Rapture's Betrayal

by McCarthy, Candace

  How long would it be before the men downstairs slept? she wondered. She wanted to slip below to the first floor and gaze upon Richard with love, to feel his presence, to be in the same room with him.

  Kirsten thought of the earlier gunshots, and her body chilled. Richard could have been killed! So could Aunt Catherine and Private Jones!

  She felt sorry for her aunt. How terrible it must feel to realize the man you’d been married to for years was not the same one you fell in love with but a stranger—a terrible, cruel stranger. At one time, William Randolph had been a charming, handsome young man with hopes and dreams and a winning smile. How often her mother told her of their childhood escapades. William had been her mother’s protector. He’d been her champion, and the apple of many a lady’s eye.

  It was hard for Kirsten to see the uncle she’d heard stories about and William Randolph as one and the same man. The young William would never have killed anyone, let alone his own son!

  Kirsten thought of her own beloved. Richard would never fail her. She’d accused him of lying, but he hadn’t. It was just that she’d been angry and hurt because he’d been leaving. Hurt, she had wanted to hurt him back.

  Everything Richard has said or done has been to spare me pain. Didn’t he know that if he stayed, there would be no pain? Of course, he did! But he had a mission to finish, and staying in Hoppertown had been out of the question.

  And now? Was his work done? Was that why he’d returned to Hoppertown?

  Kirsten’s lips firmed. He mustn’t leave her again. God had brought him back to her time after time—he was meant to stay here, to do what he could for the cause on Hoppertown soil.

  Suddenly, it became vital for Kirsten to speak of this to Richard. She was sure that she could convince him if only she had a chance.

  But how? How could she talk with him without drawing the young private’s attention?

  She pushed open the alcove doors and flipped back her cover. Climbing from her bed, she gasped when her bare feet hit the cold floor. She found stockings for her feet and then changed her night rail for a heavy, long-sleeved, woolen gown of dark blue.

  After silently slipping down the stairs, she crept into the parlor. The blood flooded through her veins in her excitement.

  “Richard,” she whispered. “Richard . . .”

  No answer. The only sound was a man’s soft snoring. She took another step into the room and was able to make out the two sleeping pallets on the floor. She froze. One of them was empty. Instinctively, she knew it was Richard’s, and she went outside where she knew she’d find him.

  He left the garden for the ruin. He knew it was dangerous to stray so far from the house, but something pulled him there. Memories of him and Kirsten?

  Richard was at the cellar opening, preparing to pull away the wood blocking the entrance, when he heard a noise. He froze as he was able to make out a male voice . . . several male voices. He moved from the door, and slunk around the building to peer at the other side.

  His eyes widened at what he saw. He counted nine figures—all men—in conversation. Richard shuddered to realize how close they were, how easily he could have been discovered or caught.

  He strained to hear them, to see who they were, but their voices didn’t carry to him. He knew they were the enemy. These men wouldn’t be meeting on this property secretly if they weren’t Loyalists. As he moved closer to hear better, he caught one man’s laughter and the raised triumphant voice of another. Richard recognized the second man as William Randolph, Kirsten’s uncle.

  Rage blinded him. He wanted to rush at the man, choke him for all the pain he had caused Kirsten, his family, and so many of the area’s residents. Without Randolph, Hoppertown would have stayed a relatively peaceful haven during this bloody war—and Miles might still be alive.

  Richard rose, clenching his fingers. Reason returned as the men moved away, and he realized that against so many his chances of prevailing was remote.

  But I could kill Randolph, he thought.

  And die for your deed, an inner voice said. How will Kirsten feel then?

  Richard hunkered back into a crouch, watching with helpless anger as the Tories left. He would follow them for a time and see where they’d made their camp.

  “Biv!” someone called, and Richard’s breath caught when William Randolph stopped. “Where are we goin’?”

  “I’ve a cabin . . . not far.”

