Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  She pushed harder, going so far as to kick at his back, though she felt ghoulish and ashamed at abusing a dead or grievously injured man. He did not even flinch. He was dead or so deeply unconscious as to be harmless. Crouching down, Willa attempted to flip him over.

  Large hands grabbed her ankles. Almost before she could blink, she found herself flat on her back with several hundred pounds of irate male on top of her. She stared upward, lashes fluttering madly, wits scattered to the wind, the breath crushed from her lungs by his overwhelming weight.

  “I … I can’t breathe,” she managed to whisper. Blood hammered in her ears, and she pictured her face turning blue from lack of air.

  His steely eyes flickered, the dark brows jutting together. As he pressed her wrists to the ground, he brought up his knees, straddled her waist, and lifted his upper body. She squeezed her eyelids closed at the retribution in his gray gaze.

  “Why were you spying on me, boy?” he rasped in a deep voice that ignited a disquieting flame in her lower stomach.

  His choice of words struck her like an artillery shell. Boy? Willa blinked open her eyes, and her initial panic began to ebb. She had no idea whether to feel smug at her successful disguise or insulted he failed to notice her breasts when his body lay atop hers. Mayhap her bosom was small, but not so small as to be discounted entirely. She was a woman, full grown. Temptation tugged at her injured pride to correct his blunder. But he topped her by more than a foot and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. And he was a rebel. Under the circumstances, she recognized the prudence of granting him his erroneous illusion.

  His breath wafted across her cheek again. “Answer me, damn you, or I shall wring your scrawny neck and leave you for the ‘gators.”

  Her gaze meshed with eyes like molten mercury in a wide, bushy black beard of a face. Swamp mud coated the skin not covered by whiskers. He had lost his hat during the fall, revealing a wild abundance of dark hair that ran to ebony. Rather bearlike. His voice was pitched to intimidate but contained no real menace. Still, a healthy caution strung her nerves tight.

  “I-I ain’t spyin',” she sputtered, her thoughts spinning. If only she could reach the hunting knife in its sheath at her waist or the paring knife tied to her forearm under her shirtsleeve. And the skinning knife in her boot? Also inaccessible in her current position.

  “Speak up,” he prodded. “Tell me. What did you overhear?”

  His persistence and painful grip sparked a streak of belligerence. “Not’in',” she spat and assumed a sullen expression.

  His eyes narrowed even more, were that remotely possible. Releasing her wrists, he caught her shoulders in his hands and shook her until her head bounced against the spongy ground. When her hat flew off, hair whipped against the sides of her face and into her eyes. She silently thanked her impulse to cut her hair before venturing out. The last time she had roamed the swamp masquerading as a boy, she ran into a British patrol. When a soldier snatched off her hat, Major Thomas Digby, her father’s obnoxious aide, recognized her and hauled her back to Willowbend for one of the most humiliating episodes in all her seventeen years.

  “Leave off,” she shouted through the pain piercing her skull. “I swear, I ain’t heard not’in'. I was jes’ huntin', an’ when I saw yur campfire, I skedaddled.”

  The officer let go of her shoulders and sat up, his thighs pressing either side of her hips, his groin heavy on her stomach. Crossing his arms over his chest, he glared down at her.

  His voice lashed out again. “Where do you live?”

  With one shaky hand rubbing her sore head, she pointed with the other. “On the backside’a the swamp. My pa’s got a farm.” Having lived in the Americas since her eighth year, she could lapse at will into the broad, flat accent of the colonists, though it compelled her stepmother to roll her eyes in censure.

  “Why did you run?” he prompted.

  Willa favored him with a look that labeled him a lackwit. “I don’ know not’in’ ‘boutcha. I figured you was a deserter. My pa’s warned me ‘bout messin’ with deserters. Said they’d as likely slit my throat as look at me. I jes’ wanted ta get as far away as fast as I could.”

  A suspicious glint settled in his eyes, and a curve tilted one side of his mouth. “If you were hunting, where is your musket?”

