Kiss of a Traitor (48 page)

Ford picked up a thick slice of brown bread and broke it in half, dipping it into the stew and popping it into his mouth. His manners were lacking, but he would be damned if he would let his meal, the first hot meal he had seen in ages, grow cold while this stranger prattled on. And Marion would be looking for him soon. He took a gulp of bitter ale and watched the little solicitor. Brooke’s hands fidgeted while he talked, and the handlebar mustache twitched with every word.

“Would you care for a meal or some ale?” Ford asked, interrupting the man’s flow of words.

“Thank you, no.” Brooke waggled a hand. “I dined an hour ago. However, I would take a pint of ale, should you have no objection.”

Ford beckoned Gwen over, relayed the order, and turned to Brooke. “Now that you found me at such great cost to your time and comfort, how may I help you?”

Brooke seemed to emerge from the trance his own voice had induced. With an intent look, he threaded his hands together on the table. “Quite so. To the matter at hand. I shall not digress any longer. Do you recall the Honorable Harold Mickles?”

Ford nodded, stunned by a name he’d neither heard nor thought about since leaving England behind. “Mickles was the family solicitor at the time of my father’s death. I remember little about him other than he was an unpleasant man.”

Brooke chuckled. “That he was and, if I may say so, continues to be. Be that as it may, the fact remains that three years ago a peer accused Mister Mickles of fraud in the handling of a will. The case went to prosecution and proved Mickles guilty of the charge. He now occupies a cell at Newgate.”

“And how do Mister Mickles’s troubles concern me? Should he be looking for a character reference, I fear your firm wasted a great deal of time in seeking the wrong man.”

Brooke waved off Ford’s speculation. “Indeed, no, Mister Ford. ‘Tis not the case at all. My firm took over Mister Mickles’s offices and practice when he trotted off to prison. As we catalogued his papers in an effort to clear up loose ends with his clients, we came across your father’s will.”

Ice filled Ford’s veins. He was uncertain whether he wished to hear the remainder of Brooke’s revelations. “I’m well aware of the contents of my father’s will, Mister Brooke, and why you would go to all this trouble and, no doubt, expense in bringing it to my attention at this late date is beyond me.” He was prepared to send the little solicitor from the table, but some instinct precluded him.

Brooke shook his head. “You may believe you have familiarity with your father’s will. But I assure you the reality is quite the opposite. We uncovered two wills, not one, in Mister Mickles’s offices. One was a fraud. You see, we found evidence that your brother, Aidan Sinclair, paid Mickles to forge a will and present it as your father’s last will and testament.”

Ford was less surprised than he expected he should be. It made sense. He’d always had reservations about the will. At the time, as a boy of only nineteen, he was powerless to confront his brother and the powerful solicitor and challenge the will’s validity. After all, the solicitor only stated fact. Brendan was naught more than the bastard. But it gratified him to receive confirmation that his father had no intention of leaving him destitute.

He took another bite of stew. “So, I collect my father left me a small bequest,” he said. “That is welcome news. My farm will need new seed and livestock when this conflict ends. If you will produce the papers for me to sign, I can finish my meal and return to waging war before I’m taken up as a deserter.”

This time Brooke laughed out loud and pounded the flat of his hand on the table. The stew bowl and ale mugs danced across the boards. Pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, he wiped his eyes. “I fear the situation involves much more than a small bequest. You see, along with the authentic will, we found other papers of interest, one in regard to the baron’s marriage to Miss Mearna Stokes.”

Ford’s gaze shot up from his stew. He whipped an arm across the table and grabbed Mr. Brooke by the cravat. “You found what? That cannot be. My mother and father never married. I am illegitimate.”

When Brooke tried to speak, Ford realized he was choking the poor man. He removed his hand and sat back. Brooke straightened his cravat and cleared his throat, then took a large swallow of ale. “I realize this must be a great shock to you. But I am merely carrying out my duty.”

Ford stared blankly at the solicitor.

