Rapture's Betrayal (5 page)

Good God, what was she thinking! She forced such thoughts away.

Kirsten reached for her dressing gown, taking it down from a hook near her bed and then slipping her arms into its voluminous sleeves. After a quick peek out her bedchamber door, she left her room to move quietly through the house. She crept past the door of her parents' room, silently praying that they, unlike her, were unaffected by the heat and were sleeping peacefully.

Kirsten breathed a sigh of relief upon exiting the house. She couldn't forget the night when, overconfident about her ability to escape, she'd tripped at the bottom of the stairs, nearly waking her parents and giving away her nightly visits to Richard.

The night air was no cooler outside than in her room. Padding barefoot across the yard to the barn, Kirsten debated whether or not to ride Hilga. It was too hot to wear slippers on her feet, so the journey would be easier and faster on the gentle horse. Once inside the stable, she thought better of the idea. Horse and rider would be an easy target in the darkness. She'd be safer traveling as a lone figure on foot.

Insects buzzed and chirped in songful chorus as Kirsten followed the trail to the ruins of the mill. The after-dark sounds seemed magnified this night. Small nocturnal animals scurried through the brush, but the forest creatures didn't frighten her—it was the thought of meeting man.

The threat of British soldiers had ended two days ago when the troops had left Hoppertown, but she could never be too careful. There might be deserters about. British or Patriot, they would be dangerous. War-crazed and desperate, there was no telling what they might do to the unwary, especially an unprotected woman.

Kirsten's thoughts went to Richard. He wasn't expecting her tonight; there was a good chance he would be sleeping when she arrived. If so, she'd simply check to see that he was comfortable and return home.

Her steps faltered as she neared the mill. The memory of his kiss came back again; its gentleness haunted her. She continued along the path, recalling the tenderness of his caress. Would he make love as tenderly as he kissed? Or would he be a fierce, demanding lover? she wondered, and was immediately shocked by her musings.

Her dressing gown, which felt light and airy against her skin, suddenly seemed too sheer to be worn in male company. She'd been daring to wear it instead of her man's clothes, but it was so hot this night.

The garment is large and loose, and it's dark.
Surely, Richard wouldn't notice that she was naked underneath it.

She stopped in her tracks. She imagined the heat of his piercing gaze on her bare skin. The back of her neck tingled. Her heart thumped hard.

No need to worry. He isn't expecting you. He's probably sleeping.
Kirsten moved on toward the mill, envisioning his brown gaze turning a golden color as he stared at her body.

Her nipples hardened in response to that image.
This won't do!
she thought, picturing how his lips would curve slowly into a sensual smile. She felt her legs weaken. No, this wouldn't do at all!

Kirsten admitted that Richard fascinated her.
Why?
It wasn't because he'd been charming to her lately. On the contrary, he'd become testy the last day or so, frustrated with his confines and the need to get about. Sympathetic to his feelings, Kirsten had tried to be patient with him. She understood that it wasn't easy for him to be trapped for hours on end in such close quarters.

A soft glow ahead drew her attention. She hesitated. Richard was awake! An inner voice warned her to go home and forget this visit. Anything could happen on this steamy, sultry night.

Nonetheless, anxious to see him, Kirsten ignored the warning and hurried toward the light.

“I can't breathe!” Locked within the terror of his nightmare, Richard found himself at the bottom of a freshly dug dirt pit. “No, I won't let this happen.”

It's hot! God, it's so hot! No! No! You haven't paid yet you bastards! No! No! “No
. . .
!”

Richard sat bolt upright in the dark, his breath rasping loudly in the night's quiet. His heart drummed painfully within his chest as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. He slowly became aware of his surroundings, his state.

Sweat dripped from his skin in dirty rivulets, along his neck and bare arms, on his chest. The air in the cellar hung heavily about him.

It was only a dream!
he thought.
Thank God!
His terror, though, had been real enough. He blinked against the sting of tears. And his grief was real. It was no dream that his friend Alex was dead. That was a fact Richard couldn't change, although he desperately wanted to.

He closed his eyes and swallowed against a tight throat.
“Oh, Alex,”
he whispered, shuddering.

