Law, Susan Kay (13 page)

But now, as he lay too quiet and motionless on the cold ground,
she wondered if they'd truly injured him after all. He seemed so strong and
healthy; she hadn't suspected he was so vulnerable.

"Jon? Jon, are you all right?"

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking twice. "Wha... what
happened?"

"You were hit with a snowball."

"Oh." He struggled to sit up.

"Wait." She rested her hands on his chest to keep him
down. "Not so fast. Let me have a look at you first."

She lightly probed the red welt on his temple. He flinched a bit,
but it didn't seem too serious. "Jon, can you see everything
clearly?"

"Yes." His gaze held hers. "Very clearly." He
reached up and took her hand, pressing her palm against his cheek. "No
gloves, Beth. Shouldn't be out here. You'll get cold."

His fingers enfolded hers gently. "Hmm? Oh. I didn't stop to
get any. Besides, you don't have any on."

He grinned. "I'm always warm."

He was. She could feel the heat from his hand, seeping into her
chilled fingers. "You won't be if you keep lying here in the snow. We have
to get you inside."

His eyes flashed blue. "I'd like to be inside."

If she knelt beside him any longer, she was going to kiss him
again. Right out here in full sight of half the town. It wouldn't even matter
that she would probably scare him out of his wits, just like last time. All she
would care about was that his kiss had the power to warm her soul.

She jumped up and brushed off the snow clinging to her wet skirts.
"Come on, then."

Jon pushed himself to his feet and trailed her into the Eel.

There were at least a dozen men in the tavern, clustered around
the tables closest to the fire. When Jon entered, they turned to look at him.
Although their eyes were narrowed in mistrust, several smiled with what
appeared to be reluctant amusement.

Good, he thought. At least the show hadn't been for nothing. He
plastered his idiot smile back on his face. "Hello."

Cadwallader hurried forward, wiping his hands on a limp swatch of
linen. "Bennie, what is he doing here?"

Beth planted herself in front of Jon. Ah, damn, she was protecting
him again.

"Da, he's cold. He just needs to be warmed up."

"We'll not be serving his kind here."

She moved closer to Jon, and his muscles tightened as he caught a
faint, familiar whiff of lavender.

"He's not going to harm anyone, Da. It's just Jon."

Just Jon. His cheeks hurt as he forced himself to maintain the
stupid smile.

Glowering fiercely at Jon, Cad flipped the rag over his shoulder.
His expression softened when his gaze fell on Beth.

"All right, he can stay. Only for a bit, mind you." He
returned his attention to Jon. "Cold, are you? No stamina, you redcoats.
Never mind, I'll make you a flip. Warm you right up."

Jon choked. "A flip?"

A smile crinkled the corners of Cad's eyes. "Not a flip, eh?
Well, maybe a little mulled cider."

Jon nodded enthusiastically.

Cad went off to fetch the drink. Jon settled himself at a table
with Rufus, the shopkeeper, and one of Beth's brothers—Carter, he thought. The
men glared as he sat down.

"Can I sit here?" Jon asked in his most innocent voice.

"Well..."

"Carter," Bennie said warningly.

"Oh, all right."

Bennie hovered around, her hands fluttering. She reached toward
Jon, then withdrew her hand, her gaze sliding from Jon to Carter and back
again.

"Bennie," Carter said.

She jumped. "What?"

"Would you stop flitting around like that? You're acting like
a bee who can't find a flower to land on," Carter said. "I'm not
going to hurt him. The lieutenant and I are just going to have a little chat.
Why don't you go find something to do?"

Jon looked so eager, Bennie thought, as if he was delighted that
somebody wanted to talk to him. Yet he was so alone here, surrounded by
Americans, and she was the only one who cared whether he was hurt.

"Beth?" Jon's question was soft. "You sit,
too?"

"You want me to join you?"

"Yes." Jon patted the bench next to him.

"Beth?" Carter was suddenly alert. "What's this
about 'Beth'?"

"Bennie's a boy's name." Jon beamed up at her. "I
like Beth."

A warm flush of pleasure flooded her, even though she knew he was
talking about the name, not the woman.

Carter gave a brotherly snort. "Hmph. Bennie's always been a
good enough name before."

Bennie plopped down on the bench. "I like Beth, too."

Jon's arm brushed hers. The last time she'd sat on a bench in the
Dancing Eel with him, she'd kissed him. Was it her imagination, or had he slid
a bit closer to her? Jon shifted his legs, and his thigh ended up resting
against hers. Even through her skirts, she could feel the solid length of his
muscle. The room was suddenly uncomfortably warm. Had someone built up the
fire?

Cad had returned, and he slammed a tankard down on the table in
front of Jon. Cider sloshed over the rim. "I hope nobody thinks I'm going
to be renaming my only daughter after twenty-three years."

"I'm not asking you to, Da."

Cad grunted and left to see to his other customers.

"So, Lieutenant." Carter braced his elbows on the table
and leaned forward. "What did you think of the mustering?"

"Jon," he said.

"Huh?" Carter looked taken aback.

"You can call me Jon."

"Oh. Well, then, Jon. What did you think of the mustering?"

"It was good. I liked it." Perfect teeth flashed in a
perfect smile. What had his parents been like, Bennie wondered, to produce a
son as handsome as Jon?

She looked at his big hand wrapped around the tankard. "Your
hand? How is it?"

Jon held out his hand, palm up. A narrow red line cut across the
thin skin between his thumb and forefinger. He flexed his fingers slowly.

"It's fine. Tough to fire my musket well, though. Still hurts
a little. Makes me shoot bad."

Carter nearly choked on a mouthful of ale. "You shoot worse
now?"

