The Patriot's Conquest

by Vanak, Bonnie

  Jeffrey cast her a sideways glance as warmth surged through his body. Miss Amanda Reeves, proper British subject, had a wicked tongue. He licked his lips, remembering that tongue as it had traced his mouth.

  “Amanda, I can assure you that men who are willing to fight for freedom have much to boast about in producing heat in all those places. Especially the bed chamber, where I have won many battles. If you are so inclined, I would be much obliged to tutor you in that particular arena.”

  The cad.

  Jeffrey’s confident manner, the gleam in his eye and the seductive tone of his deep voice infuriated her. As if he’d dare bed her!

  “You presume much. Your braggart air will gain you no favors.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “’Tis bragging then, when one speaks the truth plainly? I’ve no complaints to inform me otherwise of my abilities.”

  Amanda shot him an irritated look, for she suspected he did tell the truth. Jeffrey’s masculinity and handsome features lent credence to his claim. His simple, well-tailored gray waistcoat, coat and breeches showed off muscled thighs and shoulders. At his throat, a crisp white stock lacked the pompous lace other men preferred. Its simplicity sat well with him. The man had an air of smoldering authority about him. As if he had commanded a legion of troops in the battlefield, and seduced an equal legion of women in the bed chamber.

  Warmth filled her as she remembered how his powerful arms had trapped her in his embrace. Amanda gave herself a mental shake. She must cut off this thread of conversation. Snip it now.

  “Your horses step lively,” she commented. There! A safe enough topic.

  A proud smile tugged at his mouth. “Aye, they do indeed. Justice and Freedom are two of Evergreen’s most prized possessions. I plan to breed Justice with Liberty as soon as she comes into season. She’s of good stock and he’s certain to sire a fine foal. Horse breeding’s certain to increase business.”

  Oh dear. Now conversation had slipped from the bed chamber to breeding. Darting a glance at him, she saw mirth dancing in his eyes.

  “Your mare, Sage, is a lovely horse. Good lines, fine carriage. She’d be bound to produce spirited foals.”

  “I have no intentions of breeding Sage,” Amanda replied smoothly. “She is perfectly content the way she is. I’ll not turn her into a brood mare.”

  “Why deny the creature the pleasure of bringing forth new life? Is it not in the good book for all creatures be fruitful and multiply? Indeed, the act of creating life is most... pleasurable.”

  “’Tis an act more pleasurable for the stallion than the mare, I am certain.”

  “How can you judge rightly what you know not? I’d remedy you’d change your mind, for ’tis a most enjoyable means God invented to sow new life in females.”

  Amanda gripped her hands together tightly. “How can you dare to compare the martial act with horse breeding? Christian women endure such matters to produce children, not to enjoy the effort.”

  “Endure?” Jeffrey echoed. “You have a sad view on breeding and the act that produces it, Amanda. Must be because you’re untested in these matters. Perhaps the right man could change your mind and teach you much.”

  Now he turned his head and gave her the full power of his intent gaze. She felt her limbs melt. Amanda drew in a quivering breath. How had she fallen into this trap? She groped for a safer subject. Politics seemed much safer than sex.

  “You’ve a strange way of naming horses. Justice and Freedom. Do you accord all your horses such titles that accompany your twisted political views?” Amanda taunted.

  Jeffrey lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “Nay. Roger did have one horse named King George.”

  “’Tis good he was named thus. I’m certain he was the best horse Evergreen owned.”

  “’Tis true, until King George developed a mean streak. We shot him. Best for all concerned.”

  As she sputtered, he laughed heartily. “You are too easy a mark.”

  They drove on in silence as Amanda seethed. Evergreen’s sweeping vista of rolling green hills and river settled her nerves as the wagon drew up in front of the house. She thanked Jeffrey as he helped her down.

  “There is such serenity and beauty here,” she murmured, gazing around the grounds.

  As Miles and Sara ran into the house, Jeffrey gave her a quiet, thoughtful look. “Come, I’ll introduce you to fine Virginia soil.”

  He led her down the road to a column of trees. Jeffrey stood silently, bowing his head as if in benediction.

  “Listen,” he murmured.

  “I hear nothing.”

