Amanda clenched her teeth. As he dropped the shoe into the water-filled wood tub, it made a virulent hiss she wanted to echo.
When he walked outside again, nails in mouth, cooled shoe in hand, she grew determined to engage him. Her gaze drifted over the impressive breath of his muscled shoulders as he lifted Sage’s hoof.
“You are newly arrived in Williamsburg, are you not?”
“Just arrived this winter from Massachusetts.” He banged on the horseshoe, his muscles flexing with the hammer’s rhythm.
“So, that explains your loyalties to the north and all the talk of revolt and boycotting my father’s store. Most in Williamsburg are peaceful and not so strident when it comes to talk of revolution. They will not listen to you.”
“Peaceful? I’d hardly call Virginians peaceful. Especially not since Patrick’s speech at Richmond.”
The smith’s condescending tone irritated her. Patrick Henry’s speech at the second Virginia Convention had incited many colonists. Some called the oratory “stirring.” Dunmore called it hogwash. Amanda felt an instinctive need to debate and prove Jeffrey Clayton wrong.
“In Williamsburg, most are law-abiding citizens. They will not be so easily led to disruption by Mr. Henry.”
“Everything will change,” he said.
What a snide, cocky attitude. He hammered home that point with the last nail. Straightening, he wiped his forehead with a damp shirt sleeve. Amanda bristled.
“Nay, it will not. Williamsburg is the political and educational center of Virginia. Indeed, the balls held at the governor’s mansion rival those in London!”
He cocked his head at her. “London? You barely look the age to have had a London season,” he said in a teasing tone.
The compliment fell on deaf ears. Amanda hid her inner shame. Even with Lord Dunmore’s connections, her social status in England didn’t grant her one London season. “I am two and twenty,” she responded.
A charming grin lit up his face. “So you say, Miss Reeves.”
“I can assure you, sir, that as a British subject, I have been taught not to tell a falsehood. Honor cloaks us as does tradition.”
“British honor.” His mouth thinned into a tight slash. “Was it honor when His Majesty’s men burned my home in Massachusetts?”
Amanda stared. “Heavens, why would they do that?”
Fire burned deep within those silvery eyes, turning them to ash. “Your king’s Quartering Act. Said we in Massachusetts had to provide housing for British soldiers. I refused. They burned my house. End of story.”
Her stomach churned. This was the first real act of violence she’d heard of that could not be easily justified.
“I am sorry. It must be quite awful losing all you own.”
“Not as awful as living under the iron fist of a tyrannical king dictating our lives from across the ocean.”
Amanda gritted her teeth. “Those who would find our king tyrannical, perhaps are equally so in their own right. Such men are criminals in their tyrannical slander of the Crown.”
He gave her a long, hard look. “I’m a man, Miss Reeves, who speaks the truth. If that makes me a criminal, so be it.”
Preparing a response, she turned as a tall, elegantly-dressed man with chestnut hair strode through the rear gate. He hailed Clayton with a hand wave. The smith flashed a charming grin and waved back.
“Jeffrey.” Thomas Jefferson clasped his hand in a firm shake. Amanda stared. Gentry socializing with a common laborer? Why would a member of the House of Burgess bother with the smith?
“Will you meet at George’s house this afternoon? We have need of your brilliant wit.” Jefferson regarded the smith with such respect Amanda’s jaw dropped.
Clayton glanced toward the weatherworn shop. “’Tis much work I have today, but I’ll be there later. Don’t drink all that French brandy, Tom. I’ll have a mighty thirst when I arrive.”
Jefferson laughed, and clapped the smith’s soot-covered shoulder. “Aye, fear not. I shall save you enough to quench your thirst.”
“Ahem,” she coughed, trying to sound delicate and conceal her annoyance at being ignored.
A hazel gaze filled with admiration flicked to her. Amanda gave the lawyer her warmest smile.
The smith’s own eyes twinkled with amusement. “Miss Reeves, Mr. Thomas Jefferson. Tom, do you know Miss Amanda Reeves? She stopped by in desperate need of a mount and I have done my best to oblige her.”
Amanda bristled at his suggestive remark. Fortunately, Jefferson took no notice, but his gaze narrowed at her. “Miss Reeves? Your father runs Reeves Imported Goods, does he not?”
