A British Courtesan in America (Revolutionary Women Book 2)

by Becky Lower

  Mrs. Wexford smiled up at him, her blue eyes unwavering. Something in his stomach clenched and his native tongue became glued to the top of his mouth. For a moment, he could not speak.

  He cleared his throat and found his voice. “Moskeyin.” His voice sounded creaky, similar to an old man’s.

  “Moskeyin. I like it.” She blinked and placed her hands on the top of the counter which separated them. Hawk studied her slender fingers for a long moment. “What can I do for you, Mr. Gentry?”

  “You are working here?”

  Libby Wexford smiled again. “Mr. Edes needed help, I’m good with numbers, so yes, I am working here. Now, how may I help you?”

  Hawk’s mind whirled. Mrs. Wexford’s employment status should be of no consequence. He needed to stay focused on his mission. “I need to talk to Ben.”

  Libby folded her hands together. “I’m afraid I’m the only one you can talk to right now. Mr. Edes is not here.”

  Hawk stepped away from the counter. “I will come back later, then.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Gentry. Mr. Edes said he’d be back by close of business today.” Her lips formed a saucy smile. “Moskeyin.”

  She certainly didn’t sound sorry, in any language. Amused, yes. Entertained, most definitely. He took a step toward the door before spinning back around.

  “Why does your husband allow you to roam the streets by yourself? To leave you unprotected in a newspaper office where anyone can enter? Does he not fathom how unsafe Boston is for a fine lady such as yourself?” Once his line of questioning started spewing forth, the words tumbled out. He finally bit his lip to stop the flow, but one look at her stricken face, and he could tell he had not stopped soon enough.

  Tears glistened in her eyes, but she blinked them away. Her back straightened and she pierced him with her gaze. “Mr. Wexford passed on shortly before I left England. And I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, unless runaway horses are a common occurrence in the streets of Boston.”

  Hawk’s stomach ached, as if her words had punched him in the gut. He stared at her.

  She brushed a hand over her eyes, and then glared at him. “And don’t you dare say I’m sorry again, in any language. I won’t allow it.” She stomped her foot for emphasis, and Hawk’s mind immediately thought of her small feet. He wondered what kind of shoes she wore today.

  Hawk had trouble forming words, yet again. “So, you are a widow?”

  Libby’s beautifully formed brow rose delicately. “A brilliant deduction, Mr. Gentry. You are correct. I have no husband. I’m taking care of myself.”

  Hawk had no response. His normally agile mind appeared mired in quicksand. There was no Mr. Wexford. Well, evidently there had been one at one time, but he was no longer in the picture. And Liberty Wexford had sailed from England by herself and ended up in America just as the colonies were poised to engage in a protracted battle against her homeland for their freedom. Why? He glanced at her once again and strode to the door. He left the office, and her, without a backward glance.

  But he would return, as soon as he could get his mind to work. Something about her story did not add up, and despite his admonitions to himself, he had an itch to get to the bottom of it. If she wished to escape from England, why not choose to live in a civilized part of Europe instead? France or Spain, perhaps? Was its proximity to England the deterrent? What was she running from? Was her name really Liberty Wexford?

  He rolled his shoulders as he tried to roll away his rampant thoughts. Her reasons for coming to America should not be of any concern to him. She was yet another English lady intent on stealing lands once belonging to his tribe and helping to impose Britain’s harsh rule on the colonies. She belonged in a fine castle somewhere in England, having tea with the queen, not slaving away in a cramped newspaper office, trying to get accounting ledgers to match up. But if this was where she now spent her days, he would have to be cordial, since his editorials appeared in the broadsheet every week. How long could he keep his revolutionary ideas from her? How long before she would piece together the fact that he was A True Patriot? So far, he had acted as a total idiot in front of her, unable to string more than two words at a time together. Maybe it would take her a while to figure it out.

