The Bootmaker's Daughter: Revolution (Destiny's Daughters Book 2)

by Colleen French

  "Now, now, what's your hurry?" Grayson was close enough to make out the oval lines of her face, to detect the scent of her hair. She smelled like fresh-cut hay, sweet and pungent.

  "I said, I've my man to attend to. I just came to bring my sister a loaf of—"

  "You've got no man," Grayson interrupted. "I saw you inside with the farmers playing hazzard. You're a damned fine caster."

  Maggie eyed the redcoat, unsure of what to make of him. He was still moving toward her, but her gut instinct told her he meant her no harm. "What, you having nothing better to do," she glanced at his insignia, "Captain, then spy on innocent women?"

  Grayson reached for a lock of her wavy bright hair; she made move to back away. "Ah, a woman for certain, but for certain, no innocent."

  She watched him lift the long lock of hair and bring it to his lips. "I beg of your pardon, sir. Now step aside, else I'll call for help."

  Grayson watched her rosy lips move as she spoke. Christ, she made him hot! With one swift movement he grabbed her around the waist and pushed her against the rough-hewn cedar shakes of the tavern wall. He crushed his mouth against hers.

  For an instant, Maggie was frozen in shock. This, this soldier was kissing her! She could feel his lips bruising hers. She could taste the sweet wine on his breath. Despite his force, his kiss was not unpleasant . . . He brought his hand up to cup her breast—

  Mother Mary of God! What was she thinking! This man was a stinking redcoat! Maggie caught him by the shoulders and shoved him backward.

  "What the hell!" Grayson muttered, stumbling to catch his balance.

  Maggie slipped her hand down her bare thigh and grabbed her knife from her stocking. The dim light from the oil-cloth tavern windows struck the blade and reflected in the darkness.

  Grayson caught sight of the knife and threw up his hands. "Easy, easy there, wench. I meant no harm. Just wanted to sample the goods. I've the coin. Whatever you ask." He could still taste her mouth on his. Her kiss had been even sweeter than he'd imagined.

  Maggie panted in anger. She wiped her mouth with the back of her bare arm. "S-sample the goods! The coin! What the bloody hell are you talkin' about?"

  "Your services, of course."

  "My services?" She swallowed. Her head was in a muddle. She could still taste his mouth on hers. She was ashamed. She'd let a bloody redcoat kiss her and she'd nearly liked it! She looked down at his boots and then at him again. "You want your boots mended?"

  "My boots? Are you addlepated, woman?" He ran his fingers through his golden hair. "What are you talking about boots? I want you."

  "Me?" She pointed at herself with the tip of the knife.

  "I saw you go upstairs with the farmer. Surely if he's an acceptable customer, I am."

  The realization that the redcoat thought she was a whore hit her in the face in an icy splash. "You son of a bitch!" she flared, brandishing the knife. "Get out of my path before I slit you end to end! How dare you accuse me of sluttin'!"

  Grayson took a step back out of the wench's way. "By the king's cod! What are you ranting about, woman!"

  "You! You thought I was a whore!"

  Grayson dropped a hand to his sinewy thigh. He'd made a mistake. He could see it in her eyes. "M-my apologies. There's obviously been a mistake."

  "Obviously," Maggie seethed.

  "It's just that I saw you playing hazzard with the men . . ."

  "I've a right to play a die same as you."

  "One offered you money . . ."

  "For my services."

  "You took him upstairs . . ."

  "To measure his feet."

  Grayson frowned, suddenly wishing he hadn't downed that last tankard of port. "His feet?"

  "Yes, to measure his feet, Captain. I'm no whore! I'm a bootmaker!"

  Grayson looked away, a chuckle rising in his throat. "A female bootmaker?"

  "I fail to see the humor. I can sew a sole on faster and tighter than any man for three counties! I have to make a living the same as anyone."

  So you don't have a man, Grayson thought. "No, I wasn't laughing at you. Only at myself."

  "Get out of my way!"

  He stepped aside. "I didn't mean to offend you."

  "You didn't think calling me a drop-drawers would offend me!"

  "Not if you were one!"

