Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  And this night, mere hours after the bloody battle at Eutaw Springs, Ford had such a feeling. It visited him as he lay on his pallet of frayed blankets, a hard saddle as a pillow under his head. Willa sprang into his mind full-blown and bursting with light and energy. Freckles across her cheeks danced as she wrinkled her nose. Sweetie and Killer cavorted in play at her feet. He expelled a snort of laughter. This was no dream but a nightmare.

  He sobered and grew tense when Willa doubled over in pain, suffering, crying out and writhing on her bed. Sweat glistened on his brow and dampened the shirt stretched over his chest. At the disturbing mental image, he wanted to jump to his feet, saddle Dancer, and race the devil to Willowbend.

  Then he saw her face again, deep contentment and tender love softening her features—directed not at him but at someone else. Who? Who had captured her heart? Pain speared his chest. He sat up and cursed, long and vehemently.

  The corporal on the next pallet over waved a hand and mumbled, “Go to sleep, Captain, will you? I swear, you’re as noisy and restless as my old lady.”

  Ford punched at the saddle. It became no softer. He rolled onto his side, settled back down, and closed his eyes. This time his dreams consisted of only blood and falling bodies.

  A bonfire of revenge raged beneath Marlene’s flowing silks and carefree manner. The bitch gave birth to twins. Twins! As though one brat was not enough of an obstacle to overcome. But overcome it she would. The money George had left her was adequate … should she choose to live moderately. However, why should she settle for moderation? She wanted—no, deserved—the best of everything … houses, clothes, jewels, and men.

  She had considered marriage to Digby only because she expected to inherit George’s money and properties. The major was handsome, polished, and an extraordinary lover. And, for a rash moment, she thought herself in love. But even with Digby’s qualities and the way they suited, she had begun to view him in a clearer light while her husband lay dying at Willowbend. The notion of wedding her lover gradually became unpalatable. Thomas Digby had reached no higher than major. He would undoubtedly retire a major when the war ended, and that time was fast approaching. He was untitled and had no wealthy family in England, though his father was a banker and not precisely a pauper. George’s will had changed everything. The niece of an earl, the widow of an earl, one cheated of her inheritance, could not marry a common banker’s son.

  And why should she settle for an army major when she could have her pick of earls and even dukes? She was beautiful, with an impeccable background, and still young enough to give some noble the mistaken idea she could supply him with an heir. No one need know a botched abortion in her youth had left her incapable of conceiving a child.

  But how could she now expect to catch a husband worthy of her? With no substantial fortune, her prospects were slim. And should she choose the route of mistress instead of wife, she would lose her measly ten thousand. That scenario did not overly disconcert her … while she kept her youth and beauty; but what would happen when she lost her looks? She shivered at the prospect.

  She laid all her misery on Wilhelmina’s doorstep. Digby had vowed to take care of the girl this time, yet Marlene had reservations. Should he not act soon, she would be compelled to take the initiative again. The birth of her stepdaughter’s children was not so long ago that the young woman, drained by the difficult birth, could not succumb to childbed fever. In fact, ‘twas entirely possible.

  Marlene dressed for the soiree in a gold satin gown. The neckline dipped low enough to bare a hint of rosy nipples. She powdered her hair and face, applying the patches with precision. One, a heart-shaped patch, she placed on her chest above the pink blush of areola. A French count would be present tonight. Were she to play her hand right, she could gain his interest. ‘Twas hardly as prestigious as marriage to an English earl, but to be perfectly truthful, ‘twas better than naught.

  In the adjoining room, Digby donned his formal court dress, a white silk coat with matching knee-britches and gold, tone-on-tone, silk stockings. He settled his lace-edged cravat into place and fiddled with the lace points spilling from his sleeves at the wrist. As he arranged his powdered wig, he gazed in the mirror, turned sideways, sucked in his stomach, and settled a hand on his abdomen.