As if the floodgates had opened, the painful images rushed through. He was unable to keep them away. He saw Alex as a young boy; they'd been friends forever, since childhood, born and raised in the Pennsylvania Colony. A groan escaped Richard's lips as he recalled the times he and Alex had fished together at Barker's Creek. Alex, younger by three years, had looked up to him.

Trouble had never followed the gentle Alex as it had the more mischievous Richard, but Richard had always felt a sense of responsibility for his younger friend, a feeling that had not changed when Alex followed Richard to war. He had tried to talk Alex out of going; after all, Alex had a young, pregnant wife to care for. How could he leave her alone at home?

But Alex had been determined to go. Fired up with the Patriot cause, there had been no stopping him from joining the Continental troops.

Richard blamed himself in part for Alexander's death. Perhaps if he had stayed home and not joined . . .

If only the British hadn't raided Richard's grandfather's farm . . . If only they hadn't killed the old man, burned his house . . .

If only he and Alex hadn't become separated . . .

Now Richard was a Patriot spy, determined to find Alex's killer. He had taken his dead friend's place, working underground for General Washington.

Gentle Alex a spy? he thought. At first, Richard hadn't believed it when he'd been told by one of Washington's staff; Alex had hated deceit of any kind. But Richard had been informed that the war had hardened his childhood friend, and he had believed it to be true. That was the only thing that made sense.

As he began to breathe easier again, Richard thought longingly of the stream. He was thirsty. The running water would be cool and inviting to his parched throat. He groped for Kirsten's tinder box and tried futilely to light a candle. Tinder box in hand, he groped his way toward the blocked cellar doorway. The wound on his thigh throbbed, but he was able to bear the pain. Kirsten's attentions to his injuries had done wonders.

He missed Kirsten, he realized with surprise. Confined this past week, he'd come to enjoy her nightly visits. He'd hadn't kissed her again, but only because he'd controlled an almost irresistible urge to do so.

Shoving the boards away from the cellar opening, Richard stumbled outside. He inhaled deeply of the outside air. The night was humid and hot, but a welcoming change from the closeness of the mill's cellar. He returned inside to get a lantern. The moonlight allowed him to light the lamp easily, and he placed it on a rock near the streambed.

He dipped his cupped hands into the water, and then he drank, enjoying the cool wetness as it trickled down his throat. Next, he eyed the stream speculatively and decided that he felt well enough to bathe by himself. Until now he'd washed inside, Kirsten helping with a pot of water and bar of soap.

He grinned with boyish delight as he began to unfasten his breeches.

 

 

Kirsten slowed her steps as she came to the mill, for splinters of wood, rotting boards, and other debris littered the ground. She frowned when she came to the cellar entrance. The door was unblocked, and the soft glow of light she saw came from the other side of the ruin.

After checking the cellar's interior, she picked her way toward the soft illumination. The first thing she spied as she rounded the ruin was the lantern sitting on a rock. She scowled. How could Richard be so careless? Had he forgotten the dangers of war?

Kirsten scanned the tributary and found Richard several yards away, downstream. Her eyes widened. Naked, he stood in the current, cupping his hands and tossing water over his sleek, lithe body.

She stared at him in awe, heat suffusing her throat and face. She swallowed hard. She'd never before seen a man without clothes. The sight made her heart skip a beat, and a strange liquid warmth invaded the juncture between her thighs.

He was magnificent. He had filled out nicely with the food she'd brought him, and no longer appeared thin and gaunt. His sinewy back and tight buttocks appeared golden in the lamplight. His hair was wet and unbound, and the sleek, damp-dark strands that fell to his shoulders and back gave him a wild look that was extremely male. The water on his skin sparkled as it ran down masculine thews and tendons before dripping back into the stream.

A deep male groan rent the night's silence as Richard flung back his head. His expression of ecstasy fascinated Kirsten. She went hot and then cold beneath the filmy dressing gown as, mesmerized, she noted the sensuous pleasure Richard took in his bath.

Kirsten trembled with desire. She'd never before felt so womanly, so aware of another's body in conjunction with her own. The tips of her breasts tingled as they hardened against the linen fabric of her dressing gown. She froze, unable to move, unable to look away from Richard's naked splendor.

