A silence yawned between them as he watched her pluck weeds from the muddy bed. It had been six weeks since Uriah's funeral and still Reagan's constitution had not faltered. She treated him with a cool arrogance that infuriated him. Neither sweet talk nor angry words would sway her. She wanted nothing to do with him, and her behavior was so convincing that Sterling was beginning to believe her. That night she had lain in his arms was nothing but a wisp of a memory he conjured again and again. Twice he'd gotten the nerve to go to her chamber and turn the knob, but both times it had been locked.
Sterling watched her continue to weed, down on her hands and knees, the sleeves of her faded woolen gown pushed back to her elbows. A simple muslin mobcap covered her mass of red hair, but tendrils sneaked from beneath the covering to taunt him. No matter what she said, what she did, he believed she still cared for him. He had to believe it. He'd seen her watching him, though she always turned away when he lifted his eyes to return her smoldering gaze.
"Reagan we can't go on like this forever."
"Whatever do you mean, Captain?"
He groaned aloud. "Damnation, woman! I have a name, use it! How can you treat me like this? I held you in my arms, I — "
"Captain, kindly lower your voice before someone hears you."
He crouched down beside her, removing his grenadier cap. The fresh, clean scent of her carried on the chilly spring breeze. "I've done nothing to deserve being treated like this."
"I don't know what you mean. I do your laundering, I see that you have fresh linens and three meals a day. What else do you expect?" She struggled to keep up the facade she had so carefully constructed. Grayson couldn't know how badly she for yearned him, not just physically but emotionally. In the days since her father had died, she had wept until she couldn't shed another tear. She was lonely, and without the work she and her father had done together, she was lost.
Agitated, Sterling stood, striking his hat on his knee. He'd done everything he possibly could, short of revealing his undercover operation, and nothing would bring Reagan around. He loved her more than he'd ever loved, ever hoped to love, but he'd reached the end of his patience. He was sick to death of her sharp tongue and shrewish tone of voice. Maybe that woman he'd held in his arms had never truly existed. Maybe he'd formed an image in his mind of her because he needed her so badly.
Sterling spun around, placing his hat on his head, striding away. He was so angry with Reagan and himself that he didn't hear her call his name.
Walking down the cobblestone street toward the blacksmith's, Sterling breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the sharp mid-March air. Though it was still early morning, the streets of Philadelphia were alive with activity. A young woman yelled up to another on a second story, and the two argued over the price of fresh milk. A whore stood on the street corner, enticing customers. Sterling wondered if she was out early or working late.
He turned the corner onto Third Street, shaking his head. Tories from all over the Colonies had flocked to the city in the winter months filling it to capacity with citizens drawn to the superficial tinsel-gaudy days of the occupation. Just as in Boston in '76, the Tories came to Philadelphia seeking refuge from the patriots as well as favors from the Crown. In one winter, the dignified city had become a sewer of filth and ugliness. Refuse was thrown into the streets, citizens' homes were broken into, inhabited, and then abandoned when the windows were shattered and the furniture broken. Trees were cut down in every yard and along the streets and burned for firewood, their jutting trunks left in stark evidence.
The soldiers and Tories alike wallowed in homemade rums, drinking in the decadence and debauchery that idleness produced. Sterling tipped his hat to a fellow officer who passed with a doxy on his arm. If the entire British Army doesn't come down with a case of the running clap, it will be a miracle, Sterling mused sardonically.
The city of Philadelphia danced and whored into the wee hours of the winter mornings while General Washington and his men starved at Valley Forge. Only the early run of shad in the Schuylkill River had saved the ragtag army.
With food in their bellies and Baron Von Stueben driving the soldiers into some semblance of order, Sterling was told, the Patriot Army was evolving. With General Howe of the British Army being replaced with General Clinton, the patriots would be ready when the new commander-in-chief made his move from Philadelphia.
