Kiss of a Traitor (21 page)

After an hour of hard going, they paused beneath a cypress, and Ford smiled as he gazed out over the water oaks and rain-blackened cypress bark. The swamp’s bursting life renewed his soul, and he relaxed muscles that ached from weeks of fighting. As he peered through the rain and evergreen needles, a patch of white drew his notice. It seemed somehow familiar but kindled no immediate alarm. Had he not noticed Dancer’s attention drawn to the same spot, he would have dismissed it as fungus on a tree trunk.

When the white patch abruptly erupted into motion, joined by the crashing of hooves, a grin stretched his mouth. Bending over Dancer’s neck, he loosened the reins. He now knew what had sparked his recognition—a brown and white paint horse carrying an impertinent boy covered in swamp mud. What the devil was
he
doing in Sockee Swamp?

The chase soon captured Ford’s full concentration as he pounded after the horse, expecting the boy would find himself at a disadvantage this time on unfamiliar ground. Or
was
the swamp unfamiliar? Had the boy been spying on Snow Island? If so, why had the redcoats not swept in and destroyed the haven? He had a great many more questions, and this time the boy would answer them.

The paint horse zigzagged around trees, cutting corners so close Ford winced as he envisioned a knee smashing up against a trunk. He marveled once again at the boy’s horsemanship as Dancer’s longer legs continued to gain ground. The tangled foliage gave way to the creek bed, and the two riders flew down the bank and across foaming knee-high water as though running on flat ground.

When the paint scrabbled up the far bank, his feet slipped in the mud. It caused a mere hesitation in his gait, but it was enough for Ford. He came alongside and launched himself from his saddle. Grabbing an armful of squawking boy, he passed over the paint’s back and landed in the mud on the other side. With the writhing lad held against him, he rolled down the bank and landed in the creek.

Ford ended up on top with the boy’s small body submerged in the icy water. Grasping a fistful of coat, he struggled to his feet and pulled the boy up with him.

With water beating against their legs and rain sheeting down from the break in the trees, Ford and Willa glared at each other.

The world vanished but for the two of them.

“Lucifer’s balls!” Ford yelled. Faced with his fiancée, her hair and clothes soaked and sticking to her body, her eyes dark and snapping with fury and beginning to round with disbelief as she identified him, he could not help himself. His scowl curved into a grin, and his deep laughter resounded through the defile.

“Damn you for the devil’s spawn, Montford,” she spat and flailed her arms to land blows on his face and chest.

He flattened her arms against her sides and pressed her face to his chest while he caught his breath. “Wilhelmina, my dear, or is it Will? Perchance Willa, as your father calls you? Yes, I believe I prefer Willa,” he said, barely able to control his laughter. “Wilhelmina is a good deal more … ladylike. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Let me go,” was her muffled response. She kicked out at his legs and groin.

He spun her around so her back came up against his chest. “Not on your life,” he said with a chuckle. “Not ‘till I have some answers.”

She twisted her head and goggled at him. “Me? You have the audacity to demand answers from me? How dare you! How about some answers from you? Explain what you are doing here, in the clothes of a rebel, and”—she stilled as she lifted her eyes to Dancer standing beside the paint on the lip of the creek bank above them. Both horses looked placidly down on the confrontation—“and riding that black beast of a horse.” She gasped as fiery recognition sparked in her eyes. “You are a spy! I saw you meeting with Marion’s rebels. You are a damned rebel spy. A traitor!”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “That, my dear, is a matter of which side you are on.” After dragging her writhing body up the slippery bank, he retrieved the rope from Dancer’s saddle.

She stared at the rope. “What are you doing? You cannot do this!”

Ford yanked her hands behind her back and cinched the rope tight around her wrists while she continued to fight him. “Be still,” he said. “You’ve been taken as a prisoner of war. Show some dignity.”

At his rebuke, she became still and as rigid as a tree bole. He stepped back and ran his hands over her body. She twisted away. “Don’t,” she said with a catch in her voice. “You will not ravish me. I shall kill you if you do.”

A spear of bitterness pierced his chest. Did she truly believe he was that sort of man? But then she had probably heard rumors of Tarleton’s men raping Emma’s mother. What else was she to expect from the enemy?

“I have no desire to ravish you,” he said, his words tight. “I’m simply relieving you of any sharp objects you might have the inclination to deposit in my gut. I well remember your deadly aim.” So saying, he pulled the knife from its sheath in the small of her back, located the one in her boot, and extracted the one strapped to her wrist. “Is that all?” he asked as his hands continued to roam.

She clamped her lips together in a mutinous pout.

Ford leveled a look at her. “Should you decline to cooperate, I shall have no option but to strip you.”

When her lashes lifted, a stubborn glint shone in her brown eyes. Even so, she must have recognized the determination in his, because she lowered her gaze and exhaled a sigh.

“In my saddlebags,” she said at last.

He gave a short nod and moved to the paint. The horse snorted, flattened his ears, and showed his teeth as he stomped one foot. Ford murmured softly and kept a cautious eye on the animal while he rummaged through the bags for Willa’s knives. He discovered two pistols, as well, which he also confiscated.

“What plans do you have for me?” she asked when he came back to her. “Where are you taking me?”

He was through talking. It would take some mulling over this sticky situation before he felt competent to answer her questions. What plans
did
he have for her? He could not release her. She would hightail it back to Georgetown and expose him to her father and the whole of the British army. He could not imprison her indefinitely. Who knew how long the war would last? And who would guard her? He could not ask Marion’s men to carry out that duty while he followed his orders to Georgetown, at least, not for long. Even were they to offer, he felt uneasy about leaving her alone with strange men who, in many cases, were less than gentlemen. For now he would take her to Snow Island where he could consult with the general. Marion was possessed of a logical mind, unlike himself whenever he came into contact with the little wildcat.

