His hand was hard, rough and callused from work. The flesh was unyielding, the texture fascinating to her fingertips.
"And what did the kitten do, Jon?"
"Purred." Bennie thought Jon's voice sounded oddly strained.
"Yes. She purred. Because she knew you wouldn't hurt her. Because she knew you were a gentle man."
Bennie twisted her wrist so her palm pressed against his, matching her fingers with his.
"You are such a big man, Jon. Big and strong. But you never hurt anyone, do you? You never hate anyone, and tell them that they're not pretty enough or smart enough or strong enough."
She pushed her hand closer yet, feeling his warmth seep through her skin.
"Never be sorry for what you are, Jon. Never be sorry you're not good with weapons."
"But I'm a soldier!" He looked so dejected, his eyes half closed, his head hanging. He needed someone to comfort him, someone to show him his value didn't depend on his ability to bury a knife in another human being.
She gave in to the impulse before she knew she had it. Sliding over on the bench, she wrapped her arms around him and laid his head on her shoulder.
"Shh," she said soothingly, her hands smoothing the scratchy fabric over his back. "Everything's going to be all right."
Oh, God. What had he done now? He had decided the safest recourse was to retreat as deeply as possible into his role. He would play the childlike fool so well she would find nothing in him to interest her, and she would never notice him again.
Instead, she was comforting him like a child. And he was reacting like a man.
His face was buried against the curve of her neck. Her skin was like warm, fine satin; he could feel her pulse beat against his cheek. Soft tendrils of her hair fell across his face, tickling his ear, tempting his touch.
She smelled like lavender. Faint, delicate, surprising. Completely feminine. He inhaled deeply, his blood quickening with the scent of this woman.
Her skin was in reach of his tongue. All he would have to do was open his mouth and he could taste her neck. All he would have to do was slide a bit over and down, and his face would be buried in her...
He would be taking shameless advantage.
"Beth," he murmured by way of apology. He slid over and down.
Her breasts were lush, a man's dream of tempting flesh. Even covered by the soft green wool, he could clearly imagine their texture, their smell.
"Lavender," he mumbled against her chest.
"What did you say, Jon? I couldn't hear you."
Her breasts trembled against him when she spoke. It took tremendous force of willpower to lift his head, Finding his face only inches away from hers.
"I said..." He swallowed heavily. "Lavender. You smell like lavender."
"Oh." Her skin was flushed, a delicate pink blooming across the fine gold of her cheeks. "I use it in the coals, to clean my teeth."
Her teeth. His gaze dropped to her mouth, her glistening, tantalizing mouth. Then her breath would smell like lavender too. Would she taste sweet? He moved fractionally closer, until he could feel the warmth of her breath curl over his skin.
Closing his eyes, he tilted his head slightly. Their lips were so close. Less than contact, but more than apart. Temptation, anticipation.
What would it hurt? he asked himself. It would only be a kiss.
Just a kiss.
CHAPTER 7
In the end, he couldn't do it. Couldn't do the thing he knew was wrong. Couldn't move that tiny space that would bring his mouth to hers.
But he didn't have to. Because Beth did.
It was so easy. At first when she'd held him, she'd honestly thought of nothing but giving comfort, of soothing a bit of his pain. Then his scent had drifted to her nose and gone to her head. His warmth had seeped through her clothes and gone to her belly. His head had hovered over hers and his breath had tickled her lips and all thoughts of comfort had vanished.
She'd wanted to know what it would be like if he would close that small, significant gap and kiss her. Once, just once, she wanted to feel like every other girl whose sweetheart stole a kiss behind the stables. She wanted to know what it was like to be touched by a man whose mere presence made her heart do flips.
So she'd tilted her head that crucial little bit that brought their lips together.
His mouth was tender—there was no other word for it. It fit hers as well as her bow fit her hand. He was still, the contact between them the barest brush of skin.
Was there more? She had to know. Experimentally, she pressed her lips slightly harder against his.
She heard his breath catch, and then he began to rock his mouth against hers. The pressure changed, shifted, and changed again in a way that was wholly captivating.
If she had expected tentativeness, what she got was sureness. If she had expected warmth, what she got was heat. If she had expected friendship, what she got was something so much more.
What she got was magic. She felt him trace the seam of her mouth with his tongue, lingering at one corner as if he'd found a hidden cache of honey. It made her feel cherished, as if even that one tiny spot held the power to fascinate him. He seemed in no hurry to move on, content to savor.
She opened her mouth in wonder. His tongue slipped in, skimming the edges of her teeth, gliding over flesh she'd had no idea could be so sensitive.
This was a seduction she'd never known existed. And she wanted more.
She slid closer to him on the bench, close enough to press against his chest, and lifted her hands to his shoulders. He groaned, a rumble that reverberated through her mouth. He held himself away from her, his shoulders thrown back, as if he were trying to escape the contact. But that couldn't be, because his mouth clung to hers, his tongue exploring hidden recesses and seeking out secret places that made her shiver.
He tasted like the Eel's best whiskey, the stuff her da saved only for the most important customers. His flavor was dark, rich, smoky, and complex, hinting at subtleties that intrigued but couldn't be defined.
