The Patriot's Conquest

by Vanak, Bonnie

  “We are done, are we not, Mr. Clayton?”

  “Jeffrey. Please call me by my Christian name.”

  “’Tis most improper for me to do so, for we scarcely know each other,” she responded.

  “I think not. Indeed, we are most familiar. You are in my sister’s kitchen, cooking a meal. In my world, that puts us on familiar ground.”

  Not as familiar as the ground they’d covered last night in Lord Dunmore’s mansion. The memory of her soft body pressed against his haunted his thoughts.

  “Oh! You are quite correct then. Jeffrey.” His name rolled off her tongue in slow syllables. Never before had a woman said his name in such a seductive manner without any intention of bedding him.

  “And may I have the pleasure of calling you by your Christian name?” he inquired.

  A faint smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Aye, please. Amanda.”

  “Amanda,” he echoed, feeling a barrier break between them. Jeffrey put both hands on the table. “Time to gut it.”

  “You want me to...”

  She’d make the chicken look like a wagon wheel ran it over. Jeffrey took the knife and laid the chicken on its back. He made one quick, clean cut and glanced at Amanda, blood draining from her pretty face.

  “Now you cut out the oil gland, see? Aren’t the internal organs a wonderful creation!” Jeffrey stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Lovely pink lungs.”

  A choking sound from Amanda.

  “Now you take out the guts.” He scooped out the insides, dumping them onto the table where they lay in a glistening heap. He yanked at the gizzard and held it up to the light. “’Tis amazing. This bears a striking resemblance to your cousin, Lord Dunmore, on a good day.”

  Now the choking sound turned to coughing.

  “I feel... quite faint. I do believe I require fresh air.”

  A door opened and slammed. Jeffrey chuckled.

  Humiliation soured her stomach. Surely Jeffrey thought her a coward for not being able to stomach a simple task. She’d felt so proud of plucking the chicken on her own, but that wasn’t enough.

  Steeling her spine, she marched back into the kitchen. Jeffrey had set about carving the bird into pieces. Determined to show him she was up to the task, she held out her hand.

  “May I? I came here to cook, not watch.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, but acquiesced and stepped back to supervise.

  Amanda felt the heat of his gaze as Jeffrey stood behind. She filleted the chicken, tensing when he spoke.

  “You’re doing a very good job.” His husky voice ensnared her in its masculine tones. It flickered across her bare ear, teased it with a slow, vibrant lick of air.

  He unnerved her. Better to banter, to fight, than be friends. She hid her trembling hands in the business of her tasks.

  Jeffrey stared into the flickering flames. “I see you know how to do more than boil water. You’ve been quite helpful. Thank you.”

  This new peace unsettled her. She focused on the knife slicing the chicken. Amanda imagined his callused, strong fingers stroking her skin. A man’s strong touch against her yielding softness.

  “I’ll stoke the fire. Seems to be dying,” he offered.

  “Yes, it would be quite helpful.”

  Behind her, sounds of kindling and wood piled into the fireplace. A burning ember cracked, then a snap of flames catching. She placed the chicken into the pot and stole a peek over her shoulder. Jeffrey squatted down, feeding the flames dry kindling. The growing fire cast shadows across his solemn expression. As if looking into a fire brought back horrid memories. What had he felt when the soldiers burned his house to the ground? Did he recall that horrific time every time he stared into a fire? The man worked with fire, lassoed its power for his use. And yet his face was anguished, as if the flames licked his soul.

  Amanda had to say something to diffuse the tension. She set down the knife and turned, groping for a safe subject.

  “I like Meg. She told me your mother was French.”

  “Yes. My father met her when she came to the colonies. Father was born in Virginia and so were Meg and I.”

  No wonder he had a familiarity with the town. “When did you move to Boston?”

  “When I was five. Boston was a bustling city. My uncle owned a prospering blacksmith business there. He urged my father to move to increase his practice as an attorney.”

  An attorney? And Jeffrey followed his uncle’s path as a blacksmith. Interesting. “Does your father still practice law?”

