Kiss of a Traitor (11 page)

Montford expelled a deep breath and wiped the chicken grease from his fingers with a snowy napkin. As he peered into her face, he presented her with an aggrieved expression. “Must we, Madam? I fear I shall hobble rather than stroll with this handicap.” He indicated his swollen knee with a motion of his hand.

She gave the knee a critical look, thinking it truly was a frightful sight. For pity’s sake. If only he would concede to part ways in an agreeable fashion. If only he would consent to break the betrothal. But she had no expectations he would. Her mask firmly in place, she returned to his side and beckoned him with a pleading look. “Come now.” She stretched out her hands. “Exercise is the most efficacious cure. You know full well should you remain idle, your knee will become stiff. Then you will be unable to walk at all.” He took her hands and allowed her to help him to his feet. “In any event,” she added, turning a deaf ear to the moan issuing from his throat, “I believe I saw orchids in the woods. I would dearly love to pick some to take back with us, and I know you would insist on protecting me from wild animals.”

Obedient as a lapdog, Ford limped after Wilhelmina. Her skirt whispered as it dragged through the thistle weeds and meadow grass.
Orchids.
He would rather cut off his leg than stagger around in excruciating pain and pick orchids.

He’d had enough. As she skipped ahead and vanished into the woods, he twisted his mouth into a scowl. A knife gouged into his knee. His stomach roiled. Sweat sprang forth from his pores. This ill-conceived excursion had reached its end. He stomped toward the trees, resolve momentarily overriding his pain and propelling him forward. He would retrieve the wench and fetch her home. Then he would expire in a bed, with a bottle in his hand and a cold, wet rag on his knee.

He penetrated the forest edge at the spot where his fiancée disappeared, halted, and called out her name, but saw only trees. His hands came up to rest on his hips as he contemplated paddling her backside when he found her. He hurt, by damn. She was naught more than a selfish chit, an unnatural female in her disregard for his pain. And he had developed this budding suspicion she deliberately delayed their departure and his hope of succor for his injury.

At the crack of an overhead branch, he looked up to see a papery-gray hornets’ nest descending toward his head. His brain went blank as the blood drained from it. “Christ’s teeth,” he shouted and jumped to one side. His knee collapsed, and he sprawled onto his stomach. The nest crashed to the ground behind him. Buzzing roared through the air. He lurched to his feet and hurled himself toward the pond. Half a dozen hornets caught up with him before he smashed into the water and ducked beneath its haven.

Ford held his breath until his lungs threatened to burst, then cautiously broke the water’s surface. A few hornets still circled the area in confusion, but the main horde had returned to the ruined nest. He spied Wilhelmina in the woods to the right, peering out at him from behind a tree bole.

“Montford,” his betrothed cried as she rushed out from behind the tree and sprinted toward the pond, taking care to plot a detour around the hornets’ nest. Her expression painted a picture of concern and feminine fear. “My word, have you hurt yourself?” she crooned when she reached the bank.

He grabbed his floating wig, slapped it on his head, and made his way to the edge in a slow, painful sidestroke. Once he dragged his body from the pond, he flopped onto his back and closed his eyes.

“Oh, this is such an appalling tragedy,” she blathered, “coming so soon after your other injury. Why, did you notice how that nest simply seemed to—”

“I have no earthly wish to pursue this topic of conversation,” he snarled. The beast of his temper began to awaken.

As he felt the girl standing over him, heard her still tsking and murmuring meaningless platitudes, a well of suspicion swirled deep in his gut. Had he not known better, he would vow she played some role in his accident … his latest accident. Perhaps that was the sticking point—a second incident tripping on the heels of the first. Had it been mere coincidence? He maneuvered into a sitting position and scrutinized her face. She appeared appropriately distressed. He dismissed his misdoubt. “I trust you are prepared to leave now?” he queried through a jaw so rigid it could crack walnuts.

“Most assuredly,” she said on a breath. Stretching out an arm, she helped him struggle to his feet. He leaned heavily on her shoulder while they trekked back around the pond. Ford kept his gaze steady on the uneven ground. God forbid he should fall again and suffer more damage. Perchance next time he would break his neck. At this point, the thought appealed to him.

