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

by Colleen French

  Maggie lifted her hips as he stretched out over her, savoring the feel of his hard, tight body pressed against hers. As their lips met her thighs parted of their own accord accepting him.

  She moaned in his ear as he slipped into her, and for a moment he was still, allowing her to adjust to the feel of him. Then he began to move.

  His kisses seared her mouth as he moved inside her, stirring a heat so hot that she thought she would die of it. She could hear her own heart pounding, the blood rushing to her head, making her dizzy and faint. Her own labored, breathing mingled with the sound of his. Her entire body pulsed with aching passion as he thrust into her again and again. Biting down on her lower lip, Maggie arched her back, struggling, searching for something unknown.

  Then she heard herself cry out with sudden pleasure. She felt as if her entire body was splitting into a thousand shards of bright light to fill the night sky. The intense pleasure ebbed, and Grayson began to move again. Ripples of sensation radiated through her body as he gave one final thrust and found his own fulfillment.

  When he withdrew from her and rolled onto his side, Maggie curled up beside him in the grass, resting her head on his broad shoulder. Tears slipped from her eyes.

  "What is it?" Grayson asked softly, his voice still husky. "What's the matter, Maggie mine? Did I hurt you?"

  She lifted her head from his shoulder to take in his heavenly blue eyes. "No," she whispered. "Ye didn't hurt me. It was . . . it was wonderful. The most . . ." She laughed at her own foolishness and brushed the tears from her eyes. "I don't know why I'm crying."

  He smiled up at her as he drew her into his arms. He couldn't help wondering if she was crying for the same reason he felt like crying. Because there was no hope in this. What they had just shared couldn't happen again. He couldn't let it.

  For a long time Maggie lay in Grayson's arms, content to listen to the night sounds of chirping crickets and rustling trees. Then finally she sat up and pushed back a handful of hair. "Stay tonight," she told him impulsively.

  "I can't."

  "Just tonight."

  He started to speak, but she pressed her fingers to his lips. "Listen to me." She whispered as if there was someone nearby to hear them. "We both know no good can come of this. It's better that we end it before there's bad feelings, but," she took his hand in hers, "we've got the rest of tonight. I think we're both in need of a little comfort. What harm can there be in that, friend to friend?"

  His gaze locked with hers and for a long moment there was silence. "Just tonight?" he asked finally, wishing he could offer her a lifetime.

  "After tonight I don't want to see you knockin' on my door and you won't see me at your tent. It'll be a deal, fair and square."

  Don't do it, an inner voice warned Grayson. He smiled a bittersweet smile. "Just for tonight, then."

  She pressed her mouth to his and bobbed up before-he could catch her. Gathering her clothes by the rising moonlight, she called to him. "Come on inside, where the bugs won't bite your bare arse."

  He stood and began to pick up his own clothing, folding it neatly as he watched her race across the grass calling good night to her hounds. She was so beautiful, unclothed with her long, lithe legs and curvaceous hips and breasts. While Grayson felt a little foolish standing naked in the yard, it looked so natural for Maggie. It seemed as if this was where she belonged, here in the moonlight, her clothes thrown over her shoulder, her hair blowing in the hot night breeze.

  "Are you coming?" She ran up the porch steps and the front door banged behind her as she slipped inside.

  Grayson found her on her hands and knees in the kitchen digging through a jelly cabinet. "I got just the thing here." She rose, a dusty bottle of wine in her hand. "I was saving it for something special, but—"

  Grayson wrapped his arms around her waist, planting a kiss on the tip of her freckled nose. "You are something special."

  She made a face and broke from his embrace. "I'll just get two cups and then we'll go upstairs."

  She retrieved the cups and started out of the kitchen, but Grayson came up behind her and swept her into his arms. She threw back her head and filled the dark, empty house with husky, sensuous laughter.

  Grayson carried her easily up the steps. "Which way?" he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

  Maggie paused for a moment. The room where she slept now? No, that was her parents' bedroom, the bedroom she and Noah had shared after they'd been wed. She didn't want to sleep in the same bed with Grayson; it somehow seemed sacrilegious, not to Noah, but to herself, to what she and Grayson shared.

