Rapture's Betrayal

by McCarthy, Candace

  Richard sat up, and her gaze caressed him as he reached out for the doors to the alcove bed. Within seconds, he’d closed them in. They were in their own little private world.

  “Richard, I love you.” She hadn’t been able to hold back the words.

  He hesitated, and then his reply came ever so softly. “Woman, I love you, too.” He drew her against his side, and they lay snuggling.

  “Sleep,” he ordered a short time later. And she obeyed.

  Sometime in the night, Richard woke. He made love to Kirsten a second time within the intimate seclusion of the alcove bed. It was a slow, tender exploration, fueled by their love, a joining of two souls as well as two bodies.

  When they were done, Richard opened the doors to the alcove bed. “So I can keep a watch on the morning, love,” he told her.

  And again Kirsten slept within the sweet sanctuary of her lover’s arms.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “William, when will Miles meet us?” Catherine Randolph asked her husband. She’d been roused in the middle of the night and urged to flee from her home. The Continentals would be attacking; Miles was to be at a special meeting place where they would all stay until they were safe.

  Randolph was silent as they made their way through the woods. They had traveled on foot for over an hour, first for a time along the road and then they’d left the trail for the deep, dense section of the forest.

  “William?”

  He paused in his steps and faced her, his features contorting with pain. He held her shoulders. “He’s not coming.”

  She blinked up at him with those startling sapphire blue eyes that had caught his attention so many years before. “Not coming,” she said. “But you said—”

  “I had to tell you, don’t you see?” William released her and rubbed his face as if he could wipe away the torment—the inner rage. Letting out a growl of anger, he stared at her. “He’s dead.”

  “No!” she whispered. He could see her in the moonlight, the way she paled, the pain in her gaze. “Miles . . .” She gasped, swaying on her feet. “God in heaven, no!”

  He grabbed her cruelly by the arms. “Get a hold of yourself, wife! Don’t you realize we’re in danger, too! Why do you think we’re traipsing about the woods in the dead of night?”

  She cringed at the word “dead.” “How?” she asked, her voice choked with emotion.

  Randolph turned away, unble to bear her pain. “It was the rebs that did it. Damn them! Kirsten and her cousin, Martin Hoppe.”

  Catherine shook her head. “No . . . it can’t be.”

  He faced her. “Are you doubting my word?” He must convince her if they were to escape to safety together. She’d always been by his side; she would understand and remain so.

  “It’s doesn’t make sense . . . Kirsten and Miles were close.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Until Miles chose sides. He was helping me, helping the King as he should and . . .” Randolph hesitated, feeling overwrought by guilt, pain, and the uncertainty of how he should proceed. He was telling her the truth, wasn’t he?

  His wife gazed at him, saw his expression and realized that he actually believed what he was telling her. Her fingers curled into fists. Oh, God. Miles dead! I can’t believe Kirsten would hurt him. I don’t believe it!

  She noticed that her husband refused to look at her, a fact that disturbed her almost as much as a certain memory did. She closed her eyes, recalling the recent beating William had given Miles. How could a father whip his son in that manner? Until Miles’s skin was striped with welts and blood.

  Discipline, he’d said.

  She’d believed him for years, but now, thinking with a clear head, she realized that the man she’d married had changed much since the start of the war.

  “Let’s go,” he said. He started through the woods, expecting her to follow.

  Catherine hesitated. If Miles were dead, then where was his body? Her chest hurt with the need to breathe. Grief was tightening her chest, making her heart thunder within her breast. She had to know. She wanted to see Miles.

  She fell into step behind her husband, for she was desperate for more news of her only son. Her dead son. “Where is he?” she cried. “If he’s dead, I want to see him.”

  His shoulders stiffened for a second, but he didn’t stop walking. “I told you—the rebs got him. At the Van Voorhees’ place.”

  She halted. “William, I must see him. I must go to him.”

  He jerked to a standstill. “No! You can’t. You’d be killed. We’d both be killed.”

  She remained firm. “I’m not asking you to go.”

