Rapture's Betrayal (19 page)

Their eyes met. Kirsten saw the tender warmth in his brown eyes, and as her insides churned with longing, she became angry not only with herself but with Richard. Why had he come back to disrupt her life? She wished she could forget him.

He'd been traveling for weeks with the Tory band. How long could it be before his convictions changed and mirrored theirs? The more she recalled about that evening at the Hermitage, the more she grew puzzled. If Richard had truly wanted to see Washington, he should have allowed her to get the general for him. Instead, he'd made up some excuse about there not being enough time.

He looked good, she noticed. Too good. His skin was a rich bronze from the summer sun. His body had filled out. Richard wore his sleeves rolled up over his elbows, and she could see that his arm muscles were well developed, rock hard, as he shifted the tray within his grasp.

“I'm not paying for it, wench!” Allen boomed. “In fact, we'll not pay for the round. It was your carelessness what did it.”

“You'll not pay for the spill, but you'll pay for the round!” Kirsten said. “My cousin serves no cheaters!”

Allen's chair scraped the floor as he rose. “And if I refuse?”

“Easy,” Richard said. “The lady wants only to be fair to her employer.”

“Stay out of it, Canfield.”

“Kendall Allen.” Richard's voice had become a warning growl.

“Hoping to bed this one, too? What's the matter? All those others not enough to satisfy you?” He raked Kirsten with his bold gaze. “She's a scrawny thing . . . not like the last one.”

Others?
Kirsten thought, and her throat closed up. She blinked back tears as she took back the tray. It wouldn't do for Richard to know that the man's comments hurt.

“Kirsten,” Richard murmured.

She refused to meet his gaze. “Thank you, sir, for your kind help.”

Hands clutching the tray, she hurried toward the back room. Martin had come to the doorway to find out what the commotion was about. Kirsten passed him with her head bent; she didn't want him to see her tears, to realize how humiliated and betrayed she felt.

Martin came into the workroom as Kirsten was preparing to leave by the back door. “Going somewhere, cousin?”

She froze.

“Kirsten, look at me.” His tone was soft.

She glanced up and was unable to contain her tears.

“It's all right. What harm is some spilled ale?” When she shook her head, he said, “If not that, then what's bothering you?”

Kirsten held his gaze, and his eyes narrowed. “The man,” he said. “The one with the fair hair—good God, he's the one you were with at the Hermitage!”

Martin shook his head as he went to her and touched her arm. “A Tory, Kirsten?”

She nodded, and there was a lengthy pause. She stared at the floor through her haze of tears.

“Cousin,” he said slowly, “you wouldn't . . . ah, you . . .”

Her head snapped upward. “I'm no traitor to the cause, Martin, if that's what you're asking!”

He looked guilty.

“I have to leave,” she choked out.

“I understand.”

“Do you?” she asked, her expression displaying her skepticism.

Martin inclined his head. “I once knew a woman. She was the kindest, most sweet creature on the face of the earth. I fell in love with her within hours after meeting her. Everything was wonderful . . . until I learned she was married.” His face contorted with pain. “A little something she had neglected to tell me.” He sounded bitter.

Kirsten wore her hair in braids, and he stroked a stray tendril away from her face. “I understand what it is to feel betrayed,” Martin said.

She sniffed. “And what did you do? How did you learn to get over her?” She didn't deny her feelings for Richard, for she couldn't deny the truth.

“Day by day,” he told her. “I took each new moment as it came. I still do.” He smiled, but his expression told of a lingering sadness.

“Oh, Martin, I'm sorry.”

He brightened. “Don't be. It was good while it lasted.” After moving to the long worktable, he grabbed a plate of cinnamon cakes and placed it on a tray. Then, he turned to her. “Forget him, Kirsten, if he's the reason for your sadness.”

“But, you said—”

“I know what I said, but this is different. This is war.”

“I'll try,” she murmured. “But it won't be easy.”

She left by the back door, unwilling to chance meeting Richard in the common room. But there was no avoiding him. He stood outside, leaning against a large elm tree, his arms folded across his chest. Upon seeing her, he straightened, his mouth curving into a tentative smile.

“Hello, love.”

“Don't ‘love' me!” She walked by him.

