Henry knew his aide-de-camp was uncomfortable. The demon general smelled fear like a beautiful maiden inhaling the scent of a red rose she had received from a suitor.
“Welcome to Boston,” Thomas Gage said, reaching to shake Henry’s hand.
Henry reciprocated. “It is an honor to meet you, General Gage.” His yellow-green eyes moved to Margaret Gage’s face, then traveled the length of her body to the tips of her shoes as he bowed. He had heard that she was considered a beautiful and desirable woman, and what he saw proved that claim to be true.
She was tall and thin with an ample bust line. Her mass of brown hair was piled in seductive curls on the top of her head. Henry imagined running his fingers through those curls.
He wondered what the much older, droopy-eyed, and pot-bellied Thomas Gage had done to win her hand in marriage. Henry surmised their marriage was a union of mutually social benefit as most marriages were. Still, the idea that a comely woman like Margaret Gage could gaze upon her husband’s dogged-face with pleasure, while he fucked her, was amusing.
“Mrs. Gage,” Henry said with a sweeping smile and a slight bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Margaret tried to be courteous. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and took an unconscious step back.
Henry smirked at her.
Lieutenant Edward Anson was already acquainted with the Gages. He knew very well that Mrs. Gage was a cultured and educated woman. Rude behavior toward an important guest like General Hereford was unthinkable, yet that was what she was doing.
Robert introduced himself. “I am Captain Robert Percy, at your service, General Gage.”
Thomas offered Captain Percy an indifferent acknowledgment. He did not like the way the general was looking at Margaret. He was sure he detected lust in the general’s strange eyes when he spoke to her. That would explain Margaret’s less than hospitable welcome.
However, Thomas could not afford to be anything less than the doting host. Perhaps, I will speak to Margaret about this later, he thought, knowing that he would never cajole her for rebuffing a flirtation.
“Please, be my guest,” Thomas said. He stood aside so Henry, Robert, and Edward could pass through the door ahead of him.
Margaret led the men to the dining room where the breakfast table was set.
Squire entered the dining room. He pulled a chair out from the dining table, and without looking at Henry, motioned to the chair and said, “Please, sir.”
“What is your name?” Henry asked.
The last thing in Heaven and on Earth Squire wanted to do was look into the general’s unnatural yellow-green eyes, which would be tantamount to looking into the eyes of Lucifer. But Lucifer had not sent this demon. This demon was spawned from an atrocity committed by angels. Squire knew his Bible and the word of God well.
Henry saw the old man quiver. He licked his lips, smiled and said, “Look at me and speak your name.”
Sweat beaded on Squire’s forehead.
Margaret bit her tongue to keep from ordering the general to leave Squire alone. Instead, she said, “Squire, please go to the kitchen and assist Wenona with the serving plates. I am sure our guests know how to seat themselves.”
The old slave’s brown eyes looked at Margaret with loving relief. He nearly threw himself through the door to the kitchen.
General Gage motioned to several pitchers in the middle of the large dining room table. “Gentlemen, please have some cider or rum.”
Wenona and two Pokanoket women brought plates, meat pies, muffins, and pastries into the dining room. Squire was notably absent. When the women had breakfast set on the table, the guests served themselves before the Gages.
“General Hereford, Mrs. Gage has planned a party to acquaint you with the officers assigned to Massachusetts. I hope that is agreeable.”
“Anything Mrs. Gage does is agreeable with me,” Henry sniggered.
Margaret remained silent and studied General Hereford with discretion. His dark hair was ponytailed and quaffed in two neat rows of curls at his temples. His jawline was strong. Stubble was visible on his cheeks, chin, and upper lip although, unknown to her, he had shaved only hours before. His voice was gruff. She would have thought him exceedingly handsome and masculine if not for his unnerving yellow-green eyes.
Lieutenant Edward Anson quietly ate his breakfast. He hoped that he would be relieved of his duty to General Hereford and sent back to the HMS Invincible.
