Kiss of a Traitor (37 page)

Ford looked down at the laid-paper missive. Emotions fired as rapidly as cannons. No letter for him; one for General Marion. Could he blame her? He examined Willa’s neat handwriting on the outside of the folded paper. “The Honorable General Francis Marion.” Below that: “Marion’s Brigade.” And at the very bottom: “Personal,” underlined twice. In the top right corner were written: “Miss Wilhelmina Bellingham,” and “Willowbend.”

As he tapped the letter against his thigh, he leaned back in the chair and stared out the tent opening at the men going about their duties. He had seen naught of Willa since that night, the night he all but raped her. After the meeting with Jwana, he considered immediately returning to Willowbend but wavered, his excuse being a hesitation to confront Willa while the incident was still fresh. He convinced himself her anger required a day or two to abate. Being at each other’s throats would have served no good purpose. He would beg her forgiveness when she calmed enough to listen to his groveling without slitting his gullet. So he returned to Snow Island. Marion questioned his absence and discovered where he had gone. Who would believe the general would choose to make an example of him for violating orders?

“I have no choice but to accept the transient nature of the militiamen,” Marion had said while stalking about his tent. “However, you are an officer of the Continental army and thus, held to a higher criterion. I expect you to set the standard for those who aspire to your position.”

Marion ordered Ford confined to the island until further notice. The first week he spent in shackles while occupying Willa’s former cell in the stables. Now while Marion raided, Ford was compelled to sit on his behind at Snow Island and twiddle his thumbs.

Duty told him to leave the letter for Marion, seeing as Willa meant it for the general. His gut told him fate intended this message for another. The address may have said: General Marion, but it had Ford’s name written all over it.

Before he could change his mind, he slit the wax seal and unfolded the letter.

“General Francis Marion,

“I wish to express my gratitude for your honorable actions during my recent incarceration within your camp. I was well treated and shown all respect by your officers and men. I also wished to tell you that I have no notion of where your camp is located and, even if I should, I would never reveal the secret to anyone. This is a difficult war for everyone involved, and I should not want to be the cause of unnecessary harm to your person or your men.”

His mouth tilted up at her attempt to reassure Marion of her ignorance and innocence. Then a frown seamed his brow.

“Some information has lately come to my attention that may prove helpful to your cause. My position is dangerous with the recent charge of treason against my betrothed, and I know not whom to trust. Therefore, I can confide in no other person than yourself, a man with whom I am familiar. Pray believe that the situation is a matter of life and death.

“Should it please you to meet me at the old slave quarters of the Daily Plantation some three miles from Willowbend on the night of the first of February at ten of the clock, I shall personally convey the information directly into your capable hands.

“I remain, your friend,

“Wilhelmina Bellingham.”

Ford shoved back his chair and brought himself to his feet. Retrieving a flask of panther’s breath from his kit, he took a large swallow and forced it down. His gaze came back to the letter. What information could Willa have? And what did she mean by being in danger and “life and death”? Marion would not return until after the first of February. Ford knew he would have to meet her himself.

In her note to General Marion, Willa arranged the rendezvous two hours prior to the time stipulated by Digby. Had the Swamp Fox not already made plans to rescue Brendan Ford, she would beseech him to assist her. Strange to think of her lover by the unfamiliar name. Still, it suited his ruggedness better than “Aidan Sinclair.”
And Lord Montford?
His lordship was the fop in jester’s clothing.

Her plan contained no provision to protect her family from Cornwallis. She assessed the threat to her father and sisters in a clearer light after the shock of Digby’s words wore off. Cornwallis would not presume to torture and kill a noble, an earl, a military officer with an impeccable record who lingered so close to death. Even moving the colonel at this point could bring on another seizure, a fatal one. He would never live to face the hangman and axe. And if she erred in her appraisal, she would take the matter to King George himself, if necessary. As to her sisters and their children, they were far away, and she was compelled to accept the risk. Only the Richardsons remained in danger. No doubt Marion would place them under his protection.

