Moonlight Rebel

by Ferrarella, Marie

He smiled at the loyal note in her voice. God, but he loved her. "Yes, I have. I'd hoped that I could live my life in peace without getting involved. It's too late now not to get involved." He raised his collar against the wind. The sky was turning gray. "I owe Nathan a return of loyalty. He always followed me, no matter what I did. It's time I followed him."

  Suddenly, she didn't want him to leave. She couldn't bear it if something happened to him. "Will you go to war?"

  "To be a soldier?" He shook his head. "No, there are different ways to get John Bull where he lives." He didn't elaborate any further.

  Krystyna looked at him, wondering what he planned to do. But, if he wanted her to know, he would tell her. She had to be patient. She respected his decision, felt a kinship with him that hadn't been there before.

  "You know, Princess." He placed a finger beneath her chin and raised it so her eyes met his. "You are a comfort to have around."

  His approval warmed her the way nothing else could. She realized how much she had missed his smile, the light in his eyes. Basking in them was like coming out into the sunlight again after a year of darkness.

  "It's too cold here," he told her, and she understood what he meant. "There's a cabin not far away, where we might be alone." He peered at her face. "Would you like that?"

  He read the answer in her eyes before she said it. "Yes."

  The cabin was cold and dusty, not that different than the one she lived in when she had first entered it. But she had walked into that one, not knowing what the next moment would hold for her. Here, she knew. For a few hours, there would be love, the like of which she had sampled before but would drink deeply of now. For there was no longer any hesitancy or shyness to stand in her way. No thoughts to bind her movements.

  She wanted to be his. And this dreary little room had been transformed into the grandest bedroom because he was in it with her.

  Jason could feel that something was different this time. When he turned from the fire he'd built for them, she had already shed her coat and was loosening the lacings of her dress. He reached for her in awe, but she took a step back.

  "No, I want to do this for you."

  He groaned as he waited, impatient to touch her. There are too many layers to women's clothing, he thought. It seemed to take an eternity. When she stood in only her chemise and pantaloons, her skin golden in the fire's light, he reached for her again, his needs thundering within him. "Two work faster."

  She stepped back, allowing one strap to slip from her shoulders, then the other. "There is no hurry," she said softly.

  "Oh, but there is, Princess, there is." The flat of his hands branded her as he slipped the chemise down the rest of the way. His mouth was dry as he looked at her. "If I don't touch you soon, I'll surely perish right here from longing."

  It took effort to keep so still when the touch of his hands made her want to move, to brush against him in the age-old rhythm that hummed through her body whenever they were like this. "You turn a pretty phrase, Jason."

  He wondered how he could form words when his mouth was so parched. "You are my only inspiration."

  She laughed at what he'd said and at the look in his eyes. But beneath the teasing, she saw the need, the flame of desire; and it warmed her far more than the flame in her heart did.

  The pantaloons whispered to the floor. She stood before him, the light caressing her body, tantalizing him. She raised her arms to him. "Then be inspired, Jason."

  With fevered kisses, his lips branded her as his own. She arched against him, fluid in his arms, eager to feel him, eager to feel.

  His clothing was shed, words were murmured, and always the glow continued as he filled her head with dreams and her body with a promise of ecstasy.

  Though needs cried out, they took their pleasure slowly. Hidden away from everything, they explored one another, learning secrets, sharing them, delighting in the small paradise they had found.

  He scarcely recognized her and could not begin to understand this change in her. If before there had been a question, now there was an answer. She was his completely. Not just her body but her soul, as she had once foretold. The gift made him humble even as it heightened his passion.

  "Krystyna?" he murmured as he framed her face in his hands, his body above hers. "What has happened?"

  "You," she answered, her hips cradling his, their movements growing in intensity as needs threatened to block out all thought. "You have happened." And she finally permitted herself to love him, damning whatever consequences might come.

  They spent all afternoon making love and discovering one another.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  "So, you've come around, have you?" Morgan asked his son later that day when they were alone in the study.

