Kiss of a Traitor (9 page)

When she looked up again, a smile hovered about her lips, making him strongly suspect her state of disarray was intentional rather than accidental. How dare the chit! He might not be, in fact, a lord, but she had no notion of that. She owed him the respect she would accord any peer, counterfeit or otherwise. He strolled away to place himself beyond the offending odor and rounded on her. The skin tightened over his cheekbones. “As I can see you are unaware of the proprieties, I feel ‘tis my duty to inform you that assuming the role of a stable hand is beyond the pale for a future baroness. I have no option but to forbid you to perform labor in the stables again. One has servants to deal with such tasks, do you not concur? Furthermore, never again will you deign to present yourself before me in such a disheveled state.”

She straightened, steel stiffening her shoulders and fire kindling in her eyes.

Could the girl be averse to having orders flung at her in an autocratic manner? Never mind she had clearly gone to great pains to prick his displeasure. With her nature, surely discord was a common situation. She compressed her lips, and he suspected that were she to release her temper, she would inform him of precisely what he could do with his orders. He had little doubt it involved a certain part of a polecat’s anatomy.

The truth was written on her face. The girl could not abide authority. This knowledge of her nature could prove useful in keeping their impending wedding at bay. He pressed his advantage and surged forward aggressively with his hands braced on his hips.

“Listen to me, and listen well,” he said in the clipped tone he used when issuing reprimands to the men he commanded. “I shall return on Saturday at eleven. We will ride out for a picnic. As you have familiarity with the vicinity, you will choose a suitable spot. I shall expect you to attire yourself in an appropriate manner befitting your station and appear promptly when I call.” Her features assumed a recalcitrant expression. “I will have your obedience, Wilhelmina,” he added, as if she were a child. “Am I perfectly clear?”

Her hands formed white-knuckled fists, and she nodded. By the look on her face, she garnered all her strength to bid her neck to bend.

Ford tilted his head to one side. “Beg pardon? I did not quite hear you, my dear,” he said with glee. Even so, he managed to maintain a severe expression. “Could you kindly repeat what you said?”

“Perfectly clear,” she grated out through a jaw as tight as a bear trap.

Confident he had successfully driven another peg into the coffin of their relationship, he smiled faintly but with an inner satisfaction. “Capital. Then we are in agreement.” He nodded curtly and swept past her without another word.

When he reached the doorway, he turned to fire off a parting salvo. “Despair not, Wilhelmina. I shall see your graceless manners improve. ‘Tis my opinion that, like any domestic animal, a woman can be trained if one but expends the time and patience.”

She seized the closest breakable object, a Dresden shepherdess sitting on a small table beside her, and hurled it at him. He closed the walnut doors without a second to spare. The sound of shattering porcelain carried into the hallway, causing Quinn to whirl toward the parlor. Ford curled his lip as he retrieved his hat from the butler. “A most biddable young woman,” he murmured.

“Biddable?”
Quinn echoed. He rushed to the parlor.

Ford chuckled and took his leave.

Ford ambled for a time along the riverbank after departing Willowbend. Once he was sure no eyes noted his presence, he slipped behind the cover of a row of willows and followed them to a branching creek, then veered away from the trees and rode alongside the water for a mile. When the ground became marshy, he guided Dancer onto a deer trail leading into the swamp. Soon he came upon a lightning-blasted sweet gum resembling a gnarled wizard with his arms raised as though casting a spell. Ford halted Dancer, releasing him to graze on the swamp grass, and went to the tree. There he withdrew a packet of oilcloth from beneath his scarlet coat and tucked it into a hollow in the rotting trunk. From another cavity lower down, he extracted a missive from Marion. His task complete, he mounted Dancer and rode back, coming out on the road to Georgetown at a different point from which he left it earlier.

Ford rode with Tarleton’s Legion the following night as they sped down the road toward the Chester plantation. Halfway to their destination, they ran into a patrol of Marion’s Brigade, and a fierce, confusing battle ensued in the darkness as rebels darted in and out among the green-coated soldiers like stinging wasps. Tarleton’s troops had fallen into disarray by the time the partisans left the field and disappeared into the swamp. Three men took serious wounds. Two others lost their mounts. With a scowl on his face, Tarleton led his men back to Georgetown.

Later that same night, when Tarleton’s men surrounded the Chester plantation, they found the grounds stripped and deserted. Tarleton ordered the house and barn put to the torch and expressed his confusion as to how the traitors received warning of the raid. He consulted his officers and acceded to the reasoning of his new officer, Lord Montford.

His lordship put forth the theory that word of the earlier battle had reached the plantation, revealing to the Chesters the legion’s objective. They had packed up their belongings and the hoarded ammunition and fled. Ford suspected Tarleton accepted the explanation as it placed no taint on his abilities as commander.

Willa summoned her own war party that same night. Colonel Bellingham and Marlene departed earlier to attend a dinner, leaving the study to the coconspirators. Willa sprawled in her father’s leather chair behind the kneehole desk and looked first to Emma Richardson, who had settled into a delicate Queen Anne chair, where she flipped through the pages of a leather-bound book of poetry.

“I need your assistance,” Willa said. “I promised Papa I would refrain from overtly discouraging Lord Montford in his courtship, but I simply cannot abide by the restriction. As it stands, I can scarcely tolerate his lordship’s presence. The very notion of seeing him on a regular basis, much less marrying him, turns my stomach.”

