The Patriot's Conquest (5 page)

Skin, creamy as fresh milk from his sister’s farm. A sensual mouth made for sin. Amanda. Soft light caught the gleaming folds of her green watered-silk gown edged with white lace. Pearls wove through the curls pinned to her head. One rose-gold lock rested on her shoulder like a sleepy kitten. Pearls encircled her long white throat. She was elegance and grace. A proper lady.

Setting the candlestick down upon the same secretary Jeffrey had searched, she glanced round. Her head pivoted toward the direction of the cracked door. Jeffrey made the mistake of shifting his weight on the floorboards. One creaked like the rattle of old bones.

Tilting her head, she appeared to listen. She lifted the candlestick, approached and pushed open the door. Jeffrey donned his glasses and stepped back. A tongue of light licked the darkness, swept over the bedroom and caught him before he could flee into inky blackness.

“What are you doing? These are private rooms!”

Memories of Rogers’ Rangers in the French and Indian war shot through his mind like rapid musket fire.
Rogers’ Rangers Rule #7: If you must receive the enemy’s fire, fall down until it is over, then rise and discharge.
He arranged his face into a chagrined mask.

“My apologies. I am waiting for a particular lady to join me.” He cursed his weak excuse. But he hadn’t planned on being caught. No one ever caught Lieutenant Jeffrey Clayton, one of the finest scouts ever to belong to the elite Ranging Corps.

“Which lady?” she demanded, stepping closer and setting the brass candlestick down upon a fruitwood table.

“A lady familiar with these quarters.”

“You sir, are either a liar or an utter cad. Either way, my cousin shall be quite interested in hearing you are seducing his sixteen-year-old daughter, for this is her bedroom.” She turned on her dainty little heels.

Jeffrey was on her in seconds. He wrapped one hand around her throat, the other around her mouth. If she cried out, she’d bring Dunmore’s guards running.

The hangman’s noose came to mind again. Jeffrey cursed silently, wishing he’d never agreed to this foolhardy task.

“Don’t scream,” The deep voice rumbled into her ear.

Fear squeezed her heart, tripling its cadence as a broad hand encircled her throat. She writhed in the stranger’s powerful grip, aware of the hard male body trapping her against the wall.

She had fled upstairs to escape the avid attention of her beau, Captain William Christopher, Lord Dunmore’s secretary. Now Amanda wished she had subjected herself to William’s attempts to lure her into the garden for his sloppy kisses.

The warm, callused palm pressing against her mouth made breathing difficult. Instead of screaming, she bit. He cursed softly and pulled her closer.

“Do that again and I’ll be forced to hurt you, Miss Reeves,” he warned.

The brigand knew her name. His voice sounded familiar and carried a note of natural command.

“Sir, you are choking me!”

He eased his steel grip around her throat. “I’m releasing my hand, but if you scream, I’ll wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze harder. Nod if you agree not to scream.”

At her nod, he spun her around and pushed her back against the wall, pinning her shoulders with hands that felt like solid iron.

Squinting, she studied him in the candle’s soft glow. When she’d seen the impressive, tall man standing out amongst the dull, foppish crowd downstairs, her curiosity had risen. Despite his elegant attire, he looked different. He had an air of masculine power and a broad form that looked accustomed to hard labor. Sir Job Brook, a newcomer from England. His pink satin waistcoat, red breeches and matching coat and the froth of lace at his throat might fool others into thinking him an English dandy. Not her. Instinct warned the man was an imposter.

Her gaze drifted to the arresting eyes beneath the spectacles. Steely as burnished metal. The deep timbre of his voice rippled over her like raw silk. His scent, soap and bay rum, teased her nostrils. The hands holding her hostage were too strong to match his title. Strong, like a blacksmith...

Her startled gasp filled the silence. “Jeffrey Clayton!”

Too late, she realized her mistake. A low growl purred from his throat as he leaned into her.

“’Tis a pity you found out, Amanda. What am I going to do with you?”

