Law, Susan Kay Page 7

  And Jon hoped to God no one ever realized how good a shot he really was.

  CHAPTER 6

  "Thank ye, lieutenant." Pocketing his coins, the peddler flashed a gap-toothed smile.

  And well he should smile, Jon thought. He's gotten at least double the going price. But Lieutenant Jon was a gullible fool, not a hard-nosed bargainer.

  A fool. He was being a fool. Jon ran his fingers slowly over the strand of Job's tears. The seeds were hard, translucently white, and waxy, an inexpensive substitute for those who couldn't afford pearls.

  Why had he bought them? It was frippery, a worthless frill. Foolishness. And he still wished they were pearls.

  He shoved the necklace into the leather pouch attached to his belt, grimacing at the cold dampness. His clothes had, for the most part, dried out by now, but the leather remained moist. His shoes squished when he walked.

  A gun boomed, the sound only partly muted by the distance. The common was nearly deserted; everyone was still out at the meadow, watching the shooting competition. Jon took advantage of the quiet to walk slowly through the town. Much as he needed to rejoin his company, he was strangely reluctant.

  Was she still there? He'd looked at her after his final shot. She'd still been smiling at him, but not with encouragement and joy. With pity.

  Pity, damn it! See? her eyes seemed to say. That wasn't too bad. You almost did it. Next time you'll be closer. It was probably the same way she looked at her favorite puppy when it pissed on her shoes. That's all right, darling. Next time you'll get it right.

  He clenched his fists, his nails biting painfully into his palms. Somehow he had to rid himself of this compulsion about Beth. He was supposed to be gathering information. Plotting strategy. Looking for traitors. Not mooning around like a lovestruck adolescent in the grip of his first passion.

  Jon slowed his steps by the hollow near the schoolhouse. The pigs were still wallowing away, grunting happily, munching on a pile of corn someone had given them, apparently to keep them out of the way for the day. They squealed merrily and twitched their mud-caked, spiral tails.

  "Well, at least someone's having a good time," Jon mumbled under his breath, continuing on around the school. He paused when the sound of voices drifted to him; childish voices, taunting, calling, jeering. And one young voice desperately pleading. He slipped quietly around the corner, knowing it was none of his business but unable to help himself, remembering too well what it was like to be the one against many.

  A slender young girl was surrounded by half a dozen jumping and capering small boys. She was tall, gawky, with a mop of brilliantly red hair completely unrestrained by the two blue ribbons tied in it. Her nose was nearly the color of her hair, and Jon could tell she was on the verge of tears as she twisted and turned, trying to snatch something away from the nearest boy.

  "Give her back!"

  "You want her?" the boy, his own hair so blond it was almost white, jeered. "Then use those long sticks of arms and get her." He tossed a gray ball to the other side of the circle.

  The girl nearly stumbled over her feet as she whirled and ran toward the boy who'd caught the ball.

  "I hear cats always land on their feet." The second boy tossed the tiny puff of fur into the air again. "How high do ya think we can throw her before she don't make it?"

  "Please, just give her back," the little girl pleaded, her voice choked.

  "Yeah?" The boy held the kitten in one hand high above his head. "How you gonna make me, carrot?"

  "Yeah," added the boy next to him. "She's a carrot. Long and skinny and orange..."

  "I'm not orange! I just want Pickles. If you don't give her to me, I'll—"

  "Hello."

  The boys jumped abruptly, turning guilty faces toward the newcomer. They visibly relaxed when they saw it was Jon.

  The towheaded boy, apparently the self-appointed leader of the gang, puffed out his small chest and stepped forward. "I know you."

  "You do?" Jon said mildly.

  "Yeah. You're that stupid lobsterback. The one who shot the tree."

  "I'm Jon. What are you doing?"

  "Aw, nothin'." He shuffled his feet. "Jes' playin'."

  "Oh." Jon grinned. "That's good. Thought maybe you'd hurt the kitten."

  "Naw," he said, an innocent look on his face. "We was just teasin'."

  "Good." Jon crossed his arms over his chest, towering over the boys, who came barely to his hip. "Because, y'know, little kittens and girls and other things that are small and alone sometimes got big fathers and uncles and friends."

