He caught her hand, turning it to study her palm. "There'll be the picnic, games, horse races. Like the old days before this damned war."
He brought her hand to his lips as Maggie watched, mesmerized. He kissed one knuckle and then the next, working down the row.
"All right," Maggie said, her voice sounding breathy in her ears. "I'll do it. I'll go!"
"Grand!" Reluctantly, he released her hand. He knew he shouldn't be asking her. He knew there was no room in his life for a woman, especially a woman of Maggie's social class. The thought that she had no loyalties, that she was as willing to make a pair of English boots as American boots disturbed him greatly. But he just couldn't help himself. He'd lain awake half of last night thinking about her. Even when he closed his eyes, she was there, staring back at him with those immense brown eyes and that wild chestnut brown hair.
"I'll come by to get you about noon," he said.
She watched him turn and go. "I'll be ready." She waved and then watched until he disappeared down the lane. Tucking the flower behind her ear, she picked up her bucket and headed for the well.
Just wait until I tell Zeke, she thought. He's gonna be mad as fire!
Zeke slammed his leather ale jack on the scarred tavern table. "You said you'd what!"
"I said I'd go with him," Maggie answered, using a cotton rag to wipe up the spilled ale. "Now lower your voice before someone hears you."
He grasped her arm, pulling her onto the bench beside him, "You can't go to Mason Pickney's bull roast! He's a damned Tory. Pickney's Folly will be swarming with British. As good as Pickney's been to the British army this past year, Cornwallis may be there himself!" Zeke hissed angrily.
"What better way," Maggie answered calmly, "to watch the wasp than to be in the nest?"
"Hey, hey, what's the commotion?" John Logan slid onto the bench across the table from Maggie and Zeke.
She hooked her thumb in Zeke's direction. "He's being unreasonable."
Zeke leaned across the table, trying to control his anger. "Thayer's asked Maggie to that big bull roast at Pickney's Folly up on the bay."
John's gaze went to Maggie. "You're going to go?"
"Of course she ain't goin'," Zeke interrupted.
"Zeke, I know how you feel about this, but we've been trying for weeks to get someone into that party. It's places like that that we really get our information. A couple of bowls of punch and some officer is liable to spill anything."
Maggie covered her smile. She knew she'd won, and a thrill of anticipation ran up her spine. But still, she knew she had to take this seriously. This was business and she had to remember that. "I just think we'd be fools not to take advantage of this, John."
"Till he takes advantage of you," Zeke muttered, lifting his jack of ale in defeat.
"He's been nothin' but a gentleman," Maggie corrected. "He's just lonely. I'm safe enough."
"It's up to you, Maggie," John said. "But if you're willing to go in, we're willing to back you."
"I can do it." She leaned across the table. "I know I can."
"First thing we've got to do then is to get you something to wear."
"Oh." She sat back with deflated sigh. "I hadn't thought of that. I don't have any fancy dresses." She pulled at her spotted bodice. "I'd look like the servants in this."
John covered her hand with his. "I can take care of that. You just come by my place tomorrow and my sister Liz will find you something appropriate."
Her face lit up. "You sure she won't mind?"
"Positive." John nodded at Zeke. "You with us, friend?"
"I'm with you," Zeke grunted. "Let's get something to eat and then we'd best start with a list of names of the important officers who might be at Pickney's. She's going to have to know who's who if anything they say is going to make any sense to her."
Maggie turned to Zeke. "I'll be all right," she assured him. "I'll make you proud of me."
He looked up at her, his face lined with emotion. "I don't want to be proud, Maggie girl, I just want to see you livin'."
Chapter Seven
"Holy Mother Mary," Maggie breathed, staring at her own reflection in Elizabeth's floor-length beveled mirror. "Is it really me?"
Elizabeth laughed, her voice as rich as her brother's, John Logan. "Of course it's you! Just a splash of paint, a twist of curls, and a bolt of silk for good measure."
