The Patriot's Conquest

by Vanak, Bonnie

  He watched them walk away, Amanda’s hand on Sara’s small shoulder. The warm spring day filled him with distant regret as he tipped his hat to mothers and fathers accompanying their children. He was getting older. Time to marry, settle down and father a family. He hadn’t entertained such thoughts since Caroline left. Damn him for letting Amanda force them to return.

  At the Raleigh, he spotted Patrick at a corner table in the Apollo Room, brooding over a tankard. The brilliant orator and member of the House of Burgess warranted nary a second glance. Except when he opened his mouth, and then the gangly, stooped lawyer spewed fire, glowing with an inner zeal.

  He wasn’t glowing now. Not even a hint of a smoldering briquette. Jeffrey pulled off his hat, put it on the table and pulled out a chair across from his friend.

  Patrick’s blue eyes blazed. His mournful expression shifted into delight. “Jeffrey, my dear boy!” His voice dropped. “I see you escaped that infernal nest of vipers at the governor’s ball.”

  “With my neck intact. But not my beard.” He rubbed his jaw ruefully.

  “A gallant sacrifice for the holy cause of liberty. I am heartened to see you unscathed.”

  “I had some help.” He signaled for a tavern maid. When she approached, Jeffrey ordered cider.

  Leaning across the table, Patrick’s face hardened with anxious intensity. “Dare I ask if you obtained anything worthy from your night venture?”

  He lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “A copy of Dunmore’s December report to Lord Dartmouth.”

  “The British Secretary of State?” Patrick practically danced with excitement.

  “Dunmore states our resistance is illegal and opposition to British rule does not represent Virginia as a whole. ’Tis the work of a few firebrands only.”

  An angry flush filled his gaunt cheeks. “Almighty God! He gives England’s government reason to ignore any petitions made for peace and compromise. What arrogance!”

  Jeffrey’s jaw tightened. “He names those firebrands. You are among them. And myself.”

  His friend drew back, mouth opening wide. Then he underwent the transformation Jeffrey so admired. Patrick drew himself up, his face hardened into steely resolve.

  “So be it. ’Tis an honor to be mentioned thus, my friend, albeit a dangerous one. We must continue with our vigilance.”

  “I fear not being named, but...”

  Jeffrey quieted as the serving maid approached and set down the cider. When she was out of earshot, he continued. “I do fear the good citizens of Williamsburg are misguided. They think the petitions of Congress to King George and Parliament will be heard. They know not of Dunmore’s letter.”

  “Dunmore sees us as not worthy of our petitions or compromise. ’Tis not unity he advocates, but disharmony. Jeffrey, have you the letter?”

  Jeffrey glanced around. They were alone this time of day. The two men who’d occupied a table near the door had left.

  Beneath the table, he reached into his pocket. He slid the letter across the table. Patrick slipped it into his waistcoat.

  “Have John Pinkney print it in the Williamsburg Virginia Gazette. Let the public know of Dunmore’s intents. And for those unlettered ones, tell them yourself.”

  Patrick drew his brows together. “’Tis not only the newspaper, or myself, that claims the power of speech. Jeffrey, your voice is much needed to stir the citizens of Williamsburg.”

  “I did as you asked. Besides, most planters are not willing to listen.”

  “’Tis true. Most planters are still comfortable suckling at the teat of that royal tyrant. However, your news from Boston of British soldiers tarring and feathering that newspaper publisher has stirred them. They have become more disconsolate. You must speak out against the tyranny, Jeffrey.”

  Anger simmered inside him. Though they could discuss such matters inside the Raleigh, not worrying about government sympathizers reporting them to authorities, his friends in Boston had no such luxury. Jeffrey drew in a sharp breath. “Boston starves while King George grows fat on the colony’s labor. Since he closed the port last year, there is no trade. People are fainting from hunger. There will be no redress for those grievances, since the government has stripped away citizen rights and gives British soldiers the freedom and power to do as they please.”

  “The Intolerable Acts give them that freedom. We seek to withdraw that ill-used liberty,” Patrick stated. “’Tis why our own militia is sorely needed, and men like you.”

