by Cat Lindler
DEDICATION:
To my mother, Lella Lindler Mooneyhan Mullins,
a true Southern lady who loved romance.
Published 2009 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright (c) 2009 by Cat Lindler
Cover Illustration by Arturo Delgado
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN:9781933836515
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
My thanks go out for all the assistance I received while writing this book, especially for the honesty and support of Chalene Fleming, author, friend, and critique partner. Thanks also to author and friend Tammy Seymour for reading the rough draft, and to the Georgetown Historical Society, the South Carolina Department of Archives, the South Carolina State Library Georgetown, and the University of South Carolina for guiding me toward many of my original sources.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Bibliography
Chapter 1
Georgetown, South Carolina
October 1780
A new day was emerging, a fresh chance to catch Francis Marion.
Wilhelmina Bellingham raised a hand to deflect the sun’s glare as it mounted the sky. She examined the marsh and wrinkled her nose at the salty tang, an odor of fish and crabs, and rotting logs in brackish water. Midges and mosquitoes settled on shallow pools. Fiddler crabs vied for the few muddy patches poking above the water. A marsh harrier soared overhead, then dipped down to skim the reeds and cattails. And at the edge of the open marsh, live oaks spread shadowy fingers over a sea of motionless gold-green grass. She remained transfixed for a moment and basked in the peaceful solitude of her most beloved refuge.
A mosquito buzzed in her ear and broke the spell. She waved it away. Her thoughts veered from the sharp calls of flocking grackles and red-wing blackbirds to her task, bringing the rebel traitor, Francis Marion, to the King’s justice. Pulling off the sheer scarf draped over her head and shoulders, she shoved it into her trouser pocket. Though barely morning, muggy air painted wet circles on her back. Sweat dripped into her eyes, and she wiped her face with her shirtsleeve.
The survey satisfied her, and she nudged her horse, Cherokee, forward. He waded through the shallows, moving off the salt marsh and into the cypress swamp where the flute-like pit-pit-pit-pit from hermit thrushes beneath glossy-dark magnolia bushes heralded their passage. They progressed a hundred yards or so when Cherokee pulled up, lifted his head, and pricked his ears forward. His nostrils trembled. A flicker rippled across his hide, and goose bumps rose on Willa’s skin.
She held her breath and listened, separating out the faint bass rumble of male voices from the chorus of bullfrogs, yellow-rumped warblers, and droning insects. Her heartbeat quickened, but she cautioned herself to contain her eagerness. She had run across hunters and trappers numerous times in past weeks. Francis Marion was not the only intruder to brave the swamp’s dangers.
Sliding from the horse’s back, she slipped ankle-deep into the muck beneath the water. Her trembling fingers tied the reins to a tree in deep shadow, and she crept closer. Behind an ancient cypress, she settled downwind to watch the activity on a grass hummock twenty yards away.
Three heavily bearded men sat on logs around a campfire’s ashy remains. Willa searched for a guard, but only distant leaves stirred from the movement of horses staked out in the trees. The men’s relaxed attitudes labeled them either local hunters or rebels. Only those familiar with the swamp dared venture this far inside. This trio seemed more at ease than would be the case with Army deserters.
Confident she was unobserved and in no immediate danger, Willa focused her attention on the men. Homespun pants and jackets, wide-brimmed slouch hats, and heavy, scuffed boots predominated. One man wore a frayed British infantry jacket dyed a nut brown. Another had tucked his trouser legs into military long boots distinctive to cavalry officers. None wore the blue coat said to be characteristic of Francis Marion.
From the low, urgent voices, she snatched bits of conversation from the still air. The one in the brown coat mumbled something about “a courier.” Another, dressed head to toe in butternut homespun, cursed and squirted tobacco juice from the side of his mouth. The man in the cavalry boots rose to his feet and swept his arms outward in a gesture indicative of frustration. For a brief moment, she identified with his emotion. She had hoped to discover the rebel leader himself, but he did not appear to be among them.
“Bloody hell! I don’t give a damn for your excuses.” His voice soared, startling the egrets in the branches and sending them into frantic flight. He glanced toward the sudden movement, then continued as he brought his attention back to the men. “This mission is vital. Should you fail, we might as well pack up and move out of Carolina.” As he prowled back and forth in ground-eating strides, a shaft of pale sunlight filtered through the palmettos and highlighted his tall, broad body.
Willa watched the rebel, the strength and grace in his movement. Something about him, some coiled energy she sensed, accelerated her pulse and stole her breath. Unless her senses had deserted her, he was as dangerous as a rattlesnake.
