Temptation’s Tender Kiss

by French, Colleen

  A horse nickered softly and the half-breed slunk into the shadows.

  An old man lifted the harness over his mare's head, smoothing her neck as he slipped it on. He soothed her with soft words of reassurance. " 'Nother hour and we'll be out of this blasted city, Bessie. We make this meet, and then you and me are out of here. " The thought of his cozy brick home in Baltimore and the new great-grandson who awaited him there made him smile in the darkness.

  "Got us a pass stamped and signed, I do, all legal-like," he told the nag. "We get them pamphlets and we're home free. I told Martha we could do it. I ain't too old to do something for them boys at Valley Forge."

  The horse gave a snort and the old man looked up, squinting into the darkness. "Oh, hush, ain't nothin' out there, old girl," he murmured.

  Indian John moved without warning, his blade flashing in the moonlight. Nothing more than a bubbled groan parted the old man's lips as he slumped to the ground, his life's blood pouring from his neck onto the rough cobblestones.

  Indian John gave a sinister chuckle as he wiped his blade on his greasy blue durant breeches. He finished harnessing the swayback mare and then jumped into the wagon, heading toward Dock Street.

  Sterling bolted upright in stark horror. His body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his muscles coiled to strike. He struggled to catch his breath as he fought the terror that consumed him. "Oh, God," he breathed. It had come to him in a instant. "Ink," he choked. "Ink!"

  He threw back the bedsheets and leaped out of bed. The stains on Reagie's hands, he knew he'd seen them before. Uriah's hands had been stained. It was printer's ink! Reagan Llewellyn was the penman Sterling sought!

  "Reagan! Reagan!" he shouted, racing down the dark hallway. He flung open her bedchamber, but she was gone."

  Sterling ran back down the hallway to retrieve his breeches. A moment later, Elsa appeared at the door.

  "Captain, what is it?" She rubbed her eyes sleepily.

  "You have to tell where she's gone. " Sterling grasped Elsa by the shoulders. "Where is she?"

  "I . . . I don't know. " Elsa stared up at him with round, frightened eyes. "Out. She goes out, but I'm not supposed to know."

  Sterling thrust his balled fists into a shirt and scooped up his boots off the floor. "She's in danger, Elsa. I've got to find her."

  "Danger? How do you know?" She held up the lamp so that its light reflected off his ashen face.

  "I don't know. " He thrust one foot into a boot and then the other. "I don't know how I know, I just do. " He grabbed a cloak off a chair and reached into the drawer of his desk. He retrieved two primed flintlock pistols and tucked them into the waistband of his breeches. "Go get Nettie up. See if she knows where she's gone."

  Moments later Sterling met Nettie and Elsa in the kitchen. The old woman stared at him with her sightless eyes. "In danger you say she is? How do I know you aren't up to no good, Captain? That is a red coat you sport. " She shook her cane.

  "I love her, Nettie."

  "That I believe. " She nodded, contemplating her choices. They were slim. "All right," she said finally. "I'm gonna tell you where she's gone, because I trust you, Captain, but I warn you, if anybody harms a hair on her head because of you, I'll kill you myself."

  Sterling threw his cloak over his shoulders and reached for Uriah's flintlock rifle standing in the corner of the room. "Where, Nettie? Tell me where she's gone!"

  "There he is. " Reagan pointed down the alley. "Right on time, Westley. I told you he was reliable."

  Westley looked both ways and then guided the wagon down the alley off the deserted dock street. "I don't like it, Reagan. You're gettin' too big for your petticoats. You feed on this danger. You're going to get us both killed."

  Reagan gave a sigh, climbing over the seat as the wagon rolled to a stop. "I told you I'd come alone. It couldn't be helped. The shipment had to go out tonight if it was going to make it to Baltimore before week's end. " She swung to the ground, a small crate of pamphlets cradled in her arms.

  "Good even' to you," she called to the huddled driver of the other wagon. When the man didn't speak immediately, she stiffened, the hair rising on the back of her neck. She saw Westley slip his hand beneath his coat to grasp his pistol.

  "I said, good even' to you," she repeated evenly.

  "Nice night," the driver replied. "Peepers out early this year, ain't they?"

