Rapture's Betrayal (9 page)

Groaning, Richard captured her mouth, his lips hot and fiercely demanding. He enjoyed the taste of her, the scent of her; his staff swelled and hardened with his desire.

Kirsten clung to Richard as if her life depended on holding him forever. He was going to leave! These moments would have to last a lifetime.

His head lifted. His russet eyes were warm and glowing as he smiled. She returned his smile and saw his face change abruptly as he stared at her mouth. He released her, averting his glance as if unable to bear the sight of her kiss-swollen lips.

“You're leaving tonight,” Kirsten said. The words were spoken without emotion, just as a statement of fact.

His gaze met hers as he nodded.

“Can I bring you supplies?” she asked and held her breath as she waited for his response. “Please . . .” She touched his arm.

“I don't know that it's wise—”

“Please. I promise not to cry and make things difficult.” She squeezed his arm. “You'll need supplies.”

He frowned. “You'll bring them tonight?”

She nodded and was rewarded when he agreed.
One more time,
she thought.
I'm going to see Richard one more time!

 

 

“Kirsten!” Agnes Van Atta entered her daughter's room in good spirits. “Daughter, it's time to get up.”

There was no movement behind the closed doors of Kirsten's alcove bed. Agnes frowned. “Kirsten!” She jiggled the door handles, gasping when they swung open to reveal a bed that hadn't been slept in.

“James! James!” she cried, running down the hall. “Kirsten is not in her bed. She's gone!”

James met his wife on the stairs. “Gone? Gone where?”

“How should I know? The foolish girl! Her bed's not been slept in.”

“That does it!” he growled. “'Tis too dangerous for her nightly escapades. Our daughter must be punished.”

“Moeder?”
The young woman's voice reached them on the steps.

James regarded his daughter with a scowl. “Kirsten, you've been out in the night. Miles again?”

She followed her father's gaze to her breeches. There was no denying that she'd been out when she shouldn't have been. She nodded, lying.
“Moeder
. . .
Vader
—I'm sorry.”

“Hush!” Her father was angrier than she'd ever seen him. “Don't say a word, daughter. Go to your room!” He pointed toward the stairs. “It seems, young woman, that since you can't resist leaving the house at night, I must lock you in so you don't go wandering.” He stared at her, scowling. “How could you foolishly endanger your life that way?”

“No,
Vader!
Please . . . don't lock me in!” She had to see Richard this one last time!

“I am sorry, Kirsten,” he said gruffly, and she knew that no amount of pleading would change his mind. If only she'd had the foresight to rumple the feather ticks!

Eyes hot with tears, she climbed the steps toward her room. Lock or no lock, she had to get out. There must be a way to escape.

For the sixth time in an hour, Richard walked to the edge of the field, hoping to spy Kirsten. But, as on the first five occasions, there was no sign of her, and he returned to the clearing, disheartened.

“Fool!” he muttered under his breath.
I should leave now while I have the chance.
Seeing her again would only make things more difficult. He had enough food to last through the first two days of his journey. Why wait for supplies he didn't need?

Because you're not waiting for the supplies, old man,
an inner voice taunted.
You're waiting to see her . . . Kirsten.

He remained for a second hour before making the decision to go. He'd dallied too long already. Something must have kept her from coming; he couldn't wait to find out what it was. He was healed enough to travel—had been for a couple of days now. And it would be best to travel by night; the cloak of darkness would shield him from the enemy, making his journey to find his commander safer.

He took a last look about the old mill as he retrieved his satchel, and slipped the strap across his shoulder. As his gaze went to the cellar opening, his heart lurched. He'd never forget the sweetness of Kirsten's arms. His blond savior had made him feel things he'd never thought to experience. He'd never forget her.

He found a stick and went inside the shelter. Within seconds, he came out again and blocked off the cellar doorway. Then, with a wistful glance toward the field, he left, heading south, in the opposite direction from Kirsten's house.

Richard had said good-bye the only way he could. When Kirsten returned, she would find his farewell—a few words quickly etched into the dirt floor of the cellar.

Good-bye, love, his message read. Thank you.

 

 

Kirsten shook her bedchamber doorknob, only to find that her father had made good his threat to lock her in. Heart pounding, she hurried to the window to gauge the slope of the gambrel roof and felt a sinking sensation within as she she realized that trying to escape that way would not only be futile but dangerous.

Tears pricked her eyes. Richard was leaving, and she was unable to have her one last visit with him.

Oh, love!
She'd promised to bring supplies; she'd promised to be there! When she didn't come, would he delay his departure for one more day?

She recalled with bittersweet pain their passionate lovemaking, the pleasure they'd found in each other's arms. It had felt so right, so wonderful! Surely, he'd thought so too!