  Richard released the air from his lungs. Having rescued the man’s wife, he knew where the cabin was. He felt a surge of determination, of purpose. So William Randolph was Biv . . . What pleasure it was going to give him to get his hands on Randolph and wring the truth out of him.

  A dry branch snapped behind him. Startled, Richard spun, his gun raised to kill. His russet gaze glowed as he saw who had come.

  “Kirsten,” he murmured, lowering the rifle.

  He glanced back toward the woods the Tories had entered, and knew that, if he followed his first notion and went after Randolph and his men, Kirsten would demand to go with him.

  Making a quick decision, Richard set down his rifle and opened his arms. The choice hadn’t been a difficult one. He knew where Randolph was heading. There would be time to find him, to capture his men. Or perhaps it would be wiser to lure the bastard out, he thought. But at this moment, he’d been given a blessing, granted a dream. Kirsten was here, and he’d been aching for her. His gaze flamed with desire; his body burned.

  “Come to me, love,” he said.

  “Richard,” she gasped, joy brightening her face.

  And the lovers were properly reunited, flowing into each other’s embrace.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  When he returned to the cabin to find his wife gone and Phelps in residence, William Randolph went into a murderous rage.

  “Where is she?” he demanded of the disfigured man.

  Phelps gawked at him, shaking his head. “What, Biv?” he sputtered. “What d’ye mean?”

  Furious at the man’s inadequate reply, the Englishman drove his fist into Phelps’s face, striking him again and again. Phelps had not unexpected the attack, and his nose had broken with the first punch. Still, William continued to beat him until there was blood everywhere, staining Phelps’s clothing, splattering the front of Randolph’s coat. The other men stared, but didn’t help Phelps. They’d never seen someone so enraged as William.

  “Goddamn her!” Randolph bellowed when he was done punishing his most loyal man. “She belongs here with her husband, not with that dim-witted sister of mine!” For it hadn’t taken William long to figure out where Catherine had headed. Where else would she go but to the Van Atta farm? If she wasn’t injured or lying dead in the forest somewhere.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked Phelps.

  The man cringed. He looked pathetic with his beaten, misshapen features covered in blood. His swollen nose and bruised facial parts made him appear even more disfigured. “For a few hours is all.” He had difficulty speaking through his split lips.

  “By God!” William shouted, smashing his hand against the cabin wall. “I’ll find her! I’ll force her to do her duty! She’ll be a good wife to me! She must! She’s all I have left now.”

  During this last outburst, Phelps jumped back out of Randolph’s reach, and several of the men stared at their leader, unwilling to cross him yet appalled by his behavior.

  Pete McGinnis dared to utter a word. “You’ve got us, Biv,” he said in an attempt to soothe the distraught man.

  The members of the Tory band knew him only as Biv. It wouldn’t do if one of them got captured by the enemy and talked. Only John Greene and Thaddeus Phelps knew his real identity.

  William’s dark gaze glittered with wicked fervor. He stared at McGinnis as if he were going to beat a second man to a bloody pulp. But then suddenly, as quickly as it had come, Randolph’s anger was gone.

  “That’s right,” he said, his tone soft and even. “We have each other now, haven’t we?�
�� These men were at his command. He’d use them to wipe out the enemy. He’d kill James Van Atta and his family, and then he’d retrieve Catherine and make her see that her place was at his side. Miles’s death had been an accident, he’d make her see this. She’d understand that it was Kirsten’s fault that Miles was dead. When the war finally ended, he and Catherine would live peacefully and prosperously on whichever property in the area he claimed for his own.

  “Tomorrow we return to Hoppertown,” he said. “These boers believe they’ve seen bloodshed; ’tis nothing to what they’ll be seeing!”

  And William gathered the men around him to make plans.

  The woman beside him shivered as he nuzzled her neck and ran his fingers over her bare shoulder. “Are you cold?” Richard asked.

  Kirsten shook her head, but Richard thought she must be chilled. They were in the old mill cellar without blankets or bed, and the night was a cold one.