How Sterling yearned to join his fellow soldiers at Valley Forge, but his own commanding officer, Captain Craig, had denied his request. He would have to be satisfied with getting as far as General Sullivan's lines near the Schuylkill. There, among his fellow patriots, his friends, perhaps he could clear his mind of Reagan Llewellyn and concentrate on his mission. So far, the intelligence reports he had made were minimal and he was becoming anxious. His position was too dangerous. Too many people were risking their lives to protect his cover for a few bits of information on secret shipments of wine and smoked partridge for the new general and his officers.
Turning into Ethan's yard, Sterling headed directly for the barn. He spotted Elsa behind the blacksmith's house hanging out laundry and he waved to her, wondering if Reagan knew where her sister was this morning.
"Good morning, Elsa," he called to her.
She waved shyly and then turned back to a flannel sheet in her arms. Two of Ethan's young children ran beneath the clothesline, laughing when Elsa threw the sheet over their heads.
"Beautiful children you have there," Sterling told Ethan with envy as he entered the barn where Giipa was stabled.
Ethan nodded. "Children who need a mother."
Sterling lifted a blond eyebrow. "Reagan still doesn't know?"
The blacksmith shook his head, tossing the polished saddle onto Giipa's back. "My Elsa says it's not time. " He shrugged his massive shoulders. "So for now it's not time."
Sterling fit the bit into his brother's horse's mouth. "I don't envy you the task of telling her, friend. Reagan's nothing like Elsa. The woman's got a nasty streak in her. " With Giipa saddled and ready, he mounted.
Ethan pushed open the stable doors. "I thank you for the warning. Good luck with your ride and Godspeed."
Sterling tipped his hat and leaned forward in the saddle, racing out of the muddy barnyard and down the cobblestone street.
Sterling stretched out on the hard, damp ground, tucking his hands behind his head. The campfire at his feet spit and sputtered as a fellow soldier added another piece of wet wood. Long fingers of firelight cast shadows over the huddle of men, distorting their features. Laughter rose from the group and Sterling smiled, wiggling his toes to warm them inside his wet boots. Damn but it felt good to be among friends again.
"Christ, Sterling, you smell like rose water," Zacharia Boggs complained good-naturedly. "When you join us again, there won't be a soul willing to share your pallet. It'll take weeks to rid you of the stench."
Sterling sat up, drawing nearer to the fire. "I don't want to hear it, Zach! I'm out there risking my life dining on roast turkey and drinking good rum while you scolds enjoy a life of luxury, fishing on the banks of the Schuylkill."
"Aye," Robert Finnigan joined in. "We lie about drinking our tea and nibbling at our salted fish while you rut with every maid in the city."
Sterling broke into a grin. "A falsehood, my friends! I stand innocent against your accusations. " He took a warm tankard of mulled wine someone offered and sipped it, passing it on. He had brought what provisions he could manage without raising suspicion, a small keg of Madeira, some salt, fatty pork, dried beans and some of Reagan's gingerbread.
"Don't give us that horseshit," Zach bellowed. "You're beginning to get quite the reputation."
Sterling's cheeks reddened. "It's my brother they speak of, not me, fact or fiction. A whisper in this direction or that and suddenly a man has a reputation."
Robert, a flaming redhead, gave his friend a playful shove with a bandaged hand. Five years their elder, he had known the Thayer boys since they were children. "
I know Grayson, 'tis all true. Sterling may be the elder of the two but most certainly the lesser with the ladies."
"Speaking of my brother . . ." Sterling changed the subject. "Does anyone have any word? I haven't been able to find where he's being held. " He squatted by the fire, poking at it with a charred stick.
John Marble accepted the tankard of mulled wine from Robert and sipped deeply. "A fellow by the name of Creckle came by here a fortnight ago—"
"Tim Creckle?" Sterling pushed a lock of chin-length blond hair behind his ear. "Tim's seen Grayson?"
"And said he was white-hot mad. Said to tell his brother he'd get even. They got him locked up in some fort we took from the Brits and the Iroquois up in New York."
The other men broke into laughter, and Sterling grinned. He was certain there were no palm toddies being served in any wilderness fort. "He's all right, then?"
