Rapture's Betrayal (12 page)

“I don't know.” He held her gaze. “I was hoping you could help me. I don't want to join that army. I don't want to leave Mother in the hands of that ba—” With a look of horror on his face, he clamped his mouth shut.

Kirsten felt shocked. “He's threatened your mother?”

Miles sighed, and his shoulders drooped. “He's hit her before, Kirsten. I won't let him do it again.”

“My God!”

“Please—help me find a way out of this.”

“Is someone pressuring your father?” she asked. “Why would he want you to leave when you do so much work on the farm?”

Miles looked thoughtful. “Well, there's a man—Elias Greene—he might be influencing him.”

“Have you tried talking with Greene?”

Her cousin gave a bark of harsh laughter. “That animal? He's as bad as . . .”

Kirsten turned to stare at the forest thicket. “I'll talk with him.”

“Are you mad? I can't let you do that! Besides what good would it do? He'll never listen to you.”

“Perhaps if I appeal to him like a sister to you,” she suggested.

Miles grunted. “The man is scum, so are his brothers. I can't let you speak with him. I forbid you to approach him.”

Kirsten's hackles rose. “What will you have me do then?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. There's nothing you can do, I see that now. I don't know why I've involved you in this anyway. It's a family matter.”

“And what am I if not family?” She was angry.

“I didn't mean—what I meant was . . . Please don't be mad. I may need you to watch but for my mother.”

“Then you intend to go with them?”

He blushed. “What else can I do?”

“Not go!”

“Then what do you suggest?” His tone was mocking. “Stand by while he beats my mother?”

Something in his voice caught Kirsten's attention. “He's hit you, too.”

Miles nodded. “I can live with that. I can't abide his abusing Mother.”

Kirsten hugged him. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. She pulled back, her eyes full of tears. “What if you come to us? My father will take the two of you in.”

For a moment, his face brightened. Then a shadow fell and he gazed at her with despair. “He'll come after us. He'll kill your father, hurt you, hurt your mother. I couldn't bear that.”

“Think about it,” she pleaded. “Discuss it with Aunt Catherine.”

“She'll not leave him.”

“Why ever not?” Kirsten couldn't understand.

“Because she loves him. When he's not angry, he's most charming; and in his own distorted way, he actually returns her love.”

“Oh, Miles . . .”

His eyes glistened. “Damned ugly state of affairs, eh?”

Kirsten nodded; and a short time later when they split up to return to their homes, she vowed silently to find a way to help him.

The more she thought about her cousin's dilemma, the more she felt the need to do something. Kirsten found little sleep that night after she climbed into her bed. Her mind was too active, trying to find a solution to Miles's problem. How could she keep Miles from having to leave without arousing his father's anger?

The only thing she could come up with was to confront the leader of the Tory army and somehow convince him that Miles was inadequate for soldiering, that he would be ineffective for their cause. But how? What could she say to get her point across? And was the man as bad as Miles made him out to be? Would she be placing herself in danger if she went to talk with him?

She'd heard the Loyalists occasionally went to the tavern to drink Martin's ale and eat his food. The inn would be an ideal place to meet Greene. She'd be able to call out to her cousin Martin if she needed help.

Time was running out for Miles. Could she dare hope that Greene would visit the tavern for the morning meal? She hoped so. She'd have to visit her uncle's place if he didn't. Knowing what she now did about her own mother's brother, Kirsten thought she'd rather take her chances with the Tory leader, Greene, in the forest than in William Randolph's home.

The thought stayed with her when she dressed the next morning and headed toward Martin Hoppe's inn. Either luck was with her or her prayers had been answered. A group of Tories were in the common room of the inn.

Her hands were clammy, her heart thumping with fear as she entered her cousin's establishment.

Several heads swiveled in her direction. Her nervousness increased, but so did her determination to help Miles.

“Greene!” she called. “Is there a man here who calls himself Elias Greene? A King's man?”

There was the scraping sound of a chair as a large, hefty man rose from his seat. “You're looking at him, sweets. What can I do fer you?”

