Kiss of a Traitor (23 page)

“Shackled?” Marion frowned. “Is that necessary, Captain?”

“I fear so. More than necessary. Miss Bellingham is the fiercest, most conniving individual I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet. In addition to a bloodthirsty nature, she possesses the skills to kill if given the chance. I only wish she were on our side. She would set Cornwallis to his heels in no time.”

Marion’s mouth twitched as he cleared his throat. “You ease my mind, Captain. I accept your word that the young lady is ignorant of our location and properly secured … for her own safety. Someday soon you must, indeed, relate to me this tedious story. For now I have dispatches to read. Wait upon me at dawn, and we shall discuss what to do with our prisoner, as I am discouraged from hanging her as a spy. Now I suggest you take precautions to see Miss Bellingham properly fed and comfortable in her captivity. I would not want to gain a reputation for being cruel to ladies.”

“Yes, sir.” Ford got to his feet, saluted, and left the lean-to.

He led the paint and Dancer to his tent and gave the horses to a private standing nearby. “Rub them down and see they receive extra rations. They had a hard two days’ ride. And watch the teeth and feet on the paint; he is friendly with none but his mistress.”

The horses taken care of, Ford scooped up a bedroll and Willa’s saddlebags with her dry clothing. He filled a canteen with water and retrieved two buckets from the corner of his tent. On his way back to the barn, he piled a tin plate with sweet potatoes, cornbread, and roasted squirrel from a campfire and covered the plate with a cloth.

The door bolt scraped and thumped. Montford pushed open the door and came inside. Willa looked at him with a sullen frown. His large body spanned the doorway, giving her the uncomfortable feeling she weighed in small and vulnerable in comparison. Fearing her thoughts showed on her face, she turned her head. When the odor of roasted meat hit her nose and burrowed into her stomach, she came back around.

“You brought something to eat?” Her stomach echoed her words.

He whipped off the cloth and set the plate on her lap. “'Tis not much, but better than we usually see.”

Her mouth watered, and a smile pulled at her lips. But she swiftly schooled her features into a mask of indifference. “It will do, I suppose.” As she crumbled the cornbread, she labored to eat without haste and indelicacy.

The ghost of a smile touched Montford’s mouth as he placed the two buckets on the floor and passed her the canteen. She sent him a puzzled look.

He pointed at the buckets. “Milady’s bathtub and milady’s privy.”

Her face grew warm. “Excuse my ignorance, but I’ve never been a prisoner before,” she said to cover her discomfiture.

He laid the bedroll down beside her. “Milady’s bed”—the saddlebags fell atop the bedroll—“and wardrobe.”

This time, she sent him a genuine, if wistful, smile. “Montford, what will you do with me? Oh, I suppose I should not call you ‘Montford,’ but then, we have not been properly introduced, have we?”

“Aidan will do.”

She chastised herself for the pleasure she felt at his giving her permission to address him by his Christian name, particularly when it was, more than likely, an alias. “Aidan, then. What are your plans for me?”

He bent over, lowered his voice, and canted his head toward the door. “I dare not talk freely where others may overhear. Tomorrow you will receive answers to all your questions, and they are not what you credit them to be. Rest easy. You are safe in here.”

Opening a saddlebag, he pulled out a dry shirt and handed it to her. As he unshackled her wrist, he shot her a warning look, then turned his back. She stripped off the wet jacket and shirt, which were causing her to shiver, and slipped into the dry garment. After reattaching the restraint, Aidan left the room and locked the door behind him.

Willa frowned as she chewed on a chunk of cornbread. What did he mean? Was there more to this situation than showed on the surface? Could she have misjudged him? She shook her head as if to clear it. He had brought her to the Swamp Fox’s camp. He was one of Marion’s rebels. He had to be, did he not? He was not really Lord Montford, was he?

