"If you're going to be here awhile, you may as well sit down," he suggested.
"You really don't want me too close to you right now."
"I trust you." His grin was dazzling, almost enough to blunt the edges of her anger.
"You might want to rethink that." She sat down and leaned up against the stone wall beneath the window. It wouldn't do to get too close. Even if she didn't kill him, she was afraid his nearness would be enough to weaken her judgment again. This time, she was thinking clearly, no matter what.
"How did you know?"
"You had nightmares, with the fever. You talked a lot."
His eyes went gray, filled with a terrible bleakness that, irrationally, made her want to comfort him.
"Yes," he said, his voice strained. "And you know everything."
She shook her head. "I don't know who you work for." She waited for his answer. Damn him, he wasn't going to tell her!
"Who?"
"It's not safe for me to tell you. It's better you don't know."
It had to be the Americans. It was the only thing that made sense, and it was a small balm to her wounds to believe that if she'd been duped and used, it had at least been for a good cause.
But if it was the Americans, why wouldn't he tell her? It was possible, she supposed, that he was working for British command, ferreting out spies among his own ranks.
"Better for whom? Tell me," she demanded.
"No."
"You owe me that much."
He simply shook his head.
"I'll turn you in!" she threatened.
He looked vaguely amused. "To who?"
Beneath them, the door to the stable creaked open.
"Hush," she whispered.
Your mother? he mouthed. She nodded.
They listened, the air in the loft crackling with tension, just as the atmosphere sometimes did before a violent storm. They could hear Mary preparing her horse, speaking softly to her mare in a sweet, modulated voice. When she'd led the mare out and closed the door behind her, Beth stood and peered out the window. Jon heard the thud of hooves on hard-packed earth, and she headed for the ladder.
"Beth? Are you coming back?"
That look again, the one that said she'd be more than willing to put a few more holes in him. Then she was gone without a word.
She did come back, when the sun was high overhead and heating up the loft like an oven prepared for the weekly baking.
Wearing a flowing ivory blouse and an earth-colored skirt, she had a bottle tucked underneath her arm and carried a covered basket that smelled of fresh, yeasty bread. Her hair was twisted into a thick braid, but wild curls sprang out around her temples.
Her hair was so like her. She tried hard to keep it all in, keep it neatly contained, but little pieces kept finding their way free.
"For me?"
She handed him the food without speaking and turned to go.
He glanced at the label on the bottle and nearly strangled. "Dr. Walker's Jesuit Drops? Beth, I assure you—"
"It's cider." Her face flushed red. "I needed a bottle, so I just washed it out and used this one."
"I was afraid you were trying to tell me something," he said, giving her a lopsided smile, hoping the humor would cause her veneer to crack, just a little bit.
She continued on her way, but he didn't want her to go, not yet. "Beth," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."
She wasn't ready to hear it. She was gone before he could say any more.
***
Two days passed like that. Bennie came twice a day, bringing food, and left as quickly as she could, unable to bear being in the same room with him.
She was angry; oh yes, she was angry. He'd lied to her, had let her believe he was something he wasn't. Had let her learn to care for—to lie with—a man who didn't exist.
And yet, there was more to it. If her soul had been soothed and warmed by Jon, this stranger in her loft intrigued her. He radiated tangible power and exceptional intensity. As his body healed, she would have thought such a big man would get restless. He didn't. He was still, absorbed, perfectly controlled.
More than his body was in pain. She would watch him out of the corner of her eye, when she knew he wasn't looking. He stared off into the distance, his eyes fixed on some unknown point, his expression one of agony—she knew no other word for that extreme emotion.
What had happened to him? Even though he'd expertly deceived her about so much, she still felt that, somehow, she would have sensed it if he'd been in so much pain all along. It was as if his soul had been bruised and had never begun to heal, but rather had been pounded again and again until the wound was excruciating.
On the morning of the third day, Bennie came up to the loft with a bag slung over one shoulder, a bucket of fresh water hooked carefully over one hand.
The heat had yet to break. Although Jon surely would have given anything for a breath of fresh air, he'd never complained. Since the day his fever had turned, in fact, he'd never said anything, apparently respecting her wish for silence. It was as if it were his way of apologizing.
She glanced over at his motionless form. He was still asleep; he seemed to sleep most of the time, giving his body the rest it needed to heal. There'd been no recurrence of the fever, and his skin now glowed with a healthy bronze color, his former pallor gone.
Her heart gave a lurch—just a little one. Despite his injury, despite her justifiable anger, he was as gorgeous as ever. Every day when she made her brief visits, he lay there, clad only in a pair of breeches and his bandage, which exposed far too much of his body for her peace of mind. And some tiny, traitorous corner of her mind— and a slightly more demanding part of her body—insisted on remembering that the blanket he lay on was the one they had shared.
Squaring her shoulders against the roil of emotions, she marched over to him and nudged him with her toe.
"Jon."
His eyelids snapped open. "Jonathan," he answered sharply.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"Jonathan Schuyler Leighton. That's my name. Not Jon." His jaw was set, his mouth a harsh line.
