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

by Colleen French

With each day that passed, it looked more and more as if Virginia would be the final battleground of the war between King George and his American colonies. So much had happened that the politics of it made Maggie's head spin! Word was that a Frenchman was headed for the Chesapeake Bay with nearly thirty ships sent by France to give aid to General Washington. Even more important, the scuttlebutt was that the great commander Rochambeau had offered the patriot general half of all that was left in his war chest. With those monies, God willing and the creek didn't rise, John Logan told her, they could win the war.

  Grasping her rifle, Maggie sat up on her knees and took aim at the tall grass in the direction the sound had come. She heard footsteps, and after a moment of contemplation, she lowered her rifle. Zeke. It was Zeke. She could hear him dragging his bad leg through the brittle August grass. More twigs snapped and tree branches swayed and suddenly he appeared.

  "Maggie?"

  She laid aside the flintlock. "You're gonna have to start chirpin' like a bird or something to warn me it's you. The way you're always sneaking up on me, I'm gonna blow a hole through your head one of these days, Zeke."

  He scratched his scrawny beard. "I've gotten right fond of this head. I wish you wouldn't."

  "Then stop sneakin' up on me like some redskin." She spun around in the grass and faced the stream.

  Zeke took a seat beside her. "You been quiet lately." He picked up a smooth stone and pitched it into the water. "Somethin' up?"

  "How would you know if I've been quiet or not? Seems to me you've been pretty scarce around these parts."

  He tossed another stone into the water. "Don't start with me on Lyla again, Mags. I ain't up for it today."

  "Nothing but ill can come of it, Zeke. She's a whore, for God's sake!"

  Zeke whipped around, his jaw clenched in anger. "Don't say that. I don't want you sayin' that about Lyla."

  Maggie drew her legs up beneath her cotton dress, hugging her knees. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

  He glanced away. "It don't matter."

  "The hell it doesn't!" She rested her hand on his shoulder. "Zeke, she's not one of us."

  He turned back, his cool gray eyes fixed on hers. "And you ain't one of them, Maggie."

  Her eyes immediately teared up. She knew what he was talking about . . . Grayson. Somehow he had known she had been with him, slept in his arms. Zeke said he had seen it in her eyes the very next morning when he'd come to help with Roy.

  "It's not just the redcoat, though that sure ought to be enough. Dressin' up in one of Elizabeth Logan's fancy dresses or talkin' like you're better than us don't make you one of them. Your papa was a bondman same as mine. He come to this country to make a better life for his wife and his children. It's men like Thayer that bought the bonds."

  Maggie covered her ears with her hands in a childish attempt to escape Zeke's words. You're not one of them, echoed in her head. You're not good enough to be one of them . . . echoed louder. "Just hush your mouth, Ezekial. Who said I wanted to be one of them? You've got no right to judge me!"

  He caught her hands and pulled them away from her head. "But you got a right to judge Lyla?"

  "It's not the same! She's a whore!"

  "And what am I that makes me better, Maggie girl? Tell me that. I'm a poor dirt farmer that lives with his mama," he said, his voice growing louder. "I'm a cripple!"

  Maggie's face immediately softened. What was wrong with her, fighting with Zeke like this? He was her friend. She draped her arm over his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. "And fought well you did, at Long Island. You should be proud of what you did for the cause of freedom."

  He pushed back a handful of sleek hair off his forehead. "Speakin' of that . . . that's what I came down here to tell you. I didn't mean to get into a shoutin' match with you, Maggie."

  Her eyes met his and she smiled. "I know you didn't."

  He stood, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his patched kersey breeches. "We got a problem and John sent me to ask if you'd bail us out."

  "Problem? What kind of problem?" She stood and brushed the grass off her skirting. She had to get into town. She'd promised her sister she'd help her with the noon meal at the Ordinary.

  "We got a job to do tonight and Harry's gout's actin' up. He can't hardly walk. He said he wanted you to go in his place."

  "Me?" She couldn't resist a grin of pride. "Really?"

  "Of course, right away Carter says no." His brow furrowed. "What is it with you two lately? He's awful worried about your comin' and goin'."

