Moonlight Lover (12 page)

Krystyna shook her head, then smoothed away the furrow that came between Jason's eyes as he frowned with impatience.

"His eyes, Jason," she prompted. With an indulgent smile, she stroked his cheek fondly. Men had eyes, but they could not see, she thought. Ears, but they did not hear. "Did you see his eyes?"

He shrugged. "They were where they always were, in his head."

She could not help the bubble of laughter that rose up. "You are handsome and kind, but so blind."

Seeing that his impatience had grown, she raised her head and ran her tongue along the outline of his lips. She smiled with triumph as she felt his desire for her become firm against her.

He drew her closer to him, fitting her to him so that there was not an inch of space between their bodies. He teased a ring of kisses along her throat until she moaned. "All right, what about his eyes?"

He wasn't fighting fair, but she didn't want a fair fight. She liked these prolonged romantic interludes. It was what kept life with him exciting. What kept her anticipation thriving.

"They softened when he said her name. And there was a flash to them. He likes her."

She saw things that he had not seen.
If they were there.
It you say so
.

He was humoring her. She didn't like being humored. Krystyna shifted, but she was trapped between his body and the sheets. "I do say so. And I want him to be able to have an opportunity to say so himself. To her."

A woman's mind was a complete mystery to him. But at
the moment, it wasn't Krystyna's mind he was interested
in. He stroked her thighs slowly as he spoke, struggling to
keep his mind on the topic. "And our having a celebration will help."

"Yes." The word was uttered breathlessly.

Jason shook his head. He didn't understand, but he didn't have to. Matters like this he left to Krystyna. It always astounded him that she was so versed in things that men were interested in—politics, wars, weapons.

Yet when it came to life itself, to the business of men and
women and the way they thought, her path strayed miles
from his. "You know, maybe you should have gone back
to Poland."

This, out of the blue? She looked at him, startled. "Why?"

He rose over her, his body bracketing hers. "Because you probably would have wound up being queen and making them all bend to your will."

Love shone in her eyes as she looked up at his face. "I am only interested in having one man bend to my will."

He inclined his head, a smile playing on his lips. "My knee is bent, milady."

She laughed, taking his face between her hands. As she
moved, she could feel the length of him, wanting her.
"Your knee may be bent, but something else is very, very
straight, my love. And that is just as I want it."

Anything else she might have said was lost as he brought his mouth down on hers. It was past the time for
words. Only deed would do now. Deeds such as loving her
the way she had never been loved before.

Each time was better than the last. It was something that Jason knew he intended to maintain as a tradition until death finally claimed him, hopefully many years from now.

Chapter Twelve

The storm had swept through Morgan's Creek like a petulant, spurned Southern belle. And when her anger had been spent, she slowly retreated.

After five days of rain, it was heartening to see a blue sky again. Tufts of clouds were white and wispy instead of dark and pregnant. Perhaps, Rachel mused as she worked in the office, it was finally time for nature to be at peace.

For man to be at peace.

The last large scale battle of the war, it appeared, had been fought in South Carolina two months ago in August. There had been no offensive launched since then, no reports of new skirmishes. Peace seemed to be breaking out at long last.

Still, they were a long way from a treaty, though she knew her mentor, Franklin, was even now in Paris, fashioning a preliminary agreement between the nations.

The Gazette was doing its part by backing the fledgling nation, but she felt frustrated. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough. She wanted to do more, and had no idea what.

Rachel looked at the printing press. She supposed that there were people who had no way of expressing themselves at all. She was fortunate. At least she could give voice to her views through the editorials, though both she and her brother signed them "R. O'Roarke" for a very obvious reason that irked her. The men in the county, the men anywhere, she thought bitterly, would never stand for reading opinions put forth by a woman. That too, frustrated her. But it could be worse. Riley could have stood in her way and not allowed her to express her sentiments at all. At least he understood when no one else would.

