Kiss of a Traitor (14 page)

Marion’s eyes turned to Ford. “Camden Depot,” they said at the same time.

Marion looked back at the exhausted soldier. “Find yourself some vittles, Private. Then catch a wink or two. You earned it.”

Marion and Ford moved away for a private word.

A thrill tingled along Ford’s nerves at the look on Marion’s face. “You are going after them, I presume?”

“Of course,” the general replied, his color high. “But keep this between us. I have no desire for Tynes or Bellingham to catch wind of our plans.”

“Allow me to ride with you.”

Marion gave him a sympathetic look. “I cannot, Captain. Your talents are too valuable to me and the cause. I cannot risk your exposure. We may encounter Tories, such as Colonel Bellingham, your future father-in-law, who know you as Major Sinclair. And unless you have the capability of growing a full beard overnight, you will be recognized and place your position in jeopardy.”

Marion made good sense. But by damn, Ford itched for a fight … one in which he fought on the correct side. It left a sour taste in his mouth to sit back and let the general take on the Tories without his assistance.

“Return to the dragoons as quickly as possible,” Marion said, “before they notice you have gone missing. I understand when Tarleton departed he excused you from duty because of the injury to your knee. He has established Cornwallis’s winter camp at Winnsboro and will soon make his way back to Georgetown. You must be there when he returns. With King’s Mountain behind us and a dose of luck tomorrow, we shall set the British running. Soon we can take back Georgetown. But first I shall require as much intelligence as you can glean on the garrison conditions and Tarleton’s activities.”

When Tarleton learned of the Tory defeat at Tearcoat Swamp, he expressed his rage in a series of letters, as did Lord Cornwallis, who was convalescing in Winnsboro from a bout with malaria. The man Cornwallis had considered only a small pebble in a large field of rocks was fast becoming a local hero and a major threat. The British commander saw England’s hold on South Carolina slipping away. He rose from his sickbed, resumed command of his army, and wrote to Sir Henry Clinton, the former Southern commander, whom he had replaced after the taking of Charles Town: “Bad as the state of our affairs is on the Northern frontier, the Eastern is much worse. Colonel Tynes, who commanded the militia of the High Hills of Santee, and Colonel Bellingham, who commanded the militia of Georgetown, were surprised and taken at their encampment on the Black River. Their men lost all their arms.”

After hearing from Colonel Turnbull at Camden that Marion and his band continued to menace the supply lines from the depot, Cornwallis, once again, released Tarleton and his dragoons on the partisan leader, writing to Tarleton: “I sincerely hope that you will get at Mr. Marion.”

Tarleton promptly put his horse dragoons into action, living up to his Legion’s motto: “Swift, Vigilant, and Bold.” Among that group rode the patriot spy, Brendan Ford, whom Tarleton personally certified fit for action despite the scratches on his face and the new wound to his leg that Major Sinclair declined to explain.

When Ford returned from Camden, Tarleton had yet to put in an appearance. Ford seized the opportunity to worm his way into his fiancé's good graces, though after the incident with the buffet table, he had more than mere suspicion Wilhelmina was trying to damage, if not kill him. But the important papers he had uncovered in the colonel’s strongbox confirmed his determination to solidify his close connection with the Tory chit.

He sent word ahead so she would expect his visit and greeted Quinn with a cheery smile when the butler opened the door. Conversely, the expression on the butler’s face was so grim Ford’s smile froze on his face. He all but turned around to beat a hasty retreat. Sternly reminding himself he was no coward, he pulled his shoulders up stiffly to steel himself for whatever awaited him, and repeated in his mind that his fiancée was a mere girl and could not …
would
not actually kill him, regardless of which way the wind was blowing. Inhaling a breath, he stepped through the opened door into the foyer. He was prepared. This time she would not take him by surprise and get the best of him.

“My lord,” Quinn said, “it pleases me to see you looking so well after your unfortunate mishap at the musicale. Jwana is desolate. She had her attention diverted and failed to see you. I promised to convey her deepest apologies as soon as you arrived.” The words were innocuous, but Quinn’s tone resembled a dirge. Ford could easily imagine the small man giving the eulogy over his grave site while his betrothed shoveled in the dirt.

“Apology accepted,” Ford said cautiously as he darted a glance about the foyer, alert for doom lurking in the shadow-filled corners. “I recovered quite nicely, other than a touch of pudding up my nose. I comprehend how such a misfortune occurred in the crush.”

Quinn’s mouth lifted in a weak smile.

Ford eyed Quinn with a man-to-man look of clear understanding, thinking to pass on a subtle warning. “I must say, lately I seem to have experienced a streak of lamentable luck, as though a malevolent spirit perched on my shoulder. I suppose it would be prudent to stay away from the gaming tables until it passes … which will be the case sooner rather than later, do you not agree?”

Quinn’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a fish on a line as he swallowed. “Umm. Indeed, my lord. I do believe that would be a truthful statement.” He whipped around and scurried away, saying over his shoulder, “Should you care to wait in the parlor, I shall inquire whether Lady Wilhelmina is available.”

“I fancy not,” Ford replied. His brow crinkled as he watched Quinn rush down the hallway rather than up the stairs. “I shall remain close to the door in the event I feel required to effect a swift exit.”

Quinn barreled into the kitchen, waving his hands in the air. “You cannot do it,” he hissed at Willa and Plato, who were restraining Killer and Sweetie with difficulty. “He knows. You must not do it now, or he will hang us from the nearest oak tree … should we be so fortunate.”