Eight
Boston, Massachusetts February 1775
Ian and Sidonie stood on Long Wharf under the steel gray sky of a Massachusetts February afternoon with no plan and no direction for the future. Forty-five years after their first spiritual encounter, they were virtual strangers who neither belonged on Earth nor belonged together.
Sidonie saw Ian do something she should have anticipated. He looked for orange eyes in every face among the shifting throng of British redcoats, sailors, dockworkers, fishermen, peddlers, and civilians.
“Demons?” she whispered.
“I see none.” He afforded her a glance but remained vigilant. “Come. Seamus is supposed to meet us.”
She was separated from him as they walked the crowded Long Wharf toward Faneuil Hall. Ian was nearly out of sight when she saw a man with a full beard wearing a narrow brimmed black hat. The man looked Ian’s human age. He clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder, and then pulled Ian into a brief embrace.
“I’ve brought Sidonie,” Ian said to Seamus Cullen.
Ian realized he could no longer smell Sidonie’s scent of sweet magnolia. “Seamus, I’ve lost her,” he said calmly.
“I cain see that. What’re you doin’ bringin’ her here?”
“She cried.”
As one of the three fools who had been lustful, Seamus understood the smell that drove a man to distraction, but Ian’s actions were unacceptable. Sidonie’s body should be buried and her soul escorted to its destiny.
“Summon a reaper,” Seamus said.
Ian’s eyes searched Long Wharf and found Sidonie. He pointed and said, “She’s there.”
British soldiers had taken notice of her.
“Summon a reaper,” Seamus growled.
Ian quickly glared at Seamus and said, “No.”
A tall young redcoat moved in so close to Sidonie that his saber scabbard parted the folds of her skirt. She looked at his face and took a step back without moving her eyes. A soldier standing behind her wrapped his arms around her waist.
Ian pushed his way through the crowd toward Sidonie. His red aura, which was normally invisible to humans, but visible to demons, shimmered brightly. It announced his whereabouts to demons if they were on or around the wharf.
Seamus grumbled under his breath and followed Ian. His purple aura was no less visible.
Ian barged through the circle of British soldiers who surrounded Sidonie and took her hand. He turned to lead her out of her predicament when the steel blade of a saber slipped across the lapel of Ian’s coat. Its sharp tip came to rest under his cleft chin.
“You are not thinking about taking her with you, are you, Yankee?” the tall young soldier smirked.
Ian’s eyes traced the saber to its hilt, which was gripped in the soldier’s white-gloved hand.
“I wager he is fucking his sister,” the soldier who had Sidonie by the waist said. He smiled at the thought, and then took her by the chin. “Look at them, James. They look alike!”
James, the young soldier holding the saber, pressed the saber’s tip harder under Ian’s chin. “Is Charles right? Are you fucking your sister?”
Ian narrowed his eyes at his captor in reply.
Seamus reached the soldiers surrounding Sidonie. He saw no orange eyes among them.
“I wager I can make him squirm,” Charles said. He moved his hand from her chin and squeezed her breasts. “She feels nice and ripe. Does that fire your jealousy, Yankee?”
The people, who gathered to watch, murmured among themselves. A British soldier w
as molesting an American. The act reminded them of what had started the Boston Massacre.
Sidonie’s eyes remained on the soldier holding the saber to Ian’s chin.
Ian reached up and batted away the saber, and then tugged on Sidonie’s hand.
Charles tightened his arm around Sidonie’s waist and pulled her so close to his body that she felt his erection through the skirts that draped her buttocks. He continued to squeeze her breasts. “Answer me, Yankee!”
James flipped the tip of the saber back up under Ian’s chin. “You had better answer Charles or I’m going to shove my saber through your chin and out the back of your head. Your brains will be smeared all over the blade.” He exhaled a throaty laugh. “Then, we are going to kill your filthy swain friend with the hat.”
Ian glanced at Seamus. He heard Seamus’ wings rustle.
Sidonie said, “He does not—”
“—quiet, woman, or I’ll shove my bloody saber up your cunt after I kill your incestuous brother!”
