Law, Susan Kay

by Traitorous Hearts

  Reaching her destination, she sank to the ground, unmindful of the slight dampness. A stream meandered through a miniature gorge; trees like tall sentinels marched along its edge. The brook was small. It didn't rush and burble along its bed; instead, it flowed smoothly, the sound quiet and soothing.

  For a long time she just stared at the water. Shadowed by overhanging limbs, the clear stream waved the long, slender weeds growing lushly along its bottom.

  Like Brendan, she'd thought she was immune to the damage words could do. She'd spent her youth being called gawk and giant and boy-girl. She'd dealt with it by becoming strong and proud and controlled. Yet she couldn't help the small but keenly sharp pain she felt when she failed, once again, to live up to her mother's expectations.

  Dragging her case toward her, she undid the clasps, pushed up the lid, and lifted out her violin, trailing her fingers lovingly over the rich, smooth wood, lightly plucking the taut strings, listening to the true, resonant notes produced.

  The violin had been a gift from her grandfather to the Jones children. Till the day he'd died, he'd never given up trying to "civilize" his daughter's family, and he considered an appreciation of fine music a gentlemanly trait. To his disappointment, none of the Jones boys had even the slightest interest in learning to play the "fiddle"—a term he considered an insult to the carefully crafted instrument. The lone exception was Brendan, and he, unfortunately, was completely devoid of talent.

  After it had gathered dust in a corner for years, Bennie had discovered the violin. Her father considered music lessons a useless frivolity; her mother urged her to try a more ladylike instrument. But Bennie had been drawn to it somehow, fascinated by the process of making a lifeless object sing.

  There'd been no one to teach her to play, so she had taught herself. Whenever a fiddler had played at a festival, she'd watched him carefully, studying how he moved his fingers, how he held his bow, how he strummed and plucked and drew music from strings and wood.

  Doggedly, she'd practiced, hour after hour; in the winter, hidden in the loft of the barn, her fingers stiff and chilled, and in the summer in the private sheltered depths of Finnigan's Wood. At first she was awful; the violin had squealed and squawked like a tortured cat, but as she experimented, occasionally there had been a single, pure note like the notes she heard in her head. And then, sometimes, there were two notes, and three, and finally, a collection she could call music.

  Now the music was hers, the one thing in her life she could truly know belonged to her alone; her fingers flew over the strings, and playing came to her as naturally and easily as breathing air. And it was nearly as essential. She could play any song she'd heard, never missing a beat or a note, but mostly she just played, matching the music to scenes in her head, creating a mood, giving voice to an emotion.

  Tucking the instrument firmly under her chin, she drew the bow across the strings once, letting the rich note fade, absorbed into the forest. Satisfied the tone was good, she sent her fingers flying in a series of quick notes that loosened her joints and reestablished her easy acquaintance with the instrument.

  Closing her eyes, she willed herself to relax, to concentrate only on the violin, searching herself for the music she would try to express.

  Loud, enthusiastic applause startled her from her comfortable isolation. She jumped to her feet and whirled, automatically hiding the violin behind her back.

  Jon Leighton, grinning hugely, clapping wildly, leaned against a stout tree. When she faced him, he straightened abruptly and snatched off his dusty, silver-trimmed tricorn, nearly crushing it in his hands.

  "Hello, Bennie-girl," he mumbled.

  "Hello, Lieutenant Leighton," she said, relaxing slightly. "What are you doing out here?"

  He shuffled his feet awkwardly, sheepishness creeping into his deep, husky voice. "I saw you go into the woods. I followed." He rolled his big shoulders. "I listened. Sorry."

  "That's all right." She found, to her surprise, that she meant it. She knew there would be no judgment from Jon. "Why aren't you with your company?"

  "There's no work today. The captain said I should go have fun."

  "Surely there's something you could do that you like better than tramping through the woods."

  "The others were playing cards, gambling." He frowned, distress written clearly on his handsome features. "Captain told them they shouldn't play with me. I'll lose all my money."

