Authors: Traitorous Hearts
"I've never heard of such a thing."
"Hannah says that Jones men bedevil women from the
beginning."
"But doesn't your mother ever notice how much food is
missing?"
Bennie grimaced. "She's used to my appetite."
"Your appetite?"
"Mother's despaired of ever teaching me to eat like a
lady."
"Why would you want to? Picking at your food, wasting away
like you've got some dread disease. I've never figured out why women put up
with it."
"Why do women do any silly thing? To catch a husband."
The glint in his eyes was wicked and satisfied. "There's
something to be said for a woman who can enjoy life and food in full
measure."
She grinned and sank her teeth into her bun.
"You have honey by your mouth."
"Where?" She stuck her tongue out to one side,
attempting to get it. "Here?"
"No. Here." It caught her completely by surprise. He
leaned forward in a motion so natural and casual she thought he merely meant to
point it out. But then he licked her, his tongue sliding quickly across the
corner of her mouth and just along the edge of her upper lip. He sat back
before she had a chance to respond.
"Mmm. Sweet."
Openmouthed, she stared at him.
"It's gone," he said cheerfully.
Snapping her mouth shut, she scrambled to her knees. "I have to
go."
He put his hand on her arm to stop her. "Why?"
Outside, the soft patter of falling raindrops began. A crisp wind
blew in through the window, finally sweeping away the heavy, heated air,
bringing the fresh, metallic scent of rain.
He glanced out at the sky, and when he returned his gaze to her,
his eyes were dark and intent. "No thunder this time," he said
softly.
She was caught, held motionless by the velvet in his voice and the
gentle warmth of his hand on her arm.
No,
she mouthed.
"I miss the thunder."
Oh, Lord. If only she could be sure that the thunder was all he
wanted. If only she was completely convinced he was not her enemy. And if only
she had the faintest idea how to handle a man like him.
"I have to go!" She jerked her arm away and jumped to
her feet.
"Why?" His voice rose, his frustration clearly evident.
He got up and planted himself in her way. "Why? Why do you miss the idiot
so much? I would think most women would be happy to find out the man they slept
with wasn't simpleminded!"
He blocked her path, his big form seeming to take up even more
space than it usually did. Why did she never seem to remember the overwhelming
impact of his physical presence? And why did she, who was so used to large,
powerful men, seem completely unable to accustom herself to this one?
The refreshing breeze cooled the back of her neck, rustling the
fine hairs there. It lifted Jon's hair away from his face, leaving the
beautifully sculpted features clearly evident—the straight nose, the jutting
jaw, those strange pale eyes, now lit with fierce intelligence. There was
nothing fine or thin about his face; it was all strength and forceful
masculinity.
"Lord, you're so beautiful," she whispered helplessly.
"So what!" He gestured to his face. "So some
accident of nature gave me these features. What does it matter?"
"Women must throw themselves at your feet."
"It's not generally been my desire to have women at my
feet."
"I'm sure they'd be happy to throw themselves at other parts
of your anatomy too."
"So maybe they threw. That doesn't mean I caught."
She gave a small snort of disbelief and made a move to go around
him. He sidestepped quickly to stop her.
"Beth." His voice was barely more than a whisper. He
cupped her cheek in his palm. If so much about Jon—Jonathan—had changed, his
touch was the same: reverent, tender, almost heartbreakingly gentle.
"There have been very few women."
"You can't expect me to believe that."
His thumb swept down, barely touching the corner of her mouth.
"I learned very early that the act, without any affection, any
understanding, was empty, brought no more lasting satisfaction than any other
bodily function. No more important than a sneeze. But my job has left very
little time for any affection to grow. And, since I began this charade, there's
been no way to allow any woman to get close to me at all."
"I don't know who you are."
He rubbed lightly, tempting her to turn her head and take his
thumb into her mouth. "You know me better than you realize."
Jon, Jonathan—one was as bad as the other. In any role, he made
her weak, wanton, prone to forget anything but the way he made her feel. There
was no denying the heat in his eyes when he looked at her, and it made her feel
pretty and seductive and utterly feminine. It was a heady temptation.
She tried again. "I have to go."
"It's raining. You'll get wet."
"I've been wet before."
He leaned closer, breaching the distance she'd put between them.
"I know."
Heat flashed through her, as sudden and sharp as lightning. One
more inch, one more second, and she'd be lost. Dashing to one side, she tried
to flee this man she seemed unable to resist.
He caught her, hauling her up against his body, holding her softly
but securely to him. "What is it?" he ground out. "You liked the
simpleminded lout? You thought you could handle him? You don't know what to do
with a man who can match you?"
"Yes! He was simple and uncomplicated and easy to be with. He
didn't keep secrets and hatch plots and twist me up until I don't know what's
right or wrong! And he didn't hurt me!"
The light in his eyes went flat, his shoulders drooped, and he let
her go so abruptly she stumbled. Stepping aside, he allowed her to pass.
She hitched up her skirts and fairly slid down the ladder. Rain
splattered in her face when she tugged open the door, but she paid no mind. The
chilly water soaked quickly through her thin summer clothes and ran down her
temples. She splashed through the puddles in the yard, but still she ran,
heading toward home—heading toward safety.
***
The rain had only lasted an hour or two, but it had washed the air
clean of dust and stench and suffocating heat. The leaves on the trees shone
wet, bright green. Birds hopped around on the ground, snatching at bugs and
tugging at earthworms.
