The Tory Widow by Christine Blevins

Marshall law and curfew had emptied the streets of humankind and opened them to all manner of four-legged nocturnal habitants. Moving shadows scurried along the peripheries with gleaming eyes blinking red and gold in the night.
    â€œOh!” She stopped short, and squeezed Jack’s hand. “What was that?”
    â€œWhat?” Jack checked over his shoulder.
    â€œListen.”
    They stood in the center of the lane, motionless.
    â€œThere!” Anne clung to Jack ’s arm. “Did you hear it?”
    He didn’t answer but to pull Anne up a pair of steps and into the recessed doorway of a shuttered storefront, crowding her into a dark corner.
    Anne’s straw hat slipped from her head, the knotted ribbons pulled tight to the hollow of her throat, the crown squashed between her back and rough brick. Jack set the writing box down. The stubble on his face scraped a prickly path across her cheek as he leaned in to whisper, “Be very quiet.”
    Every manner of evil-doer could be on their path, and all the Widow Merrick could think on was the handspan of warm space redolent with lye soap, wood smoke and lavender that separated her body from this man.
    The distressing sound that had sent them into hiding drew near and distinct—leather soles slapping along tamped earth. Anne rose on tiptoes to peek over Jack ’s shoulder as two men marched by, the steel halberds on their shoulders reflecting blue in the starlight.
    â€œOnly the sentrymen . . .” Anne sighed, and made to squirm past Jack, out to where she could catch a breath and collect her wits.
    â€œNo—wait!” Jack braced both arms against the wall, trapping her in.
    â€œWait? Wait for what?”
    â€œI don’t have a pass.”
    Off in the distance a dog began to bark, and Jack shuffled in closer to stand a mere thumb’s breadth away. His breath caused the loose hairs on the top of her head to flutter. If she but tipped her head slightly, she could rest her cheek on his chest. The wanton thought sent a shudder down her spine.
    â€œDon’t be afraid,” he said, lips to her ear.
    A very warm night, and this whisper raised gooseflesh on her arms “But we don’t have a . . .”
    â€œShhh . . .” Jack pressed a finger to her lips. He leaned in closer—a lock of hair slipped his queue and tickled her forehead. Anne shrank back against the wall, and the sound of the sentries’ steps faded away.
    Anne gave Jack a two-handed shove. “I thought you had a pass.”
    â€œI forgot it.”
    â€œYou know I have a history . . .” Her whisper was harsh. “I could be arrested . . .”
    â€œRight, and that’s why we need to hide whenever the sentries come ’round.”
    Anne stepped back out into the lane. “Let’s hurry, then, before they come around again.”
    Refusing the hand Jack offered, Anne walked a pace behind, happy for the dark to mask the flush she felt come to her cheeks. Untying the sweaty knot beneath her chin, she used her hat as a fan to cool her temperature, and took several deep breaths to calm her racing heart. Jack Hampton strolled ahead—la-di-da—without a care, and here she was, as fevered and faint as a silly heroine in one of her novels.
    They reached the short street on which her shop was located. Sally and Quakenbos had lit the lanterns hanging over their respective doorways, and the little lane seemed friendly and cheerful for the light. “Well,” Anne said, fiddling with the brim of her hat. “Here we are. I won’t trouble you further. Thank you for . . .”
    The writing box landed with a thump in the dirt and Jack grabbed Anne by the wrist. Her hat flew from her hand, and there was no time to retrieve it as he rushed her into the dark gangway between her shop and the Quakenbos Bakery.
    â€œWhat is it?” Anne asked. “Sentries?”
    Jack spun her around to land with her back against