The Patriot's Conquest

by Vanak, Bonnie

  “Good night, Amanda. I’ve a feeling you’ll stay abed a while when the effects of that rum call on the morrow.”

  Rum! She put a hand to her mouth. “I’ve forgotten Papa’s rum,” she cried. Amanda cursed herself, realizing she let the secret slip. Bloody hell!

  Jeffrey frowned. “’Tis too late to retrieve it. Too late for drinking anyhow. He’d best get it on the morrow.”

  Tears filled her eyes. She began to shake violently. “Oh no, he will be so furious, Papa will ...”

  Fighting for control, Amanda bit her lip. Jeffrey narrowed his gaze. She had to flee before he asked questions.

  “You are quite right. Thank you for walking me home, Jeffrey. Good night to you and Meg.” Lurching through the garden gate, she fled for the house, praying her father was fast asleep.

  But upstairs, light shone beneath the door in Papa’s study. Amanda slid out of her shoes and tiptoed past the chamber

  Too late. The door flung open, her father stood in the hall, gripping his walking stick. She smelled the drink on him. He’d found his rum somewhere, so maybe he wouldn’t be as angry. But the naked fury on his face told her otherwise.

  “Amanda,” he roared. She backed off in terror as he rapped the cane against his palm. “When I tell you to fetch me drink you get it. ’Tis time I showed you a lesson!”

  She cried out as his cane descended upon her.

  Jeffrey escorted Meg back to the Wythe house, declining an invitation from George and Elizabeth for a nightcap. He walked back toward the Raleigh, pausing only to glance up at the Reeves’ store. A light upstairs. Amanda’s room?

  Terror had crossed her features as she mentioned her father’s rum. Jeffrey knew she bought rum for her father. Amanda hid a dark family secret. He felt only renewed disgust for Arthur Reeves. He wished he could pull her into his arms, soothe away her fright and keep her from all harm.

  All his carefully honed instincts told him she spied. His “friend” promised to check on the matter and return with information.

  Passing by the magazine, he glanced at the dark brick building. Protected by a tall wall, it resembled an impenetrable fortress. His hackles rose. No one guarded it. Days earlier Dunmore had forced the keeper to hand over the keys.

  Something prickled his nerves. Jeffrey tried to brush off the feeling as he regarded the silent building. All the city’s arms were stored there. Amanda had prattled something about Dunmore having plans for land defense. He suspected she didn’t merely refer to her cousin’s collection in his own palace.

  Minutes later, he entered his room at the Raleigh. He stripped naked and climbed into his bed with a grateful sigh, and drifted off to sleep.

  He dreamt. He took out his knife, ready to attack. Dawn was coming soon; he must not be discovered at dawn, must conceal his actions...

  Dawn coming soon. Jeffrey awakened. Hair rose at the back of his neck. Infernal nightmares. But something else was amiss. He lit a candle and opened his small gold pocket watch. After three.

  Quickly he dressed. Stupid of him, rushing out in the middle of the night, just to prove his instincts wrong.

  Slipping out of the Raleigh, he strode down the street. Town was quiet as a cemetery. Even the night watch was nowhere to be found. Jeffrey supposed all were abed. As he neared the brick building of the magazine he heard murmuring voices. A clattering. British voices uttering low, harsh with great urgency. His guard rose. British soldiers. What were they doing at the magazine?

  Jeffrey cursed. He’d left the Raleigh without a weapon. He crept closer to the armory. Alarmed, he saw the gate wide open, and a heavy wagon in front with a team of patient horses waiting. A line of men passed something back and forth, loading the wagon. Ignoring good sense, he stalked closer. One of the soldiers glanced his way and froze.

  The soldier stared then yelled to his compatriots. “Ho, we’ve been spotted. Hurry men!” They climbed aboard the wagon and then raced away.

  Jeffrey ran through the gate around the building to the rear of the magazine. The wood double doors stood gaping open like a fresh wound. A sliver of moonlight spilled onto the brick floor. He rapidly assessed the room. Fifteen half-barrels of gunpowder, most of the town’s defenses, were gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  HE SOUNDED THE alarm. News spread quickly. By early morning, townspeople gathered on the palace green. The frothing, angry mob seemed in almost as militant a mood as Jeffrey himself.

