Her Honorable Enemy Read online

  FOR CHARLES YOUNG, ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR

  The British soldier scorns the trappings of society life—including a society wife. So a posting in the remote San Juan Islands is perfect for him. But when an American girl crosses enemy lines, she turns his structured world upside down.

  As smart as she is fetching, Rachel Thompson’s only experience with romance is the books she devours. But her father is determined that his spirited daughter make a suitable match. And a British officer could never be suitable. Can this real-life Romeo and Juliet triumph over the odds...or will their romance trigger the unthinkable—war?

  “So then, you think me a silly young lady.”

  “Never silly. You, milady, are an enigma.”

  “An enigma?”

  “That means you are—”

  “I know what enigma means.” He must think her a simpleton.

  He chuckled. “I think you lean more toward being mysterious rather than difficult to understand.”

  She liked being mysterious.

  “But I also find you enchanting and delightfully fascinating.”

  She liked the sound of those. A delightfully fascinating young lady who enchants.

  “On the outside, you may appear ordinary, but on the inside, you are extraordinary, full of wit and charm and intelligence.”

  But did he think she was pretty?

  MARY DAVIS

  is an award-winning author of more than a dozen novels, both historical and contemporary, four novellas, two compilations and three short stories, as well as being included in various collections. She is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and is active in two critique groups.

  Mary lives in the Colorado Rocky Mountains with her husband of thirty years and three cats. She has three adult children and one grandchild. She enjoys board and card games, rain and cats. She would enjoy gardening if she didn’t have a black thumb. Her hobbies are quilting, porcelain doll making, sewing, crafts, crocheting and knitting. Please visit her website at marydavisbooks.com.

  MARY DAVIS

  Her Honorable Enemy

  Honor thy father and thy mother:

  that thy days may be long upon the land

  which the Lord thy God giveth thee.

  —Exodus 20:12

  I dedicate this book in loving memory to my son Josh, to Chip, my husband of thirty years, and to my new grandbaby.

  San Juan Islands Historical Note

  The Pig War was a real event. The Oregon Treaty of 1846 drew a line at the 49th parallel. South of this dividing line belonged to America and north was British Columbia. There was an unsettled issue of the islands between Haro Strait and Rosario Strait. The treaty gave all of Vancouver Island to Great Britain even though it lay on both sides of the dividing line. The treaty was ambiguous on the islands that lay between Vancouver Island and the American coast. Both sides believed the San Juan Islands belonged to them.

  In 1859, Lyman Cutlar, an American, shot and killed a British Hudson Bay Company pig over a matter of uprooted potatoes. With troops accumulating on both sides, the officers in charge agreed to hold dual occupancy of the islands until it was decided to which country they belonged. From 1859–1872 San Juan Island was occupied by both American and English troops. This was known as the Pig War, because the pig was the only casualty.

  The American and the English officers got on quite well during the joint occupancy. The English held parties that they invited Americans to, and both sides held games and races in which everyone participated to alleviate the boredom of a war without much conflict.

  William, Emperor of Germany, was chosen by both sides to arbitrate the San Juan case. On October 21, 1872, he decided that the San Juan Islands rightfully belonged to the United States of America.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 1

  San Juan Island, Washington Territory, Fall 1870

  “‘See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!’”

  Sitting against the woodpile, Rachel Thompson pressed the open book to her chest with one hand and put her other on her cheek. She closed her eyes and imagined the strong hand of a handsome man on her face. “Wherefore art thou my Romeo?”

  “Rachel?” her stepmother called.

  Rachel groaned. Could she just hide here and pretend she hadn’t heard?

  Honor thy father and thy mother.

  Genevieve wasn’t really her mother.

  But if she disobeyed, Papa would find out somehow. She hated it when he gave her one of his disapproving looks. She pushed to her feet and slipped the book into her apron pocket.

  Her half brother and half sisters were playing in the yard. Ages twelve, eleven, seven and five.

  She stepped into the dim interior of the clapboard house. It was not large, but it had three bedrooms, a kitchen large enough for a dining table and a parlor with sliding pocket doors.

  Her stepmother sat in a rocking chair, nursing the six-month-old baby, Priscilla. “Did you finish your chores?”

  “Yes.” Is that all she’d called her in here for?

  “Have the children finished their chores?”

  By the looks of them playing when she’d come in, she guessed not. “I don’t know.”

  Priscilla finished nursing and sat up on her mama’s lap.

