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

by Colleen French

  In a matter of minutes Grayson had Giipa saddled and he was on his way. Damn those men, they were getting bold. Stealing a payroll! They were going to get themselves hanged if they didn't back off. Grayson didn't know who the men were who formed the Yorktown band, but he had to find out and warn them Riker was on to them. Standing in Lawrence's tent, Riker had sworn to his uncle that he would find the Colonial traitors and make an example of them. He'd hang them right in front of Commegys' Ordinary as a warning to all who thought to cross him.

  Grayson's first instinct told him to go to Maggie. She knew everything that went on in Yorktown. She would know who the men were. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn't give him names, but if he warned her, he knew she'd pass on the message.

  The thought of seeing Maggie again, of hearing her husky voice, made him urge Giipa into a run. God, he missed her. Nothing seemed to be going right these days. Grayson found himself in one tight spot after another. He was finding it more and more difficult to move freely about the British camp. Riker watched him constantly, daring him to make a mistake. For weeks Grayson had been trying to get a second look at that map with the ship movement he'd seen in Major Lawrence's tent, but so far he'd had no luck.

  Grayson rode into Maggie's yard, and the hound she called Honey came running from beneath the front porch. The sight of the lone dog reminded him of why he was no longer welcome in Maggie's house. Christ, what was wrong with Riker? What kind of man was he that he chose women and helpless beasts to prey upon? He was a bully, that's what he was.

  Honey barked, circling Grayson as he dismounted, but she didn't seem to be a threat. Slowly he made his way to the farmhouse, speaking in a soothing voice to the dog. "Good girl, good Honey," he cajoled. "Where's Maggie? Can you tell me where Maggie is?"

  Maggie stood in the kitchen, watching Grayson through the rippled-glass window. She knew she should grab her flintlock and run him off, but she couldn't do it. She needed to see him, to talk to him if only for a moment. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she went through the motions of making a pot of coffee. After the raid last night she'd come home and gone directly to bed as Zeke had instructed, but she'd slept poorly, finally rising a few minutes ago.

  Placing the pot of water on an iron spider, she listened to the front door creak open. "Maggie?" Grayson called from the front hall. "Don't shoot. I know you're in there. I just want to talk to you."

  She heard his footsteps in the hall and then he was there, standing in her kitchen doorway. "Maggie," he said softly.

  It was all she could do to keep from flinging herself into his arms. She turned her back to him, stooping to scratch old Roy behind his ear. Miraculously, the dog had survived Riker's gunshot and was slowly recuperating thanks to Maggie's crude surgeon's skills.

  "He's alive," Grayson said with relief. "I wouldn't have believed it, as bad as he looked."

  She ignored his remark. Who was he to pretend he cared about her old hound? "You're out early, Captain. Your men run low on ale? Or is it food they be needing? My last chicken's been gone two weeks. Maybe it's dogs you're lookin' to shoot."

  God, he'd missed the sharp bite of her tongue . . . her perceptive cynicism. "Maggie, I have to talk to you."

  "So talk." She kept her back to him, afraid that if their eyes met, she'd be in his arms, touching him, brushing her lips against his.

  "I need your help." He paused, wondering what he could say that wouldn't put his true identity in jeopardy. "Something . . . something happened last night and I was wondering if you knew anything of it."

  "No, I can't help you, Captain. I slept sound all night."

  Stroking his chin, Grayson scanned the cozy kitchen. It was obvious she wasn't going to make this easy for him. "Mag—" He stopped short as his attention came to rest on the object tossed thoughtlessly on the kitchen table.

  At the sound of his strangled voice, Maggie spun around, following the direction of his gaze. She froze for a moment in horror, then dove for the table. But Grayson was closer. He grabbed the bit of cloth in his hand and she latched on to its corner.

  "Maggie . . ." He ground his teeth in fury.

  "Give it to me," she demanded.

  His blue eyes locked with hers in a battle of wills. With sudden force he released the flour-sack mask and Maggie fell back clutching the damning evidence in her hands.

