“I’ve not the voice for it,” she said, feeling shy. “I fear my voice will sound as scratchy as an old tin cup rattling against metal bars.”
“’Tis no excuse for not singing, a preacher told me once. He said if you have a lovely voice like a songbird, sing to Heaven and thank the Almighty for it. And if ’tis not the case, then sing to Heaven and get thee revenge!”
She laughed. “’Tis a most excellent rationale.”
Jeffrey played, singing a deep, pleasing tenor. Amanda joined him, their voices dancing together. As they sang the last note, a perfect blend of harmony and melody, she became aware of a reluctant sadness to his tone. As if they were the potential lovers in the song who could never be together and would soon part.
Silence reigned for a moment, then the children clapped.
“How absolutely beautiful,” Meg said. “Amanda, you and Jeffrey complement each other in a lovely harmony.”
Jeffrey’s solemn expression seemed filled with some odd longing. Amanda felt an equal tug, as if they’d broached a tentative understanding filled with something deeper, more meaningful than a simple song. From across the room, they gazed at each other with equal intensity. She drew in a shaky breath. Then Jeffrey assumed his usual cocky grin.
“Aye, Meg, ’twas a most excellent blending of male and female parts. And Amanda’s female part seemed quite receptive to accompany my male part.”
Amanda bristled. Meg merely smiled. If she caught the suggestiveness of her brother’s remark, she chose to ignore it.
“Do sing another for us,” Meg begged.
Jeffrey laid down his violin and bow. “Perhaps later. I’ve the animals to tend to.”
“Let the servants do it. We’ve a guest,” Meg chided him.
“And the servants deserve a day of rest as well from their chores, for they tend the animals all week.”
The door slammed behind Jeffrey. Meg stared after him. “What ails him? Jeffrey is never this abrupt.”
Amanda bit back a sigh. It was her. Rather he’d milk cows and slop hogs than sing again with the enemy.
Without music to liven the room, the mood grew drowsy. Sara rested her head on her arm. Miles yawned. Even Meg began to doze. Soon, all three were asleep.
Now. Amanda slipped upstairs and peeked in all the rooms. One had a large bed topped with a white quilt. Boots lay carelessly tossed to one side, a man’s clothing hung on a peg.
She slipped inside, opened drawers and inspected them. Nothing. Even a small secretary revealed but stationary and quill, nothing more. Bending down, she peered under the bed and saw a chest. Did it hold secrets?
Upon hearing footsteps, Amanda drew up and banged her head on the wood bed frame. She yelped and sat back, rubbing her head.
“What are you doing in my bed chamber?” Jeffrey asked.
“I had thought to see where you sleep. My father imports beds from London and most are not so sizable. Since your frame is so large, I thought to check to see where your bed was manufactured.”
What a daft lie. Embarrassment bloomed to life in her cheeks.
Jeffrey gave a calculating smile. “Now you have satisfied your curiosity. But why stop there? Wouldn’t you like to test the mattress?” He sat on the bed, patting it. “Come, ’tis most comfortable.”
At her hesitation, he arched a brow. “Come Amanda. Sit. Or was it not my bed you claimed interest in, but something else beneath it?”
Amanda sat gingerly as if lowering her bottom on a bed of hot coals. “’Tis a fine mattress. Quite springy. Horse hair, I’d hazard to guess. Imported from England.”
“Feather,” Jeffrey corrected. “A feather mattress is most enjoyable for sleeping and other bedtime activities.”
“I have no idea what you mean. I merely expressed a merchant’s curiosity.”
“And I express a man’s curiosity about what a maiden is doing in my room,” Jeffrey countered softly. “Testing my bed. Without me in it.”
She raced for the door, only to find him sprinting to it. Jeffrey closed the door and leaned against it, blocking her escape.
“Please. I must leave. ’Tis not proper to be with you in this room.”
“True. A young lady, alone with me. You are much too trusting, Amanda.” His low, husky drawl spoke of promise.
Amanda stepped back, creating space between them as he regarded her with his piercing silver gaze. Though he’d been properly attired at dinner, Jeffrey had stripped down to a linen shirt to attend to the animals. The sleeves were rolled up to display his muscled forearms. Such power and strength in those arms. She remembered how he’d wielded the iron at the forge, and how he’d held her as they kissed in her cousin’s house. Amanda shivered.