She smiled to herself as she arranged the letters. They
had come a long way, she and Riley, from the two ragged
orphans who had landed on the shores of Philadelphia with only a past and no future.

A noise caught her attention. She was alone in the
office and more than aware that not everyone who passed
through the town was friendly to the Gazette's stand on the war. Taking a reflexive step toward the musket she kept handy beside the desk, Rachel looked up to see who was entering the shop.

She was surprised to see a delicate, dark-haired woman
standing there. The woman was young, slight, and very well dressed in a dark green velvet morning dress. But even if she had been wearing rags, Rachel would have detected the air of an aristocrat about her. She wore it like a mantel. It was there in the set of her shoulders, in the way her chin was slightly raised, as if she had just posed for a painting.

Rachel felt dowdy in her simple brown dress. With spirit that had been generations in the making, she raised her chin and returned the appraising gaze.

Two could play this game, whatever it was.

She was every bit as good as this woman who had been
born to the lap of luxury. If for some reason the woman had come to lord it over her, she was going to be sorely disappointed.

"You will not have need of that," Krystyna assured Rachel kindly.

"That?" Rachel echoed, confused.

"The musket." Krystyna had seen Rachel move
toward it before she even looked up. Good, a woman who would not swoon at the first noise. She liked that. Sin-Jin
needed someone with spirit. "I mean you no harm." She gestured around the small print shop. It faced the afternoon sun and was brightly lit, like a warm jewel absorbing the sunlight and casting it back playfully. "May I come in?"

Rachel thought she heard an accent, but it was like none she was acquainted with. She wiped the ink from her fingers with her apron. "It's a mistake I think you've made."

Krystyna remained where she was and cocked her head, puzzled as to the other woman's meaning. "I have?"

She was a beauty, Krystyna decided, this editor's sister. She could easily see why John was so taken with
her. But beauty was not enough. There was a long road to
travel before Krystyna thought the young woman good enough for her friend.

But, since he seemed to be smitten, Krystyna knew she
had to do what she could to help him. "I do not think I have made a mistake."

Rachel crossed to her, trying hard not to stare. She'd seen
 
women
 
like
 
this
 
before,
 
at
 
a
 
distance.
 
They frequented Lancaster's house in Ireland. Highborn ladies who didn't have five seconds to spare for those who had to work the land in order to live.

Rachel squared her shoulders as she pointed out the front door and to the left. "You'll be finding the emporium two doors down. That way."

Krystyna didn't even bother to look. She wondered
why the woman seemed to be so eager to be rid of her. She
was new in town, and Krystyna would have thought that she would be eager to make friends. Perhaps her abruptness hid an inadequateness the young woman had not come to terms with. She had often seen that in others.

Krystyna smiled encouragingly at Rachel. "I know where the emporium is. This is where the Gazette is printed, is it not?"

"Yes." The reply was given defensively.

Krystyna recognized a bit of herself as she had been six
years ago in this woman. Compassion tugged at her heart
as she remembered what it had felt like to be a stranger in
a brand new land. "And you are Rachel?"

"I'm Rachel." Rachel's expression remained guarded.

Who was this woman and why was she looking for her?
Curiosity grew, linking arms with anxiety. No one ever sought her out unless there was some complaint to be aired, some grievance to be settled, real or imaginary. It was a fate she had endured more than once. Because she spoke her mind plainly in a world that valued its women silent, Rachel had garnered censure from men and women alike while she had lived in Philadelphia. Her circle of women friends had dwindled down to none by
the time she and Riley had moved away. It was a price she
had willingly paid.

Had this woman somehow suspected that the editorial about the last imprint of English rule that yet needed to be eradicated had been written by her and not Riley? Was she here to voice her disapproval, or worse, threaten her with some sort of reprisal by her husband?

Krystyna smiled at her warmly. "Then I have not made a mistake. I am Krystyna McKinley." Krystyna came forward, her hand extended toward Rachel.

