Authors: Cat Lindler
“Hey! Where’re ye takin’ her?” McReedy shouted. “I want ta see how an officer does it.”
Montford tipped his head toward the woods over his shoulder. “To that copse behind me. I prefer to take my pleasures privately. And I vow I shall shoot the balls off the first man to enter those trees without my permission.”
Willa had explored the swamps northwest of Georgetown from Kingston to Kingstree during her previous forays, including the Socastee salt marsh stretching along the northern coast. Nowhere had she uncovered signs of Marion’s camp. She now directed Cherokee due west, up the Sampit and to the Santee to follow the river to Ox Swamp, which lay between Jack’s Creek and Kingstree. From gossip of late, Frances Marion was raiding in that vicinity. Were she fortunate, she would come across his main encampment in Ox Swamp. British patrols steered clear of the treacherous stretch of cypress, water oaks, Spanish moss, and water moccasins. For that very reason, it held great possibilities.
Should Ox Swamp prove a disappointment, she would traverse Pudding Swamp, Chaps Swamp, and Flat Swamp on the route to Kingstree. Marion would not establish his headquarters farther west than Jack’s Creek. The upland country consisted of dry forest and open terrain, harboring fewer, smaller wetlands. Marion was a creature of the swamps and would remain in his favored environment. Her quarry was hiding in one of the four locations.
Willa elected to detour by way of Emma’s house on her way to Ox Swamp. She had missed her friend since Emma and her family moved from their Georgetown town house to the plantation in Clarendon County several months after General Richardson’s death. Gray Oaks lay too far from Willowbend for daily social calls. Dealing with her stepmother had drained Willa of all emotion, save anger, and she hungered for Emma’s support and understanding. She and Emma had grown up in each other’s pockets. She had fond memories of two girls in pigtails, playing together, mooning over planters’ sons, and making their first awkward forays into Society, side by side. Indeed, she was closer to Emma than to her own sisters. Now, after taking this dangerous, irrevocable step, she pined for that comforting connection, for someone to hold her hand and tell her she was not completely feebleminded.
To avoid the British and rebel factions traveling along the easier routes, Willa rode off the roads, across fields and meadows, and through pine forests. She moved briskly, sought out the shelter of hay ricks and barns some nights, and purchased food from the small farms she passed. On fair nights she rode on. But in all cases, she skirted the larger plantations where the owners might recognize her as Colonel Bellingham’s daughter.
On the night of the third day, she entered the far boundaries of Gray Oaks. While crossing the stubbled remains of harvested cornfields and still more than a mile from her destination, she smelled smoke. One lone cloud marred the clear night sky and obscured the stars over the plantation house.
“Hie,” she shouted. Whipping off her hat, she smacked it across Cherokee’s rump. He jumped forward, and his hooves ripped the corn roots from the ground. Flattening out his neck, he gave her the speed she requested.
When they drew near the woodlot that ranged from a narrow meadow on the eastern edge of the plantation house yard down to the creek, Willa pulled Cherokee to a halt. An orange glow and a plume of smoke spread across the sky above the trees. Voices—men’s voices—shouting and laughing, and further disturbing noises—pigs screaming, chickens squawking, the occasional horse neighing, or a pistol firing, reverberated through the night.
Who? Who would burn out the Richardsons?
She had a list to choose from: Tories, British Regulars, dragoons, and the bane of every conflict, army deserters. Since Emma’s father had served honorably with the rebel militia and her brother had fought with the Continental army until he contracted malaria, she had no reason to believe partisans would attack the Richardson house.
Even if they were British soldiers or Loyalist militia, she could still be in danger. A lone woman taken by a military troop, regardless of whether or not they held the same political views, could lose her virtue at the very least and perhaps even forfeit her life. After all, men tended to be men, who even in the best of circumstances could scarcely be considered civilized. And from the cacophony of voices coming from the house while Cherokee picked his way along the path through the trees, that peculiar bloodlust that rode hand in hand with killing engulfed these men. That made them even more dangerous—quite possibly lethal.
