Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  A fist wrung his soul as he gazed at her through pools of pain.

  “You hurt her,” she said. “You hurt her bad. Though I ‘spec’ you be hurtin’ her heart mor’n anythin’ else. If’n it be me, I never be forgivin’ you.” She caught his eyes with a sharp look. “An’ I be warnin’ you, if’n you hurt ma gal ‘gain, I be goin’ right ahead an’ usin’ dat pistol ‘thout waitin’ fer no explanation.” She nodded curtly. “You keep dat in mind, Mista Ford.”

  She covered the frozen ground to the gig, climbed aboard, and slapped the reins against the horse’s rump. After turning the gig around, she took off slowly down the track. The bitter night closed in as Ford wallowed in his thoughtless behavior and the horror of what he had done to the woman he loved.

  Chapter 25

  No doubt remained; she was increasing, and her condition brought mixed emotions. Willa had neither seen nor heard from Aidan since his stormy visit ten days ago, but she had heard the rumors whispered throughout Georgetown and noted the looks of pity sent her way. The British had branded Aidan Sinclair, Baron Montford, a traitor. But the gossips were misinformed, she told herself. No one in Georgetown, particularly those calling for his head, knew of his true mission, that Aidan was really spying for Cornwallis. She had to believe that. Her child’s father could not be a traitor. Aidan or Cornwallis must have started the gossip as a deception to solidify Montford’s position with the rebels.

  She flattened a hand against her belly and felt no difference in its size, but then she had missed only one of her monthly courses. She could be no more than a month with child. No one knew. She revealed her secret only to her father while sitting beside his bed and holding his limp hand. As he had remained since her return, he showed no reaction. Willa cried to think of how proud the colonel would be to know his daughter would bear the next heir to the noble house of Montford.

  Not if you are unwed, a persistent voice inside her cried out. ‘Tis his bastard you will birth, not his heir. She silenced the voice as she did each time it surfaced to admonish her. She would not wed Baron Montford. Even should he go down on a knee and beg for her hand, she would refuse to relent.

  An image of what Tarleton’s men visited upon Emma’s mother returned often. She compared it to Aidan’s assault. They were more than similar. He allowed her no opportunity to voice her protest or to escape. He used his greater strength to coerce her into compliance with his desires. He neither waited until her body was ready to accept him nor cared a fig about her own pain or pleasure. Pure and simple, he violated her. She could not believe otherwise despite knowing she could have stopped him had she only told him “no.”

  Regardless, the child was innocent of its father’s sins. Willa already loved it with a keening softness she once reserved for the special man in her life. She loved it unwaveringly and vowed to protect it, bastard or not. The new life she carried eased the pain in her heart Aidan had caused. And rather than sorrow and resentment, a blissful peacefulness swirled inside her.

  Her door opened suddenly, and Marlene came into the room in a cloud of perfume. She folded her white arms under her breasts, her expression haughty. Soulless blue eyes examined Willa in minute detail, like an inchworm beneath a magnifying glass. Willa gave back the look measure for measure.

  “Major Digby and I are desirous of discussing a matter with you in the parlor,” Marlene said.

  The woman’s blatant animosity and self-satisfaction dug their claws into Willa. “And suppose I have no wish to speak with you? I cannot see that we have anything to discuss.”

  Marlene curved her mouth in an enigmatic smile. “Oh, you will see, Wilhelmina dear. ‘Tis to your best advantage to attend us immediately.” With those inscrutable words, she swept out the door.

  Did they suspect she was with child? Willa laid a protective hand on her belly and girded herself to face the dragons who had invaded her home. She cared not whether they did suspect. Marlene might be her guardian while her father lay dying in the room down the hall, but Willa vowed the witch and her lover would have no hold over her … or her child.

  She descended the stairs, anxious to dispense with the odd interview, and strolled into the parlor. Her face flooded with heat at the sight of Digby perched on the edge of her stepmother’s satinwood sideboard, one leg braced on the carpet and the other swinging free. She had a sudden urge to find a polishing cloth and clean the wood surface. He stood when she entered and gave a slight bow. After gesturing to a chair, he sank back down on the elegant piece.

