Law, Susan Kay

by Traitorous Hearts

  "I often wonder the same."

  "There will be time for family squabbles later, Jones. I'm here to win some drinks. Who is the next one?" Captain Livingston asked.

  "Carter."

  "Carter. Good God, man, you can't mean you named them alphabetically?"

  "I most certainly did."

  The captain chuckled. "Well, then, bring them on."

  Carter proved no better than Adam, nor did David, nor Frank. By the time Jon met George, the consensus was that the lieutenant must be tiring. They were wrong. One big, strapping blond man after another was defeated, giving way to strapping blond adolescents. Through it all, the lieutenant grinned and laughed and generally seemed delighted with the whole process. By the time Henry and then Isaac lost, Cad's anger had faded into weary resignation. This man could best his sons. He was mightily tempted to give it a shot himself, but he knew deep down, bitter as it was, that he would not fare better. Besides, Mary, his wife, would make sure he regretted it if he did something so foolish.

  "Well, that's it, then." Captain Livingston leaned back, crossing his thin legs at the knee, his booted foot swinging. "You may as well bring us some beer."

  "No E," the lieutenant put in abruptly.

  "What?" Livingston asked.

  "No E." Leighton pointed to the door. "A—Adam." He gestured to Brendan, who was propped comfortably against a far wall as he watched the proceedings. "B." He pointed to the remaining Jones sons in turn. "C, D, F, G, H, I. No E."

  "That's right, isn't it?" Captain Livingston clicked his tongue against his teeth. "We may as well make this complete. Where's the fifth one, Jones? Hiding him? Perhaps he's not quite up to snuff, eh?"

  "I told you, Bennie can't—"

  "Bennie? We're looking for the E one. Lose track of your letters, Jones?"

  Cad ground his teeth together. "I most certainly did not! Bennie's a nickname."

  "Well, then, bring him out. I'm sure Lieutenant Leighton wouldn't mind humiliating another one of your sons."

  "I'm Bennie." At the soft, musical voice, Jon leapt to his feet, tipping his bench over in his haste to stand rigidly at attention.

  "Dear God!" Captain Livingston's boots thunked on the plank floor as he abruptly sat up. "He's a woman!"

  "How brilliant of you to notice, Captain. I am Elizabeth Jones," she said.

  The captain stood and circled her slowly while she stood comfortably tall and waited. She was clearly a Jones: tall, strong-boned, and clean-featured. Her hair, wayward curls escaping from the tight braid down her back, combined all the various shades of her brothers': sunny gold, pale wheat, and a few strands of the dark, warm brown that matched her eyes. And, despite the loose, concealing fit of her flowing white shirt and baggy, gathered brown skirt, she was also clearly a woman. She had broad, square shoulders, generously rounded hips, and a matching, impressive bosom. The bunched fabric at her middle hid but hinted tantalizingly at a sharply curved waist.

  Captain Livingston smiled slowly and reached out to wind a curl of her hair around his forefinger, marveling at his good fortune. This wonderfully proportioned woman was the most intriguing female he'd seen since he'd landed. She was not only a colonial, but she worked in such a place as the Dancing Eel; clearly a woman who'd be flattered by the enthusiastic attentions of a young, fast-rising British officer. "You're rather a lot of woman, aren't you?" His gaze dropped to her breasts. "Ample. I like that."

  The spectators drew a collective, anticipatory breath and waited. In New Wexford, Elizabeth held a rather unique position. They didn't think of her as a girl, exactly; she was just Bennie Jones. She didn't really have a gender. But, on rare occasions, a traveler passing through town, intrigued by her curvy figure and encouraged by her quiet manner, would make the mistake of thinking that a wench who worked in a tavern was naturally a tavern wench.

  The damage Bennie could do to a man's ego was matched only by the damage she could do to his body— she'd had eight brothers to learn from, after all. And if that weren't enough, any man who was, in her brothers' opinion, disrespectful to Bennie could look forward to a painful visit from one or two or several of the Jones boys.

  Bennie stared directly down at the captain from her two-inch advantage. She grasped his wrist in one hand, and peeled his fingers off her hair with the other, bending those fingers back, and back, and back.

  "Yes, I am a lot of woman. It's too bad you're so little a man, isn't it," she said, so quietly Livingston was the only one who could hear her.

