Law, Susan Kay (12 page)

Clearly, he'd been playing the idiot too long. He was becoming one
himself.

Jon closed his mind to anything but the soothing, simple rhythm of
the march.

***

Bennie was careful to stay in the shadows. The doorway led into
the dark storeroom at the back of the Dancing Eel, and here she could watch and
listen, safely out of her father's sight.

He knew, of course. He always did. But as long as he wasn't
actually reminded of her presence, it seemed he could pretend she wasn't there.
Bennie knew if she was out in the main room, where he was confronted by her,
he'd probably order her out of the tavern.

A Sons of Liberty meeting was no place for a lady.

Bennie had known about the meetings for at least five years. After
all, she was related to nearly a third of the men in the room. They were a
loosely organized group in a small village that had never attracted much
attention from the British, and they'd had little to do for the past few years
but gather, drink, complain about the Crown, and read the information spread
through the colonies by various committees of correspondence.

Bennie'd begun trying to talk her father into allowing her to
attend the meetings as soon as she'd found out about them. She was as much a
patriot as any of her brothers and was intrigued by the stories of protests and
confrontations in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia.

Cad had been more than willing to let her come; all his other
children were there. But Mary had told him in no uncertain terms that no
daughter of hers was to be a member of a mob of big-talking patriots, and Cad
was to send Elizabeth home whenever he found her there.

So Cad and Bennie had tacitly agreed that as long as he didn't see
her, she could stay.

The crowd in the Dancing Eel this December night was unusually
subdued. It was the regular monthly meeting, a full week after the mustering,
and just that afternoon the first snow of the winter had begun to fall,
cloaking the tavern in soft, frigid white. Inside, smoke floated around the
quiet men. The glow of lanterns and candles was hazy, diffused, leaving much of
(he room in shadow.

"Now, that was a close one at the mustering, men. We were lucky
to get the inspection finished before the redcoats showed up," Cad was
saying, his silver hair shining pale in the dimness.

"What if they had come earlier?" a man from the front of
the room yelled. "We could've taken 'em."

"Yeah, but at what cost?" Adam picked up the huge pewter
tankard in front of him. "My children were there, Martin. So were
yours."

"I think we all agree confrontation is inevitable," Cad
said. "But there's no reason we can't pick the time and place to our
advantage." He frowned. "I can't understand why the change of time
didn't throw them off. It was enough of a coincidence that they showed up here
last month a mere half-hour before we were due to meet, but to come early to
the mustering—"

"It's perfectly obvious." Brendan leaned casually
against a wall, almost invisible in the shadows. "Someone told them when
to come."

"No!" Every man in the room mumbled the denial, then
looked around at their friends, relatives, and neighbors. Surely no one here
would betray them.

Brendan shrugged. "How else would they know our schedules so
precisely? They're getting information from somewhere—very good information—and
they're getting it fast. We'd only changed the time of the mustering two days
before."

"Brendan," Cadwallader said, the warning clear in his
voice. "I know every man in this room. As do you. No one here would ever
turn against us."

"Perhaps not intentionally." Rufus adjusted his bridge
spectacles. "But how many of us might have mentioned something in passing?
To our wives, or our sweethearts? A peddler, or the barmaid at an inn we
stopped at to pass an evening? There are any number of ways it could have
gotten out."

Men shifted uneasily.

"Well, I don't know that it matters so much how they found
out this time. No harm was done. What matters is that it never happen
again." Cadwallader's gaze swept the room, carefully marking each man.
"Now that there are British stationed in the area, it may be that the time
for action has come. If any information reaches the British now, it could be
dangerous—and we'll know it came from someone close."

"But what can we do?" one of the farmers asked.

"Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot." Cad stroked his thumb down
the side of his jaw. "You all know that the Sons in Boston have made it
uncomfortable for the British for a long time. There's no reason we can't do
the same."

"Father, what's the point? So they've managed to harass a few
soldiers; so they've been able to get rid of a few minor taxes. The British are
still here."

"The point, Brendan, is that this is our home. Our place. If
they intend to govern us, to occupy us, without our permission, we don't have
to make it easy for them."

"Yea! Let's go get rid of 'em!" Henry, Bennie's seventh
brother, was only seventeen. He thrilled to the exploits of the Boston revolutionaries
and was still unhappy he'd missed the excitement of the Tea Party and the Port
Bill Riots, and he was completely convinced he could single-handedly drive a
regiment of British soldiers out of the colonies. Bennie worried about George,
Henry, and Isaac most of all; they had the energy and hotheadedness of young
men, the size of all Joneses, and more patriotic fervor than they knew what do
with. They didn't have wives and children to worry about, a worry that
effectively kept most of her other brothers' tempers to a slow simmer, rather
than a full, roiling boil.

"It's not time yet, Henry." Cadwallader smiled.
"Let's wait and see for a little while. You'll get your chance."

The meeting broke up. Some men left to go home to their families;
many stayed for an ale or two before heading out into the cold.

The heat and smoke in the tavern began to feel uncomfortably
close. Needing some fresh air, Bennie pulled her cloak around her and slipped
out the back door.

She leaned against the side of the tavern. Cold from the stone
wall seeped through the fabric of her wrap. Bennie turned her face up to the
sky. There was no moon, no stars, no clouds that she could see, just dense,
impenetrable blackness. It seemed as if the snowflakes just appeared from the
dark, floating lazily to earth.

She craved the quiet, the peace, the freedom. Peace was a quality
that was rapidly slipping away from her life, and there seemed to be little she
could do to restore it.

Her village was no longer peaceful. The proximity of the British
left everyone tense and short-tempered, waiting for the explosion.