Amanda concealed her fear with bristling indignation.

“What are
you
doing here, Mr. Clayton? Surely not meeting my cousin’s daughter to take liberties with her?”

“Simpering children are not to my taste. Perhaps I am here to seduce a lady instead. I have heard rumors about a woman connected to our Lord Governor who fled England. Something about a ruined reputation?”

She swallowed hard. “Who... who told you this? Surely ’tis town gossip.”

A crooked smile tugged his mouth upward. The hard planes of his face contrasted sharply with his sensual lips. Amanda bit her own lip, warning herself.

“I have found truth in town gossip.”

Her gaze shifted away. In England, Amanda had believed her beau’s professions of adoring love. At the Harcourt’s ball, she’d slipped out with him for a walk in the garden. John had called her beautiful and begged for just one kiss. One kiss had led to another and damned her forever...

Her marriage chances in England were ruined. The Colonies offered the only hope to escape her soiled reputation. Amanda summoned her coolest look.

“Your sources, sir, are but rebels who wish to blacken the reputation of a lady who will never forsake allegiance to her king. I would expect nothing less from hooligans. For they would do anything to mock the mother country and those loyal to her.”

“You are more beautiful than morning dew upon the petals of a blood-red rose,” he murmured.

“A gentleman would not say such things,” she finally said in a tiny, breathless voice. “A gentleman would release me at once. If that is what you masquerade as, you shall do it.”

“You give me too much credit. I have not ever been, nor will ever be, a gentleman.” Another caress caused her to tremble. Leaning down he gave her ear lobe a tiny lick.

Amanda melted like a chunk of hard silver ice dissolving in flames.

This was no gentleman. Not this rugged, masculine man whose body spoke of controlled strength. She shrank against the wall, wishing it would swallow her. Her pulse fluttered wildly. She realized her attraction to the handsome blacksmith presented a greater danger than the hand around her throat. Her gaze flickered to the smoothness of his cheeks, his tight jaw. One hand continued to pin her to the wall while the other caressed her cheek. The gesture felt soothing and erotic. Smoldering desire nudged aside dawning anxiety.

You are a lady. Ladies do not allow their passions to rule them
. Amanda turned away from his penetrating gaze. With one finger, he turned her chin back toward his face.

“You have a most lovely mouth. Quite kissable,” he said softly, tracing the lower curve with his forefinger.

Her heart pounded. With every last ounce of strength, Amanda pushed against his hard chest. Jeffrey angled his mouth above hers and slid his arms around her waist.

Instead of a bruising kiss, she felt a gentle pressure. Firm, sensual lips brushed against hers in feather light strokes. Amanda fought rising desire, struggled to free herself before his passion engulfed her.

Light as a cobweb, his silken lips sampled her, tasting and exploring. Without warning, he intensified the kiss. She whimpered softly as his mouth fully captured hers. His tongue traced the seam of her compressed lips, then demanded entry with tiny, urgent thrusts. Her knees buckled under his masterful assault. Amanda moaned in protest even as her mouth opened under the insistent pressure of his possession. Hands that had imprisoned her now pulled her tight against him. Molten lava poured through her veins. To her horror, she felt his tongue touch hers and she responded in kind.

The spark of desire burst into raging flames. Never had a man’s touch held such power over her. Resistance faded as a wicked ache pulsed low in her body. Yielding to his embrace, Amanda stopped fighting. She curled her arms around his neck, grasping him as if he were the only solid object holding her aloft. Seeming to sense her surrender, he cupped her bottom and drew her closer.

Sweet, tormenting pressure coursed through her when he hitched up her skirts. She felt the heated caress of his hand skillfully stroking her inner thigh. He was fire and she kindling, going up in flames. A strangled groan escaped him at her cry of pleasure. He stroked her gently, edging the satin garter just above her knee with a single finger. His hand ascended, teasing the warm flesh closer to the juncture of her legs, the tissue there throbbing almost painfully. She wanted to weep from need; sob from shame.
Oh please,
Amanda cried silently, torn between passionate urges and puritan restraints.