  "Down the hall!" She pointed with the dusty bottle of claret.

  "Glad you made up your mind before I dropped you, wench." He pushed open the last door on the right with his bare foot and stepped inside. He lowered her to the floor. She slipped into his arms and kissed him.

  "Lift the windows," she whispered, "whilst I get fresh sheets." Setting down the cups and bottle, she disappeared into the hallway, coming back with a pile of linens. They were thin from years of wear, but smelled of sunshine.

  Grayson propped open all of the windows and then helped her with the sheets. Together they made the bed and then flopped down on it to sip from the simple handleless pewter cups.

  For a long time they were quiet, lost in their own thoughts as they watched the curtains blow lightly in the night breeze and the moon slowly rise in the sky. In the distance thunder rumbled and there was an occasional streak of lightning. Ahead of the approaching storm came a refreshing breath of cool air.

  Finally Maggie set down her cup and crawled across the bed to where Grayson lay, his arms tucked not as beneath long as his I live," head. she "I murmured, won't forget stroking tonight, a lock of his blond hair.

  Grayson reached out to take her in his arms and pull her down to him. "I won't, either," he whispered, nearly choking on his words. "So come, Maggie mine: Let me love you. Let me love you tonight."

  Just after dawn Maggie slipped from beneath the sheet and padded barefoot across the floor to retrieve her shift. Dropping it over her head, she turned back to the bed and smiled.

  Grayson slept soundly in the tangle of cotton sheets, one hand flung over his head, his magical hair spread across the pillow. Maggie hugged herself. It had been a glorious night! Grayson had made love to her as she knew no man would ever make love to her again. He'd made her laugh; he'd made her cry. He had made her want to love him . . .

  At that thought, Maggie turned away. Love? What ailed her? This man was an officer in the king's army. He was the enemy! But how could that be? In the past she had always felt a hatred in her heart for the redcoats. It disgusted her to walk through their camps and smile and laugh as if she wanted to be friends with them. So where was her hatred for this man?

  Catching a last glimpse of Grayson's sleeping form over her shoulder, Maggie hurried out of the room. She needed fresh air. She needed to think.

  As she started down the stairs, Maggie heard her hounds baying. There was someone outside. She took the steps two at time. Zeke! How could she have forgotten? He had promised to come by early with his wagon and take her blueberry picking. She couldn't let him know Grayson was here!

  By the time Maggie reached the downstairs front hall the dogs were barking viciously. It couldn't be Zeke—Honey and Roy never carried on like that with someone they knew. It had to be a stranger. At the sound of a harsh male voice, Maggie threw open the door. She immediately regretted not going first for her flintlock rifle.

  It was Riker.

  "Back! Back!" he shouted as Roy and Honey circled him, their teeth bared.

  "Honey! Roy!" Maggie shouted from the porch.

  The dogs whipped around to look at their master.

  Maggie slapped her leg, suddenly aware that she was standing in the morning sun wearing nothing but her shift.

  The dogs came running.

  "Honey . . . Roy, sit," she commanded, pointing to a patch of grass near the well as she came down the steps.


  They did as they were told but rested nervously on their haunches watching the stranger.

  Riker came toward Maggie. "I'm looking for Thayer," he said, his wicked dark eyes raking over her.

  Maggie stopped short, taking notice of his immensely swollen nose and blackened eye—the result of last night's fight, no doubt. "Good for you."

  "Where is he?" he demanded angrily.

  She rested her hands on her hips, refusing to cower. Grayson wasn't supposed to be here. The English didn't want him here; the patriots didn't want him here. But he had protected her once; she'd protect him. "Do I look like the captain's keeper to you?"

  "Look," he grabbed her arm, yanking her forward. "Don't get uppity with me! I'm just trying to save Thayer's ass. The major's looking for him."

  Maggie heard Roy and Honey growl. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted their slight movement.

  "Let go of me," she murmured through clenched teeth, feeling that hatred bubble up inside her. "Let go of me or—"

  "Or what?" Riker snapped. "What? It's your fault I'm in trouble with my uncle. You're the one that started the brawl in the tavern last night, You're the one that ought to pay for the damages!"

