Temptation’s Tender Kiss

by French, Colleen

  "Cover my—" Reagan's mouth clamped shut. "This is Elsa we're talking about. He tried to rape her! He can't remain in our home."

  "I'm in enough trouble over these damned pamphlets, Reagan. Major Burke is not going to like this! He's got better things to do than worry about where his men sleep. " Damn, Sterling thought. How am I going to get Roth out of the house without making trouble for myself?

  His position with Major Burke was already precarious. The British officer would not take kindly to Sterling being a troublemaker, and his own commanding officer with the Continentals, Captain Craig, would be even less pleased. His assignment was to infiltrate the British Army at Philadelphia and learn what he could. He was not supposed to become involved with Reagan and her family like this—it was too dangerous. If only Reagan knew what she was asking.

  Tears stung Reagan's eyes and she dashed at them with the back of her hand. How could she have so misjudged Grayson Thayer? How could she have allowed the attraction between them to overshadow the true man that he was? She had almost fooled herself into thinking that perhaps he cared for her, for her family. But he didn't care . . . All that mattered to Captain Grayson Thayer was himself. He was nothing more than what he appeared to be. A coin was always face value, nothing more. He was a bloody redcoat.

  "Do what you like then, Captain, but I'd advise you to warn Mr. Gardener that if I ever catch him in my home again I'll shoot him right between the legs. " She spun around and sailed out the door.

  Sterling groaned, turning back to the problem at hand. Roth Gardener was finally coming to. Now, how the hell was he going to get him out of here?

  Sterling slipped into the Blue Boar Tavern, removed his cloak, and walked to the front counter. "What do I owe you for the month?" he asked Jergens, jingling his month's pay in a leather pouch. "More than I've got, I'll vow."

  The barkeeper dried a tankard with the corner of his apron. "Don't owe me a thing, Captain Thayer. Your bill's already been paid."

  "What do you mean? I haven't paid you."

  "Nope, someone paid the bill for you."

  "Who?" Sterling frowned. He couldn't believe his captain would have dared send anyone into the city to pay his bills. In fact, Captain Craig had expressed his dissatisfaction with Sterling's exorbitant expenditures in his last message.

  "An older gentleman—said he wanted to remain anon-y-mous. " Jergens shrugged. "What did I care? He paid with good hard coin."

  "And you're sure he meant to pay my bill?"

  The bartender scowled. "You're Captain Thayer, ain't you?"

  Sterling paused in thought for a moment, then glanced back at Jergens. Better not to make a fuss, he thought. Grayson certainly wouldn't care who paid his bill. "A bottle of your best claret, then."

  "I'll send it right over, Captain."

  When the barmaid, Annie, brought Sterling his wine, he poured himself a draught and sipped it, studying the faces in the public room. He checked his brother's pocket watch. It was nearly ten. By now Reagan would be arriving home to find Roth Gardener had vacated the Llewellyn premises, lock, stock, and barrel. Sterling smiled at his own cleverness, the bar bill forgotten for the moment. A brief conversation with the lieutenant, and the man had packed and hired a wagon to carry his belongings away.

  The tavern door swung open and a ragged woman wearing a blanket over her shoulders entered the smoky room. She squinted, pushing the blanket off her head to reveal strings of tangled, thinning hair.

  Sterling watched her carefully. She was obviously looking for someone. He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, madame," he said politely. "Might I help you?" Grayson always said treat the whore like a queen and the queen like a whore and you'll have no trouble with the ladies.

  The woman looked at Sterling. "A man, a redskin half-breed. They tol' me I could find him here."

  Sterling rose, indicating the bench across from him. "Sit a moment. I know who you mean. He must have been detained. I'm certain he'll be along directly."

  She glanced at his bottle of claret and licked her cracked lips. Her glazed eyes met Sterling's.

  He pushed his glass and the bottle across the table. "A little refreshment while you wait?" The woman sat and reached for the glass. She tipped it, draining it in one breath, then poured another. Sterling signaled a barmaid. "Some bread and soup here."

