by Becky Lower
CHAPTER NINE
Libby settled on the blanket next to Hawk, waiting for the evening’s entertainment to begin. She’d listened with only half an ear to the speeches leading up to the exciting fireworks. She really didn’t care what was being said by the men on the podium. Her focus was on her handsome escort, and she stole sidelong glances at Hawk whenever she could.
Since the day in the smithy shop when they’d created bullets from her silver tea service and shoe buckles, she’d been infatuated by him. She closed her parasol and placed it on the blanket beside her as she took pleasure in watching Hawk’s body bend into a crouch and then take a seat beside her. He was all toned muscle and beautiful proportions.
If she were being totally honest with herself, her infatuation hadn’t begun that day. Rather, it started her first day in Boston, when he’d saved her from certain death and then carried her through the streets of her new hometown. She’d witnessed his strength that day, observed up close his darkened skin and his piercing deep brown eyes.
Her heart now pounded as the heat from his body warmed her left side. Just as it had pounded earlier in the day when he nibbled on her fingers. She was familiar with the ability to unsettle men, but not the other way around. She slid her glance over his chiseled face and, as if feeling her gaze, he faced her. Her lips canted upward, and her cheeks warmed as he gazed at her.
“Will there be a lot of fireworks, Hawk?”
“I expect so. But I hope they do not set off the cannons again. We need the powder for bigger things.” He hunched his shoulders before placing an arm behind her back, giving her something to lean on.
She allowed herself to relax against him, relishing the rush of giddiness his touch evoked. Feeling the hard coils of his arm muscles against her back. It had been a long time since she’d been giddy. She inhaled the earthy scent of him, along with the salty tang from the ocean and the sulfur from the fireworks display, which had begun. “Are you expecting a battle, then?”
He lowered his head toward her, his lips mere inches from hers. “Oui. Battles will happen this summer. Your bullets will come in handy.” He whispered into her ear. Libby’s body broke out in goosebumps, and she couldn’t tell if the man himself caused them or if they were the result of what he was telling her. She blinked and raised her hand to his cheek, giving in to the need to touch him. He swooped in for a quick kiss, and she couldn’t tell whether she had guided him or if he’d done so of his own accord. When he broke off the kiss, she guided him back to her lips for more. Just to be sure.
The fireworks lit the sky and Libby stared at Hawk in the light of the sparkling display. The rockets being shot off over Boston Harbor could not match the sparks emanating between the two of them. She needed to feel his lips on hers again. To feel his skin against hers. She wished to take him to her bed. Finally, she shifted her gaze to the sparklers over the water as people around them clapped and cheered.
So far, Hawk had bought her story that she was a well-bred widow from England. They’d taken some liberties with each other during the day, but she’d have to exercise caution in order to keep up the charade of being a proper English lady, because they would certainly end up in bed together should anything more happen between them. His mere presence overwhelmed her, and her resistance faded with his touch. So, it was best to not touch.
At least, not yet.
No more kisses, no more licked fingers. She had never ached for a man like she did with him. He took her breath away with a mere glance. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
Hawk probably surmised that, as a widow, she had knowledge of men and sex, and for that reason, was treating her differently than he would treat an ingenue. Well, she did have knowledge of men and sex. Way too much intimate knowledge. She had hoped to put her past behind her by traveling to America. If she gave in to her impulse to invite him to her bed tonight, the trip would have been for naught. Here she was, only a couple months into her new life and already contemplating again sharing her bed with a man without the benefit of marriage. Tears blurred her vision as she gazed at the fireworks. The ache in her lower region would not be assuaged tonight. She owed that much, at least, to Atticus.
The next man she would welcome into her bed would have to be her husband. Her lips formed a grim line. Could that man be Hawk Gentry? Her thoughts tumbled together. Could she become Liberty Gentry instead of Liberty Wexford? Change her name yet again? Before she could even contemplate the notion, she’d have to come clean with him, tell him of her past. But if she did so, she’d have to face the fact he might be so disgusted with her he’d turn away. Just then, Hawk leaned into her and she gave in to the impulse to put her head on the massive shoulder he offered her. His lips grazed her cheek.
Liberty Gentry had a nice ring to it. Surely, he’d not hold her past against her. Wouldn’t he?
• ♥ •
Today, when the thirteen colonies celebrated their independence from England, their liberty from British rule, Hawk eagerly was taking far too many liberties with his lovely British companion. He had not only thrown caution to the wind, he had completely tossed it out the window. Her scent had driven him crazy all day. The hotter the day got, the stronger the perfume of rose attar became.
After they finished their meal, after he had nibbled her fingers clean, she took a fan from her reticule and created a breeze near her face. All it accomplished was to drive the scent of roses into his nostrils with each pass of the fan. He had to do something, say something, or he would surely give into his lust and kiss her again in front of the entire town. Mount her in front of the entire town. Desperate to change the trajectory of his thoughts, he picked a topic from the air.