Brooke squeezed out a weak smile. “It took some time for us to sort it all out. There is no getting around the fact that your parents did marry, in secret. In Baron Montford’s will—the legal one—he explains his reasons behind the secrecy and affirms your legitimacy.”

Ford let out a rush of air from his lungs and sagged back. He raised his eyes to the raftered ceiling. “Incredible,” he said softly. “That old fraud ran a scheme on his own father and married her anyway.” He grinned, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked back at Brooke. “This is all very interesting, and I truly appreciate your coming so far to tell me. Now, I
do
have a war awaiting my presence. So if you would simply show me the papers …”

A look of frustration came over Brooke’s thin face when Ford returned his attention to the bowl of stew. “I fear you still fail to comprehend. Your father left you quite a bit more than a bequest; he left you everything. As your father’s eldest son by a legitimate marriage, you are Lord Montford’s heir, not your brother. Aidan Sinclair, along with the assistance of Solicitor Mickles and a dose of deceit, stole the title from you. And now that I have spilled the beans, so to speak, I shall be pleased to be the first to address you, my lord, as Baron Montford.” The grin on the solicitor’s face was as broad as a child’s on Christmas morning.

Ford spewed a mouthful of stew across the table and the unfortunate Mr. Brooke.

Willa’s labor began the first week of September, two weeks earlier than expected. She was walking in the orchard when the first pain hit. A knife twisted in her guts and sent her to her knees. She first thought the poison had affected her pregnancy and brought on the early labor. Her fears faded when she made it back to the house. “First babies are inconsistent,” Mary clarified in a calm voice. “Some clamor to be born and come early; others hang on to the comfort of the womb for as long as they can. An early labor is perfectly normal.”

Mary called for Emma and Jwana, then ushered Willa up the stairs and into her bedchamber. When Willa moved to lie down, Mary urged her to her feet again. “Don your night rail and walk about the room. Emma and Jwana will help you. Exercise will make the birthing quicker and easier.”

Willa dressed with Jwana’s assistance while Emma and her mother stripped the sheets off the bed and replaced them with a worn, clean, canvas tarp covered by an old sheet. When Willa gave Mary a questioning look, Mary propped her hands on her hips. “Birthing is a messy business. I see no need to ruin this lovely bed and those expensive bedcovers.”

Another pain gripped her womb. Willa groaned and clapped a hand against her belly. A sudden thought made her still. The baby had been unusually quiet all day, as though poised to make its entrance.
Or it had died.
A lance of pain tore through her vitals that made her labor pale in comparison. Only a few days prior, her child squirmed and kicked so hard Willa was sure she would have bruises. She threw a worried look toward Mary. “The baby has not moved for the longest time. Is it still alive?”

Mary smiled, calming her fears. “Normal,” she said briskly. “It has entered the birth canal and cannot move its limbs in the smaller space.” She settled into a rocking chair, and her eyes followed Willa as she made her slow progress around the chamber on Emma’s arm.

“Have you reflected on whether you prefer a girl or a boy?” Mary asked. “You consistently refer to your child as ‘it,’ which leads me to suspect you have given the subject little thought. Most women call their babies ‘he’ or ‘she’ almost from the moment of quickening.”

Willa summoned a tight smile, tempted to inform Mary her ploy to distract her from her pain was not working. “Indeed, the child’s gender barely crossed my mind. I had more concern over the effects the poison might have had. And I suppose I fancied I should know through some mysterious maternal sense whether I carried a boy or a girl. No such revelation has come to me. I should like a boy, of course, to inherit Willowbend. But the notion of a girl is equally as appealing. I cannot make up my mind.”

“And have you considered names?” Mary went on.

Willa sucked in a breath through her teeth as pain sliced through her lower body. She lifted her head and moved forward again. “Not exactly. I daresay the child will reveal its name to me at birth. When I look into his or her face, it will tell me what it wishes to be called.” She grunted a small laugh. “I always held a fondness for the names ‘Guinevere’ and ‘Lancelot’ but felt hesitant about burdening a child with such a fanciful name.”

