Kiss of a Traitor

by Cat Lindler

  Aidan halted her destruction of the meadow’s flora with a gentle brush of his hand. “For your safety. I spoke extensively with Marion, convinced him you are ignorant of the camp’s location and have not encountered any of his men. Should he fancy you a danger to him or supposed you could identify his followers … well …” He drew a finger across his throat.

  A shiver tripped across her shoulders. She controlled it. Looking out over the orchard again, she picked out a groundhog gathering dry grass for the winter. “I know not what to believe. Your words present me with a dilemma. Perhaps had you told me the truth sooner …”

  As he leaned forward, his face intent, his voice a growl, he caught and held her face firmly between his palms and compelled her to look at him. “You must credit what I tell you, my dear, because now it becomes necessary for you to play out your own masquerade for the general’s benefit.”

  She lifted a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

  He released her and slouched back to brush the meadow debris from his coat and trousers. “You will meet with General Marion later today.”

  Willa’s pulse quickened. At last she would meet the famous, elusive Francis Marion. She’d not dared to hope for an audience.

  “He is aware of your identity,” Aidan continued, “and of the relationship between us. Naturally, he believes it to be a fraud, as he believes me to be Brendan Ford playing the false part of your betrothed, Aidan Sinclair. To leave this place alive, you must convince him you will not betray me to your father. I did my part; now you must do yours.”

  “And why should he trust me?” She twisted her lips into a cynical smile. “What could I possibly tell the general that he would believe? If he knows who I am, then he also knows I have every reason to expose you. I cannot imagine what would convince him to believe otherwise.”

  His features relaxed into a devilish grin. “On the contrary. I informed him you were smitten with me and would remain silent for the sake of our passion.”

  “You what? Smitten? Passion? Are you mad?” Willa bolted to her feet and whipped through the grass. Her feet sent seed husks flying. “How could he entertain the notion of such utter nonsense?”

  He followed her progress with amusement on his face. “I’m a reasonably well-favored fellow, or so I’ve been told, and have courted you for some time. ‘Tis not beyond the realm of possibility that you should succumb to my abundant charms.”

  She snorted, throwing him a sharp glance. “Abundant charms? Ha!”

  “Oh, and I mentioned we’d been intimate and you could be carrying my child.”

  “Intimate? Child?” she spouted and whirled around. Aidan sat there with an insufferable grin on his face, blithely informing her he had completely ruined her reputation. Willa yearned for a knife, any knife, so she could carve out his heart or lop off a more treasured piece of his anatomy. A robin called from the grass: Cheer-up. Cheerily. Cheer-up. “Oh, do shut up,” she said under her breath.

  Aidan lifted and spread his hands. “'Twas the only way, my dear, the only plausible reason why you would remain loyal to me. As I said before, I have done my part. Now ‘tis up to you to convince him of your devotion for me.” He drew his feet beneath him and lifted himself from the ground to approach her. “And in light of our predicament, I believe it in our best interests to practice showing affection so Marion will have no reason to doubt our sincerity.”

  “Practice?” The word stuck in her throat. She backed away like a skittish colt.

  “Practice,” he said firmly, catching her arms and pulling her close. His head lowered, and he blew a warm breath across her lips. Her jaw fell open in outrage. “That’s right, wildcat, open your mouth for me.”

  She clamped her lips together. His mouth descended and glided, brushing lightly as he placed small kisses around her lips, on the corners, the seam, and the bow, moving to the dimples in her cheeks and the point of her chin, whispering all the time, “Open for me, sweet Willa. Open for me,” as his thumb tugged on her chin.

  Uncertainty, panic, and an unexpected warmth swirled in her veins. She parted her lips.

  He slid his hands under her arms to slip around to her back and hold her closer. With one palm against her spine, the other cradling her nape, he locked her against his chest. His tongue rimmed her lips. Then his mouth settled over hers. With slow, cautious dips, he invaded her mouth, tilting his head and slanting his lips to fit the curve of hers. Willa gasped, a soft intake of breath, and tried to draw back. He held her with a firm pressure. Slowly, she released a sigh and relaxed. Her lips softened. This kiss was as unlike their first as was her reaction to it. She moved her arms upward to surround his neck and clutch his shirt in her fists.

