CHAPTER 1

Boston, MassachusettsJuly 31, 1769

The crack of musket fire resounded through the clouded sky.Hailstones, the size of goose eggs, pelted the cobbled thoroughfareas people ran for shelter. Thunder clapped and anonslaught of shouts and shrieks echoed nature's vehementwarning. Honour Metcalf sank to her knees in a puddle ofquilted petticoats and toile—her mitted hands encased herhead, vying for protection against the artillery of hail andconfusion.

"Miss Metcalf, Miss Metcalf ..."

A muffled voice reached her ears and she dared peek atthe one towering over her. Blue eyes—those eyes—flashedconcern, then vanished as a dark cloak enveloped her. Strongarms scooped her up, pressing her against the firm chest ofher rescuer.

Honour could scarcely make out the blur of damagedbrick and clapboard as Joshua Sutton's long strides carried heraway in haste. Glazed windows popped and shards of glassflew as hail continued to wreak havoc on shops and offices.Fallen birds littered the street amidst the frozen ammunition.Lightning flashed and Honour squeezed her eyes shut, willingaway the shrill neighs of horses and the cracking of the icybrimstone beneath carriage wheels.

The pair entered through a heavy wooden door into a dimlylit foyer. Mr. Sutton rested Honour upon a long bench andstooped beside her. With trembling hands, she pushed backher taffeta calash. The boned collapsible bonnet providedsome measure of protection from the torrent, but what wouldprotect her from him?

"How do you fare, Miss Metcalf?" Mr. Sutton asked.

Honour's heart pounded, much the same as Mr. Sutton'shad, as she hovered against his chest. Her eyes darted aroundthe room before her frightened gaze locked on his. Darkenedand dampened by the storm, his hair spread wildly about hisshoulders, and his ocean blue eyes awaited her answer.

"Miss Metcalf. I asked if you are well."

The edge in his voice lifted her out of the fog and she rubbedher temple. "Mr. Sutton? Aye, I am well enough. Where ...why are we here?" Honour glanced at the small leaded glasswindow, a piece of golden glass missing from a corner andother sections cracked.

"I found you in the street getting pummeled by hailstones.We took shelter here in the meeting house." Thunder rolledagain and Mr. Sutton's eyes shot toward the door.

"How long will it last?" Her young sister was safe at thedame school, or so she hoped.

"That, only the Almighty knows." He surveyed her as ifassessing a length of cloth. "Are you certain you are uninjured,Miss Metcalf?"

"I am ... I must go." She attempted to rise, but a wave ofdizziness overcame her.

"Please rest for a moment. You cannot go back out there."His mouth drew into a line. "Perhaps we should pray."

"Surely I did, as you carried me here." A warm blush roseon her neck.

"I prayed, as well. Then we shall trust the good Lord forthe outcome, shall we? After all, we have found refuge inHis house." The corners of Mr. Sutton's eyes crinkled withreassurance.

Honour replied with a simple nod and regarded his kindface. "It is you who are injured, Mr. Sutton." She extended herhand toward his bruised cheek, and retreated.

He instinctively found the bruise on his cheekbone, and felthis temple. A trickle of blood mixed with rainwater streameddown the side of his face. He looked at the blood on his handand shrugged. "'Tis nothing. Perhaps some feverfew tea willhelp."

"You might as well have been lambasted by rocks thrownby town delinquents. If your head hurts, as mine is beginningto, it will take more than tea, I fear."

"The tea would warm me more. It hurts little." The cornerof his mouth curved.

"This is no time for mirth, Mr. Sutton." Honour said, searchingabout for her satchel. "I would offer you a handkerchief,but I've none in my pocket and cannot find my workbag. Imust have dropped it in the street."

Mr. Sutton gestured toward her cloak pocket. "May I?"

Only then did Honour notice his greatcoat draped awkwardlyaround her shoulders, her short chintz cape beneath,which she'd hastily donned, perchance it rained. He musthave covered her when he whisked her away from the harshelements—including British officers. When they came rushingtoward her, she had crumbled to the ground, and her legsturned to porridge despite her urge to flee. But the dark skyand giant balls of ice caused her to succumb to nature's assault.Like the fire and brimstone punishment of the ancients, Godhad thrown water and ice to execute judgment upon her.

She attempted to remove the coat, but he stayed her handwith his. Though cold, his firm, yet gentle clasp exuded thewarmth of one who cared. Or was it her mere imagination?Her heart dared not hope.

"No. You need it for warmth. One would scarcely know'tis a summer day." He retrieved a handkerchief from his coatand wiped at his cut. He refolded the linen cloth and placedit inside a pocket of his damp-about-the-shoulders waistcoat."Now tell me about this satchel of yours. Is it of greatimportance?"

She worried her lip and nodded.

"Perhaps we can yet find it. If not, you might obtain a newone from my father's store, if you'd allow me to replace it."

Honour wrinkled her brow. "Though I do appreciate youroffer, Mr. Sutton, it must be found. 'Tis not only my workbag,but of special value to me. It was a gift from my late mother."

"Let us hope, then, it may be retrieved ... once the stormhas passed." He glanced upward to the vestibule's high ceiling,and her gaze followed—the hail continuing to pound the slateroof of the church in an unnerving staccato.

"Yes, I do hope. My mother taught me to quilt and theembroidered bag once belonged to her. It is dear to me, indeed,as far as material things. Though I do hope you do not thinkme selfish to speak of such a small matter whilst people mayyet be out there in the storm, injured and dealing with thedamage." She rubbed the base of her skull, the dull ache intensifying,yet she wished not to concern Mr. Sutton.

The man grinned, and a darling crease appeared by hismouth. "I do not think there is one thimbleful of selfishnessinside you, Miss Metcalf."

"Then you do not know me well enough, Mr. Sutton."Honour smiled shyly and lowered her gaze, her heavy lidsbeckoning her to succumb to the drowsy feeling tugging ather.

"Perhaps we may remedy that."

"Mmm." Her eyes grew leaden as an aura of slumberdescended upon her.

"Miss Metcalf!"

Honour's head bobbed up. "Yes?" She felt as though shewere floating in the ocean—submerging one moment, andabove a wave another.

Joshua Sutton still knelt before her, his eyes stayed on hers,as if he could hold her up by sheer will. Then he peered downat her quilted outer petticoat. Aye, she'd worn her favorite bluesilk quilt today, with her blue and yellow toile polonaise gown.Did he find her attractive? She felt her damp skirt. Mercy, howcould he? She must look like a shipwreck.

"Your quilt, Miss Metcalf. It is sublime. Is it your own handiwork?"he asked.

"Aye, thank you," she whispered, trying to remain alert. "Ilearned from my mother. There was never a finer quilter thanshe."

"I have heard you are an adept quilter, but I have neverseen evidence of it until now. Your mother taught you well.Perhaps my father can make use of your services for men'sbanyan robes and waistcoats, since we are no longer able toobtain quilted cloth from...