1774
He
was the most
beautiful
man in the
world.
It
was a pity he
was an idiot.
Even worse,
he was British.
Elizabeth
knew who the
man was even
before he lumbered
into the Dancing
Eel. She should;
she'd been hearing
about him for
weeks, ever
since the company
of British troops
had been stationed
just outside
New Wexford.
Every patriotic
colonist was
outraged at
the indignity
of Crown soldiers
camping so near
their village.
However, the
town's women
couldn't help
noticing that
the over-aged,
stupid lieutenant
looked like
a baffled angel.
Elizabeth
handed a tankard
of hard cider
to a ruddy,
middle-aged
farmer, a regular
customer, and
slipped into
the shadows
cloaking the
kegs near the
back of the
taproom.
She
would watch,
and wait.
It
was one thing
she was good
at.
The
Dancing Eel
seemed perfectly
suited to its
location. If
it was small,
rough, dark,
smoky, and insular,
nobody seemed
to mind. It
was also snug,
the diamond-paned
windows shut
tightly against
the frigid wind
of a Massachusetts
autumn. The
tavern was convivial,
sometimes boisterous,
and relentlessly,
passionately
colonial.
There
were two things
everybody knew
about the Dancing
Eel: it drew
a good beer,
and the British
never bothered
with the place.
Until
now.
When
the small contingent
of British soldiers
had entered
the tavern,
it had gone
silent -- dead
silent. The
air, which had
smelled of ale,
whale oil from
the lanterns,
and good roasted
meat, now smelled
of anger and
mistrust, of
arrogance and
fear.
No
one laughed,
no one sang,
no mugs were
clanked together.
No one was having
fun anymore.
Worse still,
no one drank.
The
owner, Cadwallander
Jones, couldn't
let that happen.
He scrambled
forward, hoping
to dispose of
his newest customers
as quickly as
possible. He
planted himself
in front of
the men, his
big feet spread
wide, his arms
crossed in front
of his still-formidable
chest, and looked
down at the
man wearing
the silver insignia
of a captain.
Pretty tall,
but skinny,
Cad thought.
Turkey-necked.
The floppy wig
perched on the
top of his head
made him look
like a mop.
"You
are not welcome
here."
Francis
Livingston,
captain of the
Light Company,
17th Regiment
of Foot, gulped
slightly at
the size of
the man blocking
his way. But
he had plenty
of support,
the captain
reminded himself.
Besides, this
fellow was old,
as the solid
silver of his
wildly wavy
hair attested.
Livingston adjusted
his meticulously
curled wig --
the only one
worthy of his
station that
he'd been able
to find in this
godforsaken
place -- and
stepped forward.
"I
am Captain Livingston.
We, as the military
representatives
of this area,
are welcome
anywhere," he
said, holding
his head at
what he assumed
was a regal
angle.
"Ah." Cadwallader
scratched the
bridge of his
nose and tried
another tactic. "How
silly of me.
Of course you
are. We, however,
are simple colonists.
We prefer to
take our entertainment
without worrying
about disturbing
such exalted
personages as
yourselves.
Surely you would
not be comfortable
in such ordinary
surroundings, sir."
The customers
snickered at
the sneer that
had crept into
Cad's voice.
Livingston
was momentarily
perplexed at
their chuckles,
but then smiled,
gratified at
the respect
the owner obviously
had for him.
Perhaps he was
not the troublemaker
the captain
had been led
to believe.
"I
appreciate your
concern, my
good man. But
I must insist.
We will stay
for a drink.
As I am the
new commanding
officer here,
I deem it necessary
to become familiar
with the area."
Dropping
his hands to
his sides and
clenching his
fists threateningly,
Jones straightened
to his full,
impressive height.
A half dozen
men, equally
as large as
he, gathered
behind him in
implicit threat.
"I'm
afraid I must
insist," Cad
said, a thread
of steel running
through his
voice.
The
captain nodded
in acknowledgement. "Ah.
You must be
Cadwallader
Jones."
"I
am," he
affirmed proudly. "You've
heard of me?"
"No
one else would
be foolish enough
to threaten
a British officer
and his men
over such a
trivial thing
as a tankard
of beer."
Cadwallader
stiffened. No
one had dared
call him foolish,
not in a very
long time --
no one but his
wife, of course,
and he would
allow her almost
anything.
"This
post can be
a very simple
one for you,
Captain, or
a very troublesome
one. I suggest
you save yourself
some trouble
and leave now.
We only want
one thing from
Britain: to
be left to our
own devices."
"I
have no wish
to make things
difficult, Jones.
