Kiss of a Traitor (36 page)

“No,” Willa said in a near-whisper. “What you say cannot be true.” Snatches of Aidan’s terrible tirade tumbled through her brain.
You are naught to me other than an assignment. Do you understand what I’m telling you? You are nothing and have never been more.
An awful, cold feeling gathered in her abdomen and crept up to encase her heart.
Now
she understood. She struggled to her feet and turned to leave. Digby came off the sideboard, and Marlene rose from the sofa to move to the door and brace her back against it. Willa glanced from one to the other.

“Not yet.” Digby made a gesture that was more an order than a request. “Pray be seated again.”

“I expect we are finished.” Her words sounded wooden to her ears though they were carefully modulated. She wanted, with all her heart, naught more than to wail her pain to the heavens. But she could not. She refused to expose more flesh for the two vultures to tear apart.

“We have not finished.” Digby’s voice sounded chilling enough to ensnare her attention and compel her obedience. When she took her seat again, he signaled to Marlene, who sauntered back to her perch.

Willa stared at Digby. He stood in front of her with his legs braced apart, arms folded on his chest. “Have you not said enough?” she asked. “What other revelations could you possibly have for me?”

He slanted his lips in a smile that made her long to cover her ears to avoid hearing what he would say. “Cornwallis’s men have captured your lover.”

Howling inside, she said calmly, “He is not my lover.”

He eyed her coolly. “Regardless, Brendan Ford is in custody at the Georgetown garrison at this very moment. He will die, of course. Death is the only end for a traitor. ‘Tis up to you, my dear, to choose
how
he will die, by a traitor’s death—being hung, drawn, and quartered—or by hanging. One is less painful … and humane.”

“Why should I care?” she managed to ask. “Should what you say be true, he is a traitor and not my betrothed.” Her heart screamed:
He is the man I love.
“And,
were
I to care, how could I, a mere woman and the former betrothed of the traitor, have the wherewithal to influence the manner of his death?”

“Ah,” he said with an unholy grin. “That is the question, is it not?” He leaned against a walnut side table and crossed his booted feet at the ankles.

She bit down firmly on her lower lip to keep the tremble under control.

“I shall answer for you so no misunderstanding lies between us,” Digby said. “Lord Cornwallis is desirous of picking a tick from his hide, a tick causing him a fair amount of distress. You are the only one who can find that tick and fetch him to us.”

She pressed her mouth into a frown. “Whatever do you mean?”

“We want Francis Marion. Were you to bring him to us, your lover”—his grin turned into a mocking smile—“I mean, of course, your former betrothed, will die a dignified death.”

“I have no knowledge—”

“And your father will avoid facing charges of treason for consorting with Mister Ford and passing on information to him concerning British movements.”

Willa lunged from the chair with a snarl, her arms extended, her hands curved into claws. Digby laughed and sidestepped her attack, catching her wrists. She yanked her hands free and paced away from him across the Aubusson rug, too tense to sit again. She turned her head and threw him a glare. “You know Papa is loyal to the King and had naught to do with this man’s treachery.”

He opened up his hands. “Even so, it remains to be proven. Do consider the circumstantial evidence. Colonel Bellingham invited Mister Ford into his house, welcomed him with open arms, and treated him like a son. Who can say with certainty the colonel did not pass on secret missives to the rebels through this friendship?”

“I shall kill you, Digby,” she hissed as she came to a halt. “And you, as well,” she added, slewing her gaze to Marlene.

He shook his head slowly. “Indeed, you will not. You will bring me Francis Marion, or your lover and your father will face the King’s justice, and your family name will be forever besmirched. I have no doubt Cornwallis’s wrath could reach even so far as your sisters in England. In addition, you should consider your friends, the Richardsons. Cornwallis could easily convince himself of that traitorous family’s involvement in Ford’s perfidy.”

Denial burned inside her, but Willa read the truth of his declaration in his eyes.

Willa descended from the carriage in front of the Georgetown town house and requested that Plato wait for her. “'Tis cold,” she said. “Avail yourself of the carriage.”

“I be fine jes’ where I is, Miss Willa,” he replied as he tipped his hat and slouched against the seat. He tugged the hat brim forward to cover his face, tucked his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes.

Digby’s threat writhed inside Willa like a nest of garter snakes. She must send a message to Francis Marion through some means and draw him into a trap. She had a fair idea of his camp’s location, but Digby had granted her insufficient time to undertake the journey herself. And what would happen should she be wrong and fail to find the partisan general? An icy sensation that had no relation to the cold winter day chilled her to the marrow.

She climbed the stone steps and knocked. When the Richardsons’ butler opened the door, Willa handed him her card. “Is Miss Emma receiving?”

The man smiled at her familiar face. He ushered her inside and out of the cold. “'Tis exceedingly pleasant to see you, Miss Wilhelmina,” he said as he took her coat, hat, and muff. “If I may inquire, how is Colonel Bellingham?”

“He is weakening,” she replied with little expression.

The smile on his mouth quickly disappeared. “I am truly sorry to hear that.” After escorting her into a small parlor, he left to deliver her card to Emma. While Willa warmed herself at the hearth, she could not help but notice the room’s genteel shabbiness.