  Jeffrey looked away, his face set like stone. “He and my mother died of pneumonia five years ago.”

  “Oh, I am truly sorry.” First the loss of his parents, then his home. “You must miss them quite a bit.”

  A rueful smile crossed his face. “Aye, I do. They were good people. My mother taught me well. She taught me to embrace philosophy. French philosophy.”

  “I adore Voltaire for his outspokenness and wit.”

  “Aye,” Jeffrey said. “Free thinking and the ability to reason and go beyond that which society pummels into us.”

  “How much simpler, though, for those who simply follow the edicts of the law. For an open mind is best, but it can easily lead to confusion and doubt. The more choices one has, the more confusion can reign,” She sighed.

  “Confusion and doubt, but better the choices and ability to make them than not. Such is the case of many Tidewater planters. They espouse slavery and find rationalizations to keep men bound.”

  What a fascinating man. Jeffrey held an air of crudeness one moment and waxed philosophical the next, his beliefs as erudite as the most learned orator. As she struggled to lift the pot, Jeffrey removed it from her hands and put it over the fire.

  “No man should be bound to another. Nor woman. I keep telling my father that. Slavery is wrong. Still, he insists our darkies, as he calls them, need us as a child needs a parent.”

  Jeffrey cocked his head at her. “And what do you say?”

  Amanda scrubbed her hands on her apron. “I tell him that if a child is educated and given a good background, then the child should leave the parent and make his own decisions. You cannot keep a child tethered to a parent’s side forever. Just as a bird must leave the nest, so should a child. ’Tis true also for slavery!”

  “I agree with your sentiment.” He smiled.

  That smile, lacking his usual sarcasm, dissolved her dislike. It spoke of friendliness and warmth, long strolls through green grasses, peaceful respites for a troubled soul. He wiped his hands on a rag.

  “And what of you, Amanda. Have you found Williamsburg and its citizens to your liking? The social life is not as exciting as London.”

  His soft pronunciation of her name sounded like a verbal caress. She flushed, thinking of the reason for her move.

  “’Tis far different from London, but my parents wanted to open a new business,” she muttered.

  He gave her a long, thoughtful look. Amanda turned her back to him as she faced the table. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind. You are a lady.

  Jeffrey. Those sensual lips upon hers at her cousin’s house had made her lose all reason. The smith bristled with life. His touch was rough, demanding. Heated. Her cheeks flamed as she imagined those powerful, yet gentle hands stroking her skin. When he finally spoke, she jumped.

  “Why did you come here—alone?”

  “I heard your sister was ill and needed help. ’Tis the Christian thing to do.”

  “Aye, and you are a good Christian.” His tone was mocking.

  “’Tis a good thing I did, for you sorely needed help.”

  “True, but why did you come alone, Amanda? Why not bring others to assist you?”

  His use of her first name carried a dangerous intimacy. Fumbling with the knife, her hand shook as if stricken with ague. Jeffrey’s hand enfolded over hers, gently forcing her to rest it against the table. His skin against hers felt solid. An embrace of steel, sharp as the knife itself. Amanda suppre
ssed a shiver.

  His tall, muscular body, dominating and powerful, reminded her of the intimacy they’d shared last night. An intimacy that left her horrified and ashamed, yet longing for more.

  “Knives can be dangerous. Take care Amanda, or you will get hurt.” His tone was soft, edged with warning.

  She gave a little laugh to conceal her nervousness. Hurt by her own hidden desire? Pray, not again. She had control. Amanda shook off his hand and fluffed out her apron.

  “Your household needed help.” She pressed her palms flat against the table.

  “A young lady, alone now with me, as you were in Lord Dunmore’s quarters. You are much too trusting.” His low, husky drawl carried a threat.

  Her heart began to pound harder. Did he suspect her true intent? Amanda turned, saw his mouth thin.

  “Pray tell, how can my Christian actions in being a good neighbor be misconstrued? I can only assume they are done so by someone lacking in scruples.”

