Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  “Have you, indeed?” she replied with caution as she tried to back away.

  He nodded slowly. “I believe ‘tis customary for a betrothed couple to … umm, seal the contract, so to speak … with a kiss. And here we stand, all alone …”

  Willa’s eyes near popped from her head. She schooled her voice with considerable effort. “What a quaint custom, my lord. If you will excuse me …” She tugged harder, but the blasted man refused to release her.

  “As it happens, my dear, I’ll not excuse you. I fear I find myself overcome with passion. I plan to kiss you.” The hands around her arms were as large and strong as the roots of an oak tree and as difficult to escape as a vine of Virginia creeper.

  “No,” she gasped. “You mustn’t. I’m certain this absurd notion of yours is a result of the megrim. Should you rest, it will soon pass.”

  He shook his head.

  “In any case,” she said, “I cannot credit any such sealing is customary or proper. We are merely betrothed, not married.”

  A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth, transforming him into a dangerous and somehow alluring man, despite the paint and powder. In fact, she hardly noticed the artifice due to his shocking proposal. A quiver tiptoed across her shoulders and down her spine. His head dipped; his eyes slipped closed. He is going to do it. He is going to kiss me. She struggled with renewed vigor and twisted her head to one side. She even aimed a kick at his shins. When her silk slipper connected with his boot, pain shot through her toes up to her ankles.

  Montford dragged her arms up to his neck and released them. Before she had the chance to bolt, he circled his arms about her waist and pulled her closer. Now they were plastered together like puppies in a basket, and she had no hope of lowering her arms. Not knowing what else to do with them, she rested her hands on his shoulders.

  “Much better,” he breathed, his breath hot on her bare shoulder. Willa all but leapt out of her skin. How had his mouth got down there? She murmured a protest. He made no reply, his lips occupied with nibbling the skin of her neck and shoulders. Before she could stop him, his mouth slid up and under her chin, nudging her head back. Surely that was what occurred. She would not have offered her neck to his kisses of her own accord.

  After the first shock of heat and moisture against her skin and the unsettling feeling of his large body pressed against her, Willa began to admit what he was doing was quite pleasant. Still, when would he move on to the kissing part? As soon as the thought crossed her mind, his mouth climbed up over her chin to land on her lips. He settled in firmly, his lips warm and softer than a man’s mouth should be. But to her dismay, no fireworks burst in her head. Jwana had described it that way when Willa was thirteen.

  “You be knowin’ he be de one when dem fireworks pop in yur head,” Jwana told a wide-eyed Willa. “Ain’t no fireworks, don’ waste yur time. Drop dat one an’ move on ta de next, an’ de next, till you see dem.”

  Other than a pleasant warmth from his body and the gentle pressure against her closed mouth, she felt nothing. Then something hot and wet licked across her lips. Was that his tongue? Ewww! She squirmed and struggled. He held her firm. His tongue continued its exploration, lining her lips and striving to insinuate itself between them. She finally managed to jerk back her head. “That is quite enough,” she practically yelled into his face.

  He blinked open his eyes.

  She leveled a fierce glower on him. “What the blazes are you doing? I am obliged to admit I have no liking for it.”

  Drawing back, he sent her an arrogant smile.

  “That tears it!” Willa arched her back and wedged her hands between them. She heaved at his chest with all her strength. When his grip broke, she shuffled backward, putting distance between them.

  “Calm yourself, Wilhelmina. You will learn to like it. Presume to give it a chance,” he had the audacity to say. “Open your mouth to me next time.”

  “There will be no next time!” With a swing of her arm, she slapped him hard across the face and rocked him back on his heels. “Never in my life have I been subjected to anything quite so disgusting.” She whirled around, charged out the door, and slammed it hard enough to shiver it on its frame.

  Ford blew out a breath and rubbed the side of his face. He should not have taken such liberties with his fiancée; the girl’s lack of experience was glaring, and for such a small specimen, she packed quite a wallop. On the other hand, his goal had been to compel her to leave him alone and provide her with a reason to keep their encounter from her father. Her mortification had quite accomplished the deed.