He fell into step behind her. “What's wrong? I'm still here . . . and when I wasn't sure I would be. I thought you'd be happy.”

She stopped, her body rigid. Glaring, she said, “You're still with them. Why? Because you lied! You're one of them—a Tory! A traitor to the cause!”

Hushing her, he glanced about. “Do you want to see me killed?”

“By whom?”

He scowled. “I'm working for General Washington—I told you that.”

“I'll bet you are.” Her blue eyes flashed angry fire. “Wenches in every village!” Her voice caught on a sob. “Tell me was I as good as those others you tumbled?”

“There were no—”

“Don't lie to me!” she hissed and then stomped away.

“Kirsten?” Martin was at the back door, staring out, scowling at Richard. “Is this
gentle
man bothering you?”

She nodded, averting her glance. Martin moved his arm, displaying his grip on a flintlock pistol. “I suggest you be on your way, mister. Now.”

Richard blinked. “Kirsten?” She wouldn't meet his gaze.
“Please.”

The click of the hammer was loud in the ensuing silence.

Kirsten sighed. “Go away, Richard.” Her heart thumped wildly beneath her breast as she studied him from beneath lowered lashes. He seemed about to protest, to stand firm, but then his shoulders slumped with defeat.

“I'll go . . .” His words were soft, full of hurt. “But I've not tricked you. I swear this on my grandmother's grave.”

Kirsten stared at this avowal, and Richard returned with slow steps to the tavern. She met Martin's gaze as her cousin lowered his weapon. “Do you think he's sincere?” she asked.

Martin searched her face as if delving into her soul. “He seemed genuine enough.”

She blinked back tears. “Then why is he still with them? They're Tory scum! If he's a Patriot, how can he stay with them?”

“He's not one of them?” Martin raised his eyebrows.

She glanced at the house and checked the yard before signaling to her cousin to follow. Martin joined her only after returning inside to lock up the tavern. The Tories had finished their ale and left.

“Let's walk,” Kirsten said. “I'm feeling restless.” She led him some distance from the house, stopping under a large shade tree, away from prying eyes. Agitated, she picked off a leaf, pulled it apart, and dropped it to the ground. She pulled off another leaf and began twirling it by the stem.

“He says he's a Patriot,” she began, her voice thick. “A spy.”

Her cousin froze. “A spy, you say?”

She grabbed his sleeve. “You mustn't tell anyone. If he's telling the truth, he'll be killed. If he's lying . . . I don't know what will happen to him.”

“He was the one in the garden,” Martin said. “Wasn't he?” She nodded. “What was he doing at the Hermitage?”

Kirsten threw away the leaf and watched it sail in the air before it floated to earth. “He was there to see the general—or so he claimed. He says only Washington and his aide Hamilton know of his true identity.”

“And did he see the general?”

She bit her lip. “No . . . he never got a chance. I caught him by the window staring inside. I didn't know who he was at first.”

“You met then and became so familiar?” Martin looked disapproving.

Kirsten shook her head. “We met weeks before actually. I found him in the forest. He'd been injured, bayonet wounds. I saw the attack; I saw everything. The man who hurt him took Richard by surprise. Richard never had a chance.”

She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I couldn't leave him there, Martin,” she said, begging for understanding, for some sign of her cousin's approval. “The man who attacked him was horrible . . . his face was disfigured. I'll never forget that face.”

“So what did you do?” Her cousin appeared fascinated by her tale.

She told him quickly of her efforts to save the injured man, how she would have taken him to the farm but for the danger she'd have placed her family in by doing so.

“So I took him to the old mill.” She explained about the cellar, about how she'd nursed Richard back to health. She said she'd believed him to be a Continental soldier.

“Imagine my shock when he came back with Greene. ”

“Yes, I can.” Martin was thoughtful. He paused for a moment to regard her intently. “And he told you what? That he was a Continental soldier? A Tory?”

“Well, no. He didn't say what he was. But you see when he was hurt badly he managed to tell me to hide him from the British. Because of that, I assumed he was a Patriot.” Martin nodded his agreement. “When I found him at the Hermitage,” she continued, “he seemed surprised but glad to see me. I threatened to turn him in, and he told me about his mission. Said he was working for Washington, trying to learn the identity of a traitor. His friend was killed while working as a spy. Richard is determined to find the traitor and to see the murderer pay.”

