by Cat Lindler
Mickles cleared his throat, drawing Brendan’s gaze. Brendan eased back in the chair and listened quietly while the lawyer delivered the sordid story. “I fear I have some rather shocking news,” Mickles commenced with some relish. “Forgive my bluntness, but I have no other recourse. Lord Montford never married your mother. Mearna Stokes was a ship merchant’s daughter, and your grandfather deemed her unsuitable as the next baroness. He forbade the marriage and threatened to disinherit his son should they wed without his consent. But your father fancied himself in love and spurned the lady his father had chosen, preferring instead to live with his paramour, as husband and wife, without benefit of clergy.” Mickles paused to take a sip of water from a crystal glass and gave Brendan an appraising look. “Despite their cohabitation, the union had no legality.”
When he heard this, Brendan grasped what Mickles was telling him.
“You were born of this union,” Mickles continued, “and though his lordship recognized you, he made no provision for you to inherit. When your mother died, your father then married according to the old baron’s dictates, Aidan being the result of that legal union.” The solicitor halted in his discourse and composed his ruddy face into a semblance of sympathy. “I regret having to inform you of this unfortunate situation. But there you have it.”
Certainly Brendan had heard rumors as a child. But he always discounted them, and his father denied them.
“Do you comprehend what I’m saying?” Mickles asked.
Brendan could abide no more. He understood the implications of Mickles’s report. Aidan would inherit Montford and all it entailed. He rose to his feet and left without speaking a word.
They buried his father on a typical English spring day. Gray clouds obscured the sun. A misty rain spotted a forest of black umbrellas raised to ward off the dampness. The odors of turned earth and uprooted grass overpowered the scent of spring flowers in the gardens behind them. Cuckoos and grouse called from the fields.
Brendan stood alone, isolated physically and spiritually from the other mourners, his uncovered head bowed, his gaze directed to the muddy ground. Tears mixed with rain on his cheeks as they lowered his father into the grave and covered him with rich English soil. Brendan now owned nothing, not even the black mourning coat on his back. According to Mickles, Brendan had no money, no home, no family.
His father’s relatives, embarrassed by the physical reality of the baron’s bastard, had no place for him, no use for him, and no sympathy. At nineteen, Brendan Edward Sinclair shortened the name to which he had no right to “Ford” and left England behind for the American colonies.
He made friends in the young country and found a cause—freedom. His upbringing and education as an English gentleman found a useful outlet when he joined the network of General Washington’s spies. Then on the request of General Horatio Gates, Continental commander of the South, Brendan rode his horse, Dancer, down the spine of the Appalachian Mountains to aid the patriot cause in beleaguered South Carolina and offer his talents to the partisans’ most unconventional guerilla leader, General Francis Marion.
Intelligence had become critical for those holding South Carolina by a fragile thread of courage and audacity. And the British commander, Lord General Charles Cornwallis, had personally declared war on Marion, sending out “The Butcher,” Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton, and his Legion of Green Dragoons, with orders to track down and end the rebel’s reign. Marion welcomed Ford’s arrival and made plans to integrate him into the British high echelon. But after two months on campaign, the general had yet to find a way to insert Ford into the British forces where he could ply his forte for spying.
And now Aidan had materialized in South Carolina, riding as a courier for the redcoats. Ford never conceived of Aidan as a military man. Aidan had been too much of a coward and too fond of his comforts to tolerate the hardships of war. Ford wondered what had induced his brother to undertake such a risk.
It shook Ford more than he would admit that he came across his half brother thousands of miles from the Montford estate on a dusty southern road beside a cypress swamp, and that he had played an integral role in an action that cost Aidan his life. Not that Ford mourned him. Aidan was the sort of man who evoked only dislike, even from the most charitable of souls. Nonetheless, Ford did experience a moment’s remorse for his early childhood playmate.
“Captain, are you quite well?”
General Marion’s voice brought him back to the humid night. Ford raised his head. “I’m fine, sir, merely a momentary shock.”
