by Betty Bolte
Scrutinizing the small square metal tile with a raised E on it before shoving it into its space on the iron composing stick, he allowed that what the essayist claimed held a measure of truth in it. A woman enjoyed the protection of her father until she married, then trusted her husband to protect and provide. She relinquished her claim to any property in the agreement, exchanging any former sense of freedom. But marriage still did not equate to being bought and sold like slaves. Not at all.
Dare he print this inflammatory essay? He wiped a rag across his beaded forehead before the sweat dripped onto the waiting galleys of set type. The wooden trays marched up the table, the painstakingly set tiles secured in place. He selected an A and placed it next to the E, cursing when the edges refused to meet squarely. Yanking it out, he threw down the stick.
Damnation, this business served only to tie him down in one place. Yet his duty to the general to masquerade as a loyalist meant he needed an occupation acceptable to the British. The broadside enabled him to communicate with his patriot counterparts easily, though the job felt like his own version of slavery. He took a deep breath and frowned at the rows of compartments before him, each holding a different style and shape of letter.
In truth, he wished he could board the next ship for anywhere across the ocean. The thought forced his gaze to the double windows at the front of the little shop. Outside, the bay shimmered in soft moonlight. The moon hung low in the sky, a luminous disc suspended above the sleeping town. He'd sent Sawyer home hours before, knowing it might take all night for him to finish his clandestine task. The one he dreaded each week. Setting the letters in line after line of text remained the least appealing aspect of the printing business. Sawyer then ran the press the following morning, while Frank inspected and prepared the papers for distribution. Another day chained to the shop. If he remained a printer after the war, he'd hire more lads to assist. For now he meant to keep the number of people aware of the specifics of his activities to a minimum.
Sighing wearily, he retrieved the composing stick from the table. Best to continue or he'd not sleep tonight. Too many nights awake, thinking about Emily, turned him into a grizzly bear by day. For once he'd make himself sleep after he finished this blessed chore. He bent his weary back to the task.
Not more than a quarter hour later, the sound of footsteps on the street made him raise his head. The person walked purposefully toward the shop's door. Mayhap word of some emergency had roused some other unlucky soul from a good night's sleep. He stretched his back and headed for the door, feeling satisfying pops as his spine released the tension that built within while hunched over his work. Few people ventured about town after dark, the fear of drunken British soldiers enough to keep them locked safe inside their homes. The light footsteps neared, a shadow passing the window before the person paused. He stared at the knob as he crossed the room, waiting for it to rattle and wondering who hazarded to be about town at this time.
The shape of the woman's silhouette passing the window finally registered in his mind, and he knew.
Could it really be her?
A paper slipped under the wooden door, the gleaming surface blocking his ability to identify the late-night visitor. The mysterious Penny, surely. He must know for certain.
Dropping the stick, he took three long strides to reach the door, twisting the key in the lock as he yanked it open.
Damnation. Alarm raced through him. "Emily?"
Emily stood ready to flee, one hand at her throat as she stared at him. Dressed in a flowing black cloak and matching bonnet, her pale face glowed in the moonlight. She looked fragile as she lowered her hand to clutch the dark fabric closed tight against her chest.
Rage and fear blended into a feeling so intense his heart nearly escaped the confines of his chest. All the perils she recklessly courted raced through his mind. He grabbed her hand and hauled her inside the store, slamming the door behind him. "Are you daft? Do you not understand the danger?"
She continued to stare, her mouth opening and closing like a catfish in the Cooper. He noticed her trembling and felt the anger build when he needed it to dissolve.
"I am fine," she blurted out.
"No, you most certainly are not. Look at how you tremble in your shoes." He scowled at her, shaking his head. "Your father should tan your hide for defying his express orders."
She raised her chin and glared at him. "He should not treat me like his slaves. Nay, his slaves are allowed to come and go freely from the house. He has imprisoned me in my own home."
