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Boston, February, 1775 Preoccupied with their own business, no one noticed the man who stood
in the doorway of an inn on the edge of the square. Perhaps it was because
the winter morning was bleak, and his long black hair and black cloak blended
into the dark shadows of the doorway. Or perhaps it was because he stood
utterly motionless, little more than a shadow himself.
His position commanded an excellent view of the square, and in the dim
light of early morning, his gray eyes restlessly scanned the area. He was
looking for one man, and that man would tell him that his call for a meeting
had been heeded.
Ethan Harding's acquaintances would have been astonished to see him skulking
about in doorways in the wee small hours of the morning, since it was common
knowledge that he never rose before noon. But then, they would not see
him here, for they were fast asleep in their beds themselves, and it was
unlikely they would have recognized him in any case. The dark clothing
he wore was so unlike his customary wardrobe of colorful silks and lace,
and his hair was not concealed by a powdered wig. The wealthy dandy of
the Tory drawing rooms was completely unrecognizable in the serious man
swathed in black who stood in the doorway of a second rate inn on North
Square. And that suited Ethan perfectly well.
A fishmonger's cart rolled into his line of vision and came to a stop.
Ethan let out his breath in a slow sigh of relief at the sight of the driver,
a big, bald Scotsman who jumped down from the cart, crying, "Fresh
clams today! Fresh clams!"
Colin Macleod's fish were often wrapped in seditious newspapers. Ethan
smiled to himself, knowing perfectly well that Samuel Adams didn't mind
if his fiery prose smelled of cod or haddock, as long as the public was
kept informed of every single transgression committed by the British government.
Ethan started toward Colin, but matrons and housekeepers eager for fresh
clams swarmed around the cart, and he stepped back into the shadows, waiting
for the women to depart. While he waited, he continued to observe his surroundings,
a habit gained from long experience.
The baker, Matthew Hobbs, had a stall beside Colin's cart and seemed to
be doing a brisk business. A pity, since the man was a staunch Tory. Ah
well, not everyone wanted liberty from England. What they didn't realize
was that it was inevitable.
A young woman of perhaps nineteen or twenty paused beside the baker's
stall, less than a dozen feet from Ethan's place in the shadows. Her clothes
were rags, too tattered to make her the servant of even the meanest master.
Against the chill of the Boston winter, she wore no hat. Her hair, the
golden brown color of honey, was cropped short, and Ethan guessed she had
probably sold the rest of her hair to buy food or lodgings. She stood in
profile to him, and although the long cloak she wore hid the lines of her
body, Ethan could see hunger in the hollow of her cheek and the line of
her throat. She was clearly a beggar, a common street waif that a man would
seldom notice, unless it was with a wary eye and a hand on his purse. But
when she turned his way, Ethan drew a deep breath of surprise and revised
his opinion. There was nothing common about this girl. She had the face
of an angel.
Her wide eyes were the azure blue of a summer sky, with all the innocence
of a child. Yet her thick, dark lashes and soft, generous lips had all
the seductiveness of a courtesan. Her features were delicate, her flawless
skin the color of cream. But it was her smile that fascinated Ethan. It
was a smile that could make a man abandon his ideals, forget his honor,
sell his soul. It was a smile that enslaved. It was magic.
He wondered what had brought that smile to her lips, but from this vantage
point, he could not tell. She returned her attention to the baker who,
like Colin, was preoccupied with a crowd of customers. Because he was observing
her so closely, Ethan did not miss the apparently casual glance she gave
her surroundings, nor the two meat pies that slipped from the baker's table
into the folds of her cloak.
Well done, he approved, watching in amusement. Anyone who stole
from a Tory deserved high praise indeed. She moved out of Ethan's line
of vision, and he leaned forward so that he could continue to watch her,
but she disappeared into the crowd.
Even though the two men would speak in seemingly trivial terms, Ethan did not want to run the risk of having anyone overhear their conversation. It was always best to be cautious.
A man paused beside the boy to buy a newspaper, a man who was obviously
wealthy. His shoe buckles were cast of silver, his cane was made of gold
and ivory, and his wig was of the finest quality. Ethan could not see his
face, but the fashionable cut of his clothes and the vivid peacock-blue
color of his coat and the lavish lace at his cuffs proclaimed him an even
more dandified Tory than Ethan pretended to be.
"Thief! Thief!"
The sudden cry rose above the noise of the crowd, and Ethan once again
leaned forward in the doorway, curious to see what was going on. To his
surprise, he saw the angel girl again, but this time she was in the grip
of a prosperous merchant.
"I am no thief!" she said indignantly, trying to wrench her
wrist free of her captor's grasp. "Unhand me!"
"You took my pocket watch. I know you did." Keeping a firm hold
on her wrist, the man looked around for a constable. Ethan watched as she
shoved and struggled against her captor, and he caught the glint of silver
as she slipped the man's watch into his pocket.
Clever girl. Ethan grinned, knowing no one would be able to prove
theft against her now. Unaware that his property had been returned, the
merchant continued to shout for a constable, but the only person who came
to assist was a young, redcoat officer. "What is going on here?" he
demanded as he stepped forward out of the gathering crowd.
"I did not! It's a lie!" She looked up at the officer, her gorgeous
eyes wide and pleading. She lifted her free hand in a helpless gesture. "A
ghastly mistake has been made," she said in a voice that would have
melted stone.
