Rapture's Betrayal (29 page)

William Randolph was extremely pleased. He waited for his men to join him in the field near the ruins of the old Van Atta mill.

Ernest Jacobs arrived first. He was one of the seven men from Hackensack that John Greene convinced to join their ranks. “Well?” he asked as Greene and the others followed.

“Terhune's place is gone, burned to the ground,” John said with a grin.

“Any survivors?” William asked.

John nodded. “Two—perhaps three. I saw a man and woman fleeing.”

“Ah, well, it'll teach the sorry bastard a lesson in loyalty, won't it?” Pete McGinnis said.

The men laughed and agreed.

This was William's first raid since the disaster at the Van Voorhees' farm. These past few days he'd given the commands to attack, but had not joined in and was, as a result, unable to fully appreciate their success. Tonight he'd decided to go along. Catherine slept like the dead; she'd never know he was gone. Besides, if she did she wouldn't leave, because she wouldn't know where to go. She was terrified of the forest, and at night . . .

With Van Graaf dead, the only contact William had within the rebel camp was Rhoades, one of Washington's men. It had been some time since the Patriot general had been in Hoppertown long enough for William and Rhoades to meet.

William needed to speak with him. Someone must have replaced the Mad Ox by now, and William wanted to know who that was. He'd dropped hints in Hackensack, hoping someone would rise to the bait and seek out Biv as the two spies had before. This man, Biv, it was rumored, was a man for freedom, a willing spy for the Patriot forces.

Time was running out. The British Army had to move—and soon. A post sent to Thatcher told the major of William's work in Hoppertown, of the supplies that would be waiting once William had subdued the residents and taken their goods. Thatcher was no doubt furious with him, for there had been no supply runs to New York of late, and the major sought to profit by them.
This bit of news will brighten the man's day,
William thought. In a week's time, the Tories would be making their runs again, smuggling goods to their British friends to the south. William smiled.

“Randolph,” John Greene said, interrupting William's reflections. “Jacobs here says he saw some rebs on the road not far from here.”

“That's right.” Jacobs inhaled a bit of snuff, before replacing the pack in his coat pocket. He chuckled as he withdrew a dirty handkerchief. “Fired at 'em, we did—me and Pete. Ye should 'ave seen the way the bastards ran!”

Glancing at the two men, William frowned. “Any idea who they were?”

McGinnis shook his head. “There were three of them is all I could tell. Fled to that farmhouse we seen on the other side of these old woods. Ye know, the one with the odd roof.”

William scowled. There were any number of houses with Dutch gambrel roofs, but he knew which one McGinnis meant, they were on Van Atta property. “James Van Atta,” he muttered with distaste.

Greene met his gaze. “The Terhunes and a servant?”

“No doubt,” William said. Sheltering the Terhunes was just one more sin for which James Van Atta must suffer.

 

 

The Van Attas had gone back to bed. Catherine Randolph was in the spare room, while Andrew Jones and Richard had bunked down in the parlor.

Unable to sleep, Richard rose from his pallet on the floor.

“Sir?” came Andrew's sleepy voice.

“I'm going for a walk, Private.”

“But, sir . . . the gunmen . . . shall I go with you?”

Richard paused at the door to pull on a coat. “I'll be fine, Andrew,” he said. “I'll take James's rifle and scout about the house. It won't be long before I turn in.”

The moon was but a faint orb covered by clouds. The air had a distinctive cold nip to it. Richard wandered to the side of the house, listening, his gaze alert for movement of any kind, his hand gripping the rifle. There was no one about. It was as if the earlier disturbance had never occurred, it was so peaceful. His steps took him toward the vegetable patch, which was nothing more than tilled, empty ground now.

Kirsten. His heart called for her. Her image haunted his every waking and dreaming moment. It had been so wonderful to see her again. Each time he returned to her, he was overwhelmed by gladness. He loved her. And he was determined that one way or another he would survive this war so that he could come back and live out his life with her.

He settled himself on a bench in the yard. Closing his eyes, he pictured her sweet face, her joy upon seeing him again. Her eyes were the most glorious shade of blue, like a fall sky on a clear day. Her lips were full and pink; they felt petal-soft beneath his mouth.

Richard's body hardened with desire. It seemed forever since he'd last held her, caressed her silken skin, although it must have only been . . . what? A week? Two weeks at most?

