by Becky Lower
She shrugged her shoulder away from his grasp and instead uncovered the box beside the stove. She studied the face peering out at her. “King George is not nearly this good looking in person.” She ran a finger down the leaden cheek. “Is this from the statue that got torn down last year?” She glanced at Hawk, who stood silently beside her, but was clenching and unclenching his fists.
He covered the box back up and King George’s head disappeared. “What statue?”
Libby smiled up at him. “I may have only just arrived in Boston, but in my spare time at the Gazette, I peruse the back issues so I can better acquaint myself with my new city. The statue was torn down a year ago by the Sons of Liberty, in Manhattan, and the lead is being crafted into bullets.” Her gaze darted from Hawk to the large pot on top of the stove and she gasped. “Is that what you’re doing? You’re the one melting down the lead to make the bullets?”
He stared at her for a long minute and she held her breath. Finally, he pivoted away from her. “You need to leave.”
“No, you need to answer my question. And, while we’re at it, why you were at the door opposite my room the other night?”
Hawk whipped back around and grasped her arm. “What I do with my time is of no concern to you. It is best you remember America is at war with your country and things are not always as they seem. Now, please leave.”
She took a step, not toward the door, but rather to close the distance between them. “Then I’ll just have to let my imagination come up with the answers, Hawk Gentry.” She took another step closer to him, and he inhaled sharply. Libby hoped he got a whiff of her scent of rose attar, and that it would affect him as much as his sweaty, manly smell would haunt her for the remainder of the day. He finally let go of her arm but didn’t back away.
They stared at each other again. Libby witnessed Hawk’s bobbing Adam’s apple and figured he was having as much trouble controlling his emotions as she was. She was well versed in the way men’s minds worked and decided to use her advantage and leave him begging more from her. She backed off a pace. “I’ll take my leave, as you suggest, Mr. Gentry. It seems I am constantly interrupting your day.”
He ushered her to the door of the smithy shop. “I would not call it an interruption so much as an interlude. Au revoir, madam.” He closed the door behind her.
An interlude, he’d called it. Things could not have gone better.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hawk could not rid himself of the scent of rose attar. Libby Wexford’s mouth-watering scent. Which reminded him of Libby Wexford’s mouth-watering lips. Even molten lead in a hot, sweaty room could not scrub the smell from his olfactory senses. It was as if rose attar had seeped into his brain. Now, he supposed, every time he stopped to smell a rosebush, it would remind him of her. He grimaced. Roses were his favorite flowers. He had even planted an entire row of them in front of his stables, since they grew so well with a healthy dose of manure each season, and as the owner of a stable, he had plenty to spare.
He carefully ladled the liquid lead into the bullet forms. It was a tedious process to create bullets and musket balls from the statue, but he was grateful for the work. At least he was contributing to the war effort in some way, other than by his words.
He would stall as long as he could before making his stance on the war known to his father, who sided with the British. His fellow Passamaquoddy tribe mates had not quite decided yet who to align with, since either way, their lands and their way of life would never be the same. Some of the tribe had answered the initial call from George Washington to fight alongside him, but Hawk had not yet declared himself publicly to be a rebel. If his father discovered he was the voice behind A True Patriot, that he was responsible for making bullets from the King George statue, and that he had dealings with the Sons of Liberty, he would disown Hawk. If Hawk took a stand against the people he had grown up with, his mother’s tribe would cast him out. No longer would he be French or Indian. Rolling his shoulders, he pondered what he would be then. He would be an American. His head canted upward.
He would be an American.
He filled all the forms he had with lead and set them aside to cool. Then, Hawk uncovered the head of King George, which he had hastily covered when Libby wandered into his workspace. Which had not deterred her at all. She had commented that the person who had done the sculpting had put a much nicer face on the king than he had in real life. Well, false or not, nice or not, he was still Britain’s king who was attempting to impose his rule on the colonies. Hawk eyed the bust of the man before spitting at him.
“Merci, wolliwon, and thank you, George, for giving us so many bullets.” He followed the path of his wad of spit as it rolled down the king’s cheek, almost as if it were a tear. “You should cry, old fellow, since your country will not defeat us. Your men are fat and lazy. Ours are used to working hard. That will be the difference.”
