The Patriot's Conquest (7 page)

She plucked at the colorful quilt, her fingers listless. He worried about her. Since falling ill two weeks ago, she’d lost weight. What if she died of the consumption that had claimed her husband? He couldn’t bear to think of losing his only sister. Not after he’d already lost so much.

A hard rap downstairs interrupted his thoughts. “Be back straight away.”

He set the pewter platter upon a table and strode downstairs. When he opened the door, Jeffrey’s heart thundered in his chest. Amanda Reeves stood on the stoop, a handsome phaeton sitting in the pathway. No driver. No escort of British guards to arrest him either. His pulse slowed slightly.

She wore a plain gray wool gown and a white cotton cap. One could drape her in buckskin and she’d still have that iron spine. He leaned against the jam and regarded her with a hostile expression. Even at risk to herself, the woman could inform her cousin she’d caught him upstairs in Dunmore’s private study, after all he no longer held her garter ransom. What was she doing here, now?

“What are you doing here?”

Amanda ignored his obvious rudeness. “Your sister is ill, so I came to help. I brought ingredients to make soup.” She lifted a woven basket covered with a blue checked cloth.

Jeffrey hesitated. Soup might help Meg. He took the basket from her. “Thank you. No need for you to wait. You may leave.” He started to shut the door in her face.

Amanda set her foot between the door and the jam. “No. I think not. If you could exercise some civility, I could help her.”

Without waiting for an answer, she shouldered her way inside. He stepped back, surprised as the door nearly hit him. For such a slender lady, she had strength.

“I assume you desire entry. Welcome to Evergreen.” He gave her a low, mocking bow. Let her enter. Then he’d toss her right out again.

Jeffrey carried the basket into the dining room and set it on the long trestle table. Amanda swept into the room.

“I would like to see Meg, if you please.”

He resisted an urge to lift his booted toe and plant it squarely in the middle of her fanny, sending her sprawling out the door she’d just hustled her way through. Seeing her reminded him of how he’d wronged her, aye, for a good cause, but still, he’d taken advantage.

Sweat trickled down his back. If she went upstairs and snooped in his bedroom, Amanda could find documents far more incriminating than the ones he’d found in her cousin’s room.

“Jeffrey, do we have visitors?” Meg’s voice called out.

He heaved out a breath. Now Meg would want to see her. “Come on.” He grunted and led her upstairs to Meg’s room, determined to keep close watch on Amanda..

“Miss Amanda Reeves, you know my sister, Meg Flanders.” Keeping the introduction short, he added, “She stopped by for but a moment. She’s not staying.”

Amanda smiled sweetly at Meg. “Meg, what a pleasure to see you again. I heard you were ill and came to make dinner. ’Tis a good recipe. Chicken soup.” To his dismay, she settled into the rocker he had just vacated.

Jeffrey swallowed his anger as Meg brightened. Few visitors bothered to drop by these days, even when she was well. He could not deny his sister this small pleasure. He stepped outside the bedroom, hearing them chatter in that strange, companionable female way.

Caution rose again and he slipped into the bedchamber he used to be closer to his sister, lest she need him during the night. The sturdy wood chest under the bed had a broken lock he kept meaning to fix. Though no one dared intrude on his private bedchamber, he didn’t trust a certain meddling British woman.

A few minutes later Amanda emerged from Meg’s room as he stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall.

“Meg wants to sleep now. Why are you lurking about here in the hallway?”

“Waiting for you.”

He escorted her downstairs, secured the basket and led the way to the kitchen outside. Miss Tory make soup with those lily white hands? Jeffrey doubted she knew how to boil water.

In the kitchen, he watched her remove a bottle from the basket she’d brought with her. Amanda found a measuring cup on the table.

“I talked with our cook,” she said. “She gave me milkweed thistle for your sister. It’s a good remedy for pleurisy.”

His interest pricked. Jeffrey looked at the crushed green mixture she measured into the cup.

“I need to boil this in water to make a tincture,” she stated, lifting the cauldron from its hook. Amanda looked at the ashes in the fireplace. “Instead of gawking at me, you could make yourself useful.”

Jeffrey struggled to leash his temper. Damn Tory acted as if she owned the house and he was her servant. Still, she was here to help, or so she said. He’d keep her in the kitchen. If she ventured back to the house, what would happen if she found the papers in his trunk?

