Moonlight Rebel (39 page)

When his hands touched her, slowly stroking, she trembled, but it was from wanting, not fear. Her knees were like water, and she sank down to the ground, holding tight, drawing him with her. Anticipation sang through her veins.

He was beside her, the length of his body firm and hard. Heat surrounded her, making her want to shed the remainder of her clothing, making her want him to be closer still. Her head began to whirl as his mouth found her breasts. The rapid breathing she heard was her own, echoing in her head.

She moved against him, her body calling to his. She didn't quite understand what this mystery of becoming one was, she only knew she wanted it to be with him.

When she moved like that, he couldn't refrain from touch
ing her, from lightly tracing the soft outlines of her curves with
the hollow of his hand. He gently massaged the peaks of her breasts until they grew hard and deep pink against his fingertips. He saw her excitement heightening. Such a beautiful woman, he thought, covering her with a blanket of kisses.

He caressed her, seeking her through the layers of material that separated them, then slowly pulled them aside until there was nothing but her bare flesh. It quivered temptingly as he took possession of her.

Her skirt about her waist, pantaloons cast aside, Savannah felt the weight of his body roll onto her.

He saw no fear, only wonder and desire in her eyes. Framing her face in his hands, he brought his mouth down on hers. Gently, gently the kisses flamed until there was no turning back for either one of them.

Responding to the pressure of his manliness, she spread her legs beneath him, her heart pounding, her brain reeling with exhilaration. And then a fire shot through her as he pressed his mouth hard against hers in an effort to divert the sharp slash of pain she would feel as he came to her, full-blooded with desire and passion.

"Oh!" She dug her fingers into his back as the hurt claimed her. But as the fire of pain died off, fading, a new blaze came in its wake, a hot, consuming desire. Exquisite pleasure exploded within her, and she knew that she was forever lost and did not care.

Chapter Thirty One

It amazed Jason to discover how many people weren't what they claimed to be. Farmers were no longer just farmers. Tradesmen were employed in clandestine endeavors. And sea captains were agents for foreign governments. War had created a very strange world in which reality was what one made it to be.

And he, a plantation owner's son, what was he? A smuggler? A thief against the Crown? What?

He hadn't come to terms with it all yet. All Jason knew was that he was waiting for a man he had never met to tell him where and when he could deliver his bales of tobacco and receive proper reimbursement. Illegal reimbursement.

Many a privateer was out to make a fortune for himself these days, with no care as to loyalties or sides. Jason felt the tip of the knife he carried sheathed beneath his money belt. Anyone bearing money was wary of highwaymen. It wasn't only the armies that were desperate for funds.

Jason leaned against the old weather-beaten tavern where he had first encountered Krystyna. The gray shroud that hung over the sea was slowly lifting, admitting the sun.

Though the morning was overcast, Jason felt exhilarated. A tremendous sense of purpose had filled him, once he had cast his lot with the rebels. He was surprised at just how much he had changed.

How much she had changed him.

His dark eyes scanned the docks, watching for a man to approach as had been prearranged through the connection provided by Count Andrej.
I've changed in more than one way
, he thought. Because of Krystyna.

It was as if she had cast some sort of spell on him. Perhaps, he smiled to himself, she had. Perhaps they practiced magic where she came from. But magic or no, it was hard to deny the effects. He wanted no one else. He craved her kisses as he lay alone in bed at night. Her response to his touch. Her love.

Admit it, you're in love. Hopelessly, miserably, completely in love.

Jason grinned as he watched a sea gull struggle against the winds that were only now dying down. Who would ever have thought it? Jason McKinley, in love. Someone had once said he had a heart of iron. He'd even believed it himself. Well, if it was made of iron, it had been melted down by the spark of fire in her eyes.

Now that he had admitted it, recognized it for what it was, what was he to do about it? Though there was no denying she felt something for him, he knew Krystyna wanted to return home. He didn't want to keep her here against her will.

Yet he didn't want her leaving him. Ever.