  “Hardly shabby,” he said to his reflection, “for a man pushing forty.” Even now he made hearts race and seduced wives with a mere lift of his brows. Still, time was running out on him. In a few years, creases and wrinkles would spoil his perfect features. He leaned in toward the mirror to examine his face. A few small lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. He patted the skin beneath his chin with the back of his hand. Was he developing jowls? A brown discoloration glared at him from one cheekbone. An age spot! He slapped a black velvet beauty patch over the offending sight.

  After tugging down his ruby satin waistcoat, he smoothed the shoulders of his tailcoat and walked to the door joining his suite with Marlene’s. He paused at the threshold.

  After the surprise in Bellingham’s will, he had thought long and hard about his continued liaison with Marlene. She was exquisite, but then, so was he. And now neither had the funds to live in the style they desired. Unfortunately, beauty could gain one only so much. Society ran on wealth and breeding. Beauty was appreciated but not obligatory.

  Much as he regretted it, he would be well advised to rid himself of her. She had outlived her usefulness and in the end brought him only disappointment. She could leave quietly, or he could arrange for her disappearance. Then he was in need of a wealthy wife, one with the breeding so revered by Society’s scions. A wife like Wilhelmina Bellingham, the rich daughter of the late Earl of Westchester. Her birthing of twins demonstrated her fertility. Now they had served their purpose, and the children were easily disposed of.

  He had only one loose end to tie up. He affected an adoring look as he opened the door and told Marlene what she wanted to hear: She was the most sensual, the most alluring, the most beautiful woman in South Carolina.

  The twins filled Willa’s days. Her nights belonged to Brendan, though why she bothered to spare a thought for him was beyond her comprehension. Perhaps ‘twas Lancelot. He looked so like his father and was as arrogant to boot. Lancelot and Guinevere, what ridiculous names for children. However, once uttered by the Richardsons and staff, the names stuck. Willa would face a solid front of opposition should she suggest changing them to something more acceptable, such as James and Meredith. So Lancelot and Guinevere they remained. And with each passing day, they grew and thrived, developing distinct personalities exhibited by demands and dislikes shrieked loudly or likes and requests cooed softly.

  Two weeks after the twins’ birth, Killer began to sneak inside from the barn and creep up the stairs toward the nursery. He swiveled his head around corners and twitched his tail as he kept a wary eye out for Sweetie, who slept beneath the cradles. The hair stiffened on the cat’s back and tail when his gaze lit on the dog. Sweetie growled, scrambled up onto her feet, and barreled after Killer. Inevitably, someone ended up pinned to a wall or flattened to the floor, some valuable objet d’art toppled to the boards, smashed beyond repair, and general mayhem ensued.

  On the day the twins turned a month old, Willa found Killer and Sweetie sleeping in a tangled heap on the rag rug under the cradles. And from that time, the truce formed between the cat and dog evolved into a mutual constant guarding of the children and monitoring of their condition.

  Both children developed gray eyes, Lancelot’s a darker shade, like wet birch bark, than Guinevere’s, which reminded one of the soft sheen of pewter. Lancelot was larger and stronger than his sister and more demanding, but the tiny girl showed more finesse. While Lancelot screamed his orders, she simpered and cajoled and, in the end, got her way.

  Fall swept in on Atlantic storms and swirling leaves, creating waves in the tidal rice fields. The nights grew chillier and the stars closer and brighter. Willa resumed her evening walks in the orchard, telling Jwana,
with a wry lilt in her voice, that the trees missed their daily dose of discipline. In truth, her walks were her only time to be alone … the only time she could sort out her feelings for one infuriating, absent man.

  Were the children’s welfare not her foremost conern, she would ride out and find him wherever he was, in the midst of battle or lazing around Marion’s camp, for no other reason than to take him to task. She would tell Brendan what he was missing, the way his children laughed and clutched her hair in their tiny fists. The sounds they made that telegraphed every feeling and request though it resembled nothing more than gibberish. She would inform him that Lancelot had that same familiar way of lowering his brows and thinning his mouth when he was grumpy, and in those moments, memories swamped her heart. And Guinevere’s smile was so incredibly adorable, like an angel’s. Those sweetly curving lips hid a world of mischief that showed only in her sparkling eyes.

