Law, Susan Kay (6 page)

She could scarcely reach around him, and she needed to get closer
to find the proper fingerings. She pressed herself even more tightly against
him, conscious of the nearly painful but completely wonderful sensation in her
breasts as they pushed against the solid wall of his back.

She took a great gulp of air to clear her head; the air was tinged
faintly with drying grass and distant smoke, leaves and fall, warmth and Jon.
When she exhaled, her breath stirred the loosely gathered hair at the nape of
his neck. His right hand held the bow, and she curled her hand around his. His
wrists were supple, powerful, tendons standing out boldly.

"Here," she murmured. "We draw the bow across the
strings, like this."

A single, clear note sang from the old violin. Jon turned in her
arms, grinning at her boyishly.

"Pretty," he said.

He was close against her, and Bennie suddenly wished for the bulky
protection of her skirts. "Oh... yes, it was pretty."

"No." Her hands dangled limply, the bow in one, the
violin in the other. His arm was around her back, holding her in place—as if
she could move!—and he lifted his other hand to her cheek.

He stroked the curve softly, tracing her cheekbone, and once again
Bennie was struck by the amazing delicacy of his touch. There was so much
gentleness hidden in his giant frame. What other things lay undiscovered and
unlooked for in him?

"No," he whispered. "Not the note. You."

Pretty. Pretty was a word for tiny, elegant, feminine women.
Bennie had never been any of those things. She was tall and striking and
strong. Statuesque. But when this handsome man looked at her with such
tenderness in his face, she almost believed it.

"Too pretty for a boy's name. Do you have another name
besides Bennie?"

"Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth." He slid his fingers over the tendrils of
hair at her temple. "Yes. Beth."

"Beth," she repeated, the word almost a sigh. It was a
small, feminine name. "No one calls me Beth."

"Then I will." He lifted his head, so suddenly alert
Bennie started in surprise. "What was that?"

"What?"

"I heard something—a sound in the bushes."

Bennie glanced around. The undergrowth was still, and she heard
only a faint rustling. "It was probably just an animal."

"Maybe." His intent awareness vanished as quickly as it
had come, and he again looked sleepy and vague.

"How about you?" she asked. "Is your full name
Jonathan?"

"No." He stepped back abruptly, dropping his hands, and
Bennie acutely felt the absence of his touch. "Just Jon. Only Jon."

"Then Jon it is."

He bobbed his head in acknowledgment. "Play for me?"

"You really want me to?"

"Please."

"All right," she agreed.

He beamed, fetching his discarded hat, and settled himself on the
ground, lying back and cushioning his head with the crushed tricorn. "I'm
listening."

It was much easier than she'd thought, to play for someone else—at
least, to play for Jon. Somehow she knew he'd love anything she played. She
lifted the violin to position, closed her eyes, remembered the way she felt
when he'd touched her, and began to play.

***

This was a mistake.

He was supposed to be discovering what was happening in New
Wexford. There was too much information flowing in and out of this small town,
information vital to both sides, and it was his job to find out why.

When Jon had seen Bennie Jones slipping into the forest, he'd at
first told himself that he was following her because she was a possible
suspect. Truthfully, he still was; he knew nothing that eliminated her.

But that wasn't why he'd followed her, even though—for a
moment—he'd deluded himself into thinking that it was. He rarely was anything
less than candid with himself, and it bothered him deeply that not only had he
been dishonest, he had done it over a woman.

She intrigued him. She had layers, he could tell.

Things hidden beneath the surface. He was always compelled to dig
beneath the obvious; it was one of the things that had led him to his job in
the first place. He wanted—too much—to strip away a few of her layers.

Intense concentration puckered her forehead as she played, stray
golden curls bobbed wildly around her head, and, Lord, did she have legs. He
was suddenly sure why women were supposed to hide underneath skirts: the sight
of legs like hers could cause a man to do stupid things. Her calves were
smoothly molded; he felt sure they would be delightfully firm to his touch, and
her thighs were womanly. Her limbs were incredibly long; it would take a man
several deliriously happy days to kiss his way up their length.

His job did not allow extended, serious involvement with women. It
had never mattered to him before—but now he hated it. He could care about her,
but there was no time, no way to let himself get to know her, no way at all to
let her get close to him.

It was simply too dangerous. He came too close to slipping when
she was near, his concentration broken by the distraction of her mere presence.
He couldn't afford to make any mistakes now; too many lives depended on it,
including his own.

Yet he couldn't seem to stay away from her. She drew him in a way
that was both completely unexpected and wholly irresistible. He wanted her to
know what was beneath his act, an act he'd lived for so long even he was unsure
what she'd find beneath the surface—if there was anything left.

Frustrated, Jon tore his gaze away from her, looking up through
the black, skeletal boughs of the tree at the pale blue sky, and listened. Her
music was nothing like any he had ever heard before; it was fluid, changeable,
easy, mimicking the gliding soar of a hawk, then the quiet, meandering flow of
a stream. It shifted again, becoming slow, subtle, intense, a fierce, beating
undercurrent of passion.

He had to leave before it was too late....

It already was. Jon closed his eyes and let the music flow through
him.

Holding her skirts
high above her ankles, Bennie made a
small leap over the puddle of icy water as she skirted the New Wexford Common.
Last night's rain had left the low areas wet and muddy, although the distant
sun was doing a fair job of drying out the high spots. After all the residents
of four villages had tromped through the common for the mustering, the place
was going to be a black, sloppy mess.

Well, at least somebody liked it; a half dozen hogs were squealing
happily, rooting and snorting in the hollow next to the schoolhouse. The pigs
ran free in the town, earning their keep by devouring all sorts of garbage and
waste, but in wet weather they could always be found here, burying themselves
in the abundant mud.