Her lashes fluttering shut, she lifted her hands to her blossoming nipples, felt the pebble-hard excitement of her body's response.

She opened her eyes and gasped when she experienced a pleasurable, erotic tightening in her womb.

Kirsten inhaled sharply. Richard had turned around, and she could see his shaft straining from its curly nest. He looked up and saw her. He did not seem surprised; perhaps he had been thinking of her.

Oh, God!
she thought, aware that her face had warmed.

“Kirsten.” His voice was husky, rich with meaning. His gaze flamed with desire as he strode from the water, his body dripping.

He stopped within several yards of her, studying her with an intensity that made her step backward in confusion.

“I. . .” Flushed with embarrassment, Kirsten didn't know what to say. She was startlingly aware of how her body had come alive, responding to Richard's look . . . his approach. “I have to go!”

“No!” He stepped forward and then checked himself when she stopped.

“Kirsten,” he said, his eyes glowing, “come here.”

“You look well,
mynheer
.” Kirsten wasn't surprised that her voice quivered; every nerve ending in her body hummed and trilled with life.

Richard laughed, the husky resonance vibrating in the distance between them. “I thought you weren't coming.” He looked amused. “If I'd known . . .”

“I suspect you would have gone to greater lengths to shock me.”

“Is that what I've done?” He gestured toward his naked body. “Shocked you?”

Kirsten's face flamed. “No. I'm a farm girl. I've seen too much of life.”

“Oh?” A gleam came to Richard's gaze. He came toward her then with a look of intent.

“Stay back!” She panicked. She should have gone home! Hadn't she sensed a strange, new tension in the air this night? Why hadn't she listened to her own instincts? Why was her heart racing? Even as she acknowledged the danger of being near him, Kirsten felt a shiver of excitement shudder along her spine.

In several long strides, Richard was near enough for her to feel the cool dampness radiating from his wet skin.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.
Oh, God!
she thought.
Don't let me make a fool of myself!

“Right now?” He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Right now I'm feeling fine . . . mighty fine.”

“Richard—” She raised a hand to fend him off when he reached for her, gasping when she encountered the moist sleekness of his bare chest. Her fingers withdrew as if burnt, but his large hand caught hold of her wrist, placing her palm back on the damp skin.

“Say my name again,” he prompted, pushing back the sleeves of her dressing gown with his hands.

“Richard,” she repeated.

He smiled, enjoying the way she pronounced his name with the
ch
sounding like a
k. Ric-kard.
He studied her, marveling that she was here before him now, as if conjured from his dreams. She looked the picture of innocence and earthiness, seductive and alluring in her flowing robe. Her hair was loose, and the silver blond strands that fell to her shoulders caught fire beneath the glow of the lantern. Her skin looked dewy, her lips moist. Her blue eyes shimmered and grew round.

Richard couldn't stop himself from sliding one hand beneath her platinum tresses, from caressing the damp flesh at her neck. Her mouth opened, and the sight of her pink tongue between her open teeth made him moan softly.

She was so lovely! It took a great deal of his self-control to go slowly with her . . . carefully. He wanted to devour those pink lips, to bury himself in her silken body. She seemed to embody all that was innocent, good, and alive. A night in her arms would be heaven, banishing for a time his private hell.

He slipped an arm around her, impelling her against him with the hand at her nape, then lowered his head with lips parted, eager to capture her sweet mouth. She was so young.
Too young,
an inner voice cautioned. Ah, but she was all woman!

Richard felt her stiffen as the soft swells of her breasts pressed against his own hardness. He touched his mouth lightly to her lips. To his delight, Kirsten responded, melting against him, whimpering, her arms lifting to embrace him. He drank from her lips, sipping deeply of the honey inside. The taste of her was sweet. He'd been longing to kiss her again since that first day's brief, unsatisfying encounter. The reality of this experience far exceeded his expectations.

With his strong arms around her, Kirsten was unafraid to return Richard's kiss. Her robe was moist from his skin, the wet linen merely a thin film between male and female. She gasped as his mouth trailed hotly from her lips down her neck, nuzzling beneath the dressing-gown collar. Her hands fluttered against his back, and she arched her neck, encouraging him to explore her throat.

Richard's head lifted, and she felt his fingers on the buttons of her robe.