Then his hand descended, and tugged with demanding insistence. He dropped her skirts and broke the kiss, stepping back.

Triumph glittered in his devil eyes, those treacherous lips curling into a satisfied smile. Horror replaced wanton pleasure as Jeffrey dangled the pink sash that had been around her thigh. “Oh my. What would the good Lord Dunmore say about his cousin if he knew I held her garter in my hands?”

A
MANDA SLUMPED AGAINST
the wall, staring at the garter he held. She wished the wall would open and swallow her. The heat of passion faded, replaced by a flush of shame.

“Well, Miss Reeves?”

“What do you want?” The cad! He had compromised her, not caring about her reputation. She tasted the sourness of defeat and fought to gather her scrambled thoughts together as they bumped into each other like half-woken puppies.

“Your garter in exchange for an escort from this place and silence. You will accompany me downstairs. We will enter the ballroom and slip out into the garden for a stroll in the moonlight,” he ordered. He tugged her hand, forcing her upright.

“The garden?” Amanda put a hand to her spinning head. Dear Lord, not the garden, the very site of her last shame.

“Aye, the garden, outside, for a walk with a lovely lady.”

She tried for one last desperate effort. “I could inform my cousin you forced me.”

He cocked one eyebrow. She hated his smug smile. “Aye? What evidence do you have that I have committed a wrongdoing? You, my dear, look more the guilty party than myself.”

Jeffrey tugged her over to a mirror. She glanced at her shocking image. Even in the dim light, her kiss-swollen, reddened lips, flushed cheeks and disarrayed hair identified a woman who’d been indulging in improprieties. But he appeared cool and dignified. He ran a caressing thumb along her jaw line.

“You look like a woman who’s been kissed and kissed well. Dare I say more about how that can ruin your solid British reputation?” he said, his voice gentle, almost pitying.

Jeffrey had her cornered. Amanda could not inform her cousin of his treachery without raising questions about her own reputation. Alone, upstairs with a man! Inwardly, she cursed herself. She had prided herself on gliding through her cousin’s ball, meeting with a bit of social success. Doors closed to her had begun to open amongst the tight group of fervent Loyalists. She’d experienced a glow of satisfaction at achieving a status denied to her in England. Lord Dunmore had promised her acceptance by his inner circle in return for her spying on Clayton.

And now she stood to lose everything with the evidence Jeffrey dangled from his hand.

Tears of frustration and pained disappointment rose in her throat. Amanda choked them down. She stiffened her shoulders. Gazing at her image, she adjusted her hairstyle and then snapped her shoulders back as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Well. What are you waiting for? Or do you plan on spending all night upstairs waiting for my cousin to retire and discover you?”

“Come then. Wait a minute, then descend the stairs and act as if you are pleased to see me. I shall escort you.”

He donned his shoes and tugged at her hand, forcing her to accompany him down the first flight of stairs. Motioning for her to remain on the landing, Jeffrey peered over the staircase. Apparently satisfied no one was below, he descended and waited at the foot of the stairs.

She joined him a minute later and he escorted her into the ballroom. Two massive portraits of Queen Charlotte and King George hung on blue walls. Hand-carved white crown moldings framed the ceiling. She spotted her cousin, jowls wagging, chatting with guests. Jeffrey maneuvered past small groups of attendees and nodded toward a set of double doors.

“’Tis time to seek refreshment in the supper room adjacent,” he suggested in a low voice. She let him lead the way to the large double doors. A footman opened one and they found themselves inside a large yellow room. Polished wooden tables held a splendid repast of sugary confections, mincemeat tarts, apricot cakes, squab pies, candied nuts, sweetmeats and a crystal bowl filled with rum punch.

Jeffrey guided her to the double doors leading outside. Many gentlemen led ladies out for private moments in his Lordship’s vast gardens.