  Willa settled into the chair and rested her elbows on its upholstered arms. Marlene’s skirts murmured as she seated herself on the sofa against the windows.

  Digby produced a civil smile.

  Willa declined to return the gesture.

  “It seems the only times we speak of late are times of sorrow,” he said. “I am sorry to say that this is no exception.”

  A scaly hand clutched her heart. Had her father died? She visited him less than an hour ago. At the time, his shallow breath hardly stirred his chest, but he was still alive.

  Digby reacted to the panic in her eyes. “Allow me to ease your mind. This interview does not concern your father, though the doctor informs us that Colonel Bellingham has little time left. We asked you here to speak of Lord Montford.”

  She sighed and loosened her tense fingers digging their way into the brocade upholstery. Digby and Marlene had heard the rumors and now had it in their minds to taunt her.

  “From all accounts, Lord Montford is not whom you believe him to be,” he said.

  How did she ever consider Digby’s voice seductive, his face handsome? Her adolescent admiration of his questionable charms pointed to another example of her poor judgment in men. Still, she correctly deduced the reason for this meeting.

  “Your betrothed is a traitor, a spy for Francis Marion,” he continued.

  Willa laughed and waved away his declaration. This situation was spinning out of control. Were Digby to express his views in public, he would fan the flames in Georgetown and perhaps bring down real harm upon Aidan from some overzealous citizen. Regardless of what Aidan had cautioned, the time had arrived for the truth to come out. What harm could result from informing Digby, who shared her father’s confidence?

  “As is your customary wont,” she said, “you are quite incorrect. The gossip you heard is false. In truth, Montford is a spy for Lord Cornwallis. Only Cornwallis and Lord Montford have knowledge of this fact so as to prevent it from leaking to the enemy. I would suggest you keep the information to yourself should you wish to retain your commission.”

  He leaned toward her with a grin that stirred her bowels. “Not so, Wilhelmina; ‘tis you who labor under a misapprehension. Having received word that Lord Montford was sighted with the Swamp Fox, I spoke personally with Lord Cornwallis and broached the very possibility that Montford was a British spy. I found the general’s response quite revealing. He was livid at the suggestion. He admitted he had made Major Sinclair’s acquaintance, but he assured me they had no such covenant between them. Lord Cornwallis, himself, put Montford to the horn.”

  “You are mistaken,” she gasped, half-rising from her chair.

  “I assure you, I am not. But there is more you will wish to hear.”

  Blood roared through her head, and she fell back into the chair. She was inclined to reject his assertion, but his words gradually began to make sense. She recalled her first reaction to Aidan’s story, the feeling that she had missed some vital detail. One now poked its thorny head through the wall of her illusions. Aidan knew the exact location of Marion’s camp. Were he spying for Cornwallis, would he not have sent in soldiers to capture the rebel leader and end the resistance? She had said something similar to Emma that night at Gray Oaks. With Marion removed from the war, the rebellion would collapse in South Carolina. The partisan leader’s participation in the rebel cause was that crucial. No other man in the state could successfully take up his banner. But it did not happen. An inconsistency h
ad bothered her. Aidan’s intimate knowledge of the camp’s coordinates was that contradiction.

  “Lord Montford is dead,” Digby was saying when Willa emerged from her stupor to pay attention again.

  “Dead?” she echoed. A hollow ache rent her breast, and tears sprang to her eyes. “When? How?”

  He paid her outburst no mind. “In fact, Lord Montford died many months ago, days after he departed ship at Charles Town. The man who showed up at this door and presented himself as Aidan Sinclair is not only a traitor, he is a fraud. His true identity is that of a rebel dirt farmer from Virginia named Brendan Ford.”

  “And were that not delicious enough, Brendan Ford is the bastard of the late Baron Montford, Gerald Sinclair,” Marlene added with glee.

