A British Courtesan in America (Revolutionary Women Book 2)

by Becky Lower

  She tugged the remainder of the meal from her basket and placed a sandwich in front of him. Then, she stepped to the other side of the bench and laid her own sandwich out. Even a slight barrier provided by the bench would help her right herself. She took a bite, reliving the interruption, attempting to sort out if she welcomed or mourned it.

  Then her bite of sandwich stuck in her throat. What had Patterson said about them leaving?

  “Are you and Mr. Lovejoy going somewhere?” Her twinge of apprehension flickered.

  “Ya. Oui. There is trouble brewing up north, in Maine.” Hawk devoured his sandwich in a few bites. Libby had lost her appetite, so she offered him the rest of hers, and he gladly gobbled it down, too. And the watermelon had lost its chill in the hot shop, so she had no appetite for that, either.

  In a few short months, she’d become accustomed to having Hawk as part of her life. And now, he was leaving her, heading off into battle somewhere in Maine, wherever that may be. Just as Atticus had done, in London. How would she be able to cope? She strode to the shelf where the forms for the bullets were stacked and filled her arms, carrying them to the table. She dropped them with a clatter, and, with jerky motions, cleared away the remnants of their dinner. Hawk encircled her wrist again. She jerked her hand away.

  “Libby.” His whisper filled the air.

  She faced him, tears pricking at her eyes. “Don’t you ‘Libby’ me, Hawk. You are heading into battle where one of these bullets might kill you and you didn’t even plan to tell me?” She flung a bullet mold across the room.

  “The war is none of your concern.” He retrieved the form and set it back on the bench.

  “Yes, it is, Hawk. My room is directly opposite the headquarters of the Sons of Liberty. I couldn’t be any closer without being a member of the group.” Her head snapped up, and she glared at him. “Yes, I figured that out, also without your help. You can’t hold the fact I’m British against me, since I hear similar accents all over town.” She shrugged her shoulders and softened her gaze. “And beyond the war, there’s you.” Her hands jerked back and forth between them. “There’s us.”

  “There can be no us, Libby. Not now. Not until the war ends.” He rolled his shoulders.

  Libby took a few shuddered breaths and finally got control of herself. She rounded the table and caressed Hawk’s cheek. “Tell that to our bodies, then. We can’t be near each other without touching. I never told you about Atticus Wexford and how he died.”

  “You do not have to.” He placed a hand over hers on his cheek and turned it so he could kiss her wrist. Her pulse raced beneath his lips and her entire body tingled.

  “Yes, I do have to. He was a private investigator, working to expose an attempt to kill King George. He was shot and taken to the hospital. By the time I found out what had happened to him, and why he hadn’t returned to me, it was too late. I was too late. I couldn’t tell him one last time how...how much I loved him.” Her tears erupted again, and he brushed her cheeks dry with his callused thumbs before kissing her so tenderly, she thought her heart would explode.

  “Our situation is not the same, Libby. Mon Dieu, I am not your husband. I will not take a wife until the conflict is at an end. I do not wish to leave a woman behind each time I go into battle.” He placed his hands on her shoulders.

  She rose on tiptoe and directed his lips to hers again. “And because we’re not married means I won’t worry about you every time you leave town? Don’t be ridiculous, Hawk. I don’t need to be your wife to care for you. Even though we’ve only known each other a short time, I have feelings for you.” She wrapped her arms around him. “And, I can tell from the way you respond to me, you have feelings for me as well. Feelings worthy of exploration.”

  She took a step back to her side of the bench and banged one of the bullet forms on the top of the bench. “But, if I’m mistaken in my interpretation of your feelings, then you are taking far too many liberties with me.”

  Hawk stared at her for a long minute from across the expanse of the bench. Finally, he sucked in air. “You are not mistaken, Libby.”

  She straightened her back and let out the breath she’d been holding. “This war may go on for years. I don’t plan to wait that long, merely kissing and touching you. I want more from you than that. You and I have feelings for one another, even without a marriage agreement. So, you need to figure out another way to deal with it. I will not be toyed with for too long before I will lose interest.”

