The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (44 page)

He sobered and looked away in
annoyance.
 
"It won't be easy
stopping it, Betsy.
 
You don't realize
the sorts of persuasion Emma uses to lure me in."

"I can imagine.
 
I fancy using some of it myself
sometimes."

His expression was all
eagerness.
 
"Really?"

When it came to lust, it was true;
all men were alike.
 
"Is
irresistible persuasion on Emma's part all that captivates you?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, let us think of a
way to discourage her from using that irresistible persuasion on you."

He shook his head.
 
"She doesn't listen to the word
'no.'"

"Then she must be convinced to
stop persuading you."

He narrowed his gaze on her.
 
"You look as if you're plotting
something dastardly."

"When do you see her
again?"

"Tonight, right after I finish
supper."

"In her bedroom?"

"Yes."

Betsy felt a good purr coming
on.
 
"Let's arrange a surprise for
my cousin.
 
And do be certain you leave
her door unlocked."

***

Almost out of breath from running
that evening, she flew in through the back door of the tavern and up the
stairs.
 
Hattie's voice followed:
"Child, where you goin'?
 
I got yo'
supper hot."
 
Betsy's stomach
rumbled at the mention of food, but she was ten minutes late.
 
She couldn't let Tom down.

Outside Emma's door, she paused to
catch her breath.
 
Then she stretched a
fake smile across her face and let herself in.
 
"Hello, everyone, sorry to be late.
 
We were having trouble with column alignment at the print
shop!"

Emma, who was nude, gawked at her
from a reclining position on the satin-draped bed.
 
Tom, who was bare-chested, winked at Betsy and resumed kissing
Emma's navel.
 
Lilac-scented candles
illuminated the room.

Betsy propped her hands on her hips
and returned Emma's gape.
 
"Didn't
Tom tell you?
 
He invited me tonight to
watch.
 
You two have been having such
fun, and we've been trying some of it on our own, but there are a few
techniques that I'd appreciate seeing demonstrated."
 
She opened her arms wide.
 
"So here I am!"
 
She beamed at her cousin.

Speechless, Emma sat up, fumbled
for her sheets, and shoved Tom off her.
 
With a growl, he buried his face between her breasts.
 
Emma panted and pushed him away again,
dangling her leg over the side of the bed in attempt to escape.
 
"Stop it, you dolt, don't you see your
wife is here?
 
My cousin!"

Tom scooped her back into bed.
 
"Join us, Betsy."

"I thought you'd never
ask."
 
She sashayed over pulling
the tucker from her jacket and leered at Emma.
 
"You don't mind, do you?
 
Or
is the thought of tender play with your own kin a little too bizarre, even for
South Carolina?"

A choking noise issued from Emma's
throat.
 
Tom kissed her nose.
 
"Aw, Emma, honey, didn't Betsy's kin
ever show you a real Georgia welcome?
 
Maybe you'll come back with us next time we visit
my
kin.
 
My little sister Diana is the prettiest
thing."

"Aargghh!"
 
Emma flung Tom off her.
 
"Get out, both of you!"

Betsy glanced over her shoulder at
the open door.
 
"Isn't Abel going
to join us?
 
The more the merrier, you
know."

"Didn't you hear me?
 
I said out!"
 
Emma backed into the corner, a silk dressing gown covering one
pendulous breast, and burst into tears.

Tom dragged his shirt, waistcoat,
and coat off the floor, his expression grumpy.
 
"Well, all right, if you say so, but I didn't expect this of you,
Emma."
 
He bundled up his stockings
and shoes and patted Betsy's shoulder in consolation.

As they were closing the bedroom
door on a shocked Emma, Betsy leaned back in.
 
"Let us know if you change your mind."
 
A small object flew through the air and
smacked the doorframe near her right ear.
 
She jerked the door shut.

Tom bounded down the hallway to the
other end of the floor, and she bustled after him.
 
Inside their room, they collapsed on the bed in laughter so merry
it mingled with tears.
 
After a few
minutes, he caught his breath.
 
"You're damned lucky she didn't take you up on your offer.
 
God almighty, Betsy, you scare the saints
out of me sometimes with how well you sham."

"How well
I
sham?
 
I'm wondering now what sort of company you
keep with your little sister."

"Are you now?"
 
With a villain's leer, he rolled over and
tickled her ribs.
 
"Here's a
sampling of the torture you'll incur should you ever breathe a word of that
scene to Diana."

Betsy yowled and wiggled free a
hand to jab his armpit.
 
"And I
possess retaliatory measures both excruciating and effective."
 
They wrestled, legs tangling in her
petticoat.
 
She pinned him on his back,
straddled him, and laughed.
 
"Surrender!"

"Tell me your
terms."
 
Lips parted, expression
relaxed, he gazed at her in the waning daylight, and his heat seeped through
her shift to permeate her inner thighs.
 
She loosened a hand and ran fingertips over his naked chest.
 
When his groin stirred, he grasped her hips
and nudged a pulse of hardness up against her.
 
"Remind me who's the captive."

She slid down so her chest pressed
to his and kissed the corner of his mouth.
 
Her nostrils filled with his scent: clean, grassy.
 
"You are."

He flipped them over so she lay
beneath him, her head dangling off the bed: daring, different, decadent.
 
