Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  Digby clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “My dear Wilhelmina, you have brought me the wrong man. I shall take him, of course, though he is not the one we agreed upon.”

  Ford brought his head around slowly to look at Willa—her face as white as parchment, mouth open, lips trembling, limbs shaking—and speared her with a look of condemnation. “Why?” he asked. A suffocating band of perfidy constricted his chest.

  “But … but, this is not—”

  Digby’s chair scraped on the wooden floor as he got to his feet and palmed the pistol. “Indeed. ‘Tis not. Had I known you had bedded such a great number of men you could no longer tell them apart, I should never have given you a toss.”

  Willa dove across Ford and grabbed for the knife in her boot. He shot out an arm, caught her, and pressed her back into the bed. Digby’s words chipped out pieces of his heart. He had expressed his love to her, bared his soul. He could not be bothered by Digby or the soldiers milling outside the door. Capture and his eventual fate seemed insignificant in comparison to Willa’s treachery. Bold as brass, she punched a hole in his heart that would never heal.

  He pinned her with a look expressing the force of his wrath, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood.

  Digby arched a brow. “My, my,” he said as he assessed Ford’s body, “I had no notion your tastes ran to such coarse, earthy sorts in addition to gentlemen, my dear Wilhelmina. You’ve been slumming, and I shall not forgive you for that.”

  The sound coming from her throat sounded like a spitting panther. “I warned you once before that I should kill you,” she said. “Now I relish the prospect and consider it a pleasure rather than merely a chore.”

  Ford turned away from Willa and pointed to his clothes. “May I dress? ‘Tis overly cold outside. I trust you prefer to deliver a live body to the hangman.”

  “By all means,” Digby replied with a twitch of the pistol. “Do dress for the executioner. However hanging, I regret to say, is unlikely to be your fate. In Britain we reserve a more traditional death for traitors.”

  “Brendan,” Willa pleaded. She scooted over on her knees to hang onto his arm. “I had no intention of this happening. I swear it. Digby is lying.”

  He shook off her hands with a twist of his shoulders and shot her a scalding look that caused her to shrink back. “Is he lying? I have difficulty accepting your word. The major obviously received precise instructions on when and where to locate us. My only consolation is that you trapped me in your spider’s web instead of General Marion.”

  As he walked away to retrieve his clothes, her wretched sobbing failed to touch his heart, which shriveled up to form a hard ball. As Digby escorted him to the cabin door to join the green-coated dragoons outside, the major twisted around to face Willa. “You may return home now,” Digby said. “We shall discuss your failure tomorrow.”

  “You may go straight to hell,” she screamed through her tears. “And I shall be the one to send you there. Say your prayers, Digby, and see whether God will forgive you for what you accomplished tonight, for I shall not rest until you lie bleeding at my feet.”

  Digby failed to return to Willowbend that night, or the next day, or the day after that. He was wise in that decision. Willa would have shot him as soon as he came into range had she believed it would free Brendan. As it happened, she could scarcely keep her hands off Marlene, whom she strongly suspected of conspiring with Digby. As she lay in her bed and stared up at the canopy, Willa recalled Brendan’s accusative eyes and blistering words. Her eyes teared to imagine what he must think of her. He had no idea of the truth. Were she simply able to see him and explain, he would understand and forgive her.

  She cradled her belly with one hand to draw comfort and strength from the new life in her womb. But the child was too young to make its presence known. “I vow,” she whispered, “I shall not allow this travesty to happen. They will not kill your father. I shall find a way to save him. And though he may continue to despise me when this matter ends, he will love and cherish you.”

  Schemes and plots flitted through her mind like winging butterflies. She discarded the main portion, aware that on her own, she could not rescue Brendan. She learned from Jwana that the redcoats were holding him in the Georgetown garrison until his transfer to Charles Town. The British sent most partisan prisoners to one of the five coastal sea islands, such as James or Edisto, to await release or exchange. They escorted Continental officers and highranking partisans to Charles Town and placed them on ships for England, where the men faced incarceration until the end of the war. Brendan’s status as a traitor changed his situation, especially since Cornwallis planned to punish him as the treasonous peer, Lord Montford. That Montford was already dead was knowledge limited to only a few officers. The Crown would send him to Charles Town for a public execution as a deterrent to other potential traitors.