Marion’s face reflected compassion, but the general knew when to keep his own counsel and addressed himself to the business at hand. Private Collins relieved the corpse of its leather dispatch pouch and the personal papers inside the crimson jacket while the general organized a burial detail to hide all evidence of the night’s work. A deeply religious man, Marion paused to pray over the unmarked graves—patriot, British, and Tory alike. He hesitated when he stood above the final resting place of Aidan Sinclair.
The general sent Ford a pointed look. “Do you wish to say a few words, Captain?” When Ford declined with a shake of his head, Marion nodded and recited the poignant words of the Lord’s Prayer, which rang out in the silent, moonlit night.
Their grisly duty done, the men forged back into the swamp and headed for their secret encampment at Snow Island, situated in a nearly impregnable site. The Pee Dee River bordered it on the east, the Lynches River on the north, and Clark’s Creek on the south with an almost impenetrable cane brake running along the island side of Clark’s Creek. The only accessible entrance lay to the west where the expanse of Snow’s Lake, the bogs of Muddy Creek, and the quagmire of Sockee Swamp guarded its doorway.
The men emerged from the swamp one by one, weary from the battle and the hard ride but buoyed by their success. Marion swung down from Ball and retired to his shelter, which sat on a rise in the island’s center. The cabin, barns, and bins of William Goddard’s plantation lay across the ridge. The brigade enjoyed full use of the structures, but Marion and his men preferred to camp in tents and wooden lean-tos. They did, however, put Goddard’s barn to good use as a prison, naming it the “Bull Pen.”
As the militiamen assembled around fires to nurse their wounds, some dug warm sweet potatoes from the ashes and devoured them. Ford rubbed down Dancer’s black coat with twisted hanks of swamp reed and mulled over his brother’s death.
When General Marion emerged from his shelter and beckoned to him, Ford patted Dancer and walked up the rise. His tightening gut warned him that his brother’s unexpected appearance marked a turning point in his own life. When he drew closer and saw the suppressed excitement on Marion’s face, his heart knocked against his ribs. He came to a halt and saluted his commander.
Marion held a sheaf of papers in one hand; with the other he motioned to a fallen log beside the lean-to. Ford sat while Marion paced in front of the log. Flames from a nearby fire outlined his eagle-nosed profile and cast a glow on his pale complexion.
Marion brought himself to a stop, came about, and held up the papers. “Tonight’s raid granted us an unexpected boon, Captain Ford, the opportunity we’ve been seeking. Along with the assignments for troop movements on the roads outside Georgetown, your brother carried documents that may prove a great deal more valuable.”
Ford frowned as he speculated on what had the little man so animated. “Perhaps you will decide to enlighten me, sir,” he said with a touch of dryness.
Marion smiled. The rare expression lit up his homely face. “Indeed, I shall. Major Aidan Sinclair, Baron Montford, arrived in Charles Town less than a week ago from England. His assignment resulted from a request by Colonel George Bellingham.”
“Of course, I know of the colonel, but we’ve never been introduced,” Ford replied. “I assume, from your excitement, that this assignment holds some hidden significance.”
“True, Captain.”
Ford’s muscles tensed at the dour man’s uncha
racteristic grin.
“I discovered this in Major Sinclair’s personal papers.” The general separated one sheet from the others and passed it to Ford. Before Ford could read it by the fire’s light, Marion said, “'Tis a betrothal contract. Your brother was to wed Colonel Bellingham’s daughter.” He fixed Ford with an intent expression. “I daresay this is the break we’ve awaited, your invitation into the enemy high command.”
Ford scanned the paper, then looked up. “Correct me if I misunderstand, but I see no way I can masquerade as this woman’s fiancé. Surely, having known my half brother well, she will immediately unmask me as an imposter. Aidan and I had some features in common, the influence of our father, I suspect, but we were far from identical. Other than my being taller and heavier than Aidan, we had eyes and hair of a different hue. Only a blind man would be unable to tell us apart.”