Her words echoed those in the mysterious essay, confirming his suspicions. "Do not—" Frank held a hand up before her, noticing with growing dismay glistening tears in the corners of her eyes slowly slip free and course down her porcelain skin. One tear tantalizingly paused at the edge of her ripe mouth before she swiped it away with her palm.
She sniffed, retrieving a kerchief from her purse to dab her eyes. Eyes that brimmed with anger. He blinked. What right did she have to be angry with him? His hands clenched into fists at his side. She, who flaunted her father's wishes, parading about town as if enjoying a church picnic.
"My apologies." She glared at him, no hint of remorse in her posture or her voice. All trace of tears vanished like so much spilled water on a hot summer's day. "I know how you despise any sign of emotion. Do not take that attitude with me, though. I shall not stand for it."
She did not need to be rude. Of course he did not mind emotion. People emoted all the time around him, and he did not care. He—no, more to the point, he and her father were only looking out for her and the rest of the family. Frank straightened. See now, even he was emoting.
"Do not attempt to avoid the bald fact that, number one, you have absolutely no business being out of the house at this time of night." Frank held up one hand and pointed at a finger as he counted off his very valid reasons. "Number two, you're alone, for goodness sake! Have you absolutely no regard for your father's feelings? How would he feel if something disastrous befell you?"
He held a finger to her lips when she dared to open her mouth to speak, ignoring with difficulty the sudden intense desire shooting through him. Grimly holding on to his anger to distract himself from the heat pulsing in his groin, he detected an echoing shimmer of awareness reflected in her wide eyes. This flagrant disregard for her well-being could not continue. "I'm not through."
She closed her mouth, pressing her ruby lips together into a mutinous pout, and he nodded. The desire to kiss her speared through him, but he grimly continued his harangue.
"Finally, it was you writing those missives of dissent you call essays?" That new comprehension set his heartbeat pounding in his ears. "What will your father say when he learns of this betrayal?"
"Betrayal?" Emily frowned at him, her lovely eyes clouding. "I have not betrayed anyone. You dare to betray me with your lack of insight and understanding. 'Missives of dissent' indeed!"
Emily actually came near to shouting in her intensity. The trembling he'd noted earlier transformed into quivering resentment, pulsing toward him as she glared at him through narrowed eyes.
She'd gone too far now by traipsing about town after all he and her father had said to impress on her the risk to her person. He needed a fitting punishment to force her to comply.
"Emily, please, hear me." He stalled for time as he racked his brain for an appropriate response. Despite her current agitation, she possessed a captivating golden beauty, with dark blonde locks, eyes that drew him in, and rosy lips begging for his kiss. No wonder the damn soldiers paid so much attention to her.
"Does this mean you will not print this one either?" Emily waved at the paper on the floor neither bothered to retrieve. "Is this the end or the beginning of my writing?"
She wanted the farce to continue? Her father's reputation hung in the balance of Frank's words as surely as hers. Yet the controversy could serve to bolster the circulation of the paper, which meant it would be easier to continue his secret communications.
/> "If it's going to raise as much of an uproar as I suspect—" Frank hesitated as an idea dawned. Yes, that would work. "I will on one condition."
Wary hope replaced the anger in Emily's gaze. She clutched her purse, her chest quickly rising and falling as she waited.
"Condition?" she whispered, then swallowed.
Frank nodded at her awareness of the import of his next words. "I wish to court you, Emily."
"Court me?" she parroted.
The glimmering hope in her eyes changed to worry. She glanced away from him, her gaze flitting from one object to another around the room like a bird suddenly caged.
"Yes, I do wish to court you properly. And you must agree to wait for me to escort you, no excuses. This is for not only your safety but for my peace of mind." Frank closed the distance between them. He laid her purse on the counter behind her and gently enfolded both her quivering hands in his. "You can't deny you're attracted to me as much as I am to you."
Emily tugged on her hands, and he let them slide out of his. The departure of their warmth left his empty and cold.
