“’Tis a good life you shall have here with me in America, a new start where all are equal, Mandy. And our sons and daughters will stand proud among their peers and walk with equal pride.”
“Children,” she murmured. “A family of our own.”
“Aye. But to start one, I must plant a babe in your belly. Shall we try once more?”
His deep, teasing voice roused her out of self-pity. Amanda glanced over her shoulder. “Is this yet another excuse for exercising your male affliction, husband?”
“No excuse needed with you, wife, for I could make love with you all day and never tire.”
Jeffrey lifted her hair and pulled it to one side. He began kissing her back slowly. Each press of his lips brought a fever pitch of agonized pleasure. She tried drawing away.
“Good Christian couples are not so active. What will Sadie think, me being gone this long?”
“She’ll think we are a normal couple, newly married. Mandy, why do you resist me? I know making love brings you much pleasure. ’Tis nothing to be shamed of.”
“’Tis unnatural,” she muttered in a low voice so he could not hear her. He kissed her deeply and began making love to her once more. As he once again brought her to a feverish pitch, she arched her back and cried out. He chuckled against her mouth. “See, my darling Mandy? Don’t fight me. Just let it go.”
But even as her body sang with bliss, her mind rebelled. Resolve filled her. She could not fight her own passion, and he had trapped her in this marriage with her own lust. Yet there were other ways to fight. She would not be a meek, biddable wife. Amanda smiled inwardly. Tomorrow, Jeffrey would find out exactly how much fight she had in her.
Chapter Sixteen
HE’D THOUGHT AMANDA’S capitulation in bed signaled her willingness to be a good wife.
Wrong. The following day, Jeffrey’s irritation grew as he watched his wife bustle around the kitchen.
He’d recited the house rules while they broke fast with biscuits and fresh milk. No bare feet in the kitchen, for dropped glass easily cut feet. And no use of imported English items. “Here, we make our own,” he insisted.
She had smiled so sweetly and nodded. He should have known by the spark in her eyes Amanda had other plans in mind.
Like the imported brass toiletry case with the unicorn, the coat of arms for England, imprinted on it. While he was planting in the fields, she’d unpacked and placed the case on her dressing table. The gleaming brass caught the sunlight and his wife’s defiant look.
“Thought they would brighten the place up, since it has such a man’s touch about it. The home needs a woman’s touch.”
“Not a woman’s touch, but an English touch with the arrogance of the Crown stamped upon it,” he had said. “Put it away.”
He excused her behavior. A mistake, best overlooked. But the soap she used to wash the dishes was no mistake. Not the lye soup Sadie and Meg made. This soap had the scent of foul England stamped on it.
“Mandy, what are you doing?”
“Dishes,” she replied, scrubbing a pot.
“Mandy, I told you we don’t use English imports in this house. Including soap.”
She held out her white hands, offering a pretty smile. “But Jeffrey, your soap, ’tis such a harsh agent that it strips the skin from my fingers. Would you want me to have chapped skin?”
He examined her soapy hand, thumbing her palm, feeling the rough edges of calluses on her skin. “Mandy you forget I felt every inch of your lovely hands upon my back this morn. You have the hands not of a lady, but a woman accustomed to labor. All that work you do in the almshouse gives you away. Lye soap will not do any more damage,” he chided her.
He walked to the shelf, fetched a bar and tossed it into the wood tub of water. Her lower lip jutted out in a pout. She took the imported soap.
“And what shall I do with this? Eat it?”
Sorely tempted to scrub her mouth out with it, Jeffrey took it from her. It landed in the fire with a soft hiss.
“Best place for English products.”
He walked out of the kitchen. Damn if it didn’t feel like her eyes burned holes into the back of his queue.
Amanda sought revenge at dinner.
Sitting at the table at the main house, she bowed her head as Jeffrey offered prayers. Her husband thought himself a rebel. So was she. With every ounce of strength, she would thwart him. His kisses and caresses made her weak with longing in bed. But out of bed...
He finished praying and passed his plate to her. She heaped it full of the roasted rabbit and a generous portion of fish, as well as some vegetables.