Marion smiled again, causing Ford’s stomach to plunge. “That’s the beauty of it.” He rubbed his hands together. “According to a letter Major Sinclair carried with the contract, he and the young lady are not acquainted. The betrothal was an agreement between their fathers and committed to shortly after the young lady’s birth. Neither Miss Bellingham nor her father ever met face-to-face with Major Sinclair. The only likeness they have is a miniature sent to her father years ago.” He handed Ford a small picture. “And if ‘tis as poorly done as this one, I have no doubt you can pass as her intended.”
Ford examined the murky painting depicting a girl of unexceptional looks in a mustard yellow gown that lent her face a sallow hue. A powdered wig hid her hair, long pale curls draping over one shoulder. The miniature’s quality was so mediocre he had difficulty distinguishing the girl’s features other than to note she was rather thin, very young, and no beauty. His mind took a leap forward, triggering a tingle to run down his spine. If what General Marion said was true, he could carry through with this. He could pose as this young woman’s betrothed and gain access to the Tory and British command.
Marion spoke again, mirroring Ford’s thoughts. “Major Sinclair came directly from England and arrived in South Carolina two days ago. He was acting as courier while on his way from Charles Town to Georgetown. He had yet to report to his command. The situation appears to have possibilities.”
As Ford got to his feet, he agreed. Nevertheless, he had some moral reservations in acting the part of a bridegroom. He met Marion’s intense regard. “You are quite right, sir, this is our chance. I have one request, however. Promise you will extract me before I’m forced to go through with the marriage. I’m not inclined to tie myself for eternity to some skinny mouse of a Tory wife.”
“Done,” Marion stated. He extended his arm and shook Ford’s hand. A twinkle entered his black eyes. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on your betrothal, Major Aidan Sinclair.”
Chapter 4
Blazing candelabra raised the temperature in the crowded ballroom to an intolerable level. Willa lifted her arm and viewed with dismay the wet ring staining her blue satin ball gown. The wig her stepmother had obliged her to wear made her scalp itch. She slipped a finger beneath the horsehair to scratch at a particularly annoying spot behind her ear. With the least movement, rice powder dusting her face—her stepmother’s effort to bleach Willa’s sun-kissed skin a fashionable white—sifted down in a fine rain that tickled her nose and threatened a sneeze. She glanced at her reflection in the French doors’ glass panels. Perspiration tracked from her brow through the white coating, giving her face a curious striped appearance. A total disaster.
As she plied her fan with vigor, she longed to slip out of the trappings of Polite Society to soak in a tub of cool water. On the other hand, perhaps a dip in the creek out back would serve were she able to steal away from her father’s supervision.
Emma Richardson, a voluptuous red-haired beauty and Willa’s closest friend, shared Willa’s corner among the potted ferns. Emma’s father, Continental General Richard Richardson, passed away a month earlier after being taken prisoner by the British and falling ill while in captivity. Emma was officially in mourning, but the normal restrictions of Society held little sway over a wartime population that relished entertainments as a rare treat to be enjoyed by all.
Nonetheless, Willa noted the censorious looks directed at her and Emma. Politics mattered more than proprieties. The entrenched British took umbrage at amiable relations between Tory planters and their rebel neighbors. But ‘twas a common situation and unlikely to change. Willa had few close female acquaintances, and her father had welcomed Emma into his home. The two fathers—Loyalist colonel and rebel general—had taken opposite sides in the war, but Colonel Bellingham enjoyed a true liking and respect for Richard Richardson. They had maintained a close friendship before civil war tore them apart.
“I confess, ‘tis all too exciting,” Emma droned on at Willa’s side. Despite Willa’s discomfort, Emma appeared to suffer little from the sultry atmosphere and restrictive clothing. “Imagine being betrothed for your entire life and knowing naught about it until last week.”
“I would rather forget about it, if you do not mind,” Willa muttered while keeping an eye on her stepmother garbed in cloth of gold and looking like a princess as she danced with a dapper Major Digby. Willa looked down at her soiled, wrinkled dress and pursed her lips. Jwana had turned her out in fine form, but her social polish always seemed to unravel as quickly and easily as a poorly knit sweater. Another of Marlene’s many criticisms. Willa would never hold a candle to her stepmother.
