"What?" the soldier demanded. "Speak up, old woman."
"My son," she whimpered. "Young Ian St. John. They said he was here."
The soldier frowned. "I don't think you're supposed to be in here. Out with you. " He pushed open the outer door.
Reagan banged her cane on the floor. "My son, Ian, he's my only boy. Please let me see him."
"If you're here to plead his case, it's too late. They're gonna hang him. Treason."
"Please," she begged in her falsetto voice. "Just one last time, let me see my son."
The soldier shifted in his shiny boots. "Wait here," he said finally.
The man walked away, and Reagan dared a quick glance at the open room. Soldiers moved about, laughing and talking. The prisoners were being held somewhere in the rear or upstairs, Reagan surmised.
A moment later the soldier was back. She lowered her head, leaning heavily on the cane.
"All right. But just for a moment. No family members present for the hanging, though. General Howe's orders."
Reagan nodded, following behind him. The soldier wove his way through the room of officers, through a back kitchen, and across a frozen yard. So the hangings are done in the barn, Reagan thought. Better for her and Ian. Once she got the boy loose, it would be easier to get away.
The soldier pushed open the stable door, pausing until she caught up. "In with you, but be quick about it. The provost marshal's got a dinner party waiting on him."
Reagan hobbled into the dark, dusty barn. Two lanterns illuminated the stark interior. The timbered structure was void of any beasts but still smelled of musty hay and manure. Several officers stood in a line to the left.
The provost marshal in charge of the hanging strutted to and fro. He was a citizen of Philadelphia who'd put the occupation to his own advantage. He was a civilian but one of General Howe's right-hand men. "Look here, young man, your mum's come to give her last farewell!"
Reagan looked up to see Ian's brow furrow in confusion. She only prayed he held his tongue.
"My . . . my mother?" His voice trembled in fear. He stood in a box-stall, his arms at his sides, his back straight with pride. He had been stripped of his coat and shoes and stood shivering in the drafty barn.
"His mother!" a familiar voice commented. "God's teeth, Marshal, is this necessary? You said this would only take a minute. It will have to be postponed, I've a pressing engagement."
Reagan knew that voice. . . . Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Grayson Thayer. She suddenly felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. She couldn't do this. They'd hang her too! But slowly she hobbled toward the provost marshal and his prisoner.
"Just a moment with my boy," she mumbled. "Please, sir, I beg of you."
"One minute, old hag, and then it's out with you!"
Reagan studied the distance to the rear of the barn as she grew closer to Ian. That was the best way out. "Ian," she cackled. "Ian, my son."
"M-mother," the frightened boy murmured. "You shouldn't have come."
"God's bowels!" the provost marshal exclaimed. "Say your good-byes and be gone!"
Just another step and I'll be able to reach him, Reagan thought. Slowly she moved her cane forward; at the same time, she slipped her right hand into the pocket she wore around her waist beneath her cloak. Her heart pounded in her ears, a dizziness rushing over her. . .
Suddenly, she bolted into action. She slammed the cane hard against the provost marshal's shins, and when he bellowed and jerked forward in pain, she grabbed the lapel of his new coat. "Don't move, Marshal, or I shoot," she managed in the old woman's voice.
The marshal looked up in horror to see the little old woman holding a flintlock pistol square on his temple.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught movement where the soldiers stood. "Tell them to throw down their weapons and not to move again," she ordered, pressing the end of the barrel into the soft flesh of his head.
"Your weapons!" he commanded.
Ian quickly retrieved a pistol and kicked the others into a pile.
Reagan glanced up at the soldiers with a sudden clever idea. She couldn't help but smile to herself. "Strip," she ordered.
"M-ma'am?" Roth Gardener stuttered.
"Strip off them filthy uni-forms. Boots, stockings, all of it. You too, Marshal."
Ian broke into laughter.
Reagan motioned to the boy with her cane. "Get a feedsack and fill it with their belongings. The guns, too. " She continued to speak in the same graveled voice. Her face remained concealed beneath the hood.
Reagan kept her eyes averted, but her pistol on target as the marshal hurriedly shucked off his clothing, revealing layers of milk-white flab.
