Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  Her hands formed white-knuckled fists, and she nodded. By the look on her face, she garnered all her strength to bid her neck to bend.

  Ford tilted his head to one side. “Beg pardon? I did not quite hear you, my dear,” he said with glee. Even so, he managed to maintain a severe expression. “Could you kindly repeat what you said?”

  “Perfectly clear,” she grated out through a jaw as tight as a bear trap.

  Confident he had successfully driven another peg into the coffin of their relationship, he smiled faintly but with an inner satisfaction. “Capital. Then we are in agreement.” He nodded curtly and swept past her without another word.

  When he reached the doorway, he turned to fire off a parting salvo. “Despair not, Wilhelmina. I shall see your graceless manners improve. ‘Tis my opinion that, like any domestic animal, a woman can be trained if one but expends the time and patience.”

  She seized the closest breakable object, a Dresden shepherdess sitting on a small table beside her, and hurled it at him. He closed the walnut doors without a second to spare. The sound of shattering porcelain carried into the hallway, causing Quinn to whirl toward the parlor. Ford curled his lip as he retrieved his hat from the butler. “A most biddable young woman,” he murmured.

  “Biddable?” Quinn echoed. He rushed to the parlor.

  Ford chuckled and took his leave.

  Ford ambled for a time along the riverbank after departing Willowbend. Once he was sure no eyes noted his presence, he slipped behind the cover of a row of willows and followed them to a branching creek, then veered away from the trees and rode alongside the water for a mile. When the ground became marshy, he guided Dancer onto a deer trail leading into the swamp. Soon he came upon a lightning-blasted sweet gum resembling a gnarled wizard with his arms raised as though casting a spell. Ford halted Dancer, releasing him to graze on the swamp grass, and went to the tree. There he withdrew a packet of oilcloth from beneath his scarlet coat and tucked it into a hollow in the rotting trunk. From another cavity lower down, he extracted a missive from Marion. His task complete, he mounted Dancer and rode back, coming out on the road to Georgetown at a different point from which he left it earlier.

  Ford rode with Tarleton’s Legion the following night as they sped down the road toward the Chester plantation. Halfway to their destination, they ran into a patrol of Marion’s Brigade, and a fierce, confusing battle ensued in the darkness as rebels darted in and out among the green-coated soldiers like stinging wasps. Tarleton’s troops had fallen into disarray by the time the partisans left the field and disappeared into the swamp. Three men took serious wounds. Two others lost their mounts. With a scowl on his face, Tarleton led his men back to Georgetown.

  Later that same night, when Tarleton’s men surrounded the Chester plantation, they found the grounds stripped and deserted. Tarleton ordered the house and barn put to the torch and expressed his confusion as to how the traitors received warning of the raid. He consulted his officers and acceded to the reasoning of his new officer, Lord Montford.

  His lordship put forth the theory that word of the earlier battle had reached the plantation, revealing to the Chesters the legion’s objective. They had packed up their belongings and the hoarded ammunition and fled. Ford suspected Tarleton accepted the explanation as it placed no taint on his abilities as commander.

  Willa summoned her own war party that same night. Colonel Bellingham and Marlene departed earlier to attend a dinner, leaving the study to the coconspirators. Willa sprawled in her father’s leather chair behind the kneehole desk and looked first to Emma Richardson, who had settled into a delicate Queen Anne chair, where she flipped through the pages of a leather-bound book of poetry.

  “I need your assistance,” Willa said. “I promised Papa I would refrain from overtly discouraging Lord Montford in his courtship, but I simply cannot abide by the restriction. As it stands, I can scarcely tolerate his lordship’s presence. The very notion of seeing him on a regular basis, much less marrying him, turns my stomach.”

  Emma sighed and looked up. “How do you expect me to be of aid? I have little enough experience with men, and my efforts were toward encouraging them, not discouraging them. I never found myself in the position of having to drive off a suitor.”

  “Well, as to that, pretend you have and concoct a solution to relieve me from this appalling betrothal.” Willa fiddled with her father’s ivory letter opener, tapping it on the desk’s walnut surface and leaving dints in the glossy polish. “Though I hesitate to introduce the subject at this juncture, Emma, you have no difficulty in formulating plans to slip away from your parents in order to be private with some beau.”

