Paxton's War (11 page)

“It does rhyme,” Jason said after a long pause. The hum of insects. Somewhere the strident call of a woodpecker, followed by a rat-a-tat-tat on a hollow log. Peace. The morning's song swelling in his mind, he began to hum, and seconds later he realized that Colleen had joined him. “You have an exquisite voice. But tell me,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow, “where did you learn that melody?”

“I don't know,” Colleen admitted. After she had repacked the basket, she sat next to him and stared down the ravine. “It came to me this morning. At least I think it did. Or are you teaching it to me now?”

Colleen Cassandra McClagan. As beautiful as any woman he'd seen in four years of travel. Intelligent, sensitive … Looking up at her, her eyelashes, long and dark, peeked out above the softness of her cheeks. Her arms were as white as fine linen, and the swell of her breast, tantalizingly close, set his blood racing.

But it was insane. He'd been gone so long, had barely known her. They'd kissed twice—three times, he amended, recalling that night in the dim past on her porch. He hadn't thought of her that much. Oh, now and again—when he'd received a letter—when his mind wandered homeward—sometimes for no reason that he could think of. And yet, that song, and the rush of emotion that had surged through him when he'd seen her that morning. Each moment they'd been together since then had sparkled like the finest of jewels. Never had he felt more alive. Never had he been so intensely aware, so attracted to a woman.

“Perhaps,” he said, his words slurred as he pulled her down to him, “we created it together. A song as beautiful … as ineffably sweet and beautiful … as you …”

For Colleen, the yearning was as great. Four years of waiting, four years of dreaming, four years of wanting. And at last, in the pastoral quiet of the spring afternoon, she felt the soft texture of his mouth, the moist fire of his tongue, the power of his loins. There was no room for thought, no analysis or abstract consideration. There was only feeling as the natural music of their insistent bodies led them to peel away their clothing and discover one another's secret passages. For a fleeting second, she led, then he, as the dance of love unfolded with a choreographic majesty that no master of ballet could have planned.

She dug her fingers into his long, lean back as he buried his face in her sweet-scented neck. He caressed the lobe of her ear, brushed the softness of her low-moaning throat with his lips. Kneeling, cupping her buttocks with his strong, steady hands, he raised her higher, entering her slowly and tenderly so that she felt the full length of his love. For it was love, he knew in his heart. No woman had ever felt this way, no woman had ever drawn from him such wild, yet gentle, passion. Her sharp cries of piercing pleasure provoked his deep, insistent penetrations.

Their rhythms ran identical courses. The melody expanded, and a suite blossomed, a sonata, a swelling concerto, building—patiently, proudly building—soaring, and then spilling into swoons of ecstasy. For minutes, for what seemed an eternity, they lost control. Their legs and arms shook and swayed like graceful branches blown wild in the midst of a raging storm, all the time moving to the majestic motion of the swelling music. They soaked themselves in the long, liquid melody—he astride her, she below, rising and falling, falling and rising, higher and harder, harder and faster—until the frenzied crescendo exploded with the power of a thousand flutes, a thousand violins, a thousand brilliant trumpets. As their opened mouths met, as their limbs locked together, they became the music, falling into thin air like vanishing notes or fluttering leaves from the ancient birch trees that protected their exhausted, glowing bodies. They faced one another with tears of unspoken joy as a single yellow butterfly, its wings etched in glittering gold and black, danced above their heads.

Still wrapped tightly in her arms, he whispered, “I love you, Colleen McClagan.”

And she whispered back. “And I love you, Jason Paxton. I always have, and I always will.”

Chapter 6

Hand in hand, lost in thoughts and feelings too exquisite to express, Colleen and Jason walked slowly back through the woods as the sky slid from blue to pink to blazing purple. Colleen's whole body tingled after the long-awaited rite of passage from girl to woman, and she knew that her life would never be the same again, that the consummation of her passion had been an awesome awakening of senses that she'd only imagined had existed, but had never dared explore. Until then. Until that afternoon. Just as, earlier, she'd dared to write her love verses and political broadsides, she had at last dared to love a man fully and to throw caution to the wind without thought of the consequences. For love knew no consequences, she told herself. In her secret soul, she had always known, given the opportunity, that she would give herself to Jason Behan Paxton. She was convinced that it was their destiny always to be together, loving and creating.

