Maggie covered her mouth, trying not to laugh aloud as the old man in his cart rolled away.
Grayson spun around to face her. "So what are you laughing about?" he asked, smiling at her standing on the dusty road, her bonnet thrown back across her shoulders, her red hair blowing in the late-afternoon breeze.
"You," she told him. "So much for heroism. He didn't even appreciate what you did for him."
Grayson shrugged his broad shoulders as he took her arm and led her back to their waiting carriage. "It doesn't matter, Maggie. What matters is what's right." He lifted her up into the carriage and she rested her hands on his shoulders staring into his blue eyes.
"You honestly mean that, don't you?" she asked softly.
He jumped up into the carriage and settled beside her, his arm draped over her shoulder. "That I do, Maggie mine. And that's why I have to go back to Yorktown."
Chapter Eighteen
Maggie sat under an apple tree, her back against the rough bark of the trunk, her legs drawn up beneath the skirt of her pale-blue sack gown. She watched a bee buzz lazily above a bed of clover before finally settling on a lavender blossom in search of nectar. She smiled and took another bite of the apple she'd picked from the tree.
It was midafternoon, a perfect time at Thayer's Folly to slip away and be alone for a little while. Grayson and Sterling had gone down to the southern fields to inspect a barn being built to store and dry wheat, and Reagan had gone into town to oversee her printers as they printed her weekly newspaper. The idea of a woman writing and printing a newspaper had seemed beyond belief to Maggie a few days ago, but after getting to know Reagan better, it seemed perfectly acceptable.
Yes, life here at Thayer's Folly had been full of surprises. These people who were the grandchildren of lords, and the children of statesmen were not what she had expected at all. They were just like her friends back in Yorktown, only they spoke with fancier words and slept in larger beds. Certainly, they had servants, fine carriages and meat on the table each evening, but inside they were the same people. They wanted the same things for their children, for the country they were forging, and Maggie felt a closeness to them she'd never have thought possible.
Instead of ridicule for her working-class lineage, Maggie received nothing but consideration. Even Reagan's friends had been pleasantly welcoming at the tea Reagan had hosted yesterday. No one seemed to care that she was a bootmaker; all they wanted to hear about was the war news from Yorktown and tales of her involvement with the masked rebels. She was a heroine of sorts to these richly dressed women and she had to admit she enjoyed their attention.
The thing was, the longer Maggie stayed, the more she liked it here at Thayer's Folly. She did miss Zeke and the others, but this life was so exciting. There was something new to see and do every hour of the day. Life at a big plantation was filled with duties in the bake house and the dairy. There were sheets to be inventoried and ill servants to look in on. And even though Grayson couldn't appear in public with his brother because of his undetermined status, the Thayers still managed to entertain with small dinner parties and picnics by the river.
Maggie rubbed her achy wrist absentmindedly. Was she being foolish not to consider Grayson's proposal of marriage? The more she thought on the idea, the more confused she became. The baby she carried made everything so much more difficult. On one hand, she wondered if she was doing the unborn babe a disservice to take him or her from all that was possible here on Thayer's Folly. Couldn't she just marry Grayson, have his child, and live happily the rest of her days here on this beautiful plantation?
Or was she fooling herself in thinking she could make their relationship work? Could she ever really fit in? Would Grayson become bored with her simple ways? Would he resent the child Maggie carried who wouldn't be born of the bloodlines he had been born of? And most important, would Grayson expect her to be a woman she could never be? Would he ask too much?
Maggie got up and brushed the grass from the soft blue material of the sack gown Grayson had purchased for her in town a few days ago. Though simple in lines and comfortable, the gown was still one of the most beautiful pieces of clothing Maggie had ever owned. She walked across the grassy field toward the house. Of course the bedchamber she slept in was filled with beautiful things Grayson had bought her: bonnets, gloves, silk and cotton stockings. Why, there was even a silver-handled toothbrush!