  Jason looked out the window. Krystyna was on the lawn, playing a game with Christopher. She seemed to be laughing, and he yearned to hear the sound. "In my own way, yes." He turned around and looked at his sire. Morgan poured a glass of wine and offered it to him. "You see, Father, I'm not like you." He accepted the glass. The stemware was old, a part of the dowry that had come to the house with his mother. "I can't clutch a cold philosophy to my breast. I'm too concerned with living each day—"

  "And pressing a warm woman to your breast instead, eh?" Morgan chuckled. He took a sip of wine. Another luxury that will soon be gone, he mused, if the embargo isn't lifted soon. He noted the surprised look on his son's face. It wasn't often that he spoke so lightly with his offspring. "Ah, yes, I am not so taken with my 'cold philosophies' that I don't see how the women flock to you, young and old alike." He held up his hand, putting an end to Jason's protest before it began. "Not that it's your fault, lad." Morgan took obvious relish in this. "You're far better looking than I was at your age, and Lord knows, I never wanted for companionship —before your mother, God rest her soul," he lied, giving proper deference to the woman's memory.

  Jason sampled his wine. "And after, too," he added. "I'm not blind either, Father."

  Morgan eyed the decanter and decided that one was enough for now. He placed his glass on the silver tray. "You seemed to have changed, boy, since the Countess arrived." He looked at his second-born closely. The signs were all there. "Have you been bedding her, lad?"

  "There is the lady's honor to consider, Father," Jason replied vaguely.

  It was all the answer Morgan needed. He smiled. "Honor and you are strange bedfellows. But that is probably the only bedfellow you haven't had yet." The broad shoulders lifted and fell. "Well, no matter. It's not important that I hear it from your lips. She's of strong character, though that is odd as far as women go."

  Making himself comfortable, Morgan drew out his pipe and began to pack it. The scent from the humidor filled the room. "I like her. I don't usually like women, but I like her." He lit his pipe and drew deeply on it a few times. "Still, what's important here is your conversion—or awakening as it were. I have my convictions, but I'm not the young man I was. I can't go riding around the way I need to, and there is much to be done that soldiers can't accomplish."

  Leaning back in his chair, Morgan watched the smoke curl lazily from his pipe. "I shall now talk to you as my equal, not as my son, And what I am about to tell you doesn't concern Aaron. Is that clear?"

  Jason sat down on the chair opposite his father. "I don't like lying to Aaron — "

  Morgan blew out an impatient breath "Aaron is a fool. He honestly believes that the best way is the British way. If he were to know what we are about, he wouldn't have the nerve to oppose me openly, but his knowing would endanger all of us. His tongue is far from secure."

  Morgan studied Jason's face carefully. Yes, this one could be trusted. In his heart, he'd always known that. "All my dealings haven't been aboveboard."

  It wasn't news. "I rather suspected that." Jason grinned, taking another sip.

  "Well . . ." Morgan coughed, clearing his throat. He might have known Jason would catch on. "There's a new man involved now, a foreigner." He shook his head. "This
whole country is being overrun with them these days."

  Jason thought it prudent not to point out that it wasn't so many years ago that his father was a foreigner.

  "But this one's all right, I suppose," Morgan continued. "He is preparing to arrange a connection for us with a Dutch shipping vessel. Now that you've seen the light, when the time comes, I’ll be sending you to him for instructions. You'll be taking a quarter of our crop with you. Get the best price you can for them."

  "And the money?"

  "Will go to Washington, also through this man. His name is Andrej . . . Something-or-other." The name was too difficult for his tongue to wrap around.

  Jason felt uneasy about trusting a middle man, a stranger. When too many were involved, there was always a danger of discovery. "Why don't I just bring it to Washington directly?"

  "Once Washington returns North, it'll be too dangerous for you. This Andrej fellow has an underground network that will get it to Washington safely." He saw the suspicious look enter Jason's eyes. A good trait, he mused. "Don't worry, he comes with references."