  Color bloomed in Emma’s cheeks.

  “I fail to see how you can bypass your father this time,” Quinn interjected. He moved his bishop on the chessboard and grinned at Plato, the son of a Negro slave and a Cherokee maiden captured by settlers during the Indian Wars. Plato sagged back in his chair with a frown on his mahogany-colored face. Though a slave, he held the respected position of Bellingham’s stable master. ‘Twas Plato who had taught Willa to ride and shoot and handle a knife and, more importantly, revealed to her the swamps’ mysteries.

  “Seems to me you should play by the rules,” Quinn said. “Bide your time, and you will eventually obtain what you want. Perhaps when the baron realizes you do not suit, you will have the opportunity to speak with him about breaking the betrothal.”

  “Aha!” Plato said with a smile and slid his knight over to block the bishop threatening his queen.

  Jwana, the serene planes of her face creased in concentration, jabbed at logs in the brick-fronted fireplace with an iron poker. Though only October and the days still sultry, the night had taken on a chill. The pine wood shifted and popped, a lone flame licking upward. “I done snuck a peek at yur young man when he come ta call. He be pretty a’right—”

  “Pretty dreadful,” Willa said bitterly.

  Jwana passed her a censorious look. “Maybe. But I think dere be more ta him dan meets de eye. He be a deep one, he be, an’ you might jes’ be s’prised at wot you gonna fin’ once you scrub off’n dat powder an’ remove dem fancy clothes.”

  Willa froze and gawked at the striking woman. “I beg your pardon? Montford is as deep as a pollywog puddle. And I have no desire whatsoever to uncover the least thing regarding the illustrious baron. I simply yearn for him to be gone. The mere notion of removing his clothes, under any circumstances, gives me the shudders.” Willa mimed an exaggerated shiver of her shoulders.

  Quinn stretched in his chair and looked their way. “I would listen to Jwana, were I you. After having met the impressive baron face-to-face, or perhaps I should say face-to-chest, I’m of the opinion his effeminate surface is no more than a veneer. Up close, the paint and satin disguise a potent masculinity. Should you ask me, he is, quite plainly, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “Rubbish,” Willa countered. “His only potency is in the choice of his cologne, which could give a skunk a fair race.”

  Quinn shrugged and turned back to the game when Plato rattled his knight, signaling Quinn’s turn to move.

  “Poten’ or not, I been thinkin',” Jwana continued. “Wot if’n courtin’ you be more pain dan pleasure?” The others raised their heads and paid attention. “You know, not through any fault’a yur own. Jes’ by accident. Don’ ‘spec’ yur daddy could fault you if’n de man be jes’ natural clumsy an’ riskin’ life an’ limb ever time he get near you. An’ dat baron, he soon be comin’ ta see you’s some kind’a jinx. If he done got any brains ‘tall, he ain’t gonna want ta marry no jinx.”

  Quinn shook his head and returned to the chess game. “We would be caught for certain.”

  “You got dat right,” Plato added with a nod.

  “Not so,” Willa said. Her limbs tingled. “I do believe Jwana has found the solution to my dilemma.” She dropped the letter opener, pushed herself to her feet, and came around the desk to perch her bottom on one corner.
“A series of accidents … carefully planned … more pain than pleasure.” The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. “Jwana, I vow you are a genius.”

  Jwana sank into the rocking chair beside the fireplace. “Jes’ holdin’ up ma end,” she said with a self-satisfied expression as she rocked back and forth.

  “I say,” Quinn said to Plato in a low voice. “I suddenly find myself experiencing a moment of guilt. My innate sympathy for my own gender tempts me to warn the unsuspecting man of the plot afoot.”

  “Me, too,” Plato replied. “But in de end, we’s all loyal ta Willa an’ a’ready in her schemes up ta our necks. Dis ain’t no time ta discover we done got consciences.”

  Quinn released a heavy breath and took one of Plato’s pawns with a rook. “However, had Lord Montford the least notion of what Willa intends for him, the man would hie himself off to the hills without a second’s hesitation. That would solve this predicament satisfactorily for all parties.”

  Willa caught Quinn’s statement and sent him a frown. “What utter nonsense. It would solve nothing. Considering the baron’s ego, I would fully expect him to become even more stubborn and persistent should he know I mean to reject him. Moreover, were the baron to run, I would like to point out that, in Papa’s current mood, he would hunt down the man like a hound after a fox.”

