Rapture's Betrayal (17 page)

“What about Hamilton? Shall I get him for you?”

Richard shook his head. “There's no time now. I'll have to contact him later. I've been gone from camp too long myself. Greene and his men could be suspicious.”

She leaned forward. He released her shoulders to draw her fully into his arms. The feel of her soft curves pressed against him was nearly his undoing. Suddenly, his mission seemed unimportant. The only thing he wanted to do was hold Kirsten, to bury himself deep inside her—to love her until the end of all time.

But he couldn't. He pushed her away. “Come. I'll escort you back to the house.”

Now that Kirsten knew the danger he was in simply by being here, she wanted him to leave quickly. She'd be all right without company on her way back.

“No,” she said. “I'll go alone.”

“I insist.”

“It's too dangerous.”

He glared at her. “Kirsten, I'll not take no for an answer.”

She sighed. It was pointless to argue with a stubborn man, to exchange words that might draw the attention of the very people Richard wanted to avoid.

They returned the way they'd come, past the line of evergreens. Richard stopped at the edge of the garden, and pulled Kirsten into his arms.

“Kiss me,” he ordered.

She blinked and then did so. The warmth of his lips sent heat throughout all of her, and she pressed against him, wanting more from him, much more.

He lifted his head, looked past her to the door of the house. Kirsten suddenly realized that while her response had been abandoned, genuine, his kiss had been controlled. She was irritated. Then a feeling of foreboding replaced her annoyance.

“What?” she whispered. “What is it?”

“Someone is at the door watching us.”

Kirsten started to turn. “No!” he exclaimed in hushed tones. “Don't move!”

“But I must see—”

“All right, then, but do so slowly. Pretend an interest in a bush or flower. I'll turn first so you can get a look.”

They changed positions by pretending to study a garden plant, and Kirsten glanced toward the house and saw the shadow at the door. The shadow changed as the man moved.

“He's coming this way,” Richard said. “Quick! Kiss me again.”

Kirsten reacted instinctively, slipping into his arms as if she had been made to be there, which she believed she was. She knew she should tell Richard of her discovery. She had seen the man's face as he'd stepped back into the light. It was Martin Hoppe, her cousin.

They broke apart. Richard pulled her farther into the shadows. Her head reeled dizzily as he captured her mouth once again. She sensed the change in him as he devoured her lips, and she rejoiced in the knowledge that he, too, was caught up in the magic.

She clung to his arms and felt his muscles tighten. He groaned as he came up for air and then returned to playing havoc with her lips, nose, cheeks, and chin. Taking her mouth, he deepened the intimacy of their kiss, parting her lips to stroke inside it with the tip of his tongue.

In the heat of the moment, they forgot the war, forgot their surroundings. Passion reigned over all else. Kirsten moaned as Richard strung kisses down her throat to the valley between her breasts, paying special attention there. His damp breath seared her skin, her nipples tightened in response.

He raised his head. His gaze holding hers, he cupped the curve of her bodice where her flesh throbbed and ached to burst free of linen and ruby silk. She gasped at the pressure, arching her back and thrusting her breast up and into his hand. She had the strongest wish that he'd tug all cloth from her pulsating bosom.

A feminine giggle rent the air, making them spring apart. Kirsten blushed as she remembered Martin. Her cousin must have seen everything. Would he ask about the man in her arms? Would Martin condemn her for such a wanton, public display?

Her gaze went to the house. Fortunately, Martin was gone. Had he gone back to the party before Richard's kiss?

There was no one at the door, but the giggle she'd heard sounded again. It came from the other side of the smokehouse on the other side of the garden. Apparently, some other female guest was dallying with a beau.

“Go,” Richard said. His breath seemed loud in the surrounding night. “We shouldn't have . . . I must leave. Go back inside.”

“Richard . . .” Her eyes stung with tears. She didn't want to say good-bye to him. She wanted to be with him, to follow wherever he led. The yearning in her heart warred with reason, and logic won in the end.

