The first thing he had to do was get the townspeople accustomed to seeing him around. He needed them to see him exactly as the rest of his company did—affable, clumsy, none too bright, a threat to no one. A careless word in his presence, a bit of conversation no one expected him to understand, and the job would be nearly done and he could move on to the next one.
Walking past the pig wallow, he grimaced. A good part of last week's snow had melted, leaving the rest dingy and ugly, and the pigs well supplied with mud. They squealed as he passed, as if in greeting.
"Can't stay and play today, boys," he muttered, hoping he'd never again be called on to bury himself in mud for his country. There were limits, after all.
"Hey, pig man!" A chunk of packed snow and dirt whacked into his right shoulder. Jon nearly groaned aloud. Not now! All he'd planned to do was go to the Dancing Eel, drink a little too much, and lose a good deal of money at cards. He'd heard harassment of the British troops had increased; they were often pelted with rocks and rotten vegetables if they so much as set foot in New Wexford. It seemed the young men and boys had learned quickly enough the soldiers were under orders not to retaliate.
He had no intention of getting into a wrangle with a bunch of bored little boys who thought he made an easy target. Damn. Why weren't they in school? So what if it was nearly suppertime? They should tuck the little brats safely away in boarding school, as he had been.
The tavern was only a few yards away. Jon quickened his pace. He was almost safely away.
Another chunk thunked off the back of his neck. Bloody hell, the buggers had pretty good aim.
Here we go, Jon thought, act two.
He stumbled over an imaginary rut in the path and landed face down in a pile of dirty snow.
Jon shoved himself over and rubbed at his face. The snow was granular, like tiny bits of ice, and stung as he wiped it off.
He was surrounded by a half dozen small boys. Right in front of him was a familiar, tow-headed boy, a smug smile on his face as he patted a handful of snow.
" 'Cor, you is the dumbest big bloke, ain't ya?"
"I remember you."
"Yeah?" Jimmy ran his sleeve under his red nose. "Well, I remember you too. An' you ain't gettin' rid of us so easy this time."
A withered apple core bounced off Jon's cheek. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. My pa says the lobsterbacks can't do nothin' to any of us Americans, no matter what. Not without, uh, auton..."
"Authority," another boy whispered.
"Yeah, authority. So the way I figures it, we can do pretty much what we want to you." He reached down and pulled Jon's nose.
Jon wondered if the little blighter had any idea of the insult he'd just delivered, but right now he was more concerned with the ball of hard-packed snow Jimmy was aiming at his face.
Jon dragged himself to his feet with every intention of finally heading into the Dancing Eel. With any luck, some of the patrons had seen the little scene he'd just created. He'd hate to think he'd pretended to be harmless for nothing.
The door to the tavern flew open. Beth rushed out in a swirl of navy blue cape. Her shoulders were set, her eyes narrowed in an expression of determination he'd seen once before—when she'd come to Sarah's rescue.
Except this time, she was going to rescue him.
He'd given up pride long ago—it was a luxury a man in his profession couldn't afford—but this was too much. A man shouldn't have to be saved from a pack of pint-size would-be soldiers by his woman.
He looked to heaven for help. Please, God, don't let her rescue me.
"Hey, boys! What are you doing there?"
He closed his eyes. Please God, no.
"Boys! You run on home before I tell your mothers!"
It was hopeless. When had God ever helped him when he'd asked for it?
He heard the boys scurrying away. One last snowball— Jimmy's parting shot, no doubt—struck his temple.
What else was a proper spy to do? Jon dropped to the ground, lay sprawled on his back, and waited for Beth.
CHAPTER 8
Unmindful of the snow, Bennie fell to her knees next to Jon's prostrate form. He was still, his scarlet coat a vivid splash against the gray-white snow.
She'd spent two weeks berating herself for her foolish behavior after the mustering. Kissing him, for heaven's sake. She'd probably scared the man half to death. She'd told herself that the next time she saw him, she'd be friendly, but casual and controlled. She could manage this friendship as long as she kept her distance.
