"She did not," he protested. "No girl could knock me out, not even that giant one."
"Yeah. Friends will understand."
"'Course they will."
"Sure. Cap'n won't mind you questionin' people without orders, either. Your head, after all."
"Yeah. He'd understand, wouldn't he?"
"Sure."
Ben frowned. "Maybe I'll just let it go for now, after all."
"Why? Got to punish girl who hurt you."
"Can't go around botherin' girls. She didn't do nothin' to me."
"Ah, a gentleman."
Ben closed his eyes. "I am, ain't I?"
Jon hastily left the tent before Ben could talk himself back into taking his revenge. More tired than he could recall being, Jon crawled into a nearby supply wagon, hoping to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before someone found him and set him to work hauling away the wreckage from the fire.
It had all worked, thank God. Beth was home, safe and sound, and it didn't look likely that she was going to be questioned anytime soon. It had been touch and go for a while, but he'd managed to pull it off, and one of the longest nights of his life was over.
And, damn it, it hadn't occurred to him until now that it was all completely unnecessary. If he'd been in his right mind, he would have stayed out of the whole thing. It wasn't any business of his; it had no bearing on the job he had to do. His task was simply to gather information, certainly not to endanger his cover by playing knight-errant to a colonial woman. He'd never, ever— not once since he'd begun this charade—let emotion get in the way of his job. He'd watched events unfold around him with a detached disinterest that was absolutely crucial to his effectiveness; he'd never felt even the slightest urge to help those who were unwittingly caught in the mess. Certainly, he'd never come close to acting on their behalf.
This time, he'd never once thought of doing anything else.
CHAPTER 12
Jon heard the Jones house before he reached it. Children screamed, squawked, yelled, laughed, and generally sounded like they were either having a right good time or killing each other.
The next generation of Jones progeny certainly knew how to entertain each other. He picked his way through the children who tumbled and chased each other in the clearing in front of the house. They didn't seem at all concerned that a British officer was in their midst. They were too busy stuffing snow into each others' faces.
There couldn't be more than a half a dozen of them or so, although it certainly seemed like more as small arms and legs flailed in the snow and pint-size bodies rolled over his feet. Boys, every one of them, blond and healthy and red-cheeked. The single exception was a familiar carrot-topped little girl who was efficiently pelting one of the bigger boys with snowballs. Red curls bobbed from beneath her thick knit cap. She hurled another chunk with deadly accuracy. This time, however, the boy managed to duck quickly, and the snowball landed harmlessly at Jon's feet.
"Jon!" Her eyes shone as she scrambled over to him. "What are you doing here?"
He crouched down to bring himself to eye level. "Sarah. How is your kitten?"
"Oh, she's fine. Getting fat, though. Mama says I feed her too much milk." She smiled shyly. "Would you like to go see her?"
Jon glanced around. Somehow, in the time he'd been speaking to Sarah, the boys had managed to surround him, all six of them, with their stubborn little chins thrust out and thin arms crossed over skinny chests he was sure would someday take on the proportions of their fathers'. If they weren't outright hostile, they weren't exactly friendly, and he wondered what they thought they could do to him.
"Runs in the family, doesn't it?" he muttered under his breath.
"What?"
"Sorry, Sarah. Can't go see the kitty now. I came to—"
"See Bennie," she broke in decisively.
"How did you know?"
"Like her, don't you?" Sarah was bright and shiny as a new copper, and the knowing gleam in her eye made her seem much older than she was.
"I have to give her something," he told her.
"A present?"
"Well, yes."
"A Christmas present?" she asked happily.
"Yes."
She slipped her hand into his. "I'll take you to her."
"Thank you." They started for the door of the Jones house.
"Grandpa won't be happy to see you, you know."
"He won't?"
"No." She skipped along beside him, peeking up through her lashes. "He won't yell at you too much if I'm there, though."
She was right.