Time had no meaning these days. While the war raged on, weeks seemed like months, days seemed like weeks.

He lay back against the bench, and stared into the trees above, overwhelmed with frustration and anger that the Patriots weren't farther along in their quest for liberty from the King.

When will it be over? Richard wondered, closing his eyes. He sighed wearily.

 

 

Kirsten couldn't sleep. How could she while Richard was so near . . . only a few steps and a staircase away?

Their reunion had been an unsatisfactory one. In the excitement of his arrival in the company of others, there had been no time for a proper greeting. A kiss.

It was a chilly night, but Kirsten felt warm beneath her feather tick where only hours before she'd been cold. Thoughts of Richard heated her to the core . . . memories of their loving . . . touching . . . joining. She squirmed on her mattress as a tingling invaded her private woman parts.

How long would it be before the men downstairs slept? she wondered. She wanted to slip below to the first floor and gaze upon Richard with love, to feel his presence, to be in the same room with him.

Kirsten thought of the earlier gunshots, and her body chilled. Richard could have been killed! So could Aunt Catherine and Private Jones!

She felt sorry for her aunt. How terrible it must feel to realize the man you'd been married to for years was not the same one you fell in love with but a stranger—a terrible, cruel stranger. At one time, William Randolph had been a charming, handsome young man with hopes and dreams and a winning smile. How often her mother told her of their childhood escapades. William had been her mother's protector. He'd been her champion, and the apple of many a lady's eye.

It was hard for Kirsten to see the uncle she'd heard stories about and William Randolph as one and the same man. The young William would never have killed anyone, let alone his own son!

Kirsten thought of her own beloved. Richard would never fail her. She'd accused him of lying, but he hadn't. It was just that she'd been angry and hurt because he'd been leaving. Hurt, she had wanted to hurt him back.

Everything Richard has said or done has been to spare me pain.
Didn't he know that if he stayed, there would be no pain? Of course, he did! But he had a mission to finish, and staying in Hoppertown had been out of the question.

And now? Was his work done? Was that why he'd returned to Hoppertown?

Kirsten's lips firmed. He mustn't leave her again. God had brought him back to her time after time—he was meant to stay here, to do what he could for the cause on Hoppertown soil.

Suddenly, it became vital for Kirsten to speak of this to Richard. She was sure that she could convince him if only she had a chance.

But how? How could she talk with him without drawing the young private's attention?

She pushed open the alcove doors and flipped back her cover. Climbing from her bed, she gasped when her bare feet hit the cold floor. She found stockings for her feet and then changed her night rail for a heavy, long-sleeved, woolen gown of dark blue.

After silently slipping down the stairs, she crept into the parlor. The blood flooded through her veins in her excitement.

“Richard,” she whispered. “Richard . . .”

No answer. The only sound was a man's soft snoring. She took another step into the room and was able to make out the two sleeping pallets on the floor. She froze. One of them was empty. Instinctively, she knew it was Richard's, and she went outside where she knew she'd find him.

 

 

He left the garden for the ruin. He knew it was dangerous to stray so far from the house, but something pulled him there. Memories of him and Kirsten?

Richard was at the cellar opening, preparing to pull away the wood blocking the entrance, when he heard a noise. He froze as he was able to make out a male voice . . . several male voices. He moved from the door, and slunk around the building to peer at the other side.

His eyes widened at what he saw. He counted nine figures—all men—in conversation. Richard shuddered to realize how close they were, how easily he could have been discovered or caught.

He strained to hear them, to see who they were, but their voices didn't carry to him. He knew they were the enemy. These men wouldn't be meeting on this property secretly if they weren't Loyalists. As he moved closer to hear better, he caught one man's laughter and the raised triumphant voice of another. Richard recognized the second man as William Randolph, Kirsten's uncle.

Rage blinded him. He wanted to rush at the man, choke him for all the pain he had caused Kirsten, his family, and so many of the area's residents. Without Randolph, Hoppertown would have stayed a relatively peaceful haven during this bloody war—and Miles might still be alive.

Richard rose, clenching his fingers. Reason returned as the men moved away, and he realized that against so many his chances of prevailing was remote.

But I could kill Randolph,
he thought.

And die for your deed,
an inner voice said.
How will Kirsten feel then?

Richard hunkered back into a crouch, watching with helpless anger as the Tories left. He would follow them for a time and see where they'd made their camp.

