Law, Susan Kay (3 page)

Dear Lord, he was a big one, she thought. He was taller than her
brothers, who, with the exception of Brendan, towered over her, and
she
was
taller than every other man in New Wexford.

Up close, he appeared less like an angel. His face wasn't
ethereally perfect and insubstantial. He looked more like her vision of a
devil, his face sharply chiseled, strong, seductively appealing. A face capable
of drawing her in, luring the unwary into sin and destruction. A fallen angel.

But that was only at first glance, for once she got past the
initial shock of that compelling face, she could see it was strangely empty,
devoid of life. Blank. His grin was broad, vacant. His lids were lowered over
his eyes, making him look half-awake, or half-asleep. She could catch only a
glimpse of pale, pure blue beneath them.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Bennie."

He looked down at her. Bennie blinked. Had she imagined it? For an
instant, his eyes had opened fully, and she had seen blazing, brilliant
blue—intense, aware, assessing. Now there was only that dull, simple expression
again.

"Yes, Bennie," he said. "Girl."

She must have imagined it. She smiled back, unable to resist his
childlike friendliness. She felt a twinge of pity for this simple, happy man.
She had seen the way the other men had ridiculed him, had made him the butt of
jokes, how his commanding officer had dismissed him. Simple Jon. Perhaps he
didn't notice, but she did. She knew what it was like always to be the
different one, the odd one, to have people see only the obvious. Perhaps it was
easier not to know.

"Yes, a girl. It's my turn to play the game now, all
right?"

"All right."

He bent, clumsily righting his bench, and plopped down, jamming
his elbow on the table and holding his hand in the air. He glanced at her
expectantly. "I'm ready now."

She couldn't suppress a small laugh. When she was younger, out of
sight of her mother and father and the rest of the town, she had often tested
her strength against her brothers. And not just arm wrestling, but sometimes in
a full-scale, flat-on-your-back-in-the-dust wrestling match. She'd acquitted
herself well, actually, winning her share—at least against her younger
brothers. When she was thirteen, her mother had caught them at it. Her mother's
obvious disappointment had wrenched Bennie, and she'd given up rough play.
She'd missed the exercise almost as much as she regretted hurting her mother.

Now Bennie would get a chance to try again. She knew she wouldn't
win, of course, but the thought of competition sent the blood rushing through
her veins anyway. Her mother would be disappointed once more, but Bennie had
long ago given up the idea of being the daughter her mother wanted. It wasn't
that she hadn't tried—and tried, and tried. She simply couldn't do it.

Rolling up the sleeve of her linen shirt, she sat and placed her
elbow carefully on the table, arranging herself for maximum leverage. She
lifted her hand to place it in his—and froze.

His hand.
Dear Lord, he was going to touch her!
With that big, strong, male hand. Attached to that big, strong, gorgeous male
body. She felt oddly... odd.

Stop it! she told herself. She'd touched lots of big, gorgeous
men. So what if they were all related to her?

She tilted her arm forward an inch. Her mouth went dry.

That large, warm, male hand wrapped itself gently around hers.

"Are you two prepared now?" Rufus asked. "Get
ready. One..."

"Stop!" Bennie licked her parched lips. She couldn't
concentrate, could only stare at him. Strands of smooth brown hair escaped from
the clumsy club at the back of his neck, falling around his beautiful,
unearthly face, those sleepy blue eyes.

"What's the matter, lass?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing, Rufus, nothing. Just give me a moment,
please." If they didn't start yet, then it wouldn't end so soon, and then
maybe he'd hold her hand for just a little bit longer.

What was she thinking? He was a British soldier. A clumsy,
bumbling oaf of a British soldier at that. Maybe if she didn't look at that
face... She dropped her gaze below his neck.

Bad idea. In the warmth of the crowded tavern and the heat of the
struggle, he'd discarded his coat and matching scarlet waistcoat, tossing them
over the end of the table. His dingy white shirt was missing a button. The
lamplight was dim and wavery, but she could catch occasional, flickering
glimpses of... skin.