When Reagan next glanced up, her cheeks reddened. The four young officers stood stark naked, their hands covering their groins. Somehow she managed to keep her gaze from Grayson's form. "Now, Ian, tie the marshal's hands, and leave a good piece of line."
Hastily, the boy did as she bid.
"Good, now get the bags and go ahead, Son. Through that door. " She motioned to the rear of the barn with the walnut cane.
Ian leaped forward and ran across the barn, a feed-sack of uniforms and weapons heaved over each shoulder. He threw open the rear door, and a gust of icy wind whipped through the barn sending straw and dust swirling.
Reagan tucked the cane beneath her arm and grabbed the marshal's arm. Cautiously, she began to back up. She watched the naked soldiers while keeping the pistol on the marshal's temple.
When Reagan got to the door, she looked up once at Grayson, standing huddled and vulnerable in the cold, then backed out of the door with the marshal in tow.
The moment they were out, she tied the provost marshal to the door, blocking it.
"You can't leave me like this!" the marshal protested, crouching to cover his nudity. "Hey! Come back here! I've been appointed by General Howe himself! Help! Somebody help me!"
Ignoring him, Reagan grabbed Ian's sleeve and hurried around the barn. The moment they disappeared from the marshal's sight, she and Ian bolted.
Through the yard, out onto the street, and down another street they ran. Down an alley, through a back yard, down another street. The cold air tugged at Reagan's lungs and she labored to breathe. She was too winded to speak as they made their escape, putting more and more distance between themselves and the soldiers she knew were bolting into action.
Another street down, she led Ian through a small garden and ran up to a back stoop. She pounded on the wooden door and was immediately rewarded by a familiar face.
"Yes?" Westley answered.
Reagan threw back her hood. "Westley!" She pushed Ian ahead of her and the two ducked into the house Westley was currently occupying. There were so many empty residences in the city that it was possible for him to move from house to house and keep the redcoats guessing as to his whereabouts.
"Reagan! My God! What are you doing?"
She slumped into a straight-backed chair, lowering her head to her hands. It was a full minute before she could speak. "This is Ian. A friend. He and his family live on Third Street. They were going to hang him for treason. You've got to get him out of the city. " There was no need for her to explain who they were, Westley knew. "His parents are waiting for him in Frankfort."
"My family?" Ian cried, dumping the feedsacks onto the floor.
"I came by your house on my way to the prison, Ian. They're safe. " She yanked off her father's old shoes and began to roll down her lumpy stocking. "You've got to get him some clothes and get him out of here, Westley. They may well search the city tonight. The provost marshal's going to be hopping mad."
"The provost marshal? You broke this boy out of jail?" Westley rocked back on his boot heels in utter amazement. "You and Uriah?"
Reagan pulled off Nettie's cloak and wrapped the extra stockings in it. "My father knows nothing of it and he's not to know. He's got enough things to worry about."
"Reagie, I can't lie to your father
."
"Who's asking you to lie? You think he's going to look you straight in the face and say Westley, did Reagan get Ian out of jail?"
Westley scowled.
"I didn't think so. " She stood up, her bundle under her arm. "Can you loan me your cloak? I've got to get home before the captain and lieutenant."
"You shouldn't be on the street!"
"No one will suspect me. Besides it's not far. I haven't got time to argue with you. Hurry, Westley!"
He left the tiny kitchen, returning a minute later. He wrapped a flannel robe around Ian's shoulders and then brought his cloak to Reagan. "And what am I supposed to wear?" he asked, already easing it over her shoulders.
"There are pistols, boots, stockings, and uniforms in those feedsacks. " She broke into a grin. "Booty."
Westley stared at the redhead in disbelief. "Reagie, you didn't?"
"I'll return your cloak tomorrow. I've got to go."
Ian came to her and offered his hand. "There's no way I can repay you, ma'am."
"Don't be silly. I couldn't let one of General Washington's men hang, could I?"
He blushed boyishly. "Guess not, ma'am."
