just saved her from assault.
Puzzlement swept across his face, as if he had no idea of the matter. “I beg your pardon?” Then his eyebrows raised in clear comprehension. “Ah. I see. May I surmise you favor the cause of the thirteen dissenting colonies?” His thoughtful expression held no condemnation or disdain.
Before she could respond, the injury to her left hand began to sting, and she looked down to see several splinters embedded in her bloody palm.
“Why, Miss Folger, you’ve been wounded in battle.” He stepped forward and seized her hand to inspect it. A frown creased his forehead. “I shall send my personal physician immediately to make certain no infection sets in. If left untended, this sort of wound can become quite serious, especially here in the tropics.” He drew a white silk handkerchief from his waistcoat and wrapped it around the injury. “This should protect it until he arrives.”
Shame dug into her. Had she misjudged this man? She pulled her hand away.
“Thank you, sir, but please don’t trouble yourself.” She tried to brush past him, but his large horse stood in the way. Confusion filled her. She spied the forgotten package of material.
Anticipating her direction, he hastened to retrieve it and held it out.
“Yours?”
“Yes.” She took it in her uninjured hand. “Thank you.”
“May I escort you to your destination?”
Rachel’s pulse raced. A hundred arguments warred within her, yet she felt a strange, strong impulse to accept. Was this nudging from the Lord? “Yes. Thank you. To the inn.”
He offered his arm, and she set her bandaged hand on it, wincing slightly at the pain.
“You must accept my apology for that soldier’s conduct.” Mr. Moberly’s tone rang sincere, reinforced by his troubled frown. “I shall speak to his commander. You may trust me when I promise we shall have no conflict between citizenry and soldiers here in St. Johns Settlement.”
Once again, the day’s heat almost proved her undoing. Lord, I’ve judged this man without knowing anything about him. That’s nothing less than a sin. Please forgive me.
They walked to the front of the inn, and Mr. Moberly tethered his horse to a post. “Are you always this quiet?” His tone betrayed amusement.
She again took his offered arm. “Papa would say I am all too loquacious.”
“Ah, I see. Then I shall have to spend more time in your company to ascertain who the true Miss Folger is.”
As they passed through the open door, his posture transformed from relaxed to imperious. He surveyed the taproom, where a half-dozen soldiers sat drinking. Then, in a voice raised so they could hear, he said, “Miss Folger, you and your father may count me as your friend. If you need anything at all, send one of these fellows to my plantation.” He waved his riding crop toward the soldiers. “And you shall have it posthaste.” He took her injured hand and placed a gentlemanly kiss on it. “Good day, dear lady.”
Filled with wonder, Rachel watched him depart. A good Englishman. An aristocrat who treated her with dignity. Who, through one simple sentence or two, had made clear to these brigands that she and Papa must be respected. Surely the word would pass through the entire regiment, and her fears of mistreatment could be set aside.
“Chiveys, Miss Folger, what do you think o’ that?” Sadie stood at her elbow. “The gov’ner’s a right decent fellow, ain’t ’e?”
Rachel shook off her stupor. “Why, yes, Sadie. I do believe you are right.”
Frederick barely noticed the landscape as he rode slowly back to his plantation. How could one brief encounter with a dark-eyed beauty answer all his questions about the sort of woman he must marry?
He had caught a glimpse of the brawl behind the inn, not realizing who was involved, and had ridden around the building in time to see Miss Folger strike the soldier. In that instant, he knew two things. First, her courage could not be matched in any titled young lady he had known in his life. Second, his position as magistrate demanded that he protect this young woman from the irate soldier. Because of the troubles up north, Major Brigham might be offended by Frederick’s actions, but he would stand by them.
And then there was a third thing he knew…and felt as deeply as any truth he had ever encountered. He did not need to ask Miss Folger for advice on the type of young lady to marry, for she herself embodied everything he could ever desire: beauty, spirit, wit, pluck and more. The list seemed endless.
Was he mad? Possibly. Impetuous? No doubt. Yet, at this moment, Frederick’s heart felt so light, he longed to turn Essex back to the settlement, where he might spend more time in Miss Folger’s delightful company.
But that whimsical impulse was cut short by the specter of Oliver and his lies to Father. He had invented an imaginary female at the Oswald Plantation. Well, now Frederick’s attention had been captured by a real, living young lady, and he must do all within his power to keep Oliver from destroying his chances with her…and from telling Father about her.
Chapter Four
“Oh, Señorita Rachel, this lace, it is very beautiful.” Inez carefully stitched the delicate white trim to the neckline of the blue gauze gown. “Your papa, he is generous to make such expense for you.” Her dark eyes shone with appreciation for the fabric. “He wants you to look nice for the party, sí?”
Rachel sat beside her newly hired servant in the corner of the store and hemmed the gown’s striped panniers. Inez had already moved into the kitchen house behind the store and awaited the day when Rachel and Papa would take up residence in their apartment over the store. When he announced he had hired someone to cook and launder for them, Rachel had been delighted and more than a little surprised at his willingness to bear such an expense.
Now Papa had once again set aside his frugal ways for the party and insisted she use an expensive fabric. Rachel didn’t know what to make of his interest in her clothing. Perhaps her claim to have no appropriate gown for the party wounded his pride, especially spoken in front of Mr. Moberly.
“So you think el patrón’s fiza…” Inez wrinkled her forehead, then shrugged. “Fiza-something.”
“His physician?” Rachel asked.
“Sí, the fiz-iz-cion.” Inez laughed, and the age lines around her eyes deepened. “The one who fix your hand. He will be at the party, no? This one, he is not married, is nice to look at, is not so old for—” She gave Rachel a sly look. “Hmm. Maybe Inez say too much?”
“Not at all. You may speak freely when you and I are alone.” Rachel studied her stitches to make certain they gathered the delicate fabric without puckering it. “But perhaps you don’t understand the English. Dr. Wellsey is a member of the gentry and no doubt regards himself as being above a shopkeeper’s daughter. For my part, I would not consider receiving the attentions of an Englishman.”
“No?” Inez stared at her. “You do not like the English?” She busied herself with the lace again, muttering to herself in Spanish.
“What is it, Inez?”
“Have