  These milestones in his children’s lives could never again be glimpsed for the first time. Perchance Brendan did not care. Perhaps he had no liking for children. He had certainly showed an aversion to Killer and Sweetie. One could generally predict a man’s reaction to children by observing his interactions with animals. Then again, Willa had to admit his only introduction to the two pets was somewhat stressful.

  While she wondered, as she did every night, where he was and whether he was safe and whole, the moon rose and the wind whipped up, tossing fallen leaves against her skirts. A screech owl skirled from the branches and gave her a start. The eerie sound sent an inexplicable trepidation tingling along her nerves. She peered overhead but was unable to locate the owl’s perch. A sigh gusted from her lips, and she walked slowly toward the house, reluctant to return too quickly to the noisy domain her children ruled.

  At the distant thunder of horses, she looked up to see torches flickering over the harvested fields of indigo.

  Chapter 35

  The French count was old and fat. On the other hand, the jewels encrusting his coat and shoes’ red heels induced Marlene to take another look. She tipped her head to one side and examined him with the eye of a connoisseur—one who knew both men and jewels. He winked and patted the bulge at his groin. Sweat from the heat of candles creased his powdered and painted face, and his heavy perfume did not quite disguise his sour body odor. Could she do it? Even for the money?

  Marlene graced the count with a smile and shook her head, walking away to seek out Digby. He was acting detached tonight, less attentive. Her mouth drew downward as she searched the crowded room. She spotted him in a corner with a knot of men, their heads close together and voices below the level of the crush. As she waved her fan to create a breeze on her flushed face, she glided over to his side.

  He looked up. “Marlene, darling.” The smile on his lips did not quite reach his eyes.

  Her gaze flitted from man to man. Though dressed appropriately for the soiree, they had an air about them that shouted “common.” They had no legitimate business among this level of society. “Will you introduce me to your friends?”

  His smile became tight, almost feral. Taking her arm, he ushered her away. “Merely business acquaintances, my dear, and hardly worth your notice. I saw you with the count. Did you find him delightful?”

  She made a face. “He is abominable, unlike your companions, who appear quite interesting. Why do you not wish for me to meet them? Are they criminals?” she whispered as she held up a hand to shield her mouth.

  “Indeed not,” he said with a snort. “Your imagination has taken leave of your senses, or you imbibed one glass too many of the claret.”

  “I must say, they appear to be criminals. For all their fancy dress, they are naught but plow horses clothed as thoroughbreds. They most certainly are not Quality.”

  “Will you let it be?” he hissed as he turned to smile at a man who stopped to speak with him. When the man ambled on to join the couples at the card tables, Digby steered her through the room and out the French doors into the garden. He brought her around to face him and held her captive by the shoulders. “If you must know, I engaged those men to take care of our little problem at Willowbend.”

  Marlene licked her lips. “I find that exciting. Tell me everything.”

  Digby studied her in silence for a moment. His penis swelled in reaction to her provocative manner and dress, and a sigh sifted through him. Perhaps he was not finished with her yet and would find it to his advantage to indulge her for a while. Should all go well with Wilhelmina, he could then devise a way to rid himself of Marlene. Were Wilhelmina to prove difficult, Marlene would inherit the estate when the girl died. In that event he could wed Marlene. Either way he would succeed.

  “No,” he finally said. “It would be best if you knew nothing. Should the authorities question you later, you can tell them truthfully you have no notion what happened to your stepdaughter and her children.”

  A moue formed on her mouth. “Why would they question me?”

  Digby inhaled a breath. For all her exquisite beauty, Marlene was not the most intelligent of women. “Think for a moment. You will inherit Wilhelmina’s wealth should anything happen to her. Who else has a better motive to see her dead?”