“You’re trembling. Have you caught a chill? Shall I keep you warm?” he inquired softly.
“Thank you, but I am quite comfortable.”
“Comfortable in my bed chamber? Mayhap my prayers have been answered, and the Almighty has sent a fiery-haired angel to keep me warm. ‘Tis usually cold and lonely in this room.”
She bristled. “I am surprised you find it chilly, Jeffrey. For with all the hot air you do spout about freedom from England, ’tis a wonder the chamber is not over heated. Indeed, I find the room quite warm.”
“Aye, I nearly forgot you are British and must be accustomed to the cold, for all British have ice water running through their veins. Like your cousin Lord Dunmore. ’Tis a wonder that fool survived in the woods during last year’s skirmishes with the Indians.”
Oh, the cad! “My cousin is a hot-blooded Scot with a great love of adventure and gaming, not a ninny-minded weakling as you indicate.”
“If so, then Virginia would have no need of volunteers, the man could protect the colony all on his own,” Jeffrey rejoined.
“Volunteers! Rude, crude, militia men who march boldly and threaten my cousin’s good peace of mind with their drillings.”
Another shrug. “Your cousin has enough defenses, I am certain.”
“Nay, only the Magdalen in Burwell’s Bay and the H.M.S. Fowey in the York. The Magdalen sails soon for north, though the Fowey itself has some fine cannon aboard her. My cousin has the upper hand in arms on sea, and has said he has plans for land defense as well.”
Oh bother! Her wagging tongue revealed valuable information to a radical like Jeffrey. Amanda hastily tried to cover her slip.
“However, good strong men like my beau, William, are more than able to defend his lordship if necessary. He is a good and loyal soldier, dedicated to the cause of defending our lord governor.”
Surprise flickered in Jeffrey’s gaze. His mouth twisted. “And who exactly is this fine beau of yours? Is he a lowly private in His Majesty’s army?”
“Captain William Christopher is Lord Dunmore’s secretary.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, I do recall seeing him strut about town. A fair-haired man with a proclivity toward fine foods.”
“William is a well-trained soldier who knows how to fire a weapon with deadly aim.”
“Our guns are bigger, more imposing and our aim much better. So I’ve been told.”
“Your modesty is truly striking, Jeffrey. ’Tis a wonder you can fit through this doorway with your head so stuffed full of yourself,” she shot back.
“I speak truthfully of my prowess. Not like your William who is stuffed full of sweetmeats and quail. Why do you fuss with a soft-bellied beau like that? Can his kisses fill that aching space inside you? Would you not rather fancy a real man instead?”
Jeffrey tugged at her hand, drawing her close. His nearness filled her with dread and longing.
“Now, Amanda,” he said in a coaxing tone, “Come now, just one kiss will not hurt you. From a real man who can teach you exactly how to be a woman.”
One kiss? Amanda remembered what Sara had told her. Her ears burned. Jeffrey thought her an easy mark much as the women he kept company with.
“Why do you not tell the same to your Melissa? I am certain she is mor
e than willing to accommodate you!”
Frank bewilderment crossed his face. “I know of no woman named Melissa.”
“Do not lie to me, Jeffrey Clayton. I have it on good authority that you and this Melissa are quite close. Indeed she clamors after your big gun.”
Dangerous tension coiled around him. “My big gun? Who told you of this? Who is this good authority?”
So angry was she Amanda forgot the reason why she’d started the conversation with Sara in the first place. “Your niece. She overheard you and Patrick Henry talk about your Melissa. And how much she needs ‘big strong men’ like you and your big gun.”
He laughed. The sound echoed throughout his bedchamber. His white teeth flashed. How dare he laugh over one of his conquests?
“Big gun? My long rifle! Melissa? Nay, not a woman, not Melissa. Militia! You spout names from a seven-year-old with a hearty lisp.”
She fell quiet, realizing her mistake as he stopped laughing and his intense gray gaze focused on her. Seeking to retreat, she walked to the window, pretending interest in the view.
