Rapture's Betrayal

by McCarthy, Candace

  “She’s gone home,” Richard said, startled by the man’s interest in Kirsten. Their eyes met, and Richard was surprised to see the venom in the innkeeper’s gaze. What exactly was this man to Kirsten? he wondered. He felt a jolt of jealousy.

  “Scrawny wench, right, Canfield?” Greene said. “Not worth the effort.”

  Richard inclined his head. The innkeeper seemed to relax, he noted, and Richard’s feeling of jealousy grew.

  “You want to eat?” the innkeeper asked. “Food’s on. Full meal—five coppers.”

  “Five coppers!” Kendall Allen said. “Why that’s robbery!”

  “I’ll eat and be glad to pay,” Richard said quietly.

  “And I,” Abernathy intoned. Soon all agreed to buy supper.

  Richard was thoughtful while he waited for his meal, thinking that concern for her cousin had brought Kirsten to see Greene, just as concern for him had caused her to save his life.

  He knew what she must be thinking, knew the pain she must be experiencing because of him, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. He couldn’t very well go to her and confess he was a spy for the Continental Army. He’d not only be putting his life in danger but hers as well—and the lives of Washington’s men. If the Tories found out there was a Patriot in their midst, his work would be finished and so would he. He had to find the traitor—the one responsible for his friend Alex’s death. Somewhere lurked an informant, a tie between General Washington’s army and this sorry band of ragtag Loyalists. The success of his mission depended on secrecy.

  He couldn’t ease Kirsten’s pain regarding himself—he knew she was in pain because he’d glimpsed it in her eyes—but he could help Miles.

  This night Richard was to stay at the Randolph farm. The Tories wanted only able-bodied men. It would be simple enough to stage an accident.

  Richard frowned. Kirsten wouldn’t appreciate his methods, but it was the only way to keep Miles from being forced to join the Tory ranks. It wouldn’t be a serious accident, just a small one.

  Richard began to plan . . .

  Chapter Thirteen

  Word reached Kirsten of Miles’s accident by way of the Randolphs’ groom, Jims.

  “He what?” she asked when he’d finished his tale. She couldn’t believe she’d heard correctly.

  “A crate stored in the barn loft fell on the young master, Mistress Kirsten. Broke ’is arm and hurt ’is ankle, but otherwise ’e was none injured.”

  Kirsten shook her head. “A crate in the loft, Jims?”

  He shrugged. “A funny thing. I know nothin’ about no crate. Never seen one up there, but then who’s ta say with the bloody Loyalies about. They’s leaving, though, I ’ear. It’s not like we gotta worry for much longer. And good riddance, I say.”

  “Are you certain Miles is all right?”

  Jims’s brown forelock bobbed as he nodded vigorously. “’Is arm hurts ’im some and ’is foot, too, but ’e’s right as a fox’s tail.”

  Kirsten longed to visit with Miles, but knew that her cousin would never be able to escape the farm to reach their familiar meeting place—not with an injured ankle. She entertained the thought of going to the Randolph residence, but then she promptly dismissed the idea. The last thing she wanted was to cause an uproar between the families. Her parents might have allowed her to sit with Aunt Catherine and Miles at the kerk, but visiting the home of her Loyalist uncle was a different matter entirely. Besides, she wanted to avoid encountering that lecherous Tory leader, Elias Greene.

  And Richard. It had been two days since she’d seen Richard Maddox, and the emotions she felt were both disturbing and overwhelming. She didn’t trust herself to see him again. How could she could hate him in one breath yet long for him in the next?

  Memories of their shared passion devastated her. She’d not seen him since the episode with Greene, but she could envision him clearly in her mind’s eye . . . as he’d been by the waterside . . . his unbound tawny hair . . . his glowing brown eyes . . . his sensual smile as he’d left the stream to approach her . . . his body glistening from the cool, crystalline waters.

  Kirsten’s chest constricted with pain. She wished she’d never met him, that she hadn’t gone back to the river to save his deceitful hide!

  Liar, an inner voice taunted. Those days with him were the best moments you’ve ever shared with anyone. Admit it—he may be your enemy, but you still love him. If he came to you now, you would willingly surrender to him.

