by Becky Lower
Libby sighed and stared into the fire. “Sounds as if you lead a lonely existence.”
“Ya, it is. But it is far safer this way.”
Libby took a step closer to the stove and peered at the pot where her silver was melting. “Well, since you won’t admit to being an impassioned author, but you do admit to fashioning bullets for the Continental Army, may I help you with that little part of the war effort?”
“You wish to handle hot metal? Why do you not consider instead joining the ladies at their high teas and help them roll bandages for the wounded British soldiers?” Hawk growled.
Libby rewarded his growl with a saucy smile. “I’ve never been one for high tea with ladies who claim to be cultured. My roots are similar to your own, Mr. Gentry. My father worked the land and took from it only what he needed to feed and clothe his family. That’s the kind of stock I come from, so I will fit in nicely into America once it is free from the British.” She held a hand up between them. “And, I have a very steady hand.”
Hawk stared at her for a long minute. Then, he took a deep breath, and his gaze flickered to a shelf on the far wall. “The molds are over there. Let us make some silver bullets.”
Libby brushed her hand over her racing heart and dashed to the shelf. Finally, she had taken her first steps toward becoming an American.
• ♥ •
“We shall need to wait until the silver totally melts, so if you do not mind, I will finish my horseshoe.” Hawk stuck the crudely formed shoe back into the fire. Libby took a seat near the worktable and studied Hawk as he held the long set of tongs in the flames. The muscles in his back bunched and rolled as he rotated the shoe in the fire. She was content to observe him without making distracting conversation. In her former life, she had been expected to hold witty conversations with men. But those were men of leisure who filled their days with talk, not action.
Hawk Gentry was not one of them.
He finally lifted the red-hot metal from the flames and pounded it until it began cooling. Then, he plunged it into the bucket of water near the table which bubbled and hissed. A few minutes later, he laid his well-formed horseshoe on the top of the table.
“Nicely done, Mr. Gentry.” Libby touched the still warm shoe. “Now your horse will have some fine footwear.”
“Much like yourself, Mrs. Wexford.” He gave her a smile that edged toward a smirk before he checked the pot on top of the stove. “Your silver has completely melted. Are you ready to make bullets?”
“On one condition.” Libby rose and peered into the pot where her fine silverware set was now a pool of liquid. “Next week is the anniversary of America’s independence, and I’ve been reading about how Boston will celebrate. I wish to take part, but I would feel much better about it if I had a chaperone. Would you be willing to accompany me?”
Libby noticed Hawk’s inhalation of breath, and how he swallowed hard. She controlled her impulse to grin. It mattered little which side of the Atlantic she was on. Men were very similar to one another.
“Let us make a game of it, then, Mrs. Wexford.”
She locked her gaze on him. Perhaps she had judged too quickly. “What type of game are you proposing?”
“I expect to be very busy that day, with people coming into town and wishing to stable their horses. But I can hire someone to help for part of the day. Let us say for each form that you fill I will accompany you for thirty minutes of time.” He glanced at the table, which was covered with forms, and did a quick calculation. “Four hours, if you can fill all these.”
Libby bristled. The footwear was on the other foot. “I don’t need the incentive of spending time with you to make good on my word, Mr. Gentry. I came here to offer to assist with the making of bullets.”
“Then, we should get to it.” He handed her the ladle.
She stared up at him and clenched her jaw. He might wish to play games, but she had the benefit of lots of practice. She’d fill his blasted forms and get the four hours he’d alluded to. But she’d make certain the man would not want to leave at the end of his allotted time with her.
• ♥ •
Several days later, Hawk strode to the headquarters of the Sons of Liberty with a bag full of bullets. They would see to it the bullets got to the Continental Army, so they would at least have a bit of ammunition against the British. He paused at the top of the stairs, aware that Libby’s room was to the right. Their night in the smithy shop had yielded a small quantity of silver bullets but had begun to forge their friendship. Hawk had some female friends, and some that had become more than friends, when he was living among the Passamaquoddy, but none had ever made his heart stutter and trip like Libby Wexford did. Although he urged himself to proceed with caution with her, that the war was going to continue on for years, he could not control his urge to see her again, to inhale her perfume. He stared at her door for a long minute before he turned toward the door opposite and entered.