"This man thinks I have stolen something from him, and I am unable to convince
him of my innocence. Oh, Major, you seem such an able and intelligent gentleman.
Please help me."
The officer, who was only a lieutenant, puffed up like an arrogant peacock
at her flattery. He smiled and patted her arm. "I'm sure everything
will be fine," he said soothingly and turned to the merchant. "When
did you lose your watch, sir?"
"I didn't lose it,"
the other man said angrily, scowling at the officer. "She stole it."
"Have you proof of this?"
"Proof? She'll have it on her, and that's all the proof you'll need."
The girl's expression was one of such martyred innocence that Ethan nearly
laughed aloud. "By all means, search me if you must," she said
with injured dignity. "I will gladly submit if it will convince you
I am innocent. But, if you please, sir, ask this gentleman to search his
own pockets as well, for I am sure he is mistaken."
The lieutenant would not have been human if he had not responded to such
a plea. He turned to the merchant. "Sir, are you certain your watch
is not on your person?"
"Of course I'm certain. Any fool can see she stole it."
Being called a fool did not sit well with the lieutenant. He frowned. "Would
you mind verifying that the watch is missing?"
"Of all the ridiculous . . ." The merchant let go of the girl
and patted his pockets, muttering impatiently to himself and scowling,
but his irritated expression changed to astonishment as he pulled the heavy
silver watch out of his coat pocket.
"I must have misplaced it," the other man murmured, and Ethan
choked back his laughter only with a great deal of effort. Red-faced, the
merchant bowed stiffly and walked away without another word.
The girl turned to the officer, her face shining with gratitude. "Oh,
Major, I don't know how to thank you."
Now that the excitement had passed, the crowd that had gathered around
them dissipated. The dandy with the peacock-blue coat walked on with his
newspaper, and matrons returned their attention to Colin's clams.
Ethan, however, continued to watch the girl. After such a close call,
he expected her to beat a hasty retreat, but he found he had underestimated
her. Instead of counting her blessings and going on her way, she lingered
beside the officer, talking with him. One or two more flattering comments,
a few moments of rapt, wide-eyed attention, and the lieutenant was completely
captivated. He smirked and swaggered, too besotted by his bewitching companion
to notice when one of her small, delicate hands slid into his pocket.
Impressed by her audacity, Ethan watched, certain that the officer would come to his senses and realize what had happened. But such was not the case. She touched the redcoat's cheek in a lingering caress of farewell and turned away, leaving the dazed young officer staring after her with an expression on his face similar to that of a bewildered sheep. Giving him one last glance over her shoulder that held all the promise a man could want, she melted into the crowd and disappeared.
END OF EXCERPT. LIKE IT? ORDER IT!
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I
confess I am a Revolutionary War buff. I love all of American history,
but I have a special fondness for the early days. I can recite Patrick
Henry's Liberty-or-Death speech and the Preamble of the Constitution. I
hold Sam Adams in high esteem, not just because he has a beer named after
him, but also because he was such a rabble-rouser in his day. I wanted
to write a book set in Boston on the eve of Lexington and Concord. I thought
that sounded like great fun to write. All that history. All those facts.
All those dates. I know. I am insane.
The
first decision I made was that my hero and heroine would be spies on opposite
sides. I was very enthusiastic about this until I realized the big problem.
I don't know anything about spies. What do spies do exactly? Hmm. Have
secret meetings. Plot revolution. Skulk about. Always think they're being
followed. I figured I could make up stuff like that, and I took the plunge
into espionage. The hero, Ethan Harding, is a spy for our side who plots
and skulks with the best of them. Until he meets Katie Armstrong, a pickpocket
and con artist with the face of an angel. She's been hired by the other
side (those pesky redcoats) to spy on him. This messes up his entire life.
I love doing that to heroes. Because of Katie, Ethan learns how to forge
documents, steal pocket watches, and make his enemies unconscious with
mysterious drugs. He also learns to fall in love. Quite a lot for a guy
who's busy creating a country. Enjoy.
Finalist, Romantic
Times,
"A
fast-paced read brimming with both history and intrigue. The setting and
sense of history are terrific, and the spy hero and heroine are icing on
the cake." 
At
dawn, North Square was seething with activity. Women with baskets stood
amid the flimsy stalls of the marketplace, haggling with farmers or their
agents over the high prices. Their voices mingled with the crowing of live
turkeys for sale, the beckoning calls of merchants, and the rattle of carts
that rolled through the square carrying precious firewood, apples and onions
from the country.
Ethan
was not a man to be impressed by a woman's beauty. In truth, he seldom
noticed women at all these days, which he considered rather a shame when
he took the time to think of it.
A
boy of about twelve stood only a few feet from Ethan's doorway selling
newspapers. Tory newspapers, no doubt, since it was almost impossible for
a boy to sell Whig newspapers in the marketplace these days. The soldiers
harassed the Whig newspaper sellers so mercilessly that such an occupation
was hazardous for a boy. Ethan set his jaw grimly. Soon, boys would be
able to sell newspapers with any opinions under the sun without fear of
reprisal from the bored and unruly troops of a tyrannical king.
"This
girl stole my watch," the merchant accused, twisting the girl's wrist
with enough force to make her cry out.
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