“Kirsten,” he whispered. “I want to look at you.”

She hesitated for only a second. “Yes . . .”

He made quick work of the precious buttons, parting the fabric and pushing the garment off her shoulders. As the robe fell to the ground, Kirsten experienced, for the first time, the excitement of having a man's admiring glance on her naked body. The knowledge that Richard found her pleasing to look at made her feel heady.

“Oh, Kirsten . . .” He cupped one of her breasts, worrying the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “My angel . . . you're lovely . . . so beautiful . . .”

She was jolted by sensation as his lips encircled a tiny nub. She gasped, feeling all gushy inside, then sighed with pleasure when Richard's tongue laved her nipple before his mouth slid over to enjoy its twin.

“Richard . . .”

His head lifted from her breast. “Sh-h-h . . .”

He brought his finger up to stroke her bottom lip before he dipped inside to brush the digit across her teeth. Richard's eyes glowed with desire as he paid homage to the interior of her mouth.

Their eyes met as he trailed his hand along her jaw down her throat to recapture her breast, and his gaze held hers captive. Kirsten moaned, enjoying the magic of his touch.

Soon, a strange ache invaded her lower body. When Richard nudged her legs apart with his thigh, she accommodated him. The brush of his knees at the apex of her desire made her cry out and clutch at his shoulders. She felt she was drowning in a tide of sensuality.

The two clung in passionate entreaty, searching for that moment of sweet freedom. Lips met, opened; tongues thrust in desperation; teeth nipped lovingly.

As he lowered Kirsten to the ground, the wound in Richard's thigh throbbed, but he ignored the pain. The ache in his loins was far greater, and he sought relief from it with the woman in his arms.

Her eyes appeared round and trusting as he lowered himself on top of her. She felt so soft, her curves conforming to his maleness perfectly. He kissed the line of her throat, pleased when she opened her legs as if requesting that he further the intimacy. With a deep moan, Richard probed her feminine petals with the tip of his desire, until Kirsten cried out with denial and pushed him away.

“Kirsten?” The haze of ecstasy was receding from his brain. He cursed beneath his breath as he braced himself above her, wincing when the wound in his arm gave him pain.

Richard focused on the woman beneath him and was taken aback by the film of tears in her blue eyes. “Kirsten?”

She blinked, and he groaned with frustration. Carefully, he eased away from her and rose to his feet.

“Are you all right?” He extended a hand, aware of the hard pulsating core of him that still felt desire. He knew he'd been playing with the forbidden, but for God to have chosen to remind him in this way! He gritted his teeth as she accepted his hand, avoiding her glance as he helped her upright.

“I think I'm cut,” she said.

He looked at her then, surprised. “Cut?” he echoed.

She gave him a weak smile. “The ground . . .”

Richard muttered a harsh oath. “Let me see.” His breath hissed from his lips when he saw the small puncture wound below her right shoulder blade. He felt guilty, as if he were no better than a rutting animal. Good God, anyone could have happened by!

He found the culprit after a thorough check of the ground—a small iron nail protruding from a piece of wooden floorboard. He glanced at her with concern, pleased when she smiled in reassurance, secretly glad that her cry to stop had had nothing to do with the fear of making love.

“We'd best see it cleaned,” he said, referring to her wound. “Come to the stream, and I'll wash it for you.” He took her gently by the shoulder, though he wanted nothing more than to drag her back into his arms.

“I'm sorry,” she said as she allowed him to seat her on a rock near the water's edge.

“There's nothing to be sorry about,” he replied gruffly. Reality had hit him hard, sobering his passion-clouded brain. He had no right to touch her. How could he have forgotten the situation he was in—this blasted war? He couldn't afford to become involved with anyone.

Startled by the sudden change in Richard's behavior, Kirsten gaped at him. He'd been so loving. . . so warm, but then . . . Had she somehow offended him? She knew nothing of a man's desire.

Kirsten watched wistfully while he retrieved her robe and thrust it in her direction with the words. “Cover yourself!”

Hurt, she blinked and turned away, clutching the dressing gown to her bare breasts.

Richard placed his hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. “It's not what you think. Please try to understand.”

“Understand what?” she replied, stung.