  Dammit, he’s right. Had I been hunting, I’d have been carrying a gun. Willa grabbed the first thought that flew into her head. “I dropped it when I ran ta my horse. I was too scared ta go back. Please,” she pleaded, hoping to distract him and escape before he asked a question she would be powerless to answer convincingly. “Please let me up. Yur crushin’ me.”

  The rebel shot her a silent look rife with warning. His weight shifted, and he rose to his impressive height. Fingers clutched her arm in a tight grip and jerked her to her feet. Conflicted emotions clouded his face as his grasp relaxed a bit. “Where did you learn to ride like that?” His voice sounded less angry … even held a hint of respect.

  Willa forced a smile. She was on her feet and had lulled him into believing she was harmless. “Injuns. My pa kept some slaves after the Injun wars.”

  Her smile coaxed a tilt from the man’s lips, but distrust still lurked in his eyes and shaped the expression on his face. As stubborn as a balky mule, he continued with his interrogation. “And that horse? Where did you get him? I’ve never seen his like. Seems a mite fancy for a farmer.”

  She heaved a mental sigh. Would the cursed rebel never run out of questions? Some trapper would stumble across their skeletons years from now, and the officer’s fleshless jawbone would still be flapping. “My pa captured him durin’ the Injun wars. He’s the only horse we got. Now you gonna let me go?”

  She could imagine the wheels turning in his head as he debated what action to pursue. She hoped he would now send her on her way.

  “You had best tell me what you heard, boy, and maybe I’ll let you go.”

  Willa shook her head and sent him a look of disgust. “I gotta say, yur some kind’a stubborn, ain’tcha, mister? I already tole you twice. Didn’ hear not’in'. Didn’ see not’in'. Don’ want ta know not’in', not who you are or what you was doin’ way out here in the swamp. I jes’ wanna go home.”

  While he chewed over her response, Willa picked out mud from under her fingernails with a twig. Her fingers trembled.

  A sigh gusted from the officer. His manner relaxed, and he bent over to scoop his hat off the ground. His next words revealed his capitulation. “You have a name?”

  Willa lifted her gaze, the tension easing in her chest. “Will,” she said with a cagey smile.

  “All right, Will. You said your farm is just outside the swamp?”

  She nodded as she edged toward Cherokee.

  “I shall take you home, then. Your pa was right to warn you about deserters. You should not be in this area alone.”

  Her brief taste of victory took a dive, and her stomach sank along with her optimism. “Thanks. Ain’t needin’ no bodyguard though. I kin fin’ my way home without yur help. ‘Sides, I don’ cotton ta yur company much anyways.”

  The officer gave her a sharp look. He caught up Cherokee’s reins and handed them to her. “Nevertheless, I plan to ride with you and see that you reach home with no further incidents. Your pa must be worried about you.”

  With a scowl, she warded off the man’s offer to help her mount and climbed aboard Cherokee. Should her “pa,” Lord Colonel George Bellingham, the Earl of Westchester, become privy to her escapade, he would be more than worried. How would she shake off the annoying man now? She had no intention of allowing him to follow her to her father’s “farm,” a massive plantation house on the Georgetown outskirts.

  “So, what else did you learn from the Indians?” the officer inquired after mounting his horse.

  She turned to note the smug grin on his face. “Jes’ this.” She whisked her hand to the throwing knife tucked in the small of her back, slung her arm forward, and her fingers released the weapo
n. It spun through the air and buried itself hilt-deep in the tree beside him, catching and pinning his coat sleeve to the trunk. Spinning Cherokee on his back legs, she threw the rebel a salute and took off at a gallop. She glanced back to see him grasp the knife hilt with two hands and yank it from the tree trunk.

  The sun had reached midsky by the time Willa emerged from beneath the palmetto trees. Brutal heat beat down without mercy on her shoulders. Adrenaline still raced through her veins as she headed for the creek. Removing her hat, she banged it against her thigh. Lumps of dried mud cracked and fell to the dusty road. She smiled as she recalled the look on the officer’s face when he found himself pinned to that tree. She regretted the loss of her best hunting knife, but she had seen no other way to escape his clutches.