A lack of normal sounds, owls hooting and night creatures scrambling in the weedy growth, characterized the woodlot. As she drew closer, the tumult from the house grew louder. She slid off Cherokee while still hidden in the shelter of the trees and gripped the side of his bit in her hand, leaving the reins knotted and draped over his neck. Then she stole through the fallen autumn leaves and ferns as Plato had taught her … on silent feet. Born Indian, Cherokee could walk as quietly as a spirit. As she closed in on the meadow, the activity in front of the house came into view. She squatted down and flashed a hand signal to Cherokee to remain still and silent, then slid to her stomach and squirmed through the tall weeds and flower stalks, making for a heap of uprooted tree stumps off to her right.
Once hidden behind the barrier, she came up on her knees. An opening provided by two large, twisted roots made the house and the men swarming around it visible.
A bonfire in the drive lit the yard nearly as brightly as daylight. Her heart beat in her throat, and her mouth became as dry as the floating ashes while the soldiers raped Mary, tied her to the porch, and beat her. When Tarleton and the dragoons rode off after setting the house and barn ablaze, Willa clambered to her feet and took two steps around the side of the stumps.
Three dragoons rode back into view. She dropped to the ground again and clutched at the dry grass as the men surrounded Emma. Reaching beneath her for a pistol, Willa grasped it in her hand and rose up on one knee, bracing her other hand on the ground beside her.
When one man caught Emma’s wrists and began to drag her away, Willa gripped the pistol tightly, swallowed hard, and stood up. All three men suddenly stilled. Their heads swiveled toward a spill of shadow beneath a tall beech. Willa shifted her eyes in the same direction, at the man armed with pistols stepping out of the darkness. A massive oak of a man in a green dragoon’s uniform. An officer’s uniform.
Montford?
Lord Montford was the only officer that size whom she had met, and her father had introduced her to most of Tarleton’s company at social functions. But his hat brim shadowed his face. She realized she was still on her feet and in plain view only when the officer and Emma began to back up. Willa fell to her stomach, replaced her pistol, and inched backward out of the meadow and into the woods. Once under the trees, she took hold of Cherokee’s bit and tugged him behind a tangle of blackberry canes, because Emma and the officer seemed to be heading directly toward her.
Ford leveled a cautious eye and a pistol on the three dragoons while he hurried Emma toward the woodlot. Once beneath the branches and far enough back into the woods that the men could no longer see them, he faced her.
“Scream,” he said.
Emma opened her mouth and gave him a confused look. He took hold of her shoulders and shook her.
“Scream,” he demanded harshly. “So those men will not take it into their heads to investigate our little
tête-à-tête.
They are already suspicious of my intentions.”
She threw back her head and screamed.
Ford tilted his head, banged his hand against his ear, and grinned. “More than adequate. Now continue, Miss Richardson, but not quite so loudly. I’m besmirching your virtue … not scalping you. Should you feel so inclined, you might also feel free to throw in a few moans and pleas.”
Emma moaned, and groaned, and screamed, and pleaded with the trees to leave her with her virtue. Ford studied galls on an oak leaf, followed the path of a beetle trundling down the oak’s trunk, took off his hat and scratched his head, and picked some blackberries.
Emma gasped for breath. “Enough?” Her exertions hoarsened her voice.
Ford transferred his attention from an unusual mushroom to his victim. “I suppose so. That was what … ten minutes or so? It should have been long enough. You may stop now. I commend you on a sterling performance, if a trifle melodramatic, but worthy of the Bard himself. I’m certain it did the trick.” He slapped the hat back on his head. “Wait here until you no longer hear our horses on the drive. Then wait another thirty minutes. Your mother is in the folly out back. Make no attempt to join her, nor indeed move a muscle until the time expires. Then accompany your mother and siblings to safety. Have you somewhere to go?”
“I believe so,” she said with a smile. “I am ever so grateful for your rescue, my lord. I had the feeling you would not harm me.”
“Do not be too certain of that,” he mumbled as he unbuttoned the placket on the front of his breeches.
She drew in a sharp breath. “Wh-what are you doing?”
Ford looked at her. “I’m merely creating a false impression for the benefit of my companions, Miss Richardson,” he replied. “One tends to believe what one sees, even if what they see is misleading.” He released a breath when her features relaxed again. He’d had no intention of frightening her. Opening his coat, he pulled his shirttails from his waistband to hang down behind him. “Remember what I told you.” He left her side and strolled out of the woods and across the meadow to whistling and coarse comments from the waiting dragoons. As he walked, he leisurely repaired his wardrobe.
