by Cat Lindler
“I have no desire to ravish you,” he said, his words tight. “I’m simply relieving you of any sharp objects you might have the inclination to deposit in my gut. I well remember your deadly aim.” So saying, he pulled the knife from its sheath in the small of her back, located the one in her boot, and extracted the one strapped to her wrist. “Is that all?” he asked as his hands continued to roam.
She clamped her lips together in a mutinous pout.
Ford leveled a look at her. “Should you decline to cooperate, I shall have no option but to strip you.”
When her lashes lifted, a stubborn glint shone in her brown eyes. Even so, she must have recognized the determination in his, because she lowered her gaze and exhaled a sigh.
“In my saddlebags,” she said at last.
He gave a short nod and moved to the paint. The horse snorted, flattened his ears, and showed his teeth as he stomped one foot. Ford murmured softly and kept a cautious eye on the animal while he rummaged through the bags for Willa’s knives. He discovered two pistols, as well, which he also confiscated.
“What plans do you have for me?” she asked when he came back to her. “Where are you taking me?”
He was through talking. It would take some mulling over this sticky situation before he felt competent to answer her questions. What plans did he have for her? He could not release her. She would hightail it back to Georgetown and expose him to her father and the whole of the British army. He could not imprison her indefinitely. Who knew how long the war would last? And who would guard her? He could not ask Marion’s men to carry out that duty while he followed his orders to Georgetown, at least, not for long. Even were they to offer, he felt uneasy about leaving her alone with strange men who, in many cases, were less than gentlemen. For now he would take her to Snow Island where he could consult with the general. Marion was possessed of a logical mind, unlike himself whenever he came into contact with the little wildcat.
Ford fished a handkerchief from his pocket and took hold of her arm, pulling her back against him again. He tied the cloth around her eyes.
“W-what—” she sputtered. “No!” She whipped her head back and forth.
“Bite your tongue, or I shall gag you, too,” he ordered as he hauled her over to her horse, boosted her onto its back, and grasped her reins in his hands. Mounting Dancer, he moved back into the swamp and towed the paint along behind him.
They rode for hour upon hour. Willa suspected Montford was taking her to Marion’s hideout, and from the distance they traveled, the camp lay a fair piece from Sockee Swamp. How could she have been so far off target? The rain slowly waned and then ceased. The sun emerged, producing a faint wash of light before her eyes. Weak, warm rays touched her cold skin with blessed heat.
The horses still plodded through swamp. Moss brushed her face like cobwebs. Vines caught on her stirrups. Prickly cypress branches slapped against her legs and arms. Mold welled up from the ground in a musty fragrance.
They moved out into fields. The sun grew stronger. Cold-hardened grass stems rustled at their passing. Meadowlarks called from fence posts. A breeze lifted the wet hair away from her face and combed through it with chilly fingers.
They crossed streams and creeks that burbled and whispered.
They traveled into and out of forest. Dead leaves crunched beneath hooves. A red-shouldered hawk issued a shrill cry from above.
As the sun weakened and the air grew colder, Montford stopped his horse, and Cherokee followed suit. They were still in forest. His saddle creaked when he dismounted, and leaves crackled underfoot as he paced toward her. She straightened her spine, refusing to allow him to see how weary she had become … and how cold. She clamped her teeth with effort to still their chattering. Yet she had no success in subduing her shivering shoulders.
When hands settled around her waist, she started and let out a gasp. He waited a moment before lifting her from the saddle and placing her on her feet. His hand braced her elbow when her knees wobbled. Then his fingers fumbled with the knot on her blindfold. The cloth dropped, and she blinked.
Montford moved away with the horses, and Willa looked about. The trees were pine and mixed hardwood, old and tall with thick bark and wide boles impossible to span with both arms. As evening settled in, shadows crept through the branches, and a screech owl sounded from a high perch, its voice grating on her nerves like chalk on a slate.