  “Brendan Ford is Francis Marion’s creature,” Digby said. “After murdering Aidan Sinclair on the road from Charles Town to Georgetown, Mister Ford took his half brother’s place in order to spy on your father and Lieutenant Colonel Tarleton for Francis Marion. He used you without conscience.”

  “No,” Willa said in a near-whisper. “What you say cannot be true.” Snatches of Aidan’s terrible tirade tumbled through her brain. You are naught to me other than an assignment. Do you understand what I’m telling you? You are nothing and have never been more. An awful, cold feeling gathered in her abdomen and crept up to encase her heart. Now she understood. She struggled to her feet and turned to leave. Digby came off the sideboard, and Marlene rose from the sofa to move to the door and brace her back against it. Willa glanced from one to the other.

  “Not yet.” Digby made a gesture that was more an order than a request. “Pray be seated again.”

  “I expect we are finished.” Her words sounded wooden to her ears though they were carefully modulated. She wanted, with all her heart, naught more than to wail her pain to the heavens. But she could not. She refused to expose more flesh for the two vultures to tear apart.

  “We have not finished.” Digby’s voice sounded chilling enough to ensnare her attention and compel her obedience. When she took her seat again, he signaled to Marlene, who sauntered back to her perch.

  Willa stared at Digby. He stood in front of her with his legs braced apart, arms folded on his chest. “Have you not said enough?” she asked. “What other revelations could you possibly have for me?”

  He slanted his lips in a smile that made her long to cover her ears to avoid hearing what he would say. “Cornwallis’s men have captured your lover.”

  Howling inside, she said calmly, “He is not my lover.”

  He eyed her coolly. “Regardless, Brendan Ford is in custody at the Georgetown garrison at this very moment. He will die, of course. Death is the only end for a traitor. ‘Tis up to you, my dear, to choose how he will die, by a traitor’s death—being hung, drawn, and quartered—or by hanging. One is less painful … and humane.”

  “Why should I care?” she managed to ask. “Should what you say be true, he is a traitor and not my betrothed.” Her heart screamed: He is the man I love. “And, were I to care, how could I, a mere woman and the former betrothed of the traitor, have the wherewithal to influence the manner of his death?”

  “Ah,” he said with an unholy grin. “That is the question, is it not?” He leaned against a walnut side table and crossed his booted feet at the ankles.

  She bit down firmly on her lower lip to keep the tremble under control.

  “I shall answer for you so no misunderstanding lies between us,” Digby said. “Lord Cornwallis is desirous of picking a tick from his hide, a tick causing him a fair amount of distress. You are the only one who can find that tick and fetch him to us.”

  She pressed her mouth into a frown. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “We want Francis Marion. Were you to bring him to us, your lover”—his grin turned into a mocking smile—“I mean, of course, your former betrothed, will die a dignified death.”

  “I have no knowledge—”

  “And your father will avoid facing charges of treason for consorting with Mister Ford and passing on information to him concerning British movements.”

  Willa lunged from the chair with a snarl, her arms extended, her hands curved into claws. Digby laughed and sidestepped her attack, catching her wrists. She yanked her hands free and paced away from him across the Aubusson rug, too tense to sit again. She turned her head and threw him a glare. “You know Papa is loyal to the King and had naught to do with this man’s treachery.”

  He opened up his hands. “Even so, it remains to be proven. Do consider the circumstantial evidence. Colonel Bellingham invited Mister Ford into his house, welcomed him with open arms, and treated him like a son. Who can say with certainty the colonel did not pass on secret missives to the rebels through this friendship?”

  “I shall kill you, Digby,” she hissed as she came to a halt. “And you, as well,” she added, slewing her gaze to Marlene.

  He shook his head slowly. “Indeed, you will not. You will bring me Francis Marion, or your lover and your father will face the King’s justice, and your family name will be forever besmirched. I have no doubt Cornwallis’s wrath could reach even so far as your sisters in England. In addition, you should consider your friends, the Richardsons. Cornwallis could easily convince himself of that traitorous family’s involvement in Ford’s perfidy.”

  Denial burned inside her, but Willa read the truth of his declaration in his eyes.