  Reagan gave a visible sigh of relief. "Peepers," that was the password. She climbed into the back of the wagon and set down the crate of pamphlets. She heard Westley walk toward her, and she turned to take the second crate of pamphlets.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Reagan saw the flash of the gun barrel as the man pulled it from beneath his cloak. "Westley!" she heard herself scream. "He's got a gun!"

  The driver turned swiftly, smacking her in the side of the face with the handle of the flintlock. She reeled backward under the brutal impact, falling to the bed of the wagon as the pistol sounded.

  The acrid smell of blackpowder and burnt flesh assailed Reagan as she scrambled to get to her feet. Using the side of the wagon to push herself up, she peered over the side. On the ground lay Westley's motionless body. The cobblestones were littered with pamphlets.

  Reagan swung around in stark horror to see the driver coming at her. She fell backward, crying out as he threw back the hood of his tattered cloak.

  It was Indian John!

  "You!" she raged, stumbling to her feet. "You son of a bitch, you killed him!"

  Indian John's scarred face twisted into a crooked grin. "I told you I'd catch you, didn't I?" He waved a knife at her, its steel blade glimmering in the moonlight. "Wanted you and that pretty boy Thayer, but I guess I'll have to settle for you."

  Reagan shook her head. "Why? Why me?" Her gaze fell to Westley's lifeless body. The half-breed had fired his pistol, but not reloaded. If she could just reach Westley! The primed pistol he still wore tucked beneath his coat was her only chance. "What have I done to you?"

  "You made a fool of me in front of the major."

  He took a step closer, and Reagan took a final step back. He stalked her like some crazed predator. She was trapped by the tailgate of the wagon. "You made a fool of yourself," she flung as she judged the distance she would have to leap to reach Westley.

  "Hey there, girlie," Indian John dove for Reagan, grasping her hand as she tried to hurl herself out of the wagon. "Where you think you're goin'?" He twisted her arm behind her back so that she cried out with pain.

  He laughed, loud and hard, his voice bouncing off the brick walls of the warehouses that loomed above them.

  Reagan trembled violently as he brought his knife to her chin and cut the tie of her hood. Her wool cloak fell in a heap on the wagonbed. She thought to scream, but who would she scream for? Soldiers? With her pamphlets strewn across the cobblestones for evidence, she'd be swinging by a hangman's noose by dawn. No, her only chance was to kill Indian John herself. It was murder or be murdered.

  Reagan lifted her lashes to stare defiantly into the half-breed's one good eye. "Whatever Major Burke's paying you, I'll pay you more."

  He shook her so hard that her teeth rattled. "It ain't a question of coin, bitch! I told you, you made a fool outta me!"

  She blinked to clear her head. Her senses were reeling. She could smell the scent of horseflesh and cheap whore's perfume on him. She could feel his long jagged fingernails burying into the soft flesh of her forearm. "So kill me."

  He brought his face so close to hers that she squeezed her eyes shut. His breath reeked of whiskey and sour mutton. "I'm gettin' to it, but it seems a shame not to have a little fun first, don't it?" He squinted, staring at the bodice of her gown. "I been meanin' to get a taste of you for some time now. " He twisted Reagan's arm, bringing his face down the curves of her breasts that heaved above her laced bodice, and then he bit down on her tender flesh.

  With a shriek, she brought her knee up sharply to his groin, but Indian John blocked her blow with
his own knee. "That's it, girlie, that's how how I like it. Rough!"

  The horse grew skittish from the movement in the wagonbed and the wagon rolled forward a foot or two.

  "Whoa there," Indian John cried, trying to get his footing.

  Realizing that she might be able to knock Indian John off balance if she could get the horse moving, Reagan began to struggle violently.

  With a sweep of his hands, the half-breed lifted her into his arms and leaped to the ground. She pummeled his face with her fists, and he threw her against the cold brick of the warehouse wall.

  A scream tore from her lips and suddenly there was the sound of hoofbeats. Startled, Indian John swung around. A cloaked rider came racing down the alley, full speed, a flintlock rifle raised in the air.

  Indian John gave a foul curse as the rifle belched fire and smoke. Reagan heard the whiz of the musket ball as it flew over their heads and buried in a mortared wall.

