A Girl Called Samson (97)

“Yes. You are all those things,” he answered immediately, even contritely. “But I would never have looked at you the way . . . the way I look at you now. You would not have been the type of woman to garner my attention. Your eyes are too piercing. You are too thin. Too tall. Too . . . bold. And yet . . . I am . . .” His voice trailed off like he was searching for the right words, but I didn’t want to hear anymore.

“Why do you tell me this? It’s not as if I don’t know.” I was near tears, and I despised myself for it. I turned, grappling for the door handle. Just like before, he was there, pushing the door closed again, but he gathered me against his chest and rested his cheek on my bowed head. I did not turn in his arms. I couldn’t. My love yowled and my back bristled, and the need to claw my way free was overpowering.

“Forgive me, Samson. Forgive me. I am a man still grieving for a wife who deserved more than I gave her. I loved her. I will always love her. So to look at you and feel the way I do is . . . troubling to me.”

“I would like to leave now, sir.” I gulped, my eyes clamped closed, my hands fisted, clinging to my control with everything I had left.

“Deborah. Look at me. Please. I am trying . . . to explain.” He made me turn toward him.

“Explain what?” I did not raise my eyes.

“That I find you impossibly, undeniably, irresistibly beautiful. In fact, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon. And I cannot do this any longer.”

Maybe he intended for us to laugh together. He would smirk and I would shrug, but I was in no mood to be the butt of his joke. Especially not when it was the same ribbing I’d taken from the Thomas brothers for so many years. But when he let the words settle around me, final and firm, I lifted my gaze to his. He did not smile or take them back. We just stared at one another.

“The hated highlands have stolen your sanity, General,” I said, but my heart had begun to race, and the need to weep had intensified for entirely different reasons.

“Perhaps,” he whispered. “Because I am mad about you. Crazed, in fact.”

“Crazed?”

“Beyond all reason. But what I am trying—very poorly—to say is that I love you too.”

“You are in love with me?” I asked, tremulous.

“I am in love with you. Desperately. And I am afraid everyone will see it.”

Had he not confessed his feelings—even as tortured and tangled as they were—I would never have dared do what I did. I stepped in close to him, raised up on my toes, and pressed my cheek to his. I didn’t try to speak, and I didn’t seek his lips; I wouldn’t survive another kiss like that. Not right now.

With my face pressed to his, I was shielded from his eyes but not from his pounding heart, and I wrapped my arms around him, holding on to him with all the devotion I’d never allowed myself to express. To anyone. And his arms encircled me in return.

We did not converse. Our hands didn’t rove. We simply stood, cheek to cheek, his breath tickling my neck, our arms locked in a fierce embrace. And it wasn’t until we heard boots in the corridor beyond that he cradled my face in his hands, pressed his mouth to mine once more, and let me go.

He retreated to his desk, and I answered the knock that came seconds later, admitting Colonel Jackson, who stepped past me without a second glance, even though my hair was tangled about my face.

“We will leave for Philadelphia in the morning, Shurtliff,” General Paterson instructed from his desk. “Make sure we are prepared. I don’t know how long we will stay.”

“Yes, sir.” When I looked back, the general was seated, Colonel Jackson obscuring him from my sight, and I stepped from the room.





24

THE PATIENT SUFFERANCE

The four-day, 150-mile journey to Philadelphia on horseback was markedly different from the march I’d participated in the year before. The heat was the same, as were the colors that lit the valleys, changed the leaves, and warmed the hills, but this time I rode at General Paterson’s side, and the tension I felt was entirely new. The general was careful to never look directly at me when others were around, but Agrippa sensed the disturbance immediately. He rode with Colonel Kosciuszko but sometimes fell back or spurred his horse forward, depending on his desire for certain company or a particular conversation. When General Paterson moved up beside General Howe for a brief conference, Agrippa drew his horse alongside mine.

“Did you upset the general again?” Agrippa asked me, frowning. “He’s not himself.”

“It is the constant mutinies.”

He scrunched up his face. “No. That’s something else. He’s on edge. And it’s always when you’re around, I noticed. I asked him if he wanted to make a switch.”

“Agrippa?”

“A switch. I take care of him. You take care of the colonel. He said that wasn’t necessary. But I’m wondering if it is.”

I was stunned into silence, unable to protest, and Grippy saw my distress.

“You’ve taken good care of him,” he rushed to add. “If you didn’t, I would insist. The general is my best friend. He looks out for me. I look out for him. You do a good job, Bonny. But sometimes people just don’t mix. Oil and water.”

“It is my leg,” I blurted out. “He has tried to give me less to do so I will heal. I’ve argued with him on the matter. I am fine. But he won’t hear it.”