Maggie turned sideways, her eyes still wide with amazement. The apple-green polonaise was the most beautiful gown she'd ever laid eyes on. Fashioned of brocaded silk, the boned bodice lifted her breasts: tightening at the waist until it flared seductively at her hips. More rich apple-green watered silk formed the skirting, looped up to reveal a soft yellow petticoat. On her feet she wore a pair of supple leather-heeled slippers with silver buckles, and covering her calves were a pair of sheer linen stocking clocked at the ankles and tied up with yellow satin garters.
Elizabeth had brushed her hair until it shone and then drew part of it back to fall in curly waves from beneath a tiny beribboned cap. Maggie's face had been subtly painted with rice powder and a touch of rouge on her lips and cheeks to bring out the natural glow of her beauty.
"God knows I wouldn't recognize myself on the road," Maggie protested. She was giddy with pleasure. She'd had a wonderful afternoon with Elizabeth and John in the garden, where they'd gone over the identities of all of the important British officers likely to be at the bull roast. They'd laughed and talked as if they'd been friends for years. Then Elizabeth had led Maggie upstairs, and with the help of two maids she had transformed her from a country wench to a cultured lady . . . at least in appearance.
"Ladies!" John called from outside the bedchamber door. "You'll have to hurry if we're to have Maggie back in time for Thayer to pick her up. I've already sent for the carriage."
"Oh, Elizabeth," Maggie breathed, taking the blond girl's slender hands. "I don't know if I can do this! You've sewn me in so tight I can barely take a breath and I'm all wobbly on these fancy shoes."
Elizabeth laughed, her clear blue eyes shining with merriment. "You'll do fine. Believe me. You'll be the most beautiful woman there!"
"But I don't know how to act—what to say. I can't talk like them. "I'm liable to make fools of us both."
Elizabeth brushed a hand over her protruding stomach. She was well into her sixth month of her first pregnancy and hadn't seen her husband in months. He didn't even know she was with child when he left for the northern campaign. Maggie's heart went out to her, yet at the same time she made her proud. Elizabeth Logan Campbell was a true woman of the revolution. "Do as little talking as possible; men like those don't like a talkative woman. And when you must speak, just try to imitate the other women, like you've imitated me today."
"But I've never been to a fancy party like this before. I won't know what's proper."
"You do as Captain Thayer does. If he rests his napkin on his knee, you rest your napkin on your knee. If he laughs at one of Lawrence's inane jokes about the Germans," she shrugged, "you laugh. It's simple enough."
"Simple enough for you! You weren't born in a dirt-floor cabin!" Maggie ran her hands down her waist, amazed by the womanly figure she never knew she had.
"You'd be surprised what you can do when you have to." Elizabeth lowered her gaze to the polished wood floor, suddenly lost in her thoughts.
"Ah, Liz, I'm sorry." Maggie squeezed her arm. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad."
Elizabeth lifted her chin determinedly. "I was just thinking of those soldiers in Williamsburg we cared for last year. I never thought I could hold a man down while another sawed off his leg." She shook her head. "I never thought I could do it, but I did."
"It was a brave thing to do. Everyone in the tavern was talking about you."
Elizabeth exhaled softly. "I think about that poor man in Williamsburg and then . . . then, I can't help wondering if there's a woman somewhere holding down my Rob this very moment—" Her voice caught in her throat and she turned awa
y, ashamed by the hot tears that filled her clear blue eyes.
Impulsively, Maggie wrapped her arms around Elizabeth's trembling shoulders. "It's gonna be all right," she soothed. "One of these days Rob Campbell's going to come walkin'—walking through that door." She grasped Elizabeth by the shoulders, peering into her tear-streaked face. "He's going to walk in that door and lift you into his arms and he's going kiss you long and hard."
"Do you think so, Maggie?"
Maggie smiled. "I know so."
"Liz!" John called from the hallway. "She's got to go! I don't want to be there when Thayer arrives to pick Maggie up at her house."
"Oh, dear . . ." Elizabeth pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. "I apologize for my behavior. I didn't mean to keep you."
"Pshaw!" Maggie gave a wave. "What good's a friend if you can't cry on her shoulder once in a while? Now I gotta—" Maggie broke into a smile. "I must," she imitated Elizabeth's clear, precise speech, "go. But I'll speak with you on the morrow."
