Kiss of a Traitor (22 page)

“An English gentleman, indeed,” she muttered. “He sleeps beside a fire; he ties
me
to a tree.” Her voice grew louder and caustic. “But never you mind, Lord Montford, I am quite comfortable.”

He stirred again, turned onto his side, and raised up on one elbow. “You are awake, I see,” he said with a wide yawn. Rising from the ground in a smooth motion resembling the grace of a panther, he came to his feet and raised his arms over his head to stretch and flex his shoulders. Muscles bunched and rippled across his chest under his shirt.

Conscious of precisely how large and strong he was, and how much at his mercy
she
was, Willa swallowed to relieve the dryness in her throat.

After coming to her side, he removed the rope attaching her to the tree and lifted her onto her feet. She moaned when blood rushed down her arms with the sudden change of position. “Please,” she said as she fought to hold back tears. “Untie me. I cannot feel my hands.”

With no argument, he spun her around and released the ropes around her wrists. Willa cried out as her arms fell forward, limp as boiled collard greens, and blood surged back into her hands. Montford pulled her over to a log. Sitting down, he drew her into his lap and massaged her wrists and arms.

Spikes of pain stabbed her wooden limbs, and she groaned. Red bracelets circled her wrists, and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

“Devil take it,” he mumbled. “I should have untied you last night. I had no notion you would be so foolish as to sleep on your arms.”

“I beg your pardon,” she gritted out. “Had I any reason to believe your plan was to cripple me, I’d not have been so cooperative.” As the pain eased, she sagged against his chest. His heart pounded rapidly against her shoulder, and the hard rise of his manhood under her buttocks made it clear her close presence affected him.

He pushed her away in a sudden motion, and off his lap. Willa slid to the ground, landing on her bottom with a thump. “If we leave now,” he said, standing, “we should reach our destination by midday.”

She looked up into his face. “I have need of the … the …” Heat spread from her neck into her hairline.

“Fine,” he bit out and pulled her upright. With a hand in the small of her back, he propelled her toward the woods.

Willa took a few steps. When he followed her, she stopped and turned to confront him. “I require privacy.” She despised the pleading tone of her voice.

Montford shook his head. “Not likely.”

The flushing of her skin near baked her alive. “I-I cannot. Not with you present. I must be private.”

With his fists propped at his waist, he gave her a flinty look. “Can I accept your word not to run?”

Willa looked away. “You can. In any event, I would not leave without my horse. You may hold him hostage until I return.”

“I shall do that. I’ve always admired him.”

She shot him a sharp glance.

He smiled and pushed her toward the trees. “Five minutes. No more. Then I come after you.”

Montford had saddled the horses by the time she returned. He handed her a canteen. She took it and swallowed a mouthful of water. When her empty stomach growled, he fished around in her saddlebags and extracted a piece of beef jerky. After handing it her, he picked up the rope.

“No!” She backed away, taking only two steps before he snagged her and tugged her forward again.

“I must, Willa.” His eyes held sympathy, but his mouth was set. “If you vow to behave, I shall tie your hands in front of you instead of behind.”

The hard resolve in his face told her arguing was useless. She held out her hands, and he tied them more loosely than the day before. When he pulled the blindfold from his pocket, she nearly protested again. But he would disregard her objection, and she declined to allow him the satisfaction of humbling her further. She would not plead.
Let him do his worst.
Willa stood stiffly while Montford affixed the blindfold. Then fitting his hands to her waist, he lifted her onto Cherokee.

She heard him collect her reins and mount his black horse. In another moment they were moving, the horses’ hooves shuffling in the pine-needle cover.

After what seemed like hours, they rode out from under the trees, and Willa smelled water. Montford alighted and walked to her side. His warm hand suddenly rested on her thigh. When her muscles jumped in an involuntary response, his fingers flexed.

Then he pulled her down to stand beside Cherokee.

“Are we there?” she asked.

“Not quite.” His deep voice came from the void surrounding her. “Now we swim.”

“Swim?” She frowned. “Blindfolded?”

“You will manage.” He raised her hands until they touched one of the metal rings holding the saddle’s stirrup straps. “Hang on, and keep your head above water.”

“Indeed,” she said in a mocking tone. “We would not wish for me to drown, now would we?”

“Hold your tongue, wildcat,” he replied with a stinging smack to her bottom that made her jump, “or I
will
drown you.”

She bit back her retort as he led Cherokee forward. With her blindfolded and tied, Montford held the advantage, but he would not maintain that position forever. The ground sloped sharply, and Willa slipped. She recovered her balance, and soon, cold water swirled around her ankles and crept up her legs. The bottom fell away a few feet farther in. She floated, hanging onto the saddle as Cherokee pushed off from the bottom and swam in strong strokes. Before she knew it, the paint lurched upward, his legs on solid ground once more, and pulled her up out of the water and onto flat ground.

Hands helped her back into the saddle, and the horses moved forward. Rigid stems and sharp leaves scraped against her legs as Cherokee forged through what felt like a cane brake. They surged upward again, out of the cane, and made their way across a level area.

Voices rang out—a challenge, then lowered to a murmur. The horses stopped, and then moved on. More voices … horses stamping, tails swishing … campfire smoke … men’s deep laughter … voices raised in good-natured argument … an axe splitting wood … sour ale and a privy—all the normal sounds and smells of a military encampment.

They passed by the active area and entered a woodland with trees spaced far apart. As Cherokee trod ahead in a straight line, shadows and dappled sunshine stroked her shoulders. Bare branches knocked against each other with a hollow sound in the breeze. A faint odor of desiccated fruit. An orchard? They left the trees and climbed upward. Willa sensed they were nearing the end of their journey. The horses halted when the ground leveled out again.