Ford fished a handkerchief from his pocket and took hold of her arm, pulling her back against him again. He tied the cloth around her eyes.

“W-what—” she sputtered. “No!” She whipped her head back and forth.

“Bite your tongue, or I shall gag you, too,” he ordered as he hauled her over to her horse, boosted her onto its back, and grasped her reins in his hands. Mounting Dancer, he moved back into the swamp and towed the paint along behind him.

They rode for hour upon hour. Willa suspected Montford was taking her to Marion’s hideout, and from the distance they traveled, the camp lay a fair piece from Sockee Swamp. How could she have been so far off target? The rain slowly waned and then ceased. The sun emerged, producing a faint wash of light before her eyes. Weak, warm rays touched her cold skin with blessed heat.

The horses still plodded through swamp. Moss brushed her face like cobwebs. Vines caught on her stirrups. Prickly cypress branches slapped against her legs and arms. Mold welled up from the ground in a musty fragrance.

They moved out into fields. The sun grew stronger. Cold-hardened grass stems rustled at their passing. Meadowlarks called from fence posts. A breeze lifted the wet hair away from her face and combed through it with chilly fingers.

They crossed streams and creeks that burbled and whispered.

They traveled into and out of forest. Dead leaves crunched beneath hooves. A red-shouldered hawk issued a shrill cry from above.

As the sun weakened and the air grew colder, Montford stopped his horse, and Cherokee followed suit. They were still in forest. His saddle creaked when he dismounted, and leaves crackled underfoot as he paced toward her. She straightened her spine, refusing to allow him to see how weary she had become … and how cold. She clamped her teeth with effort to still their chattering. Yet she had no success in subduing her shivering shoulders.

When hands settled around her waist, she started and let out a gasp. He waited a moment before lifting her from the saddle and placing her on her feet. His hand braced her elbow when her knees wobbled. Then his fingers fumbled with the knot on her blindfold. The cloth dropped, and she blinked.

Montford moved away with the horses, and Willa looked about. The trees were pine and mixed hardwood, old and tall with thick bark and wide boles impossible to span with both arms. As evening settled in, shadows crept through the branches, and a screech owl sounded from a high perch, its voice grating on her nerves like chalk on a slate.

Willa settled her eyes on Montford. He had hobbled the horses and was stripping off their saddles. He turned suddenly, as though he felt her eyes on him, and laid the saddle he held in his arms on the ground.

“Be seated,” he said harshly and pointed to a dry spot under a pine.

When she disregarded his command, he strode across the pine needles, grasped her arm, and pulled her over to the tree. Shoving her down onto her knees, he tied another rope to the one binding her hands and secured it to a sturdy branch high overhead.

“Sweet Jesus,” he said softly and rubbed his palms up and down her clammy arms. “You are freezing.” After peeling off his greatcoat, he draped it over her shoulders and buttoned it beneath her chin before returning to the horses.

“What do you care whether I die from exposure?” she yelled at his back. “You and your marauding traitor friends will kill me in any event.”

He turned his head only for a second. “Do shut up, Willa. I have no qualms about gagging you.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. Dropping her knees to one side, she wriggled backward until her spine bumped up against the rough bark. As she stretched out her legs, she watched the man she detested most in the world. The man who had lied to her. The man who had made fools of her and her father and the British and Tory armies. Her betrothed. In truth, who was he? And now that she knew his secret, what would he do with her?

Willa had fallen into a restless sleep by the time Ford rubbed down the horses and fed out the grain packed in the girl’s saddlebags. She looked fragile slumped against the tree with her hair snarled around her head. Yet he had no delusions concerning her ability to defend herself … or the danger she represented, to him in particular. She rode like a centaur and threw a knife like a Cherokee brave. His conscience poked him at leaving her tied, but he suspected loosening her hands would be paramount to signing his death warrant. Right now she hated him and would rejoice at spilling his blood.

After gathering dry limbs from the pines, he built a fire in a cleared area. He could have ridden to Snow Island with his spy within two hours of her capture; they were that close. Instead, he was hauling her about the countryside to confuse her sense of direction. Assuming she’d not already found it, he dared not allow her to learn the camp’s location. Then her life would indeed be in danger. Marion would listen to what he had to say and weigh all the options, but Ford had no assurance he could guarantee Willa’s safety. Not should it mean the likely capture of the general and his loyal band. The cause was more important than the life of any one person.

He walked over to her, adjusted the coat to cover her more fully, and laid his palm on her forehead. Her skin felt cool. As he dragged his saddle close to the fire and lay down, his head on the hard leather and the saddle blankets draped over him, his mind refused to cease its deliberations despite his fatigue. What could he say that she would believe? How could he return her to her father without exposing his position and placing Marion in danger?

Answers refused to come as sleep overtook him.

Tiny feet tickled her nose. Willa tried to raise a hand to brush them away but could not move. She opened her eyes, puckered her lips, and blew a stream of air at the spider, causing it to trundle off.

When she glanced around, she blinked rapidly at first. Where was she, and why did her arms feel as if they were no longer attached to her body? Then memory lapped like waves against a shore, bringing a frown. Montford had kidnapped her and tied her hands behind her. She had slid onto her back during the night and, after lying on her arms for hours, lost all feeling in them. Uttering a whimper of pain, she squirmed about to pull her body upright.

Her thrashing prompted a nickering from Cherokee and a stirring on the ground in front of her. She lifted her head. His lordship was stretched out on the earth under saddle blankets. The ashes of a fire lay close beside him.