by Cat Lindler
A paw as large as a ham, sporting extended, stiletto-like claws, dangled dangerously close to his eyes. A sound he could describe only as similar to a banshee wailing attended this apparition. Blood dribbled down his leg from the attached mouth that also issued a high-pitched screech punctuated by ravenous growls. Through the pain and noise, he spied three figures skidding to a stop on the wood floor in front of him. By the looks on their faces, one would have thought they were the ones being ripped to shreds rather than he.
Ford let loose with a bellow that shook the rafters and the glass in the door behind him. “Off!” He took a swipe with his arm in an attempt to dislodge the demon on his head.
He thought he heard his lovely fiancée say, “Were I you, I should not do that.”
She was correct, he discovered, when he drew back a bloodied appendage. He felt lucky it still held five digits.
The voice was Wilhelmina’s all right, as he heard her add, “Remain calm. Whatever happens, do not panic.”
Panic? By God, she would know panic when he managed to rid himself of her assassins.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” a soft voice called, bleeding through the red curtain of his wrath.
“Get them off me,” he screamed, his intentions now set on seizing Willa by the neck and throttling her. But with such a lively crew aboard, he doubted he could take the few steps necessary to catch hold of her.
In agony and out of patience, he opened his clenched hand and smacked the dog hard across the nose. Its growl dissolved into a whimper.
“Cease, you big bully!” Wilhelmina rushed to the dog’s aid. “She is but a tiny animal. You will hurt her.”
Hurt her? Ford could not credit what he was hearing. Were the other lethal monster not crouched on his head, he’d have been tempted to clean out his ears. “Then kindly detach it,” he growled in a tone more ominous than the one resuming from the thing hanging to his leg. “Remove it before I wring its neck, pull off its head, and feed it to this devil’s creature clinging to my scalp.”
“You would not,” she said with a gasp and went down on one knee beside him. She murmured endearments to the beast and pried its fangs, one by painful one, from his leg. As she moved away with the animal cradled in her arms, she nodded to Plato. “It would behoove us all, I suspect, were Plato to retrieve Killer.” The shudder in her voice pierced his nerves like a saber thrust to his spine.
Without taking her wide eyes off him, his betrothed thrust the dog into Quinn’s arms. “Pray lock her in my room and return. Plato may need your help.” Her hand hovered about her open mouth as she watched Plato crouch down, stretch out his arms, and slink across the floor like an Indian creeping up on a rabid fox.
Ford’s muscles stiffened into paralysis. Only his eyes followed the movements of the man coming to his rescue. His blood raced through his veins. His heart set up such a rattle in his chest, he could scarcely think. Nevertheless, he still heard each rapid breath he took and felt every drop of sweat the cat’s paws chased down his cheeks and the slope of his nose. Each swipe of claws left behind a streak of fire against his skin.
Quinn returned in time for the finale. Ford inched down the door on Plato’s instructions, and the slave’s large brown hands came closer to the cat. When Ford felt sure he would expire any minute from heart failure, Plato grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck with one hand, slipped his other under its enormous belly, and scooped it off Ford’s head. The wig came off with the animal, and no amount of pulling or scolding could induce the cat to release its prize. Ford’s legs gave way. He slumped to the floor. Plato pushed him to one side, opened the door, and disappeared outside with the cat and wig in hand.
Ford sucked in breaths and rested in a heap. His lungs worked like bellows. He felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. When he looked up at the two people remaining in the foyer, Quinn started to creep up the stairs at the murder he undoubtedly detected in Ford’s gaze.
Willa inhaled sharply at the baron’s expression. Alarm bells rang in her skull. She was quite certain she had never before seen that precise look on a human face. Perhaps on a bobcat before it pounced on a rice rat. She blustered and backed up, step by careful step.
“I … I am dreadfully sorry, Montford.” She could barely catch a breath of the air that seemed to simmer between them.
Montford got his feet beneath him and slowly uncoiled his body.