Then she'd seen the boys baiting him, and she'd rushed out without a second thought. She couldn't let them hurt him, even though she knew there was really little chance they could do him any actual physical harm. But she was afraid they'd hurt his feelings, and she'd been determined to stop them.
But now, as he lay too quiet and motionless on the cold ground, she wondered if they'd truly injured him after all. He seemed so strong and healthy; she hadn't suspected he was so vulnerable.
"Jon? Jon, are you all right?"
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking twice. "Wha... what happened?"
"You were hit with a snowball."
"Oh." He struggled to sit up.
"Wait." She rested her hands on his chest to keep him down. "Not so fast. Let me have a look at you first."
She lightly probed the red welt on his temple. He flinched a bit, but it didn't seem too serious. "Jon, can you see everything clearly?"
"Yes." His gaze held hers. "Very clearly." He reached up and took her hand, pressing her palm against his cheek. "No gloves, Beth. Shouldn't be out here. You'll get cold."
His fingers enfolded hers gently. "Hmm? Oh. I didn't stop to get any. Besides, you don't have any on."
He grinned. "I'm always warm."
He was. She could feel the heat from his hand, seeping into her chilled fingers. "You won't be if you keep lying here in the snow. We have to get you inside."
His eyes flashed blue. "I'd like to be inside."
If she knelt beside him any longer, she was going to kiss him again. Right out here in full sight of half the town. It wouldn't even matter that she would probably scare him out of his wits, just like last time. All she would care about was that his kiss had the power to warm her soul.
She jumped up and brushed off the snow clinging to her wet skirts. "Come on, then."
Jon pushed himself to his feet and trailed her into the Eel.
There were at least a dozen men in the tavern, clustered around the tables closest to the fire. When Jon entered, they turned to look at him. Although their eyes were narrowed in mistrust, several smiled with what appeared to be reluctant amusement.
Good, he thought. At least the show hadn't been for nothing. He plastered his idiot smile back on his face. "Hello."
Cadwallader hurried forward, wiping his hands on a limp swatch of linen. "Bennie, what is he doing here?"
Beth planted herself in front of Jon. Ah, damn, she was protecting him again.
"Da, he's cold. He just needs to be warmed up."
"We'll not be serving his kind here."
She moved closer to Jon, and his muscles tightened as he caught a faint, familiar whiff of lavender.
"He's not going to harm anyone, Da. It's just Jon."
Just Jon. His cheeks hurt as he forced himself to maintain the stupid smile.
Glowering fiercely at Jon, Cad flipped the rag over his shoulder. His expression softened when his gaze fell on Beth.
"All right, he can stay. Only for a bit, mind you." He returned his attention to Jon. "Cold, are you? No stamina, you redcoats. Never mind, I'll make you a flip. Warm you right up."
Jon choked. "A flip?"
A smile crinkled the corners of Cad's eyes. "Not a flip, eh? Well, maybe a little mulled cider."
Jon nodded enthusiastically.
Cad went off to fetch the drink. Jon settled himself at a table with Rufus, the shopkeeper, and one of Beth's brothers—Carter, he thought. The men glared as h
e sat down.
"Can I sit here?" Jon asked in his most innocent voice.
"Well..."
"Carter," Bennie said warningly.
"Oh, all right."
Bennie hovered around, her hands fluttering. She reached toward Jon, then withdrew her hand, her gaze sliding from Jon to Carter and back again.
"Bennie," Carter said.
She jumped. "What?"
"Would you stop flitting around like that? You're acting like a bee who can't find a flower to land on," Carter said. "I'm not going to hurt him. The lieutenant and I are just going to have a little chat. Why don't you go find something to do?"
Jon looked so eager, Bennie thought, as if he was delighted that somebody wanted to talk to him. Yet he was so alone here, surrounded by Americans, and she was the only one who cared whether he was hurt.
"Beth?" Jon's question was soft. "You sit, too?"
"You want me to join you?"
"Yes." Jon patted the bench next to him.
"Beth?" Carter was suddenly alert. "What's this about 'Beth'?"