  Maggie opened her mouth to reply and then snapped it shut. What ailed her, standing here arguing with this redcoat! "Get out of my path," she said in a low, threatening voice. "And you'd best not follow me home, else I'll sic my dogs on you!" Carefully, she eased past him, the knife still clutched in her hand.

  "I'm not a man to follow women home." He turned to watch her disappear into the darkness. "It was an honest mistake," he called after her. "I said I'm sorry, what else do you want?"

  "Nothin'!" she flung over her shoulder, hurrying down the road. "I don't want nothin' from you," she repeated under her breath, "you stinking redcoat . . ."

  Grayson stood for a long moment staring into the darkness, listening to the sound of her footsteps as Maggie hurried down the road. Then, swearing softly beneath his breath, he ducked back into Commegys' Ordinary for one last tankard of port.

  Once she was a safe distance from the tavern, and certain the redcoat wasn't following her, Maggie slowed her pace. She could still feel her heart pounding beneath her breast. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as if she could wipe away his memory.

  "How could you have let a man kiss you like that?" she asked herself aloud. "You're lucky he didn't throw you on the ground and take you right there!"

  An owl hooted in reply and Maggie grinned. "You agree with me, do you?" she called to the owl. She heard a flutter of wings and then silence.

  She walked around the bend, through Devil's Woodyard, where a lonely man could hear the devil chopping his wood some nights, and up over the hill. In the distance she could see the glow of the lantern through Zeke's kitchen window. She had half a mind to stop and share a pint of cider with him. The thought of returning home to her empty farmhouse was none too appealing. But she kept walking.

  She climbed over the fence at the apple tree and stepped foot on her father's land. On her land. In the far pasture she could see her old nag, Goldie, grazing. In a circle around her were several deer. Maggie smiled. The war had torn the little coastal town of Yorktown apart. Crops had been burned, wood cut, animals slaughtered, yet still, there was beauty to behold. You just had to look a little harder for it these days.

  The sensible thing to do would have been to run and fetch her da's matchlock rifle and at least shoot the buck. It would be a long, hard winter with the British occupying the York Peninsula and no meat in her smokehouse. But she just couldn't bring herself to do it . . .

  Slipping through the gate, Maggie walked up the lane. She wished she hadn't locked her hounds in the barn. She always felt safer when they were here in the yard to greet her when she came home.

  Maggie came to a sudden stop when she realized there was someone sitting on her front porch in her rocker. Her first thought was of the redcoat. But how could he have made it here before her? Her heart gave a little trip in her chest.

  The figure stood. "Maggie," he said softly.

  Relief flooded her at the recognition of the voice, and she hurried up the steps. "Mother Mary, Zeke, you scared the tar out of me!"

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to."

  "What are you doin' here?" She walked through the front door and down the hall to the kitchen in the back. Zeke followed.

  He said nothing as she lit a candle by the embers of the banked coals in the fireplace. He turned a kitchen chair around and straddled it. "You in for a little moonlightin'?"

  "There's no moon out tonight," she said dryly.

  "There's a wagon train of Tories passin' through the crossroads tonight 'bout midnight."

  "So . . ."

  "Supplies, most of them stolen from us. They say there's leather aboard. I know you could use it with those orders comin
g in."

  Maggie faced him with sudden interest. "Stolen, you say?"

  "One of those damned Tory raidin' parties took it from a farmhouse over near Williamsburg. They burnt the man and his wife out and tarred and feathered 'em both."

  "So why are you so willin' to have me along, to give me a share? Whenever I've asked before, you said no. You said it was too dangerous."

  "It is dangerous. These redcoats are going to be livin' in our backyards, drinking our water, eating our eggs!"

  "So what makes tonight different?" She lit several more candles on the mantel, illuminating the cozy kitchen in soft light.

  Zeke shrugged. "The plan calls for a woman. It was either get you in on it or put on a skirt myself."

  Maggie laughed, clapping her hands. "Now that's a sight I'd like to see!"

  "So are you with me or no?" He lifted a finger. "Now remember, this ain't just loosening a heel on a lieutenant's boot. You get caught and they'll hang you the same as the rest of us, female or not."