  He tugged at his breeches. They had suddenly become too tight and threatened to cut off his circulation in a vital area. Then he scooped up the candle and sped back to the desk. He opened the strongbox in no time. It contained more papers. Skimming them rapidly, he committed to memory bits and pieces that might prove important. His hand hovered in the air when he came across a letter from General Cornwallis to Colonel Bellingham. It called for a muster of Tories from Nelson’s Ferry to Salem. The Loyalists were to join Colonel Tynes at Camden Depot, which the British officers, Lieutenant Colonel Turnbull and Major Wemyss, held. There the Tories would resupply their troops.

  His chest tightened. This one missive was worth all the aggravation. Cornwallis planned to bolster the flagging British Regulars with well-armed Tory troops. Defeat at King’s Mountain had weakened the British position, but should the Tories rearm, the patriots could lose the slim advantage they’d so recently gained.

  He glanced up at the sound of more footsteps in the hallway, then gazed back at the letter. The Tories would rendezvous at Camden on October twenty-fourth. Today was the twenty-second. He had two days to find Marion, who was in the countryside raiding, and deliver the information.

  Ford relocked the box and placed it back where he had found it. Then he left the study in search of Wilhelmina and her father. Though tempted to simply leave, he recognized the folly of that impulse. First he would make his excuses to Colonel Bellingham, and then he would apologize to Wilhelmina for his impetuous behavior. As much as Ford hated to admit the wisdom of Marion’s words, he would be wise to mend fences with his fiancée. Tonight’s discovery underscored, more than ever, his advantageous position in the Bellingham household.

  When Ford came into the dining room, he saw Wilhelmina near the buffet table with her friend, Emma Richardson. His betrothed’s hands and mouth moved as fast as hummingbird wings. He suppressed a smile, having no illusions “the kiss” was the topic of their conversation. What he failed to notice was Jwana sweeping toward him from the side and the heavy tray she carried laden with dirty dishes and glasses half-filled with punch.

  When the crash occurred, Ford tripped over his booted feet and staggered forward. His momentum impelled him facedown into the buffet table. His wig landed in the punch bowl. “Bollocks!” he roared a second prior to his face smacking into a bowl of chocolate pudding, his chest crushing a plate of candied yams, and his thighs straddling a platter of fried chicken.

  The table, incapable of supporting his added weight, collapsed in a storm of buttermilk biscuits, buttered grits, and almond pound cake studded with cherries. Flying food splattered everyone within ten feet, producing a flurry of screams and the sound of running feet as guests stampeded from the room. Covered head to toe with the buffet’s contents, Ford levered himself up on his hands. He was quite certain he heard a gulping laugh come from Wilhelmina’s direction.

  Chapter 9

  Ford still wore his soiled dragoon uniform when he roared onto Snow Island. The sentry backed away from the captain’s stony look and pudding-smeared face, waved him on, and returned to his watch.

  After tethering his horse, Ford said to the first man he came across, “Find Private Collins and send him to my tent. Then catch and saddle my black horse.” He stripped off his uniform, sponged himself clean, and was stepping into his homespun trousers when Collins limped into the tent.

  “Sir,” Collins sai
d with a salute. Marion’s aide had received a saber cut to his leg during the action outside the Chester plantation and been placed on camp duty until the wound healed.

  Ford buttoned his trousers and returned the salute. “Where can I find the general?” he asked as he donned his shirt and jacket and buckled on his saber.

  “He left word fer you, sir. Said if you needed him, you could find him at Port’s Ferry on the Pee Dee.”

  As Ford sank onto his cot and pulled on his boots, he glanced at the young aide. “Is Dancer ready?”

  “Yes, sir. But I gotta warn you. He’s gettin’ fat and sassy since you been ridin’ that redcoat nag. Tried to bite Corporal Jones yesterday and near scared the piss outta him. If he weren’t nothin’ but a horse, I’d say he’s jealous; feels you been neglectin’ him.”

  “Thank you, Private.” Ford picked up his slouch felt hat from the bedroll. “I shall remember that.”

  Dancer laid back his ears when Ford slung the saddlebags across his withers. “Behave,” he warned. “I know you are feeling sorry for yourself. It cannot be helped.” Dancer snorted and wagged his head. Ford disliked leaving Dancer on Snow Island, but the horse was too fine an animal to pass as a standard-issue military horse, and Aidan Sinclair had arrived in Charles Town without a personal mount. Dancer was also memorable, with a white star spotting his chest and a thin white blaze running down his nose. Ford rode the black horse while facing in battle some of the same dragoons with whom he now fraternized. So while he played the role of dragoon officer and fiancé to the devil girl, he was obliged to ride a British mount. Dancer would have to accept the circumstances, trying as they were to both horse and man.