  Jeffrey did not even flicker an eyelash. He searched her face, interrogated her with his piercing gaze and demanded the truth. Sweat glistened in fine droplets in the triangle of dark, curling chair exposed by his open shirt.

  As if in a trance, she reached up to touch his heavily muscled chest. Horrified, she dropped her hand. She must leave before her passions led her astray once more.

  “I assure you, you are addressing the wrong man if you search for scruples.”

  “I would hope that you would demonstrate some of that which you claim to lack. Such is the way of a gentleman with a lady.”

  Jeffrey folded his arms across his chest. “You give me too much credit. I have never claimed to be a gentleman. I believe you realized that last night in your cousin’s house.”

  Cheeks burning, she clenched her fists. “Indeed, I did. I am a lady, not a common woman.”

  “Then why don’t you leave now? You made dinner for us, and yet you remain. As you remained last night, alone upstairs with me.”

  “A mistake.”

  “Was it?”

  “One I shall never repeat.”

  “Because you are a lady, and ladies do not feel such passion.”

  Drawing herself up, she steeled her spine. “Those ruled by their passions are fools. I regret a moment’s foolishness, and you sir, clearly do not.”

  But he took a deep breath, as if he did. Wide shoulders sagging, Jeffrey dropped his arms. “I do regret having to compromise you. If I caused you distress, I apologize.”

  Bemused, she stared at him. “’Tis best we both not think of it nor mention it again.”

  What a fascinating, complex man. He’d ruthlessly kissed her for his own purposes and now offered an apology, something John had never done in England. After seeking his pleasure, the cad had fled back to his ship, leaving her alone with the tattered ruins of her life.

  Jeffrey gave a rueful smile. “’Tis easier for me to never mention that interlude. But not to think of it asks the impossible. I will not forget it for a long time, Amanda, much as I could never forget an exquisite wine that left a pleasant taste lingering on my tongue.”

  I as well, she nearly blurted out. Amanda stared at his wide mouth, remembering the carnal pleasure of his kiss, how he’d stoked the burning feeling until she craved more.

  “Of course, if I repeat such actions, you are free to walk away, unlike last night.” His gaze deepened with sensual intent.

  Leave now, her good sense urged. Yet she stood, transfixed by a sudden realization. The enjoyment she’d felt in his arms had boiled into a passion she’d not felt since setting foot on Virginia soil. In her desire to please her parents, life had become as restrictive as a whalebone stays. Confused, she rubbed her mouth.

  “You have a smudge of soot on your chin,” Jeffrey told her.

  Amanda wiped it.

  “Here, allow me.”

  He approached until standing close enough to kiss her. Their gazes caught and held as Jeffrey licked his thumb with slow intent.

  Clasping her chin, he rubbed his calloused digit over the offending spot. Amanda closed her eyes, enjoying the warm caress. No one ever touched her like this. Her parents never embraced her, for they believed physical demonstrations of affection were crude.

  Arching her back like a cat beneath a master’s gentle hand, she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  He made a strangled sound, then slid his thumb upward. Jeffrey slowly stroked the pad of his thumb across her parted lips. Transfixed, Amanda opened her mouth on a breathy sigh.

  As the friction intensified, she leaned forward, needing more. The feelings experienced last night rushed through her. Blood pounded through her veins as her nipples tingled, her breasts felt heavy and full. She parted her lips, craving his warm, firm mouth covering hers. The pressure would feel delightful—

  Startled, she opened her eyes to meet his darkened gaze.

  “You’re still here,” he murmured. “Do you wish me to continue?”

  Desire warred within her. She wanted his touch, craved his mouth settling upon hers, quelling this burning feeling.

  A lady would never feel such things.

  “I want.” Amanda gulped down a breath. She shook her head. She did not know what she wanted.

  “If you cannot take the heat, ’tis best to leave the kitchen,” he said softly.

  Fumbling with the apron strings, she finally untied them and threw the cloth across the table.

  Leave now, her conscience urged. Leave before she surrendered to this damnable lust.

  Fleeing for the door, she felt the burning heat of his gaze upon her back.

