Captain Simcoe did insist that Anna required a protector.
It's the end of winter in 1777. John Graves Simcoe has returned to the Strong house and Anna must tolerate his presence. She finds that, in a time of wandering rogues using the threat of war as a cover, it is more useful to have a soldier in the house than she would care to admit.
A prequel to 'Red', we witness the circumstances that led to Anna patching Simcoe up in her ruined kitchen.
There is graphic violence in the fic that follows! Wounds are not described in detail, but the actions that caused them are. You have been warned!
Enjoy! :)
Simcoe awoke with a start. His heart thudded a forceful tattoo in his ears as he blinked rapidly, adjusting to the dimness of the night. The new moon provided no aid as he sat up in the bed, staring into the dark. His nightshirt clung uncomfortably to him and he tugged at it, annoyed as he struggled to loosen the linen's taut grip around his throat. Despite the coolness of the room, he could feel a trickle of sweat on his brow. Ignoring it, he concentrated on the door at his left, still absorbed by shadow. Struggling to quiet the pounding in his chest, he listened carefully. Beyond the howling of the wind and the creaking of the settling house, he was certain he'd heard something unnatural. Anna had retreated to her own bedroom what seemed like hours ago, though he had no way of knowing how much time had passed since he'd succumbed to sleep. Cicero would have no cause to be up and about in the house in the middle of the night. Mr. Strong remained imprisoned aboard the Jersey; the very thought made Simcoe quirk a small smile in the dark, but it was swallowed with a grimace the next instant as he continued down his list of possible intruders. Woodhull.
Shapes were becoming more defined; he could make out a path to the door and the outline of his pistol was visible on the wash stand. Reaching toward it, he froze as quiet thumping resonated through the home. It was followed by several more, louder this time. Footsteps. Simcoe was out of the bed in an instant, taking two long and silent steps to the desk chair where he'd hastily discarded his breeches several hours earlier. Jamming first one leg in, and then the other, he made quick work of the buttons before quietly padding to the door, seizing his pistol and hooking it on his waistband. Simcoe wrapped his fingers carefully around the doorknob and exhaled, turning the heavy brass fixture slow as he could manage. He hesitated as it scraped in its hub, but heard no reaction from the other side of the heavy oak. When he was sure the handle was at the limit of its revolution, he pulled gently. The door made no noise, swinging slowly inward to reveal the landing beyond.
The slatted wood danced in the flicker of the low hearthlight as it drifted upward from the kitchen doorway. He glanced across to Anna's door, suppressing an urge to approach it, to confirm her safety. If she wasn't safe, he reasoned, she had the sense to cry out for assistance. Nodding himself into assurance, he ground his teeth and turned his stone-like gaze back to the worn stairs. He took his steps tentatively, listening for any sign of creaking underfoot. Meanwhile, he could hear the intruder more clearly now. Light, yet hurried steps echoed from the kitchen. It was a wonder he hadn't awoken earlier, he thought balefully as he padded quietly down the stairs, a slender hand skimming cautiously along the smooth railing. If it was Woodhull, he made little attempt to conceal his presence. He eyed the doorway into the kitchen; against the opposite jamb, a shadow danced in the flicker of the kitchen fire. The same flicker glinted in Simcoe's eyes as he quietly pulled his pistol from his waistband, pulling the flint into firing position. He quickly surveyed his environment. The simplest path to the kitchen was to dismount from the stairs and to enter the kitchen forthright, but he risked giving himself away before he had gotten a look at the miscreant, who, by the sound of it, was currently defiling the cutlery drawers. He turned his attention to his right; at the back of the dining room, the door into the great room stood open invitingly in the gloom. A smile crept onto his face as he slinked off the bottom stair, careful not to disturb the dining chairs as he passed them. Flanking the enemy, whenever possible, was always preferred in Simcoe's opinion.
He could feel the roughness of the floor being interrupted by braided wool on the soles of his feet as he stepped into the great room. It only aided his stealthiness as he moved quickly through the sparse maze of furniture. Soon, he was close enough to see a silhouette framed in the entrance to the kitchen. Though he was reasonably sure it wasn't Woodhull – despite his reprehensible nature, the rat of a man had never shown any inclination toward thievery – the man's face was in shadow and there was no easy way to divine his identity from his common clothing. Regardless, Simcoe scarcely required it. The man's rummaging paused momentarily to shove a few pieces of silverware into his pockets and he'd had seen all he needed to see.