  They’d chosen this spot because it was secluded and familiar. After carrying the woman he loved inside, Richard had set her down gently on her feet. A moment later, he was building a small fire. He wanted to see Kirsten as he touched her . . . loved her. Even the smallest flame would provide warmth.

  “See, I kept my promise,” he said, showing her the words he’d scratched in the dirt. “I did say good-bye.”

  “Oh, Richard . . .”

  He removed his coat and spread it on the ground to cushion the dirt floor. They came together and kissed; their passion warming their hearts as well as their bodies.

  It was a moment of gladness as Richard undid the front hooks of Kirsten’s gown and tugged the bodice down. His eyes warmed from a russet color to a hot cinnamon as he bared her to the waist. Fondling the creamy flesh before him, he watched with pleasure as her nipples budded, then dipped his head to taste her sweetness, enjoying the soft moan that escaped her lips as he suckled her.

  She smelled like wild flowers, a scent that tantalized him and heightened his desire. He knelt on the ground before her, and placed his lips to her belly. She gasped and clutched his head, and he dared to move his kisses lower. He pushed her gown down over her hips, helped her to step out of it.

  She stood in her naked glory, a beautiful golden . goddess in the firelight. And then Richard pressed his mouth to her womanly cleft. Kirsten climaxed and cried out.

  She was still trembling when Richard rose and pressed his straining manhood against her secret place. They kissed and rocked, grinding against each other.

  Kirsten wanted to touch him, to feel him deep inside her, to be warmed by the heat of his flesh. She stepped back from his arms and proceeded to unbutton his shirt and slip the garment from Richard’s broad shoulders. Her breath rasped as she began to touch him, to explore his muscled chest. Richard caressed her as she tugged at his breeches. She held her breath as he moved back to take them off. And then she was touching him . . . stroking him once again.

  The gentle exploration became heated, then frantic. On his coat they joined, breasts touching, hips thrusting, stroking and crying out as they soared upward. Kirsten gasped; Richard groaned. For a moment, the world exploded into bright colors and wild sensation.

  They floated slowly back to earth and lay in the sweet aftermath of making love. Richard, at Kirsten’s side, was unable to stop touching her. He was ready for her again, and by the look in her eyes, she was willing.

  He felt her shiver and moved to cover her with his length. She moaned and clutched his shoulders, her fingers splaying across his muscled back as he gently nuzzled her neck, then shifted his position to kiss the satiny skin of her right breast.

  “Richard . . .” Her eyes opened to stare at him, glistening blue orbs that shone with the flame of desire and the golden glow of their small fire.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “Tell me.”

  She closed her eyes, arched her neck, and murmured, “For you to stay . . . to never, never go away.”

  He tensed above her. Her soft hands stroked him, soothing him, and he relaxed and bent to lick her pink nipple.

  “Richard!”

  “Yes, love.”

  “Richard!” she cried out as he suckled the tip and then transferred his attention to its twin, while at the same time his fingers went to the most secretive, moist part of her.

  He couldn’t promise her he’d stay . . . yet. But he could pleasure her, make her touch the sky and hover for those breathtaking, mind-shattering moments of ecstasy. And when he had done this, he, too, flew like a bird and descended to earth on a cloud.

  They lay with limbs entwined, hearts beating as one. Lethargic but feeling good, they held each other and prayed that their time together would never end.

  But all too soon they had to go. Andrew Jones might discover Richard gone, and the sun would be up soon. Without a word, Richard rose, and Kirsten followed him. They dressed in silence, then cautiously left the ruin for the house.

  They didn’t speak of the future, for it was too uncertain. Richard didn’t make promises; and Kirsten, after that one moment in which she’d spoken her heart, didn’t press him for any.

  The war continued—the fight for freedom—as did the struggle to contain one’s emotions in the face of dire uncertainties.