  Chapter Six

  “SO HOW WAS your visit with Mrs. Flanders, dear? Did you manage to extract anything from her treasonous brother?”

  Hastily, she shook her head and gulped some wine, hoping her flush would be blamed on the liquor. There were no excuses for her lust-filled behavior. Passion had addled her wits, just as it had upstairs in Lord Dunmore’s mansion. She’d sworn never to let her own desires control her, and failed miserably. She had responded to his touch like a strumpet. The haunted longing on Jeffrey’s face echoed her pained need. What drew them together when they should be arch enemies? What damning force made her lose what sense the Almighty had given her and turned her into a dumbstruck sheep cavorting outside the wolf’s lair?

  Amanda gazed at her dinner plate. She strove to prove herself a lady and yet in the space of minutes, he’d stripped away that veneer as if tearing off her gown. She touched her mouth, expecting to find warmth. Jeffrey had the confident air of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. He wanted her and told her so.

  “My dear, you must not let him intimidate you. Remember your duty to King and Country.”

  Amanda raised her gaze. Her father, Arthur, had mellow features, jowls and a thoughtful air. His powdered wig sat in straight perfection on his head. Most of the time. When he was sober. Lately, thank the good Almighty, that had been quite often.

  “I remember. I also remember that you forced me into this.” Her own bravado surprised her. She had not stood up to her parents in some time.

  “Hold your tongue young lady,” warned her mother. “Do you forget you are the reason we moved to these ill-bred colonies?”

  “How could I forget? When you choose to keep reminding me,” Amanda muttered.

  “Did you find out anything useful?” her father asked.

  “Jeffrey Clayton is very intelligent. It will not be an easy task to find out much.”

  “Clayton. Rabble rouser from Boston. Trying to drive me out of business! Thank the Almighty only a few citizens have the pea brains to listen to him. He is a dangerous one, Clayton. Heard he was among the first to talk of raising a militia up north. He should have been flogged for sedition.”

  Amanda swallowed hard. Never had she heard her mild-mannered father spout such venom. What would he say if he knew she’d kissed that traitor to the Crown? Would she suffer the same condemnation, or worse?


  Her mother frowned. “But he is not among those who actually joined the militia, is he?”

  “He’s talked enough in the Raleigh tavern with the radicals. They’ll recruit him for the militia eventually. Fought in the French and Indian war. From what I hear he did ghastly things in the war. Dreadful, unspeakable acts.”

  Amanda blanched. Her father nodded. “I am sorry to upset you, but he has a violent streak.”

  “And this is the man you set me to spy upon? Do you not fear for my own safety, Papa?”

  He reached over and patted her hand. “As long as you are among others in his company, you are safe from him. I fear he may be a man who would use violence against innocent maidens.”

  The irony was too much to bear. Safer than I am when alone with you when you have imbibed, father? Would Jeffrey raise a cane against a woman?

  Amanda remembered the gentle way Jeffrey’s lips had claimed hers and how his kiss had intensified. Yet even amid the heated passion his mouth delivered, there was a tenderness to his actions that belied her father’s claim of vulgar aggression. Jeffrey kissed with confidence and purpose, but did not force her.

  “These colonists who insist on independence from England, who complain of being governed by the best government in the world. This is why Parliament stopped shipping British goods to the colonies, because of these dull, uneducated commoners! And they refuse to purchase my merchandise.” Her father slammed a fist on the table. Silverware and china rattled.

  “Not all colonists are dull and uneducated. Meg Flanders is highly intelligent. I like her very much. She asked me to visit again.”

  “Do so. ’Tis an excellent excuse to spy upon her brother,” her mother suggested. “Visit her Sunday after church services. But not today. William does plan to call on you.”

  William. A proper British subject, rigid in his duty and what her mother thought of as a decent catch. And dull.

  Not Jeffrey, who aroused passions she buried deep within her breast. She need not fear such passion from William and his rigid moral code.

  Amanda exhaled so deeply her stays dug painfully into her ribs. A small feeling of rebellion surfaced. Why must she do everything her parents asked? What of her own expectations?