Law, Susan Kay

by Traitorous Hearts

  Bennie jumped to her feet, swept up an entire arm load of hay and hurled it in his direction before she darted past him. Her laughter burbled on the air, as joyous to his ears as the music she had played earlier, because he had made her laugh.

  Jon spun. She was no more than two steps away, lightly balanced on the balls of her feet, ready for motion. Her hair, the color of sunshine and earth and ripe crops, tumbled down around her shoulders. Her simple clothes were disarrayed, she was shedding hay with every movement, and she was the most enticing thing he had ever seen.

  "You think you can catch me?" Bennie taunted. "My brothers never could." A quick slip and she was behind him again, raining torrents of dried grass and dust over his head.

  He shook his head violently, sending the chaff flying, and turned. Her eyes were alight with mischief, her smile happy and free, and he wished he could make her look like that always.

  He feinted left. She leaned right.

  He darted right. She skipped left.

  He let himself relax. "Hmm. Too fast for me." Then he dived.

  The momentum of his jump carried them both down into a large pile of hay. Thrusting out his arms behind her, he took most of the impact of the fall, instinctively protecting her. Hay billowed around them, and laughter floated above them.

  "I must be slowing down. I'm out of practice." She looked up into his face, and her laughter died.

  Their faces were bare inches apart. And everywhere else, they weren't apart at all.

  His chest and belly were pressed against hers. She was short of breath but doubted it was from the force of his weight, for he was propped on his elbows. His heaviness wasn't suffocating, it was... wonderful.

  One of his legs rested between hers, and his thigh was pressed against a part of her she'd pretty much ignored most of her life but was now utterly aware of.

  His hair was loose and brushed her cheek, its softness in complete contrast to the hard length of his body. His pale eyes no longer seemed cool and distant, and Bennie was reminded that only the hottest of flames burned blue.

  Her arms slid around his waist as if of their own accord. "Jon," she whispered.

  He jerked away from her as quickly as he would have removed his hand from a fire. Jumping to his feet, he strode over to the nearest window. Planting his feet apart, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared out into the fading light, his finely sculpted features set into implacable lines.

  Dear Lord, she'd done it again. It was exactly like the last time. She'd been unable to keep herself from touching him, she'd said his name, and he'd left her.

  He seemed willing to accept her companionship and her music. What he clearly didn't want was what her body kept trying to insist upon.

  She didn't even know why she had this compulsion to touch him. Back when she'd been young enough and silly enough to have dreams, the man she'd dreamed of had been nothing like him—a beautiful man, yes, a kind man, and strong. But she'd dreamed of a man of intelligence and ambition, a dashing man who'd challenge the world and her.

  Yet Jon was the only man who'd ever made her feel this way. It was absurd. It was ridiculous.

  But it was.

  She got up and walked slowly over to him. He was completely motionless, and she wondered what he was thinking as he looked down on the yard between the stables and the Dancing Eel.

  "Jon," she said tentatively. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Or hurt you, either. I—"

  "It's all right." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "We're friends. Friends hug. Friends kiss. Right?"

  "Right." She swallowed; her throat was dry. Friends. As much as she wanted his friendship, it seemed such a bland, inadequate word.

  He sighed heavily, and his forbidding posture relaxed. He turned to face her.

  "Beth." Taking one of her hands, he turned the palm up and brought it to his mouth. He touched his lips to it, and even that small, tender brush made her wish for more. He lifted his head to look at her and enfolded her hand in both of his.

  "Beth, I'm sorry. I can't... not anymore."

  He couldn't. Although he had made up his mind to use their friendship as a convenient way to obtain information, he found he couldn't do this. It was one thing to listen to tidbits she'd picked up in the tavern or from the comings and goings of the townspeople. It was quite another to make love with her to do it.

  Her hand tightened in his, squeezing gently. "What were you like before?"

  "Before?"

  "Before your accident. Do you remember anything?"

