A British Courtesan in America (Revolutionary Women Book 2)

by Becky Lower

  “Elizabeth Loring is a disgrace to both Britain and America.” Hawk swallowed his disgust and bit into his cornbread muffin. Even though it dripped with butter, Hawk had such a vile taste in his mouth, the goodness of the muffin did not register.

  His father tapped him on the arm. “Do not judge what you don’t know, son. There may be a perfectly good reason why she is entertaining the general. We all do what we must in order to survive.”

  “So why are you meeting up with Howe?” Hawk decided a change of topic would be best.

  “He needs to hire someone to get his troops to Maine on foot. The British ships in Nova Scotia are to return to the colonies this summer.” Jacques spread his hands wide, and then closed the distance. “We will squeeze the Continental Army from both sides, non?”

  Hawk’s hands formed fists before he relaxed and laid them on the top of the table. “And you will accept his offer? Even with the knowledge you will lead his troops into Nika’s camp?” His mother’s tribe had lived for years near the coast of Maine.

  “Oui. Which is why I’m taking the job. I can lead the forces around Little Wren’s camp. She will be safe. The tribe will be safe.”

  “So, you are siding with the British? Even though some of Nika’s tribe are fighting alongside Washington?” Hawk raised his voice, unable to contain his anger.

  Jacques shrugged. “It’s a job, n’est pas? There is no good side.” He placed a hand on Hawk’s broad shoulder. “I’ll make certain your mère stays safe.”

  Maybe his mother would stay safe, but what of the many soldiers who were of Passamaquoddy blood who had answered Washington’s call to serve? How many of them would fall in battle? Hawk shoved his uneaten meal away. He and his father had maintained an uneasy relationship during Hawk’s entire life, and now, this. His father had become his enemy.

  • ♥ •

  As soon as his father left Hawk’s rooms above the stables the next morning, Hawk strode to the door beside the Gazette office and, after a quick glance down the street, opened the door and rushed up the stairs. Even though it was early, he had no doubt someone would be in the room and he could pass on the intelligence his father had given him. The Sons of Liberty had established an underground system for relaying information to one another, and it was imperative that the movement of the British troops be revealed, so the Continental Army would not be caught flat-footed.

  “Hawk, what a surprise.” His friend, Patterson, glanced up when the door opened. He stood and shook Hawk’s hand. “Do you have more bullets?”

  “Non, but I am glad we melted down all the metal we had, since there is about to be a big battle in Maine. My father will lead the Brits to the coast to meet up with the fleet of their ships coming down from Nova Scotia.” Hawk quickly filled Patterson in on the troop movement. Together, they figured out the route the British would take to get from New York to Maine and where the battle would most likely take place. If the colonists could cause chaos along the way, the British forces might be rattled enough not to mount a full attack.

  “I’ll take care of passing the word along. I hope your father isn’t among the casualties once this is all over and done with.” Patterson clamped a hand on Hawk’s shoulder.

  “Or my mother, since the British will pass near her camp. The war should not affect either of them, but yet, it is.” Hawk brushed a hand over his eyes.

  Patterson took a moment to respond. “Before this is done, Hawk, every man, woman and child will be affected in some way or another. Did you write the editorial asking for more metal? Because it appears as if we’re going to need whatever bullets we can manufacture this summer.”

  “I will drop it off at the Gazette later today. I had just finished it when my father arrived last night.” Hawk took steps toward the door.

  Patterson called out after him. “I’ll pray for your parents’ safety, Hawk.”

  Hawk pivoted on his moccasined foot. “And I will pray to my gods. That way, all will be covered. It will be a long, hot summer.”

  He closed the door and was standing on the landing when the door opposite him opened and Libby Wexford emerged. He caught her sudden intake of breath when she glanced up at him. And then she smiled.

  “Mr. Gentry. I did not expect to see you this morning.” Her smile widened. “And certainly not at my door.” She motioned behind herself.

  Hawk could not speak. He merely stared at her, inhaling her rose attar perfume, and fought the impulse to lower his gaze and glance at her footwear. They were mere inches from each other on the small landing. If he lifted a hand, he could tuck that stray strand of hair behind her ear, could caress the lobe with the fancy earring.

  Instead, he took a step back, plastering his body up against the door to the Sons of Liberty office. “I—uh…I was just leaving. But ladies first.” He motioned to the staircase.

  She treated him to a glance that made his insides quiver and picked up her skirts prior to descending the stairs. Despite his best efforts, he stole a glance at her feet. Chunky heels, moss green and cream fabric, tied together with a sporty red ribbon. Mrs. Wexford did not disappoint. Her choice of footwear fascinated him. Her ankles fascinated him. He glanced up from her feet and caught the flash of humor in her eyes. He swallowed, hard.

  “I hope to see you later on, then, Mr. Gentry. Good morning.” With a swish of her skirts, she descended gracefully. He pried himself from the door and took a minute to make certain his legs were under him. Libby Wexford could, with a single glance, turn him into a pile of liquid, much like the metal he heated up to make bullets. But unlike the metal, which could provide armament to the soldiers, Mrs. Wexford’s glance totally unarmed him. He did not care for the feeling. Yet, even as he had the thought, he counted the hours until he could see her again. Become the victim of another of her glances. The war effort had been his entire focus for nearly four years, and it was a jealous mistress. But perhaps it was time to enjoy life a bit more. Otherwise, what was the point? Why not follow Patterson’s advice?