  As she ambled down the Georgetown road, she pondered how to pass on her observations to British headquarters. It seemed an uphill task. Though she spent time in close quarters with the traitor, she would have difficulty describing him to others. The full beard and long, shaggy hair all but hid his features, which was their obvious purpose. Other than the gray eyes, dark hair, and full, wide mouth, he had little in the way of distinguishing characteristics. He was tall, and brawny … and heavy. She rubbed a hand over her chest. But were he shaven, shorn, and dressed for town, she could pass him on the street without a spark of recognition. Besides which, in order to report the incident, she would have to explain her actions to her family. What she reaped from her brief encounter with the rebels seemed paltry compared to the misery her stepmother would subject her to.

  Willa dismounted at the stream, dropped the reins, and let Cherokee drink his fill. Kneeling beside him, she cupped her hands in the water to bring them up to her face. When the thud of hooves echoed from the road, her head snapped up. She scrambled to her feet and pulled Cherokee’s muzzle from the water. Had the rebel officer trailed her to the stream? Could he possibly be that stubborn? Had he nothing better to occupy his time than to run her to the ends of the earth?

  Before allowing panic to push her into a rash move, she paid closer attention to the sound. Not one horse, but a party. Only British and Tory patrols traveled openly on the roads in the daytime, particularly on this main byway. She and they were on the same side. Even so, she would find herself on the receiving end of a wretched interrogation should they catch her. She glanced around for cover, but the meadow behind her stretched out as flat as Cook’s batter cakes. The patrol would see her when they rode by. She had no choice other than flight. Mounting Cherokee, she urged the tired horse into a gallop.

  “Halt! Halt and identify yourself or be shot!”

  Willa ignored the command. A pistol ball whined over her head … close enough to make her heart stutter. She slowed Cherokee and brought him to a stop when it became clear her stepmother’s wrath would be a less severe punishment than a lead ball in the back.

  Seven Tory dragoons in crimson uniforms crossed the ground between them. Willa dropped her reins and raised her hands. She groaned when the men drew close enough for her to recognize the leader’s wavy blond hair and well-groomed mustache. After her stepmother, the second most irritating person in her life: Major Thomas Digby.

  He was a dandy, and Willa despised nothing so much as a foppish man. When he sought to court her, she brushed off his advances as though he were a pesky mosquito. Ever since, he’d been a burr in her bedroll.

  The horses hove to, and Digby slanted a smile of recognition rampant with delight, much like the smile a cat might offer a sparrow caught under its paw. “Good morn, Lady Wilhelmina.” He brought his bay up beside her and tipped his hat. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  Willa raised her chin and looked down her nose at him. “Indeed, Major Digby, unexpected for me, as well, though I would hesitate to call it a pleasure. Had I the merest notion you were slithering down this road, I would have chosen another route.”

  A few snickers and whispered comments came from the soldiers behind Digby and passed through her ears, causing the skin to tighten over her cheeks.

  Digby folded his manicured hands on the saddle rise. His elegant features scarcely twitched at her insult. “Then to what do I owe this honor, my lady? I confess I’m confounded. Has your coachman misplaced your carriage while returning you from your morning calls?” His insolent gaze crawled over her, and he leaned forward to brace himself on his hands. “But we both know why you more resemble a mud-splattered muskrat than you do a lady, do we not? You’ve been larking through the swamp again in direct defiance of your father’s orders.”

  She glowered and gave up all attempts at good manners. “Wrong, Digby, I’ve been wallowing in the mud beside the stream. The Ladies’ Quarterly Journal suggests a mud pack is good for the complexion. Now, if you and your soldier boys would take yourselves off and mind your own business instead of mine, I shall be on my way.”

  His mouth hardened into a line. “I think not.” His hand whisked out to seize the reins from her hands. “As Colonel Bellingham’s aide and friend, I’m obliged to take a vested interest in your safety. Should you persist in riding alone along a dangerous stretch of road, there’s no telling what vermin you might run into.”

  Like you. She lunged sideways to retrieve her reins, but he held them out of her reach. “You have no say in what I do or where I go.” She was as sick as a rabid coon of dealing with overbearing males. First the rebel officer, now Digby. A headache began to beat against her temples. “Return my reins so I can take my leave.”