  “Aye, you think you hear nothing. But listen closer. The land speaks to you.”

  Raised in the city, accustomed to horse’s hooves clattering, women chattering, vendors crying their wares, and the bustling noises of a city in motion, she found it hard to follow his request. She quieted, listening to the land. A crow called in the distance, its shrill cry haunting. A gentle breeze blew from the river, playing with her skirt hem like a child at her feet.

  “Land,” Jeffrey said softly. “’Tis the only thing that has meaning. Nothing, not government, nor the crown, can outlast it.”

  The dank smell of earth and water tickled her senses. Smoke curled in a lazy twist from the kitchen, a cozy, warm scent of home and hearth. A cow lowed in the distant pasture. Something inside her stirred, like a spark amid doused embers. This land was filled with possibilities.

  She had fled to Virginia, hoping to find a place to belong amongst society. But she had never truly seen the land of the colonies in this new light. The land offered a clean slate, without restrictions of others dictating one’s fate.

  These feelings troubled her deeply. For the first time, she understood the restlessness and pride that spurred Jeffrey and other rebels to break free from England. She did not want to understand. Empathy would only sway her from her assigned goal.

  Jeffrey was a radical. An outcast from the rigid gentry whose ranks she longed to join.

  “Orchard there.” Jeffrey pointed at a split rail fence cordoning off a copse of several budding trees. “We’ll have apples in the fall. I put the cattle there to save land for planting and to fertilize the earth, although when next season comes, some fields will be fallow.”

  “You will not plant every acre? Why?”

  “To give the soil a chance to turn over. Tobacco leeches everything away. Using it for pasture for one season allows the soil to replenish itself. That and fertilizing helps.”

  She’d never heard of such a method. “Fertilizing?”

  Now his face took on a rapt eagerness, burning with inner passion. “Aye, fertilizing. Learned the method from the Indians in Massachusetts. Fish heads, good creek mud, manure, you till the soil and then rake in the fertilizer and your crop will yield far greater. Then mix ashes with the seeds to reduce insects from eating the crops.”

  Amanda wrinkled her nose. “I will trust your word on it.”

  Jeffrey continued walking, his hands laced behind his back. At the crest of a gentle rolling green slope, he stopped. Far to her left, away from the main house, sat a large wood cabin.

  “’Tis mine,” he said with evident pride. “Meg and Roger abandoned it for the big house. I renovated it.”

  “Why, when the main house offers all the comforts?”

  He gauged her with a steady eye. “’Tis a place of my own. A place where I can be free to indulge my own pleasures and relax at day’s end with a good book.”

  The idea of having privacy, where she could read to her heart’s delight, made her wistful. “Having a place to be free sounds divine. No one critical if your dance steps are off. No one to mind if your dress is not of the finest quality silk, or you own a chaise and not a carriage, and your pleasures are from reading,” Amanda mused.

  Jeffrey gave her another long, thoughtful look and then he smiled. For a moment, they locked gazes, as if peering into each other’s souls. Amanda flushed and turned away.

  She did not w
ish to like the man, nor find common ground with him. He was her country’s enemy.

  “Come, I have something to show you.”

  They walked through an archway of hedges, passing the house. Amanda gasped. Meg’s house sat on a tall rise overlooking the James River, providing a breathtaking vista of green fields marching to the tree-lined riverbank.

  “’Tis the reason why Meg and Roger bought this place. This is land worth fighting for.”

  His face took on a boyish expression. Jeffrey seemed in rapt communion with the countryside and it answered back in its own mysterious way. Amanda envied his devotion to the soil, even his radical zealotry. He clearly knew his purpose in life. Where was hers?

  To King and Country, she told herself. Yet Jeffrey’s passion and drive made Loyalists such as her parents look weak, especially when they parroted the same sentiments over and over. What if she had to think for herself instead of believing what she had been told?

  Amanda looked deep inside and found a small spark of rebellion glowing. It disturbed her greatly. Were her loyalties divided?

  You owe your father, she reminded herself. ’Twas her shame that had driven him from England.

  They walked to the open field once more. Sturdy oak trees peppered the edges, their strength reminding her of Jeffrey’s hands—solid, broad and powerful. Amanda could not help a wistful sigh. Living on such a grand estate would prove far more peaceful than the bustling city.

