Rapture's Betrayal (6 page)

“I'm sor—”

“Sh-h!”

Tears welled in her eyes. Richard was in danger because of her!

“Koolsla!” He tossed a rock toward the animal, and to Kirsten's surprise, the dog bolted in the opposite direction.

“Is it safe?” she whispered.

“For now.” Richard moved up behind her and placed his hands on her trembling shoulders. She gasped as she was spun around. “God, woman,” he rasped, “you scared the hell out of me! Don't you know enough not to tangle with a hurt and overexcited animal?”

An injured creature like you?
she wondered. She should have known better, but she'd been careless, preoccupied with the memory of his kiss, his touch. She stifled the urge to clutch him tightly and beg him to love her.

A sudden fierce trembling seized her; and with a mild oath, Richard pulled her into his arms. She must have cried out, because he held her away.
He could've been killed!
Kirsten thought with horror.

“Oh, God, don't cry, sweetheart.” He drew her against him. “I shouldn't have yelled at you, but I was frightened.”

“And I—I—wasn't?” His tenderness was her undoing. She sobbed harder into his chest, and he cupped the back of her head with his hand, stroking her hair.

“It's all right,” he murmured. “It's over, and you're safe.”

Her body shook as she cried. What was the matter with her? She was not one given to crying, and certainly never one to carry on so!

Finally Richard released her and raised her chin with a finger. His gaze caressed her face before he kissed her deeply.

Moaning, she responded passionately, fusing herself into his length.

Suddenly Richard stiffened. “No!” He thrust her away, his expression tortured. “Don't look at me like that. I'm fighting myself, not you! We cannot get involved. There's this bloody war!”

She gaped at him, stunned. Then the pain eased with understanding. Richard wanted her, but was afraid! Afraid the pain would be unbearable if they became lovers only to have the war tear them apart.

She backed away from him, nodding in quiet agreement, but determined to love him at all costs.

He reached for her, his expression torn. “Kirsten, please try to understand—”

“I do understand.” Her lips quivered as she tried to smile. “I have to get home.” She hesitated. “Are you all right?”

To her relief, he nodded. In the horror of her encounter with the dog, she'd forgotten his injured thigh. He'd come a long way from the ruin; he must be in pain.

She eyed him with concern. “Your leg . . .”

“It's all right. I've been exercising it some each night.”

She knew a sudden stab of alarm. “You're getting ready to leave?”

“Not yet.” But the look in his eyes said, “Soon.”

She bit her lip. “I'll see you tomorrow?”

He inclined his head.

“Good night, Richard,” she said softly. “And thank you. I don't know what I would have done—”

“I'm only returning the favor,” he replied, his voice sounding harsh. Then, he turned and walked away, taking the evening's magic with him.

A summer shower fell on the Dutch village of Hoppertown, bringing the inhabitants relief from the heat. Kirsten stood at her bedchamber window, watching the rain as it saturated the earth, listening to it beating against the gambrel roof.

The yard below was awash with color, the June blooms in her mother's flower beds a riot of glorious hues. She found no comfort in the beauty outside; her thoughts were with Richard.

What am I to do? I've become obsessed with a man who'll be leaving soon, a stranger I'll never see again.
Despite reason, she couldn't ignore her feelings for him.
I'll never forget him
. . .
never.

Love? Was that having your stomach full of butterflies? An ache she couldn't name? She could understand his position. He had a war to fight; she'd just be a distraction in the bloody scheme of things. But, how could they deny what was so evident, this powerful attraction?

Richard said they couldn't become involved. Kirsten knew he was fooling himself. The glow in his russet eyes when he looked at her, the way his body hardened whenever she touched him, spoke the truth. It was too late—they were already physically and emotionally bound to each other.

And why not?
she thought.
We could live for today and hang the consequences!

She had moved from the window and was now flipping through the clothes stored in the
kast
. The next time she went to see him she wanted to be beautiful for him. She frowned at the meager selection of simple homespun apparel. Kirsten thought of the dresses that had been brought over from Europe, those belonging to her grandmother, others that were her mother's. The fancy garments were too grand for daywear, and Kirsten wondered if she'd ever have an occasion when she could wear one.

There is my Sunday best,
she thought. The outfit consisted of a red and gold waistcoat, a scarlet petticoat, and a lace cornet head cap. She dismissed the idea. She'd never get out of the house wearing it, and if she did, her mother would be furious if she smudged or marred the fine ruffled hem.

She slammed shut the
kast
door, scolding herself for indulging in girlish fantasies. Richard wouldn't notice or care what she wore! She was kidding herself to think otherwise. She recalled the harsh way he'd left when she'd seen him last—two nights ago—and she decided that she was playing a fool's game in believing that he might care for her.