“And betrothed to a major in the British Regulars, a cavalry officer and a baron,” Emma ran on unabated. “How thrilling. Why, you will be a baroness soon and doubtless take residence in a castle.”
Willa turned her head to gape at her friend. “What a ridiculous notion, Emma. Most peers, barons in particular, do not reside in castles. Should Montford own such a structure, ‘tis bound to be a crumbling ruin on an isolated moor. Why else would a peer join the military when England is at war? He needed the coin. I assure you, the baron is as poor as a church mouse and too homely by half.”
Emma paid scant attention to Willa’s disparagement of the baron. “I must admit I find it all so … so quixotic. A dashing cavalry officer, a nobleman, no less, has arrived to sweep you away on a white charger.”
Willa released an unladylike snort and fanned herself more vigorously. “Your delusions result from having read too many romantical novels. I have no expectation or desire that anyone, much less Lord Montford, should sweep me away on anything. And before you grow overly enamored of the baron’s imagined charms, understand this: I have no intention of going through with this farce. The baron will be obliged to seek another wealthy wife to bear his noble brats.”
Emma gasped. “But your father already posted the notices of your engagement and let it be known to all his acquaintances that you will wed. Surely you’ll not dare to defy him? The colonel arranged this ball to introduce you to your fiancé, and the formal betrothal will be announced tonight.” Before Willa could disabuse her friend of that absurd idea, a man entering the ballroom drew Emma’s eye. She sighed and fluttered her fan. A flush of color rose to her pale, powdered face.
The black footman at the doorway announced the new arrival. “Lieutenant Colonel Banastre Tarleton.”
“Do you not find him dreamy?” Emma said in a wistful tone. “Would he only direct his attentions my way.”
Willa examined the tall, slim colonel. Like Major Digby, Banastre Tarleton was striking in a pretty way that seemed nearly obscene. Another prime example of that detestable breed—a dandified gentleman. He was whipcord lean. His regimental riding breeches were as snowy as the impeccable bag wig covering his blond hair. A forest-green coat, the badge of the Legion of Green Dragoons, brass buttons shiny, medals polished and arrayed across his chest, stretched tight and molded to his broad shoulders. Boots rising to the knee, so glossy they reflected the candle glow in a blinding glare, encased his muscular calves. His thin face and full lips hel
d a familiar, condescending sneer.
In addition to his status as a dandy, Willa deplored Tarleton for living up to his reputation as a rake and a cruel commander. He relished feminine attention as much as he embraced his nickname, “Butcher,” which he earned by allowing his legion to massacre a rebel troop under the white flag. She scorned him for his haughtiness and his infamous forays into the countryside to burn out planters who refused to swear allegiance to the Crown. She considered herself an ardent Tory. Even so, she had numerous friends amongst the planter families. Lately, some of her women acquaintances suffered from poor treatment by Tarleton’s troops. As much as Willa greatly desired for Britain to win the war of rebellion, she had no liking or tolerance for the inhumane tactics employed by Tarleton and his men. Only a man insecure in his own masculinity stooped to despoil a defenseless woman. Willa pointedly cut him when he looked in her direction, though she knew his gaze rested on Emma, not on her.
“Mark my words,” Willa cautioned her friend. “You have no desire to be the object of Bloody Ban’s pursuit. He may turn a pretty leg, but he has sampled the favors of every loose woman from Georgetown to Charles Town. In fact, last week he boasted he killed more men and bedded more women than any other man in America. Should you care at all for your virginity and want to avoid the pox, you’ll not dare to spark his interest.”
“Willa,” Emma sputtered, applying her fan furiously. “I vow, such scandalous talk. Your father would have apoplexy to hear you speak so boldly.” But her amused expression showed less shock than her words indicated. With a sigh and obvious reluctance, she turned her gaze away from Tarleton. “I wonder when your betrothed will arrive. Then, the night is still young. I suppose ‘tis fashionable for a peer to make a late entrance.”