“I have no notion how Killer managed to get inside. You see, he stays in the stables.” She darted a glance behind her. The hallway was clear of obstacles. She nigh collapsed with relief.
“Killer,” he said calmly as he leaned over and examined the bleeding hole in his leg. “That is the cat, is it not?”
“I-i-indeed,” she sputtered, chagrined by the breathless sound of her voice. “We named him ‘Killer’ because he—”
He lifted a brow. “Kills?”
She fluttered her hands before her as though warding off the devil. “Well, yes, but only mice. He would not really harm anyone. But you must understand that when he becomes frightened, he climbs to the highest point he can find. I assure you, he is quite gentle so long as he cannot see Sweetie. You see, Sweetie barks at him, and—”
“Sweetie. I assume that would be the rat.”
“Dog,” she said, affront at the slur poking through her panic. “Sweetie is a Maltese.”
Montford braced his hands on his hips and strolled toward her. She continued to back up. His smile could have cut marble. “My dear Wilhelmina, I care not for the rat’s lineage. I have no option but to conclude that we are merrily dancing around the point.”
She picked up her pace. Her shoes scuffed on the floor. A fist squeezed her heart. He took increasingly longer steps to keep up with her. “I-I fail to comprehend what you mean.”
Montford lunged. Willa screamed and spun about to sprint down the hallway with wings on her feet. His sore knee and the new injury to his thigh resulted in slowing his pace. He bayed like a bloodhound on scent when she swung around the doorway into the study and slammed the door in his face. She turned the key in the lock before he could force the handle.
She heard him panting as he caught his breath and the creak of wood as he sagged against the door. “You know, darling, should I wish to, I could easily smash this door into kindling.”
The squeak coming from her throat sounded like a mouse caught in Killer’s claws.
His answering chuckle chilled her blood. “Even so,” he said in a voice that made her heart thunder, “I’ll not. I cannot spare the time. I must make haste to Georgetown as Tarleton is expected back shortly. Therefore, I give you leave to contemplate your sins until I return. As I recollect, we are still engaged, and nothing you can say, nothing you can do, will justly compensate me for the hell you have put me through these last few weeks. I will get my revenge … eventually. And you will wish to God you’d never met me.”
Willa wilted against the other side of the door and trembled. The blood beat so thickly in her temple she all but keeled over. She already wished she’d never met Montford. She had done it now. She had forgotten Quinn’s warning and toyed with a wounded bear.
Chapter 10
Marlene beat an impatient tattoo on the wooden planks with a satin-clad foot. Pulling her woolen cloak closer about her shoulders, she hugged her arms around her waist. The nights were colder as autumn advanced. The inky expanse overhead, dotted with sharp points of stars, held a promise of frost before dawn.
Where the devil is he?
Even as she thought about taking herself back to the house, a shadow separated from the darkness enveloping the gardens. He strolled forward in his easy, languid gait, and starlight glimmered on the epaulets decorating his shoulders. His scarlet jacket became visible as he drew closer. Cold starlight paled his wheat-blond hair to silver, closer in color to her own.
“At last.” She released the words in a white fog breath.
He climbed the steps, his muscular thighs straining the pale whi
pcord. His handsome face held a smile of welcome, but his eyes were flat.
She clutched her cloak and deciphered his expression. “You are late and, from the looks of it, I assume your mission was unsuccessful.”
His sensual smile spread into a lopsided grin. “Guilty on both counts, my dear. We returned but an hour ago. Your beloved husband is still occupied at headquarters, penning a report to his superiors.”
“Damn!” She stamped her foot. “What happened?”
Moving up beside her, he surrounded her shivering shoulders with a warm arm. “The night is too bloody cold to remain here. Come with me to a warmer place where we can talk and—”
She stepped out from under his arm. “There will be no and should you be incapable of carrying out a simple task.”
He laughed and pulled her against him to nestle her back under his arm again. “There will be, and well you know it.” His free hand cupped his groin. “This is the one thing I possess that you cannot do without.”
