Law, Susan Kay (14 page)

Sick guilt assailed her. It was pure selfishness on her part, to
wish this on him simply because she wanted him near. If she'd ever thought
about it, she would have considered herself a relatively nice person. To find
that she was glad of another's misfortune, because it gave her something she
hadn't even realized she wanted so desperately, was a shock. But wishing it
wasn't so didn't make it go away.

Jon watched the light go out of her eyes and her fine, strong
shoulders droop. She looked so sad. What had happened to change her mood? He
scooped up a handful of hay and poured it over her head. It drifted down,
sticking in the wild, golden curls of her hair, settling on her chest.

"Not scarecrow," he said. "Scare-woman."

"Oh, really?" Grabbing a handful, she tossed it at him.

He clutched at his heart and toppled over backward. "Oh-ho,
you want to fight me, do you?" He stood up, his fists filled, and advanced
on her steadily. "Couldn't beat me at arm wrestling. Think this is
easier?"

Bennie jumped to her feet, swept up an entire arm load of hay and
hurled it in his direction before she darted past him. Her laughter burbled on
the air, as joyous to his ears as the music she had played earlier, because he
had made her laugh.

Jon spun. She was no more than two steps away, lightly balanced on
the balls of her feet, ready for motion. Her hair, the color of sunshine and
earth and ripe crops, tumbled down around her shoulders. Her simple clothes
were disarrayed, she was shedding hay with every movement, and she was the most
enticing thing he had ever seen.

"You think you can catch me?" Bennie taunted. "My
brothers never could." A quick slip and she was behind him again, raining
torrents of dried grass and dust over his head.

He shook his head violently, sending the chaff flying, and turned.
Her eyes were alight with mischief, her smile happy and free, and he wished he could
make her look like that always.

He feinted left. She leaned right.

He darted right. She skipped left.

He let himself relax. "Hmm. Too fast for me." Then he
dived.

The momentum of his jump carried them both down into a large pile
of hay. Thrusting out his arms behind her, he took most of the impact of the
fall, instinctively protecting her. Hay billowed around them, and laughter
floated above them.

"I must be slowing down. I'm out of practice." She
looked up into his face, and her laughter died.

Their faces were bare inches apart. And everywhere else, they
weren't apart at all.

His chest and belly were pressed against hers. She was short of
breath but doubted it was from the force of his weight, for he was propped on
his elbows. His heaviness wasn't suffocating, it was... wonderful.

One of his legs rested between hers, and his thigh was pressed
against a part of her she'd pretty much ignored most of her life but was now
utterly aware of.

His hair was loose and brushed her cheek, its softness in complete
contrast to the hard length of his body. His pale eyes no longer seemed cool
and distant, and Bennie was reminded that only the hottest of flames burned
blue.

Her arms slid around his waist as if of their own accord.
"Jon," she whispered.

He jerked away from her as quickly as he would have removed his
hand from a fire. Jumping to his feet, he strode over to the nearest window.
Planting his feet apart, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared out into
the fading light, his finely sculpted features set into implacable lines.

Dear Lord, she'd done it again. It was exactly like the last time.
She'd been unable to keep herself from touching him, she'd said his name, and
he'd left her.

He seemed willing to accept her companionship and her music. What
he clearly didn't want was what her body kept trying to insist upon.

She didn't even know
why
she had this compulsion to touch
him. Back when she'd been young enough and silly enough to have dreams, the man
she'd dreamed of had been nothing like him—a beautiful man, yes, a kind man,
and strong. But she'd dreamed of a man of intelligence and ambition, a dashing
man who'd challenge the world and her.

Yet Jon was the only man who'd ever made her feel this way. It was
absurd. It was ridiculous.

But it was.

She got up and walked slowly over to him. He was completely
motionless, and she wondered what he was thinking as he looked down on the yard
between the stables and the Dancing Eel.

"Jon," she said tentatively. "I didn't mean to
frighten you. Or hurt you, either. I—"

"It's all right." He glanced at her over his shoulder.
"We're friends. Friends hug. Friends kiss. Right?"

"Right." She swallowed; her throat was dry. Friends. As
much as she wanted his friendship, it seemed such a bland, inadequate word.

He sighed heavily, and his forbidding posture relaxed. He turned
to face her.

"Beth." Taking one of her hands, he turned the palm up
and brought it to his mouth. He touched his lips to it, and even that small,
tender brush made her wish for more. He lifted his head to look at her and
enfolded her hand in both of his.

"Beth, I'm sorry. I can't... not anymore."

He couldn't. Although he had made up his mind to use their
friendship as a convenient way to obtain information, he found he couldn't do
this. It was one thing to listen to tidbits she'd picked up in the tavern or
from the comings and goings of the townspeople. It was quite another to make
love with her to do it.

Her hand tightened in his, squeezing gently. "What were you
like before?"

"Before?"

"Before your accident. Do you remember anything?"

"Some." He dropped her hand and turned to stare back
down into the shadowy yard. He'd never had any trouble before looking someone
in the eye and lying to them. Why was it so hard now? "A little."

"What do you remember?"

More than curiosity, he heard concern in her question. He returned
his gaze to her face. He would learn to face her and lie. He had little choice
in the matter.

Not much light entered the loft now; shadows deepened under her
strong cheekbones. Her eyes become dark—no color in them, just gleaming
emotion.

"I was born here, in the colonies." That, at least, was
the truth.

"You were?"

He nodded. "Mother married beneath her. Her father didn't
approve."