“Good to see you, Hawk.” Samuel Adams glanced up from the table where he was seated with Patterson Lovejoy. “What brings you here?”
Hawk set the bag on the table and opened it for the men to see. Patterson picked up one of the slugs. “Silver bullets, eh?” He glanced up at Hawk. “Is this the result of your editorial?”
“Oui. And the lady who brought in the silver insisted on staying to help craft the bullets.”
“Good for her. We all need to do our part.” Patterson tossed the bullet from one hand to the other.
“The Army desperately needs these. I’ll send them on in the morning,” Sam Adams placed his hand on the bag. “Thank you, Hawk, and thanks to the lady who donated these. We need more like her.”
Hawk quickly left the room and left Patterson and Sam to their interrupted discussion. He could have told them if they wanted to thank the lady in person, they only had to cross the landing and knock on her door. But he wished to keep her identity to himself, for at least a little while.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Days later, Hawk could not control the bounce in his step as he headed to the newspaper office. Or rather, to the room above the office, where Libby Wexford now resided. Opposite the offices of the Sons of Liberty. Ever since she had contributed her fine silver tea service and the buckles from her shoes, and then offered to help Hawk fashion them into bullets, he could not get her out of his mind. Her childish delight at their joint endeavor made him grin as well, even though the eventual use of those bullets was no laughing matter. Her contribution had not produced a lot of bullets, but Libby had been pleased with the results.
And now, he was about to share the first anniversary of the Declaration of Independence with her. Every ship in the harbor was decked out in streamers of red, white, and blue. Precious gunpowder would be used to set off thirteen cannons, in honor of the thirteen colonies, which were no longer colonies, but rather were the thirteen United States.
His stables were full, and he had hired a young man, Jeremiah, to tend to the horses, because he wished to be part of the celebration instead of brooding alone in the stables. After a day of leisure, with planned picnics in Boston Common, the evening would come to an end with a ringing of the church bells and a display of fireworks which would conclude with thirteen rockets being set off in the Common. If the celebration and what it stood for were not enough, he was spending the day in the company of the most beautiful woman he had ever met. The fact he had little knowledge of her background, why she had left England, whether she was a Loyalist masquerading herself as a new colonist, only added to her air of mystique. She was a potential danger to him, but he found himself wondering about her at odd moments.
Danger be damned.
He had been without a woman for a long time, and Libby Wexford was the only person he wished to share the day with. But in the back of his mind, caution reigned. He should not even contemplate beginning a relationship with a woman, especially a British woman, while the war raged. He had seen enough of that with his father. Leaving his wife behind w
ith the Passamaquoddy tribe while he took off to act as scout for the British during the Seven Years War. And before that, he left Little Wren alone with her tribe while he trapped furs for a living. Hawk might have been young, but he could tell his mother held her breath every time his father disappeared, not sure if he would ever return. Hawk would never do that to someone.
Despite his admonitions, Hawk rapped on her door, as eager as a young buck during mating season. He wondered what gown she would don for the day. He wondered what shoes she would put on her finely shaped feet. His heart rate sped as he waited. And when the door opened, his breath whooshed out of him.
“Mrs. Wexford, you are a vision.” His voice was husky.
She smiled up at him and placed a hand on his arm. “It’s time we begin to refer to each other by our first names, don’t you agree?”
“Ya.” He swallowed, hard. “Libby.” He had never spoken her name aloud before, only in his head had he referred to her as such. He rather enjoyed the way it rolled off his tongue. “Or should I say, Liberty?”
“Libby will do fine, Hawk. Just let me gather up my hat and parasol and we’ll be off.” She bustled about the room while Hawk stood in the doorway. He glanced at the sparse quarters and his gaze strayed to the copper bathing tub and the bed where Libby slept each night. He groaned internally as a vision of her lounging naked in the tub and then in a translucent nightgown raced through his mind.
