lost control of his troops before. She shivered at the memory of the women raped and butchered at Dùn Dè and decided to stay where she was.
~~~
Morgan sprawled on the bed, hands behind his head, legs dangling over the side. The room on the second floor of the Drovers’ Inn was akin to a cupboard, but the other officers’ predictable reluctance to share a billet with a Welshman had worked in his favor.
He chuckled. They thought he’d drawn the short straw, the worst room with a tiny bed and naught else. But the linens were clean, the straw mattress well-stuffed. And he was alone, which he preferred. The privacy offered a golden opportunity.
Getting Hannah into the inn wouldn’t be a problem. Muffled sounds coming from other chambers suggested women had already been smuggled in. The presence of a female in Morgan’s room might raise an eyebrow or two and start a few rumors, but that was all to the good. It would let people know she was off limits.
The difficulty would be in persuading her. She was proud. The look of terror on her face when she thought the musketeer was about to rape her suggested she was still a virgin, unlikely as it seemed given she’d dwelt among camp followers. He’d have to remind her of his good intentions.
The unmistakable grunts of a man in the throes of sexual release reached his ears. He sat up on the edge of the bed, resting his forearms on his thighs, willing away the image of Hannah beneath him, naked, whispering his name, or even shouting out her euphoria as the whore next door did now.
But Hannah wasn’t a whore, and he’d sworn not to take advantage. Cuddling in the tiny bed would test his resolve. Mayhap he’d sleep on the floor, what little there was of it.
She might refuse to come, though he’d no doubt after the kiss on the dock that she was drawn to him. He raked his fingers through his hair, cursing his own folly. A captain in an invading army and an enemy spy could never find happiness together. It was impossible. Surely he’d learned by now that happy endings weren’t for the likes of him. Calvin’s teachings about predestination had been drummed into him at Shrewsbury. Best he remember there was no such thing as free will.
As a peaceful silence descended on the inn, he lay back with his head on the bolster and stared at the low ceiling. There might be no future for him and Hannah but they could at least find solace in each other’s arms for a few days in this cozy nest.
She’d have to agree it was preferable to sleeping on a shelf.
~~~
A civilian camp never slept. There was always noise of some kind; a fretting child, a howling dog, watchmen calling the hours, men and women coupling, as Solomon and Esther did now, though they were quieter about it than most.
Hannah had never understood the notion of sexual congress. She’d not had the benefit of a mother’s advice, and her widowed uncle wasn’t the kind of man to answer a lass’s questions about such things. Her lady’s maid had been a confirmed spinster who never had a good word to say about men. No one knew how old Deirdre was when she died but she had served the earl’s grandmother.
Maidservants and scullery wenches at Kilmer weren’t shy about expressing opinions of men and their physical urges. Was that what drove a man to penetrate a woman? Or did Solomon love his unlovable wife? She thought of Mrs. Grainger tending her husband in front of the fire in their humble cottage.
It was evident to Hannah that Morgan desired her, yet he’d sworn not to take advantage. That must be difficult for a man if indeed his sexual appetites were…
She pushed the shawl off her upper body, suddenly too hot. Merely thinking about Morgan’s long legs, broad chest and handsome face filled her with an unbearable yearning. But did decent women enjoy sexual relations? The pulsating need in private places suggested it was possible. Either that or she was a wanton, a fallen woman. She cupped her aching breasts, longing to feel his hands there, his lips on her tingling nipples. Mayhap confiding in crabs in tide pools wasn’t good for the health.
Her muddled thoughts snagged on another unavoidable thorn. There were fellow Royalists in Stonehyve, but she didn’t know their names nor how to contact them. She was expected, so it was likely they would seek her out. Strangers entering the civilian camp wouldn’t turn heads. A woman wandering the village streets was another matter.
Her uncle had to be told she was safe and heading for Inverness. She must reveal the English army’s plans and send a warning that Cromwell’s general had learned the impetus for the rebellion lay in the Highlands. He intended to hunt the Royalists down before their influence spread further south to the Lowlands.
She reasoned her actions wouldn’t endanger Morgan’s life. Glenheath’s marauding bands were too small to attack a large English force.