"If I say no?" She raised her chin, her hands grasping her upper arms in a defensive gesture, barring him access to her. "What then?"
"Simple, my dear. I tell your father what you have been doing."
She gasped. As he knew she would. Surprise, worry, and finally resignation worked across her features.
"You leave me little choice," she said evenly. "You must know this is blackmail. And more importantly, I shall make no commitment to do more than wait for your escort. Though it goes against my desires."
He tapped an ink-stained finger to his stubbly jaw as he contemplated the light blush rising up her neck to color her cheeks. Desires indeed. She did care for him, her expression said as much.
"Actually, I do want to say one more little thing regarding that." Feeling like a cat about to pounce upon a bird, Frank stepped forward. He wouldn't bite, but the game did entertain. "You must at least pretend to enjoy my company, which I believe will be easy for you to do."
"Why would you presume so?"
"I know you, my dear."
Her bow-shaped mouth pursed as she watched him, one foot tapping the wooden floor. "I have a condition as well." When Frank raised a brow in silent question, she continued. "You must agree you will not censure the content of my essays. I shall have free rein to write on whatever subjects I choose."
"Within reason, yes, of course," he said easily.
"Whatever I deem reasonable." She folded her arms more snugly across her well-endowed bosom. A challenge glittered from under her furrowed brows.
When she wet her lips with a dart of her pink tongue, she won. Marrying anyone other than her had torn his heart, nearly killed him inside, but he had upheld the obligation to the child. He'd do it again if necessary. Though, thank goodness, now she was agreeing even if reluctantly that he could pursue the quarry he desired. His feelings for Emily had continued despite her apparent reservations. He need only convince her of his sincerity. Perhaps allowing her to write what she pleased took a big step toward his goal.
"Very well. I grant you free rein with your topics," he said, "and in exchange you shall permit me to court you."
"Agreed." She reached for her purse, then let her hands fall to her sides as she regarded him.
He took her hand in his and kissed the back lightly, then caught her gaze. "We shall have a magical time together."
She huffed but said nothing. Good. His hastily constructed plan worked. He would win her over to him. It might take patience, but patience he had.
Emily sighed. "I do not wish ill of you, Frank. In fact it is not you in particular, but men in general I wish to avoid." She turned from him, preparing to leave. She bowed her head and stood still, her breathing ragged, as though fighting her own emotions.
He could not let her go in such a state, nor alone. Grasping her arm, he pulled her around to face him. Fortunately, her eyes held no pending waterworks. She searched his face but persisted in her stoic demeanor.
"What did you mean, men in general?" Frank lightly touched her chin to force her to continue to look at him. And only him, if he had anything to say about it. So beautiful, yet with such pain in her expression. He wanted to remove that look from her face once and for all.
"It is of no matter. I must return home before I am missed."
Her usually lilting voice flowed soft and serious. Obviously her new predicament, his creative form of "punishment," suppressed her reactions. She would not regret spending time with him. She would enjoy their courtship. He'd make sure of it.
* * *
Emily examined his expression, looking for laugh lines crinkling in the corners of his eyes. Or the dimples deepening beside his mouth as he smiled with mirth. Nothing. Frank wanted to court her. Why? Not because of the essays, surely. Or perhaps little Tommy's care hovered uppermost in his mind, but she would care for him as expected. Her mind whirled with possible motives for this absurd yet inexplicably tempting idea.
Court her? He must be teasing. He watched her blatant perusal of each facial feature. Firm lips compressed with no hint of a smile or frown. Waiting for her response.
"Do you approve?" Frank winked at her, breaking the silence.
"Of course not. I know you jest." She waved a hand in the air as if to shoo away a pesky fly. "I will care for little Tommy without this pretense."
"More is needed from your promise than Tommy's care. Your agreement to my courtship also comes with your promise to await my presence before emerging from home." He shook his head as he gazed at her. "I will not print your missives without that vow."