  The captain's face blanched nearly as white as his wig. He tried to jerk his hand from her grasp, but her grip was firm. She smiled and released him, giving a careless shrug. "Too bad."

  Color flooded back into his face. "Why, you..." He stopped. "Lieutenant Leighton, it appears you have another drink to win."

  "Now see here, Captain Livingston. I won't be having my Bennie touching that lump you call a lieutenant. I'll give you the damn drink," Cad protested.

  "Oh, but that wouldn't be acceptable at all," Livingston replied. "We had a wager. One drink for every one of your offspring the lieutenant defeats. I demand that you honor it."

  "But you didn't make Brendan go through with it."

  "No." The captain chuckled. "But there was no sport in that. This, I think, could be highly entertaining."

  "I will not have it!" Cad thundered.

  "Da." Bennie laid a calming hand on her father's arm. "I don't mind."

  "Ben, he could hurt you."

  She shook her head. "He won't."

  "You sound very sure."

  "I am."

  Cad sighed heavily. "But, Bennie, I—"

  "I'm going to do it anyway, Da, whatever you say."

  "Do none of you ever plan to let me finish a sentence?"

  She rose to plant a kiss on his grizzled cheek. "I can't help it, Da. I'm a Jones."

  She walked over to her opponent, who, for some reason, was still at attention, his gaze fixed at some point over everyone's head.

  Dear Lord, he was a big one, she thought. He was taller than her brothers, who, with the exception of Brendan, towered over her, and she was taller than every other man in New Wexford.

  Up close, he appeared less like an angel. His face wasn't ethereally perfect and insubstantial. He looked more like her vision of a devil, his face sharply chiseled, strong, seductively appealing. A face capable of drawing her in, luring the unwary into sin and destruction. A fallen angel.

  But that was only at first glance, for once she got past the initial shock of that compelling face, she could see it was strangely empty, devoid of life. Blank. His grin was broad, vacant. His lids were lowered over his eyes, making him look half-awake, or half-asleep. She could catch only a glimpse of pale, pure blue beneath them.

  "Hello," she said. "I'm Bennie."

  He looked down at her. Bennie blinked. Had she imagined it? For an instant, his eyes had opened fully, and she had seen blazing, brilliant blue—intense, aware, assessing. Now there was only that dull, simple expression again.

  "Yes, Bennie," he said. "Girl."

  She must have imagined it. She smiled back, unable to resist his childlike friendliness. She felt a twinge of pity for this simple, happy man. She had seen the way the other men had ridiculed him, had made him the butt of jokes, how his commanding officer had dismissed him. Simple Jon. Perhaps he didn't notice, but she did. She knew what it was like always to be the different one, the odd one, to have people see only the obvious. Perhaps it was easier not to know.

  "Yes, a girl. It's my turn to play the game now, all right?"

  "All right."

  He bent, clumsily righting his bench, and plopped down, jamming his elbow on the table and holding his hand in the air. He glanced at her expectantly. "I'm ready now."

  She couldn't suppress a small laugh. When she was younger, out of sight of her mother and father and the rest of the town, she had often tested her strength against her brothers. And not just arm wrestling, but sometimes in a full-scale, f
lat-on-your-back-in-the-dust wrestling match. She'd acquitted herself well, actually, winning her share—at least against her younger brothers. When she was thirteen, her mother had caught them at it. Her mother's obvious disappointment had wrenched Bennie, and she'd given up rough play. She'd missed the exercise almost as much as she regretted hurting her mother.

  Now Bennie would get a chance to try again. She knew she wouldn't win, of course, but the thought of competition sent the blood rushing through her veins anyway. Her mother would be disappointed once more, but Bennie had long ago given up the idea of being the daughter her mother wanted. It wasn't that she hadn't tried—and tried, and tried. She simply couldn't do it.

  Rolling up the sleeve of her linen shirt, she sat and placed her elbow carefully on the table, arranging herself for maximum leverage. She lifted her hand to place it in his—and froze.

  His hand. Dear Lord, he was going to touch her! With that big, strong, male hand. Attached to that big, strong, gorgeous male body. She felt oddly... odd.

  Stop it! she told herself. She'd touched lots of big, gorgeous men. So what if they were all related to her?

  She tilted her arm forward an inch. Her mouth went dry.

