Paxton's War (30 page)

“The damned Wisp!” a half-drugged Somerset whispered to himself as the house slaves hid in the kitchen or ran out the back door.

“Get down here and open your safe!” demanded the strange-voiced rebel. “The money will go to Bronson so he can rebuild his farm you so cruelly burned. Hurry, man, before I blast you into the fires of hell!”

Enraged but afraid for his life, Buckley did as he was told. Joining the party of prisoners, he led them into the library, where he emptied one of the family safes, filled with gold coins, into a sack provided by the Wisp. There was something familiar about the outlaw's mannerisms, though Somerset's mind was too foggy to see through the disguise. In turn, the masked man tied Buckley's hands, but not before demanding and receiving a key to the library. He gagged each of the eight men and locked them in the room. In the hallway, carrying the sack of gold, he looked toward the staircase. There, staring down at him, was Colleen.

Reeling in a semi-stupor, not quite sure whether she was asleep or awake, she spoke his name: “Will-o'-the-Wisp.”

He hesitated before going to her. Still wanting to protect her from the knowledge of his identify, he had nonetheless come here, in large measure, to carry her away. Having learned her whereabouts from Piero, he had been drawn inevitably to the plantation. Could he do any less than free her from this marbled prison?

Slowly she walked down the stairs, afraid of losing her balance, afraid that it all might be a dream. Slowly he walked up to meet her.

“Is it you? Is it really the Wisp?”

“Yes,” he said, speaking through the tube.

“Then take me with you. I'm … I'm the Sandpiper.”

“There's no time to waste. We must flee … now!”

At that moment—whether through the last, lingering effects of the drug or her own natural instinct—she pulled him toward her, stripped off his mask, and gasped. Before she could say his name, he covered her mouth with his and kissed her for what seemed an eternity.

“Jase!”
she whispered when he let her go.
“Oh, dear God! It was always you! Jase!”

Still clinging to Buckley's sack of gold, he seized her hand and, seeing that her legs were barely steady enough to support her, lifted her in his arms and carried her outside, where Cinder was waiting. The fresh night air brought her back to reality. As they galloped off, the startling texture of the stallion's backside against her bare bottom threw Colleen into a drugless but heightened state of erotic arousal. Jason offered her his cloak, but she refused, for as they flew through the night, thundering through the plantation into the wild countryside, she wanted to feel the full force of the warm wind against her face and chest and half-exposed breasts. She wanted to experience this, the most thrilling moment of her life, in all its unleashed glory. Were they being chased? Would they be caught? She felt no fear. Let them try! Her arms wrapped around Jason's waist, the horse bouncing steadily and rhythmically beneath her, she felt the power of the great beast, the power of Jason Paxton, her own power and determination that linked her to this mighty, mysterious man who was everything she had ever dreamed—and more, so much more!

Miles beyond the plantation he led the horse into a dense wood, wonderfully fragrant and fresh. He veered from a beaten path and wound his way through a maze of trees and thick bush before stopping at a small, hidden grove. Quickly, without a word, Jason carried Colleen from the horse, spread his cloak upon the ground, and gently set her there.
Yes! Yes!
she thought.
My Wisp! My Jase! My fondest fantasy is real! My most cherished wish is coming true!

“The English will be looking for us around here,” she said.

“Let them look. No one—not even Somerset—could find this grove. It's another of my secret childhood hideaways, still unknown by other men.”

“Then we're truly safe?” she asked, looking into his eyes with tender admiration.

“For now,” he answered, his hunger for her love hardening by the minute.