John's eyes met Sterling's. "Hell, yeah, he's all right, but what do you care? He's a bloody redcoat."
Sterling turned his gaze back to the blazing fire. "He's still my brother," he answered evenly. "I wouldn't see him harmed."
The group sobered, growing silent, lost in their own thoughts for the moment. They all had friends, if not relatives, who were now considered the enemy. No matter what each man said, they all knew the divided loyalties, the heart-wrenching pain this war had brought.
Zach belched loudly, breaking the silence. "We don't mean to give ye such a hard time, Sterling. We know it can't be easy living among rodents like that. We might have been hungry once or twice out here, but at least we had each other. " He pushed the tankard of wine into his comrade's hand.
"It's not so bad. " Sterling shrugged. "I've got my own bed, a lady to cook for me . . ."
"Ah hah! Now it comes out. Got yourself a little Tory piece of fluff, do you?" Isaac Warren tossed a stone and Sterling ducked.
"Not hardly."
Robert got to his feet, laughing with the others. "The lot of you sound like a gaggle of geese. I'm turning in."
Sterling rose. "Me, too. You, John?"
"Nah, goin' to finish up this Madeira, with Isaac and Zach. Never tasted anything so damned good, 'cept maybe a tit."
Sterling raised a hand good night, ignoring their bawdy banter. "I'll see you tomorrow before I go."
"Tomorrow?" Isaac frowned. "Thought you were staying till Sunday."
Sterling shook his head, leaving the circle of light. "The war goes on, gentleman. The general can't make a move without me."
"Right. " John laughed, lifting the keg of Madeira over his head. Dark wine drizzled into his mouth. "Last we heard, you were standin' duty in a goat barn!"
The men's laughter died away behind them as Robert and Sterling walked side by side. A comfortable silence stretched between the two men. A quarter moon hung low in the clear dark sky, illuminating the path that led to the lines of tents and crude cabins.
Robert stopped near a rotting oak tree. "All right, my friend, out with it. " He dug beneath his tattered blue coat and brought out a clay pipe and the leather pouch of precious tobacco Sterling had brought him.
Sterling crossed his arms over his chest, shivering. "Out with what? It's cold out here. I left my cloak back at the campfire."
"Who is she?"
"Who's who?"
"Don't play your clever games with me, Sterling Onassis Thayer. I'm the man who brought you your first wench."
"She wasn't just for me, I had to share her with Grayson. " Sterling tugged at a leafless branch that hung over his head.
"A Tory girl, is that the problem?" When Sterling made no reply, Robert began to tamp down his pipe with the fingers of his bandaged hand. "You might as well be out with it. I can spot those cow eyes a mile away."
"She's not a Tory," Sterling flared.
"Ah, so it is a wench."
Sterling exhaled irritably. "If she was a damned Tory it would be easier."
Robert nodded. "She hates your guts."
"I can't think. I've lost my sense of reasoning."
"You've got it bad."
"She's a damned redhead."
"That makes it worse."
Sterling rubbed his arms for warmth "They've got me housed with her family. Her father was the man printing the pamphlets coming out of the city."
"I have one. Damned perceptive man. " Robert struck a spark with his flint and steel, attempting to light his pipe. "You say her father was the man."
"It's long story, but he's dead. They burned him out."
"So what's the problem?" Robert struck his flint again and this time was rewarded with a glow in the bowl of his pipe. "When Clinton makes his move, you'll be transferred. Take her with you. Marry the wench if you've got your heart set on it."
"You forget she hates me."
"I have faith in you, Sterling. Just don't be doing anything stupid. You can't tell her who you are if that's what you're getting around to."
"You know I wouldn't jeopardize myself or the others. " Sterling twisted the toe of his boot in the soggy ground. "Robert, I'm afraid . . . I'm afraid I won't be able to protect her."
"As long as you keep your cover, she's perfectly safe."
"I'm afraid she's going to figure it out. She's a smart woman."