“Oh, my,” he heard his fiancée say. Her words brought up his head and effected a plummeting of his stomach. He followed the direction of her gaze.

A cannonball sat on his chest. “Hellfire,” he murmured.

The horses were gone.

Wilhelmina covered her mouth with her hand. “I suppose they wandered off,” she said as she turned to him and offered an apologetic smile.

He could have sworn he adequately secured the horses. The caged beast rumbled from his gut and clamored to be set free. “I can see that. Shall we hunt them down?”

She shook her head, remorse written across her face. “I fear that will do no good. Trixie will have trotted back to the stables, and I imagine your horse followed her. We shall have to walk. It should take but a short while. Fortunately, the house is less than three miles from here. But should you feel unable to walk that far, I can go ahead alone and send Plato back with the carriage.”

She waited for his answer with an innocent expression and a questioning rise of her brows.

His groan descended into a growl.

“'Tis past time you arrived. I was beginning to believe you forgot our appointment.” The roughness of his tone exposed his annoyance. Its huskiness sent a streak of fire straight to her loins.

From her position at the bottom of the gazebo steps, Marlene turned toward the voice, seeking its source. Starlight created a silver nimbus that iced the domed roof of the graceful structure. Nighthawks whistled shrilly as they spun in the night sky.

She ascended the steps and discovered him reposed on the padded bench along the back of the half-latticed wood wall, arms resting along the railing, long legs stretched out in front of him.

“I always keep my appointments. I said I would come, and here I am. ‘Tis a great nuisance to slip out unseen with a houseful of servants.” She lowered her voice, saying the words she knew would bring a rise from him. “I daresay you have no experience with that problem, have you?”

He lifted slowly to his feet and sauntered toward her. “No, darling, I do not, as you well know. Being born to the lower class, I never had to deal with servants.” When he stopped in front of her, he wound his fingers in her hair and pulled her up to him with a painful tug. His nostrils flared at her magnolia scent. “And how very decent of you to remind me, once again, of my station and my unworthiness.”

Marlene gasped when his mouth came down on hers in a hard, brutal kiss. She pushed on his chest. Shackling her wrists in his hands, he twisted her arms behind her back, arching her against his hard body. After what seemed like an eternity, he released her, and she came up for air.

“Fool,” she said. “We have no time for this. We must talk.”

“Later,” he growled as he pushed her against a post supporting the roof. “We always have time for this. I want you here. Now. Like this. Like a common man would take an aristocratic tramp.” Her back pressed to the post, he pulled up her skirt to her waist. She was bare beneath. He slipped his fingers up her thigh, into her bush, and parted her sex. His mouth lifted in a knowing smile when he encountered her moisture.

She leaned her head against the post and widened her stance. When he released her arms, they hung limp at her sides. Her breathing grew labored under the assault on her flesh, and a moan escaped her lips.

His hands ceased their movement, drawing a groan of protest from her. Clutching the low neckline of her gown, he tugged it down to expose her pale breasts. Then his head bent. His lips latched onto a nipple. His suckling forced her to emit a cry of hunger. She squirmed to free her arms from the bunched material. He assisted, sliding it down over her arms and wrists until it dangled from her waist. Now unrestricted by her silk prison, she smoothed her hands up his chest and wrapped her arms around his neck to press her swelling flesh deeper into the hot suck of his mouth.

He raised his head for a moment, his withdrawal accompanied by a wet, popping sound transcending the rasp of her breath. “Still want to talk?” he asked.

She knew he could see the need on her face, and she hated being so transparent. It gave him power over her, power she relinquished only reluctantly. She tightened her grip on his nape and pulled his head down once again. “Damn you, no. Finish what you began.”

He chuckled and opened his trouser placket, releasing his swollen phallus. “Such coarse words to fall from such a prim mouth.”

“Do shut up and fuck me.”

“As you wish, my lady.” His hands fitted beneath her thighs, and he lifted her, spread her wide. Shoving her back against the post, he thrust into her slit to the hilt and grunted when he met her welcoming heat and cream.

