Temptation’s Tender Kiss

by French, Colleen

  The Printer’s Daughter

  Colleen French

  Copyright © 1990, 2019 by Colleen French. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of The Evan Marshall Agency, 1 Pacio Court, Roseland, NJ 07068-1121,

  evan@evanmarshallagency.com.

  Version 1.0

  This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by The Evan Marshall Agency. Originally published by Kensington Publishing Corp., New York, under the title Temptation's Tender Kiss and under the name Colleen Faulkner.

  Cover by The Killion Group

  We have a natural right to make use of our pens as of our tongue, at our peril, risk and hazard.

  — Voltaire

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  New Castle, Delaware

  December 24, 1777

  Captain Grayson Thayer stepped from the covered carriage into the swirling snow. Just ahead, a lantern glowed in a doorway, illuminating the tavern's entrance. "I won't be long," he called to the huddled driver. "Wait for me here."

  "Aye, sir" came a muffled voice.

  Grayson hurried across the frozen yard, his polished leather boots crunching in the snow. Flinging open the tavern door, he stepped inside and shook the snow from his cloak.

  "Capt'n?" an ancient gravelly voice questioned.

  The British officer eyed the sailor standing in the shadows. "Who's asking?"

  The old grizzled man chuckled. "Yer party waits for ye above." He gestured with a clay pipe.

  Ignoring the other tavern patrons, Grayson crossed the room and started up the wooden staircase.

  "First door to yer left," the sailor called after him.

  Turning on the landing, Grayson rapped his knuckles on the paneled door and pushed in. A bare-chested man, face lathered with shaving soap, raised a flintlock pistol and aimed it steadily at Grayson.

  "God a mercy!" A maid holding a shaving razor gave a squeal and fell to her knees behind a chair.

  Grayson closed the door, a hint of a smile crossing his handsome face. "Playing with fire, asking me here, brother." He shook a finger. "Sooner or later, you're going to get burned."

  Sterling Thayer lowered the pistol. "It's all right, Sary. You can go. I'll finish myself."

  The frightened maid peered over the back of the chair. "By the king's breeches, Master Sterling! You're as alike as two peas in a pod!"

  Sterling came to his feet, laying down the pistol. "I said that will be all."

  Bobbing her head, Sary dropped the razor in a basin of water and scurried from the room.

  For a moment the two brothers regarded each other coolly. Each was a mirror image of the other with their startling blue eyes and golden hair.

  Sterling retrieved his razor from the washbowl and concentrated on his reflection in a piece of broken mirror propped on the mantel. He scraped his chin methodically. "You surprise me, Brother. What made you come?"

  "What made you ask? They catch you here and you'll be hanging by dawn." Grayson walked to the center of the room, brushing a bit of imaginary lint from his heavy woolen cloak.

  "Just thought we might have a drink between brothers before you report to duty. After all, it's been two years." Sterling wiped the remaining soap from his clean-shaven face.

  "How did you know I was bound for Philadelphia?"

  Sterling laughed, his rich tenor voice echoing in the tiny room. "You're my brother, for Christ's sake!" He hit Grayson on the back. "I make it my business to know."

  Grayson's eyes met Sterling's. "I haven't time to dally. I've an engagement."

  "So let the young lady wait a few minutes. When do you report?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Christmas Day? Droll fellows aren't they. . . your commanding officers." He poured a clear liquid from a pitcher and added water, turning the concoction cloudy. "Just one drink before you go. It wasn't easy finding this." He pushed the handleless pewter cup into Grayson's hand.

  Grayson took a swallow, savoring its warmth as it burned a path to his stomach. "A palm toddie? God's bowels, how did you manage?"

  It hadn't been easy for Sterling to find the arrack, but it had been necessary. "For my brother, nothing but the best."

  "You'll not have a draught?"

  "Nah. You know what drink does to me. Makes me bloody unpredictable."

