Rapture's Betrayal (7 page)

“Do we have anyone on the inside?” William Randolph sat back in his chair and began picking his teeth with the edge of his thumbnail.

Dunley raised a pewter tankard to his lips. “Dwight Van Graaf,” he replied before taking a healthy swig.

“Van Graaf,” William murmured. “Good man?” When the other two gentlemen nodded, he said, “Then, what are you so concerned about? With Van Graaf as our spy, we can certainly handle a few cocksure Dutch.”

The three men sat in Randolph's study, avid supporters of the English king, George. English by heritage, they were satisfied with the way things had stood before the uprising, unable to understand what all the fuss was about. They'd paid their share of taxes to the King and yet had retained enough for a hefty profit. The land had been good to them, and so, too, they believed, had their mother country.

Randolph was a prosperous farmer, who gave gladly to the British troops. He was not only baffled by his neighbors' choice of sides, but his anger bordered on vengefulness.

Godwin and Dunely, his two cohorts, hailed from the Ramapo region to the north. Their motives were more clearly defined; they wanted to line their pockets with coin.

“You may be right,” Godwin said. “But what of the forces coming from the south?”

“That's where Biv comes in, gentlemen,” William replied with a wicked smile. “Now that the ‘Mad Ox' is out of the picture, we have nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure the job was done? The man is dead?”

“So Phelps said. And you know Phelps.” The man chuckled. “He so loves his work!”

A door slammed on the back side of the house. William rose from his chair behind a polished oak desk. “Gentlemen, I believe our meeting is over. Until next Thursday then?” He extended a hand to first one, then the other.

Voices could be heard in the corridor outside the study door. William frowned when he heard Catherine's laughter, followed by his son's shrill tone.

He threw open the door, surprising the both of them. Miles gaped in open-mouthed horror, while Catherine blinked and then smiled in docile acceptance.

“Where have you been?” Randolph demanded.

“Why, William, whatever is wrong? I thought you were going to visit the Prevosts, so Miles and I decided to go for a ride.”

The smooth way in which his wife offered an explanation took the wind out of Randolph's sails. “It was raining,” he muttered gruffly.

“Good day, gentlemen.” Catherine smiled at her husband's departing guests as she encircled his arm with a slim, white hand. “As you can see, dear, the rain let up, and I was feeling restless.”

William was lost in his wife's guileless blue gaze, and one corner of his mouth curved upward. “Did the horses give you any trouble, sweetheart?”

His father's endearment brought a frown to Miles's face. He didn't hear his mother's response; he was watching William with the intensity of a hawk. His father's good humor was often followed by fits of uncontrollable rage.

Had his father learned of the church visit? Had someone informed William of his wife's betrayal?

Miles knew he'd have to watch his father closely—and guard his mother with an even closer eye. There was no telling what the old man would do when his temper finally erupted. The last time he himself had sustained a broken arm and his mother . . .

Closing his eyes, Miles swallowed thickly.

It won't happen again! he vowed silently. Never again would he allow his father to strike her . . . never again would his mother suffer!

Richard sprang up from beside the fire, his stance defensive as he grabbed for a log.

“Richard?”

“Kirsten!” He relaxed and dropped the chunk of wood. “You shouldn't sneak upon a body that way! You're lucky I didn't kill you.”

Angered by his tone, Kirsten came into the firelight, her blue eyes blazing. He was in a wide clearing by the stream, a prime target for anyone. “You're the foolish one, Richard Maddox, having a fire. And here in this clearing! I'm surprised,
mynheer,
that you could be so ignorant! What if I'd been a British soldier? Do you think so highly of your skills that you can afford to leave your back unprotected!”

She was right, Richard knew, but it galled him to admit it. Twice now—no, three times counting the last when he'd been bathing openly—he'd been careless enough to lower his guard. A soldier—a spy—couldn't afford to lose track of the risks he was taking. To do so was placing oneself at death's door. It was a mistake, he silently vowed, that he wouldn't repeat.

He averted his glance. “You shouldn't have come.”

“I know,” she admitted.

At the husky resonance of her voice, Richard closed his eyes. He could see her clearly in his mind's eye . . . her shining platinum tresses that were silky to his touch . . . her luminous eyes that were the color of the sky on a sunny day.

The tension between them thickened as Richard threw a piece of kindling onto the fire, watching in fascination as the flames leapt and popped and crackled. His gaze met hers where she stood unmoving. He frowned. “Then, why did you come?” he asked.

Detecting no warmth or welcome, Kirsten swallowed against a painful lump. He was a beautiful man both in face and form. His light hair glowed golden in the firelight. He wore only his breeches, and her gaze riveted on his bare chest. His muscles rippled and moved with each breath. She blinked, and tore her gaze away as her heart began hammering within her breast. Her lungs felt tight with the need to draw air.

“Why?” she echoed. Kirsten looked up at him through long, thick lashes. “Because I had to . . . because I wanted to.”

His mouth firmed. “Well, you can turn around and head home. I don't need to see you right now.”