"Watch out!"

"Get it before it ends up in the hollow!"

A blown-up pig's bladder rolled toward her, followed by four
puffing, red-faced boys. Bennie stuck out her foot to stop it, giving it a
sharp kick in the direction of Adam, her oldest nephew.

"Hey, thanks, Bennie. I didn't want to have to go in after
it."

She reached out and ruffled his blond hair. Although he was only
ten, his head already nearly reached her chin. "If I were you, I'd choose
a little less crowded place to play football. You know Rufus thinks the game is
a menace."

"Yeah, well." Adam tossed the ball from hand to hand.
"Father said we should go off behind the school to play. But Ma's making
gingerbread, an' it's almost ready, an' you
know
if Father gets there
first he'll eat the whole thing, an'—"

"And nothing, Adam. If you charge into someone and bump them
over while you're playing, you're not going to get any at gingerbread at all.
Besides, your father will be too busy today to eat any gingerbread."

"Oh, sure," he grumbled, his eyes wide with complete
disbelief.

Bennie laughed. "All right, maybe he'll find a bit of time.
But he won't get more than half of it, I'm certain. Now you all go off and play
and I'll make sure someone comes to get you when it's time to eat."

Adam darted off, trailed by his three smaller friends.

Tightening her shawl around her shoulders, Bennie continued around
the square. Although the day was clear, the sun bright, the air had a definite
bite, and Bennie thought she caught the crisp, metallic tang of approaching
winter. The blue of the unclouded sky was pale, as if the color had been washed
of intensity, a hue that reminded her of Jon's eyes.

His eyes. Why was she still remembering his eyes? It wasn't as if
she'd seen him since that afternoon in the woods when he'd listened to her
play. The weather had turned colder since then, and she'd only been able to get
back there once, practicing in the stables the other days. Yet every time she'd
brought out her instrument, she'd found herself looking for him. Missing his
presence.

How absurd. She'd played thousands of times alone, only once with
him there. She couldn't have become accustomed to him so quickly. Still, it had
felt good to share the music. To have a friend who seemed to like it as much as
she did.

A friend. Oddly, that's the way she thought of him— as if she knew
anything about having a friend. She had more family than she knew what to do
with, but she'd never really had a friend. She'd always been too different, too
awkward, too... something, to be close to someone who wasn't related to her.

It was impossible: he was a soldier, he was British, he was a man.
He was beautiful and simple and completely out of her realm of experience. He
was many things, but he couldn't be her friend, and she'd do well to remember
it.

The common was already crowded with people. The annual mustering
was as much an excuse for all the residents of the area to gather as it was a
military exercise. Bennie wended her way through the peddlers selling books,
patent medicines, and hats; candy, sweetmeats, and cutlery. She inspected a
particularly fine collection of twig baskets and pretended not to notice the
men, carefully out of sight of their wives, gambling with homemade playing
cards.

Betsy Grout, Rufus's wife, along with a number of other women, was
selling a tempting array of sweets arranged on tables in front of her husband's
store.

"What will you have, Bennie?"

Bennie rubbed her stiff fingers together. "Mmm, tea, I
think."

"Yes, it is a little brisk this morning, isn't it?"
Betsy poured the steaming liquid. "Sugar?"

"Absolutely." Bennie grinned. "Lots. And you might
as well make it two teas. I'm going to stop over at Brendan's."

"It's a fine day for the mustering, despite the chill."
Using a sharp pick, Betsy chipped several large tan chunks off of the hard,
beehive-shaped lump of sugar. "I just hope everything goes well."

"It always does."

Betsy pursed her plump lips. "So far it has."

"Why wouldn't it?"

"Rufus said there may be a bit of trouble with the
redcoats."

"Trouble?" Bennie accepted the two mugs. "Because
the captain told us not to hold the mustering? Oh, I'm sure it's nothing to be
concerned about. After all, what could they really do?"

"They're well-armed, well-trained soldiers." Betsy
pinched her brows together. "I would think they could do rather a
lot."

"Soldiers under orders not to fire on any colonists without
orders from a civilian authority," Bennie reminded her.

"I hope you're right," Betsy said skeptically.
"Orders can be changed, Bennie. Or disobeyed. Has Brendan heard anything
about there being any potential trouble?"

"Not that I know of." Bennie sipped her tea, shuddering slightly
at the bitterness the sugar couldn't quite disguise. Pine needle tea might be
better for her digestion, and it was certainly the patriotic thing to drink,
but her tongue still preferred a good imported tea. "Not yet, at any rate.
I'll go ask him now if he knows anything."

Betsy caught Bennie's wrist, her grip nearly painfully tight.
"Will you let me know if you hear anything?" Tension radiated from
Betsy's round body. "My sons..."

"I'll let you know. I promise," Bennie said, laying her
hand consolingly over Betsy's.

***

A tent, for God's sake. Field quarters. Tapping a folded ivory
paper on the table in front of him, Captain Livingston glanced around in
disgust. He couldn't believe he was in field quarters again. For all the
disadvantages of being stationed in Boston, not the least of which was a
hostile and abusive populace, at least they'd had decent quarters. Castle
William wasn't exactly a palace, but it certainly was better than a cold, worn,
and clearly well-past-its-prime tent.

Winter was coming. He was stuck out here in the country, and he
couldn't even commandeer a place to stay. There was no place within ten miles
big enough to hold all his troops, so they'd been assigned to this sorry, half
decayed excuse for a fort midway between Lexington and New Wexford. He'd taken
one look at the place and known it would take his men weeks of work to make it
marginally habitable—weeks that
he
was going to have to spend in field
quarters.