  Something dangerous appeared in his expression then, an evil light, a menacing scowl. “You are not going anywhere but with me.”

  Catherine ignored him, started to turn. William caught her by the arm and struck her across the mouth. “You are coming with me, I said. Now move!”

  Catherine realized what a fool she’d been all these years to have stayed with him. She should have taken Miles away the first time William raised his fist against either one of them. Charmed by his occasional smile, she’d suffered but chosen to ignore the warnings, the streak of madness, the cruelty in William. What had happened to the tender, gentle man who’d first come to court her?

  Her blood froze with a horrible thought. Had William done it? Had he killed his only son? “You did it, didn’t you. You killed Miles!”

  The look on his face spoke the truth.

  There was a soft brightening of the sky when he slipped from Kirsten’s bed.

  “Richard?” she said sleepily. She felt along the feather tick for him.

  “I’m going to my chamber, sweet. It’s near dawn; we can’t have your parents discovering me here, can we?”

  She frowned as she peeked out at him through sleep-drugged eyes. “I suppose not.”

  Richard bent down and gave her a lingering kiss. “See you at breakfast?”

  Her face softened with a gentle smile. “All right,” she murmured as she settled herself more comfortably on the feather-tick mattress.

  “Sleep well then, my love,” he said.

  He ensured that she was well covered before he turned to leave the room. He paused a moment to readjust his eyesight for a sweep of Kirsten’s bedchamber. Earlier, when he’d entered he’d had eyes only for Kirsten; and now he was curious to see her room, to see some more of the woman he loved.

  Richard smiled as he noted the little things that were hers. A garment hung on a wall hook by the bed. A wardrobe against the back wall, no doubt holding her clothes. There was a pair of her shoes on the floor under her window. His gaze roamed. Without thought, he walked to a chair. A hat lay on the wooden seat. A cocked hat. He picked up the headwear and fingered the brim, his eyes widening as he noticed the insignia. He moved to the window and held the hat up to the softly growing light.

  Sure enough, it was his hat. He recognized the familiar creases. And he’d not seen it since the day he was to meet Biv. Had Kirsten found it when she’d found him?

  He replaced the hat on the chair seat. Probably not. She must have found it at a later date. It had blown off his head that night, he remembered, gotten lost in the storm. Did Kirsten know whose hat she had?

  He grinned. Not bloody likely, he decided as he left her bedchamber and crept silently into his own room.

  With the bright light of morning came the cold sobering realization that it was time for him to depart Hoppertown. As Richard dressed and then went down to break his fast, he regretted his avowal of love to Kirsten, for he knew that she’d expect more from him now. She’d want him to stay, and he couldn’t do that, for nothing had really changed. There was still war between England and her colonists. Alex’s killer and the traitor were still waiting to be found.

  Richard had a job to finish, and there was still a chance that in completing his mission he would die.

  So, while his manner toward her family over breakfast was warm, to Kirsten he was simply polite, not part
icularly affectionate or attentive. And the time drew near for him to leave.

  Richard felt like a brute. He could see the hurt in Kirsten’s blue eyes, saw her lips quiver when he refused to look at her more than a few times. But what else could he do?

  Agnes handed him a satchel of food for the first leg of his journey. He graciously thanked first her and then James, who had given him a sword taken from one of the Tory prisoners. Kirsten stood nearby, silent, brooding over his treatment of her.

  “Where do you go now?” Agnes asked.

  “To find General Washington—to let him know what has happened here,” he said. He looked at James. “You will be careful? Randolph is still at large. He’s a determined man, but then, I guess you know that.”

  He felt the sudden tension, saw Agnes’ expression, and hurriedly changed the subject. “I must thank you again for giving me a place to sleep.”

  “We thank you for returning our daughter safely to us,” Agnes said with a smile.

  Richard left the house and was nearly at the forest’s edge when Kirsten assailed him.

  “Richard . . .” She handed him the hat; he hadn’t seen her holding it earlier. “You lost yours.”

  He looked down at the hat. “Where did you find my hat?”

