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  Traitorous Hearts by Susan Kay Law

  A DANGEROUS TRUCE

  He was not the man of colonist Elizabeth Jones' dreams. True, he was handsome, strong, and brave--but he was also a British soldier. No self-respecting patriot would fraternize with the enemy. Yet, Elizabeth found solace in Jon's sweet smile and gentle ways.

  Against his will, Jonathan Leighton was drawn to the fiery, golden-haired Elizabeth. But he had a job that prevented him from revealing his true heart, no matter that the storm brewing in the Colonies was nothing compared to the passion simmering between him and Elizabeth.

  SHE HAD WAITED LONG ENOUGH

  "I don't care anymore, Jon. I don't want to think anymore. I just want to feel."

  He kissed Elizabeth then, his mouth coming down with a hard force that pushed aside everything but the feel of his lips. Gone was the gentleness of every other time he had touched her, swept away by a greedy desperation that left no room for anything else.

  Jon wasn't kind. He wound his hand in her hair to hold her head still, and the instant she leaned against him he demanded she give him everything. And she did.

  HarperPaperbacks A Division of Harper Collins Publishers

  10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  Copyright © 1994 by Susan K. Law

  ISBN 0061081833

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperCollinsPublishers,

  10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022.

  Cover illustration by Jim Griffin

  First printing: March 1994

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the members of Critical Mass:

  Helen Brenna Connie Brockway Taylor Kristoffe-Jones Nancy Leonard Julie Mactaggert Judi Phillips

  For believing, even when I didn't; for making me laugh (a lot!); for rewriting my awful synopses; and for being so @#$%" picky.

  Thank you. Okay, now I expect one of these from you to me someday.

  CHAPTER 1

  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, Cadwallader 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 arms 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 acknowledgment. "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. 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."

  Cadwallader shook his head determinedly. "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 a 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 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 bests 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 at 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 as he was told.

  "Then 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. How was 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 signal 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 off his bench in protest. "What does it really 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 ours."

  "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 d
isbelief, 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's 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 ready to yield to the other.

  "Sometimes I wonder how I ever produced you," Cad finally said.