"Bennie's a boy's name." Jon beamed up at her. "I like Beth."
A warm flush of pleasure flooded her, even though she knew he was talking about the name, not the woman.
Carter gave a brotherly snort. "Hmph. Bennie's always been a good enough name before."
Bennie plopped down on the bench. "I like Beth, too."
Jon's arm brushed hers. The last time she'd sat on a bench in the Dancing Eel with him, she'd kissed him. Was it her imagination, or had he slid a bit closer to her? Jon shifted his legs, and his thigh ended up resting against hers. Even through her skirts, she could feel the solid length of his muscle. The room was suddenly uncomfortably warm. Had someone built up the fire?
Cad had returned, and he slammed a tankard down on the table in front of Jon. Cider sloshed over the rim. "I hope nobody thinks I'm going to be renaming my only daughter after twenty-three years."
"I'm not asking you to, Da."
Cad grunted and left to see to his other customers.
"So, Lieutenant." Carter braced his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "What did you think of the mustering?"
"Jon," he said.
"Huh?" Carter looked taken aback.
"You can call me Jon."
"Oh. Well, then, Jon. What did you think of the mustering?"
"It was good. I liked it." Perfect teeth flashed in a perfect smile. What had his parents been like, Bennie wondered, to produce a son as handsome as Jon?
She looked at his big hand wrapped around the tankard. "Your hand? How is it?"
Jon held out his hand, palm up. A narrow red line cut across the thin skin between his thumb and forefinger. He flexed his fingers slowly.
"It's fine. Tough to fire my musket well, though. Still hurts a little. Makes me shoot bad."
Carter nearly choked on a mouthful of ale. "You shoot worse now?"
Jon nodded mournfully. "Yes, worse. And we have to practice all the time now too."
Rufus sat up straighter. "Practice?"
"Yes, practice." Now came the tricky part. He had to give them just the right amount of information—not too much, not too little. Too little didn't do any good; too much was dangerous. Years of this work had taught him the proper balance. "We must shoot every day now. Captain's orders. Fix fort and drill. That's all we ever do now."
Rufus and Carter exchanged glances. "Fix the fort?"
"Oh, yes." He made them wait a little while he gulped down the warm, sweet cider. The flavor burst in his mouth; the snap of apple blended with the sharpness of alcohol and spices. "It was all broken. No good to stay in. We had to sleep in tents."
"I'll bet that was uncomfortable," Rufus said encouragingly.
"Cold, too. But it's almost fixed now. We can move in after the new year, I think."
"That'll be much better, I'm sure." Carter gave him a friendly smile.
"Better." Jon tipped up the tankard and drained his cider. "Have to go back now."
"So soon? Let me get you another drink." Carter signaled Cad.
"No, no. Must go." Jon turned to Beth. "Good-bye, Beth."
"Do you have to go?"
She actually looked sorry to see him go, the warmth fading in her soft brown eyes. Little did she know how soon she'd see him again, he thought, and felt once more that unfamiliar pang of guilt.
He ignored it. Whatever pangs, urges, and other useless feelings his body insisted on coming up with were secondary to the job at hand. "Have work to do," he said.
***
With a snap of her wrist, Bennie spread the woolen blanket over a layer of hay. In the winter, when it was too cold to escape to the woods, this was where she came to play.
The stables behind the Dancing Eel were made of stone and spacious enough to accommodate both her family's own horses and those of the occasional travelers who stayed overnight at the tavern. The loft over the stables held a plentiful supply of fodder, and the thick stone walls kept out the worst of the cold; the only windows were small openings that let in a little light and not much else.
The loft smelled of sweet dried grasses and horses. It was snug and quiet, and nobody but Bennie ever came up here unless it was time to bed down the animals.
Bennie sat down on the blanket and pulled her violin case over to her. She'd managed to duck out of the tavern shortly after Jon had left, unable to satisfactorily explain to her father why she'd brought a British officer to the Eel.