“Biv!” someone called, and Richard's breath caught when William Randolph stopped. “Where are we goin'?”

“I've a cabin . . . not far.”

Richard released the air from his lungs. Having rescued the man's wife, he knew where the cabin was. He felt a surge of determination, of purpose. So William Randolph was Biv . . . What pleasure it was going to give him to get his hands on Randolph and wring the truth out of him.

A dry branch snapped behind him. Startled, Richard spun, his gun raised to kill. His russet gaze glowed as he saw who had come.

“Kirsten,” he murmured, lowering the rifle.

He glanced back toward the woods the Tories had entered, and knew that, if he followed his first notion and went after Randolph and his men, Kirsten would demand to go with him.

Making a quick decision, Richard set down his rifle and opened his arms. The choice hadn't been a difficult one. He knew where Randolph was heading. There would be time to find him, to capture his men.
Or perhaps it would be wiser to lure the bastard out,
he thought. But at this moment, he'd been given a blessing, granted a dream. Kirsten was here, and he'd been aching for her. His gaze flamed with desire; his body burned.

“Come to me, love,” he said.

“Richard,” she gasped, joy brightening her face.

And the lovers were properly reunited, flowing into each other's embrace.

When he returned to the cabin to find his wife gone and Phelps in residence, William Randolph went into a murderous rage.

“Where is she?” he demanded of the disfigured man.

Phelps gawked at him, shaking his head. “What, Biv?” he sputtered. “What d'ye mean?”

Furious at the man's inadequate reply, the Englishman drove his fist into Phelps's face, striking him again and again. Phelps had not unexpected the attack, and his nose had broken with the first punch. Still, William continued to beat him until there was blood everywhere, staining Phelps's clothing, splattering the front of Randolph's coat. The other men stared, but didn't help Phelps. They'd never seen someone so enraged as William.

“Goddamn her!” Randolph bellowed when he was done punishing his most loyal man. “She belongs here with her husband, not with that dim-witted sister of mine!” For it hadn't taken William long to figure out where Catherine had headed. Where else would she go but to the Van Atta farm? If she wasn't injured or lying dead in the forest somewhere.

“How long have you been here?” he asked Phelps.

The man cringed. He looked pathetic with his beaten, misshapen features covered in blood. His swollen nose and bruised facial parts made him appear even more disfigured. “For a few hours is all.” He had difficulty speaking through his split lips.

“By God!” William shouted, smashing his hand against the cabin wall. “I'll find her! I'll force her to do her duty! She'll be a good wife to me! She must! She's all I have left now.”

During this last outburst, Phelps jumped back out of Randolph's reach, and several of the men stared at their leader, unwilling to cross him yet appalled by his behavior.

Pete McGinnis dared to utter a word. “You've got us, Biv,” he said in an attempt to soothe the distraught man.

The members of the Tory band knew him only as Biv. It wouldn't do if one of them got captured by the enemy and talked. Only John Greene and Thaddeus Phelps knew his real identity.

William's dark gaze glittered with wicked fervor. He stared at McGinnis as if he were going to beat a second man to a bloody pulp. But then suddenly, as quickly as it had come, Randolph's anger was gone.

“That's right,” he said, his tone soft and even. “We have each other now, haven't we?” These men were at his command. He'd use them to wipe out the enemy. He'd kill James Van Atta and his family, and then he'd retrieve Catherine and make her see that her place was at his side. Miles's death had been an accident, he'd make her see this. She'd understand that it was Kirsten's fault that Miles was dead. When the war finally ended, he and Catherine would live peacefully and prosperously on whichever property in the area he claimed for his own.

“Tomorrow we return to Hoppertown,” he said. “These
boers
believe they've seen bloodshed; 'tis nothing to what they'll be seeing!”

And William gathered the men around him to make plans.

 

 

The woman beside him shivered as he nuzzled her neck and ran his fingers over her bare shoulder. “Are you cold?” Richard asked.

Kirsten shook her head, but Richard thought she must be chilled. They were in the old mill cellar without blankets or bed, and the night was a cold one.

They'd chosen this spot because it was secluded and familiar. After carrying the woman he loved inside, Richard had set her down gently on her feet. A moment later, he was building a small fire. He wanted to see Kirsten as he touched her . . . loved her. Even the smallest flame would provide warmth.