Despite all their denials and vows, their misunderstandings and mistakes, they had never stopped wanting one another, not for a second, and finally, in the wild forest where they had first tasted the joy of their impassioned desire, they reached for each other with a feverish urgency no mortal could resist.
Three months without him
, thought Colleen,
three long months!
She opened her arms to him and together they rolled around in a sensuous, impatient embrace. She led her lover's hand beneath the velvet gown so he might discover the extent of her excitement. Curious about her extraordinary state of undress, he assumed it was the result of having to flee from Marble Manor in so a great hurry. Too aroused and thrilled to ask questions, he freed himself of his straining breeches and, within the time a bolt of lightning could pierce the midnight sky, he filled her with the burning, bulging expression of his love. She received him with ecstatic joy, wrapping her legs around his, urging him on, her nails dug deeply in his back, his tightened muscular buttocks rising and falling furiously, faster and faster, as she gave herself over to the frenzied convulsions. She was a rushing river whose banks overflowed, he a mighty, massive ship roaring through her savage currents. Her gasps, her moans, her cries, and her final scream of sweet release shot through the trees, straight to the heavens, where she envisioned a thousand cupids singing and dancing with unabashed delight.

Afterward, wrapped in his cloak, wrapped in one another's arms, there was music on their lips. Together they sang the same melody heard the day he had come home from England.

“I always knew,” she whispered to him as she placed her hand upon his cheek and gently stroked his moonlit skin. “In the deepest part of my soul, I knew this song was ours. I felt your music, and your bravery … oh, Jase, I love you, I love you more than life itself.”

Enjoying a relaxing, deep satiation he hadn't known since he last loved Colleen the day of the picnic, he felt blessed to have this precious woman cradled in his arms.

“I love you with all my heart,” he whispered in her ear, kissing her lightly on her nose, on her still-warm lips. Her naked skin burned with slowly cooling passion. For a long while they lay there, she singing their song, he humming along. Yet in spite of this moment of quiet contentment, he couldn't help thinking that eventually night would give way to day and, in spite of his best intentions, the complexities of their lives were hopelessly intertwined, the dangers they faced suddenly more imminent and lethal than ever before.

PART III

Chapter 1

Commander Somerset of the Tory Militia

Searched for the Wisp long and hard.

Thus it was a shock when he was spotted

In Buckley's own backyard.

The rebel was there, without a doubt,

Somerset had only to bring him down.

But Will-o'-the-Wisp took the upper hand,

Turning Buckley into a clown.

“No, I don't think it's funny, not at all,” Jason remarked with decided anger as the rest of the company in Robin's ornate parlor—Piero, Robin, and Colleen—laughed heartily. It was the first week in September.

“Oh, come, come. You must admit that it's somewhat amusing,” suggested Piero, nervously rubbing his thumb beneath his nose as he felt the tender hairs of a new moustache growth. “What's more, Miss McClagan reads her work with great verve.”

“I think it's foolhardy,” Jason snapped. “And it would be even more foolish for the lyric to be circulated.”

“I quite agree with Jason,” commented a pensive Robin as he rested his folded hands upon his considerable girth. “In spite of its wit, it would be prudent to put the poem aside for the time being.”

“It's too late,” said a confident Colleen. “I've given it to Frederic Pall, who's printing it even as we speak. Sometime during the night, the broadside will be nailed to the doors of pubs and shops throughout the city, where …”

“Colleen,” Jason broke in sharply, “I warned you about this. We were lucky enough that your story about escaping the Wisp was believed by Somerset. What's the point in pushing our luck? And, besides, who is this Frederic Pall?”

“A most marvelous printer I met yesterday.”

“And immediately decided he could be trusted?”

“I knew within minutes. He has a heart of gold and is willing to risk his life for the revolution. Isn't that enough proof? He was forced to flee from Augusta, where he printed books of patriotic poems. He's also an actor. He's just taken a role in the Shakespeare play at the Dock Street Theater. He knows absolutely everyone. His credentials are impeccable. He carries personal letters of recommendation from Benjamin Franklin and Sam Adams. He knew Ephraim well. Sometime back, he even served as Ephraim's apprentice.”

“So it was Ephraim who first introduced you to him?”

“No. I met him for the first time yesterday morning. He was with Benjamin Long, the bookbinder, who's the most respected Patriot in the city. They both came to call on Aunt Rianne in search of a hiding place for a large quantity of forbidden books—one of which is a new number by Thomas Paine. Knowing my aunt's political persuasions, Long reasoned that she'd be helpful. Of course, she was. We had tea together, and during the course of the conversation Mr. Pall said that he knew of an abandoned press in working order here in the city, but he had no place to keep it. It occurred to me that if my aunt's basement could hold the books, it could hold a press as well. Rianne was a bit reluctant, but we finally convinced her.”

