Law, Susan Kay

1774

He was the most beautiful man in the world. It was a pity he was
an idiot. Even worse, he was
British.

Elizabeth knew who the man was even before he lumbered into the
Dancing Eel. She should; she'd been hearing about him for weeks, ever since the
company of British troops had been stationed just outside New Wexford. Every
patriotic colonist was outraged at the indignity of Crown soldiers camping so
near their village. However, the town's women couldn't help noticing that the
over-aged, stupid lieutenant looked like a baffled angel.

Elizabeth handed a tankard of hard cider to a ruddy, middle-aged
farmer, a regular customer, and slipped into the shadows cloaking the kegs near
the back of the taproom.

She would watch, and wait.

It was one thing she was good at.

***

The Dancing Eel seemed perfectly suited to its location. If it was
small, rough, dark, smoky, and insular, nobody seemed to mind. It was also
snug, the diamond-paned windows shut tightly against the frigid wind of a
Massachusetts autumn. The tavern was convivial, sometimes boisterous, and
relentlessly, passionately colonial.

There were two things everybody knew about the Dancing Eel: it
drew a good beer, and the British never bothered with the place.

Until now.

When the small contingent of British soldiers had entered the
tavern, it had gone silent—dead silent. The air, which had smelled of ale,
whale oil from the lanterns, and good roasted meat, now smelled of anger and
mistrust, of arrogance and fear.

No one laughed, no one sang, no mugs were clanked together. No one
was having fun anymore. Worse still, no one drank.

The owner, Cadwallader Jones, couldn't let that happen. He
scrambled forward, hoping to dispose of his newest customers as quickly as
possible. He planted himself in front of the men, his big feet spread wide, his
arms crossed in front of his still-formidable chest, and looked down at the man
wearing the silver insignia of a captain. Pretty tall, but skinny, Cad thought.
Turkey-necked. The floppy wig perched on the top of his head made him look like
a mop.

"You are not welcome here."

Francis Livingston, captain of the Light Company, 17th Regiment of
Foot, gulped slightly at the size of the man blocking his way. But he had
plenty of support, the captain reminded himself. Besides, this fellow was old,
as the solid silver of his wildly wavy hair attested. Livingston adjusted his
meticulously curled wig—the only one worthy of his station that he'd been able
to find in this godforsaken place—and stepped forward.

"I am Captain Livingston. We, as the military representatives
of this area, are welcome anywhere," he said, holding his head at what he
assumed was a regal angle.

"Ah." Cadwallader scratched the bridge of his nose and
tried another tactic. "How silly of me. Of course you are. We, however,
are simple colonists. We prefer to take our entertainment without worrying
about disturbing such exalted personages as yourselves. Surely you would not be
comfortable in such ordinary surroundings,
sir."
The customers
snickered at the sneer that had crept into Cad's voice.

Livingston was momentarily perplexed at their chuckles, but then
smiled, gratified at the respect the owner obviously had for him. Perhaps he
was not the troublemaker the captain had been led to believe.

"I appreciate your concern, my good man. But I must insist.
We will stay for a drink. As I am the new commanding officer here, I deem it
necessary to become familiar with the area."

Dropping his arms to his sides and clenching his fists
threateningly, Jones straightened to his full, impressive height. A half dozen
men, equally as large as he, gathered behind him in implicit threat.

"I'm afraid
I
must insist," Cad said, a thread of
steel running through his voice.

The captain nodded in acknowledgment. "Ah. You must be
Cadwallader Jones."

"I am," he affirmed proudly. "You've heard of
me?"

"No one else would be foolish enough to threaten a British
officer and his men over such a trivial thing as a tankard of beer."

Cadwallader stiffened. No one had dared call him foolish, not in a
very long time—no one but his wife, of course, and he would allow her almost
anything.

"This post can be a very simple one for you, Captain, or a
very troublesome one. I suggest you save yourself some trouble and leave now.
We only want one thing from Britain: to be left to our own devices."

"I have no wish to make things difficult, Jones. I merely
wish to test the waters, as it were. I have heard it rumored that anyone who
can best one of your sons wins a free drink. Have I been misinformed?"

"No."

"Then I accept the challenge."

Cadwallader glanced pointedly at the Captain's thin arms, encased
in spotless red wool, and snorted derisively. "You're not serious."

