The Rebel's Kiss - Chapter Two

Note to my readers: I am currently querying The Rebel's Kiss, so it is not my

intention to publish the entire work online. However, if you would like a pre-release review copy, simply drop me a line at mj@maryjeanadams.com, and I will send you a pdf of the completed manuscript. 

Also, if you missed Chapter One, you can find it here.

Chapter Two

            "Sarah! There you are. I have been looking for you, my dear."

            Sarah glanced around for a convenient escape. Even an inconvenient one would do, but with the crush of guests around her, there were none to be found. She pasted on her most placid smile and pivoted to face her would-be betrothed.

            "Lieutenant Richardson." She allowed him to kiss her hand, resisting the urge to yank it back when his hot breath brushed her knuckles through her thin, cotton evening gloves. "I cannot imagine why I should be hard to find. Although my father must have invited every notable in Wilmington and even a few from Philadelphia, we are all neatly crammed into a mere handful of rooms."
             It was true Stevens' townhome was not as large as his country estate. It was too small for any real dancing, although Stevens always hired the finest chamber musicians for his annual reception, and many intrepid couples tried. They formed lines tighter than that of the British regiments and sashayed their way in between the more oblivious guests that inadvertently found themselves in their midst. It could be quite comical at times, especially when the offending guest bowed his apologies and his rear end nearly knocked over the considerable bulk of Mrs. Harrington who never had learned to dance in all her sixty years yet never ceased to try.

            Sarah would have preferred the card room. It was by far the less cloying, even with the cloud of cigar smoke hanging over the tables. Alas, it was not considered the domain of women.

            "Would you like to step out onto the veranda? I am told your father keeps a fine rose garden. If the lamps are lit, we should have an excellent view. "

             Sarah nearly choked on her laughter. Did the lieutenant appreciate dead roses and withered vines? "I am afraid we might freeze to death before we found so much as a single bloom."

            Richardson colored, and Sarah felt a little sorry for him. Some people should not attempt polite banter. Clearly, the lieutenant was one. Her skills would have to suffice for the both of them.

            "So what do you think of my father's assembly? I believe this is the first time you have attended, is it not, Lieutenant?"

            "Too damned many fops."

            Sarah fanned herself and raised an eyebrow while the lieutenant reddened. Swearing in front of a lady was definitely frowned upon according to the accepted rudiments of genteel behavior. Perhaps the lieutenant's preferred setting was the field of battle. Not everyone was cut out for her father's assemblies. Her pity for the man deepened.

            She snapped her fan shut and tapped his crimson sleeve. "With the fine figure you cut in your uniform, Lieutenant, you make the macaronies look like school boys playing a grownup's game."

            Lt. Richardson's chest puffed, and Sarah gave him her most sugary smile.

            The man was so easy to read. Like all British officers, he was hampered from adopting the full dress of the macaroni—powdered wig, ample lace, and gold braiding—by the fact that his position forced him to wear military dress most of the time. Also, like many of his ilk, he simultaneously despised the macaroni for their focus on luxuries and high living while at the same time he yearned to be one of them.

            She could read it all in his wistful, muddy-brown eyes as he watched the latest trendsetter enter the room, a man she had never seen before, dressed in green velvet and brandishing an ostentatious ivory-handled, silver-tipped cane as though it were a sword. The man's gaze swept the room before landing on the lieutenant. Richardson glanced away as though burned.

            "H...have you promised this next dance to anyone?"

            Interesting. Sarah's gaze slid to the stranger then back to the lieutenant. She had never seen Richardson so unnerved. Still, she could hardly blame him. Warmth crept up her neck, and she fanned herself in earnest while fighting the urge to look over her shoulder to see if the stranger’s heated gaze still lingered on them.

            She'd had plenty of experience with his sort, but there was something different about this man. He wore the clothes of a macaroni right down to his red, high-heeled shoes and his absurdly useless cane. His periwig was even more absurd yet. Three parallel curls ran perpendicular to his chin on both sides of his face, and so much hair lay piled on top of his head she didn’t envy the neck strain he would have by the end of the evening. His most absurd accoutrement, however, was the tiny, black hat perched atop the tip of his cone-shaped coiffure. 

