Rapture's Betrayal

by McCarthy, Candace

  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.

  Good God, what was she thinking! She forced such thoughts away.

  Kirsten reached for her dressing gown, taking it down from a hook near her bed and then slipping her arms into its voluminous sleeves. After a quick peek out her bedchamber door, she left her room to move quietly through the house. She crept past the door of her parents’ room, silently praying that they, unlike her, were unaffected by the heat and were sleeping peacefully.

  Kirsten breathed a sigh of relief upon exiting the house. She couldn’t forget the night when, overconfident about her ability to escape, she’d tripped at the bottom of the stairs, nearly waking her parents and giving away her nightly visits to Richard.

  The night air was no cooler outside than in her room. Padding barefoot across the yard to the barn, Kirsten debated whether or not to ride Hilga. It was too hot to
wear slippers on her feet, so the journey would be easier and faster on the gentle horse. Once inside the stable, she thought better of the idea. Horse and rider would be an easy target in the darkness. She’d be safer traveling as a lone figure on foot.

  Insects buzzed and chirped in songful chorus as Kirsten followed the trail to the ruins of the mill. The after-dark sounds seemed magnified this night. Small nocturnal animals scurried through the brush, but the forest creatures didn’t frighten her—it was the thought of meeting man.

  The threat of British soldiers had ended two days ago when the troops had left Hoppertown, but she could never be too careful. There might be deserters about. British or Patriot, they would be dangerous. War-crazed and desperate, there was no telling what they might do to the unwary, especially an unprotected woman.

  Kirsten’s thoughts went to Richard. He wasn’t expecting her tonight; there was a good chance he would be sleeping when she arrived. If so, she’d simply check to see that he was comfortable and return home.

  Her steps faltered as she neared the mill. The memory of his kiss came back again; its gentleness haunted her. She continued along the path, recalling the tenderness of his caress. Would he make love as tenderly as he kissed? Or would he be a fierce, demanding lover? she wondered, and was immediately shocked by her musings.

  Her dressing gown, which felt light and airy against her skin, suddenly seemed too sheer to be worn in male company. She’d been daring to wear it instead of her man’s clothes, but it was so hot this night.

  The garment is large and loose, and it’s dark. Surely, Richard wouldn’t notice that she was naked underneath it.

  She stopped in her tracks. She imagined the heat of his piercing gaze on her bare skin. The back of her neck tingled. Her heart thumped hard.

  No need to worry. He isn’t expecting you. He’s probably sleeping. Kirsten moved on toward the mill, envisioning his brown gaze turning a golden color as he stared at her body.

  Her nipples hardened in response to that image. This won’t do! she thought, picturing how his lips would curve slowly into a sensual smile. She felt her legs weaken. No, this wouldn’t do at all!

  Kirsten admitted that Richard fascinated her. Why? It wasn’t because he’d been charming to her lately. On the contrary, he’d become testy the last day or so, frustrated with his confines and the need to get about. Sympathetic to his feelings, Kirsten had tried to be patient with him. She understood that it wasn’t easy for him to be trapped for hours on end in such close quarters.

  A soft glow ahead drew her attention. She hesitated. Richard was awake! An inner voice warned her to go home and forget this visit. Anything could happen on this steamy, sultry night.

  Nonetheless, anxious to see him, Kirsten ignored the warning and hurried toward the light.

  Alex, it’s great to see you! Have you heard from your wife Mary? Did she have the babe yet?

  Alex . . . what’s wrong? You look ill. Are you hurt? What happened? Alex? Alex! No! You can’t die! I won’t let you. I promised Mary I’d watch out for you.

  I won’t let them put you in that pit. You’re going to live, damn you! You’ve got a wife and child to think about. Live! Damn it, live!

  You British bastards! He was just a kid! You whoring sons of bitches! I’ll see you pay for this! I’ll see you belly-shot and hung before I’m through with you. Murderers! You swiving murders!

  “I can’t breathe!” Locked within the terror of his nightmare, Richard found himself at the bottom of a freshly dug dirt pit. “No, I won’t let this happen.”

  It’s hot! God, it’s so hot! No! No! You haven’t paid yet you bastards! No! No! “No . . . !”

  Richard sat bolt upright in the dark, his breath rasping loudly in the night’s quiet. His heart drummed painfully within his chest as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. He slowly became aware of his surroundings, his state.

  Sweat dripped from his skin in dirty rivulets, along his neck and bare arms, on his chest. The air in the cellar hung heavily about him.

  It was only a dream! he thought. Thank God! His terror, though, had been real enough. He blinked against the sting of tears. And his grief was real. It was no dream that his friend Alex was dead. That was a fact Richard couldn’t change, although he desperately wanted to.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed against a tight throat. “Oh, Alex,” he whispered, shuddering.

