The Patriot's Conquest

by Vanak, Bonnie

  She followed the man out the door into the Raleigh’s back hallway. And stopped short, seeing a familiar face leave the Apollo room at the same time.

  “Mr. Clayton, do you require anything?” the bartender asked in a courteous voice. Much more respectful than how he’d treated her.

  Light from candles on the wall sconces revealed Jeffrey’s shocked expression. He’d dressed for a social occasion. The tailored mulberry breeches, matching coat and dove gray waistcoat molded to his athletic frame. His thick ebony hair was tied back with a black ribbon into a queue. Immaculate white ruffles dripped from his coat sleeves. Black shoes boasted shiny buckles her merchant’s eye told her were too expensive for a blacksmith’s wages. Silk hose encased his strong calves. Amanda found her gaze riveted to the hard curves of his legs. The comparison between his ordinary dress and this elegant clothing, as splendid as that worn by the wealthiest gentry, flustered her. She looked up to find him staring.

  “Amanda, what brings you here?”

  She felt her face redden. Embarrassed, she realized the bartender had not left.

  Stiffening her spine, she lifted her chin, determined not to sacrifice her pride. “’Tis a feast night and I’ve a mind for feasting. I came here to buy rum.”

  Jeffrey looked doubtful. Well then, who cared if he did? What of his business was it anyway?

  “Have you seen Mr. Southall, Mr. Clayton? The Reeves account is long past overdue. I need to check with him before I can sell it to her.”

  Mortified, Amanda wanted to race out the door. Jeffrey’s gaze hardened at the bartender.

  “Put the bill on my account.”

  As the man began to protest, Jeffrey added, “Do it now, and fetch Miss Reeves her rum.”

  As the man scurried away, she tried to cling to the remaining shreds of her tattered dignity. “Jeffrey, thank you but there’s no need. We can pay our bills. ’Tis just a slight shortage we shall make up. I will repay you.”

  His only answer was a soft smile. She winced inwardly, hoping he didn’t pity her. Lord, how she hated being pitied. Almost as much as she hated Papa beating her.

  Amanda drinking? He doubted it. Rumors flew about town of her father’s secret dalliances with the demon rum. The sot sent his own daughter to fetch alcohol for him. What manner of man was he? Jeffrey struggled with his rising temper.

  She looked slightly disheveled. Beneath her cap, strands of auburn hair tumbled astray, making her look adorable and fetching. Her plain gray gown and white petticoats accented her creamy white skin, sensual pink mouth and soft, flame-colored hair.

  He admired her bravado. The woman could be caught in the most trying circumstances and still have dignity. That stiff British spine was not the only thing he truly respected about her. The woman had such control he wished he could see it loosen.

  Maybe he could. Not to shame her, but to peel back that reserve to find the core of the woman who kissed him with such passion. As the bartender handed her the quart of rum, she turned to leave.

  “’Tis feasting then, that brings you here. Well then, don’t drink alone, Amanda. ’Tis not a good thing. Come, join us.”

  “Us?” she echoed. Loud laughter and music from behind the closed doors of the Apollo Room. She tilted her lovely head and gazed in that direction.

  “Meg’s here. She’s spending the night at the Wythe’s. Elizabeth is here as well.”

  She looked at the doors with such longing his heart twisted. He could see the play of emotions on her soft white face. Tempted to join them, but restrained.

  “Come, just a little while,” he urged.

  Candlelight caught and reflected in her eyes, making them luminous as a shimmering amethyst pool. Suddenly he wanted her there more than anything, to see her face light up, to spend a little time sparring with the wicked tongue that renewed his jaded spirits.

  “Meg would love to see you. And seeing that I just paid for your rum, ’tis only right you share some with me. I’d call it an even debt. No need to repay.”

  One of those wheedling sentences worked, for she uttered a pretty little sigh. “All right, for a little while.”

  Taking her elbow, he escorted her to the room. As he opened a door, Amanda peeked past his shoulder and gasped. Jeffrey realized the company he kept was not to a Tory’s liking. But for Peyton and George, the others were all hard-line patriots.