His gaze captured her, and Sarah’s skin rippled with sudden awareness. His eyes were unlike any she had ever seen on a macaroni before. Dark and penetrating, they were not the eyes of a man set on conquering Wilmington's limited fashion world. His gaze was set on something much grander. And, they gave not one wit about what she or anyone else in the room thought of their owner.

             Sarah hid a blush behind her fan. She had never understood the appeal of the macaroni. So why this reaction to a man she had never met and would probably abhor if they ever crossed paths?

The familiar grip of curiosity wrapped itself around Sarah’s imagination. Or, perhaps it was simply desperation. This might well be her last night as a woman free to initiate a conversation with a man other than her betrothed. She just might have to finagle an introduction. Surely someone would know who this man was. It wasn’t that she was interested in him as a man, she was simply dying to know his secrets and to have a little fun to carry her through the long, dull days ahead if she could not escape marriage to the lieutenant.

            Richardson cleared his throat, and Sarah scrambled to recall the question he had asked. Something about dancing. She hoped.

            "I am not much of a dancer." She watched the lieutenant’s reaction to gauge whether it was the response he had been looking for.

            If anything he looked relieved, and Sarah silently congratulated herself. But that look of relief was quickly replaced by one of befuddlement, and he glanced about as though looking for direction from someone off stage. His gaze landed upon a small cluster of elderly ladies sipping punch.

            He swung his face back to her, an inspired gleam in his beady eyes. "Then perhaps you would prefer some refreshments?"

            Sarah fanned her face. "I am positively swimming with punch, but thank you. It was very kind of you to offer."

If she accepted a cup of punch from every man who offered, she’d soon have to have all her dresses altered.

            Lieutenant Richardson glanced about again, his jerky gaze lighting first on one thing then another. He looked so befuddled without a task to accomplish on her behalf.

            "I should like to converse." She extended the offer as though he would be doing her a great honor.

            "Converse?" He said it as though it had never occurred to him to have an actual conversation with her. "Whatever would we converse about?"

            Sarah could not say what made her do it. Perhaps it was his sound rejection of her offer. Perhaps it was his evident assumption that any conversation with her would be a limited diversion at best. Whatever the reason, she jumped in with both feet, selecting a topic that he would surely consider dangerous to her sex.

            "Tell me, what do you think of the non-importation agreements, Lieutenant?"

If that didn’t loosen the man’s tongue, nothing would. The American merchant’s non-importation pact had impacted the British almost as much as the Americans. Already, British merchants were putting pressure on parliament to repeal the taxes on trade. Surely, Richardson wouldn’t be able to suppress his opinion on that.

            The lieutenant's face hardened, and he swept a surreptitious glance at the other guests, before pinning her with hard eyes.

            What on earth? Sarah suppressed a shiver. She always considered the lieutenant a dolt at best. At worst, annoying. Perhaps he had another side to his personality. One which it would be best to avoid.

            "Now what business would you or any woman have with the non-importation agreements?" His pale eyes searched hers. "Do not tell me you and your feather-brained friends have sympathy for these muckrakes?"

            Feather-brained friends? What business? Sarah's temper flared, consuming any innate sense of caution his reaction had stirred. While men drank their smuggled spirits, it was the women who had to do without. Not that she and her friends had suffered much since it was their fathers who paid the outrageously high prices for the goods the loyalists still brought into the colonies, but if her sympathies did lie with the rebels, they would be wearing homespun instead of silk and drinking boiled tree bark instead of Darjeeling. 

            Sarah covered her anger with sarcasm. "It seems to me that it is women's business. If the tea cannot be offloaded, we will not be able to have our tea parties. If our supply of silks from the East India Company is cut off, then we shan't have gowns to wear. If —"

            Richardson's condescending smile did not quite reach his eyes, making Sarah wonder anew how well she really knew the man. "Don't worry, my dear. You shall have everything your feminine heart desires. Madeira from Portugal. Silks from India. Tea from Ceylon. All imported through mother England, of course. The costs shan't matter either, provided your husband is well endowed."

            His gaze lingered on her décolletage when he mentioned her future husband, making her feel quite naked—and repulsed. Sarah flipped open her fan and waved it in front of herself with such vigor that the lieutenant was forced to step back.

            "It is getting stiflingly hot in here. Perhaps I will have that punch, Lieutenant. Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?