And Bennie stood in the middle of the muddy yard, staring up at
the window in the loft.
There was no excuse for it. There'd been enough food in the basket
she'd brought that morning to keep him fed the rest of the day. His wound
needed the minimum of care. He was completely out of danger.
The only possible reason for her going up there was simply that
she wished to see him again. It was silly, it was foolish, it was quite
probably downright stupid— and she was going to do it.
He was by the window again, all stillness and power. The new
sunlight bathed his naked chest in gold. Bennie took one look at him and knew
she was lost.
"Hello," she ventured when she reached him. He had his
hair pulled back, knotted with a piece of twine, and his brooding profile faced
out the window.
He wouldn't look at her, he'd decided. He'd watched her striding
across the wet ground. She moved like no woman he'd ever seen, sure, decisive.
And he knew that if she came up to the loft, he couldn't look at her. For every
time he did, he did things he'd promised himself he wouldn't; he forgot every
lesson he'd ever learned about restraint and self-preservation and control.
But as soon as she got close to him, he caught a whiff of
lavender, underlain with the faintest hint of womanly skin. He hadn't counted
on that. He still wouldn't look at her, for his sake as well as her own. For
when she'd said that he had hurt her, he'd felt the sickness in his gut; it was
like taking a punch he hadn't known was coming. He couldn't do that to her
again.
He felt her fingers lightly following the scar on his side, his
badge of honor—hah! his badge of shame— from the battle that had taken Sergeant
Hitchcock's life.
"Was it so terrible? The battle, I mean?" she asked.
When he looked down at her, Bennie saw it again: that terrible,
bleak despair that glazed his eyes.
"Yes."
She rubbed the scar, as if smoothing away the hurt. "My
brothers were there. None were hurt, though. Henry has been back here since, on
leave. He said it was glorious."
"It's not." He turned away from her. "I was like
him when I was young. You get into something, sure you're doing the right thing
for honor and glory and country." He shut his eyes and leaned his forehead
against the fist braced over the window. "Then you're in this situation,
and every choice you can make is wrong, and you don't know how you're going to
live with the one you choose."
"How do you?"
"You don't. You just hang on to the only thing you have
left."
"Which is?" she whispered, unable to bear his pain,
unsure she wanted to know the answer, but compelled to try and understand this
man.
"Loyalty."
He was no more than a foot from her, but he was suddenly so far
away, closed into himself.
"Will you bring me some more clothes tomorrow? A shirt?"
he asked.
Her throat closed. "You're leaving?"
He nodded.
"All right," she agreed, knowing it would be useless to
protest. "Is there anything else you need?"
You!
he wanted to shout. But there was no way he could drag her into
the darkness with him. She belonged in the sunshine, with the wind tangling
those wild curls and her music lifting to the sky. "No."
"I'll leave you alone, then," she said, and turned to
go.
Surely he could give himself this much. He could have one simple
afternoon of sunshine to take with him, back to the cold.
"Stay," he said softly.
Her eyes were wide and wary; she was like a forest creature
confronting a man for the first time, drawn by curiosity, repelled by danger.
Finally she nodded her agreement.
Carefully avoiding touching each other, they settled back down on
the blankets. Bennie smoothed her skirt —she'd changed into a dark green one
after her soaking that morning—over her knees and tried to think of a
relatively harmless topic of conversation.
The silence between them seemed awkward. She felt nervous, and
unsure. He was watching her, she knew, but she couldn't chance looking up and
getting lost in his eyes again. When he'd been only Jon, silence between them
had been easy and companionable. Now it seemed empty, and she searched for
something to fill it.
But nothing she could think of seemed harmless. The hell with it,
she thought recklessly. She squared her shoulders and forced her gaze up to
meet his.
"How did you end up here?"
One corner of his mouth lifted. "I rode a horse."
"No, I meant—" She stopped. "What happened to your
horse, anyway?"
"I turned him loose. He'll find his way back to Boston.
Someone in the company will take care of him."
"But how will you get back?"
"I'll manage." One knee was bent, his forearm propped on
it, his hand dangling loosely. "You were about to ask me something?"
"I meant, how did you end up here? At this place in your
life?
"Playing this role, do you mean?"
"Yes."
He picked up a long piece of hay and began to methodically break
it into pieces. "Most of what I told you was true. I did go live with my
aunt and her husband after my parents died. And they weren't particularly
interested in me. They had several children of their own, and I was simply a
reminder of their "common" relatives. It didn't seem to help that
they had a son my own age, and I was always bigger than he, and could run
faster, and the tutors thought I was easier to teach, and I was..."
"Better-looking?" she suggested.
"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Well, as soon as I
was old enough, they bought me a commission. No cavalry for me, of course.
Something slightly less expensive. Still, it was probably the best thing they
ever did for me."
His voice was calm, carefully modulated. Yet, he snapped the bit
of straw with more and more force. There was still some of that boy inside him,
she realized, that growing man who had been so young and unwanted.
"I learned early on that I had a talent for... solving
puzzles, I guess you might say. Taking snippets of information, things that
nobody else seemed to notice, and putting them together. My superiors soon made
use of it."
"And so you became involved in spying."
"Yes." He crushed the last piece of the hay in his palm.
He opened his hand, and chaff and dust drifted down to the floor. "I
really did get kicked by a horse, you know. Three years ago. When I came to, I
was... muddled. Couldn't make the words come out properly. I was like that for
several days.