  Chapter Twelve

  The moment seemed to stretch into a lifetime as Maggie stood with the flour-sack mask in her hands not knowing what to say, what to do. What was the sense in denying her involvement with the patriot band when the evidence was clutched in her hands. Grayson wasn't stupid.

  Standing with his fists clenched at his sides, Grayson could feel his anger rising until he feared he would lose control. He wanted to take Maggie by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. How could she be so foolish as to risk her life in such a dangerous escapade! Didn't she understand that one mistake could prove fatal?

  Despite his ire, Grayson couldn't fight the pride that welled in his chest making his throat constrict. She was on his side! The side for freedom! What she was doing in the British encampments peddling her wares, he didn't know. But he did know that no man or woman would take the risk she had taken last night unless they were fully committed to the patriot cause.

  So now what did he say? How did he react? Grayson's heart twisted in his chest. He couldn't tell her who he was! To Maggie he had to remain Captain Grayson Thayer of the king's army. To her, he had to remain the enemy. It was the only way he could protect her.

  "How could you be such a fool?" he snapped, his blue eyes fixed on hers. "You stole a payroll, for Christ's sake!"

  Maggie held the mask behind her back as if she could hide the truth of her actions. "Payroll? I don't know what you're talking about."

  Her tone was so surprisingly even that Grayson almost felt compelled to believe her. What a fine spy she'd make, he thought. Better than me. He laughed, but his voice was without humor. He used his best captain's tone, dripping with sarcasm. "Let's skip your protests, Maggie, shall we? I haven't time for your games. I have to decide what's to be done."

  "Done?" she echoed. Would he turn her in, despite what they'd shared? Would she turn him in if their positions were reversed? Just how deep did her loyalties to these United States run? She honestly didn't know, and that thought frightened her more deeply than the threat of hanging from a noose.

  "Yes, done," Grayson went on angrily. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this information?" He turned away from her so he could collect his thoughts. She looked so damned beautiful this morning with her hair a mass of tangled fiery tresses and her face an innocent mask of sleepiness.

  He took a slow, deep breath, trying to push the images of her rosy lips, her full breasts, from his mind. "That bit of moldy sack is sufficient evidence to hang you, Maggie! To have me court-martialed if I don't turn you in!"

  Maggie swallowed against the lump in her throat. Even now, as Grayson stood before her in his fancy pressed scarlet uniform and his meticulously combed hair, she wanted to make love to him. Why, I'm no better than Lyla, she thought as she forced herself to look at his broad shoulders instead of the floor. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean for you to ever know."

  "Of course you didn't," he shouted, trying to ignore the tremor in her voice. "But what difference does that make now?" He spun back around to face her. "Maggie, we're in a hell of a fix here."

  "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't mean to get you involved." She lowered her voice a notch. "I didn't mean to care about you."

  "And you think I did?"

  The harsh truth of his words stung her like a slap in the face. "I can't tell you who the others are," she stated flatly, "no matter what. So don't ask."

  "Did you mean to use me as a way to get information?"

  "No," she retorted miserably. It was only a half lie. "You were the one who came to me—that first night at the tavern, the card game." Her gaze riveted to his. "I don'
t whore," she spit, "not for money, not for anything."

  Oh, God, he'd hurt her, he could see it in her eyes. "Maggie, it's got to stop—here, now," he said quietly. "Before it's too late."

  "I can't make any promises," she answered boldly. "I don't make the decisions."

  Grayson took two long strides toward her and grabbed her arms. The flour sack fell to the planked floor. Suddenly his anger was there again. but it was fueled by his fear for her safety. "Don't you understand the danger, not just to you but to everyone in Yorktown? Major Lawrence could sweep the entire town and throw you all onto a prison ship. He could send you away from your homes without a stitch of clothing or a bite of bread at the very least."

  He held her wrists so tightly that the pressure brought tears to her eyes. "Don't you understand what it's like to have no control over your own life," Maggie murmured. "Over who you marry? What you grow? We Virginians can no longer accept the oppression of King George."