“See, I kept my promise,” he said, showing her the words he'd scratched in the dirt. “I did say good-bye.”

“Oh, Richard . . .”

He removed his coat and spread it on the ground to cushion the dirt floor. They came together and kissed; their passion warming their hearts as well as their bodies.

It was a moment of gladness as Richard undid the front hooks of Kirsten's gown and tugged the bodice down. His eyes warmed from a russet color to a hot cinnamon as he bared her to the waist. Fondling the creamy flesh before him, he watched with pleasure as her nipples budded, then dipped his head to taste her sweetness, enjoying the soft moan that escaped her lips as he suckled her.

She smelled like wild flowers, a scent that tantalized him and heightened his desire. He knelt on the ground before her, and placed his lips to her belly. She gasped and clutched his head, and he dared to move his kisses lower. He pushed her gown down over her hips, helped her to step out of it.

She stood in her naked glory, a beautiful golden . goddess in the firelight. And then Richard pressed his mouth to her womanly cleft. Kirsten climaxed and cried out.

She was still trembling when Richard rose and pressed his straining manhood against her secret place. They kissed and rocked, grinding against each other.

Kirsten wanted to touch him, to feel him deep inside her, to be warmed by the heat of his flesh. She stepped back from his arms and proceeded to unbutton his shirt and slip the garment from Richard's broad shoulders. Her breath rasped as she began to touch him, to explore his muscled chest. Richard caressed her as she tugged at his breeches. She held her breath as he moved back to take them off. And then she was touching him . . . stroking him once again.

The gentle exploration became heated, then frantic. On his coat they joined, breasts touching, hips thrusting, stroking and crying out as they soared upward. Kirsten gasped; Richard groaned. For a moment, the world exploded into bright colors and wild sensation.

They floated slowly back to earth and lay in the sweet aftermath of making love. Richard, at Kirsten's side, was unable to stop touching her. He was ready for her again, and by the look in her eyes, she was willing.

He felt her shiver and moved to cover her with his length. She moaned and clutched his shoulders, her fingers splaying across his muscled back as he gently nuzzled her neck, then shifted his position to kiss the satiny skin of her right breast.

“Richard . . .” Her eyes opened to stare at him, glistening blue orbs that shone with the flame of desire and the golden glow of their small fire.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Tell me.”

She closed her eyes, arched her neck, and murmured, “For you to stay . . . to never, never go away.”

He tensed above her. Her soft hands stroked him, soothing him, and he relaxed and bent to lick her pink nipple.

“Richard!”

“Yes, love.”

“Richard!”
she cried out as he suckled the tip and then transferred his attention to its twin, while at the same time his fingers went to the most secretive, moist part of her.

He couldn't promise her he'd stay . . . yet. But he could pleasure her, make her touch the sky and hover for those breathtaking, mind-shattering moments of ecstasy. And when he had done this, he, too, flew like a bird and descended to earth on a cloud.

They lay with limbs entwined, hearts beating as one. Lethargic but feeling good, they held each other and prayed that their time together would never end.

But all too soon they had to go. Andrew Jones might discover Richard gone, and the sun would be up soon. Without a word, Richard rose, and Kirsten followed him. They dressed in silence, then cautiously left the ruin for the house.

They didn't speak of the future, for it was too uncertain. Richard didn't make promises; and Kirsten, after that one moment in which she'd spoken her heart, didn't press him for any.

The war continued—the fight for freedom—as did the struggle to contain one's emotions in the face of dire uncertainties.

 

 

On December 4, 1778, the First Pennsylvania Regiment of the Continental Army settled in for a stay at the Paramus encampment. The villagers were pleased to see the soldiers arrive. Weary and worn, the men nevertheless looked impressive in their military cocked hats and brown uniform coats, the white linen straps of their haversacks and cartridge boxes crossing their chests. Plagued by Tories these past days, the Hoppertown residents saw an end to their torment, although perhaps only a temporary one. That night, for the first time in a long while, they went to bed without fear. The Continental soldiers would surely deter the Tories from attacking their homes.

Richard, Andrew, and the other occupants of the Van Atta household stayed awake long into the night. Unlike their Hoppertown neighbors, they knew who was in charge of the Tory band, and they believed nothing would stop William Randolph. The man was beyond logical thinking; no Continental Army would deter him from his raids.