Kirsten's knees trembled as she approached his table, aware of the three men who sat around it. She wondered if some of them were Greene's brothers. “I need to speak with you, Mr. Greene.”

His eyes glowed, and his mouth split into a toothless grin. “Come join us then.”

“In private, Mr. Greene,” she said sharply.

The man's amusement faded, and his gaze narrowed.

“Please,” she added, softening her tone.

“Hoppe!” Greene called, and Martin came out of the back room. “The little lady here wants to speak with me in private. Got a place we could be alone?”

Martin glanced from Greene to his young cousin. He frowned at Kirsten, his expression questioning.

“May we use your back chamber, Mr. Hoppe?” she said. It wouldn't do for Greene to know that Martin was her cousin and thus would come to her aid should she need help. As her eyes met Martin's, she silently pleaded with him to trust her.

“Come this way,” Martin said after several seconds.

Greene mumbled something to his friends, who laughed at what he said, and then he followed Kirsten into the workroom of the tavern.

The back workroom was actually the inn's winter kitchen, where Martin and his servants baked during the cold months. During this time of year, it was used as a serving kitchen and storage room. Dried herbs hung from the huge wooden ceiling beams. Boxes and barrels were stacked in haphazard fashion about the floor. There was clear path to the door outside, for Martin needed access to the summer kitchen, an outbuilding several yards away from the main tavern. Dishes were stacked at one end of a long worktable, and tankards, which were newly washed, stood ready to hold the customers' ale. Except for the path which went straight through from the common room to the outside, the only other clearing seemed to be the space before a door leading to the cellar below.

Martin seemed reluctant to leave after he escorted Kirsten and Greene into the summer kitchen.

“Thank you, Mr. Hoppe,” Kirsten said. “If we need anything, we'll call you.”

Catching her look, he nodded, and Kirsten was sure he understood that he should stay nearby.

“So,” Greene said. His gaze took on an unholy gleam as he studied her from head to toe. He looked unkempt with his tangled red hair and untrimmed beard. His fingernails were dirty, his clothes unclean. There was a large stain on his shirtfront, and several splatters of grease darkened his Durant breeches.

Kirsten shifted uncomfortably and motioned for him to sit down in the only chair in the room. She paced from one corner of the kitchen to the other, wondering how best to broach the subject. Finally, her resolve firmed, she stopped and met his intense green gaze.

“I understand you have a brother, Mynheer Greene,” she began.

He narrowed his gaze. “I do.”

“Younger?”

He nodded.

“And I imagine that when you were children you looked after him.”

“On occasion.” He seemed impatient as he continued to watch her. She was conscious that she looked very feminine in her barley-corn gown. The dark blue and white squares in the fabric contrasted attractively with her light hair, and deepened the natural color of her eyes, or so her father had often told her.

“I have a cousin—Miles Randolph,” she said. “I hear you're interested in him as an addition to your army.” She hurried on under his intense stare before she lost her nerve. “I'm asking you to let him go,
mynheer
. He's just a boy without the stomach for fighting. His
vader
—my uncle—doesn't understand this.”

Greene grunted. “He can pick up a gun; he can fight.”

“But his mother needs him. The farm—”

The Tory scowled. “He put you up to this, did he?”

“No!” Kirsten denied, shaking her head. “He doesn't know about my coming to see you.” In her anxiety, she clutched his sleeve. “Please,
mynheer,
I beg of you to forget Miles. Convince his
vader
that the boy would be better off at home.”

“And where do yer loyalties lie, mistress?” Greene rose from the chair. “Are ye a rebel or loyal to the King?” He was in command of the situation and seemed to enjoy his power.

“I'm a Van Atta,” she said. “I'm loyal only to myself.”

He came toward her then, and she stepped back, suddenly overwhelmed by the strong, unpleasant odor of his unwashed body.

“You seem fond of yer cousin,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “How fond, I wonder?” He stalked her about the workroom.

“What do you mean?” Her voice trembled as Kirsten fought back a rising panic.