  She must see to his rescue before the British transported him to Charles Town. Fewer men and arms protected the Georgetown garrison than at the bastion of British presence in the larger port city. His captors would hold him in chains on a prison hulk in Charles Town Harbor and make his release all but impossible.

  Willa set aside the memory of Brendan’s look of revulsion and loathing at what he believed to be her betrayal and examined every recourse. One avenue continued to surface—to approach Emma and again beg for assistance in sending word to General Marion. But would Emma even receive her? Digby had bragged widely of Willa’s heroic participation in capturing the rebel traitor, and Tories hailed her in the Georgetown streets as a heroine for the Crown. Dared she trust Emma and her family had heard naught of the gossip? She feared she had no other choice.

  Flinging off the bedcovers, she arose and dressed with care in preparation for her visit into town.

  They shoved him into a room rather than a cell. But to all accounts, ‘twas still a prison. The sole window had stout shutters secured with chains as strong as the metal cuffs fastened around his wrists and ankles. His amenities included a pallet of straw with no blanket, one chair so rickety it would splinter into sawdust before breaking through the shutters, a bucket of water, and a bucket for waste. The door slammed behind him, and a key clicked in the lock. Ford flung himself down on the pallet.

  His deliberations deviated from his imprisonment to dwell on the duplicity of the woman he loved. Why? his mind screamed, producing an echo in his heart. He did not have far to look. He had forced his body on her and driven out any feelings she might once have held for him. Now it seemed fitting only revenge remained. However, one image from the night of his capture persisted in badgering him. Her surprise and outrage at Digby’s sudden appearance seemed genuine. That or she was a bloody good actress. He recalled the muddy farm boy he met in Socastee Swamp. Acting came naturally to Wilhelmina Bellingham.

  After savoring his anger for a time, it began to subside. Once before he allowed anger and jealousy to override his common sense. It culminated in an impulsive action he would never forget or forgive. He now questioned whether he was not traveling along that same stony road. He longed for vengeance but forced himself to analyze the situation logically. At Willowbend he denied Willa the opportunity to explain herself. Was he falling into the same trap again? One crucial point needled him at the time: Digby knew where to find them. But the major could have followed Willa to the Daily Plantation without her cooperation or knowledge. Taken in that light, Digby’s presence did not necessarily point to Willa’s guilt.

  The soldiers’ invasion followed so closely his avowal of love, the shock had caused him to utter words of anger. Now he allowed that anger might have been misplaced. But all his speculation was neither here nor there. Cornwallis was unlikely to grant him the opportunity of determining Willa’s guilt or innocence before his appointment with the executioner.

  The bolt rattled. Ford sat up straighter and rested his back against the wall. When the door opened, Digby strolled in, followed by two armed guards.

  “Are
your accommodations adequate?” The major’s smile fell short of his eyes as he made a sweeping gesture around the bare room. After flicking dust from the chair with a white handkerchief, he seated himself, and crossed one knee over the other. “But of course,” he said, “you have divined the reason for this visit, Captain Ford.”

  Ford’s mouth kicked up at one edge. “You plan to bore me to death?”

  Digby’s smile disappeared. He shifted forward in an aggressive manner. “It will avail you naught to take this matter lightly.”

  Ford spread open his arms as far as the chains would stretch. “I have nothing more pressing to occupy my time, Major. Should you have a burning desire to wag your tongue, I am willing to listen.” He rattled the chains. “I am, after all, a captive audience.”

  Digby settled back in the chair and directed a scorching gaze at Ford. “I shall go straight to the point as I have no desire to interrupt your day unduly. I want Francis Marion. You know where to find him. You will take me to him.”

  Ford gave a bark of laughter. “You are certain of that, are you?”

  Digby uncrossed his legs and brought himself down to eye level with Ford. He rested his elbows on his knees and threaded his hands in front of him. “I am quite certain,” he said as he inclined his head toward one of the guards. The man uncoiled a whip held in one hand.

