Paxton's War (36 page)

“Jason Paxton.” Embleton reflected as he slowly saw the inescapable truth of it all. In the silence of his shocked mind, he reviewed the events of the past summer. “Jason Paxton. Yes. Of course. It was him. It was him all along. It seems as if the musician has made something of a fool of me.”

“I'd have to agree with that,” Buckley said.

“Quiet, you love-sick schoolboy!” the major exploded. “Were it not for the come-hither smile of the rebel girl and your own petty jealousy, you'd have had your wits about you and been able to identify and capture Paxton months ago. He's made you look far more ridiculous than me.”

“I beg to differ with …”

“Say nothing more, Buckley, or in the blink of an eye I'll strip you of your command. Now is the moment for sagacious reflection.”

“It's obvious,” Somerset said, “that we must …”

“Nothing is obvious!” the major snapped, cutting him off. “The fact of the matter is that I've invited Paxton to perform at my house a week from yesterday. He told me that he's written a suite which, at my suggestion, he agreed to dedicate to the honor of our sovereign. I've already issued invitations to many of the leading citizens of Charles Town.”

“I see.” Buckley smirked.

“You see nothing!” Embleton shouted as Pall picked up the pouch of silver upon the desk, agreeably testing its considerable weight. “You'd expect me to cancel the event. You're thinking it would be an occasion on which my misplaced confidence would render me even more naïve. Well, you're wrong. I plan to carry on exactly as planned.”

“You can't,” Buckley complained. “Paxton and his harlot must be arrested immediately, within the hour, before they grow suspicious and flee the colony. My men and I will apprehend them ourselves.”

“You and your men,” the major retorted, “will tend to your own business for the next six days. No one—absolutely no one besides the three of us in this room—must know of the Wisp's or the Sandpiper's identity. I have every intention of going forward with the recital. In fact, I will expand the festivities and invite twice as many guests as I had intended. Yes, it couldn't be more perfect if I had planned it. Right now, neither the girl nor the musician is the least bit suspicious. We'll keep them in their state of blissful ignorance and shepherd them safely and securely to my home, like obedient sheep to slaughter. I'll make certain that they're all there—Jason Paxton, Colleen McClagan, her aunt, those two foppish fools whom Paxton calls his patrons—the whole bloody lot of them. We'll let the man play, we'll listen to his dedication, we'll applaud his artistic efforts. And when it's all over, I'll have my say. Oh, indeed I will! Never before will an arrest be made with more finery and flourish. I'll have an extra two dozen men stationed in positions that will have them wondering—and worrying themselves sick with fear—from the moment they step into my house. We'll give them ample time to consider their fate. Then I shall humiliate this man and woman as no human beings have ever been humiliated before. Trick me, will they? Why, they'll be writing about the arrest of the infamous Will-o'-the-Wisp and his Sandpiper in history books for centuries to come. Through his duplicity, he has afforded me a moment of sublime glory. And then, Mr. Buckley Somerset, you may have your fun. As a symbol of the local Tory cause, you will join me in personally leading the procession back to this building, where the gallows will be waiting. I'll have my men arouse the citizenry from their beds. I'll make certain that the crowd numbers in the thousands. There, under the brilliant light of a hundred blazing torches, this city will witness an execution the likes of which it has never known before, nor will ever know again. For not only will we break the necks of our two artistic lovers, but we will break their conspirators' necks as well—every single last one of them.”

“What of their fathers—Ethan Paxton and Roy McClagan? Surely they're in on this,” Buckley observed. He had found himself somewhat sexually aroused during Embleton's detailed description of what was to come.

“Deal with them however you like. It's their children who most concern me.”

“You'll be interested to learn that Paxton's sister Joy is also staying at the McClagan house,” Pall informed the men without interrupting his second count of the money.

“We'll not exclude her from the hanging party,” Embleton said.

“Oh, to see Paxton's blood flowing like rich red wine,” Buckley whispered, his throat parched from heated excitement.