He slowly recited the ranging rules to rein his temper and then knelt down to sweep out the hearth and start a fire. Amanda filled the cauldron with water and added the crushed leaves.

She struggled to lift the heavy pot. Jeffrey sighed and took it from her. His hand touched hers. Such small hands for a tall woman. He felt a sudden longing to clasp one, turn it over and press a soft kiss deep into her palm.

He placed the cauldron on the iron hook, and swung it over the fire, then turned around.

“It needs to boil for a while.” She gave the kitchen a critical look. “Where is your cook?”

“Helping to plant.” Which was where he should be, working, instead of guarding her.

“Your cook works as a field hand?”

“Housekeeper. She also cooks. All hands are needed for the farming.”

“I shall make a hearty soup for dinner. But for now, we shall clean. No wonder ’tis so dirty in the house, if you have your housekeeper toiling in the fields. You tackle the sweeping and I will begin dusting.” Amanda left the kitchen, marching toward the house.

“Yes sir,” he muttered under his breath.

Inside, the Tory handed him the broom. As he swept, Jeffrey watched her struggle to dust the high shelves. She lifted a pewter tankard and blew into it. Clouds of fine gray dust rose into the air. She sneezed. He grinned.

“Killer dust. The patriot’s latest weapon against the British.”

A smile touched her wide mouth. She sighed, making the bodice of her modest gown rise. Jeffrey felt another tug of heated lust. He slammed it down. He remembered Caroline. Desire for the enemy had proven dangerous before.

Amanda’s lush lips twisted into a smile. “An attack on the nasal cavity can be a most effective weapon.”

“I’m sure your cousin, Governor Dunmore, would find it equally annoying. Perhaps ’tis best I package it and send it to him,” Jeffrey suggested.

“Indeed, that particular gentlemen might partake of it, thinking it fine quality snuff and find it more intoxicating than that which he now inhales.”

Jeffrey laughed. “Touché,” he said softly.

They worked in silence until Amanda set her hands upon her hips. “This shall do. Time to make the soup. Follow me, for I shall require your assistance.”

She gave orders like an officer. Commandeered Meg’s home like one. As they entered the kitchen, Jeffrey folded his arms and gave her a long, pointed stare from the tips of her shoes to the top of her mobcap. Amanda was a lovely commanding officer.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

“To make certain you’re not a man since you talk as would a general in the British army.” Jeffrey let his gaze rest on the curve of her bosom. “Nay. Not a man.”

A slow pink flush filled her cheeks. He grinned. “What do you want?”

“Fill this cauldron with water,” she ordered.

“Aye, Captain,” he said with a mocking smile.

“Good, it is about time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time you learned who is in charge,” she replied.

He caught the teasing light in her eye. A look carrying sauciness and promise. Jeffrey stormed out to fetch water. He didn’t need saucy promise. Nor want it.

Back in the kitchen, she chopped this and mixed that. Grabbing a chair, he straddled it and sat to watch, enjoying the sight of her gently swaying hips. His gaze swept over the exposed nape of her long, white neck.

Amanda walked to the shelves. She stood on tip-toe, struggling to reach a bottle. Jeffrey bolted to his feet and grabbed it. He blew dust off the inky glass.

“Do you drink when you cook?”

“The recipe calls for sherry.”

He winked at her. “Sure you don’t want a taste first? Who knows how long that’s been sitting there. Could be vinegar.”

“I suppose you are right.”

Amusement rippled through him. This would be fun. He fetched a tin cup, opened the bottle and poured a small amount. Jeffrey thrust the cup at her.

Her eyebrows shot up. “I do not drink liquor, only wine with dinner!”

“’Tis the cook’s duty to taste the brew.”

Amanda reluctantly took the cup. She drank and coughed, her face flushing bright red. “I say, ’tis rather strong for sherry,” she sputtered.

Jeffrey peered at the faded label. “Should be. ’Tis rum, not sherry.” He took the cup from her and downed the contents. Wiping his mouth, he set the cup down. “Good rum, too.”

If her eyes were hatchets, he’d be ducking from the blows.

“You called it sherry!”

“Can I help it if you cannot read?” he teased.

Her lovely body swayed like a seasick sailor’s. “My, ’tis hot in here.” Amanda staggered back to the table and swept the chopped vegetables into the cauldron. She added other ingredients and stopped.