  He smiled, turned his horse, and tugged Cherokee alongside as his mount broke into a trot. “Nonsense, my lady. You are obviously overwrought. Your father will thank me for fetching you home.”

  “Digby,” she shouted, “I shall get even with you for this.”

  He did not deign to turn his head as he kicked his horse into a canter.

  “Pray inform Colonel Bellingham I have business with him,” Digby said to Quinn, the Bellinghams’ butler.

  The butler’s gaze flitted from Major Digby to Cherokee, who stood hip-shot and half-asleep in the crushed-shell drive. Willa felt like the worst kind of fool as she fumed atop the horse’s back. She sorely tried Quinn in his efforts to hide her dangerous activities from her father. Were the colonel to discover the true extent of her excursions, he would pack her off to England in a trice to reside with her older sisters.

  From his position on the top step of the porch, Quinn pulled himself up to his full height of five feet six inches and managed to look down on the much taller Major Digby. “I see,” he intoned in his haughtiest voice. “Unfortunately, Colonel Bellingham is not available. I shall attend to Lady Wilhelmina and notify the colonel that you brought her home safely.” He waved an imperious hand. “My lady, leave Cherokee for Plato and come into the house immediately.”

  Digby’s face infused with anger. “Here now, Quinn, I really must insist on speaking with the colonel.”

  Willa slid off Cherokee and climbed the front steps. With a muddy elbow in his side, she pushed her way past a red-faced Digby. He glared at her, but she paid him no mind and slipped around Quinn to disappear through the door.

  Quinn stepped back into the doorway. “My apologies, Major Digby. As I said, Colonel Bellingham is not available.” He shut the door in Digby’s face and turned on Willa when she dropped into an antique chair in the foyer. “Remove yourself from that before you ruin it,” he hissed. “Your condition is disgraceful.”

  Willa slowly pushed herself to her feet. “I beg you, save your criticism for another time. I’m quite aware of my state. A bath and a few hours’ sleep should serve to make me presentable.” She threw him a look of inquiry. “Dare I ask? Is Papa truly unavailable? Or was your speech solely for Digby’s benefit?”

  Quinn helped her shed the mud-caked jacket and held it gingerly with his fingertips as if it were a porcupine. “Your father is in his study. And should you fail to lower your voice, he will discover your shocking state of dress and realize where you’ve been.”

/>   “Where is Marlene?” She searched the foyer and the doorways to the main rooms, looking for the witch who plagued her daily existence. Since her wedding to Colonel Bellingham last year, Marlene had vowed to wed Willa to the first country squire to cross their threshold and spewed a constant stream of criticism aimed at Willa’s lack of social graces. But Willa had no inclination to pursue womanly arts. She would not marry until she found her one true love, the man who could set her heart afire. And in all honesty, she was unlikely to stumble across this paragon of manhood in the swamps where she wiled away most of her days and nights in her fruitless quest for Francis Marion. If she could find him, she would achieve one goal—her father would, at last, set aside his disappointment in breeding only useless daughters.

  “Fortunately for you, Lady Bellingham took the carriage into town,” Quinn replied. “I need not remind you what she would say about your antics. I was obligated to provide an alibi for you at breakfast this morning. I told your parents you rode out early to the Chesters’ plantation to visit with Miss Amelia.”

  “You are a loyal friend, Quinn.” Willa yawned, pulled off her hat, and combed a hand through her cropped hair.

  Quinn gaped at her and reached out a shaky hand. “Dear heavens, child, what have you done to your beautiful hair?”

  She sent him a look warning him not to read her a lecture. “Is it not apparent? I cut it.”

  He pressed his lips into a grim line. “And how, pray tell, will you explain that to your parents?”

  Willa sighed. “Yes, well, I suppose I shall think of something. Right now I’m exhausted. I fear my brain has taken leave of my body.”

  “Indeed, it has,” he said as he ushered her up the stairs and turned her over to her maid. Jwana viewed the ragged hair with wide eyes and an open mouth.

  Willa quelled the maid’s protest. “I know, I know. You have no need to ring a peal over my head. Pray fetch me some bathwater and a cake or two of soap.”