“Cap’n Ford,” an unfamiliar male voice said.

Who was Captain Ford?
Willa tried to gain a sense of her surroundings and felt only open space. A breeze tickled her cheek and ruffled her hair. Winter sun streamed down on her head. Voices whispered in front of her.

In her state of concentration, she failed to hear him approach and started when Montford’s hands, once again, tugged her from the saddle. He marched her ahead of him across a grassy surface. She stumbled when her toe hit a rock, and he caught her. Then she entered a structure. She felt its height and weight towering over her. The sun’s warmth disappeared, and the nothingness before her eyes dimmed even more. Hay and dry oats and a lingering smell of horses and cows. A barn. She breathed in the familiar odors.

They walked through the barn and stopped. Hinges creaked when Montford swung open a door. He guided her across the threshold and came inside with her, shutting the door behind him.

“Sit,” he said as he pressed a hand on her shoulder. Willa eased down and found a hard surface beneath her. Metal clanked behind her, sounding like chains.

His fingers loosened her bonds and released her hands. Before she could lift an arm to remove the blindfold, he grasped her right wrist and pulled it away from her body. Cold leather clamped down on her skin. A sharp clink resounded as the shackle closed. The door creaked opened and banged shut, and a bolt slid home with a thud.

Willa ripped off the blindfold and came to her feet.

Dust motes danced in the dim light. Thick, truncated beams for holding saddles projected from one wall. Hooks for bridles ran in a row above them. Two large wooden barrels stood in one corner. She lifted their lids. A few oat grains sat in the seams along the bottoms. The bench she had sat on had a hinged lid. She tugged it open to discover a brush and an old length of linen. A small brown bottle lay on its side in the back. She plucked it up and held it under the light sifting through the poorly fitted clapboards. Horse liniment. Not much of a weapon, but were she to break the glass …

Of course, Willa, you will fight your way out of an armed enemy camp with a jagged bit of glass.
She sighed and dropped the bottle.

Willa tested the manacle. A metal cuff lined with leather circled her wrist. A chain ran from the cuff to a bolt embedded in a supporting timber. The chain granted her free movement about the room, but its length fell short of the door. When she pulled on the bolt, it refused to budge.

She made her way to the wall and peered out through the cracks to view a weedy field with scattered dogwoods and hawthorns. Then she shuffled back to the bench and slumped down, planting her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands.

After leaving the barn, Ford stopped to speak with the guard. “No one is to converse with her, give her anything, or open her door for any reason.”

The man snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Ford collected the two horses and went down the hill. He made his way through the orchard and entered the camp at the far end. Men waved or saluted when he walked by, and a few called out comments and inquiries regarding his prisoner. He ignored their sallies.

When he reached Marion’s lean-to, he tied off the horses and strolled inside without announcing himself. The general was hunched over a table piled with papers and maps and looked up when Ford entered. “Captain Ford. I hear you caught a spy.”

Ford dropped into a camp chair in front of the desk. “Word travels quickly.”

“The men have nothing better to do than gossip. I shall have to provide them with entertainment soon.” Marion leaned back from the table and removed his reading spectacles. “What of your prisoner?”

Ford blew out a breath. “Wilhelmina Bellingham, Colonel Bellingham’s daughter and my fiancée.”

A chuckle spilled from Marion’s mouth. “Did you think to marry on Snow Island and carry out your honeymoon here? I must inform you that, despite my lofty rank, I have no authority to conduct the ceremony.”

Ford was unamused. He adjusted his position on the chair. “I found her in Sockee Swamp, quite literally on our doorstep.”

Marion raised a brow.

“I had heard reports in Georgetown about her activities. Until now I discounted them. Word is she has an obsession with locating you and turning you over to her father. Those who passed on the tidings seemed to treat the notion as a joke, and I gave it little credence.”

Marion smiled. “Something changed your mind.”

Ford nodded. “Before I began this charade, I ran afoul of Miss Bellingham in Socastee Swamp while she spied on my meeting with Parsons and Davis.”

“Why did you not mention this before?” Marion leaned forward. “Had I known of your encounter, I would not have asked you to impersonate her betrothed.”

“It doesn’t signify.” Ford shook his head. “I did not recognize her as the same person until I caught her in Sockee Swamp two days ago. At our first meeting, I had no notion she was even a female. She wore lads’ clothes, had cut her hair short, and was covered in swamp mud. She spun a tale of being a farmer’s boy out hunting game. I believed her and let her go. She seemed harmless enough.”

“And then she failed to recognize you when you showed up at Willowbend as Aidan Sinclair?”

“Indeed, or I would now be in chains aboard a prison hulk. At the time we first encountered each other, I had a full beard, if you will recall. I was also wearing … a full suit of swamp mud.”

Marion looked him a question.

Ford waved a hand. “'Tis a long and exceedingly tedious story. Someday when we have nothing better to do, I shall relate it.”

“I see.” Marion folded his arms on top of the desk. “And now she has full knowledge of your true identity and is capable of leading the British to Snow Island.”

“Not at all.” Ford moved forward to the edge of his chair. “In fact, she has no idea who I am. She only believes she does. At this moment, she is confounded and cross. I expect I can take advantage of her disorientation to spin as good a tale as she and turn her head fully around.”

A speculative look came over Marion’s face. “And her danger to the brigade?”

Ford emphasized his words with movements of his open hands. “She poses no danger to us. I found her three miles inside the Sockee and blindfolded her the entire way here. And I gave her a two-day tour of the countryside before we headed back. However, she is also no ordinary, featherbrained female and certainly no fool. I have no doubt she suspects I’m holding her prisoner in your camp. Still, she has no reason to believe the camp is close to where I captured her. I shackled her in the tack room and ordered that no one talk to or interact with her.”