Willa settled her eyes on Montford. He had hobbled the horses and was stripping off their saddles. He turned suddenly, as though he felt her eyes on him, and laid the saddle he held in his arms on the ground.
“Be seated,” he said harshly and pointed to a dry spot under a pine.
When she disregarded his command, he strode across the pine needles, grasped her arm, and pulled her over to the tree. Shoving her down onto her knees, he tied another rope to the one binding her hands and secured it to a sturdy branch high overhead.
“Sweet Jesus,” he said softly and rubbed his palms up and down her clammy arms. “You are freezing.” After peeling off his greatcoat, he draped it over her shoulders and buttoned it beneath her chin before returning to the horses.
“What do you care whether I die from exposure?” she yelled at his back. “You and your marauding traitor friends will kill me in any event.”
He turned his head only for a second. “Do shut up, Willa. I have no qualms about gagging you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. Dropping her knees to one side, she wriggled backward until her spine bumped up against the rough bark. As she stretched out her legs, she watched the man she detested most in the world. The man who had lied to her. The man who had made fools of her and her father and the British and Tory armies. Her betrothed. In truth, who was he? And now that she knew his secret, what would he do with her?
Chapter 16
Willa had fallen into a restless sleep by the time Ford rubbed down the horses and fed out the grain packed in the girl’s saddlebags. She looked fragile slumped against the tree with her hair snarled around her head. Yet he had no delusions concerning her ability to defend herself … or the danger she represented, to him in particular. She rode like a centaur and threw a knife like a Cherokee brave. His conscience poked him at leaving her tied, but he suspected loosening her hands would be paramount to signing his death warrant. Right now she hated him and would rejoice at spilling his blood.
After gathering dry limbs from the pines, he built a fire in a cleared area. He could have ridden to Snow Island with his spy within two hours of her capture; they were that close. Instead, he was hauling her about the countryside to confuse her sense of direction. Assuming she’d not already found it, he dared not allow her to learn the camp’s location. Then her life would indeed be in danger. Marion would listen to what he had to say and weigh all the options, but Ford had no assurance he could guarantee Willa’s safety. Not should it mean the likely capture of the general and his loyal band. The cause was more important than the life of any one person.
He walked over to her, adjusted the coat to cover her more fully, and laid his palm on her forehead. Her skin felt cool. As he dragged his saddle close to the fire and lay down, his head on the hard leather and the saddle blankets draped over him, his mind refused to cease its deliberations despite his fatigue. What could he say that she would believe? How could he return her to her father without exposing his position and placing Marion in danger?
Answers refused to come as sleep overtook him.
Tiny feet tickled her nose. Willa tried to raise a hand to brush them away but could not move. She opened her eyes, puckered her lips, and blew a stream of air at the spider, causing it to trundle off.
When she glanced around, she blinked rapidly at first. Where was she, and why did her arms feel as if they were no longer attached to her body? Then memory lapped like waves against a shore, bringing a frown. Montford had kidnapped her and tied her hands behind her. She had slid onto her back during the night and, after lying on her arms for hours, lost all
feeling in them. Uttering a whimper of pain, she squirmed about to pull her body upright.
Her thrashing prompted a nickering from Cherokee and a stirring on the ground in front of her. She lifted her head. His lordship was stretched out on the earth under saddle blankets. The ashes of a fire lay close beside him.
“An English gentleman, indeed,” she muttered. “He sleeps beside a fire; he ties me to a tree.” Her voice grew louder and caustic. “But never you mind, Lord Montford, I am quite comfortable.”
He stirred again, turned onto his side, and raised up on one elbow. “You are awake, I see,” he said with a wide yawn. Rising from the ground in a smooth motion resembling the grace of a panther, he came to his feet and raised his arms over his head to stretch and flex his shoulders. Muscles bunched and rippled across his chest under his shirt.
Conscious of precisely how large and strong he was, and how much at his mercy she was, Willa swallowed to relieve the dryness in her throat.
