Rapture's Betrayal (13 page)

“Kirsten? Where have you been?”

“At the inn,
Moeder.”

Agnes seemed old beyond her years. There was a constant hint of sadness about her brown eyes now, caused by worry for her brother, her husband, and her child. “Is Margaretha ill?”

A good assumption, Kirsten thought. Martin's sister tended to be sickly. “No, I went to speak with Martin.”

“Daughter, what is the matter?”

“The Tories,” Kirsten said. “When will they leave? Why have they come?” she cried. Why did Richard join up with them?

“Kirsten, child . . . you are all right? Did something happen?”

The young woman looked at her mother through dulled eyes. “I'm fine, my
moeder.”
She lowered her voice. “But I wish this war were over.”

“The wench came to me,” Greene said.

Richard studied the man over the worn table. Greene was deep in his cups, his mouth wet and slack, his eyes glazed and unable to focus. The two men were sitting with three comrades—Abernathy, Greene's younger brother John, and a new man, Samuel Joseph, recently recruited from the Hackensack area.

“What did she want?” Richard asked.

“To save her cousin, or so she said.” Greene grinned. “I think she was enjoying my attentions.”

Richard wisely held back a nasty comment, though his anger was intense.

“What's to be done when the old man wants his son to join us?” Greene commented.

“A cousin, you say?” Richard was careful to keep his tone light.

“Miles Randolph. A skinny whelp if ye asks me. Not worth his weight in coin, but since his pa's our host . . .”

“Ah!” Richard nodded with understanding.

“The old bastard gives me the shivers,” Merritt

Abernathy said.

“Randolph,” the new recruit said. “I agree with you there. He's a way of looking right to your soul.”

“Pah!” Greene said. “He's a fool, but a powerful one. There's nothin' to be afeared of.” He glanced toward the innkeeper and raised his hand to draw the man's attention. “Hoppe! Another ale here!”

“Make it a round,” John, Greene's younger brother, shouted.

Martin came for the empty tankards and then left to refill them. Moments later, he returned with mugs brimming with foam. After serving the ale, Martin didn't immediately leave the table.

“The girl,” he said.

“She's gone home,” Richard said, startled by the man's interest in Kirsten. Their eyes met, and Richard was surprised to see the venom in the innkeeper's gaze. What exactly was this man to Kirsten? he wondered. He felt a jolt of jealousy.

“Scrawny wench, right, Canfield?” Greene said. “Not worth the effort.”

Richard inclined his head. The innkeeper seemed to relax, he noted, and Richard's feeling of jealousy grew.

“You want to eat?” the innkeeper asked. “Food's on. Full meal—five coppers.”

“Five coppers!” Kendall Allen said. “Why that's robbery!”

“I'll eat and be glad to pay,” Richard said quietly.

“And I,” Abernathy intoned. Soon all agreed to buy supper.

Richard was thoughtful while he waited for his meal, thinking that concern for her cousin had brought Kirsten to see Greene, just as concern for him had caused her to save his life.

He knew what she must be thinking, knew the pain she must be experiencing because of him, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. He couldn't very well go to her and confess he was a spy for the Continental Army. He'd not only be putting his life in danger but hers as well—and the lives of Washington's men. If the Tories found out there was a Patriot in their midst, his work would be finished and so would he. He had to find the traitor—the one responsible for his friend Alex's death. Somewhere lurked an informant, a tie between General Washington's army and this sorry band of ragtag Loyalists. The success of his mission depended on secrecy.

He couldn't ease Kirsten's pain regarding himself—he knew she was in pain because he'd glimpsed it in her eyes—but he could help Miles.

This night Richard was to stay at the Randolph farm. The Tories wanted only able-bodied men. It would be simple enough to stage an accident.

Richard frowned. Kirsten wouldn't appreciate his methods, but it was the only way to keep Miles from being forced to join the Tory ranks. It wouldn't be a serious accident, just a small one.

Richard began to plan . . .

Word reached Kirsten of Miles's accident by way of the Randolphs' groom, Jims.

“He what?” she asked when he'd finished his tale. She couldn't believe she'd heard correctly.

“A crate stored in the barn loft fell on the young master, Mistress Kirsten. Broke 'is arm and hurt 'is ankle, but otherwise 'e was none injured.”

Kirsten shook her head. “A crate in the loft, Jims?”

He shrugged. “A funny thing. I know nothin' about no crate. Never seen one up there, but then who's ta say with the bloody Loyalies about. They's leaving, though, I 'ear. It's not like we gotta worry for much longer. And good riddance, I say.”

“Are you certain Miles is all right?”

Jims's brown forelock bobbed as he nodded vigorously. “'Is arm hurts 'im some and 'is foot, too, but 'e's right as a fox's tail.”

