“Why, John, I believe you’re turning red,” Franklin looked like a French king from the chair he’d situated himself on, gouty knee propped up, basking in John’s discomfort.
It had been four months - four whole months since he’d seen Abigail, and then, he’d been met with Franklin with a dozen updates on the war. Abigail took it well, her smile only barely hiding the mischief in her eyes as she looked at John and talked about how much she’d heard about him as John discreetly hid his face behind a convenient handkerchief, well aware of exactly what he’d said about the self-proclaimed sage. (The words “damned menace” came to mind.)
And Franklin still remained blissfully, painfully oblivious as he went on and on, whether by choice or design, John wasn’t sure.
“Oh, and I about you, Mrs. Adams. John here talks about you day and night, if you give him the time, not that he ever waits for the invitation.”
“Oh, my husband’s well used to waiting , Dr. Franklin.” Her hands smoothed against the blue dress she wore, raising the hem just slightly above her ankle.
“Franklin-” He said, in a way that was not a growl. It was a very, very polite grumble at most.
“What is it, John?” Franklin turned to him, suddenly aware he existed.
The good Lord wanted them to remain humble, lest they become complacent. Horses had gadflies. Dogs had fleas. The United States (the words combined still sent a shiver down his spine) had a congress.
And John Adams had Benjamin Franklin.
That firmly in mind, he silently prayed for deliverance as he acted.
“Franklin-” John tried to discreetly jerk his head. “There are still some things we do in Boston.”
Franklin’s throaty chuckle followed them as he escorted Abigail to their bedroom.