Rapture's Betrayal (30 page)

They were outside in the yard, alone. The others were within, preparing for their stay at the Randolphs' farm. With an affectionate gleam in his russet eyes, Richard caressed Kirsten's cheek. “You'll stay here as I asked?”

Kirsten nodded. “You'll keep us informed?”

He nodded, then stepped away from her, his hand dropping to his side when Catherine Randolph exited the house. James Van Atta, Andrew Jones, and Kirsten's mother followed her.

“Be careful, Catherine,” Agnes said.

“Of course, I will. This won't take long. I know William. I can certainly help these men get him.”

“Aunt Catherine.” Kirsten gave her a hug.

With tears in her eyes, Catherine smiled. “Thank you,” she said, “for Miles. For everything you did for him. He loved you.”

“As I loved him.” Earlier that morning, Kirsten had taken her aunt to Miles's grave. Catherine, though deeply saddened, had been touched to see the care Kirsten had given to the small plot. Miles Randolph lay beneath the ground in a picturesque spot on the Van Atta property, in a clearing in the woods, near a bubbling brook. Kirsten herself had constructed the cross which marked her cousin's resting place.

With fear in their hearts, the Van Atta family watched the small party leave. It would all be over in a matter of hours . . . or days. But who would win? Richard and his men or William Randolph and his Tory band?

 

 

Help came from an unexpected quarter that same day. Washington and his troops arrived in Hoppertown, joining the Pennsylvania Regiment at the Paramus camp. Richard was at the encampment talking with the regiment's captain when George Washington and his troops arrived. He'd left Catherine at the Randolphs', in Private Jones' care.

Immediately, Richard sought an audience with the Patriot general. After he told Washington of his plans, the general offered him five men. Richard accepted the offer, and the soldiers headed toward the Randolph home. Word went out that the general himself had taken over the Randolph place.

The men selected from Washington's army were told very little about Richard's plans, only that they were laying a snare for a Tory fox and they expected their prey to appear soon.

The five soldiers along with Richard, Jones, and Catherine Randolph, who had formulated the plan, waited for nightfall—and for the fox to take the bait.

Catherine Randolph had retired for the night. Richard and Private Andrew Jones were in the bedroom next door, while Washington's men were stationed in various places about the house and property.

It was December 7, three days since the Tories' last attack on Hoppertown, two days since the arrival of Washington's troops.

As each night passed with no sign of William Randolph and his men, Richard's frustration grew. Soon, Washington would want to leave the area, and then Richard would no longer have the assistance of five skilled Continental soldiers to help apprehend the Tories.

How many men did the Tories have now? he wondered. He didn't want to count on the local militiamen for help, for they were needed to protect their families and homes.

Richard glanced over at Andrew sleeping on his pallet on the floor. The young soldier had been a godsend to him. He reminded Richard of Alex. When they'd first taken up residence in this bedchamber in the Randolph house, Andrew had insisted that his senior officer take the bed, while he slept on the pallet. Richard did so, with some reluctance. He could tell the young private wouldn't allow him to sleep anywhere else. So, Richard had dozed these past two nights on a soft feather-tick mattress, while Andrew had slept on the hard floor.

Kirsten,
Richard thought. He missed seeing her each day. She'd been to the house once since they'd come. She'd come in the daylight hours, but fearing for her safety, Richard hadn't wanted her there. The unpredictable behavior provoked by William's unbalanced mind disturbed him. What would happen if her uncle came and she was killed?

They'd had an argument—he and Kirsten—during which he demanded she return home until William was captured, along with his men. But Kirsten had stayed, insisting that her aunt needed some female company for a while. And in the end Richard had allowed it. After all, he reasoned, what harm could come to her under his watchful eye?

After the visit, which had lasted about an hour, Richard had decided that she should be escorted home in the company of one of the soldiers. When he told her of his decision, she demurred gracefully, no doubt pleased by her earlier victory in being able to stay. When she saw that it was Lieutenant Rhoades who would take her home, however, Richard noticed that she seemed uncomfortable with her escort. He questioned her and learned the reason for her uneasiness. He could see why her two previous encounters with Rhoades would cause her to be leery of the man. Private Jones, instead of Rhoades, Richard told her, would gladly take her home.

But now Richard wished Kirsten had stayed so that he could forget about Randolph and Phelps and the traitor within Washington's camp. He wanted to make love to Kirsten, to pleasure her, until all else faded from his thoughts but the silken texture of her smooth skin and her sweet womanly fragrance.

 

 

William came that night, on December 7, 1778. He'd stayed away as long as he could, but when he'd heard from a good source that Catherine had returned to their home, he knew he had to go there. Besides, he desperately needed fresh garments.

