Free Chase the Dawn by Jane Feather Page A

tone, refusing to pick up the glove. “You can do no more harm to these than they can do to you.”
    Bryony frowned. “The Indians are not connected with your ‘business,’ then?”
    “A logical enough conclusion,” he said with an easy nod. “They’ll not, however, expect you to participate in our conversation, so you will not embarrass me by remaining after you have been introduced, I trust.”
    “I am not an Indian woman,” Bryony pointed out.
    “That is not in dispute, but it won’t alter their view of the matter. And as they are my guests, I will not offend their principles.” It was said very gently, accompanied by a smile, but Bryony was in little doubt as to the nature of the request—it was not one that brooked refusal.
    “I have remembered about the war,” she said, preferring to allow his statement to go by default. “At least, I have remembered some. I would like you to tell me the bits I have forgotten.”
    “We will discuss it later.” Without further ado, he led her over to the fire stones, where with immaculate formality he introduced her to the three men. Then he asked quietly, “Would you bring us the bottle of brandy, lass? Take some for yourself, first.”
    So, in addition to absenting herself from the conversation, the woman was required to wait upon the menfolk. Something niggled at the back of her mind as she went into the cabin—a sense of déjà vu. Somewhere, sometime, she had felt this same irritation, yet knowing, as she did now, that the irritation was not considered acceptable or justified. Rules were rules, and one shouldnot attempt to change them. Or, at least, that was the received wisdom.
    Bryony poured brandy into a cup, which she left on the table, then took the bottle outside, presenting it with a mock curtsy to Benedict.
    The black eyes sparked with laughter. “So, you haven’t forgotten your manners, then,” he murmured, taking the brandy. “Try to rest a little now. You are still not fully recovered, and I don’t wish to have an invalid on my hands again.”
    She smiled appreciatively, recognizing the delicate way he had ensured her compliance with his guests’ rules while giving her the perfect self-motivating excuse for her absence. And truth be told, she was very weary.
    An hour later, Benedict’s guests took their leave. A glance in the cabin told him that Bryony was fast asleep, and he took his gun and went out in search of their dinner. It was the devil’s own nuisance that she had recalled the war. Once he had satisfied her hunger for the details, she would draw the obvious conclusion—that he himself was hip deep in the civil strife.
    His eye caught a flash of gray in the undergrowth. His musket bellowed, and the flash became still. It was a plump hare, more flavorsome than squirrel, which was an acquired taste and one that it was reasonable to assume had not so far been acquired by Miss Bryony.
    “Are you fighting for the Patriots or the Loyalists?” Bryony asked him as he came back toward the cabin. “I have been trying to light the fire, but I do not seem very good at it.” Her cheeks smudged with soot and her hands caked with ash were ample evidence of this fact—that and a very dead fire.
    So, she had already reached the correct conclusionwithout help from him. Her sleep had obviously renewed more than her physical strength. There was little to be gained by further concealment. He dropped the bloody carcass on the grass and squatted down beside her. “Let me show you. It’s just a knack.”
    Bryony sat back on her heels and watched him with undisguised admiration. “You are so competent, Ben.” Her eyes flicked to the dead hare. “I suppose you are going to skin that now.”
    “Unless you wish to eat it with the skin on,” he suggested with a gravity belied by the curve of his mouth. “Or do you care to attempt the task yourself?”
    “No,” she said with repugnance. “If I were not so hungry, I do not think I should care to eat