  The wench returned from the kitchen carrying a platter of bread and two bowls of steaming soup. "Anything else, Capt'n?" She fluttered her dark eyelashes. Word was the captain liked the ladies and he tipped well for their favors.

  "No, that'll be all, dear. " He tugged at her petticoat as she walked by and she burst into giggles.

  "You just need call," she told him over her shoulder as she moved on to the next table.

  Sterling watched the haggard woman across from him wolf down two hunks of bread she tore from the loaf with her fingers. She slurped down the bowl of soup and reached for another piece of bread. He eased his own bowl across the table and she lifted her spoon again.

  "So you're waiting for Indian John . . ." He folded his arms, leaning on the table. "You have information for him, do you?"

  "Maybe. " The woman dipped her bread into the soup and stuffed it into her mouth.

  Sterling smiled. Lucky guess. "And what might this pertain to?"

  "The injun's payin' for information on them papers everybody's readin'."

  "Papers? What papers?"

  Her spoon froze in midair. "Why you so innerested?"

  "Well, it just so happens that I'm investigating those treasonous pamphlets. " He poured the remainder of the claret into her glass.

  "You are?"

  "It looks like Indian John's been detained. Why not tell me? After all, we all want to see justice done here, don't we?"

  She sopped up the last of the soup with the heel of the bread loaf and crammed it into her mouth. Soup dribbled down her chin. "All I want's hard money. " She took a deep breath and belched.

  "I've coin."

  "Let's see it. Ya soldiers are t'all alike. Ya always want credit."

  Sterling laid one coin on the table, then a second. The woman's eyes widened and her hand snaked out to cover the silver.

  He placed his hand over the money before she reached it. "Tell me what you know and it's yours, plus another for your trouble."

  "It ain't much but they say he's payin' for anything."

  "So am I, and I'm paying more."

  She slipped a withered hand beneath her ragged clothes and pulled out a sodden bit of paper. She slid it across the table and the moment Sterling reached for it, she snatched up the coins.

  He smoothed out the paper. The ink had run so that it was barely visible. Scrawled across it was a list of two items and initials: linseed oil, varnish, "UL. " Sterling looked up. "What is this?"

  "I cain't read, but my daughter says it's a list for a printer. She knows a gen'lman who brings a wagon or two into the city—black market. She foun' it in his pocket."

  Sterling tossed the old woman another coin and she scrambled to catch it before it fell to the floor. "Thank you. You can go. " He carefully folded the delicate piece of paper.

  When the old hag had gone, Sterling removed a perfumed lace handkerchief and fluttered it under his nose. "By the king's cod, that women stank," he muttered to no one in particular.

  When an appropriate amount of time had passed, he took his cloak and hat, leaving coin on the table. Outside the bitter wind blew and snow swirled on the cobblestone walk at his feet. He walked slowly, hunkered down against the cold.

  "UL" . . . that could only be one man—Uriah Llewellyn. There was a chance the order was innocent. What harm was there in a man trying to purchase what materials he needed for his livelihood, black market or not? The only problem with that explanation was that Sterling had been in Uriah's shop just last week and along the wall there had been several jars of linseed oil.

  Sterling knew little about the printing trade, but he knew enough to be certain that the small bit of p
rinting Uriah was doing legally couldn't demand the need of more linseed oil. It was used to thin down the ink made of lampwick and varnish. Uriah had just been saying how poor business was since the evacuation of many citizens and the occupation of the British. There was no logical explanation other than that Uriah was involved in some illegal printing—most likely the political leaflets.

  He smiled in the darkness, crossing Walnut Street and heading down Fourth toward home. It was men like Uriah Llewellyn who had made this revolution possible. It was men like him who were as vital to the cause of freedom as the soldiers at Valley Forge. Men like Uriah and women like Reagan . . . the little minx. His heart swelled with pride. Surely she knew what her father was doing. Perhaps she had even aided in some small way.

  The problem at hand now was to figure how to get Uriah to cease publication without him becoming aware of Sterling's charade. Sterling would write a message to his commanding officer immediately. If Uriah simply stopped writing his treasonous pamphlets, his life would no longer be at risk, and Sterling would no longer be in the position of being expected by Major Burke to locate the penman.

