Page 1 of Rebel

Chapter 1

November 1774—Rosemont, Rhode Island

THE FIRST TIME Sam saw Nathaniel Tanner he was standing in the doorway to John Reed’s law office amid a pool of crisp November sunlight. It picked out copper threads in his chestnut hair, glinted on the gilt buttons of his coat, and turned his fine-boned face milky against dark eyes that regarded the office and its inhabitants with profound disinterest.

He doesn’t want to be here, Sam realized.Thinks we aren’t good enough for him.

Everything marked out Tanner as a gentleman, from the cut of his elegant coat to the slender hand holding his hat. He was a Harvard man, Reed had told them, and the son of an old friend. Why Tanner had taken a position at a provincial law office in Rosemont, Sam couldn’t imagine. Surely a blue-blooded gentleman like him could find work in Boston.

“Tanner!” Reed heaved himself out from behind his desk with a beaming smile. “Come in, come in.”

“Mr. Reed. How do you do, sir?” Tanner offered a slight bow. He moved with quick, impatient grace, as if he had better things to do. Sam felt his hackles rise; Reed was a good man, and he didn’t have to take Tanner on. He was doing the man a favor and deserved his gratitude.

But Reed seemed oblivious to Tanner’s cool greeting. “Ah, Nate, my boy. It does my heart good to see you. Last time we met you were no more than this high!” He chuckled and bent stiffly around his girth to indicate his knees. “And now look at you, eh? Quite the gentleman, and the spit of your dear mother.”

Tanner accepted the comment with a remote smile. “Thank you, sir. Many people say so.”

“I don’t doubt it! A fine woman was Isabelle. A great beauty.”

Sam imagined she must have been. There was nothing womanly about Nathaniel Tanner, despite his graceful build, yet there was something luminous in his face—beauty, Sam thought, if that wasn’t a ridiculous word to apply to a man. With his dark hair pulled back into a neat queue, and his fashionable coat cut to flatter, Tanner made a fine figure of a man. But Sam could imagine a woman with those same strong, demanding features, and that notion stirred something fluttery in the pit of his stomach. As always, he ignored the sensation before the feeling became a thought.

“Hutchinson, my boy.” Reed beckoned him over. “Come and greet your new colleague, Mr. Tanner.”

Sam had ink on his fingers and wiped his hand on his handkerchief before he crossed the room. Standing up, he found himself a few inches taller than Tanner. Taller and broader, he should have felt the more powerful of the two, but when Tanner’s urbane gaze fell on him Sam felt infuriatingly gauche. For a wild moment he imagined Tanner could see through his skin and into his secret heart. But that would be impossible; the man wasn’t a witch.

Deliberately, Sam didn’t bow but stuck out his hand in the common way just to see how Tanner responded. “How do you do, Mr. Tanner?”

Tanner’s eyes dipped to Sam’s hand with an expression of mingled surprise and approval. “Very well, Mr. Hutchinson,” he said as they shook hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Tanner’s fingers felt warm and slender, but his grip was firm. He looked Sam right in the eye as he said, “I hope I shan’t be too troublesome as I learn my way.”

“Not at all.” Sam was aware their handshake lingered, that his attention was very much taken by the feel of the other man’s hand in his own. “Feel free to be as troublesome as you like.”

A tick of a smile twitched the corner of Tanner’s lips, a flicker of curiosity brightening his eyes. “I shall take you at your word, sir.” When Tanner dropped his hand, Sam found himself rubbing his fingertips against his palm as if to trap the heat of that touch.

Unaccountably, his heart raced like a hound on the hunt, his cheeks burning.God in heaven, I must look like a fool.But Tanner only smiled. A fleeting expression that Sam, in his confusion, imagined was meant for him alone.

For the first few weeks, as fall turned into an icy Rosemont winter, Sam’s intercourse with Tanner remained strictly professional. Sam had been clerking for Reed for two years, since his parents’ death in the typhus of seventy-two. So he had much to pass on to Tanner, and Tanner proved an astute and able student. Everything about him was quick: his speech, his thought, his occasional flash of humor. The way he walked across the square to his lodgings every evening, alone and inviting no company.

That was the thing about Tanner: he kept himself to himself. He never talked about his family, or his life in Boston, and often, during the half hour Reed permitted them for lunch, he had his nose in a book or pamphlet. Always reading, was Nathaniel Tanner. No wonder he’d been a Harvard man.

Sam spent his days surreptitiously watching him from across the office, admiring the way his straight, dark hair gleamed where it was pulled back into a queue. He wished his hair would do the same, but his blond curls had proven unbiddable, so he kept his hair unfashionably short and donned a wig for formal occasions. Sam didn’t have much use for fashion but looking at Tanner in his fine clothes made him want to look a little finer in his own.

He bought two new shirts and a waistcoat that, like Tanner’s, flattered his figure. He didn’t have Tanner’s slender grace, but neither was he running to fat like Reed. The time he caught Nate admiring his new waistcoat, a thoughtful look in his eyes, made Sam smile for the rest of the day. And for some days thereafter.

Strands of Tanner’s hair sometimes escaped his queue and fell across his face, and Tanner would distractedly tuck them behind his ear while he worked. Watching from the opposite side of the office, Sam found himself imagining the slide of that silken hair between his fingers. Sometimes, ridiculously, he pictured himself tucking it behind Tanner’s ear for him. And Tanner looking up with a smile of thanks and—

He stopped those thoughts dead, heart pounding as he returned to his work.

A devil resided in him, against which he must be on guard.

He wasn’t helped by the fact that Tanner was one of those men who liked to touch. He did it with everyone—a hand on Sam’s shoulder as he stood behind his desk, a touch on Reed’s arm when they talked, his fingers tousling the hair of the lads who ran errands for the office. And every time Tanner touched Sam, he felt it like a shock across his skin. Sometimes he thought Tanner felt it too, that his touches lingered longer on him than on anyone else. Sometimes he thought Tanner stood closer than necessary. Once, as Sam sat at his desk explaining Reed’s arcane cataloguing system, Tanner stood so close that his knee pressed against Sam’s thigh. The heat of that contact made Sam breathe too fast, made his fingers so sweaty he had to set the pen down and wipe his hand on his breeches.

Tanner had looked at him then with an indecipherable expression in his glorious, dark eyes. No smile, just a look that Sam felt he was expected to understand but didn’t. A little frown had followed, a crease between Tanner’s eyebrows, and then he’d walked away with a gentle squeeze of Sam’s shoulder.

Two days later, Tanner astonished him by suggesting they share a Christmas drink at Perkins’ tavern once the office closed. Reed endorsed the plan so heartily that he decided to join them. Although Tanner said nothing about that, Sam felt a pulse of frustration from him that echoed shamefully in his own heart—Reed was a good employer and deserved their respect and friendship. Nonetheless, he felt covetous of Tanner’s attention. Luckily, however, Reed didn’t linger; the night was snowy, and he knew Mrs. Reed would fret until he was home. While Tanner watched, Sam eagerly fetched Reed’s coat and hat and walked him to his coach—the street was icy underfoot and Reed wasn’t always steady on his legs. Too much weight carried around the waist.

When he was safely on his way, Sam returned to the table he was sharing with Tanner.

“It must be nice to have someone waiting at home,” Tanner said as Sam sat back down.

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