  “Men were more stirred by your speech last month, Pat. I possess no eloquent tongue as you do. I’m a stranger. My only link with them is I till the same soil.”

  “Good American soil! You give yourself less credit than deserved, Jeffrey. Your public speech urging citizens to boycott English goods at the Reeves store was well-heeded. Your courier dispatches to Sam Adams keep us abreast of news in our sister colonies. Men are stirred to action because of you.”

  Patrick tipped his tankard and drank. He set it down with a resounding thump. “And you possess the most powerful influence of all. Your service in the French and Indian war. Who could forget the fearless Jeffrey Clayton? Especially his bravery at St. Francis with Robert Rogers for one so young!”

  Cider curdled in his stomach. Jeffrey leaned back. “If that is an argument for entreating me into joining the volunteers, ’tis is your poorest one.”

  He recalled the nightmare just experienced in church. Jeffrey knew the time drew near when he must take a stand and fight for what he preached. True freedom would be won with action, not words. He knew it would come to arms and battle.

  No fear for his own life haunted him, but taking the lives of others. Jeffrey splayed his fingers and stared at his hands. By all rights, he should have died back in the Canadian woods with the other Rangers. Why the Almighty chose to spare him and not others remained a mystery. He didn’t care to dwell on that particular mystery.

  “Jeffrey? You seem deep in thought. What ails you?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “I am merely reviewing the irony of having fought for the British as a stripling youth and now having to fight against them for my very freedom.”

  “The cause of freedom requires courageous men like you to stand with us. Your experience and intelligence are sorely needed. You could become a respected military leader.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “I cannot sacrifice the lives of others on the battlefield.”

  “Such sacrifices must be made to stop the tyranny. The British stripped all from you, Jeffrey. They must pay for their crimes against our citizenry. By the Almighty, they burned down your house!”

  “And all my possessions,” he replied, clenching his fists. Tried to bring the memories to bay. They howled with keen insistence, demanding release.

  “’Tis time to seek your vengeance against them and fight with us for the cause of freedom.”

  “No, ’tis not the time, Pat,” Jeffrey said quietly. “I will know when. I will know.”

  Patrick considered. “You will not stand idle when the call to arms comes in Virginia. I have yet to see you retreat from a fight.”

  “Aye, but these days my responsibilities keep me close to home.”

  “Of course. Meg and the children. Or is there another woman in your life you shield?” The intense fire fled Patrick’s keen blue eyes, replaced by sparkling mirth. “I thought you had a sweetheart back in Boston waiting to entice you into nuptials.”

  Squeezing his tankard until his knuckles whitened, Jeffrey let loose a noisy breath through his teeth. “No such arrangement for me.”

  Promises made. Promises broken. Women who walked away. Jeffrey swallowed more cider. A blue-eyed angel, hair bright as summer sunshine, daughter of a prominent lawyer. He’d handed over his heart with wide-eyed eagerness to Caroline. And she’d taken that tender organ and stabbed it with the falseness of a proclaimed love.

  “I apologize, Jeffrey. I had thought you were to marry.” Patrick sounded conciliatory but looked bewildered. />
  “I was. ’Tis best forgotten now.”

  Caroline had adored him. Her parents had approved of the match. Jeffrey was a business and land owner. But two months before the wedding, he’d worked up the courage to spill the secret tormenting his soul about his savagery at St. Francis. Caroline had retreated in horror. He could never forget the look of disgust on her face condemning him to the bowels of Hell. And then she’d fled into the red-coated arms of another, betraying him to the enemy.

  Since then he’d avoided women, but for a quick tumbling to ease his body. He left them with a carefree heart. Better to live life alone than with a woman who recoiled from his touch as if blood still coated his hands.

  Jeffrey drained his cider, set down the pewter tankard.

  “’Tis best you be on your way, Jeffrey. Sunday’s a day for family and rest. Rest from our woes.”

  And our pained memories. He nodded, rising from the chair.

  “I shall be in touch. As always, you are an invaluable resource. In this valiant cause we fight, despite the force our enemy will send against us, we shall rise to the occasion...”