  "Oh," she said softly. Clearly, he was hurt by his fellow soldiers' refusal to allow him to play, and she had an absurd desire to soothe him.

  "Besides, you need me. Girls shouldn't be out alone." He thumped his chest. "I'll protect you."

  "But I don't..." Her voice trailed off. She had been going to answer, as always, that she didn't need protection, but what would it hurt to let him think she did? "You're absolutely right, Jon. It was silly of me. I would certainly appreciate your looking out for me."

  He beamed immediately, and Bennie was caught off guard by the beauty of his smile. He belonged in a painting, or on the ceiling of a church—or in a woman's dreams.

  "I can stay?" he asked hopefully.

  "You can stay." What was she going to do with him? She'd never played for anyone else, and she wasn't sure she could do it now. Her music was private, not for sharing. "What do you like to do?"

  "Everything."

  "Everything?"

  "The woods." He waved his arms at the trees encircling them. "I like to watch. To listen." Dropping his gaze, he stared at the violin she held loosely against her side. "I like music."

  Like an offering, she extended her instrument. "Would you like to try my violin?"

  Beneath his half lowered lids, something light and unidentifiable flared briefly in his pale eyes. "No." He looked sadly at his hands. "Too clumsy."

  "Oh, no you're not. Try it," she urged.

  "I might break it."

  "You won't."

  He tossed his hat aside and it sailed away to land at the base of a twisted oak tree. Nervously, he rubbed his hands on his breeches, then tentatively reached for the instrument. As soon as he touched the dark wood, he snatched back his hands as if he were afraid that that slight touch would do irreparable damage.

  His pleading expression was irresistible. Bennie didn't even try.

  "Would you like me to help you?"

  Jon nodded eagerly. Bennie went to stand behind him, placing her arms around him, and found she had to stand on tiptoe to reach the proper height. For the first time she could remember, she felt normal-size. Almost small.

  With her left hand, she lifted the violin and placed it snugly beneath Jon's chin, where he could cradle it securely with his neck and shoulder.

  "Now you should hold it," she suggested.

  "Wait a minute." He rolled up the loose sleeves of his shirt, exposing thick forearms, solidly sculpted muscle traced by prominent veins. Carefully, gently, he wrapped his hand around the neck of the violin. She was amazed at the delicacy of touch his big hands were capable of, and she was reminded of the similar way he had held her hand in the tavern the evening before.

  Concentrating on placing his fingers on the strings, she tried to ignore how close she was to him, how the muscles in his back bunched and shifted as he moved. It was almost an embrace, and Bennie wondered if this was how it would feel if he held her—this heat, this almost breathless anticipation.

  She could scarcely reach around him, and she needed to get closer to find the proper fingerings. She pressed herself even more tightly against him, conscious of the nearly painful but completely wonderful sensation in her breasts as they pushed against the solid wall of his back.

  She took a great gulp of air to clear her head; the air was tinged faintly with drying grass and distant smoke, leaves and fall, warmth and Jon. When she exhaled, her breath stirred the loosely gathered hair at the nape of his neck. His right hand held the bow, and she curled her hand around his. His wrists were supple, powerful, tendons standing out boldly.

&
nbsp; "Here," she murmured. "We draw the bow across the strings, like this."

  A single, clear note sang from the old violin. Jon turned in her arms, grinning at her boyishly.

  "Pretty," he said.

  He was close against her, and Bennie suddenly wished for the bulky protection of her skirts. "Oh... yes, it was pretty."

  "No." Her hands dangled limply, the bow in one, the violin in the other. His arm was around her back, holding her in place—as if she could move!—and he lifted his other hand to her cheek.

  He stroked the curve softly, tracing her cheekbone, and once again Bennie was struck by the amazing delicacy of his touch. There was so much gentleness hidden in his giant frame. What other things lay undiscovered and unlooked for in him?

  "No," he whispered. "Not the note. You."