A whistling, low and tuneless, caused Jason to push aside his thoughts. He looked up and down the lone street, marked only by two hitching posts set ten feet apart. An old, rumpled-looking sailor was aimlessly walking toward him. A beaten, shapeless duffel bag was slung over his shoulder.

As he drew closer, the man's features were more distinguishable. He was as gray and wrinkled as the morning, both in his clothing and in his face. But his eyes were sharp and alert beneath hooded lids. This was the man. Jason was sure of it.

"Ah, young sir, could you kindly tell me how to get to Sam's
Tavern?" the sailor called out.

Jason waited until the sailor was abreast of him. "A little early to be celebrating, isn't it?" Those were the words he had been told to repeat.

"Never too early . . . never too late." The sailor shifted his duffel bag to the other shoulder.

Jason moved away from the wall. "Going in myself." He nodded toward the clapboard structure. "Care to join me for breakfast?"

The grizzled beard parted as yellowed teeth emerged in a smile. "Aye. Haven't had a meal without the floor sway in' under me for goin' on nine months." He clamped a bearlike arm around Jason's shoulders and walked with him to the front of the building.

Samuel was there. He lived above the tavern and spent most of his waking hours within the large room. Help was short, so there was always something that needed doing.

There was only one girl in the place, and she was younger than the ones Jason had usually seen there. Possibly Sam's daughter, he mused, and she's kept hidden during the later hours when men are wont to swallow such an innocent-looking morsel in one bite. In the mornings only men hungry for food, not companionship, appeared.

Jason took a chair opposite the sailor at a rickety table. All of Sam's tables and chairs were mismatched — and older than the Colonies, he'd like to wager.

The girl looked up, as if just aware of their presence. With a sigh, she put down her broom and wiped her hands on the torn apron about her waist.

"What'll it be this morning, sirs?" The question was for both, her eyes only for Jason.

"Two eggs with a side of bacon, young miss." The sailor slid
his eyes over the young body, and Jason suspected that his mouth was watering, not for the food he ordered but for the bearer. "And the young fellow here," he jabbed the stump of a index finger in Jason's direction, "will have the same."

The girl, hardly more than fifteen, leaned forward ever so slightly. "Will that be all?"

There was a cough behind the girl, and she jumped, whirling around.

"Merry, hurry about their orders," Sam ordered gruffly.

She hastened to comply, and Sam returned to his task of arranging the ale tankards in neat rows behind the counter.

There was one other occupant in the tavern, an older man dunking bread into the watered-down tea Sam was forced to serve these days. Thin and scholarly-looking, he stared out the window, apparently ignoring everyone else in the room.

Jason watched him for a moment, wondering if he was what he seemed or if he, too, had another role to play in these uncertain times. Satisfied that the man wasn't paying any attention to them, Jason turned to his new companion. "Where?" he asked simply.

"At the dock at midnight. Wednesday." The sailor's lips hardly seemed to move.

A week.

Jason nodded and took a deep breath. Well, there was nothing more to be done except wait. He studied his newest contact. The man hardly appeared to have the wits for this sort of venture. But Jason had discovered no one involved in smuggling and illegal trading looked the way he thought they might. Jason's first contact had been a foppish, aristocratic-looking man temporarily living above a tavern twenty miles east of Norfolk. He took snuff every two minutes and spoke with an accent that was similar to Krystyna's.

Or maybe it is just my longing for her that makes it seem that way, Jason thought.

All he knew about that first man was his name. He didn't even know that much about the man seated across from him. Jason was beginning to believe that there were foreigners all around him. The man training soldiers was a Prussian. He knew of two Poles attached to the army. Washington's friend was a marquis from France. And now the contraband traders were who-knew-what.

"Dutch?" Jason guessed suddenly.

The sailor's grin spread so wide that a gold tooth peeked out on the far side of his mouth. "Ah, so noticeable?"

Jason shrugged. "Just a good guess."

"Don't get too good at guessing things like that, boy," the man warned, though his tone was friendly. "Might not be best for your health. Some people want to pass in and out of your life like shadows."