  Shifting his legs apart, he drew her between them, up against the hardness of his groin. A moan vibrated in her throat, and fire shimmered through her core, urging her hips to press forward and melt into him. He was flame lighting her fuse. And to her dismay, when she closed her eyes, fireworks exploded behind her lids in brilliant sparks of color.

  Aidan pulled back his head. “Much better,” he murmured. “You learn quickly. Again.” And he resumed his gentle assault.

  Francis Marion’s appearance shattered the image Willa had held in her mind for an age. While she clung to Aidan’s calloused hand like a besotted lover, she examined the patriot leader. Less than five feet tall, his figure was slight with a wiry leanness, his plain face open and placid, his chin and nose sharp and thin, his forehead high. His dark, nearly black eyes were large and liquid, like those of Sweetie, her Maltese. No cruelty lined his features; no menace lurked in his gaze. Rather, Marion had an intense, intelligent look as his expressive eyes assessed her. He was dressed plainly in worn, clean buff breeches, high boots, old but shined, and the infamous blue coat.

  She could not imagine this small, unexceptional man commanding an army that had earned the respect of British and Loyalist leaders. But she understood why men were drawn to him, to his quiet dignity and unassuming air.

  Marion stood when she entered and offered her a seat as he apologized for the lack of tea or coffee in the camp. “Miss Bellingham,” he said softly, as though he were greeting a grand lady in silken dress instead of a ragamuffin in boy’s clothing. “I first wish to extend my apologies for the appalling state of your accommodations.” He swept a hand around his lean-to. “As you can see, we are unaccustomed to entertaining ladies. I also offer you my deepest sympathies for any harm perpetrated on your friends by rogue partisan groups over which I have no control. I assure you, I gave no orders for burnings or other depravations. The planters and farmers are my friends and neighbors. Their losses are mine, as well. I merely desire peace and freedom, for all men”—he smiled, and it penetrated her like a ray of sunshine on a winter day—“and women in this glorious state.”

  “I thank you, General Marion,” she responded as she sat and silently acknowledged the truth of his words. The rebels had caused some hardships on the countryside, but their actions could not compare to the destruction recently wrought by Tarleton and Wemyss. In her trip to Sockee Swamp, she had spoken with farmers when stopping for food or shelter and expressed surprise at the esteem they held for the partisan general. Even many Loyalists lauded his humanity and concern for noncombatants. The revelation threatened to shake her sense of loyalty to her father’s cause.

  From where he stood behind her chair, Aidan’s fingers flexed on her shoulder.

  A glint shone in Marion’s eyes. “I understand you’ve been seeking me.”

  Warmth heated her cheeks.

  The general chuckled. “From what Captain Ford told me, you are a formidable foe. I find myself fortunate to have eluded you for this long.”

  She granted him a smile. “I would have caught you eventually.”

  His smile matched hers. “I have no doubt. This is a distressing war, Miss Bellingham, and I would that you were friend rather than foe.”

  When she opened her mouth to speak, Marion raised a hand to preempt her. �
�Pray, feel no obligation to respond. I appreciate and respect your loyalties. When this war concludes, family is all we shall have left. You are quite correct in your stance. We could all learn from your example lest we discover it not the best of notions to burn our bridges behind us.”

  Willa swept her lashes downward to hide her eyes, and her fingers picked at burrs clinging to her trousers.

  Marion laced his hands on his desk. “And now you must make a decision between loyalty to your father’s cause and love of your betrothed. ‘Tis not a choice for you to make lightly or without due consideration. Men’s lives may well hinge upon it.”

  Aidan’s fingers pinched into her shoulder muscle. She raised her chin. “I … I love Aidan, I mean to say, Brendan. I vow I shall tell no one, as I fear for his life if I do. I could not bear to shoulder that burden.”

  Marion’s eyes flickered to Ford’s for a moment. Ford gave him a small nod.

