"I... hurt you?"
"No!"
"Open wider," he urged, his gentle hands on her thighs telling her what he meant. She shifted, rising slightly to her knees, and did as he bade. He slipped one finger into her. The alien sensation made her clench her muscles.
"Easy," he whispered. "Easy."
The familiar rumble of his voice soothed her even as the smooth glide of his fingers sent her reeling. Music pulsed through her head. This was not the fluid, melodic notes of a single violin; this was an orchestra in full crescendo, clashing, building, a music that surrounded and swelled, lifted and filled. And all she could do was drop her head to his shoulder and hang on.
She barely managed to keep hold of a thread of reality, a thread that made her want to see if she could make him tremble too. The buttons on his breeches nearly defeated her clumsy fingers, but finally she freed him. Her hands were filled with heat, a thick, hard column spread with smooth, satiny skin, as solid and strong as the rest of him. Entranced, she closed her hand around it.
It was too much for him. He grasped her by the hips and lifted her. Her skirts billowed around his thighs. He probed lightly, but slipped away. The slide of her moist softness against him was incredible, but it wasn't what he wanted.
"Help me," he coaxed hoarsely.
Guided only by instinct, she took a firmer grip to hold him steady, and pushed herself down on his hardness. A bare inch of the tip filled her, stretching her tender flesh. Was it ecstasy? Agony? No matter; she only knew she wanted this, needed this, with an intensity that left no room for fear.
A low growl, and he surged up into her, entering her with a swiftness that stole her breath. A sharp pain, a spreading burn, and she collapsed against him.
He wouldn't allow it. Taking her face in his hands, he lifted it, kissing her with a slow thoroughness that soon had the warmth spreading through her veins again. He was all things forbidden, fire and thunder and sin.
She leaned back a bit, settling herself more fully, testing. Lightning flashed again, and she saw his face. Hard, perfect, all shadows and angles and strength. His eyes were burning, pale, holding their own bolt of lightning.
Experimentally, he flexed his hips once, and was rewarded with her gasp. Oh, Lord, he thought, if I have to die, let it be now.
It was too fast. He felt the steady, insistent throb of pleasure, and knew it would be too fast. There wouldn't be time to bring her with him.
He put his hand down between them, touching the place where his body joined hers, and felt himself glide even deeper into her. He stroked her, insistent, demanding.
"Sing, Beth," he urged. "Sing."
And she sang, flying to a place where the music had colors and textures and taste. "Come with me," she said.
He felt her shudder, felt her body close even more tightly around him. He thrust deeply, once, twice. Then the music took him too.
CHAPTER 15
He lay on his back on the woolen blanket, Beth sprawled across him. Her cheek rested against his chest; her wild curls tickled his nose. Idly, he stroked her back, his fingers drifting over her fine, soft skin.
As much as he knew what he'd just done was wrong, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Not yet. Not when her legs still tangled with his and her breasts were crushed against him. Not when the scent of lavender and lovemaking clung to his nostrils. Most of all, not when he was still joined with her.
"Have to go," he said reluctantly.
"I know." She pressed a kiss on him just above his right nipple.
An incredible languor had seeped through her. Moving didn't sound terribly appealing. Returning to reality sounded even worse. When he slipped out of the part of her that still tingled from their pleasure, she groaned in protest.
"Have to go," he repeated.
Reality came whether she wanted it to or not. She felt him move beside her, pushing himself to his feet. He was leaving—really leaving, not just returning to the fort. He was going away to shoot at people, and have them shoot back.
And she didn't know if she would ever see him again.
It shouldn't be so easy to get dressed again. All she had to do was slip her blouse back up over her shoulders and pull her skirts back down over her hips. All he had to do was button up his breeches and tuck in his shirt.
It made it seem as if it all had been so furtive, a quick, stolen fumbling in the dark. It had been nothing like that; it had been the most brilliantly beautiful thing that had ever happened to her.