He wasn't hairy. Her brothers were hairy. His chest looked like
his hand felt: smooth, hard, warm. She squeezed his hand experimentally.
Unyielding. Strong.

He squeezed back.

"Ready to play now, Bennie-girl?" His voice was low, a rumble
as much as words, felt as much as heard.

She looked up into those hazy, cheerful eyes. "Uh, yes, I
guess so."

Concerned, Rufus peered at her through his lenses. "Bennie,
if you're not—"

"Yes, yes, yes. Don't worry about me, Rufus. Let's just do
it, please."

"Well..." Clearly reluctant, he pinched his brows
together.

"Come on, Rufus."

"If you insist. One... two...
three..."

Bennie pushed. Lieutenant Leighton's hand didn't waver. She pushed
harder. Nothing moved. She dared a peek at his beaming face. His smile
broadened. Bennie frowned, leaned forward to put her weight behind her arm, and
pushed harder. Still nothing. But, surprisingly, her hand wasn't going
backward, either.

Gradually, she relaxed her arm. His grip on her hand loosened.
Suddenly, without warning, she exerted full force. His muscles tightened
fractionally, matching his power to hers. Still, he held her hand gently,
almost tenderly, as if he were carefully curbing his overwhelming strength, as
if her hand was fragile and precious.

Bennie settled back, her hand still comfortably in his.
"You're not going to win, are you?"

He shook his head vigorously, sending wisps of hair flying around
his face. "No."

"Then I'm going to win?" she asked hopefully.

He smiled like a proud little boy bringing home his first hornbook
and shook his head again. "No."

"Are we just going to sit here all night, then?"
Actually, that wasn't such a terrible plan.

His face clouding, his shoulders slumped. "I don't
know."

"That's enough!" Cad slammed his palm down on the table
next to Bennie. "Let go of my daughter!"

"Now just a moment." Captain Livingston rose from his
bench. "This is not over."

"Yes, it is. He's not going to defeat Bennie," Cad
returned.

"This is absurd. He could, easily, and you know it."

"And how would I be knowing that? They're just sitting
there," Cad said smugly.

"Leighton, beat her now."

"Sorry, Cap'n. She's a girl." Jon lifted his other hand
and tried unsuccessfully to push the hair out of his eyes.

"Yes, I know she's a girl. We all know she's a girl. I'm
ordering you to defeat her!"

The corners of Jon's exquisitely sculpted mouth drooped.
"Can't. Bennie-girl." He thrust out his lower lip, giving a great
gust of breath that lifted the strands of hair for a moment before they fell
back across his face. " A nice girl."

"Why, thank you, Lieutenant Leighton." Bennie smiled
brilliantly at Captain Livingston. "I guess it will just have to be a
draw, won't it?"

"Leighton, you addle-brained oaf." The captain rubbed
his temples tiredly. "Ah, you're not even bright enough to insult
properly. Jones, bring us the drinks. All eight of them, mind you. I'll be
counting. I could go for a nice Madeira, myself."

"Well, there, Captain, we never said what kind of drinks, did
we?"

"I assumed the victor would choose, as in any gentleman's
wager."

"Well, now, I never claimed to be a gentleman, did I? We'll
bring you a nice New England flip."

"A New England flip?"

"Just the thing to warm your bones on a cold November
day." Cad smiled, but his eyes remained as frosty as the day he'd just
spoken of. "Bennie, would you go get... Bennie!"

"What, Da?"

"Let go of that man!"

"Huh? Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Da." Reluctantly, she
slipped her hand from Lieutenant Leighton's, but she didn't move.

"Now, Bennie. Go on and get to work." Cad narrowed his
eyes warningly at his only daughter.

"Yes, Da."

"Go get these men New England flips."

Curling her right hand protectively, savoring the lingering warmth
from the lieutenant's touch, she floated toward the back of the tavern.
"Yes, Da."

