The Tory Widow by Christine Blevins Page B

night, Anne!” Jack called.
    David turned and swept his blade up, laying the tip to Jack ’s cheek in an instant. “You will stay away from my sister.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know about that, Captain,” Jack said. “I don’t take well to orders—a problem that keeps me from joining you Regulars.”
    With an expert flick of the wrist, David nicked a small gash just below Jack ’s left eye.
    Jack backhanded the blade aside, thumbed the blood from his cheek and studied it for a moment, rubbing the stickiness between his fingertips. “Your sister has a will of her own and—I’ll warn you right now—so do I.”
    Jack turned his back to David’s blade, and headed west, retracing the path back to the room he kept right across from King’s College.
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    ANNE flopped over to her back, kicked off the bedsheet and tugged at the sweat-damp muslin bunched about her hips. She bolted upright, flipped her pillow and gave it several smart whackets to encourage the feathers, before lying back again. She could not find a wink of sleep—not a wink.
    That kiss . . .
    She could not shake the memory of it. Very silly and quite sad, Anne thought. Here she was, a woman who’d married and birthed a child, and she’d just been given her first real kiss—a kiss more intimate and thrilling than anything that had ever transpired in her bedchamber with Merrick.
    Hot as Hades in here . . . Anne plucked at her shift, fanning her legs. Daylight began to keek in through the cracks of the shutters, and there was no point in even trying to fall asleep anymore. Bed-ropes creaking, Anne rolled up to a sit, swung her feet to the floorboards, stumbled to the window and pushed open the shutters.
    A fair dawning. She leaned out over the sill to catch the breeze, and there, bobbing lightly out in the harbor—a thick, dark forest of ships’ masts silhouetted against the misty sunrise.
    â€œBloody hell!” she muttered.
    The fleet was in.

CHAPTER FIVE
    The sun never shined on a cause of greater worth.
    THOMAS PAINE, Common Sense
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    Monday, July 8, 1776
Closing Time at the Sign of the Cup and Quill
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    T ALLY up the points, lads,” Sally called out. “It’s time t’ close it up.”
    A groan went up from Titus Gilmore and the group of soldiers clustered near the dartboard at the front of the shop.
    â€œSorry, lads, curfew.” Sally collected their dirty mugs onto her tray. “For your own good as well as ours—ye ken we dinna make the rules here, we just abide by them.”
    Titus gathered the darts. “You heard the lady! Let’s tally up.”
    One of the soldiers added the marks on the chalkboard and announced the final score. Titus was declared the winner. Coins exchanged hands, the men collected their sundry caps, jackets and weapons and shuffled out onto the lane. Sally shut the door and shot the three bolts home. She turned to Titus, who dropped a stream of coins into her outstretched hand.
    â€œWhy, I thank ye, sir.” Sally bobbed a curtsy.
    â€œThe pleasure is all mine, miss.” Titus grinned, pocketing the rest of his winnings.
    As per agreement, Titus paid Sally a fair share to keep an eagle eye on the chalkboard and to ensure that she announced closing time at an advantageous moment.
    â€œThe two of you . . .” Anne came in with a worn birch broom in hand, shaking her head at the wily pair.
    â€œAw, there’s no harm in it, Mrs. Anne.” Titus began hoisting chairs and benches up onto the tabletops. “The shop has to close sometime, don’t it?”
    â€œI suppose . . .” Anne began sweeping out the dirt and clots of dried muck from beneath the tables. “I just worry you two will get caught one of these days.”
    â€œNot by that lot. Backcountry lads every one—they didna have a clue.” Sally jingled the coins in her pocket and danced a