Guinevere came into the world nine hours later. She had an easy birth, which caused Mary to remark upon it, because Willa had such slim hips. The infant girl was healthy and whole, though a trifle small, with blue eyes and a full head of dark hair. Mary informed an exhausted Willa that blue eyes were normal for babies and should change in a few days. Guinevere had strong lungs and expressed her indignation at her rude entry into the world in a decidedly loud voice.

Jwana cleaned off the infant and was preparing to place her in her mother’s arms when Mary held up a hand to stop her. “Not yet,” she said in a firm tone. “This young lady is not finished yet.” Willa screamed when another blinding wave of pain raced down her belly. Mary, standing between Willa’s spread legs, deftly caught the boy baby who fought his way into the light.

“What is happening?” Willa cried out. “Is something wrong?” A stone sat on her heart at the notion of dying and never holding her baby girl.

Mary held up the squalling boy, his old-man face screwed up in an expression of outrage as he wailed. “Quite the contrary,” Mary said with wonder on her face. “'Tis merely that Lancelot missed his sister’s company and desired to join her.”

“God in his mercy,” Jwana said, her eyes rounding. “You done had two’a dem. Emma an’ I sure got our hands full now.”

“Two,” Willa said. She managed a laugh. “A boy and a girl. No wonder I could not decide upon its gender.”

Jwana placed both babies at Willa’s breasts. Willa looked down at their dark heads with tears in her eyes. They rooted around and latched onto her nipples, though several days would pass before she produced milk. The infants looked similar but not identical. Both had Brendan’s almost-black hair and strong nose and chin. Guinevere’s features had a softer cast, as though wrought from spun velvet instead of granite like her brother. Lancelot was longer than Guinevere and almost two pounds heavier. He would grow into a large man, like his father. Guinevere was delicate with long, expressive fingers, dainty limbs, and a rosebud mouth.

“We shall have to find a wet nurse,” Mary said. “With your small bosoms, you will not satisfy the appetites of two infants, especially Lancelot. Look how greedy he is. In a few days he will be fighting off his sister.”

Willa gave a reluctant nod. She wished to nurse her own children but admitted she would require some assistance. As her mind clouded over and fatigue pulled her down into the comfort of healing sleep, Jwana lifted the children from her arms.

While Willa was birthing Ford’s children, Ford and General Marion fought the battle of their lives but seventy miles away at Eutaw Springs.

England was retreating from South Carolina. The redcoats, led by Colonel Stewart, had begun their trek to Charles Town, where they were to board ships and sail north to Virginia in aid of Lord Cornwallis’s plan to whip the tail of that upstart commander in chief of the American forces, General George Washington. Cornwallis remained entrenched at Yorktown, certain of eventual victory, while awaiting his reinforcements. The redcoats marched eagerly along and talked about how heartily sick they were of South Carolina—bitten by bugs, baked in their wool coats by summer’s heat, and disillusioned by the persistent harrying of ragged partisans and the Continental army.

But Cornwallis was to find his self-assurance premature. General George Washington had no intention of lying down for the British lord. He devised a strategy to encircle Yorktown with a combined American-French army and navy and embarrass the most powerful British officer in America. He had already sent Marquis de LaFayette, Baron Von Steuben, and General Anthony Wayne into Virginia. Count Rochambeau had placed his forces at Newport, awaiting Washington’s pleasure. And Admiral De Grasse was streaming in from the West Indies with his powerful fleet and army.

When Greene received official word of Washington’s plan, he vowed to prevent Stewart and his troops from supplying aid to Cornwallis. The Americans assembled at Burdell’s Tavern, less than seven miles from Eutaw Springs where Stewart had rested his force. The militiamen were thin from poor rations and garbed in threads of shredded uniforms that barely hid their nakedness. They could scarcely lift their feet from long, fatiguing marches that left little time for sleep. Yet a gritty fervor showed in their faces. The Americans had all but pushed the British out of South Carolina with the exception of Stewart and his troops and the port of Charles Town. Eagerness to fight rolled through the ragged columns like balls of lightning.