In the shadowy serving area behind the cage bar, Bennie pulled out
five great solid pewter mugs. She filled them with foamy dark beer and
molasses, adding dried pumpkin as a sweetener. Taking the iron poker that was
kept in the fire for just this purpose, she thrust the red-hot tip into each
tankard, wrinkling her nose at the acrid, scorched-smelling steam produced.

Expertly grabbing two mugs in one hand and three in the other, she
returned to the main area of the taproom. The colonial customers had filled the
outer ring of tables, leaving a clear space around the two tables the British
occupied. Bennie went first to three young privates, their brick red coats
appearing dull next to the brilliant scarlet their captain wore. They accepted
their drinks with a quick nod, scarcely glancing up at her.

Moving to the officers' table, she placed a mug in front of the
captain, whose eyes remained securely fixed somewhere south of her neck, and
she wondered briefly if she could get away with "accidentally"
dumping the hot liquid in his lap. Probably not.

She handed the last mug to Lieutenant Leighton. He took a great
gulp—and promptly spewed it out in a great stream that landed unerringly on his
captain's spotless waistcoat.

"Ahhh! Burned!"

Captain Livingston jumped to his feet, wiping at the stain soaking
into his clothing. "Leighton, I swear you are the most simple, clumsy
soldier I've ever had the bad fortune of having assigned to me! When we get
back to camp, I'll make certain you regret this!"

Bennie bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Can I get you a
cloth, Captain?" She pulled a length of linen from her waistband and
flipped it to him.

"Sorry, Captain," Jon said glumly.

Elizabeth took one look at his face and all amusement fled. He
looked like nothing so much as one of her nephews waiting to be punished,
fearing the cane less than the hurt of having disappointed his parents. She
reached out a hand to pat the lieutenant's shoulder consolingly but stopped
herself in time. She couldn't go around touching strange, full-grown men, not
even when the action seemed so natural.

"It wasn't your fault," she said. "I should have
told you it was hot."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Oh, it's all right, Lieutenant," Livingston said,
congratulating himself on his tolerance. "I know you didn't intend
it."

"No. I didn't. I'll clean it for you?" Jon asked
hopefully.

"Certainly, when we get back to camp. Now, why don't we
finish our drinks? And try to be a bit more careful from now on, will
you?"

The captain blotted his waistcoat as best he could and returned
the rag to Bennie. Settling back on the bench, he took a cautious sip of the
drink. His mouth puckered and he gave a small shudder. "It's very bitter,
isn't it?"

Bennie flipped the damp towel over her shoulder. "Here we
consider it the perfect drink to warm a man from the cold." Her subtle
stress on the word man appeared to go unnoticed.

"Yes, yes," Livingston said. "I can certainly see
how it would be so. Very warming."

"Bennie!" her father roared from the back of the tavern.
He wondered, a frown crinkling his brow. "We have customers here,
Ben!"

"Coming, Da."

Hurrying to keep every cup in the place filled, Bennie had no more
time to pay much attention to the British soldiers firmly ensconced in the
center of the room. Their presence made the tavern decidedly quieter than it
normally was. The colonials drank steadily, puffed on their pipes, and stared
at the redcoats. The Dancing Eel usually rang with shouted protests against the
injustices and indignities the Crown imposed on her colonies; tonight, a wary
caution silenced the crowd.

Cad gave Bennie duties that kept her near the back of the room,
choosing to serve the Englishmen's second round himself. Bennie couldn't
believe her father voluntarily went within ten feet of the men—at least, not with
peaceful intent. And yet, he clearly didn't want her near them. He'd always
seemed to have faith in her ability to handle herself and any situation she
came across. She wasn't used to his protectiveness.

As she wiped tables, drew beer, snuffed wicks and rinsed tankards,
she shot furtive glances at the soldiers. She couldn't help it; she could feel
them watching her. Captain Livingston, sipping on his drink, appeared to
scrutinize the room, and her most of all, with speculation and undisguised
amusement. And every time her gaze caught Jon's soft, sleepy one, he grinned at
her with pure joy. Much as she tried to look away quickly, she always found
herself smiling back. Warm, innocent happiness was impossible to resist.