            "Why certainly, my dear," he said, sounding satisfied that he had managed to maneuver her off such a dangerous topic, while at the same time relieved that he had something to do other than converse with her.

            Sarah blew an exasperated breath between her lips and watched him disappear into the crowd. As soon as she lost sight of his crimson-coated shoulders, she whirled and headed in the direction of the French doors leading to the veranda that ran the length of the back of the house and along one side. Just as she reached them, she looked up to see a reflection in the glass. The macaroni with the dark eyes was watching her.

****   

            "Lovely night don't you think?" Jack expelled small puffs of steam into the night air as he spoke.

It was far too cold to be outside. And, apparently, Stevens hadn't intended his guests to meander out here, or he would have lit the sconces lining the walkway. As it was, he could barely make out the features of the woman grasping the railing so hard her knuckles had turned white. She stared out at the dormant gardens as though she could see more than just the dry skeletal remains of last year's rose bushes.

The darkness didn’t matter, though. With just one glance across the crowded ballroom, he had seared her image in his mind forever.

             She tossed a glance his way. "Yes. Lovely."

            Her irritation was evident. Was it him? Or, had someone inside Stevens’ crowded mansion made frigid solitude preferable?

            "Come now. Certainly a night such as this deserves more poetic words." Jack tried to imitate his brother's tone of voice. It was enough to make him retch.  "A woman as lovely as you should be comparing the starlit sky to the beauty of heaven. The wind through the trees to the voices of the angels. The scent of the lilac--"

            Jack mentally kicked himself. It would be months before the first lilacs bloomed.

            The woman turned and gave him a head-to-toe perusal that made him want to sink through the flagstones beneath his feet. "I might. That is, if I were in the mood for inane absurdities and not feeling particularly original." She glanced over his shoulder then returned her gaze to his. "I'm not."

            Jack took out the prerequisite gold snuffbox and pretended to take a pinch. He should move on to more promising quarry, but there was something about this girl that intrigued him. Perhaps he simply harbored a weakness for a pretty face—and hers was easily the prettiest he had seen in a long time—but given the way her gaze kept flitting to the door, he could tell something bothered her. Something other than him, that was.

            He gave a less-than-convincing sneeze into a lace handkerchief then cleared his throat. "You're right. Inanities aren't my strong suite. Besides, I always find it challenging to wax poetic when I’m freezing to death." He gave an affected shiver. "How is it that a young woman such as yourself finds herself unescorted on a frigid balcony while women far less lovely are dancing the night away inside?"

            He hadn't meant it to sound so trite. He blamed it on the tightness of his cravat. Or perhaps it was the way his heavy wig made him feel like he was listing to one side like a crippled ship.

            She rolled her eyes. "Now, that is even less original. And, none of your business. If you're cold, why don't you go back inside?"

            The lady took another glance over his shoulder, then strolled to the portion of the veranda that was out of reach of the lights from inside. Was she trying to get away from him, or was this all part of some game? He should have paid more attention to Anthony's instructions. Whatever her reasons, alarm bells clanged in Jack's head. He could not leave her alone out here in the dark. Not with so many bored British officers hanging about.

            Jack followed her. "Won't you at least tell me your name?"

            Surely a macaroni would ask a woman's name. Wouldn't he? Or, did that seem too eager? Macaronies never seemed eager. Unctuous, yes, but not eager. According to Anthony, there was a difference, albeit a subtle one.

            "I don't see what good that would do either of us." She took a small step to one side so she could see around him.

            Jack deliberately stepped into her line of sight, forcing her to turn those dark eyes on him. What color were they? It was impossible to tell in the shadows.

            Focus, Jack.  She had been talking with Lieutenant Richardson, one of the men Anthony suggested he keep an eye on. They hadn’t seemed particularly friendly, but with the uptight English, one could never be sure. Perhaps the way he looked down at her, disdain in his narrow-set eyes, was just part of their courting ritual.

His first impressions of Richardson were that he seemed much like every other British officer. His superior attitude probably covered up whatever crime he had committed in England that got him stationed in the colonies with nothing to do but taunt the inhabitants. Still, he found it hard to imagine Richardson ever rising to a position of real consequence. The man's dull countenance bespoke of an even duller intellect.

            Of course, he had never been easily intimidated by the British, even with the recent passing of the Quartering Act that might require him to lodge some of them in his own home. Like hell that would ever happen!

