The night was warm; the day’s spring breeze had dried the dampness left by yesterday’s storm. It was after the klapperman’s second visit that Kirsten slipped out of the house. In the barn, she changed quickly, donning the breeches she’d worn the day before and a clean shirt. She had taken up the satchel full of provisions for her patient and was ready to go when she heard male voices outside.
“’Ey, Will, are ye in a mind for a tasty morsel this night?”
“Well, that depends now. What exactly do ye mean by a morsel?” The night reverberated with their shared laughter.
Peering through a crack in the barn boards, Kirsten tensed. There are British soldiers on Vader’s property! She was trapped!
Clutching the sack to her breasts protectively, she envisioned the injured man at the mill. The soldier was defenseless in his condition; she had to get to him right away—before the British found him!
The Britons’ voices receded as they left the barn area. “I guess we’ve been spared, Hilga,” Kirsten whispered. She was startled when she heard a squawk and then angry clucks. “They’re stealing Moeder’s hens!”
She frowned as she peeked out into the yard. The two redcoats were heading toward the village; one carried a limp chicken. She glanced toward the house and was glad to see that the windows remained dark. Thank God they didn’t wake Moeder and Vader.
Tugging her dark calico cap over her blond plaits, she crept from the barn and headed toward the mill where the soldier waited.
The old wooden structure was built a foot above the ground on a brick foundation. The dirt cellar underneath had been dug out after the construction of the main floor, leaving a small storage area not quite high enough for a man to stand up in, though Kirsten had no difficulty walking about the room. The wooden walls of the main level were splintered and rotten, but the foundation was solid, giving the cellar stability and making it a safe place to hide. The only access to the cellar room was a break in the foundation wall, which her grandfather had blocked off many years before the abandonment of the mill. A few steps led down to the old entry. The dilapidated look of the entire structure made the whole mill seem unsafe, keeping away unwanted intruders. An ideal place, Kirsten thought, for my Continental soldier.
The makeshift door she’d wedged in the cellar opening refused to budge until she gave it a good swift kick, jarring the nailed-together boards loose so she could pry them away. Kirsten allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark room, her heart picking up its pace when she spied the wounded man lying against the far wall.
Is he dead? The hairs rose at the back of her neck as she crawled inside to feel the man’s brow. Her patient was burning with fever. If she didn’t work fast to bring his temperature down, he could die within days . . . perhaps hours.
She left the cellar room to rummage through her satchel until she found the tinder box. She needed light and a fire to heat the man’s poultice. When the flint struck steel, it produced a spark which Kirsten fanned to flame amid the dried grass and bits of wood she’d brought along. She then pulled a candle from her sack, held its wick to the fire, and set the lighted taper near her patient.
To her delight, she found items left in the cellar from her days of play there. She and Miles had come to the mill and had fished in the stream whenever they had finished their chores early. They had cooked their catch over an open fire in an old iron skillet provided by Aunt Catherine, Miles’s mother. They had also heated water in a kettle Aunt Catherine had given them so they could make tea while they shared their fish feast.
Kirsten found the kettle where she’d hidden it years ago, beneath the bottom steps of the old staircase leading up to the main floor of the mill. Made of pig iron, the kettle was rust free.
She washed the kettle in the stream by the mill’s waterwheel, and then poured the milk she’d brought in a small jar into it, and set the kettle over the fire she’d made. When the milk boiled, she added a few crumbs of bread. While the concoction simmered, she took a piece of linen from her satchel, as well as a container filled with lard. She coated the fabric with the lard, then waited for the bread-milk mixture to cool a bit before dipping the cloth into the milk until it was saturated.
The man lay as still as death, moaning only once when she carefully unbound his bloody bandages. Kirsten gasped; the wound had begun to fester and she had to cut away the crusty part of the bandage with the knife she’d brought. Next, she lowered the hot compress gingerly over the infection before returning to the fire to prepare a poultice for his arm.
Her patient was filthy. Her main concern, however, was not bathing him but saving him.
With the second compress in place, she rinsed out the kettle and drew fresh water from the stream. Then she doused the fire. Her lips twisted as she eyed the bottom of her shirt. It would be difficult enough to explain one of her father’s shirts missing—but two? She cut through the cloth with one clean swipe of her knife.
She knew only one way to bring his fever down. She began to bathe his brow with the cool water from the stream. As the taper burned low, she lit another. Her vigil over the wounded man continued until, exhausted, Kirsten fell asleep.
Hours later, when the night was quiet, she awoke with a start. She blinked and focused on her surroundings. The taper had burned low, and the cellar air was rife with the scent of tallow. As she inspected her patient, she recalled that earlier he’d thrashed wildly in the throes of fever. It had taken all of her strength to keep him still so he wouldn’t hurt himself further. Finally, exhausted by his struggles, he’d slept. She had continued to bathe him with the water.
Butterflies fluttered in the pit of Kirsten’s stomach as she studied him. The newly washed male features displayed character and an odd strength despite his vulnerable state. The stubble of beard on his chin, she noticed, did nothing to detract from his handsome face. But he was thin, too thin. She had a feeling he had suffered much, more than at his attacker’s hands.
A faint scar ran across his brow to disappear into his tawny hair. Lines of pain were etched on his face, and dark shadows encircled his closed eyes.
Studying him, Kirsten was infused with a sudden warmth . . . a feeling akin to tenderness. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch him, stroking his brow and running a finger along his jaw. Boldly, she smoothed the hair from his forehead. She gasped when her hand was caught within strong masculine fingers.
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.
Chapter Four
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.”
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