  Grayson tipped his glass again. "Makes you bloody foolish, you mean." Finishing the arrack, he peered into the cup. Slowly he lifted his head. Suddenly the room was spinning and his brother's voice seemed to be coming from far in the distance. "W-what have you done to me?" The empty pewter vessel slipped from his fingers. Then his eyes met Sterling's. "S-son of a b-bitch . . ."

  A few minutes later the uniformed British officer came down the flight of wooden steps. The sailor at the door opened it and stepped back out of his way. "'Ave a good night, Master Sterling."

  The officer stopped. "You must be mistaken, fellow. I'm Captain Grayson Thayer. It's my brother who goes by the name of Sterling."

  The sailor grinned. "Right you are, sir. Mistaken I must be." He opened the tavern door. "Have a good evenin' to you then . . . Capt'n."

  Chapter One

  Philadelphia

  December 25, 1777

  Cloaked in darkness, Reagan Llewellyn hurried along the cobblestone walk, her basket clutched in her mittened hands. The sound of Christmas bells echoed somewhere in the city, and in the distance she could hear the voices of merry carolers. Raucous male laughter filtered onto Chestnut Street from a three-story brick house, and she hurried to make her way past. Just as she walked beneath the last window, the front door flew open and she spun around.

  A lamp hanging in the doorway cast bright light onto the street illuminating the figures of a Hessian soldier and a woman. The woman giggled, snatching the feathered hat off the soldier's head, and he swatted her playfully on the bottom. "Lead the way, mine pretty," he bellowed drunkenly. "Lead the way."

  Holding her basket tightly in her hands, Reagan turned the corner, pressing her back to the wall. The soldier and the doxy walked by without noticing the cloaked figure in the shadows.

  Heaving a sigh of relief, Reagan crossed Chestnut and made several turns, up Fourth, west on Market, up Sixth, weaving her way through the streets of the city. Snow began to fall lightly, the dusty flakes covering her forest-green cloak in a layer of shimmering white.

  Suddenly there were footsteps. "Halt, traitor!" came a voice from behind.

  Reagan lowered her head, giving no heed to the warning. She walked faster, and the heavy footsteps behind
her quickened.

  "I said, you! Halt! Or I shoot!"

  Terrified, Reagan broke into a run. One shot was fired, filling the air with the sickening smell of black powder, and then came a second. Catching the toe of her boot on a rain-barrel, Reagan fell headlong into the snow, her basket skittering across the icy cobblestone walk. Chunks of gingerbread flew from the basket. In terror, she rose on her knees and grabbed the basket, trembling in anticipation of the next shot. She knew the soldiers would not miss again.

  But a long minute passed and then another and no soldiers appeared. Behind her she could hear their voices. Scrambling to her feet, Reagan ducked behind the rain-barrel, daring a glance down the street. In the dim light she spotted two soldiers leaning over a prone body.

  Heart pounding, Reagan jerked back out of sight. They hadn't been after her! She took a deep breath. Slowly she got to her feet, and taking one final glance at the redcoats, she slipped around the corner and into the darkness.

  A few minutes later Reagan ran up a short flight of steps and knocked on a door decorated with tree boughs and red ribbon. Pausing, she waited, watching as candlelight passed by the windows.

  The door swung open and a comfortingly familiar face appeared.

  "Mistress Claggett!" Reagan panted.

  The elderly woman glanced left and then right down Mulberry Street. "Come in! Hurry, child, before you're seen. They've doubled the patrols!" Reagan stepped inside the front hall and Mistress Claggett slammed it shut, sliding the bolt home. "What is it? What's happened?"

  Reagan laughed shakily. "Nothing but my own foolery. There were soldiers chasing some poor man on the street, only I thought they were after me. I think they killed him."

  Mistress Claggett shook her head, making a clicking sound between her teeth. "I told you I'd come for it." She took the basket of gingerbread from Reagan's hand. "Since the British have occupied our dear old city it's not been safe for a young woman to walk the street. Next time you've a batch, you let me know."