  He felt sudden empathy, remembering how he’d felt at Lord Dunmore’s ball. And he’d been in disguise. For her to step into that room as a known Loyalist and cousin of the man they detested took tremendous courage. Jeffrey waited.

  Amanda threw back her shoulders and affected that poise he admired so much. Jeffrey relieved her of her rum. She smiled at him, increasing his admiration and his desire. By the Almighty, she had spunk.

  They walked into the room together.

  Amanda felt like King George himself strolling into an illegal meeting of the Virginia Convention as Jeffrey hailed his sister from across the room.

  “Meg, look who’s here.”

  The music stopped and every eye turned toward her. Was this her night for embarrassment? It would seem so.

  But Meg’s face lit up. “Amanda!” She ran across the room, and hugged her. The hostile stares eased, and some smiled, seeing Meg’s attitude.

  Amanda smiled and hugged her friend back. An odor of brandy drifted over her, like a fog curling in lazy drifts of mist. Bless her heart, Meg had been drinking. She deserved to have a good time.

  “Come, let’s talk. I have not seen you in ages.”

  Meg led her to a chair near the crackling fire and took a seat beside her. “Sara misses you something awful. Miles too. He’s nearly finished with Robinson Crusoe.”

  “Nearly finished?”

  Jeffrey deposited the rum on the table. Mirth danced in his eyes as he turned a chair around and straddled it. His easy, relaxed manner sharply contrasted with her own rigid posture. He propped his elbows up on the chair back, chin on hands.

  “Sara is coming along well with her letters. She keeps talking of you. Nothing else. ’Twas kind of you to spend time with her as you did,” Meg insisted.

  “Miles is a quick study and a bright boy. He should have some worthy reading material to feed his sharp mind,” she mused.

  “Perhaps a copy of Patrick Henry’s speech about liberty and death,” suggested Jeffrey.

  “I said sharpen his mind, not dull it.”

  A slow, amused smile tugged his full mouth upward. Here we go—again. Jeffrey left the room. When he returned, empty glass in hand, he poured a measure of rum and handed it to her.

  “Here Amanda, ’tis for toasting.”

  Giving the rum a desultory swirl, she remembered how soggy-headed rum had made her. Still, one sip would not hurt.

  “To good health,” Jeffrey murmured.

  Amanda lifted her glass and sipped. The rum burned her tongue and scraped her throat raw.

  Someone else shouted for a toast. They lifted their glasses again. Amanda sipped more. She asked Meg about the children, ignoring Jeffrey’s studied silence. Violin and flute started and couples began to dance. Pretty Polly Richards approached Jeffrey. Amanda felt a puzzling twitch of jealousy. Why would it matter to her if he danced with the chit?

  She half listened to Meg as she cast Polly a furtive look. Her dress, a pretty sprigged cotton with pink rosebuds, accented her youthful beauty. Polly’s blonde hair swept up in an elaborate twist of curls. Amanda suddenly became aware of her own dumpy appearance.

  To her chagrin, Jeffrey pulled out a chair for Polly, the courtly gesture causing another twist of bitter jealousy in Amanda. She drank more rum. A pleasant feeling of relaxation stole over her. Was this why Father drank? To reduce all that tension? Certainly it worked with her.

  “Perhaps Miles would enjoy reading The Odyssey. ’Tis an adventure that begins with a war and boys are inclined to enjoy military matters,” she told Meg.

  Jeffrey leaned forward, disengaging himself from Pol
ly’s rapt gaze. “Men warred in The Odyssey over a woman. ’Tis a strange reason for war, quarreling over a woman’s beauty.”

  She recognized his teasing tone. “No more odd than men whining they want to fight to be free from their mother country.”

  “Who says we wish to fight?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Oh, indeed, forgive me, my addle-headed mind thinks I am mistaken that Virginia has raised a militia only to have men parade around and show off their hunting shirts.”

  “We have a right to defend ourselves.”

  “Defend against what, Jeffrey?”

  Emboldened by the rum, not caring she sat among a hotbed of patriots, Amanda drew herself up. Murmuring excuses, Meg walked over to a table occupied by the Wythes.

  “Slave uprisings. Indian attacks.”