  "Whose?"

  "Benedict Arnold's for one." Morgan tapped his pipe against the armchair. "Yes, yes, I know that Arnold's an upstart and gives himself airs, but there isn't a better soldier anywhere."

  And Jason had to agree with his father's assessment of the man, even though what he knew of Arnold, he didn't care for.

  Several days later, after Washington's triumphant leave of Boston, he led his armies south. The McKinley plantation became his temporary headquarters. His men needed to rest in order to regain their strength before pushing forward.

  And his visit had another, secret purpose. He came to gratefully collect the money that his old friend had managed to raise for ammunition, from illegal trading and the contributions of many of his neighbors. It would have been a great deal simpler to have encamped at Mount Vernon. But Mary Washington was still there, and Washington knew that if he went, there would be a scene, just as always. The men didn't need to see their commander treated like an errant schoolboy.

  Morgan threw open his doors and gave Washington the run of the plantation. All the food he could spare was given to the army. The soldiers quartered with Washington hadn't seen food on such a grand scale for more months than they could remember. Christmas, for them, had come months late.

  Everyone within the household tried to make the soldiers as comfortable as possible, seeing to their needs. Only Savannah refused to take part. Aaron was civil for his father's sake and because Washington was an old friend of the family.

  On the second day of the encampment, two of the volunteers decided that they needed more than food to revive their spirits. They had just left the house when they saw Savannah cantering toward them, returning from a ride in the country.

  The younger of the two soldiers, a boy of seventeen, nudged his companion in the ribs. "God, would you look at that vision." He stared, his mouth hanging open. He'd never seen anyone so beautiful. Another appetite, a more demanding one, was stirred.

  A gap-toothed grin met his words. "Wouldn't you like to feel that bit of softness against you?"

  The first soldier grabbed Savannah's reins as she slowed her horse. "Hello, pretty miss. Where're you comin' from in such a fine hurry?"

  Savannah's face clouded with anger as she held onto her riding crop, keeping it poised and ready in her hand. Winthrop rode up just behind her. The soldiers winked at one another. A fop.

  "That is none of your business!" She looked around, but there was no one to come to her aid besides Winthrop. "Let me by!"

  The volunteer made no move to let her pass. "Only if you ask me nice."

  "Say, you there, get off with you. Hellions, the lot of you!" Winthrop sputtered in indignation. In powdered wig and brocade riding coat trimmed with white ruffles at the cuffs and neck, he posed no threat to the two who had been living by their wits since they were children. "Be off with you," Winthrop ordered again. He drew out his lace handkerchief and held it against his nose. "You smell."

  "Maybe that's yourself you're smelling," the other soldier said, coming forward. He sniffed the air. "Why, he's wearing scents," he told his companion gleefully.

  "It was imported especially for me," Winthrop informed them haughtily.

  The volunteers had had enough of him. The second soldier looked at Savannah. "Maybe you'd like to join us and see what real men can do."

  "Would you like to know what havin' a real man is like, pretty miss?" the first soldier asked.

  They were now on either side of her horse, and Savannah could see the lust in their eyes. "No!" Her fear began to build. "You touch one hair of my head and I’ll beat you!"

  She raised the crop.

  "It's not your head I was thinkin' of touchin'." The older soldier laughed, his hands on her waist.

  Savannah struck him once before he yanked the crop out of her hand, tossing it to the ground. "I like 'em with spirit." He dragged her from her mount as Winthrop made angry noises.

  Though panic filled him, Winthrop was about to struggle off his horse when the first soldier pulled a pistol from the waistband of his trousers.

  "I wouldn't do anythin' foolish if I were you, your lordship. The lady will just be helpin' our morale some."

  Savannah looked at Winthrop as he froze in horror, staring at the drawn weapon. "Do something!" she demanded.

  "Your gentleman friend has a brain after all, miss. He's goin' to sit this one out." The soldier brandished his weapon.