But, this woman? Had the lieutenant done something to threaten her? Images of Lydia lying broken and unresponsive flashed behind his eyes, and bile rose in his throat. He swallowed and forced his overactive imagination back before he did something rash that blew his cover. This woman was not his sister. There were people around her who would protect her. She did not need some ardent rebel coming to her aid like a love-struck schoolboy.

            His mysterious companion gasped and ducked behind his shoulders. Jack glanced in the direction of her gaze just in time to see Lieutenant Richardson stroll past the balcony doors with two cups of punch in his hands and a befuddled look on his horsey face. The doors were open to keep the ballroom from becoming overly warm, but the threshold presented an invisible barrier to his pedestrian intellect. The lieutenant didn't so much as glance their way.

            He might not be able to see the color of her eyes, but Jack had no trouble spotting the furrow between her brows. "Has the lieutenant done something to trouble you?"

            "Lieutenant? Trouble me? I'm not sure I understand your meaning, sir." Her strained whisper suggested otherwise.

            "A matter of simple logic. You appear as though you are avoiding someone, and he was the only one passing by at the moment. And, unless he is uncommonly fond of punch, I presumed he was searching for someone."

            A shiver racked the woman's small shoulders. Cold or fear? She inched closer until Jack could feel the heat escaping through her thin bodice. Perhaps she was cold then. Even so, he could not quiet the sense that there was more to her discomfort than that.

"If you are in need of protection, I would be happy to offer my assistance."

            Even to him, it sounded like a most un-macaroni thing to say. More often than not, the fops were the cause of a woman's ruination, not her salvation.

            The woman took a step back. Her dismissive gaze traveled across his green velvet suit with its excessive gold embroidery, over his snowy white cravat, and up his two-foot-high wig. She lingered at the top. Then her lips twitched, and he had the impression she was stifling a laugh.

She flicked the lace at his collar with her fan. "Yes, I can see you are exactly the type of man to come to the aid of a woman."

            Jack cringed. Apparently, Anthony had been right. People did see what they wanted to see. Normally, he would not have cared, but for reasons he could not fathom, this woman’s opinion mattered. He fought the urge to explain himself to her.

            A pair of British regulars, the buttons on their crimson uniforms flashing in the moonlight, rounded the far corner of the balcony. For once he was glad to see them. They had saved him from voluntarily revealing his identity, an unforgivable mistake. That he would have done so because of a pretty face was downright humiliating.

Jack's pulse quickened as the officers drew nearer. Naturally, Stevens would place guards around his home. They would pay special attention to anyone lingering outside on a night such as this. He took a step closer to the woman, turning slightly to shield them both, and wrapped her in an embrace. Hopefully, they would see what he wanted them to see—a man and a woman enjoying a private moment—and pass by.

            His companion snuggled into the protective circumference of his arms, her actions catching Jack by surprise. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, as though she had surprised herself as well. Or perhaps she just feared discovery as he did. Either way, her heart pattered against his chest, and his own picked up a pace that nearly matched it.

Jack stared into her eyes as the officers passed them with barely a glance. He was about to let her go, with his deepest apologies, when a voice carried across the veranda in the crisp night air.

            "I tell you it was that muckrake Garrett from the village."

            The muckrake in question froze as he recognized the speaker. He had argued with him in a tavern after the officer shoved the baker. This dispute hadn't amounted to much because Jack had left, tugging the indignant baker by the collar, before things could get out of hand. He assumed the soldier and his fellows had been too far into their drink to recognize him, even in his usual attire. Had he been wrong?

            "My apologies, madam." Jack pulled her in closer to ensure her identity was fully concealed. He didn't want to be recognized, but nor did he wish to damage her reputation by letting them see her with him.

            The scent of roses drifted from her hair. He breathed deeply and found himself wanting to bury his nose in it. Better yet, he would loosen those ginger tresses, scattering the pins to the four winds. Then he would run his fingers through her hair, letting the intoxicating fragrance have free reign over his senses.

            As though she could read his thoughts, she looked up at him. Her fingers curled against his chest, and one delicate hand wrapped around the lace ruffles that fell from his cravat.

            Green. Dark pupils dominated her large eyes, but the ring around them was a lighter shade that he would swear had to be green.