“Please, Richard, wait for me,” she whispered, “and I'll find a way to get to you.” She climbed into her alcove bed, powerless to control her free-flowing tears.

He left! Somehow she knew it. She could sense him leaving, slipping away into the night.

Richard, you never said good-bye.
Rising from the bed, she went to the window and looked longingly toward the stand of trees blocking her view of the field and the ruin beyond it.

“Oh, Richard,” she sobbed, all hope of seeing him again vanishing. “You promised to say good-bye!”

The next morning she returned to the ruin and, as expected, found that Richard had gone. She saw the partially open door, but couldn't bear to go inside. She returned home, sad beyond measure.

The days that followed seemed empty to Kirsten, meaningless. Her parents had increased her workload, she suspected, in the belief that she'd be too exhausted at night to do anything but sleep. For a while, it worked; after so many chores, she was so tired at bedtime that her only desire was to rest her weary bones. Soon, however, Kirsten adjusted to the added labor, and she found herself lying awake at night, thinking of her lover . . . of Richard.

Two weeks passed without incident in Hoppertown. Kirsten's days went fast, but her nights were long and lonely. These were the times when she missed Richard the most. Her thoughts took on a carnal nature. Memories of Richard's lips devouring hers, of his callused palms on her breasts, and of his long, lean length crushing her to the blanketed ground returned to haunt her, invading her dreams when she did manage to doze off.

And, she became consumed with fear for his safety, wondering if he'd made it to wherever he was going. Where, he'd never told her. The fear gnawed at her, and her suffering began to show.

Soon she began to feel a new concern. She had lain with a man; it was possible that she was with child. While she waited anxiously for the time of her courses, her eyes grew shadowed, her movements sluggish; and she could see her parents' increasing concern for her.
Dear Lord, what will I do if I carry Richard's babe?
She'd seen what had happened to a village girl who'd conceived out of wedlock. The young woman had been forced to leave Hoppertown. With her lover gone and her reputation ruined, no man would take her to wife.
The scandal,
Kirsten thought,
would kill Moeder and Vader.

A few days later Tories arrived to disturb the peace of Hoppertown, and Kirsten was forced to put aside her concerns. She first learned of them from Miles. Her cousin had sent word begging her to meet him. Her door had been unlocked for over a week now. She left, knowing the risks she took venturing out at night, the consequences if she were caught. But Miles's note had sounded urgent. She met him at their usual meeting place in the forest.

“Miles.” She smiled. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed her cousin until she'd seen him there anxiously awaiting her arrival.

His gaze met hers across the clearing. When he made no move to come forward, she went to him with a frown.

“You came.” His voice was richer, deeper than before, all traces of boyhood gone from it.

“Did you think I wouldn't?” There was an odd light in her cousin's gaze that disturbed her. Since that day at
Peremus Kerk
where she'd seen him last, she had suspected that his voice hadn't been the only change in him. The innocent youth of her childhood had grown up, and something must have forced him to do it so quickly.

Kirsten waited, her tentative smile encouraging him to confide in her.

“I had no idea.”

She waited with growing fear for him to explain his cryptic words.

“Something has happened,” she said softly. “What?”

Her cousin's face seemed to crumble. “My father . . . Tories . . . A group of them coming to see Father.”

Kirsten's brow furrowed. “Tories? How many?”

Miles sat down on the huge, flat rock, and a strange foreboding came over Kirsten as she joined him there. He seemed fascinated with a stone near his foot, kicking it, watching it bounce across the ground. Kirsten fought back a stab of irritation.

“I don't know,” he said. “I heard Father talking with Mr. Dunley. He expects them any day.” He stopped, raising his gaze from the pebble to meet her eyes. “They plan to use Hoppertown as their base of operations for a while. To build an army and—”

“Don't tell me. Let me guess. To crush the force of Dutch Patriots,” she said, her voice sharp. She cursed at his nod, easily imagining her uncle's words.

Miles touched her shoulder. “Kirsten, I don't know what to do. I can't bear to see relatives and neighbors fight!”

“I know,” she said. “Perhaps if I tell
Vader—”

“No! You mustn't. If you do, Father will find out and he'll—” He clamped his mouth shut.

“He'll what?” Kirsten's tone was soft.

Miles shook his head. “Nothing.” He begged her with his eyes. “Please . . . don't tell Uncle James.”

Kirsten hid her shock. Her cousin seemed frightened, overly upset. “No. No, I won't if you don't want me to.”

What had her uncle done to his own son to elicit such terror?

“Maybe there's something we can do,” she said.

Miles brightened. “Do you think so?”

“Let me think about it.” Kirsten offered him a smile. “Between the two of us, we should be able to think of something.”

She silently prayed a solution would come to her quickly.

