Guns of Liberty by Kerry Newcomb Page A

quickly appraised the Highlander towering over him and did not seem in the least put off by McQueen’s size. Woodbine knew there were other powers than sheer brawn, and he wielded them with relish.
    He looked at Kate and guided her toward the tavern. “And how do we stand, Mistress Bufkin? Will you be ready to receive Colonel Washington?”
    “And whomever else arrives with him,” Kate assured him. “Mr. McQueen will repair the pewter. And as you’ll see, the downstairs tavern virtually escaped damage.”
    Daniel watched them walk arm in arm and felt his temper rise. Jealous? Why? he wondered. He’d scarcely been here a day. What was Kate to him? True, he liked her for her spirit, and he had seen many fine qualities in her from their first meeting. But he was here as an imposter. He had no right to feel anything at all.
    Woodbine had spoken of Washington coming to the tavern. So that explained why Meeks wanted him here.
    Daniel looked around at the hens scratching in the barnyard dirt for insects. He should go back to work, return to his place at the forge. But Kate and Woodbine had disappeared through the side door of the tavern and something in Daniel, despite his best efforts to the contrary, forced him to follow.
    Woodbine stood in the center of the tavern and liked what he saw, from the polished mahogany tables to the cabinets lined with pewterware and china. A Seth Thomas clock commanded the center of the great hearth, and hanging in a place of honor was a portrait of William Penn. Two racks of long-stemmed clay pipes had been set to either side of the Seth Thomas, and a pair of leather and wood trenchers stood at either end of the mantel.
    A number of straight-backed chairs as well as benches were arranged about the tables, while several cushioned easy chairs were placed near the box windows overlooking the courtyard. Kate had even acquired a chair that tilted back, allowing a footrest to raise in front, an ideal resting place for a man with the gout. A chess set had been left near one of the box windows. It had been a gift from Woodbine, who noted with satisfaction its place of honor.
    “You’ve done well, Kate,” he said, and he took her hand in his and patted it. “I could not have chosen a better partner.” His voice took on a purring quality as he stroked her fingers, then bowed and kissed her hand.
    The gesture made her uncomfortable.
    Kate sensed an implied relationship in Woodbine’s manner of speaking. Her mother had been an attractive, lonely widow. Two years ago, in the employ of Nathaniel Woodbine, she had entered into an affair with the well-to-do merchant. Though married and seemingly devoted to his ailing wife, Woodbine had professed love for Ruth Bufkin and to prove his sincerity had purchased the Hound and Hare Inn, a discreet but manageable distance from his offices in Philadelphia and his wife’s estate in New York. The fire and Ruth Bufkin’s death had changed everything.
    Or had it?
    Kate felt the constant, steady pressure of Woodbine’s fingers enclosing her hand and was loath to draw away and wound the man’s pride. He tilted her hand palm upward and, reaching inside his coat, withdrew a silver snuff box and placed it in her hand. It was a finely crafted piece and heavy, worth a goodly sum, to be sure. The lid of the snuff box bore a fine line etching of a meadow and a weeping willow.
    “Have our taciturn friend, Mr. McQueen, melt this down into coins,” said Woodbine.
    “I cannot accept any more of your generosity, Nathaniel,” Kate protested.
    “I insist.”
    “But you have given so much …”
    “I won’t hear another word.” Woodbine closed her hand around the silver box. “Your mother was special to me. And in your own way, you, too, have become someone I hold most dear.”
    The side door opened and Daniel entered the tavern. Woodbine released Kate’s hand and stepped back, a look of displeasure on his face. He had little use for hirelings who intruded on his