  Drums beat with a fury. Men in fringed canvas shirts shouldered muskets and Kentucky hunting rifles. Anger tightened their faces as they lined up toward Dunmore’s residence.

  “The cowardly Lord Governor dares to steal our powder in the dark night, leaving us defenseless because he fears for his own neck. Return the powder or we’ll give you just cause to fear,” Jeffrey shouted.

  Others added their own taunts. The angry mob pressed closer to the governor’s palace. He spotted Amanda in a long red cloak. He stopped yelling for Dunmore’s neck. Instead he thought about the danger her own neck was in. If anyone saw her...

  “’Tis treason you commit if you press further toward the mansion. Lord Dunmore had every right to remove the gunpowder, for as King’s representative, he controls the town’s arms,” Amanda cried out. Her lovely face flushed with dark anger. Jeffrey groaned. Her damn stubborn bravery would cost her.

  A man leered at her. Even from his vantage point, Jeffrey smelled the stench of old rum drifting from him. The sot advanced toward her.

  “Ho, ’tis Dunmore’s relative! If not him, then claim her, for she’s in league as well! Tory wench!”

  The besotted man, staggering, reeled toward her. Most times citizens would have paid him little mind. But the furious mob, heated and sassy from too much celebrating, wanted Dunmore. And if they couldn’t have him, then the next best thing would be...

  “Amanda,” Jeffrey cried out sharply as he saw her recoil, her lovely face paling with shock. His stomach clenched in fear.

  A small detachment pressed toward her. She turned to run, but was pressed in by the crowd.

  Jeffrey pummeled his way through the angry throng and reached her side. She shrieked as he laid a hand on her shoulder. Then she relaxed.

  “Jeffrey, thank heavens ’tis you.”

  The drunk tried to grab her arm, but Jeffrey slugged him with a punch powered by muscles toned by years of wielding steel. The sot grunted and doubled over. Jeffrey seized the advantage. Using his body as a battering ram, he elbowed his way through the crowd, holding Amanda close behind him. They barely made it eight feet before they were hemmed in again.

  Her lips drew back as she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Jeffrey swung her up into his arms. Her slender body felt light as air.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Saving your lovely bottom. Quiet now.”

  Like a blustering bull, he shouldered his way through the packed crowd. Jeffrey felt her hands curl trustingly about his neck. Halting at the edge of the palace green, he set her down. Her huge eyes became luminous. Only her wildly shaking hands revealed the depth of her fright.

  He sobered, realizing she could have been seriously hurt.

  “Come,” he said, stretching out a hand. “I’ll take you to George Wythe’s house. It will be safe for you there until this dies down.”

  The crowd calmed after town leaders promised to draft a letter of formal protest. Dunmore, claiming to have removed the powder fearing a slave uprising for he’d heard rumors in a nearby county, railed against the mob action. Sitting in the formal parlor of the palace, his face flushed with anger as Amanda faced him, for he’d summoned her to the mansion. And then he increased the stakes against her.

  A day after that meeting, Amanda found herself outside the Raleigh. She slipped up the stairs. Desperation, not her father’s thirst for rum, drove her there this morning.

  Lord Dunmore had been explicit. Angered and fearful of the mob’s threatened violence, he wanted Jeffrey. She had two weeks to produce incriminatin
g evidence of treason against him, or Dunmore would call in her father’s debt.

  She’d made inquiries among Lord Dunmore’s kitchen staff about who was the most useful servant at the Raleigh. One who could be discreet if given a few coins. This time of day few frequented the tavern. Most had finished breaking their fast and were about their business. Amanda nodded to a serving maid carrying a large tray into the dining room. A Negro man exited the private club room opposite the hallway from the dining room. Moses. Must be, for he wore spectacles as she’d been told.

  Amanda spoke in a low, urgent whisper. “I need your help.”

  He approached, wiping his hands on his apron. “Yes, Miss?”

  Looking around furtively, she saw no one else near. “I need to gain entrance to Mr. Clayton’s room upstairs. The blacksmith.”