 

 

The Tories arrived at sunset during the last week of June. They entered the local tavern first to inquire as to the whereabouts of William Randolph. The innkeeper, who was Martin Hoppe, a distant cousin of Kirsten's, told the disreputable-looking group where to find the Loyalist. Unfortunately, the men did not immediately leave. They commandeered a table in the corner of the room, demanded to be served, then put up a ruckus when Martin wasn't quick enough for them. They were a sordid lot, their clothes dirty and sweat-stained, their unwashed bodies malodorous to those they passed in the common room.

The tavern was empty but for a few farmers and a family of six who had stopped for the night along on the way to the New York colony. Among the Harris family members was a beautiful, auburn-haired young woman with large green eyes and alabaster skin. She drew the Tories' notice instantly. She and her relatives were finishing their dinner when a few members of the ragged bunch sat down at the next table. The Harrises stood to leave, and Tom Harris, the eldest boy, eyed the men as his little brother and sister moved by them.

The lad's gaze narrowed when a Tory leered at his sister Megan. The lecherous man leaned over to whisper a suggestive remark in his friend's ear, and Tom clenched his fists, ready to fight. He saw red when the filthy scum extended his arm to block Megan's path.

“What's your hurry, pretty bird?” the offensive man said. He grinned wickedly as he reached into the pocket of his greasy, patched breeches and pulled out a few coppers. “Here. There's more where this comes from, if yer as pleasing on yer back as ye be to me eyes.”

Tom went into a rage. “Tory bastard!” he yelled. He smashed his fist into the man's face and knew the pain of torn knuckles as he struck out a second time.

Chairs scraped across the floor as several Tories stood, and Tom saw the immediate danger to his family. “Get out!” he shouted to his mother. “Take Megan, James, and Mary, and run!” He ducked and swung wildly to keep two of the band from pinning his arms and rendering him helpless.

The local farmers came to Tom's aid, and the tavern erupted into a first-class brawl. Tankards sailed through the air to clank against the floor, tables overturned with a great rumble, while those too young or innocent to fight scurried for safety outside the tavern walls. There was a loud thud and a grunt as one Tory smashed into the wall before he slithered, unconscious, to the rough, wooden floorboards. Crude curses and groans of pain filled the common room as Tom and the Hoppertown residents fought to subdue the Tories.

Tom and the farmers prevailed in the end. Battered but triumphant, young Tom Harris grinned his thanks to the men who had fought beside him.

The leader of the Tories shook his head as if to clear it as he rose from where he'd fallen against a table. Glaring at the victors, he helped a comrade rise to his feet. “Dutch
boers!
Ye've asked for trouble, ye 'ave. Ye 'aven't seen the last of us, mark me words!”

He waited at the tavern door for his friends to join him, and then he grabbed up a dented tankard and threw it through the window, causing the glass to crack and shatter. “Just a taste of what yer in fer,” he growled.

“You bastard!” Tom rushed forward to retaliate, but Martin stopped him, catching him by the scruff of his neck.

“Leave him be, son,” the innkeeper murmured. When Tom protested, he said, “Damn riffraff. Let them think they've got us frightened. The next time we meet, we'll take care of the Tory scum.”

The band left, and Martin called a meeting. An avid Partiot, Tom joined in, wanting to see if he could help while his family remained in Hoppertown. When the discussion was over, Tom and the farmers went their separate ways. Each farmer had a message to bring to the residents of Hoppertown. Danger had come to the peaceful village, and before morning everyone would be alerted—and prepared.

 

 

A heavy thundering noise startled Kirsten awake. She blinked groggily and instantly came alert when she heard her parents' voices outside her bedchamber. Throwing on her dressing gown, she left her room and joined her mother on the stairs.

“Moeder?
Who is it?”

Agnes spared her daughter a brief glance. “James, who's there?” she asked her husband.

James Van Atta peered out the window. He held a burning taper for light. “Why, it's just a boy!” he exclaimed.

“A boy!”

“Is he armed?” Kirsten tried to see outside.

Her father flashed her a startled glance before looking out the window again. The thunderous pounding on the door continued. “No, I don't think so.”

“Vader,
shouldn't we let him in?”

Kirsten's mother moved up behind her husband. “Is it safe?”

“There's only one way to find out,” James said, and he threw open the door.

“James Van Atta?” the youth asked. A pair of anxious brown eyes gazed up at James from beneath an unruly crop of bright red hair. His white shirt and dark weskit with matching breeches showed signs of a struggle. The young man looked as if he'd been fighting.

“Yes, boy. What is it?”

Kirsten was the first to notice the boy's injuries. “Why, he's been hurt,
Vader!
Tell him to come in!”

The youth's knuckles were split and caked with blood; he had a long scratch on his neck and a darkening about his right eye.

“Come in, boy,” James invited.