After coming to her side, he removed the rope attaching her to the tree and lifted her onto her feet. She moaned when blood rushed down her arms with the sudden change of position. “Please,” she said as she fought to hold back tears. “Untie me. I cannot feel my hands.”
With no argument, he spun her around and released the ropes around her wrists. Willa cried out as her arms fell forward, limp as boiled collard greens, and blood surged back into her hands. Montford pulled her over to a log. Sitting down, he drew her into his lap and massaged her wrists and arms.
Spikes of pain stabbed her wooden limbs, and she groaned. Red bracelets circled her wrists, and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
“Devil take it,” he mumbled. “I should have untied you last night. I had no notion you would be so foolish as to sleep on your arms.”
“I beg your pardon,” she gritted out. “Had I any reason to believe your plan was to cripple me, I’d not have been so cooperative.” As the pain eased, she sagged against his chest. His heart pounded rapidly against her shoulder, and the hard rise of his manhood under her buttocks made it clear her close presence affected him.
He pushed her away in a sudden motion, and off his lap. Willa slid to the ground, landing on her bottom with a thump. “If we leave now,” he said, standing, “we should reach our destination by midday.”
She looked up into his face. “I have need of the … the …” Heat spread from her neck into her hairline.
“Fine,” he bit out and pulled her upright. With a hand in the small of her back, he propelled her toward the woods.
Willa took a few steps. When he followed her, she stopped and turned to confront him. “I require privacy.” She despised the pleading tone of her voice.
Montford shook his head. “Not likely.”
The flushing of her skin near baked her alive. “I-I cannot. Not with you present. I must be private.”
With his fists propped at his waist, he gave her a flinty look. “Can I accept your word not to run?”
Willa looked away. “You can. In any event, I would not leave without my horse. You may hold him hostage until I return.”
“I shall do that. I’ve always admired him.”
She shot him a sharp glance.
He smiled and pushed her toward the trees. “Five minutes. No more. Then I come after you.”
Montford had saddled the horses by the time she returned. He handed her a canteen. She took it and swallowed a mouthful of water. When her empty stomach growled, he fished around in her saddlebags and extracted a piece of beef jerky. After handing it her, he picked up the rope.
“No!” She backed away, taking only two steps before he snagged her and tugged her forward again.
“I must, Willa.” His eyes held sympathy, but his mouth was set. “If you vow to behave, I shall tie your hands in front of you instead of behind.”
The hard resolve in his face told her arguing was useless. She held out her hands, and he tied them more loosely than the day before. When he pulled the blindfold from his pocket, she nearly protested again. But he would disregard her objection, and she declined to allow him the satisfaction of humbling her further. She would not plead. Let him do his worst. Willa stood stiffly while Montford affixed the blindfold. Then fitting his hands to her waist, he lifted her onto Cherokee.
She heard him collect her reins and mount his black horse. In another moment they were moving, the horses’ hooves shuffling in the pine-needle cover.
After what seemed like hours, they rode out from under the trees, and Willa smelled water. Montford alighted and walked to her side. His warm hand suddenly rested on her thigh. When her muscles jumped in an involuntary response, his fingers flexed.
Then he pulled her down to stand beside Cherokee.
“Are we there?” she asked.
“Not quite.” His deep voice came from the void surrounding her. “Now we swim.”
“Swim?” She frowned. “Blindfolded?”
“You will manage.” He raised her hands until they touched one of the metal rings holding the saddle’s stirrup straps. “Hang on, and keep your head above water.”
“Indeed,” she said in a mocking tone. “We would not wish for me to drown, now would we?”
“Hold your tongue, wildcat,” he replied with a stinging smack to her bottom that made her jump, “or I will drown you.”