  Genevieve buttoned her shirtwaist and stood, settling Priscilla on her hip. She pulled the book out of Rachel’s pocket and shook her head. “Rachel, dear, love is not like you read in your books. Romantic dreaming will not get you a husband. Love is hard work. You’re twenty. You need to stop dreaming.” She put the book on the fireplace mantel. “Would you make sure the children complete their chores?”

  “Is it now my job to raise them?” She regretted her words the moment they crossed her lips. Genevieve had been a fine mother to her since she was seven.

  “Of course not. But you are such a big help to me. And you know I appreciate you. When you get your head out of the clouds and find a husband, you won’t have to bother with any of us. But until then, while you are under your father’s roof, you will do your part.”

  Rachel wished she could throw a tantrum, but Genevieve was right. Her stepmother wasn’t being unreasonable. And if Rachel complained to Papa, he would know she was being childish and treat her that way. “When the children’s chores are completed, may I take a walk in the woods?”

  “To dream, no doubt. I don’t understand your affinity for the woods, but yes. Just don’t be long. I’ll need help this afternoon.” Genevieve carried Priscilla upstairs to change her diaper.

  Rachel took one step toward the door, turned, snagged her book from the mantel and dashed out.

  The children had done only half their chores, if that. It wasn’t that they couldn’t finish them. It was that they knew they could get away with not doing them when their mama was bus
y with the baby. After all, none of them had chores half as hard as Rachel’s. She dreaded trying to get all four of them to complete what little work they had. It could take her much of the day, having to watch them one at a time.

  So she wouldn’t. All her stepmother cared about was that the chores were done. How much faster it would be if she did them herself. So she made short work of them and then slipped off into the forest.

  Knowing just where she wanted to sit and read, she patted her book in her apron pocket and trudged through the underbrush. The forest smelled so fresh, even though yesterday’s rain had made everything wet. Her skirt got soaked in a hurry, but she didn’t care. She was free to enjoy a good chunk of the day in peace.

  Crackle.

  She froze and then spun around. Was that an animal or a person? Studying the terrain and seeing nothing, she continued. When dead ground cover crunched behind her again, she kept walking until she could pinpoint the noise’s precise location. Whatever was making it wasn’t moving away.

  It was tracking her.

  So it wasn’t likely an animal. At least not the four-legged variety.

  Another step, and she swung around. She caught sight of the corner of a blue jacket.

  “Lindy!”

  Her twelve-year-old half brother, Lindley, stepped out from behind a large fir tree, not at all contrite at having been caught. With his hands shoved deep in his pants pockets, he swaggered up to her. “Where you goin’, Rachel?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “It is none of your concern. Now go home and play with the other children.”

  He shook his head. “But they’re girls.” He sounded indignant that she would even suggest such a thing.

  “I’m a girl.”

  “But you don’t do girl stuff and play with dolls.” He shivered dramatically and eyed the forest behind her. “You’re headed toward English Camp.”

  Heaven help her if he tattled that an American girl was walking where she shouldn’t. Not with a war going on.

  Lindley’s expression turned to a triumphant smirk. “If you let me go with you, I won’t tell no one.”

  If she didn’t let him come, he would blackmail her. She’d wanted time to herself. She could just stop right where they were and read, boring him until he left. Better yet, she could read Romeo and Juliet aloud and scare him off. But he might wait at a distance and still follow. Of all her siblings, he could be the quietest. “Fine. You can come. But you have to do as I tell you.”

  He strode ahead. “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

  She caught up and took the lead. “Stay quiet.”

  As she drew closer to the hill overlooking English Camp and Garrison Bay, she crouched and slowed. She had to make sure they stayed clear of the officers’ quarters and that no guards were patrolling up here.

  The soldiers were marching around the field down below on the other side of the fancy garden. The reason she liked to come. The garden, not the soldiers.

  “Wow,” Lindley said. “Look at all of them. How many do you think there are? Thousands?”

  Rachel shifted her gaze from the blooming colors to the soldiers beyond and scoffed. “Hardly. The agreement between the American officers and the English officers was to hold dual occupancy of the islands until the matter of possession could be decided. Neither side is to have more than one hundred men. That was over ten years ago. You were too young to recall how it began.” But she remembered the tension on the island at first. She’d been afraid Papa would have to go fight and be killed.

  “And you think the no-good English will keep to that?”

  “I’ve counted before. I never got more than seventy or eighty. A handful of men were likely inside the buildings or off somewhere else.” She realized too late that her statements implied she’d been here several times. She hoped Lindley didn’t make the connection. Or at least didn’t make a fuss about it.

  “Or maybe they are hiding a lot of soldiers in those buildings for a surprise attack, letting only a few out at a time so we don’t know how many are really here. A conniving, scheming, cutthroat bunch, the English are.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. He was repeating Papa’s words to the letter. But she knew he secretly admired the soldiers on both sides. He was a boy, after all.

