Rapture's Betrayal (4 page)

She glanced at the man and found him staring at her, awake. Kirsten tried to pull free of his grip, but he refused to release her. She stifled a rising panic.

“
Mynheer,
how do you feel?” She smiled, very aware of the heat of his touch.

He relaxed his hold of her hand. “Sore,” he admitted in answer to her question.

She studied him with compassion. “Are you thirsty?”

He nodded, and Kirsten wet a clean cloth and placed it on his lips, which were cracked and dry. Their eyes met and locked, and she felt a new tension in the air as she moistened his mouth and squeezed the cloth to allow water to trickle onto his tongue, down his throat.

Kirsten swallowed and looked away. “Can you sit?” she asked, filling a cup. She felt shaky.

“I think so.” He struggled to rise, and she helped him. With her assistance, he sipped from the cup.

“That scarred man—who is he?”

He scowled. “I have no idea.” His gaze became hooded. He lightly ran his fingers over her wrist, the simple act sending frissons of pleasure up her arm and down her spine. She couldn't help staring at him. He seemed unaware of the way he was touching her, of the effect his touch had on her.

Kirsten flushed and looked away.

“It was you in the woods.” The soldier's deep-timbred voice played havoc with her senses. She nodded. “Thank you for saving my life.”

She withdrew her hand from his grasp. “It was no trouble.”

His mouth formed a wry smile, one corner of his sensual lips curving upward. “You make a habit of rescuing strange men?” He chuckled at her look. His eyes were a warm shade of brown; she found their russet color striking. His gaze grew tender as he caressed her cheek. She enjoyed feeling his fingers against her skin, and she realized by his look that he enjoyed touching her.

“I'm glad to be alive.” He shifted and winced with pain. “I never thought it mattered,” he murmured, then stopped upon seeing her expression of horror, as if realizing he'd said too much. The soldier fixed her with his gaze and offered her a wan smile. “What were you doing in the woods at that hour?” Suddenly, he caught his breath and cried out, his face turning a ghastly shade of gray. “Sorry . . . I'm not up to conversation, I'm afraid.”

Immediately concerned, Kirsten rose to her knees. “Don't talk,” she urged. “Rest. You've had a bad time.”

It was dark in the cellar with only a single candle, its wick sputtering in the melted tallow. The man lifted his hand, grimacing with pain, and dropped it back to his side.

Sympathetic, Kirsten took his fingers in her grasp. “You're burning with fever again!”

Dipping the cloth in the kettle behind her, she turned to find him struggling to see her, his eyes unable to focus. “Relax,” she soothed. “I'm here, and I'll take care of you.”

He lay limply while she bathed his face and neck.

“You're Dutch,” he mumbled, his words slurring together. He closed his eyes.

“Yes. I'm a Van Atta.” She said it with pride, for she was descended from the Hoppe family who had settled and built Hoppertown.

“A Van Atta,” he repeated softly. He sounded amused.

“And you are?” she asked.

“Richard.” He hesitated, as if debating whether to reveal his identity. “Richard Maddox. But you mustn't tell anyone.” His forced laughter prompted a fit of coughing, and she had to hold him until the seizure passed. He lay back, his energy sapped, his breathing labored.

“That man—do you think he'll come back?”

“Not if he . . . thinks . . . me dead,” he gasped.

Kirsten shuddered at the memory of the disfigured man. Richard Maddox was obviously a Continental soldier in an area presently occupied by British troops. He had every right to be wary of danger-wary of everyone, including herself.

Until the British grew tired of Hoppertown, no one in the village was safe. But she would shield and protect this soldier until he healed. With luck, the Britons would have left by the time Richard-was ready to move on.

“Richard . . .” He didn't answer, and she thought him asleep. She caressed his bearded cheek, and he smiled, his eyes remaining closed.

“Kirsten?” he murmured drowsily, and she quickly withdrew.

“Yes?” She barely breathed, disturbed by the pleasure she felt at touching him, embarrassed by her own boldness.

His head moved, and he kissed her hand. She blushed, shocked by the sensations that flowed through her as his lips seared her skin, filling her with a strange warmth. “Thank you . . . for helping me.” He sighed. His eyes opened then, and he smiled. “Angel,” he whispered, his lashes fluttering closed again.