I merely wish
to test the
waters, as it
were. I have
heard it rumored
that anyone
who can best
one of your
sons wins a
free drink.
I have I been
misinformed?"
"No."
"Then
I accept the
challenge."
Cadwallader
glanced pointedly
at the Captain's
thin arms, encased
in spotless
red wool, and
snorted derisively. "You're
not serious."
Captain
Livingston smiled
genially. "Oh,
I don't mean
to compete myself,
of course. I
have long outgrown
such games.
I am the intelligence
of my company,
not the brawn.
I had thought
to have one
of my men contest."
Cadwallder
shook his head. "No,
we have no business
with the likes
of you."
Livingston
gave an exaggerated
sigh. "Pity.
I hadn't heard
you were one
to back down
so easily."
"A
Jones never
backs down!" Cadwallader
shouted, his
face going purple
with the effort
to control himself.
One didn't just
haul off and
strike an officer
of the crown,
no matter what
the provocation.
"Then
it is a wager?"
"It
is."
"Good." The
captain inclined
his head to
one of the privates
accompanying
him, who leaned
out the door
and beckoned
to someone outside. "Allow
me, then, to
introduce the
muscle."
The
man filled the
door, blocking
the pale light
of the setting
sun. He had
massive, solid
shoulders that
looked like
he could support
the weight of
the world as
if it were a
load of swansdown.
His features
were an unearthly
blend of perfect
symmetry and
exceptional
strength. His
hair was simply
brown, a color
that on anyone
else would look
ordinary, but
on him took
on the depth
and richness
of a whitetail's
coat.
Stumbling
over the doorjamb,
he crashed into
the nearest
trestle table,
sending the
tankard of cider
on it flying
toward the floor.
The dark golden
liquid spewed
out in a high
arc, drenching
nearby men.
He reached to
catch it, missed,
and overturned
the rough-hewn
bench.
"Sorry," he
mumbled, clumsily
righting the
bench. He retrieved
the empty tankard
from the planked
floor, setting
it gingerly
in the center
of the table;
the large pewter
mug looked unusually
small in his
huge hands.
He swiped at
the table-board
with his forearm,
succeeding only
in spreading
the puddle of
cider and thoroughly
dampening his
sleeve.
Apparently
satisfied with
his efforts,
he straightened
somewhat and
turned to face
his captain,
hunching his
shoulders slightly
as if afraid
that if he stood
to his full
height he would
hit the ceiling
-- and it almost
seemed as if
he might.
Grinning
foolishly, he
tugged at the
uneven hem of
his crimson
coat, obviously
unaware the
tarnished buttons
were pushed
through the
wrong holes.
The
giant bobbed
his head. "Cap'n?
You asked for
me?"
Livingston
chuckled indulgently. "Yes." He
turned to face
the stunned
owner and patrons
of the Dancing
Eel. "Allow
me, Jones, to
present Lieutenant
Jon Leighton."
"Lieutenant?" Cadwallader
asked incredulously.
"Yes,
well, Leighton
received his
rank before
he had a rather
unfortunate
episode with
a horse. Kicked
in the head,
I'm afraid.
He should have
been drummed
out of the service,
of course, forced
to sell out,
but his commander
took pity on
him and allowed
him to keep
his commission.
Despite his
rather obvious
shortcomings,
however, he
does have his
uses."
Snickering
laughter and
a low, astonished
murmur rumbled
through the
taproom. This was
the best the
British army
had to offer?
A pompous captain
and a muddle-headed
hulk of a lieutenant?
Lieutenant
Leighton smiled
more broadly,
stretching his
lean cheeks
and showing
gleaming, even
white teeth.
Cad
shook his head
sadly, feeling
a twinge of
sympathy for
the boy, who
didn't even
seem to know
when he was
being made sport
of. No one had
the gall to
make fun of
a Jones, thank
God, and Cad
could hardly
imagine what
it felt like
to be the brunt
of such ridicule.
Ah, well, the
lieutenant was
clearly too
stupid to be
hurt by it all.
"I
take it you
mean for Lieutenant
Leighton to
be your champion?"
Captain
Livingston lifted
his chin smugly. "Yes.
Unless, of course,
you wish to
simply concede
and save us
all the bother?"
"No
one best a Jones
once he hits
four-and-ten
years,"
Cad asserted,
his hazel eyes
glowering beneath
bushy silver
brows.
"Good." Livingston
waved at one
of his men,
who scurried
to pull out
a nearby bench
for his captain.
Settling his
lanky frame
onto it, he
glanced around
the room. The
colonial ruffians
were watching
intently, ill-disguised
hatred on their
faces. Livingston
preferred to
think of it
as respect.
