Kiss of a Traitor (13 page)

Conscious of the minutes ticking by, Ford crossed to the desk. A search of its top and drawers yielded nothing of value. He turned to a walnut chest sitting in a corner against the leather wall. Its doors were locked. Withdrawing a slim metal wire from his coat pocket, he picked at the lock. Sweat beaded his forehead. Voices and footsteps shuffled in the hall outside and stretched his nerves as tightly as piano wire. True to his luck of late, the hallway leading to the study appeared to be a main thoroughfare. Notwithstanding the constant passing of bodies and his frayed temper, the study door remained closed.

After several taut minutes, he sprung the lock. The chest doors opened. The moon shed little illumination on the dark interior, and he waited for his eyes to adjust. What emerged from the gloom were piles of papers arranged in files and a metal strongbox—locked, he would wager.

Ford swept out the files and dumped them on the desktop where he could inspect them in the light from the windows. As he flipped through the pages, his gut informed him he was wasting time. The information he sought would likely be in the strongbox. Returning the files, he retrieved the box. He had laid it on the desk when the study door suddenly opened. Yellow light flowed in from oil lanterns in the hallway. He had but a second to place the box on the floor by his feet, close the chest doors, and sink into the leather chair.

“Montford?” A head with short, curly brown hair popped in through the door opening. God’s nightshirt, the intruder was Wilhelmina. He nudged the box to hide it well beneath the desk and rose to his feet. His movement drew her eyes.

She came fully into the room and walked toward him. “Montford, what are you about? I thought you were with my father. But when he came in from the stables, he asked me whether I had seen you.”

Think.
Ford drew a forearm across his damp brow and came out from behind the desk. “I apologize for disappearing, but I get megrims occasionally.” He pressed his fingertips against his temples. “Dreadful things, megrims, y’know. When I felt the symptoms coming on, I sought a quiet place to close my eyes for a while.” He cocked his head to one side. “You do not suffer from them, too, do you?” He watched her expression through hooded eyes. How could he remove her from the study so he would be free to go about his business? Even should he find it impossible to trip the lock on the box, he could not leave it on the floor under the desk and send up a flag betraying the fact that a spy penetrated the house. Colonel Bellingham’s daughter would mention seeing her betrothed alone in the study during the musicale. He must induce her to leave and remain silent about what she had seen.

Her eyes crinkled with concern. “Wait here,” she said, “and I shall ask Jwana to soak a cloth for your eyes. My sister, Leticia, experienced the most horrific megrims. A cool, wet cloth and a dark room seemed to aid her recovery.” She moved to the drapes and drew them closed, which darkened the study even more.

He needed more time than her task would grant him. When she turned to leave, he caught her upper arm and pulled her around to face him. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll not require your assistance. In all honesty, I have nearly recovered.” He struck a flint, lit a candle on the table beside him, and looked into her eyes. They were really quite lovely, like treacle buns coated in honey.

She flicked her eyes from his face to the hand on her arm and back again. A wary alertness settled on her features and tensed her muscles beneath his grip. “My lord,” she said in a low voice. “Pray release my arm.”

“I think not,” he murmured, bringing up his free hand to clutch her other arm. “Do you know, Wilhelmina, I’ve been considering our engagement.”

“Have you, indeed?” she replied with caution as she tried to back away.

He nodded slowly. “I believe ‘tis customary for a betrothed couple to … umm, seal the contract, so to speak … with a kiss. And here we stand, all alone …”

Willa’s eyes near popped from her head. She schooled her voice with considerable effort. “What a quaint custom, my lord. If you will excuse me …” She tugged harder, but the blasted man refused to release her.

“As it happens, my dear, I’ll not excuse you. I fear I find myself overcome with passion. I plan to kiss you.” The hands around her arms were as large and strong as the roots of an oak tree and as difficult to escape as a vine of Virginia creeper.

“No,” she gasped. “You mustn’t. I’m certain this absurd notion of yours is a result of the megrim. Should you rest, it will soon pass.”

He shook his head.

“In any case,” she said, “I cannot credit any such sealing is customary or proper. We are merely betrothed, not married.”