  During the next eight hours, Ford trekked northwest through swamps and fields toward Port’s Ferry. He emerged onto Black River Road at early dawn on the twenty-fourth and galloped toward Marion’s bivouac. Pink sunlight streaked the sky as he rode into camp. While he conveyed his news to Marion, a lathered horse, carrying a member of the patrol Marion had sent out the night before, charged into camp. The man alit from the tired mount, raced up to Marion, and panted out his message.

  “We found a mess’a Tories camped at the old muster field next ta Tearcoat Swamp. Me an’ Jem recognized lads we knew from Georgetown, the High Hills, Pocotaligo River, an’ Lynches River. Colonel Bellingham an’ a Colonel Tynes is leadin’ ‘em. They got them new English muskets with plenty’a powder an’ shot. We also saw new blankets, bridles, and saddles. Someone’s fixed ‘em up real nice. They’re sittin’ there like they ain’t gotta care in the world, all spread out an’ playin’ cards. They ain’t even set out enough sentries.”

  Marion’s eyes turned to Ford. “Camden Depot,” they said at the same time.

  Marion looked back at the exhausted soldier. “Find yourself some vittles, Private. Then catch a wink or two. You earned it.”

  Marion and Ford moved away for a private word.

  A thrill tingled along Ford’s nerves at the look on Marion’s face. “You are going after them, I presume?”

  “Of course,” the general replied, his color high. “But keep this between us. I have no desire for Tynes or Bellingham to catch wind of our plans.”

  “Allow me to ride with you.”

  Marion gave him a sympathetic look. “I cannot, Captain. Your talents are too valuable to me and the cause. I cannot risk your exposure. We may encounter Tories, such as Colonel Bellingham, your future father-in-law, who know you as Major Sinclair. And unless you have the capability of growing a full beard overnight, you will be recognized and place your position in jeopardy.”

  Marion made good sense. But by damn, Ford itched for a fight … one in which he fought on the correct side. It left a sour taste in his mouth to sit back and let the general take on the Tories without his assistance.

  “Return to the dragoons as quickly as possible,” Marion said, “before they notice you have gone missing. I understand when Tarleton departed he excused you from duty because of the injury to your knee. He has established Cornwallis’s winter camp at Winnsboro and will soon make his way back to Georgetown. You must be there when he returns. With King’s Mountain behind us and a dose of luck tomorrow, we shall set the British running. Soon we can take back Georgetown. But first I shall require as much intelligence as you can glean on the garrison conditions and Tarleton’s activities.”

  When Tarleton learned of the Tory defeat at Tearcoat Swamp, he expressed his rage in a series of letters, as did Lord Cornwallis, who was convalescing in Winnsboro from a bout with malaria. The man Cornwallis had considered only a small pebble in a large field of rocks was fast becoming a local hero and a major threat. The British commander saw England’s hold on South Carolina slipping away. He rose from his sickbed, resumed command of his army, and wrote to Sir Henry Clinton, the former Southern commander, whom he had replaced after the taking of Charles Town: “Bad as the state of our affairs is on the Northern frontier, the Eastern is much worse. Colonel Tynes, who commanded the militia of the High Hills of Santee, and Colonel Bellingham, who commanded the militia of Georgetown, were surprised and taken at their encampment on the Black River. Their men lost all their arms.”

  After hearing from Colonel Turnbull at Camden that Marion and his band continued to menace the supply lines from the depot, Cornwallis, once again, released Tarleton and his dragoons on the partisan leader, writing to Tarleton: “I sincerely hope that you will get at Mr. Marion.”

  Tarleton promptly put his horse dragoons into action, living up to his Legion’s motto: “Swift, Vigilant, and Bold.” Among that group rode the patriot spy, Brendan Ford, whom Tarleton personally certified fit for action despite the scratches on his face and the new wound to his leg that Major Sinclair declined to explain.