  "Jimmy," whispered another little boy, poking the leader in his side. "What if'n her father finds out?"

  "Her father, nothin'," said a third. "What about Bennie?..."

  "Don't worry about it." Jimmy gave the little girl a hard glare. "She ain't gonna tell nobody. Are ya, Sarah?"

  Sarah sniffled and wiped her sleeve across her eyes. "I want Pickles."

  Jimmy frowned and dumped the tiny gray puff of fur into Sarah's waiting hands.

  "Don't you boys think you'd better go back and find your parents?" Jon suggested.

  "Huh," Jimmy said belligerently. "We ain't gotta do somethin' jes cause you say, you lousy redcoat! We—"

  When Jon's hand clamped down on Jimmy's shoulder, he gulped. The man might be a stupid lobsterback, but he was a big stupid lobsterback. "We're goin'."

  Once the boys had scrambled around the corner, Jon knelt by Sarah, who was clutching her kitten to her chest. "Are you all right?"

  She sniffed. "I think so."

  "And Pickles?"

  "I don't know." She cuddled the mewling kitten, not seeming to notice the sharp little claws digging into her skin, and looked up at him. "Please, mister, don't tell anyone."

  "Why not?" he asked, wondering at the strange request.

  "Oh, please," she begged, her eyes beginning to shimmer again. "You can't!"

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jon caught a twitch of green coming around the corner of the school behind Sarah. Beth flew into his line of vision, her skirts clutched in both hands, her face set with grim determination. Anger and fierce protectiveness flashed in her eyes, and Jon could tell she was ready to lay into any little boy she got her hands on. This was not the quiet, controlled woman he'd seen in the tavern; here was the deep fire he'd sensed in her music.

  Jon threw up his hand, motioning her to stop. When she did, he lifted a finger to his lips and jerked his head toward the wall. Beth frowned but stayed put, standing near the spot he'd indicated. She held her body tensely, as if ready to jump in at the first sign of trouble.

  Jon returned his attention to Sarah, who stood holding her kitten to her cheek, her small shoulders still shaking.

  "Can I see your cat?"

  Sarah slowly lifted her face, her blue eyes swimming with tears. "Are you gonna hurt her, too?"

  "No." Jon reached out a finger and tested the delicate, smoke-colored tufts of fur on the kitten's back. "Did the boys hurt her?"

  "I think so. They threw her up in the air an' let her fall, an' now she's cryin'."

  "Let me see." He held out his hand, palm up.

  Sarah studied his hand. He waited patiently, not moving. Finally, she gave a tentative smile and carefully deposited the kitten in his hand.

  The kitten, so small it must barely be old enough to be away from her mother, gave one last yelp and quit mewling. She investigated her new perch, delicately tapping the pad of Jon's palm with her paw, her nose twitching, her tail swishing back and forth.

  The kitten nuzzled Jon's skin, and Pickles's tiny pink tongue came out to daintily test the unfamiliar substance.

  "She tickles."

  Sarah gave a watery giggle. "She does, doesn't she?"

  The kitten evidently decided Jon wasn't edible. Lifting her head, Pickles curled around and around on Jon's hand before settling down into a tight ball of fluff. She was the dark, smooth gray of a warm, cloudy autumn sky, and she looked ridiculously tiny in Jon's big pa
lm. Jon felt a faint, gentle vibration as the kitten began to purr.

  "She likes you," Sarah said.

  "Do you think so?" With the forefinger of his other hand, Jon lightly stroked the kitten's back. "How about you, Sarah? Are you feeling better?"

  "Some." She wiped her forearm across her nose and sniffled again.

  "What's the matter? Are you hurt?"

  "No." Her shoulders drooped. "But I cried."

  "People cry when they're sad, Sarah."

  Sarah scrunched up her freckled nose. "Do you?"

  Jon's throat tightened as he fought the memory of when he'd been not much older than Sarah and it seemed as if he'd done nothing but cry. "Sometimes. Everybody cries sometimes."

  "Not Bennie," Sarah asserted.

  "Bennie?" Jon lifted his gaze to Beth. Leaning comfortably against the schoolhouse, she looked relaxed, her calm restored. At his questioning look, she shrugged. "Never?"

  "Never," Sarah said with conviction.

  "That why you didn't want anyone to know?"