"Are you serious?" The intensity of his perusal ignited a hot flush in her neck, rising inexorably to suffuse her cheeks. A smile curved his mouth, revealing white teeth, his dimples deepening. His fingers caressed her heated face, his eyes fastening on her mouth before sliding to meet her gaze.
"Indeed, I am," Frank said. "You fascinate me. I cannot stop watching you."
Quivering with the unclear emotions battling inside, she held her ground. "I am not some caged creature for you to stare at, sir." Fascinate him? Bah.
Emily's physical reaction to his touch was as out of control as her emotional dismissal of his unwanted affections. Years ago John had kissed her, and without the sense of inner instability Frank's nearness evoked. The whirlwind consuming her composure left her longing for support, but she dare not show him any weakness. She must master the unnerving reaction. She clasped her hands together to still them.
A waft of night air filtered in through the gaps around the door, refreshing the stale air inside. The salty tang mixed with the scent of ink lingering in the shop. The night watchman strolled past the office, calling out, "Ten o'clock and all is well."
When Frank stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, she raised her chin and pulled away. He should not be so bold. Her conscience chided her for being too loose and fast. She shouldn't permit this audacious behavior. She closed her mouth, agitated it had fallen open without her permission. His eyes darkened as they fixed on her lips.
Her inner quiver matured into visible trembling under his scrutiny. His kiss seemed inevitable unless she prevented it. "You cannot force me to court you, Frank. I'm a grown woman."
"Yes, you are." He stepped toward her, closing the distance between them.
"It's late." She refused to step back and give him the pleasure of her retreat. Besides, the edge of the table rested at her back. She had nowhere to go but toward Frank, which she would not do. The air fled the printing office, suddenly suffocating her. Sweat snaked down the valley between her breasts at the realization she must extricate herself and quickly. What if Mary and Tommy needed her and she was not there to assist? The entire household, especially her father, would learn of her clandestine undertakings. That simply would not do. "I must go home."
Frank's dimples carved tiny crevasses in his cheeks, and radiating lines framed his twinkling eyes, remindi
ng her of rays of sunlight shining through a cloud. Why did he grin so?
"I suppose, if you really will not allow me to be with you," he whispered, "then I must reveal your late-night activities to your father." His knowing smile confirmed his sincerity.
"You wouldn't." Keeping her arms locked around her helped her pretend some sense of control. She envisioned her father confining her to the house under armed guard, never to venture forth until the war ended. Whenever that might be. Worse, he would take away her writing materials if he knew about her essays. Searching Frank's face, her fear of her father's wrath stayed uppermost in her mind. She had no choice.
Her shoulders sagged. Her father must not discover who authored the inflammatory opinion pieces she hoped would spark the entire town into debating their merits, if they found any. At least the conversation would start. Not only would Father be angry and embarrassed, but he may even consider her actions a disloyalty to his authority and his trust. Worse, he would be right.
"I will, but only because you leave me no option, my dear. But do not despair." Frank traced a finger lightly along her cheekbone, skirting her lip and down her chin. "I will be an eager and attentive suitor."
Her body leaned toward him despite her resolve, tingled over every inch where his finger lingered. But how could she agree and still maintain her reputation, let alone her vow?
The memory of kissing John under the live oak tree years before flashed through her mind. She courted then without marrying, though he had intrigued her for a time. She certainly could experiment in such a way again. Without any commitments, of course.
Examining the man before her, she acknowledged her attraction to him on a purely superficial level, though she resisted any emotional interest. Frank's dark blond hair put emphasis on a sculpted jaw and intelligent eyes. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his coat, suggesting the strength of the muscular arms hidden beneath. His breeches fit snugly, hinting at powerful thighs and hips, as well as revealing strong calves.
Courting did not mean a death sentence. Nor a marriage contract. Courting merely meant a temporary situation she could end anytime she chose. She could survive this.