  “Save your speeches for political matters, Pat. You need not convert me.”

  The older man looked sheepish. “We are of a like mind. We both find England’s shackles repugnant to our very natures.”

  Jeffrey slapped his friend on the shoulder, glad to see his thin lips twist upward in a smile. “With all our hearts, Pat. With all our hearts.”

  Miles and Sara sat upon the grass, gnawing on candied apple slices as Amanda read Robinson Crusoe. Miles had an inquisitive mind and his uncle’s sharp intellect. Sara, a fair-haired, sweet-tempered child, had her mother’s soft-spoken ways and winsome smile. Both tugged at her heart.

  Cornering Jeffrey had been easy. What bothered her more was her outright jealousy seeing him chatting with Polly Richards. The pretty chit, daughter of one of Virginia’s richest planters, eyed Jeffrey with adoration. And Jeffrey smiled as if he wooed her back.

  Amanda wished she could quell her longing for the man, wished she could forget the power of his kiss.

  She handed the book to Miles. “Read for me, please.”

  She nodded with pleasure as he read the twisting sentences easily. Sara’s eyes filled with longing.

  “Sara, it would be an easy and pleasurable task for me to teach you to read. Would you like that?”

  The child looked so hopeful, Amanda wanted to gather her in her arms and promise her the world. She swore silently, spying or nay, she’d teach the girl her letters. At least she’d provide that small service.

  “Perhaps I could do so today, if your uncle would not mind having me over to sup with all of you on the Sabbath.” And search her uncle’s room for papers to implicate him in treason...

  “Oh, aye!” Sara beamed.

  A shadow fell over her. Jeffrey dropped onto grass before Amanda. Her pulse fluttered as it did every time he drew close. He had the uncanny ability to turn up the temperature on the mildest spring day.

  “And how is the delightful Mr. Crusoe?”

  “His head is filled with rambling thoughts and his father has accused him of harboring a wandering inclination.”

  “’Tis the woe of many men, having a wandering inclination,” he murmured.

  A wandering inclination reflected in his eyes as he caressed her body with his heated gaze. Flushing, she felt like giving him a good thud over the head with Mr. Crusoe’s adventures.

  “Miss Reeves is going to teach me my letters, Uncle Jeffrey,” Sara piped up.

  He gave Sara such a fond smile Amanda lost her animosity.

  “She said she could do it today, if she dined with us.”

  Jeffrey’s expression tightened. “Miss Reeves wishes to dine with us? Certainly she has other plans with her plump British friends who dine leisurely on American crops grown by laboring American planters.”

  “I have no plans and I scarce would call myself plump.”

  “Well, I should study you to make certain,” he said lazily. Jeffrey’s head dipped as his gaze traveled over the tops of her breasts swelling over her bodice. “Nay, only certain very agreeable parts of you are plump. Most pleasantly so.”

  Brigand. She snapped Mr. Crusoe’s adventures shut and deliberately thrust it under his chin, forcing him to look upward. “I possess a brain as well. Would you care to study that?”

  Jeffrey shot her an amused look as he rubbed his chin. “Perhaps I would.”

  Sara and Miles spotted several children walking by the green. They ran over to greet them.

  “’Tis the organ I am most proud of,” Amanda said, feeling a rush of heady glee at engaging him in verbal sparring. “I possess a lean and physically fit brain. But if you fear a woman using what God freely gave them, and that is why you do not wish me to sup with you...”

  He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “Certainly, if you desire to dine with us you are welcome. Perhaps you could demonstrate your lean and physically fit brain, since you claim ’tis such a marvelous organ.”

  “I’m certain my organ is equally matched to yours.”

  “Aye, I’m certain it is.” He shot her an insolent grin. “But I’ve been told my organ is quite sizeable. You might find it overwhelming and fearsome.”

  “You might enjoy engaging it with mine,” Amanda challenged. “Perhaps you would enjoy our interchange. It would prove most stimulating for your organ, which, I am certain, suffers from much inactivity.”

  “I’m certain my organ would relish engaging yours and would enjoy a stimulating interchange.”