  Reagan's cinnamon eyes met Mistress Claggett's. "You know Papa'd never allow it. It's not safe."

  The elderly woman gave a snort. "Not safe! You think I'm afraid of those bloody redcoats? I could do the job and do it well!"

  Reagan pushed back the hood of her cloak. Her rich auburn hair was pulled back in a neat singular braid, but wisps of bright curls had escaped to frame her oval face. "And what if you were caught? We could never forgive ourselves if something happened to you. You've been too important to the patriot cause."

  "Who'd stop a poor senile woman on the street? I could slip right beneath their noses, the poor stupid bastards!"

  Reagan couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, I do so enjoy coming to see you once a week! But I'd better be going; Papa will be worried."

  "Very well." Mistress Claggett waved a wrinkled hand laden with gold rings. "Just let me return your basket." She removed the linen cloth from the top and began to take squares of gingerbread out and lay them on a silver tray on a table. "So tell me, how is that dear, sweet sister of yours?"

  "Elsa? Just fine. She loves the spinet. She has me play it by the hour. It was so good of you to give it to us."

  "Nonsense. I told you. I haven't played in years. The thing was rusting in my parlor." Emptying the basket of gingerbread, Mistress Claggett removed another linen cloth and retrieved a handful of paper leaflets.

  "Wait until you read the latest piece on Major Burke! It's quite humorous."

  Carefully the older woman laid the stack on the table and returned the linen cloths to the basket. "I'll see they go out tomorrow, have no fear of that." She handed Reagan the container.

  "I know you will." Lifting her hood, Reagan walked to the door. "I hear they brought in another shipment of officers from London. Hilda and John Gatler have had to put one up."

  Mistress Claggett shook her head, reaching out to tug at the strings of Reagan's hood. "Thank the good Lord we've been spared! I just can't understand how they can do that, forcing us to take soldiers in and provide them with food and shelter. They send one of those dandies here and he's liable to die of food poisoning!"

  Reagan unlocked the door. "You wouldn't!"

  The older woman shrugged, drawing her woven shawl tighter around her shoulders. "What could they do to me? Whose fault would it be if they lodged a soldier with a senile old woman? No telling what can happen once a person's mind goes."

  Reagan laughed, stepping out the door into the falling snow. "Merry Christmas to you, Mistress Claggett," she said loudly. "I hope you enjoy your gingerbread. I'll see you next week."

  Mistress Claggett patted her gently on the shoulder. "Godspeed, child."

  Reagan came in through the back door of her father's house and into the kitchen, shrugging off her cloak. She picked up an apple from a wooden bowl on the worktable and took a bite.

  "Where've you been, Sister?" Elsa asked softly, turning from the fireplace. "I was worried."

  "Delivering gingerbread. I told you I was going to Mistress Claggett's, don't you remember?"

  Elsa smiled prettily. At eighteen years old she was a picture of loveliness. Petite and dark-haired, she bore no resemblance to her elder sister. "Oh. Yes, I think you did."

  Reagan dropped her cloak over a chair, munching on her apple. "Did you have a nice day?"

  "Mmmhmmm." Elsa beamed. "Westley brought me a kitten." She clasped her hands in childlike excitement. "I'm going to call him Mittens."

  "Westley was here?" She glanced at her sister. "Today?"

  Elsa nodded. "He said he was sorry he couldn't stay, but he wished you a Merry Christmas. Would you like to see my kitten? Papa said he could sleep here by the fire. "She knelt and lifted a mewing kitten from a wooden box on the floor. "He purrs when I pet him."

  Reagan stroked the kitten absentmindedly. "Westley shouldn't have been here," she said more to herself than to her sister. "I wonder what's about."

  "Papa says I can give Mittens milk, but not too much because it will give him belly pains."

