Kiss of a Traitor (3 page)

The sun had reached midsky by the time Willa emerged from beneath the palmetto trees. Brutal heat beat down without mercy on her shoulders. Adrenaline still raced through her veins as she headed for the creek. Removing her hat, she banged it against her thigh. Lumps of dried mud cracked and fell to the dusty road. She smiled as she recalled the look on the officer’s face when he found himself pinned to that tree. She regretted the loss of her best hunting knife, but she had seen no other way to escape his clutches.

As she ambled down the Georgetown road, she pondered how to pass on her observations to British headquarters. It seemed an uphill task. Though she spent time in close quarters with the traitor, she would have difficulty describing him to others. The full beard and long, shaggy hair all but hid his features, which was their obvious purpose. Other than the gray eyes, dark hair, and full, wide mouth, he had little in the way of distinguishing characteristics. He was tall, and brawny … and heavy. She rubbed a hand over her chest. But were he shaven, shorn, and dressed for town, she could pass him on the street without a spark of recognition. Besides which, in order to report the incident, she would have to explain her actions to her family. What she reaped from her brief encounter with the rebels seemed paltry compared to the misery her stepmother would subject her to.

Willa dismounted at the stream, dropped the reins, and let Cherokee drink his fill. Kneeling beside him, she cupped her hands in the water to bring them up to her face. When the thud of hooves echoed from the road, her head snapped up. She scrambled to her feet and pulled Cherokee’s muzzle from the water. Had the rebel officer trailed her to the stream? Could he possibly be that stubborn? Had he nothing better to occupy his time than to run her to the ends of the earth?

Before allowing panic to push her into a rash move, she paid closer attention to the sound. Not one horse, but a party. Only British and Tory patrols traveled openly on the roads in the daytime, particularly on this main byway. She and they were on the same side. Even so, she would find herself on the receiving end of a wretched interrogation should they catch her. She glanced around for cover, but the meadow behind her stretched out as flat as Cook’s batter cakes. The patrol would see her when they rode by. She had no choice other than flight. Mounting Cherokee, she urged the tired horse into a gallop.

“Halt! Halt and identify yourself or be shot!”

Willa ignored the command. A pistol ball whined over her head … close enough to make her heart stutter. She slowed Cherokee and brought him to a stop when it became clear her stepmother’s wrath would be a less severe punishment than a lead ball in the back.

Seven Tory dragoons in crimson uniforms crossed the ground between them. Willa dropped her reins and raised her hands. She groaned when the men drew close enough for her to recognize the leader’s wavy blond hair and well-groomed mustache. After her stepmother, the second most irritating person in her life: Major Thomas Digby.

He was a dandy, and Willa despised nothing so much as a foppish man. When he sought to court her, she brushed off his advances as though he were a pesky mosquito. Ever since, he’d been a burr in her bedroll.

The horses hove to, and Digby slanted a smile of recognition rampant with delight, much like the smile a cat might offer a sparrow caught under its paw. “Good morn, Lady Wilhelmina.” He brought his bay up beside her and tipped his hat. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Willa raised her chin and looked down her nose at him. “Indeed, Major Digby, unexpected for me, as well, though I would hesitate to call it a pleasure. Had I the merest notion you were slithering down this road, I would have chosen another route.”

A few snickers and whispered comments came from the soldiers behind Digby and passed through her ears, causing the skin to tighten over her cheeks.

Digby folded his manicured hands on the saddle rise. His elegant features scarcely twitched at her insult. “Then to what do I owe this honor, my lady? I confess I’m confounded. Has your coachman misplaced your carriage while returning you from your morning calls?” His insolent gaze crawled over her, and he leaned forward to brace himself on his hands. “But we both know why you more resemble a mud-splattered muskrat than you do a lady, do we not? You’ve been larking through the swamp again in direct defiance of your father’s orders.”

She glowered and gave up all attempts at good manners. “Wrong, Digby, I’ve been wallowing in the mud beside the stream.
The Ladies’ Quarterly Journal
suggests a mud pack is good for the complexion. Now, if you and your soldier boys would take yourselves off and mind your own business instead of mine, I shall be on my way.”

His mouth hardened into a line. “I think not.” His hand whisked out to seize the reins from her hands. “As Colonel Bellingham’s aide and friend, I’m obliged to take a vested interest in your safety. Should you persist in riding alone along a dangerous stretch of road, there’s no telling what vermin you might run into.”

Like you.
She lunged sideways to retrieve her reins, but he held them out of her reach. “You have no say in what I do or where I go.” She was as sick as a rabid coon of dealing with overbearing males. First the rebel officer, now Digby. A headache began to beat against her temples. “Return my reins so I can take my leave.”

He smiled, turned his horse, and tugged Cherokee alongside as his mount broke into a trot. “Nonsense, my lady. You are obviously overwrought. Your father will thank me for fetching you home.”

“Digby,” she shouted, “I shall get even with you for this.”

He did not deign to turn his head as he kicked his horse into a canter.

“Pray inform Colonel Bellingham I have business with him,” Digby said to Quinn, the Bellinghams’ butler.