He covered the statue again and glanced around the room. Libby’s shoe sat on top of the table, glaring at him, calling out to him. He picked it up and gingerly rolled it between his hands. At least, most of the shoe was brown leather, but across the front was a band of embroidered silk. A cream-colored silk buckle of sorts was a further embellishment, and the heel was several inches high. Hawk shook his head. He should give the woman a pair of moccasins instead of fixing her outrageous shoe.
“I cannot picture Libby Wexford in a sensible pair of moccasins,” he mumbled. He had come so close to giving in to his urge to taste those petal-pink lips. Mere inches away. A picture of a naked Libby flashed through his mind before he could stop it. His knees buckled and he sat, shoe in hand. Good Christ, what had become of his steely resolve?
Fortunately, Patterson Lovejoy interrupted his lustful thoughts. Hawk glanced up as he entered the room.
“Quite the fancy shoe you’ve got there, Hawk. Which horse does it belong to?”
Hawk barked out a laugh and set the shoe back on the table. “Doing a favor for a friend, that is all.”
“That ‘friend’ wouldn’t happen to be working at the paper, would she?” Patterson picked up the shoe and examined it. “I noticed she fancies fine footwear.”
“Yes, it is Libby Wexford’s shoe.” Hawk desperately wished to change the subject. “What is the latest news, Pat?”
“I’m supposed to take whatever amount of ammunition you’ve created to the Watchung Mountains encampment. Washington is expecting the British to challenge his position any day now, and we’re woefully short of bullets, after the skirmishes in Ridgefield a few months ago.” Patterson waved a hand around the room. “We don’t have nearly enough with what you brought to us a few days ago, so I’m here to help melt the rest of the statue.”
“It is not a question of melting the statue so much as it is finding forms to fill with the lead once it has melted. My supply of bullet forms is not the greatest.” Hawk gestured to the forms cooling at the side table.
“Which is why I gathered up a sack full of forms, which I have left in the stable. I collected all I could find from the other Sons of Liberty.” Patterson strode to the stable door and collected his bag. He laid form after form on the center table surrounding Libby’s shoe. “If we work through the night, we should be able to fill all these, and I’ll be able to depart in the morning.”
Hawk plucked the shoe from the middle of the bullet forms and placed it on a shelf, out of the way. “Let us get to it, then, Pat. The season for battle is upon us.”
By Sunday night, Hawk and Patterson had created thousands of bullets and musket balls from the remains of the statue of King George. Hawk heaved a sigh when the face of the king got placed in the pot, but he spit at the visage once more, making the melting lead sizzle. “That is all of it, Pat.” Hawk nodded to his weary friend.
“I’ll come back in the morning to gather up what’s left in the forms and be on my way to New Jersey.” Patterson clamped Hawk’s shoulder. “We worked well together.”
“I wonder what we will do for bulle
ts now, since the statue is gone.” Hawk totaled up the number of bullets produced from King George’s statue. “Over 42,000 bullets, though. Quite a nice haul.”
“That’s the subject for your next article for the Gazette, Hawk. Pleading with the public to turn over all their silver and lead so we can melt them into bullets.” Patterson placed his hat on his head and took a step toward the door. “Sleep well. I’ll be back at dawn.”
Hawk lay on the cot near the door. He did not have the strength to wash the stink from his body or to climb the stairs to his room. Sixteen hours in front of a hot stove, working with molten lead, would make the sweat pour off any body. He would take care of his grooming in the morning. The last thing his gaze settled on before sleep overtook him was Libby’s shoe on the shelf, waiting for him, beckoning him.
• ♥ •
By mid-week Libby had almost forgotten about how she manufactured a reason for stopping into Hawk’s blacksmith shop by taking her shoe to him. What she was wrestling with was her quivering stomach when he was anywhere near. After years of pleasing men without pleasing herself, she thought she’d shut the door on that life once she left England. With the singular exception of Atticus, none of the men she’d been with over the years had stirred her senses, or cared that they didn’t. Even Atticus, sweet man that he was, didn’t make her skin tingle with just a glance. He made her feel protected, safe and loved, yes. But Atticus hadn’t made her mouth water.