“I care not how you do it,” he said, “find a way to get me inside. And find it soon.” His aura of command singled him out as a military officer. But whose? He stopped pacing and propped one foot on the log. “Marion has confidence in you, as do I. Pray you don’t disappoint him or me,” he said with urgency. Straightening, he dismissed the men with a sharp gesture.
Marion! Willa blessed the luck that led her to this particular spot in the swamp this morning. She might have failed to encounter the person of Fr
ancis Marion, but she now had no doubt these were his men.
The brown-coated man, a smaller, more slender version of the ill-humored officer, bounded to his feet, threw a salute, and trotted over to the horses. The third man, the short, stocky one in butternut, spit out his tobacco wad, rose more slowly, and followed his fellow rebel. The officer remained beside the spent fire, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed. In a sudden, savage motion, he kicked at the ground as though he longed for something more animate to punish. The thud of his boot connecting with the log echoed through the wall of cypress and palmetto trees.
Willa nearly felt the waves of anger he radiated. Her impression of his dangerous nature bore fruit at his muttered imprecations and stiff posture. He touched a core inside her that triggered her shoulders to draw inward, an unconscious response to render herself smaller and less visible. This was one man she had no desire to encounter head-to-head in some lonely stretch of swamp. Never!
The two subordinates swung onto their horses and reined them around. Convinced they were carrying a message to Marion, Willa edged backward through the underbrush. She broke into a run as she neared her horse, snatched his reins from the branch, and propelled herself onto his bare back by grabbing a handful of mane. Steering Cherokee in a wide circle around the clearing, she took off after the mounted men. Once beyond sight of the camp, she touched her heels to Cherokee’s flanks and pushed him into a gallop. His large hooves, splashing through water and snapping branches, raised a racket she prayed the officer would confuse with the flight of his own men.
Willa flattened her body to Cherokee’s neck and allowed him to choose his path. Raucous scolding from Carolina wrens inside the lime green of wild sloe bushes accompanied their passing. Cherokee barely turned an ear to the furor. He seemed to sense her urgent desire to follow the fleeing horses and remained on their trail. He was used to running through the swamp, and she could count on him to avoid the deeper water and quicksand traps. From her crouched position, she gave him his head and kept her eyes on the path lest they draw too close to their prey.
After running for close to ten minutes, Cherokee snorted, swept his head sideways, and glanced backward. A ripple spread through his muscles. He stretched out and increased his speed. Willa’s pulse burst into a staccato beat. She chanced a quick look over her shoulder, swore, and spurred Cherokee to greater effort.
A mountain of horse and man was coming up on her rear and gaining, the officer from the clearing bent low over his mount, steam spurting from the black beast’s nostrils like discharge from a ship’s cannon. The sight slammed into her like a punch to the stomach, though in her glimpse, all she saw of the rider was the crown of his wide-brimmed hat, powerful thighs gripping the horse’s heaving sides, and tall black cavalry boots.
Alternatives sped through her mind as quickly as Cherokee’s hooves ate up the ground. She could veer off into an area where the larger man and horse would find themselves at a disadvantage. Or she could attempt to outrun them. Cherokee’s experience with the swamp would give her an edge in an all-out race. But then she faced the likelihood of running up on the heels of the other two men. Either way, her opportunity to follow them to Marion’s hideaway had slipped away.
“Blast him!” Willa abruptly detoured Cherokee into an all but invisible passage between two trees. He soared over an uprooted live oak trunk and ducked beneath a curtain of moss without breaking stride. A quick jig to the right through a bank of ferns, over three pairs of jutting cypress knees, and a sharp left around a tangle of blackberry vines. Now the narrow way was straight and true. She let him sprout wings. Clods of palmetto fronds, strings of Virginia creeper, and the wet green smell of shredded vegetation flew up from his hooves. Startled swamp denizens scrambled to safety.
Certain she had lost the rebel, Willa slowed Cherokee to a lope. The man was doubtless, even now, scratching his head and wondering what happened to her. The knot of tension in her stomach unraveled. Cherokee was blowing hard, his headlong flight in the heat taking a toll on him. She eased him down into a trot, and her mouth twitched with a smile.
Then the bushes exploded outward a few yards behind her, and the black beast and rider burst through. The man raised his head, and his hard eyes fastened on her. With a strangled gasp and a lurching stomach, Willa gave Cherokee license to flee once again. The horse put on a burst of speed that threatened to leave the black horse and his rider far behind. But while her route had been convoluted to throw him off her scent, the man’s had been more direct and his larger horse was fresher. The rebel gradually shortened the distance between them.