“Are you quite hungry, dear husband?” she asked cheerfully.
“I’ve a fierce appetite. Jake, Jason and I plowed the east field today. Tilled the soil with fertilizer. Planting’s next.”
All that hard work. He even looked ravenous. She dismissed a pinch of guilt.
Jeffrey dug into his food like a big man with a big hunger. Swallowing, he smiled gently. “’Tis delicious.”
“I flavored the rabbit with spices. Imported from England.”
At his incredulous look, she laughed. “No, Sadie cooked the rabbit. ’Tis nothing on it more than wine. Marinated well. Madeira. The stock you said Roger had laid away, remember?”
Jeffrey stared, scarlet coloring his cheeks.
“Why husband, your face does grow so fiercely red. Are you feeling well?”
“Madeira is imported from England.” He set down his fork.
“Oh, ’tis right. Madeira. I forgot. ’Tis a shame then, you cannot eat the rabbit. Try the fish. Oh dear. I marinated that in Madeira as well. Dear me. ’Tis only pastries, bread and vegetables then. The cabbage is all American,” she offered.
She saw him stare at the hefty helping of meat and fish with the longing of a starving man. Curiosity pricked her. What manner of man was her husband? Would he be that principled to deny himself a goodly meal?
As he pushed back his plate, she felt no surprise, only a healthy respect. The man could be a brigand, but did not set aside his values even when hungered.
Jeffrey glanced at her plate. Amanda had generous portions of cabbage, the fresh tarts, bread and pickled carrots. She nibbled at her food, not really hungry, for she had cut off slices of the rabbit earlier while helping Sadie cook.
She bit back a laugh as he rose, clearing the meat from the table.
Amanda vexed him sorely. Late the next afternoon, Jeffrey swore she’d wear down the patience of the saints. He’d given Sadie strict instructions to cook all meals, for he was too hungry have Amanda continue poisoning his food with British imports.
That morning, he’d gone into town to visit George Wythe, authorizing his lawyer to sell 500 acres on the western frontier. The land sat amid a large tract owned by Lord Dunmore. Jeffrey instructed George to squeeze 2,500 pounds out of the bastard. His secret mirth at knowing how badly Dunmore wanted the land faded fast when George told him the news.
Lexington and Concord. Men had died at the hands of British soldiers. War had been officially declared. As he rode back to the farm, Jeffrey had felt torn between wanting to ride back to Boston to pick up a musket and join his friends and a great fear of unleashing the beast within. Last time he’d unchained that beast, hundreds had died.
Now, as he made his way from the kitchen to the fields, his ire grew. Sadie had said Amanda had gone for a walk. Jeffrey crossed the fields. At the wood’s edge, he spotted two footprints in the spring mud.
Anger mixed with concern. Spring was not the time for a leisurely stroll in these woods. All manner of animals meant danger for unwary city folk like Amanda.
A scream echoed through the trees. Fear rushed through him as he ran. Past a copse of trees, near a fallen log, Amanda hugged herself. Terror widened her eyes.
“Snake!” she cried out.
The deadly rattle alerted him before he saw it. Jeffrey drew out the knife at his waist, flung it and killed the rattlesnake. Amanda sank ont
o the log, sobbing.
“Mandy, did it bite you?” Jeffrey knelt beside her, anxiety curdling his gut. Rattler bites were almost always fatal.
No answer. More sobs.
“Amanda!”
“No.”
“Thank the Almighty,” Jeffrey whispered.
Relief as sharp as the knife cut through his fear. He retrieved his blade, wiped it on nearby moss and then sheathed it. His knees grew weak. If she had died, he would have simply died along with her. The thought startled and disturbed him. He did care, too deeply. This would give her power over him. Never again would he give a woman such power. His temper fractured.
“I had thought I told you the house rules. No walking alone in the woods!”
Two big tears slid down her pale cheeks. “But Jeffrey, I barely entered the woods.”
“No matter! See what happens? What in Heaven’s name were you doing, wife? Had I not told you never to walk in these woods alone? ’Tis not safe, as seen!” he roared.