She bit back her retort as he led Cherokee forward. With her blindfolded and tied, Montford held the advantage, but he would not maintain that position forever. The ground sloped sharply, and Willa slipped. She recovered her balance, and soon, cold water swirled around her ankles and crept up her legs. The bottom fell away a few feet farther in. She floated, hanging onto the saddle as Cherokee pushed off from the bottom and swam in strong strokes. Before she knew it, the paint lurched upward, his legs on solid ground once more, and pulled her up out of the water and onto flat ground.
Hands helped her back into the saddle, and the horses moved forward. Rigid stems and sharp leaves scraped against her legs as Cherokee forged through what felt like a cane brake. They surged upward again, out of the cane, and made their way across a level area.
Voices rang out—a challenge, then lowered to a murmur. The horses stopped, and then moved on. More voices … horses stamping, tails swishing … campfire smoke … men’s deep laughter … voices raised in good-natured argument … an axe splitting wood … sour ale and a privy—all the normal sounds and smells of a military encampment.
They passed by the active area and entered a woodland with trees spaced far apart. As Cherokee trod ahead in a straight line, shadows and dappled sunshine stroked her shoulders. Bare branches knocked against each other with a hollow sound in the breeze. A faint odor of desiccated fruit. An orchard? They left the trees and climbed upward. Willa sensed they were nearing the end of their journey. The horses halted when the ground leveled out again.
“Cap’n Ford,” an unfamiliar male voice said.
Who was Captain Ford? Willa tried to gain a sense of her surroundings and felt only open space. A breeze tickled her cheek and ruffled her hair. Winter sun streamed down on her head. Voices whispered in front of her.
In her state of concentration, she failed to hear him approach and started when Montford’s hands, once again, tugged her from the saddle. He marched her ahead of him across a grassy surface. She stumbled when her toe hit a rock, and he caught her. Then she entered a structure. She felt its height and weight towering over her. The sun’s warmth disappeared, and the nothingness before her eyes dimmed even more. Hay and dry oats and a lingering smell of horses and cows. A barn. She breathed in the familiar odors.
They walked through the barn and stopped. Hinges creaked when Montford swung open a door. He guided her across the threshold and came inside with her, shutting the door behind him.
“Sit,” he said as he pressed a hand on her shoulder. Willa eased down and found a hard surface beneath her. Metal clanked behind her, sounding like chains.
His fingers loosened her bon
ds and released her hands. Before she could lift an arm to remove the blindfold, he grasped her right wrist and pulled it away from her body. Cold leather clamped down on her skin. A sharp clink resounded as the shackle closed. The door creaked opened and banged shut, and a bolt slid home with a thud.
Willa ripped off the blindfold and came to her feet.
Dust motes danced in the dim light. Thick, truncated beams for holding saddles projected from one wall. Hooks for bridles ran in a row above them. Two large wooden barrels stood in one corner. She lifted their lids. A few oat grains sat in the seams along the bottoms. The bench she had sat on had a hinged lid. She tugged it open to discover a brush and an old length of linen. A small brown bottle lay on its side in the back. She plucked it up and held it under the light sifting through the poorly fitted clapboards. Horse liniment. Not much of a weapon, but were she to break the glass …
Of course, Willa, you will fight your way out of an armed enemy camp with a jagged bit of glass. She sighed and dropped the bottle.
Willa tested the manacle. A metal cuff lined with leather circled her wrist. A chain ran from the cuff to a bolt embedded in a supporting timber. The chain granted her free movement about the room, but its length fell short of the door. When she pulled on the bolt, it refused to budge.
She made her way to the wall and peered out through the cracks to view a weedy field with scattered dogwoods and hawthorns. Then she shuffled back to the bench and slumped down, planting her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands.
After leaving the barn, Ford stopped to speak with the guard. “No one is to converse with her, give her anything, or open her door for any reason.”
The man snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir.”
Ford collected the two horses and went down the hill. He made his way through the orchard and entered the camp at the far end. Men waved or saluted when he walked by, and a few called out comments and inquiries regarding his prisoner. He ignored their sallies.