"Give your mother my love. There's someone in Frankfort already making way for you to Dover. They'll find a place for you to live there where you'll be safe."
Westley opened the door. "Out with you."
She squeezed his arm as she went out the door. "Bless you, Westley. I knew I could count on you."
Once outside, Reagan hurried home through the back streets. Bursting in the Llewellyns' back door, she left Westley's cloak on a peg and kicked off her father's boots. Leaving them in the lean-to, she went into the kitchen.
"That you, Reagan?" Nettie turned from the work table.
"It's me, Nettie."
The old woman's sightless eyes narrowed. "Where you been, child? You've been running."
Reagan tried to breathe easier. "You worry too much, Nettie. " She passed the old woman, went to the cellar door and down the steps, the cloak bundle under her arm. She returned a minute later, empty-handed, and latched the door securely.
"You're up to no good," Nettie chided, stirring a pot of stew on the hearth. "I can smell it."
"Nonsense. " She snatched the wooden spoon out of Nettie's hand and tasted the rich stew. "You can't smell trouble."
"Hmph!" The gray-haired housekeeper gave a snort. "Who can't?"
"Where's Elsa?"
"In the parlor, I think. Mending. " Nettie poured honey into a bowl.
"Make her a tray and send her upstairs. The captain intends to have a meeting here tonight; I want her safely tucked away. " Ever since Elsa's disappearance a few mornings ago, she'd been particularly concerned about her sister. She wanted her safely out of reach of any redcoats.
"And what about yourself, missy? You're up to no good. I can smell it sure as livin'."
"Papa home from the printshop yet?"
The housekeeper beat the ingredients of her shortcake. "He was here, but he's gone. Fixin' Widow Carnes's loom. Spindle broke on it."
"Widow Carnes, is it?" Reagan chuckled. "Third time in two weeks her loom's broke, hasn't it?"
Nettie opened her mouth to speak, but an urgent pounding at the front door cut her off.
"Who could that be?" Reagan frowned.
Nettie began to pour the contents of the mixing bowl into a round cake pan. "No way to tell but to answer it."
Reagan dipped her forefinger into the sweet batter and padded down the hall in her stocking feet, licking her finger. "Who is it?" she called to the door.
"Captain Thayer. Let me in."
"Captain Thayer, there's no need to knock. It seems that wanted or not, this is presently your residence," she answered through the closed door.
"Reagan! Someone's locked the damned door! Open it!"
Reagan turned the great key and swung it open but stood barring the captain's entrance. At first sight of him, she burst into laughter. She knew she shouldn't, but it just couldn't be helped. She'd never seen a man look so pathetic.
The arrogant Captain Grayson Thayer shielded his nakedness with a coarse gray horse blanket. Bare knees and calves, white with cold, were evident beneath the barely adequate covering. On his feet he wore a pair of woman's stilted kitchen clogs.
Reagan leaned on the doorjamb and stuck her finger in her mouth to suck the last of the sweet dough off it. "God sakes, Captain, what's happened to you?"
Chapter Six
"Do you think, perhaps, mistress, that we could discuss this once I'm inside?" Sterling bellowed, slamming the door open and brushing past her.
Reagan dissolved into another fit of giggles as she closed it and turned to face the captain, her hand held tightly over her mouth. He was already stalking up the grand staircase, cursing beneath his breath.
"Bring me hot water to wash," he hollered. "And a drink!"
"We don't have anything left in the house but a little coffee, Captain Thayer," she lied. She had no intention of turning over her father's last keg of Madeira he'd hidden in the cellar.
"Then go down to the Blue Boar and get me a bottle of port. Two bottles! Tell that barkeeper, Jergens, to put it on my bill!" He turned at the top of the landing and disappeared down the hall.
Reagan stood in the entranceway for a moment in indecision. "Go to the tavern, indeed," she muttered. Like hell she was going to a place like that! The Blue Boar Tavern was frequented by English and German soldiers as well as city loyalists. A good patriot wouldn't be caught dead in such an establishment.
But curiosity got the best of Reagan. "Why not," she murmured. Running an errand for the captain, she was in no danger. And it would be wickedly bold to traipse through the English nest after just having broken young Ian out of jail!