  The only problem with his idea was the fact she was British, fresh off the boat from England, and her loyalties were unknown. If Hawk let her into his life, even marginally, he risked being exposed for the traitor to the crown that he was. Right now, he had a good blacksmithing business, and relied on the men loyal to England to keep his business afloat. But if they should ever suspect him of being a Son of Liberty, or the voice behind A True Patriot, they would take their needs elsewhere, regardless of how much they had to pay for the service.

  Libby Wexford could easily take him down. His admonition of last night returned to him. Everyone was a suspect, and no one was an ally. It was a true enough sentiment when applied to Mrs. Loring and it also was a sentiment he should keep in mind when dealing with Mrs. Wexford. She could easily play him for the fool he suspected Mrs. Loring of doing with General Howe. His work with the war effort was too important for him to give into lust. No, he would keep to himself. Her ankles and her fancy footwear be damned!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Libby attempted to work while Mr. Edes and Hawk discussed whatever they were talking about behind closed doors, but her gaze strayed toward the door whenever one of them raised their voice and she could make out little snippets of conversation. Perhaps she could do some filing, which would take her closer to Mr. Edes’ office...

  Her shoes made no sound as she tiptoed to the wall. She held her breath.

  “This is good stuff, Hawk,” Mr. Edes’s voice echoed through the door. “The women of Boston will be divesting themselves of their silver tea services to make bullets now. At least some of them.”

  “Silver bullets. Who would have thought?” Hawk’s harsh laugh bellowed forth.

  “A True Patriot, that’s who.” Mr. Edes joined in the laughter.

  Libby stepped away from the door. A True Patriot was the moniker of the person who wrote a weekly editorial keeping the colonists riled up against the British forces. Could that person be Hawk Gentry? Was he the one penning the
rhetoric that so inflamed Boston and kept the cause of liberty burning in their hearts?

  Libby worried her bottom lip as she pondered what she’d overheard. In addition to what she’d read in the back issues of the paper, Mr. Edes had discussed it with her and brought the story to life about the statue and how it had been toppled the previous summer. And how the clever Americans were using the lead statue to create thousands of bullets for the Continental Army. The day she’d entered his smithy shop unannounced, Hawk hastily covered up the king’s head from the statue before he acknowledged her. So, Hawk was in charge of creating those bullets. She wished she could have been present when the face of King George was melted down. She suppressed a giggle at the picture in her head.

  But knowing Hawk was manufacturing bullets in his spare time was an entirely different matter from penning the editorials appearing weekly in the paper. Could Hawk really be the voice behind A True Patriot? And why had he been at her doorstep that morning? What really took place nightly in the room opposite hers above the newspaper office?

  She shook her head. Too many questions. And she wasn’t earning her keep with questions. Her deal with Mr. Edes was she would only take a salary if there was an increase in revenue from advertising and subscriptions. He’d already given her a bit of a weekly salary, saying he could not in good conscience allow her to work for free. And, as they were at the end of June, she’d soon be able to compare the income for the month to the one previous. Perhaps it was time to request a raise in her stipend. She’d better get to work on her accounting records.

  She’d just resumed her seat and picked up her quill pen when the door to the office opened and the two men emerged. Libby’s gaze flitted over them, and she graced them with a smile. “I’ll have the end of the month statement done for you by close of business today, Mr. Edes.”

  “Fine, Mrs. Wexford. But right now, I need you to work on an ad for Hawk’s blacksmith shop.” Mr. Edes rubbed his hands together.

  Libby rose and joined the men at the counter. “What size ad are you interested in purchasing, Mr. Gentry?”

  “I am not sure.” Hawk shuffled his feet.

  “Hawk’s not to be billed, Mrs. Wexford, so work with whatever size fits best. This is payback for a favor he’s done for me.”

  Libby nodded. She at least had the answer to one of her questions. Hawk Gentry and A True Patriot were one and the same, and an ad was his payment for writing the editorials. Libby would make certain the townspeople of Boston noticed his ad.

  Mr. Edes left them alone and made his way into the production room, carrying what Libby supposed was the latest editorial from Hawk. The scent of printer’s ink permeated the air briefly until he closed the door again. She glanced up at the imposing man remaining in the room and gazed into his dark brown eyes. His stare never wavered, and Libby had the sensation of being unable to lift even a finger. His intense gaze pinned her to the wall, as if she were a prize butterfly. She shook her head, breaking the connection, and took a breath. She backed away from the counter and grabbed a sheet of paper and her pen.

  “What part of the business do you wish to promote?” She busied herself with dipping the quill into the ink in preparation.

  “Since next week is the first anniversary of the reading of the Declaration of Independence, I expect a lot of folks will be coming into town for the festivities. So maybe the stables?” Hawk’s voice rumbled, and he dropped his hand onto the counter next to the paper.

