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Captain Ichabod Crane tried to avert his gaze from the captivating woman he’d been instructed to transport to Fort Hudson for interrogation, but inevitably his eyes strayed often to her. The woman in question — one Miss Grace Abigail Mills — preferred to be called Abbie. He thought the name rather lovely, a fact that irked him to no end given the unpleasant situation and circumstances of their meeting.
A private had called him away from the battlefield to inform him that a woman — claiming to have vital information pertaining to his mission to cut down a Hessian mercenary recognisable by a mark on his hand — demanded an audience with him. Assumed to be a runaway slave or agent for the British, Miss Mills’s appearance, manners and dress had caused quite a stir.
So here he was, seated across from her in his own carriage, pretending he didn’t find her presence bothersome.
To his utter amusement, although his countenance gave no outward indication, the charming girl fiddled with the curtain of the carriage as if she’d never beheld such a vehicle before. Which only added to the mystery that surrounded her identity and whence she came, and that she was an oddity that stuck out sorely.
If he was correct in his suspicion, he reasoned, that she was indeed a slave woman, it would figure that she hadn’t seen the inside of a carriage, let alone conveyed in one.
Suddenly there was a jolt as the wheels of the carriage caught in a rut, sending the unsuspecting woman sprawling into his lap. At first, he was too stunned to react. Her soft gasp and quickened breath alerted him to his arms that had encircled her tiny waist, preventing her from removing herself from his person.
At this realisation, several things happened at once: his hands moulded her hips, bringing her even closer, his palms began to tingle and grow warm, and his breeches tightened uncomfortably in response.
It was rather fortunate then, that his coat was long enough to conceal his growing excitement. At this thought, he immediately sprang into action, releasing her at once so abruptly that she almost tumbled to the carriage floor had he not gripped her forearm.
He glanced out the window. “Forgive me,” he mumbled, reddening.
Get a hold of yourself. He was a captain. A leader of men. A soldier. He would — and could — control himself. She certainly wasn’t the first pretty face to ever cross his path and even Ichabod knew she wasn’t likely to be the last. But he hadn’t ever met a woman like Grace Abigail Mills. Beautiful. Tenacious. Plucky.
No, she was his captive. Was at his mercy. And at his command. She should be the one who was nervous, not he; intimidated and fearful as to what awaited her when they arrived at their destination. Instead, she meet his gaze head on, chin thrust defiantly forward and posture relaxed as if they were intimate acquaintances sharing transportation, not captor and captive.
“No worries,” she said breathlessly. “I was the one who landed in your lap. If it wasn’t for your quick-thinking, I would have went arse over tit.”
At this confounding turn of phrase, he turned back to her sharply.
“What?” he roughly inquired. Her voice and the rapid rise and fall of her chest only served to increase his arousal. His long fingers itched to reach out and touch her soft flesh that he had to grip the carriage window to stay his hands.
“Never mind,” she replied, obviously reading his puzzled expression.
Forcing his thoughts away from the dangerous path that they seemed determined to wander, he faced her fully and asked: “If you are truly all you purport to be, what do you know of me?”
Immediately she launched into her narration about his life before and after he’d journeyed to the American colonies. Momentarily unnerved at the accuracy of the information, he sat back in his seat to mull over her revelations. She knew far too many intimate details about himself — things he hadn’t even shared with his few close companions — to be a mere spy, or a slave, for that matter.
“Who are you?” he questioned.
She seemed to not expect this question as her brows scrunched in confusion.
“I’m your partner from the future,” she stated plainly as if addressing a child.
He chuckled in disbelief. “That is completely insane!” retorted Ichabod, unwilling to accept her elaborate tale of time travel and entwined fates.
“You have to believe, or else all will be lost,” she insisted.
“No, what is missing is your grasp on your sanity, madam,” he responded, somewhat coldly.
She looked up at him, dark eyes framed by long black lashes, pleading. There was something earnest about her, in her quiet determination that compelled him to believe her, to believe in her; but his noble upbringing and military training dictated that common sense and reason prevail over all other impulses.
Was he, perhaps, responding to her beauty and the obvious effect she had on him, that he even entertained her ridiculous claim? Until he could be certain, Ichabod Crane vowed to remain cautious where the enchanting Abigail Mills was concerned.