Emboldened by his previous successes, William took Thaddeus Phelps and no one else on his return trip to his house. He gave no thought to the presence of anyone other than Catherine and perhaps a servant or two, like Jims, their groom.

The house was dark when he arrived, and William realized that Catherine had retired for the night. He entered through the rear servants' entrance.

“Phelps, wait here,” he ordered when he and the disfigured man reached the kitchen.

“I'm hungry,” Phelps said.

William scowled. “Find something to eat then, but for God's sake, be quiet about it. I don't want to wake up the servants.”

Leaving his henchman behind, William climbed the stairs to the second floor. Catherine woke up as he came into their bedchamber.

“William,” she gasped, and sat up. She looked lovely and vulnerable in her linen night rail. Her eyes widened, and William was angered by her evident fear.

“You left the cabin,” he said, stepping into the room and closing the door.

When he turned back, she was leaning against the headboard, clutching the bedclothes to her breast. “You didn't need me there,” she said. “I was but a hindrance to you.”

William's face softened as he approached the bed. Catherine cringed, and he halted, angered anew.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

“You killed Miles,” she said.

“I told you—it was Kirsten.”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, it was you.”

“You talked with her, didn't you? Damn the girl's lying tongue!”

Catherine rose up then, straightening her back. “You lied! Kirsten is incapable of hurting Miles, while you—”

He appeared flustered. “I told you—it was discipline.”

“You beat him until he bled!”

He dragged her from the bed, and struck her across the head. She fell back against a night table, but he reached for her again.

In the next room, Richard heard the noise and rushed to Catherine's bedchamber. He flung open her door. “Catherine . . .” He came to an abrupt stop, his russet eyes turning an angry dark brown as he saw the other occupant of the room. “Randolph,” he spat out.

William released his wife, and she fell to her knees, sobbing. “You!”

Richard drew his sword and directed its point at William's chest. “Finally, we meet again.”

“Canfield,” the man uttered. “Ethan Canfield.”

“Wrong, Biv.” Richard's smile was wicked as he aimed his sword higher, at the man's heart. He could hear Catherine crying in the background. The sound pained and enraged him. “Permit me to introduce myself. The name's Maddox. Richard Maddox.” He paused. “The Mad Ox.”

William appeared stunned. “The Mad Ox . . . but you're dead,” he mumbled. He was tense, nervous. His gaze kept going behind Richard toward the door. “Phelps—”

“Phelps failed,” Richard said. “You can see for yourself that I'm alive!”

Phelps, who had stayed downstairs for what seemed to him a long time, decided to find William. Having found a loaf of bread, and having eaten part of it, he was ready to leave. He was angry that he couldn't eat more, but Randolph's fist had damaged his lips and jaw so, it had become painful to chew.

Because of this, the disfigured man wasn't in the best of moods as he silently went up to the second floor and down the hall to the bedchamber from which voices emanated. He came to the door and stopped.

“Biv?” he said, glancing toward Randolph and then at Richard's sword pointed at the man's chest.

William reacted. “Phelps!” he cried. “Get him! Go for his sword!”

Phelps hesitated. The sword was a lethal-looking weapon, one he'd never handled well. Besides, he was angry with William and was no longer willing to lay down his life for the Tory leader. Biv had beaten him when he had done nothing wrong. His nose still throbbed from the assault; his lips and jaw were sore.

“Phelps!” William whined. “Move!”

Thaddeus Phelps glanced at the sword before his gaze traveled to Richard's face. He blinked.

“We meet again,” Richard said to him.

It was obvious that Phelps didn't recognize him. Couldn't the man see?

“You idiot!” Randolph cried. “Open your half-blind eyes and look! 'Tis the Mad Ox! I thought you'd killed him!”

“The Mad Ox,” the misshapen mouth echoed. “I did kill him!”

Richard grinned. “I don't die easily, Phelps.” He ordered the man from the door and called for Andrew in the next room. As he waited for the private, he kept narrowed, alert eyes on Randolph and Phelps. “Where are your men?” he asked. “Are there others with you?”

William refused to reply, but his face gave him away.

Richard smiled. “Good, for I found your wife at the cabin, so I know where to go after them.” He played the sword tip across William's shirt, ripping the fabric, baring the man's chest. “I could skewer you now and feel no remorse.”

“Catherine,” her husband gasped. “You'll not let him kill me!”

The moon had broken clear of the clouds and its light filtered into the bedchamber. Catherine's face was expressionless. “Kill him if you want. It matters not to me.”

Andrew Jones arrived then, accompanied by one of Washington's men. Lieutenant Rhoades had been stationed downstairs and had run up the steps to join Andrew as he left his room.