“You’re one silly woman,” she whispered as she sat at the table in the newspaper office and wrote invoices to the Gazette’s advertisers. “You’re merely infatuated with him because his looks are different from any other man you’ve met.” And his touch had been so gentle when he cared for her ankle, in total contrast to his hardened exterior. And what a fine exterior it was. Libby indulged herself for a few minutes, recalling Hawk’s sculpted torso and buttocks. She blinked and shook her head. Mr. Edes wasn’t paying her to have flights of fancy. The fact he’d started paying her a tiny stipend in addition to her room meant he valued the work she was doing. So, she’d better earn her keep.
She completed the invoices and placed them into her basket for delivery before she threw a light shawl around her shoulders. Even though the calendar said early June, the wind blowing off the Atlantic was brisk. She had just picked up her bonnet when the door opened and in strode the man she’d been daydreaming about. Libby’s skin prickled as his gaze swept over her.
“Hello, Mr. Gentry.” Her speech sounded breathy, even to her. What had happened to her self-control?
“Returning your shoe, Mrs. Wexford.” He held up the footwear and tugged on the heel to show it no longer wobbled.
Libby clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!” She took the shoe from him and ran a finger over its silky buckle. “This is one of my favorites. Had it been rendered useless I would have mourned my loss.” She smiled. “A woman can never have too many pairs of shoes.”
“But you do need to wear something more sensible, more in keeping with the colonies.” He pointed to the shoe in her hand. “These are more appropriate for a fancy ball in London.”
Libby placed the shoe behind the counter before she tied the ribbon of her bonnet under her chin. “I disagree, Mr. Gentry. Boston may be a bit more uncivilized than London, but it doesn’t mean I have to give up on fashion. Now, what do I owe you?”
“It only took a few minutes to fix, so there is no charge. Are you going somewhere?” He nodded toward her bonnet.
“Yes, I have to deliver the invoices to the paper’s advertisers today. I was on my way out.”
“I will accompany you then, at least until we get to my shop. You need to be careful on the unruly Boston streets.” He held the door open for her.
When her skirts brushed his leg, she shivered, despite her shawl. She’d been with dangerous men before, but Hawk Gentry posed a different kind of danger. After she lost Atticus, she swore she’d never take another lover involved in a dangerous profession. Hawk had tried to cover up the remains of the statue of King George quickly that day in his shop. The mere fact he possessed the statue the rebels had torn down last summer meant he sided with the resistance. Which placed him squarely in the crosshairs of every British soldier living in the colonies. Which meant he was in more grave danger than Atticus had ever been. And if she were to give her heart to him and he died in battle, she’d never get beyond it. Getting beyond Atticus’s death had been hard enough. She would never survive losing Hawk, should she be so foolish as to give in to what was stirring within her.
Hawk Gentry was a traitor to the crown. And he was attempting to keep his traitorous activities from her. She might applaud his beliefs, but she didn’t need to entangle her feelings.
So, she’d keep him at arm’s length. He’d remain an acquaintance, maybe even become a friend. She could survive the loss of a friend, but never a lover. Libby glanced over at his striking profile as they progressed down the street. All hard planes and harsh angles, with the sun bouncing off his mahogany skin. She longed to touch his silky hair, to feel its texture. She sighed softly. What a pity he could only ever be a friend.
“How are you settling into life in Boston, Mrs. Wexford?” Hawk’s deep voice made her cease her woolgathering.
“It’s much different here than being on the streets of London, but I find I prefer it.” Libby clutched her basket tightly to control the impulse to touch Hawk. “My work at the newspaper brings me into contact with a lot of people. You Americans are a diverse breed and I find that refreshing.” Hawk was diversity personified.
When they got to the entrance of the smithy shop, they stopped on the cobbled street. Libby glanced up at him. “Thank you for fixing my shoe. How do you say it again, in your language? Wolliwon?”
He grinned, showing an expanse of white teeth. “Very good, Mrs. Wexford. De rien.”
