Kiss of a Traitor (39 page)

They flogged him every day until his back became a mass of torn and bleeding flesh. Digby attended every beating, pouring his questions into Ford’s ears and promising that Willa would next feel the slice of the whip. But Ford knew better than to take the threats to heart. Digby would not be so rash as to arrest Colonel Bellingham’s daughter, not while the earl still lived. The major chose his words to intimidate and break Ford’s will. They merely steeled his resistance. Moreover, the major’s venomous threats served one useful purpose. They assured Ford of what he most desired to know. Digby was never Willa’s lover. She did not collude with him. She did not lie.

At night as he lay on his stomach on the pallet with his life slowly seeping from his back in fire and streams of blood, Ford brought to mind the times Willa had come to him in love and passion. He long ago forgave any trespasses on his heart and beseeched God for one boon … the chance to see her, to touch her, to kiss her once more before he died.

Emma’s home was closed to Willa. The butler turned her away, saying with regret that Emma was not receiving. She expected the rebuff. Still, it disheartened her. As she took the carriage back to Willowbend, she combed her mind for another way to send word to Marion. Digby would transport Brendan to Charles Town by the time she found the general on her own. She dared not approach her acquaintances in Georgetown or any other planters for fear they would expose her plan. Terror of reprisal kept mouths closed, and it became difficult to distinguish between those loyal to the Crown and those sympathetic to the rebels. In fact many local residents switched sides on a near daily basis. The Richardsons were her only reliable rebel ties.

Or were they?

Willa returned to the night of Brendan’s capture and recalled his mentioning Jwana’s name, though in what context escaped her. Was it possible Jwana secretly aided the rebels? Promise burst as glorious as sunrise. Were Jwana capable of relaying a message to Francis Marion … no, of guiding her to the Swamp Fox to plead her case in person, Marion would rescue Brendan. Optimism settled around her like a warm cloak, and she tapped an impatient foot against the floorboards as the carriage rumbled toward home.

Willa jumped from the carriage before Plato pulled the horses to a full stop, drawing a surprised exclamation from him. She flew up the steps and through the front door as the carriage clattered around to the stables.

“Jwana,” she called out, rushing through the house and skidding to a halt when she nearly collided with Marlene.

Marlene stepped aside to avoid being run over and plastered a simpering smile on her face. She laid a staying hand on Willa’s arm. “Running is common behavior, Wilhelmina.” Her eyes, which narrowed at first, slowly relaxed, and her voice became smooth, her words slick, slithering across Willa’s shoulders like a water moccasin.

“You look flushed,” Marlene said, “though I am pleased to see you downstairs after such a harrowing adventure. I know this situation with your betrothed distresses you. Be assured you performed admirably.” Marlene tried to direct Willa into the drawing room. “Do let us take tea and talk. I fear I have more unsettling news.”

“What have you done, now?” Willa demanded. She pulled away from the woman’s cold touch.

Marlene’s amiability fled in an instant. “'Tis not as though I have any obligation to inform you, but since you had a fondness for her, I felt it my Christian duty to do so.”

“Inform me of what?” Willa almost shouted.

Marlene crossed her arms, and her face took on its customary, arrogant expression. “Jwana was slothful in her duties. Her familiar behavior was improper, unbefitting a servant, particularly a slave. I could tolerate her airs no longer. I sold her.”

Willa’s preoccupation with Brendan’s imprisonment scattered on the heels of Marlene’s words. “Sold her? She is not yours to sell. She belongs to Papa, not to you. You cannot do this!”

Marlene backed away a step and raised a hand to her throat. “Now you must not rant so. It cannot be good for your constitution. And besides, ‘tis already done. You know full well your father is incapable of making important decisions. Nevertheless, were he to know what I did, I am persuaded he would approve. Why, you treated that black woman like a friend rather than a slave. For your own good, ‘tis better you part ways.”

With a glare at Marlene that would melt a lead ball, Willa spun away and sprinted to the front door. She threw it open and ran for the stables.

“Plato!” She came upon him as he was removing the carriage horses’ harnesses and propelled herself into his arms.

“Willa, child,” he said. He took hold of her shoulders and moved her back. “What be gettin’ you inta such a fuss?”

When she raised her head, tears, once again, wet her cheeks. “Marlene sold Jwana.”

His coffee face hardened into stone. “Dat woman must’a sent Jwana off dis mornin’ while we was gone. Where?”

She shook her head so violently the ends of her hair slapped her in the face. “I do not know, and I daresay Marlene would not enlighten me were I to ask.”

He nodded curtly. “Jes’ you calm down now,” he said. “I be findin’ Jwana, an’ we be gettin’ her back.” He gifted her with a smile. “I promise I be findin’ her.”

“Please, Plato. I shall gladly reimburse whoever purchased her. I have my own money left to me by my grandmother.”

Grimness etched his face as he saddled Bellingham’s chestnut and rode out.

By the time Willa reached her bedchamber, weariness weighed down her spirit. All seemed lost. First her father, then Brendan, and now Jwana. Digby and Marlene had removed nearly everyone who meant anything to her. Plato would likely be next, and she made a mental note to warn him. He could hide in the swamp until she settled accounts with the major and her evil stepmother.

The thought of Plato’s running and hiding made Willa wonder whether he also had a connection with the rebels. Plato and Jwana were close, more than merely friends, she suspected. Were he an informant for Francis Marion, they both could take refuge with the Swamp Fox. And she could travel with them, accomplishing two missions at once.

Her tears dried as she turned her mind to a more pleasant subject—her revenge on the two people who had destroyed her life, and the lives of Brendan, Jwana, and Plato. The gun or the knife? She could not decide.

Plato returned at sunset. Willa watched from her bedchamber window and hurried to the stables as soon as she saw him ride in. “Did you find her?” she asked in a breathless voice.

