by Cat Lindler
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Bibliography
Author’s Notes
Previous Accolades for Kiss of a Traitor by Cat Lindler
“… a wonderful book which left me spellbound. I highly recommend it to anyone.”
—Brenda Talley,The Romance Studio (November 2008)
“Kiss Of A Traitor is a fabulous look at the American Revolution through the loving eyes of two adversaries.”
—Harriett Klausner,Midwest Book Review
“This well-researched novel exhibits such descriptive language that one feels in the center of the action. Readers will adore the heroine, who develops into a strong, capable person.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Filled with plenty of laugh-out-loud scenes … and quite a few very steamy intimate encounters, Kiss Of A Traitor is a fast-paced, well-written story.”
—Jani Brooks,Romance Reviews Today
“Lindler’s Kiss Of A Traitor has intelligent characters who keep the story rolling along. A great novel.”
—Night Owl Romance
DEDICATION:
To Jeffrey Geoffroy’s cat, my own saber-toothed tiger and an endangered species in his own right, who so enriched my life. Run easy, sweet boy, in a vast pampas full of game, where spotted coats don’t mean fur coats.
Published 2010 by Medallion Press, Inc.
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is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2010 by Cat Lindler
Cover design by Arturo Delgado
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-160542093-6
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
My thanks to everyone at Medallion Press, especially Helen Rosburg, who first recognized the promise in my books and graciously shared her knowledge of Samoan culture. Thanks also to my critique partner, Chalene Fleming, who always speaks her mind and, although we tussle over changes, is usually right in the end, and to Tammy Seymour, who read the original manuscript.
CHAPTER ONE
An uncharted island in the Furneaux Islands off Tasmania
1892
“Smilodon,” he whispered, barely uttering the word.
“What?” Richard Colchester, sixth Earl of Stanbury, sharply turned his head. “Let me have the glass.”
James Truett grinned and slapped the spyglass in Richard’s outstretched hand. Richard cut him an annoyed look and examined the distant figure on the rock cairn. Heat coming off the sandy ground distorted the vision. Richard focused the glass again.
He gasped, and as a breeze stirred the heat waves, his eyes watered. He blinked away the moisture. A cat sat on the rocks—a cat as large as a lion. Richard laid the glass on the ground beside him and wiped his face and eyes with his handkerchief. Hesitating a moment to slow his heart, he picked up the glass again and studied the cat.
Sleek yet heavily muscled. An abundant dark mane ran along the ridge of a thick, arched neck. Bunched muscles moved under a tawny coat spotted with irregular white blotches. It moved, stretching out short front legs, warming its belly on the rock surface. Massive paws with long toes ending in sharp, nonretractable claws; a lean abdomen, plainly outlined by the ribs underneath; and powerful, densely packed rear haunches. Small, rounded ears set well back on a broad head. A wide, square muzzle, and dark green eyes, large and tilted at the outer corners. The cat washed its legs, taking leisurely swipes with its tongue, and the unmistakable gleam of eight-inch curved canines extended outside the mouth to below the jawline.
“My God.” Richard sucked in a breath through parted lips. His hands shook, jiggling the glass, wavering the image. “‘Tis a bloody Smilodon.” He turned to his companion and grinned. “James, we’ve found a bloody Smilodon.”
For two hours, Richard recorded his observations, and James sketched the cat in detail. Though Richard’s primary interest centered on the island’s flora, something of this magnitude was impossible to ignore. He made notes as precisely as he would have done had the cat been a new bromeliad.
Comfortable in each other’s company, the two men—Richard a noted botanist; James a nature artist and disciple of Audubon—worked in silence. At thirty-five, James was ten years Richard’s junior. For twelve years they had traveled together through the world’s unknown corners, observing, recording, collecting samples, and sketching the plant life, producing detailed monographs with illustrations accurately depicting the vegetation of exotic locales. The scientific community eagerly awaited each new contribution.
When the cat moved on, Richard and James backed away from the sandy plain in the island’s interior and worked their way through the dense brush of the jungle toward the temporary camp they had established on the beach. A sultry breeze rippled through the thick foliage, carrying the meaty scents of decaying vegetation and the whistling calls of parakeets and cockatiels. A six-inch-long, rust red lizard scurried across their path, twirling its tail like a propeller. The trail it left on the sandy ground resembled a corkscrew. It halted at the edge of the trees, expanding its red throat sac in a display of miniature bravado. A long-tailed shrewlike animal shrieked overhead and swung off through the treetops. Still dazed by their discovery, Richard and James tramped along, their tongues stilled, each engrossed in his thoughts.