  That large, warm, male hand wrapped itself gently around hers.

  CHAPTER 2

  "Are you two prepared now?" Rufus asked. "Get ready. One..."

  "Stop!" Bennie licked her parched lips. She couldn't concentrate, could only stare at him. Strands of smooth brown hair escaped from the clumsy club at the back of his neck, falling around his beautiful, unearthly face, those sleepy blue eyes.

  "What's the matter, lass?"

  "Huh? Oh, nothing, Rufus, nothing. Just give me a moment, please." If they didn't start yet, then it wouldn't end so soon, and then maybe he'd hold her hand for just a little bit longer.

  What was she thinking? He was a British soldier. A clumsy, bumbling oaf of a British soldier at that. Maybe if she didn't look at that face... She dropped her gaze below his neck.

  Bad idea. In the warmth of the crowded tavern and the heat of the struggle, he'd discarded his coat and matching scarlet waistcoat, tossing them over the end of the table. His dingy white shirt was missing a button. The lamplight was dim and wavery, but she could catch occasional, flickering glimpses of... skin.

  He wasn't hairy. Her brothers were hairy. His chest looked like his hand felt: smooth, hard, warm. She squeezed his hand experimentally. Unyielding. Strong.

  He squeezed back.

  "Ready to play now, Bennie-girl?" His voice was low, a rumble as much as words, felt as much as heard.

  She looked up into those hazy, cheerful eyes. "Uh, yes, I guess so."

  Concerned, Rufus peered at her through his lenses. "Bennie, if you're not—"

  "Yes, yes, yes. Don't worry about me, Rufus. Let's just do it, please."

  "Well..." Clearly reluctant, he pinched his brows together.

  "Come on, Rufus."

  "If you insist. One... two... three..."

  Bennie pushed. Lieutenant Leighton's hand didn't waver. She pushed harder. Nothing moved. She dared a peek at his beaming face. His smile broadened. Bennie frowned, leaned forward to put her weight behind her arm, and pushed harder. Still nothing. But, surprisingly, her hand wasn't going backward, either.

  Gradually, she relaxed her arm. His grip on her hand loosened. Suddenly, without warning, she exerted full force. His muscles tightened fractionally, matching his power to hers. Still, he held her hand gently, almost tenderly, as if he were carefully curbing his overwhelming strength, as if her hand was fragile and precious.

  Bennie settled back, her hand still comfortably in his. "You're not going to win, are you?"

  He shook his head vigorously, sending wisps of hair flying around his face. "No."

  "Then I'm going to win?" she asked hopefully.

  He smiled like a proud little boy bringing home his first hornbook and shook his head again. "No."

  "Are we just going to sit here all night, then?" Actually, that wasn't such a terrible plan.

  His face clouding, his shoulders slumped. "I don't know."

  "That's enough!" Cad slammed his palm down on the table next to Bennie. "Let go of my daughter!"

  "Now just a moment." Captain Livingston rose from his bench. "This is not over."

  "Yes, it is. He's not going to defeat Bennie," Cad returned.

  "This is absurd. He could, easily, and you know it."

  "And how would I be knowing that? They're just sitting there," Cad said smugly.

  "Leighton, beat her now."

  "Sorry, Cap'n. She's a girl." Jon lifted his other hand and tried unsuccessfully to push the hair out of his eyes.

  "Yes, I know she's a girl. We all know she's a girl. I'm ordering you to defeat her!"

  The corners of Jon's exquisitely sculpted mouth drooped. "Can't. Bennie-girl." He thrust out his lower lip, giving a great gust of breath that lifted the strands of hair for a moment before they fell back across his face. " A nice girl."

  "Why, thank you, Lieutenant Leighton." Bennie smiled brilliantly at Captain Livingston. "I guess it will just have to be a draw, won't it?"

  "Leighton, you addle-brained oaf." The captain rubbed his temples tiredly. "Ah, you're not even bright enough to insult properly. Jones, bring us the drinks. All eight of them, mind you. I'll be counting. I could go for a nice Madeira, myself."

  "Well, there, Captain, we never said what kind of drinks, did we?"

  "I assumed the victor would choose, as in any gentleman's wager."

  "Well, now, I never claimed to be a gentleman, did I? We'll bring you a nice New England flip."

  "A New England flip?"