Amanda shrank back. Immediately Jeffrey regretted the outburst. Damn, he’d sworn he’d never scream. Lord knew what happened when he allowed himself to get too angry.
“Mandy,” he said in calmer tone, “I worry about your safety...”
She jerked away from his outstretched hands. “Thank you for your concern, Jeffrey. Your solicitous manner is much appreciated, as is your raised voice. I am not a child to be lectured nor told to obey.”
“Amanda,” he said very slowly, “You are my wife. You will obey the rules, for safety’s sake.”
“Aye, your wife, but I will not meekly submit. You may claim me in bed, but I have a mind of my own and you cannot force me to do all you request!”
Rebellion shadowed her expression. Suddenly, he understood the source. Powerless in his arms, she resisted him in other ways. The soap. The imported toiletry case. And now the pure defiance of walking alone in the woods. A battle of wills. Jeffrey steeled his spine. Well then. He had years of battle experience.
“Amanda, you are my wife. I have rules you and all the others are expected to obey for your safety. You will obey them or suffer the consequences.”
She lifted her chin. “Your wife, aye, but you treat me as a child. I am an adult, not an infant!”
“You act as a child. Dare I say what we do with children on this farm? We give them a good spanking when they disobey. Should I demonstrate and turn you over on my knee?”
She drew in a harsh breath. “You would not dare.”
“Would I not? Do not cross me on this! If that rattler had bitten you, you would have died. The rules exist for a reason!” He realized he was shouting again. Jeffrey clenched his fists and silently wrestled with his temper.
When he’d calmed down, he held out his hand. “Come with me.”
She glowered, but rose and took his hand. Once outside the woods, he released her hand, glad he’d finally controlled his temper. Little did she know exactly how much effort it took him to stop railing. She vexed him to madness with her stubborn pride. Vexed him with the thought of how much he had begun to care and feared losing her.
“Amanda,” he said slowly. “Listen to me and listen well. You are my wife. You will heed the rules I have laid down. I will not tolerate any more of your disobedience. Is this understood?”
Her only answer was a sullen look. Jeffrey felt an unreasonable urge to sit down, pull her over his knee and spank her soundly. He counted to ten again, reciting Rogers’ Rules. Damn Robert Rogers! Surviving in the wilderness and fighting French and Indians was not half as demanding as putting up with a headstrong wife.
Jeffrey herded her toward the house, frustrated and at the limits of his patience.
Supper that evening, leftover pork, roast beef, and a helping of other delicious dishes, promised to be quiet. Amanda picked at her food, not speaking. Jeffrey darted a glance at her. She had said nothing all day. Just this quietness, as if she’d settled down into the role of a meek wife.
He wasn’t sure he liked it. Jeffrey hated silence from her. He’d been hard, allowing his anger to control him. Logically, he knew his feelings had been stirred up that morn with the dispatch the post rider had brought in. He thought of Sam, Dr. Warren and his other friends. Were they all safe?
Chewing a mouthful of beef, he longed to hear her talk and chase away the morbid thoughts swirling in his head. He needed lively chatter to ease his deep melancholy. Only one way to provoke her...
“’Tis a delicious meal we eat here tonight. Good American beef raised on American farms, better food than that imported English slop they serve at your cousin’s house.”
Amanda bit her lip, casting her gaze downward.
“Of course, if that old lecherous goat had his way, he’d slap a tax on food as well to raise money and stock more wine in his cellar for his drunken carousing.”
Now she looked up, her gaze narrowing. “My cousin is not a lecherous man. You listen to gossip, Jeffrey. Nor does he advocate drinking.”
“’Tis not what John Pinkney says.”
“John Pinkney prints malicious lies that he passes off as news for his slanderous paper.”
“John Pinkney is a patriot whose newspaper keeps colonists abreast of England’s latest injustices. Such as Captain Collins’s nighttime searching of a vessel in Huagar’s Harbor this past March. Secretly boarded at night, marines stealing on board and concealing themselves, then seizing a poor innocent apprentice and questioning him ruthlessly about the sloop’s crew.”
“Captain Collins was doing his duty, searching all vessels for proper permits.”