  “Yours?” She seemed surprised, and he knew he’d been right. She hadn’t known it was his. “I had no idea . . .” She smiled a half-smile. “I found it near the river a ways from where I first saw you. When I discovered it, I knew I had to keep it, but I didn’t know why. Now, I know.” Her voice grew soft. “I must have somehow sensed it belonged to you.”

  He didn’t say anything. His throat had grown tight with the thought of leaving her, with the knowledge of the bond between them.

  A long silence fell between them. So much to say, Richard thought, so little time in which to say it.

  “It’s better this way,” he finally stated without meeting her gaze. He stared down at the hat, fingering the black felt.

  “Damn you!”

  He looked at her then, saw the tears in her blue eyes and melted. “Oh, love . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t . . . can’t leave this way.” He opened his arms to her, unable to pretend an indifference he didn’t feel. “I thought it best, but I just can’t.”

  “Why?” she gasped, clutching him tightly about the waist. “Why did you treat me that way? You said that you love me!”

  He buried his chin in her silken tresses, inhaled her clean fragrance. “And I do,” he soothed. “I do . . .”

  She broke away, stared at him with reproach. “Then . . . why?”

  Richard’s face contorted with pain. “Because of this . . .” He touched her cheek, wiping away a tear. “My going. You know I have to leave you, and I didn’t want you to be hurt. What if I don’t return?”

  She inhaled sharply. “We’ve been through this before! You will come back. And if not . . .” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  He reached out and caressed her jaw. “If I survive, then I’ll surely come back, but if I don’t . . .” His hand dropped to her shoulder. “How will you know? You cannot wait for me forever.”

  “That’s for me to decide. Not you,” she said.

  He grabbed her then and kissed her pink lips. “I apologize then,” he said when he was done with her mouth.

  She nodded and smiled. Her blue eyes filled with tears, but tears of joy as well as sadness at his departure. “Good-bye, Richard.”

  He stroked her cheek. “I’ll be back,” he murmured. “As soon as I’m able.” If I’m able . . .

  And he left her . . . and the Dutch village of Hoppertown.

  John Greene was out for blood. The rebels had killed his two brothers—first Sid and most recently Elias, his eldest kin, the one man he always looked up to. He’d make the Patriots pay—every last one of them!

  He waited at the cabin as Randolph had instructed. Randolph would help him; the man hated the rebs as much as he, perhaps even more.

  He and William Randolph were among the few who’d escaped the Van Voorhees’ farm. Phelps had escaped, too, but he’d been unable to meet up with the disfigured man. And he wasn’t sure he trusted him anyway.

  It would be only Randolph with him now. Soon the two of them would rebuild their army. They’d recruit the troops needed to fight back.

  John got up from the chair at the small, crudely constructed table in the center of the one-room cabin. The chamber was sparsely furnished. A single bed. The table and two chairs. A work board against a chair next to the fireplace.

  There was food, though. Randolph had planned in advance, planned well. There were dishes enough and cups and a three-legged spider for cooking in. Yes, he thought, it was the perfect place for two men to hole up for a time and work out a course of action.

  Wandering about the cabin, he took note of the linens and blankets, the utensils, and the broom. He heard voices. Voices? Two?

  As he approached the door, he recognized William Randolph’s deep tone, and he relaxed slightly. Randolph wouldn’t bring the enemy here. Then, he heard the high, feminine reply of the one who accompanied him. Damn! Randolph had brought a woman!

  John threw open the door and gazed in shock at the lovely, dark-haired beauty at William Randolph’s side. “What did ye bring her here fer?” he asked. He knew immediately that it was Randolph’s wife.

  “Had to,” the man said with a scowl in his wife’s direction. “She knows too much. Besides, she can cook and clean for us while we’re here.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  The woman was stone-faced, unwilling to glance at her husband. Her eyes were glazed.

  John stepped aside, allowing the two to enter. A h, so that’s the way of it! he thought. There was friction between the Randolphs. Little love, too, he decided. The woman would be no trouble. The young Greene smiled.