  Sudden understanding flooded her. Heat poured over her cheeks while a twinkle lit his gaze. He turned as Sara and Miles scampered back to the blanket. Jeffrey’s face softened into a smile. “Sara, Amanda will dine with us today and teach you letters. She has informed me she is most eager to engage in a stimulating exchange with me as well.”

  “With your brain.”

  “Aye, but do you think you can accommodate me?” he teased.

  “You would be surprised.”

  “I think not,” he said softly. “I think you would prove most stimulating. I have never experienced such an exchange with a spitfire Tory before, nor watched with pleasure as she surrendered to me. I would relish such a conquest.”

  Amanda bristled. Capitulation, either in bed or verbally, to him? Never.

  “Mayhap that organ you reference is not as formidable as you believe, Jeffrey. I am not easily frightened.”

  He politely stood, clasped her hand as she rose. The warmth of his bare hand burned through her thin glove. Amanda steeled her spine against a surge of desire. “Like my cousin, Lord Dunmore, I do not surrender when faced with a challenge by braggarts who have no true power behind their words. For I will expose them for what they truly are.”

  “Mayhap you should not be so confident, Amanda. Those who dare to try to interfere in my business will find themselves paying the price,” he said softly.

  Jeffrey stood like a powerful, towering oak, reminding her she tangled with a dangerous man who could easily hurt her if he caught her snooping. Suppressing a shudder, she went to inform her parents she would not be home for dinner.

  Chapter Eight

  THE TENSION THAT had grown during Jeffrey’s conversation with Patrick faded as he watched Amanda with the children. She had a soft and gentle manner with his niece and nephew. Her youthful enthusiasm refreshed his sagging spirits.

  He thrilled at the idea of sharing a meal with Amanda. He had his suspicions about why she’d invited herself. Amanda would rather dine at the almshouse than volunteer a moment of her time with him. She wanted something. But what?

  He mused over this while setting out for Reeves’ store in the wagon, the children in the back. Amanda waited outside, her pretty face alight with anticipation, as if they were courting and he came to formally call. Bitterness closed his throat. He could consider such pleasantries if she were not such a fervent British Tory more apt to put his nec
k in a noose instead of placing his ring on her finger.

  Jeffrey set the brake and jumped down. He helped her up, sharply aware of the softness of her bare arm against his palm. He climbed up and flicked the reins with more force than necessary. Amanda kept her hands folded neatly upon her lap.

  “Did you complete all your business in town?” she inquired.

  Jeffrey tightened his jaw. “Aye,” he replied.

  “Strange to conduct business on the Sabbath, when most good citizens are resting from their labors. Pray tell, what kind of business is open this day?”

  “My kind of business.”

  “How are you finding our fair city, Jeffrey? Is it quite a change from Boston?”

  “’Tis a fair city. Warm,” he clipped back.

  “You may find summer quite disagreeable and warm, having fared in a colder clime.”

  “Aye, summer promises to be quite heated, both here and in Boston. I am quite sure of it. But disagreeable? Only to certain people swearing allegiance to the Crown. They may find the heat quite intolerable.”

  “It would seem those who wish to turn up the heat are the ones who will find it the hottest, when they are surrounded by his Majesty’s forces.” Amanda smiled sweetly, but her hands trembled as if itching to slap him. Such an innocent smile. Such seething words. Jeffrey felt spurred. Nothing like a healthy sparring with a lovely maiden on a bright, clear Sabbath day.

  “’Tis all a matter of how one handles heat,” Jeffrey responded, glancing at her. “Some of His Majesty’s loyal subjects, nay, they cannot bear the most elemental heat. Say... in the kitchen.”

  Now those violet eyes crackled with anger. Jeffrey felt certain if he held dry kindling before them, it would be lit in seconds. “Perhaps, but such rebels against His Majesty may find when the crucial moment comes, they fail. In many places. The kitchen. The battlefield.” She glanced over her shoulder at Miles and Sara, merrily chattering away with their own concerns.

  “The bed chamber,” she snapped in a low whisper.