Because it had made her feel beautiful. She'd felt like the woman she knew she wasn't: feminine, seductive, her emotions close to the surface. If nothing else, she was glad that just once in her life she'd felt like that.
"I can't fasten my buttons. Could you help me?"
He groped for her in the darkness, his hands grazing private places until he found the buttons he sought. He moved slowly, reluctant to close her blouse, the final symbol that the interlude was over. He couldn't resist trailing his lips up her spine as he slipped the smooth disks through their holes.
"Sorry, Beth. Some... gone. Tore off."
"That's all right."
He turned her around, wrapped his arms around her, settled her close, and held her. fust held her. Outside, the thunder and lightning had ended, leaving the steady rain that poured rhythmically from the dark skies.
"Didn't want to hurt you, Beth."
"You didn't hurt me." She clutched at his back, holding him closer. "You could never hurt me."
Finally, they could hold back the world no longer. He let her go and rose, stepping carefully to the corner where the ladder descended back to reality. She followed.
"Don't have to come. Can stay here," he said when she started down after him.
"I'll see you out."
Horses snuffled quietly in their stalls, oblivious to the storm without and the tension vibrating between the two people who passed. Jon slid open the door to the stable. Wind gusted through it, bringing the rain, cold, and darkness.
He paused, laying his palm along her cheek. Softly, tenderly, with the gentleness she was accustomed to from him. His thumb traced her cheekbone, delicate strokes that made her feel cherished.
Already, she missed the thunder.
"Too dark. Wish I could see you," he said huskily.
"Me, too." Unable to resist, she reached up, letting her fingertips see for her. Skimming her fingers over his face, she followed the familiar contours, memorizing the sharp angle of his jaw, the strong slope of his nose. Slowly, always slowly, she traced the firm curve of his mouth.
He opened his mouth and brought her fingers inside. Dark, warm, all too seductive. His tongue curled around her thumb, and she couldn't help remembering how that tongue felt gliding over her nipple and skating over her skin. Lord help her, she wanted it again.
"Sorry, Beth. For everything. Sorry."
Her throat threatened to close. "Don't be."
"Still sorry." He lowered his head to kiss her. His lips clung to hers, sweetly, delicately, a supple connection, his breath sighing into her mouth.
"Never forget you, Beth."
"I'll never forget you, either."
He brushed her mouth with his once more, then turned quickly and walked away. Bennie took a step, out into the rain and the wind. Her eyes strained, hoping for just one final glimpse of that large form walking away from her in the storm. There was only blackness and rain.
She blinked her eyes to clear them. It didn't matter; there was nothing to see. The rain had already soaked through her clothes, plastering them to her. The wind was strong, freezing, seeming to go through her skin as easily as it did the sodden cloth. She welcomed the cold. At least she could feel something. She needed to feel something.
She reached up, wiping the rain from her cheeks, and wondered how the moisture on her face had gotten so warm.
***
The days dragged by.
Cad prowled the Eel, his impatience to be with his sons clearly evident. He gr
abbed on to the tiniest scrap of news as if it were a precious jewel, but there was little news of any worth to be had. He drilled the alarm company, a ragged but dedicated group of old men and young boys, until their feet blistered in their boots.
Mary's serene countenance never seemed to waver, but she rarely smiled, going through the motions each day with calm detachment. She no longer seemed to notice Bennie's activities and only came to full awareness whenever Isaac proposed she should allow him to go off to join the army too. Then, suddenly alert, she brooked no disagreement. Isaac was staying in New Wexford.
Isaac mumbled and shuffled through his chores. His work was slapdash, and he complained loudly to all within earshot that a healthy young man should be fighting beside his fellow countrymen, not slopping the floors of a tavern. He knew precisely how many days there were to his sixteenth birthday—173.
Bennie worked. She scrubbed windows and counted barrels, polished silver and served drinks to the customers who passed through New Wexford on their way to Cambridge and the army. She took over Henry's responsibilities, caring for the horses and the stables. Inventory and stocking were George's duties, and she capably handled them, too.