  The half-breed turned and ran in the opposite direction and Reagan flung herself to the ground, fumbling for the flintlock in Westley's coat. Her fingers closed over the cold oak pistol grip as the rider dismounted.

  Without hesitation she pulled back the hammer and swung to face her new assailant.

  "Christ, Reagan, don't shoot me!" Sterling cried, throwing his hands up in the air.

  For a moment her hand was frozen on the trigger. She heard Grayson's voice, she saw his golden hair falling from beneath the dark hood of his wool cloak, but nothing registered. All she saw was the enemy's face.

  "Reagan!" Sterling shouted, kicking one of her pamphlets. "You've got to get out of here, this place is going to be crawling with redcoats in a minute!"

  Slowly, she lowered the pistol.

  Sterling grasped her by the shoulders, giving her a vicious shake. "Go, I tell you! I can't save you if they find you here."

  "Indian John," she managed as she stumbled to her feet.

  "I'll take care of him!" Sterling was already remounting. "Now you get the hell out of here!"

  Reagan stared at Westley's body . . . at the pamphlets that littered the ground. She was caught. Grayson knew who she was. All was lost . . . if he turned her in.

  The sound of hoofbeats and shouting soldiers suddenly echoed in the streets.

  "Westley can't be helped, Reagan, you can only save yourself!"

  The harsh reality of Sterling's voice suddenly penetrated her stupor.

  "Go! Damn it!" he shouted.

  She looked up at Sterling's volatile face and was suddenly more frightened of him than she had been of Indian John. With a cry of anguish she turned and ran.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sterling sank his heels into Giipa's flanks and galloped down the alley and onto Dock Street. The thought of leaving Reagan behind to find her own way home was terrifying, but he had no choice. If Indian John reached Major Burke, he and Reagan would both lose their lives, along with a score of other patriots.

  Sterling leaned forward in the saddle, reloading his rifle as he raced down the street. Only minutes had passed; the half-breed couldn't have gotten far. Passing a line of empty fish stalls, he caught sight of movement. Turning onto Walnut Street, headed for the docks, he spotted the half-breed.

  Indian John scrambled over a pile of wooden crates left along the street, scattering them as he went. Sterling rode his brother's mount through the crates and flung himself out of the saddle, his rifle in hand, knocking Indian John over. The two men hit the ground, rolling over and over, making a horrendous noise as the wooden crates splintered beneath their weight. Indian John swiped Sterling's arm with his knife, slicing through his cloak and staining it crimson.

  With a groan, Sterling threw himself backward out of the half-breed's reach, dropping his rifle in the process. The musket sounded off as it hit the street's surface. With a piercing scream Indian John hurled himself at Sterling. Sterling just had time to slip a pistol from the waistband of his breeches and pull back the trigger. In a split-second decision, he slammed the butt of the pistol against the Indian's skull instead of firing.

  Indian John pitched forward, his knife flying from his hand. He landed, pinning Sterling's legs, and Sterling scrambled to get out from under him.

  Sterling stood panting, the flintlock aimed at the half-breed's head as he waited for signs of movement. When he was certain Indian John was unconscious, he whipped a length of rope and a sash from his saddlebag and quickly bound and gagged him.

  A few moments later Sterling was headed out of town toward Frankfort and his commanding officer's headquarters with Indian John tied across Giipa's back. Sterling's first instinct had been to kill the half-breed and feed him to the fishes in the harbor, but then he'd realized that Indian John might be of some good to the patriot cause. He knew the spy Murray, who was searching for Sterling. Sterling would take Indian John to Captain Craig and let him use him as he saw fit. With his duty done, Sterling could then make it back to the Llewellyn house and be certain Reagan was safe.

  Reagan inked a block of letters and mechanically began to turn the roller to print her next page. Her ink-stained hand trembled as she turned the wooden bar, feeding blank sheets of paper into the press. It was midmorning and still Grayson hadn't returned. She had paced the kitchen floor until well after dawn, half expecting soldiers to appear at the door to take her away.