  As if the floodgates had opened, the painful images rushed through. He was unable to keep them away. He saw Alex as a young boy; they’d been friends forever, since childhood, born and raised in the Pennsylvania Colony. A groan escaped Richard’s lips as he recalled the times he and Alex had fished together at Barker’s Creek. Alex, younger by three years, had looked up to him.

  Trouble had never followed the gentle Alex as it had the more mischievous Richard, but Richard had always felt a sense of responsibility for his younger friend, a feeling that had not changed when Alex followed Richard to war. He had tried to talk Alex out of going; after all, Alex had a young, pregnant wife to care for. How could he leave her alone at home?

  But Alex had been determined to go. Fired up with the Patriot cause, there had been no stopping him from joining the Continental troops.

  Richard blamed himself in part for Alexander’s death. Perhaps if he had stayed home and not joined . . .

  If only the British hadn’t raided Richard’s grandfather’s farm . . . If only they hadn’t killed the old man, burned his house . . .

  If only he and Alex hadn’t become separated . . .

  Now Richard was a Patriot spy, determined to find Alex’s killer. He had taken his dead friend’s place, working underground for General Washington.

  Gentle Alex a spy? he thought. At first, Richard hadn’t believed it when he’d been told by one of Washington’s staff; Alex had hated deceit of any kind. But Richard had been informed that the war had hardened his childhood friend, and he had believed it to be true. That was the only thing that made sense.

  As he began to breathe easier again, Richard thought longingly of the stream. He was thirsty. The running water would be cool and inviting to his parched throat. He groped for Kirsten’s tinder box and tried futilely to light a candle. Tinder box in hand, he groped his way toward the blocked cellar doorway. The wound on his thigh throbbed, but he was able to bear the pain. Kirsten’s attentions to his injuries had done wonders.

  He missed Kirsten, he realized with surprise. Confined this past week, he’d come to enjoy her nightly visits. He’d hadn’t kissed her again, but only because he’d controlled an almost irresistible urge to do so.

  Shoving the boards away from the cellar opening, Richard stumbled outside. He inhaled deeply of the outside air. The night was humid and hot, but a welcoming change from the closeness of the mill’s cellar. He returned inside to get a lantern. The moonlight allowed him to light the lamp easily, and he placed it on a rock near the streambed.

  He dipped his cupped hands into the water, and then he drank, enjoying the cool wetness as it trickled down his throat. Next, he eyed the stream speculatively and decided that he felt well enough to bathe by himself. Until now he’d washed inside, Kirsten helping with a pot of water and bar of soap.

  He grinned with boyish delight as he began to unfasten his breeches.

  Kirsten slowed her steps as she came to the mill, for splinters of wood, rotting boards, and other debris littered the ground. She frowned when she came to the cellar entrance. The door was unblocked, and the soft glow of light she saw came from the other side of the ruin.

  After checking the cellar’s interior, she picked her way toward the soft illumination. The first thing she spied as she rounded the ruin was the lantern sitting on a rock. She scowled. How could Richard be so careless? Had he forgotten the dangers of war?

  Kirsten scanned the tributary and found Richard several yards away, downstream. Her eyes widened. Naked, he stood in the current, cupping his hands and tossing water over his sleek, lithe body.

 
; She stared at him in awe, heat suffusing her throat and face. She swallowed hard. She’d never before seen a man without clothes. The sight made her heart skip a beat, and a strange liquid warmth invaded the juncture between her thighs.

  He was magnificent. He had filled out nicely with the food she’d brought him, and no longer appeared thin and gaunt. His sinewy back and tight buttocks appeared golden in the lamplight. His hair was wet and unbound, and the sleek, damp-dark strands that fell to his shoulders and back gave him a wild look that was extremely male. The water on his skin sparkled as it ran down masculine thews and tendons before dripping back into the stream.

  A deep male groan rent the night’s silence as Richard flung back his head. His expression of ecstasy fascinated Kirsten. She went hot and then cold beneath the filmy dressing gown as, mesmerized, she noted the sensuous pleasure Richard took in his bath.

  Kirsten trembled with desire. She’d never before felt so womanly, so aware of another’s body in conjunction with her own. The tips of her breasts tingled as they hardened against the linen fabric of her dressing gown. She froze, unable to move, unable to look away from Richard’s naked splendor.

  Her lashes fluttering shut, she lifted her hands to her blossoming nipples, felt the pebble-hard excitement of her body’s response.

  She opened her eyes and gasped when she experienced a pleasurable, erotic tightening in her womb.

  Kirsten inhaled sharply. Richard had turned around, and she could see his shaft straining from its curly nest. He looked up and saw her. He did not seem surprised; perhaps he had been thinking of her.

  Oh, God! she thought, aware that her face had warmed.

  “Kirsten.” His voice was husky, rich with meaning. His gaze flamed with desire as he strode from the water, his body dripping.

  He stopped within several yards of her, studying her with an intensity that made her step backward in confusion.