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "Where's the shipment bound?"

  "One of the Brit camps, I'd suppose."

  "Flour, cornmeal, sugar?"

  "Whiskey, calfskin, red cloth for uniform coats ordered especially. The goods were in Williamsburg waitin' for transport, but originally they were taken off a ship one of our men sank in the James. You know the game. We take theirs, they take it back, we take it again."

  Maggie wondered if the shipment was bound for her redcoat captain's camp. She wondered if it was his new coat she'd be cheating him of. The thought was appealing. She lifted her lashes to stare into Zeke's ruddy face. "I'm in."

  "You certain? No one will think any less of you if you pass. You do your part for our army already."

  She gave a wave of her hand. "I fix their boots."

  "Not only do you fix our men's boots, but you sabotage theirs!"

  She joined in his laughter. "Sabotage! A hard word, friend."

  "Only a woman would think of such a subtle way to make her mark."

  Maggie suddenly grew serious. "I've no wish to make my mark, Zeke. Just to see this war end. To see these Colonies free."

  Zeke stood and pushed in his chair, scraping it along the planed pine floor. "Then put out your lights, Maggie, and come along. Let's see what we can do for our men tonight."

  Chapter Two

  "Captain . . . Captain . . . " Private Michaels shook Grayson gently. "Sir. you have to wake up."

  Grayson groaned as he rolled onto his back and shielded his eyes from the bright lanternlight. "God's teeth, Michaels, what is it?"

  "Major Lawrence, sir. He just got information on some rebel activity at the crossroad up near Commegys' Ordinary." The towheaded young man, no more than a boy of fourteen, set the lantern on the campstool beside Grayson's cot and gathered up several empty sack bottles. "He wants you to take a few men and round up the troublemakers. He's got a shipment of cloth bolts coming in and a tailor scheduled for the end of the week. He doesn't want anything to come between him and his new coat. He wants to look good when General Cornwallis arrives. The major says the rebel bastards stole the last two shipments of cloth he had sent from Paris."

  Grayson swung his legs over the bed and onto the canvas floor. He ran his fingers through his blond hair, trying to clear his head. "New coat? What coat? What the blast are you muttering about, Michaels?"

  The young man offered Grayson his breeches. "I didn't ask questions. The major was in none-too-pleasant a mood, sir."

  Grayson snatched his breeches from Michael's hand. "When is he ever?"

  Major Roland Lawrence was a bastard of a commander. He gave no thought to the men below him, only to the task at hand. His ethics were questionable, but he was one of Cornwallis's favored few. He'd been promoted after several successful campaigns under the command of Colonel Banastre Tarleton, the butcher, and now held a comfortable position as one of the many aides to Cornwallis.

  Major Lawrence was to be a liaison of sorts between the commander of the British forces in the south and the York Peninsula. His duty, once the entire British army under Cornwallis arrived, would be to procure houses and services, and see to it that shipments of goods made it through to the British army. It would be his duty to keep an eye on the local rebel scum. Their numbers were small, but the band was said to be active. Major Lawrence took their activities as a personal affront and was determined to see them hanged.

  Grayson accepted the shirt Michaels offered him. He sighed as he stuffed his arms into the sleeves. "Sorry, son, I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that this is the third time this week the major's gotten me out of bed to investigate some sort of rebel activity. I never see any rebels." He reached for his silk stockings hanging on the end of the cot. "Just cows and an occasional goat." He looked up at the private. "You think it's the goats after the major's coat cloth?"

  The private grinned. "Could be, sir."

  Grayson stood and tucked his shirt into his breeches. "All right. Grab my boots for me and let's get on with this. We'll make one circle around the Ordinary and then call it a night. I'll need my horse."

  "Already done, sir. The men are waiting for you outside."

  Grayson reached for the scarlet coat it seemed he'd been wearing for an eternity. "What would I do without you, Michaels?"

  The private handed Grayson his boots and hat. "Find yourself another private, I suppose, sir."