“I need chicken.”

He considered. “We have enough hens to spare. Have at it.”

“Um, I am afraid, I mean, I do not know, I have never plucked one before.”

A lovely flush ignited her cheeks. Jeffrey stared like a love-struck lad. Amanda had a sensual body and a maiden’s innocent air. Like a soft, juicy peach dangling temptingly from a tree, ready for plucking. The thought of doing the deed filled him with desire. At the thought of the pleasures he’d have being the first to explore every delectable inch of her lovely body, Jeffrey felt a healthy vigor rush to his loins.

Careful, he warned himself. She was the enemy and he’d not turn into an addle-minded fool over a pretty female. Never again.

“Never killed a chicken before? Come on.”

Jeffrey strode outside and secured a fat hen from the henhouse. Amanda followed him to a tree stump. As he killed the chicken, Amanda turned a shade of pea green.

After letting the blood drain from the hen, he guided Amanda over to a bench and placed the chicken onto her aproned lap. .

“Here. Start at the neck. Pinch the skin forward, grab the feathers about three at a time.”

Two lines of determination furrowed her brow. Amanda licked her lips, and tried, but the skin tore.

“Nay, nay. Don’t go against the grain. Toward the back, lift them in the direction of the feathers. Like this.”

She removed two feathers. Amanda beamed like a proud pupil. “I did it!”

“So you did,” he murmured. Amazing how her eyes lit up like glowing candles in a dark room. So beautiful and desirable.

Jeffrey swallowed hard, feeling an unwelcome warmth heat his body. He stood, heading for the kitchen. “I’m going to check on Meg.”

“Take the milkweed thistle off the fire. It should be ready by now. You may bring her a cup. No more.”

Amanda’s face scrunched in concentration as she plucked the chicken as if the feathers were harp strings. Jeffrey swallowed again, listening to the music her rounded form created inside him. He shook his head and walked to the kitchen.

When he brought a cup of milkweed thistle to Meg, she took it, to his great delight. “Is this medicine? I can almost feel it working already.”

“Miss Reeves made it.” He sat in companionable silence as she finished.

She cast a critical eye at him as he settled into the rocker. “Jeffrey, you don’t like her.”

He lifted his shoulders. Meg frowned like a stern older sister.

“She’s very sweet, coming out here to help. I’ve always enjoyed her company. We had a delightful conversation in French.”

He remembered the brief French conversation he’d shared with Amanda in the blacksmith’s shop. “So did we,” he murmured.

When Meg finished, he stomped downstairs. Guilt and gratitude jostled inside him. Gratitude Meg had found a new friend. Gratitude Amanda helped at a time when they desperately needed a woman’s hand around the house. Guilt that he couldn’t do the job himself and relied on a damn Tory—one who could be a spy.

To his surprise, Amanda was in the kitchen, the plucked chicken on the table. Two feathers rested in the thick curls peeking out of her mobcap. Jeffrey removed them, letting his fingers brush against her silky hair. He ached with a fierce hunger that could not be quelled by food.

He studied the bird. Not bad. Jeffrey plucked the few feathers she’d missed. The Tory surprised him. Instead of whining about sore fingers from plucking the chicken, she beamed with obvious pride.

“We are done, are we not, Mr. Clayton?”

“Jeffrey. Please call me by my Christian name.”

“’Tis most improper for me to do so, for we scarcely know each other,” she responded.

“I think not. Indeed, we are most familiar. You are in my sister’s kitchen, cooking a meal. In my world, that puts us on familiar ground.”

Not as familiar as the ground they’d covered last night in Lord Dunmore’s mansion. The memory of her soft body pressed against his haunted his thoughts.

“Oh! You are quite correct then. Jeffrey.” His name rolled off her tongue in slow syllables. Never before had a woman said his name in such a seductive manner without any intention of bedding him.

“And may I have the pleasure of calling you by your Christian name?” he inquired.

A faint smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Aye, please. Amanda.”

“Amanda,” he echoed, feeling a barrier break between them. Jeffrey put both hands on the table. “Time to gut it.”

“You want me to...”

She’d make the chicken look like a wagon wheel ran it over. Jeffrey took the knife and laid the chicken on its back. He made one quick, clean cut and glanced at Amanda, blood draining from her pretty face.