A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth, transforming him into a dangerous and somehow alluring man, despite the paint and powder. In fact, she hardly noticed the artifice due to his shocking proposal. A quiver tiptoed across her shoulders and down her spine. His head dipped; his eyes slipped closed.
He is going to do it. He is going to kiss me.
She struggled with renewed vigor and twisted her head to one side. She even aimed a kick at his shins. When her silk slipper connected with his boot, pain shot through her toes up to her ankles.

Montford dragged her arms up to his neck and released them. Before she had the chance to bolt, he circled his arms about her waist and pulled her closer. Now they were plastered together like puppies in a basket, and she had no hope of lowering her arms. Not knowing what else to do with them, she rested her hands on his shoulders.

“Much better,” he breathed, his breath hot on her bare shoulder. Willa all but leapt out of her skin.
How had his mouth got down there?
She murmured a protest. He made no reply, his lips occupied with nibbling the skin of her neck and shoulders. Before she could stop him, his mouth slid up and under her chin, nudging her head back. Surely that was what occurred. She would not have offered her neck to his kisses of her own accord.

After the first shock of heat and moisture against her skin and the unsettling feeling of his large body pressed against her, Willa began to admit what he was doing was quite pleasant. Still, when would he move on to the kissing part? As soon as the thought crossed her mind, his mouth climbed up over her chin to land on her lips. He settled in firmly, his lips warm and softer than a man’s mouth should be. But to her dismay, no fireworks burst in her head. Jwana had described it that way when Willa was thirteen.

“You be knowin’ he be de one when dem fireworks pop in yur head,” Jwana told a wide-eyed Willa. “Ain’t no fireworks, don’ waste yur time. Drop dat one an’ move on ta de next, an’ de next, till you see dem.”

Other than a pleasant warmth from his body and the gentle pressure against her closed mouth, she felt nothing. Then something hot and wet licked across her lips.
Was that his tongue? Ewww!
She squirmed and struggled. He held her firm. His tongue continued its exploration, lining her lips and striving to insinuate itself between them. She finally managed to jerk back her head. “That is quite enough,” she practically yelled into his face.

He blinked open his eyes.

She leveled a fierce glower on him. “What the blazes are you doing? I am obliged to admit I have no liking for it.”

Drawing back, he sent her an arrogant smile.

“That tears it!” Willa arched her back and wedged her hands between them. She heaved at his chest with all her strength. When his grip broke, she shuffled backward, putting distance between them.

“Calm yourself, Wilhelmina. You will learn to like it. Presume to give it a chance,” he had the audacity to say. “Open your mouth to me next time.”

“There will be no next time!” With a swing of her arm, she slapped him hard across the face and rocked him back on his heels. “Never in my life have I been subjected to anything quite so disgusting.” She whirled around, charged out the door, and slammed it hard enough to shiver it on its frame.

Ford blew out a breath and rubbed the side of his face. He should not have taken such liberties with his fiancée; the girl’s lack of experience was glaring, and for such a small specimen, she packed quite a wallop. On the other hand, his goal had been to compel her to leave him alone and provide her with a reason to keep their encounter from her father. Her mortification had quite accomplished the deed.

He tugged at his breeches. They had suddenly become too tight and threatened to cut off his circulation in a vital area. Then he scooped up the candle and sped back to the desk. He opened the strongbox in no time. It contained more papers. Skimming them rapidly, he committed to memory bits and pieces that might prove important. His hand hovered in the air when he came across a letter from General Cornwallis to Colonel Bellingham. It called for a muster of Tories from Nelson’s Ferry to Salem. The Loyalists were to join Colonel Tynes at Camden Depot, which the British officers, Lieutenant Colonel Turnbull and Major Wemyss, held. There the Tories would resupply their troops.

His chest tightened. This one missive was worth all the aggravation. Cornwallis planned to bolster the flagging British Regulars with well-armed Tory troops. Defeat at King’s Mountain had weakened the British position, but should the Tories rearm, the patriots could lose the slim advantage they’d so recently gained.

He glanced up at the sound of more footsteps in the hallway, then gazed back at the letter. The Tories would rendezvous at Camden on October twenty-fourth. Today was the twenty-second. He had two days to find Marion, who was in the countryside raiding, and deliver the information.

Ford relocked the box and placed it back where he had found it. Then he left the study in search of Wilhelmina and her father. Though tempted to simply leave, he recognized the folly of that impulse. First he would make his excuses to Colonel Bellingham, and then he would apologize to Wilhelmina for his impetuous behavior. As much as Ford hated to admit the wisdom of Marion’s words, he would be wise to mend fences with his fiancée. Tonight’s discovery underscored, more than ever, his advantageous position in the Bellingham household.