  But he would have to tread lightly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Libby brushed her hands together at day’s end and noticed the purple marks from the ink staining her fingers. Instead of being distraught at the sight, she smiled. Who would have thought she enjoyed putting in a full day’s work? Of course, she’d worked hard before, but it was a different sort of work. Constantly keeping up her appearance was a major effort, and some of her clientele were always quick to point out any flaw. What she was doing here, in America, was a type of work she preferred. To be able to point to her achievements at day’s end was most satisfying. Much more so than buying a new gown or item of furniture with the money bestowed on her by her clients in order to impress them.

  She stopped at the small tavern next door to the newspaper office and ordered a cup of potato soup and some slices of hot, freshly baked bread to take to her room. There, she took off her yellow silk shoes and checked them carefully. Anything that would soil them must be quickly removed. The big buckle on each shoe was encrusted with gems, which gleamed in the glow of the candles. Perhaps silk shoes in a newspaper office were an extravagance, since if she spilled ink on them, she’d have to toss them, but Libby could not put aside her penchant for fancy footwear. Why wear boring and sensible when you could wear beautiful and flattering?

  Satisfied all was well with the shoes, she placed them next to the others in her armoire, donned soft slippers, and sat at the small table to eat her dinner.

  “Ah, Atticus, this is the time of day I miss you most.” He’d only been dead for six months, but he’d been gone for an eternity in her mind. Still, she enjoyed talking to him, as if he were in the room with her. He was part of another life. The only good part of her other life. He’d told her as soon as he finished one final job, they’d marry and head anywhere she wished–France, Italy, Greece, South Africa or America–he didn’t care as long as they could be together. But he never finished his final job. Instead, he’d been cut down.

  “America would have been a good choice, my love. Thank you for seeing to it I had the opportunity to choose another life.” She allowed a few tears to fall before straightening in her chair and dunking some of the warm bread into her soup and taking a bite. As the nicely seasoned soup hit her taste buds, she groaned in delight.

  America was a good choice. She wasn’t burdened by the past, by her reputation. No one cared what she’d done, what she’d been, as long as she put forth a good effort. The same held true for others she’d come into contact with since she’d been here.

  For Hawk Gentry. He was the most intriguing man she’d ever met. Half French, half Passamaquoddy Indian. All dark skin and impressive muscles, with long black hair that he either let flow around his face, as it had the day they’d met, or tied back in a single plait as it had been the day in the newspaper office. And his eyes were so brown they appeared almost black, especially when he stared at her. Definitely a polar opposite from the pale English men who had dotted her past.

  Yet, he owned a successful blacksmith shop here in unruly America. No one paid any attention to his mixed blood. At least, she hadn’t seen any prejudice during their brief encounters. America was a true melting pot of cultures. And in his case, the blending of the two cultures had created one of the finest looking male specimens Libby had ever encountered. His broad shoulders were a testament to his work with a forge and hammer. When he’d picked her up to carry her into his shop, she’d been aware, even in her pain, that his arm muscles were ribbons of steel. She took comfort in his strong arms, safe for the first time since Atticus had been taken from her.

  She finished the last of her soup, savoring each bite, and sat for a few minutes with the picture of Hawk playing in her head. She’d love to see him
with his shirt off, to watch the play of muscles on his superior shoulders as he pounded a horseshoe into shape. She had enough experience with the male anatomy to be able to conjure up a clear vision of him shirtless. Her mouth watered at the image her mind created, and she raised her napkin to dab at the moisture. Footsteps and voices were coming from the stairwell. Not an uncommon experience, since the room opposite hers was well visited on an almost nightly basis. She didn’t care to stick her nose in the business transacted in the room opposite. Mr. Edes owned the space, as well as her room, so she assumed he was aware of the foot traffic involved, and why. But the voice tonight was different and familiar. She rose quietly and her soft slippers made no sound as she inched to the door.

  “You’ve been busy, Hawk,” a booming voice emanated from the room.