  Love? Yes, she loved him, loved a man on the opposite side of the war.

  And that is the real reason, Kirsten thought, I can’t visit Miles at his home.

  “Jims, can Miles make it to the river?”

  The groom nodded. “With my ’elp.”

  “Can you bring him tomorrow? After the noon meal? At the clearing not far from the Ackermans’.”

  Jims agreed, and they went their separate ways.

  Richard crouched at the edge of the Van Atta property and watched the house for signs of Kirsten. The Tories were preparing to leave Hoppertown the next morning. He couldn’t go without seeing Kirsten again, without speaking with her, although he had no idea what he was going to say.

  His plans for Miles had been successful. The boy had suffered a broken arm and a twisted ankle when he’d fallen under the weight of the crate. The crate had been almost empty. He hadn’t wanted to seriously injure the youth. In fact, he hadn’t been certain the crate would work. He’d been aware of the possibility of failure, for accuracy in timing and position had been imperative. Miles could have escaped totally unscathed, and Richard would have been forced to create a second accident and then another if that had failed until the boy was stricken from the ranks of the able-bodied. Fortunately, his first plan had worked perfectly.

  It hadn’t been easy finding the right equipment, carrying the crate up into the loft without someone seeing. He’d rigged up the accident with sticks and string and careful thought.

  The barn loft had its own exterior door. The drop to the ground was substantial; someone trying to escape that way would have to jump at least fifteen feet to run for cover, a difficult feat when the yard outside was empty and wide open. Anyone trying to flee would surely be caught.

  After deciding it would be too risky to remain in the loft to ensure his plan worked, Richard elected to stay in the barn but downstairs. Merritt Abernathy had spoken earlier of the fine Randolph horseflesh. It wasn’t hard for Richard to learn that Miles came to the barn daily to attend his own mount, Dark Wind. It seemed the lad enjoyed grooming the horse himself each afternoon, often chatting with Jims if the groom happened to be there to tend the other animals.

  Richard set up the crate so it would fall and then climbed from the loft to wait for his unwary victim. He’d pretended an interest in cleaning his flintlock rifle.

  Richard’s thoughts were forced back to the present with Kirsten’s sudden appearance. His heart pumped hard, and his muscles tightened. He strained to see her as she exited the house and was fascinated by the way the sun glinted off her platinum blond plaits, making her appear an angel with a halo.

  She wore a plain homespun gown of gray linen with a white muslin scarf about her shoulders. A matching white apron was tied about her small waist. The drab color and simple cut of the garment should have made Kirsten appear washed out and unattractive, but it didn’t. Her beauty was enhanced by the contrast, her loveliness shining above the severity of the gown. A portrait of radiant grace, she left the stoop and crossed the yard, carrying a basket. The woman stole his breath away.

  Kirsten must be on her way to the vegetable garden not far from the Van Atta house. Richard stared at the house, taken with the unusual Dutch design . . . the small windows with crescent moons cut into the shutters . . . the balcony that ran across the front of the house on the second floor. Except for Kirsten, he saw no sign of life anywhere. Not even a slave or servant.

  He wanted to run to her, to lift her high in his arms. Chuckling, he’d
spin her around and around until she was dizzy and laughing and the world whirled by her in a blur of colors.

  He would stop then and bring her slowly back to earth. He’d lower her so that she brushed close against him, their bodies touching. And they’d both become aware of how well they fit together, like two halves formed into one. Their world would right itself. They’d gaze into each other’s eyes with laughter lingering on their lips and their hearts singing with joy.

  And then they’d kiss. Everything about them would cease to matter as their passion ignited and they clung to each other fiercely, unwilling to relinquish the ecstasy of the moment.

  Richard had become immersed in a daydream so real that for a moment he actually believed it was happening. But with the freshening of a summer breeze, reality set in. He saw Kirsten in the garden, oblivious to his presence as she bent to pick tomatoes from the tall, lush bushes planted in neat, even rows. He stared at her clothed buttocks, his palms itching to cup their curves. His desire for her was hot and instantaneous. He sensed the bulge in his breeches and heard the wild thundering of his heart.

