by Linda Jones
Over Mary Seton's shoulder, Max saw that Chadwick was headed in his direction. There was a woman on his arm, but Max paid her little mind. He caught Chadwick's eye and lifted an indolent hand to wave the man over.
The verbose Miss Seton glanced over her shoulder to see who had stolen his attention. Her smile faded and then brightened almost immediately.
Chadwick's eyes were a touch too bright this evening, and he seemed to be having a difficult time maintaining his usually severe posture. The odor of rum arrived as the councilman did.
"Penelope, darling,” Mary said, slipping a hand onto the elbow of the woman on Chadwick's arm. “Why, wherever have you been keeping yourself this evening? Mr. Broderick,” she continued with an odd inflection, and without waiting for a response to her question, “this is my cousin, Miss Penelope Seton."
Max flashed an indolent grin as he reluctantly and dutifully shifted his attention from Chadwick to the woman at his side.
His heart surely stopped as he laid his eyes on her. Faith, he had danced all evening with beautiful women, but none could compare to the one before him. With her dark eyes and delicate features and regal bearing, she was absolutely exquisite. Flawless and comfortingly serene, perfect in shape and face. His smile faded. His facade slipped and drifted away for a moment, as his eyes held hers.
"A pleasure, Miss Seton."
She was annoyed when he took her hand and raised her fingers to his mouth, that much was obvious with a flash of her dark eyes and a thinning of her luscious lips. However, Max didn't allow her displeasure to force him to release her hand any sooner than he wished. He held onto her cool, delicate fingers much longer than was proper.
"Mr. Broderick,” she said primly.
Mary Seton began to ramble on—again—but this time Max managed to tune her out completely. Her voice twittered in the background of his consciousness, a mild annoyance and nothing more. Chadwick turned a tight smile to Mary Seton, allowing Max to stare without caution at Penelope Seton for a moment longer.
She didn't flutter and fidget, she didn't speak, and she didn't turn her head or avert her eyes to avoid his penetrating stare. God in heaven, he would be content to spend the remainder of the evening lost in those dark eyes. Eyes that were touched with irritation at the moment, but beneath the vexation he saw more. He saw spirit and tenderness, intelligence and sophistication.
And he saw peace. His peace.
Heath Lowry, bless his soul, appeared and asked Mary to join him in a dance. A fat merchant came into view at Chadwick's side, and with an offered glass of rum and a gravely voiced question, he whisked the councilman away, leaving Max alone with Penelope Seton. With a gentle strength, she removed her hand from his and walked away with nothing more for him than a curt nod of her head.
He followed.
As Penelope passed an open doorway, Max stepped forward and took her arm, and with a gentle maneuver he drew her beyond the portal and into a small, unoccupied corner of a dimly lit library.
"Mr. Broderick!” Her voice was indignant, prim, but he could hear the heat that accompanied her admonishment. There was fire beneath the cool exterior, passion in her every breath. Penelope Seton was not like any other woman he'd ever known, not in looks or temperament.
"How dare I?” he whispered, happy to finish her thought for her.
"Yes,” she answered softly. “How dare you?"
Penelope was against the wall, and he pinned her there without touching, without coming too close. “I dare because there are some things a man cannot say in the company of a hundred strangers."
"Mr. Broderick..."
He continued as if he hadn't heard her, certain that if she walked away now he would never have this opportunity again. This good fortune would not pass him by; he wouldn't allow it. “I could tell you that you're the most beautiful woman in the world, but you've heard that before, I'm sure.” She didn't smile and she didn't frown, but maintained that calm and slightly exasperated front as if she were indulging a naughty child. Max didn't allow that to dissuade him. “So I tell you, in these few cherished moments away from the crowd that will surely close in upon us in a moment or two, that I love you quite madly.” The words that came so easily from his mouth were unplanned, natural, and—amazingly—true.