While she finished her dinner, washed her face, and sponged off her body, she continued to ponder his odd words. His manner had been furtive.
Why?
She extracted trousers and socks from the saddlebags and pulled them on. His actions had hinted at hiding his words from the guards.
Again, why?

She shook out the bedroll and smoothed it down on the bench. What was he hiding from her? A startling notion brought her upright with a jolt. More to the point, what was he hiding from General Marion?

By the time pastel fingers painted the eastern sky in a delicate wash of rose and butternut, Ford and Marion were engaged in discussion inside the general’s lean-to.

“As you are no doubt aware,” Marion said, “General Nathaniel Greene took over from General Gates as commander of the Southern campaign. We are fortunate in this choice. Unlike Gates, Greene has sympathy for our situation, though at this time he can promise us little aid.”

The general sifted through the correspondence on his table, separated one paper, and laid it atop the others. “I am sorry to have it not in my power to order a supply of clothing,” he read, “but there is none within the army. Ammunition, I am told, is gone to you since you wrote. I am too little acquainted with the medical department to give any answer respecting a surgeon; but if it is possible to comply with your wishes it will be done.”

Marion straightened his spectacles and silently scanned down the letter. “Aha. Here is what I want.” He began to read again. “Spies are the eyes of an army … At present I am badly off for intelligence. It is of the highest importance that I get the earliest indication of any reinforcement that may arrive at Charles Town.”

Taking off his glasses, he looked at Ford. “I believe General Greene may be our savior. He applies himself to our concerns and looks to the future with a keen eye. I now need your eyes in Georgetown and your ears to the ground to uncover any word regarding reinforcements.”

“I understand, General. I shall leave for Georgetown with dispatch.”

Marion tilted back his chair and stroked his chin with one hand. “What then will you do with your prisoner, Captain Ford? We cannot have her running about Georgetown denouncing you.”

A grin flickered across Ford’s mouth. “I invented a tale for her. Have no fear, she will not denounce me. A wise man once said that to concoct a believable lie, one must stick as closely to the truth as possible.”

Marion crossed his arms over his chest, his expression eager. “Then by all means, spin me this tale.”

And so, Ford did.

“I’m a spy,” Aidan said.

Willa loosed a sigh, rolled her eyes, and looked out over the orchard. He had awakened her shortly after dawn, unlocked her manacles, blindfolded her, and led her to this isolated spot. Mockingbirds sat in the peach-tree branches, imitating the songs of thrushes and redbirds. Pale sunlight unraveled in ribbons from the lowering clouds of an overcast sky. The orchard grass beneath her was coarse and brown.

“Are you paying heed?”

She set aside her perusal and swung her head back to him. He stood off to one side, his shoulder resting against a tree trunk, his hands slid into his coat pockets, his great strength leashed, restrained under a guise of indolence. The war seemed far away in this tranquil setting. Then the distant sounds of men and horses sifted through the orchard, intruding on the fantasy and reminding Willa of where she was. In a heartbeat, that faraway war lay just beyond the meadow in the form of muskets and pistols and men to wield them with bloodlust and political fervor in their breasts.

She peered into his eyes, which matched the gray winter sky. “Quite. You are a spy. I formed that conclusion without your assistance. Why else would you pretend to be a British officer? I cannot comprehend why you would not admit it earlier. It cannot be a secret. Surely everyone here already knows you are a spy.”

He smiled in a way that tempted her to take back her words. “I am a spy for the King.”

“For the King?” She narrowed her eyes as she frowned.

His amiable expression fled in an instant. “I operate under clandestine orders from Lord Cornwallis himself, to infiltrate the rebel bands and see to their downfall.”

She swept out a hand in the direction of the camp. “Are you saying General Marion does not know you are British? He has seen you in your dragoon uniform, I presume. He knows you ride with Colonel Tarleton. Why then is he unaware that you spy for the King?”

He crouched down, grasped her flailing hand, and squeezed it gently. His voice fell almost to a whisper. “At this point the explanation becomes complicated and dangerous. Francis Marion believes I am spying on the British for him and his brigade.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “A double spy?”