  As his forehead creased into a puzzled frown, she slipped two shillings into his hand. “I require the greatest discretion, you understand?”

  The man stared at the coins in his palm. He jerked his head toward the stairwell and pocketed the money. “This way.”

  Amanda scurried after him up the narrow wood staircase.

  “Master Southall, he be out back now.” After leading her down the hallway, Moses stopped outside a closed door and unlocked it.

  “This be Mister Jeffrey’s room. But why you wanting to git inside?”

  “Personal reasons.” Amanda lifted her finger to her mouth.

  When the servant left, she studied the room. Sunshine spilled through two narrow dormer windows. A bed sat flush against one wall. A washstand, chair, and small desk were the only other furniture. Buckled shoes shoved carelessly under the bed. Clothing, good linen brown breeches and a rumpled white shirt lay crumpled on the chair. Amanda made a clucking sound with her tongue.

  “Jeffrey, you must learn to be more tidy.”

  She closed the door, then crossed over to the tiny desk. Papers, a quill, inkwell, brass candlestick with a candle nub and a gentleman’s purse. She ruffled through the papers. Accounts, nothing more.

  Surely something must exist here! Crossing over to the narrow bed, her shoe came into contact with a heavy, solid object. Amanda uttered a small cry of pain. She bent down.

  Shoved carelessly under the bed was a small wood chest. The same one that had been in his bedroom at Meg’s house. Excited, she knelt and pulled it out.

  The chest had a lock, but it was broken. Amanda lifted the lid.

  Papers were neatly stacked inside. She scanned one. Surely this would suffice Lord Dunmore’s request—a letter from Patrick Henry to Samuel Adams in Boston. Amanda shut the trunk lid and shoved the chest back. She sat on the bed. In the note Henry advised Mr. Adams he agreed with Jeffrey’s advice on retaliation for the magazine raid. Patrick would march against Lord Dunmore and demand retribution for the gunpowder. Men would clamor to take up arms to defend themselves, breaking the long apathy nestling among Virginia’s planters. Then Virginia would join Boston in rebellion against the Crown.

  Victory and dismay surged through her. Jeffrey was heavily involved in treasonous activities. If Dunmore found out, it spelled trouble for Jeffrey as well as his friend.

  Should she take this letter as evidence? How could she betray him? Yet her family’s welfare hung in the balance. Amanda shuddered, feeling like a juggler balancing two burning balls, trying desperately but unsuccessfully to keep both in the air.

  Footsteps sounded upon the stairwell. Amanda’s breath eased out in ragged pants as she searched for a place to hide. Seeing none, she backed against the wall, tucking the letter into her bodice. Her hands shook a little. Please, let it be a serving maid or a man to clean another room, she silently prayed.

  The door swung open with such a violent bang she jumped. Jeffrey stood on the threshold, his dark eyes glinting with diabolical light.

  So much for prayers to the good Lord.

  “Amanda, my dear, what are you doing in my room?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “JEFFREY!” AMANDA STRUGGLED for composure. “What a surprise. I was near the Raleigh and thought to stop by.”

  “In my room? While I am not here?” He crossed those powerful arms and leaned a broad shoulder against the door.

  She swallowed. “I must confess a female curiosity to see how you lived apart from the farm.” Deliberately, she let her gaze rest on the rumpled clothes. “Indeed, my curiosity has been satisfied. I beg your leave now.”

  His gray gaze missed nothing. “Not until you hand over what you have taken. What are you hiding, Amanda?”

  “Hiding? You are much mistaken, for I have nothing to hide.” Amanda smiled coyly and held out her hands.

  She sucked in her breath as he fell to his knees and withdrew the chest. He combed through the papers. Fury ignited his gray gaze as he stood.

  “I knew I should have made the time to fix that lock. Return Patrick’s letter. Or I will search every inch of your lovely body.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she breathed.

  “I would.”

  Oh dear. Was that a tip of paper peeping out just above the lace of her bodice? Jeffrey glanced at her, his mouth a narrow slash.

  “Hand it over, Amanda. Now or I will retrieve it myself.”