  "Yeah."

  "I won't tell," he assured her. "Here." Jon deposited the kitten into Sara's hands. "Maybe you should find your mother now."

  "Thank you, Mr...."

  "Jon."

  "Mr. Jon." Sarah whirled and skipped awkwardly away, smiling brightly when she caught sight of Bennie. "Oh, hi, Auntie Bennie. This is my new friend. His name is Jon."

  "Yes, I know, Sarah. He's a friend of mine too."

  "Is he? I don't know why Grandpa always says the redcoats are bad men. Jon's nice. He's pretty, too, don't you think, Aunt Bennie?"

  "Ah..." Bennie felt her cheeks heat. "Why, yes, he's pretty."

  "I'm going back to the mustering. Are you coming?"

  "Soon."

  Bennie watched her niece run toward the meadow, her kitten tucked in her arms. Although her brothers were proving every bit as good at producing boys as their father was, Adam had managed to have one girl in the midst of siring miniature versions of himself.

  Sarah was Bennie's only niece, and she reminded Bennie so much of herself. Taller than the other children her age, with big hands and feet that Bennie was terribly afraid she would grow into, Sarah had the added disadvantage of having inherited her mother's blazing hair. Bennie knew too well what the next few years were going to be like for her niece and silently vowed to make them as easy for Sarah as she could.

  "Hello, Beth." Jon's deep voice rumbled behind her. Bennie smoothed her hands over the wild mess of her hair, finding her quick run from the meadow had left it hopelessly tangled. She closed her eyes briefly—had he heard her call him pretty?—and turned.

  She shouldn't have worried. He was grinning at her as always, openness shining from every beautiful plane of his face. "Ta-da!" he said triumphantly. "You came to rescue her?"

  "Well, yes."

  "How did you know?"

  "To come?" He bobbed his head in response to her question. "Oh, Adam came to get me. He saw the boys bothering his sister and ran and found me."

  "Why you?"

  "Me? I'm a little protective, I guess. About my family. The boys have sort of gotten in the habit of coming to me, because, well, their fathers sort of expect them to handle things themselves."

  He'd been walking toward her, all the time she was talking, and now he was close to her; oh, so close to her. His chest filled her vision, and all she would have to do was reach out to touch him.

  He braced an arm against the wall beside her head, nearly caging her in. He loomed over her, and if he had been anyone else, she might have been frightened.

  But this was Jon, and she wasn't frightened, even if her heart was pounding just as if she were. She wondered at this compulsion to touch him; the memory of her arms around him by the creek was so clear and vivid she could still feel it.

  It wasn't only that he was beautiful. It was his purity of spirit that drew her; Jon would never judge and find wanting. He would only like, and enjoy, and accept.

  She lifted her face to his. She could see the rough, dark stubble on the elegant, defined planes of his chin, and the lush, straight fringe of mink-brown lashes. His eyes were pale, pale blue, like thick ice in the deepest part of winter, when spring is only a dream.

  He brushed his knuckle under her eye, as if wiping away a tear, a touch so slow and gentle it felt as soft as that tear would, tracing down her skin. She tilted her head, seeking more of his touch.

  "Beth." He moved his hand to her other cheek, slipping his finger along the lashes rimming her lower lid, but never in danger of coming too close to her eye. "You never cry?"

  "Oh." There were tiny nicks marring the perfection of his chin. He'd hurt himself shaving, and she gave in to the impulse to smooth her fingers soothingly over the cuts. "I... not for a long time. My brothers used to have great fun seeing if they could make me wail. After a while, I learned not to show what I was feeling."

  His skin was rough with the day's growth of beard; prickly, ticklish, masculine. The touch of her fingers became the touch of her palm; she cupped his cheek in her hand.

  "Sometimes," he said, his voice rough and mesmerizing, "sometimes, it's good to let the feelings out."

  There was a flash in his eyes, a bolt of spring sky in the winter ice. He dropped his hand abruptly and stepped back, a sudden, jarring motion.

  "Are they done shooting?"

  "What?" Bennie shook her head in confusion at the precipitate change of topic. "Oh, yes, I believe so."

  "What's next?"

  "Ah, knife throwing, I think."

  "Good. I must go now. Coming?"