Her explanation, that Jon was a friend, hadn't satisfied him. He'd lowered his eyebrows at her and demanded to know exactly how his daughter had gotten so friendly with a redcoat, even such a harmless one as Jon seemed to be. She'd mumbled something about seeing him at the mustering, and something else about feeling sorry for him. Her father had looked decidedly skeptical, and Bennie was increasingly aware that the way she felt about Jon wasn't quite friendship and had little to do with pity.
So she'd slipped out at the first opportunity, fetched her violin, and escaped to the stables. A thin beam of late afternoon sun streamed through a tiny window; particles of dust floated in the air. Bennie blew on her chilled fingers and unlatched her case.
"Beth? Are you here?"
Her fingers stilled. "Jon?"
"Where are you?"
"I'm up in the loft."
"Stay there. I'm coming up."
His head poked up through the access hole in the far corner of the floor. She could only make out the shadow of his form in the dim light as he braced his hands on either side of the opening and shoved himself upward.
Even if he hadn't spoken, Bennie would have known immediately who it was; she would have recognized those shoulders anywhere.
"What are you doing here? I thought you had to get back to your company."
Jon scuffled through the loose hay, kicking up chaff as he came toward her. He sat down cross-legged next to her and coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. "Dusty."
He pulled off his tricorn and tossed it aside. His club had come undone again, and his hair fell in a smooth, rich brown swath to his shoulders. "Didn't have to get back. Just didn't want to talk to them." His lids were lowered over his eyes, making him look relaxed and surprisingly sensual. "Wanted to talk to you. Alone."
"You did? What about?"
"Don't want to talk anymore."
She swayed toward him.
"I want to—"
"Yes?" she whispered.
"Listen."
Bennie stiffened. "Listen?"
"Yes." He smoothed a stray curl from her temple, his touch restrained and infinitely gentle. "Will you play for me again, Beth?"
His voice was a rough rumble. If he kept looking at her like that, she'd do nearly anything he asked. "Of course."
She wasn't sure how long she played, she only knew that the music came easier than it ever had. Light music, happy music, music that didn't speak of fear or loneliness. Music that was meant to be shared. And every time she glanced at him, he w
as smiling, watching her, his fingers lightly tapping his knees in time with the music. If his rhythm was sometimes off, who cared?
When her own fingers finally tired, she let the final note fade quietly away and slumped down onto the blanket next to Jon.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For sharing your music with me."
"Thank you for letting me." She plucked idly on the strings. "I've never wanted to before."
"Never?"
"Never," she confessed softly.
There it was again, that flare of light in his eyes. Curiosity? Alertness? Intensity? It was too brief to identify. Yet it somehow made him unfamiliar, a hint of the man he must have been before his accident— perhaps, a bit of what he still could be, if someone was compassionate enough to look beyond his simple surface.
She was, suddenly, fiercely glad he was no longer that man. For that man, she was sure, would never have taken the time to sit in a stable loft and listen to a plain, overgrown woman play the violin. And that man would never have looked at her with such open appreciation and easy delight.
That man, a man with intelligence and determination to match his looks, would be too busy setting the world on fire. Too busy lighting another kind of fire in every beautiful woman he came across—lovely, delicate, feminine woman. He would never have had time for her.
Sick guilt assailed her. It was pure selfishness on her part, to wish this on him simply because she wanted him near. If she'd ever thought about it, she would have considered herself a relatively nice person. To find that she was glad of another's misfortune, because it gave her something she hadn't even realized she wanted so desperately, was a shock. But wishing it wasn't so didn't make it go away.
Jon watched the light go out of her eyes and her fine, strong shoulders droop. She looked so sad. What had happened to change her mood? He scooped up a handful of hay and poured it over her head. It drifted down, sticking in the wild, golden curls of her hair, settling on her chest.
"Not scarecrow," he said. "Scare-woman."
"Oh, really?" Grabbing a handful, she tossed it at him.
He clutched at his heart and toppled over backward. "Oh-ho, you want to fight me, do you?" He stood up, his fists filled, and advanced on her steadily. "Couldn't beat me at arm wrestling. Think this is easier?"
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