The Patriot's Conquest (2 page)

His simple tradesman attire contrasted sharply with the intelligent man underneath. A stained leather apron tied at the waist and leather breeches covered long, powerful legs clad in doeskin boots. A black ribbon tied back a shock of midnight hair into a neat queue. Much of his face remained concealed beneath a bristling beard and mustache. Sweat plastered the white linen shirt, rolled up to his elbows, to his massive chest. Arms big as oak timbers folded across that chest.

She’d prided herself on becoming a proper lady. Now in a few minutes, he’d cracked open her dignified shell. She’d lost her temper and sworn.

She could not afford to lose anything else. What had Lord Dunmore said?
Use your feminine wiles.
Her mother’s cousin forced her to spy on Clayton. Her casual acquaintance with Clayton’s sister provided perfect cover. When Amanda had balked, Dunmore countered. If she didn’t find evidence to hang Clayton and Patrick Henry, Dunmore would claim the note holding everything her family owned and send them into the almshouse.

Clayton and his friend, Patrick Henry, constituted a political wick and powder keg, their words the spark that could explode sleepy Williamsburg. Dunmore was determined to find the culprit smuggling government information to Henry. He suspected Clayton’s involvement, but had no proof.

Picking up her skirts she led the way to her waiting chestnut mare. Sage stood tethered to the hitching post on the street. Amanda brushed a gloved hand tenderly over her muzzle.

“A fine animal,” the smith commented over her shoulder. His low, husky voice sent an excited tremor sliding down her spine.

Jeffrey Clayton sidestepped her and patted Sage’s withers. “Good carriage, a product of fine breeding. Just like her owner.”

Amanda ground her teeth at his sarcastic tone. “She is a spirited horse who does not easily let strangers handle her. You are advised, sir, to be cautious around her. ’Tis the rear left shoe she has thrown.”

The smith continued stroking Sage’s withers, speaking quietly to her. He bent over, and with extreme gentleness, picked up her front left hoof.

“Her rear left shoe,” she insisted.

Lowering the hoof to the ground, he straightened and gave her an exasperated look. “I never pick up a horse’s back foot until I see how well he handles. I haven’t a fancy for being kicked in the ribs.”

He carefully maneuvered to Sage’s rear and picked up the shoeless hoof.

“Been riding rough over hard ground. Only reason to throw a shoe. What in the name of the Almighty were you in such a hurry for? Afraid the colonists were chasing you back to England?”

“Please, let the rhetoric lie where it belongs and attend to my horse.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. He took the mare’s reins. “I must fit her first. You can return later.”

“Thank you, but I prefer to wait. My horse is of utmost importance to me.”

“Your choice, Miss Reeves.”

He led Sage into the yard and tied her to a tree. He strode into the shop and returned with tools. The smith clipped away Sage’s hoof, and filed it to a level surface. He gave her a gentle pat, far more gentle than his earlier caustic words.

Amanda followed him back into the shop, drawing back as he pumped the bellows into the forge fire. Muscles on his powerful arms flexed with each movement. Sweat trickled down her temple as she admired his brute strength. He thrust iron into the glowing coals and when it became red-hot he put it on the anvil and shaped it into a horseshoe.

He picked up the still glowing shoe by the tongs and turned to go outside. Amanda followed. He lifted Sage’s rear hoof with one hand, the horseshoe in his other. He pressed the shoe to her hoof. A rank scorching smell assaulted Amanda’s nostrils.

Removing the shoe, he nodded and dropped Sage’s hoof.

“Perfect fit. The horse doesn’t feel a thing,” he bragged.

“Why do you not try it? Perhaps a hot iron pressed to your feet might increase your speed when you come face to face with His Majesty’s soldiers.”

Gleaming, even white teeth flashed as he laughed. The deep, hearty chuckle reminded her of boisterous, adventurous men who promised excitement. And danger. And ravishment.

“I have yet to run away from a good fight,” he replied, his expression filled with challenge.

Amanda bit her lip as she followed him back into the shop. Watching him hammer the shoe, she wondered about this man who dared to urge all colonists to boycott her father’s store. What drove him? Why did he and other colonists despise the mother country?