  He turned and strode away, his long legs eating up the distance in great chunks. Bennie hurried along beside him, wondering when her gentle friend had become so enamored of sharp weapons.

  ***

  Jon leaned against an old denuded oak tree, staring down at the blood flowing freely between his thumb and forefinger. Damn. He'd meant only to give himself a bit of a nick. Seems he'd gotten a bit overenthusiastic.

  Back beside the school, he'd had to get away from Beth before he did something stupid. So he'd rushed off to the knife throwing competition, Beth trailing along in his wake. When they'd reached the meadow he'd immediately plunged into a group of soldiers, leaving Beth to join her family.

  But then he'd seen some skinny little dark-haired fellow smile at her. And when that fellow had had his turn, he'd thrown his knife dead center into the middle of the target.

  On Jon's own turn, he'd taken the sharp blade between his fingers and drawn back his arm, ready to hurl the weapon straight into the bull's-eye. That's when he'd known he was in real trouble.

  He was coming damn close to letting everything he'd worked for the past six years get away, not to mention putting his own life in danger in the process. He'd let the knife slip, and it had bitten deeply into his skin.

  Jon ripped a ragged piece of linen off the bottom of his shirt. Wadding it up, he pressed it against the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  He'd run off into the woods after his "accident," not staying to hear the jeers of the spectators, not daring to glance at Beth. He couldn't.

  He was going to have to do something about her. He couldn't stay away from her completely. It certainly hadn't worked the last time he'd tried it. His job was going to require running across her now and again, and the drought had made him crazier when he finally did see her.

  Or he could spend as much time with her as possible, hoping proximity would blunt her allure. Maybe she wasn't as wonderful as he kept imagining. Not as strong, or sweet, or soft...

  Soft. The skin beneath her eye had been tender, incredibly smooth, and he'd seen her shiver when he'd touched her.

  Wonderful. He jammed the rag viciously against his hand, hoping the pain would bring him to his senses.

  "You're going to make it worse."

  She was there, slipping between the trees and taking his hand in hers, her warm brown eyes soft and concerned. She peeled away the cloth,
wincing when she saw the gash in his skin.

  "Does it hurt?"

  Wordlessly, he nodded. It seemed he hadn't made a big enough fool of himself to get her to stay away from him yet. He should have known his helplessness would appeal to her protective instincts.

  Suddenly he was terribly sure it would never be enough. Keeping away from her wasn't going to work. But trying to spend enough time with her so that the infatuation would wear off wasn't going to work either. Nothing was going to work, and he didn't know what he was going to do about it.

  Her brow puckered in concern, she dabbed carefully at his wound. "This is going to need tending. Will you come back to the Dancing Eel with me?"

  Bloody hell. He'd go anywhere she asked.

  "Yes."

  ***

  Bending low over Jon's hand, Bennie wound a strip of cloth around it one more time. Tying the rag securely, she tugged carefully, testing the knot.

  "There. That should do it. Can you use it?"

  She settled back onto the bench next to Jon. The tavern was empty; everyone was still out at the mustering. She was unused to the room like this, vacant and quiet; it seemed friendly, cozy, wrapping them in a quiet cocoon of warmth and welcome.

  The tankard of ale she'd fetched Jon sat, still untasted, at his elbow. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, and there were dark brown splotches of blood on his breeches. His hair had come completely out of its club, hanging in a smooth, brown sweep to his shoulders.

  He watched his hand as he flexed it slowly, opening and closing his fingers as if he wasn't quite sure they would follow his will. His head was down; he hadn't looked at her since she'd found him in the woods.

  "Does it still hurt?"

  "No."

  His shoulders drooped, seeming as if all his energy had been washed out with his blood.

  "What's the matter, then?"

  "Clumsy."

  "You're not clumsy."

  "Yes!" he burst out. "Stupid Jon. Clumsy Jon. Always wrong. Always dumb. Always clumsy."

  "No." She lifted his injured hand, palm up, cradling it in her own. "See this, Jon?"

  He gave a small snort. "My hand."

  "Yes, your hand." She brushed her fingers over the swells of his palm, tracing the small hills and valleys. "It's such a big hand. I saw you hold that kitten. You could have crushed it so easily. All you would have had to do is close your hand and squeeze."