  “What sort of accidents?” Emma questioned with a concerned look on her face.

  Willa waved her hand. “Oh, we shall think of something appropriate.”

  “You will not actually hurt him, will you?”

  Willa met Jwana’s gaze. They exchanged a smile. “Not unless he persists. Now, let us consider what we can devise to reshape Lord Montford’s attitude toward matrimony. It must be dire enough to send him running.” She sent Emma a pointed glance. “But mild enough to keep from maiming him … for life.”

  “Miss Willa,” Jwana said, getting in the last word. “I ‘spec’ we be aimin’ fer discouraging', not maimin'.”

  Ford arrived Saturday morning at the stroke of eleven. For this performance, he donned a mustard-yellow riding coat over a pumpkin-orange waistcoat and grass-green breeches. To compensate for his appalling lack of clashing color, he chose a lacy stock that frothed down his chest like a foaming waterfall. Lace also spilled from his slashed jacket cuffs, over his collar, and around his waist from beneath his coat. He smiled, suspecting he more resembled a daisy than a suitor. A wig sat low on his head with fat, black curls, like burned sausages, streaming down his back and falling in front of his ears, á la King Charles II. A black velvet cavalier’s hat with a wide brim and arching gray ostrich feather perched atop the wig. He had rouged his cheeks and lips, but mindful of the heat, foregone the powder.

  When he mounted the flagstone steps, a stone at the top broke away, tumbled forward, and landed on the toes of his other foot. He grunted and fell to one knee, slicing open his breeches and the skin beneath. “Son of a swiving fishmonger’s whore!”

  Quinn hurried out the door. He grasped Ford’s elbow and helped him to his feet. “I’m dreadfully sorry, my lord. That stone has been loose for an age. ‘Twas only a matter of time before it gave way.”

  “Devil take it! Why then did you not remedy it?” Ford picked up his hat from the stones, slapped it against his leg, and examined his knee. Blood seeped from the tear in his breeches.

  Quinn drew forth a handkerchief and dabbed at the cut. “'Twas on the list, my lord, but with the war and all …”

  Ford pushed off the butler’s hand and handkerchief with a terse gesture. He wobbled past Quinn, limped into the foyer, and dropped into a chair. Quinn hovered over him like a carrion crow drawn by a dead skunk. “I shall have Cook make a plaster for that cut,” the butler said as he turned and walked away.

  “You need not bother,” Ford said to the man’s retreating back. Levering himself to his feet, he shambled back and forth across the pine-plank floor. “The bleeding has stopped. Would you be so kind as to locate Lady Wilhelmina and have the gig brought around front, we shall be on our way.” When Quinn made an about-face, Ford fired off a sharp look. “I gather Lady Wilhelmina is ready, is she not?”

  Quinn bowed stiffly. “I do believe so, my lord.” His Adam’s apple danced as he swallowed. “But I fear the gig is undergoing repairs. Would you wish to take the carriage instead?”

  Ford looked up from his knee, which showed signs of swelling. His stomach churned. Would naught go his way this day? “I believe not. ‘Tis too bloody cumbersome. Have Lady Wilhelmina’s horse saddled.” Wincing, he pressed his hand against the cut and lowered himself into the chair.

  Quinn let out his held breath and slipped around the corner into the parlor. “He wants to take horses instead of the carriage,” he whispered to Willa, who perched on the sofa edge, her fingers crumpling the pleats in her skirt.

  “Blast! I suppose we shall have to change our plans. Send a note to Emma. You know what to tell her. And have Trixie saddled. Cherokee abhors sidesaddles.” She smiled cautiously. “Did it work?”

  He nodded. “Only too well. You had best watch yourself, missy. You may find out too late ‘tis not wise to toy with a wounded bear.”

  Her smile spread into a grin. “Oh, I have yet to wound him. By the time I set him to rights, he will wish himself on the front lines. Compared to courting me, war will seem a pleasant pastime.”

  Chapter 6

  Meadowlarks trilled amidst seed-heavy amber grass, a last joyous burst before autumn’s storms swept up the coast to flatten meadows and strip the leaves from the trees. The air sparkled crystalline clear with little humidity, bringing the promise of cooler days.