Willa shot Quinn a perplexed look. “Knows what?” Killer slipped free of her grasp and took off like a mini-cyclone. His claws dug gouges in the pine-plank floor. With Killer running free, Sweetie squirmed like an eel, escaped Plato’s arms, and hied off in pursuit.

“We are doomed,” Quinn moaned and covered his face with his hands.

“God A’mighty,” Plato intoned, “I ‘spects we all best be headin’ fer de border.”

“Pish,” Willa said. “Do not be daft. We must deal with this unfortunate circumstance calmly.”

Ford had leaned back against the door when a keening yowl and a scrabbling on wood floors resounded from the direction Quinn had taken. In the next second, a hissing, screaming ball of fur the size of a small panther careened down the passageway toward him. Right behind it streaked a yapping, long-haired rat. “Hell’s bells,” he whispered and fumbled with the door handle. His reflexes deserted him, leaving him powerless to connect his brain to the motion required by his hand. The deadly duo closed in on him as relentlessly as a cannonball true on course.

He flattened his spine to the door and watched, transfixed, as calamity struck. The fur ball charged up his leg, cut diagonally across his chest, scrambled over his shoulder, and climbed up onto his head, perching on top and digging claws into his wig and scalp. Puncture holes marked its path up his body. As though caught in a nightmare, he eyed the second assailant he now recognized as a hell-born hound no bigger than a teacup. It appeared to have no eyes, only long, limp hair swinging and swaying and streaming around it on the floor like the strands of a mop. When it reached his feet, it sprang into the air like a flea. Needle teeth attached to the breeches on his thigh above his boots, latching onto skin as well as cloth. Ford yowled and added his vocalizations to the cacophony reverberating around the foyer.

A paw as large as a ham, sporting extended, stiletto-like claws, dangled dangerously close to his eyes. A sound he could describe only as similar to a banshee wailing attended this apparition. Blood dribbled down his leg from the attached mouth that also issued a high-pitched screech punctuated by ravenous growls. Through the pain and noise, he spied three figures skidding to a stop on the wood floor in front of him. By the looks on their faces, one would have thought they were the ones being ripped to shreds rather than he.

Ford let loose with a bellow that shook the rafters and the glass in the door behind him. “Off!” He took a swipe with his arm in an attempt to dislodge the demon on his head.

He thought he heard his lovely fiancée say, “Were I you, I should not do that.”

She was correct, he discovered, when he drew back a bloodied appendage. He felt lucky it still held five digits.

The voice was Wilhelmina’s all right, as he heard her add, “Remain calm. Whatever happens, do not panic.”

Panic?
By God, she would know panic when he managed to rid himself of her assassins.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” a soft voice called, bleeding through the red curtain of his wrath.

“Get them off me,” he screamed, his intentions now set on seizing Willa by the neck and throttling her. But with such a lively crew aboard, he doubted he could take the few steps necessary to catch hold of her.

In agony and out of patience, he opened his clenched hand and smacked the dog hard across the nose. Its growl dissolved into a whimper.

“Cease, you big bully!” Wilhelmina rushed to the dog’s aid. “She is but a tiny animal. You will hurt her.”

Hurt
her?
Ford could not credit what he was hearing. Were the other lethal monster not crouched on his head, he’d have been tempted to clean out his ears. “Then kindly detach it,” he growled in a tone more ominous than the one resuming from the thing hanging to his leg. “Remove it before I wring its neck, pull off its head, and feed it to this devil’s creature clinging to my scalp.”

“You would not,” she said with a gasp and went down on one knee beside him. She murmured endearments to the beast and pried its fangs, one by painful one, from his leg. As she moved away with the animal cradled in her arms, she nodded to Plato. “It would behoove us all, I suspect, were Plato to retrieve Killer.” The shudder in her voice pierced his nerves like a saber thrust to his spine.

Without taking her wide eyes off him, his betrothed thrust the dog into Quinn’s arms. “Pray lock her in my room and return. Plato may need your help.” Her hand hovered about her open mouth as she watched Plato crouch down, stretch out his arms, and slink across the floor like an Indian creeping up on a rabid fox.

Ford’s muscles stiffened into paralysis. Only his eyes followed the movements of the man coming to his rescue. His blood raced through his veins. His heart set up such a rattle in his chest, he could scarcely think. Nevertheless, he still heard each rapid breath he took and felt every drop of sweat the cat’s paws chased down his cheeks and the slope of his nose. Each swipe of claws left behind a streak of fire against his skin.

Quinn returned in time for the finale. Ford inched down the door on Plato’s instructions, and the slave’s large brown hands came closer to the cat. When Ford felt sure he would expire any minute from heart failure, Plato grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck with one hand, slipped his other under its enormous belly, and scooped it off Ford’s head. The wig came off with the animal, and no amount of pulling or scolding could induce the cat to release its prize. Ford’s legs gave way. He slumped to the floor. Plato pushed him to one side, opened the door, and disappeared outside with the cat and wig in hand.

Ford sucked in breaths and rested in a heap. His lungs worked like bellows. He felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. When he looked up at the two people remaining in the foyer, Quinn started to creep up the stairs at the murder he undoubtedly detected in Ford’s gaze.

Willa inhaled sharply at the baron’s expression. Alarm bells rang in her skull. She was quite certain she had never before seen that precise look on a human face. Perhaps on a bobcat before it pounced on a rice rat. She blustered and backed up, step by careful step.