  “I have no idea what you reference.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he plunged his hand into the crevice of her lacy bodice. Jeffrey groped her breasts intimately yet with a total blank look. His touch sent tingles up her spine while it damned her to exposure. Paper crinkled as he withdrew the letter. Tears of frustration filled her eyes.

  He waved the letter in her face like a flag then stuck it into his pocket. “Do you always dress with personal correspondence tucked into your bodice?”

  She glared at him. “What of it? You have it. I must leave now.”

  “You are spying on me. For who? Your cousin?” Jeffrey’s face darkened with anger.

  “I am curious. Is that a crime?”

  “Amanda my dear, you must learn to be a more effective spy. Learn first to trust the servants you hire to let into a man’s room.”

  Her jaw dropped. “But I was assured that Moses...”

  “’Twas not Moses,” Jeffrey drawled. “But Joseph. Next time ask the name. Don’t assume there is only one bespectacled servant. Joseph is a good man. I freed him from Meg’s farm and asked James Southall to take him as a worker. He watches over my room, where my papers are protected as much as my privacy is. Joseph rushed to the smith’s shop to inform me a young lady desired entrance here.”

  Bloody hell! In her eagerness to perform the deed, she hadn’t asked the servant his name. She’d failed miserably as a spy.

  “Amanda, who set you against me? Tell me.”

  She shook her head. Jeffrey clasped her shoulders. She swallowed hard, the heat of his hand burning through her gown.

  “Tell me, Amanda. I want truth from your lovely lips. Who set you against me? Dunmore?”

  Amanda bit her lip. Jeffrey nodded. “Your cousin then. Why?” He gave her a little shake.

  “Please, Jeffrey.” There was no pleading with that hardened expression. “’Twas not my idea. I was forced.”

  “How?”

  “Lord Dunmore... I cannot reveal the circumstances...” Shame at her father’s weakness coursed through her. Her composure threatened to unwind like a spool of unkempt yarn. “He promised a favor in return for information against Patrick Henry. I did not wish to perform this task, but he left no choice.”

  His jaw tightened, but he released her. “’Tis Pat he wants.”

  Amanda sighed. “Aye. And you as well.”

  “So you used the excuse of teaching Sara and your friendship with my sister to gain access to my quarters. ’Tis why you were in my room when you pretended interest in my bed.”

  She hung her head in misery. “I did not mean to hurt Meg or the children. Truly, I do have affection for them.”

  He gazed out the window, as if seeking answers. Then he smiled. She did not c
are for the gleam in his eyes. It was almost better to see him angry. This look was dangerous.

  “Joseph wondered why you wanted into my room. I thought ’twas to warm my bed. It would have been a more pleasant surprise than what greets me now.”

  “You, sir, take liberties with your tongue,” she warned.

  “’Tis not the only instrument I could take liberties with. A lady alone in a man’s room? An invitation, at best.”

  Jeffrey stepped closer. Amanda retreated, putting up her palms to repel him. Her pulse thudded all the harder. Damn Father for putting her in the wolf’s lair. Damn Dunmore for setting her to spy.

  “Come, Amanda, why do you back away like that? I’ll not hurt you. Why are you afraid of me?” he asked softly.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she replied. Just of his intentions.

  He closed the distanced between them, forcing her to press against the wall. Amanda looked wildly about the room, gauging the distance to the door and freedom. Turning her head she looked frantically around to avoid his penetrating gaze. She glanced at the narrow bed. Wrong place to look.

  “What do you want Jeffrey? You have the letter.” She felt his warm breath upon her face and smelled the sweetness of cinnamon.

  His wicked smile sent chills down her spine. “’Tis not all I want. You have no idea of how lovely you are. How much you tempt a man.”

  “’Tis best you ease off and leave me be. I’ll not inform on you. I promise.”

  “Too late,” he said softly. “You entered my room. I warned you those who meddle in my affairs must pay the price.”

  His firm, square mouth was mere inches from hers, his body pressed closer to her. Amanda sucked in a quivering breath. The last time he’d advanced like this, temptation had called her with its siren song. She must resist. She retreated from his dominating presence, alarmed at her rising excitement to his nearness.

  “Mandy,” he murmured. “I shall call you Mandy. Amanda is so formal. And we’ve known each other in ways that are not quite formal. Have we not?”