  Sterling skipped up the icy steps of the house on Spruce Street and took a deep breath. He hoped Reagan was already asleep. His mind was too filled with urgency on the matter of the pamphlets to deal with her tonight.

  The house was silent, the rooms darkened. A single bronze lamp burned on a small mahogany table at the foot of the staircase. Sterling picked up the lamp and climbed the stairs. He passed Uriah's bedchamber, then Reagan's. There was a dim glow of firelight seeping from beneath her door, but no sound. He slipped into the room Roth Gardener had occupied and closed the door. Shedding the distasteful red coat and trappings of his brother's trade, he settled at the small writing desk to print his urgent message.

  From the pages of a Bible he produced a "mask" and placed it over a clean sheet of linen paper. The mask was a piece of paper with holes cut in it to form a bell. He wrote his brief message concerning the leaflets, leaving out Uriah's name, in the cut-out spaces. Then, he removed the mask and began to fill in the letter addressed to Cousin Lucy with newsy information on a fictitious family's illnesses. He signed it "Aunt Feddlebottom" and began to sprinkle sand on the paper to dry the ink when a knock came at the door.

  Sterling closed up the desk and came to his feet. "Just a moment," he called. He went to the door and opened. It was Reagan, just as he thought it was, but half hoped it was not.

  She wore a faded flannel sleeping gown of pale blue with ribbons that tied beneath her chin. Her hair was a glorious mass of curls brushed out and fanned over her shoulders. The anger and bitter disappointment he had seen on her face earlier in the evening was gone.

  "May I come in?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  Sterling stepped back, mesmerized. "Do."

  She walked into the bedchamber and closed the door behind her. For a long moment she just stood there staring at him. Finally her lips parted and she spoke. "I don't understand you, Grayson. You're a paradox."

  Sterling could feel the heat of the small room closing in on him. Her voice was soft, raspy with a sensuality he knew she was unaware of. "Me? How so?" He walked to a wing chair upholstered in flowered chinz and sat down. He began to remove his boots.

  She shrugged. "You're two men, Captain."

  He lifted his chin sharply, his eyes meeting hers.

  "You wear that despicable uniform. " She indicated the red coat hanging from a bed poster. "You attended the would-be hanging of a child."

  "He was a spy," Sterling countered.

  She went on, ignoring his comment. "You ride your blue-blood horse down our streets while old women walk because their animals have been confiscated. You eat cheese and fruit from a picnic basket while our children go without bread because there's no wheat for flour, then . . ." She paused, studying his striking face. "Then you give me back my room. " She fiddled with the ribbons of her sleeping gown. "I just don't understand."

  He set aside his expensive calf-hide boots and began to roll down his silk stockings embroidered with clocks. "You make more of it than it is. With Roth gone, I simply saw no reason to occupy a lady's bedchamber when I could have this one."

  She took a step closer to him. Her heart was pounding. She didn't know what she was doing in here, but she couldn't help herself. She had tried to sleep, but the image of Grayson's face prevented it.

  "No. By giving me back my room, you returned a bit of dignity to me. A conquering army makes no such concessions. " She stared into the depths of his heavenly blue eyes. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I sometimes think you joined the wrong side."

  Grayson's control slipped from Sterling's grasp. He took Reagan by the waist and brought her down into his lap. His mouth crushed hers and she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her soft breasts into his chest.

  "I'm so frightened," she whispered, returning his kisses eagerly.

  "Afraid of what?" He kissed the length of her pale neck, tugging at the strings of her nightdress.

  "Of myself. I hate you. " Her breath came in short gasps. "I hate you, but I need you. I want you."

  Sterling kissed her deeply, his tongue delving to explore the cool lining of her mouth. He had never met a woman so uninhibited by her feelings, so aware of her own sexuality. He knew she was inexperienced in the ways of a man and a woman, yet she was eager to love and be loved.

  "I would never hurt you," Sterling assured her. His hand slipped beneath the flannel to cup her breast. He tested its weight in his palm, caressing her soft flesh, stroking her nipple.