“Tell me about your life in England.” He actually couldn’t care less about England, a place he had never been. He only had some knowledge of Europe from the stories his father told him about France. The country she had lived in did not concern him, but he was curious about her life there.
“It was an ordinary life.” She fiddled with her fan. “I lived in London, which is much larger than Boston.”
“I have some knowledge of London, even though I have never been there. But you said your father was a farmer, so you must not have been born in London. How did you come to live in the city?” He could not fathom why it was important, but he hoped she had not always been a product of a large town.
“I grew up in a little place in northern England, where my father had a small farm, and I went to London when I was seventeen.” Libby revealed a bit of herself, finally.
“So, you met Mr. Wexford in London?” Hawk was also curious about the man who had come before him. Not that he was her next man, but nonetheless...
Libby fiddled with her fan, opening and closing it with a snap. “Yes, London is where we met. He was a good man, but I don’t wish to dwell on him, if you don’t mind.”
A white-hot bolt of jealousy ran through Hawk, stealing his breath. Jealous of a dead man, of all things. He shook his head, rose from the ground, and extended a hand to her. The fireworks were over, and the evening was at an end, but he hoped to prolong it. The promised four hours’ payment for her work with the bullet forms had come and gone long ago, but still Hawk lingered. For the first time in ages, he sought female company. Not just any female company. Her company, to be exact. How could he fit her into his life?
He placed her hand on his forearm as they leisurely strolled back to her quarters above the Gazette office. He glanced down at her and noticed her eyes were shiny with unspent tears. “Is something amiss, mon amie?”
She blinked the tears away and shook her head. “No, I’m merely being silly. It’s my first Independence Day, that’s all.”
“And, as I recall, you prefer liberty to the chains of diamonds.” Hawk cocooned her hand by placing his over it.
“I just wish I could do more for the cause.” Libby rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m tempted to ask Mr. Edes to show me how to set type, in order to have more to do.”
Hawk took a stutter-step to avoid the people in front of them, throwing off Libby’s movement, and she brushed up against him. Madness loomed on the horizon, but for once, Hawk paid it no heed. “I have an idea.”
Her fingers tightened on his arm, but she quickly stepped an appropriate distance back from him once she regained her balance. “Pray tell, what do you have in mind?”
If Hawk told her what was truly in his mind, she would run from him so fast he would only see a flash of her fancy footwear as she picked up her skirts and dashed away. He bit his lower lip and forced his heart rate into a normal pattern. “Since the editorial from A True Patriot ran, encouraging folks to give over their silverware for the cause, I have been getting all kinds of deliveries and stacking them into a corner of the shop. Would you care to work with me in the evenings, making more silver bullets?”
She laughed, a lovely, tinkling sound, like a small waterfall. “Since I’m already known as the silver bullet lady, according to your friend, Patterson, I’d say it’s a brilliant idea. When can we start?”
“The sooner, the better. Summer is when most of the fighting happens, and we are already halfway through the season.” Her hand warmed his arm, and he leaned into her. Propriety be damned. “I will sort through my pile tomorrow, if you could meet me after you are done at the newspaper.”
They arrived at the doorway leading to her room at the top of the stairs. Stairs he had taken many times, turning left at the landing to head into a meeting with the other Sons of Liberty. This time, though, he hoped to turn right and follow her into her quarters.
He leaned down, claiming her lips once more. When he brushed her porcelain cheek with his thumb, he could feel her shiver, and wrapped his arms around her. They were alone in the darkness and she leaned up against him, opening her mouth to him. Hawk needed no further invitation. His hand slid up from her waist and cupped her breast, which he’d been wanting to touch since he first saw her this morning. He stroked her nipple through her gown, and it peaked under his hand. She wove her hands into his hair, untying it from its queue, greedily accepting his kiss.
Hawk’s blood thundered in his veins as her tongue slipped between his teeth. He felt as if a storm was being unleashed between them, and he toyed with her tongue, sucking and teasing it with his own. He kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her temple. His lips scorched a path down to her ear and to the tender spot under her earlobe.
Libby moaned, pressing her body up against his hard planes. And his hard manhood. With a groan of dismay, she stepped back from him, putting some space between them and rescuing her hat, which had fallen to the cobblestones during the onslaught of his kisses.
She took a few deep breaths with her hand on her stomach and glanced at him. “It’s been a most enjoyable day, Hawk. The best since I arrived in America. The best in a long time, actually.” She got a ghost of a smile on her lips.
Lips he longed to taste. Again. And again.
He lowered his head to her, their lips ever so close. But then, she placed a hand on his chest and stopped his forward motion. “Thank you for making this a special day for me. I’ll come to the smithy shop after day’s end tomorrow. I can see myself home from here. Farewell, friend.”
His eyes clouded over. There would be no invitation to prolong the evening. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. She left him standing on the street with his blood still running hot, opened the door and he could hear her footsteps as she hurried up the stairs.
Away from him.