Rage slammed Ian. He struggled to keep his silver wings furled when he seized the saber’s blade and jerked the weapon from James’ white-gloved hand. Blood flowed from Ian’s sliced palm and spattered the stunned soldiers when Ian flipped the saber and pressed the blade against James’ stomach.
“Tell the man touching Sidonie to let go of her,” Ian said to James. “Or I’ll shove this saber through your body and sever your spine.”
Ian’s red aura flickered with rage, and James saw it. His eyes watered, and snot ran from his nose and rolled down his lips and chin. A thick white glob dropped onto the saber blade.
Charles let go of Sidonie.
Ian noted Seamus’ position among the humans. Seamus was beside Sidonie, and he was uncompromised. Ian flung the saber over James’ head into the waters of Boston Harbor.
Ian and Sidonie clasped hands without looking at one another.
Seamus pulled a flintlock pistol from his coat pocket and released the sear. “Walk,” he said.
When they reached Faneuil Hall, Seamus set the sear on his pistol and stashed the weapon in his coat pocket. Ian stopped and looked for orange eyes in the gathering darkness.
“Colm’s expecting us. We’re lodgin’ at the Greystoke Inn,” Seamus said.
Ian had not considered what his responsibilities toward Sidonie’s well- being entailed. Providing shelter for others was a strategy innate to Colm, and taught to the angels who served as seconds to archangels—Fergus Driscoll and Seamus Cullen.
Sidonie sacrificed sustenance, knowing Ian would be incapable of providing food. But starving was better than never seeing his beautiful face again, or experiencing the storm of his silver crystals as they showered from his wings when he had an orgasm, or feeling the powerful softness of his hands pulling her close to his body.
Ian tightened his bleeding hand around Sidonie’s delicately boned fingers. His physical body was weary, and he longed to lay down with her.
“She’s staying with me,” Ian said to Seamus.
“No, she ain’t. Colm’ll send her back to Charles Town without another thought.”
“I have money.”
“That don’t matter. Like I asked you before, what were you thinkin’ bringin’ her here? And don’t say she cried.”
“She was going to suffer if I left her behind,” Ian said. He hugged her close. He suddenly had an erection.
“You’ve always been the best of us at comfortin’ humans, but this ain’t right,” Seamus said.
They walked to the Greystoke Inn through the quiet night of British- occupied Boston.
With Ian’s return, Colm wanted to take the next steps toward an alliance with the patriots. For now, Colm’s actions were stalled because John Adams, John Hancock, Dr. Joseph Warren, Samuel Adams, and Fergus, were in Cambridge attending the adjournment of the second Provincial Congress of Massachusetts. The agenda was set to address their entitlement to freedom, and relief from tyranny.
They had asked for action from General Thomas Gage to concert some adequate remedy to prevent the abuse of civilians by the military and provide for public safety. The Congress’ messages were printed in the Boston news- papers. Gage’s exasperated response was that no one, except avowed enemies of the Crown, was in danger. Therefore, nothing was to be done.
The patriots not only held congressional meetings in an effort to prepare for what lay ahead, they also wrote missives speaking of the freedom they believed in. The loyalists had plenty to say in response. These missives were published in various newspapers in the Boston area and usually under a Latin pen name. Although John Adams was not a member of the Sons of Liberty (he disapproved of their thug-like tactics), he and his much older cousin, Samuel Adams, were particularly active with a quill.
The patriots’ meetings gave Colm time to assess the angels’ new surroundings and take steps to draw out Henry, if indeed, he was in Boston.
On a late and snowy afternoon in the first week of February, the angels gathered around the fire pit behind the Greystoke Inn. A few inn guests drifted across the backyard, but none regarded the angel men with suspicion or curiosity.
From the kitchen window, the innkeeper’s daughter, Jane Greystoke, watched Brandon O’Flynn, who was among the men around the fire pit. He was tall, and his blue eyes captivated her seventeen-year-old desire. She had been watching him since he and his friends had checked into the inn. She forced a neutral expression on her face and walked outside to offer refreshment to them.