  The instant he drew back his hand to slap her, the dogs leaped. By the time his palm made contact with her cheekbone, Honey and Roy were on him, snarling and snapping at his legs.

  Maggie broke free of Riker's grip and stumbled backward.

  "Call them off," he shouted, shaking his leg as Honey sunk her teeth into his stocking-clad leg, drawing blood. Riker kicked the hound in the stomach and she howled with pain, rolling across the grass. With a snarl, Roy leaped into the air and bit him in the arm, tearing his sleeve.

  "Honey! Roy!" Maggie shouted, clapping her hands. "Come! Come!"

  But the dogs were frenzied by the man's attack. It was their instinct to protect Maggie, to protect each other.

  Maggie grasped Honey by the rear legs and began to drag her backward. She didn't see Riker draw his pistol until it was too late. "No!" she cried, cringing as Riker pulled the trigger.

  Roy gave a yelp of pain as his body was thrown backward with the impact of the musket ball.

  Maggie turned and ran for the house. She could hear Riker's laughter ringing in her ears. Go ahead and laugh, her mind screamed. Have a good laugh, because it's going to be your last!

  "Tough, are you?" he called after her. "Why are you running, then? Can't stand up to a man, after all, can you, Maggie the bootmaker?" he sneered.

  Riker was still chuckling when Maggie burst through the front door a moment later, her flintlock in hand. She pulled back the hammer and Riker's laughter died away. His pistol hung in his hand, unloaded. His horse was a good twenty-five paces away.

  Maggie lifted her rifle onto her shoulder.

  "You wouldn't dare," Riker shouted nervously.

  "No?"

  "I'm an officer. Someone will come looking for me."

  She shrugged. "There've been deserters before."

  "The body." His voice shook ever so slightly.

  "I got a new plot dug up for greens." She smiled. "Who'd think to look for you in the garden? No one'd ever know but me and the turnips."

  Riker dove to the ground as she pulled the trigger. The shot missed him by no more than a hairbreadth.

  She cursed her bad aim as she began to reload. First the powder, then the shot, then tamp lightly. Riker was crawling toward his horse near the fence.

  "You're not going to make it," Maggie shouted. "Face it, coward. You're about to die!"

  "Maggie!" Grayson burst through the door and onto the porch. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Thayer! Thank God!" Riker shouted. "The bitch is trying to kill me!"

  Grayson reached for her rifle, but she held fast, tears beginning to slip down her cheeks. "Let go. The bastard killed my dog."

  Grayson glanced across the grass to the bloodied body of the three-legged dog she called Roy. The female was huddled over him, licking his wounds.

  "Maggie, love, that's not enough reason to shoot a man."

  "The hell it isn't!" She wiped her teary eyes on her shoulders. "You come here, you take our homes, kill our men, rape our women, steal our food . . . " Steal our hearts! she screamed inside. "You deserve to die!"

  Grayson grasped the flintlock, his hands covering hers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Riker mounting his horse and riding away. "I thought you didn't care what we did, Maggie, as long as you could turn a coin off it." His eyes narrowed as he studied her tear-streaked face. Those were not the words of a mercenary Maggie had just spoken. They were the words of a woman who cared—a woman who had chosen a side.

  "I don't care!" she shouted, suddenly turning her anger on Grayson, suddenly remembering that she had made love with the enemy. It was her fault Roy was dead. It was her punishment.

  "I don't care," Maggie repeated. "Not about him, not about you! Now just get off my place, you hear me! You get the hell out of here before I shoot you, too!"

  He slowly relaxed his grip on the rifle. "You want me to go?" he said softly. But what about last night? he wondered. What about last night when you said you thought you could love me? God, Maggie mine. I could use some love.

  She thrust out her jaw, ignoring the way his golden hair fell across his shoulders making her want to reach out and touch him. "You deaf? I said go."

  His blue eyes met hers for a brief moment and then he walked inside the house.

  When Grayson came down the farmhouse steps fully dressed a few minutes later, she ignored him. She sat in the grass cradling Roy's shuddering body, the tears falling on his soft belly.