“That,” she said, directing a pointed glance downward, “is something I can find between the legs of any man.”
“I daresay none to satisfy your appetite quite so satisfactorily, do you not agree?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Come.” He tugged on her shoulder, pulling her along as he descended the steps and angled toward the stables.
She lifted an eyebrow. “In there?” Her nostrils flared. “I outgrew trysting in stables by the age of fourteen.”
“If you insist. We could retire to your boudoir, but then your husband might walk in on us.”
He led her to an empty stall filled with fresh straw and lit by a pair of lanterns at either end of the barn. An aroma of horses, manure, and rolled oats swirled around them. After dropping down into the straw, he crooked a finger at her.
She shook her head and folded her arms. “First, tell me.”
“Very well.” He sighed, angled his hands beneath his head, and bent one leg at the knee. “We reached Camden with no opposition. When we camped at the muster field beside Tearcoat Swamp, the commanders relaxed their guard. That night while we sat around the campfires and the men slept or played cards, the rebels struck. We were unprepared for the numbers of partisans or the violence of Marion’s attack. ‘Twas quite the fiasco. Bellingham, Colonel Tynes, myself, and a dozen other officers had situated our tents on the fringes of the bivouac, away from the common soldiers. We managed to get safely away by mere seconds.”
She pouted, showing her displeasure. “Why did you not take advantage of the attack and simply do it?”
Sitting up, he layered his arms on his drawn-up knees. “We never became involved in the action. To shoot him, I would have had to carry out the deed in front of fourteen other men.” He looked up at her with a hard glint in his eyes. “I am willing to see this through, but understand this: I’ll not swing from a gibbet.”
She released an exasperated sound.
He extended an arm, grasped her ankle, and shifted closer. His palm cupped her calf and slid up her leg.
“And on the way back?” she inquired, her words becoming breathy.
His mouth lifted in a perceptive smile. “We rode as if the devil were on our tails, which was closer to the truth than one would imagine. We stopped only to rest the horses and met with no other rebels along the way.”
“Damn it.” She moved her legs apart when his hand reached her thigh. “I had hoped it would be over by now. This waiting is torture. I fear I cannot hold on much longer.”
“Neither can I.” His fingers slipped upward and submerged themselves in her wet furrow. The action pulled a moan from her that made him grin. “Next time, darling. You have my vow.”
With his fingers buried inside her, she sank to her knees in front of him. He pushed her backward and crawled over her, lowering his body to fit against her curves. She opened her mouth and accepted his kiss with a lusty sigh. Her hips shimmied at the ministrations of his talented fingers. When he began to withdraw them, she reached down and clutched his wrist. “Not yet,” she said as she hitched her hips upward in time to his stroking.
He slid back down her, removed his hand, paying no heed to her protesting sounds, and pushed her skirt up to her waist. Once he moved between her open legs, he licked at the flowing cream and swollen bud at her core. She arched her spine as a cry lodged in her throat. “I’m dying,” she panted.
He paused, his breath hot on her gaping passage. “Ah, but ‘tis a delicious death, is it not, Marlene?”
When his tongue thrust into her, her hips left the ground. With a scream, she became rigid as strong spasms rippled down her sheath.
“My turn,” he said tightly. He released his cock from his breeches and rose up onto his knees. Clasping her ankles in his hands, he pulled them into the air and spread her legs as wide as they would go. Then he plunged into her center with a killing lunge and pounded his way to orgasm.
Chapter 11
Tarleton settled deep into his saddle and watched the Presbyterian Meetinghouse on Waxhaw Road burn. His expression was as hard as Carolina granite. Before he had ordered the torches set, Ford approached him, asking, “Is this necessary?”
“All Presbyterian churches are shops of sedition,” Bloody Ban replied. He further stated his measures were aimed at reversing the victories the rebels had inflicted on the Loyalists at Camden and on him, personally, numerous times. “Should it take burning, rape, and murder to subdue the seditionists,” he said, “I stand prepared to exact the most severe punishments.”