The butler’s gaze flitted from Major Digby to Cherokee, who stood hip-shot and half-asleep in the crushed-shell drive. Willa felt like the worst kind of fool as she fumed atop the horse’s back. She sorely tried Quinn in his efforts to hide her dangerous activities from her father. Were the colonel to discover the true extent of her excursions, he would pack her off to England in a trice to reside with her older sisters.

From his position on the top step of the porch, Quinn pulled himself up to his full height of five feet six inches and managed to look down on the much taller Major Digby. “I see,” he intoned in his haughtiest voice. “Unfortunately, Colonel Bellingham is not available. I shall attend to Lady Wilhelmina and notify the colonel that you brought her home safely.” He waved an imperious hand. “My lady, leave Cherokee for Plato and come into the house immediately.”

Digby’s face infused with anger. “Here now, Quinn, I really must insist on speaking with the colonel.”

Willa slid off Cherokee and climbed the front steps. With a muddy elbow in his side, she pushed her way past a red-faced Digby. He glared at her, but she paid him no mind and slipped around Quinn to disappear through the door.

Quinn stepped back into the doorway. “My apologies, Major Digby. As I said, Colonel Bellingham is not available.” He shut the door in Digby’s face and turned on Willa when she dropped into an antique chair in the foyer. “Remove yourself from that before you ruin it,” he hissed. “Your condition is disgraceful.”

Willa slowly pushed herself to her feet. “I beg you, save your criticism for another time. I’m quite aware of my state. A bath and a few hours’ sleep should serve to make me presentable.” She threw him a look of inquiry. “Dare I ask? Is Papa truly unavailable? Or was your speech solely for Digby’s benefit?”

Quinn helped her shed the mud-caked jacket and held it gingerly with his fingertips as if it were a porcupine. “Your father is in his study. And should you fail to lower your voice, he will discover your shocking state of dress and realize where you’ve been.”

“Where is Marlene?” She searched the foyer and the doorways to the main rooms, looking for the witch who plagued her daily existence. Since her wedding to Colonel Bellingham last year, Marlene had vowed to wed Willa to the first country squire to cross their threshold and spewed a constant stream of criticism aimed at Willa’s lack of social graces. But Willa had no inclination to pursue womanly arts. She would not marry until she found her one true love, the man who could set her heart afire. And in all honesty, she was unlikely to stumble across this paragon of manhood in the swamps where she wiled away most of her days and nights in her fruitless quest for Francis Marion. If she could find him, she would achieve one goal—her father would, at last, set aside his disappointment in breeding only useless daughters.

“Fortunately for you, Lady Bellingham took the carriage into town,” Quinn replied. “I need not remind you what she would say about your antics. I was obligated to provide an alibi for you at breakfast this morning. I told your parents you rode out early to the Chesters’ plantation to visit with Miss Amelia.”

“You are a loyal friend, Quinn.” Willa yawned, pulled off her hat, and combed a hand through her cropped hair.

Quinn gaped at her and reached out a shaky hand. “Dear heavens, child, what have you done to your beautiful hair?”

She sent him a look warning him not to read her a lecture. “Is it not apparent? I cut it.”

He pressed his lips into a grim line. “And how, pray tell, will you explain
that
to your parents?”

Willa sighed. “Yes, well, I suppose I shall think of something. Right now I’m exhausted. I fear my brain has taken leave of my body.”

“Indeed, it has,” he said as he ushered her up the stairs and turned her over to her maid. Jwana viewed the ragged hair with wide eyes and an open mouth.

Willa quelled the maid’s protest. “I know, I know. You have no need to ring a peal over my head. Pray fetch me some bathwater and a cake or two of soap.”

“Hmph!” Jwana said as she settled her hands on her hips. “I be thinkin’ at leas’ three.”

“George, you must do something about that girl.” Marlene Bellingham’s brocade skirt rustled as she sharply turned and paced across the Savonnerie carpet.

Colonel Bellingham spread his hands and shrugged. “She is my daughter. What would you have me do? Lock her away?”

Whirling toward him, she folded her arms over her bosom. High dudgeon infused her face with a rosy glow and made her eyes glitter.

He watched her, still incapable of believing this exquisite woman had acquiesced to marry him. She was a porcelain doll, petite and perfect in face and form, silver-blond hair, sky-blue eyes, and a sultry mouth that made his pulse race.

“Dispatch her to England,” Marlene said, her words bitter, “before she utterly disgraces us. Or marry her off. Your career cannot afford the nest of hornets she is bound to stir up. The girl requires discipline and, God knows, she refuses to follow my direction. I put my best efforts into her education. No matter the care I take in providing her with a good example, she rebuffs me at every turn. The chit is incorrigible. I understand she has felt the lack of a mother for most of her formative years. For that reason I hoped we would develop a friendship, that she would allow me to guide her in becoming a modest, Christian young woman.” She paused for a breath, and a tear leaked from the corner of one eye. “She thwarts my every attempt. I despair she will ever become a credit to you and our family.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I will not argue your point, darling. I’ve been cognizant of the gravity of the situation for quite some time and have taken the necessary steps to curb Willa’s behavior.”

A gleam lit her eyes. “What, George?” she asked, her voice a purr. “What have you done?”

He came upright and circled around the desk to approach her. His palms clasped her fine-boned face and tilted up her head. “You need not worry any longer. I shall take care of everything.” Lowering his mouth, he took what she offered.