  Drawn to her by a strong force, he came out of his hiding place. As he headed toward the garden, he realized he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  No one came out of the house as he passed it. He tried to cool his ardor, for what would she think if she saw?

  Fortunately, Kirsten still hadn’t seen him, and he paused, breathing deeply to calm himself. He thought of winter . . . cold water . . . anything to keep him from making a fool of himself by grabbing her and kissing her hungrily.

  He was more composed as he continued on, until he was at the edge of the garden. Kirsten glanced up as if sensing his presence. A startled look flickering across her face, she straightened and studied him, but she didn’t say a word.

  Richard stared, fascinated. Her skin was smooth and flawless, a pale shade of honey gold. Her lips were pink and lusciously full, and he had the most powerful urge to taste her mouth. She looked away. When their gazes met again, emotion flared in the blue depths of her eyes, but he couldn’t read her thoughts.

  He swallowed, feeling his loins tighten again. His breath quickened as she started toward him. But then she stopped. For a brief moment, she’d looked almost happy to see him. He watched as her features clouded, her eyes dulled, and she frowned.

  “Richard.” His name was but a breathless whisper on her lips. And he was charmed again by the way she pronounced it. Ric-kard. The Dutch accent was faint, delightful.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  She averted her eyes as if the sight of him was too painful. “I think you should leave here.”

  “Kirsten, please—”

  “Go! You’re one of them. You lied to me. You’re a Tory—a bloody Loyalist. The enemy!”

  Richard looked at her. “Did I actually claim to be a Patriot? Did I intentionally mislead you?”

  “Yes!” Tears hovered on the fringes of her thick lashes. He felt an answering jolt of pain in his gut.

  “You know what I thought,” she cried. “Why didn’t you admit the truth? I cared for you! Did you think I would turn you in?”

  “It was a chance I couldn’t take,” he said, his voice soft.

  He wished he could confess the truth now, to ease her mind, but he couldn’t. Would she forgive him if she knew that he was lying to her now?

  But he had no choice. Someday, perhaps, he could tell her everything. For the present, he had to allow her to believe in his deception, no matter how painful it was for the both of them.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I wanted to—needed to—say good-bye before I left Hoppertown.”

  “Why?” She sniffed, wiping her eyes. “You left before without saying good-bye. Having a sudden attack of conscience?”

  Richard stiffened. “I waited for you as long as I could. Where were you?”

  She looked away. Tugging a silver braid, she stared off into space. “I was home, locked in my room.” She faced him, her expression a mirror of her pain. “My vader found out I had left the house during the previous night. He was furious with me.”

  “Kirsten . . .” He came forward, his hand outstretched to touch her. He wanted to embrace her, to offer her comfort.

  “No! Don’t!” she cried. “I won’t allow you to do this to me! Go away!”

  He stopped, dropped his hand. “You want me to just leave?”

  Face frozen, she nodded.

  Richard sighed. “Fine. If that’s your wish, I’ll go.” He couldn’t move, didn’t want to. “Good-bye, Kirsten . . . and I did say it before. Good-bye. Have you been inside the old mill?”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “You haven’t since I left, have you?”

  Her lashes fluttering, she shook her head.

  He turned to leave. There was still no sign of her parents, he was grateful to note. Richard guessed they were out visiting friends or relatives, a strangely ordinary thing to do during a time of war.

  But were these people actually at war? The area was considered neutral by some. There were Patriots and Loyalists among the Dutch families who lived here; there were also those who refused to take sides. Kirsten, he knew, was a true believer in the Patriot cause.

  He took several steps away from her before he turned one last time. “I thought you’d like to know that your cousin—Miles—he’ll not be leaving the area. In his present condition, he’s of little use to the Tory army.”

  Kirsten blinked. “How do you know about Miles?”

  He smiled slowly. “I have my methods.” He stared at her lips, overcome a second time with a sudden urge to taste them. “One kiss to see me gone?” he dared to ask.

  “No.”