Inside the house, both the parlor to his left and the dining room to his right were filled with massive table-boards. Pristine white board clothes sprawled across the surfaces, topped with polished silver sugar pots, salt cellars, and creamy tapers waiting to be lit.
There were no women in sight; Jon assumed they were all back in the kitchen. But the parlor was filled with big blond men, who stopped sipping at their mugs and jumped to their feet the instant they spied Jon.
Not again, he nearly groaned aloud. He plastered on a grin.
"Hello. Happy Christmas to you."
"What are you doing here?" Cad thundered.
"Umm, visit Beth."
"Visit Beth? You most certainly will not. Isn't it enough you Brits must stick your noses into our business and our communities? You will not come into my home. You will not—"
"Uh, Dad?" George hesitated. "Maybe you should let him stay."
"What?" Cad rounded on his son. "Why would I be doing a thing like that?"
"Well, we sort of... owe him."
"What?" A deep flush crept up Cad's neck. "What are you owing a redcoat?"
"He, um, rescued Bennie," George said reluctantly.
"Rescued her! From what?"
"Well, the night she hurt her ankle."
"He was there that night? You fools! How could you be so careless," Cad bellowed. "You all could have—"
"Father," Brendan put in calmly. "Perhaps you should wait to discuss this until we no longer have visitors. It is a family matter, after all." He glanced meaningfully at Jon.
"Come on." Gad grabbed Jon by the arm and hustled him across the entryway into the dining room. "You can wait here." Cad disappeared into the back room and quickly reappeared carrying a huge black jack. "Here. Drink this." He shoved the large leather mug brimming with ale into Jon's hand. "I'll come and get you when we're ready." He turned on his heel and stomped back to the parlor to get the full story from his sons.
***
Jon was leaning against a wall and downing the last swallow of his drink when he heard Cad's words as he came to fetch him.
"I can't believe I'm gonna sit down to my Christmas dinner with a damn, stupid lobsterback," Cad was saying.
Cad entered, stopped, and glared at Jon. "You're staying for dinner," he ordered and stalked back to the parlor, leaving Jon to follow.
Jon didn't see Beth until they were ready to eat. He perched on a chair in the corner of the parlor and drank the fabulous beer they kept pressing on him. It was the best stuff he'd ever tasted. He figured owning a tavern had some decided advantages, if one could get supplies like this.
He felt oddly comfortable here. The furniture was huge, sturdy, built for big, heavy men. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to him, except when he knocked over a footstool. They argued among themselves over crops and guns and brewing and twice nearly came to blows. He had the definite impression they enjoyed it.
What an odd family. His task today would take only a moment or two, and though he'd planned on using the rest of the time to get a better handle on the Joneses, he found himself equally intrigued by what kind of a family had formed Beth.
It was a loving family, no doubt, but it was also demanding; members were expected to hold their own, to know their place and fill it. There seemed to be little room for individuality; for minor disagreements that got blown into entertaining arguments, yes, but not substantial philosophical dif
ferences.
He was somewhat surprised when they were called to dinner to find himself seated on a form next to Beth. She was wearing that green dress again, the one that made him think of deep forest glades and hidden treasures.
"Hello, Jon," she said softly, and he wondered why his name sounded different from her than when anyone else said it. "I'm sorry. They told me you were here, but Mother needed me in the kitchen. I couldn't get away until now."
"Don't worry."
"They were nice to you?" she asked anxiously.
He grinned. "Nice. Good beer."
She laughed lightly. "Yes, Da always has good beer." Her gaze dropped to the table. "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too. How's your ankle?"
Her face heated as she remembered him carrying her through the forest, caring for her, holding her against his bare chest. She could hardly believe he was here now, big and gorgeous beside her, and yet it seemed so strange to sit beside him and not touch him. "Better. I stayed off it for a couple of days, and it only bothers me now if I come down too hard on it." She looked up at him; his pale, sleepy blue eyes were filled with undisguised concern. "If it's fine, it's only because you took such good care of me. Thank you, Jon."