He flashed a triumphant grin. “Sure did. She be at de Broom Plantation. I spoke wid Miss Carrie. I knows she be yur frien'. She done promised ta bring Jwana inta de house an’ watch over her ‘til it be safe fer you ta buy her back.”

James Broom was a fair man who treated his slaves well. Willa had feared Marlene sold Jwana to a trader who would send her farther south. Convinced now of Jwana’s safety in the Brooms’ hands, she addressed her other concern. “Plato, have you knowledge of where I might locate General Francis Marion?”

His features turned wary. “Maybe,” he mumbled.

She released a laugh, elated at her correct assumption regarding Plato’s political loyalties. “Worry not, my friend. I shall not reveal your secrets. However, you must take me to General Marion at once.”

His eyes stretched wide. “An’ why you be wantin’ ta see de Swamp Fox?”

She related Marlene’s and Digby’s manipulations and Brendan’s subsequent capture, explaining why she had to meet personally with Marion. “You believe me, do you not?” she asked.

“Course I do.” He gave her a resolute nod. “Ain’t never be takin’ de word’a dat snake, Major Digby, over yourn. He been sayin’ some terrible things ‘bout you. It be all I kin do ta stop maself from killin’ him an’ sendin’ ma black ass ta de hangman. We be leavin tomorrow mornin’ ‘fore dawn. Pack light fer a fast trip.”

A bubble of real hope and not mere wishful thinking swelled inside her for the first time since Brendan’s capture. “I shall and, regardless of the outcome, I shall never forget your friendship and assistance.”

“Always been yur friend, Willa,” he returned with a self-conscious smile, “an’ always be. Jes’ be careful. Don’ you take no chances an’ stick yur pretty neck in some place it can’ squirm loose.” He waved off her protest when she moved to speak. “Already knows what you be fixin’ ta say. I knows you kin take care’a yurself. Taught you maself, didn’ I?”

Like mist driven before a gale, two horses, one chestnut and one brown-and-white paint, flowed over the countryside in the darkest hours before dawn. The horses seemed to sense their riders’ desperation and threw their hearts and flashing hooves into the flight. Sentries burst out of Sockee Swamp to challenge them on the morning of the second day. But the tale of Captain Ford’s lady had spread through the encampment since Willa’s last visit, and Plato was no stranger to Marion’s men. The militiamen led them without hesitation through the tricky, concealed entrance to Snow Island.

For the first time, Willa obtained an unimpeded view of the camp. Its location was genius—nearly impossible to find and easy to defend. As they rode toward the general’s shelter, men along the way set aside their tasks to smile and wave as though she were an honored guest rather than the woman who had imprisoned Brendan Ford.

General Marion waited at the entrance to his lean-to as if he expected them. When Willa dismounted, he strode out and bowed over her hand, pressing it lightly. “Miss Bellingham,” he said with welcome in his voice. “I anticipated your arrival two days ago. But now that you are here, let us waste no time.”

Willa followed the general into his shelter. She trusted Marion’s men would refrain from shooting her before she could speak to Marion, but she did not foresee a warm reception. She was the enemy, the one who drew Brendan into a trap set for the Swamp Fox himself. She was guilty as charged.

She and Plato seated themselves before Marion’s desk, and the general minced no words. “You seek my aid to rescue Captain Ford.”

“How did you know?” she asked with a gasp.

“I know a good many things, Miss Bellingham. I’m aware of Major Digby’s penchant for stretching the truth. And I have seen how greatly you care for Captain Ford. My informants and my instincts assure me that you participated in the captain’s capture under duress. But I have no desire to spend our time discussing old history. We must find a way to relieve the British command of the burden of Captain Ford before they remove him to Charles Town.”

Willa sent a smile to Plato and turned her head when another man, virtually as tall as Brendan but twice as wide, entered the lean-to. He eased down on a brass-bound wooden trunk along the wall. His belly, covered by a stained woolen shirt, protruded over his belt. Thin brown hair crept down to his shoulders from the bald spot at the top of his head. When he smiled, he revealed teeth yellowed by tobacco and blackened at the gums from poor care.

Marion gestured to indicate the newcomer. “Allow me introduce you to Corporal Seamus MacGovern. The corporal held employment as a guard at the Georgetown garrison until recently. Unfortunately, another guard took umbrage at the corporal’s democratic leanings, and Seamus was obliged to flee for his life. Corporal MacGovern has intimate knowledge of the fort’s layout and is likely to know where we can find Captain Ford.”

Willa’s nostrils flared with the foul odor clinging to the corporal, but she gave him a polite smile, then turned back to Marion. “Have you anyone currently inside the fort?”

“Indeed we had, until a few days ago,” he replied with an ironic twist to his mouth. “That would be Captain Ford.”

Willa’s cheeks burned. “I see,” she said softly.

Marion switched his attention to the corporal. “Kindly instruct us in what we should know, Seamus.”

MacGovern cleared his throat and spit a wad of tobacco into the corner of the tent. A red flush crept over the man’s face when Marion coughed softly behind his hand. The corporal faced Willa and hung his head. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. He had a low, melodious voice, fully the opposite of what she had expected from his appearance. MacGovern described the fort and guards as he slouched against the wall. “I reckon they put Ford in the empty room above the officers’ quarters. They use it from time to time to house special prisoners. It ain’t much, but it’s better than the cells on a prison hulk. The location is tricky, on the second floor of a building in the center of the fort. One window, chained shut, and I’d lay odds they’ve got Ford in chains, too. Missus MacGovern, she’s my sister-in-law, not my wife,” he explained in an aside to Willa, “told me they got that fort buttoned up tighter than a preacher’s britches, begging your pardon, ma’am.”