He followed, clasping her shoulders and turning her to face him. Jeffrey tipped up her chin with his thumb, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“And now, Amanda, pray tell, why were you interrogating my niece about my conversations with Pat? What political information had you hoped to glean?”
“’Twas merely an incident the child deigned to share with me. I had thought she referenced your female companions. Nothing more.”
“Your curiosity about my life seems to stray always to certain topics. Causes me to wonder about your intent. First you express such rapt interest in my bed. Now in my female companions. Would you like a display of what I do with my female companions?”
Amanda headed for the door. “Jeffrey, ’tis growing late. I shall find a servant to drive me home.”
As she reached for the doorknob, he covered her hand with his palm. “Nay, since you are so curious about my activities, I shall show you.”
He slid his arms about her waist and lowered his mouth in a punishing, passionate kiss. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, pressing against them until she gave a little moan and opened her mouth, allowing him entrance.
Pleasure warred with real alarm as he hoisted the hem of her skirts and slid a hand along her calf, up her thigh. Skillfully he stroked her skin, his touch teasing and light as he threatened to broach the area between her clenched thighs. Amanda whimpered under the sensual onslaught. Finally, he released her.
“There now, Amanda. A small taste of what I do with my female companions. I’ve the inclination to show you a larger taste since you’ve whetted my appetite.”
Anger laced his husky voice. She recognized how dangerous this man was and the game she had chosen to play. Spy on him? Suddenly afraid, Amanda pushed at his chest.
With a polite bow, he stepped aside, gesturing toward the door.
“If you desire to leave, Jake will drive you home. He’s in the barn. But if you wish to stay, the feather bed is quite soft and large enough for two. And since you have such curiosity about my private life, I’m more than willing to satisfy it.”
“’Tis best you keep your inclinations to yourself, Jeffrey, for you forget I am not one of your lower-class female companions. I’d no more willingly bed you than I’d turn tailcoat to my King and Country.”
The smile he gave her was chilling in its fierce intensity.
“Oh? We shall see about that. We shall see.”
She suppressed a shudder at the low threat in his words. Amanda fumbled with the doorknob, then fled down the hallway to the stairs.
Chapter Ten
TIRED OF THE sleepy mood that had descended upon Williamsburg since Lord Dunmore had dissolved the House of Burgesses, George Wythe decided to make merry.
He rented out the Apollo Room for the night and invited friends to join in singing, dancing and drinking. Thirty people packed the room, including the Richards, who brought Polly. Jeffrey brought Meg, arranging for Sadie to watch the children.
Tables had been pushed off to one side to make room for dancing. Sitting at one now, Jeffrey lifted his tankard. Silently he toasted his own cleverness. He’d managed to leech from Amanda that her cousin feared the militia and felt defenseless. But kissing her brought not pleasure, but burning longing. The woman teased his male senses to the point of agony. Being near her left him vulnerable, as if he stood alone in an open field facing a volley of British musket fire.
As friends struck up violin and flute to begin the dancing, Jeffrey found himself remembering Amanda’s eager response to his caresses. She was a flint and he dry kindling, ready to burn for her.
Polly Richards crossed the pegged pine floor and stood before him, looking pretty in a sprigged gown.
“Mr. Clayton, please dance with me. ’Tis a festive night to celebrate. Is nothing more wonderful than dancing?”
Polly was a sweet-faced girl and he needed to shake off these feelings about Amanda. He took her hand and they joined the group in several hearty country dances. Meg, dancing nearby with Stephen, a cousin of the Richards’, looked rapt with joy.
As the couples sat down again, Stephen escorted Meg to her chair and hovered nearby. Jeffrey made a note to track the relationship. If Meg remarried, he’d give her back the 400 acres he’d purchased to relieve her debt, plus a few acres of his land on Virginia’s northwest frontier. It would make a handsome dowry and provide as well for Miles and Sara.
An unexpected twist of pure loneliness stabbed him. If Meg married, he’d be left alone once more. Mayhap he should rethink marriage and a family of his own.
Polly sat beside him, smiling coyly. “Mr. Clayton, you dance quite well. You put me out of breath, you do. My heart is pounding so very fast. You should feel how fast it pounds.”
