Rapture's Betrayal

by McCarthy, Candace

  The man didn’t immediately answer, a testament to how hurt he was. Finally, his lips moved. “Like I’ve been skewered by a red-hot poker,” he managed to gasp. He attempted to crack a smile, but his grin resembled a grimace. “Damn, Canfield, but it hurts like hell.”

  Recalling his own injuries, Richard felt sympathy for the man. These men might be Tories, but he’d come to know them. And in the end, they were just ordinary men like himself. He reached into his weskit pocket and removed a small bottle. “Here—drink this. It’ll help ease the pain.”

  Elias came alive at the sight of the liquor. “Give me that!” He made to snatch the bottle from Richard’s grasp, but Richard clamped onto Elias’s arm with his free hand, stopping him.

  “The man’s dying, you fool,” he hissed, his voice low. The shock of seeing Abernathy lying there had brought back the frustrations and horrors of the war. “Allow him a restful sleep.”

  Greene stared at him hard. He had bloodstains on his shirt, and lines of pain ran from his eyes and across his forehead. He made a pathetic picture. His mouth quivered as he gave in to tears. Immediately, John Greene went to his brother, holding Elias as they both surrendered to grief.

  Richard turned back to his injured Tory friend. He helped Abernathy take a sip of the fiery liquor. The dying man swallowed, coughed, and sipped again. Finally, exhausted, he lay back, his eyes closed.

  “Canfield?” Merritt opened his eyes and rose up on his elbows in a surprising show of strength. “Thanks.”

  Richard grinned. “At least the bloody rebs didn’t get everything.”

  Merritt Abernathy started to smile and then groaned and fell back. Blood poured from the man’s wound, soaking his breeches, staining the ground. Before their eyes, he lost his life force. Richard watched, feeling helpless. Moments later, Abernathy was dead.

  The Continental forces were long gone. Elias now cried out like a wild animal. His eyes feverishly bright, he let his gaze follow each of his men in turn.

  “I’ll kill the bastards,” he vowed. “I’ll kill each and every one of them for this. No bloody reb will escape us—ever gain!”

  So it was that Richard saw another man turn mad with the death and destruction brought on by war. And he knew the danger of his position had intensified.

  A month passed and then another. July became August and soon it was autumn. Life in the small village of Hoppertown had gone on peacefully during those remaining July weeks with the Continental Army gone and no sign of British or Tory troops.

  With the Van Voorhees’ farm ready for sheltering two days after they’d transferred the goods, Kirsten returned to the daily routine of helping her mother in the kitchen and garden, mending clothes, and feeding the farm animals. She’d never had a chance to speak to Washington about his man—the rude guard who’d blocked the road. And the next thing she’d learned was that the Continentals had left.

  Kirsten had been busy with the local women from Patriot families, planning for enemy attack and for the safekeeping of the children. The day after the goods from the inn were moved to the Van Voorhees’, she had called a meeting of the women to discuss plans in case of an attack. She had explained that there was already a place to flee in the event of a British invasion, and she had asked for linens and other supplies, including soap, ammunition, and onions and apples from their storage cellars.

  These women were wives and relatives of the local militiamen. During their meeting, they came up with a system of alerting each family in the event that such an emergency should occur. There was a brief discussion on whether to include any of their Tory relatives. Most felt that since those families had chosen the King’s side, they would have to suffer the consequences if their English friends turned against them.

  With September came another raid—an attack by Greene and his party. The band left, however, before they could do much damage. Garret Vandervelt’s home was torched one night, but the fire was found early and quickly brought under control.

  Once a day, early in the morning, the militiamen drilled with their rifles. Other than an occasional attack from a small, ineffective Tory band, it could have been a time of peace.

  Harvest time arrived, and the farmers ceased their drilling to bring in the balance of their crops. The Van Atta family began to prepare for the winter months with the beginning of November.