He'd managed to shock her. Her eyes flashed, and her lips parted in surprise. What would she do, he wondered, if he covered those lush lips with his own? Shriek. Faint. Kiss him back. Perhaps all three.
"What kind of a game are you playing with me, Mr. Broderick?"
"No game, Miss Seton,” Max said with a smile, “Although I will confess to you and to you alone that on occasion I have been known to be less than truthful, this is not one of those occasions."
"So you make a habit of falling in love quickly,” she said sensibly. “I have no doubt you fall out of it just as quickly."
"I wouldn't know,” he said truthfully. “I've never been in love before. I don't know how long it will last. I only know that it is quite an extraordinary and staggering affliction.” Staggering—that was a correct assessment. A blow to the head couldn't have shaken him this completely.
She tapped his sleeve with the tip of her folded fan, a gentle admonishment for his behavior. “Perhaps what you mistake for love is a bit of bad beef or fish from your supper,” she said lightly, taking it all as a game, still.
"No,” he said seriously. “You don't believe me, do you?"
"No, I don't."
Ah, she didn't believe him at all. She was annoyed, perhaps even a bit amused ... but then she did not know yet that this was a momentous occasion. He knew it, though. All his senses were on alert, making it a moment of clarity he would never forget.
"Will you take me more seriously if I tell you that I've never said those words to another woman? That I've never told another woman that I love her? That's the truth, Miss Seton, for until I saw your face I didn't know what love was."
Again, she tapped his arm with her fan. “I'm sure you find this a clever game, Mr. Broderick, but you'd have a more receptive partner in my cousin Mary, or Elizabeth Lowry, or any one of a dozen young women who seem to share a great admiration for—” She looked him up and down, slowly and with calculating eyes, her perusal pausing briefly, perhaps, at the excess of lace on his cuff and cravat. “—for men such as yourself."
This wasn't going to be easy. Penelope Seton wasn't going to take him at his word and fall into his arms with any declarations of her own. He couldn't simply claim this magnificent woman as his own, as he wished. A part of him was frustrated ... and another part rejoiced. Nothing worth having came easily. True treasures were fought for and won at any and all cost, and Penelope would be no different.
"May I call on you tomorrow?” he pressed. Much as he would like, they couldn't hide in this corner of the library forever. The party went on just outside the open door, merriment and music, voices boisterous and soft melding into a music all its own.
"I don't think—"
"Even if you say no,” he interrupted, “I'll seek you out. You can't stop me, not even if you have the entire British Army posted outside your door."
Finely shaped eyebrows raised cautiously. “You're an outrageous man, Maximillian Broderick."
"Perhaps.” Max didn't feel outrageous at the moment, though he had to admit that his overwhelming passion for a woman he'd just met was unusual. Declaring it immediately was probably unwise. No, he didn't feel outrageous or unwise. He felt wonderfully, remarkably, good.
His attention was drawn away as Burton Lowry stepped into his library, an unlit cigar in one hand and a glass of cognac in the other. Another man, one unknown to Max, followed closely. Their voices were lowered, but Max caught a few very important words of that conversation.
"Just as I was about to leave the house,” Max said loudly, forcing a return of his nasal whine, “my valet found a stain on my waistcoat. You can imagine my distress."
Penelope simply raised her eyebrows again. If she was surprise
d at the change in his voice or the direction of the conversation, she showed it only with her eyes. She didn't say a word, bless her.
"Broderick,” Lowry said, turning about to face the couple in the corner. “I didn't see you there."
"Miss Seton and I have been having a fascinating discussion about the selection and care of good imported silk."
Lowry's eyes glazed over, and his lip curled slightly in what could only be disgust. “Interesting,” he mumbled.
"I must be going,” Penelope said, stepping quickly past Max and, with a swish of her skirts, heading for the door. Once there, with the festivities waiting before her, she turned about and gave him a smile. A smile that spoke of secrets and curiosity, a smile that—in Max's fertile and hopeful imagination—whispered of a thousand nights yet to come.