"How
many . . . offspring
do you have
anyway, Jones?"
"Nine.
Healthy and
strong, every
one of them."
"Of
course. Well,
nine drinks
will be sufficient,
I should think.
There are only
five of us,
after all, and
we rarely allow
Leighton here
to drink --
I don't think
it wise to befuddle
his wits any
further."
"Nine?
But Bennie can't
--"
The
captain cut
off Cad's protest. "I
will accept
no excuses,
my good man.
Let's start
with the eldest,
shall we?"
Cad
braced his fists
on his hips
and bellowed: "Adam!"
"Right
here, Da." Adam
stepped from
behind his father.
Taller than
Cadwallader,
he was a brawny
man, muscular
from his work
as the town's
blacksmith and
just past thirty
years of age.
His blunt-featured
face was roughly
good-looking,
his hair a sheaf
of the pure
gold his father's
must once have
been.
"Adam?" Captain
Livingston's
mouth curved
wryly.
"How appropriate
for a first-born
son."
Cad
placed his hands
on his son's
shoulders. His
voice was low,
so only Adam
could hear. "I
don't want you
to just beat
that lobsterback,
do you hear
me? I want you
to humiliate
him."
Adam
gave a confident
grin. "When
have I ever
done anything
else, Da?"
Cad
clapped him
heartily on
the back. "True
enough, son.
True enough."
Going
to the nearest
table, Adam
turned a bench
sideways and
straddled it.
Once he had
braced himself
to his satisfaction,
he plunked his
elbow on the
table and looked
expectantly
at Lieutenant
Leighton.
Leighton
brightened. "Hello.
I'm Jon."
"Uh,
yeah, I know
that." Adam
gestured at
the opposite
seat. "So
are you going
to sit down,
or are you going
to just stand
there like a
lump all night?"
"Sure." The
lieutenant bobbed
his head. "Thank
you." He
plopped down,
a little off
center, and
wobbled for
a minute before
finding a precarious
balance.
Adam
looked up at
the man across
from him, realizing
he hadn't had
to look up to
another man
since he'd reached
his full growth.
It was unsettling
-- or it would
have been, if
the man didn't
have such a
friendly, vacant
grin on his
face, like a
puppy who didn't
realize the
wagon he was
so happy to
see was just
about to run
him over.
Leighton
didn't have
a clue what
to do, Adam
realized. "Look,
first put your
elbow on the
table, all right?"
"All
right." The
lieutenant did
has he was told.
"The
put your forearm
up in the air,
and we're going
to clasp hands."
"Uh-huh." He
obligingly grabbed
Adam's hand.
Adam
gave a deep,
exasperated
sigh. Howe we
he supposed
to work up the
appropriate
anger and concentration? "Listen
carefully now,
Leighton. When
Da says "Now," I'm
going to try
and push your
arm down to
the table, and
you're supposed
to try and push
mine. We can't
lift our elbows.
Do you understand?"
"Uh-huh."
Adam
tried again. "It's
a game."
"I
like games."
He
gave up. "Da,
go ahead."
"Just
a moment," Captain
Livingston interrupted.
"Why should
Jones be the
one to begin
the competition?"
"Do
you object to
this?" Cad
asked.
"Well,
actually, yes.
How do I know
the two of you
don't have some
secret single
worked out,
giving your
son a head-start,
and thus the
advantage?"
"Are
you questioning
my honor?" Cad
raged, taking
a step toward
the Englishman.
"Da,
wait!" Adam
nearly came
of his bench
in protest.
"What does
it matter who
starts us?"
Cad
forced himself
to relax. "It
doesn't, I guess.
You'll win anyway.
Rufus!"
"Yes,
Cad?" A
thin, bespectacled
man, anxious
for this chance
to get a better
view, hurried
forward from
his place in
the back of
the room.
"If
I can't start
them, you can't
start them,
Captain. Same
reason." There
was steely determination
and barely suppressed
anger in Cad's
voice. "Rufus
can start them.
He's the shopkeeper,
and he depends
as much on your
business as
hours."
"Agreed."
"Start
them."
Rufus
nervously pushed
his spectacles
up his thin
nose.
"But, Cad
--"
"Start
them!" The
shout resonated
off the ceiling.
"Fine." Rufus
scuttled to
the table where
Adam and Lieutenant
Leighton sat,
their beefy
fists wrapped
around each
other.
"Are you
both ready?"
"Yes.
Are we going
to play now?" Leighton
asked excitedly.
Adam
rolled his eyes. "Would
you just get
on with it,
Rufus?"
"Yes.
On my count
of three. Ready?
One . . ."
All the spectators,
their drinks
forgotten, leaned
forward in anticipation.