“I love you,” she said. It was barely a whisper. A soft sound on a puff of air.

He heard it. She saw that immediately. Emotion flamed in his deep russet eyes. “I—” He turned away and shook his head. Again, he faced her. “I can't. I'm sorry.”

And then he was gone into the night, and all that remained of him was the tingling imprint of his kiss and the masculine scent of him lingering on her clothes and skin.

Kirsten headed toward the house, pausing once on her way to wipe away tears. By the time she reentered the front parlor, she was composed and smiling again.

She searched for Martin and saw him chatting with their hostess, Theodosia. His gaze met hers across the room, and she tensed, expecting censure. She was startled to see Martin grin.

Encouraged, yet still uncomfortable, she moved to his side.

“Hallo, cousin,” he greeted her. “Enjoying the night air?”

She nodded, feeling her face heat from the neck upward. Her blue eyes shot daggers at him.

“Are you having a pleasant time, dear?” Theodosia inquired.

“Yes, thank you, I am.” Kirsten pretended a sudden interest in another occupant of the room. Actually she looked at no one in particular, until a man came into her focus. The handsome gentleman was heading their way. He had eyes only for Theodosia.

“Mrs. Prevost,” he said. “I believe this is our dance.”

“Mr. Burr,” Mrs. Prevost murmured, and Kirsten saw Theodosia's cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink. “I believe it is.”

And with that their hostess left the cousins' presence. Martin asked Kirsten to dance, and she agreed. The remainder of the evening passed quickly; and for a while, Kirsten was able to put Richard from her mind. But only for a short time. That night, tired from the party and the late hour, Kirsten climbed into bed, prepared to sleep.

She dreamed of Richard Maddox.

Richard sat before the campfire, staring into the flames that crackled and spit with the dripping juice of roasting meat. Beside him, Merritt Abernathy tended the spit, turning the stick to cook the rabbit evenly. It was late, but that didn't matter to Abernathy who always seemed to be hungry and never turned down an opportunity for food.

“Where were you?” the Tory said to Richard. “I had a devil of a time convincing Greene that you were out looking for a wench.”

Facing the man, Richard grinned. “My thanks to you. In a way, I was. But not for him if that's what he thinks. You know of the Hermitage and a Mrs. Prevost? I heard that she's been doing a bit of entertaining lately.”

“Patriots!” the man replied with a grimace. “Isn't Washington staying at the Hermitage?”

Richard nodded. “Did you ever get so close to fire as to dare it to burn you? That's what I did.”

Abernathy looked at him blankly.

“I stood out back and stared at the bloody rebs through the window.”

“You didn't!”

“I did.” Richard appeared smug. “Caught me an eye and an earful, too. Told Greene 'bout it when I got back. Overheard the rebel general's going to leave Paramus soon . . . in a couple of days or so. It seems the troops are heading north. Thought it might make things easier for us if Greene was to know.”

The Tory eyed him with respect. “Daring bloody bastard, aren't ye.”

A flash of white teeth was Richard's only answer to him.

Silence reigned between the men for a time. The only noises were the pops and hisses of the fire, the rustle of underbrush as some animal scurried in search of food.

“Did I miss anything while I was gone?” Richard asked, managing to keep his tone light.

Abernathy didn't respond immediately. He rose up to poke a stick into the rabbit to see if the meat was done. It apparently wasn't cooked enough for his taste, for he sat back with a look of impatience. “We 'eard of Randolph's plans. It seems the King's men need food supplies in New York, and we're to be the ones to transport the goods.”

“No joking? We're going to New York?”

The other man nodded. “As soon as the dear rebel general decides to leave. In a week's time is my guess.”

Richard whistled through his teeth. “A real challenge for us, eh?”

Abernathy inclined his head.

The other members of the Tory band were scattered about the forest clearing in various positions of repose. Greene had gone to meet William Randolph, the man who'd summoned the group to the area, to discuss plans further.