  "He's still breathing," Grayson offered over her shoulder. "You could get him to someone—a surgeon."

  "Go!" she muttered. "Can't you see you've done enough? Just go."

  Grayson glanced out over the fields that reminded him so much of home. He wanted to tell her that this wasn't his fault. He wanted to defend himself, to tell her that he wasn't the man she thought he was. Instead, he tossed his scarlet coat over his shoulder and walked away, headed east toward the British camps.

  That night Grayson sat at his camp desk, his goose quill poised. "Dear Sterling," he'd scrawled across the page.

  He reached for the bottle of claret, forgoing the glass, and took a long pull on the bottle. His bloodshot eyes went back to the letter.

  "Dear Sterling . . ."

  But what did he say next? Dear Sterling, I'm in trouble. Dear Sterling,. I'm losing my grip. I want out. I want to be the Grayson Thayer I was before the war. I'm sick of the deception. I'm tired of living a lie.

  And what of Maggie? What could he tell his brother of her? Dear Sterling, I'm in love with a bootmaker . . . a woman I can never have. A woman who says she's taken no side in this war, yet I suspect she lies.

  He thought of Maggie sitting in the light of the morning sun cradling her dying dog's body, her white shift splattered in crimson blood. His gaze went to the uniform coat now pressed and hanging neatly from a peg. Blood. That was what the red coat meant to him these days. Blood. The blood of too many men. God, but he was sick to death of this war!

  He took another pull of wine and looked down at the letter on the desk in front of him. "Dear Sterling," He dipped the quill into the ink and began to write . . .

  Chapter Ten

  Maggie lay on the bank of the creek staring down into the clear blue running water. Strips of green-and-brown grass jutted up from the rocky creekbed swaying with the flow of the water. A catfish slithered by and Maggie made a futile attempt to catch it by the tail. Her hands wet, she splashed her face and bare neckline, sighing at the feel of the cool water against her skin. Holy Mary! It wasn't but ten in the morning and already the August heat was unbearable!

  Maggie rolled onto her back, cradling her head with her arm and stared up into the tree above. Absently she brushed her flat belly with her other hand.

  Then that thought washed over her as it had a hundred tim
es in the last few days. A babe! She was going to have a baby! Grayson's baby! She'd known it almost from the moment of conception. Even before she had missed her flow, she knew in her heart of hearts that finally she was carrying a child.

  "Grayson," she murmured aloud. God, she missed him. It been more than a month since he'd spent the night with her, a month since she'd caught more than a glimpse of him across the British camp or in Manny's tavern. The only other contact she'd had with him was when he'd sent his fancy boots to be repaired, and that had been by way of a young private. But then Grayson had promised her he'd not bother her again after that night, hadn't he?

  So why was she angry with him? Why was she angry that he hadn't come back? How many nights had she lain awake in that bed in the back bedroom smelling his masculine scent on the sheets and wishing he would walk through the door?

  It didn't make any sense to Maggie, especially now that she knew she carried his child, a child she had to protect, even in her womb. How could she still want Grayson, knowing he was the enemy? Knowing it was Grayson she silently fought as she delivered her shoddy boots to the British and picked up information to be passed on to the patriot camps forming near Williamsburg?

  Even now, as she told herself Grayson was the enemy, she wanted him here beside her. Not to tell him of the baby . . . she was not a fool. It was her own doing that got her into this situation. She needed no man's help, especially not Grayson's. She would deal with her pregnancy on her own.

  But she wanted to hear his voice, to feel his lips on hers just once more. She wanted him so badly that she ached for him.

  She hugged herself, feeling the warmth of her middle. It's just lust, she told herself. Lust pure and simple. You can't betray your country, your babe, yourself, for lust. Fight it, she told herself. Fight the urge that makes you want to get up and run to him. Fight the urge to give yourself to him, knowing nothing can come of it but ill luck and sorrow.

  A twig snapped and Maggie sat upright, reaching for the flintlock rifle resting on the grass beside her. These days she didn't stray far from her farmhouse without carrying a weapon.