Kiss of a Traitor (50 page)

Two weeks after the twins’ birth, Killer began to sneak inside from the barn and creep up the stairs toward the nursery. He swiveled his head around corners and twitched his tail as he kept a wary eye out for Sweetie, who slept beneath the cradles. The hair stiffened on the cat’s back and tail when his gaze lit on the dog. Sweetie growled, scrambled up onto her feet, and barreled after Killer. Inevitably, someone ended up pinned to a wall or flattened to the floor, some valuable
objet d’art
toppled to the boards, smashed beyond repair, and general mayhem ensued.

On the day the twins turned a month old, Willa found Killer and Sweetie sleeping in a tangled heap on the rag rug under the cradles. And from that time, the truce formed between the cat and dog evolved into a mutual constant guarding of the children and monitoring of their condition.

Both children developed gray eyes, Lancelot’s a darker shade, like wet birch bark, than Guinevere’s, which reminded one of the soft sheen of pewter. Lancelot was larger and stronger than his sister and more demanding, but the tiny girl showed more finesse. While Lancelot screamed his orders, she simpered and cajoled and, in the end, got her way.

Fall swept in on Atlantic storms and swirling leaves, creating waves in the tidal rice fields. The nights grew chillier and the stars closer and brighter. Willa resumed her evening walks in the orchard, telling Jwana, with a wry lilt in her voice, that the trees missed their daily dose of discipline. In truth, her walks were her only time to be alone … the only time she could sort out her feelings for one infuriating, absent man.

Were the children’s welfare not her foremost conern, she would ride out and find him wherever he was, in the midst of battle or lazing around Marion’s camp, for no other reason than to take him to task. She would tell Brendan what he was missing, the way his children laughed and clutched her hair in their tiny fists. The sounds they made that telegraphed every feeling and request though it resembled nothing more than gibberish. She would inform him that Lancelot had that same familiar way of lowering his brows and thinning his mouth when he was grumpy, and in those moments, memories swamped her heart. And Guinevere’s smile was so incredibly adorable, like an angel’s. Those sweetly curving lips hid a world of mischief that showed only in her sparkling eyes.

These milestones in his children’s lives could never again be glimpsed for the first time. Perchance Brendan did not care. Perhaps he had no liking for children. He had certainly showed an aversion to Killer and Sweetie. One could generally predict a man’s reaction to children by observing his interactions with animals. Then again, Willa had to admit his only introduction to the two pets was somewhat stressful.

While she wondered, as she did every night, where he was and whether he was safe and whole, the moon rose and the wind whipped up, tossing fallen leaves against her skirts. A screech owl skirled from the branches and gave her a start. The eerie sound sent an inexplicable trepidation tingling along her nerves. She peered overhead but was unable to locate the owl’s perch. A sigh gusted from her lips, and she walked slowly toward the house, reluctant to return too quickly to the noisy domain her children ruled.

At the distant thunder of horses, she looked up to see torches flickering over the harvested fields of indigo.

The French count was old and fat. On the other hand, the jewels encrusting his coat and shoes’ red heels induced Marlene to take another look. She tipped her head to one side and examined him with the eye of a connoisseur—one who knew both men and jewels. He winked and patted the bulge at his groin. Sweat from the heat of candles creased his powdered and painted face, and his heavy perfume did not quite disguise his sour body odor. Could she do it? Even for the money?

Marlene graced the count with a smile and shook her head, walking away to seek out Digby. He was acting detached tonight, less attentive. Her mouth drew downward as she searched the crowded room. She spotted him in a corner with a knot of men, their heads close together and voices below the level of the crush. As she waved her fan to create a breeze on her flushed face, she glided over to his side.

He looked up. “Marlene, darling.” The smile on his lips did not quite reach his eyes.

Her gaze flitted from man to man. Though dressed appropriately for the soiree, they had an air about them that shouted “common.” They had no legitimate business among this level of society. “Will you introduce me to your friends?”

His smile became tight, almost feral. Taking her arm, he ushered her away. “Merely business acquaintances, my dear, and hardly worth your notice. I saw you with the count. Did you find him delightful?”

She made a face. “He is abominable, unlike your companions, who appear quite interesting. Why do you not wish for me to meet them? Are they criminals?” she whispered as she held up a hand to shield her mouth.

“Indeed not,” he said with a snort. “Your imagination has taken leave of your senses, or you imbibed one glass too many of the claret.”

“I must say, they appear to be criminals. For all their fancy dress, they are naught but plow horses clothed as thoroughbreds. They most certainly are not Quality.”

“Will you let it be?” he hissed as he turned to smile at a man who stopped to speak with him. When the man ambled on to join the couples at the card tables, Digby steered her through the room and out the French doors into the garden. He brought her around to face him and held her captive by the shoulders. “If you must know, I engaged those men to take care of our little problem at Willowbend.”

Marlene licked her lips. “I find that exciting. Tell me everything.”

Digby studied her in silence for a moment. His penis swelled in reaction to her provocative manner and dress, and a sigh sifted through him. Perhaps he was not finished with her yet and would find it to his advantage to indulge her for a while. Should all go well with Wilhelmina, he could then devise a way to rid himself of Marlene. Were Wilhelmina to prove difficult, Marlene would inherit the estate when the girl died. In that event he could wed Marlene. Either way he would succeed.