Enticed by the things he was doing to her, she wanted to try it herself. She tentatively rubbed her tongue against his. Would he like it as much as she did?
A tremor ran through him in response. She tried it again.
He groaned. The pressure of his mouth increased, but it wasn't demanding, it was tempting. He lured her in, stealing the strength from her body and the thoughts from her mind. His tongue played with hers; advance, retreat, advance, retreat. A stroke was madness. A glide, delight. Slide... rapture.
She felt his chest heave, as if he'd run miles. She moved her hands down his arms, feeling the hard, massive bulge of his biceps under the wool of his coat. Testing, she flexed her fingers; she couldn't even make a dent.
"Jon," she whispered. "Jon."
He jumped to his feet so abruptly she nearly tumbled forward. Bracing her arm against the now empty space on the bench, she opened her eyes, blinking away the haze of pleasure. Beneath her hand, she could still feel the warmed wood where his body had been. She wanted the warmth back.
"Jon?"
His body was rigid, and he paced away from her. His tension was undeniable; his fists were clenched, his eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, his breathing ragged.
"Beth." His voice sounded strained. He stretched one hand toward her, but the motion stopped halfway. He just stood there, his arm hanging in midair as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. "I'm... I'm sorry, Beth."
And he tore out of the tavern, slamming the door behind him.
Bennie stared at the door, not quite believing he was actually gone.
Dear Lord, what had she done?
Her hand shook as she raised it to her mouth. She'd kissed him. Kissed him, and he'd run away from her as if she were the entire Continental army and he was the only British soldier for miles.
She'd assumed that, because of his looks, women had probably been grabbing him and kissing him most of his life. But she was supposed to be his
friend. She was supposed to understand that he probably didn't have the slightest clue what went on between a man and a woman—not that she did.
She was supposed to want nothing more than friendship from him. Instead, she'd acted like any other woman blinded by a pretty face and a whole lot of muscles. And she'd wanted... a lot.
She'd scared him. Bennie didn't doubt it for a minute. She was actually pretty good at scaring men; it was sometimes a rather useful skill, but she'd never meant to frighten Jon.
Long ago she'd come to terms with the way her life was going to be. There would be music, and there would be family. There wouldn't be sweethearts and kisses and babies. She'd known it for a long time.
She'd forgotten it just this once, and because of it, she was going to lose a friend she wanted very much to keep.
Propping her elbow on the table next to the tankard of ale Jon hadn't even touched, Bennie dropped her forehead into her palm.
***
Dear God, what had he done?
He had done the worst possible thing he could do. Clomping along with the rest of the soldiers, Jon rolled his shoulders. His muscles ached vaguely from the amount of force he'd had to exert to keep his arms from going around Beth when she'd kissed him.
At least he'd managed that much. Unfortunately, his will hadn't been strong enough for him to keep his lips to himself as well.
What must she be thinking? More important, what the hell was he going to do now?
He could stay out of New Wexford as much as possible, but that wasn't going to get the job done. Today could have so easily degenerated into violence. Time was running out; both sides seemed set on confrontation, and the opportunities to change that were going to be severely limited.
The best thing he could do for his mission was to use her. If she liked him, well, there was no telling what information he could get out of her. Her family must know nearly everything that went on in the area.
It was a perfectly logical thing to do, but his conscience—what there was left of it—balked hard at that idea. Beth didn't deserve to be treated that way, and he wasn't entirely sure he could force himself to do it, no matter what the provocation.
Clearly, he'd been playing the idiot too long. He was becoming one himself.
Jon closed his mind to anything but the soothing, simple rhythm of the march.
***
Bennie was careful to stay in the shadows. The doorway led into the dark storeroom at the back of the Dancing Eel, and here she could watch and listen, safely out of her father's sight.
He knew, of course. He always did. But as long as he wasn't actually reminded of her presence, it seemed he could pretend she wasn't there. Bennie knew if she was out in the main room, where he was confronted by her, he'd probably order her out of the tavern.
A Sons of Liberty meeting was no place for a lady.
Bennie had known about the meetings for at least five years. After all, she was related to nearly a third of the men in the room. They were a loosely organized group in a small village that had never attracted much attention from the British, and they'd had little to do for the past few years but gather, drink, complain about the Crown, and read the information spread through the colonies by various committees of correspondence.
Bennie'd begun trying to talk her father into allowing her to attend the meetings as soon as she'd found out about them. She was as much a patriot as any of her brothers and was intrigued by the stories of protests and confrontations in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia.
Cad had been more than willing to let her come; all his other children were there. But Mary had told him in no uncertain terms that no daughter of hers was to be a member of a mob of big-talking patriots, and Cad was to send Elizabeth home whenever he found her there.
So Cad and Bennie had tacitly agreed that as long as he didn't see her, she could stay.
The crowd in the Dancing Eel this December night was unusually subdued. It was the regular monthly meeting, a full week after the mustering, and just that afternoon the first snow of the winter had begun to fall, cloaking the tavern in soft, frigid white. Inside, smoke floated around the quiet men. The glow of lanterns and candles was hazy, diffused, leaving much of (he room in shadow.