"My pleasure.
At the head of the table-board, Cad loudly thumped down his tankard. "Let's eat!"
Food covered every inch of the table board: huge pewter chargers of roast pork and duck, chicken pie, and stewed carp; puddings, breads, jellies, and a half dozen kinds of vegetables, including a whole stewed pumpkin. Enough food, it seemed to Jon, to feed half of his company, and he knew the same feast was spread out on the other two tables, where the rest of the family was seated.
Jon ate little and talked less, as he watched the Joneses manage to not only carry on a spirited conversation but with businesslike efficiency pack away every scrap of the food. Beth, although quieter than most of her family, delicately and with an unconscious, sensual enjoyment that nearly drove him crazy, ate as much as any of her brothers, with the exception of Adam. Adam ate more than Jon had ever seen any one person eat and still be able to walk, but it didn't seem to slow him down in the least, and no one so much as blinked at what was clearly a common occurrence.
The meal was followed by an equally large collection of creams, fools, trifles, floating islands, and syllabubs. Beth piled Jon's trencher with some of each, then gave herself full servings.
She took a careful bite of dried apple tart, closing her eyes in delight. Her tongue darted out to lick a crumb at the corner of her mouth, and Jon had to fight the urge to lean over and taste it himself. Why had he never known that watching someone eat could be so arousing? The expressions that moved across her face were ones he'd very much wished he'd caused himself. And the way her mouth moved—slow, easy, luscious, closing delicately around a spoon or gracefully nibbling a cake—Lord, it was so easy to imagine her doing that to him.
"Elizabeth," her mother said sharply. "You know a lady should eat only lightly."
Bennie put down her spoon. "I'm sorry, Mother." She'd known her mother had been keeping a careful eye on her; although she'd seemed to accept Cad's explanation of Jon's presence—he'd said they were trying to get information out of the man—Mary had been suspiciously attentive to Jon the entire meal. Bennie expected she'd hear about her "unsuitable friendship" later.
"Oh, Mary, let her eat," Cad said. "She's a healthy girl. She needs to keep up her strength."
"Good manners are good manners, Cad."
He shrugged. "So, Jon. How are things at the fort?"
Jon shoveled in a spoonful of trifle. "Pretty good. Moved into fort after fire. Lots of work, though."
Pushing his food around on his trencher, Cad asked casually, "Any idea what happened? Know who caused the fire?"
"No." Jon wiped a blob of cream off his chin. "Everybody too confused. Some thought they saw one thing, some another."
"So Captain Livingston isn't going to investigate any more?"
"Dunno. Just heard something about ammunition, that's all."
Cad's spoon clattered to the table and he leaned forward. "Ammunition?"
Jon nodded and tried to talk around a huge mouthful of sweets. "Ammunition, schoolhouse, guns, don't know. I think hide it better next time, maybe."
"Maybe." Cad sat back. "Maybe," he repeated thoughtfully.
Jon polished off the rest of his dessert. He wadded up his linen napkin, dropped it in the voider, and stood up.
"Good dinner, ma'am. Have to go now."
"I'll walk with you to the stables," Bennie offered.
"Elizabeth," Mary said warningly.
"I'll be right back, Mother." She scurried away for her wrap before her mother could object. Jon stopped to say good-bye to Sarah on his way out.
They walked quietly across the tavern yard to the stables. It was a bitterly cold day. The wind blew drifts of snow around their feet like shifting fog. Bennie huddled deeper into the new cloak she'd made to replace the one she'd lost the night of the raid.
The stable was warm, smelling of horses and hay. Grateful for its snugness, she lowered her hood as Jon followed her in. The wind whistled sharply outside; inside, it was quiet and dark.
"Brr. It's getting cold out there."
"Cold. Yes." He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
"Thank you for coming to check on me."
"Yes. Glad you're better."
He didn't seem to know quite what do with himself. He shuffled around, one hand clenched, looking first at her, then at the ceiling and back again at her.