  When Ford returned from Camden, Tarleton had yet to put in an appearance. Ford seized the opportunity to worm his way into his fiancé's good graces, though after the incident with the buffet table, he had more than mere suspicion Wilhelmina was trying to damage, if not kill him. But the important papers he had uncovered in the colonel’s strongbox confirmed his determination to solidify his close connection with the Tory chit.

  He sent word ahead so she would expect his visit and greeted Quinn with a cheery smile when the butler opened the door. Conversely, the expression on the butler’s face was so grim Ford’s smile froze on his face. He all but turned around to beat a hasty retreat. Sternly reminding himself he was no coward, he pulled his shoulders up stiffly to steel himself for whatever awaited him, and repeated in his mind that his fiancée was a mere girl and could not … would not actually kill him, regardless of which way the wind was blowing. Inhaling a breath, he stepped through the opened door into the foyer. He was prepared. This time she would not take him by surprise and get the best of him.

  “My lord,” Quinn said, “it pleases me to see you looking so well after your unfortunate mishap at the musicale. Jwana is desolate. She had her attention diverted and failed to see you. I promised to convey her deepest apologies as soon as you arrived.” The words were innocuous, but Quinn’s tone resembled a dirge. Ford could easily imagine the small man giving the eulogy over his grave site while his betrothed shoveled in the dirt.

  “Apology accepted,” Ford said cautiously as he darted a glance about the foyer, alert for doom lurking in the shadow-filled corners. “I recovered quite nicely, other than a touch of pudding up my nose. I comprehend how such a misfortune occurred in the crush.”

  Quinn’s mouth lifted in a weak smile.

  Ford eyed Quinn with a man-to-man look of clear understanding, thinking to pass on a subtle warning. “I must say, lately I seem to have experienced a streak of lamentable luck, as though a malevolent spirit perched on my shoulder. I suppose it would be prudent to stay away from the gaming tables until it passes … which will be the case sooner rather than later, do you not agree?”

  Quinn’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a fish on a line as he swallowed. “Umm. Indeed, my lord. I do believe that would be a tru
thful statement.” He whipped around and scurried away, saying over his shoulder, “Should you care to wait in the parlor, I shall inquire whether Lady Wilhelmina is available.”

  “I fancy not,” Ford replied. His brow crinkled as he watched Quinn rush down the hallway rather than up the stairs. “I shall remain close to the door in the event I feel required to effect a swift exit.”

  Quinn barreled into the kitchen, waving his hands in the air. “You cannot do it,” he hissed at Willa and Plato, who were restraining Killer and Sweetie with difficulty. “He knows. You must not do it now, or he will hang us from the nearest oak tree … should we be so fortunate.”

  Willa shot Quinn a perplexed look. “Knows what?” Killer slipped free of her grasp and took off like a mini-cyclone. His claws dug gouges in the pine-plank floor. With Killer running free, Sweetie squirmed like an eel, escaped Plato’s arms, and hied off in pursuit.

  “We are doomed,” Quinn moaned and covered his face with his hands.

  “God A’mighty,” Plato intoned, “I ‘spects we all best be headin’ fer de border.”

  “Pish,” Willa said. “Do not be daft. We must deal with this unfortunate circumstance calmly.”

  Ford had leaned back against the door when a keening yowl and a scrabbling on wood floors resounded from the direction Quinn had taken. In the next second, a hissing, screaming ball of fur the size of a small panther careened down the passageway toward him. Right behind it streaked a yapping, long-haired rat. “Hell’s bells,” he whispered and fumbled with the door handle. His reflexes deserted him, leaving him powerless to connect his brain to the motion required by his hand. The deadly duo closed in on him as relentlessly as a cannonball true on course.

  He flattened his spine to the door and watched, transfixed, as calamity struck. The fur ball charged up his leg, cut diagonally across his chest, scrambled over his shoulder, and climbed up onto his head, perching on top and digging claws into his wig and scalp. Puncture holes marked its path up his body. As though caught in a nightmare, he eyed the second assailant he now recognized as a hell-born hound no bigger than a teacup. It appeared to have no eyes, only long, limp hair swinging and swaying and streaming around it on the floor like the strands of a mop. When it reached his feet, it sprang into the air like a flea. Needle teeth attached to the breeches on his thigh above his boots, latching onto skin as well as cloth. Ford yowled and added his vocalizations to the cacophony reverberating around the foyer.