She shook her head, signifying she didn’t comprehend his words.
“It is French, my other language. You are welcome.”
He left her side and disappeared into his shop. Libby stood in the same place for a long moment, suddenly feeling the bite of the wind from the Atlantic and tasting the salt air. Yes, only being Hawk’s friend, indeed, would be a pity.
CHAPTER SIX
Hawk laid down his quill pen, finally, and lowered his head to the desk. The words had been hard to find, and the editorial from A True Patriot almost did not make the deadline. It was as if a phase of the war ended with the last of the statue of King George being melted into bullets, but in his heart, he accepted the fact the war had only begun and the Continental Army would need a lot more than 42,000 bullets to defeat the British. So, his editorial this week asked for any spare silver, lead and any other compound that they could melt and then form into ammunition to be delivered to the Gentry blacksmith shop. He hoped people would not be able to piece together he was the author of the editorial as well as the potential recipient of the goods.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes and listened as a horse and rider entered the stables. He would see to them in a minute. Right now, his weary body needed to sit for a minute longer.
“Bonne nuit, mon fils!” Hawk could recognize the voice anywhere. His father, Jacques, strode into the shop. Hawk placed the editorial in his desk drawer, stood and embraced the man. Even though Jacques was well into his sixties, he had the muscular bearing of a much younger man, honed by his years as a trapper and a guide for the British soldiers. He took a step back and clamped a hand on Hawk’s shoulder. “Let me look at you.”
“It is good to see you, mon pere. But why are you here?” Jacques did nothing without a purpose. And Hawk feared he already had the answer.
He had gotten wind of a battle brewing in Maine near his tribe’s land and how his tribe had chosen to side with George Washington in the conflict. His tribe’s decision, and his own, was a discussion he hoped to forestall by staying in Boston. But his father had placed himself in the middle of it, if Hawk’s guess was correct, and now Hawk h
ad to be very careful.
“Let’s go to the tavern for some dinner before we talk, eh? I could eat a mule.” Jacques grinned. “Although I have to admit, mules taste about as good as their name.”
Hawk’s stomach plummeted. If any of the Sons of Liberty were in the tavern and acknowledged Hawk as one of their own, Jacques would be able to piece together which side of the conflict Hawk favored. He really did not wish to have this conversation with his father yet.
Hawk led them to a table in a corner of the tavern. As usual, Sam Adams’s men had gathered at the large center table. A few of them glanced his way, but a subtle shake of his head was enough to cause them to divert their attention. Deception had become a way of life in Boston. He waited for the serving maid to deliver the beef stew before dipping a spoon into the reason for his father’s visit. “So, mon pere. Why have you come to town?”
“I’m meeting with the British general in the morning.”
Suddenly, the beef stew lost its flavor, and a pit formed in Hawk’s stomach. This was the worst news Hawk could get. “General Howe?”
Jacques nodded. “Oui. I was a scout for him during the Seven Years’ War, you’ll recall.”
“But I thought Howe had taken up residence in New York, not Boston.” Hawk hoped his father had been misled.
Jacques grinned again. “Ah, oui, but Madam Loring is here in Boston. And affaires du coeur often override affaires du conflict, n’est pas?” Jacque’s laughter bellowed above the noise of the tavern.
The stories of Howe’s fascination with the married Elizabeth Loring had been circulating for years, and how he had offered a plum assignment to Joshua Loring in exchange for sharing the carnal delights of his wife. Mr. Loring now held the lofty position of the commissary of prisoners, requiring a great deal of time away from his home, so Elizabeth Loring and General Howe could indulge in their lustful encounters unencumbered by a jealous husband. In his mind, Mrs. Loring was no better than a courtesan, and Mr. Loring her sponsor, greedily taking money from the British in exchange for his wife’s favors. Had anyone asked Mrs. Loring about it? Perhaps she had been the one who suggested such an affair? Howe was not an unattractive man, even if a bit dissolute. Could she secretly be working for the colonists, diverting Howe’s attention from the battlefield? The conflict made everyone a suspect, and no one an ally. Hawk had thought their liaison had ended when the British retreated from Boston the previous year. Evidently not.