The bar girl returned, the tray balanced awkwardly in her hands. She set it down with a thud. Jason caught a plate that was about to land in his lap. "Haven't been at this long?"

She blushed. "Only a week." She smiled in response to Jason's look of encouragement. "But I'm getting better. My first day I spilled some hot tea on a man. My father like to skin me alive." She rolled her eyes as she took the remaining plates off the tray.

"And for good reason, too," Samuel called out, the rag in his
hand raised above the bar. "You'll never make a good living scalding the customers."

"Will you be needing anything else, sirs?" her voice low, she
asked. Again she was only looking at Jason, and he understood that she was not just offering food. He wondered if Sam had overheard.

"No, but I'll call you if there is," Jason promised.

The sailor cleared his throat as she left. "Women always throw themselves at you like that?" He nodded at her retreating back.

Jason shrugged the matter off. "She was only being friendly."

"Ah, I could use some of that friendliness," the sailor said with a dry laugh. "A man needs a little entertainment once in a while to remind him he's a man and not just a thing that follows orders."

"Are you?"

The sailor's face showed that he felt he had said too much. He smiled broadly, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. "I take my orders well, lad. The pay's good, so there's no need to complain." He dug into his meal heartily, calling an end to the discussion.

From what his contact had said, Jason gathered that all the man was concerned with was delivering the money and collecting the goods. Another go-between. While he was supposed to return with the money and hand it over to that foppish Count Andrej, who would send it on its way to Washington via some underground path. It was much too vague to Jason's liking. But he knew his preferences didn't matter. He was only a part of a large network.

"This war," the sailor continued after several minutes, as if the conversation hadn't abruptly stopped of his own choosing, "has opened up all your markets to us. If we are daring enough to elude the British." He winked. "My captain is most anxious to secure the goods for his employer." His tone grew somber as the smile instantly vanished. "There will be no hag
gling."

"No," Jason agreed. "There'll be none. There is a set price, and it'll stay set." A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth now. "You see, I have an 'employer' too, and he has more than one connection," Jason lied, hoping to make the sailor think he didn't hold all the cards.

A look akin to admiration flashed through the sea gray eyes as the man glanced up from his plate, then went on soaking up the remnants of his runny eggs with bread. "Fine, young sir, fine. Just so we understand each other. Will you be alone?"

"Will you?" Jason countered.

"Good." The sailor nodded, pleased. "Never trust anyone. Doesn't pay."

The man in the corner rose and walked out. Both Jason and the sailor looked after him as the door closed behind the tall figure.

"Know him?" the sailor asked.

Jason shook his head. "He was too far away," he answered, realizing what was on the other man's mind.

The sailor shook his head slowly. "They're never too far
away. You'd be surprised what can carry."
_v

"Then it's off?"

"We can't afford for it to be off," the old sailor told Jason bluntly. "The risk is half the reward."

Laughing, he pushed away from the table, took his bag and left. The same tuneless whistle marked his departure and hung in the air. To Jason it sounded eerie, like a funeral dirge.

Chapter Thirty Two

"Winthrop, come in here this instant!"

Winthrop winced. He had only five minutes ago walked into the house. One of the slaves must have informed his father of his return. He had wanted to go to his room and care for his bruised chin in peace. Now he would have to stand about like some errant schoolboy and listen to a lengthy lecture about the Rutherfords' place in society and their obligation to set an example.

Not seeing any way around his fate, Winthrop morosely entered the parlor. Elliot Rutherford was not alone. His brother-in-law, the Reverend Peregrine Blake was with him. Both men's expressions were grim.

Elliot was about to launch into the subject of his summons as Winthrop walked through the doorway. The large, discolored mark on his son's chin stopped him. "Good Lord, what's happened to your face?"

"Walked into a door," Winthrop mumbled weakly, hoping that would be the end of it.

It might not have been, had the news the elder Rutherford was about to impart not been so grave. "Winthrop, Blake has been informing me of some rather shocking news."