Law, Susan Kay (34 page)

"But I noticed, when I was like that, that no one paid very
much attention to me. Because I didn't make any sense when I spoke, they
assumed I couldn't understand much either. They didn't guard their tongues
carefully around me, and I found out things it might have taken me weeks to
discover otherwise."

He was brilliant, she realized. Enough so to carry on such a
masquerade for three years and have no one ever suspect.

"So you decided to continue the ruse."

"Yes. It was quite simple, really."

Simple. To spend all that time, making his graceful body move
clumsily. To veil the sparkling intelligence in his eyes under sleepy, half
closed lids. To soften the lines of his face and wander around with that
good-natured grin. And what must have been worst of all, to completely bury his
pride, to end up in pig wallows and snowbanks, to take all the taunts and the
condescension and the outright cruelty, knowing all the while he could outthink
any one of them. The force of will and the concentration it must have taken was
amazing.

"How did you ever manage it?"

"I thought it was the right thing to do."

She would have given a lot to be able to wipe the bleakness from
his eyes. All the arguments she'd given herself to leave him the day before
suddenly seemed much less important.

"Enough of that." He picked up another piece of hay and
stroked her cheek with it. It tickled and she laughed lightly. "What about
you?"

"What about me?"

"How did you get here?"

"I've always been here."

Had she? he wondered. Had she always been this fascinating person,
unlike any other woman he'd ever met? What had made her so serene and
controlled on the surface, so strong and yet so giving underneath?

"And do you always want to stay here?"

"Yes, I think so."

"You told me once that all you wanted was your family and
your music."

Her mouth opened slightly, and he wanted nothing more than to see
if it was as sweet as he remembered.

"You remembered," she said, clearly surprised.

"Yes. Was it true? Surely there's more. A family of your own,
perhaps?"

"That's not something I could ever really have." Color
bloomed on her cheeks, a delicate, honey-hued rose that made her eyes look all
the darker. "I want... someone to look at me and see me." She laughed
self-consciously and dropped her head. Wild, loose curls fell around her face,
each a different hue, gold and tan and brown, the colors of harvest and plenty.
"See me, not just another Jones offspring like all the others, or a woman
who can't quite manage to be a lady like her mother, or the one who towered
over them in school and still does. I want someone to see just... me."

"Beth." He placed his knuckle under her chin and gently
tipped her head back up, urging her to look him in the eye. Her own eyes were
luminous, shimmering with emotion, and he knew that once again she was allowing
him to glimpse beneath the surface. He was grateful for the gift, but he asked
for still more. "Would you play for me again, Beth?"

She kept her violin
in the loft now. The extremes of
humidity and temperature weren't good for the instrument, but it was simpler
than forever trying to sneak it out of the house past her mother. And for some
reason, it seemed to belong here.

She undid the leather clasps; the violin was snuggled safely in
its case. The smooth wood gleamed richly, winking at her like an old friend.
She lifted it out and tucked it under her chin.

He loved her concentration, the almost sensual way she took
pleasure in the look and feel of her instrument. Her fingers trailed over the
surface the way they had once stroked him.

Strands of hair curled tightly at her temples; the rest tumbled
down her back in a luxurious cascade. The dark, shining wood of the instrument
was nearly the same color as her eyes, sparkling in anticipation and enjoyment.

She tuned the instrument, frowning as she plucked strings,
tightened them, and tested the tone again. Finally, she gave a brisk nod and
began to play.

Before, when she'd played for him, he'd often closed his eyes,
preferring to let the music wash over him without the distraction of his other
senses. And too, he'd been afraid that something would show in his eyes, that
she would catch a glimpse of how the music moved him, would see too much of the
man beneath the role.

Now, he watched. Her fingers were strong and supple, nimble as
they plucked at strings, fluid as they pulled the bow. She was totally
absorbed, often closing her eyes or swaying from side to side. All the passion
and emotion in her music were also clearly evident on her face. She was
stripped of her surface control, all the fascinating layers of her soul laid
bare.

Her music had changed again, he realized. It had lost the surface
veneer of smoothness. Now there was only emotion, raw and exposed. Sometimes it
was quick, fragmented, light little sparkles of joy; and then there was pain,
turbulent, harsh, violent.

She played until her back ached and her fingers were sore. She was
only peripherally aware of Jon's eyes on her, but she felt him, deep down
inside, as she played. Oh, yes, it was better when the music was shared. Yet
she somehow knew there was no one else who would share it like he did, not with
just sympathy or appreciation, but empathy. He
felt
her music, and she
knew it. If she would never have this opportunity again, then she would use it
to the fullest.

Finally, exhausted and breathless, she collapsed on the blanket.
He clapped slowly in appreciation.

Flushed but pleased, she put a finger to her lips. "Shh.
Someone might hear you, and I'd have to pretend I was applauding myself."

"Sorry. I forgot." He had. While he had only to watch
and listen to her play, he had forgotten where he was and how he'd gotten
there. He'd forgotten all the things he'd done, and all the things he had yet
to do.

It had been blissful. But it was over.

The smile faded quickly from his face, she noticed, and she was
tempted to lift the violin again and play something light and airy that would
bring it back. He had such a wonderful smile, one that made her feel as if she
were bathed in sunlight.

But his face hardened with a new, cold determination, and she
doubted she could bring the smile back, no matter how well she played. She
reverently laid the violin back in its case, stowed it away, and turned to face
him.

"You will remember the clothes?" he asked.

Her heart tumbled to the vicinity of her knees.

"Yes. Tomorrow."