“Yes, my friend,” Embleton declared as he walked back behind his desk and plopped into his chair, folding his hands in front of him. “It seems that in the end we all shall have exactly what we want.”

“Not quite, Major,” Pall spoke up. “You're a pound short. I count only ninety-nine.”

“Allow me,” Buckley offered, fishing a sterling coin from his vest pocket and flipping it in the actor's direction. Frederic caught the silver handily and threw it atop the pile as Embleton and Somerset remained silent, privately entertaining fantasies of sweet, vicious revenge.

Chapter 6

Jason swept Colleen up in his arms and kissed her long and passionately, forgetting his music and the formal setting of Robin's fabulous music library. He could concentrate on his composition no longer, not with her sitting beside him on the pianoforte bench, not with her thigh touching his, the fragrance of her skin strong in his nostrils. He had held himself back long enough. His resistance had shattered.

Opening her mouth with his insistent tongue, he felt that her excitement was as great as his. There was not a moment's hesitation on her part as he led her to his bedroom. Piero was in the kitchen and Robin in his workshop. Besides, who cared? Certainly not they. All the unbearable distresses of war, of this precarious life of dual identities, had built up inside him. His body was rigid with tension, hungry with desire. In these five months since he had been back in America, his only real emotional and physical release from his heavy political burdens had been with Colleen. Before his meeting with Embleton, he'd been convinced that her trusting nature had compromised their secrets. At this moment, though, he was reassured. The major had seemed as enamored of Jason as ever—perhaps more so—and what anger the musician had felt toward his lover dissipated as they embraced, easily falling upon his bed, his hands caressing her neck and breasts, much as he had caressed the ivory keys of the pianoforte—with delicate patience and extreme loving kindness.

She lowered the bodice of her dress and moaned softly as she felt his tongue tracing her already-erect nipples. She felt him probing beneath her slips and petticoats, his long fingers gently stroking her soft thighs and barely touching—as if to tease—her pubis, overflowing with love's natural liquids. With her own hands, she thrillingly touched his thick, stiff staff of ardor, encircling it with her fist and squeezing him ever so fleetingly. He responded with immediate appreciation, helping her out of her clothes, throwing off his own, kissing her stomach, her waist, her moist fluff, her hidden lips until she asked him—until she begged him—to commence the frenzied dance. He gave little of himself at first, knowing the effect it would have on Colleen. She demanded more, and more he gave, a little at a time, until finally his thrusts were long and deep and felt on the sides, at the very back, in the very center of her being. She moved up to meet him, positioning her legs against her chest, seeking his mouth with her own, kissing him, thanking him, urging him on and on and on, flying with the feeling of this free and frantic union, her fingers digging into his spine, into the twitching muscles of his buttocks, as finally, with one last thrust, they met upon a thundercloud hung high over a meadow and, in a single explosion, spinning, tumbled and fell to soft earth below.

“Oh, I love you so much, Jason Paxton.” With her muscles she kept him inside, wanting all of him, all of him forever.

“My little Sandpiper, my sweet little Sandpiper,” he said, wiping the tears of joy from her eyes.

They held each other for a long while before letting go. Lovingly, he dislodged himself and rolled over onto his back, remaining next to Colleen. She turned on her side so she could run her fingers through his dark curly hair as she peered into his sloped eyes, losing herself in his dreamy, faraway expression.

“Sometimes it seems like a fairy tale,” she said to him.

He smiled and answered, “For a moment, perhaps, but no more.”

“And yet I believe that a happy ending will be ours. Don't you, my darling? Don't you believe that?”

He lifted his head from the pillow and sighed. “I believe that you're a remarkable woman, Colleen McClagan—bright and beautiful, but sometimes silly and stubborn.”

“You blamed me for Frederic Pall. Is that why you call me silly? But you've seen that nothing has changed. We've an ally—that's all.”

“And a long way to go before this war is over.”

“But being assured of Embleton's continuing trust, you'll be able to learn whatever you need about their maneuvers. You can ride again, my gallant Will-o'-the-Wisp, just as the Sandpiper will record and report your efforts. We'll undermine them at every turn,” Colleen said, now sitting up in bed. “They'll never stop us, Jase. Never.”

