Her music had changed again, he realized. It had lost the surface veneer of smoothness. Now there was only emotion, raw and exposed. Sometimes it was quick, fragmented, light little sparkles of joy; and then there was pain, turbulent, harsh, violent.
She played until her back ached and her fingers were sore. She was only peripherally aware of Jon's eyes on her, but she felt him, deep down inside, as she played. Oh, yes, it was better when the music was shared. Yet she somehow knew there was no one else who would share it like he did, not with just sympathy or appreciation, but empathy. He felt her music, and she knew it. If she would never have this opportunity again, then she would use it to the fullest.
Finally, exhausted and breathless, she collapsed on the blanket. He clapped slowly in appreciation.
Flushed but pleased, she put a finger to her lips. "Shh. Someone might hear you, and I'd have to pretend I was applauding myself."
"Sorry. I forgot." He had. While he had only to watch and listen to her play, he had forgotten where he was and how he'd gotten there. He'd forgotten all the things he'd done, and all the things he had yet to do.
It had been blissful. But it was over.
The smile faded quickly from his face, she noticed, and she was tempted to lift the violin again and play something light and airy that would bring it back. He had such a wonderful smile, one that made her feel as if she were bathed in sunlight.
But his face hardened with a new, cold determination, and she doubted she could bring the smile back, no matter how well she played. She reverently laid the violin back in its case, stowed it away, and turned to face him.
"You will remember the clothes?" he asked.
Her heart tumbled to the vicinity of her knees.
"Yes. Tomorrow."
***
She brought him the clothes in the morning, when she delivered his breakfast, and came back again at noon with more food. But their conversation was stilted and awkward. What could they say? There was nothing more he could tell her. And there was nothing more she dared ask. She promised to return near dusk, bringing a few supplies that he could take with him when he left.
The evening was still and pleasantly warm. Crickets chirped in the grass, freshly green after the recent rains.
The sun dropped below the trees in the west, edging them in brilliant gold.
Bennie clambered up to the loft one more time. Jonathan was bending over, fastening the leather latchets on Henry's new low-heeled shoes. Someday it was going to be interesting explaining to her brothers what had happened to their clothes while they were away.
He waved a greeting at her and straightened. She stopped, and her heart skipped a beat.
As a simpleminded soldier in a scarlet and white uniform, he'd been beautiful. As a wounded man in breeches and a too-revealing bandage, he'd been compelling. But dressed in simple clothes, he was downright stunning.
The ivory linen shirt, its sleeves loose and flowing, fit his massive shoulders well. He wore thick woolen stockings, full, dark brown breeches, and a plain leather jerkin. He stood tall and straight, his hair tied neatly in a scrap of ribbon. His presence was nearly overpowering, and he was every inch the image of a proud American man. She knew her brothers, who were quite proud of their own good looks, would be roundly jealous of the way this man looked in the clothes they'd unknowingly donated.
"Beth." He came to stand near to her—as close as he dared, but farther than he wanted to be. Standing in the middle of the nearly empty loft, surrounded by drifts of hay, she was tall and proud and absolutely striking. She'd brought the supplies she'd promised him in a sack slung over one shoulder, and she was unsmiling, her eyes dark and remote.
He'd spent the afternoon very inexpertly sewing the crucial packet into the lining of his jerkin. The instant he'd become coherent he'd looked for it. To his immense relief, it had still been securely bundled into the padding he had wrapped around his waist. The whole mess— bloody padding, shirt, jacket—had been dumped in a corner of the loft. Obviously, Beth hadn't had time to worry about finding another place to dispose of it.
The entire time, while he jabbed his fingers with the needle he'd taken from the bag of supplies Beth had left and made long, clumsy stitches, he'd tried to think of a reason—even the weakest of ones—to stay here another day or two. It wasn't difficult; he wasn't strong enough; another day added to his absence would make no difference; he needed time to make better plans.
None were any more than what he knew them to be—excuses. He simply wanted to look on her face a few more times. But there were no real excuses. He had information that still had to be delivered, and he had to somehow discover what had gone wrong the other evening at the fort.
He had a job to return to. If it was a job that had turned out to be infinitely uglier than he had known when he began, it was still his duty. He had little else.
As he looked down at her, admiring the prominent curve of her cheekbones and the lush lashes that were shades darker than her hair, he knew there was yet another reason to leave now. For if he stayed, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't try to take more from her than he already had. And he had already taken far too much.
"Here." She dropped the sack at his feet. "There should be enough food for two days or so. How are you going to get back? I suppose we could pretend a horse was stolen, but—"
"No. I'll manage. I hardly look much like any Lieutenant Leighton now." The risk was greater than she suspected; there was always the possibility he'd been recognized the night he'd been shot. But he had little choice; there was no other way to get the information through, no other way to begin to find out why the ambush had been set in the first place. It was becoming increasingly clear that the other side had an agent of their own, one both dedicated and clever.
He could only trust that his disguise had been enough to prevent recognition. If not, it was quite likely too late for him anyway.
