Authors: Traitorous Hearts
Bennie watched her brother dissolve into the blackness and felt
the same, cold darkness invade her soul. Her family was broken, and there was
nothing she could do to make it whole again. Brendan was going away, alone and
beyond her reach.
But he had always been alone, she realized. He had his life, and
perhaps, somewhere, he would be able to find some measure of peace.
And now, there was Jon. He had said he loved her.
He loved her!
Miraculous joy suffused her, pushing away the bleakness.
She turned to him. He was kneeling on the ground, his shoulders
slumped tiredly, his head buried in his hands. He looked weary, all the
strength and sense of purpose she associated with him sapped from his body.
Defeated.
Once he had told her that when everything else was gone, all there
was left to hold on to was loyalty. Without family, without plans, without
future, the one thing he had left was allegiance to his country.
She had begged for the life of her brother, and he had given it to
her. Had she asked too much?
She went to him and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. He
shuddered in response.
"Jon?" she asked softly.
His shoulders heaved once, then he stood and turned to her. The
expression on his face was stony and remote—unreadable. When his gaze met hers
his eyes were cool, glazed, a perfect, shallow reflection of the silver
moonlight. They revealed nothing.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, the rough rumble of
his voice unemotional and atonal.
"I read the letters before I delivered them to
Washington."
"You read the letters." He shook his head. "I
should have known."
"You suspected my family!" she said defensively. "I
didn't know what you'd written there! I only knew what you'd told me."
"But I said nothing about who I suspected."
"True." She bit her lower lip. "But you requested
that you come here tonight alone, completely without backup."
"I always work alone, Beth. I really am quite competent, you
know."
"And last time you tried that you were shot and ended up
nearly bleeding to death in our stables!" she protested.
"So you thought you'd come to my rescue again." A faint,
brief glint of amusement sparkled in his eyes, and her heart swelled slightly.
"Well... yes."
Then the tentative spark faded, and once again the starkness
filled his eyes. She could feel him becoming detached from her, retreating into
that place inside himself where there was no warmth, no emotion, no pain. The
part that maintained a role and valued a job above all. She nearly cried for
the absence of his life and warmth.
"Jonathan." Carefully slipping her arms around his
waist, she lay her head against his chest. He made no move to return her
embrace, but neither did he shrink away.
The familiar warmth of his body seeped through her clothes. The
thudding of his heart was steady and strong beneath her ear. Try as he might,
he was not inhuman, could not be free of painful things like emotion and wants
and desires. She would not allow it.
"You're not a traitor, Jonathan."
"The British wouldn't agree with you," he said flatly.
"You but did your job."
His body went rigid. "That wasn't the real betrayal. It
was... all those men who died, Beth. Oh, God!" Anguish seeped into his
voice, breaking through the toneless control. "All those men!"
Her arms tightened around him. "And how many did you save,
Jonathan?" she asked fiercely. "Do you count those too?"
"Beth!" The word seemed torn from him, coming from some
place hidden deep in his soul. His arms came around her then, crushing her
wildly, almost savagely against him, but she welcomed his fervent embrace. She
knew then that everything was going to be all right.
She held him while he shook in her arms like a great oak buffeted
by a mighty storm. Finally, his arms relaxed their grip. He cradled her head,
touching her with a gentleness that bordered on reverence, and lifted her face.
"Beth," he said urgently. "I've played a role so
long that even I am not sure what is underneath. I think it's time I found out.
I'd like to do that with you."
"Yes."
He smiled at the speed of her answer. "Wait a minute. Once we
strip away the layers, there may not be much left underneath. And it probably
isn't pretty," he warned her.
"I know what's beneath."
"You do?"
"Yes." She reached up to touch his face, lightly
trailing her fingers down the clean, powerful line of his jaw. "The man I
love."
"God, Beth!" There was no hesitation in his kiss, no
hint of restraint or subterfuge or shadow. There was only passion and
gentleness and fresh, clean emotion.
There was only love.
When he raised his head, all the coldness had left his eyes. They
gleamed, alight with fire and intensity. "I do love you, Beth."
Her smile was as powerful and warming as the sun on the first true
day of summer.
"Come on, soldier. Let's go home."
Cadwallader and Mary
Jones were somewhat surprised to see
who their daughter brought home.
It was well after midnight by the time Beth and Jon arrived. No
welcoming light glowed from the dark windows of the quiet house. It looked
peaceful and homey, and Jon was suddenly reluctant to disturb the hushed tranquillity,
unwilling to bring the untidy and painful currents of war into Beth's home.
Beth reached out to open the door, but Jon put his hand on hers.
"Maybe we should wait until morning," he suggested softly.
"Why?"
"Your parents probably need their rest. We shouldn't disrupt
their sleep. The morning's soon enough."
She studied him quizzically for a moment, and then grinned.
"You're not afraid to face my father, are you?"
"Well, I am bringing home his only daughter in the middle of
the night. I don't want every male in your family to come after me at
once."
She gave him a mock scowl. "Are you trying to tell me your
intentions aren't honorable?"
"It would probably be a lot more honorable to let you
go." He tenderly brushed the curve of her cheek. "My intentions are
to love you for the rest of your life."
"Oh, Jonathan." She lifted her face to kiss him, her
lips feathering over his, a kiss that had little to do with heat and everything
to do with warmth.
He angled his head and opened his mouth, tracing the delectable
curve of her lips with his tongue. What extravagance, to be able to kiss her
without urgency, to explore slowly and without greed, knowing that there would
be other times and other kisses. He'd never before had that heady luxury with
her.