When William Randolph glanced toward the Continental lieutenant, his wife saw the slightest change in his expression.

“Richard,” she said. “Lieutenant Rhoades—”

Realizing that he'd been found out, Rhoades drew his knife, grabbed Andrew, and held the blade to the boy's neck. “Drop your sword, Maddox, now, before I kill your loyal friend here.”

“Rhoades,” Richard spat out. “So it was you . . .”

The lieutenant smiled. “Who else? Who guards the general's tent. Who can hear his conversations—and those of his man Hamilton?”

“You son of a bitch!” Richard held on to his sword, refusing to lower it. “You'll never get away with it! Fletcher and the others—”

“You'll have no help from that quarter, Lieutenant Mad Ox.” Rhoades smiled, his eyes glittering with triumph. “When I saw William here entering the house, I sent them away. It seems that Tories were spotted fleeing into the woods, so you ordered the men to go after them.”

“Bastard!”

Rhoades laughed. He brought the knife point higher against the throbbing pulse at Andrew's throat. His face suddenly darkened. “I said, drop the sword, Maddox—
now
!”

Richard studied Andrew's frightened face and then stared at his sword.

“A second more, and the private's a dead man!”

Sighing, Richard closed his eyes as he dropped his sword.

William scrambled to retrieve it, while Phelps watched in stunned disbelief. “Here!” Randolph handed Phelps the sword, forcing the disfigured man to move. “Watch over the Ox, and kill him if he so much as moves a step.”

With a harsh laugh, Rhoades thrust Jones farther into the room and ordered Randolph and Phelps to tie all three of the Patriots up. He watched, smiling with satisfaction, as Randolph and Phelps obeyed.

 

 

Kirsten had had a feeling . . . a strange foreboding that something was to happen this night. It was this fear that kept her awake and prompted her to do something dangerous and foolhardy, escape the house and ride Hilga to the Randolph farm.

In the dark hours of early morning she tied Hilga to a tree at the edge of the property. There was no one about when she arrived at the house, not even a soldier on guard. That bothered her, so she entered the house quietly and cautiously. Once inside, in the hall, she heard voices. Furniture scraped wood as if someone was scuffling in one of the rooms above.

Her heart began to pound hard.
He's here!
she thought.
My uncle is here!
She went to the kitchen to search for a weapon and found a large, sharp knife used for cutting bread and cooked meat.

With the blade held before her, Kirsten climbed to the second floor. Her heart beat so loudly at one point it drowned out the male voices she'd heard raised in argument. She had difficulty breathing, she was so scared. She heard Richard's voice as she topped the stairs.

“You'll never make it out alive,” Richard insisted as he watched Phelps bind young Andrew. “Fletcher and Harris are not stupid. They'll realize that you tricked them. They'll return to confront you with more of Washington's men.”

Rhoades, who stood at the door, leaned against the threshold, his arms clasped across his chest. “But it will be too late, won't it?” He glanced toward Randolph, who was securing his wife, using one of her garments to bind her. “By the time they return, we'll have torched this place—and you and your friends with it.”

“Move and I stab you clean through,” Kirsten growled at Rhoades's back.

The man stiffened with surprise. He started to turn, and Kirsten thrust the knife forward to show she meant business. Crying out with pain, Rhoades obeyed.

“Now order them untied,” she said, keeping her voice low.

The lieutenant trembled. “Randolph. Phelps. Untie them. Hurry!”

“Move on in . . . slowly.” She urged him on with the knife's point.

Richard's eyes widened as he saw Kirsten behind Rhoades, holding a knife to his back. She grinned at him.

“Hello, love,” she said in imitation of him.

“You!” Rhoades said. “Damn you, wench!”

After returning Kirsten's grin, Richard hurried to grab his sword, which Phelps had dropped to the floor in his haste to follow Rhoades's orders. He pressed the tip against Randolph's chest. William had untied Andrew but not his wife. “Untie her—now!”

The man hesitated, glaring. “She's my—”

“Damn you!” Richard bellowed. “I said untie her! ”

“Richard?” Kirsten approached him, prodding Rhoades to precede her as she went. “May I?”

Their gazes met, and he nodded, moving out of Kirsten's way. Richard transferred his blade to Rhoades, while Kirsten pressed the knife to her uncle's throat. “I dare you not to do it, uncle,” she breathed.

Richard's attention was momentarily distracted by his admiration for Kirsten's courage and spirit. Rhoades, seeing this, suddenly twisted away from Richard's sword. Shoving Kirsten aside and taking her knife, he grabbed Catherine and, pressing the blade to her throat, he held Randolph's wife before him like a shield.