Richard knew this type of smuggling operation well. He himself had been involved in the transportation of supplies, back in the early days of his enlistment, before Alex's death.

He hid a smile. He'd learn the routes the Tories used for smuggling. That knowledge in the right hands should give the Patriots an advantage.

They'd be gone for some time, he mused. The thought gave him pain, for he wanted to see Kirsten again. But he couldn't let her know, not when doing so would make her hope, believe, they had a future together. And it wouldn't be fair for her to wait for him. What if he didn't make it back? At any time his double life could be uncovered. If the Tories knew the truth, they'd kill him . . . perhaps torture him first to learn what he knew.

Kirsten . . . The image of her wounded expression when he'd left her made his insides twist painfully. He'd departed from her only hours ago, and he could still smell her sweet feminine fragrance.

She'd looked a vision in her scarlet gown. He'd never seen her wear her hair up that way; the style gave her an air of elegance. The jeweled haircomb in her silver blond tresses was impressive, but it hadn't sparkled as much as her glistening aquamarine eyes had.

If only he could hold her again, lie with her one more time.

He became angry with himself. What good would it do to prolong the torture of their final parting?

Remember how it was when you left her the last time. Those days that followed . . . the longing for her company . . . the comfort of her arms.
And what if a child came from their joining?

He drew a sharp breath. Dear Lord, was it possible that she was with child from their time together at the mill?

Closing his eyes, he pictured her curves and was somewhat comforted by the memory of her in her red silk gown. Her waist had been small. Hadn't he encircled it with his hands?

Then came the startling realization that even if she were pregnant her body wouldn't have changed in so short a time, at least not her waist.

Her breasts? He vaguely recalled hearing that a woman's breasts changed when she was with child. They swelled, became larger. Kirsten's breasts had nearly spilled over the top of her gown.
Dear God,
he thought. The mental image of full honey-colored flesh above her red bodice brought him terror at the same time it seared his loins with fresh heat.

He had to know. He had to return to Hoppertown someday if only to find out if he was a father and could help the babe. It could be months from now . . . years, depending on this blasted war and the enduring strength of both sides. What if there was someone else in Kirsten's life then? He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. At least he could see them happy and comfortable in their circumstances. It was the least he could do for not being there when she gave birth to his child.

Richard felt the strongest desire to hurry toward the Van Atta farm, and confront Kirsten with the one question that would forever haunt him until he knew the answer. Pushing to his feet, he moved toward the woods.

“Canfield, where are ye going?” Abernathy inquired, his eyes narrowing.

Richard stopped in his tracks. Where in heavens was he going? He couldn't leave now Not after being gone for over an hour earlier—and missed.

Damn! He had to forget his concerns. He had to forget Kirsten! He faced the Tory with a raised eyebrow. “I'm going to take a piss,” he said.

A Patriot spy! Gazing up at the top board of her alcove bed, Kirsten smiled into the darkness. It was late, hours after the party at the Hermitage; and yet her mind still spun with the exciting events of the evening. Her first dance. Her conversation with the general. Her meeting with Richard . . . and his kiss.

She'd left the doors to the bed wide and opened her bedchamber window. Glancing toward the raised sash, Kirsten saw the stars twinkling in the night sky, the moon's soft glow over a distant field.

She sat up, and hugged herself. She imagined she was with Richard again. They were dancing as she and Martin had done. It was a country dance—the Roger de Coverley.

Did Richard know how to dance?
She decided that he most probably did.

In her imaginings, she wore a different gown for the occasion, a lovely creation of blue satin with a cream stomacher and a neckline that plunged to just above her nipples. Her skirts made swishing sounds when she walked or moved . . . or pressed up against his lean, hard, masculine body.

The music in her dreams was divine. There were three musicians instead of one—a woman with a harp, a man on a pianoforte, and a second gentleman with a violin. The lulling tune lured her into a land of enchantment where love and Richard were all that mattered. There was no war—no King George. Only her and Richard and the musicians playing the song.