  Grayson had once told her he would turn her in if he ever caught her doing something illegal. But that was a long time ago . . . before they had fallen in love. The question was, what was more important to him, his country and his king, or her? Reagan turned the handle of the press around and around, tears slipping down her flushed cheeks. She was so scared, so damned scared. What if Grayson hadn't caught Indian John? What if Indian John had made it to Major Burke and given a full report? What if Grayson was dead? A sob escaped her lips.

  But where were the soldiers?

  Grayson must have caught up with the halfbreed. She had to believe it. But where was her Captain Thayer? He had told her to go home. He knew she was here. Why didn't he come?

  Upstairs, Sterling burst through the back door of the kitchen. His cloak and breeches were splattered with mud. He held his flintlock rifle clutched tightly in his hands. "Where is she?" he bellowed, flinging his cloak to the floor.

  Elsa's eyes widened. "C-Captain. Sister's safe, but we were afraid you were dead."

  "Yea, well, I'm alive, no thanks to her."

  "You didn't turn her in, Captain," Nettie said. "You kept your word."

  He turned to the old housekeeper who sat rocking in her chair. "Where is she, damn it?" he boomed, his voice bouncing off the walls of the cozy kitchen.

  Nettie paused and then pointed to the cellar door.

  In four long strides Sterling was at the door. He threw it open and ran down the steps, taking them two at a time. "Reagan!" he shouted. "Reagan, goddamnit! Where are you?" He ran from chamber to chamber, through the darkness, until he reached the far side of the cellar.

  The secret brick door was open. Light spilled through the dirt tunnel that led to the printing room.

  Reagan's hand gripped the handle of the roller so tightly that her knuckles went white. Slowly she lifted her dark lashes to see Sterling standing in the doorway.

  His golden hair fell about his shoulders in tangled disarray. His heavenly blue eyes, filled with rage, rested on her ashen face.

  He turned his gaze to the room in disbelief, setting his rifle by the door. Damn, he thought as he took in the printing press, the crocks of ink and linseed oil, the crates of blank paper. Right under my nose! How could I have been so stupid?

  Reagan took a step back in fright. She had never witnessed such anger, such volatility in her life. He looked so furious that, for a moment, she thought he might lift his flintlock rifle and shoot her.

  He kicked a wooden crate of paper, and it went flying into the air. Paper sailed across the room. "All of these months I've been busting my tail looking for the penman and it was you!"

&
nbsp; Reagan cringed, tears running down her face "You don't understand. I was committed to this long before you came. It was Papa's way of helping. It was my way."

  "All this time you've been risking your life, your sister's! Nettie's!" He shook a fist at her. God, but he was relieved she had made it home safely. "Do you know what you've done here? Westley's dead, Reagan! He's dead and no one can even claim the body! He'll never even get a decent burial!"

  Reagan came from around the press, her shock beginning to wear off. How dare he! How dare he speak to her like this! Westley had been her friend! Didn't Grayson think she wept for him! Didn't he know her heart ached for what she couldn't help! But this was a revolution! There was no stopping it now!

  "You don't understand!" Reagan shouted back at Sterling. "You don't know what it is to believe in something—to fight to the death for what you love! Captain in King George's Army or not, the only loyalties you've ever known were to a bottle of porter, a game of whist, and a good whore!"

  Sterling grabbed a rack of type and threw it across the room hitting the far whitewashed wall. The tiny tin letters rained from the ceiling. "You never cared for me, you just found me convenient! How could you do this?" he cried with anguish. "You told me you loved me!" He grabbed a jar of linseed oil, but she snatched it out of his hands before he could break it across the floor.

  "Stop it!" she shouted. "Stop it now!"

  "It was all a game to you from the beginning, wasn't it? The moment I stepped foot in this house, you set out to play it to your advantage! You sold yourself to keep your precious printing press turning!"

  "No!" Reagan shook her head in horror. Her auburn hair had come loose from her wooden hairpins to fall in a thick mane down her back. "It wasn't like that!"

  His face was suddenly wrought with the pain of betrayal. "You figured you'd keep me busy in your bed while you printed your damned pamphlets."

  Reagan balled her fist and slammed him in the jaw so hard that she knocked him backward. "How dare you!" she shouted. "You think I planned all of this? You think I meant to fall in love with a card-cheating, womanizing, drunken redcoat?"