"Two .
. . now!"
Muscles
strained. Biceps
bulged. Tendons
tightened and
veins stood
out in bold
relief. Adam
grunted, then
groaned. Turned
red, then purple.
Sweat trickled
down his face
and dripped
onto the table.
Still the hands
remained upright,
locked.
And
through it all,
Leighton grinned.
Finally,
slowly, almost
imperceptibly,
the hands inched
toward the table.
Adam's eyes
grew wide with
disbelief, and
he pushed himself,
taking a deep,
gulping breath
that bulged
his cheeks,
but to no avail.
The back of
his hand dropped
to the planked
wood.
"Good
game. Next?" Jon
said brightly.
The
crowd was silent,
stunned. Since
Adam had been
twenty-three,
when he'd finally
managed to defeat
his father,
they'd never
seen him lose.
Hell, no one
had even bothered
to challenge
him for four
years.
Adam,
his face rigidly
set, shoved
his bench back
from the table
and stomped
out the door,
giving the wall
a thunderous
kick as he left.
Captain
Livingston applauded
enthusiastically. "Rather
good showing
by your son,
there, Jones.
That's one.
Shall we work
our way down
the list?"
Cad
clenched his
fists. "Adam
is just a bit
out of practice.
The others will
do better."
"If
you insist.
Well then, where
is your second
son?"
"Ah,
well." Cad
shuffled his
feet. "Brendan's
--"
"I
can speak for
myself, Father," said
a young man
standing a bit
away from the
rest.
"Brendan
. . ."
Brendan
faced the captain.
He was of average
height and slender
build; in no
other place
but among a
collection of
such outsize
men as the Joneses
would he look
small, but here
he undeniably
did. He was
dark-haired,
had graceful,
almost delicate
bones, and looked
nothing like
any of his brothers.
"What
my father is
trying to say,
Captain, is
that I don't
have the, uh,
heft of the
rest of my family.
If you'd consider
turning to a
test of wits
rather than
strength, I'd
be happy to
oblige you."
"You
don't look much
like your father,
do you?"
"I
favor Mother.
Now, what do
you say?"
Livingston
shook his head. "No,
I'll stick to
the original
wager. It will
be a contest
of strength.
Do you concede
this match,
Jones?"
"I
concede nothing!" The
men closest
to Cad flinched
at his bellow.
"But
I do," Brendan
said calmly. "I
see no advantage
in wasting my
energy on a
cause I cannot
hope to win.
It is something
you might consider,
Father."
Father
and son stared
at each other,
the argument
clearly an old
one, but, equally
clearly, neither
was yet to yield
to the other.
"Sometimes
I wonder how
I ever produced
you,"
Cad finally
said.
"I
often wonder
the same."
"There
will be time
for family squabbles
later, Jones.
I'm here to
win some drinks.
Who is the next
one?" Captain
Livingston asked.
"Carter."
"Carter.
Good God, man,
you can't mean
you named them
alphabetically?"
"I
most certainly
did."
The
captain chuckled. "Well,
then, bring
them on."
Carter
proved no better
than Adam, nor
did David, nor
Frank. By the
time Jon met
George, the
consensus was
the lieutenant
must be tiring.
They were wrong.
One big, strapping
blond man after
another was
defeated, giving
way to strapping
blond adolescents.
Through it all,
the lieutenant
grinned and
laughed and
generally seemed
delighted with
the whole process.
By the time
Henry and then
Isaac lost,
Cad's anger
had faded into
weary resignation.
This man could
best his sons.
He was mightily
tempted to give
it a shot himself,
but he knew
deep down, bitter
as it was, that
he would not
fare better.
Besides, Mary,
his wife, would
make sure he
regretted it
if he did something
so foolish.
"Well,
that's it, then." Captain
Livingston leaned
back, crossing
his thing legs
at the knee,
his booted foot
swinging. "You
may well bring
us the beer."
"No
E," the
lieutenant put
in abruptly.
"What?" Livingston
asked.
"No
E." Leighton
pointed to the
door. "A-Adam."
He gestured
to Brendan,
who was propped
comfortably
against a far
wall as he watched
the proceedings. "B." He
pointed to the
remaining Jones
in turn. "C,
D, F, G, H,
I. No E."
"That's
right, isn't
it?" Captain
Livingston clicked
his tongue against
his teeth. "We
may as well
make this complete.
Where's the
fifth one, Jones?
Hiding him?
Perhaps he's
not quite up
to snuff, eh?"
"I
told you, Bennie
can't --"
"Bennie?
We're looking
for the E one.
Lose track of
your letters,
Jones?"