Still chuckling, Reagan went down the back hall and into the kitchen.
"Where you goin' now, missy?" Nettie called from the hearth.
"To the tavern. It seems Captain Thayer's met with some trouble. He wants porter."
"You're goin' no such place. You wait for your father to get home and let him go."
Reagan shook her head. "The captain says now. You know he only lets us stay here out of the goodness of his heart," she went on, a tone of sarcasm in her voice. "We shouldn't press our luck."
"Then let me go. " The old housekeeper straightened up slowly.
"I'll be fine," Reagan insisted as she went out the back. "Be home before you know it!" She stuck her head back in the kitchen. "You might want to take some hot water up to the captain. He may well have caught a chill."
A minute later, Reagan was walking down the cobblestone walk. Beneath her heavy woolen hood, she smiled to herself. There might be advantages to running an errand or two for the captain, she thought. If I keep my eyes and ears open, I just might get something for my printings. Wouldn't that be something if I could reveal a bit of confidential information in cold ink!
Reaching the tavern, Reagan walked right in. Uniformed men turned, and a ripple of sound echoed the men's approval. Tossing back the hood of her cloak, she crossed the smoky public room, going straight to the counter.
"Barkeep!"
A rotund man in a linen apron came to her. "Ma'am?"
She ignored the ribald invitations and low whistles she heard behind her. "Two bottles of good porter, sir, for Captain Thayer."
Jergens reached beneath the counter and brought up two corked bottles. "Here you go, love."
She wrapped her fingers around the necks of the bottles, but the barkeep didn't release them. "I have to hurry," she said with a razor's edge to her voice. "The captain waits."
The barkeeper loosened his grip. "So the captain's got himself a feisty piece of female, has he? I hear that man's got a golden touch with a woman. Golden as his hair, they say."
She turned away. "Put it on the captain's bill."
She walked back across the public room. A Hessian soldier caught the hem of her cloak, but put up no resistance when she snatched i
t from his grasp.
Coming to the door, she reached for the knob, but a pair of hairy fingers beat her to it. She glanced up, and through the dim light saw a swarthy half-breed in buckskins. A leather patch covered one eye, and his hair hung in oily strands to frame a pock-scarred face.
Loyalist scum, Reagan thought to herself. Traitor.
The man smiled, baring jagged, rotting teeth. "Where you goin' in sech a hurry? Why not stay and have a drink with Indian John?"
She put her hand on his to turn the doorknob, but his wrist wouldn't budge. "Let me pass."
"What, you got time for the pretty captain but not for me? Why not let a real man give ye a ride? Bet you never had nuthin' like me between your thighs . . ."
Reagan lifted the bottle of porter and brought it down sharply on the man's knuckles. When he howled and released the knob, recoiling with pain, she made her escape.
Ducking onto the street, she ran, praying the filthy creature didn't chase her. When she heard no footsteps, she fell into a walk and glanced over her shoulder. The halfbreed stood on the steps of the tavern, below the sign of the Blue Boar, a lamp illuminating his scarred face. His laughter echoed in the chilly street. "Next time, girlie," he called ominously. "Next time."
Reagan ran the rest of the way home, but this time had the good sense to stop and catch her breath before she went into the kitchen. When she entered the room, both Uriah and Elsa were there, along with Nettie.
"Nettie says you've been to the tavern," Uriah accused.
Reagan stopped in the doorway, Grayson's bottles of porter clutched in her hands. "The captain wanted it straight away. Seems there was some trouble this afternoon. He was pretty angry. I thought it best to do what he said."
Uriah scowled. "Trouble?" He gave a snort. "You don't know the half of it. " He turned to his younger daughter, waving with an ink-stained hand. "Go on upstairs now, Elsa, love. Papa will be up in a minute."
"You promised you'd read to me from the Bible. " She pouted.
"And that I will. " He patted Elsa on the shoulder. "Now upstairs with you. And if you're dressed for bed when I get there, we'll play a game as well before you turn in."
Temptation’s Tender Kiss Page 6