When Ford came into the dining room, he saw Wilhelmina near the buffet table with her friend, Emma Richardson. His betrothed’s hands and mouth moved as fast as hummingbird wings. He suppressed a smile, having no illusions “the kiss” was the topic of their conversation. What he failed to notice was Jwana sweeping toward him from the side and the heavy tray she carried laden with dirty dishes and glasses half-filled with punch.

When the crash occurred, Ford tripped over his booted feet and staggered forward. His momentum impelled him facedown into the buffet table. His wig landed in the punch bowl. “Bollocks!” he roared a second prior to his face smacking into a bowl of chocolate pudding, his chest crushing a plate of candied yams, and his thighs straddling a platter of fried chicken.

The table, incapable of supporting his added weight, collapsed in a storm of buttermilk biscuits, buttered grits, and almond pound cake studded with cherries. Flying food splattered everyone within ten feet, producing a flurry of screams and the sound of running feet as guests stampeded from the room. Covered head to toe with the buffet’s contents, Ford levered himself up on his hands. He was quite certain he heard a gulping laugh come from Wilhelmina’s direction.

Ford still wore his soiled dragoon uniform when he roared onto Snow Island. The sentry backed away from the captain’s stony look and pudding-smeared face, waved him on, and returned to his watch.

After tethering his horse, Ford said to the first man he came across, “Find Private Collins and send him to my tent. Then catch and saddle my black horse.” He stripped off his uniform, sponged himself clean, and was stepping into his homespun trousers when Collins limped into the tent.

“Sir,” Collins said with a salute. Marion’s aide had received a saber cut to his leg during the action outside the Chester plantation and been placed on camp duty until the wound healed.

Ford buttoned his trousers and returned the salute. “Where can I find the general?” he asked as he donned his shirt and jacket and buckled on his saber.

“He left word fer you, sir. Said if you needed him, you could find him at Port’s Ferry on the Pee Dee.”

As Ford sank onto his cot and pulled on his boots, he glanced at the young aide. “Is Dancer ready?”

“Yes, sir. But I gotta warn you. He’s gettin’ fat and sassy since you been ridin’ that redcoat nag. Tried to bite Corporal Jones yesterday and near scared the piss outta him. If he weren’t nothin’ but a horse, I’d say he’s jealous; feels you been neglectin’ him.”

“Thank you, Private.” Ford picked up his slouch felt hat from the bedroll. “I shall remember that.”

Dancer laid back his ears when Ford slung the saddlebags across his withers. “Behave,” he warned. “I know you are feeling sorry for yourself. It cannot be helped.” Dancer snorted and wagged his head. Ford disliked leaving Dancer on Snow Island, but the horse was too fine an animal to pass as a standard-issue military horse, and Aidan Sinclair had arrived in Charles Town without a personal mount. Dancer was also memorable, with a white star spotting his chest and a thin white blaze running down his nose. Ford rode the black horse while facing in battle some of the same dragoons with whom he now fraternized. So while he played the role of dragoon officer and fiancé to the
devil
girl, he was obliged to ride a British mount. Dancer would have to accept the circumstances, trying as they were to both horse and man.

During the next eight hours, Ford trekked northwest through swamps and fields toward Port’s Ferry. He emerged onto Black River Road at early dawn on the twenty-fourth and galloped toward Marion’s bivouac. Pink sunlight streaked the sky as he rode into camp. While he conveyed his news to Marion, a lathered horse, carrying a member of the patrol Marion had sent out the night before, charged into camp. The man alit from the tired mount, raced up to Marion, and panted out his message.

“We found a mess’a Tories camped at the old muster field next ta Tearcoat Swamp. Me an’ Jem recognized lads we knew from Georgetown, the High Hills, Pocotaligo River, an’ Lynches River. Colonel Bellingham an’ a Colonel Tynes is leadin’ ‘em. They got them new English muskets with plenty’a powder an’ shot. We also saw new blankets, bridles, and saddles. Someone’s fixed ‘em up real nice. They’re sittin’ there like they ain’t gotta care in the world, all spread out an’ playin’ cards. They ain’t even set out enough sentries.”