She couldn't resist a smile. Grayson really did love her, didn't he? Else why would he spend his money on her so freely? At the sound of his voice, she looked up. Across the yard she saw Grayson and the same maid who had made eyes at him the first evening they'd come to Thayer's Folly. Inga was her name. Reagan said she was a worthless, lazy chit, and that she only kept her on because her ill mother had been such a loyal servant.
Inga was hanging out sheets on the line to dry, laughing in high-pitched squeal. The flaxen-haired girl sounded like a rutting piglet to Maggie.
Maggie stopped to watch Grayson. He was talking to her as he helped her hang the wet, cumbersome sheets over the line. A pang of jealousy rose in Maggie's throat. Everywhere he went, people seemed to like him. Women flirted shamelessly with him in the shops where he had bought Maggie her clothing, pretending she was his cousin and he was Sterling. The servants all made a fuss over him, saying Major Grayson this and Major Grayson that. Cook made his favorite meals. The laundress changed his bedsheets daily and ironed his shirts herself. From infant to elderly, the women seemed to find him irresistible.
Just then, Grayson glanced up. He waved. "Maggie! Where've you been? I've been looking for you."
She walked toward him, unable to resist a smile. In the last few days she had learned to tell her lover and his brother apart. At first it had seemed impossible because they appeared so identical at first glance. But as the days passed, she noticed the slight nuances that distinguished one from the other. Grayson strode rather than walked. Sterling had an annoying habit of cracking his knuckles when lost in thought. Of the two men, Grayson was bolder. He flirted with Reagan, he teased the serving maids, he played practical jokes on visitors.
"I just took a walk," she answered. "I thought you'd be gone longer."
He grinned. "I missed you."
The grimace Inga made at Grayson's comment didn't go unnoticed by Maggie. "There're apples all over the ground," she went on, ignoring the maid. "They need to be picked up before they rot."
"I'll send someone this afternoon."
Maggie stopped at the corner of the clothesline and watched for a moment as Inga hung a pair of her new lace-trimmed drawers out to dry. Never in her life had Maggie had someone hang out her clothes. Since she was five she'd hung out her own clothing or they would not have gotten dry.
Ducking beneath the clothesline Grayson plucked a bleached mobcap out of Inga's basket and pulled it over his head. The maid squealed into the palm of her hand. Maggie lifted an eyebrow.
"Your new cover?" she asked. "You going to sneak into the redcoat camp wearing a cap and skirt? Let me guess, you're the washwoman." She crossed her arms over her chest, taking in the new look with a nod. "Mayhap this identity will be more successful."
He curtsied, lifting an imaginary petticoat. "At your service, Miss Maggie. Washin's done, cows is milked, and I's picked four baskets of apples. Can't I please take a little rest, Miss Maggie? You just workin' this poor girl to death!"
She couldn't help laughing. He looked so utterly ridiculous in his handsome burgundy breeches, white shirt, and that silly mobcap perched on the top of his head. Maggie tried to grab it, but he dove under a string of billowing wet pillowcases and disappeared from sight. "You'll have to catch me, Miss Maggie," He said in a high-pitched falsetto voice.
Maggie bounded after him, ignoring Inga's frown. "No need to run," Maggie called, turning the corner at the smokehouse. You know I can run as fast as you . . . faster."
"Ha!" Grayson protested, disappearing behind another outbuilding. "Haven't caught me yet!"
Ma
ggie ran after him, but when she came around the next clapboard dependency, Grayson was nowhere to be seen. She came to halt, and dropped her hands to her hips. Now where had he gone? she wondered. He couldn't have gotten far. She crept up to the corner of the next building and peeked around the corner. Still no Grayson.
Passing one small dependency building after another, Maggie searched for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. She tried calling his name, but he didn't answer.
"Grayson!" she finally said. "You win! I give, now come on! It's time we started getting ready for Reagie's dinner party. You know she hates it when you're late!" Walking along the perimeter of dependencies, Maggie turned in between two buildings and dropped her hands to her hips in exasperation. "Grayson!"
Suddenly a door swung open and he popped out, still wearing the mobcap on his head. Before Maggie could protest, he clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her inside a small brick building and down several wooden steps.
Pushing her against the closed door, he replaced his hand on her mouth with his mouth.