He nodded.

A prickling stirred the hairs on her nape. His words contained a flaw. But as hard as she tried, she could not uncover it. She regarded him in silence for a time, then asked, “What is your true name?”

He straightened his legs and, with his hands on his hips, strode away a few paces to look out over the orchard meadow. “Aidan Sinclair, Baron Montford,” he said, his back to her. “I am and have been for some time an officer with His Majesty’s Intelligence Unit.”

“A Royal spy?” His words were outrageous, and she could hardly credit what she was hearing, but his obvious sincerity gave her pause. Yet that flaw remained … where?

He turned at the waist to look at her. “I have served the King in intelligence for some time, long before this war commenced. Francis Marion and the rebels believe me to be Brendan Ford, a Virginia planter, here on orders from General Washington to aid Marion’s Brigade by posing as Major Sinclair.” He moved back to her side and sank onto the grass, crossing his legs in front of him.

The name rang a bell. “Ford. Captain Ford?”

“Just so. I supply Marion with enough information on British movements to validate my position, though a great deal of what I disclose is trivial or fabricated. Then I send my reports on rebel activity directly to Cornwallis’s command.”

She fixed him with a searching gaze. “Who is this Brendan Ford? How is it possible for you to masquerade as him?”

His face creased, and his mouth flattened, as though her question sparked a painful memory. “Ford is my bastard half brother. We grew up together on our father’s estate. When I came into the title, Brendan was left with naught and immigrated to America. He was killed several months ago while carrying a dispatch from General Washington to General Marion. When Cornwallis uncovered the fact that my deceased brother was acting as an agent for the rebels, he requested my transfer to Charles Town to take Ford’s place in the rebel spy network. My brother and I look a great deal alike, more like twins, actually. Cornwallis and my father had a close acquaintance, attended the same schools, belonged to the same clubs. Thus, Cornwallis knew me and my brother and was, of course, privy to my position with intelligence.”

“But Papa, not General Cornwallis, saw to your transfer to Charles Town,” Willa said. “He told me he sent for you.”

“'Twas a mere fortuitous coincidence your father decided to request my presence close on the heels of Brendan’s death. All subordinates’ requirements for additional men are routed through General Cornwallis. When Colonel Bellingham dispatched the appeal, I was already in Carolina. Cornwallis received the application and recognized the opportunity it presented.”

“Does Papa know you are a spy?”

“No one knows, other than Cornwallis, me, and now you.” He pierced her with an intent look. “I cannot emphasize enough the importance of others remaining ignorant of my true mission.”

“Why?” she asked. “You must realize Papa could assist you if he only knew.”

He brought up his hand to grasp her chin between his thumb and forefinger. His wintry eyes bore into hers. “I operate under sealed orders, Willa, and a secret no longer remains a secret when shared by more than two people.”

A frown depressed the corners of her mouth. As if her father would betray military secrets! Wrenching away from his grip, she began to snap the heads off spent dandelions in the grass, lowering her gaze to the task. “Then why have you told me?”

“You’re my betrothed. As much as I might wish the situation were otherwise, I must see to your safety. Due to your inquisitive nature and stubborn insistence on seeking out General Marion, you’ve placed your life and my position in danger. Am I to remove you from this camp alive, I require your cooperation. You must return to your former life and forget what you saw here.”

Her breath caught, and she looked up. “The betrothal … ‘tis merely a part of your masquerade?”

His smug grin needled her. “Disabuse yourself of that notion, my dear. We are, in all honesty, truly betrothed. Our childhood betrothal provided General Cornwallis with a plausible reason to assign me to Georgetown and take advantage of my brother’s death.”

She greeted his revelation with silence and uprooted half a dozen dandelions. “I must tell you, Aidan, I have difficulty swallowing your story. Should what you say be true, why did you not tell me this earlier, when we met in the swamp?”