As Rachel stared at her, dumbfound, she grasped the taller woman's hand and shook it. It wasn't a polite, distant gesture, the bare touching of fingers as with some, but a firm, hearty handshake, a prelude to forming a bond between two kindred spirits.

Still mystified as to why she was being sought out, Rachel gestured toward the lone chair behind the desk. Riley was out gathering material for their next edition. Though the town was growing, with two new men arriving just this week, there was not much that seemed to be happening in a newsworthy sort of way.

Riley, she realized, was gone overly long in search of a story. Like as not, he had probably detoured by the tavern again.

Rachel dug deep for her manners, though she still reserved judgment about the woman. "Won't you sit down, please?"

Krystyna preferred to stand, but she knew that it was impolite to hover over the other woman. "Yes, thank you." Her dark dress pooled around her like a velvet cloud as she sat down in the chair. "But I cannot stay long." She placed her hands on the armrests and fixed Rachel with a studious gaze. "I have come to invite you and your brother," she added as she saw the light brown eyebrows rise, "to my son's christening."

Rachel slipped onto the stool and looked down at Krystyna, completely taken aback. She folded her arms before her chest. "Pardon me for asking, but just why would you be doing that?"

Suspicious, Krystyna thought. But so had she been once. "You speak plainly." Rachel opened her mouth to defend herself, but had no chance. There was no need, for Krystyna smiled in approval. "I like that."

That made no sense at all to Rachel. "You do?"

"But of course." Krystyna thought of her sister-in-law. Lucinda had a generous heart, but the soul of a timid mouse, even now. She rarely made a single move without consulting Aaron first. "It is wonderful to find a woman who does not feel she must scurry behind a man and have him ask the questions. And worse, make all the decisions."

Well, they seemed to be in agreement about that, but Rachel still had no idea who this woman really was and why she wanted her to attend a party. "Thank you, but you haven't answered my question. Why would you be wanting us to come to your party?"

That was easy enough, even if John had not been involved. "Because you are strangers, and strangers should be made welcome as quickly as possible so that they can become friends."

As Rachel watched, Krystyna abruptly rose and crossed toward the printing press. Rachel noticed that the young woman wasn't wearing gloves, as befitted a lady of her apparent station. Beyond the clothes and the bearing, she wasn't doing anything as befitted a woman of her station. A smile began to slip out over Rachel's lips.

Intrigued by the huge object, Krystyna touched a character on the platen and then examined her finger.

There was a dark black smudge on it. Rachel had already coated the letters with ink when Krystyna had walked in. Rachel held her breath, waiting for a tirade.

With a shrug, Krystyna took out a lacy handkerchief from her purse and carelessly wiped the smudge away as best she could. Rachel watched, fascinated. A grudging respect began forming.

Tucking the handkerchief back in her purse, Krystyna turned to look at Rachel. "Do you help your brother run this?"

"I help my brother write this," Rachel corrected proudly. For some reason, it was important to her that this woman know that.

The match was becoming more reasonable and appealing by the moment, Krystyna thought. Savannah had been completely uneducated and content to remain that way. Krystyna had always thought that John deserved more. "Then you know how to read and write?"

Rachel supposed that ability would generate disapproval. Most thought it less than useless for a woman to master those skills. Certainly her father had. "That I most certainly do."

Krystyna beamed, clapping her hands together. "Wonderful."

Again it wasn't a reaction Rachel had expected. The single word uttered by the woman stirred pride within Rachel. She gestured toward the press. "Would you care to see how it's done?" she asked almost shyly.

"Yes." Krystyna's reply was enthusiastically given.

Rachel took a previously dampened piece of paper and laid it carefully over the type bed. After the bed had been rolled into place, she screwed down the platen with the lever. She held it for a count of ten, then released the lever. The bed was slowly drawn out. With the utmost of care, Rachel removed the sheet, now with print on it.