Free Surrender the Night by MaryLu Tyndall Page A

of Alex’s life at all. Lately, it seemed, God had forgotten all about him.
    Leaves rustled and a twig snapped. Alex jerked toward the sound, knife before him. A gray squirrel eyed him with bored curiosity before it darted away, pinecone in its mouth. By now, Alex expected Captain Milford to have sent a band of men to search for him and Lieutenant Garrick. It wasn’t every day a British frigate lost both its first and second lieutenants. But it had been eight days, and he’d not seen a single British soldier. Either they were otherwise engaged in important battles or Alex suffered from an overinflated view of his own importance. He hoped it was the former. He had spent too many hard years serving His Majesty’s Navy to accept such callous dismissal.
    He scratched his arm and then his chest—yet again. What pesky varmint inhabited this loathsome clothing the lady had given him to wear? The fabric was course and stiff and the shirt and breeches were far too small. Not to mention the foul smell that permeated his new attire. No doubt the garments had not been properly washed since they were last worn. But he’d had no choice. Miss McGuire had been correct on one point: It would be best if he were not discovered in his uniform.
    Alex stretched his leg out over the dirt and winced. It had healed nicely and only pained him when he attempted to stand. Despite being a woman, Miss McGuire had done a good job of extracting the bullet and dressing the wound. In a day or two, Alex should be able to walk the distance he needed back to his ship, back to his people. Oddly, he found no joy in the prospect. He drew in a deep breath of warm air and allowed the scent of honeysuckle and pine to fill his lungs. Though he knew he’d have to go back to his ship eventually, this brief respite from the horrors of war did his soul good. As long as he kept hidden away and did not endanger this rebel family, why should he rush back and risk reopening his wound?
    Leaning his head back against the wooden doorframe, he thought of the lovely Miss McGuire. Rebellious curls that refused to be restrained framed her face in a silken web of glittering gold. Her eyes, the turquoise color of the sea he’d once seen in the West Indies—clear and sharp. With a wit to match. So outspoken. So unlike the women he’d known back home. One woman in particular came to mind. Miss Elizabeth Burgess, demure and sweet at least in etiquette and mannerisms. But beneath the outward facade of feminine perfection, a devious vixen raged.
    On the contrary, despite Miss McGuire’s harsh words and her obvious hatred toward his nationality and uniform her inner kindness overwhelmed him. She had every reason to turn him over to the military authorities. Yet she saved his life, healed his wound, protected him. He’d never been on the receiving end of such true Christian charity.
    Slipping his knife inside his boot, he propped the end of the crutch into the dirt and hoisted himself up. The muscles in his back and arms ached and his thigh throbbed, but he felt strength surge through him. Shoving the handle of his crutch beneath his left arm, he tested it with his weight, careful not to place any strain on his injured leg. Perfect. This would do nicely. A gentle breeze wafted over him, cooling his sweat and bringing the smells of the earth, the forest, and life. Sunlight set the field aglow in various shades of green that waved before him like a mossy sea. America was indeed a beautiful land.
    But it was Britain’s land. And these people were British subjects.
    The sooner they faced that, the better. Arrogance and greed hadmade them forget their homeland—the parent country of their birth. Like rebellious children, they needed to be reminded who was in authority. Hopefully, that reminder would not take the lives of too many people. Or of one lovely lady in particular.
    Alex released a sigh of resignation. Regardless of the lady’s allure and the peace of this land, he should