  Kirsten and her mother were out in the yard working over a hot fire. That morning James Van Atta had slaughtered a cow and a sheep; and while he butchered the meat which would be cured in the smokehouse, the two women rendered the animal fat for various household uses. They’d built a large fire in the yard early that morning. A large iron kettle hung over the flames, held in place by a specially constructed frame made by Kirsten’s father. Kirsten stood near the steaming pot, stirring the mixture of melted beef and mutton tallow. Agnes added chunks of animal fat to the hot cauldron.

  “You seem quiet, daughter,” she said, looking at Kirsten with concern.

  Kirsten glanced up and wiped an arm across her forehead. Then, for a moment, she stared into the bubbling tallow. “I am fine, Moeder.”

  She gave her mother a slight smile, aware of the picture she presented. Her simple gown of muslin was stained with animal grease. Despite the cool November weather, she was soaked with perspiration due to the steaming heat of the iron pot.

  Her mother studied her with a look of concern, and Kirsten had to reassure her parent a second time. Her only problem these days was that she couldn’t stop picturing Richard and wondering when he’d return . . . if he’d return. She had begun to doubt his sincerity, whether he’d told her the truth the night of Theodosia’s party. And her doubts hurt her deeply.

  What if he’d been lying to save his skin? Had she let him free only to have him cause countless Patriot deaths?

  She turned from the pot. A small table was set up nearby. Kirsten took a cup of water from the table and quenched her thirst. If Richard had deceived her . . . She closed her eyes as she experienced a wave of pain.

  If he deceived me, she thought, then by God I’ll see that he pays!

  November 15, 1778

  Richard returned to Hoppertown in the company of Tories. Kirsten was at the tavern at Martin’s request, helping her cousin with his stores. Her work at the Van Atta home was done. The candles were made, the meat was smoked. The family was ready for winter. That day the Tory band returned to Hoppertown. There was a great stir among the local patrons as these unwelcome men entered the inn’s common room. Elias Greene sat down at a table, and the others followed suit, noisily taking seats wherever it suited them.

  Greene slammed his fist on a scarred tabletop and in a loud voice demanded a drink. “Innkeeper! Some ale for a group of poor weary travelers!” The man seated beside him laughed.

  The cousins heard the call from the back room. “I’ll get it,” Kirsten said. “It’s the Ackerman boys most likely,”

  She poured three ales and placed the tankards on a tray. She entered the common room, carefully balancing the tray on one arm, as the last of the men sat down. Kirsten froze when she saw who it was. Her heart began to pound, her pulse roared in her ears, for she’d seen him immediately . . . that bright blond head with hair fastened back into a club held by a black velvet ribbon. Richard Maddox.

  As if in a trance, Kirsten moved to the first table and set a tankard before Elias Greene. She stepped back quickly. She’d not forgotten her unpleasant encounter with the man. But all the while, she was conscious of eyes on her . . . russet eyes. Richard’s.

  She went to the next man, placed a mug on the table, and got her arm grabbed as she pulled back. She gasped and tried to free herself. The tray in her other arm wobbled and started to fall.

  And then everything happened so quickly she wasn’t sure what was occurring. Richard must have jumped from his seat across the table when the tray started to topple, for the next thing she knew he was there, catching it and steadying her, his grip firm on her arm.

  Kendall
Allen had released her with a muffled curse. One of the pewter tankards had spilled, and ale had washed over to soak his shirt and stain his breeches. The other men in the room laughed, teasing their friend. Allen glared at her.

  “Are you all right?” Richard’s low husky voice reached her ears through the outburst of merriment.

  She turned to him slowly, reluctant to meet his gaze. She was convinced he’d lied to her, and she didn’t want to see his face—to find that she still wasn’t over her love for him . . . that she would never be over him.

  Their eyes met. Kirsten saw the tender warmth in his brown eyes, and as her insides churned with longing, she became angry not only with herself but with Richard. Why had he come back to disrupt her life? She wished she could forget him.

  He’d been traveling for weeks with the Tory band. How long could it be before his convictions changed and mirrored theirs? The more she recalled about that evening at the Hermitage, the more she grew puzzled. If Richard had truly wanted to see Washington, he should have allowed her to get the general for him. Instead, he’d made up some excuse about there not being enough time.