  Catherine was silent as she entered the tiny cabin, but inside her thoughts churned. She would escape them, as soon as their backs were turned. They would have to leave sometime. William was planning something. What? She would find out first and then pass on the information to the Patriots.

  But such hate bubbled up within her she could barely see.

  Funerals were a time of sadness, but for the Dutch, they were also a time to socialize. Everyone in the community came together to share in the sorrow and then enjoy one another’s company. They were day-long affairs, beginning before noon and ending at sundown. Kirsten wanted only the best day of remembrance for her beloved cousin. She did all she could to ensure that it would be special.

  The funeral was held at the Van Atta home. With the Randolphs’ disappearance, there was no one else to take care of the proceedings. Being close to Miles, Kirsten was more than willing to bear the brunt of the work.

  As she and her mother set up the dodekamer, the room where Miles was to be laid out, Kirsten thought of Aunt Catherine. Did her aunt know of Miles’s death? What story had her uncle concocted to convince Catherine to leave Hoppertown with him? To explain Miles’s absence?

  Aunt Catherine should be here, Kirsten thought. Alone, she would be accepted, Tory husband or not, for she was a good woman and everyone loved her.

  Kirsten and her mother had worked hard the evening before, stitching the dodekleed or black funeral cloth to cover Miles’s casket. James Van Atta himself had insisted on building Miles’s coffin; and he was doing a fine job of it, sanding and polishing the wood to a smooth sheen. He had loved Miles, despite the boy’s sire.

  Friends—the Bogerts—had offered to make the dodekoeks, the cakes that would be served after the funeral service to all those who’d come to the gathering. Gratefully, Kirsten had agreed that Mrs. Bogert and her daughter would make the cakes, and she thanked them for their generous offering.

  “In den Heere ontslapen . . .” Sleeping in the Lord.

  Kirsten’s eyes filled with tears as the voorlezer spoke Miles’s eulogy. Every Patriot family had co
me. The Bantas and Bogerts. The Zabriskies, Van Voorheeses, and Ackermans. Even Frederick Terhune with his crooked powdered wig and his skinny daughter. And Dwight Van Graaf and his wife and son. Kirsten frowned. She didn’t recall Van Graaf among the militia men who attacked the Tories or rescued them at the Van Voorhees’ farm. The thought came and went quickly as the voorlezer continued with the service.

  “Miles Randolph was a good boy,” the man said with feeling. “He had no liking for this war we fight, yet he was an innocent victim. God has chosen to take him, so we must acknowledge that God in His infinite wisdom knows what is best for Miles . . . for us all . . .”

  The speech seemed to go on forever. Kirsten felt more ill with each passing moment as the reality of what this day meant sank home. She gasped a sob. Through the hours of preparation, she’d been too busy working to think much, to grieve. She’d wanted things to be perfect for Miles; and while her thoughts had often strayed to Miles’s mother, she’d kept her emotions at bay.

  The ceremony ended. Some of the guests filtered out of the dodekamer for the kitchen, while others remained behind. The dodekamer was actually the Van Attas’ parlor—the largest room, but for the kitchen on the first floor of the house. The low murmur of conversation filled both rooms as friends reminisced about the young man.

  With the funeral service over, Kirsten wanted nothing more than for the day to end. She wanted to be alone, to mourn for Miles in private. She thought of Richard and longed for the warm, strong haven of his arms . . . his deep, husky voice soothing away her tears . . . his hard muscular body that was healthy and alive.

  Where was he? Was he safe? Had he met up with General Washington?

  She was concerned. With her uncle’s escape, the danger to Richard was greater. Kirsten prayed that soon William Randolph would be found—and brought to justice for killing his own son.

  Kirsten smiled, putting forth her best face as guests stayed to enjoy the treats and other food prepared by neighbors and friends and the Van Atta women. Finally, hours later, the day ended. As she helped her mother clean up the last traces of the event, she saw the strain on Agnes’ face. She realized that for her mother, too, the day had been an ordeal.