"I won't take anything else from you, Beth." Unable to resist, he brushed a stray curl off her temple. "There is one thing I want you to know. I never, never, meant to do you any harm." He rubbed the strand of hair between his forefinger and thumb, savoring its softness. "I tried to tell you in the letter, but—"
"The letter?" Her eyes widened.
"Didn't you get it?"
"Yes." She put her hand in her pocket, feeling the square of paper she always kept there. The paper was soft, the edges fuzzy from constant handling. "You wrote that, didn't you? There was no merchant you paid."
"Yes."
She should have known. The bold, angular handwriting. It was so much like him. Who else could have written it?
"I tried to tell you in the letter, but I was afraid someone else might read it. And, well, I didn't know how to tell you... the proper way."
He seemed at a loss for words. It was a trait familiar in Jon but one she hadn't seen since he'd dropped his charade.
She felt his pain, sharp and acute, as if it were her own. The urge to comfort, to lay her hands on him and soothe him, was almost overwhelming. It was as if she had some old, powerful connection with him. She'd felt it from the beginning, and the feeling had only increased since he'd ceased to play his role. It was more than sympathy, more than understanding. It was a basic, almost elemental... oneness.
And yet, he could very well be her enemy. If only she knew who—and what—he really was. He'd fooled her completely once. There was no guarantee he wasn't doing it again, and, if he was, she was sending a British soldier—worse, a British spy—back into battle against her countrymen and family.
"Tell me who you're working for," she demanded.
He merely looked at her, his expression unreadable.
"Tell me!" She grabbed his jerkin in both fists, as if she could shake it out of him. "You owe me that much!"
He couldn't tell her. It would serve no purpose—save his own—and could possibly put her in danger. His mind recoiled at the thought. It was one more thing to hate himself for, the idea that he migh
t have exposed her to harm simply by coming here; he couldn't compound that, especially since the only reason for doing so would be to make her smile at him again.
She realized he wasn't going to tell her. "Damn you!" she cried, pounding on his chest. He caught her wrists to stop her, his grip painless but firm.
"Even if I told you, why would you believe me?"
The impact of his words sent her thoughts reeling. He had lied to her. Still, she had never completely felt it, had never truly believed that he was fully prepared to lie to her again.
"It would be so easy," he said slowly. "I could tell you that I work for the Americans. Why not? It would make you happy, and you would believe me, wouldn't you?"
Damn him. She would have believed, would have accepted his allegiance without a second thought.
"God damn you!" Heat flashed in her chest and scorched behind her eyes. "You liar!" She twisted her arms violently to free them, and the skin on her wrists burned. Blindly, she ran toward the ladder and escape.
"Yes!" He caught her easily, grabbing her from behind and pushing her up against the wall under the high peaked roof of the loft. He held her there, caged by his big body and the thick arms planted on either side of her head. "I lied."
His eyes were fiery blue, brimming with unleashed violence. So many times she'd looked into those eyes, and all she'd ever seen was gentleness. Why hadn't she ever seen the capacity for ruthlessness, for fury?
Still, she felt no fear. If there was one thing she knew, with a soul-deep certainty that seemed grounded in her bones, it was that his violence would never be turned on her. Even as his body held hers against the wall, it touched her softly, with no hint of a threat. His gaze roamed over her face, and she felt as if his fingers whispered over her features. His warmth crept through her clothes, and, suddenly, she felt more cradled than caged.
"That's what I do, Beth. I lie." The smooth rumble of his voice was harsh now, singed with anguish. "To you, to everyone... even to myself."
He was close now, so close she could feel the motion of his chest as he breathed. "Don't ever believe what I tell you, Beth." He dropped his head, his lips hovering inches from hers. "Even when I tell you I love you."
His lips brushed hers when he spoke, and she began to tremble, quaking between the hard stone at her back and the warm man at her front.
"Especially when I say I love you."
He kissed her then; his lips were hard, searching, demanding almost to the point of desperation. Her senses clouded, filled with Jonathan. His chest was hard against her breasts, and her nostrils filled with the sweet, earthy scents of hay and skin. The sound of his exhalation sighed past her ear; tiny points of lights, like drunken stars, whirled behind her closed lids.
And her heart believed. Despite it all, despite all the evidence, despite his self-condemnation, and despite the logic of her own brain, her heart and body believed him.
The force of will that had made it possible for him to deceive every person he came in contact with for three years, the will that propelled him, injured and nearly insensate, to this stable, was the only thing that allowed him to wrench his lips from hers. Even so, he felt the loss of her mouth so acutely it was nearly painful.
Her eyes were wide, dark, and beautiful, like those of a wild doe caught unaware, unsure if there was danger. And he knew, with terrible certainty, that he was the danger.
He tried to force himself to push away, tried so hard his arms shook with the effort. The feel of her was so exquisitely lovely he couldn't bring himself to do it.
But the last time he had touched her, it had been in this stable, too. He had taken her—he couldn't make it sound better by calling it something else, for he had taken—he had done so in a matter of minutes, without even bothering to remove her clothes. He had done it in the loft of a stable, as if she were a barmaid or domestic servant, a setting so fabled it was cliche. A roll in the hay. And he had let her—no, seduced her into making love with a man who didn't exist.