Soot and smoke hung in a low cloud inside the shop. Tools lay haphazardly scattered on a long wood table. She saw nothing extraordinary. Iron and metal implements. An elegant walking stick with an eagle’s head stood upright against the counter. She studied it carefully. A tiny part of the eagle’s beak had broken off. Still, it looked expensive. Her curiosity rose. A smith with a gentleman’s stick?

“A splendid cane,” she observed. “Yours?”

He stopped hammering, followed her glance. “My father’s. ’Tis all I have of his.”

“A fine instrument for a smith.”

Those pewter eyes went flatter than the iron he hammered. “Is not a mere blacksmith permitted a cane, Miss Reeves? Especially a wounded veteran of the French and Indian war who needs such a stick to help him walk long distances?”

“Oh, I am sorry,” she murmured, stricken. “I did not know you had served.”

“’Tis a matter I prefer to forget, since I have realized I fought on the wrong side.”

“The wrong side?”

“The side of the British.”

Amanda clenched her teeth. As he dropped the shoe into the water-filled wood tub, it made a virulent hiss she wanted to echo.

When he walked outside again, nails in mouth, cooled shoe in hand, she grew determined to engage him. Her gaze drifted over the impressive breath of his muscled shoulders as he lifted Sage’s hoof.

“You are newly arrived in Williamsburg, are you not?”

“Just arrived this winter from Massachusetts.” He banged on the horseshoe, his muscles flexing with the hammer’s rhythm.

“So, that explains your loyalties to the north and all the talk of revolt and boycotting my father’s store. Most in Williamsburg are peaceful and not so strident when it comes to talk of revolution. They will not listen to you.”

“Peaceful? I’d hardly call Virginians peaceful. Especially not since Patrick’s speech at Richmond.”

The smith’s condescending tone irritated her. Patrick Henry’s speech at the second Virginia Convention had incited many colonists. Some called the oratory “stirring.” Dunmore called it hogwash. Amanda felt an instinctive need to debate and prove Jeffrey Clayton wrong.

“In Williamsburg, most are law-abiding citizens. They will not be so easily led to disruption by Mr. Henry.”

“Everything will change,” he said.

What a snide, cocky attitude. He hammered home that point with the last nail. Straightening, he wiped his forehead with a damp shirt sleeve. Amanda bristled.

“Nay, it will not. Williamsburg is the political and educational center of Virginia. Indeed, the balls held at the governor’s mansion rival those in London!”

He cocked his head at her. “London? You barely look the age to have had a London season,” he said in a teasing tone.

The compliment fell on deaf ears. Amanda hid her inner shame. Even with Lord Dunmore’s connections, her social status in England didn’t grant her one London season. “I am two and twenty,” she responded.

A charming grin lit up his face. “So you say, Miss Reeves.”

“I can assure you, sir, that as a British subject, I have been taught not to tell a falsehood. Honor cloaks us as does tradition.”

“British honor.” His mouth thinned into a tight slash. “Was it honor when His Majesty’s men burned my home in Massachusetts?”

Amanda stared. “Heavens, why would they do that?”

Fire burned deep within those silvery eyes, turning them to ash. “Your king’s Quartering Act. Said we in Massachusetts had to provide housing for British soldiers. I refused. They burned my house. End of story.”

Her stomach churned. This was the first real act of violence she’d heard of that could not be easily justified.

“I am sorry. It must be quite awful losing all you own.”

“Not as awful as living under the iron fist of a tyrannical king dictating our lives from across the ocean.”

Amanda gritted her teeth. “Those who would find our king tyrannical, perhaps are equally so in their own right. Such men are criminals in their tyrannical slander of the Crown.”

He gave her a long, hard look. “I’m a man, Miss Reeves, who speaks the truth. If that makes me a criminal, so be it.”

Preparing a response, she turned as a tall, elegantly-dressed man with chestnut hair strode through the rear gate. He hailed Clayton with a hand wave. The smith flashed a charming grin and waved back.

“Jeffrey.” Thomas Jefferson clasped his hand in a firm shake. Amanda stared. Gentry socializing with a common laborer? Why would a member of the House of Burgess bother with the smith?

“Will you meet at George’s house this afternoon? We have need of your brilliant wit.” Jefferson regarded the smith with such respect Amanda’s jaw dropped.