  Libby caught the sound of footsteps heading into the room and some rustling. “I have not done as much as I had hoped, but it will get us through the first battle of the season.” The door slammed shut and she couldn’t hear any more.

  What had Hawk been talking about? First battle of the season? Yes, she understood America had a few skirmishes with the British, but battle? Against the mighty British? Dear Lord, how many of these Americans would be slaughtered? And how was Hawk involved?

  Libby put her hand to her forehead. Too many questions and no answers. Of course, she could open her door, stride the three paces across the landing, and knock on the door opposite hers to get some of those answers. But she had a feeling her presence would not be welcome. Perhaps a visit to the blacksmith shop would shed some light on whatever it was Hawk had delivered to the room tonight. It was worthy of consideration.

  She returned to her table and opened this week’s edition of the paper. By the glow of the candles, she read the editorial from A True Patriot. He laid out the arguments against British rule in logical detail, and Libby nodded in agreement to the points made. They were far from England here, and there was no way the British government could react to circumstances in a timely fashion. And if the king allowed no one from the colonies to have a voice in how things were done here, how could England possibly figure out how best to rule the country?

  It was one thing to see England’s side of the argument while living in England, but quite another to have to live with the results of their decrees here in America. She was unsure of her affiliation yet, but she certainly enjoyed the freedom America had offered so far. The only thing that would have improved her experience was if Atticus could have been with her. He would have approved of the sentiments of A True Patriot.

  With a sigh, Libby poured water into the basin and washed the tears from her face before she rinsed her silverware and donned her nightdress. The words from the editorial resonated in her head as she laid her weary body down. Freedom from tyranny was definitely a cause worth fighting for. Could she be of help to Hawk in whatever he was doing? Could she align herself against the British? Go against everything she’d always been taught? The entire world had revered the British military for centuries as a mighty fighting force. Were the colonists so foolhardy they’d go up against the might of the British army and subject themselves to a certain death? And could she be foolhardy enough to place herself alongside the rebels? Thoughts of the life she’d left behind haunted her dreams. There were no easy answers.

  • ♥ •

  As Libby dressed for the weekend, her thoughts wandered to Hawk Gentry. It had been days since he had visited the office of the Gazette. It had been nights since his voice boomed outside her door. She had gotten used to waiting for men to show up at her door, but that was then. This was America. She could take the initiative here. She had the entire weekend to herself. Tomorrow, she’d find a church to visit. It had been years since she’d set foot inside one. But today, she had some chores to take care of. And first on the list was to repair one of her shoes. She hoped Hawk could help her. Or, at least, not see through her excuse to visit his blacksmith shop.

  Libby took great pains with her appearance today. She needed an appropriate gown, one sensible enough to pass for a day gown, but which showed off her assets at the same time.

  She never wished to return to the place where her nickname was “Miss Spectacular Bosom” but she also accepted the fact men placed great store in a finely shaped pair of breasts. She dribbled some of her rose attar scent in the valley between them and finished her toilette. The window was the only reflection she had, and she studied her appearance as she stood in front of it. The blue of the gown matched her eyes, her blonde tresses were artfully pinned up, her lips were full and petal pink. She deposited the shoe with the wobbly heel in her basket and opened the door to the landing. Again, she wondered what transpired in the room on the other side. It would bear watching.

  She wandered through the marketplace at Faneuil Hall, hoping to pick out produce to tide her over the weekend. She touched a big tomato and some apples.

  “Can’t decide, eh?” The lady behind the counter smiled at Libby.

  “You have such a good assortment of produce, it’s hard to choose.”

  “Now since the blockade has been removed, and most of the nasty Brits have left town, we have more to offer.” The woman glanced at Libby. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.”

  Libby smiled. “It’s quite all right. I may still have a British accent, but I’m in America now.”

  “Aye. And the war is just gettin’ started. Now, what ken I help you with?”