In a snap decision, she tried another feint. Willa stopped Cherokee in his tracks, swung him around on his hindquarters, and aimed him at the oncoming man. Confusion shone in the officer’s face for a moment. Then he reached down and whipped out his saber. Sword in his right hand, reins in his left, he braced for the collision. At the last possible second, Cherokee slewed wide around his left side and thundered past. The glinting blade whistled through empty air.
Damn him to the devil! The accursed rebel appeared behind her once again. Willa’s heart pounded against her ribs. By now any normal man would admit defeat and forsake the chase. This one was harder to pry loose than a deer tick. She had one more trick. Should it fail to work … well, it simply had to. She feared to envision what the devil would do were he to capture her and discover her gender. She could not imagine his acting the gentleman and calmly escorting her to Marion’s camp as a prisoner of war, then negotiating with her father for her release.
When the trail forked, she leaned left and peered back at her nemesis. He continued to gain. Excellent. She silently willed him to draw as close as possible without overtaking her.
With her objective in sight, Willa straightened, and Cherokee slowed imperceptibly. While sitting upright, she twisted at the waist to catch and hold the gaze of the soldier. He had pewter-gray eyes, though a dark beard hid the remainder of his features. Moving a trifle closer, he stretched out his arm to pull her from Cherokee’s back. All the while, his gaze clung to hers as if an invisible rope tethered them.
The moment she awaited came, a dropping of her horse’s withers when he lowered his neck. Bewilderment dawned in the man’s eyes as she fell backward until her spine made contact with Cherokee’s rump. The fate Willa intended for the officer struck him at the same time as the low branch that dipped across the trail.
“Holy hell,” he muttered a second before the limb whacked him in the chest and swept him off the black horse while Willa and Cherokee ducked beneath it. The ground rose up to meet him with a loud thud.
When the rebel tumbled to the ground, Willa reined in Cherokee. The black horse ran past her and stopped a short distance away. A thrill feathered along her nerves. She could not help but look back to gloat on her victory. She had laid him out like driftwood washed into the salt marsh on high tide. Her racing pulse abated somewhat at the sight of him, lying on his belly in the weeds and ferns.
Turning Cherokee, she walked him toward the fallen man and halted when she drew close. The rebel was quite a bit larger than he had appeared from a distance, pacing in the clearing or hunched over his horse at a gallop. Unsure of what to do now, she studied him for movement, for some minute sign of life. His eyes remained closed—muscles lax, limbs sprawled. She had difficulty determining whether he was even breathing. Sudden pressure squeezed her chest. Had the fall broken his neck? Good God. Had it killed him?
Nausea surged to her throat, and she drew breath with difficulty. She never considered having to cope with killing a man. Though in truth, she’d not exactly killed this one. She merely led him to his death.
She forced herself to inhale a heavy draught of air and shook off the queasy feeling. What was done was done. Were she to make a difference in Britain’s colonial struggle, as she had stated so often to friends and family, she would be well advised to accept the realities of war. Even so, she envisioned her participation in a different light. Her dreams
consisted of heroic rescues of innocent planters from marauding rebels, or miraculous escapes while she defended herself and her virtue from the lustful attentions of rampaging partisans. But her favorite reverie was of her escorting a bound and gagged Francis Marion into the Georgetown garrison. Her imaginary battles embraced trickery, cunning, and feats of courage, not blood and broken bones. This particular situation, this deadly confrontation in the swamp, had unraveled into an unforeseen tangle.
The longer she regarded him, the greater her empathy. A growing urge crept over her, obliging her to deal with the circumstances she had wrought. Were the man truly dead … so be it. Were he merely injured or unconscious, she could not help but feel an obligation to move him to a place where he would present less of a lure for predators, mayhap even an area where his friends would eventually find him. Her blood chilled at the thought of panthers, red wolves, or alligators preying on the wounded man.
As Willa alighted, she shook her head at her own misguided charity. For pity’s sake, he was her enemy—a traitor. She should abandon him without a second’s thought, as he surely would have done had she been the one lying in the ferns. She was allowing her female sentimentality—a personal trait she despised—to influence her.
But she could not disobey the voice of her Christian conscience, which compelled her to determine his condition. And to salve her political conscience, she would search him. Were he an officer in Marion’s Brigade, as she suspected, he could be carrying papers that might prove helpful to her father, the Georgetown Tory commander.
As Willa approached, her muscles tensed for any sudden movement, her prudence seemed muddleheaded. He lay like one dead. No stirring beneath the coat stretched taut across his back. No slight rising as he took a breath. Stopping a foot away, she stretched out a tentative leg and nudged him in the ribs with the toe of her boot. No reaction; no flexing of muscles or indrawn breath.