  Willa descended from the carriage in front of the Georgetown town house and requested that Plato wait for her. “'Tis cold,” she said. “Avail yourself of the carriage.”

  “I be fine jes’ where I is, Miss Willa,” he replied as he tipped his hat and slouched against the seat. He tugged the hat brim forward to cover his face, tucked his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes.

  Digby’s threat writhed inside Willa like a nest of garter snakes. She must send a message to Francis Marion through some means and draw him into a trap. She had a fair idea of his camp’s location, but Digby had granted her insufficient time to undertake the journey herself. And what would happen should she be wrong and fail to find the partisan general? An icy sensation that had no relation to the cold winter day chilled her to the marrow.

  She climbed the stone steps and knocked. When the Richardsons’ butler opened the door, Willa handed him her card. “Is Miss Emma receiving?”

  The man smiled at her familiar face. He ushered her inside and out of the cold. “'Tis exceedingly pleasant to see you, Miss Wilhelmina,” he said as he took her coat, hat, and muff. “If I may inquire, how is Colonel Bellingham?”

  “He is weakening,” she replied with little expression.

  The smile on his mouth quickly disappeared. “I am truly sorry to hear that.” After escorting her into a small parlor, he left to deliver her card to Emma. While Willa warmed herself at the hearth, she could not help but notice the room’s genteel shabbiness.

  After the burning of Gray Oaks, the Richardsons sheltered for a short while at the DeVries’s Plantation, then moved back into town. They now lived under reduced circumstances. The town house reflected how far the family had fallen. Though clean, the upholstery on the few chairs and sofas frayed at the seams. The window drapes had faded from bright blue to muddy gray. The threadbare carpet on the scuffed floorboards was worn through in numerous spots. No silver or porcelain sat atop the mantle, and only one painting hung on the wall above the fireplace. It depicted General Richard Richardson before the war, his loving family seated beside him in the setting of a beautiful room. The Richardsons had managed to save only this one treasure from the fire.

  Willa seated herself on the edge of a sofa, and her hands shook with the import of her visit. With the Richardsons’ connections to the rebels, were anyone capable of conveying a message to Francis Marion, it would be this family. With a heavy heart, she realized her request would condemn the Swamp Fox to death and ensure defeat for the Americans in South Carolina—an outcome she once desired but, having met the rebel lead
er, no longer had the heart for.

  She had sought any alternative that would prevent her from trading on her friendship with Emma in such a vile way. The family would detest her forever when they discovered what she had done. But her father’s life, as well as the safety of her sisters and her family’s reputation, hinged on her success. And Aidan. Or is he truly Brendan? No matter. How he died depended on her. She relegated the disturbing image to the back of her mind.

  Emma burst into the parlor with a wide smile and outstretched arms. As they embraced, Willa tried to swallow the bitterness wanting to choke her. Emma pulled back and held Willa out at arm’s length. A frown tugged at her lips. “I heard the distressing news regarding your father. He is expected to recover, is he not?”

  Tears welled up in Willa’s eyes and brimmed over. Emma drew her into her arms again and patted her back. “I know you find it impossible to accept,” Emma said, “but God willing, you will eventually find the strength to recover and remember only the happy times between you and your father.”

  They broke apart and sat beside each other on a sofa. Emma waved to the butler and requested tea. “Furthermore, I heard the rumors in reference to Lord Montford,” she said as she brought her attention back to Willa.

  “Indeed,” Willa replied somewhat bitterly. She wiped away her tears with a handkerchief she withdrew from her sleeve.

  “Naturally,” Emma said, “I am accustomed to the title ‘traitor.’ The Crown branded both my father and brother as such. I daresay ‘tis decidedly more difficult for you. You have always remained staunch in your loyalty to the King and Britain.”

  Willa met her friend’s gaze straight on. “I must confess I have questioned that blind loyalty since we last spoke, coming to believe this war is more costly for the colonists than for the British. I’m no longer as convinced of the Crown’s right to rule these brave people against their will. For my own part, I find I cannot reconcile Aidan’s association with Francis Marion with the definition I formerly had of treason.”