“Mynheer?”
she said. When he didn't respond, she realized that he'd fallen asleep.

She felt an odd prickling sensation in her chest as she covered the sleeping man with a blanket. Something about Richard stirred within her feelings she'd never before experienced.

She stared down at him as she rose to her feet. Relaxed, he looked almost boyish. She studied his features . . . the long lashes that feathered against his cheeks . . . his lips, which were perfectly formed and very male . . . the tawny mane of hair that fell to his shoulders. She recalled the lean form beneath the blanket . . . his muscled arms . . . his flat belly . . . the firm feel of the flesh surrounding the wound on his thigh.

Heat rose to her cheeks. Startled by her thoughts, Kirsten tore her gaze from the wounded soldier and gathered up her things to leave.

Concern for the soldier plagued Kirsten as she did her morning chores. Richard had been sleeping peacefully when she'd left him, but he had still had a low fever. She decided that she should check on him again before nightfall. Would she be able to escape from the house without raising her parents' suspicions?

The soldier's presence on the farm put their lives at risk. Anyone caught harboring a rebel soldier would be held accountable by the British, probably killed. Kirsten, therefore, thought it best to keep Richard a secret from her family. He was her responsibility, not theirs. If the British found him, she alone would suffer the consequences.

Kirsten had an opportunity to leave the house shortly after her father returned for the midday meal. In fact, it was her father who gave her the perfect excuse to go.

“The strawberries in the far field are ripe,” James Van Atta said over the dinner table. “Kirsten, perhaps you'd like to pick some later, hmmmm?” He gifted his daughter with a bright smile.

Kirsten grinned back at him. “I'd love to.” She turned to her mother, for she still had some clothes to wash. “
Moeder,
you don't mind?” She hurriedly added, before Agnes could form an objection, “I'll do the
wassen
when I get back.”

Agnes smiled at her husband and daughter. “Why not? I've been longing for strawberries.” She placed a plate of
bollen
on the table. “But please, Kirsten, you must be careful.”

“I will,
Moeder.
I'm aware of the dangers of war.”

The older woman's expression lightened. “Be sure to take a big enough basket.”

Kirsten nodded as she reached for a
bolle.
Biting into the warm bun, she had trouble concealing her delight at finding so easy an escape from the house. The strawberries grew near the mill; she'd be able to check on Richard.

When the Van Attas had finished their meal, Kirsten helped clear the table. Then, with her basket in hand and a smile on her lips, she left the house to pick strawberries.

The air was fragrant with the scent of wild flowers; the sky overhead was a glorious shade of blue. As she filled her basket with the bright red berries, Kirsten forgot the perilous times and the threat of the British in Hoppertown.

The sight of the mill ruins jerked her back to reality. This was a time of war, and a Continental soldier needed her. She hurried toward the cellar opening.

 

 

Richard awakened, his mouth parched with thirst. Daylight filtered through the cracks in the flooring above, relieving the gloom in the dark cellar. Vaguely, he wondered what time it was. There was no sign of Kirsten. Where was she?

He realized that he was hungry. Kirsten's satchel lay several feet away, where she'd left it. He smelled something in the air. Was it food? Had she brought him anything to eat? He tried to rise, but fell back, gasping for breath as pain ripped through his injured thigh. Dizzy, he lay still, sweat beading his brow, until his world stopped spinning.

“This is a fine mess you've gotten into, Maddox,” he scolded. He hated feeling helpless! It was imperative that he regain his strength; he had a job to do. He couldn't stay here indefinitely.

Someone had tried to kill him, which shouldn't be surprising in time of war. Richard frowned. The man he was supposed to meet—Biv—having found out his real identity, had tried to murder him, which meant that the traitor responsible for Alex's death was someone within General Washington's own camp.

He'd been so close to discovering the treacherous link . . . Damn! He had to get to Washington. The general must be warned. Richard growled in frustration. He couldn't move four feet; how could he think of traveling the miles to camp?

While he was recuperating, he could trust no one, not even Kirsten. For all he knew she was a Tory, only pretending to be sympathetic to a Continental soldier. Her assistance might be a ruse to acquire information from him.