  She raised a brow in his direction before heading to the kettle for their first pour of the evening. Hawk was not the first man who had been cautious with her. But she’d never wanted a man this badly before. She would have her way with him, sooner or later.

  But she would prefer sooner.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A kiss awakened Libby. A kiss as soft as a summer breeze. She held onto sleep for another moment, then opened her eyes. Hawk, her beautiful Hawk, leaned over her, just as she’d been dreaming. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him closer.

  “Bonjour, mon amie.” His whisper wafted over her. “It is time to get up.”

  She glanced at her surroundings. They were not in her bed above the Gazette. They were on the cot in the smithy shop! She’d only meant to close her eyes for a moment while Hawk cleaned the bullet forms. Then, he was to escort her back to her room above the newspaper, where they were to spend the remainder of the night pleasuring each other before he departed for the battlefield. But the sun streaking in from the window proved morning had already arrived.

  She sat up, still wrapped in his arms. Libby drew him closer still, inhaled his signature scent of honest sweat, hot metal, horses, and male. She returned his kiss, hoping to convince him to delay leaving the cot. Her tongue dueled with his, and she emitted a moan. Her hand slid over his broad shoulder, feeling his muscles tense under her touch. He left her breathless.

  But yet, he stood and offered her a hand to rise, as well.

  Her legs threatened to buckle, so she fused herself against his body and kissed him again. Surely, they could steal another hour from the day, couldn’t they?

  “I’m so sorry I fell asleep last night.” Libby brushed a hand down his chest.

  “We worked very hard last night, and I took pleasure in watching you sleep. In the fact you trusted me enough to fall asleep in front of me. But you must get to work at the newspaper while Patterson and I leave this morning for Maine.”

  “Why must you go? Isn’t what you are doing here in Boston enough?” Libby fought to keep the whine, the worry, from her voice.

  “Non, when this war touches my tribe, I must be a part of the conflict. My father is guiding the British around my people’s camp, but my mother lives there. I must see to her safety, should something go awry.” He swooped in for another kiss. “We must wait.”

  “Mr. Edes won’t mind if I’m a bit late. Hawk, I wish to spend time with you in bed before you go.” Libby drew him in for another kiss. “Give you a taste of something to come back to.”

  His mouth seared her skin as he kissed her column of neck and sucked on her earlobe. She practically panted from his touches. She placed a hand on his heart and could feel its rapid pace. Wrapping her arm around his neck, she held on tightly as he took her breath away again with his kisses, his touch. His hand brushed over her breast again, and her nipple peaked in response. A guttural sound emanated from her throat as she thrust her breast into his hand.

  She had loosened her gown’s neckline prior to laying on the cot, and Hawk took full advantage, snaking his hand beneath the cloth and caressing her naked bosom, exposing it fully to the heat of the smithy shop. To the heat of him. Her entire body was aflame, and he stoked the furnace. Her hands wound around the back of his neck, fingers lacing into his long dark hair. He swooped in and kissed her yet again, fondling her breast, placing his mouth over her engorged nipple and alternately sucking and teasing it with his tongue.

  Just as she thought she’d explode, h
e set her away from him and tugged on her gown, covering her up again. “You tempt me, mon amie, but we both have our jobs to do. I will be back soon.” He plundered her mouth again, as unwilling as she to depart. “I hope I have given you something to ponder, as well, while I am gone.”

  Libby took a shaky breath and smoothed her hair. Then she gave him a saucy grin. “I may need another reminder...”

  He cupped her cheek and kissed her one last time. Light as a feather. The feather of a Hawk. “Adieu, mon cherie.”

  “How do you express love in Passamaquoddy?” She hoped to entice him to linger a bit longer.

  He brushed the pad of his thumb over her jawline. “Words of love sound better in French, n’est pas?”

  She placed a hand on his forearm, reluctant to break their connection. “Stay safe, Hawk. And come back to me. To my bed.”