The memory of their shared, stolen kisses would not be expanded upon. Not tonight, at any rate. His hand curled as he recalled the way he had cradled her breast. His body lurched toward the door to follow her, but he stopped, one hand on the knob, and took a breath.
He had never chased after a woman in his life, and he was not about to start now and dart up the stairs. He had a bigger war to fight than the one he was waging with his body.
CHAPTER TEN
Libby didn’t stop her mad dash away from Hawk until she got inside her room. There were now two doors and a flight of stairs between them. Would it be enough? She leaned her body up against the door to catch her breath. Her hand over her heart made her aware it was racing. He had tried to kiss her again after she’d stopped the madness between them, and if he had succeeded, if she had let him, she would have led him up to her room. It had been too long since she’d shared a bed with a man.
Any man.
And a man like Hawk, with his bold, exotic looks, his large muscular body, his rather impressive manhood—at least, she surmised so, from what she could feel between their layers of fabric—would be her undoing. She took a few more deep breaths to calm herself before tiptoeing to the window overlooking the street. If he was still there, she’d wave him up and suffer the consequences later.
She inched the curtain to the side and peered down at the street.
Empty.
“Damnation!”
She stomped her foot, encased in a lovely brocaded shoe. A shoe she had chosen with care for the day, hoping Hawk would notice. But he had made no mention of her footwear. He had spent far more than his required four hours with her, though. She should take comfort in that and be satisfied. She glanced again at the empty street below and ground the heel of her fancy shoe into the floor, biting back the moan threatening to escape. Her right breast, which he had stroked tonight, cried out in desperation.
What else had she expected? You don’t rebuff a man as handsome as Hawk Gentry and expect him to fall apart by your actions.
The man could have his pick of women in Boston. He would not be the kind of man to turn into a bowl of quivering jelly when she drew away. That technique only worked on men who weren’t as self-assured.
Nor could she expect him to bolt up the stairs, acting like some cave man, dragging her to the bed, even though the idea made her lady parts ache in anticipation. She moved her hand from her heart to her stomach, which had become the bowl of jelly she’d imagined. She could have used other methods to entice him which she’d learned over the years, but she was no longer a courtesan. And if Hawk ever guessed she’d had more than one lover, she’d be the one getting rebuffed. As it was, she’d noticed the mere mention of Mr. Wexford made Hawk’s jaw tighten and set his teeth on edge.
She sat on the edge of the bed. “Ah, Atticus. What should I do? You had advance knowledge of my profession when we met, but Hawk has no clue. Will he be as kind to me as you were? As forgiving?”
Her questions floated in the air, and she shook her head. No, he wouldn’t be. How could he? Courtesans were an accepted staple among London’s upper echelon, but here in America, they were not. They weren’t highly prized courtesans, but rather whores, here in America.
She’d read the letters to the editor speculating on the relationship between Elizabeth Loring and General Howe in most unflattering terms. Not towards Howe, but toward Mrs. Loring. General Howe’s behavior was written off as being what men do, but Elizabeth Loring’s behavior was beyond disgusting, to the residents of Boston.
So, what to do?
She’d have to act prim and proper around him. No more stolen kisses, no more touching. She’d pretend to be the grieving widow he thought she was, and she’d slowly invite him into her web of deceit with a few fevered glances and a moistening of her lips. If she could maintain her steely self-control until she had completely placed him under her spell, she might never need to share her background with him. He’d become so infatuated with her he would never question how she’d become so skilled in the art of lovemaking. He would merely count his blessings. And if the war ended soon, and all the British soldiers left the country, she’d breathe a sigh of relief that there was no one left in America who could upend her carefully crafted lie.
Starting tomorrow, she’d work with Hawk, making bullets for him to use in battle, and pray one of the British bullets would not find its way into his magnificent body. Mon amie, he’d called her. My friend. What was the French word for love? She
couldn’t recall. But she’d make it her mission to find out. Maybe she’d even learn how to say it in the Passamaquoddy language, as well. She’d unleash all her feminine charms on him, and he’d spill out words of love to her during the height of passion.
Sleep would not come easily tonight. Nor should it. When she had been in London, men approached her, did their best to please her with their outrageous offerings in exchange for her time and her body. Now, the shoe was on the other foot. Appropriately, since that’s how the saga of Hawk started. What did she have to give him other than companionship and sex? She’d give him her time, work alongside him, making bullets for the Continental Army’s use. She’d fashion bullets from whatever metal they could find to melt down. The more time they spent together, the better. She’d be able to melt his resistance if she could stay close. She’d ultimately give him her body, could not wait for their bodies to melt together, too. But not until he begged for it. Begged for her.
She flopped over onto her side. Who was she kidding? Hawk would never beg for her. She’d most likely be the one doing the begging. She blinked away the sudden tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Since Atticus’s funeral, she had only cried one time, when the solicitor explained how Atticus Wexford had left her his fortune. She could become a lady of leisure, if that’s what she chose. But Boston fairly hummed with activity, and with cause. A cause was what she needed to occupy her time. A cause other than capturing the heart of a hawk.
