Paxton's War by Kerry Newcomb Page B

can place you in the position that a woman of your intelligence and beauty—”
    â€œThere you are! Given up already?”
    Buckley’s eyes narrowed as he looked up and saw Jason standing over him. “Just resting for a moment, old boy,” he said between clenched teeth. “Why don’t you run along and—”
    â€œRun along?” Jason asked. “When there’s dancing to be done? After eight weeks aboard a ship, the muscles in my legs are about to atrophy if I don’t give them a good exercise.” He held out a hand to Colleen. “What do you say, Colleen? One dance, to get a poor seafarer’s blood moving?”
    â€œI’d love to. Be a dear and hold this for me, will you, Buckley?” she asked, handing him her glass and jumping to her feet.
    â€œNow, look here!…”
    â€œTerribly kind of you … old boy,” Jason said, tongue in cheek. “I promise to return her to you unharmed in just a few moments.”
    â€œI wish you hadn’t said that,” Colleen complained as they moved to the center of the meadow, where dozens of couples were whirling around.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I don’t want to be returned to him, thank you.”
    Jason smiled, appreciative of her spirit, and found himself leading her in an improvised dance that seemed to have been building within him for hours, even years. Not even the angry scowl of his father stopped him. Unlike Buckley, he loved the hybrid music. Its rawness and confusion seemed to match his own, making him feel carefree and loose. Entering in the spirit of the afternoon, he and Colleen linked hands with the other dancers in a moving, swirling circle, his old neighbors in their finery and their plain work clothes, his newfound friend in her gown of yellow, lavender, and green, her eyes catching the afternoon sun. They danced in a square, danced in a circle, changing partners and flying with the breeze, over and under, arms and hands, kicking up dust and singing out, squealing and hollering and not caring whether the steps were wrong or right, Jason finally shedding the tension that had crept under his skin, Jason reveling in the freedom, the wild-spirited freedom of the bastardized concoction of minuet, cotillion, quadrille, reele, allemande, rigadoon, and hornpipe. It was as if the melody of the morning—from Jason’s ship and Colleen’s bedroom—had been refashioned into an exuberantly shapeless form. Jason laughed out loud as he thought of the dance masters he’d met in Europe, and what they would think of the improbable, confusing extravaganza.
    I am with him. He asked me to dance. He sought me out, saved me from the terrible boredom of Buckley Somerset. He’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of … Colleen’s head bounced from side to side and her feet flew. Not caring if she appeared giddy or undignified, her doubts about Jason’s political persuasion forgotten, she abandoned herself to the whirlwind dance, threw herself into the crazy jig. When the dance ended, the spell lingered. Colleen and Jason stood facing one another, the heat of the rhythm and their impassioned movements still passing through them, their eyes expressing thoughts and feelings that their tongues dared not utter. Only the announcement of the basket auction interrupted their hypnotic stares.
    â€œYou brought a basket?” Jason asked.
    â€œA beige wicker hamper tied with a light green bow,” Colleen answered as if in a dream. Shyly, she looked down at the ground, then back into his eyes. “I’d be … pleased … if we could share it.”
    â€œAnd Buckley?”
    Colleen’s eyes flared. “If you think for one minute, Jason Paxton, that—”
    Jason grinned, then touched one finger to her lips to stop her. “You’re looking at a hungry man,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”
    â€œI know it