  She shrugged. "You know how Carter is. Women are supposed to be in the kitchen, a babe in arms and another—" She went silent, suddenly thinking of the baby she now carried. Her cheeks colored and she looked away. "Anyway, who cares what Carter Perkins thinks? If John Logan says I'm in, I'm in."

  "Now wait a minute. Don't you want to know what we're doin' first?"

  She picked up her flintlock and headed for the farmhouse, leaving Zeke no choice but to follow her. "I don't care. All I want to know is if I get to wear one of them flour sacks on my head!"

  Grayson dismounted beneath an elm tree on the bank of the York River. Tying Giipa to the tree, he walked down to the water's edge to look out at the river. He wiped his brow. He'd forgotten how hot Virginia was in mid-August. God, what he wouldn't give to strip naked and dive into the cool water. So why didn't he?

  Maggie would, wouldn't she? he chided himself. Maggie . . . It had been a month since he'd seen her. It had been a month since he'd held her in his arms and made love to her. He tried to tell himself that it was just the sex he missed, but it was more. He missed her. He missed her husky laughter, her simple, honest talk.

  How many times had he dressed in the darkness of his tent, intending to go to her, only to change his mind again? He had promised Maggie he'd not be back. He'd promised himself. They'd both agreed that there was no future in the relationship, that neither was interested in continuing it. It was too dangerous for Grayson to become involved with any woman as long as he remained a spy among he Brits. A woman with no loyalties to either side could be more dangerous than the enemy.

  But after what Maggie had said about Riker, Grayson had to take into serious consideration that Maggie might well be a patriot. After all, if she was, she certainly wouldn't tell a British officer, would she?

  Grayson exhaled slowly, watching a gull swoop and dive out over the water. When he had thought she had chosen no side it was easier for him to tell himself she wasn't the woman for him. This fledgling country was too important to him to have a wife who didn't believe in the same freedoms he believed in.

  Wife? What the hell was he thinking of? Maggie, his wife? He laughed aloud. Maggie was a bootmaker. Thayers didn't marry bootmakers! A woman like Reagan, his brother's wife, that was who he would marry. Although Reagan was not from a well-connected family like the Thayers, at least she was well educated. She was a lady. Maggie was barely a step above a barmaid. He couldn't take her home after the war!

  That thought brought more laughter. What made him think she'd have any interest in going anywhere with him anyway? She'd kicked him off her farm, making it quite evident that she had no desire to ever see him again. She'd threatened to shoot him! Of course that was because she thought he was a redcoat.

  Grayson cursed foully. How had his life become so complicated? There had been a time when he'd been so certain of himself and what he wanted from the world, what he was willing to give. Today, standing here on this riverbank, he wasn't certain of anything—not one damned thing.

  The sound of an approaching horseman caught Grayson's attention and he turned, his hand automatically slipping to the pistol he wore at his waist. The rider appeared through the trees and Grayson broke into a grin. The man who rode up to the edge of the river was a mirror image of himself. Sterling. God, it was good to see him!

  Grayson stood back watching his brother dismount, and for a moment the two regarded each other. Even after all of these years it amazed them that th
ey were so identical in appearance. They had precisely the same golden-blond hair, the same sky-blue eyes.

  Grayson smiled and offered his hand. "By the king's cod, it's good to see you, Brother."

  Sterling laughed at his brother's curse. He sounded so English, Sterling had to remind himself who Grayson really was. He ignored his brother's formal greeting and wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him tightly. "Don't put your airs on with me, little brother. I'll not be impressed."

  The men laughed together, holding each other for just a moment before Grayson backed awkwardly away, feeling foolish over the emotion that welled up in his chest. Sterling was the only person in the world he knew he could count on these days. Of course there had been a time when their relationship had been strained—back in the early years of the war when Sterling had thought Grayson to be an Englishman rather than a Colonial.

  In the midst of the Brits, the winter they occupied Philadelphia, Sterling had even gone so far as to have his brother kidnapped and had taken his place. Grayson had spent months sitting in a cold jail cell somewhere in the New York wilderness going over and over in his head what he would do to his brother when he caught him.