  "Some." He dropped her hand and turned to stare back down into the shadowy yard. He'd never had any trouble before looking someone in the eye and lying to them. Why was it so hard now? "A little."

  "What do you remember?"

  More than curiosity, he heard concern in her question. He returned his gaze to her face. He would learn to face her and lie. He had little choice in the matter.

  Not much light entered the loft now; shadows deepened under her strong cheekbones. Her eyes become dark—no color in them, just gleaming emotion.

  "I was born here, in the colonies." That, at least, was the truth.

  "You were?"

  He nodded. "Mother married beneath her. Her father didn't approve."

  She smiled slightly. "Mine too."

  "They came here, to get away. Died in a carriage accident, when I was ten." Now came the hard part. Now came the lies. "I don't remember them."

  Images floated through his mind, clear and painfully sharp. His mother, small and blond and soft-voiced. His father, big, handsome, and loud. Both gone so suddenly the little boy he'd been had awakened every morning for months expecting to see his parents.

  "I'm sorry." How had she ever thought Jon was simply, uncomplicatedly happy? His sadness was palpable in the room, burning the back of her eyes, tightening her throat. The one constant in her life had always been her family. Jon had been so young, and so completely alone. "What happened to you?"

  "Sent to my aunt's. Back in England. She married an earl."

  "Did you like it there?"

  "Not so bad. Lots of room. Had eight children already. I was commoner nephew who was too big and clumsy." He shrugged. "Like now."

  She knew what he didn't say. There'd been no one to tell a lonely, lost boy he wasn't alone. No one to hold him when he missed his mother. No one to teach him what his father would have.

  "When I was old enough, they bought me a commission. After a while, sent me to Boston. Just before the massacre. There a year, the horse kicked me."

  He thunked the side of his head. "When I woke up, like this." He spread his hands. "That's all."

  That's all. It was so little. Yet it was too much.

  Carefully, slowly, Bennie stepped closer to him and slipped her arms around him. She felt him shudder slightly and release a great breath.

  This time, she wasn't yearning for more. This time, she wasn't trying to do anything but give him a little bit of the affection he should have had all his life.

  And this time, when she whispered "Jon," he didn't pull away.

  CHAPTER 9

  Bennie scrubbed a table board in the main room of the Dancing Eel, wiping away the leavings of last night's customers. The yeasty, spicy scent of last night's beer and cider rose to her nose, mingling with the sharp tang of soap. Across the room, Henry sloshed water as he carelessly pushed a rag mop across the plank floor. Near the storeroom, George checked supplies and precisely arranged freshly washed tankards.

  It was a clear, brilliantly cold winter day. Pale sunlight poured through the windows Isaac was polishing, setting the diamond-shaped panes asparkle.

  Other than the Joneses, the Eel was empty. It nearly always was in the early morning, except for those rare days when a traveler was occupying one of the two bedrooms over the tavern that weren't being used by Bennie's unmarried brothers.

  Bennie dropped her rag into the oaken bucket and moved on to the next table. It was calm and warm in the Eel. She'd been help
ing clean the place since she was a little girl. The Dancing Eel was a family business, keeping it up was a family project, and the Joneses had always done it together. She enjoyed the quiet mornings when they worked together to clean the tavern before the customers arrived.

  She didn't think her brothers felt the same way.

  Henry shoved the mop over the floor. "I don't see why I always have to wash the floor," he grumbled. "Bennie should do it. It's woman's work."

  "I'd be happy to do it," she said.

  "You would?" His head popped up.

  "Certainly. Of course, you'd have to scrub the tables instead."

  His expression grew less eager. "Well..."

  "I'm not entirely sure how you'd explain to Mercy Jernegan why your hands were all reddened like a scrub woman's, however."

  George and Isaac snickered. A dusky flush spread over Henry's cheeks. "Mercy Jernegan? I don't know what you mean."

  "Then you're not interested in her?" George said mildly. "She's a pretty little thing. If you're not going to court her, maybe I'll—"

  The mop clattered as it hit the floor. Henry whirled on his brother. "You stay away from Mercy! Everybody knows you're all but engaged to Anne Beekman."