Richard took several steps toward her, his movements a testament of how disturbed he was by her presence. He seemed to stalk her as an animal would its prey. “Go, Kirsten. Leave!” A muscle pulsed near his temple. “Can't you understand that I don't want you here!”

“Fine!” she cried, stung. “So you don't want me! Well, I'm not finished with you, Mynheer Maddox, and I don't intend to leave until I'm ready, so you can just go to the devil!” She spun from him, lest he should see her tears.

And after all she'd risked for him! She sensed his approach, and she whirled, her arms swinging. “Stay back, you
blather schuyten!
Leave me alone!”

“Kirsten, hold up.” Richard grabbed her flailing wrists, but she broke free, clipped his jaw with her fist, and heard him mutter beneath his breath.

“Sonofabitch!” he growled when she struck him again. “Damn it, woman, stop hitting me!” Kirsten socked him in the arm and he bellowed in anger. “I said stop!”

As his cry echoed in the stillness, Kirsten sprang back, horrified at what she'd done. She raised a hand to cover her gasp of horror, her fingers trembling against parted lips.

His face taut, Richard clutched his arm, then rubbed his cheek.

“Oh, Richard! I'm so sorry!” She made a move toward him, but then stopped, afraid.

He shook his head and stared at her in astonishment. “Are you finished?” he said, his voice dangerously soft.

She nodded vehemently. “Yes.” It was a whisper of apology.

His right arm bracing his injured left, Richard glanced down to check for signs of blood from his shoulder wound. The injury throbbed with pain, but there was no trace of blood. He winced as he carefully lowered his arm. The next thing he knew he was laughing. It began as a chuckle and built steadily to a full-throated roar.

“Damn if you aren't something!” he managed to gasp. He sensed Kirsten's shock, but couldn't seem to stop. “God, lady, what I wouldn't give to see you tangle with the general!”

Kirsten froze. Had Richard gone mad? She watched in helpless horror as he continued to chortle until his cheeks glistened with tears of mirth. “Richard?” She dared to venture one step closer.

His laughter eased, and he simply grinned at her, the wide stretching of his sensual lips making him appear boyish, appealing. He lifted his arm in invitation. “Come here, you foolish woman!”

Afraid to move, she shook her head.

“Don't tell me you're afraid of me? What do you think I'll do—retaliate? Hit back?” He chuckled. “What? And have you cripple me for life? I can only thank God you fought with your hands instead of your knees!”

Kirsten looked confused. Then her eyes widened with disbelief that he could suggest she'd hurt him in his tender man parts. “Oh no, Richard, I'd never . . .” The implication made her blush.

“Come here, Kirsten.” He smiled, amused. “I promise you I'm not angry with you. Come here.” His voice dropped to a husky entreaty. “Please?”

When he looked at her with such warmth in his russet eyes, how could she refuse? She approached him cautiously, her muscles coiled. She was ready to flee at any unexpected movement.

Richard noted her wariness with amusement, and his lips curved into a wicked grin. Damn, but she had a right to be wary! He was tempted to tease her, to teach her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget.

She had a damn good right clip, almost as powerful as any man's punch, stronger than many he'd had the pleasure of encountering. He pretended to glare at her, saw her start and then hesitate in her steps. His expression softening, he shook his head and beckoned her forward with his hand. His jaw hurt like hell but he had told her the truth. He wasn't angry; he actually felt proud of her.

When she came to within a yard of him, Kirsten paused, her chin down, her stance like that of a recalcitrant child.

“Oh, Kirsten.” To her amazement, his voice was incredibly gentle. “What am I going to do with you?”

She gave him a wobbly smile. “Love me?” she whispered.

“Love.” His tone was harsh. His eyes darkened to a deep troubled brown. “This is no time or place for love,” he said gruffly. Richard reached for her then, encircling her slight form with his strong arms. After gazing for a time into her blue eyes, he groaned. “There's time only for this . . .”

He kissed her brow gently. Then his lips moved down to her nose, which he nipped playfully, tenderly, at the tip. “God knows why He made our paths cross, love.” He kissed her cheek, nuzzled her neck. His breath quickened as he worshipped her throat.

“You're special, Kirsten Van Atta,” he whispered as he raised his head, his russet eyes aglow. “Young . . . innocent . . . but more woman than child.”

She could sense the restraint in him. He bent his head, his breath warm upon her cheek, and his mouth found her earlobe. His tongue swirled in the hollow of her ear.

Kirsten clenched her hands at her sides to keep from touching him, encouraging him. She felt confused, somewhat angry, while at the same time repentant for striking and hurting him with her fist. She shouldn't touch him; he'd rejected her, told her to go home. To caress him now would be like daring the devil. To kiss him now would be begging for heartbreak—and pain.

“Kirsten . . .”

His scent assailed her nostrils, its woodsy aroma tantalizing her. His skin was warm; his hands were gentle in their caresses. Closing her eyes, Kirsten tilted her head back. She shouldn't let him do this . . . she shouldn't allow him to . . . fondle her breasts.