He shifted his focus to the woman herself. Her day gown was a pale blue silk which shimmered in the light. The bodice, cut low and elongated, dipped to a V shape in the center which gave the illusion of an extremely small waist. Her cleavage was no illusion, however. Even under the cover of the band of lace at the neckline, he could make out the cleft between her finely shaped breasts and he inhaled the scent of rose attar emanating from that cleft as he took a deep breath to center himself. Libby positioned a wide-brimmed cream-colored hat over her blonde curls and used long pins to hold it in place. Giving herself a final look in the reflecting window, she slid her gaze over to him.
And stole his breath.
“You cut a grand figure in your attire, Hawk. I’ve never seen you in such finery before.”
He ran a hand down the front of his long waistcoat. “There is not much call to wear a coat in a blacksmith’s shop.” He rolled his shoulders, which were uncomfortably encased in the material. “But today is a special day, and calls for us to dress up and celebrate.”
“Shall we be off, then? I’m eager to see all the festooned ships in the harbor.”
“And I am eager to see what food the vendors will serve in the Common.” Hawk extended his arm to her and breathed in her perfume. Food was not the only thing to be anxious about. Liberty Wexford was getting under his skin. His waistcoat was making him uncomfortable. And the woman beside him was making him doubt his own sanity.
He took another deep breath once they got to the cobblestoned street. He glanced over at Libby, excitement evident in her sparkling eyes and her beautiful smile. Even though the danger signs were screaming at him to back away, he could not obey. His steely control failed him for the first time in ages. And he did not care. He had nearly given into his instincts and kissed her the day she had arrived at his shop with her broken shoe. Now, he intended to end the day by setting off some fireworks of his own, between them. After he tasted her lips and breathed in more of her rose attar perfume, there would be plenty of time to decide if she was friend or foe.
It had been a long time since Hawk had spent an extended period with a lady. And never had he spent time with a rare and delicate flower of a woman, who, in his mind, resembled the rose whose scent she preferred. But from the few discussions they had, he gathered her delicateness was a carefully crafted exterior, hiding a stiff stalk and sharp barbs. Liberty Wexford was not as she appeared. And the fact Hawk had no insight as to her background made him crazy.
Crazy with suspicion.
Crazy with need.
Her hand on his arm warmed him. The admiring glances from other men in the crowd made him preen. The breeze blowing in off the harbor nearly tore her wide-brimmed hat from her head, so she placed one hand on the top of it but kept her other on him.
“Look at all the ships, Hawk. Aren’t they festive?” Libby bounced up and down on her toes in an attempt to peer over the heads of the people, making Hawk wonder what shoes adorned her feet today. She clung to him for balance, and he leaned in.
He placed his hand over hers on his arm. “Can you see well enough, or shall we head to one of the hills overlooking the harbor?”
“No, I hope to get as close as I can to the ships, not gaze at them from a distance. There’s a break in the crowd. Let’s hurry forward.” Libby took a few steps.
Hawk’s thoughts were running along a parallel path. He hoped to hurry with Libby, follow her anywhere she would take him. Like a dog on a leash, he allowed her to lead him into the throng. Soon enough, they were standing on a wooden dock, waving at the people aboard the ships, and watching the streamers and flags fluttering in the strong breeze as excited voices swirled around them. Hawk kept his gaze glued to Libby, and her enthusiasm made him relax for the first time in ages. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, and he pivoted, reluctantly tearing his gaze from her.
“Patterson, good to see you.” Hawk extended his hand to the man. “Is your family here?” He searched the crowd for Patterson’s wife and children.
“They were here earlier, but have already left for the Common, to stake out the best place for us to have lunch.” He glanced at Libby and raised an eyebrow.
“Allow me officially to introduce you. Mrs. Liberty Wexford, meet Patterson Lovejoy.” He gestured from Libby to the man standing by him.
“I’ve seen you at the newspaper office but didn’t piece things together. You’re the silver bullet lady?” Patterson grasped Libby’s hand.
She smiled up at him and kept her hand in his. “I did help Mr. Gentry fashion the bullets, yes.”