  The younger volunteer grinned from ear to ear as he fingered Savannah's riding jacket. She cringed away from him. "This is somethin' we'll both enjoy," he promised her. "Someday you'll thank me — "

  "But it will not be today. Let her go, please."

  The soldier spun around. Krystyna stood framed by the open French doors that led into the library. In her hand was a musket. The muzzle was pointing straight at the man's chest.

  "Hey, watch where you're pointin' that thing," the soldier cried.

  "I know exactly where I am pointing it." Krystyna never took her eyes off the two soldiers. Savannah was released immediately.

  "You're a really lively one, you are." The older soldier began walking toward Krystyna.

  The musket muzzle shifted toward him. "Take one more step and I shall be forced to turn a stallion into a gelding." Krystyna's voice was low and extremely calm. Without looking in Savannah's direction, she said to the other woman,

  "Go into the house, Savannah. You, Winthrop, find one of the officers."

  As Savannah backed away cautiously, the younger of the two soldiers threw up his hands. "All right, all right, we was only havin' a little fun." He looked at Krystyna, suddenly a youth again. "Don't tell the captain, miss."

  Savannah held up her head. She wanted nothing more to do with any of them. And she certainly didn't want people knowing that Krystyna had saved her. "You needn't bother." They were the only words she addressed to Krystyna as she walked proudly into the house.

  The soldier with the gun shoved it back into his waistband. Winthrop ran after Savannah.

  The younger soldier looked at Krystyna then. Embarrassment tinged the grin he offered her. "We meant no harm."

  "You could have caused a great deal," Krystyna told him. "She is the master's daughter."

  The soldier's eyes widened. "I just thought . . ."

  Yes, she knew what he thought. "You should have thought more about what being a soldier meant and less about your appetites." The two soldiers quickly hurried away, and Krystyna went back into the library, closing the doors behind her.

  She put the musket back in the rack over the fireplace. She had been in the library when she'd heard the commotion. The confrontation had brought her first evening on these shores back to her, with a vividness that pressed on her. Krystyna no longer felt like reading.

  Leaving the room, she saw one of the house slaves carrying a large tray laden with food toward the stairs.

  "Is that for the ge
neral?" Krystyna asked the woman.

  "Yes, miz. He's in his room. Says he was too busy to come down and eat."

  Krystyna nodded. With Morgan gone for the day, Washington was undoubtedly resting. He had said at dinner the night before that he wasn't feeling very well.

  "I will take it up to him," Krystyna offered. For reasons she couldn't put into words, she wanted a few moments alone with the man who had grown to legendary proportions in this country.

  The servant looked uncertain, but knew better than to argue. "Yes, miz." She surrendered the tray.

  Washington's room was in the middle of the second floor. It wasn't a large one, but located in the middle of the hall as it was, it was warm. The general preferred warmth whenever he could find it. His lungs bothered him a great deal lately.

  Krystyna knocked on the door lightly, balancing the tray against the knob. The voice that bid her enter sounded tired.

  Washington was seated at the table by the fireplace. A roaring fire burned there. His face was drawn, and he looked far older than his forty-five years. His arm was extended before him, resting next to a towel and a basin. As Krystyna entered, she realized that Washington was applying leeches to his arm.

  "I brought your lunch." She set the tray down on the table, her eyes drawn to the gruesome, yet fascinating, sight. .

  Washington smiled. "I'm bleeding myself," he explained needlessly. "I've had it done so many times, I've become an expert at what needs to be done."

  She turned the teacup right side up on the tray and began to pour the hot brew. "Why?"

  "They suck out the bad blood," he told her kindly, wincing slightly as he applied another.

  Bleeding oneself never made any sense to her. "How do they know?" A drop of sugar went into the cup, just as much as she had seen him use last night.

  Washington stopped and looked at her. "How do they know what?"

  She uncovered his meal. "Which is the bad blood? It would seem to me that if they are to take out the bad blood, they might also take out some of the good blood as well." She looked at him pointedly. "Some of the blood that you will need to help you get well when you are sick."