“So they carried in the press in the bold light of day?”

“Hidden in a carton with dozens of fabric bolts and dresses spilling out of the top so as to give the appearance of perfectly normal activity.”

“And you saw fit to give him your broadside and reveal your identity—just like that?” Jason asked skeptically.

“It was a matter of blessed fate. I was looking for a printer, and one was delivered to my very door. Wouldn't you call it providence? And is it not a great deal safer to have this material printed in my aunt's home rather than have me walking the streets, as I did with Ephraim, hoping not to be followed?”

“Who's to say that this Frederic Pall is not being followed?”

“Who's to say any of us is not being followed? But there's a limit to the precautions we must take. Being prudent is one thing; being inert is quite another.”

“I don't like it, Colleen,” Jason scolded. “This is no time for you to return to your old tricks. The loss at Camden and Fishing Creek only strengthened the Crown's stranglehold on the colony. You need only to step outside and look around. Tory and English soldiers are everywhere. They've increased the manpower here by nearly twenty percent. Moving in and out of the city without being stopped and searched is nearly impossible. What's the point of riling them up with another barb? Why must you persist in these games?”

“They're
not
games, Jason,” Colleen said with dire seriousness. “I thought by now you understood that.”

“Come, Piero,” Robin said discreetly. “I've designed you a new robe, just as you requested, and I'd like your approval on the fabric. Will you join me in my studio?”

“Well …” Piero hesitated, hating to miss the rest of this fascinating exchange between lovers. “I suppose so.
Scusate, per favore
.” Bowing, he and Robin left the room.

Alone, Jason and Colleen rose from their chairs and met in the center of the room, where they grasped hands.

“I asked you not to come here,” he reminded her. “'Twas a rash and reckless act.”

She stood on tiptoes to kiss his mouth. He didn't resist. “I couldn't stay away. It's been three long nights since we escaped together, three nights of not being able to sleep. Haven't you missed me? Haven't you yearned to …”

“Yes, yes. I've wanted you more than I care to mention. In spite of all my noble intentions to stay aloof, my heart has claimed victory over my head. But, damn it, our heads will soon be severed if you don't realize the deadly situation we face. This is not the time to taunt Buckley and Embleton.”

“No one suspects you. No one suspects me.”

“Are you certain? Walking these streets, I've the feeling that everyone and everything are suspect. You're moving far too quickly, Colleen.”

“But how will the people know of your exploits at Marble Manor if we don't tell them?”

“Eventually word will be spread.”

“But in this besieged city, our people are crying out for hope—now, not eventually. How else can they endure the chains that bind them to their homes and shops? How else can they live with their fears? Hope. The Wisp brings them hope. And so does the Sandpiper. For in your actions and my words live the dreams and faith of thousands of men, women, and children, all praying for freedom. Can't you see that, Jase? You're not the Wisp any more than I'm the Sandpiper. The people are. We're merely their instruments, the symbols of their courage and determination. That's why they must know of your triumphs. You must understand that it's worth every risk.”

Jason sighed and shook his head, obviously moved by what had just been said, but frustrated at his inability to convince her to curb her activities. “You're a remarkable woman, Colleen McClagan. A month ago you were hiding behind sewing tables, and today you're back risking your neck for the revolution.”

“While I was at Aunt Rianne's and so full of fright, I read something in a book she gave me. It was a Greek philosopher—I forget whom—who said that courage is not simple fearlessness. The truly courageous individual is one who, having harbored fears, finds the strength to overcome them. That thought gave me hope. And so do the selfless acts of the Wisp.”

“I appreciate that, Colleen. I appreciate you. I love you for your stamina and your courage. But I also want to impress you with the cold, hard facts of reality. In your verse, for instance, you speak of Buckley as a clown. Did it not occur to you that someone might make a connection between that reference and my costume at the ball?”