“No,” he finally said. “It would be best if you knew nothing. Should the authorities question you later, you can tell them truthfully you have no notion what happened to your stepdaughter and her children.”

A moue formed on her mouth. “Why would they question
me?”

Digby inhaled a breath. For all her exquisite beauty, Marlene was not the most intelligent of women. “Think for a moment. You will inherit Wilhelmina’s wealth should anything happen to her. Who else has a better motive to see her dead?”

A thoughtful look came over her face, then she strolled away down the path. Her hips swayed like a sultry breeze, despite the chill air, and heated his blood. His mouth crimped into a smile. Marlene knew exactly what she was doing to him. Yet he was helpless to suppress his response. He seized her arm and hauled her off the path, behind the screen of a laurel bush.

“You will ruin my dress,” she said with a pout of her rouged lips.

Digby noticed she kept her protest soft enough to be no more than a murmur if by chance someone were on the path. Pulling her down to the grass, he slipped a hand under her skirt and encountered slippery wetness. “Wicked Marlene,” he tutted, “is this for me, or did the count, regardless of his great girth and foul odor, succeed in arousing you?”

“By all means,” she crooned, “'tis for you. The count would have to sport a solid gold cock pierced with diamonds before I would allow him to touch me. And even then, after having had you, I doubt he could arouse me. I shall never find another man who can satisfy me so completely as you.”

He pondered her statement and questioned her sincerity as he fondled her slick petals and shoved two fingers inside her. She had an appetite near impossible to sate. He had succeeded in supplying her needs to this point, though even he found it tedious at times. He did admit they were suited. Perhaps they belonged together, after all, and his dream of marrying the Bellingham girl was only whimsy. However, as he pumped Marlene’s sheath and she writhed against his hand, Digby could not help but wonder whether Wilhelmina felt as good … or even better, and resolved to keep his options open.

“Five women, one a mere child. The only person likely to give you trouble is a black slave who manages the stables. The butler is an old man and should pose no obstacle. The slaves reside in separate cabins, with the exception of one young boy who sleeps in a room above the barn. The slave block is quite distant from the house, so they should hear nothing. The slaves socialize among themselves on Sunday evenings and set up a commotion with their fiddles and dancing.”

“What about house servants?”

“Miss Bellingham gives them Sunday afternoon and night off. They leave for town in a wagon around two o’clock and return early the next morning.”

Corporal Daggert pulled a wafer-thin stiletto knife from his shirt pocket and picked the remains of the meal from between his yellow teeth as he mulled over Digby’s proposition. “Aye.” He nodded. “Sounds like it’ll be a piece of cake.”

Digby’s stomach protested at the display of vulgar manners, but he swallowed his disgust. This man, though brutish and unmannered, was the best for the job. Contrary to what he had told Marlene, the men she saw at the soiree had a more delicate task—disposing of his lover should it become necessary.

Digby had come across Daggert during Brendan Ford’s capture and incarceration. The corporal had a reputation for cruelty but knew the value of good coin and followed commands like a hunting dog. He killed only when ordered to do so. More importantly, should Digby desire to have someone killed, the corporal would ask no questions nor hesitate to do the deed.

The men halted their conversation when Gwen MacGovern carried over plates of bread pudding and set them on the table. She cast a curious glance at the two men. Her plain face reflected her bafflement at what circumstances could bring two such opposites, in station as well as demeanor, into close companionship. When Digby waved her away, she shrugged her shoulders and moved out of hearing range.

Daggert put away the knife and dug into his pudding. Greasy curls of flaxen hair swung forward, concealing his pugilist features. His wide, broken nose sat squat and slightly askew in a beefy, sun-browned face. A knife scar above his right eye bisected the brow and pulled the corner of the eye downward into a permanent squint. His cheeks bore the unsightly, hollow pits of youthful skin eruptions.

Digby found the man loathsome. But beneath his brutish appearance, the intelligence and cunning of a predator burned in his pale eyes. Daggert was far more than he appeared to be.

“You understand everything I expect you to do?” Digby asked.

Daggert glanced up from his food and winked. “I got it all. This Sunday. No harm to the woman, and we bring the brats to you.”

Digby nodded, crossed his arms, and rested his back against the wall.

Willa raced to the house. Leaves crackled beneath her flying feet. When she exploded through the door, she careened into Quinn. “Bolt the door, then come into the parlor,” she panted before the butler could right himself and catch his breath. She ran through the doorway ahead of him and brought about astonished looks from the occupants.

Richard had arrived earlier for a brief visit. He and Mary were exchanging news in animated voices from their seats on the sofa while Emma listened from a nearby chair. Plato and Jwana played a lively hand of cards at a table along the wall. Rebecca had taken the twins upstairs to the nursery to bathe and dress them for bed.

“We have visitors,” Willa said as she sagged into an armchair.

“Friends?” Mary questioned.

“I daresay that is not likely to be the case. They are on horseback and carrying torches.”

“Oh, no.” Mary lifted a hand to her mouth, painful memories of the night Tarleton burned her home surfacing on her features.

Richard sprang to his feet. The muscles in his face tightened. “How many?”

Willa shook her head. “I cannot tell. But more than one.”