Richard recalled her soft urgent voice, her expression of concern. He shook his head. Kirsten, he decided, would probably never cause him any harm.

Just as he wondered how safe he was in his hideout, he heard a distinct movement outside. He froze, watching helplessly as the wood over the opening moved. When he caught a glimpse of silver blond hair escaping from a small linen cap, he relaxed. He observed Kirsten pull the boards back into place and then bend to pick up her basket.

When she turned, her blue gingham skirts rustling, Richard heard her gasp. He found himself staring. It was his first clearly focused view of his blond savior. Her hand fluttered about her throat as she gathered her composure before she approached him, smiling.

“You're awake,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

Mesmerized by her lovely face and bright blue eyes, Richard continued to study her. She had full lips, a delectable shade of pink . . . a small straight nose . . . and the most disturbing but enticing look of innocence about her. She blushed under his regard. Intrigued, Richard grinned at her.

“I'm feeling thirsty,” he said. “And hungry.” His voice sounded husky.

Kirsten laughed. “That's wonderful! You must indeed be feeling better to think of food. After I check that leg, you can have what I've brought you to eat.” She glanced teasingly under the linen square covering her basket, but when her gaze met his, twinkling blue eyes dimmed under his intent look.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Is it your leg? It pains you?” Setting down her basket, she knelt beside him.

“My legs hurts like hell, but I'll live.” Richard winced when she pulled at the bandages. He shifted against the wall and was assailed by a strange, strong odor. “What's that foul smell?”

“Other than you,
mynheer?
” She glanced up from the exposed gash.

“I suppose it could be me, couldn't it?” His lips curved ruefully.

“It could, but it's not. The smell you mean is from those rags over there.” She gestured to a small pile a few feet away. “Your poultice.”

Richard blinked. “You put that godawful thing on my leg? No wonder it burns like hell.”

Kirsten stiffened. “It burns like hell, because you were stabbed in the leg with a bayonet. I assure you the poultice did more good than harm. It only smells because it's rancid—old.”

As she spoke, she probed the wound gently. She was satisfied with its healing. Kirsten rebound the wound with a clean strip of linen fabric and rose to her feet. Collecting the offensive rags from the floor, she grimaced at the odor and then kicked loose the cellar board blocking the exit. She disposed of the rags where no one would stumble upon them and then returned to the cellar and her patient, who gave her a weak smile.

“Don't look so smug. The air in here is still not as sweet as it should be.”

The man's face turned red, and she instantly felt contrite. She smiled an apology. He had been seriously injured and had no control of his condition. She'd help him bathe in the stream outside as soon as he was stronger. “Have you ever had
olijkoecks, myn
—”

“My name is Richard,” he insisted.

Her face felt heated under his warm look. “Richard.”

“No, what are olij . . . ?” He frowned, but his eyes sparkled.

“
Olijkoecks.
They are delicious batter cakes . . . and I've brought some freshly picked berries.” She reached for her satchel and removed one of the cakes, which had become hard and unappetizing. “I'm afraid it is stale and won't taste very good now. I brought it last night, but you were too ill to eat.”

“It will be fine,” he assured her, reaching for the cake.

Kirsten watched the soldier take a tentative bite of the
olijkoeck
before devouring it.
He must be starving,
she thought. After lifting the cloth off the basket, she offered him the ripe, red strawberries.

Richard's eyes glowed with delight as he sampled the fruit. Warmth filled Kirsten as she sat back on her haunches. Watching him eat was pure pleasure for her. He popped a berry between his sensual lips, and a dribble of red juice ran down his chin. Kirsten had a sudden, strange urge to taste some of the sweet juice herself . . . to lick just below that masculine mouth. She shuddered, aghast at her own thoughts. Her breasts tingled, and she felt her belly turn over. Embarrassed, she looked away.

The light in the cellar room was relatively strong, and she could see the man clearly. His eyebrows were thick and darker than his tawny mane. There was whisker stubble on his square jaw in all shades of blond and gold. She met his eyes, which appeared to turn color, from russet to a warm golden brown. She was fascinated to realize that his eye color changed with his mood.