Jon nodded mournfully. "Yes, worse. And we have to practice
all the time now too."

Rufus sat up straighter. "Practice?"

"Yes, practice." Now came the tricky part. He had to
give them just the right amount of information—not too much, not too little.
Too little didn't do any good; too much was dangerous. Years of this work had
taught him the proper balance. "We must shoot every day now. Captain's
orders. Fix fort and drill. That's all we ever do now."

Rufus and Carter exchanged glances. "Fix the fort?"

"Oh, yes." He made them wait a little while he gulped
down the warm, sweet cider. The flavor burst in his mouth; the snap of apple
blended with the sharpness of alcohol and spices. "It was all broken. No
good to stay in. We had to sleep in tents."

"I'll bet that was uncomfortable," Rufus said
encouragingly.

"Cold, too. But it's almost fixed now. We can move in after
the new year, I think."

"That'll be much better, I'm sure." Carter gave him a
friendly smile.

"Better." Jon tipped up the tankard and drained his
cider. "Have to go back now."

"So soon? Let me get you another drink." Carter signaled
Cad.

"No, no. Must go." Jon turned to Beth. "Good-bye,
Beth."

"Do you have to go?"

She actually looked sorry to see him go, the warmth fading in her
soft brown eyes. Little did she know how soon she'd see him again, he thought,
and felt once more that unfamiliar pang of guilt.

He ignored it. Whatever pangs, urges, and other useless feelings
his body insisted on coming up with were secondary to the job at hand.
"Have work to do," he said.

***

With a snap of her wrist, Bennie spread the woolen blanket over a
layer of hay. In the winter, when it was too cold to escape to the woods, this
was where she came to play.

The stables behind the Dancing Eel were made of stone and spacious
enough to accommodate both her family's own horses and those of the occasional
travelers who stayed overnight at the tavern. The loft over the stables held a
plentiful supply of fodder, and the thick stone walls kept out the worst of the
cold; the only windows were small openings that let in a little light and not
much else.

The loft smelled of sweet dried grasses and horses. It was snug
and quiet, and nobody but Bennie ever came up here unless it was time to bed
down the animals.

Bennie sat down on the blanket and pulled her violin case over to
her. She'd managed to duck out of the tavern shortly after Jon had left, unable
to satisfactorily explain to her father why she'd brought a British officer to
the Eel.

Her explanation, that Jon was a friend, hadn't satisfied him. He'd
lowered his eyebrows at her and demanded to know exactly how his daughter had
gotten so friendly with a redcoat, even such a harmless one as Jon seemed to
be. She'd mumbled something about seeing him at the mustering, and something
else about feeling sorry for him. Her father had looked decidedly skeptical,
and Bennie was increasingly aware that the way she felt about Jon wasn't quite
friendship and had little to do with pity.

So she'd slipped out at the first opportunity, fetched her violin,
and escaped to the stables. A thin beam of late afternoon sun streamed through
a tiny window; particles of dust floated in the air. Bennie blew on her chilled
fingers and unlatched her case.

"Beth? Are you here?"

Her fingers stilled. "Jon?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm up in the loft."

"Stay there. I'm coming up."

His head poked up through the access hole in the far corner of the
floor. She could only make out the shadow of his form in the dim light as he
braced his hands on either side of the opening and shoved himself upward.

Even if he hadn't spoken, Bennie would have known immediately who
it was; she would have recognized those shoulders anywhere.

"What are you doing here? I thought you had to get back to
your company."

Jon scuffled through the loose hay, kicking up chaff as he came
toward her. He sat down cross-legged next to her and coughed, waving a hand in
front of his face. "Dusty."

He pulled off his tricorn and tossed it aside. His club had come
undone again, and his hair fell in a smooth, rich brown swath to his shoulders.
"Didn't have to get back. Just didn't want to talk to them." His lids
were lowered over his eyes, making him look relaxed and surprisingly sensual.
"Wanted to talk to you. Alone."

"You did? What about?"

"Don't want to talk anymore."

She swayed toward him.

"I want to—"

"Yes?" she whispered.

"Listen."

Bennie stiffened. "Listen?"

"Yes." He smoothed a stray curl from her temple, his
touch restrained and infinitely gentle. "Will you play for me again,
Beth?"

His voice was a rough rumble. If he kept looking at her like that,
she'd do nearly anything he asked. "Of course."

She wasn't sure how long she played, she only knew that the music
came easier than it ever had. Light music, happy music, music that didn't speak
of fear or loneliness. Music that was meant to be shared. And every time she
glanced at him, he was smiling, watching her, his fingers lightly tapping his
knees in time with the music. If his rhythm was sometimes off, who cared?

When her own fingers finally tired, she let the final note fade
quietly away and slumped down onto the blanket next to Jon.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For sharing your music with me."

"Thank you for letting me." She plucked idly on the
strings. "I've never wanted to before."

"Never?"

"Never," she confessed softly.

There it was again, that flare of light in his eyes. Curiosity?
Alertness? Intensity? It was too brief to identify. Yet it somehow made him
unfamiliar, a hint of the man he must have been before his accident— perhaps, a
bit of what he still could be, if someone was compassionate enough to look
beyond his simple surface.

She was, suddenly, fiercely glad he was no longer that man. For
that man, she was sure, would never have taken the time to sit in a stable loft
and listen to a plain, overgrown woman play the violin. And that man would
never have looked at her with such open appreciation and easy delight.

That man, a man with intelligence and determination to match his
looks, would be too busy setting the world on fire. Too busy lighting another
kind of fire in every beautiful woman he came across—lovely, delicate, feminine
woman. He would never have had time for her.