Raising his pistol, he stepped toward the threshold, but was stopped by a quiet snikt from behind. The sound of an unsheathed knife was very familiar to Simcoe; he felt his body react before his mind had quite caught up. He sprang forward, but not quickly enough to avoid the feeling of cold steel raking his back. His side lit up with pain as he shouted out and swiveled to face this new attacker. Distracted though he was by the warmth that suddenly soaked his nightshirt, he could see a shadowy outline of another man. A small blade shone in his hand as he swung again. Stumbling backward out of the range of the knife, Simcoe shoved his pistol at the new threat and squeezed the trigger, but not before his hand was batted sideways. The reverberating BANG in the small space was stupefying; in the brief brilliance of the powder flash, he glimpsed a shocked and haggard face not much older than his own. Blinking desperately, he tried to scatter the bright lights popping in his eyes. Fortunately, his malady was shared with his opponent, who staggered backward an uncertain step. Simcoe discarded his used pistol and seized the smaller man by his lapels. With an almighty heave, the captain threw the man past him at the kitchen doorframe. There was a sickening thunk as his head cracked against the doorframe and he toppled past it into the light of the kitchen hearth. He heard a shout from the kitchen as he watched the dazed man scramble for purchase on the flagstone. In two long strides, he was through the doorway and evaluating the pair as they quivered with adrenaline. The man raiding the kitchen cupboards, who Simcoe could now see was a younger man of about seventeen, pulled a gleaming knife from the collection of cutlery in his pocket. He could see the indecision and terror on the youth's face. For a moment, Simcoe thought he might drop the weapon and plead for his life. Instead, a downward glance at his companion's bleeding face as he sprawled on the floor incensed him into action, and he hurled the small knife towards the captain. Simcoe dodged it easily, but the gall of this insolent pup was infuriating.
Seizing a heavy piece of cast iron from the wall, he advanced on the pair with malice in his eyes. The panic had returned to the would-be thief with the silver spilling from his pockets and he was barely able to react as Simcoe grasped the front of his coat and brought the skillet down on a dark mop of hair. Too stunned to cry out, the boy failed to catch himself as the captain gave him a shove and he lurched backward into the fire. Screams filled the kitchen; the flames were largely smothered by the small man, but the hot coals singed through his woolen clothes and into his flesh. Thrust into darkness once again, Simcoe swung at the last place he knew the older man to be laying, but he felt no contact. The strangled shrieking of the boy in the fireplace echoed around him, making it impossible to hear movement other than his own. He swung again, more broadly this time, but the iron cookware continued through the air unobstructed.
A hand suddenly clung to his ankle; it was no doubt the young man, struggling across the floor in agony. Leaning down, Simcoe felt along the ground for another pilfered knife, but in his confidence at the boy's incapacitation, he let his guard down too long. Something smashed into the captain's eye socket and he cried out, reeling back. One hand covering his throbbing eye, he brought the edge of the skillet crashing down on the youth once, twice, a third time before his whimpers ceased. He could feel a trickle of blood running from his nose join the messy spatter that had clung to his face; ignoring it, he investigated the still man's hand. The butt of a pistol was very familiar in his palm, and it wasn't the first time he'd taken one to the eye. Hefting the weapon, Simcoe could feel the weight of a ball and charge still in the barrel. Cocking back the flint, he rose unsteadily.
The kitchen was silent, save for his panting and the soft popping of the embers in the fireplace as they cooled. He strained his ears, listening for any sign of his quarry. All was silent until he heard the distant creak of a door opening upstairs. There was a quiet shuffle to his right and a chair scraped against the stone floor. Aiming toward the noise, Simcoe fired. There was an agonized bellow and a clatter, followed by strained sniveling. Satisfied at his blind fire finding its mark and ushered on by the sound of footsteps on the landing, he felt toward the table until his hands landed on a shaking shoulder in the darkness; his bare foot brushed something cold and metallic. Another hand, slicked with blood, tried to push his own away as he bowed for the object on the floor. It was the knife with which the older man had attacked him, still shining with his blood in the increasingly bright light from the staircase. The hurried footsteps descended down the stairs as Simcoe hauled the man up with him. Rearranging his grip quickly, he positioned the tip of the rough blade under the jaw and behind the ear and thrust sharply upward. His hand was covered in a thick, hot spring of gore as he felt the body he held go rigid before becoming dead weight in his arm.
The kitchen was illuminated by dim candlelight and there was a quiet gasp from the doorway. He looked up at Anna as he released the limp figure, the body crumpling at his feet. Striking as ever in the dull flame, her face was frozen in alarm. She raised a hand to her mouth and for a moment, he thought she might be sick at the sight, but soon she simply shook her head and stared at the mess in the kitchen. He should have known better; her strong constitution was one of the things he found terribly attractive about her.
Simcoe took a moment to breathe, pleased. A threat had arisen and he had defeated it soundly. What was more, Anna was there to witness it. If he'd had the energy, he might have beamed with pride. Unfortunately, he felt himself sway slightly and soon he was again aware of the twinging pain in the middle of his back. He was also mindful of the droplets of blood throughout the kitchen that didn't belong to either of the felled men, and of the way his nightshirt clung wetly to his back. He had no intention of succumbing to the fuzziness that had made itself present at the front of his skull. Instead, he crossed to the opposing, less gruesome side of the table and took a seat, pulling a thin handkerchief from his waistband. Dropping the knife to the table with a small clank, he rubbed as much red from his face as he could manage, careful to avoid agitating his tender eye. His nose was not nearly done with its deluge.
Looking up again, the captain found himself captivated. Even in a simple cotton nightgown, Anna looked angelic; for a moment, he thought the room looked dark around her, so strong was her radiance. It was soon, though, that he realized that the room was in fact growing steadily darker and hazier at the edges. His back tingled uncomfortably as a less than subtle reminder of his predicament.
"Mrs. Strong," he exhaled, raising his fine eyebrows at her, "Have you needle and thread?"
I had a good time writing this one, long as it took me. (Thank you, Arlennil, for requesting it! I hope you enjoy!) I believe I'll yet write a third installment on what follows 'Red,' so look forward to that if you're enjoying this so far!