  “Then, Miss Bellingham, I am pleased to grant you leave to return to your home where you will remain safe, God willing, until the hostilities end. Remember always that Captain Ford’s life rests in your small hands. Betrayal is a death sentence. I accept your vow and wish you peace.”

  “T-thank you,” she said. Aidan took her hand to assist her from the chair and led her outside.

  As they left Snow Island that afternoon, the lowering clouds released their burden, a cold rain, heavy enough to make the going uncomfortable. It slicked the horses’ flanks and dripped from the riders’ hats and shoulders.

  Ford glanced back at Willa. Her eyes blindfolded, her hands tied, she sat astride her paint horse with Ford’s greatcoat draped around her, her back straight and proud, her chin held high and defiant. Willowbend lay a day’s ride to the east, but Ford again led her a roundabout route, leaving the island by a different way, not only to confuse her but also to gain the time to accomplish his objective. The story he had composed on the spur of the moment contained holes large enough to drive her father’s carriage through. Willa was a canny woman. She would stumble into one of those holes before long.

  He had succeeded in disordering her thoughts for a short time, by kissing her in a way she obviously had never been kissed. But her bemusement would quickly dissipate … unless he distracted her further. He now faced the task of turning his lies into reality. By the time they reached Willowbend, he had to bind her to him so her infatuation would still her tongue. Should he entice her to fall in love with him, she would be less likely to reveal his deception to her father. Their kisses in the orchard had begun the process. By her surprised reaction … and untutored response, he felt confident in bringing the endeavor to an agreeable conclusion. Three or four days on the road and in her bedroll, some love talk between the blankets, compliments, and gentle handling, and Willa would melt like butter on hot grits.

  One lone snag marred his perfect plan. He’d not considered his own response to those searing kisses. He could swear he saw damned skyrockets bursting in his head. What was that about? His lips curved with a wry twist, and he shook his head. Lust … pure and simple. The war had provided him with little opportunity to satisfy his needs. That easily explained his reaction to the tempting little wildcat. The experience had shaken the earth beneath his feet but was understandable.

  After they crossed Clark’s Creek at a ford, he turned the horses north, across Britton’s Neck and toward the Little Pee Dee River. He would head into North Carolina through the Great White Marsh and then swing down to enter Georgetown by way of the Waccamaw River and Socastee Swamp. By the time they arrived at Willowbend, Willa would be his—body and heart.

  Willa’s own thoughts occupied her as she rocked to Cherokee’s easy gait. She had voiced no protest this time to the blindfold, accepting its necessity. But when Aidan brought forward the rope to tie her arms, she fought back. For God’s sake, they were traveling to Willowbend. He was taking her home. Did he truly believe she would try to escape? Obviously he did, because her hands now lay bound in front of her and resting on the saddlebow. She owed Aidan for a great many unpleasant experiences. Tying her up again merely added to the lengthy list.

  She still could not swallow the whole of his story. How could he spy on Marion without expecting the ruse to be discovered? He could not be Aidan Sinclair, her betrothed. Willa recalled a miniature of Montford. At the time she had thought it an abominable depiction. Still, the man in the picture, though a fair amount younger when posing for the painting, bore a definite resemblance to Captain Ford. Perhaps he was Aidan Sinclair. Were it not for that niggling feeling deep inside warning her his story lacked the ring of truth, he would have fully convinced her. Were she able to determine what logic his explanation lacked, she could solve the mystery to her satisfaction.

  Aidan was an enigma. The foppish court jester had changed so gradually from their first meeting that she’d paid little notice. Like a snake, he had shed his outer skin, piece by lacy, bejeweled piece, to reveal the man beneath the costume, a ruggedly striking man, one who evoked feelings that scrambled her wits.

  Her thoughts veered unbidden to his kisses in the orchard. She remembered what Jwana had said concerning fireworks, and soul mates, and “the one.” Were Aidan truly “the one,” she would be well advised to throw herself from Cherokee’s back at this very moment and crack open her head on a rock. She curled her lip when she recollected how she had moaned and leaned into his body, as though she would swoon without his support. She had acted scandalously when she should have punched him or kicked him, at the very least.