  “You are most fortunate to claim this plantation as a home. There’s a peace here, a quietness where one can find the stillness of the soul.”

  “Aye, ’tis true. I’m not certain about staying here in Virginia, though. I’ve a few acres outside Boston.”

  Amanda tilted her head, curious about the man. “Why do you claim the trade of a blacksmith? Why work in town at all when you can devote all your time to the land as a planter? ’Tis most unusual for a man to claim two trades. What reason do you have to be a blacksmith?”

  Flint returned to his expression. Amanda wondered why her question evoked such a change.

  “Why soil my hands with soot and grease? For planting’s a more noble profession than toiling with iron?”

  “I meant no criticism of your profession.”

  “Of course, a planter has a greater social standing than a mere blacksmith. You would lower yourself to dine with a blacksmith only because of a child’s plea.” He gave her an assessing look. “Why did your parents permit you to dine with us, Amanda, knowing we hold ideals far different from a Tory’s?”

  The words struck too close to the mark. Did he suspect? Amanda lifted her chin. “My parents do not hold me on a leash. I choose whom I wish to dine with and by the Almighty, if I desired to do so in a stable filled with manure, I would!”

  She set off in another direction.

  “Amanda, do not walk that way.”

  “I shall walk where I choose.”

  “I would not,” he advised lazily, holding out a hand. “Come with me.”

  Arrogant brigand. She’d not meekly follow him. She stomped forward, straight into a soft spot on the ground and staggered slightly. A raw smell assaulted her nostrils. Amanda peered down and saw she’d stepped into a pile of Virginia manure. Her hem fouled with the filth.

  Jeffrey chuckled as she eased away. “I warned you. Come, you and Meg are about the same size. I’ll have Sadie launder that gown for you.”

  At the house, she exchanged her gown and shoes for Meg’s, then headed to the kitchen. Amanda’s spirits lifted upon seeing Meg on her feet once more. At the fireplace, a dark-skinned servant Meg had introduced as Sadie cranked a roasting rabbit on a spit. Jeffrey’s sister chopped vegetables and set them into a pot to boil.

  Sara dashed into the kitchen, tugging her hand. “Amanda, come see my kittens.”

  In a pile of fresh straw in the barn a calico cat sat enjoying a stray beam of sunshine, giving suck to a litter of tiny kittens. Amanda picked up one, its claws stretching in protest. An idea suddenly surfaced. Setting the kitten down, she motioned for Sara to follow her outside and then squatted on the ground.

  “Kitty shall begin your lesson. I’ll use rhymes for you to remember. Let’s start with ‘K.’ K is for kitten, bouncy and light. To make the letter K, draw a straight line, then a left and right.”

  Amanda drew the letter in the dirt.

  “Let me try!”

  Amanda took her hand, tracing the letter. A shadow fell over them. “What have we here? Lessons?”

  “Amanda’s teaching me letters, Uncle Jeffrey!”

  He squatted down next to Amanda, resting his arms on his legs. She became aware again of his largeness. Hard thighs rested inches from her skirts. Distracted, she diverted her gaze, wondering if he’d caught her staring.

  But Jeffrey seemed absorbed in the child. “I should hire a tutor for you, Sara. A good American tutor to teach you American English, not the King’s English.”

  The insult annoyed her. She smiled fondly at Sara.

  “Here’s another letter, which stands for our mother country. ‘E’ is for England, whose King we must obey. Make the letter one straight line, then three going away.”

  Jeffrey darted a glance at her. His nostrils flared. He reached down and drew the letter ‘F.’ “F is for freedom from tyrants we will stop.”

  Amanda gritted her teeth. “G is for good King George, our ruler for whom we pray.”

  Jeffrey’s expression hardened. “H is for Hell, where we shall send tyrants like King George.”

  “I is for idiots who revolt against the crown.”

  “J is for justice, denied to the colonies.”

  A tiny sob stopped her from retorting. Alarmed, Amanda glanced down to see Sara crying. “Please, don’t shout. You’re going too fast, I can’t learn all this.”