  Ford glanced at the guard and licked his dry lips. He swiveled his gaze back to Digby. “It will take a greater inducement than a beating to persuade me to betray Marion. As Lord Cornwallis has discovered, we Americans are cut of sturdier cloth than you British foresaw. And for that reason, we shall drive you from our land.”

  Digby thinned his lips into a line. “We shall discover how sturdy you truly are.” He lunged to his feet and flung the chair back against the wall. When he nodded to the guards, they rushed forward, seized Ford, and fastened his shackles to a ring high above his head. He gave them no resistance, even when they ripped his shirt away from his back and began to ply the whip. Ford bit his lip until blood flowed and swallowed the groans extracted by the cut of the whip’s leather strands. Nearly an hour passed before he fell unconscious.

  They flogged him every day until his back became a mass of torn and bleeding flesh. Digby attended every beating, pouring his questions into Ford’s ears and promising that Willa would next feel the slice of the whip. But Ford knew better than to take the threats to heart. Digby would not be so rash as to arrest Colonel Bellingham’s daughter, not while the earl still lived. The major chose his words to intimidate and break Ford’s will. They merely steeled his resistance. Moreover, the major’s venomous threats served one useful purpose. They assured Ford of what he most desired to know. Digby was never Willa’s lover. She did not collude with him. She did not lie.

  At night as he lay on his stomach on the pallet with his life slowly seeping from his back in fire and streams of blood, Ford brought to mind the times Willa had come to him in love and passion. He long ago forgave any trespasses on his heart and beseeched God for one boon … the chance to see her, to touch her, to kiss her once more before he died.

  Chapter 27

  Emma’s home was closed to Willa. The butler turned her away, saying with regret that Emma was not receiving. She expected the rebuff. Still, it disheartened her. As she took the carriage back to Willowbend, she combed her mind for another way to send word to Marion. Digby would transport Brendan to Charles Town by the time she found the general on her own. She dared not approach her acquaintances in Georgetown or any other planters for fear they would expose her plan. Terror of reprisal kept mouths closed, and it became difficult to distinguish between those loyal to the Crown and those sympathetic to the rebels. In fact many local residents switched sides on a near daily basis. The Richardsons were her only reliable rebel ties.

  Or were they?

  Willa returned to the night of Brendan’s capture and recalled his mentioning Jwana’s name, though in what context escaped her. Was it possible Jwana secretly aided the rebels? Promise burst as glorious as sunrise. Were Jwana capable of relaying a message to Francis Marion … no, of guiding her to the Swamp Fox to plead her case in person, Marion would rescue Brendan. Optimism settled around her like a warm cloak, and she tapped an impatient foot against the floorboards as the carriage rumbled toward home.

  Willa jumped from the carriage before Plato pulled the horses to a full stop, drawing a surprised exclamation from him. She flew up the steps and through the front door as the carriage clattered around to the stables.

  “Jwana,” she called out, rushing through the house and skidding to a halt when she nearly collided with Marlene.

  Marlene stepped aside to avoid being run over and plastered a simpering smile on her face. She laid a staying hand on Willa’s arm. “Running is common behavior, Wilhelmina.” Her eyes, which narrowed at first, slowly relaxed, and her voice became smooth, her words slick, slithering across Willa’s shoulders like a water moccasin.

  “You look flushed,” Marlene said, “though I am pleased to see you downstairs after such a harrowing adventure. I know this situation with your betrothed distresses you. Be assured you performed admirably.” Marlene tried to direct Willa into the drawing room. “Do let us take tea and talk. I fear I have more unsettling news.”

  “What have you done, now?” Willa demanded. She pulled away from the woman’s cold touch.

  Marlene’s amiability fled in an instant. “'Tis not as though I have any obligation to inform you, but since you had a fondness for her, I felt it my Christian duty to do so.”

  “Inform me of what?” Willa almost shouted.

