Kiss of a Traitor (49 page)

September eighth dawned with the promise of another scorching day, and the Americans marched toward Eutaw Springs, their tactics and resolve firmly in place. With the redcoats at breakfast, Stewart had sent out men to dig the fields for sweet potatoes when two American deserters galloped into the British camp with word on Greene and his army. Stewart dispatched a patrol, not truly believing Greene could move so quickly. It soon pounded back at a dead run and threw the camp into panic. The redcoats quickly discarded their rations and drew up battle lines in a heavily wooded area. Behind them stood fallow fields and a large brick home with a high-walled garden. More woods and Eutaw Creek lay to the north.

The battle began with furious fire as the Americans clashed with the British line. Partisan sharpshooters ducked in and out among the trees, punching temporary holes in the phalanx of red coats. The British managed to hold strong, as did the patriots. Marion calmly rode Ball up and down the ranks through it all, in consummate command and encouraging his men as he set an example with his bravery.

Marion’s militiamen fired seventeen rounds before they expended their ammunition. When they fell back, the center of the American line gave way. The North Carolina Continentals rushed in and shored up the gap. The entire British line started to falter, and Stewart swiftly pulled up his left-flank reserves, causing the patriots to retreat under a thunderous barrage of fire. The redcoats smelled defeat, yelled triumphantly, and rushed toward the enemy, breaking ranks in a collapse of discipline.

The patriots’ strongest forces stepped into the breach. Their overwhelming might routed the disorganized British and sent them fleeing in every direction. When the American forces swept into the British camp and seized it, they believed they had fallen into heaven. They tore through the British stores—real food, liquor, equipment, and many other items they’d not seen for the entire war. Dehydrated by the heat and fierce fighting, they searched frantically for water and fell upon the water barrels like dying fish when they discovered them. The commanders tried to stop the men’s plundering, but the troops were high on victory and out of control.

The British commanders seized their chance and attacked again. The patriots scooped up their arms and fought bravely, but the redcoats soon drove them from the camp.

With death all about him, Ford fought beside Marion. He gave no quarter and guarded his commander’s back. Wounded twice in the arm—one a saber slice, the other a long gouge inflicted by a musket ball—and once in the right thigh when he moved Dancer an inch too close to a guardsman’s bayonet, he, nonetheless, stayed astride and fought with a zeal he’d not known was within him. Marion’s enthusiasm and the militiamen’s fierceness invigorated him and sent the fury of battle roaring through his blood.

Four more hours of battle took a grave toll on the combatants while the sun bore down with unrelenting heat. Some men expired simply from heat stroke. Both armies gave up the fight at the same time, battered, bloodied, and so devastated by the carnage it sickened them. One man later reported: “The blood ran ankle-deep in places.”

Stewart claimed victory, but the American forces had shattered his army. Others saw the battle as a draw. Over eleven hundred men died, were wounded, or captured that bloody day under the ruthless sun. Five hundred fifty-four were Americans. Among Marion’s men, General Pickens and Lieutenant Colonel Horry received serious wounds, and many others, Captain Ford among them, took minor wounds.

Eutaw Springs, the last major battle on South Carolina soil, broke the back of the British, though none of the Americans that day realized it. It presaged the war’s end, not only in the south but throughout America. By denying aid to Cornwallis, the Southern army ensured the British lord’s defeat at the hands of George Washington six weeks later in Yorktown.

Following his brief stop in Georgetown, Ford seldom reflected on England and the barony. It still seemed like some elusive dream while foxed on ale. His farm preyed on his mind more often than did Montford Estate. He wondered how his Virginia tenant farmers had fared the past winter. Did they plant a crop this spring and harvest it prior to soldiers trampling it into the ground? Was the house he built with his own hands and sweat still standing, or had the British burned it to ashes like so many others?

And Willa, she came to him at night, her white limbs twined around him, her heated center pressed to his groin. He heard no word of her while in Georgetown, but that caused him little worry. Should something of importance occur, someone would send him a message. Or were Willa in peril, he would feel it in his bones.

And this night, mere hours after the bloody battle at Eutaw Springs, Ford had such a feeling. It visited him as he lay on his pallet of frayed blankets, a hard saddle as a pillow under his head. Willa sprang into his mind full-blown and bursting with light and energy. Freckles across her cheeks danced as she wrinkled her nose. Sweetie and Killer cavorted in play at her feet. He expelled a snort of laughter. This was no dream but a nightmare.

He sobered and grew tense when Willa doubled over in pain, suffering, crying out and writhing on her bed. Sweat glistened on his brow and dampened the shirt stretched over his chest. At the disturbing mental image, he wanted to jump to his feet, saddle Dancer, and race the devil to Willowbend.

Then he saw her face again, deep contentment and tender love softening her features—directed not at him but at someone else. Who? Who had captured her heart? Pain speared his chest. He sat up and cursed, long and vehemently.

The corporal on the next pallet over waved a hand and mumbled, “Go to sleep, Captain, will you? I swear, you’re as noisy and restless as my old lady.”