  “Afraid?” he taunted.

  “Uninterested.”

  “Liar.”

  And with that he left, the memory of her loveliness forever imprinted in his mind.

  Kirsten watched him go with an ache in her heart. She clutched the tomato she was holding so tightly the fruit burst and juice trickled between her fingers. Seeds spewed over her hands and gown.

  She cursed as she looked down at herself. Tears blurred her vision as she tossed the tomato away and wiped her hand on a cloth she had tucked into her apron waistband.

  She sniffed and blinked to clear her vision. Richard was walking away, at the edge of the forest. Soon, he’d be beyond her sight, swallowed up by the bushes and grass and trees of the woods.

  Soon, he’d be gone from Hoppertown to a fate unknown . . . perhaps a deadly fate. And she would never see him again.

  She dropped her basket and started to run. “Richard!”

  He froze. She could see the tension in his broad shoulders and back as he turned. There was a question in his gaze that tugged at her heartstrings . . . a look of hope . . . of joy . . . as she rushed toward him.

  “Richard,” she gasped as she stopped before him. She suddenly felt shy of him. “Please be careful.”

  His look was an intimate caress touching her flesh. Her skin tingled. Her face burned. She felt physically alive.

  “This is a time of war, Kirsten.”

  She nodded in understanding, her eyes filling with tears. It hadn’t been his intention to hurt her. “I know,” she said, her tone revealing her anguish. “It’s only that—” She caught back a sob, for she knew a future with him was out of the question.

  Richard groaned harshly and pulled her into his arms, his mouth demanding, his tongue delving deeply between her lips. Her brain spun, and her body pulsed with feeling. The man she loved was holding her as if he didn’t want to let her go.

  He lifted his head and held her close, burying his face in her hair. “Good-bye, Kirsten.”

  “Good-bye, Richard,” she managed to choke out. He released her, his hands lingering. He touched her cheek, and her tears fell; she couldn’t control them.

  And she whirled and left him to fight the war on the wrong side. He was her enemy, b
ut she loved him.

  I’m glad Richard’s gone, Kirsten thought on her way to meet Miles. The man wasn’t what he’d seemed. Greene had called him Canfield. My God, he even lied to me about his name!

  The Tories had left as Richard had predicted. Word had reached the Van Atta homestead during the early morning. A member of the militia had been on watch last night at the road leading from the Randolph farm. The news spread through the village like wildfire as runners went to all Patriot homes. The residents of Hoppertown could rest easier at night.

  The day was a hot one, the July sun searing, and the humidity was at an all-time high. Perspiring heavily by the time she reached the clearing, Kirsten looked longingly at the river. The Hohaukus was a narrow body of water. Its crystal clear depths looked cool and inviting.

  She tugged off her footwear and, skirts hiked to her knees, waded into the refreshing stream. She was careful not to slip or hurt her feet on the rocks scattered about the river bed. Splashing with her feet, she knew that Miles and Jims would find her at any moment.

  Time passed. Kirsten gingerly walked about, enjoying the cold water on the hot day. Branches hung overhead, shading the area, and she moved a distance upriver to a spot where the bottom was rock free and soft. She waded there for a time, watching for Miles. But still he didn’t come.

  She made her way to a flat boulder near the shore. Although she longed to shed her clothes to fully enjoy the water’s depths, she knew that would be unwise in full daylight. Perhaps one night soon she’d return alone to swim . . . armed. Kirsten knew a moment’s sadness. How could she swim here while a war was going on and she could be accosted by any bloodthirsty, crazed soldier who came to Hoppertown?

  Where is Miles? She was concerned, for it was a long while after the arranged meeting time. Had Jims forgotten to tell him? Was Richard mistaken? Had Miles left with the Tory band?

  She waded out of the water, watchful of her footsteps over the rocky ground. By chance, she found a man’s cocked hat—made of black fur felt-caught in the branches of a thick forest bush. Curious, she reached in and retrieved it, noting the military cockade and the silk band. It had a drawstring. She turned it over and saw tiny lettering inside the brim, but couldn’t read it. Someone had stitched on the soldier’s initials.