"Now, that was a close one at the mustering, men. We were lucky to get the inspection finished before the redcoats showed up," Cad was saying, his silver hair shining pale in the dimness.
"What if they had come earlier?" a man from the front of the room yelled. "We could've taken 'em."
"Yeah, but at what cost?" Adam picked up the huge pewter tankard in front of him. "My children were there, Martin. So were yours."
"I think we all agree confrontation is inevitable," Cad said. "But there's no reason we can't pick the time and place to our advantage." He frowned. "I can't understand why the change of time didn't throw them off. It was enough of a coincidence that they showed up here last month a mere half-hour before we were due to meet, but to come early to the mustering—"
"It's perfectly obvious." Brendan leaned casually against a wall, almost invisible in the shadows. "Someone told them when to come."
"No!" Every man in the room mumbled the denial, then looked around at their friends, relatives, and neighbors. Surely no one here would betray them.
Brendan shrugged. "How else would they know our schedules so precisely? They're getting information from somewhere—very good information—and they're getting it fast. We'd only changed the time of the mustering two days before."
"Brendan," Cadwallader said, the warning clear in his voice. "I know every man in this room. As do you. No one here would ever turn against us."
"Perhaps not intentionally." Rufus adjusted his bridge spectacles. "But how many of us might have mentioned something in passing? To our wives, or our sweethearts? A peddler, or the barmaid at an inn we stopped at to pass an evening? There are any number of ways it could have gotten out."
Men shifted uneasily.
"Well, I don't know that it matters so much how they found out this time. No harm was done. What matters is that it never happen again." Cadwallader's gaze swept the room, carefully marking each man. "Now that there are British stationed in the area, it may be that the time for action has come. If any information reaches the British now, it could be dangerous—and we'll know it came from someone close."
"But what can we do?" one of the farmers asked.
"Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot." Cad stroked his thumb down the side of his jaw. "You all know that the Sons in Boston have made it uncomfortable for the British for a long time. There's no reason we can't do the same."
"Father, what's the point? So they've managed to harass a few soldiers; so they've been able to get rid of a few minor taxes. The British are still here."
"The point, Brendan, is that this is our home. Our place. If they intend to govern us, to occupy us, without our permission, we don't have to make it easy for them."
"Yea! Let's go get rid of 'em!" Henry, Bennie's seventh brother, was only seventeen. He thrilled to the exploits of the Boston revolutionaries and was still unhappy he'd missed the excitement of the Tea Party and the Port Bill Riots, and he was completely convinced he could single-handedly drive a regiment of British soldiers out of the colonies. Bennie worried about George, Henry, and Isaac most of all; they had the energy and hotheadedness of young men, the size of all Joneses, and more patriotic fervor than they knew what do with. They didn't have wives and children to worry about, a worry that effectively kept most of her other brothers' tempers to a slow simmer, rather than a full, roiling boil.
"It's not time yet, Henry." Cadwallader smiled. "Let's wait and see for a little while. You'll get your chance."
The meeting broke up. Some men left to go home to their families; many stayed for an ale or two before heading out into the cold.
The heat and smoke in the tavern began to feel uncomfortably close. Needing some fresh air, Bennie pulled her cloak around her and slipped out the back door.
; She leaned against the side of the tavern. Cold from the stone wall seeped through the fabric of her wrap. Bennie turned her face up to the sky. There was no moon, no stars, no clouds that she could see, just dense, impenetrable blackness. It seemed as if the snowflakes just appeared from the dark, floating lazily to earth.
She craved the quiet, the peace, the freedom. Peace was a quality that was rapidly slipping away from her life, and there seemed to be little she could do to restore it.
Her village was no longer peaceful. The proximity of the British left everyone tense and short-tempered, waiting for the explosion.
Her family, too, felt strained. The conflict between her father and Brendan, once sad but bearable, was becoming acutely painful. Her younger brothers were restless, eager to make their place in the world.
Then there was Bennie herself.
Snowflakes fell on her skin, tiny, brief dots of sensation where they melted. They clung to her lashes, blurring her vision and she ran her tongue over her lips to capture the few that fell there.
She'd thought she was content without passion, ready to settle for a life of quiet satisfaction. Yet even her own tongue sliding across her lips reminded her of the feel of his. The chill of the stones only served to make her wish for remembered heat.
She'd found that peace was no defense against fire.
***
It was back to business
Two weeks after the mustering, Jon marched into New Wexford. He'd put off going back as long as he could. He'd made sure, before he came, that his mind was filled with troop strength and strategies, not lavender and soft skin. The only secrets he was interested in were the ones that he'd been sent there to find out, not the secrets buried beneath the calm, beguiling surface of a woman.
He had traitors to find. If he had to use her in the process, then he would. That was his job. It was the only thing that mattered. If it had taken him two weeks to come to that conclusion, well, so be it. Every man was allowed one stupid, adolescent crush in his life. So what if his had come ten or fifteen years later than it was supposed to? He had it under control now.
Law, Susan Kay Page 8