The best thing for both of us, would be to return to the mill and find him gone.
She rejected the thought instantly. She wanted—needed—to see him at least one more time.

“Kirsten!” her father called from downstairs. “The rain is slowing. Are you coming? Your
moeder
and I are ready to go.”

“Yes,
Vader,
I'll be right down!” She brightened. She'd forgotten that today they were going to
Peremus Kerk.
The church not only served as a place of worship for the Hoppertown and Paramus communities but as a town meeting place and, on occasion, a hospital for Patriot soldiers. Today was not a day of worship but a time when members of the community were gathering to discuss how to handle the British when they returned. It would be a serious occasion for the adults, for the young a visit with friends.

Kirsten checked her gown and was satisfied with her appearance. She thought of Richard and longed to go to him, but her parents would get suspicious if she asked to stay home. The only thing to do, she decided as she peered into the looking glass and straightened her cap, would be to visit Richard later.

 

 

Peremus Kerk
was an octagonal building located about a mile out of Hoppertown. The Van Attas' wagon pulled onto the dirt-packed turnpike, joining the procession of carts and buggies that meandered down the road. Some of the locals came on horseback; others had hitched a ride with friends.

Kirsten was enjoying the sights and sounds about her when suddenly she heard someone call her name. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Rachel Banta in a buggy two vehicles behind, waving vigorously. The Ackermans, directly in back, also hailed her heartily. Smiling, Kirsten returned their hellos.

No one would have known by the travelers' festive air that their mission was other than just a social gathering. Spirits were high with the temperature down, and with the Briton's leavetaking, there was something to celebrate.

As the Van Attas neared their destination, Kirsten saw the weathercock on the
kerk
spire. She was suddenly aware of the fact that the adults had become quiet. Only the children continued to babble with excitement. Soon, the youngsters were silent, too, noting the change in their parents' mood.

The vehicles pulled into the churchyard one by one, and the taciturn passengers alighted.

“Kirsten!” The hoarse whisper came from behind a cluster of trees that grew near the church entrance as she jumped down from the wagon.

Frowning, she glanced about and saw nothing.

“Kirsten! Over here.” The last word rose with a croak.

She searched again and was startled to see her cousin Miles. She waved to him, before she turned to her father. “Vader? There is someone I need to speak with. I'll be inside in a moment.”

James nodded as he helped his wife from the wagon, and Kirsten rushed over to see Miles.

“I thought you'd never hear me,” he croaked, and she couldn't help chuckling as his voice broke.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, amused that her young cousin was finally experiencing the change that most boys of his age had already been through.

“Don't laugh.” Miles glared at her.

“Oh, Miles. You so wanted to sound like a man, but you forgot you must be a frog first.” She stifled a giggle.

“Kirsten, please!”

She apologized and then pressed him for a reason for his presence at the meeting.

His lips tightened. “My mother insisted we come.”

“Aunt Catherine is here?” Kirsten was astonished. William Randolph, Catherine's husband and Agnes Van Atta's brother, was a Loyalist, and everyone knew it.

“I told her it was foolish,” her cousin said. “If my father finds out—”

“I know,” Kirsten breathed. Her uncle was a cruel man when he was angry. By coming here, Aunt Catherine was placing herself at great risk. “Where is she?” She looked for her aunt.

“She's inside.”

“Oh, no.”

“Kirsten,
please.
You've got to help me. Somehow, we have to convince her to go home.”

“But Miles if she truly wants to be here . . .”

“I love my mother. I don't want her hurt.” There was a fierce light burning in her cousin's dark eyes.

The young woman sighed. “All right. I'll see what I can do. Maybe, after a time, one of us could pretend to be sick.”

“Not me. Knowing how I feel, she'll never believe I'm not faking.”

“Okay, me then.” Kirsten grinned. “Come on. They're going to be starting shortly. Let's hope we can find seats together.”

Miles looked worried. “Are you sure you want to sit with us?” he said. “Your father . . .”

The girl glared, halting his words. “You are not a Loyalist. And my
vader
is not the problem—yours is.”

 

 

“I say it's time the people of Hoppertown do something to help the revolutionists!” John DeVore, a young lad of about eighteen, stood up from his seat across the room. “Or shall we wait until George's horned beasts return and rape our women!”

The boy's audience was a vast one. Several rows of benches lined each of the eight walls, and each bench was filled to capacity.

“I agree!” Frederick Terhune chimed in from the front row. “We can't wait. Isn't it bad enough that the swine have threatened my poor Anna?” He was a portly man dressed in a green coat with silver buttons. His matching waistcoat and knee breeches along with his white stockings were made of silk. On his head he wore a gray goat's wig, powdered and in the latest style; the hairpiece looked ready to topple.