“Yes, good sir,” she murmured, tugging at one glove.
“Your father’s store is connected to London. I do not approve of merchants who ignore the boycott and continue to sell English goods.” He studied her riding habit.
The stinging note of chilled censure tainted his tone. Words failed her. Amanda dropped her gaze and wistfully fingered the lovely velvet she’d been so proud to wear, for it marked her as a lady of quality. .
He turned toward Jeffrey Clayton. “Well Jeffrey, we shall expect you promptly at five.”
Mr. Jefferson barely tipped his hat to her. Shame reddened Amanda’s face. Slighted again by the gentry. Would they ever accept her? In England, the upper class ignored her because of her father’s merchant status. Here, loyalty to Dunmore and the King ostracized her from the gentry like Jefferson. Her stomach clenched with a familiar knot of painful longing. Would she ever truly belong anywhere?
She caught Jeffrey Clayton studying her with a quiet look. Amanda raised her chin as if the snub mattered not. She would not let this blacksmith know how much the insult stung.
He patted Sage’s rump, then took her reins and led her into the street. “I’ll put it on your family’s account. I’m sure your father is good for it. For now.” Amanda clenched her fists, resisting the overpowering urge to slap the smile from his face.
“Thank you,” she replied.
“Let me help you mount.” He winked, and then bent down and linked his hands together.
Brash man. “Nay.”
With the smith following her, Amanda led Sage to a small stump, climbed it and put one booted toe into the metal stirrup. Grabbing the pommel, she raised herself up, but Sage shifted.
Amanda let out a startled cry and fell backward.
Two strong arms caught her. She became aware of the power of the man, the steady, assured way he held her. Her bare skin blazed as his fingers brushed against the space between her gloved hand and sleeve.
After untangling her foot from the stirrup, the smith set her down. His jaw tightened as he looked at her with obvious concern. “Are you all right?”
“Aye.” To hide her agitation, she brushed her skirts.
“I will help you,” he said in a commanding tone.
He stood on the stump and settled those large hands firmly about her waist. Before she could squeak a protest, he lifted her and placed her atop her horse as though she weighed little more than a horseshoe. Amanda settled herself into the saddle.
She nodded. “I thank you, sir, and good day to you.” Clicking to Sage, she trotted off at a leisurely pace down Francis Street, heading east to Hangman’s Road.
When the buildings of town faded into the distance, she swung her leg over the saddle to ride astride, then kicked Sage into a fierce gallop. Jeffrey Clayton. Dangerous radical. Heat filled her body as she thought of his possessive grip around her waist. The man’s touch filled her with fire she must extinguish lest it burn her again.
This afternoon she would visit the Wythes, observe Jeffrey Clayton, perhaps overhear some information and beg a favor of George Wythe. His wife liked her, one of the few society ladies who didn’t turn up a haughty nose at her Loyalist tendencies.
Amanda knew she could cause Jeffrey Clayton to confess his secrets. Even if it meant risking unleashing passions that were best kept tightly reined. Never again would she allow herself to lose con
trol like she had back in England. Jeffrey Clayton would test her sorely. He bristled with an incredible vitality lacking among Williamsburg’s gentlemen. But he was not the sort for her, not with that earthy masculinity. Shame filled her as she remembered how a similar man had ruined her reputation. Because of that incident, Papa had been forced to settle in the hated Colonies.
She’d be bloody well damned before she let him down again.
He could not concentrate on his work. The knife wound on his leg he’d received during the war rarely ached, but made a perfect excuse for inquisitive women asking about his cane. Today, however, the scarred flesh pulled and stretched. As did another wound in his heart. Jeffrey let the metal piece he’d been shaping rest in the fire. He stared into the flames. Fire. Licking at the corners of his family’s home. Torches tossed through the door accompanied by laughter. Impotent struggles against the men who held him as he watched the house rise in a tower of flames. His mother’s beloved collection of French poetry. His Brown Bess used in battles during the French and Indian war. The Boston rocker his father had bought for his mother. The polished tables, brocade drapes. Everything he had amassed in his thirty-two years. Everything his parents had worked for. Gone.
His only solace had been that his parents weren’t alive to witness it.