Captain Livingston smiled genially. "Oh, I don't mean to
compete myself, of course; I have long outgrown such games. I am the
intelligence of my company, not the brawn. I had thought to have one of my men
contest."

Cadwallader shook his head determinedly. "No, we have no
business with the likes of you."

Livingston gave an exaggerated sigh. "Pity. I hadn't heard
you were one to back down so easily."

"A Jones never backs down!" Cadwallader shouted, his
face going purple with the effort to control himself. One didn't just haul off
and strike an officer of the Crown, no matter what the provocation.

"Then it is a wager?"

"It is."

"Good." The captain inclined his head to one of the
privates accompanying him, who leaned out the door and beckoned to someone
outside. "Allow me, then, to introduce the muscle."

The man filled the door, blocking the pale light of the setting
sun. He had massive, solid shoulders that looked like he could support the
weight of the world as if it were a load of swansdown. His features were a
unearthly blend of perfect symmetry and exceptional strength. His hair was
simply brown, a color that on anyone else would look ordinary, but on him took
on the depth and richness of a whitetail's coat.

Stumbling over the doorjamb, he crashed into the nearest trestle
table, sending the tankard of cider on it flying toward the floor. The dark
golden liquid spewed out in a high arc, drenching nearby men. He reached to
catch it, missed, and overturned the rough-hewn bench.

"Sorry," he mumbled, clumsily righting the bench. He
retrieved the empty tankard from the planked floor, setting it gingerly in the
center of the table; the large pewter mug looked unusually small in his huge
hands. He swiped at the table-board with his forearm, succeeding only in
spreading the puddle of cider and thoroughly dampening his sleeve.

Apparently satisfied with his efforts, he straightened somewhat
and turned to face his captain, hunching his shoulders slightly as if afraid
that if he stood to his full height he would hit the ceiling—and it almost
seemed he might.

Grinning foolishly, he tugged at the uneven hem of his crimson
coat, obviously unaware the tarnished buttons were pushed through the wrong
holes.

The giant bobbed his head. "Cap'n? You asked for me?"

Livingston chuckled indulgently. "Yes." He turned to
face the stunned owner and patrons of the Dancing Eel. "Allow me, Jones,
to present Lieutenant Jon Leighton."

"Lieutenant?"
Cadwallader asked
incredulously.

"Yes, well, Leighton received his rank before he had a rather
unfortunate episode with a horse. Kicked in the head, I'm afraid. He should
have been drummed out of the service, of course, forced to sell out, but his
commander took pity on him and allowed him to keep his commission. Despite his
rather obvious shortcomings, however, he does have his uses."

Snickering laughter and a low, astonished murmur rumbled through
the taproom.
This
was the best the British army had to offer? A pompous
captain and a muddle-headed hulk of a lieutenant?

Lieutenant Leighton smiled more broadly, stretching his lean
cheeks and showing gleaming, even white teeth.

Cad shook his head sadly, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the
boy, who didn't even seem to know when he was being made sport of. No one had
the gall to make fun of a Jones, thank God, and Cad could hardly imagine what
it felt like to be the brunt of such ridicule. Ah, well, the lieutenant was
clearly too stupid to be hurt by it all.

"I take it you mean for Lieutenant Leighton to be your
champion?"

Captain Livingston lifted his chin smugly. "Yes. Unless, of
course, you wish to simply concede and save us all the bother?"

"No one bests a Jones once he hits four-and-ten years,"
Cad asserted, his hazel eyes glowering beneath bushy silver brows.

"Good." Livingston waved at one of his men, who scurried
to pull out a nearby bench for his captain. Settling his lanky frame onto it,
he glanced around the room. The colonial ruffians were watching intently,
ill-disguised hatred on their faces. Livingston preferred to think of it as
respect.

"How many... offspring do you have anyway, Jones?"

"Nine. Healthy and strong, every one of them."

"Of course. Well, nine drinks will be sufficient, I should
think. There are only five of us, after all, and we rarely allow Leighton here
to drink—I don't think it wise to befuddle his wits any further."

"Nine? But Bennie can't—"

The captain cut off Cad's protest. "I will accept no excuses,
my good man. Let's start with the eldest, shall we?"