Robert puffed on his pipe, enjoying it immensely. "I hadn't thought the words to be synonymous."
Sterling snatched the pipe from Robert's hand and drew on it, choked, and then began to cough as he pulled the stem from his mouth. Robert pounded his friend on the back.
"You were never a man for vices," he teased when Sterling was breathing again. "You can't drink, you bed a girl once and you feel responsible for the rest of your life, you—"
"I can play a mean game of whist."
"Only because I taught you."
Sterling passed the pipe back to Robert. "Grayson plays better."
Robert grinned. "Grayson cheats."
Sterling gave a nod. "Thanks, Robert. You're a good friend. " He was already walking away.
"Thanks? Thanks for what?" he called after him. "I didn't do anything."
"For listening. " Sterling waved a hand as he disappeared into the grove of trees. "Good night."
Robert leaned against the old oak, sighing. Smoke rose above his head, filtering through the skeletal branches of the dying tree. "Good luck, old friend," he murmured. "You're going to need it."
Sterling paced the small front office that had been some housewife's sitting parlor before the occupation of the city. Like most higher ranking officers, Major Burke had taken up residence in a home the owners had vacated when the British Army had marched on their fair city. Only two blocks away, General Howe was quartered on Second Street, just below Spruce.
Behind the paneled door, Sterling could hear the murmur of voices; one of them he recognized as Major Burke's. The major's secretary, some young ensign, shuffled papers at a small writing desk.
"You're welcome to have a seat," the ensign offered. "I don't know how long the major will be."
"Who's in there?" Sterling studied his own reflection in a small mirror hanging on the wall near the window.
"Not at liberty to say," the ensign responded, removing a pocket watch from inside his rumpled coat.
Sterling adjusted his grenadier cap, studying the major's door with interest. "Famished. How 'bout you?" He smiled at the young man.
"I haven't had anything since dawn. The major had me running up and down the streets between here and the Walnut Street prison."
Sterling shrugged, perching himself on the corner of a damask-upholstered settle. "The ale house around the corner serves a good biscuit and baked pigeon pie."
The ensign licked his lips. "I'm supposed to stay here and wait until the major's done with the Indian."
"The Indian? He's in there?" Who else, Sterling mused. I hear three voices.
The ensign nodded, glancing toward the window. "My mother always made a good pigeon pie."
"Go on, then," Sterling urged, buffing his fing
ernails on the knee of his pristine breeches. "If the major asks where you've gone, I'll tell him you went to fetch his dinner."
The young man glanced longingly out the window. "I'm really not supposed to leave my post."
"I have an account there. Just ask the proprietor to put it on my bill."
At that, the ensign popped up off his stool. "I'll only be gone a minute."
"It's just around the corner," Sterling urged, watching him scoop up his hat and hurry out the front door. "You'll be back before the major knows you're gone."
Sterling watched from the window until the boy disappeared down the street, then moved to the major's paneled door.
Sterling listened as Major Burke's voice rose in anger. "Impossible!"
"Makes sense to me," Indian John offered.
"Keep your mouth shut or you'll be out of here," the major snapped.
Sterling's muscles tensed involuntarily. "Who was the third man? What was Major Burke talking about? What was impossible?"
"My sources are rarely wrong, sir," came the third voice.
"Then why the hell didn't you come sooner?"
"Waiting for a confirmation."
Sterling heard something slam to the floor. "You need confirmation before you report that I've got a bloody spy among my men?" Major Burke roared.
Sterling suddenly felt dizzy, and he squeezed his eyes shut in defense. Holy Mother Mary, he thought, I've been caught!
Chapter Fifteen
A thick, suffocating fear filled Sterling. His first instinct was to run. He lowered his head, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. They were still talking behind the door; he forced himself to remain there and listen.
" . . . know yet, but we'll find out," the third voice assured Major Burke.
"You could let me take a look into it, Major," Indian John offered. "You have to admit I did right well with them pamphlets."
Temptation’s Tender Kiss Page 15