James suddenly stopped—as he was often wont to do when he sighted a strange plant—causing Richard to nearly tread upon his heels. He gestured expansively with one hand. “Just think, Richard, if that storm hadn’t caught us and blown the ship off course to this island, we never would have had this opportunity. We should give thanks to the Lord for His intervention.”
“Fate moves in mysterious ways, as do the vagaries of the ocean in these waters,” Richard replied with a wry smile. “In this case, perhaps we should extend our thanks to Neptune.”
James chuckled. “Ah, Richard, always the heretic.”
In the boisterous, smoky Blue Boar Inn, the air hung close and thick with odors of boiled mutton, a blazing pinewood fire, and unwashed bodies. As they dodged pinching fingers and wandering hands, serving maids with platters balanced on their palms and mugs of ale dangling from their fingers swung through tightly packed patrons. Outbursts of ribald laughter followed their swishing skirts.
Richard and James sat at a scarred table in one corner, ignoring the tumult around them and the mutton chops cooling and congealing in their own fat. Their heads close together, the two men conversed in lowered voices.
Richard pulled a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of stationery from his pack and laid them on the table. “I plan to write to Samantha, explaining the situation and the importance of maintaining secrecy. Knowing her, she will pull together an expedition in record time.”
James frowned and took a swig of ale. “Samantha? Our Samantha? I cannot help but worry. I fear your expectations exceed her talents and her ability to be discreet. This discovery is far too important to remain a secret for long. My God, a Smilodon! ‘Tis beyond the wildest imaginings of even the most optimistic scientist. Done properly, it will ensure the career of the first person to record it.”
“That’s why I’m depending on Samantha. I feel certain she can be cautious and still get the job done. I have no doubt she’ll manage without creating a stir. Samantha’s not one to take no for an answer; though now that I think about it, she may muddy the waters a bit, in a manner of speaking. Her tenacity could be our undoing.”
James raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“I’d place a wager of a hundred pounds that when the expedition shows up Samantha will be heading it.”
“Surely not!” James looked shocked. “This is not an expedition for a lady.”
Richard leaned back in his chair and laughed. “And what does that have to do with Samantha?”
“Samantha may have, um, spirit, but she is a lady. If she does arrive with the expedition, you shall simply have to send her back. You cannot possibly take responsibility for her under the conditions of a jungle expedition.”
Richard grimaced. “I’ll certainly try. But Samantha, as you are well aware, does not take orders in good cheer. That spirit with which you so generously gift her is more akin to obstinacy. At best, I might convince her to remain behind in Hobart.”
“You are her guardian.” James bent a stern eye on his friend. “I realize Samantha can be difficult at times, but you must be firm. Rein her in, or she will never be manageable and suitable for marriage.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried,” Richard replied with a cynical smile. “Nonetheless, Samantha considers herself a modern woman. Nothing I say or do seems to have effect.”
James cocked a brow. “A modern woman? I cannot say I have familiarity with that term, nor have I heard her express such sentiments. What does it mean?”
“Cannot say I truly understand it myself. To Samantha, I gather it means she does not take orders from men, any men, myself included. I finally stopped fighting it. Her arguments wore me to a nub.”
James waved with his mug of ale. “Then marry her off. She’s certainly old enough. A husband will curb her rebellious nature.”
Richard snorted, nearly choking on his ale. “I would, but I know of no one I dislike enough to inflict so vile a torture. Perhaps you would offer yourself as sacrifice?”
James gulped his ale with haste, unlike his normally moderate self. “Not me,” he mumbled. “I’m a confirmed bachelor.”
Richard pushed the paper aside, stuck a fork in a chop, and transferred it onto his plate. “Enough about my recalcitrant niece,” he said through a mouthful of stringy mutton while gesturing with the fork. “She is the best qualified to handle this situation. When she arrives, we’ll deal with her. My primary concern is planning a successful expedition from our end. We must be ready.”
At a prickling on the back of his neck, Richard half-turned in the chair to examine the tavern’s patrons. ‘Twas as if someone, or some malevolent presence, was watching them, listening in on their words. His survey revealed only heads bent over platters and eyes focused on tankards of ale. The mixture of sailors, merchants, and settlers seemed to pay them no heed. He dismissed his edginess as due to the secretive nature of his conversation with James.
While dividing his attention between the mutton and the list of supplies and personnel he jotted on the paper, he discussed with James their needs for a fully equipped expedition. Confident he had recorded all his requirements, Richard extracted a new sheet of paper. Taking up the pen and dipping the nib into the ink bottle, he began …
My dearest Samantha …
Two tables away, a man sat with his back to Richard and James. While eavesdropping on them, the man clenched and unclenched his hands beneath the table.