She smiled slightly. "Mine too."

"They came here, to get away. Died in a carriage accident,
when I was ten." Now came the hard part. Now came the lies. "I don't
remember them."

Images floated through his mind, clear and painfully sharp. His
mother, small and blond and soft-voiced. His father, big, handsome, and loud.
Both gone so suddenly the little boy he'd been had awakened every morning for
months expecting to see his parents.

"I'm sorry." How had she ever thought Jon was simply,
uncomplicatedly happy? His sadness was palpable in the room, burning the back
of her eyes, tightening her throat. The one constant in her life had always
been her family. Jon had been so young, and so completely alone. "What
happened to you?"

"Sent to my aunt's. Back in England. She married an
earl."

"Did you like it there?"

"Not so bad. Lots of room. Had eight children already. I was
commoner nephew who was too big and clumsy." He shrugged. "Like
now."

She knew what he didn't say. There'd been no one to tell a lonely,
lost boy he wasn't alone. No one to hold him when he missed his mother. No one
to teach him what his father would have.

"When I was old enough, they bought me a commission. After a
while, sent me to Boston. Just before the massacre. There a year, the horse
kicked me."

He thunked the side of his head. "When I woke up, like
this." He spread his hands. "That's all."

That's all. It was so little. Yet it was too much.

Carefully, slowly, Bennie stepped closer to him and slipped her
arms around him. She felt him shudder slightly and release a great breath.

This time, she wasn't yearning for more. This time, she wasn't
trying to do anything but give him a little bit of the affection he should have
had all his life.

And this time, when she whispered "Jon," he didn't pull
away.

Bennie scrubbed a table board in the main room of the Dancing Eel,
wiping away the leavings of last night's customers. The yeasty, spicy scent of
last night's beer and cider rose to her nose, mingling with the sharp tang of
soap. Across the room, Henry sloshed water as he carelessly pushed a rag mop
across the plank floor. Near the storeroom, George checked supplies and
precisely arranged freshly washed tankards.

It was a clear, brilliantly cold winter day. Pale sunlight poured
through the windows Isaac was polishing, setting the diamond-shaped panes
asparkle.

Other than the Joneses, the Eel was empty. It nearly always was in
the early morning, except for those rare days when a traveler was occupying one
of the two bedrooms over the tavern that weren't being used by Bennie's
unmarried brothers.

Bennie dropped her rag into the oaken bucket and moved on to the
next table. It was calm and warm in the Eel. She'd been helping clean the place
since she was a little girl. The Dancing Eel was a family business, keeping it
up was a family project, and the Joneses had always done it together. She
enjoyed the quiet mornings when they worked together to clean the tavern before
the customers arrived.

She didn't think her brothers felt the same way.

Henry shoved the mop over the floor. "I don't see why I
always have to wash the floor," he grumbled. "Bennie should do it.
It's woman's work."

"I'd be happy to do it," she said.

"You would?" His head popped up.

"Certainly. Of course, you'd have to scrub the tables
instead."

His expression grew less eager. "Well..."

"I'm not entirely sure how you'd explain to Mercy Jernegan
why your hands were all reddened like a scrub woman's, however."

George and Isaac snickered. A dusky flush spread over Henry's
cheeks. "Mercy Jernegan? I don't know what you mean."

"Then you're not interested in her?" George said mildly.
"She's a pretty little thing. If you're not going to court her, maybe
I'll—"

The mop clattered as it hit the floor. Henry whirled on his
brother. "You stay away from Mercy! Everybody knows you're all but engaged
to Anne Beekman."

"Well, well." George grinned. "For someone who
didn't know what Bennie meant, you certainly warned me off quickly
enough."

Henry bent and scooped up the mop. "All right, maybe I'm a
little bit interested."

"A little bit?" Bennie asked. "And I'm a little bit
tall."

"Well, at least I don't have a stupid Brit whose brain is as
small as the rest of him is big wandering around moon-faced after me."

Bennie planted her hands on her hips. "He's not moon-faced.
And he's
not
stupid."

"Uh-huh. I'm just imagining that when he was in here last
week he was following you around like a starved puppy."

"He was not." At least her brothers didn't know Jon had
come to the stables later. That she'd hugged him, and afterward they'd sat and
talked, and she'd taught him a few notes on her violin, and all the while he
was so close to her their shoulders touched. They didn't know that when he'd
left, he'd said he'd see her soon, and she'd believed him. And that although
she hadn't seen him since, she still believed him. If they knew all that, she
could only imagine what they'd say.

"Sure. And he didn't wag his tail every time you smiled at
him." Henry swiveled his hips.

Bennie hurled her rag at his head. Henry ducked and the cloth
missed, but it spattered a trail of dirty water in its wake.

"Why, you..." Henry raised his fists in mock threat and
started toward Bennie.

Isaac clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Children,
children. What am I going to do with you?"

"Children? I'm eight years older than you, young man, and I
could still paddle your backside if the need arose," Bennie said.

Henry backhanded a wet streak off his chin. "I can't believe
you actually threw it at me, Ben. You haven't done things like that since you
were twelve."

"Don't think it hasn't been tough restraining myself, either.
Lord knows you've needed it over the years."

"Still..." George left the supplies and strolled over to
join them. "This attachment the lieutenant has formed for you could be
rather useful. I don't think he exactly guards his tongue; no telling what he might
let slip one way or another."

"That's true," Henry agreed. "You should be nice to
him, Ben. Keep him hanging around."

"I couldn't do that."