Against all reasoning, she moaned softly in mindless pleasure as Richard cupped and palmed her aching flesh. Giving up the battle, she surrendered to the wonderful, pulsating feelings that flowed from nerve ending to nerve ending, that made her breathing uneven, made her heartbeat quicken. She raised her arms, settling her hands at his neck, beneath the thick, mass of hair bound at his nape. As she played with the soft silky strands there, she felt Richard's mouth everywhere . . . worshipping her neck, her ears, her face, following the movement in her throat when she swallowed.

“You shouldn't have come,” he murmured, but he couldn't seem to leave her alone, not for a second.

Kirsten sighed with enjoyment. “But you're glad I did.”

His head rose, but didn't say anything. She blinked up at him in protest of his stopping. He must have felt her dismay and shared the depth of her desire, for he groaned and captured her lips in a kiss that seared her all the way to her toes.

She opened her mouth to receive his thrusting tongue, imitating its movements with her own.

“Kirsten . . .” He tugged her with him to the ground, taking care that nothing hurt her, then pulled at the buttons of her homespun shirt. “What? No dressing gown? I liked your dressing gown.” His eyes glowed and caressed each feminine feature.

The buttons came free one by one, but as the last opened, she covered his hand. “No, Richard.”

“No?” He looked incredulous.

“You don't want me—you said it yourself.”

“Hell, Kirsten, I want you. But love?” He scowled. “That's a different story.”

“Get up, Richard.”

“Don't fool me, woman.”

“Me! I'm not the one whose behavior is in question. You turn hot then cold on me. I'm so confused!” She fought back tears. She'd never felt this way before; she was afraid.

“You want me.” His tone was fierce as if daring her to deny it.

She nodded, her lashes fluttering against pale cheeks. “Let me up, Richard.” She caught his gaze, saw something change in his expression.

He groaned as if in pain and then stood, presenting her with his back as she stumbled to her feet, fumbling with her shirt buttons. “Kirsten,” he murmured, “I have to go.” He faced her, his brown eyes searching the depths of her soul.

“Go!” She felt her chest constrict.

“I'm well enough to travel now,” he began. “I have to get back. There are many who need me.”

But what about me?
she thought.
I need you! What about me?
She said, “So you're leaving Hoppertown . . . when?”

“Perhaps I should leave this night.”

“When were you going to tell me this?” Her head lifted from the last of the buttons. She was angry. “You weren't going to, were you?”

He flushed. “I wouldn't have left without saying good-bye . . . and thank you.” He shifted uncomfortably and studied the ground. Richard ran his hand through his tawny hair, tugging his club free with his awkward movements.

“You would have!” She sounded tearful.

He glanced up. “I wouldn't. I swear it! Although now, I wish to God I could have avoided this!”

“Well, pardon me,
mynheer,
if I make you feel guilty! This isn't easy for me either!”

Something moved in the woodland off to the right, catching Richard's eye, instilling alarm. “Hush!”

“I won't hu—”

He pulled her against him, clamping a hand over her mouth. He was conscious of her curves beneath the coarse muslin shirt, the full mounds that begged to be kissed and caressed.

Struggling, she bit his hand.

Richard cursed and regained his hold on her. “There's someone in the bushes, you little termagant! Bite me again and you'll be sorry!”

She froze and then slumped within his arms. “Act naturally when I let go of you,” he warned her softly. “If they've seen us, we don't want them to know we've spied them.”

“The fire!” she whispered when he'd released her.

“Forget what I said then and put it out-quickly! I'll get everything back inside.”

Whoever was out there, Richard thought, was on the far side of the woodland separating the field surrounding the mill from the next one. They were probably unaware of him and Kirsten, a miracle considering the way he and she had argued. They? For some reason, he thought more than one person was out there. He hadn't wanted to alarm her, but this could be dangerous. He'd had no choice but to tell her.

Kirsten's hands shook as she ran to the stream, filling the kettle and returning several times from the bank to the fire to douse the flames. The water hissed and sizzled as it became steam.

“Richard, what of the embers? If they come this way, surely they'll know someone's been here.”

“Get in the mill. I'll take care of it.” He searched for the three-legged fry pan.

“What are you going to do?”

“Get rid of them.” He began scooping up the coals in the pan. Sensing her presence, he looked up, scowling. “Didn't I tell you to get inside?”

She stiffened, and he sighed. “Please?”

Without waiting to see if she complied, he carried the filled frying pan toward the stream. He managed to get rid of the ashes in two trips. Before joining her inside the cellar room, he swept the area with a leafy branch from a nearby bush.

Waiting anxiously for him to join her, Kirsten began pacing the dark room. Who could be out there? The British? Tories? Just a friendly neighbor taking a walk? Come to think of it, the rattle-watch had been late making his rounds. Perhaps he'd only seen Garret Vandervelt moving from his last stop toward the next!

She scurried to her feet and moved to the doorway, her intention to relay her suspicion to Richard. She gasped, startled, when his form loomed in the opening before her.