There was little she could do to keep Brendan's press working, but at least one day a week she opened up the shop, aired it out, and scrubbed it from rafters to floor. While she was there, she managed to sell a few patent medicines and writing implements.
Whatever time she wasn't working she spent with her nephews and niece. Their mothers were overwhelmed, trying to keep the households going by themselves at the same time they worried over their husbands. The younger children couldn't understand why their fathers were gone and their mothers were always busy, and they welcomed the extra attention from their Aunt Bennie.
The older children understood far too well. It pained her to see their usually exuberant, playful personalities so subdued. Adam junior tried too hard to take on the responsibilities of the man he was too young to be. Sarah spent hours holding her cat close, sitting and watching spring push its way upon the land. All Bennie could do for either of them was hold them and hope she was there if they ever needed her.
No matter how much Bennie crammed into her daytime hours, it didn't seem to be enough. She tried to exhaust her body and her mind, hoping she'd fall asleep the instant she hit her mattress. It didn't work; she dreamed anyway, dark, disjointed dreams edged with smoke and blood. The only thing she remembered when she awoke, struggling for breath, was the image of Jon and her brothers smiling at each other—then lifting their muskets and blowing each other's chests away.
For the first time, she wasn't able to turn to her music; she couldn't seem to make it come out right. After years of it being her own private melody, she'd experienced the delight of sharing it, and she couldn't go back to the loneliness. The music seemed empty, echoing, as hollow as the yawning cavern in her chest where her heart should have been.
***
Brendan was back.
He strolled into the Dancing Eel the first day of June, leaned against the wall, and called for an ale.
"Brendan!" Bennie didn't bother to excuse herself to the two old farmers she'd been waiting on. She fairly flew across the room and threw her arms around him.
"I can't believe you're really home," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. She gave him one more squeeze and stepped back. "What are you doing here?"
Before he had a chance to answer she hollered for her youngest brother. "Isaac! Dad went down to the mill to pick up some extra oats. Run and tell him to come home. Brendan's back! Stop at Adam's house and get Mother, too."
Isaac strode across the room, moving his lanky frame with the first eagerness Bennie had seen from him since he returned from Lexington. He grabbed his brother's hand and pumped it.
"Brendan. Can't wait to hear all about it. Shot many redcoats yet, huh?"
Brendan straightened. "No." He gave Isaac an even look. "You've grown again."
"Yeah."
"I think you've finally topped me, too."
"You think so?" Isaac's fine blond hair drifted around his bony face. "Don't know what good it'll do me. Mother still treats me like a child."
"Isaac, weren't you going to let Mother and Father know Brendan's here?" Bennie reminded him.
"Oh, right." He rushed out the door.
"What was that all about?"
Bennie sighed. "He wants to join you all in the army. Mother said no."
"I'm surprised Father didn't tell him he could go anyway."
"You know he never goes against Mother." She shoved her hands through her pocket slits and into the pockets that were tied around her waist with a tape. "He can leave when he's sixteen. Maybe it'll be all over by then."
"I wouldn't count on it, Elizabeth."
His quiet conviction was more than she could handle right then. She had to believe it was all going to be over soon, quickly, cleanly, and neatly.
"Let me look at you." She stepped back and surveyed him. His dark hair was shiny, neatly fastened in a bagwig at the nape of his neck. His clothes, though rough, were well mended and meticulously clean. He was thinner, having lost a little flesh he could ill afford to lose. But it was his eyes, as always, that stopped her. They were dark, shadowed, holding secrets and depths that even she couldn't read. In fact, she was sure she was the only one who saw the shadows at all.
She poked his stomach. "You haven't been eating enough."
"The food is not exactly appetizing."
"Then get some that is."
His eyes darkened. "It isn't that easy, Elizabeth."
She touched his arm gently. "Is it so terrible, then?"