Kirsten longed to visit with Miles, but knew that her cousin would never be able to escape the farm to reach their familiar meeting place—not with an injured ankle. She entertained the thought of going to the Randolph residence, but then she promptly dismissed the idea. The last thing she wanted was to cause an uproar between the families. Her parents might have allowed her to sit with Aunt Catherine and Miles at the
kerk,
but visiting the home of her Loyalist uncle was a different matter entirely. Besides, she wanted to avoid encountering that lecherous Tory leader, Elias Greene.

And Richard. It had been two days since she'd seen Richard Maddox, and the emotions she felt were both disturbing and overwhelming. She didn't trust herself to see him again. How could she could hate him in one breath yet long for him in the next?

Memories of their shared passion devastated her. She'd not seen him since the episode with Greene, but she could envision him clearly in her mind's eye . . . as he'd been by the waterside . . . his unbound tawny hair . . . his glowing brown eyes . . . his sensual smile as he'd left the stream to approach her . . . his body glistening from the cool, crystalline waters.

Kirsten's chest constricted with pain. She wished she'd never met him, that she hadn't gone back to the river to save his deceitful hide!

Liar,
an inner voice taunted.
Those days with him were the best moments you've ever shared with anyone. Admit it—he may be your enemy, but you still love him. If he came to you now, you would willingly surrender to him.

Love? Yes, she loved him, loved a man on the opposite side of the war.

And that is the real reason,
Kirsten
thought,
I
can't visit Miles at his home.

“Jims, can Miles make it to the river?”

The groom nodded. “With my 'elp.”

“Can you bring him tomorrow? After the noon meal? At the clearing not far from the Ackermans'.”

Jims agreed, and they went their separate ways.

Richard crouched at the edge of the Van Atta property and watched the house for signs of Kirsten. The Tories were preparing to leave Hoppertown the next morning. He couldn't go without seeing Kirsten again, without speaking with her, although he had no idea what he was going to say.

His plans for Miles had been successful. The boy had suffered a broken arm and a twisted ankle when he'd fallen under the weight of the crate. The crate had been almost empty. He hadn't wanted to seriously injure the youth. In fact, he hadn't been certain the crate would work. He'd been aware of the possibility of failure, for accuracy in timing and position had been imperative. Miles could have escaped totally unscathed, and Richard would have been forced to create a second accident and then another if that had failed until the boy was stricken from the ranks of the able-bodied. Fortunately, his first plan had worked perfectly.

It hadn't been easy finding the right equipment, carrying the crate up into the loft without someone seeing. He'd rigged up the accident with sticks and string and careful thought.

The barn loft had its own exterior door. The drop to the ground was substantial; someone trying to escape that way would have to jump at least fifteen feet to run for cover, a difficult feat when the yard outside was empty and wide open. Anyone trying to flee would surely be caught.

After deciding it would be too risky to remain in the loft to ensure his plan worked, Richard elected to stay in the barn but downstairs. Merritt Abernathy had spoken earlier of the fine Randolph horseflesh. It wasn't hard for Richard to learn that Miles came to the barn daily to attend his own mount, Dark Wind. It seemed the lad enjoyed grooming the horse himself each afternoon, often chatting with Jims if the groom happened to be there to tend the other animals.

Richard set up the crate so it would fall and then climbed from the loft to wait for his unwary victim. He'd pretended an interest in cleaning his flintlock rifle.

Richard's thoughts were forced back to the present with Kirsten's sudden appearance. His heart pumped hard, and his muscles tightened. He strained to see her as she exited the house and was fascinated by the way the sun glinted off her platinum blond plaits, making her appear an angel with a halo.

She wore a plain homespun gown of gray linen with a white muslin scarf about her shoulders. A matching white apron was tied about her small waist. The drab color and simple cut of the garment should have made Kirsten appear washed out and unattractive, but it didn't. Her beauty was enhanced by the contrast, her loveliness shining above the severity of the gown. A portrait of radiant grace, she left the stoop and crossed the yard, carrying a basket. The woman stole his breath away.

Kirsten must be on her way to the vegetable garden not far from the Van Atta house. Richard stared at the house, taken with the unusual Dutch design . . . the small windows with crescent moons cut into the shutters . . . the balcony that ran across the front of the house on the second floor. Except for Kirsten, he saw no sign of life anywhere. Not even a slave or servant.

He wanted to run to her, to lift her high in his arms. Chuckling, he'd spin her around and around until she was dizzy and laughing and the world whirled by her in a blur of colors.

He would stop then and bring her slowly back to earth. He'd lower her so that she brushed close against him, their bodies touching. And they'd both become aware of how well they fit together, like two halves formed into one. Their world would right itself. They'd gaze into each other's eyes with laughter lingering on their lips and their hearts singing with joy.

And then they'd kiss. Everything about them would cease to matter as their passion ignited and they clung to each other fiercely, unwilling to relinquish the ecstasy of the moment.