  A thoughtful look came over her face, then she strolled away down the path. Her hips swayed like a sultry breeze, despite the chill air, and heated his blood. His mouth crimped into a smile. Marlene knew exactly what she was doing to him. Yet he was helpless to suppress his response. He seized her arm and hauled her off the path, behind the screen of a laurel bush.

  “You will ruin my dress,” she said with a pout of her rouged lips.

  Digby noticed she kept her protest soft enough to be no more than a murmur if by chance someone were on the path. Pulling her down to the grass, he slipped a hand under her skirt and encountered slippery wetness. “Wicked Marlene,” he tutted, “is this for me, or did the count, regardless of his great girth and foul odor, succeed in arousing you?”

  “By all means,” she crooned, “'tis for you. The count would have to sport a solid gold cock pierced with diamonds before I would allow him to touch me. And even then, after having had you, I doubt he could arouse me. I shall never find another man who can satisfy me so completely as you.”

  He pondered her statement and questioned her sincerity as he fondled her slick petals and shoved two fingers inside her. She had an appetite near impossible to sate. He had succeeded in supplying her needs to this point, though even he found it tedious at times. He did admit they were suited. Perhaps they belonged together, after all, and his dream of marrying the Bellingham girl was only whimsy. However, as he pumped Marlene’s sheath and she writhed against his hand, Digby could not help but wonder whether Wilhelmina felt as good … or even better, and resolved to keep his options open.

  “Five women, one a mere child. The only person likely to give you trouble is a black slave who manages the stables. The butler is an old man and should pose no obstacle. The slaves reside in separate cabins, with the exception of one young boy who sleeps in a room above the barn. The slave block is quite distant from the house, so they should hear nothing. The slaves socialize among themselves on Sunday evenings and set up a commotion with their fiddles and dancing.”

  “What about house servants?”

  “Miss Bellingham gives them Sunday afternoon and night off. They leave for town in a wagon around two o’clock and return early the next morning.”

  Corporal Daggert pulled a wafer-thin stiletto knife from his shirt pocket and picked the remains of the meal from between his yellow teeth as he mulled over Digby’s proposition. “Aye.” He nodded. “Sounds like it’ll be a piece of cake.”

  Digby’s stomach protested at the display of vulgar manners, but he swallowed his disgust. This man, though brutish and unmannered, was the best for the job. Contrary to what he had told Marlene, the men she saw at the soiree had a more delicate task—disposing of his lover should it become necessary.

  Digby had come across Daggert during Brendan Fo
rd’s capture and incarceration. The corporal had a reputation for cruelty but knew the value of good coin and followed commands like a hunting dog. He killed only when ordered to do so. More importantly, should Digby desire to have someone killed, the corporal would ask no questions nor hesitate to do the deed.

  The men halted their conversation when Gwen MacGovern carried over plates of bread pudding and set them on the table. She cast a curious glance at the two men. Her plain face reflected her bafflement at what circumstances could bring two such opposites, in station as well as demeanor, into close companionship. When Digby waved her away, she shrugged her shoulders and moved out of hearing range.

  Daggert put away the knife and dug into his pudding. Greasy curls of flaxen hair swung forward, concealing his pugilist features. His wide, broken nose sat squat and slightly askew in a beefy, sun-browned face. A knife scar above his right eye bisected the brow and pulled the corner of the eye downward into a permanent squint. His cheeks bore the unsightly, hollow pits of youthful skin eruptions.

  Digby found the man loathsome. But beneath his brutish appearance, the intelligence and cunning of a predator burned in his pale eyes. Daggert was far more than he appeared to be.

  “You understand everything I expect you to do?” Digby asked.

  Daggert glanced up from his food and winked. “I got it all. This Sunday. No harm to the woman, and we bring the brats to you.”

  Digby nodded, crossed his arms, and rested his back against the wall.

  Willa raced to the house. Leaves crackled beneath her flying feet. When she exploded through the door, she careened into Quinn. “Bolt the door, then come into the parlor,” she panted before the butler could right himself and catch his breath. She ran through the doorway ahead of him and brought about astonished looks from the occupants.