Never could he admit the full truth. The King’s Quartering Act gave the British an excuse to burn, but he knew their real motivation. Punishment for his patriotic activities and trusting his betrothed. Caroline had promised silence and delivered betrayal. Rage filled him remembering the colonel’s sneering laughter as he’d told Jeffrey what an excellent lover Caroline was.
These agonizing memories flickered because of beautiful, pert Amanda Reeves. Her body had felt soft in his arms; warm, and dangerously tempting. He’d been torn between an overpowering desire to kiss her and a nagging urge to toss her out on her pretty, round bottom. Something deep inside him, long dead, stirred to life around her. Something best left alone and quietly dying beneath the ashes of past failures.
With savage intensity, Jeffrey poked at the steel. When it changed color, he took the tongs and brought it to the anvil. Each powerful blow of the hammer brought satisfaction. The steel changed shape. It became the face of the British colonel. Bang. Bang. Bang. His temper blossomed into full flames with each violent, rapid stroke. A red spark flew off the glowing metal and licked his arm; another jumped on his shirt and danced. Jeffrey abandoned his tools and beat it out.
Good God, he’d set himself on fire if this continued. He must calm down before he hurt himself. Remember. Rogers’ Rangers. Disciplinary orders. Taking a deep breath, Jeffrey silently recited a condensed version of each rule, counting up to ten. He lingered over #6: If your enemy approaches you in the front, form three columns to stop them from surrounding you.
His worst enemy right now was his damnable temper.
A boisterous voice caught his attention. Jeffrey glanced up. Daniel Merton. One of Williamsburg’s wealthiest, and fervently Loyalist, residents. Owner of 5,000 acres on the James and thirty slaves, he had a grand house in town as well. The King had appointed him as a member of the Governor’s Council and Magistrate of the General Court. Friend to Lord Dunmore, Merton had inside access to the governor’s circle.
The old thrill surged through him. Jeffrey scowled and folded his arms as the portly man approached with a disdainful sniff. Merton’s ornate purple silk waistcoat and elegant lace stock gave him a foppish air. He gestured at Jeffrey with a hand-carved walking stick, topped with a silver eagle’s head.
The proud eagle’s beak stabbed the air as Merton pointed it at him. It bore a striking resemblance to Jeffrey’s cane.
“Have you my door hinge repaired yet, Clayton?”
“Nay, shall be ready on the morrow.” He watched as the older man crossed the room to his work bench. Merton propped his cane to the right of Jeffrey’s and turned with a frown.
“You are most delinquent in your work, Clayton. I shall have to speak to your master about this tardiness.”
“I have no master but myself,” Jeffrey said tightly. “You’re not speaking to one of your slaves, Merton.”
“Mind what you say, Clayton. You are no longer in Boston, roving the streets with Sam Adams’ mob. As for my Negroes, they are mine to do with as I please. I have heard how you set your sister’s slaves free. You are a troublemaker, Clayton.”
“I’ll say what comes to mind, Merton. No man shall stop me. Or stop me from freeing my slaves. ’Tis my business and Meg’s and no one else’s.”
“Have that hinge ready by the morrow, or I shall not pay full price.” He retrieved the cane on the left and strode out, his lower lip distended in clear disapproval.
When Merton left, apprentice blacksmith Jonathon loped over like an eager puppy. The teenager had ogled Miss Reeves the whole time she’d been in the shop. Jeffrey resisted a chuckle. That spitfire lady would turn the youngster into pulp with one look from those blazing violet eyes.
“That Mr. Merton don’t like you. Neither does Miss Reeves. She sure is pretty, Miss Reeves.”
“Prettier than Mr. Merton,” Jeffrey agreed.
“Well, I’d watch it, Mr. Clayton. Most gentry don’t care about freedom from England like you do. Can’t go against Dunmore and the power of the king.”
“That so?” Jeffrey darted a glance at the remaining walking stick, its eagle’s beak shining and whole. No broken tip. Then again, it wasn’t his cane. His smile widened.
“Maybe for now. But things will change around here.” He worked the steel, honing the edge so he could forge-weld it into an ax head.
If he had his way, maybe sooner than everyone thought.
Chapter Two
“MORE TEA, AMANDA?”