  Pretty. Pretty was a word for tiny, elegant, feminine women. Bennie had never been any of those things. She was tall and striking and strong. Statuesque. But when this handsome man looked at her with such tenderness in his face, she almost believed it.

  "Too pretty for a boy's name. Do you have another name besides Bennie?"

  "Elizabeth."

  "Elizabeth." He slid his fingers over the tendrils of hair at her temple. "Yes. Beth."

  "Beth," she repeated, the word almost a sigh. It was a small, feminine name. "No one calls me Beth."

  "Then I will." He lifted his head, so suddenly alert Bennie started in surprise. "What was that?"

  "What?"

  "I heard something—a sound in the bushes."

  Bennie glanced around. The undergrowth was still, and she heard only a faint rustling. "It was probably just an animal."

  "Maybe." His intent awareness vanished as quickly as it had come, and he again looked sleepy and vague.

  "How about you?" she asked. "Is your full name Jonathan?"

  "No." He stepped back abruptly, dropping his hands, and Bennie acutely felt the absence of his touch. "Just Jon. Only Jon."

  "Then Jon it is."

  He bobbed his head in acknowledgment. "Play for me?"

  "You really want me to?"

  "Please."

  "All right," she agreed.

  He beamed, fetching his discarded hat, and settled himself on the ground, lying back and cushioning his head with the crushed tricorn. "I'm listening."

  It was much easier than she'd thought, to play for someone else—at least, to play for Jon. Somehow she knew he'd love anything she played. She lifted the violin to position, closed her eyes, remembered the way she felt when he'd touched her, and began to play.

  ***

  This was a mistake.

  He was supposed to be discovering what was happening in New Wexford. There was too much information flowing in and out of this small town, information vital to both sides, and it was his job to find out why.

  When Jon had seen Bennie Jones slipping into the forest, he'd at first told himself that he was following her because she was a possible suspect. Truthfully, he still was; he knew nothing that eliminated her.

  But that wasn't why he'd followed her, even though—for a moment—he'd deluded himself into thinking that it was. He rarely was anything less than candid with himself, and it bothered him deeply that not only had he been dishonest, he had done it over a woman.

  She intrigued him. She had layers, he could tell.

  Things hidden beneath the surface. He was always compelled to dig beneath the obvious; it was one of the things that had led him to his job in the first place. He wanted—too much—to strip away a few of her layers.

  Intense concentration puckered her forehead as she played, stray golden curls bobbed wildly around her head, and, Lord, did she have legs. He was suddenly sure why women were supposed to hide underneath skirts: the sight of legs like hers could cause a man to do stupid things. Her calves were smoothly molded; he felt sure they would be delightfully firm to his touch, and her thighs were womanly. Her limbs were incredibly long; it would take a man several deliriously happy days to kiss his way up their length.

  His job did not allow extended, serious involvement with women. It had never mattered to him before—but now he hated it. He could care about her, but there was no time, no way to let himself get to know her, no way at all to let her get close to him.

  It was simply too dangerous. He came too close to slipping when she was near, his concentration broken by the distraction of her mere presence. He couldn't afford to make any mistakes now; too many lives depended on it, including his own.

  Yet he couldn't seem to stay away from her. She drew him in a way that was both completely unexpected and wholly irresistible. He wanted her to know what was beneath his act, an act he'd lived for so long even he was unsure what she'd find beneath the surface—if there was anything left.

  Frustrated, Jon tore his gaze away from her, looking up through the black, skeletal boughs of the tree at the pale blue sky, and listened. Her music was nothing like any he had ever heard before; it was fluid, changeable, easy, mimicking the gliding soar of a hawk, then the quiet, meandering flow of a stream. It shifted again, becoming slow, subtle, intense, a fierce, beating undercurrent of passion.

  He had to leave before it was too late....

  It already was. Jon closed his eyes and let the music flow through him.