  “Oh aye, last week I feared walking down Duke of Gloucester Street should the very savages that marched in Boston be here, waving tomahawks in my face. Most of those Indians are still chortling over dumped tea. But for one, who now prefers silk hose and wigs for his masquerades.”

  Jeffrey threw back his head and laughed. Miss Polly Richards looked quite put out.

  “Amanda, one never knows when an attack might be forthcoming. Thus the militia should stand ready at all times.”

  “Ready to attack the hand that feeds it you mean, Jeffrey.”

  “Feeds it? Rather the reverse, Amanda. For America is the great cow that England greedily milks, taking from it all she has to give.”

  “Yet that same cow is well-fed and has no reason to complain for her stall is warm and has fresh hay.”

  Obviously distressed at Jeffrey ignoring her, Polly pouted. “My father says our cows produce more milk because they have the freshest clover.”

  Amanda’s brow wrinkled. Was the girl that daft? “’Tis not the richness of the clover fed to the cow that produces the most milk, but the size of the cow’s udders that matter more.”

  Fire burned her cheeks as she realized her jab. Jeffrey’s shoulders shook as he held back a laugh.

  Polly looked bewildered. “Why should the size of the udders matter? I do not know if Papa would agree with you.”

  “Most men would agree with me,” she said under her breath.

  Music started up again. Polly gave Jeffrey a coy look. “Come dance with me.” Without waiting for an answer, she stood and pulled his hand.

  As Polly half-dragged him to the dance floor, Jeffrey wore the despairing expression of a man hauled off to gaol. Amanda gave him a merry wave and crossed the room to sit next to Elizabeth Wythe.

  Such fire and passion. How he’d enjoyed their verbal sparring. Jeffrey stole glances at Amanda as he danced with Polly. Lit by a nearby candle, Amanda’s face glowed with vigor. Her manner was animated, and as she talked, she expressed her feelings in her person. She beamed. Scowled. Shook her head so violently stray curls flew out from under her cap.

  Totally charmed, Jeffrey wanted to take a chair, rest his chin on his fists and watch her. Finally he excused himself to Polly, handing her off to another gentleman. Jeffrey fetched his tankard and Amanda’s abandoned glass and quart of rum. As he approached, he heard her sweet voice rise.

  “But Mr. O’Shannon, how can you advocate freedom when you own slaves? Is that not a contradiction?”

  The young man muttered something and Amanda shook her head. “’Tis something I do not understand about colonists who talk nothing but freedom from England. They cry out they are enslaved by the mother country while keeping slaves themselves. If ’tis freedom you wish, is it not for all?”

  He chuckled, admiring the twin roses of heat on her high cheekbones. Trust Amanda to enter into a room full of radicals and poke at them on a very sore point.

  After setting down his tankard and her rum, Jeffrey sat next to Amanda. “’Tis a point well taken.”

  She cast him a speculative look and smiled, filling him with warmth. Here was the spark and vigor he enjoyed in a woman.

  And then Jeffrey stilled, struck by that thought. Amanda Reeves was the only woman catching his weary interest in a long time. The very kind of woman he envisioned in his life, at his side as his wife, bearing his children, growing old together.

  Not Polly, daughter of patriots like himself. But a relation to his enemy. The thought disturbed and intrigued him. Amanda was a dangerous woman, because she kindled his interests like no other and she was a Tory. Yet he wondered if her Loyalist views might wilt if she were pressed hard enough.

  Perhaps they would. Indeed.

  So caught up in talking passionately about slavery, Amanda scarcely noticed Jeffrey had rescued her glass of rum. She sipped, feeling flushed and excited. George had sided with her on the slavery issue, but this O’Shannon stubbornly resisted. She felt motivated to press her point. Then Jeffrey joined them. They began a spirited debate on England’s injustices.

  In time, she glanced up and realized many had left, including the musicians and the sulking Polly Richards with her parents.

  Jeffrey fetched his fiddle and began playing as George and Elizabeth bid good-night and told them to enjoy the room as long as they wished.

  Only she, Meg, Jeffrey, another couple and a young man who kept casting Meg adoring glances remained. Introductions were made. Amanda felt flustered as she realized they were all paired up like sheep. She started to rise, realizing she had far overstayed her welcome. But Jeffrey tugged her hand, forcing her back into her chair.