“I'm asking ye to what lengths ye'll go to help yer cousin.” He reached out to lift an unbound lock of her platinum blond hair. “I can be persuaded to help him. . .”

He grabbed her arm, and she gasped. She fought to break from his hold, but couldn't escape his powerful grip.
“Mynheer,”
she said,
“please . . .
let go of me.” She heard the desperation in her own voice and was appalled by it.

Greene grinned. “I enjoy it when a wench begs. Please what?” He jerked her against him, forcing the breath from her lungs. “Ye're a soft bit of flesh.”

His head lowered and she turned away so that his wet mouth glanced off her cheek instead of her lips. She suppressed an urge to vomit when he dipped his head once again.

“Mynheer!”
She wanted to shout, to scream for Martin, but in her fear her voice had lost volume.

“A wild thing,” he growled. He pressed against her intimately. “Fight me. I like that.”

“Leave me alone,” she said in a strangled whisper.

“Ye don't mean that.”

She found the strength to attempt to push him away, but was unsuccessful. “I said, ‘Leave me alone.'” She was surprised at how firm she sounded just then.

Anger darkened his expression. “Ye want it, I can feel it. Tell me ye want it or know yer Miles will be the first in the line of fighting.”

“No.” Kirsten was aghast. How could she have allowed things to get so out of hand? Cousin Martin was in the next room. If she could just call him . . . She twisted free, elbowing Greene in the stomach. He grasped her arm and hauled her into his embrace.

“Bitch!” Greene's breath rasped against her cheek, before he bit her tender flesh. Kirsten gagged as he captured her mouth.

Repulsed and finding new strength, she fought him. “Martin!” she called, but knew she'd have to cry louder to gain her cousin's attention over the noisy patrons in the inn's common room. Her senses swam dizzily.
Martin,
she screamed silently.
Where are you? Help!

She broke free and kicked out at Greene's legs. When her attack had no effect on him, she swung her fists at crates and barrels stacked on the wooden kitchen floor, dislodging them so they fell in Greene's path.

The Tory cried out when a wooden box glanced off his shin. His green eyes turned dark with menace, his malodorous breath became rasping. He caught her by her skirts and dragged her toward him. Kirsten pulled back and heard the tearing of fabric. Suddenly, her bare shoulders were trapped by his bruising fingers. He jerked her against him.

“There,” he gasped. “That's better. I've got ye now!”

Winded, she could only stare at him. He stroked her jaw, and she shuddered. He squeezed her chin until she cried out involuntarily with pain. Her alarm grew at seeing the change in his expression. The light in his eyes intensified, his nostrils flared with pleasure in the conquest.

“Martin!” she shouted. He clamped shut her mouth with his hand, and she continued yelling against his palm, her screams muffled shrieks.

Then Greene tugged her toward the cellar door. She thought of the dark, dank area below the common room and knew immediately what this brute had in mind for her. She feared not only being raped, but the Tory's discovery of the goods downstairs.

She was able to free her mouth. “Help!”

He caught her and kissed her into silence. With one hand between their bodies, he groped her left breast, pinching the fleshy mound. Her struggling body was pulled so tightly against him that she could feel his hardening manhood straining against her skirts.

Then, mercifully, she was free and tumbling to the floor.

Eyes closed, she lay gasping for air and heard male voices raised in anger.

She lifted her head, sought the source of the argument, and was astonished by the sight of her savior. It wasn't Martin. It was Richard Maddox. Her beloved.

It took Kirsten a full minute to realize that something wasn't right, that Richard wasn't fighting Greene, that they were angry but apparently familiar with each other.

She gaped in horror as the men continued their argument. There was a tolerance between them that suggested these two were not opponents.
Richard
. . .
a Tory?
She felt heartsick. Had she been wrong to believe him a Patriot soldier?

She studied Richard, noting the change in his appearance, the rough stubble on his chin, his worn, dirty clothing.

Oh, God! Have I lain with the enemy?
Had he tricked her, made her falsely believe he was a champion for the cause? Damn, but it looked that way.