Murmurs filled the church as the villagers digested Terhune's remark. It was the first that Kirsten had heard of the incident. Curious, she glanced at the pale girl who suddenly become the cynosure of all eyes.

“What of the threat that's still present? What of the Tories?” The one who spoke was a gentleman Kirsten didn't recognize. “The enemy are among us, and we do little to crush them!”

“But they are our own flesh and blood!” a woman cried. “We have made our displeasure known. What would you have us do—commit murder?”

The comment caused an uproar. Kirsten glanced at her aunt and saw her stiffen.
Things are getting out of hand,
she thought.

It took several attempts by the
voorlezer,
rapping his fist against the pulpit, to regain peace. The man wasn't altogether successful, for an eerie disquiet had come over the group. Tempers simmered below the surface, and Kirsten heard the heated exchanges of neighbors and friends. She grew concerned.

Next, they would turn on her aunt. Catherine Randolph didn't deserve to suffer for her husband's loyalties. Kirsten's gaze went to her parents, who sat in the section across from them. She saw by her mother's expression that Agnes understood. Encouraged by that silent approval, Kirsten turned to her aunt.

She bent over, pretending to be sick. “Oh-h-h,” she groaned, clutching her stomach. In the confusion about them, she hoped that no one but her aunt and cousin would witness her performance. “Aunt Catherine . . . I . . . don't . . . feel well. I . . . oh-h-h . . . !”

“What is it, dear?” Catherine eyed her niece with concern.

“I don't know!” Kirsten gasped. “It must be something I ate.” She cupped her mouth as if she were about to be sick.

“Oh, dear!” Catherine exclaimed. “We'd best get you outside—now. Miles!” The woman rose, and with her son's help, ushered her niece from the crowded church.

Once outside, however, Kirsten didn't know what to do. She was saved by Miles's quick thinking.

“Mother, is she all right?” he said. Kirsten secretly applauded her cousin's acting abilities.

“I'm afraid not,” Catherine replied. “She seems quite ill.”

Kirsten groaned for effect while holding her stomach. She must have overacted, she realized when she saw her aunt's eyes light up with suspicion.

“Perhaps we should get your mother—”

“No, no! I'll be all right in a moment. But
please
stay here with me for a while.”

Catherine's eyes narrowed. “Perhaps Miles and I should see you home.”

“Oh, yes!” Kirsten said a bit too hastily. “I should feel much better resting in my room.”

There was a tense moment of silence.

Finally, Aunt Catherine chuckled. “You're a clever girl, Kirsten,” she said. “I'll eat my cap if you're truly sick.”

“I . . . ah . . .” The younger woman flushed guiltily.

“Mother!” Miles said. “How can you say such a thing!”

“Miles Randolph,” his mother said sternly. “Don't you dare tell me that this has nothing to do with me and your father!”

“But, Aunt Catherine, if Uncle William learns that you came today—”

“Don't fret, niece,” Catherine said. “Do you think I'd have come if there was a chance he'd learn of this?” She stared at the two young people reproachfully. Then her expression softened. “So you decided to act on my behalf . . .”

Kirsten blushed. “I'm sorry.”

“For what, child? For caring?”

Miles was impatient. “Mother, will you go home now or not?” he squeaked.

Catherine sighed. “After all the trouble you two have taken to convince me to leave, I suppose I had better go.”

A short while later, Miles thanked his cousin for her help. He stood on the Van Attas' stoop, his eyes bright, his expression filled with warmth and respect for his older cousin. “You did it!” he exclaimed. “But then somehow you always manage to accomplish what you set out to do.”

Kirsten smiled. “Not always, but usually,” she teased. “You had best hurry and get your mother home before your father arrives there.” During the ride to the Van Attas', Miles had confided that William Randolph had gone to visit a Loyalist friend.

The boy flashed a brief glance toward the waiting wagon. “Can you make it tonight?” he whispered. His voice splintered on the word “tonight,” and he cursed.

Smiling, Kirsten shook her head. “I can't. Not tonight.” She immediately sobered. “But soon. I'll let you know.” Her only desire this night was to see Richard.

“Let me know then,” Miles told her, and she assured him that she would.

Suddenly, Miles hugged her tightly. “I hope you're not in any trouble.”

Not because of either of you,
she thought, her mind consumed with the image of Richard Maddox. She returned his hug and shook her head as they pulled apart. “I'm not,” she said. “Don't worry. Now, get!” Kirsten waved at her aunt in the cart.

Miles returned to the cart, and the Randolphs left.

 

 

“I tell you, Randolph, it's the only way.” Bernard Godwin inhaled a bit of snuff through his right nostril, before repeating the procedure with the left. “They're banding together. I've heard talk of a militia.”

“It's true, William,” said Edmund Dunley. “They're meeting in Peremus this very day.”