Tory militia had burned the Daily Plantation early in the war and left a blackened hulk with four crumbling brick chimneys and a line of whitewashed slave cabins a half mile from the main house. Two days earlier, Willa inspected the site and stacked firewood inside the only cabin secure from the elements. Before making her way to the plantation on the night of the assignation, she canvassed the nearby woodlot to ascertain whether Digby had stationed troops nearby. A weight lifted from her chest when she discovered no sign of his men. Satisfied she was alone, she directed Cherokee toward the slave quarters and tied him out of sight in the adjacent cabin. One glaring flaw remained. Should Digby suspect she was negligent in following his orders and arrive earlier than expected, Marion could still find himself trapped.

Three days ago when Emma’s messenger arrived at Willowbend, Digby demanded to see the letter Willa was posting. Willa had anticipated his interference, and the missive she passed into his hand contained the correct meeting time. She hid the real letter in the pocket of her day dress. When she retired to her bedchamber with the headache as soon as the messenger departed, Digby expressed no suspicion at her indisposition. But then, he had every expectation for her to be overset by her unwilling role in Marion’s capture. Once upstairs she climbed down from her balcony, rushed to the stables, and leapt onto Cherokee. She sped through the woodlot out of view of the house and soon came upon the messenger, catching him less than a mile from Willowbend. After exchanging the letters, she returned. By the time Jwana looked in on her, Willa lay in bed with a wet cloth across her forehead.

Willa entered the dusty cabin. Field mice foraged in the corners for long-dropped corn kernels, but the structure served her purpose. It contained a cot covered with a cornhusk mattress, two wooden chairs, a nicked table, and a tarnished lantern. She built a fire in the hearth and lit the tallow candle she brought along, placing it in the lantern, which she set on the table. Flames soon filled the room with cozy warmth. Too cozy for her frame of mind. Bittersweet memories intruded of the weeks spent with Brendan in a similar setting in North Carolina.

With the walls closing in on her, she plucked a dusty blanket off the cot and walked outside to settle down on the steps leading up to the porch. She draped the blanket over her body, wound her arms around her drawn-up legs, and rested her chin on her knees. Frigid air nipped at her nose and ears and turned her breath frosty. In the woods a quarter mile away, two great horned owls set up a mournful duet,
hooo, hoo-hoo, hooo, hooo.
The second owl repeated the refrain as the pair called back and forth. The yip of a red fox echoed from the fields to her right. Her tension melted away as she listened to the night life. The clean, crisp tang of winter swept the cobwebs from her mind and calmed her restless nerves. Soon she no longer interpreted every rustle as the jangle of cavalry bridles or every scrape of branches as a saber sliding from a scabbard.

Some might have considered her intentions this night as treasonous. Still, she pursued the most moral path, for her, for Marion and the Americans … and for Brendan. She glanced to her left when alerted by a foreign sound and saw a rider astride an ebony horse, standing motionless no more than ten yards away. She held her breath and came to her feet—Marion. Her nerves wound tight, but then her thoughts skittered to a halt when the weight of his eyes settled on her. The blanket pulled over her shoulders drifted to the ground.

As he dismounted and came forward, leading his horse, Willa’s heart careened into the wall of her chest. When he stepped into the faint illumination of firelight from the cabin windows, her vision blurred, and the sensation of falling into a great, bottomless chasm washed over her. For the first time in her life, she swooned.

When Willa opened her eyes, she was drawn deeply into a pewter gaze set in a rugged face with a heavy black shadow of beard. His eyes regarded her with anxiety. A square jaw framed a sensual mouth with down-turned lips. She drew in a startled breath. She lay on the cot inside the cabin and Aidan … no, Brendan, sat beside her. He wiped a wet cloth, his neckerchief, she noted, over her cheeks and across her brow.

Pushing him away, she levered herself into a sitting position. His sudden appearance was unanticipated, to say the least. Her mind still held its store of hurtful feelings. Nevertheless, it conflicted with her joyous heart, which sang:
He is free. The redcoats did not capture him.
Questions overwhelmed her instead of the resentment she knew she should feel. She managed to push one through the constriction of her throat. “Where is Francis Marion?”

A smile tilted his mouth. “The general was unavailable. I fear you acquired me instead.”