Elizabeth laughed at Maggie's antics, waving as she swept out of the bedchamber and accepted John's arm, allowing him to escort her downstairs.
"By the king's cod," Grayson swore softly as Maggie came onto the front porch of her farmhouse.
She laughed, throwing back her head, her rich, husky voice filling the hot afternoon air. "Hell of a sight I am, don't you think?" She spun on her toes for him, her cheeks rosy with excitement. It felt so good to be admired by a man, even if he was the enemy.
Grayson offered his hand to help her down the steps. His voice caught in a lump in his throat, and for a moment he found himself speechless. The country wench had shed her patched homespun for an apple-green satin gown, befitting of any society lady. She was the most beautiful woman Grayson had laid eyes on . . . even more beautiful than his brother's wife, Reagan. The sight of her standing on the porch steps, her dark brown eyes riveted to his, made his heart pound, his knees weak. But how could that be? She was an uneducated, poorly spoken, rough-and-tumble farmgirl. Her parents had been bond servants for God's sake!
Maggie accepted his hand and bounded lightly down the steps. "Close your mouth, Grayson. You'll let the flies in," she teased.
Embarrassed by his own reaction, Grayson found himself speaking in his captain's arrogant tone. "Well, God's bowels, Maggie, you startled me. Where the hell did you get that gown?"
"What did you think I was going to wear to Mason Pickney's, a flour sack?"
"I . . . I didn't think about it, actually."
They came to the open carriage Grayson had arrived in. "Neither did I till you were gone. But a friend loaned it to me."
He arched an eyebrow. "A friend." What friend would Maggie have who could afford such trappings?
She gave a nod. "A friend. Now are you going to help me into this contraption, or am I to run behind?"
Grayson chuckled as he swung open the half-door to the carriage and took Maggie's hand, assisting her up. "In you go." He stepped in behind her and snapped the door shut. "Onward, Michaels."
The private driving the carriage tipped his cap and gave a slap of the reins and the vehicle lunged forward.
Maggie gasped, sinking into the soft leather bench seat. Her second carriage ride in one day!
Grayson eased into the seat across from her as the carriage rolled down the dirt drive. The urge to kiss that sweet neck, to nuzzle her breasts where they swelled from the green silk was so overwhelming that he didn't trust himself to sit beside her. From here, he could at least admire her fresh, striking beauty without doing something foolish he was sure to regret later.
Maggie settled herself on the seat and spread her silk skirts as Elizabeth had instructed. Then, striking her Spanish lace fan on her knee, she spread the fan wide and fluttered it. This was all a game: she'd seen that soon enough. Even if she wasn't a real lady, she could certainly act the part.
Grayson rested his arm across the the back of the leather seat and stretched out, crossing his legs at the calves. As he did so, Maggie couldn't help noticing how well the breeches fit his sinewy form. By the holy virgin he was a fit man! From the tip of his polished shoes, to the top of his grenadier cap, he was all hard and muscular. Her thoughts went back to the glimpse of his nakedness she'd caught that night in his tent and she looked away.
Sure, Maggie girl, she told herself. He's a fine form of a man who makes your heart flutter and your belly go hot, but that there's a red coat he wears and he's the enemy. Plain and simple. So mind why you're here and quit simpering like a lovestruck schoolgirl on May Day!
Maggie lifted her lashes. "Tell me, Captain, what's a man like yourself doin' asking a girl who sews boots for a living to a party like this?"
Grayson watched the way the hot July air rippled through Maggie's waves of red hair as the carriage sped down a winding road to the northeast, "Good question," he answered honestly. "I don't know myself"
"Fair enough," she conceded, "because I couldn't tell you why I said yes." She was lying, of course; she did know why. She'd said yes because she thought there might be some information to be gleaned from conversations at a Tory gathering where redcoats oozed at the seams. But deep inside she agreed to go because she wanted to be with Grayson. She wanted to hear his rich tenor voice. She wanted to feel her hand in his. God help her, she wanted to taste his lips again.
Grayson forced his gaze to wander to the passing countryside. How could a woman like Maggie, a woman born of the Colonies, not feel the call of freedom? How could she sit across from him, an English soldier in her eyes, and feel no resentment? Didn't she understand what Washington's men fought for? Didn't she realize what was at risk? He wished he could tell her. He wished he could make her understand what those men were willing to die for . . . what he was willing to die for.