She murmured a polite decline to Elizabeth Wythe. Sassafras tea. A vile brew, but the Wythes participated in boycotting English tea. Amanda sat on a gilt chair at a small lace-topped round table in the Wythe’s parlor. Late afternoon sun streamed through the polished glass windows and pooled on the rich crimson walls.
“Now, my dear, tell me about this unfortunate soul you wish my husband to defend.” Elizabeth sipped from a china cup.
Amanda explained Sam Henderson’s plight. A resident of the parish almshouse, the daft, middle-aged man stood accused of robbing a Williamsburg resident of a chicken. Sam had been caught, hen in hand, outside the backyard coop. Robbery was a grave offense.
“Well, my dear, you are a kind soul to valiantly assist such a poor soul. The Lord will reward you for your charity,” Elizabeth said.
She felt a flush of guilt. Elizabeth, dear lady, made her sound saintly. If she only rubbed Amanda’s halo, she’d see the tarnish lying beneath it—spying on Jeffrey Clayton.
“Do you think your husband would deign to defend Sam without compensation? Without just representation from a lawyer, he stands not a chance and could be flogged. ’Tis not a noteworthy case, and Mr. Wythe might stand to public ridicule as well.”
“Why not ask him? He is in his study, talking with his friends. I am certain George will be moved to defend him. Come, I will take you.”
As they walked down the darkened hallway to the study, Amanda’s ears pricked at the sound of male voices arguing and laughing.
Elizabeth knocked at the door and called to her husband. Amanda sucked in a cautious breath as the two women walked inside the hallowed male sanctuary. Three men sitting at a round table stood immediately as they entered.
“George, you remember Amanda Reeves? She has a petition of you.” Elizabeth smiled encouragement and withdrew from the room.
“Of course. Miss Reeves. How are you? Come in, come in.” The lawyer nodded his balding head. He had a long, hooked nose, an intelligent brow and a kind smile.
“Meet my acquaintances, Mr. Thomas Jefferson and Mr. Jeffrey Clayton.”
“Mr. Wythe, gentlemen.” Amanda nodded a greeting, her stomach clenching as she remembered Jefferson’s snub.
Volumes of l
aw books lined a tall wood case. A polished fruitwood secretary sat opposite a fire crackling merrily in the marble hearth. Amanda stifled a startled gasp at Jeffrey Clayton’s appearance. Gone were all traces of his smith’s profession. He wore a white shirt with a starched stock, fawn waistcoat, well-tailored brown coat and matching breeches, white stockings and buckled shoes. But for the beard and mustache, he looked as much the gentleman as the other two.
An odd glass contraption dominated the table. Overcome by curiosity, Amanda approached and pointed, fascinated by the large dome. “What, pray tell, is that, sir?”
“George’s toy,” drawled Jeffrey. “A vacuum pump.”
“Not a toy,” protested the lawyer. “A scientific experiment.”
“Will you not admit its real purpose, George? He wishes to remove the air from the heads of vapid members of the House of Burgess.”
“’Tis quite a feat then, Mr. Wythe, that you endeavor to accomplish, for many members have much of that air whirling about in their heads,” Amanda shot back, then gulped, realizing her error. Oh bother. She’d just insulted Thomas Jefferson.
Jefferson forced a smile while George Wythe chuckled, but Jeffrey threw back his head and laughed.
“Miss Reeves has a rather fine wit, I see,” he commented, tipping his glass at her. “Almost as seasoned as this brandy.”
“Aye, ’tis a fine wit you have indeed, Miss Reeves. But sparring with my good friend Jeffrey is not why you came. Pray tell, dear child, what distresses you that I may assist you?” He pulled out a chair for her. As Amanda sat, the men resumed their seats.
“I am sure Miss Reeves has a matter of grave urgency to discuss with you, George. Perhaps she needs a good lawyer to bypass the boycott and negotiate import of more English fabrics to her father’s store,” Jeffrey suggested.
“Nay, ’tis not necessary, for my father has more than enough stock to tide him over for many months. And not all are heeding your boycott,” she shot back.
To avoid his penetrating gaze, she glanced about the room once more. Atop the bookcase, swimming in fluid, was a jar filled with strange creatures.
The Patriot's Conquest Page 2