  “Sit Amanda. I need your voice.” Jeffrey tucked the instrument under his chin and began playing “One Morning in May.”

  Their voices joined together in sweet blending of song. Amanda felt her skin flood with heat as Jeffrey gazed at her while he sang. Truly the man’s voice had some mysterious power over her. When they finished, she dropped her lashes, feeling flustered. The men pounded the pegged pine floor with their feet in rousing applause.

  “Time for a poem,” one boomed. He recited a tome about Ulysses’ adventures and everyone applauded.

  “Miss Reeves, ’tis your turn. Make one up about Ulysses.”

  Amanda glanced at Jeffrey, who cocked an eyebrow at her. She smiled, thinking of Polly.

  “The face that launched ten thousand ships

  would not launch a thousand more

  if Helen had opened her mouth

  and proved to be a daft bore.

  But as Homer wrote it, ’twas not the case

  Helen maintained her silent grace.

  Her lily white hands, her beautiful look,

  to know the rest, read the book.”

  They laughed and clanked their tankards on the table, Jeffrey’s laugh loudest of all. He set down his fiddle. “Aye, a daft bore.”

  “’Tis the cure for a man love struck so sore.”

  “Better than drink that leaves him on the floor,” he said.

  “Yet the god Bacchus would not find such worship poor.”

  People laughed as Jeffrey and Amanda continued their banter.

  “Only Helen’s beauty would cause men to roar.” Amanda said.

  “Nay, I know a face to rival Helen’s more,” Jeffrey replied.

  “And what is this mysterious face known for?”

  “She has compassion caring for the poor, and doth possess woman’s tender heart to her core. Her beauty makes the sweetest rose hide in shame and flower no more,” Jeffrey said softly.

  Amanda’s lips parted as he locked gazes with her. His face filled with stark longing. It was as if Jeffrey had stripped away the layers of society and saw the woman beneath. His astounding proclamation brought a flurry of uncertain emotions coursing through her.

  It must be the drink, she assumed, making him daft. She glanced at his half-filled tankard. They had been there for some time and she had seen him take only a few sips. Her heart beat faster as he continued studying her softly, almost with tenderness.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  Jeffrey dug out a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Nearly one.”
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  “Mercy,” she cried out, putting a hand to her spinning head. “I’d no idea the hour drew so late. I must beg your leave now.”

  Giddiness turned to pure fear. Surely Papa would be furious. Amanda rose on two unsteady feet.

  “Good day, gentlemen, ladies, I am heading for the door. I shall not be making merry any more.”

  “Time for me to leave as well, as grand a time as I’ve had in ages,” Meg said. “Wait Amanda, I’ll walk with you.”

  “Meg, you are not leaving alone. Come, I’ll escort you both,” Jeffrey sprang to his feet.

  “I am perfectly, capab-capable...” Her tongue tripped. “Able to walk home.” Amanda hated the slurred words. Her head spun more. Was this why Papa liked to drink? It made no sense to her after all.

  She was sober enough to see the keen look Jeffrey gave her. “Walk? Nay, I’d say stumble more’s like it. Come, Miss Reeves, you are a trifle tipsy.”

  They walked out of the Raleigh, Jeffrey providing a steady grip on her elbow.

  At her house, he paused. Relief filled her as she realized no candlelight shone within.

  Perhaps they were asleep. Meg had continued down the street, leaving them some privacy.

  “Thank you for walking me home.”

  “You are most welcome,” he said. “Couldn’t let you go off alone. Not with the drink you’ve consumed.”

  “’Tis a powerful brew Mr. Southall makes,” she muttered. “I confess I did see things tonight.” Like the look on his face, as if he cared for her. It was a manifestation of the drink, nothing more.

  “Drink loosens a person’s inhibitions. Their true desires surface.”

  “Such as?” Amanda felt longing and sadness, looking up into his stark expression.

  “As this.” Jeffrey bent his head and cradled her face gently with his hands. The butterfly brush of his lips against hers felt so soft as if he whispered into her mouth. The kiss was delicate and almost cherishing. He stepped back and gave her a mocking grin.