Willa’s heart skipped a beat. He
was
Lord Montford.
Willa had never seen the baron quite this way, bereft of paint or artifice or frippery. She forgot for a moment about Emma’s predicament while she studied her betrothed in the light from the fires. He had worn the tight-fitting uniform once before. But the night of the musicale, after Willa’s first quick assessment of his attire, her preoccupation with the plot to humiliate his lordship distracted her. Now the impact of his size and masculinity produced a thrumming of her pulse and a strange tingling in her limbs.
She had to pry her gaze from his physique to look at his face, not a handsome face, but far from homely. It fit his body—broad, strong, rugged, and slightly weathered. A squared-off chin; straight hawkish nose; firm, wide mouth with generous lips; large, wide-set eyes framed with dark lashes; bushy brows; and high, wide forehead.
Taken all together, Montford looked less like an aristocrat and more like a … a Viking, or what she imagined a Viking would resemble should one ever happen to wash up on a Carolina beach. His arresting features were robust, tough, and overall, manly, without a touch of the effeminate dandy that duty bound her to deal with before.
Willa could not imagine him, as he looked now, dancing a minuet, much less wearing lace, powder, and face patches in the shape of hearts. He would appear more natural garbed in snug homespun trousers with suspenders over his shoulders and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to display those thick forearms … no … his chest bare while he chopped wood, and sweat slid down his tanned face and off the end of his firm chin. His dark hair pulled behind his neck and tied with a piece of rawhide while the bulging muscles in his chest and thighs flexed …
Willa pressed her fingertips to her temples, squeezed her eyes shut, and gave herself a silent scolding. Rather than dwelling on Montford’s dubious attributes, she best pay heed to what he was saying and doing. Despite the startling revelation and her reaction when viewing him in his natural state, she still did not entirely trust him. He was riding with Tarleton and had witnessed Mary’s abuse without protest. And why drag Emma into the woods? Until she assured herself he meant no harm, she would be on her guard. Even had he benevolent rather than malicious intentions, she could still admire his face and form—in an abstract way—without desiring to marry him.
What would
that
be like?
A flush heated her cheeks. Visions of Marlene and her lover in the gazebo rose unbidden. Willa forced her concentration back to Montford and Emma before her brain could wander off on a tangent again. To be safe, she settled one palm on the butt of a pistol.
Willa’s legs nigh fell out from beneath her when Emma let out a scream so piercing it made Cherokee twitch his ears and switch his tail. Willa gripped the pistol and slid it upward. But Montford’s actions soon became apparent, and his kind deed brought a lump to her throat. She recalled her father’s and Jwana’s admonitions on her judging the baron too quickly and suffered a stab of guilt and remorse over what she had put him through. Yet she never once considered stepping out from behind the blackberry canes and revealing herself.
Until Aidan left.
Emma gasped and clapped a hand to her chest when Willa and Cherokee emerged from the blackberry bushes. “You nearly scared me to death,” Emma said. She burst into tears and flew into Willa’s arms. With their arms cinched around each other and Willa’s fingers stroking Emma’s hair, they sank to the forest floor.
When Emma raised her head, Willa wiped her friend’s tears with a handkerchief she pulled from her jacket pocket. “What happened?” Willa asked. “What the devil induced Tarleton to burn Gray Oaks?”
Emma sniffed and cleared her throat. “He insisted that Mama inform him of Francis Marion’s whereabouts. When she refused, he—”
“I know,” Willa interrupted to prevent Emma from having to relive the terrible events. “I saw all that happened.”
Emma raised her brows. She pulled back and folded her legs beneath her. “How? And why are you here? How did you come here? You did not ride Cherokee all that distance, did you?”
Willa laughed softly and shifted her limbs until she sat Indian-style. Reaching out, she rested her hands atop Emma’s. “Calm yourself. Indeed, I rode Cherokee, and I’ve been here for quite some time. I hid in the meadow and watched from behind those old stumps your father had the hands pull out of the fields last spring.” She frowned. “I apologize, Emma. I should have taken some action. I should have attempted to stop them.”