He sighed, closing his eyes. “It's too complicated to explain, little one, so I won't try.” There was something in his eyes that tugged at her heart strings.

“Richard . . .”

He cleared his throat. “Show me your back and hold still, Kirsten, while I wash your cut.” He dabbed at her cut with the moistened hem of the shirt she'd procured for him.

The wound throbbed, and Kirsten flinched. Richard apologized huskily for hurting her. He rinsed the shirt and bathed her entire back.

“All done,” he pronounced. Then, he surprised her by placing a kiss between her shoulder blades.

“Thank you.” She blushed as she turned to face him.

Richard watched, intrigued by the movement of her lashes which flickered against her cheeks. His gaze went to her lips, and he felt a jolt of renewed desire.

“You'd best get home,” he said.

“Yes, I suppose I should,” she said. But she seemed reluctant to leave.

The imprint of her skin still tingled on his lips as she donned her gown and fumbled to redo the buttons.

“Here . . . let me help you.” His tone was whisper-soft.

She glanced up, swallowing, and nodded. He hurried to fasten the robe, conscious of the urge to take her. His desire for her was still strong.

“Good night,” she said when he had finished.

He bowed his head. “Good night,” he echoed.

Once she had disappeared from sight, Richard picked up his breeches and began to dress. Sleep, he thought, would be a long time coming.

 

 

Once out of Richard's sight, Kirsten ran, heedless of her bare feet, her only thought to escape Richard and her tumultuous feelings for him. She was confused. The passion tightening her womb had been new and frightening to her.

It had felt so good being in his arms, knowing the magic caress of his lips.
But it was wrong,
she thought.

He was a stranger, after all . . . or was he?

She paused for a brief rest, gasping for breath. She was at the edge of the field not far from the mill. Here, out from under Richard's gaze, she allowed the tears that she'd held in check to fall freely.
I care for him
. . .
what am I going to do?

Kirsten was mortified. What must he be thinking? She had offered herself like a wanton tavern wench, curling against him, purring like a kitten being stroked. The urge to return and demand an explanation for his behavior was great. The cut on her back hurt little compared to the strange ache inside her heart.

Straightening, Kirsten looked back down the path to the ruin. She shuddered pleasurably, remembering. On her breasts, Richard's hands had been large but, oh, so gentle! Her fingers rose to encircle a nipple, and her breath caught with the memory of his caress. That secret place between her legs grew damp, and her eyes closed as she imagined the feel of his intimate touch.

What she wanted of him, Kirsten didn't know. She was aware, though, that her body cried out for something only Richard could give her.

She was headed back toward the mill when a low feral growl froze her in her tracks. The hairs at the back of her neck rose as the rumble came again from behind her, loud and near. She turned slowly and saw two eyes beaming at her from the shelter of the woodland. There was a flash of white teeth as the animal snarled at her.

Kirsten feared she was in trouble.

Would the creature attack? Or would it tire of the game and run away? She waited, terrified, wishing she were back at the mill.
Oh, Richard!
she thought. If she were lying beneath him, she wouldn't now be in danger from this wild animal.

She breathed a sigh of relief when the beast moved forward into the moonlight. It was the Vandervelts' old farm dog, ordinarily a harmless canine.

“Koolsla!” she called to him, extending a friendly hand. Named after the cabbage dish he'd been found eating as a young pup, he was a mangy-looking mutt with big eyes. She beckoned him again, but the dog's back bristled menacingly.

“Koolsla! Go home, boy. Go home! It's Kirsten. Remember me? I won't hurt you.”

The canine inched closer and growled, baring his teeth.

“Don't move, love,” A familiar voice whispered. “The poor thing's hurt. There's no reasoning with a wounded animal.”

“Richard!” she breathed and started to turn.

“I said, ‘Don't move!'”

She froze, feeling the force of his anger hit her in thick, taut waves.

When Richard spoke again, his tone had softened. “Now, I want you to listen and obey me. No-no, love, don't be afraid. I'm here to help you.”

Kirsten sensed when he moved; she saw him from the corner of her eye.

“I'm going to attract his attention.”

“No!” She swung to him and then back to the animal, freezing when the dog began barking wildly.

“For God's sake, stay still or you'll get us both killed!”