  Reagan sighed, leaning against him, letting him cradle her in his arms as the waves of rising desire washed over her. This man made her feel alive, not just physically, but deep within her soul.

  "I want to make love to you," he whispered. His mouth closed down on her nipple, leaving a damp spot on the flannel.

  "I want you to," she answered, "but . . ."

  "No buts, Reagie. Don't try to think it out. For once, just let it happen."

  She threaded her fingers through his magical hair. "You don't understand what you ask. I risk everything, you risk nothing."

  He kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose. "You don't know everything, Reagie."

  "You've probably been with a hundred women. " She laughed huskily, arching her back as his warm mouth found her nipple again. "A thousand."

  "It doesn't matter. Nothing else matters but you, sweetheart. Believe me."

  She took a deep breath, clasping his face in her palms. She lifted his chin so that she might look into his eyes. "Don't say things like that. Things you know aren't true. I know what you are, Captain. I hear the rumors at the market."

  "Does it matter?" Something my brother would have said, Sterling thought as the words fell from his lips.

  Her fingertips caressed his lips. "I think not, and that's what scares me the most. I'm loyal to the bone to the cause of freedom, but—"

  "I understand," he interrupted.

  "How can you understand?" Her dark eyebrows furrowed as she slipped from his lap. "I just want to be sure, Grayson. " She stood unembarrassed before him, her gown open to her waist to reveal the soft curves of her breasts. "There's so much at risk for a few days, a few weeks of pleasure."

  Tell her, a voice inside Sterling protested. Tell her who you are, tell her you love her. But his sense of duty was too strong. If it was only his own life at risk there would have been no hesitation, but this web was too tangled.

  Sterling stood and reached out and began to tie the bows of her gown. "I'll be here should you decide in my favor," he whispered. Finishing the last tie, he kissed her softly, then watched her slip from the room in silence.

  Chapter Eleven

  "I think it's best, Papa. " Reagan nodded gravely. "Westley would take her to Richmond, I'm sure of it."

  "The roads are barely passable. Our old carriage would never make it. " Uriah pushed back from the dining table in the center of
the sitting parlor.

  Before the British occupation of Philadelphia, this room had held host to merry dinners. Patriots from all over the city had joined Uriah Llwellyn and his daughter in heated political discussions around the elegant, polished table. There had been a time, when the Continental Congress had been in session, that dozens of calling cards had been left daily. Now, the sitting parlor was left dark, the great oval table and matching chairs covered with oilcloth.

  "It's the first of March. There'll be mud but little chance of snow. Send her on horseback if you must, but I think we've got to get her out of the city. It's just not safe. This business with Lieutenant Gardener proved that. Who knows how long the British intend to stay here?" Reagan sipped from a teacup, wrinkling her nose at the bitter taste of the coffee. She preferred good English tea, but had given it up a good two years ago in the name of freedom.

  "I knew it was going to come to this. " Uriah chewed on the stem of his unlit pipe. "Why not consider going with her?" he added thoughtfully.

  Reagan bolted up. "Surely you're not serious? You heard what Westley said. " She paced her mother's Brussel carpet. "That last leaflet of ours reached Boston! Papa, someone printed my piece on a bill of rights in one of the gazettes! They said it was intuitive, perspicacious! Imagine, something I wrote being perspicacious!"

  Uriah searched his threadbare waistcoat for his tobacco. "You forget you were nearly caught with that shipment. You forget that Captain Thayer is out there on the street at this moment hunting us down."

  "Another two weeks and I'll be ready to go to press with the next essay. I'm not abandoning you or my duty. " She leaned over him, plucking his pouch of tobacco from between the pages of a book lying on the table, and handed it to him. Her father was so absentminded these days. He seemed to be aging before her eyes. "Besides, this discussion concerns Elsa, not me."

  "What about Elsa?" Elsa came into the sitting parlor, her hands clasped delicately in the folds of her skirting.

  The episode with the lieutenant had seemed to leave no mark on her. Elsa said it was an "unfortunate happening" but that she was unharmed, and that was the end of the matter. An "unfortunate happening" indeed! Reagan couldn't for the life of her figure out where Elsa was getting such words, such ideas.