  If only you knew, Maggie mine, he voiced silently. If only I could tell you just how well I know what it's like to have no control! He thought of the uniform he wore and the sights he had witnessed these past years, having no choice but to remain silent because of the role he played. It made him sick to his stomach.

  Grayson stared into Maggie's Indian-brown eyes. She was so frightened. And yet somehow she stood strong against him. She stood strong for the patriot cause.

  Suddenly he pulled her roughly toward him, crushing his mouth to hers. It was a kiss of desperation, of deep-seated fear for them both.

  "Maggie, Maggie mine," he murmured against her lips. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, needing her as he had never needed any woman.

  For a moment, she struggled to push him away. She beat him with her fists as he propelled her backward onto the kitchen table. But then she was kissing him back, her own need as intense as his.

  Grayson brought his knee up between her thighs and she twisted against it. He cupped her breast in a rough caress and she cried in—pleasure, in pain, he didn't know.

  "Maggie, Maggie, what are we to do?" he whispered urgently as he lifted her skirts to touch the soft curls at the apex of her thighs.

  Maggie was caught in a whirling tidepool of indecision. A part of her, her heart, wanted to make love to Grayson, here, now on the kitchen table with the light of early morning pouring through her windows, knowing he might see her hang by nightfall.

  Yet the sensible part inside her told her it was wrong. It would only worsen matters. What would he think of her after he'd had his way? Would he think she had given her body to him in the hopes that he would spare her? The thought that he would think her a whore was worse than the thought of dying.

  With a sudden burst of anger Maggie shoved Grayson backward. "Nooo!" she cried, leaping to her feet and shoving her skirts down over her bare hips. "Get out," she shouted. "Get out of my house!"

  "Maggie. Please, I need you."

  "Well, I don't need you," she lied. "And if you think I'll lay with you so that you won't turn me in, you're wrong!"

  Lay with him so that he wouldn't turn her in? What the hell was she talking about? "Maggie, I didn't think—Maggie, I love you. I wouldn't—" He reached for her, but she slapped at his hands.

  "Get out," she ordered, refusing to listen to him. She picked up the flour-sack mask from the floor and threw it at him. "Take your bloody evidence and get out!" She knew she wasn't thinking clearly. She knew she wasn't making sense. But she was tearing up inside. All she could think of was the baby, her love for Virginia, and the way of life her da had known. All she could think of was her love for Grayson. She loved the enemy. She was his whore.

  "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out of my house! Out of my life, you stinking bloodyback!"

  Grayson felt tears sting his eyes and he turned away, refusing to let her see his weakness. Last year, two years ago, he'd have faced her and fought for her love. Where had his strength gone? Was it being sapped by all of those bottles of claret he was consuming? Or was it being sapped by the burdens of his duties? Both, he supposed.

  Slowly he bent to retrieve his grenadier cap. He could hear Maggie sobbing behind him. All he wanted to do was to take her into his arms and kiss away the fear, the hurt. But he couldn't. She had spurned him and his love. She hadn't been able to look through the red coat to see the man beyond. Not that he blamed her. But that was simply the reality of the matter, as real as the fact that he couldn't disclose his true identity to her, not even to win her love.

  Without turning back to look at her, Grayson walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and out the front door toward his waiting horse, the mask still in his hand.

  Maggie slumped into a hard kitchen chair and dropped her face into her hands. She cried as she had never cried before. Nothing was ever going to be right again. If he didn't turn her in, if he walked away right now, she knew she would never be the woman she had been before Captain Thayer forced himself into her life.

  Would Grayson turn her in? She couldn't blame him if he did. His life could be at stake as well. Couldn't he be charged with treason for aiding and abetting the enemy? Couldn't he be tortured and hanged at her side?

  A sob wracked Maggie's body. How could she have been so stupid as to have left the flour sack on her table? It was just that no one ever came into her house but Zeke. Never in a lifetime had she expected Grayson to walk through that door, this morning of all mornings.