  He looked good, she noticed. Too good. His skin was a rich bronze from the summer sun. His body had filled out. Richard wore his sleeves rolled up over his elbows, and she could see that his arm muscles were well developed, rock hard, as he shifted the tray within his grasp.

  “I’m not paying for it, wench!” Allen boomed. “In fact, we’ll not pay for the round. It was your carelessness what did it.”

  “You’ll not pay for the spill, but you’ll pay for the round!” Kirsten said. “My cousin serves no cheaters!”

  Allen’s chair scraped the floor as he rose. “And if I refuse?”

  “Easy,” Richard said. “The lady wants only to be fair to her employer.”

  “Stay out of it, Canfield.”

  “Kendall Allen.” Richard’s voice had become a warning growl.

  “Hoping to bed this one, too? What’s the matter? All those others not enough to satisfy you?” He raked Kirsten with his bold gaze. “She’s a scrawny thing . . . not like the last one.”

  Others? Kirsten thought, and her throat closed up. She blinked back tears as she took back the tray. It wouldn’t do for Richard to know that the man’s comments hurt.

  “Kirsten,” Richard murmured.

  She refused to meet his gaze. “Thank you, sir, for your kind help.”

  Hands clutching the tray, she hurried toward the back room. Martin had come to the doorway to find out what the commotion was about. Kirsten passed him with her head bent; she didn’t want him to see her tears, to realize how humiliated and betrayed she felt.

  Martin came into the workroom as Kirsten was preparing to leave by the back door. “Going somewhere, cousin?”

  She froze.

  “Kirsten, look at me.” His tone was soft.

  She glanced up and was unable to contain her tears.

  “It’s all right. What harm is some spilled ale?” When she shook her head, he said, “If not that, then what’s bothering you?”

  Kirsten held his gaze, and his eyes narrowed. “The man,” he said. “The one with the fair hair—good God, he’s the one you were with at the Hermitage!”

  Martin shook his head as he went to her and touched her arm. “A Tory, Kirsten?”

  She nodded, and there was a lengthy pause. She stared at the floor through her haze of tears.

  “Cousin,” he said slowly, “you wouldn’t . . . ah, you . . .”

  Her head snapped upward. “I’m no traitor to the cause, Martin, if that’s what you’re asking!”

  He looked guilty.

  “I have to leave,” she choked out.

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” she asked, her expression displaying her skepticism.

  Martin inclined his head. “I once knew a woman. She was the kindest, most sweet creature on the face of the earth. I fell in love with her within hours after meeting her. Everything was wonderful . . . until I learned she was married.” His face contorted with pain. “A little something she had neglected to tell me.” He sounded bitter.

  Kirsten wore her hair in braids, and he stroked a stray tendril away from her face. “I understand what it is to feel betrayed,” Martin said.

  She sniffed. “And what did you do? How did you learn to get over her?” She didn’t deny her feelings for Richard, for she couldn’t deny the truth.

  “Day by day,” he told her. “I took each new moment as it came. I still do.” He smiled, but his expression told of a lingering sadness.

  “Oh, Martin, I’m sorry.”

  He brightened. “Don’t be. It was good while it lasted.” After moving to the long worktable, he grabbed a plate of cinnamon cakes and placed it on a tray. Then, he turned to her. “Forget him, Kirsten, if he’s the reason for your sadness.”

  “But, you said—”

  “I know what I said, but this is different. This is war.”

  “I’ll try,” she murmured. “But it won’t be easy.”

  She left by the back door, unwilling to chance meeting Richard in the common room. But there was no avoiding him. He stood outside, leaning against a large elm tree, his arms folded across his chest. Upon seeing her, he straightened, his mouth curving into a tentative smile.

  “Hello, love.”

  “Don’t ‘love’ me!” She walked by him.

  He fell into step behind her. “What’s wrong? I’m still here . . . and when I wasn’t sure I would be. I thought you’d be happy.”

  She stopped, her body rigid. Glaring, she said, “You’re still with them. Why? Because you lied! You’re one of them—a Tory! A traitor to the cause!”

  Hushing her, he glanced about. “Do you want to see me killed?”

  “By whom?”