  CHAPTER 4

  Holding her skirts high above her ankles, Bennie made a small leap over the puddle of icy water as she skirted the New Wexford Common. Last night's rain had left the low areas wet and muddy, although the distant sun was doing a fair job of drying out the high spots. After all the residents of four villages had tromped through the common for the mustering, the place was going to be a black, sloppy mess.

  Well, at least somebody liked it; a half dozen hogs were squealing happily, rooting and snorting in the hollow next to the schoolhouse. The pigs ran free in the town, earning their keep by devouring all sorts of garbage and waste, but in wet weather they could always be found here, burying themselves in the abundant mud.

  "Watch out!"

  "Get it before it ends up in the hollow!"

  A blown-up pig's bladder rolled toward her, followed by four puffing, red-faced boys. Bennie stuck out her foot to stop it, giving it a sharp kick in the direction of Adam, her oldest nephew.

  "Hey, thanks, Bennie. I didn't want to have to go in after it."

  She reached out and ruffled his blond hair. Although he was only ten, his head already nearly reached her chin. "If I were you, I'd choose a little less crowded place to play football. You know Rufus thinks the game is a menace."

  "Yeah, well." Adam tossed the ball from hand to hand. "Father said we should go off behind the school to play. But Ma's making gingerbread, an' it's almost ready, an' you know if Father gets there first he'll eat the whole thing, an'—"

  "And nothing, Adam. If you charge into someone and bump them over while you're playing, you're not going to get any at gingerbread at all. Besides, your father will be too busy today to eat any gingerbread."

  "Oh, sure," he grumbled, his eyes wide with complete disbelief.

  Bennie laughed. "All right, maybe he'll find a bit of time. But he won't get more than half of it, I'm certain. Now you all go off and play and I'll make sure someone comes to get you when it's time to eat."

  Adam darted off, trailed by his three smaller friends.

  Tightening her shawl around her shoulders, Bennie continued around the square. Although the day was clear, the sun bright, the air had a definite bite, and Bennie thought she caught the crisp, metallic tang of approaching winter. The blue of the unclouded sky was pale, as if the color had been washed of intensity, a hue that reminded her of Jon's eyes.

  His eyes. Why was she still remembering his eyes? It wasn't as if she'd seen him since that afternoon in the woods when he'd listened to her play. The weather had turned colder since then, and she'd only been able to get back there once, practicing in the stables the other days. Yet every time she'd brought out her instrument, she'd found herself looking for h
im. Missing his presence.

  How absurd. She'd played thousands of times alone, only once with him there. She couldn't have become accustomed to him so quickly. Still, it had felt good to share the music. To have a friend who seemed to like it as much as she did.

  A friend. Oddly, that's the way she thought of him— as if she knew anything about having a friend. She had more family than she knew what to do with, but she'd never really had a friend. She'd always been too different, too awkward, too... something, to be close to someone who wasn't related to her.

  It was impossible: he was a soldier, he was British, he was a man. He was beautiful and simple and completely out of her realm of experience. He was many things, but he couldn't be her friend, and she'd do well to remember it.

  The common was already crowded with people. The annual mustering was as much an excuse for all the residents of the area to gather as it was a military exercise. Bennie wended her way through the peddlers selling books, patent medicines, and hats; candy, sweetmeats, and cutlery. She inspected a particularly fine collection of twig baskets and pretended not to notice the men, carefully out of sight of their wives, gambling with homemade playing cards.

  Betsy Grout, Rufus's wife, along with a number of other women, was selling a tempting array of sweets arranged on tables in front of her husband's store.

  "What will you have, Bennie?"

  Bennie rubbed her stiff fingers together. "Mmm, tea, I think."

  "Yes, it is a little brisk this morning, isn't it?" Betsy poured the steaming liquid. "Sugar?"

  "Absolutely." Bennie grinned. "Lots. And you might as well make it two teas. I'm going to stop over at Brendan's."

  "It's a fine day for the mustering, despite the chill." Using a sharp pick, Betsy chipped several large tan chunks off of the hard, beehive-shaped lump of sugar. "I just hope everything goes well."