“But … but—”

Brendan laid a finger across her mouth. “Shhhh, Willa. Before you blast me with your righteous anger, I pray, allow me to speak.” He hesitated as though to determine whether she would pay heed to his words.

She burned to interrogate him but bit her tongue.

“I was wrong,” he said. “Bloody hell, I was so dreadfully wrong. I conceived the cork-brained notion you had informed on me. In my feebleminded state, I suspected Digby was your lover and you had disclosed to him my association with General Marion. Jwana set me to rights, at the point of a loaded pistol.” Anguish bled from his eyes and pulled at her heart. “I truly wish she had done so before I hurt you.”

“Digby? Jwana? But—”

He lifted a hand to lightly brush the side of her jaw. “Hush, now. Permit me to have done with this before I forget what I wished to say. To all accounts, I never before uttered these words. It would be a great tragedy were I to lose them before they saw the light of day.” He hesitated to glance around the semidark cabin. “Or night, whatever the case may be.”

She allowed herself the smallest of smiles.

He laced his fingers with hers and raised their hands to his mouth where he dropped kisses on her knuckles. His gaze moved slowly over her face and came to settle, with intensity, on her eyes. “I give you my oath you have seen the last of the man who accosted you,” he said softly. “I love you, wildcat; never again will I touch you in anger.”

Willa knew she must tell him about Digby and the soldiers before too much time passed. But at his declaration, all her thoughts, protests, and questions took to the ether like ashes whipped away by a brisk wind. “You love me?” she asked, her voice a squeak.

His smile was slow and tender. “Indeed, I love you. I expect I always loved you a bit, ever since I discovered that a certain muddy boy who knocked me from my horse with a low-hanging branch as his only weapon was, in fact, a girl with a panther’s courage. You accomplished what no man with two pistols, a rifle, and a saber could achieve. You defeated me. You laid siege to my heart, though I remained unaware of that fact for some time. Perhaps it was the night of your ball as I watched a messy, little wren swim as naked as God made her in a moonlit pond. Or the day you dropped a hornets’ nest on my head and forced me to walk miles back to Willowbend. I’m unsure of when the concept grabbed me, but grab me it did, digging into my heart and holding on like a bulldog. And try as I may, I am powerless to shake it loose.”

Willa discovered too late that her mouth was sagging open. Brendan took advantage as he caught her chin and drew her closer. He sipped from her lips and swirled his tongue inside her mouth. His silky beard tickled her skin and sent sparks through her veins. Her next sensate thought was of her lying nude on the bed while he feathered openmouthed kisses across her skin, paused to tease her nipples into hard points, and laved her straining breasts with the flat of his tongue.

She again felt the need to warn him the cabin was unsafe, but suddenly he was between her legs. He nuzzled at her curls, flicked his tongue, slid it around her nether lips, and pierced her core. She threaded her fingers through his heavy dark hair and bowed her back. He suckled and dipped, sipped and plunged, his arms extended over his head, his hands torturing her breasts.

“Brendan, please,” she beseeched as she panted. He raised his head for a moment at the name. Then he dove in again and drove her to a shattering climax. He granted her what she desired as he slid up. Her thighs spread wide, heated perspiration a glimmering sheen on her skin, and the hot heaviness of his blunt appendage at her entrance, probing, parting the distended petals, gliding and spreading her own dew over her button of engorged flesh. She took him into her with an ecstatic cry. Ripples in her walls pulled him inside, deeper and deeper, until she felt as if she could take no more. Then he drew out, tortuously slow and sank back in, pressing against the center of her sensitivity and causing her legs to quake. He pressed her upward with a hand wedged beneath the globes of her buttocks and encouraged her to lift her legs. She cinched her thighs about his hips and dug her heels into his behind.

Then they rode, wild and hard, fast as the flashing of Cherokee’s galloping hoofs. Willa’s heart was bursting. Her lungs labored with the effort. Fire caught again in her loins, and she rose to the flames, pulled him closer, deeper. A cry welled up in her throat when the fire became an unbearable inferno. It consumed her, scorched her skin, and melted her insides around his hardness. She arched her throat and screamed. He caught the cry and gave back his own vocalization as he bucked against her hips and flooded her womb.