“I’ve work to do here. And I’m still engaged with the militia.”
“Your devotion does you credit.” She took a step closer. “Your arm. What happened?”
He jerked away when she touched him. “What do you think happened?” To his own ears he sounded boorish and rude.
“You were struck by a sword or cutlass.”
He said nothing as he drew another bucket of water and soaked his head. “’Tis nothing,” he said, gathering more soap to lather his hair. But as he raised his arms, his shoulder popped and he buckled forward with a moan.
“Hamilton, let me help you.” Esther’s soft hands slipped over his bare shoulders, and he turned away. She was not helping. Not at all.
“Please, kneel down.” Esther took the soap in her delicate hands.
“Esther, I cannot—”
“I said kneel down. Didn’t the militia teach you to obey commands?”
“From a woman, no.” But he was weakened by her charms and dropped to one knee, then the other, exhaling.
At first he couldn’t feel her touch, but as she ladled more water onto his hair, her hands moved deeper, scrubbing, massaging his scalp. Her gentle yet firm movements drove him to distraction.
Tears smarted in his eyes and he coughed, hiding his emotion. Round and round her hands went, washing his hair. Washing his soul. Chills prickled around his neck and down his back.
As she ladled more water over his head, Esther sang a softmelody, rinsing away the soap, the dirt and mud, the blood, until the water flowed clean.
“‘The heavy hours are almost past that part my love and me.’”
He was yielding, surrendering, his tears mounting.
She began to sing another melody, gay and spritely. “‘Go rose, my Chloe bosom grace.’ I’m fond of the name Chloe. What do you think? So lovely for a girl.”
He listened, resisting her softness, her feminine allure. Using her own scarf, she began to dry his hair.
When she finished, he rose to his feet, snatching up his shirt, now damp and dark. “I-I should...” He motioned toward the house. “Go. Aunt Mary...”
Esther stepped into him, her dripping scarf in her hands. “Hamilton, don’t you want—”
“No. I don’t want... I cannot... What I’ve done. What I nearly did.” Gripping her arms, Hamilton searched for a way to tell her no, to admonish her to forget him, but he saw the affection in her blue eyes. Before he considered the consequences, he pressed his lips to hers.
She leaned into him, her hands moving around his chest to his back.
He dropped his shirt to the dirt and took her to himself, drinking in her pure, clean soul. But when a soft moan escaped her lips, he returned to reality. Hamilton jerked away.
“Esther, we cannot.” He shoved his hair back, stooping to collect his haversack and cartridge belt.
“We cannot what? Declare our affection?” She was soaked and soapy, with brimming eyes and wisps of hair curling about her face. Her wet scarf swung from her hand.
“You cannot come here, perfumed and lovely, singing over me. Nay, I will not abide it.” He paced away, running the dirty shirt over his hair. A hint of a fall chill wrapped around his torso.
“Then when can I call on you? Or should I wait for you to call on me? Need I remind you that I—”
“Love me?” He pointed to the house. “Whatever we said to oneanother while you lay fading on the settee is... is... folly. We are not meant to be, Esther. You deserve a much better man. One who dances with you in the grand salons of a British peer during the London seasons.”
“Grand salons? You know what I learned drinking tea with my British peers?”
He turned his back to her. He did not have to listen to her rebuke. But his feet remained planted in the damp dirt by the well.
“That there is no one who compares to you, Hamilton. Why do you think I returned home? And you cannot retract my words from that night. I won’t let you push me aside. I hold hope in my heart. Your rejection is just foolish talk created by the weariness of battle.” She jammed her finger to her breast. “I know you love me, and there is nothing you can say to dissuade me. So be angry, but not at me.”