Cad
ground his teeth
together. "I
most certainly
did not! Bennie's
a nickname."
"Well,
then, bring
him out. I'm
sure Lieutenant
Leighton won't
mind humiliating
another one
of your sons."
"I'm
Bennie." At
the soft, musical
voice, Jon leapt
to his feet,
tipping his
bench over in
his haste to
stand rigidly
at attention.
"Dear
God!" Captain
Livingston's
boots thunked
on the planked
floor as he
abruptly sat
up. "He's
a woman!"
"How
brilliant of
you to notice,
Captain. I am
Elizabeth Jones," she
said.
The
captain stood
and circled
her slowly while
she stood comfortably
tall and waited.
She was clearly
a Jones: tall,
strong-boned,
and clean-featured.
Her hair, wayward
curls escaping
from the tight
braid down her
back, combined
all the various
shades of her
brothers': sunny
gold, pale wheat,
and a few strands
of the dark,
warm brown that
matched her
eyes. And, despite
the loose, concealing
fit of her flowing
white shirt
and baggy, gathered
brown skirt,
she was also
clearly a woman.
She had broad,
square shoulders,
generously rounded
hips, and matching,
impressive bosom.
The bunched
fabric at her
middle hid but
hinted at a
sharply curved
waist.
Captain
Livingston smiled
slowly and reached
out to wind
a curl of her
hair around
his forefinger,
marveling at
his good fortune.
This wonderfully
proportioned
woman was the
most intriguing
female he'd
seen since he'd
landed. She
was not only
a colonial,
but she worked
in such a place
as the Dancing
Eel; clearly
a woman who'd
be flattered
by the enthusiastic
attentions of
a young, fast-rising
British officer. "You're
rather a lot
of woman, aren't
you?" His
gaze dropped
to her breasts.
"Ample.
I like that."
The
spectators drew
a collective,
anticipatory
breath and waited.
In New Wexford,
Elizabeth held
a rather unique
person. They
didn't think
of her as a
girl, exactly;
she was just
Bennie Jones.
She didn't really
have a gender.
But, on rare
occasions, a
traveler passing
through town,
intrigued by
her curvy figure
and encouraged
by her quiet
manner, would
make the mistake
of thinking
that a wench
who worked in
a tavern was
naturally a
tavern wench.
The
damage Bennie
could do to
a man's ego
was matched
only by the
damage she could
do to his body
-- she'd had
eight brothers
to learn from,
after all. And
if that weren't
enough, any
man who was,
in her brothers'
opinion, disrespectful to
Bennie could
look forward
to a painful
visit from one
or two or several
of the Jones
boys.
Bennie
stared directly
down at the
captain from
her two-inch
advantage. She
grasped his
wrist in one
hand, and peeled
his fingers
off her hair
with the other,
bending those
fingers back,
and back, and
back.
"Yes,
I am a lot of
woman. It's
too bad you're
so little a
man, isn't it," she
said, so quietly
Livingston was
the only one
who could hear
her.
The
captain's face
blanched nearly
as white as
his wig. He
tried to jerk
his hand from
her grasp, but
her grip was
firm. She smiled
and released
him, giving
a careless shrug. "Too
bad."
Color
flooded back
into his face. "Why,
you . . ."
He stopped. "Lieutenant
Leighton, it
appears you
have another
drink to win."
"Now
see here, Captain
Livingston.
I won't be having
my Bennie touching
that lump you
call a lieutenant.
I'll give you
the damn drink," Cad
protested.
"Oh,
but that wouldn't
be acceptable
at all,"
Livingston replied.
We had a wager.
One drink for
every one of
your offspring
the lieutenant
defeats. I demand
that you honor
it."
"But
you didn't make
Brendan go through
with it."
"No." The
captain chuckled. "But
there was no
sport in that.
This, I think,
could be highly
entertaining."
"I
will not have
it!" Cad
thundered.
"Da." Bennie
laid a calming
hand on her
father's arm. "I
don't mind."
"Ben,
he could hurt
you."
She
shook her head. "He
won't."
"You
sound very sure."
"I
am."
"Cad
sighed heavily. "But,
Bennie, I --"
"I'm
going to do
it anyway, Da,
whatever you
say."
"Do
none of you
ever plan to
let me finish
a sentence?"
She
rose to plant
a kiss on his
grizzled cheek. "I
can't help it,
Da. I'm a Jones."
She
walked over
to her opponent,
who, for some
reason, was
still at attention,
his gaze fixed
at some point
over everyone's
head.
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 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
, warm male
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.
END
OF CHAPTER
ONE
LIKE IT? TRY
TO GET IT USED...
|