  "Just the thing to warm your bones on a cold November day." Cad smiled, but his eyes remained as frosty as the day he'd just spoken of. "Bennie, would you go get... Bennie!"

  "What, Da?"

  "Let go of that man!"

  "Huh? Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Da." Reluctantly, she slipped her hand from Lieutenant Leighton's, but she didn't move.

  "Now, Bennie. Go on and get to work." Cad narrowed his eyes warningly at his only daughter.

  "Yes, Da."

  "Go get these men New England flips."

  Curling her right hand protectively, savoring the lingering warmth from the lieutenant's touch, she floated toward the back of the tavern. "Yes, Da."

  In the shadowy serving area behind the cage bar, Bennie pulled out five great solid pewter mugs. She filled them with foamy dark beer and molasses, adding dried pumpkin as a sweetener. Taking the iron poker that was kept in the fire for just this purpose, she thrust the red-hot tip into each tankard, wrinkling her nose at the acrid, scorched-smelling steam produced.

  Expertly grabbing two mugs in one hand and three in the other, she returned to the main area of the taproom. The colonial customers had filled the outer ring of tables, leaving a clear space around the two tables the British occupied. Bennie went first to three young privates, their brick red coats appearing dull next to the brilliant scarlet their captain wore. They accepted their drinks with a quick nod, scarcely glancing up at her.

  Moving to the officers' table, she placed a mug in front of the captain, whose eyes remained securely fixed somewhere south of her neck, and she wondered briefly if she could get away with "accidentally" dumping the hot liquid in his lap. Probably not.

  She handed the last mug to Lieutenant Leighton. He took a great gulp—and promptly spewed it out in a great stream that landed unerringly on his captain's spotless waistcoat.

  "Ahhh! Burned!"

  Captain Livingston jumped to his feet, wiping at the stain soaking into his clothing. "Leighton, I swear you are the most simple, clumsy soldier I've ever had the bad fortune of having assigned to me! When we get back to camp, I'll make certain you regret this!"

  Bennie bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Can I get you a cloth, Captain?" She pulled a length of linen from her waistband and flipped it to him.

  "Sorry, Captain," Jon said glumly
.

  Elizabeth took one look at his face and all amusement fled. He looked like nothing so much as one of her nephews waiting to be punished, fearing the cane less than the hurt of having disappointed his parents. She reached out a hand to pat the lieutenant's shoulder consolingly but stopped herself in time. She couldn't go around touching strange, full-grown men, not even when the action seemed so natural.

  "It wasn't your fault," she said. "I should have told you it was hot."

  "I'm sorry," he repeated.

  "Oh, it's all right, Lieutenant," Livingston said, congratulating himself on his tolerance. "I know you didn't intend it."

  "No. I didn't. I'll clean it for you?" Jon asked hopefully.

  "Certainly, when we get back to camp. Now, why don't we finish our drinks? And try to be a bit more careful from now on, will you?"

  The captain blotted his waistcoat as best he could and returned the rag to Bennie. Settling back on the bench, he took a cautious sip of the drink. His mouth puckered and he gave a small shudder. "It's very bitter, isn't it?"

  Bennie flipped the damp towel over her shoulder. "Here we consider it the perfect drink to warm a man from the cold." Her subtle stress on the word man appeared to go unnoticed.

  "Yes, yes," Livingston said. "I can certainly see how it would be so. Very warming."

  "Bennie!" her father roared from the back of the tavern. He wondered, a frown crinkling his brow. "We have customers here, Ben!"

  "Coming, Da."

  Hurrying to keep every cup in the place filled, Bennie had no more time to pay much attention to the British soldiers firmly ensconced in the center of the room. Their presence made the tavern decidedly quieter than it normally was. The colonials drank steadily, puffed on their pipes, and stared at the redcoats. The Dancing Eel usually rang with shouted protests against the injustices and indignities the Crown imposed on her colonies; tonight, a wary caution silenced the crowd.

  Cad gave Bennie duties that kept her near the back of the room, choosing to serve the Englishmen's second round himself. Bennie couldn't believe her father voluntarily went within ten feet of the men—at least, not with peaceful intent. And yet, he clearly didn't want her near them. He'd always seemed to have faith in her ability to handle herself and any situation she came across. She wasn't used to his protectiveness.