An owl hooted from somewhere in the distance, bringing her attention back to the present. The call was sad and lonely, as if the bird were on its own, beckoning for its lost mate.

Kirsten giggled softly and shook her head. An owl sad and lonely? She was truly getting fanciful to think such nonsense. The smile left her face as it occurred to her why she was entertaining such thoughts. It was because of Richard. Her every thought since learning the truth about him came back to the wonders of love. Now the land seemed greener. The stars twinkled brighter in the black sky. The soft summer breeze caressed one's flesh like a gentle lover's hand . . .

Kirsten climbed from her bed and went to the window. Her room faced the back of the house. There was a tree directly outside, but she could see past it to her father's fields. A ribbon of dark glistening water threaded its way from her left, the south, to the north on her right.

Where is Richard now?
It was a strange, thrilling experience knowing that he was nearby. Were the Tories camped in the forest? Or a field?

Richard had said that he must leave. He wouldn't say when he'd return, if he'd return, but she knew he would. She'd seen the look on his face after they'd kissed. He loved her; he must!

She had to have patience. He had a mission to complete, and she had her own work to do for the cause. Tomorrow when she arose, she would go to Martin's tavern. With Washington and his aides at the Hermitage and his troops encamped at Paramus, she'd be able to transport the rest of the supplies to the Van Voorhees' farm in relative safety . . . as long as she and Miles didn't stumble into the path of the departing Tories.

Kirsten turned from the window and went back to bed. Richard was gone. All she could do now was hope and pray for his safe return and continue with her work as before.

She had best get a good night's rest. There was a great deal to be done on the morrow. When he'd brought her home from the party earlier, Martin had told her he'd found her someone to help in moving the goods to the Van Voorhees'.

The next morning Kirsten left the homestead for her cousin's inn. When she arrived, her help was awaiting her. Among the four men that Martin had asked to come was John Ackerman, who had so irritated Kirsten the evening before. He grinned at her when he spied her, his expression smug. Stifling annoyance, she smiled at him politely before she addressed the group.

“Thank you, kind gentlemen, for offering to assist us.”

Each man had brought a wagon from his farm. An hour after Kirsten's arrival, each wagon was full, and the drivers were headed down the road to the Van Voorhees' place.

They traveled along together in single file. The area was occupied by Continental forces, but there was no telling who else might be about. There were hungry deserters and small enemy bands roaming the countryside. The supplies were a valuable cargo that must be protected.

Kirsten had her own wagon to drive. Her father's flintlock musket lay next to her on the seat. She kept a careful watch on the surrounding woods as the group moved on to their destination. Her vehicle was the second one in line. Thomas Banta, Rachel's brother, was directly ahead of her, in the lead. His cinnamon brown hair glinted in the bright rays of the summer sun each time he passed under an opening in the green canopy above them.

They had gone about a half-mile when the road was blocked by a group of soldiers. A man stepped forward, clearly in charge. Kirsten recognized him as being the same soldier who had guarded Washington's tent when she'd made her visit that first day.

The young soldier stood in front of the line of six vehicles. His arms folded across his chest, he glared at Thomas, before his narrowed gaze moved slowly to each one of the drivers.

“Who goes there? And what have you in your wagons?” The soldier held up his rifle.

Kirsten recalled the state of the men at camp and felt a faint flicker of unease. She rose up from her seat. “You ! You were the guard at Mynheer Washington's tent.”

He stared at her, raising an eyebrow. “And you are the wench who dared to venture into our camp alone.”

She stiffened, insulted by the implication. “I had business with the general.”

He approached, passing Thomas' wagon until he was beside her and looking up at her. Placing a hand on the wagon, he leaned against it casually and studied her boldly from head to toe. She met his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. He straightened, transferring his attention to the goods in her wagon.