  But once they were reunited and the matter rectified, Grayson had realized he'd been wrong not to tell his brother what he'd been about since the beginning of the war. He realized he'd had no right to spare Sterling the worry of the true danger Grayson was in. They were brothers, and just as they had shared the same womb in their mother, they had to share in each other's lives. In the years since Philadelphia, it had often been Sterling's letters smuggled into Grayson that had kept Grayson going.

  Grayson turned away to look back over the river, swallowing the lump in his throat. "You took a great chance coming, Sterling."

  Sterling shrugged, coming to stand beside his brother. "I've taken worse. I wanted to see you. Your last letter . . ." He paused. "I've been worried about you, Grayson. I think it's time to come in."

  "No."

  "For Christ's sake, it's been seven years! You've done more than your duty. It's time to let someone else take your place."

  "We're too close to the end, Sterling," Grayson answered. "I can't back out now."

  "It wouldn't be backing out! No man can stay undercover seven years and not—"

  Grayson turned. "Not what?"

  "Not get shaky."

  "What are you talking about? I've made no mistakes."

  "No big mistakes. Not yet. But I've seen it happen, Grayson. You spend seven lonely years pretending to be a man you're not and you start to lose focus. You start to let down all of those barriers you've built to protect yourself and the ones who work for you." He took his brother's arm. "You let down those barriers and you're going to make a mistake. People are going to die. You're going to die."

  "You don't know what you're talking about," Grayson scoffed.

  "I damned well do! You forget, I spent a few years playing this game of spying. I know what it's like. Just that winter I spent in Philadelphia pretending I was you, I could feel myself slipping. It was like being a madman having two people inside me."

  Grayson rested his hands on his narrow hips. "It's too close, Sterling. I can feel the end coming. I can feel it in the air like a thunderstorm about to break." He turned to look his brother in the eyes. "It's like being in the eye of a hurricane. You know that electric calm just before the wind shifts."

  Sterling sighed. "You and my wife would have made quite a pair, both of you loving danger the way you do. I swear, the two of you feed on it."

  "Speaking of your wife, how is she and the boy. 'Trees' is it?"

  "Reagan is fine, as pretty as a picture and as feisty as a caged cat with these redcoats running wild. As for my son, his name is Forrest and you damned well know it!" He punched Grayson gingerly in the arm.

  "Ah, that's right!" Grayson tapped himself in the forehead with his knuckles. "Trees . . . Forrest. Close wasn't I?"

  "Very funny." Sterling picked up a stick and hurled it over the edge of the bank. "So tell me about this woman, this Maggie."

  Grayson frowned. "Not much to tell you other than at this moment she detests me. Last I saw her she wanted to blow a hole through my chest. She shot at me once. I don't think she'll miss next time."

  Sterling couldn't suppress a grin. Grayson could well have been talking about Reagan and how she'd been early in the winter of '77 when Sterling had met her. "Sounds like a hell of a woman. You going to let her slip through your fingers?"

  Grayson turned to face his brother, his face stricken with uncertainty. "She's a bootmaker."

  Sterling chuckled, lifting a blond eyebrow. "A bootmaker?"

  "She makes boots for our men," he took a breath, "but for the Brits as well."

  Sterling's smile fell. "I see."

  "The worse thing is, I don't know that I care. When I'm with her, she makes me feel—" He brushed back his hair. "Christ, listen to me! I sound like a boy at Eaton again."

  "I can't tell you what to do, but as far as choosing sides, it's hard for some people. Look at this from her point of view. In an area like this, the bootmakers and farmers were probably barely affected by the king and his tariffs, by any of the politics that led to all of this. All she sees is her land torn apart, brothers, uncles, cousins killed—and for what? To some Colonists, one side is as bad as the other. To some, war just isn't the answer."

  "She's a bootmaker, Sterling. She lives in a house not much larger than our dairy. She sews boots with her father's tools. She never went to school. I doubt she can read or write."