“Collins was shown those permits, but returned in the night like a thief! Instead of openly questioning the owner, he frightened a poor lad.” Jeffrey rejoined.
“I am certain as a Royal Marine, Captain Collins had just cause.”
“Like your cousin did in removing the gun powder? Mandy, that powder is our defense. What if we faced real danger? What if we actually did have a slave revolt?”
“Lord Dunmore assured the people the powder was safely aboard the Fowey and could be retrieved in half an hour.”
“Lord Dunmore,” he mimicked her voice, “was afraid the people would use the powder against him. He governs not with respect, but with the might of British soldiers. He’s a cowardly sot who would not hesitate to set a desperate woman to spying for his own purposes, not caring if she wandered into a den of rattlers.”
Amanda picked up her wineglass, her expression troubled as if someone had lifted a curtain, and she’d glimpsed the threat hiding behind it. Jeffrey drew in a deep breath, wondering if she’d drop the curtain and pretend she’d seen nothing.
Or had they finally reached a crossroads of understanding?
Her husband’s words deeply distressed Amanda, for she realized he spoke the truth.
That afternoon she’d cooled down and understood Jeffrey’s anger. She could have died without his help and all she did was whine like a spoiled brat. No wonder he’d yelled. She’d probably do the same. The man worried about her safety, more than her own flesh and blood had ever done.
Her cousin had cared not a fig that he’d sent her into a nest of potentially deadly vipers to spy. Nor did her parents.
Amanda’s stomach knotted. Suddenly she lost all interest in food. Again, she looked inside and saw the rebellious spark glowing brighter. That spark threatened to burn all she had clung to her whole life, everything safe, secure and comfortable. All her firmly-set ideas about England and being English would turn to ashes.
Everything she’d wanted in life: acceptance by English society, belonging to the circle that had shunned her; all would be destroyed if the spark Jeffrey fanned turned into a flame. Then she’d be left lost, uncertain and adrift, without direction or the comfort of her beliefs. Amanda’s mouth went dry.
How could she forsake the very foundation of her dreams, hopes and ideals?
“Lord Dunmore has the authority of the Crown behind him. Though his actions may be seen as repr
ehensible, they were justified for the greater purpose of preventing rebellion. How can you justify your radical idea of breaking free from England? I do not understand nor will I ever. Is not a child obliged to obey and respect the parents who provide for him?”
“Every child grows up. And did you not tell me that a parent can’t keep a child forever when you talked of slavery? You of all people should understand rebelling against society’s restraints.” Jeffrey set down his fork, his gaze serious and intent.
Her flush deepened. “If you refer to my scandalous behavior that led us into this marriage, that was not being a radical. But rather being foolish and letting my passions rule me.”
“Nothing is wrong with being passionate,” he said softly, gazing at her. “Passion is good. But I reference your love for Voltaire.”
Confused, she stared.
“Voltaire. The theist. He espouses freedom of thought and denounces repression. If that isn’t radical, what is?”
Amanda stilled, stricken with the thought. The tiny spark of rebellion grew. She sought to stamp it out. “I read Voltaire for intellectual pleasure,” she shot back.
“There are many philosophers you could read,,” he countered. “Why chose Voltaire? Because he stimulates you, Mandy. He makes you think for yourself. And the more you do, the more you will break away from the herd of bleating Loyalist sheep who blindly turn an eye to England’s injustices simply because they fear change. You are far too intelligent to follow the herd, sweet.”
He added quietly, “Remember? ‘True greatness consists in the use of a powerful understanding to enlighten oneself and others.’”
“‘Man is free at the moment he wishes to be,’” she quoted Voltaire back at him, feeling more confused. Was she a radical at heart?
His gaze softened as he regarded her. “You are not a child, anymore, Mandy. No longer subject to your parent’s wishes and restraints. As the colonies are not children in need of guidance. We Americans grew up long ago.”
Relieved he’d turned the conversation back to politics, she leaned forward. “But has America truly matured? Exports and imports are needed for a delicate balance of trade! There is no manufacturing here, only in England. How can the colonies expect to survive on their own?”
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