Embrace The Dawn. Jackie Summers

beat a little faster as she thought of the handsome lieutenant.

      “Call me Nat,” he had said.

      Clutching her locket, she bit her lip. But of course the lieutenant hadn’t followed her. He had believed her story and, by now, would think she had returned to her sheep. A warm blush swept over her as she remembered how his eyes darkened when he stared at her while he held her on his lap.

      She had never been so near to a Roundhead, nor had she ever wanted to be. Of course, Uncle George was a Roundhead, but that wasn’t the same. The lieutenant was a...soldier. Soldiers killed other Englishmen in the name of duty—Englishmen like her father, who had a bounty of gold sovereigns on his head.

      Her dear father. Had it already been a year since he had risked his life to sneak into Wycliffe Manor late one night to see her? How handsome he had looked, dressed in his royal blue velvet cloak, the cavalier-lace sprinkling like crystals from his throat and wrists. He had risked capture even then, when he crept through the priest’s hole—the hidden passageway—that led from the milk barn to the second-floor landing of the manor. She would never forget the moment when her father had promised to send for her, once Charles Stuart, God keep him, was restored and the despicable Oliver Cromwell driven into the sea.

      “How much you resemble your mother,” her father had said. “You have her beauty, Anne, but you must strive for her patience and understanding.”

      She had nodded, knowing her father wanted her compliance, but God’s bones, she would never learn how to be patient. Besides, she really never wanted to understand the madness of politics that branded a man like her father a traitor. Still, instead of speaking her mind, she had stoically watched him go.

      A cold shudder crept down her spine despite the fact the afternoon was unseasonably warm. What was the matter with her? She had been whisper close to her father’s enemy, yet she had felt something so extraordinary it had taken her breath away.

      Outside the buttery door the kitchen maid, Daisy, sat peeling apples and batting her eyelashes at several admiring soldiers. Anne gave a short huff. Apparently Uncle George or anyone of importance must not be around, or those soldiers would never dare loll away in such a manner.

      She straightened her prim white collar, brushed the chaff and weed seeds from her skirts and gingerly strolled across the cobbled path toward the darkened buttery. Humming softly, she made her way, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Without glancing at Daisy, she knew the servant would be much too involved with her own pastimes to pay her any mind.

      Anne pushed open the buttery hatch. Smells of fermenting ciders and acrid pickles in brine rushed at her. She ducked around the table filled with covered crocks, cringing as she always did at the huge flies humming at the windows.

      In the hall, boot steps clanked along the floorboards. Her pulse quickened as she waited, ear to the door, until the footsteps faded down the hall. Quiet. She drew a deep breath, hiked up her skirts and dashed toward the stairs. Grinning with success, she bolted up the steps, two at a time.

      “Mistress Anne?” Uncle George called from the doorway of his study, down the hall. His ruddy face appeared more crimson than usual. Anne’s spirits sank like a rock. She stopped dead still, her eyes wide.

      “Mistress Anne. You’re late. Come here this instant!”

      Her mouth felt dry as she answered, “Yes, Uncle George.” She patted the damp tendrils of hair that threatened to spill from under her cap, straightened her creased apron and turned to meet her fate.

      Chapter Two

      Fear and apprehension mixed in the pit of Anne’s stomach as she strode toward her uncle, who scowled from the doorway.

      Her mind scrambled for an excuse while she prepared herself for the violent tirade she knew was coming. “I’m sorry I’m late, Uncle George,” she said as she came before him.

      “I’ll be interested to hear your explanation later, but I’ve something much more pressing to discuss with you.” Although his tone was amiable, the hard lines of disapproval in his face betrayed his intent.

      Anne eyed him suspiciously as she swept past. No sooner had she crossed the oak-timbered threshold of the study than she understood why her uncle had put off meting out her punishment. There, in front of the crackling hearth, sat Mrs. Jane Herrick, her uncle’s goddaughter. Of course he’d never discuss his niece’s errant behavior in front of company, she thought wryly.

      Her relief for the slight reprieve mingled with curiosity. Usually, when George had important guests, Anne was excused from attending. She knew he believed that her presence would remind her uncle’s friends that his older brother was an enemy of Cromwell’s Commonwealth.

      “Mistress Jane, you remember my niece, Anne Lowell?”

      Jane dimpled beguilingly, the black silk fan in her hand fluttering in response. “Of course, Master Lowell. How could anyone forget your charming niece?”

      Charming? Anne exchanged glances with her uncle. Although his eyes were unreadable, she guessed he thought Mrs. Herrick too refined to regard the gossip that blazed across Parliamentarian hearths about his rebellious niece, abandoned by her father like an unwanted kitten, for him to raise.

      Anne bobbed a curtsy and took a seat as far away from her uncle as she could. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched George gaze with adoration as Jane charmed him with small talk that Anne usually found wearisome.

      Anne pushed back a defiant red gold curl from under her cap as she studied the young woman. According to George, Jane exemplified everything a young Puritan woman should be. A few years older than herself, Jane had married a physician several months ago. A pristine cap covered Jane’s silvery blond head. Her white skin with a pink rise to her cheeks contrasted becomingly with the Puritan black gown she wore. Her pale gray eyes and narrow chin spoke of an obedient nature, George had remarked more than once. For once, Anne had to agree with him. The woman was as perfect as an April crocus.

      She felt like a toad by comparison. Anne nibbled her lip as she considered her attributes. Her mouth was too full to be considered comely, she knew. Her skin might be worthy except for the spill of freckles, Satan’s tiptoes, George had called them, that peppered the curve of her cheeks and upturned nose. Who could blame her uncle for being ashamed of her?

      “I was commenting to your uncle,” Jane cooed, “how splendid the autumn foliage appeared this morning when we rode through the woods. The beech woods have turned a bright gold and the oaks—”

      George pounded his fist on his knee. “I fail to understand how your husband thought it safe for you to ride without escort,” he blustered, ignoring Jane’s shocked surprise.

      “Master Lowell!” Jane sat up with a start and touched her cheek with the tip of her fan. “I was perfectly safe. Besides my husband, our two menservants accompanied me.”

      “Humph! You are to be commended for your faith, dear lady, but your husband should have had the good sense to accept my offer of a military escort. The roads are teeming with ruffians, not to mention that... that...highwayman, the Black Fox.”

      “The Black Fox!” Anne’s voice held a reverence that caused her uncle to shoot her a quelling glance. She had overheard Daisy, the scullery maid, say the outlaw robbed Roundheads of their gold and gave it to the Royalists for their fight to restore King Charles to the throne.

      George snorted. “Enough of your dreamy thoughts, mistress. He’s the highwayman who had the audacity to lighten the purse of Colonel Twining and his valet, Babson, only last week.”

      Anne stifled a laugh behind her hand. How she wished she could have seen that. The thought of a common rogue getting the better of that arrogant Twining was exhilarating. She despised the colonel, contrary to most females, if Daisy could be believed. Anne felt her cheeks flame with outrage as she remembered how Twining had leered at her whenever he had thought her uncle wasn’t looking. But what truly irked her was that