  A dinner bell rang, and the soldiers marched off the field. The middle of the afternoon was a strange time to have a meal.

  All became quiet down below.

  After a few moments, Lindley scuttled down the side of the hill.

  “Where are you going?” Rachel called after him.

  “I want a better look.”

  “Get back here.”

  But he kept going.

  She threw up her hands. What was she to do now? She couldn’t let him go by himself. She shuffled her way down, at times sliding. If Papa found out, he would have both their hides. When she got to the bottom, Lindley was crouched behind a tree stump. She joined him. “What happened to doing as you were told?”

  “No one’s around.” He stood and walked toward the manicured garden. “Come on.”

  The water in Garrison Bay lapped gently at the shore, the strong smell of salt wafted on the breeze, and nearby seagulls screeched.

  The garden she had stared at all summer had short hedgerows around flower beds, all encircled by a white picket fence. Each bed had a different type of flower. She cautiously inched up to the garden. The flowers were lovely. She surveyed the camp and saw no one, so she opened the small gate at the end closest to her and eased it shut so as not to make any noise. She went from flower bed to flower bed, peonies, zinnias, daisies. The spring tulips and crocuses had long been replaced by summer and fall varieties.

  As she was studying a yellow bloom she didn’t recognize, she heard Lindley gasp and she spun around.

  An English officer stood before her. A handsome officer with wavy brown hair. “May I help you, miss?”

  She could see where Lindley crouched behind a low hedge, so she stepped back one pace, then another. And as she had hoped, the officer moved forward. Dare she speak? He would know for sure she wasn’t English.

  And was trespassing.

  She wiggled her hand to get Lindley to run.

  And run he did. But he let the gate swing shut behind him, making a tapping noise.

  The officer turned and saw Lindley scampering for the hillside.

  “Run, Lindy! Run!”

  The officer stared at her with raised eyebrows. “American. What is your name?”

  She might be captured, but she didn’t have to speak. She pressed her lips together.

  “Come now. You can tell me your name. I’m Leftenant Charles Young. And you are?”

  Lef-tenant? She just loved the way the English spoke. Telling him her name couldn’t really do any harm, but she held her tongue.

  The leftenant plucked a small purple flower from the nearby bed. “Were you enjoying our formal garden?” He held out the flower to her.

  Rachel took it without thinking and smelled it. He wished to speak of the garden? What was he playing at?

  He waited patiently for her to say something.

  She twirled the flower.

  A smile pulled at his mouth but didn’t quite succeed. “What book are you reading?” He pointed at her apron.

  She covered the pocketed book with one hand. He wouldn’t take it from her, would he? He certainly was trying to start a conversation. As a captive of the enemy, she would not indulge him.

  “Come now, I just want to know the title.”

  Pulling it out, she showed him.

  “Shakespeare. Are you enjoying it?”

  If she refused to answer any of his questions, maybe he would tire of this and let her be on her way.

  He studied her, waiting, then said, “Mayb
e you can’t read at all and just carry a book around to look as though you can.”

  “I can so read. ‘Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.’”

  He smiled. A warm, inviting smile. “You can speak, other than to shout to the boy. ‘From forth the fatal loins of these two foes a pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; whose misadventured piteous overthrows do with their death bury their parents’ strife.’”

  This Englishman knew Romeo and Juliet?

  Rachel continued the opening quotation. “‘The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love, and the continuance of their parents’ rage, which, but their children’s end, nought could remove, is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage...’”

  “‘The which if you with patient ears attend, what here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.’” He gave her a graceful bow with a flourish of his hand.

  Her breath caught in her throat. He spoke the words so eloquently, as though Romeo himself were standing before her.

  A soldier came up to the little white picket fence surrounding the garden. “Sir, tea is served in your office.”

  “Thank you. Would you bring another cup? I will be having a guest.” The leftenant motioned to her. “Come this way.”

  Rachel glanced back and saw Lindley scrambling out of sight at the top of the hill. At least he had gotten away. She maneuvered through the garden and out the other side. Entering a long building, she saw several soldiers sipping their tea and was ushered into an office. Was this teatime?

  He touched the back of a wooden chair. “Have a seat.”

  Was this where he would interrogate her? She thought about refusing, to see what he would do, but chose to sit. What did he have planned for her?

  “Now, your name?”

  “Isn’t it improper for a lady to introduce herself?”

  Amusement danced in his gold-flecked hazel-brown eyes. “Not when there is no other to make her introductions.”