Marlene screamed at the force of his entry. He caught the sound in his open mouth and thrust hard, deep, and fast. The post shivered as her back connected with it, again and again, in a painful pounding. Her breath burst from her in gasps. He pressed deeper, harder, and she reached for that looming pinnacle of perfection. Her hands fisted in his hair; her legs cinched his waist; her head burrowed into his chest. His heart galloped beneath her ear, matching the pace of her own. When he came in a searing stream and a final thrust against her flesh, she exploded around him, her clutching walls milking him until his head dropped against her shoulder. When he released her legs, he seized the post behind her to remain upright.

Stepping back, he lifted her off him. Her legs wobbled, and she clung to his chest while she regained her breath and balance. After smoothing down her skirt, she walked away to stand by the whitewashed railing overlooking the garden. As she gazed out over the silvered camellia shrubs, yew hedges, and fall-blooming asters, she felt his presence behind her. The heat of his body embraced her. His hands came to rest on her waist, and his lips grazed her bare shoulder. She shrugged him away and spun around, leaning back against the railing.

“That was quite nice; however, we must talk,” she stated as calmly as if she’d not had his cock inside her but a moment ago.

“Nice?” He gave her a cynical smile.

She set her mouth in a determined line.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug and sighed. “Very well, talk.”

Marlene turned away again and skimmed her fingertips along the railing’s rough edges. “Have you chosen when and how?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“In two days we leave for Camden. Cornwallis’s concerns have increased since the British defeat at King’s Mountain. His lordship has placed a priority on regrouping and equipping the Loyalist militias. He fears Marion could cause havoc with the retreat. Colonel Bellingham summoned the Loyalists from Georgetown and the surrounding area. We are to rendezvous at Camden Depot, where the men will draw new arms and supplies. With Marion’s uncanny penchant for ferreting out our movements, I cannot imagine we should make Camden and return without clashing with the rebels.”

She sent him a feral smile. “And during a skirmish, men fall, immune to neither British nor rebel shot. He will die a hero, leaving me free … and rich.” She brushed past him to make her way to the steps.

“We
shall be rich,” he corrected, catching her wrist and pulling her back. He tossed her facedown over the railing and flipped up her skirt.

“Yessss,” she purred as she hollowed her back and braced her legs.

On Marion’s orders, Ford was duty bound to attend the Willowbend musicale. The swelling in his knee had subsided to a persistent ache, though he continued to walk with a limp. The welts from the hornet stings were but a painful memory. Despite his recovery, he attempted to cry off from the social engagement, having no inclination to come within a mile of his fiancée. Marion, however, remained adamant that Ford make an appearance.

“I fail to comprehend your reluctance,” Marion said as he paced along the bank of the Sampit River. “This invitation is a godsend. You will have complete access to Bellingham’s residence.”

“And I’m looking for what, in particular?” Ford asked, aware of the uselessness of his resistance when compared with Marion’s resolve. “The Tories have been quiet for some time now. The redcoats have also held their peace since Tarleton rode west. I’ve unearthed no rumors for a major action. With our victory at King’s Mountain, the British occupy themselves in licking their wounds.”

“That is precisely my concern. They’ve been a bit too quiet,” Marion said. “I received a letter from General Gates requesting our assistance in harassing the British retreat. I have no doubt Cornwallis is cognizant of this appeal. Should we begin to expect our enemy to sit back and allow us to raid their supply trains unopposed, they will draw us into a trap like a bear to bees’ honey.”

When Ford flinched, Marion offered him a commiserating smile. “My pardon, Major. I quite forgot your unfortunate mishap with the lovely Miss Bellingham.”

“Less lovely than deadly,” he muttered.

“My militia grows indolent with the lull in action,” Marion continued as though he’d not heard Ford’s comment. “Many men retired to their plantations. I shall have to call a muster, which may take some time. The prospect this social event at Willowbend presents is too opportune to overlook. The upper command, both British and Tory, will be in attendance. With Bellingham engaged in playing host, you’ll be able to vanish in the crush and search for intelligence on how the British plan to recoup from their humiliating defeat. Bellingham’s private papers should yield something of value.”