"Jonathan, then." She slammed the bucket down, splattering a bit of water over the side, and dug into the sack. "Here. These pants belonged to one of my brothers. They should fit you."
His features softened. "You're talking to me."
"Only because I have to."
"Thank you." He plucked at the dirty, stained breeches he wore. "These are a little worse for the wear."
"I noticed."
A bit of a twinkle lit his blue eyes. "You did?"
Dropping the sack, she turned away abruptly.
"Leaving already?"
"No." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "I'll empty the other bucket later."
"Oh." Amazingly, a bright red flush crept up his neck. He'd been forced to use a bucket as a bedpan. Bennie had frequently helped nurse her brothers, and she was constantly surprised at how a man who was utterly crude around other men could become completely flustered over a simple bodily function when it was mentioned by a woman.
She clamped down on the smile that threatened to emerge; she would not be charmed by a display of boyish modesty. Not after what he'd done to her.
"I'll change your bandage today," she said, and began laying out the things she would need. She looked up to find him watching her. Watching her, and smiling.
There was the man she remembered, the one she thought didn't exist. His eyes glowing with pale blue fire, he was smiling at her with that absolute acceptance, more, approval, that he always had. With that beautiful smile that made her feel like the most special woman on the face of the earth. And she remembered why she'd trusted him, and begun to care for him, so easily in the first place.
"Stop that!"
The bleak expression returned abruptly as the smile vanished. Bennie felt a pang of loss at its disappearance, even knowing she was the one who'd caused it.
"Do you miss the idiot so much?"
"Yes!" she cried.
His expression grew shuttered. "Change the bandage."
"Lie on your belly." He rolled over, propping his chin on his hands. She caught her breath, for even in such a simple motion the extent of his strength was evident. Muscles flexed and stretched, sliding and bunching easily under his skin. And she wondered, as she had once before, what had formed a man like this.
Taking her scissors, she knelt close against his side, where his breadth tapered abruptly to his waist. For a moment, she could only look. There was beauty in his body, not the cool, lifeless beauty of a sculpture, but the live, physical beauty of a champion stallion, running free in the breeze. It was the beauty of sweat and muscle and tendon, a beauty that moved, that worked, that touched.
He lifted his head slightly to look back at her. "Beth?"
"Oh. Yes." She slipped the tip of the scissors under the strips of cloth and snipped through them. Then she pushed them aside and carefully peeled off the padding, holding her breath, hoping the wound had begun to heal.
It looked better. The wound itself was still an angry red, but the skin around looked healthy. It was no longer swollen, nor marked with the telltale red of poisoning.
She prodded it gently, and his shoulder twitched.
"Does that hurt?"
"Only a little."
She continued to knead his shoulder, checking for tenderness or any softness that might indicate swelling. It seemed to be healing well. She pulled her hand away, her fingers brushing lightly down his back, and she heard his breath catch slightly.
"I'll wrap it up again now. Can you sit up?"
He was obviously stiff and sore. His movements were strained when he sat up, but even so, she could see the difference from the way he'd moved when he'd been playing the idiot. Now there was no awkwardness, no fumbling, no uncoordinated motion that would cause him to knock over glasses and bump into tables. He was a man clearly at ease in his body, graceful, in absolute control of his strength.
"Careful. You've been lying a long time. You're bound to be weak."
"Don't I know it." He laughed low, the familiar throaty rumble, but now with a distinct note of mockery. "My head doesn't seem to want to be vertical."
"It'll be better soon." She moved behind him. With a quick twist of her wrist she opened a tin of salve, and a pungent herbal odor filled the air. She dabbed the sticky substance on his wound, then covered it with fresh padding.
"I'll use strips of cloth to hold it in place again. It would help if you could lift your arms a bit."
He complied. "How did you ever manage this when I was out?"
"It wasn't easy." It wasn't this time, either; it caused her to be far closer to him than she wanted to be. She was on her knees at his back and had to stretch to wrap the strips around him. Her arms went over his shoulder and around his side again and again as she wound the bandage around his chest. Now matter how careful she was, her palms whispered over his flesh, and she couldn't help but remember how his body had felt when she'd really touched him.
She smelled summery herbs and male warmth. Her movements slowed, and she couldn't keep her breasts from brushing his back when she leaned forward to reach around him. She wondered for a moment if she was catching his fever, and shook her head to clear it.
"There." She tied the last strip neatly. "All done."
She didn't really have to move, did she? His head was bent, his hair falling forward. The strong column of his neck merged into the breadth of his shoulders in the most intriguing way. Her gaze traced down his back to where the scar she'd noticed before creased his side.
"What happened?"
"When?" He twisted to look over his shoulder at her. "There. The scar on your side."
His eyes closed for a minute. When he opened them again, they were cool and pale, and she knew he was shielding something from her.
"Bunker Hill," he said curtly.
"Oh." She couldn't seem to stop her hand. Slowly, so slowly, she traced the line of the scar, trailing her fingers around along the edge of his ribs. Even this body, which seemed so mighty and impervious, was vulnerable to those little pieces of metal. And despite it all, she was fiercely glad he'd survived.