There was a small scar across his brow.
Where and how did he get it?

Despite his present state of health, Richard appeared all male, with a power that disturbed her. Kirsten recalled the strength of his grip when she'd first found him. He might look slim, but his muscles were firm. When faced head-on, he'd be a worthy opponent to any man. But Richard Maddox had been hurt, he was ill, and evidently he hadn't eaten decently in a long while.

He was a stranger, but Kirsten felt as if she'd known him all her life. Richard stirred feelings within her that she couldn't explain. She was drawn to him, protective of him. While she'd doctored him, a bond had formed, a strong, intangible link that made her wonder if it was one-sided.

“Is there anything to drink?” His deep voice shook her from her trance.

“I'll fetch you water from the stream.” She was startled to hear that her voice was hoarse.

Richard nodded, watching her closely as she went outside with the iron kettle.
Such a mystery this female,
he thought. She'd proven to possess courage. What had made her return to help him?

She came back with his water, hunkering next to him on the dirt floor, heedless of her petticoats and linsey-woolsey gown. He studied her face as she handed him a cup. Her lashes were long and dark, fluttering against her silken cheeks like the fragile wings of a moth. Their fingers brushed as she released the cup. Their gazes held fast. Kirsten offered him a trembly smile. Something kicked hard in the pit of his stomach.

He stared at her over the rim of his cup and watched her flush from the scooped collar of her dress upward.

“I have to go,” she said.

“When will you be back?” He would be sorry to see her go.

“As soon as it's safe.”

Richard frowned. “Tonight?” She nodded. “Why did you come today?” He could tell from her expression that she knew what he was asking. Why had she risked her safety as well as the discovery of his hideout?

“I . . . I was worried,” she admitted, and Richard felt a jolt. “Last night you were in a bad way.”

“About last night . . .” he said.

“Yes?” She refused to meet his gaze.

“Thank you.”

She looked at him then, surprised. “You already thanked me.”

“Lean closer,” he urged. “I want to thank you properly.” He had the strongest desire to kiss her.

She appeared confused, but she obeyed, apparently without thought.

Richard cupped her face with his hands and then kissed her, a tender soft meeting of lips that sent his heart tripping at a rapid pace.

“Why did you do that?” she gasped when he released her. He saw her flaming face and knew she, too, was affected by the kiss.

He grinned, pleased. “Why do you think?”

She rose, her basket in hand. “I must go,” she said gruffly. She wouldn't look at him. “I'll be back tonight with more food and some of my father's garments for you.”

He caught the hem of her gown, forcing her to meet his gaze. “He won't mind?”

She blinked. And then, to his amazement, she grinned. “He'll never miss them.”

Averting her gaze, she muttered good-bye and slipped from the shelter. He watched her block the doorway, smiling, anticipating their next meeting.

 

 

A week later, in the middle of the night, Kirsten tossed and turned, trying to sleep. In a drastic change of temperature, the weather had become hot. The humid night air was stifling within her bedchamber. She'd left the door to her alcove bed open in an unsuccessful attempt to relieve the heat. Later, she'd discarded her bedgown; the thin linen had clung damply to her skin. Now perspiration dotted her forehead and breasts. Her hair, curling into moist ringlets, lay wet against her neck. She groaned, searching for a cool spot on the feather-tick mattress.

An owl hooted in the darkness, and a dog's bark echoed in the far distance. Kirsten gave up on sleep and sat up, blinking, as she heard the two o'clock call from the rattle-watch. Not a breeze stirred within the bedchamber. She glanced toward the open window and saw that the leaves on the old oak tree directly outside hung without moving.

She was so tired! As she'd expected, the sleepless nights spent at the ruin had caught up with her—time with Richard followed by chore-filled days. How could she not suffer from lack of sleep?

Richard. . . Her pulse raced as she recalled his kiss. She'd been unable to put it out of her mind, her reaction to it had been so strong.

She wanted to see him, to be certain that he was all right. It was impossible to sleep anyway when she could barely breathe in this hot room.

Kirsten rose from her bed and stretched, studying herself in the moonlight that filtered in through her window. Did he find her attractive? She gazed down at her small naked breasts, the curves of her hips and legs.