  "Well, well." George grinned. "For someone who didn't know what Bennie meant, you certainly warned me off quickly enough."

  Henry bent and scooped up the mop. "All right, maybe I'm a little bit interested."

  "A little bit?" Bennie asked. "And I'm a little bit tall."

  "Well, at least I don't have a stupid Brit whose brain is as small as the rest of him is big wandering around moon-faced after me."

  Bennie planted her hands on her hips. "He's not moon-faced. And he's not stupid."

  "Uh-huh. I'm just imagining that when he was in here last week he was following you around like a starved puppy."

  "He was not." At least her brothers didn't know Jon had come to the stables later. That she'd hugged him, and afterward they'd sat and talked, and she'd taught him a few notes on her violin, and all the while he was so close to her their shoulders touched. They didn't know that when he'd left, he'd said he'd see her soon, and she'd believed him. And that although she hadn't seen him since, she still believed him. If they knew all that, she could only imagine what they'd say.

  "Sure. And he didn't wag his tail every time you smiled at him." Henry swiveled his hips.

  Bennie hurled her rag at his head. Henry ducked and the cloth missed, but it spattered a trail of dirty water in its wake.

  "Why, you..." Henry raised his fists in mock threat and started toward Bennie.

  Isaac clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Children, children. What am I going to do with you?"

  "Children? I'm eight years older than you, young man, and I could still paddle your backside if the need arose," Bennie said.

  Henry backhanded a wet streak off his chin. "I can't believe you actually threw it at me, Ben. You haven't done things like that since you were twelve."

  "Don't think it hasn't been tough restraining myself, either. Lord knows you've needed it over the years."

  "Still..." George left the supplies and strolled over to join them. "This attachment the lieutenant has formed for you could be rather useful. I don't think he exactly guards his tongue; no telling what he might let slip one way or another."

  "That's true," Henry agreed. "You should be nice to him, Ben. Keep him hanging around."

  "I couldn't do that."

  "Sure you could. Just keep patting the poor thing on the head once in a while and he'll come trotting back for more."

  "Henry, I'll do no such thing."

  "What kind of a patriot are you? For the cause, and all that."

  "At least we can use what we already know," Isaac put in eagerly.

  "Isaac," George said warningly, inclining his head slightly toward Bennie.

  She narrowed her eyes at her brothers. "What's going on?"

  "Nothing, Ben." Henry tucked his hands behind his back. "What would be going on?"

  She turned to Isaac. As the youngest, he had the least experience in trying to fool her—not that any of them, with the exception of Brendan, had ever been able to keep one of their schemes from her very long. She was simply more patient, more careful, and more observant than any of the other seven.

  "Isaac, you may as well tell me."

  He looked up, appearing to take the greatest interest in the ceiling rafters. "Nothing at all."

  "Nothing at all," she repeated, unconvinced.

  "Nothing."

  "Well, then, I suppose you might as well all get back to work."

  They didn't quite manage to disguise their sighs of relief as they scurried back to their tasks with considerably more enthusiasm than they had previously displayed.

  They were certainly planning something, something they clearly didn't want her to know about, so it must be something that could get them into trouble—trouble she had every intention of preventing.

  Bennie retrieved her rag and went back to scrubbing tables. She managed to get them all scrupulously clean and at the same time keep a curious, experienced eye on her three youngest brothers.

  ***

  Although it must have been approaching midnight, it was nearly as bright as day out. White stars stood out brilliantly against an ebony sky. The full moon poured milky white light down on the equally pure snow, reflecting enough to clearly delineate the dark, skeletal trees twisting in the wind.

  Bennie shivered and pulled the edges of her cloak tighter. The dark bulk of the Dancing Eel loomed in front of her; no light leaked from the tightly closed shutters. Should she go in? She could simply follow them and make certain they were safe. It would be easier.