Her family, too, felt strained. The conflict between her father
and Brendan, once sad but bearable, was becoming acutely painful. Her younger
brothers were restless, eager to make their place in the world.

Then there was Bennie herself.

Snowflakes fell on her skin, tiny, brief dots of sensation where
they melted. They clung to her lashes, blurring her vision and she ran her
tongue over her lips to capture the few that fell there.

She'd thought she was content without passion, ready to settle for
a life of quiet satisfaction. Yet even her own tongue sliding across her lips
reminded her of the feel of his. The chill of the stones only served to make
her wish for remembered heat.

She'd found that peace was no defense against fire.

***

It was back to business

Two weeks after the mustering, Jon marched into New Wexford. He'd
put off going back as long as he could. He'd made sure, before he came, that
his mind was filled with troop strength and strategies, not lavender and soft
skin. The only secrets he was interested in were the ones that he'd been sent
there to find out, not the secrets buried beneath the calm, beguiling surface
of a woman.

He had traitors to find. If he had to use her in the process, then
he would. That was his job. It was the only thing that mattered. If it had
taken him two weeks to come to that conclusion, well, so be it. Every man was
allowed one stupid, adolescent crush in his life. So what if his had come ten
or fifteen years later than it was supposed to? He had it under control now.

The first thing he had to do was get the townspeople accustomed to
seeing him around. He needed them to see him exactly as the rest of his company
did—affable, clumsy, none too bright, a threat to no one. A careless word in
his presence, a bit of conversation no one expected him to understand, and the
job would be nearly done and he could move on to the next one.

Walking past the pig wallow, he grimaced. A good part of last
week's snow had melted, leaving the rest dingy and ugly, and the pigs well
supplied with mud. They squealed as he passed, as if in greeting.

"Can't stay and play today, boys," he muttered, hoping
he'd never again be called on to bury himself in mud for his country. There
were limits, after all.

"Hey, pig man!" A chunk of packed snow and dirt whacked
into his right shoulder. Jon nearly groaned aloud. Not now! All he'd planned to
do was go to the Dancing Eel, drink a little too much, and lose a good deal of
money at cards. He'd heard harassment of the British troops had increased; they
were often pelted with rocks and rotten vegetables if they so much as set foot
in New Wexford. It seemed the young men and boys had learned quickly enough the
soldiers were under orders not to retaliate.

He had no intention of getting into a wrangle with a bunch of
bored little boys who thought he made an easy target. Damn. Why weren't they in
school? So what if it was nearly suppertime? They should tuck the little brats
safely away in boarding school, as he had been.

The tavern was only a few yards away. Jon quickened his pace. He
was almost safely away.

Another chunk thunked off the back of his neck. Bloody hell, the
buggers had pretty good aim.

Here we go, Jon thought, act two.

He stumbled over an imaginary rut in the path and landed face down
in a pile of dirty snow.

Jon shoved himself over and rubbed at his face. The snow was
granular, like tiny bits of ice, and stung as he wiped it off.

He was surrounded by a half dozen small boys. Right in front of
him was a familiar, tow-headed boy, a smug smile on his face as he patted a
handful of snow.

" 'Cor, you is the dumbest big bloke, ain't ya?"

"I remember you."

"Yeah?" Jimmy ran his sleeve under his red nose.
"Well, I remember you too. An' you ain't gettin' rid of us so easy this
time."

A withered apple core bounced off Jon's cheek. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. My pa says the lobsterbacks can't do nothin' to any of
us Americans, no matter what. Not without, uh, auton..."

"Authority," another boy whispered.

"Yeah, authority. So the way I figures it, we can do pretty
much what we want to you." He reached down and pulled Jon's nose.

Jon wondered if the little blighter had any idea of the insult
he'd just delivered, but right now he was more concerned with the ball of hard-packed
snow Jimmy was aiming at his face.

Jon dragged himself to his feet with every intention of finally
heading into the Dancing Eel. With any luck, some of the patrons had seen the
little scene he'd just created. He'd hate to think he'd pretended to be
harmless for nothing.

The door to the tavern flew open. Beth rushed out in a swirl of
navy blue cape. Her shoulders were set, her eyes narrowed in an expression of
determination he'd seen once before—when she'd come to Sarah's rescue.

Except this time, she was going to rescue him.

He'd given up pride long ago—it was a luxury a man in his
profession couldn't afford—but this was too much. A man shouldn't have to be
saved from a pack of pint-size would-be soldiers by his woman.

He looked to heaven for help. Please, God, don't let her rescue
me.

"Hey, boys! What are you doing there?"

He closed his eyes. Please God, no.

"Boys! You run on home before I tell your mothers!"

It was hopeless. When had God ever helped him when he'd asked for
it?

He heard the boys scurrying away. One last snowball— Jimmy's
parting shot, no doubt—struck his temple.

What else was a proper spy to do? Jon dropped to the ground, lay
sprawled on his back, and waited for Beth.

Unmindful of the
snow, Bennie fell to her knees next to Jon's
prostrate form. He was still, his scarlet coat a vivid splash against the
gray-white snow.

She'd spent two weeks berating herself for her foolish behavior
after the mustering. Kissing him, for heaven's sake. She'd probably scared the
man half to death. She'd told herself that the next time she saw him, she'd be
friendly, but casual and controlled. She could manage this friendship as long
as she kept her distance.

Then she'd seen the boys baiting him, and she'd rushed out without
a second thought. She couldn't let them hurt him, even though she knew there
was really little chance they could do him any actual physical harm. But she
was afraid they'd hurt his feelings, and she'd been determined to stop them.