A horse-length away from Tarleton, Ford observed the burning, as well, his gaze transfixed on the destructive force of the conflagration. He thanked God the church was empty before being torched. Otherwise he would have felt morally bound to defy the British dragoon leader and betray his own sympathies for the Americans. He had ridden for days with an enraged Tarleton while the Butcher’s Legion put to the torch scores of houses and barns on the Pee Dee, Lynches Creek, and Black River. The Green Dragoons killed livestock and pets; hung, shot, or bayoneted those Tarleton pronounced guilty of treason; and trampled gardens and fields as they scythed a bloody swath through the undeclared countryside of Carolina.
What Ford saw sickened him, but he was incapable of saving all the unfortunates. He believed the worst had occurred at the Friersons’ farm, where Tarleton’s dragoons came upon Major James Wemyss and his British patrol. Patriots and neutral Carolinians roundly hated the major for his cruel methods of persuasion, which he demonstrated on this occasion. Tarleton sat silently by while Wemyss set fire to the house. When Mrs. Frierson denied knowledge of her husband’s whereabouts, Wemyss ordered the woman and her four-year-old son be entombed in the cellar. Ford’s stomach turned at the air of indifference displayed by the two British officers. To wage war on women and children was a monstrous act.
Ford waited until the fire’s heat forced the guards at the cellar door to retreat. Then he stole in through the back, braved the flames, and released the trapped family, spiriting them out the same way into the woods behind the house. Once they were away, he challenged the fire once more. His singed hair and brows and soot-covered uniform he explained away by the quantity of silver plate he carried out to the milling soldiers.
Still, the worst was yet to come. Had he only known, had he stayed away, his fate and that of his fiancé might have taken a different course.
Ford was present on November fifth when a Negro spy for the British made his way into Tarleton’s camp. “I done seen him. I knowin’ where he be at,” the exhausted man gasped. His knees buckled, and he dropped at Tarleton’s feet.
Tarleton grasped the man by the shirt and hauled him upward. “Where?” Every muscle in the colonel’s body was rigid and stood out like bands of steel.
“At Jack’s Creek,” the man managed to say regardless of the fear in his eyes at Tarleton’s fierce expression. “He be campin’ on de creek ten miles or so ‘bove Nelson’s Ferry.”
Tarleton released his h
old and allowed the man to fall back. He stepped over his prone body. “Give him some coin,” he said to Ford. “But only a token until we determine the accuracy of his information.”
Ford pulled a shilling from his pocket and flipped it to the man, who caught it with a grateful smile.
“To horse,” Tarleton shouted as he strode to his mount. “We ride at once to Jack’s Creek. I will teach these traitors to harbor rebels. I shall destroy the county from Jack’s Creek to Kingstree.” His face and voice exposed his zeal. Tarleton was spoiling for a fight. They climbed up onto their horses while Tarleton mounted his rangy chestnut. Once in the saddle, he pointed to two men. “Swing out in front of us and spread the rumor that we are returning to Camden.”
They saluted, whipped their horses about, and galloped off. Tarleton and the remainder of the dragoons moved onward at a slower pace, and Ford wondered whether the report of Marion camping at Jack’s Creek could be true. The British had previous word that Marion had quartered his patriot band at Singleton’s Mills, but Ford knew the general planned to move up the Santee Road and stop traffic between Nelson’s Ferry and Camden in an effort to play havoc with the supply trains to Winnsboro. Had Marion carried through with that strategy, the mission would bring him close to Jack’s Creek. A frown sat on his face as Ford reined in his horse alongside the others.
Willa recovered from the stressful encounter with her fiancé and shrugged off his final vindictive words. And thankfully, her father returned unharmed from the battle at Camden. When she learned of the brutal engagement, her heart beat in her throat. Her father’s brush with death hardened her resolve. Someone had to stop Frances Marion. Tarleton and his legion seemed unable to complete the task.