  Marlene crossed her arms, and her face took on its customary, arrogant expression. “Jwana was slothful in her duties. Her familiar behavior was improper, unbefitting a servant, particularly a slave. I could tolerate her airs no longer. I sold her.”

  Willa’s preoccupation with Brendan’s imprisonment scattered on the heels of Marlene’s words. “Sold her? She is not yours to sell. She belongs to Papa, not to you. You cannot do this!”

  Marlene backed away a step and raised a hand to her throat. “Now you must not rant so. It cannot be good for your constitution. And besides, ‘tis already done. You know full well your father is incapable of making important decisions. Nevertheless, were he to know what I did, I am persuaded he would approve. Why, you treated that black woman like a friend rather than a slave. For your own good, ‘tis better you part ways.”

  With a glare at Marlene that would melt a lead ball, Willa spun away and sprinted to the front door. She threw it open and ran for the stables.

  “Plato!” She came upon him as he was removing the carriage horses’ harnesses and propelled herself into his arms.

  “Willa, child,” he said. He took hold of her shoulders and moved her back. “What be gettin’ you inta such a fuss?”

  When she raised her head, tears, once again, wet her cheeks. “Marlene sold Jwana.”

  His coffee face hardened into stone. “Dat woman must’a sent Jwana off dis mornin’ while we was gone. Where?”

  She shook her head so violently the ends of her hair slapped her in the face. “I do not know, and I daresay Marlene would not enlighten me were I to ask.”

  He nodded curtly. “Jes’ you calm down now,” he said. “I be findin’ Jwana, an’ we be gettin’ her back.” He gifted her with a smile. “I promise I be findin’ her.”

  “Please, Plato. I shall gladly reimburse whoever purchased her. I have my own money left to me by my grandmother.”

  Grimness etched his face as he saddled Bellingham’s chestnut and rode out.

  By the time Willa reached her bedchamber, weariness weighed down her spirit. All seemed lost. First her father, then Brendan, and now Jwana. Digby and Marlene had removed nearly everyone who meant anything to her. Plato would likely be next, and she made a mental note to warn him. He could hide in the swamp until she settled accounts with the major and her evil stepmother.

  The thought of Plato’s running a
nd hiding made Willa wonder whether he also had a connection with the rebels. Plato and Jwana were close, more than merely friends, she suspected. Were he an informant for Francis Marion, they both could take refuge with the Swamp Fox. And she could travel with them, accomplishing two missions at once.

  Her tears dried as she turned her mind to a more pleasant subject—her revenge on the two people who had destroyed her life, and the lives of Brendan, Jwana, and Plato. The gun or the knife? She could not decide.

  Plato returned at sunset. Willa watched from her bedchamber window and hurried to the stables as soon as she saw him ride in. “Did you find her?” she asked in a breathless voice.

  He flashed a triumphant grin. “Sure did. She be at de Broom Plantation. I spoke wid Miss Carrie. I knows she be yur frien'. She done promised ta bring Jwana inta de house an’ watch over her ‘til it be safe fer you ta buy her back.”

  James Broom was a fair man who treated his slaves well. Willa had feared Marlene sold Jwana to a trader who would send her farther south. Convinced now of Jwana’s safety in the Brooms’ hands, she addressed her other concern. “Plato, have you knowledge of where I might locate General Francis Marion?”

  His features turned wary. “Maybe,” he mumbled.

  She released a laugh, elated at her correct assumption regarding Plato’s political loyalties. “Worry not, my friend. I shall not reveal your secrets. However, you must take me to General Marion at once.”

  His eyes stretched wide. “An’ why you be wantin’ ta see de Swamp Fox?”

  She related Marlene’s and Digby’s manipulations and Brendan’s subsequent capture, explaining why she had to meet personally with Marion. “You believe me, do you not?” she asked.

  “Course I do.” He gave her a resolute nod. “Ain’t never be takin’ de word’a dat snake, Major Digby, over yourn. He been sayin’ some terrible things ‘bout you. It be all I kin do ta stop maself from killin’ him an’ sendin’ ma black ass ta de hangman. We be leavin tomorrow mornin’ ‘fore dawn. Pack light fer a fast trip.”