  Reagan smiled. "He's sweet, Elsa. Put him back in the box and let him sleep."

  The dark-haired girl did as her sister told her. "I'm making sassafras tea for Papa. Would you like some?"

  "Sure. Where is he?"

  "Papa?"

  "Yes, Elsa," Reagan responded patiently. "Where papa?"

  "In the parlor. Scribbling. You know he's always scribbling."

  Reagan tossed her apple core into the fire. "Bring the tea to the parlor, will you?"

  Elsa nodded her head vigorously. "And gingerbread. I'll bring gingerbread."

  "You do that," Reagan answered as she left the kitchen.

  "Papa?" Reagan walked into the parlor. Her father sat at a writing desk near the fireplace, his head bent in concentration.

  "What took you so long? I was worried." Uriah Llewellyn peered over his spectacles.

  "It didn't take me any longer than it usually does." She perched herself on the corner of an upholstered chair and stretched her hands out to warm them by the fire. She saw no need to tell her father of the incident on the street. After all, no harm had come to her; it was her own silliness that had caused her fright.

  "Well, thank God you're back because I need some help with this piece." He gestured to the paper on the desk in front of him. "I have a good idea, but nothing sounds right."

  "Papa, it's Christmas. Haven't we done enough for today? Put it away and I'll work on it tomorrow."

  Uriah sighed, returning his quill to the inkwell. "I suppose you're right." He pushed back in his chair, stroking his graying beard. "We could all use a rest."

  "Elsa said Westley was here; I thought he'd gone to New York. Is there a problem?"

  Uriah patted his waistcoat, searching for his pipe. "Nothing to worry about. He just had some trouble with his pass."

  "Trouble?" Reagan leaped up. "What kind of trouble? We pay dearly for those passes out of the city."

  "Now settle yourself, Daughter." Uriah waved a hand. "No one's in a
ny danger. He simply passed the leaflets on to another party."

  Reagan paced the worn Persia carpet that covered the floor. "The more people we take into this, the more people at risk. I don't understand why we can't do it ourselves."

  Uriah patted his waistcoat again. "Where's my pipe? Have you seen my pipe?"

  Reagan picked the clay pipe up off the writing table. "Right in front of you."

  He snatched it from her hand. "We've been over this time and time again. We can't do it alone any longer. Not since we increased the print run."

  "I know." She smoothed the soft wool of her burgundy skirts. "It's just that it frightens me. I can take the risk for myself, but for others . . ." She shook her head.

  "There is no one we've recruited who doesn't know the danger he or she invites." Uriah filled his pipe bowl with pungent tobacco and tamped it down with his finger. "But they feel as we do. The people of this land need our kind of support just as sure as Washington needs our supplies in Valley Forge."

  "Just the same—" Elsa stepped into the parlor carrying a tray and Reagan cut herself off in midsentence. Her sister had no idea that Reagan and Uriah were actively involved in the patriot cause and they had no intentions of letting her know. "Tea! Wonderful. "Reagan rubbed her hands together. "It was so cold outside. I'm still chilled."

  Elsa set down the tray and began to pour three cups. "Do you think we could play a game now, Papa? It's my birthday. You promised."

  Uriah studied his younger daughter's face, a bittersweet sadness coming over him. It was this time each year that he grew empty inside. Memories of his dear wife Anna washed over him. It was today, Christmas day eighteen years ago, that she had died in childbirth and their newborn babe had come down with a fever. Though his little Elsa had recovered from the illness, her mind had never grown as it should. She was an innocent who would forever need the protection of her father and sister.

  "Papa!" Elsa repeated. "Can we play?"

  Uriah blinked back the moisture that glistened in his eyes. "For my birthday girl?" He clapped his hands. "Of course!"

  Reagan's dark eyes met her father's and she smiled in understanding. She knew how difficult Christmastime was for him, even if Elsa didn't. She took a cup of tea from the tray. "So what shall it be, birthday girl?"