***

She brought him the clothes in the morning, when she delivered his
breakfast, and came back again at noon with more food. But their conversation
was stilted and awkward. What could they say? There was nothing more he could
tell her. And there was nothing more she dared ask. She promised to return near
dusk, bringing a few supplies that he could take with him when he left.

The evening was still and pleasantly warm. Crickets chirped in the
grass, freshly green after the recent rains.

The sun dropped below the trees in the west, edging them in
brilliant gold.

Bennie clambered up to the loft one more time. Jonathan was
bending over, fastening the leather latchets on Henry's new low-heeled shoes.
Someday it was going to be interesting explaining to her brothers what had
happened to their clothes while they were away.

He waved a greeting at her and straightened. She stopped, and her
heart skipped a beat.

As a simpleminded soldier in a scarlet and white uniform, he'd
been beautiful. As a wounded man in breeches and a too-revealing bandage, he'd
been compelling. But dressed in simple clothes, he was downright stunning.

The ivory linen shirt, its sleeves loose and flowing, fit his
massive shoulders well. He wore thick woolen stockings, full, dark brown
breeches, and a plain leather jerkin. He stood tall and straight, his hair tied
neatly in a scrap of ribbon. His presence was nearly overpowering, and he was
every inch the image of a proud American man. She knew her brothers, who were
quite proud of their own good looks, would be roundly jealous of the way this
man looked in the clothes they'd unknowingly donated.

"Beth." He came to stand near to her—as close as he
dared, but farther than he wanted to be. Standing in the middle of the nearly
empty loft, surrounded by drifts of hay, she was tall and proud and absolutely
striking. She'd brought the supplies she'd promised him in a sack slung over one
shoulder, and she was unsmiling, her eyes dark and remote.

He'd spent the afternoon very inexpertly sewing the crucial packet
into the lining of his jerkin. The instant he'd become coherent he'd looked for
it. To his immense relief, it had still been securely bundled into the padding
he had wrapped around his waist. The whole mess— bloody padding, shirt,
jacket—had been dumped in a corner of the loft. Obviously, Beth hadn't had time
to worry about finding another place to dispose of it.

The entire time, while he jabbed his fingers with the needle he'd
taken from the bag of supplies Beth had left and made long, clumsy stitches,
he'd tried to think of a reason—even the weakest of ones—to stay here another
day or two. It wasn't difficult; he wasn't strong enough; another day added to
his absence would make no difference; he needed time to make better plans.

None were any more than what he knew them to be—excuses. He simply
wanted to look on her face a few more times. But there were no real excuses. He
had information that still had to be delivered, and he had to somehow discover
what had gone wrong the other evening at the fort.

He had a job to return to. If it was a job that had turned out to
be infinitely uglier than he had known when he began, it was still his duty. He
had little else.

As he looked down at her, admiring the prominent curve of her
cheekbones and the lush lashes that were shades darker than her hair, he knew
there was yet another reason to leave now. For if he stayed, there was no
guarantee that he wouldn't try to take more from her than he already had. And
he had already taken far too much.

"Here." She dropped the sack at his feet. "There
should be enough food for two days or so. How are you going to get back? I suppose
we could pretend a horse was stolen, but—"

"No. I'll manage. I hardly look much like any Lieutenant
Leighton now." The risk was greater than she suspected; there was always
the possibility he'd been recognized the night he'd been shot. But he had
little choice; there was no other way to get the information through, no other
way to begin to find out why the ambush had been set in the first place. It was
becoming increasingly clear that the other side had an agent of their own, one
both dedicated and clever.

He could only trust that his disguise had been enough to prevent
recognition. If not, it was quite likely too late for him anyway.

"I won't take anything else from you, Beth." Unable to
resist, he brushed a stray curl off her temple. "There is one thing I want
you to know. I never, never, meant to do you any harm." He rubbed the
strand of hair between his forefinger and thumb, savoring its softness. "I
tried to tell you in the letter, but—"

"The letter?" Her eyes widened.

"Didn't you get it?"

"Yes." She put her hand in her pocket, feeling the
square of paper she always kept there. The paper was soft, the edges fuzzy from
constant handling. "You wrote that, didn't you? There was no merchant you
paid."

"Yes."

She should have known. The bold, angular handwriting. It was so
much like him. Who else could have written it?

"I tried to tell you in the letter, but I was afraid someone
else might read it. And, well, I didn't know how to tell you... the proper
way."

He seemed at a loss for words. It was a trait familiar in Jon but
one she hadn't seen since he'd dropped his charade.

She felt his pain, sharp and acute, as if it were her own. The
urge to comfort, to lay her hands on him and soothe him, was almost
overwhelming. It was as if she had some old, powerful connection with him.
She'd felt it from the beginning, and the feeling had only increased since he'd
ceased to play his role. It was more than sympathy, more than understanding. It
was a basic, almost elemental... oneness.

And yet, he could very well be her enemy. If only she knew who—and
what—he really was. He'd fooled her completely once. There was no guarantee he
wasn't doing it again, and, if he was, she was sending a British soldier—worse,
a British spy—back into battle against her countrymen and family.

"Tell me who you're working for," she demanded.

He merely looked at her, his expression unreadable.

"Tell me!" She grabbed his jerkin in both fists, as if
she could shake it out of him. "You owe me that much!"

He couldn't tell her. It would serve no purpose—save his own—and
could possibly put her in danger. His mind recoiled at the thought. It was one
more thing to hate himself for, the idea that he might have exposed her to harm
simply by coming here; he couldn't compound that, especially since the only
reason for doing so would be to make her smile at him again.