  Deeply ashamed, she embraced Sara. “I’m sorry sweetie, ’tis not your fault. ’Twas not you...” She glanced up to see Jeffrey’s guilty look. He jammed his thumbs into his waistcoat’s pockets.

  It was just that she and Jeffrey were at opposite sides of the battlefield.

  “Come, honey, let’s leave lessons for after dinner. I would like to see your kittens again.” Sniffling, Sara took the hand she offered. The feel of the tiny hand in hers tugged at her heart. Would she ever have a family of her own? Amanda watched Jeffrey stroll off toward the house.

  Whatever the future held for her, certainly it did not include him.

  Chapter Nine

  DURING DINNER, JEFFREY engaged Amanda in a robust discussion of French philosophers. She quoted Voltaire furiously at him and he challenged her back, much to Meg’s amusement.

  After the meal, Amanda sat on the floor, scribbling letters with a slate and chalk and had Sara draw each one. Miles indulged himself in Robinson Crusoe by the window while Meg spun wool in the corner. Jeffrey sat in a handsome rocking chair, tipping it back. Creak, he rocked forward. Creak, back. Resting his broad hands on its carved handles, he stared at her. She felt uncomfortable under the heavy weight of his intense scrutiny.

  “Now, you take the letter ‘A’.” Remember what I said about ‘A’? ‘A’ is for apple, juicy and sweet. Form two lines at the top, then a line across does it meet.”

  The child struggled to copy Amanda.

  Jeffrey leaned forward, some unknown intent blazing in his eyes. “And what is the letter ‘B’ for?”

  “The letter ‘B’ is for Britain, our mother country,” she replied, meeting his hard stare. I shall not back down.

  A muscle jumped wildly in Jeffrey’s tightened jaw. His gaze darted to Sara and his expression softened. Then he glanced back at Amanda and his expression tightened.

  “Need to check on the horses,” he muttered, rising. He strode out the front door, banging it behind him.

  Amanda looked around the room. Miles and Meg were absorbed in their work. Time to question the child. Perhaps she had overhead something that would give Amanda information to pass along to Lord Dunmore.

 
“Sara, ’tis nice to dine with you. Does your Uncle Jeffrey ever ask people to dine here? Friends perhaps?”

  “Oh aye, Amanda. Mr. Henry dined here.”

  Her ears pricked. She smoothed her skirt, pretending nonchalance. “Patrick Henry?”

  “Uh-huh. He and Uncle Jeffrey talked a long, long time!”

  “What did they talk about?”

  The child’s lower lip jutted out as she traced her letter. “Something about Uncle Jeffrey and a Melissa. Mr. Henry said Melissa is very popular now among the men but this Melissa needs Uncle Jeffrey badly.”

  Another woman in his life? Jealousy thrust tiny knife-like needles into her heart. “Why does this Melissa need Uncle Jeffrey?”

  “Mr. Henry said Uncle Jeffrey’s a big, strong man who knows a lot about what a Melissa needs. He’s got ’sperience. And Uncle Jeffrey said he had a big gun that this Melissa wanted. He was good at handling his gun and this Melissa would like that.”

  Amanda smarted, thinking of how casually Jeffrey and Patrick Henry chatted about Jeffrey’s lover. In front of children yet! Brigand!

  She glanced up as the front door creaked open. Jeffrey strolled in and dropped besides Sara. His face split into a tremendous smile as Sara held up her awkwardly drawn letters. The smile extended to Amanda, who returned it with a scowl.

  His brow furrowed. “I have declared a truce between us. For the sake of the child, I will not argue with you. What ails you now?”

  “Nothing,” she muttered. “Nothing that I should have not expected of you. I should expect to die before thinking you anything more than a rogue.”

  Though his mouth twisted, he remained silent. Jeffrey stood and paced to the stairs, his tread heavy upon the steps.

  When he returned, he had a violin in hand. Jeffrey sat in the rocker and played a lively song. Amanda recognized the tune as a spirited tavern song her father frequently bawled out when deep in his cups.

  Amanda felt a twinge of envy at the cozy scene. Her Sabbaths were filled with dullness, not music.

  “Jeffrey, that was most excellent,” Meg smiled at her brother. “Play ‘One Morning in May’. Amanda, you can join the duet.”