  Willa shook her head to rid it of the disturbing images and compelled herself to attend to their journey. Clouds blocked the sun and mist touched her face. Her intuition and near infallible internal compass determined they were moving north. After being blindfolded and spun around until dizzy, she could still point out north, south, east, and west with uncanny accuracy and no clues, such as the sun’s position or moss on the trees. Plato called it her “adonvdo adasehede,” her Cherokee spirit guide. It had deserted her only once, when Aidan caught her in the swamp and took her to Marion’s camp. No doubt the lapse resulted from shock.

  Cherokee’s hooves splashed through shallows, sending a spray of cold water onto her legs. When at least an hour passed and they failed to cross the water they had swum the day before, she concluded that Marion’s camp lay between a river or a lake and a smaller creek. They had entered the camp from one direction and were leaving by a different route. Aidan was trying to confound her.

  She heaved a sigh at her own stupidity. In all probability, he took the same evasive actions after capturing her. Had her hands been free, she would have smacked herself alongside the head. She could have been sitting, quite literally, at Marion’s front door when she ran across Aidan. She was tempted to hail him and inform him his efforts were of no use. She had no intention, at this point, of seeking again the location of Marion’s camp. Not until she learned Aidan’s true identity … and, were he actually her fiancé, why the idea of marriage to him did not seem as repugnant as it had on first consideration.

  Chapter 18

  The rain softened into mist, which dispersed as gloaming crept over the land. A brisk northwestern wind kicked up in its place, turning grassy fields into undulating seas, lifting and swirling dead leaves like tidal eddies. Ford was cold and wet and expected Willa was no better off. He turned up his collar and pulled the butternut jacket closer. When he peered over his left shoulder, dark clouds billowed on the western horizon and predicted a storm promising a more bone-chilling wet.

  He veered off the track to head toward an abandoned cabin located in several acres of pines, which lay slightly beyond the next rise. General Marion had twice retreated to North Carolina along this same path. The last time, Ford accompanied him. The cabin was small and lacked luxuries, but from what he recalled, it would provide sturdy shelter with an intact roof, a fireplace, and a lean-to for the horses. When the clouds scudded closer and the wind whipped up into a gale, he shouted to Willa to hang
on and kicked the horses into a gallop.

  The wind blew them into the pines, branches moaning and snapping over their heads as they plunged beneath the trees. Ford glanced back to assure himself that a gust of wind had not blown Willa off her horse’s back. Her white grin pierced the stormy twilight’s dim illumination. She had brought up her tethered hands and pulled down the blindfold. It draped around her throat like a necklace. Her hat slapped against her back, held captive only by its rawhide chinstrap. She looked pleased with herself and appealing in a disturbing way with her wild dark hair thrashing about her face and the fury of the elements reflected in her eyes.

  Ford slowed Dancer and allowed the paint to come up beside him. He tossed Willa’s reins to her. “Here,” he said, returning her grin. “You might as well take custody of these now. I’ve grown exceedingly weary of towing you behind me like a packhorse.”

  Thunder rolled overhead. A lightning spear hit a pine but yards away. Sparks exploded outward. Both horses jumped when the splintered treetop tumbled, falling and crashing into its neighbors and creating a chain reaction as boles snapped and toppled.

  “Follow me,” Ford yelled above the boom of falling timber. He whipped Dancer with the reins into a sprint through the trees. Willa rode directly on his heels. They dodged around the pines at breakneck speed, clipping off low-hanging branches and trampling bushes underfoot. The crushed pine needles’ tarry smell blended with the scent of lightning and the sharp tang of pending rain carried on the wind. An isolated oak’s bare limbs clattered overhead with a sound like angels rapping on a celestial door.

  Then the clouds opened up—rain gushed in torrents, painting the pine trunks black and limiting visibility to no more than a few yards. Sodden to the skin, his teeth chattering, Ford glimpsed the cabin ahead. It squatted in a clearing ringed by towering pine trees. Dancer slid to a stop in front of the sagging porch, and Ford leaped off his back. He grabbed the reins and led the horse into the small lean-to clinging against the cabin’s wall. Willa, her shoulders hunched under the weight of her saturated clothing, followed him into the shelter.