            Her gaze dropped to his lips, and Jack's gut tightened. He forgot about the two officers disappearing into the darkness. He forgot about the balcony on which they stood. He forgot about the ballroom just a few paces away and all the Loyalists within. He forgot about everything except the woman in front of him. He leaned closer until a scant few inches separated them. It would be so easy to close the gap.

            "Sarah?"

            The woman in his arms gasped.

            The voice belonged to the lieutenant. It was impossible to mistake the aristocratic whine that made him sound as though his nose needed a thorough cleaning.

            Jack placed a hand against the rough brick wall, effectively boxing her in, but also shielding her from view. "Sarah, I presume?" he whispered.

            The woman nodded and seemed to shrink in front of him. She needn't have worried, though. There was no way the lieutenant could see the petite woman cowering behind Jack's broad shoulders.

            Jack dipped his chin closer to her ear. The scent of roses was enough to drive every thought from his head, but he persevered. "Well, Sarah, shall I let him know where you are?"

            "Only if you want the whole of the British army stationed in America coming down on your head." She looked up at him, her dark eyes imploring. "Trust me. If he sees you out here with me, he will assume the worst. And, he will inform my father."

            The whole of the army? Her father? Just who was this woman, and what familial ties bound her to the British army?

            "Sarah?" The lieutenant walked along the edge of the balcony calling out into the night.

            "It sounds rather like he's calling for his lost puppy, does it not?"

            Sarah hid her laughter in the ruffles of his shirt. Her hot breath against his cold chest sent him even closer to the edge of reason.

            Richardson approached them. "Excuse me, sir. But have you seen..."

            Before Jack could turn around, Sarah yanked on those ruffles, pulling his lips to hers. Then she threw her arms around his neck. Jack decided now would be a good time to play along. He ran his hands along the side of her face, covering what little the lieutenant might see of her features.

            "Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry. I hadn't realized," Richardson mumbled as he backed away.

            Sarah turned to stone. Her lips lay against his, as unmoving as the granite slabs on which they stood.  Evidently, she hadn’t intended to actually kiss him. Her mistake.

            Jack ran his palm along the side of her cheek, gently tipping her head so that his lips fit against hers. Sarah gave a small gasp that only improved matters. The sound she made, low her in her throat, like the purring of a kitten, could have either been a mutter of protest or a small moan. When she didn't pull away, Jack decided on the latter.

            He was about to deepen the kiss when she suddenly pulled back, leaving him feeling oddly disoriented. The ground shifted beneath his feet, and he leaned into her.  

            "Is he gone?" She stood on tiptoes to peer over his shoulder as best she could.

            "Who?" The question wasn't a ruse. For a moment, Jack couldn't remember whom they had been avoiding.

            "The lieutenant!" Sarah pursed her lips. The lips he had just been kissing.

            "He's gone."

            Jack hoped he was right about that. Frankly, he couldn't tear his gaze from Sarah's delightful little mouth. As she peered over his shoulder scanning the balcony, he slowly gained his bearings.

            "Sarah?"

            "Yes?" Her big, green eyes met his.

            "You can let go of me now."

            Sarah looked down at the ruffles she held tightly in her fists then yanked her hands back as though they had suddenly scalded her.

            "I am sorry, sir!" She batted a hand at his shirt, trying to smooth out the creases, then reached for the cravat that hung in a lopsided bow.

            Jack grasped her hand and held it to his heart. "It will be fine. At times like these, a man is expected to look a little disheveled."

            She withdrew her hand but gave him a lopsided grin that set the earth to wobbling again.

            "Sarah!"

            This time, a man's booming voice cut across the balcony like a sergeant at arms. All heads turned in his direction, including Jack's. At the door of the balcony stood the owner of the house, one of the most notorious loyalists in all of Delaware and the man Jack wished to avoid at all costs—Reginald Stevens. He was the man some called Lord Stevens, not because of any claim to a title, but from his aristocratic dress and imperial manner. He was rumored to be funding many of the troops stationed around Delaware and had a reputation for suspecting everyone around him of harboring traitorous leanings or nefarious intentions.

At this moment, Jack was harboring both, as well as, by all indications, a woman who could very well be the man’s daughter. Not a good way to come face to face with the number one adversary to the cause.

            "Is that your—" Jack turned back to Sarah, only to find an empty brick wall where she had once been.