Richard had become immersed in a daydream so real that for a moment he actually believed it was happening. But with the freshening of a summer breeze, reality set in. He saw Kirsten in the garden, oblivious to his presence as she bent to pick tomatoes from the tall, lush bushes planted in neat, even rows. He stared at her clothed buttocks, his palms itching to cup their curves. His desire for her was hot and instantaneous. He sensed the bulge in his breeches and heard the wild thundering of his heart.

Drawn to her by a strong force, he came out of his hiding place. As he headed toward the garden, he realized he was playing with fire, but he couldn't stop himself.

No one came out of the house as he passed it. He tried to cool his ardor, for what would she think if she saw?

Fortunately, Kirsten still hadn't seen him, and he paused, breathing deeply to calm himself. He thought of winter . . . cold water . . . anything to keep him from making a fool of himself by grabbing her and kissing her hungrily.

He was more composed as he continued on, until he was at the edge of the garden. Kirsten glanced up as if sensing his presence. A startled look flickering across her face, she straightened and studied him, but she didn't say a word.

Richard stared, fascinated. Her skin was smooth and flawless, a pale shade of honey gold. Her lips were pink and lusciously full, and he had the most powerful urge to taste her mouth. She looked away. When their gazes met again, emotion flared in the blue depths of her eyes, but he couldn't read her thoughts.

He swallowed, feeling his loins tighten again. His breath quickened as she started toward him. But then she stopped. For a brief moment, she'd looked almost happy to see him. He watched as her features clouded, her eyes dulled, and she frowned.

“Richard.” His name was but a breathless whisper on her lips. And he was charmed again by the way she pronounced it.
Ric-kard.
The Dutch accent was faint, delightful.

“We need to talk,” he said.

She averted her eyes as if the sight of him was too painful. “I think you should leave here.”

“Kirsten, please—”

“Go! You're one of them. You lied to me. You're a Tory—a bloody Loyalist. The enemy!”

Richard looked at her. “Did I actually claim to be a Patriot? Did I intentionally mislead you?”

“Yes!” Tears hovered on the fringes of her thick lashes. He felt an answering jolt of pain in his gut.

“You know what I thought,” she cried. “Why didn't you admit the truth? I cared for you! Did you think I would turn you in?”

“It was a chance I couldn't take,” he said, his voice soft.

He wished he could confess the truth now, to ease her mind, but he couldn't. Would she forgive him if she knew that he was lying to her now?

But he had no choice. Someday, perhaps, he could tell her everything. For the present, he had to allow her to believe in his deception, no matter how painful it was for the both of them.

“I'm leaving tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I wanted to—needed to—say good-bye before I left Hoppertown.”

“Why?” She sniffed, wiping her eyes. “You left before without saying good-bye. Having a sudden attack of conscience?”

Richard stiffened. “I waited for you as long as I could. Where were
you?”

She looked away. Tugging a silver braid, she stared off into space. “I was home, locked in my room.” She faced him, her expression a mirror of her pain. “My
vader
found out I had left the house during the previous night. He was furious with me.”

“Kirsten . . .” He came forward, his hand outstretched to touch her. He wanted to embrace her, to offer her comfort.

“No! Don't!” she cried. “I won't allow you to do this to me! Go away!”

He stopped, dropped his hand. “You want me to just leave?”

Face frozen, she nodded.

Richard sighed. “Fine. If that's your wish, I'll go.” He couldn't move, didn't want to. “Good-bye, Kirsten . . . and I did say it before. Good-bye. Have you been inside the old mill?”

She stared at him blankly.

“You haven't since I left, have you?”

Her lashes fluttering, she shook her head.

He turned to leave. There was still no sign of her parents, he was grateful to note. Richard guessed they were out visiting friends or relatives, a strangely ordinary thing to do during a time of war.

But were these people actually at war? The area was considered neutral by some. There were Patriots and Loyalists among the Dutch families who lived here; there were also those who refused to take sides. Kirsten, he knew, was a true believer in the Patriot cause.

He took several steps away from her before he turned one last time. “I thought you'd like to know that your cousin—Miles—he'll not be leaving the area. In his present condition, he's of little use to the Tory army.”

Kirsten blinked. “How do you know about Miles?”

He smiled slowly. “I have my methods.” He stared at her lips, overcome a second time with a sudden urge to taste them. “One kiss to see me gone?” he dared to ask.

“No.”

“Afraid?” he taunted.

“Uninterested.”

“Liar.”

And with that he left, the memory of her loveliness forever imprinted in his mind.

Kirsten watched him go with an ache in her heart. She clutched the tomato she was holding so tightly the fruit burst and juice trickled between her fingers. Seeds spewed over her hands and gown.

She cursed as she looked down at herself. Tears blurred her vision as she tossed the tomato away and wiped her hand on a cloth she had tucked into her apron waistband.

She sniffed and blinked to clear her vision. Richard was walking away, at the edge of the forest. Soon, he'd be beyond her sight, swallowed up by the bushes and grass and trees of the woods.

Soon, he'd be gone from Hoppertown to a fate unknown . . . perhaps a deadly fate. And she would never see him again.