“You!” she whispered, giving voice to her thoughts. “How could you?”

 

 

Richard stared at her, saw the horror in her expression, and realized what she must be thinking. His heart sank, but he could do nothing but continue the charade.

“You!” she said.

“Ye wish her for yerself,” Greene spat. “I found her first. She's mine, Canfield.”

“She is a child,” Richard said, grateful that she hadn't called him by name, giving away his cover. “Let her go. She's barely worth the time. If it's a woman you want, I'll point out the worthy ones.” He saw Kirsten's face contort and turned away, lest he reveal his own feelings.

The thought of Greene's hands on her lovely body made him physically ill. He had to convince Greene to leave her alone, but he couldn't let Kirsten know that he wasn't anything other than the Tory scum he was pretending to be.

“Go,” he told her.

Greene stiffened. “No!”

Richard caught his arm and gripped it hard. “Let her go. She's not worth it.” He enunciated each word carefully, with an implied warning. Then softened his tone. “I'll let you in on some of my fun with the wenches. Trust me. I know what I'm about. Here, you'll only anger the villagers and ruin our cause.”

Greene looked at him for a long moment. Richard forced himself to regard the man pleasantly with a sly, conspiratorial smile on his lips. The Tory's mouth spread into a lascivious grin as he no doubt recalled Ethan Canfield's exploits. “Ye'll include me in yer games?”

The tension left Richard as Kirsten fled the tavern kitchen. He only hoped that she went directly home and did not remain to speak with him.

Greene was waiting. “I will show you how to enjoy the ladies,” Richard said. He silently vowed to find another way to appease Greene later. No innocent woman would suffer at the man's hands.

Richard had to control the urge to beat the Tory leader to a bloody pulp, for the brute had touched Kirsten. And no one had a right to touch her but himself. He didn't want to think about the depth of his feelings for her. He didn't want to think at all. The only thing he wanted to do, dreamed about doing, was hold Kirsten and kiss her until she was breathless and clinging and moaning his name.

The shock of learning that her beloved Richard was actually a Tory instead of a Patriot soldier remained with Kirsten as she headed home. At Richard's command, she'd fled the kitchen, not waiting to speak with him, not stopping to glance at him, her only goal to escape.

As her footsteps conquered the uneven ground of the trail, Kirsten relived those horrifying moments when it seemed as if Greene's strength would overcome hers. She would never forget what it felt like to be vulnerable to a lecherous man's power.

She'd been so glad to be free at first, so happy to see that her rescuer had been Richard, it had taken her a while to realize the implication of Richard's arrival in Hoppertown . . . at the tavern. And when she'd seen the argument between Greene and Richard had lacked heat. . .

She hugged herself and quickened her pace. It was nearing the noon hour. The day was warmed by the sun, a bright orb whose yellow light filtered through the trees. She remembered the days Richard had spent at the old mill, recalling the heightened response of her senses to everything in the world around her, everything beautiful. Now with the knowledge of Richard's deceit came sadness, an awareness of the imperfection of her surroundings, a sensitivity to pain—her pain.

She glanced about and saw the scarred bark of an old oak tree, the leafless limbs of its dead branches. A breeze had picked up, rustling the foliage, tugging Kirsten's hair, and creating a chill down the back of her neck despite the day's warmth.

Richard,
she thought.
Oh, Richard. How could you have lied to me?
Was his name really Richard? Or had that been a lie, too?

Tears held in check during her months of loneliness fell now, soaking her smooth skin. Her throat tightened until the lump at its base threatened to choke her.

She sobbed out loud for a love lost, a dream destroyed. She felt used, humiliated, betrayed. How could she ever face him again? A part of her wanted to gouge his eyes out; another part wanted to lie beneath him and experience his tender, fiery touch.

When she arrived home, she went to the barn and took a shawl from a peg to cover her torn gown. A good thing, for her mother was sweeping the front stoop. Now Kirsten remembered the reason for her visit to the tavern. Miles. There was still the problem of Miles.