Unwilling at first to confess that he'd seen the Tories near the ruin, Richard had not brought the matter up with anyone but Private Jones. William Randolph might be a terrible, cruel man, but he was a relative of those he stayed with. Richard feared one of the Van Attas or even Catherine Randolph might interfere with the Patriots' capture of him.

But he knew he couldn't take Randolph without help. After discussing the matter with the young private, Richard decided to speak to the family. That night, while the residents of Hoppertown slept peacefully, Richard and the others talked of seizing William Randolph.

“But how are we to lure him out? He's a cunning soul,” James Van Atta said.

Catherine, who had been quietly listening for a time, spoke up. “Our house is empty. He'll return for clean garments and food. William hates to look anything but his best. In fact, it's almost an obsession with him.”

Richard raised a blond eyebrow. “He's been back to the house?”

The dark-haired woman inclined her head. “At least once that I know of. He brought me some things and ordered me to make myself more presentable.”

“Bastard!” Agnes muttered. Shocked, her family stared at her, but she held James's gaze steadily until Kirsten broke the stunned silence.

“Shall we go to the house and lay a trap for him?” she asked.

“You stay here with your family where you'll be safe,” Richard said firmly.

Kirsten gaped at him. “And who are you to say what I can or can't do!”

A muscle ticked in Richard's temple. “I'll not be worrying about a female with some foolish notion of revenge.”

“Oh? And what is your motive?” she challenged.

Red-faced, Richard ignored her comment and turned to Private Jones. “Andrew, you and I will go to the Randolphs'.” He glanced in Catherine's direction. “With the lady's permission, of course.” She nodded, granting it. “I'll speak to the regiment's commander in the morning. Perhaps if I explain the situation, he'll give us a man or two.”

“I'd like to help,” James Van Atta said.

“Thank you, but you would be more useful here where you can guard the women and report to us if William decides to come here instead of to his home.”

The men in the group continued to make plans, while the women offered an opinion now and then. Only Kirsten remained silent, privately stewing over Richard's abrupt dismissal of her worth. She wouldn't be a hindrance but a help. Her uncle was out to get her, too. She could be the bait!

Near the end of the discussion, when the party broke up to retire, Kirsten asked Richard to accompany her outside. She then told him of her idea of using herself as bait.

“Absolutely not,” he said, and his stern manner made her clench her fists at her sides as she stifled the urge to hit him. “I won't have you hurt. I couldn't bear it if you were.”

His confession didn't make her soften. “And I'm supposed to wait here and worry about you? How many times have you come and gone now,
mynheer?
Do you think it was easy for me?”

“No,” he said, his lips firmed.

“Stubborn swine!” she cried, before she stomped off to her room.

Kirsten's temper increased to the boiling point when she learned the next day that Catherine Randolph would be going with the men. Only she and her mother would be left behind.

“But she's a female,” she said. “Why would it be any less dangerous for her?”

Richard's patience had reached its limit the night before. “Because, woman, she's Randolph's wife! He must be frantically searching for her by now! A few hints about her dropped in the right places, and the man will come home to get her!”

She saw the logic behind their reasoning, but was unwilling to admit it. “Please, Richard! Let me go with you.”

He sighed with exasperation. “Kirsten, don't make me say something I might regret.”

“Such as?”

He shook his head. “I'll not allow you to do this to me. I've been on this mission too long to let you foul it up.”

“Mission?” Kirsten blinked. “Then there's a connection between your Biv and my uncle?”

Richard's teeth snapped. He didn't want anyone to know, but he had to tell her. He could see that she'd never believe him if he denied knowing. “Yes, there is. Last night, I told you what I saw, but I didn't tell what I heard. I heard someone call for Biv. Your uncle answered.”

Kirsten grabbed his arm. “Richard,” she said softly, “please be careful.”

He nodded, his expression becoming tender.

She guiltily recalled seeing the disfigured man. She'd meant to tell Richard about Phelps, but had forgotten. Their conversation about Biv reminded her. “When we were held at the Van Voorhees', I saw that disfigured man again. They called him by name. I don't know if it will help you, but his name is Phelps.” Her heart raced as he stared at her a long moment. Was he angry?

“Phelps,” Richard echoed. Suddenly, he smiled. “It may help—thank you.” She grinned, happy that she could assist him in some way.