Ford punched at the saddle. It became no softer. He rolled onto his side, settled back down, and closed his eyes. This time his dreams consisted of only blood and falling bodies.

A bonfire of revenge raged beneath Marlene’s flowing silks and carefree manner. The bitch gave birth to twins. Twins! As though one brat was not enough of an obstacle to overcome. But overcome it she would. The money George had left her was adequate … should she choose to live moderately. However, why should she settle for moderation? She wanted—no, deserved—the best of everything … houses, clothes, jewels, and men.

She had considered marriage to Digby only because she expected to inherit George’s money and properties. The major was handsome, polished, and an extraordinary lover. And, for a rash moment, she thought herself in love. But even with Digby’s qualities and the way they suited, she had begun to view him in a clearer light while her husband lay dying at Willowbend. The notion of wedding her lover gradually became unpalatable. Thomas Digby had reached no higher than major. He would undoubtedly retire a major when the war ended, and that time was fast approaching. He was untitled and had no wealthy family in England, though his father was a banker and not precisely a pauper. George’s will had changed everything. The niece of an earl, the widow of an earl, one cheated of her inheritance, could not marry a common banker’s son.

And why should she settle for an army major when she could have her pick of earls and even dukes? She was beautiful, with an impeccable background, and still young enough to give some noble the mistaken idea she could supply him with an heir. No one need know a botched abortion in her youth had left her incapable of conceiving a child.

But how could she now expect to catch a husband worthy of her? With no substantial fortune, her prospects were slim. And should she choose the route of mistress instead of wife, she would lose her measly ten thousand. That scenario did not overly disconcert her … while she kept her youth and beauty; but what would happen when she lost her looks? She shivered at the prospect.

She laid all her misery on Wilhelmina’s doorstep. Digby had vowed to take care of the girl this time, yet Marlene had reservations. Should he not act soon, she would be compelled to take the initiative again. The birth of her stepdaughter’s children was not so long ago that the young woman, drained by the difficult birth, could not succumb to childbed fever. In fact, ‘twas entirely possible.

Marlene dressed for the soiree in a gold satin gown. The neckline dipped low enough to bare a hint of rosy nipples. She powdered her hair and face, applying the patches with precision. One, a heart-shaped patch, she placed on her chest above the pink blush of areola. A French count would be present tonight. Were she to play her hand right, she could gain his interest. ‘Twas hardly as prestigious as marriage to an English earl, but to be perfectly truthful, ‘twas better than naught.

In the adjoining room, Digby donned his formal court dress, a white silk coat with matching knee-britches and gold, tone-on-tone, silk stockings. He settled his lace-edged cravat into place and fiddled with the lace points spilling from his sleeves at the wrist. As he arranged his powdered wig, he gazed in the mirror, turned sideways, sucked in his stomach, and settled a hand on his abdomen.

“Hardly shabby,” he said to his reflection, “for a man pushing forty.” Even now he made hearts race and seduced wives with a mere lift of his brows. Still, time was running out on him. In a few years, creases and wrinkles would spoil his perfect features. He leaned in toward the mirror to examine his face. A few small lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. He patted the skin beneath his chin with the back of his hand. Was he developing jowls? A brown discoloration glared at him from one cheekbone. An age spot! He slapped a black velvet beauty patch over the offending sight.

After tugging down his ruby satin waistcoat, he smoothed the shoulders of his tailcoat and walked to the door joining his suite with Marlene’s. He paused at the threshold.

After the surprise in Bellingham’s will, he had thought long and hard about his continued liaison with Marlene. She was exquisite, but then, so was he. And now neither had the funds to live in the style they desired. Unfortunately, beauty could gain one only so much. Society ran on wealth and breeding. Beauty was appreciated but not obligatory.

Much as he regretted it, he would be well advised to rid himself of her. She had outlived her usefulness and in the end brought him only disappointment. She could leave quietly, or he could arrange for her disappearance. Then he was in need of a wealthy wife, one with the breeding so revered by Society’s scions. A wife like Wilhelmina Bellingham, the rich daughter of the late Earl of Westchester. Her birthing of twins demonstrated her fertility. Now they had served their purpose, and the children were easily disposed of.

He had only one loose end to tie up. He affected an adoring look as he opened the door and told Marlene what she wanted to hear: She was the most sensual, the most alluring, the most beautiful woman in South Carolina.

The twins filled Willa’s days. Her nights belonged to Brendan, though why she bothered to spare a thought for him was beyond her comprehension. Perhaps ‘twas Lancelot. He looked so like his father and was as arrogant to boot. Lancelot and Guinevere, what ridiculous names for children. However, once uttered by the Richardsons and staff, the names stuck. Willa would face a solid front of opposition should she suggest changing them to something more acceptable, such as James and Meredith. So Lancelot and Guinevere they remained. And with each passing day, they grew and thrived, developing distinct personalities exhibited by demands and dislikes shrieked loudly or likes and requests cooed softly.