"Tomorrow afternoon,” she said softly.
Max nodded once, unable to speak.
She was a picture framed in the doorway, a vision he would not soon forget. A wave of something powerful and heretofore unknown washed through him. He recognized it for what it was. Possession. The realization that this was his woman.
Her voice remained low, and for his ears alone. “Two o'clock."
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Chapter Three
The carriage rocked slightly as it made the turn, and Penelope swayed into her cousin. Mary jumped, apparently startled by the contact.
"Sorry,” Penelope whispered, trying not to disturb her uncle, who appeared to be half-asleep already.
Mary was unusually pensive, perhaps even troubled. She didn't smile and immediately forgive her cousin, as she generally did. Penelope reached out and tucked an unruly strand of red hair behind Mary's ear.
"Didn't you have a good time?"
"Of course I had a good time,” Mary answered, her voice as low as Penelope's. “I'm just tired, that's all."
Penelope slipped her arm through Mary's. “Where did you disappear to after that dance with Heath Lowry? I looked for you everywhere...."
"I was overheated and went for a walk in the gardens,” Mary answered testily.
"Alone?"
"Yes.” It was more a breath than even a whisper. “Alone."
"It's awfully chilly for a long walk in the garden,” Penelope observed.
"The room was crowded and overly warm,” Mary said curtly. “I needed fresh air, chilly or not."
For a few minutes all was silent again. There was only the creak of the wheels and the steady clop of the horses’ hooves against the road. It was almost enough to lull Penelope into an uneasy sleep herself.
"What did Mr. Broderick have to say to you?” Mary asked, her words quick and soft.
"What?"
"I saw the two of you slip into the library while I was dancing with Heath.” Mary's tone was accusing and somewhat petulant.
"It was nothing, really,” Penelope said, uncertain as to what she could share with her cousin. “He's a ... a very strange man."
That was the truth. Strong hands dripping with lace, eyes that were lazy one moment and piercing the next, a voice that went from hypnotic to whining in a heartbeat.
"He's the richest and the most handsome man in all of Charles Town, and he was besotted from the moment he laid eyes on you.” Mary sighed, perhaps in resignation. “Why didn't he look at me like that?"
Penelope often had a hard time knowing if Mary wanted to be comforted or ignored. Tonight, in this restless state, she assumed her cousin needed consolation of some sort. “I saw lots of adoring glances cast your way tonight,” she said softly. “Why, when I danced with Heath Lowry, all he did was talk about you and ask about your plans while we're in town. I wouldn't be surprised if he called on you before the week is out."
"Heath is a child."
"He's four years older than you,” Penelope said.
"And still he's a child,” Mary said haughtily. “I'm not interested in children, I'm interested in procuring a husband. Preferably a man, Penelope, and not a boy."
"And what if you fall in love with a mere boy?” Penelope's voice was light, teasing, but her mind immediately went to Maximillian Broderick and his outrageous avowal. It was an absurd notion that you could simply look at a person and fall in love. Surely you learned to like a person first, to admire and respect that person, and then—perhaps—love would come.
"I won't,” Mary said decidedly. “I would never make the mistake of falling in love with a man who wouldn't make a proper husband."
To Penelope, who was usually by far the more sensible of the Seton cousins, Maximillian Broderick's extreme opinions on love made more sense than Mary's. A person didn't coldly choose love. Penelope expected that if she were lucky, love would find and embrace her one day, but she didn't expect it was as easy and quick as Maximillian made it sound, nor as calculating and unemotional as Mary seemed to think.
"I don't think you choose love,” Penelope said softly, unable to shake completely the memory of warm lips against her fingers. “I think it chooses you."
Mary shook her head as if she disagreed, but for once she said nothing.
Penelope leaned back in her seat, grateful that Mary had decided to let the conversation die. When she closed her eyes, she saw Maximillian Broderick leaning slightly toward her, a sparkle in his blue-gray eyes and an impossible declaration of love on his lips.