  Grayson flashed him a smile. "Never happen. Where would I ever find a private who could made a decent palm toddy and buckle his own breeches?"

  Michaels laughed as he walked out of the tent. "We'll be waiting outside for you, sir. Whenever you're ready."

  Maggie sat on the hard wagon seat, the heavy leather reins clutched in her hands. She watched the crossroad from the cover of the woods and waited. The dark rain clouds were rolling in off the bay, kicking up the wind. Thunder rumbled in the near distance. She could already smell the rain, though she felt no drops on her bare freckled arms.

  "Come on with it," she whispered nervously. More than an hour had passed since she'd been directed to her position. So far she'd seen no one but a drunken soldier carrying the town whore, Lyla, down the road toward the new British encampment.

  Maggie was beginning to wonder if this was a mistake, being here. Zeke was right. She was doing her part for the patriot cause. She repaired soldiers' boots, whether they could affford to pay her a pence or two, or not. She made boots and sold them to Washington's army for barely enough profit to replace the leather. And she had caused more than a little trouble down south with her cardboard soles, rough-sewn seams, and loose nails. She vowed there was more than one British soldier limping with blistered heels tonight, thanks to her. Wasn't that enough for a woman?

  A woman. That was the kicker. She didn't want to do enough for a woman. She wanted to do enough. No more. No less. One day when this war came to end, whether her patriots won or lost, she wanted to be satisfied knowing she had done her part for the cause of freedom.

  Maggie tensed at the sound of rolling wagon wheels. Then she heard nothing but the rustle of the trees overhead. "Nothin' to be frightened of," she murmured. "Zeke's right down the road a piece. He'll not let them carry me off." Her hand went to the matchlock rifle that lay across her lap. She'd not let anyone harm her.

  The sound came again, this time more distinct. She could hear the creak of wagon wheels, the steady clip-clop of horses' hooves. She glanced north toward Williamsburg. This was it. Too late for weak knees now. It was the wagon train all right; she could see them coming over the crest of the hill. Two wagons, three . . . quite a haul for Zeke's rebel band if they could manage it.

  Maggie went over the plan in her mind again. Though it was simple enough, she wanted to be certain she had it right. She didn't want to let Zeke down. There would only be one chance. When the first wagon rolled past Manny's tavern, she was to pull out of the cover of the woods and onto the road in front of them. She was then to turn in the road a
s if to head west, at which point she was to pull on the rope that would release the pin on the wagon wheel. The wheel would roll off and she would come to a halt in the center of the intersection, blocking the wagons' passage. At that point, Zeke and the other men would take over and she'd head out across the field on foot.

  The first wagon approached the crossroad and Maggie lifted the reins with her trembling hands. This was her life she was risking for a cause she didn't know they could ever win. Was it worth it?

  Hell, yes!

  She clicked to the horse and her wagon rolled forward, out of the cover of the sycamore trees and thick honeysuckle vines. She bent her head, thankful for the dark night that would cloak her identity.

  Carefully she guided her horse and wagon across the proscribed route. Purposely ignoring the approaching wagons, she jerked the rope attached to the wagon pin. Her wagon kept rolling, the horse clopping faithfully along.

  Come on, she thought. Why doesn't the wheel come off!

  She rolled another half a wagon length. Another moment and it would be too late . . .

  Suddenly the rickety wagon lurched onto its side with such force that Maggie was catapulted off the bench seat and into the soft grass on the edge of the road.

  "Son of a bitch!" a voice crowed. "You're blockin' the road!"

  Maggie sat up, rubbing her forehead. The rifle she'd held in her lap had been flung from the wagon as well, and she struck her head on it coming down.

  "Well, get up and get the wreck out of my way!" the man shouted from his wagon. The other two rolled in behind him and squeaked to a stop. "We got king's business here!"

  Then, out of the black night came the dark figures.

  "Step down off your wagons and no one'll get hurt," ordered one of the men in Zeke's group. To Maggie's surprise she saw that all of the men were hooded in white to conceal their identities. Clever, she thought as she watched from the tall grass.

  The man in the first wagon put up his hands in surrender. "We want no trouble," he called out.