"Well," she said. "You'd better get back before it gets colder."
"Yes," He made no move to ready his horse to leave. Finally he thrust out his fist. "Here."
"What?"
"For you."
"Me?" She cupped her hands beneath his, and he opened his fist. Beads poured out, continuous strands of sleek, glossy ivory that pooled in her palms. "What's this?"
"Present. For you."
A present. He'd bought her a present. Dumbfounded, she just stood there, the necklace in her hands, and stared up at him.
"Here." He lifted the strands and slipped them over her head. His movements were careful, with the rare, infinite gentleness that seemed as much a part of him as his overwhelming size and strength.
The beads were silky and warm against her skin, gliding easily if she moved her neck. "Why, they're warm."
"Well, uh, I wore them," he confessed.
"What?"
"Wouldn't lose them." He gestured to his own neck. "I wore them here."
"Oh."
She couldn't seem to move. Slowly, he reached to her, lifting the bottom of the necklace and slipping it underneath her neckline. His eyes were very blue, and she felt the beads slide down, pouring over the upper curves of her breasts and settling in the cleft between them.
"Like this," he whispered.
She swayed. She felt it, but she couldn't help herself. She was caught by the image of the same lustrous, milky spheres that rested against her skin glowing against the smooth bronze of his. He'd touched them, now they touched her.
Oh, God, he was in trouble. He'd done his duty. There was nothing else to learn here today. And yet he was still here, alone with her in this stable with the wind howling outside and her family only steps away. Instead of leaving, he was dreaming of beads resting under the soft green cloth of her bodice, gliding against her skin. Thinking of tracing them, sliding his fingers along the path they marked.
"They are a thank-you," he said with difficulty.
"For what? I'm the one who owes you."
"For the music."
The wind that screamed outside the stable became the lonesome wail of a violin. A violin that, he was sure, would sound painfully more alone after he was gone.
And he would be gone—he knew it, he felt it. He regretted it, but it was enough to give him the strength to go without touching her. If only he could stay, stay longer than his orders, stay longer than
his job. Longer than the month or two or three that it would take for everything to fall apart.
Longer than his life allowed.
"I have to go." He knew she thought he meant for the evening, and even that made the light in her shining brown eyes dim. He wondered how she'd look when he said good-bye for good, and he prayed he'd at least have the chance to when the time came.
"I suppose you must."
"Can I come back for the music?"
She smiled, the soft, enticing curve of her lips contrasting intriguingly with the sharp planes of her features. "Yes. For the music."
CHAPTER 13
Two weeks after Christmas, the British marched into New Wexford.
Adam Jr., scouting for rabbits out by Skinny Creek, was the first to see them coming. He ran all the way back to town and shouted the news as he burst into his father's smithy.
Adam shoved the red-hot rod of iron he'd been shaping into a door latch into a tub of cool water. By the time the water stopped hissing, he was at the Dancing Eel, rousting out every man in the place who was old enough to shoot and young enough to walk.
The church bells pealed throughout town; loud, clanging, discordant bongs that didn't celebrate the worship of the Father but instead warned the townspeople, calling them to arms.
It worked. Before the British reached the common it was filled with colonists. They didn't have clean, matching uniforms. Their formations were raggedy and undisciplined, and some took up odd positions behind fences and trees and inside houses, poking their muskets through windows.
The day was white, one of those pure days of winter when sun glanced so brightly off clean snow it hurts the eyes. Captain Livingston called his men to an abrupt halt in the center of the square, facing the line of colonists that stretched from the schoolhouse to the church.
The captain, thin, tall, and very much in command, strolled slowly over to face Cadwallader Jones. His relaxed gait was in complete contrast to the alert readiness of his troops. Livingston's elaborate wig was powdered nearly as white as the snow, making his pale complexion look almost bleached. His red coat stood out vividly, a brutal slash of scarlet like a fresh puddle of blood on new snow.
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