Clayton glanced toward the weatherworn shop. “’Tis much work I have today, but I’ll be there later. Don’t drink all that French brandy, Tom. I’ll have a mighty thirst when I arrive.”

Jefferson laughed, and clapped the smith’s soot-covered shoulder. “Aye, fear not. I shall save you enough to quench your thirst.”

“Ahem,” she coughed, trying to sound delicate and conceal her annoyance at being ignored.

A hazel gaze filled with admiration flicked to her. Amanda gave the lawyer her warmest smile.

The smith’s own eyes twinkled with amusement. “Miss Reeves, Mr. Thomas Jefferson. Tom, do you know Miss Amanda Reeves? She stopped by in desperate need of a mount and I have done my best to oblige her.”

Amanda bristled at his suggestive remark. Fortunately, Jefferson took no notice, but his gaze narrowed at her. “Miss Reeves? Your father runs Reeves Imported Goods, does he not?”

“Yes, good sir,” she murmured, tugging at one glove.

“Your father’s store is connected to London. I do not approve of merchants who ignore the boycott and continue to sell English goods.” He studied her riding habit.

The stinging note of chilled censure tainted his tone. Words failed her. Amanda dropped her gaze and wistfully fingered the lovely velvet she’d been so proud to wear, for it marked her as a lady of quality. .

He turned toward Jeffrey Clayton. “Well Jeffrey, we shall expect you promptly at five.”

Mr. Jefferson barely tipped his hat to her. Shame reddened Amanda’s face. Slighted again by the gentry. Would they ever accept her? In England, the upper class ignored her because of her father’s merchant status. Here, loyalty to Dunmore and the King ostracized her from the gentry like Jefferson. Her stomach clenched with a familiar knot of painful longing. Would she ever truly belong anywhere?

She caught Jeffrey Clayton studying her with a quiet look. Amanda raised her chin as if the snub mattered not. She would not let this blacksmith know how much the insult stung.

He patted Sage’s rump, then took her reins and led her into the street. “I’ll put it on your family’s account. I’m sure your father is good for it. For now.” Amanda clenched her fists, resisting the overpowering urge to slap the smile from his face.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“Let me help you mount.” He winked, and then bent down and linked his hands together.

Brash man. “Nay.”

With the smith following her, Amanda led Sage to a small stump, climbed it and put one booted toe into the metal stirrup. Grabbing the pommel, she raised herself up, but Sage shifted.

Amanda let out a startled cry and fell backward.

Two strong arms caught her. She became aware of the power of the man, the steady, assured way he held her. Her bare skin blazed as his fingers brushed against the space between her gloved hand and sleeve.

After untangling her foot from the stirrup, the smith set her down. His jaw tightened as he looked at her with obvious concern. “Are you all right?”

“Aye.” To hide her agitation, she brushed her skirts.

“I will help you,” he said in a commanding tone.

He stood on the stump and settled those large hands firmly about her waist. Before she could squeak a protest, he lifted her and placed her atop her horse as though she weighed little more than a horseshoe. Amanda settled herself into the saddle.

She nodded. “I thank you, sir, and good day to you.” Clicking to Sage, she trotted off at a leisurely pace down Francis Street, heading east to Hangman’s Road.

When the buildings of town faded into the distance, she swung her leg over the saddle to ride astride, then kicked Sage into a fierce gallop. Jeffrey Clayton. Dangerous radical. Heat filled her body as she thought of his possessive grip around her waist. The man’s touch filled her with fire she must extinguish lest it burn her again.

This afternoon she would visit the Wythes, observe Jeffrey Clayton, perhaps overhear some information and beg a favor of George Wythe. His wife liked her, one of the few society ladies who didn’t turn up a haughty nose at her Loyalist tendencies.

Amanda knew she could cause Jeffrey Clayton to confess his secrets. Even if it meant risking unleashing passions that were best kept tightly reined. Never again would she allow herself to lose control like she had back in England. Jeffrey Clayton would test her sorely. He bristled with an incredible vitality lacking among Williamsburg’s gentlemen. But he was not the sort for her, not with that earthy masculinity. Shame filled her as she remembered how a similar man had ruined her reputation. Because of that incident, Papa had been forced to settle in the hated Colonies.

She’d be bloody well damned before she let him down again.