  On December 4, 1778, the First Pennsylvania Regiment of the Continental Army settled in for a stay at the Paramus encampment. The villagers were pleased to see the soldiers arrive. Weary and worn, the men nevertheless looked impressive in their military cocked hats and brown uniform coats, the white linen straps of their haversacks and cartridge boxes crossing their chests. Plagued by Tories these past days, the Hoppertown residents saw an end to their torment, although perhaps only a temporary one. That night, for the first time in a long while, they went to bed without fear. The Continental soldiers would surely deter the Tories from attacking their homes.

  Richard, Andrew, and the other occupants of the Van Atta household stayed awake long into the night. Unlike their Hoppertown neighbors, they knew who was in charge of the Tory band, and they believed nothing would stop William Randolph. The man was beyond logical thinking; no Continental Army would deter him from his raids.

  Unwilling at first to confess that he’d seen the Tories near the ruin, Richard had not brought the matter up with anyone but Private Jones. William Randolph might be a terrible, cruel man, but he was a relative of those he stayed with. Richard feared one of the Van Attas or even Catherine Randolph might interfere with the Patriots’ capture of him.

  But he knew he couldn’t take Randolph without help. After discussing the matter with the young private, Richard decided to speak to the family. That night, while the residents of Hoppertown slept peacefully, Richard and the others talked of seizing William Randolph.

  “But how are we to lure him out? He’s a cunning soul,” James Van Atta said.

  Catherine, who had been quietly listening for a time, spoke up. “Our house is empty. He’ll return for clean garments and food. William hates to look anything but his best. In fact, it’s almost an obsession with him.”

  Richard raised a blond eyebrow. “He’s been back to the house?”

  The dark-haired woman inclined her head. “At least once that I know of. He brought me some things and ordered me to make myself more presentable.”

  “Bastard!” Agnes muttered. Shocked, her family stared at her, but she held James’s gaze steadily until Kirsten broke the stunned silence.

  “Shall we go to the house and lay a trap for him?” she asked.

  “You stay here with your family where you’ll be safe,” Richard said firmly.

  Kirsten gaped at him. “And who are you to say what I can or can’t do!”

  A muscle ticked in Richard’s temple. “I’ll not be worrying about a female with some foolish notion of revenge.”

  “Oh? And what is your motive?” she challenged.

  Red-faced, Richard ignored her comment and turned to Private Jones. “Andrew, you and I will go to the Randolphs’.” He glanced in Catherine
’s direction. “With the lady’s permission, of course.” She nodded, granting it. “I’ll speak to the regiment’s commander in the morning. Perhaps if I explain the situation, he’ll give us a man or two.”

  “I’d like to help,” James Van Atta said.

  “Thank you, but you would be more useful here where you can guard the women and report to us if William decides to come here instead of to his home.”

  The men in the group continued to make plans, while the women offered an opinion now and then. Only Kirsten remained silent, privately stewing over Richard’s abrupt dismissal of her worth. She wouldn’t be a hindrance but a help. Her uncle was out to get her, too. She could be the bait!

  Near the end of the discussion, when the party broke up to retire, Kirsten asked Richard to accompany her outside. She then told him of her idea of using herself as bait.

  “Absolutely not,” he said, and his stern manner made her clench her fists at her sides as she stifled the urge to hit him. “I won’t have you hurt. I couldn’t bear it if you were.”

  His confession didn’t make her soften. “And I’m supposed to wait here and worry about you? How many times have you come and gone now, mynheer? Do you think it was easy for me?”

  “No,” he said, his lips firmed.

  “Stubborn swine!” she cried, before she stomped off to her room.

  Kirsten’s temper increased to the boiling point when she learned the next day that Catherine Randolph would be going with the men. Only she and her mother would be left behind.

  “But she’s a female,” she said. “Why would it be any less dangerous for her?”

  Richard’s patience had reached its limit the night before. “Because, woman, she’s Randolph’s wife! He must be frantically searching for her by now! A few hints about her dropped in the right places, and the man will come home to get her!”

  She saw the logic behind their reasoning, but was unwilling to admit it. “Please, Richard! Let me go with you.”

  He sighed with exasperation. “Kirsten, don’t make me say something I might regret.”