  “Yes, it’s a good option, since folks will need to find a place to keep their horses for the day. How many can you take care of at one time?” Libby focused her gaze on the blank sheet of paper and tried to ignore the large hand next to it. But it did register with her that even though the hand was large, it had a certain grace to it. She became fascinated by the little scars and nicks on his fingers and wondered about the stories behind them. The hand was that of a working man, not a man of leisure.

  She tore her gaze from his fingers and again became immersed in his dark eyes. He, so far, had not answered her question. She stared up at him, noticing the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The ink on the tip of the quill finally lost its grip and dropped with a splat onto the sheet of paper. “Ooh!” Libby glanced at the blank sheet of paper, now with the big splotch of ink in the middle of it. She replaced it with a clean sheet and laughed. “Let’s begin again. And this time, I won’t dip my quill into the inkwell until we’ve decided on some copy.”

  “Merci. I appreciate your help. I may be able to read and write, but stringing sentences together, or prompting people to take action, is beyond me.” Hawk rolled his shoulders.

  Libby bit on her tongue to keep from countering his words with her suspicions. The man obviously didn’t wish her to be aware of his true involvement with the Revolution. He was not the first man to keep information from her. But this man had secrets beyond her wildest imaginings. She’d have to figure out a way to divest him of them.

  • ♥ •

  Libby strode into Hawk’s shop a few days later with a full cloth bag. The contents clattered together as she took one step, then two, into the sweltering shop. Perspiration formed on her upper lip and her gaze roamed the room, in search of the man. She finally spied him, in front of the stove, holding something in the flames by a long set of tongs. His back muscles, which bunched and elongated as he rotated whatever he held into the flames fascinated her. Even though he wore a shirt today, Libby pictured his muscular torso under the fabric, and the mere thought made her mouth water.

  She stood in the shadows as Hawk and the piece of iron performed their dance with the flames. He finally hauled it out and pounded the hot metal into shape with a huge hammer. Watching the man wield a heavy hammer was akin to creating poetry. His huge shoulders rolled as the hammer rose and fell. Finally, he set the hammer aside and plunged the hot metal into a bucket of water, creating a fizz as hot met cold.

  Without turning in her direction, Hawk called out, “Bonjour, Mrs. Wexford.”

  Libby sputtered out a breath. “You were aware I was here?” She took a step out of the shadows.

  “What kind of Indian would I be if I could not sense your presence?” He finally shot her a glance. “You have been watching me for ten minutes.”

  Libby took a couple quick strides in his direction and slammed her bag on the worktable. “Well, you could have said something before now.”

  “I have work to get done, and the metal was about to get to the right temperature so I could pound it into shape. Taking the time to address you would have interfered.” He grunted. “What do you have in the bag?”

  She upended it, and the contents spilled onto the table. A silver tea service, several silver buckles, and a complete set of silverware tumbled out. “You said in your editorial on Friday the Continental Army needed more bullets and all of Boston should donate whatever they could. Here is my contribution.”

  One of Hawk’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean the editorial from A True Patriot, not my editorial, do you not?”

  “Are they not one and the same, Mr. Gentry?” Libby drew in a breath.

  Hawk picked up one of her buckles and rolled it between his fingers, as if eager to change the subject. “These are from a pair of your shoes, I take it?”

  “Yes. I hated to take away their embellishments, but it is for a good cause, is it not?”

  “Oui, madame. These, and the rest of the silver you have donated, will make some fine bullets. Wolliwon.” He carefully placed her belongings in a pot which sat atop the stove.

  “So, we are on the same side of this conflict, then?” She nodded toward the melting silver.

  Hawk picked up the now cool piece of iron he’d been pounding into the shape of a horseshoe and studied it. “I am melting metals into bullets for the patriots, oui.”

  Libby placed a hand on his arm. “That’s not an answer, Mr. Gentry.”

  He shrugged his shoulder, and her hand slipped to the table. “And, so there is no misundersta
nding, the editorial may have referred to my shop, but that is the extent of my involvement.”

  He took a step away from her, but Libby took a step forward. She would not let him off the hook so easily. “I’m not a nitwit, Mr. Gentry. You have a closed-door meeting with Mr. Edes, after which he runs into the production room and sets type for the editorial. He has hired me because I am good with numbers. I can certainly add two plus two. Don’t even attempt to tell me you’re not the voice behind A True Patriot.”

  He rolled his shoulders. “What difference does it make to you?”

  She plucked at her gown before she raised her gaze to him. “Because I’m hoping to figure out where I belong in all this.” Her words were a whisper.

  He stared at her for a long minute. “What if I told you the only side I am on is that of my people?”

  Her gaze clouded over. “I hadn’t thought about how this affects the Passamaquoddy. Your people were here before anyone else. The land being fought over is technically yours.”

  “Cu tahk. You have spoken the truth. My people have wearied of the colonists claiming their lands, but they also do not care for the British and their stinking rules.” Hawk stuck the crudely formed horseshoe back into the flames.

  “So, you are staying out of the conflict?” Libby stood alongside him, feeling the heat from the flames, but also the heat from the man.

  He gave her a sidelong look. “What I am saying is I do not trust many people.”