Emma sighed and looked up. “How do you expect me to be of aid? I have little enough experience with men, and my efforts were toward encouraging them, not discouraging them. I never found myself in the position of having to drive off a suitor.”

“Well, as to that, pretend you have and concoct a solution to relieve me from this appalling betrothal.” Willa fiddled with her father’s ivory letter opener, tapping it on the desk’s walnut surface and leaving dints in the glossy polish. “Though I hesitate to introduce the subject at this juncture, Emma, you have no difficulty in formulating plans to slip away from your parents in order to be private with some beau.”

Color bloomed in Emma’s cheeks.

“I fail to see how you can bypass your father this time,” Quinn interjected. He moved his bishop on the chessboard and grinned at Plato, the son of a Negro slave and a Cherokee maiden captured by settlers during the Indian Wars. Plato sagged back in his chair with a frown on his mahogany-colored face. Though a slave, he held the respected position of Bellingham’s stable master. ‘Twas Plato who had taught Willa to ride and shoot and handle a knife and, more importantly, revealed to her the swamps’ mysteries.

“Seems to me you should play by the rules,” Quinn said. “Bide your time, and you will eventually obtain what you want. Perhaps when the baron realizes you do not suit, you will have the opportunity to speak with him about breaking the betrothal.”

“Aha!” Plato said with a smile and slid his knight over to block the bishop threatening his queen.

Jwana, the serene planes of her face creased in concentration, jabbed at logs in the brick-fronted fireplace with an iron poker. Though only October and the days still sultry, the night had taken on a chill. The pine wood shifted and popped, a lone flame licking upward. “I done snuck a peek at yur young man when he come ta call. He be pretty a’right—”

“Pretty dreadful,” Willa said bitterly.

Jwana passed her a censorious look. “Maybe. But I think dere be more ta him dan meets de eye. He be a deep one, he be, an’ you might jes’ be s’prised at wot you gonna fin’ once you scrub off’n dat powder an’ remove dem fancy clothes.”

Willa froze and gawked at the striking woman. “I beg your pardon? Montford is as deep as a pollywog puddle. And I have no desire whatsoever to uncover the least thing regarding the illustrious baron. I simply yearn for him to be gone. The mere notion of removing his clothes, under any circumstances, gives me the shudders.” Willa mimed an exaggerated shiver of her shoulders.

Quinn stretched in his chair and looked their way. “I would listen to Jwana, were I you. After having met the impressive baron face-to-face, or perhaps I should say face-to-chest, I’m of the opinion his effeminate surface is no more than a veneer. Up close, the paint and satin disguise a potent masculinity. Should you ask me, he is, quite plainly, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“Rubbish,” Willa countered. “His only potency is in the choice of his cologne, which could give a skunk a fair race.”

Quinn shrugged and turned back to the game when Plato rattled his knight, signaling Quinn’s turn to move.

“Poten’ or not, I been thinkin',” Jwana continued. “Wot if’n courtin’ you be more pain dan pleasure?” The others raised their heads and paid attention. “You know, not through any fault’a yur own. Jes’ by accident. Don’ ‘spec’ yur daddy could fault you if’n de man be jes’ natural clumsy an’ riskin’ life an’ limb ever time he get near you. An’ dat baron, he soon be comin’ ta see you’s some kind’a jinx. If he done got any brains ‘tall, he ain’t gonna want ta marry no jinx.”

Quinn shook his head and returned to the chess game. “We would be caught for certain.”

“You got dat right,” Plato added with a nod.

“Not so,” Willa said. Her limbs tingled. “I do believe Jwana has found the solution to my dilemma.” She dropped the letter opener, pushed herself to her feet, and came around the desk to perch her bottom on one corner. “A series of accidents … carefully planned … more pain than pleasure.” The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. “Jwana, I vow you are a genius.”

Jwana sank into the rocking chair beside the fireplace. “Jes’ holdin’ up ma end,” she said with a self-satisfied expression as she rocked back and forth.

“I say,” Quinn said to Plato in a low voice. “I suddenly find myself experiencing a moment of guilt. My innate sympathy for my own gender tempts me to warn the unsuspecting man of the plot afoot.”

“Me, too,” Plato replied. “But in de end, we’s all loyal ta Willa an’ a’ready in her schemes up ta our necks. Dis ain’t no time ta discover we done got consciences.”

Quinn released a heavy breath and took one of Plato’s pawns with a rook. “However, had Lord Montford the least notion of what Willa intends for him, the man would hie himself off to the hills without a second’s hesitation. That would solve this predicament satisfactorily for all parties.”

Willa caught Quinn’s statement and sent him a frown. “What utter nonsense. It would solve nothing. Considering the baron’s ego, I would fully expect him to become even more stubborn and persistent should he know I mean to reject him. Moreover, were the baron to run, I would like to point out that, in Papa’s current mood, he would hunt down the man like a hound after a fox.”

“What sort of accidents?” Emma questioned with a concerned look on her face.

Willa waved her hand. “Oh, we shall think of something appropriate.”

“You will not actually hurt him, will you?”

Willa met Jwana’s gaze. They exchanged a smile. “Not unless he persists. Now, let us consider what we can devise to reshape Lord Montford’s attitude toward matrimony. It must be dire enough to send him running.” She sent Emma a pointed glance. “But mild enough to keep from maiming him … for life.”

“Miss Willa,” Jwana said, getting in the last word. “I ‘spec’ we be aimin’ fer discouraging', not maimin'.”