Maggie giggled as their lips met and their tongues mingled. He had brought her into the icehouse where ice was stored all summer insulated by thick brick walls and layers of sweet, clean straw.
"It's so cool in here," Maggie murmured, snuggling against his broad chest. "It feels good after the heat outside."
Grayson closed his arms around her, stroking her goose-pimpled arms. "When we were children we used to hide in here and pretend we were explorers in the mountains of Russia."
His warm breath tickled her ear. "Your mama obviously didn't give you enough work to do to leave you time for such foolishness."
He brought the back of his hand up against her cheek and stroked it. "We could pretend we're explorers," he teased, cupping her left breast. "What do you think?"
"Reagan's party—"
He touched her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. "We've been late before."
Maggie massaged the corded muscles of his neck. "She'll be upset with us."
"Can I help it if I find you irresistible?" He kissed the pulse at the base of her throat. "Can I help it if I can't get enough of you, Maggie mine?"
She slipped her hand through the keyhole neckline of his muslin shirt and rubbed her thumb against his nipple. "Always full of sweet words, aren't you, Captain?"
"Major," he told her as he lifted her into his arms. "I told you, I'm a major with our army."
She looped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. "And only a captain with the redcoats."
"Yeah, well, I've been promoted a few times, but then always demoted again."
"I know," she whispered, running her palm over his muscle-banded shoulder. "All for the sake of the part you played."
He knelt and lowered her into the thick straw that covered the floor of the icehouse. "You understand perfectly," he answered, a husky catch in his voice.
She strained in the darkness to see his blue eyes as he stared down at her. "I don't know if I can leave ye," she told him, her voice barely a whisper. "I thought I could, but I don't know now."
"Then don't," he pleaded. "Stay here at Thayer's Folly, and when my job is done in Yorktown I'll build you a house so big that you'll have to leave bread crumbs behind for me to find you inside it."
"You're not going back to Yorktown." She caught the bit of ribbon that held back his hair in the queue and tugged at the end. His hair fell across one shoulder, shiny and thick in the dim light of the slit windows cut into the roof of the icehouse. "You can't. You'd not make it out alive."
"So marry me before I go."
She sighed. "You don't understand. I've been married before. I don't want another husband."
He swept back her cascade of red hair with his hand, staring intensely into her eyes. "I wouldn't be 'another husband.' It would be different this time, Maggie, I swear it."
She rolled her head so she didn't have to look at him. "I'll think about it," she heard herself say.
He tightened his arms around her. "That's all I'm asking, Maggie. Give it thought. I really do want to marry you before I go."
She turned back to him, bringing her knee up between his legs to feel the hard bulge of his loins. Straw crackled beneath them and the cold seeped up from the brick floor to envelope them. "I tell you, you're not goin' Captain-Major. Not if I have to tie ye to a bedpost."
"Oh, tie me, is it?" He brought his mouth down against hers as he lifted her arms over her head, pinning them. "Haven't tried that, have we?" he teased.
Maggie arched her back and lifted to meet him hungrily. Their tongues intertwined and she moved beneath him, wanting to feel his hard male body touch hers, limb for limb.
The bone-chilling cold of the icehouse mixed with the warmth of Grayson body sent shivers of exquisite desire through Maggie's veins. The bittersweet anguish of not knowing whether or not to accept Grayson's proposal made her cling to him, desperate to feel proof of his love.
"Ah, Maggie. Maggie," he whispered, unhooking the front of her gown. "You're so beautiful, so breathtakingly beautiful."
Maggie smiled, stroking the line of his jaw as he lowered his mouth to kiss the hollow between her breasts. The pleasure of the sensations he created made her sigh. No one had ever been this good to her. Why couldn't she believe Grayson when he said he would love her forever?
Grayson sat up and stripped off his shirt and then eased down the shoulders of her gown and chemise, all the while staring down at her with those soul-searching eyes of his. His nimble fingers found the laces of her boned corset and quickly he freed her breasts of the confines of her clothing.