“It's someone under Washington's command?”

“Richard thinks so.”

Martin whistled softly. “And so he goes with Greene.”

Kirsten nodded. “Hard to believe, isn't it? But I believed him . . . all too easily.”

Her cousin smiled. “It's hard for you to know what to believe, I'm sure. But I can tell you one thing, his story seems too odd not to be true. Whether you believe in him or not is up to you.” He steered her back toward the inn. “Whatever you decide, though, just be careful, Kirsten. I see there's more at stake here than just what side of the war a man's fighting. It seems to me that you care for this Richard. It's your heart I'd watch out for. Lose it to one you're unsure of and you risk pain and heartbreak . . . perhaps death.”

A heavy pounding on the Van Attas' Dutch door woke the entire household. Kirsten reached toward her bed table and found her tinderbox. With a strike of flint against steel, she managed to nurture a flame on some threads in a small glass. To this, she quickly placed the wick of a candle.

The room came alive with a soft flickering glow. The knocking continued, and Kirsten set the candle in the holder and climbed from her bed. As she donned her dressing gown, she could hear her parents' voices in the hall outside her bedchamber. Hurrying to the door, she flung it open.

“Moeder? Vader?
What's wrong? What is it?”

James stared down the staircase. “I don't know.” He started down the steps. The thundering on the door took on a more distinct pattern. “It's the signal! We must be under British attack!” he exclaimed.

Clutching the edges of her garment together tightly, Kirsten followed her father while her mother hung back in the upstairs' hall.

“I should pack some things,” Agnes murmured, her voice quivering with fear.

Kirsten's heart had started to pound at her father's words. Was it true? Were the British invading? She thought of Richard. Was he with them? He and his Tory friends?

James had opened the door to let in Thomas Banta.

“Hurry!” Thomas urged. “The militia are going for the Tories. We must join them!”

Kirsten's father seemed stunned. “Now? In the middle of the night?”

The young man nodded. “Ackerman found their camp near Zabriskies' old burned cabin. They sleep even as we speak. What easier way to take prisoners than to get them when their guard is down and they are most vulnerable?”

Over James's shoulder, Thomas regarded the two women. Agnes had come downstairs and stood behind her daughter, her expression revealing mixed emotions. “You women are to go the Van Voorhees' as planned in case of invasion. The Tories' number are few, but we know not if they are truly alone or whether the British camp is within distance. It's a precautionary measure, for your safety. All the Patriot families are going.”

Kirsten frowned. She knew the Zabriskie cabin; it was far enough away. “But's that ridiculous. We'll be fine here.”

“Don't argue, daughter. Dress and gather your things,” James Van Atta ordered. “Agnes dear, worry not. I will see you there when this is over.”

“Oh, James!” his spouse cried. “Must you go?”

He nodded. “You know I must.” They stared at one another, knowing that there was much that wasn't being said. James knew his wife's pain; he understood that she was torn between the husband and daughter and the side they'd chosen, and the brother with whom she'd traveled to the New World. “Go, love.” His voice was gentle, and she nodded. With tears in her eyes, she climbed the stairs to get ready to leave.

Kirsten followed her up the stairs. She dressed in her father's old shirt and breeches, uncaring of others' reactions at the sight of her in men's clothing. While her mother filled two satchels with clothes, she ran to saddle Hilga. When she was done, she found her mother waiting for her on the stoop.

“Can you ride with me,
Moeder?
It would be easier, swifter if you could.” Her mother didn't say a word about her garments.

Agnes inclined her head. “Where's Pieter?” she asked.

Kirsten climbed down to help her mother up onto the horse. “He went with
Vader.
Come,” she said. “We must hurry lest we get caught by those who might escape.” She saw her mother settled and then mounted herself. “Hold on tight.”

She waited a few seconds before she kicked the mare into a gallop. Her mother gripped her waist tightly; Kirsten was aware of fingers digging into her ribs. She could understand her mother's fear, and she didn't blame her. Agnes Van Atta had a husband going to war and a brother who was a Tory—the enemy of her husband. Either way, the outcome would hurt her.