After the burning of Gray Oaks, the Richardsons sheltered for a short while at the DeVries’s Plantation, then moved back into town. They now lived under reduced circumstances. The town house reflected how far the family had fallen. Though clean, the upholstery on the few chairs and sofas frayed at the seams. The window drapes had faded from bright blue to muddy gray. The threadbare carpet on the scuffed floorboards was worn through in numerous spots. No silver or porcelain sat atop the mantle, and only one painting hung on the wall above the fireplace. It depicted General Richard Richardson before the war, his loving family seated beside him in the setting of a beautiful room. The Richardsons had managed to save only this one treasure from the fire.

Willa seated herself on the edge of a sofa, and her hands shook with the import of her visit. With the Richardsons’ connections to the rebels, were anyone capable of conveying a message to Francis Marion, it would be this family. With a heavy heart, she realized her request would condemn the Swamp Fox to death and ensure defeat for the Americans in South Carolina—an outcome she once desired but, having met the rebel leader, no longer had the heart for.

She had sought any alternative that would prevent her from trading on her friendship with Emma in such a vile way. The family would detest her forever when they discovered what she had done. But her father’s life, as well as the safety of her sisters and her family’s reputation, hinged on her success. And Aidan.
Or is he truly Brendan?
No matter. How he died depended on her. She relegated the disturbing image to the back of her mind.

Emma burst into the parlor with a wide smile and outstretched arms. As they embraced, Willa tried to swallow the bitterness wanting to choke her. Emma pulled back and held Willa out at arm’s length. A frown tugged at her lips. “I heard the distressing news regarding your father. He is expected to recover, is he not?”

Tears welled up in Willa’s eyes and brimmed over. Emma drew her into her arms again and patted her back. “I know you find it impossible to accept,” Emma said, “but God willing, you will eventually find the strength to recover and remember only the happy times between you and your father.”

They broke apart and sat beside each other on a sofa. Emma waved to the butler and requested tea. “Furthermore, I heard the rumors in reference to Lord Montford,” she said as she brought her attention back to Willa.

“Indeed,” Willa replied somewhat bitterly. She wiped away her tears with a handkerchief she withdrew from her sleeve.

“Naturally,” Emma said, “I am accustomed to the title ‘traitor.’ The Crown branded both my father and brother as such. I daresay ‘tis decidedly more difficult for you. You have always remained staunch in your loyalty to the King and Britain.”

Willa met her friend’s gaze straight on. “I must confess I have questioned that blind loyalty since we last spoke, coming to believe this war is more costly for the colonists than for the British. I’m no longer as convinced of the Crown’s right to rule these brave people against their will. For my own part, I find I cannot reconcile Aidan’s association with Francis Marion with the definition I formerly had of treason.”

“You love him,” Emma stated.

Willa shook her head sharply. “Not at all, and that is hardly the point, is it? I merely feel more sympathy for the colonists’ cause now that I have seen their side of the war.”

They chatted further, on inconsequential matters, the latest fashions from Paris and gossip concerning people they knew. On the back of Willa’s tongue lay the question she was required to ask. It waited there, as sinister as an alligator skulking in the thick marsh grass. She glanced toward the mantle clock. The morning was fleeing. Should she remain much longer, Emma would invite her to stay for luncheon. Willa’s guilt weighed too heavily for her to face the rest of the family and maintain her composure.

Emma poured tea and was passing the dish to her when Willa pressed on with the reason for her visit. “Emma, I desire to send a message to Francis Marion. Do you know someone who can assist me? Naturally, I would be willing to pay.” When Emma gave her an inquisitive rise of an arched brow and her lips came together in a puzzled frown, Willa ran on as though her own life depended on her powers of persuasion. “'Tis a personal message. I ran across Aidan after I left Gray Oaks in December. He captured me and took me to the Swamp Fox … blindfolded. General Marion was extremely gracious. I wished to thank him for his hospitality and inform him that I would pray for him and his men during this dreadful conflict.” The first part of her explanation was true, she told herself to assuage her conscience. But her stomach twisted with her deception.

Emma set her dish of tea aside and clasped her hands in her lap. “I cannot promise I shall be able to help you. Richard returned to the South Carolina Militia, but we hear little from him.” A flicker of hesitation touched her features. “Is this terribly important to you?”

“More than I can express. Is it possible?”

Emma glanced away, and her lips pursed. “I cannot supply you with an answer today,” she said at last. “Pen your letter. Should I be able to arrange its delivery, I shall send a boy around to Willowbend in a few days. You are my dearest friend, Willa. If this matter is important to you, I shall do my best.”

The tea congealed in the pit of Willa’s stomach at the depth of her betrayal. She felt like the lowest creature on earth. Yet she managed to stifle her self-loathing and summon a bright smile. “Thank you, Emma. I knew I could count on you to aid me.”

Willa left an hour later, her skin as cold as if she had taken a plunge in ice water. With this one act of deceit, she had forever ended the years-long friendship between Emma and herself. This visit was the last time her friend would welcome Wilhelmina Bellingham into her home. The final time they would laugh and hug like sisters. Tears rained down her cheeks by the time she reached the carriage. On the way home, she sobbed out her heart at the loss of her best friend.

Sergeant Stokley popped his head through the tent’s front slit and waved a square of paper. “Hi, Captain Ford,” he said with a grin. “Thought you might want to take care of this letter since the general’s still gone and won’t be back for another week or so. It’s from your fiancée, so I figured you were the best one to handle it. It might be important.” He placed the letter in Ford’s outstretched hand.