“Sir? Rum or ale?” Jane asked Brandon.
“Rum,” Brandon said. He avoided looking at her.
“I cannot pour your rum without a cup to pour it in.”
Brandon looked at the cup in his hand, and then held it out to Jane.
She studied his high forehead and broad chest. The pitcher of rum in her hand remained poised to pour.
Brandon had no practical experience with women. He tried to brush away the discomfort he felt under Jane’s scrutiny, and in doing so, their eyes met.
“Are you gonna pour the rum?” he asked her.
Michael elbowed Patrick and in a loud whisper said, “Do ya think he’s gonna kiss her?”
“Be quiet,” Patrick hissed.
Michael’s comment embarrassed Jane. She poured Brandon’s rum, and then quickly offered refreshment to the others. When Michael’s cup was the only one left to fill, she returned to Brandon and said, “I will not serve your rude friend without his apology for suggesting that I would allow you, or any other man, to kiss me.”
Brandon saw the smirk on Michael’s pouty lips. He had no idea what he was supposed to say to Michael or the girl. He looked to Ian for guidance, but Ian merely raised an eyebrow.
Jane frowned and returned to the kitchen.
“Why do you gotta be uncouth?” Brandon asked Michael.
Michael shrugged. “If ya weren’t scared of girls, I wouldn’t have to say anything.”
“Shut ya mouth, Michael,” Colm said. “It’s time to kill ya habit of belittling others. We’re facing a serious war, and I’m not standing for it anymore.”
“I was just…”
Colm killed Michael’s excuse with a terse look. His cockiness is going to get him killed, Colm thought. How do I get him to stop?
“Jeremiah should be here in the next few days,” Colm said. “When he gets here, I’ll send him to find weapons. In the meantime, Patrick, find out what ya can about the Boston militia and the Sons of Liberty. Michael and Brandon, walk every inch of Boston so ya can understand our surroundings. Ian, ya are going to get us a place to live.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” Ian protested.
Colm flashed his eyes at Ian.
Ian backed down.
“Liam,” Colm said, “ya are the best of us to write a missive to draw Henry’s attention. Deliver it to John Adams. John can get it published in the local newspapers. If Henry’s here, he’ll read the newspapers. I want him to know we’re here, and we aren’t afraid.”
“Seamus,” Colm continued, “go to Long Wharf and ask about ships that’ve arrived from England in the past month with British officers on board. See if ya can find out where the officers are quartered.”
“What about Fergus?” Seamus asked.
“He’s not under my command anymore.”
“I mean, where’s he gonna live?”
“He’s on his own.”
“That don’t seem right,” Patrick said. “He’s one of us, and you’re just lettin’ him fend for himself?”
“What do ya suggest we do, Patrick?” Colm asked.
Patrick studied the toes of his boots and shrugged.
“He belongs with us,” Brandon said.
“Aye, he does,” Colm agreed. “Why don’t ya ask him what he wants to do when he gets back from Cambridge?”
“I intended on talking to Fergus,” Liam said. “I do not think it has really come upon him that he will not be fighting with us. I do not think he has had time to feel separated from us.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “That’s horseshit!”
“I agree with Michael,” Ian said. “Fergus left Burkes Garden without looking back. He doesn’t care.”
Colm knew letting Fergus go was hard on all of them. “Go to bed,” he said. “We’ll get started at dawn.”
The angels took the order.
Ian remained and stared into the fire pit. The dying flames looked like demonic eyes that dared him to tell Colm that Sidonie was lodged at the inn.
“Ian, go to bed,” Colm said.
Ian looked at Colm’s somber face.
“Colm, I…”
Colm tightened his jaw.
Ian dropped his gaze to the snow-covered ground. He was sharing a room with Liam and Seamus, and he had not spent one night with Sidonie since they arrived in Boston for fear that Liam would notice his absence. Tonight, Ian could hear her crying in her room. He had not alleviated her suffering, and he had disobeyed his archangel. Colm had never spoken the order, but Ian knew what he was doing was considered disobedient.
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