The Van Voorhees' farm was bright with torches and candlelight, and other families were arriving as Kirsten and her mother did.

“Moeder?”
Kirsten said, once she'd helped her mother down. “I'm not staying.”

“What?”
Her mother gasped. “Of course, you're staying!”

Kirsten shook her head. “I can't. And I can't say why. But you must trust that I know what I'm doing.”

“Catherine,” her mother murmured as if in a daze.

Her daughter started in surprise. She hadn't thought of her aunt. How would Miles's mother be affected by all of this? “Yes, you're right . . . someone must get to her. Help her to escape.”

“You can't.” Agnes seemed to become more alert. “William's a Tory. You heard them at the meeting. They'll not allow her to come.”

“They'll allow it,” Kirsten stated, her voice firm.

 

 

Richard woke up to the shrill cries of men at war as the militia descended upon the Tory camp. He scrambled to his feet and took up his gun. All hell broke loose as the Tories reacted to the attack with panic and musket fire.

There were at least fifteen local militiamen, Richard guessed. He watched as Kendall Allen fell, a musket ball in his side. What should he do? He reacted on instinct then, helping the Patriots who appeared to need assistance, hoping against hope that the Tories wouldn't win; for he had displayed his true loyalties. He had picked sides against Greene and his men, joining the militia to fight them in hand-to-hand combat.

A young lad of about sixteen years of age was engaged in fighting Elias Greene. Richard saw the look in Greene's eyes as the big man knocked the youth to the ground. There was murder in the Tory's expression. Richard sprang to help the boy, pulling Greene off him and smashing the Tory in the jaw with his fist.

Greene saw who'd struck him and fell back, looking stunned. The boy rose to his feet, found his rifle, and trained the barrel on Greene's prone form. He flashed Richard a smile of gratitude, which froze on his face with his disbelief.

Richard grinned at the lad and went on to search for anyone else who might need aid.

A harsh cry caught his attention. He spied a familiar face, that of the innkeeper from Hoppertown. The man was in trouble, for Joseph had wrestled away Hoppe's pistol and had the gun trained on the tavern owner's chest.

Richard briefly recalled Hoppe's behavior toward him and felt a faint stirring of anger. By acknowledging that Hoppe had only been looking out for Kirsten, Richard cooled his head.

“Joseph!” he shouted, distracting the gunner's attention.

That provided all the time Martin needed to recapture his gun from the Tory's grasp.

Martin's gaze met Richard's across the clearing, and Richard nodded, then turned away. Suddenly, he heard someone call his name. A woman. Kirsten.

He saw her at the edge of the camp, crying out for him, her expression frantic as she searched amongst the fighting men.

Damn!
How could she have been so foolish as to come here? She must have learned of the attack. She should have stayed home!

His breath caught as a pair of combatants fell near Kirsten's feet. With a gasp, she jumped back, out of their path, the two men tussling on the damp ground.

Richard hurried toward her and took her arm. “What the devil are you doing here?” he growled. “Are you eager to die?” He was angry, fearful of the harm that could come to her.

She seemed taken aback by his rudeness and jerked free of his grip.

“Go home, Kirsten, before someone hurts you.”

Her lower lip trembled. “Like you?”

He inhaled sharply, and tried again to urge her away from this dangerous place. But now he used a different tactic of persuasion. “Please, love. You don't belong here. You'll only get hurt.”

“But I had to see you, to see if you were all right.” Her gaze swept the campsite. “My
vader,
is he . . . ?”

“Your father's here?”

She nodded, holding his glance, her expression one of concern. Suddenly, her face took on a look of horror.
“Vader!”
she screamed.

Somehow Elias Greene had gotten free of the young gunman and was charging James Van Atta with raised sword. Richard raised his gun, and fired against the Tory, wounding him in the arm.

Greene jerked as he was struck. He swayed and his face turned white. Hestared at Richard as he clutched his injured arm.

“Canfield,” he mouthed, his eyes full of fury. Then he transferred his gaze to the woman at Richard's side. His lashes flickered as he looked beyond them, and a wild grin suddenly lit up his cruel mouth.

“Take him!” he ordered. “Get Canfield! The bastard betrayed us!”