They were closed in his study, the drapes shut tight against prying eyes in the night, a single candle burning low.
"There's a village north and west of Charles Town, Cypress Crossroads by name."
The six men before him waited expectantly.
"There are a good number of agitators in that village,” Max continued. “And Chadwick's had his eye on them for some time."
John piped up. “There's a very nice tavern there,” he muttered, his voice muddy and thick. “Good ale, clean mugs, good-looking bar maids..."
"So you know where this village is,” Max interrupted, not anxious for a rousing and too-long description of the Cypress Crossroads tavern.
John grumbled his assent, and Lewis nodded his head.
"At dawn on the day after tomorrow, there will be a raid. All weapons will be confiscated, and anyone who resists will be shot."
"They will most definitely resist,” Lewis said solemnly. “They're a headstrong lot, those villagers."
It was as he'd suspected, from the gleeful plans he'd overheard. “Not if there's nothing to take. Not if the good people of Cypress Crossroads are prepared."
It was Fletcher who nodded first, knowing what Max had in mind. “They'll need an underground shelter or a secret room or perhaps both. Something the British soldiers won't be able to find, but that the villagers can get to in a hurry when the time comes."
"I'll leave it to you. You'd best leave first thing in the morning. Take Beck and John with you. Dalton, too, if you think you'll need him."
"We'll need all the hands we can get,” Fletcher said glumly. “I take it you have other plans?"
How much could he say to these men? His comrades, his family, men he'd trust his very life to. In spite of all this, he hesitated before answering. “I'm infiltrating the Seton household tomorrow,” he said steadily. “It's an excellent way to get close to Chadwick, as he's a devoted friend to William Seton and his family."
How devoted? he wondered. When he'd first seen Penelope, she'd been on Chadwick's arm. Ah, that feeling of possession he'd experienced was rearing its ugly head.
"Infiltrate how?” Garrick asked suspiciously.
"William Seton has a niece, Penelope. I'll be calling on her tomorrow afternoon.” Max kept his voice steady, cool to the point of iciness.
"So while I'm digging a cellar, up to my elbows in mud, you'll be romancing some poor unsuspecting chit,” Dalton said with his usual even and emotionless tone.
Max flashed a devil-may-care grin. “That's correct.” Already he was questioning the powerful notions that had washed over him as he'd looked into Penelope Seton's eyes, the ru
sh of intense longing that had coursed through him as he'd held her hand. It had been a moment of madness, surely.
But he could still see her lovely face, still hear her musical voice clearly in his besotted mind, while the evening's mundane memories faded away.
He directed his attention back to the planning of the mission. John was acquainted with the owner of the Cypress Crossroads tavern, who was a well-respected local leader. The tavern owner would serve as their liaison with the community, and by the time Chadwick's soldiers arrived, there would be nothing for them to confiscate but perhaps a useless rusty musket and a dull knife. They'd be greeted with cooperative, smiling faces. No one had to die, not this time.
One by one, the men filed out of Max's study, until only Max and Fletcher remained. Following the cacophony of seven voices actively planning the mission, the room was much too quiet for a long uncomfortable moment. The clock ticked, suddenly loud in the night. The candle's flame flickered. Max stared at the top of his desk, and Fletcher took a silent step forward.
"There's something you're not telling us,” Fletcher accused. “Something's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong.” Of the crew, Max had known Garrick the longest, but Fletcher had always had an uncanny ability to see right through him. To see right through them all. Fletcher answered, when asked, that it was his mother's Irish blood that had given him a kind of second sight. Max knew that what enabled Fletcher to read people so well was simple quiet observation and reasoning. It was perception, not a gift from the fairies.
And Fletcher knew Max far too well to be fooled now.
"Nothing's wrong,” Max said again, “but there is a small, very minor, inconvenient complication."
Fletcher sighed and sat on the edge of Max's walnut desk. “A woman.” He breathed the words, low, as he might have a curse.