  It wasn't herself she was worried about—if he turned her in, he turned her in—but what of the others in the band? And what of the babe she carried in her womb? Didn't that child have the right to see the sunshine, to taste fresh water from a well, to touch the soft down of a newly hatched chick? Didn't that child have a right to live?

  Maggie was so lost in the depths of her despair that she never heard Zeke come in the front door.

  "Maggie? Maggie girl, is that you?" Zeke hurried down the hall toward the sounds of her wracking sobs. "Maggie, what is it?" He stopped short in the doorway to stare at her slender form slumped over the table. How long had it been since he'd seen Maggie cry? Years. "Maggie," he repeated softly.

  "Zeke?" She sniffed and wiped her face with the back of her hand. She couldn't bear to look up at him.

  "What is it?" He sat in the chair beside her, and reached for her hand.

  Maggie pulled away as if not wanting to soil him with her touch. "Oh, Holy Mother Mary, Zeke. I've done it this time."

  "What, Maggie, what have you done?"

  She took a shuddering breath, forcing herself to look her old friend straight in the eye. "Captain Thayer. He found the mask. He knows I was in on the payroll theft."

  Zeke tried to keep his voice even. "You told him about us?"

  She shook her head. "No, of course not."

  "Maggie, how did this happen? I thought you said you weren't going to see the captain anymore."

  "I wasn't," she murmured, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. "He just came. The mask was on the table." She gestured limply. "It just happened, Zeke."

  "Oh, Maggie," Zeke breathed. Awkwardly he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and drew her against his slightly hollowed chest. "Maggie, we've got to get you out of Virginia."

  "No." She rested her head on Zeke's shoulder, comforted by the smell of sweet hay that clung to his worn broadcloth shirt. "I can't do that. Maybe if Major Lawrence gets one of us, he'll be satisfied. I go, and he may not give up until you're all caught and hanged."

  "You hear what you're sayin', girl?" He squeezed her tightly and then pushed her back so that he could see her face. "So tell me, why didn't Thayer take you prisoner? Why'd he leave you here knowin' you'd have time to warn us?"

  "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't understand him. He doesn't think like any man I ever knew."

  "Bottom of the barrel. You think he'll turn you in or not?"

  "I don't know."

  Zeke glanced out the window and then back at Maggie. "You think he's in love with you, Maggie girl?
"

  She looked up through teary eyes. "What do you mean?"

  "If he loves you," he said gently, "then just maybe he can't bring himself to turn you in."

  Maggie's eyes met his. "If you was in his place, would you turn in a woman you loved?"

  Zeke's cheeks colored beneath his scraggly beard. An image of Lyla came into his mind. Sweet Lyla. "I can't tell you that, because I don't know," he answered honestly. "Love's a strong thing in a man's heart."

  "In a woman's, too," Maggie whispered.

  For a moment they were both lost in their own thoughts; then Maggie pushed away from the table and went to get Zeke and herself a cup of coffee. "So, what do we do now, friend?"

  "Do?" He rocked his chair back at an angle, the wood scraping wood. "We don't do a thing. We wait."

  "Wait for the soldiers to come get me?"

  "I don't think they'll be comin'. Just the same, I want you to lay low for a few days at my house. Mama could use the company. This way, if the redcoats do come for you, we'll see 'em comin'."

  Maggie brought him a cup of coffee. "I guess this means I can't ride with you anymore, not even if this wind blows over, doesn't it?"

  He nodded, slurping his coffee. "Sorry, Maggie. It wouldn't be safe. You shouldn't know our comings and goings anymore, either. We can't risk other people's lives. Can't risk the operations, either."

  Maggie slipped back into her chair, cradling her coffee cup. She couldn't remember a time when she'd felt this miserable. Even if she managed to scrape through this with her life, what would she have? In the last year the cause for freedom had become everything to her. The men she worked with were her friends. Would they be afraid to speak with her on the street? Would she be turned away from their homes? What reason would she have to get out of bed in the morning?