  Libby made her selections, put the produce in her basket alongside her shoe, and headed toward the blacksmith shop.

  She entered the stables part of the shop first and was greeted by the couple of horses in the stalls. She held out one of her apples and let the horses enjoy chomping into it.

  “Is it a good apple?” She asked as a dark horse greedily nibbled at it. Libby touched the soft nose and giggled at the horse’s behavior. It had been a long time since she’d been able to spend time talking to a horse. The apple was quickly demolished, and she brushed her hands together. She hadn’t come here to play with horses. To play with a Hawk was something else. She took a breath, brushed a hand down the front of her gown, and stepped forward into an uncertain future.

  Libby’s steps were light as she made her way into the smithy portion of the shop. A huge fire bellowed in the stove. A large kettle sat atop the stove and Hawk stood in front of it, long tongs aiding him as he held something in the flames. His shirt was off, yet sweat made his body glisten.

  Libby placed a hand to her mouth and drank him in. The reality of seeing the man’s naked torso was far better than what her imagination had provided. His back muscles rippled as he maneuvered the tongs. His shoulders were massive, his torso tapered to his hips and buttocks, which were encased in breeches molded to his body. His buttocks were as well formed as the rest of him. In all her days, Libby had never seen a finer looking specimen of a man. His dark skin added to his unique look, and he wore his hair in a queue between his shoulder blades. She needed to stare at something else until she regained her equilibrium.

  Her gaze pinged at various items on either side of the fire, and she fought to muffle her gasp. Was that the leaden head of King George in a box near the flames?

  As if he sensed her presence, Hawk glanced over his shoulder. He nodded at her, removed the red-hot iron from the fire, quickly pulled a piece of burlap over the box in the corner where the familiar face sat and picked up his shirt. When he finally faced her, she glimpsed a bit of his chest as he hastily buttoned up. She’d thought his backside was delectable, but his front side was even better. Libby stifled her groan when the last of his chest got covered by the cloth. She’d experienced lust before, but it was usually the other way around. The fact she was the one lusting after someone was a bit unnerving, yet exciting.

  “This is a surprise, Mrs. Wexford.”

  She took a step towards him. “It’s my day to run errands, and I have a shoe that needs to be fixed. I am hoping you could assist me.”

  “I am no c
obbler, madam.”

  “I’m well aware of that, sir, but I’m not asking for a new pair of shoes, merely to fix a wobbly heel.” She tugged the shoe from her basket and held it up to him, illustrating how the heel had loosened.

  He wrapped his hand around the shoe, encasing her hand in his and stared at her for a long minute. They were just inches apart from each other. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in mesmerized her. She gazed into his dark eyes and her thoughts scrambled. She herself could only breathe in short gasps. He lowered his head, coming even closer to her. To her lips. She’d half expected such an outcome since her visit approached the edge of forwardness, but now that it was upon her, what should she do? Give in to her impulse to guide his lips to hers? To see if his lips were as soft as a feather? Or should she act offended by his boldness, disregarding her own forward behavior in coming here unaccompanied?

  She broke the spell and glanced about the shop wildly. “What were you working on when I entered?”

  He dropped her hand, and the shoe dropped to the floor, since her fingers had lost their feeling. He bent over to retrieve it, and Libby feasted on the sight of his buttocks, straining against his breeches. Good Lord, the man was a danger. He held onto the shoe this time. And waved it through the air.

  “I was crafting a horseshoe for the mare in the stall out front. She has been very patient with me.” Hawk faced Libby again. “So, I guess I am a cobbler, of sorts.” His lips quirked up in a smirk.

  “And what’s atop the stove?” She wandered closer to the hot stove and the pot.

  “Merely some melting lead. Nothing to concern yourself with.” He closed in on her again, tugging her away from the stove. “I will fix your shoe, Mrs. Wexford, and drop it off at the Gazette in a few days. Now, you need to get on with your day, so I can get on with mine.”