A shudder rippled through her at the warmth
of his lips on her shoulders and upper chest, so naked and vulnerable without
the tucker.
 
Far too often she'd wanted
him when the timing wasn't quite right.
 
But at that moment, she couldn't imagine why the whole night shouldn't
be theirs.
 
She seized his hair in her
fingers and met his kiss with a mouth just as hard and wet as his.

Three hours later, he rolled to a
sitting position on the edge of the bed and struck flint on steel.
 
Light blossomed in the salty darkness.
 
He lifted the candleholder to illuminate the
gleam of sweat on her naked skin and the mellowness in his own expression.
 
"Lie there and let me look at you a
moment."

She smiled, and, since the looking
went both ways, allowed her gaze to ramble the slender line of his pelvis into
his nest of dampened pubic hair, where arousal already engorged him for the
fourth time.
 
The child within her
kicked.
 
She reached for Tom's free hand
and drifted it over the spot on her belly.
 
Amazement roved his face.
 
He set
down the candle and curled up with his cheek on her belly, his palm stroking
her hip, while she ran her fingers through the sweat-darkened hair on his head.

How wondrous it felt to lie so at
rest within a man and not fret over the sensation of incompleteness she'd
experienced too often after making love to Clark, the knowledge of superficial
lust satiated without either of them having penetrated the other.
 
No matter how many times Clark brought her
to
le petit mort
, she'd suspected she was connecting with but a fragment
of life.
 
His deep insecurity had
deprived him of being the friend to her that Tom had become.

That morning, she'd fancied
elaborate scenarios for capturing Tom's attention.
 
Oh, how she'd wanted to be seduced by him.
 
Yet he'd responded to simple tickle and
play.
 
As for seduction, well, she
concluded it was a myth.
 
Either a woman
wanted a man or she didn't want him, and the response of her body would follow
the predilections of her heart and soul.

Tom rose to his elbows.
 
"You didn't eat tonight.
 
Your stomach's growling."

"That's
your
stomach
growling."

"In sympathy.
 
Come on, up you go, and let's get you
fed."

After dressing, they wandered down
to the dining room, where Hattie fussed over Betsy because it was well past
nine and put a heaping plate in front of her at the table.
 
When Tom sniffed at the plate like a
starving dog, the slave set food before him, too.

Each time Hattie's errands took her
from the dining room for a few seconds, Betsy and Tom sneaked kisses and
gropes.
 
For once, Betsy was able to
tune out the revelry in the common room and soar above her worries.
 
She didn't need rescue.
 
All she needed was Tom's friendship.

While they were finishing dessert,
Sally entered from the common room, a wooden box about a foot cubed in her
arms.
 
"Hattie, you seen Mistuh
Abel?"

Hattie eyed the box.
 
"I seen him in his office 'bout half an
hour ago.
 
What's in dat box?"

Sally grimaced.
 
"I dunno.
 
Mistuh Todd say an old man bring it fo' Mistuh Abel just
now.
 
I sure don't like the smell of it,
so I's ready to turn it over to th' master."
 
She disappeared down the hallway, and about a minute later
strolled through the dining room, headed for the back yard.
 
"Yessum, he's in his office."

A howl of human terror rocketed
down the hallway from Abel's office.
 
Tom bolted to his feet, toppling over his chair.
 
Abel howled again.
 
Hair stood out on Betsy's neck and arms.
 
Tom dashed out into the hallway, followed by
Betsy, the slaves, and three redcoats who were standing near enough in the common
room to hear.
 
By the time Tom opened
the office door, Abel had howled twice more.
 
They found him babbling, cowered on the floor, expression contorted in
horror.
 
Tom bounded over, peered in the
opened box on his desk, and recoiled.
 
"Oh, my god!"

Abel howled a final time and
fainted.
 
While the slaves pulled the
accountant out from underfoot, the soldiers surged forward to look in the box,
recoiling much as Tom had done.
 
One
headed for the doorway.
 
"I shall
return with the captain straight away."

One of the others pulled on Betsy's
arm when she inched forward.
 
"Madam, you really don't want to see what's in there."

She really didn't want to smell
what was in there, either — something in the early stages of putrefaction — but
morbid curiosity and a thumping heart drew her onward until she glimpsed over
the edge.
 
The ebony walking stick of
Jan van Duser lay inside, hacked into about eight pieces as if by an axe.
 
Nestled atop the remains of the walking
stick was the Dutchman's gold ring, except that it was still attached to his
forefinger, and the forefinger was still attached to his hand, severed at the
wrist, and turgid with decay.

Chapter Thirty-Six

BETSY STUDIED HER hands.
 
They'd ceased shaking, but the dread that
clamped upon her earlier had deepened, and her attention kept straying from her
discussion with Tom.

"So van Duser has met his
demise."
 
Candlelight imbued Tom
with the appearance of a scholar.
 
"I think Abel knows that whoever severed van Duser's hand will come
for him next."

Betsy grimaced.
 
What had she unleashed Tuesday night?

"Perhaps a blackmail victim
has vindicated himself."

She remembered Carter's words:
tempted
to acts most nefarious
.
 
She could
envision him murdering van Duser and Branwell but not chopping them up with an
axe.
 
No, he'd use a firearm, put a ball
through those wicked hearts or heads.