"Not now." He shook his head. "I'll just have to tell it all over again when Father gets here. Later, Elizabeth, all right?"
"Well, then." She dropped the subject. Brendan was the one Jones she could never pry information out of, no matter how much she prodded. "I guess Mother and I will just have to feed you up. We'll have you back to normal in no time."
"I can't stay."
"What?"
"I'm going back tomorrow. I've only got two days' leave, and it takes a good part of it just getting here and back. I had to come and check on of all you, though. I promised the others I'll give them a full report when I return."
Cadwallader burst through the door of the Dancing Eel.
"There you are, my boy." He clapped Brendan on the back. "Isaac told me you were here. He went to get your mother. Might take a bit, though. Think she already headed out to Carter's place."
He grabbed a chair and practically tossed it at Brendan. "Sit, sit. A soldier should take a break when he can; never know when you'll get another one, do you? Bennie, go get us something to drink, will you?"
Brendan took the chair. His mouth quirked as Cad heaved his massive bulk onto a nearby bench.
"You don't change much, do you, Father?"
"Why should I change?" He clapped his hand on his knee. "Now then, tell me all about it. Seen much action?"
Brendan shook his head slightly. "Could we wait until Elizabeth gets back? I'm a bit thirsty."
"Of course, of course," Cad said, smiling genially. His boy was a soldier. It was a damn sight better than being a bookworm and a printer. Soldiering was man's work, a proper occupation for a Jones, and Cad could afford to be a bit patient now.
Bennie returned, clasping two huge tankards of beer in one hand, a smaller mug of cider in the other. She handed the tankards to the men and settled herself close to Brendan's side, wrapping both hands around the chilled mug of cider.
"Now then." Cad had been patient long enough. "The action?"
"There's no action to see. I'm sure you've heard that here."
"I know, I know," Cad said impatiently. "That's what the news is. But there had to be something. Certainly you could find it."
Brendan sipped his beer. "Very little. Oh, we pick off a British scout now and then. Nothing more."
Jon wasn't a scout. Bennie let her
fingers relax around the cool, solid metal of her mug. He was safe, for now at least.
"Nothing." Cad slapped his thigh in disgust. "So the entire Continental army is just sitting around on its ass?"
"Pretty much."
"Damn. Knew they needed me there, but your mother keeps insisting it's foolishness for a man of my years to go chasing off after war. My years, indeed. I'm worth more than any of those young pups."
"We all know that, Da," Bennie said soothingly. "That's why we need you here. Someone has to protect New Wexford, in case the British decide to move in this direction again."
"Hmph." Cad downed half his beer, then leveled his gaze at Brendan. "Tell me the truth, Brendan. What's going on?"
"We've got them pretty much surrounded. We've got fifteen thousand men camped around Boston, from Cambridge through Brookline, all the way to Roxbury."
"And all we've managed to do with all those men is pick off a couple of worthless scouts?"
"It's not that easy, Da." Brendan leaned back comfortably in his chair. His tone was casual; he could have been discussing the quality of the latest batch of ale. "We've got three whole divisions running around. General Ward is in command, but none of the other generals really wants to report to him. And there are a whole slew of companies who don't want to report to anybody."
"Doesn't anybody know anythin' about military discipline around there? Nobody wants to report to nobody. You can't give 'em a choice."
"There's a group of Stockbridge Indians, and another of Mohawk warriors. They're certainly not going to take orders from any one of us, but they're better than the rest of us combined at slipping up on someone, or scouting out the enemy."
"Still, you gotta drill, drill, drill. Make an army out of 'em."
"Rations are short. Everybody's hungry. There's not nearly enough gunpowder."
"Gotta expect to make a few sacrifices."
"Pay is late. There's not much to do. People sit around drinking all day."
Cad slapped his huge palm on his knee. "Well, what's wrong with that?"
"They're not Joneses, Da. They can't all hold their spirits. We've had more men injured while fighting amongst themselves than in skirmishes with the British."
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