  Libby got halfway to her quarters before she recalled she had said almost those exact words to Atticus before he entered into battle and was killed. Her stomach clenched, and she nearly doubled over on the street. Once she got behind the closed door of her room, she let her tears fall. And ran a hand over her bruised lips. The man did know how to kiss. Every time he was close, desire for him nearly made her pant, like a dog with his tongue hanging out. Lust, she could deal with. But was her attraction to him something more than lust? She’d never had such strong feelings for a man before. Could she be falling in love with a half-French, half-Passamaquoddy gorgeous hunk of a man?

  For so many years, she’d guarded her heart from getting involved, the better to navigate the ladder of courtesanship as she slid from one benefactor to another. Atticus was the first man to get past the barricades she’d set up around her heart, and she would never forget his kindness and his loving spirit.

  And now, there was Hawk. From her first day in Boston, he’d been a presence in her life. He’d not only gone past the barricades of her heart, he’d knocked them all down. Now, the question remained, what could she do about it? If she revealed her background to him, made him aware of how she’d made a living in England, would he reject her? He was not so easily swayed by her looks and charm as the men from her past had been. Right now, he thought her carnal knowledge had come about only through Atticus. What would he do if she revealed the truth? Would it be better to live the rest of her life without telling him? Did she want to continue to live a life of duplicity, even if it meant being with Hawk? She had no wish to live the remainder of her life alone, without a man to warm her bed. Atticus had made her ponder marriage and a lifelong mate for the first time in her adult life. But he died before he could fulfill his promise to her. Should she now take a chance on Hawk?

  • ♥ •

  Hawk rode in silence alongside Patterson Lovejoy as they headed northward. He glanced over at his friend and tried to steer his thoughts away from Libby. Patterson was one of the most active members of the Sons of Liberty, a good-looking, slightly built man with a full head of sandy hair, brown eyes, and a skill at organizing Bostonians to keep repelling the British. Although he tried to keep his private life to himself, Hawk had met Patterson’s wife and children.

  Hawk munched on some beef jerky as they rode, appreciating the saltiness of the meat. At least by focusing on chewing the meat, his mind slid away from Libby for a few minutes.

  Unlike Patterson, he had no children to leave behind. Not yet, anyway. Children with Libby appealed to him. Hell, anything with Libby appealed to him. As tempted as he had been to prolong their morning, he hesitated. He could tell from the way Libby welcomed his advances she would be no shrinking violet in the bedroom. The fortunate Mr. Wexford had undoubtedly enjoyed Libby’s ministrations numerous times.

  But Hawk’s first time with her would not be done in haste. Not on the cot in the smithy shop. No, he needed hours, days, weeks, to explore every inch of her body, to give her climax after climax, make her so weak from their lovemaking she would have no recourse other than to be carried from room to room where he could continue his onslaught of her senses. That way, he could map the contours of her spectacular body for hours or days, fuse his lips to hers and keep her close. Protect her, as a woman should be protected. He wished to make their first time together one she would never forget. And it could not be done in the hot, sweaty blacksmith shop where anyone could invade the space at any time, as Patterson had done the previous evening.

  He wished to banish the fond memory of the fortunate Mr. Wexford forever from Libby’s mind and to replace him with a burly half-Indian, half-French, all man who was crazy for her. She’d said she did not need marriage to show her love for him. When he returned, he would take her up on her offer.

  He did have it bad for her.

  And even though he considered the war effort his mistress, there were some things the war could not offer. He had been without a woman for a long time. But Libby would not be content as his mistress. She was much too cultured to play that role. Hell, he would not be content having her as his mistress. He had to make sure no other man ever touched her again. The only way to guarantee that was to marry her.

  Hawk ran a hand down his chest as the thought rolled over him, frightened him a bit, and he admitted for the first time he wished for more from her than tortured kisses and brief glimpses of her flesh. How had it happened? They had only known each other for a short time. It must have been the shoes. He had never seen more elegant footwear in his life. Or such a graceful ankle. He had replayed that vision over and over since their first meeting. But he now had also touched her swell of bosom. And a fine bosom it was, indeed. So responsive to his touch. Which left him hungry for more intimacies with her. He could devour her body for years. He shook his head to clear his mind. He had best focus on the impending battle.