She put a hand on her narrow chest as if suggesting he dare to check her heart. Amused, he reached for his tankard and drank. Certainly Polly would love the position of being Mrs. Jeffrey Clayton. She looked at him like he’d seen portly Peyton Randolph eye a plump roast. Maybe she’d enjoy the other positions that came with marriage as well.
“I fear I will wear out my shoes before the night is over. Look at my poor shoes!”
She pouted and lifted her skirt to mid-calf, peering at her cloth slipper.
Jeffrey choked on his Virginia beer, startled at the bold revealing of her naked ankle. The girl was indeed a practiced flirt. Then he realized Polly actually worried her shoes would wear out from dancing, more than the impropriety of lifting her skirts to show off her leg.
He thought of Amanda and how she’d no more present part of her leg for his inspection than she’d stand up in the tavern and give a toast to Patrick Henry.
“Fear not, Miss Richards. If your shoes give out, your stockings are sturdy enough for dancing the night through.”
Perhaps he should try engaging her in solid conversation. A good American girl, she fit into his life much easier than say, Amanda. He fished around for a compliment.
“’Tis a pretty dress you wear, Miss Richards. Makes your cheeks blossom like two roses.”
A wave of color flooded those cheeks and she gave a pretty smile. Jeffrey considered. Quite charming, really.
“This dress, ’tis old. Mother insists we spin our own from now on to honor the boycott. I tire of linsey-woolsey. It scratches something fierce!”
“’Tis a sacrifice we make to demonstrate to England we’ll not bend to her pressure on us for closing the Boston port.”
“Oh indeed! But the sassafras tea is nothing compared to English tea. And I so wanted new hair ribbons for tonight, lovely pink ones that would go with my gown, but there’s no purchasing them, for they are English as well.”
He tried again. “If America is to become united, we must forge ahead on our own and break all ties with England. Make our own hair ribbons. Boston’s port remains closed and the boycott is our small way of demonstrating unity with our sister colony. Do you not ag
ree?”
“Oh indeed! Father says we must show support for Boston. Still, I do hope this boycott is over with soon. ’Tis tiring living with all these pressures.”
She batted her lashes. “I did want to look ever so nice for you tonight, Mr. Clayton.”
Jeffrey sighed deeply. Conversing with her was as stimulating as talking to his pewter tankard. Polly merely saw the boycott as an inconvenience. She’d do what her parents asked, but he suspected if someone handed her a new gown and new ribbons, she’d be warbling “God save the King” quicker than she could slip into the new frock.
He wanted something deeper, more meaningful, not this insipid chatter. Sparks and fire. The enormous room seemed to close on his skull. Jeffrey smiled and stood, offering an apology to Polly for abandoning her. He headed for the double doors, desperate to escape to fresh air.
“A quart of rum, please. The Reeves account.”
“We only sell Virginia made rum here.” The bartender frowned as soon as he’d heard her British accent.
“Whatever you have will suffice.”
Amanda’s heart vaulted into her stomach as she smiled at the green-aproned man tending bar. Papa wanted a bit of “something to wet my tongue.” Mother had threatened to beat their one remaining servant if she bought any more rum, and warned her to keep Papa from leaving the house. So he’d sent Amanda when Mother visited her weekly prayer circle.
The bartender scowled his disapproval. Bad enough to be a woman alone in the Raleigh. But purchasing rum? She glanced around the room and prayed no one of her acquaintance would be nearby. He scanned the debt accounts and his finger landed upon her father’s name. Amanda bit her lip. Just yesterday, her father had sold Sage, telling her gruffly he needed the funds as business at the store had dropped. Her heart had broken at never seeing her beloved friend again.
But for now, another, more pressing, matter awaited her.
“Have to check with Mr. Southall on this account before I can sell to you,” he grumbled.
Her hands trembled wildly. Utterly humiliated, she felt certain the two men who sat nearby playing a game of whist gawked at the sight of Amanda Reeves buying rum like a drunk sot. The Reeves account was long past overdue. She felt like shucking it all and running out into the street. Then she remembered what Papa would do if she returned without the rum.
The Patriot's Conquest Page 10