She deserved better than straw and fumbles, rapidity and lies. She deserved snowy sheets and a fresh, downy mattress tick, whispered endearments and genuine promises.
She deserved honor. He had given her none.
Remorse worked where guilt had failed. He let her go, moving back and turning away, unable to look at the revulsion and betrayal he was sure must be etched on her angular features.
His was a job that depended on expediency and left very little room for honor; he found one remaining shred, and he clutched it. The demands of his body, heavy and swollen, were nearly impossible to subdue. Rubbing a palm over his face, he conjured up the image of the battlefield, letting the dirt, gore, and ugliness remind him of all the reasons he must not touch her again.
There was the rustle of straw, and he knew she was leaving. He prayed it would be quickly, before the last battered shards of his integrity wore out.
And then he felt her touch.
His back had been to her, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. She had known—she had felt—his despair, and she had realized one thing: she could not leave him like this. She came to stand before him and placed her hand on his chest, spreading her fingers wide to touch as much of him as possible. Heat seeped through the fine linen shirt, warming her palm, and she felt the accelerating rhythm of his heart.
He lifted his head, and his eyes were dark and wild.
"Oh, God, Beth." His throat worked convulsively. "When I close my eyes, all I see is blood. But when I touch you, all I see is you."
She took his hand and placed it over her heart. His big hand rested there, motionless, the long fingers spreading over the upper swell of her breast, and her own heartbeat quickened.
"Then touch me," she whispered.
CHAPTER 23
For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to do it. Then he placed his hand over hers where it rested on his chest, pressing it to him. He stepped closer and, slowly—far, far too slowly—lowered his head.
He brushed his mouth over her face, over her temple, her cheek, her eyelids, her chin, with delicate little touches that left her yearning for more, and she wondered if each place he kissed glowed. It certainly felt like it.
He kissed the spot where her jaw met her neck, and the tip of her nose, then let his lips roam along the edge of her hairline. And finally, his mouth found hers. His lips were supple and mobile, playing lightly, drawing subtle little sighs from her, coming back for more. His tongue traced the edges of her lips, lingering here, exploring there, as if there were all the time in the world, and skated along the seam of her mouth.
He gave a harsh sigh, put his palm on the back of her head, and drew her close. His other arm came around her back, he tucked her head under his chin, and held her. Just held her.
They stood there, bodies pressed together, slowly rocking back and forth. Tentatively, she slipped her arms around his neck and found the ribbon binding his hair. A single, sharp yank and his hair was free, spilling down around his shoulders and over her hands. Sliding her fingers through it, she marveled at the silky texture.
"Oh, Beth." He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. "For the rest of my life, every time I smell lavender, I think I'll get hard."
He thrust his hips, just once, just enough so she could feel him, and her cheeks burned. She buried her face against his shoulder.
"Beth." He sounded lighthearted, and her own heart swelled with joy. He bent, catching her behind the knees, and swept her into his arms.
His eyes gleamed with a note of wickedness, and he grinned. "If you only knew..."
He carried her easily over to his makeshift pallet, muttering under his breath as he tried, with his toe, to kick it into some semblance of order. He looked down at the jumbled blankets, and regarded her seriously.
"I'm sorry, Beth. You deserve better."
"Shh." She stopped his words with her mouth. He resisted for a moment, then yielded, his lips twisting over hers, becoming more insistent. He lowered her to the
blanket without breaking the contact of their bodies, following her down.
Once she'd thought his kiss was magic. Now she knew it was something stronger than that, darker, an enchantment she didn't want to resist. He slid his tongue wetly along the inside of her lower lip, and she opened her mouth, silently beckoning him deeper.
His tongue flirted with hers, teasing, probing the depths of her mouth. She lifted her head, trying to get closer, and he obliged, deepening the kiss until her head reeled as if she'd sampled far too much of her father's supplies.
He drew back, propping himself on an elbow, one leg resting intimately between hers. Her regarded her with absolute concentration, and she knew he thought of nothing else but her and was glad of it.
Her thick braid lay over one shoulder, and he ran his hand down the length of it. The back of his hand brushed her breast along the way, and she caught her breath at the abrupt tightening of her nipple.
"May I?" he asked, holding up the end of her braid, which was wrapped with a length of string.
"Of course."
He worked the twine free, then slowly undid the braid, completely absorbed in his task. "There are so many colors in your hair. Sunshine and moonbeams, ripe wheat and fresh earth." He let a strand curl in his palm. "So vibrant. Alive." He smiled at her, his teeth flashing white through the dimness in the loft. "Like you."
"Jonathan," she protested, unused to such praise.
"Hush now. I'm busy."
With a single-minded sense of purpose, he set himself to divesting her of her clothes, seemingly undeterred by the flush of embarrassment she felt heating her cheeks.
Her blouse was over her head nearly before she realized it had been unbuttoned. She was distracted, her head muddled from his intoxicating kisses and the caresses he dropped on exposed portions of her body. Her skirt followed, tossed over his shoulder, and he flashed a grin that should have belonged to a storied pirate.
Law, Susan Kay Page 24