The Colonel's Lady by Laura Frantz Page B

symbols and abbreviations she’d once learned as a sort of game at her father’s side returned to her in a small flash flood. Occasionally, the colonel would pause to peruse his map, allowing her to catch her breath. He had a natural eloquence that was easy to follow, and his low voice . . . Oh my, but it seemed to her like silk and leather and cream. Thinking it, she scribbled the wrong symbol then crossed it out.
    Before she knew it, the clock struck eleven and an orderly was bringing in a tray of hot coffee and beaten biscuits. The colonel looked up in surprise and glanced at Roxanna as she sifted sand over the last letter in order to dry it.
    “It would seem Bella is concerned I not overwork you.”
    She returned her quill to the inkpot. “Perhaps she is worried I will overwork you.”
    His mouth curved in a near smile. “I suppose this calls for a truce.”
    They both looked at the tray awkwardly, as if unwilling to make the first move. Suddenly she was overcome by the realization of how intimate simply sharing a cup of coffee could be. Taking a cup, she made a fuss of stirring in cream and honey and timidly took one biscuit.
    As she sat across from him, all her insecurities returned to her tenfold. She’d never before taken coffee with a man. A true gentleman. Discomfort needled her and nearly made her hands shake. Coupled with the fact that he was looking at her in that intent way of his, as if she was undergoing inspection and had a button undone or a spot on her kerchief . . .
    He leaned back in his chair. “Would you rather be in the kitchen, Miss Rowan?”
    She looked up, thinking he was teasing, but found his face tense. “I . . . nay,” she replied.
    He picked up one of her letters. “Your writing hand is finer than your fa—” The last word was bitten off, and a pained expression crossed his face. “I apologize.”
    “I don’t mind if you mention him,” she said quietly despite the sting of grief. “He’s never far from my thoughts.”
    Setting the letter down, he stirred cream into his cup but didn’t take a drink, nor did he look at her. “I lost my own father prior to leaving Ireland and enlisting under General Washington.”
    As a Life Guard? Wasn’t that what Bella had said? Or in the field? There was something mysterious about his coming to Kentucke . . . something about a red-roaring rage and his being sent west. But she could hardly mention that. Sympathy nudged her. “I’m sorry about your father. Did you come to Kentucke from Virginia?”
    “Aye, I did. Next month marks three years.”
    She took a sip of coffee and found it strong even with cream and sugar. “You’ve done a great deal since coming here—the stone house and orchard, this fort.”
    “My orders were to build a garrison that couldn’t be breached. I had the stone house built as well, knowing it would outlast this post. It sends a clear message to the Indians that we’re here to stay.”
    She thought of the enemy British and Indians marching east to Virginia at dawn. All but two. Though she’d not seen those remaining men yet, she felt a wary fascination. They were heavily watched and kept in the guardhouse. She wondered about the colonel’s reasons for detaining them, if they might not be important to his cause, whatever that was.
    “You’re a long way from home, Colonel McLinn. May I ask what makes this war your war?”
    He looked at her then, so keenly she wanted to wince beneath his blue gaze. “Half the Continental army is Irish, Miss Rowan. There are twenty-six Irish-born generals serving under Washington, not to mention lesser officers like myself. We’re committed to ending the tyranny of England whenever and wherever we can. If not in our homeland, then here.”
    She nodded, shamed at her ignorance of the world at large and the war. Mama hadn’t allowed her to read the Virginia Gazette or indulge in politics. What little she’d gleaned came from her father’s letters and her time spent