  Willa balanced on the uncomfortable sidesaddle atop Trixie and swayed with the old mare’s lazy gait. She dared a peek at her companion on his Army-issued bay gelding. His pained expression clashed dreadfully with the gaiety of his wardrobe. She had no need to search far for the source of his discomfort. His knee, swollen to twice its normal size, and the indignity to his impeccable breeches adequately explained his mood. She assuaged her conscience by bearing in mind that the porch stone had, in all honesty, worked its way loose some time ago. But if she were entirely truthful, Quinn, in accordance with their scheme, had chipped out the small amount of mortar holding the rock in place prior to the baron’s arrival.

  She sighed and experienced an unwelcome pang of sympathy for Montford’s condition. Mayhap this one outing would squelch his matrimonial intentions. With that in mind, and having no desire to allow the baron to grow too comfortable, she kicked Trixie into a lope, then extended the horse into a gallop. “Race you to the pond,” she called out as she sped ahead, though Trixie’s ability to outrace any creature other than a mule with a broken leg was debatable.

  Montford emitted an audible groan and urged his bay forward. When Willa looked back, lines of distress etched his countenance. She all but abandoned the race. But what, pray tell, would be the point of that? Her goal was to ensure Lord Montford undergo the misery of an unpleasant courtship. Thus far, the plan had gotten off to a satisfactory start.

  The baron brought up his horse alongside hers. The strain of the faster pace brought sweat and a clenched-teeth grimace to his face. This time her conscience gave her a good talking-to. Discomfort was quite disparate from agony. She slowed Trixie to a smoother gait and could all but feel the baron’s sigh of relief when he eased into a rocking canter.

  The pond emerged from the field like a silver mirror with morning sun reflecting off its surface. Weeping willows with lacy fronds bounded one side. A thick grove of stately walnuts and silver-barked birch framed the far bank and wandered into a mixed pine-oak forest. A kingfisher, its bright blue back flashing in the sunshine, dove for minnows from a perch on the overhanging limb of a dead snag. Willa guided Trixie to a shady spot beneath an old oak and drew her to a halt.

  Montford’s face contorted into a scowl while she waited for him to help her from her horse. He slid down with a moan, hobbled over to her, and lifted her from the sad
dle, setting her feet on the ground. She directly strolled off toward the pond, bending down and picking wild strawberries along the way.

  Ford unhooked the picnic pannier from his mount and limped to the shade under the oak. After spreading out a blanket, he clenched his jaw and, needles stabbing his knee, lowered himself to the ground less gracefully than he would have wished. A hiss escaped his clamped teeth. This was as far as he planned to go. He would be damned if he would accompany his betrothed on a berry-picking expedition. Stretching out on his side, he rested on an elbow.

  “Is this not gorgeous?” Wilhelmina inquired in a lilting voice after ambling back to where he lay in torment. “I do so love autumn, when the air is crisper and seems not to stifle one like it does in summer.” Her skirts cradled the strawberries as she plopped down on the other side of the blanket. She plucked one from the pile and dangled it before his nose. “Strawberry?”

  He shook his head and glowered as he shifted his weight and another twinge seized his knee. “Perhaps we should return and picnic another day,” he gritted out. His annoyance bled through his words.

  She beamed a smile of complete unconcern for his state. “Nonsense. Why, we have not eaten yet.” She tossed her head, and the short curls framing her face bobbed as though with a life of their own. He watched, entranced despite his underlying suffering. Notwithstanding the odds he would have laid on its occurrence, between the paint and gilt and the manure and stems of straw, the scraggly caterpillar had emerged from her unkempt cocoon as a comely butterfly. Sun shimmered in her hair, turning its drab brown to an alluring chestnut, and sparkled in her eyes, now a deep chocolate brown with lighter flecks, like floating sugar crystals. Strawberry juice glistened on her lips. Her modest, muslin-sprigged gown hugged lithe curves and hinted at what he had glimpsed beside the creek the night of their betrothal ball.

  God help him, she was almost … pretty. Beelzebub’s balls, he swore silently as a surge of sensual heat and an unexplainable emotion of possessiveness claimed him, exactly as it had once before. ‘Twas conceivable the fall damaged his brain as well as his knee.