Kirsten turned and then gasped. Several men were at the edge of the forest, newly arrived, it seemed, from out of nowhere. She cursed as someone caught her arm. Prisoners! She and Richard were prisoners of the Tories!

The battle raged on while Richard and Kirsten were taken from the skirmish and urged into the forest. The Patriots were so busy fighting that no one had witnessed the arrival of Kirsten or of the additional Tory soldiers.

Kirsten thought with wry humor that her father would kill her if she escaped her captors alive. As things stood, it would take a miracle for them to get free. And Richard . . . he didn't show it by word or deed, but he must be furious with her.

“I'm sorry,” she said to him, her expression begging for forgiveness.

But Richard refused to look at her. She touched his arm, trying to draw his glance, but the direction of his hardened gaze never altered. He was tight-lipped and tense, and it was her fault.

“Move!” A strange, frightful man prodded her in the back with a rifle. Another Tory did the same with Richard, and she saw with a feeling of horror that it was her uncle, William Randolph.

“You!” she whispered.

He smiled when he met her glance. “Why, if it isn't my dear niece? Who's this?” he said, poking Richard a second time. “A friend?”

Greene came up from behind and gave Randolph an order. Stunned, Kirsten's uncle looked at him. There seemed a silent battle of wills as the two men fought to be the one in charge.

“This one's mine,” Elias Greene said. Clutching his bleeding arm, he glared at Richard. “I've a score to settle.”

“What are you going to do with us?” Kirsten asked.

Their captors refused to answer. They shoved Kirsten and Richard down the footpath until they reached a wide trail on which an empty wagon stood.

“Get in!” the strange man behind Kirsten commanded. He waved his gun in her direction.

A smirk settled upon Randolph's face. “Easy now, Joseph. 'Tis my niece you're escorting.”

Kirsten glanced at Greene several times as she climbed onto the back of the wagon. The red-haired man made her nervous. He was mad, she was convinced of it. His green eyes darted about wildly without focusing. His movements were sudden and unpredictable—dangerous.
What if he pulls the trigger?
she thought.
What if he shoots Richard?

Their captors climbed into the vehicle, and the horse pulling the wagon moved. Richard and Kirsten fell back against the wagon platform with the force of the start. Greene was in the driver's seat alongside William, while Samuel Joseph rode in the back to make sure the prisoners didn't escape.

“Where are we going?” Richard asked.

“Silence!” the guard barked.

Kirsten addressed Richard in a whisper. “To my uncle's farm, I think.” He looked at her and nodded. His expression no longer seemed as fierce.

The man in back got upset with the whisperings.

“Stop yer talking now!”

Once again, Kirsten inclined her head, pretending a meekness she didn't possess. Her jaw clenched with the strength of her anger. Her hands itched for a weapon with which to strike the guard dead.

The forest was dark and filled with the sounds of the night. A twig snapped in the brush, drawing Richard's attention.
Someone is out there,
he thought.

Kirsten met his gaze, silently mouthing who?

He shook his head. I don't know, he mouthed back. Pray it's not the British.

As Kirsten had predicted, the Tories took their captives to the Randolph farm. Kirsten's heart lightened. There she'd see Aunt Catherine or Miles. One of them would help them escape.

But she saw no one as they came into the yard. The wagon stayed out of view of the house's front windows, skirting the building until it reached the smokehouse out back. There, the driver reined in and got out. The three men then conversed briefly. Kirsten frowned, wondering what they were saying, what their plans for them were.

The guard had joined his cohorts, but kept his rifle trained on the two prisoners. He returned to the wagon a second later and ordered Richard and Kirsten to get out, poking Richard and then Kirsten with the gun to make them move more quickly. Kirsten, startled by the jab in her side, tripped and fell.

“Get up!” the man hissed as if he'd had nothing to do with her fall.

She scrambled to her feet and shot him a menacing glance.
“Bloody Tory!”
she muttered angrily. She could no longer pretend that she was afraid of him. Hearing her, Richard grinned, and the sight of his grin lifted Kirsten's spirits.

“What'd ye say?” the guard asked.

“I said, Sorry,” she replied.

The man nodded, apparently too dumb to know when he was being made of fun of. Or else he'd not credited Kirsten with enough courage to ridicule him openly.