"Oh, Maggie. I can't imagine another man touching you like this," he told her as he kissed his way to the dark circle of her aureola. "Don't leave me, sweet. Don't leave me for another."
"Another man." She laughed, drunk with the excitement he created with the tip of his tongue. "There could never be anyone else but you, Grayson."
"Marry me, carry me, he sang to the tune of an old ballad. "Far across the sea . . ."
"Hush your mouth," she whispered, twisting her fingers in his golden hair. "Hush and touch me. Touch me the way I like to be touched."
"Anything for you," he answered as he brought his mouth to her breast to suckle the rosy tip. "Just tell me what you want, Maggie."
She stroked his bare back, reveling in the feel of the strength of his corded muscles as a heavy-limbed aching filled her. What I want? she thought. What I want you can't give me—not you, not anyone. I want guarantees. I want promises that there will be no pain. I want promises that I'll never feel about myself the way Noah made me feel.
But instead of answering, she only took his hand and guided it beneath her skirts to the bed of curls between her thighs.
Grayson stroked her soft curves as he kissed the arched mounds of her breasts and teased her nipples taut and peaked. Then, sitting up, he leaned back, and with an ice pick, he broke off several chunks of ice. Popping a chunk of ice into his mouth, he stretched out over Maggie and brought his lips to hers.
The hot and cold of his mouth made her writhe beneath him, her limbs trembling with sensation. Slowly Grayson kissed his way to her breasts and when he drew a piece of ice to her nipple she half sat up in surprise.
"Oh," she breathed, settling back into his arms in the bed of straw. "Oh, that's cold, Grayson."
"You want me to stop?" he whispered in her ear.
She shook her head.
Her nipples puckered in reaction to the cold of the ice, and then he touched them again with the tip of his tongue, making Maggie half wild with ecstasy.
Her breath came in short pants as her fingers found the waistband of his breeches. Once she had unhooked the buttons, she slipped her hand beneath the burgundy cotton and stroked his engorged shaft, sighing with pleasure.
"Now," she told him. "I need you now."
Stripping off his breeches, Grayson stretched out over her, pushing her mountains of skirts up around
her waist. Using his hand as a guide, he slipped into her.
Maggie met his thrust halfway and moaned with satisfaction. When their lips met, she allowed him to slip the ice cube into her mouth. Water trickled down her chin and she laughed low and sensuously.
"Maggie, Maggie," he called as he moved faster inside her. "I can't live without you, Maggie. Marry me. Say you'll marry me."
It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes as she rose and fell with him. It would have been so easy to just say it. Yet she held back as her breath came quicker and she lifted again and again to meet each stroke. She was afraid, too afraid . . . so she said nothing. In another instant her cries of fulfillment mixed with Grayson's deeper ones, and together they climaxed in utter, glorious ecstasy. And when the waves of pleasure had subsided, Grayson slipped out of her and held her in his arms, kissing away the dots of perspiration above her lip and whispering tender promises.
Content in Grayson's arms, Maggie snuggled against his warm chest, pushing down her skirts to ward of the chill of the icehouse. Absently, she rubbed her wrist.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Grayson asked gently as he took arm.
She looked up into his deep-blue eyes. "No, of course not. It's just that my arm gets achy. Must be a big storm brewing."
"A storm?" He kissed her wrist. "The sun is shining; there's not a cloud in the sky."
She sat up and began to slip back into her clothing. "I know what I know, Grayson Thayer. When I was seven, I broke my arm jumpin' off the barn roof onto the back of Zeke's pony." She laughed. "We were playing Indian and he said it was the only way a proper redskin mounted. Well, I got a broken arm and he got his tail whipped."
Grayson lay with his hands tucked behind his head, a frown on his face. "So where's the storm come in?"
She shrugged and tossed him his breeches. "I didn't say it made sense. All I'm telling you is that when a big storm is brewing my wrist starts to hurt. My da had a great-grandfather whose missing leg always bothered him before a snow."
He came to his feet and slipped into his breeches. "That's absurd."
The Bootmaker's Daughter: Revolution (Destiny's Daughters Book 2) Page 22