“For a while, I want us to stop.”

“Why?” she asked with alarm in her voice.

“I told you only part of what transpired between the major and myself. I didn't tell you that he asked me to give another recital.”

“And you agreed?”

“I felt as if I had little choice—either that, or raise new suspicions. In any event, I'll not be riding—nor will you be writing—until after that event.”

“I wish you wouldn't express your feelings as absolute demands.”

“I'm sorry, but I need to keep my concentration on purely artistic matters.”

“For how long?”

“A few days. The recital's next week, and this suite is not entirely complete. I've been working on it since I returned from England. At first, the inspiration came fast and furiously, but recently the music's faded from my mind. Before, when I rode through the swamps and woods, I heard in Cinder's breath a certain syncopation. The sound of leaves crushing beneath his hooves suggested musical flourishes. the birds had me thinking of piccolos; the frogs were bassoons. Now, though, the forest is no longer an orchestra. the forest is merely the forest. I hear the sounds of the animals, the babbling brooks, and whistling breezes as nothing more or less than what they are—the spontaneous and glorious sounds of nature. I love them for their own sake. I no longer feel the need to translate them into a frozen and artificial form. The essential work of this war—to free ourselves of our captors and regain the integrity of our lives and land—is what compels me, Colleen; that's what keeps me awake at night. I suppose this is what you said to me months ago. I argued with you then, with only half a heart. Tonight we're in unison, with all our hearts.”

“But you'll always love music, Jase. You're far too blessed with musical talent ever to ignore it.”

“Once this war is won, I'm not certain what any of us will do. I know now, though, that my commitment is to freedom first. The extreme irony of all this is that, in order to protect both my identities, I must make a respectable showing at this recital. I must force myself to complete this work. It will be a fitting close to a strange chapter in my life, an original composition dedicated to the very enemy we work daily to defeat.”

“The king? You're dedicating this to the king?”

“Embleton's idea. What would be gained by refusing? He sees me as the model Tory. So why give him any reason, especially now, to doubt that image? Satisfying him will only further serve our purposes.”

“To that end—and the strengthening of our love—I commit my very heart and soul.”

“Dear Colleen,” Jason said and exhaled softly. He put his arm around her slender shoulder and brought her closer to his side. “Sometimes the fabric of our very survival seems so threadbare.”

“Yet it's stronger than it appears, Jase. It will hold together,” she said with her customary optimism. “I know it will.”

“Once this recital is behind us,” Jason said, “the road ahead is sure to seem that much clearer.”

“Will I be able to be in attendance when you play?”

“I'm not certain. You may have lost your best entrée in Buckley Somerset.”

“Would that it were so. In fact, he sent a message to my aunt's this very morning, asking after my well-being and wondering whether I'd recovered from the ordeal at Marble Mansion. He indicated that he'd like to see me at my earliest convenience.”

“Then that's your ticket to the recital, my dear.”

“If that's the only way to hear your music, I'll endure even Somerset,” she said, bringing her mouth to his chest.

It had been four days since Ethan Paxton had left Hope, Allan, and the rebel band in the care of Dr. McClagan. Four days without a scrap of news. One would think the doctor would send word of the progress being made, thought Ethan, as he decided to see for himself. His patience had worn thin. After notifying his servants that he'd be back by nightfall, he mounted his steed and headed up the coast toward the McClagan farm.

The third week of September, and still no relief from the muggy heat. The vast ocean was flat and lifeless, tiny wavelets weakly lapping the sun-parched shore. Ethan was in an especially foul mood. The night before he'd received a report from a former employee in Charleston stating that not only was the Paxton town home physically occupied by the Tories, but that Joy was living with the seamstress Rianne McClagan and Jason was to give another of his musical recitals for the English high command. He ached with the reminder that his own son was a traitor. What greater infliction could fall upon the Paxton family honor? What greater pain could shatter a father's soul?