A serving maid edged up to him, her bovine bosom threatening to spring loose from the tight confines of a low-cut bodice. She regarded him with a lascivious gaze and ran her tongue across her lips. Bracing her hands on the table, she leaned over, nipples visible in their insecure nest. “What can I get fer ye, luv?” She wet her rouged lips again with the tip of her tongue.
When he turned and sent her a malicious stare, she jerked back with a sharply inhaled breath and hurried away, the heels of her shoes clacking in a rapid pattern on the plank floor.
CHAPTER TWO
Berkshire County, England
“Blast it!” Samantha tripped over a tangle of sedge grass and landed on her hands and knees in the muck of the bog. A marsh hawk, skimming the vegetation, released a piercing cry and wheeled over her head, as though to mock her clumsiness. She canted her face to the bird, saying, “You needn’t be so ungallant.” Sitting back on her heels, she examined her muddy hands and ruined walking outfit. No help for it now. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she looked down and, from her vantage point, spied her quarry. Movement in the grass. The wriggling of a common lizard, also known as the viviparous lizard, Lacerta vivipara. It hid beneath a clump of shiny, dark green leaves, its gray green color merging into the stonewort, round-leaved sundew, and marsh orchids.
“Aha. There you are, and you would choose stinging nettles for your refuge. For the longest time, I thought I should have to go home empty-handed. I shall call you Albert.”
Pulling down her sleeves to cover her arms, she poked beneath the nettles. The elusive lizard burrowed farther into the muck. She dug a bit under it, tipping it into a hollow in the ground, and scooped it up, tucking it into her pocket.
More of the tarlike bog mud now smeared her gown, and burrs clung to the skirt. A tear along the length of one sleeve added to the outfit’s disreputable look. Oh, bother! Given that her clothing was beyond repair, she crawled about, in the event she should come across some other interesting creature. When shrill young voices rose nearby, above the trilling of frogs and whistling of sparrows, she lifted her head and peered over the spears of grass to view three schoolboys wielding sticks and beating at the reeds.
Samantha lumbered to her feet and approached the boys. They halted their activity and turned sullen faces her way. She now recognized the trio, the unruly offspring of her aunt’s hay man.
“What have you there?” she asked with a tight smile, letting her sharp gaze touch on each boy.
The one she knew as Bradley spoke up. “Nut’n, m’lady.”
She crouched down and searched the vegetation they had beaten flat. “Well, it must be something, or you would not have taken such care to punish the reeds.” She sucked in a breath at the sight of the battered grass snake, its long, heavy body twitching in obvious pain. She gathered it into her hands and gently lifted it from the ground. It still had life in it and wriggled in her palms. Cradling it in the crook of her arm, she stood and faced the boys.
They hung their heads and shuffled their feet, making a rustling in the grass. The youngest, Madden, she recalled, snuffled and wiped his nose with a dirty sleeve.
&
nbsp; “You shall receive a switching for this,” she said, barely able to contain her ire.
“‘Tis only a snake,” Bradley said, raising his head and sending a mutinous look into her eyes.
“‘Tis the snake’s home, Master Bradley. It has the right to be here. You do not. It caused you no harm. Indeed, it could not, as it is a harmless species. I shall speak with your father tonight.” Wrapping the snake in her shawl, she strode off through the marsh, eager to get the injured reptile home and nurse it back to health.
A mile from the house, the lowering sky sagged farther, the ragged scraps of clouds knitting together into dirty gray sheets. A misty drizzle evolved into rain, and by the time she reached the steps of the country manor, her hair hung in a wet, matted mess. She pushed it away from her face with a grimy hand. Her rain-soaked wool jacket weighted down her shoulders, and her dragging skirt wrapped about her legs.
She circled the house to enter by the servants’ door. Muddy footprints following her across the wide oak-plank floors of the kitchen, she sloshed into the hallway in relative silence, considering her condition.
“Samantha!”
Aunt Delia’s voice issued with authority from the drawing room. Before Samantha could squish her way to the staircase, Delia appeared ahead of her, bursting through the opening framed by double pocket doors, and confronted her like a mongoose challenging a king cobra. Delia came to a halt, her bow-shaped mouth puckered into an expression of censure.
“I do declare,” Delia said, “I have looked everywhere for you. I should have known you were tramping about the bog, communing with those slimy creatures. I only hope you did not bring another reptile into this house.”
Albert stirred in Samantha’s pocket, and the grass snake flexed in her arms. She hugged the shawl closer to her chest.
Delia waved a hand. “No matter. The postman brought a letter from Richard. It has come all the way from Tasmania.”