The snarl could have come from an angry bear or rabid dog; the
only certainty was that it was a creature lost in the grip of fury or madness.
Jon whirled and shoved Beth behind his back for safety, his hand automatically
groping for his pistol as he readied himself to face the wild beast.
Her father thundered across the yard between the tavern and his
house. His eyes were wide, dark, and snapping with rage, his fists clenched. He
charged Jon, slamming him up against the side of the house next to the front
door.
"Just what the bloody hell are you doing with my
daughter!"
Slowly, trying to be as unthreatening as possible, Jon lifted his
hands. There was no conceivable way he was going to do anything that might
possibly injure Beth's father. If he got the tar beaten out of him, well, he
figured he probably deserved at least that much.
He looked steadily down at Cadwallader. "It's not what you
think." That wasn't precisely true, either, but there was certainly more
to it than Jones undoubtedly thought there was.
Cad's beefy forearms were crossed over Jon's chest, one just under
his neck, keeping him solidly pushed against the rough stone wall. Then Beth
wriggled between them, pushing her father away and ordering him to back off.
Spreading her arms wide protectively, she planted herself in front of Jon.
Oh, God. She was rescuing him again. He was really going to have
to do something about this particular penchant of hers.
"Now, Da," she said soothingly. "We've got a lot to
tell—"
"What is going on out here?" Mary Jones's voice was
unruffled, as soft and musical as if she were asking a neighbor in to tea.
"Mary, it's that idiot redcoat again," Cad shouted.
"And this time, he's put his hands on our Bennie!"
Mary had a white shawl drawn securely over her voluminous
nightrobe, and a lacy little cap was perched daintily over her smooth braids.
She seemed completely unconcerned about both her attire and the scene in front
of her house. "Elizabeth?" she asked.
"It's rather complicated, Mother."
Mary smiled slightly. "I'd imagine so. Well, you all may as
well come in. No need to discuss it out in the yard."
"But, Mary, my love—"
"Come along, Cadwallader."
The whale oil lamp Mary lit in the parlor cast eerie, dancing
shadows against the walls. Jon perched uneasily on an upholstered settee, and
Cad forcibly hustled Bennie to the chair farthest away from where Jon sat. Mary
glided over to sit next to Jon, while Cad took up pacing back and forth across
the room. His footsteps thundered on the polished wood floor.
"Now then, Ben, give me one good reason why I shouldn't call
the regulars and have him arrested right this moment."
Bennie quickly glanced over at Jon. At his small nod, she
straightened her shoulders and looked steadily at her father. "Because
he's been working for the Americans all along."
"Oh, Bennie." He shook his head sadly. "You don't
truly expect me to believe that, do you?"
"Beth is quite correct, sir. I was born in the colonies, in
Philadelphia, and lived there until I was ten, and I have always considered
this my home. I have only tried to help in any way I could."
Cad spun around, his jaw agape in shock. "You talked!"
"I believe you have heard me speak before, sir," Jon
said in his most respectful voice.
"But—" Cad clamped his mouth shut and studied Jon
carefully.
Superficially, he certainly looked like the man Cad remembered.
His clothes were rumpled and torn, streaked with dirt and what looked
suspiciously like blood. He'd seen Jon's clothes in that state many times,
although before he'd always worn a British uniform.
But there the resemblance ended. This man was taller, his head
held proudly and his posture perfect. He radiated indefinable but absolutely
tangible power, the kind of power that led men and accomplished impossible
things. His eyes, alert and assessing, sparked with exceptional intelligence.
And, when his gaze fell on Bennie, they softened with equally uncommon
tenderness.
"So," Cad said slowly, trying to reconcile the man who'd
stumbled into the Eel with the one who sat in front of him now. "No
stupidity?"
Jon's mouth quirked in amusement. "Well, sir, your daughter
might choose to disagree with that."
"All right." Cad stopped his pacing, crossed his arms,
and glared at Jon. "That explains why I shouldn't turn you in to the
militia. But considering what I saw outside my own front door, can you give me
one good reason I shouldn't grab my musket and haul you both off to the nearest
man of the cloth?"
Jon met Cad's gaze squarely. "Sir, there's nothing I'd like
more."
Cad's mouth popped open again.
Mary took over. "Elizabeth! How wonderful!" Beaming at
her daughter, she rose, her nightrobe settling gracefully around her feet.
"I knew you didn't mean it when you said you never wished to get
married."
Cad was still standing in the middle of the room, his stunned gaze
darting back and forth from his daughter to Jon and back to Bennie again.
"Sit down, Cad," Mary said briskly. "We need to
celebrate. I'll just go and fetch—"
"Mother, I really think you should sit down too."
The serious note in Bennie's voice must have alerted Mary. She
glanced uncertainly from her daughter to Cad, then slowly complied.
"Now then." Beth swallowed heavily, her eyes nearly
black with pain. She lifted her shoulders, preparing herself, and determinedly
plunged in. "There's something else we have to tell you—"
"It can wait," Jon broke in. Beth looked at him
questioningly, and he nodded. Perhaps her parents need never know their son had
been a traitor. He could ask Washington to keep it quiet, to let them all
believe Brendan had simply deserted. Maybe this much, at least, he could spare
them. He could certainly spare Beth the burden of telling them. "It can
wait," he repeated implacably. "We're all tired. We should get some
rest. The morning will be here soon enough."
Beth felt the tightness in her chest ease. Not completely—just a
notch—but enough so that it was bearable. He meant to help her, she realized.
This she didn't have to handle alone. Although she found the pain didn't dim,
the pressure had lessened. The responsibility, the duty to stand completely
alone was gone. Now there was someone to share it.