Jason was confused. He had anticpated a great deal about his return, but not, within the first hours, a romantic entanglement. In his heart, his love for his home and all it represented—a freedom from tired traditions, a vigorous spirit of independence—had somehow mingled with the explosion of love for Colleen. Her enthusiastic spirit was more than attractive; it was contagious. How could he separate duty from desire? How could he resist the remarkable woman at his side? How could he balance the calling of his spirit with that of his heart? For the past four years, he'd spent his days and nights in fashionable parlors and salons, in close proximity to some of the Old World's most charming women. They'd been drawn to him, as many women were drawn to musicians, for his heightened sense of beauty and his subtle physical appeal. It was widely rumored that a frigid spinster could be reduced to a swooning lovestruck girl at the sight of his swaying body caught in the music of his own creation, his fingers darting over delicate clavichord and pianoforte. But no woman had succeeded in distracting him from his calling—at least not for more than an hour or two. Colleen, however, in one dazzling afternoon, had melted into his art, and worse, unless he wanted to jeopardize their love, was making him wonder if his as yet murkily formulated plan to play the part of a Loyalist was a very good idea.

“I wish we could turn back to your secret ravine right now,” Colleen said as the pungent aroma of roast beef and the sound of music and voices reminded them that they were returning to civilization.

“No longer mine alone,” Jason reminded her. “Ours.”

They stopped to embrace, neither wanting to let go of one kiss, then another, and still another. But night hastened, drawing its deep purple coverlet across the sky. Ahead, they could see torches being lit. Flickering lanterns looked like so many hovering fireflies. Jason worried that their prolonged absence would cause talk and concern, but the sudden explosion of gunfire interrupted his thought. He and Colleen glanced at one another, then ran the final few yards to the edge of the meadow, where fate and poor timing placed them directly in the path of trouble.

Men shouted and women screamed, grabbed their children, and fell on them to protect them. Nearby, a group of six little girls playing ring-around-the-rosy stopped and looked up in alarm. A torch flew through the the air, another gunshot sounded. In the midst of total confusion, the crowd parted and a half dozen figures emerged from the clot and ran toward the safety of the forest—directly toward Jason and Colleen. At the leading edge, Jason saw as they drew closer, were Hope, Ethan, and Allan. Behind them by twenty good paces, a band of Embleton's soldiers, their muskets at the ready, followed hard on their heels.

“Hold!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Hold in the name of the king!”

“Keep going!” Ethan roared, giving Allan a push. “The rest of you, stop!”

Allan kept on toward the forest at breakneck speed. Ethan, Hope, and the others stopped and began to mill about in an attempt to obscure Allan's escape and slow the British. None of them noticed the band of little girls who, frightened, ran first toward the center of the meadow and then, as Allan raced past them, turned and tried to follow him toward what, in their terror, they assumed to be safety.

The soldiers collided with the Patriots, beat them aside with their musket butts, and broke through just as Allan gained the edge of the woods, turned, and, oblivious of Jason, pulled a handgun hidden under his coat. “Stop yourselves,” he yelled, “in the name of freedom!”

Terrified, like sheep caught between two wolves, the children stopped and stood halfway between Allan and the soldiers. At that moment, Jason, seeing the danger to them, stepped forward, snatched the gun from Allan's hand, and moved to one side.

“Damn!” Allan roared, leaping to retrieve his gun.

“Don't try,” Jason warned, aiming at him and putting the gun on cock. “Just run! Get out of here while you can!”

Allan blanched, stared into the .52-caliber maw. “What in God's name are you doing, man?” he pleaded.

“Run, damn it! Don't you see I can't let you fire into—”

“The children,” he was going to say, but it was too late, for Embleton's men were upon them. With half a dozen muskets leveled at Allan's chest, there was no escape. Seconds later, Embleton himself, with a dozen angry Patriots close behind, caught up. With a flourish, he raised what, in the excitement, he had taken to be his pistol, but was instead a turkey leg he'd impetuously picked up while his men searched for Allan. Ignoring the Patriots' jeers and derisive laughter, he carefully drew his flintlock with his free hand, cleared his throat, and histrionically announced his intentions. “In the name of his Majesty, King George the Third, you, Allan Coleridge, are hereby arrested for the unwarranted and altogether heinous assault on the Crown's arsenal at Brandborough. You'll be brought to the Old Customs Exchange in Charles Town tomorrow, there to await sentencing.” He started to take a bite of turkey, almost bit the pistol instead, endured another ripple of derision at his expense, holstered the pistol, bit off a chunk of meat, and dropped what was left at Allan's feet.