  “How did your wife handle your leaving this morning, Pat?” Hawk’s gaze flickered to the man before focusing again on the trail they were following.

  “She shares my belief as to why we must fight. Our children deserve a better life than we have.” Patterson glanced over at Hawk. “So, we celebrated my departure in our usual way.” He could not control his grin. “Possibly, there will be another cause for celebration when I return. A new babe may be brewing right now.”

  He punched Hawk’s shoulder. “And you? Did you and the lovely Mrs. Wexford finish what I interrupted?”

  “Non. We made bullets and then she fell asleep.” Hawk’s shoulders bunched.

  “Aw, sorry, man. I should have left when I figured out what was happening between you two and returned later.” Patterson shook his head. “No man should head into battle with a boner.”

  Hawk straightened in the saddle. “It will encourage me to end the conflict quickly, so I can return to the lovely Mrs. Wexford and finish the job.”

  “That’s one way to look at it. Although I see nothing wrong with having a lovemaking sandwich with a battle in between. I certainly intend to indulge with my wife upon my return.” Patterson slapped the reins on his horse’s neck. “So, let’s get a move on.”

  Patterson had a point. There was nothing wrong with a lovemaking sandwich. Hawk was, indeed, hungry; but rather than a sandwich, he intended on a feast.

  He would make certain his mother and her fellow tribeswomen and children were safe. Then, he would join with the other Passamaquoddy men who had pledged their allegiance to General Washington and would fight the battle. With any luck, he would be back in Boston in three weeks.

  And if luck failed him? Then, his last thoughts would be of Liberty Wexford, the silver bullet woman with the silky bosom who had declared her affection for him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The uptick in advertising sales and new subscribers following the Fourth of July celebration in Boston kept Libby busy as the hottest month of the year ground to a halt. She appreciated the surge in revenue, since keeping track of it all kept her from wondering what Hawk was doing and if he was in danger. She surrounded herself with fresh flowers, both in the office and in her little room above the Gazette, sinc
e their light scent had always kept her darkest thoughts at bay.

  But regardless of which side of the Atlantic she was on, her dark thoughts followed her. Why did she have to surround herself with men who lived for danger? Why not pick a quiet, subdued cobbler or farmer, for instance? Her life was a never-ending, gut-wrenching saga as she’d weathered the heartbreak of one lover falling in combat. And now she’d sent another off to spill blood. Hopefully, not his, though.

  “Enough!” She stomped her foot in frustration and inhaled the perfume of the red roses she’d selected for her room. Red roses signified love, and she admitted she was rapidly heading in that direction with Hawk. He returned her feelings, she could tell, but before they truly consummated their relationship, she owed it to him to reveal her story in its entirety. She fondled the soft rose petals before she sat on her bed.

  How would he react when he was told Atticus had been her paramour and not her husband? That he was the latest in a string of lovers she’d taken? That she had based her attraction to various men on the size of their pockets rather than the size of their manhood?

  She smoothed out the furrow she could feel forming between her eyes. It would not do to develop wrinkles.

  “Ah, Mama.” Libby whispered into the air. “Did you have any idea when you set me on my course so many years ago it would come to this?”

  She seldom thought of her mother anymore. The woman had died shortly after she sent Libby to the holiday party, dressed in the finest red gown Libby had ever seen. Except she wasn’t Libby then. She had stared at her reflection in the mirror as her frail mother tugged the gown low so the tops of her breasts were revealed. “You must show off your best assets, my dear. Your bosom will take you far in the world.”

  Fancy Booker died that night along with her mother. She became Anjanette Shelby, the darling of the courtesan set, and the one to which every man in London aspired. For the most part, she’d been treated well. Men lavished her with gifts of fine art, jewelry, clothing and money. In addition to giving her instruction in the matters of the flesh, some of the men enlarged her formal education with books of all sorts and discussions of their contents afterwards, of which she greedily partook.