  But it really wasn't safe, and there was no way she could make it so. Although it would be better if she could keep them at home, Bennie had no illusions about the ease of deterring them from what they saw as their mission. She might as well try and stop winter from following fall.

  Her father, Adam, and Carter combined might have been able to dissuade them. Unfortunately, they were as likely to join in, and then even more of her family would be involved in this foolishness.

  No, she'd have to try and talk them out of it herself. If she couldn't, she'd simply have to go along. She'd make sure that hothead Henry wouldn't let himself get carried away, and that in his eagerness Isaac didn't do something thoughtless.

  Bennie pushed open the door. George, Henry, and Isaac huddled around a table on which was a single lantern. Their heads were bent, and the light from the small flame burnished their hair to shining gold. Henry was gesturing wildly, talking in a loud but unintelligible whisper, and the other two were nodding agreement, their faces lit with excitement and anticipation.

  She let the door slam shut behind her.

  The young men jumped and turned, wariness and guilt etched on their handsome faces. When they saw who the intruder was, their expressions cleared.

  "Oh, Ben, it's just you. Why'd you slam the door like that? You startled me." Like the other two, Henry was dressed in dark breeches, boots, and shirt, and his face showed pale above the black cloth.

  "Who were you expecting?" Bennie crossed the room.

  "Nobody, Bennie," George said patiently. "That's why we were startled. What are you doing here at this time of night?"

  "I'm not going to let you do it, you know," she said.

  "Do what?" Isaac's adolescent voice squeaked.

  Bennie shook her head. "Whatever it is you have planned. Some raid on the British camp, I assume. It's too dangerous, and I'm not going to allow you to do it."

  "But, Ben—" Henry protested.

  "No, Henry. What are you outnumbered, twenty to one? It's sheer madness."

  George leaned forward, bracing his hand on the table. "Bennie, this is the last opportunity we have to strike at them before they move into the fort and become nearly invulnerable."

  "But why? What good do you think the three of you can do?"

  "We're
not taking any foolish chances," Henry said, his green-gold eyes glowing with anticipation. "And it's not so much a matter of doing a lot of damage. But we can bother them a bit, make them uncomfortable."

  "If you're so sure this is the right thing to do, why haven't you told Da? Or the rest of the Sons of Liberty?"

  Henry shifted uneasily and glanced at George for support.

  "We're not going to be able to overpower them in any case," George said intently. "A smaller group will have a better chance of slipping in and out unseen."

  "Not to mention the fact that Da might not agree with your approach to the situation," Bennie said.

  George smiled. "That, too. Also, I'm not entirely sure Brendan wasn't right. I think there's a very good possibility that the British are getting information from somewhere, and I'm not taking any chances that they're going to be tipped off about this. That would be foolish."

  "Well, then, I guess I'll just have to go with you."

  "Oh, no you won't," Henry exploded.

  "You said it was perfectly safe," she reminded him.

  "Yes, but—"

  "And you know I'd be able to keep up, Henry."

  "I know, but—"

  "Then I'm coming," she said firmly.

  Once again, Henry appealed to his brother.

  George rubbed his chin. "What did you have in mind, Bennie?"

  "I promise I'll stay out of your way, George. I just want to keep an eye out. You know I'm more observant than you are."

  "You can't really mean to let her come!" Henry protested.

  "I could stand watch," Bennie suggested.

  "All right," George agreed.

  Isaac rubbed his hands together. "Let's get going then."

  "So, is everybody ready to go on this mission?" A slender figure joined them, his shoes moving soundlessly on the wooden floor.

  "Brendan," Henry groaned. "Is the whole bloody family going to be here before we're through?"

  "What do you want, Brendan?" George asked.

  "You didn't really think I was going to let you have this little adventure all by yourselves, did you? No telling what kind of a muck you'd make of it." He tossed a pile of black cloth on the table. "For one thing, those shiny tresses of yours will stand out like a beacon in the moonlight. Since, unlike me, you didn't have the good fortune to be born dark-haired, you'll have to tie those over your heads."