The quickness with which events had unfolded left those who witnessed the arrest shaken and confused. The shock was tremendous. That Allan had been captured was one thing: that Jason had helped in his apprehension was a tragedy of immense proportions. Not having noticed the children, who by then had been snatched up by their parents, the Patriots' initial reaction was that Jason had most certainly worked against them. If there were any doubts, they were dispelled when, before leaving to escort Allan away, Embleton turned to Jason and said, “We're most grateful for your help in this matter. We received your message alerting us to Coleridge's presence, and we're pleased to note your prodigious loyalty to the Crown. I hope to renew your acquaintance in Charles Town, where, once again, I trust you'll see fit to favor us with a visit.” Then, to make matters worse, the major saluted the slack-jawed musician before leading away his soldiers and prisoner.

Allan could be heard shouting profanities, both against the monarch and his brother-in-law. Rigid with fury, Hope and Ethan stared at Jason as if he were a corpse, for in truth, in that instant, he was dead to them. The expression on their faces as they turned their backs on him cut deeper than any sword.

As for Colleen, the magic of the secret ravine had been shattered in one swift, brutually revealing moment. Jason had lied to her: unthinkably, he was a Tory after all. Hadn't he betrayed his own brother-in-law? Hadn't the major said as much? How was it possible? Unable to meet his eyes, she turned away from him—and found herself face to face with a smug and apparently most self-satisfied Buckley Somerset. “Oh, God,” she sighed, no more anxious to see him than Jason.

Freshly powdered and perfumed, Buckley took her arm possessively. “It's a terrible lesson in life, my dear, but you never can tell what some people will do,” he said, as much for Jason's benefit as Colleen's. “I think, perhaps, it's best I take you home.”

Jason's face creased in pain. “Go on,” he whispered in her ear. “I'll come to your house later tonight. Everything will be explained. I give you my word.”

Colleen desperately wanted to believe him, but couldn't. And when she and Buckley rode off into the star-filled night, it seemed as if the morning's melody might never return.

The elimination of a rival, Buckley thought as his carriage rolled through the night, was an art. The forged note to Embleton informing on Coleridge, sent in Paxton's name, had been a stroke of genius. Nothing could please him more than to reflect on the deft killing of two birds with a single stone: not only had Paxton been publicly humiliated and alienated from his family and friends, but his arrogant brother-in-law had been dragged away to prison. How delightful!

Of far greater importance was the effect on Colleen. Buckley wasn't a complete fool. He as well as anyone else knew that her sympathy lay with the Patriots, and he suspected that his identification with the Tories had long been the main reason for her antipathy toward him. Women were strange creatures. How she'd known Paxton had been on the ship was a puzzle, but she had. And it also seemed obvious that she, in the past, had been childishly infatuated with Paxton. All that, however, had been undone with his apparent perfidy: the look in her eyes when Embleton gave him the credit for Coleridge's arrest told the story of her disillusionment. There was no reason not to be optimistic. With Paxton out of the way, Buckley's suit was very much alive. Colleen would come to her senses soon enough. Politics aside, she was too intelligent not to accept his proposal—and the wealth and prestige that he offered her.

Colleen was totally absorbed in thoughts of her own. Her eyes fixed on the black of night, she sat on the opposite side of the carriage from Buckley. As the horses trotted through Brandborough, she recalled the moment she'd first seen Jason. Only hours earlier, it seemed a decade. What had happened? He was everything—even more, so much more—that she'd imagined. He was kind, compassionate, tender, and sensitive. He'd told her about picking Buckley's pocket, and at the time she'd laughed. But perhaps it wasn't so funny. Perhaps it was an indication of his real self—a schemer who could just as readily deliver his own sister's husband to the British. She didn't dare trust him. Not ever again. But she
did
trust him. Her mind might be riddled with doubts, but her heart trusted him. She tried arguing with her heart, but her heart wouldn't listen: her heart remembered only the mystery of the secret ravine, the roaring thunder, and the gentle music of love that had washed over them. Yet, with her own eyes and ears she had witnessed the cruel betrayal. She was torn; her head throbbed with pain, her heart felt listless and beaten. The cool Carolina night did nothing to revive her. The questions would not stop. Her thoughts chased themselves into the corners of her mind. And when the ornate carriage finally arrived at her father's farm and began climbing the hill to her front door, she barely heard Buckley as, once again, he brought up the question of his proposal.