But that wasn't up to him, was it? He couldn't afford to get involved with this woman, not emotionally. This was just a dalliance like all the others and he had to keep that in mind. Play the part of Captain Thayer and you'll be safe, he told himself. Play the part.
Grayson turned back to Maggie. "So, sweet, tell me, what does a country girl usually do on a Saturday afternoon when she's not attending bull roasts on the Chesapeake . . ."
Maggie and Grayson spent the hour-and-half-long carriage trip to Pickney's Folly talking about their childhoods, about horses, about foolish things like when the tinkers came to town. They laughed and teased, their gazes locking again and again. By the time they rode up the long semicircle, tree-lined drive of the Virginia plantation, they were warm with the sun of the day and the heat of their merriment.
More than once Grayson thought of how glad he was that he had finagled his own carriage sent by the Tory, Pickney, rather than sharing carriages with the other lower ranking officers. He selfishly wanted Maggie all to himself, to savor every heartwarmingly honest word she spoke, every unrehearsed gesture she made. Grayson had spent so long living a lie that it thrilled him to be with someone who had the freedom to be so honest in every word and deed.
Maggie leaned over the edge of the carriage, her eyes lighting up with excitement as she spotted the carriages ahead filled with arriving guests. There were beautifully dressed women everywhere. And the lawn crawled with red-coated soldiers looking to Maggie like red ants on an anthill. Ahead, the manor house sprawled across the hill above the bay, its brick exterior climbing three stories into the bright blue sky.
"Holy Mary! The house is so big it could hold every man, woman, and child in Yorktown!"
Grayson looked up at the house that loomed above them. "New money. Pickney only built it a few years back. I wish you could see the house at Thayer's Folly. You'd love it. It's not as impressive in size, but it gives off an aura of, oh . . . I don't know, regal stability. Someday when I get home my brother and I are . . ." He let his sentence run incomplete when he realized she was staring at him with those dark eyes, an odd smile on her face. "What?" he asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
She shook he
r head. "Nothing. Go on. It's just the way you said that. The way you talked about your home. You sounded different. You didn't tell me you had a brother. Is he in the Army, too?"
Grayson made a point of brushing an imaginary bit of lint from his coat. He was going to have to be more careful of what he said or he was liable to slip up with this woman. She made him too comfortable and he couldn't afford to be comfortable. "Yes. I've a brother—a twin brother, Sterling. Bastard Colonial scum."
His words caught her attention and she looked up, unable to resist a smile. "A twin brother? Another man like you? Holy Mother Mary! And he's a rebel?"
The carriage came to a halt and Grayson shot up. "Ah, we're here. Come, dear," he fell into his role, "let's greet our host."
Maggie stood, taking the hint that the conversation about his brother was over. Smoothing her skirts, she waited for Grayson to leap down and then offer her his assistance. But instead of offering his hand, he caught her around the waist and lifted her from the carriage. All too naturally, her hands fell to his broad shoulders. He held her just a second too long after her feet hit the grassy ground and then suddenly he was whisking her toward a line of chattering gentleman.
"Mason! Mason!" Grayson gave a wave to a short, rather plump gentleman in a lavender satin coat and breeches.
"Thayer! Good to see you could make it!" Mason Pickney turned his eyes to Maggie and clutched his chest in a rather dramatic, sweep of his hands. "Heaven on earth, who is this paragon? Surely you haven't had a wife shipped in from a Turkish harem?"
Grayson flashed his host a devil-may-care grin. "God rot your greedy bowels, Mason! You know I'm not a marrying man!" He took Maggie's hand in his, forcing her to come forward. "This is the Widow Myers of Yorktown, Maggie to her friends."
Mason's soft, pudgy hand took hers and it was an effort not to grimace at the feel of his sweaty palm as he made a great show of kissing her knuckles. "So pleased you could come and grace my lawn with your beauty, Maggie."
The Bootmaker's Daughter: Revolution (Destiny's Daughters Book 2) Page 8