  "Ah hah." Sterling nodded. "Wrong social class."

  "You can't say it doesn't make a difference."

  Sterling's blue-eyed gaze met Grayson's. "No. No, I can't. But I can tell you that if this girl is the one, it doesn't matter who she is, or what she's done. I firmly believe that we only get one chance at real love in a lifetime, and I just don't want you to miss out. I want you to be as happy as I've been since Reagan Llewellyn stormed into my life."

  "We have nothing in common. Her father was a bond servant, for Christ's sake!"

  Sterling made a fist and swung it in the air with enthusiasm. "But isn't that what this new country of ours is fighting for? The right to make our own choices? The right to break down the social classes we've lived with in England for a thousand years! We win this war," he went on, "and marriages between classes will be seen more and more. We'll be marrying who we wish, not who our parents betrothed us to when we were fourteen."

  Grayson stared out over the York River, watching a small British transport ship sail up the river. "Why is nothing clear in my head anymore?" He pushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from his queue. "Why is it all a jumble?"

  "I told you why, Brother." Sterling took him by the shoulder. "Because you've been at this too long. It's time you turned in that red coat of yours and came home to Thayer's Folly. Maybe even home with a bride."

  When Grayson made no reply, Sterling reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. "Listen, I've got to go. I have some business to attend to for Colonel Hastings in Williamsburg. I wish I could stay and talk, but—"

  "I know. But it's not safe anyway. Too many eyes, too many ears. I'll not get into that game of having people take you for me again." He laughed. "I had nightmares for years about that after Philadelphia."

  "Yes, well, I had nightmares for years about being caught in whorehouses by my wife, so I'd say we're even."

  Their laughter died away and Sterling threw his arms around his brother. "Come home, Grayson. The arrangement for your death and the end of Captain Thayer of the king's army can be made in a day or two."

  "I can't," Grayson murmured, squeezing his eyes shut. "I just can't. Not yet."

  Sterling stepped back. "I haven't got time to argue with you now, but I swear this won't be the last you hear of it."

  "Your being six minutes older than I doesn't give you a right to tell me what to do." Grayson untied Sterling's horse's reins f
rom the tree branch. "Now go on with you," he teased, "before you really make me angry and I have to blacken one of your eyes."

  Sterling grasped his saddle, ready to mount. "Tell me at least that you'll think about coming home."

  The sudden sound of hoofbeats made Grayson whip around and Sterling mount.

  "Go on with you," Grayson told his brother. "I'll talk to you soon." He slapped the horse's hindquarter and Sterling rode off.

  Private Michaels rode into the clearing, twisting to see who barreled past him on horseback. He was still looking behind him as he dismounted. "I almost thought that was you, Captain."

  Grayson laughed. "That knave? He's an informant, and a poor one at that." He smoothed his vest, falling into his role. "So what is it, Michaels? What do you want and how the hell did you find me?"

  "I just guessed you might be here."

  As the boy rattled on, Grayson made a mental note to remember to no longer use this spot as a meeting place. He knew not to use the same place more than once or twice. Where was his head?

  "I know you like your quiet," Michaels went on, "and I wouldn't have bothered you, but Major Lawrence wants you right away. Something about the rebels. He wants you on it this minute. You and Lieutenant Riker."

  "Riker?" Grayson strode toward his horse. "Since when is Riker back on this?"

  "I don't know, sir. But the word is that the major is mad with Lieutenant Riker so the lieutenant's trying to make it up to him. They say he told the major he could have the identities of the rebels in a matter of days." The boy paused, obviously wanting to say something more.

  "And?"

  Michaels swallowed. "And they say Riker's got it in for you, Captain. He wants to see you court-martialed. Worse . . ."

  "Worse? What the hell are you talking about Michaels? I've done nothing to deserve a court-martial. It will be a fine day in hell when a man is court-martialed for having a lady in his tent!"

  "It's not that, sir." The boy reached for the reins of his borrowed pony, purposefully avoiding looking into his eyes.

  "Not that? Then what is it?" Grayson bellowed. "And look at me when you address a superior."