"Beth."
"Yes?" She looked up at him, her hand resting motionless on his side. His eyes were intent, his voice strained.
"Go."
Bewildered, she asked, "What?"
He lowered his gaze to her hand on him, and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
"Go! Now!"
Embarrassment flashed through her, and she snatched her hand back. Oh, God. Even now, she couldn't seem to keep her hands to herself. How shameless he must think her. She jumped up and fled the stables, ignoring him as he called her name.
***
She didn't come back that evening to bring his supper, as she usually did. He heard her mother return the mare to her stall, heard some man whose voice he couldn't identify—a customer, probably—come and fetch his own horse. Now and then he heard Cad's bellow across the yard, and Isaac's answering holler. Evening came, and although the temperature didn't drop one whit, he thought he caught the faint, distant scent of coolness. Perhaps the heat would finally break.
Still he waited, lying alone on his makeshift bed, sweating and calling himself a bastard in every language and form he could think of. Well, that was no surprise. One would think he'd be getting used to it by now. Yet he tasted the sharp tang of regret, for he knew that this time he'd had other choices.
He hadn't needed to be sharp with her. He could have shifted quietly away so she wouldn't have noticed. He could have feigned dizziness and lay down. He could have pretended her touch on his scar hurt.
But his brain had rapidly progressed beyond rational thought, clouded by the exceptional feel of her hand on him. If he hadn't chased her away, if it had lasted just one second longer, he would have reached for her. And after all he'd done to her and taken from her already, that was the last thing he had any right to do.
So he'd hurt her, once again, this time with his words and his tone of voice. He lay there, listening to mice scurry in the corners and the slight stirring of the heavy air in the leaves outside, and he pondered how something begun for all the right reasons could go so wrong.
CHAPTER 21
He was on his feet. And he'd washed himself. The next morning, when Bennie came up into the loft, Jon was standing, his forearm braced above the open window, staring out at the softness of the warm morning.
His hair was loose, clean, hanging in a smooth, rich brown sweep to his shoulders. He was wearing only the breeches she'd given him the day before, his shoulders bare and impossibly broad, and he was bathed in the buttery morning light. Her breath caught before she could steel herself to the sight of him.
As if any woman could ever manage that.
"Jon," she said softly.
"Jonathan," he said without turning around.
"Jonathan." A basket of fresh rolls swinging over her arm, she strolled over to him. "You're up."
"It's about time."
"And you were outside."
"Last night." His lips quirked wryly. "I couldn't stand to smell myself anymore. I went down very late, when no one would see me, and washed off at the well." He glanced down at her. "You have a very cold well."
A quick bubble of laughter escaped before she could hold it in. "I know." She had to tilt her head to look up at him. "How do you feel?"
"Weak. Nearly didn't make it back up that damn ladder. But in a day or two I should be ready to leave."
A day or two. She should be thrilled to get rid of him. Yet her heart sank at his words. "I can't get used to hearing so many words coming out of your mouth."
He grinned suddenly. "I don't usually talk so much. But then, I do a lot of things around you I don't usually do."
He didn't mean anything by that—he couldn't, and she'd be a fool if she allowed herself to believe he might. But she wanted to, oh, how she wanted to.
/> He glanced back out the window. "Smells like rain."
Forcing her wayward thoughts into line, she leaned closer to the window and sniffed. "I think you're right. Maybe it'll cool off some."
He smiled down at her, a quick glint of blue in his eyes. "I doubt it."
He was amused about something. Puzzled, she made no attempt to understand the workings of what was clearly a very convoluted mind. She lifted the basket. "I brought you some breakfast."
"You didn't have to."
"You must be hungry. I'm sorry that I didn't bring you any food last night."
He shrugged. "You're the last person in the world who owes me an apology. You probably saved my life."
"Then we're even." Their gazes caught, and she was lost in the pale blue depths of his eyes. She knew she spoke the truth. No matter what devious actions he was involved in, the night he'd saved her in the forest had been real. It had happened too fast, too unpredictably, to be something staged for her benefit. She'd seen how hard he'd hit that soldier.
"You don't know how many times I've tried to convince myself how stupid that was," he said quietly.
"Really?" Sunlight warmed her shoulders and shone off his hair. The fragrant smells of yeast and cinnamon rose to her nostrils.
"I don't regret it," he said, his voice a rich rumble.
Helplessly, she let her gaze wander over his chest. It had been as close to heaven as she'd ever expected to get in this lifetime, being carried through the cold winter night, held close against that brawny, warm chest. Later, of course, in this very loft, she'd reached heaven itself.
He cleared his throat and stepped back. "Uh, would you like to stay and eat with me?"
How did he always know, whenever her thoughts turned wanton? Then he would pull away, clearly uncomfortable with her attentions. And why wouldn't he be? She was only Bennie. Certainly not the kind of woman he'd choose under normal circumstances.
She shook her head. "I shouldn't."
"Just for a little while." There was a plea in eyes, along with an apology and something that looked like... loneliness?
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