“Well, no wonder Hawk didn’t mind working overtime.” Patterson finally released Libby’s hand after a long moment. Hawk bristled at the man’s reluctance to let Libby go. Patterson’s gaze remained on her. “I must say, you look less like a smithy and more like a lady who should be encased in jewels.”
“I much prefer liberty to the chains of diamonds, Mr. Lovejoy.” Libby placed her hand back on Hawk’s arm.
“And you got this man to stop working for a day and appreciate what we’ve been able to accomplish so far. Well done, Mrs. Wexford.” He shifted his gaze to Hawk. “And well done, Hawk.”
Despite his attempt to remain calm, Hawk’s chest puffed up a bit. And his hand once again closed over Libby’s.
“I guess we should head up to the Common as well, before others take all the good spots.” Hawk steered Libby out of the throng of people on the dock.
Patterson strode alongside. “I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind.”
Hawk rolled his shoulders and ground his teeth.
“So, tell me, Mrs. Wexford, will Mr. Wexford be joining in the celebration today?” Patterson’s question hung in the air.
Libby’s grip tightened on Hawk’s arm. “Mr. Wexford passed on nearly a year ago, unfortunately.”
Patterson’s gaze bounced between the pair and he covered his grin, so it was only visible to Hawk. “Sorry to hear of your loss, Mrs. Wexford.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Lovejoy.” Libby plastered herself up against Hawk’s side. If Hawk had not been so annoyed by Patterson’s presence, he would have thanked the man for making Libby so uncomfortable she closed the distance between them, giving Hawk the pleasure of feeling her body up against his and smelling her rose perfume.
Patterson slapped Hawk on the back and stopped. “My family’s just over there, so I’ll take off. Good seeing you, Hawk, and it’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wexford.”
“Likewise, Mr. Lovejoy. Give my best to your family and enjoy the day.” Libby granted him a
smile. Patterson shifted his gaze from Libby to Hawk, and he nodded in Libby’s direction before he strode off.
As if Hawk needed his approval.
“Shall we see what the food vendors are serving, Hawk?” Libby’s voice steered him back to the moment.
“Ya. Let us do so.” He led Libby from one tasty display to another. But there was just one problem. Hawk had no appetite for any of the food on display on the Common. The only thing he had an overwhelming wish to taste was the woman who smelled of roses.
The woman who had a past he knew nothing about. What made her decide to venture to the colonies on her own, without the benefit of a husband? What had her life had been like in England? He had no knowledge of her previous existence, but suspected she harbored many secrets. Could he trust her with his? The consequences of throwing caution to the wind could be deadly. For all he knew, she could be a spy for the British, sent here by the king to entice men like him into giving away the secrets of the Sons of Liberty.
She leaned in to give him a sample of a raspberry tart and he locked his gaze on her. Her eyes glimmered with humor and her lips canted up. She had a drop of raspberry at the side of her mouth and Hawk had a sudden urge to lick it from her face. Instead, he lifted a finger to her. She followed the movement of his hand but did not flinch. He scraped the jam from her mouth and sucked it off his finger. She expelled a long breath as she followed the movement.
“That’s one way to share the tart, I guess.” Her laughter was a bit squeaky.
“Or, we could share it this way.” He picked up her hand which held the remains of the tart and guided her fingers to his lips. As he meticulously licked her fingers clean, she stepped closer to him and closed her eyes. A slight moan escaped her lips and she leaned into him. The urge to kiss her made him weak in the knees. The scent of roses nearly overpowered him, stealing his breath. He still held her hand, and slid his other arm around her waist, his lustful thoughts making his heart pound and his body frail.
Her fingers tasted wonderful, and her lips beckoned him. At the last possible second, he backed off. If he gave in to his cravings and threw caution to the wind, what would be the outcome? He would be no better than his father. Chasing off to fight for America’s independence while she waited at home, barely breathing, certain each time he left might be his last. He would keep his feelings in check. It might take every ounce of willpower, but he could do so. He wiped his brow. It was going to be a long, tempting, day.