  He scowled. “I’m working for General Washington—I told you that.”

  “I’ll bet you are.” Her blue eyes flashed angry fire. “Wenches in every village!” Her voice caught on a sob. “Tell me was I as good as those others you tumbled?”

  “There were no—”

  “Don’t lie to me!” she hissed and then stomped away.

  “Kirsten?” Martin was at the back door, staring out, scowling at Richard. “Is this gentleman bothering you?”

  She nodded, averting her glance. Martin moved his arm, displaying his grip on a flintlock pistol. “I suggest you be on your way, mister. Now.”

  Richard blinked. “Kirsten?” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Please.”

  The click of the hammer was loud in the ensuing silence.

  Kirsten sighed. “Go away, Richard.” Her heart thumped wildly beneath her breast as she studied him from beneath lowered lashes. He seemed about to protest, to stand firm, but then his shoulders slumped with defeat.

  “I’ll go . . .” His words were soft, full of hurt. “But I’ve not tricked you. I swear this on my grandmother’s grave.”

  Kirsten stared at this avowal, and Richard returned with slow steps to the tavern. She met Martin’s gaze as her cousin lowered his weapon. “Do you think he’s sincere?” she asked.

  Martin searched her face as if delving into her soul. “He seemed genuine enough.”

  She blinked back tears. “Then why is he still with them? They’re Tory scum! If he’s a Patriot, how can he stay with them?”

  “He’s not one of them?” Martin raised his eyebrows.

  She glanced at the house and checked the yard before signaling to her cousin to follow. Martin joined her only after returning inside to lock up the tavern. The Tories had finished their ale and left.

  “Let’s walk,” Kirsten said. “I’m feeling restless.” She led him some distance from the house, stopping under a large shade tree, away from prying eyes. Agitated, she picked off a leaf, pulled it apart, and dropped it to the ground. She pulled off another leaf and began twirling it by the stem.

  “He says he’s a Patriot,” she began, her voice thick. “A spy.”

  Her cousin
froze. “A spy, you say?”

  She grabbed his sleeve. “You mustn’t tell anyone. If he’s telling the truth, he’ll be killed. If he’s lying . . . I don’t know what will happen to him.”

  “He was the one in the garden,” Martin said. “Wasn’t he?” She nodded. “What was he doing at the Hermitage?”

  Kirsten threw away the leaf and watched it sail in the air before it floated to earth. “He was there to see the general—or so he claimed. He says only Washington and his aide Hamilton know of his true identity.”

  “And did he see the general?”

  She bit her lip. “No . . . he never got a chance. I caught him by the window staring inside. I didn’t know who he was at first.”

  “You met then and became so familiar?” Martin looked disapproving.

  Kirsten shook her head. “We met weeks before actually. I found him in the forest. He’d been injured, bayonet wounds. I saw the attack; I saw everything. The man who hurt him took Richard by surprise. Richard never had a chance.”

  She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I couldn’t leave him there, Martin,” she said, begging for understanding, for some sign of her cousin’s approval. “The man who attacked him was horrible . . . his face was disfigured. I’ll never forget that face.”

  “So what did you do?” Her cousin appeared fascinated by her tale.

  She told him quickly of her efforts to save the injured man, how she would have taken him to the farm but for the danger she’d have placed her family in by doing so.

  “So I took him to the old mill.” She explained about the cellar, about how she’d nursed Richard back to health. She said she’d believed him to be a Continental soldier.

  “Imagine my shock when he came back with Greene. ”

  “Yes, I can.” Martin was thoughtful. He paused for a moment to regard her intently. “And he told you what? That he was a Continental soldier? A Tory?”

  “Well, no. He didn’t say what he was. But you see when he was hurt badly he managed to tell me to hide him from the British. Because of that, I assumed he was a Patriot.” Martin nodded his agreement. “When I found him at the Hermitage,” she continued, “he seemed surprised but glad to see me. I threatened to turn him in, and he told me about his mission. Said he was working for Washington, trying to learn the identity of a traitor. His friend was killed while working as a spy. Richard is determined to find the traitor and to see the murderer pay.”