Authors: Cat Lindler
When the tree came into view, its twisted silhouette outlined by moonlight before the swamp’s inky backdrop, Ford was waiting. He stood beside his ebony mount, legs spread apart and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his greatcoat. She pulled the horse to a stop. Ford quickly walked over, came up to the gig, and lifted his arms to help her down.
Jwana made a small, dismissive movement with one gloved hand. “I believe I jes’ be sittin’ here, if’n you don’ min'.”
A frown slid over his mouth at her tone. “As you wish,” he replied with a nod. He backed up, removed his hat, and looked up. “Your message was cryptic. Yet you implied it was urgent.”
She pursed her lips and considered him in silence. His dark hair merged flawlessly into the night behind him, and moonlight converted his gray eyes to silver mirrors. He was a fine-looking devil, tall and muscular, handsome in a dark, dangerous way. But his hard edges presented a deceptive facade. General Marion respected the captain, and Jwana knew his true nature. She hesitated to believe him capable of forcing himself on Willa.
“It be mighty cold t’night,” she said as she extracted a pistol from beneath the blanket beside her and pointed it at his chest. “So I be gettin’ right ta de point. Why you done abuse ma Willa?”
Bewilderment crackled briefly in his gaze at the sight of the gun. Then comprehension dawned on his face, and his frown deepened. “Is that what she says?” His voice cut through the air like an axe through ice. “Have you any notion of what
your Willa
did to me?”
“Don’ care none wot she done ta you,” she replied and adjusted her grip on the pistol. “Nobody hurts ma chil'. Now you be gonna answer me. You done force yurself on her or didn’ you?”
Memories tumbled through Ford’s brain. He recalled rage overwhelming his senses, making the images indistinct. He did not process Willa’s struggles at the time as repudiation and now was reluctant to label them as such. He had a clear recollection of her reaching out to him and saw it as an invitation and another attempt to ensnare him in her web. The sounds she made, her moans and groans, he took for ones of passion and similar to those he had heard many times before. One rock in the path of his memories caused him to stumble—the unexpected resistance of her sheath when he took her. It almost, but not quite, caused him to withdraw. Now that Jwana forced him to think it through, he admitted his actions could have been unwelcome.
Unwelcome? Do you not mean rape?
A metallic taste coated his mouth. Many times he had watched as soldiers raped their enemies’ women. He despised the act, considered himself above that sort of inhuman behavior. Now he felt as if he required a bath to wash away the stain of his own brutality.
He dropped his gaze to the frozen ground, which was no colder at this moment than his heart. “I suppose Willa could have interpreted my actions in that light. I must have mistaken her willingness.” He raised one hand tightened into a fist. As he opened it, he drove it through his hair. “I was furious with her … I took no time to think.” He speared Jwana with a searing look. “God damn it! She betrayed me. Willa tossed me to the redcoats like a piece of offal. She spilled all she knew to her lover, Digby. He passed that word on to Cornwallis and had me put to the horn. As a result of her deceit, she irreparably compromised my usefulness to Marion.”
Jwana let the gun sink to the gig’s bench and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Fool,” she said with a shake of her head. “You done got it all mixed up, Mista Ford. Willa ain’t betrayed nobody. She spilled yur story ta
me,
not ta Major Digby, ‘cause she be all confused an’ flustered ‘bout de tale you done tole her ‘bout bein’ a spy fer both sides. It didn’ make no sense ta her, but she wanted ta believe you anyway. Her heart be messin’ wid her mind. We didn’ know Marlene be listenin’ outside de door an’ heard ever’thin’ we said.
She
tole de major. An’ Willa bein’ Major Digby’s lover?” She let loose with a laugh and slapped a hand against her thigh. “You be fox-bitten crazy an’ blind as a sloe-plum-drunk coon. Dat gal loved you. She gone an’ took no man ta her bed ‘cept you. She hates dat Major Digby … an’ now, I ‘spec', she hates you, too.”
Her words turned his heart to ash and cinder. “Oh, God,” he muttered. He staggered to a fallen log and sagged down onto it. As he bent at the waist, he plowed his fingers through his hair, then cradled his head in his hands.
Jwana climbed down from the gig, came to him, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You love her, don’cha?”
He gave a barely perceivable nod, refusing to lift his head, his breath coming out on a quaver. “How could I have acted so idiotically? Why did she not say something … explain … stop me?” Then he remembered. He’d never told her why he was so angry. She’d had no accusations to refute. “Why did I not afford her the chance to explain?”
She patted him on the shoulder. “You done fried yur ass good dis time. Don’ know how you kin gain Willa’s trust ‘gain after wot you gone an’ done ta her.”
A fist wrung his soul as he gazed at her through pools of pain.
“You hurt her,” she said. “You hurt her bad. Though I ‘spec’ you be hurtin’ her heart mor’n anythin’ else. If’n it be me, I never be forgivin’ you.” She caught his eyes with a sharp look. “An’ I be warnin’ you, if’n you hurt ma gal ‘gain, I be goin’ right ahead an’ usin’ dat pistol ‘thout waitin’ fer no explanation.” She nodded curtly. “You keep dat in mind, Mista Ford.”
She covered the frozen ground to the gig, climbed aboard, and slapped the reins against the horse’s rump. After turning the gig around, she took off slowly down the track. The bitter night closed in as Ford wallowed in his thoughtless behavior and the horror of what he had done to the woman he loved.
No doubt remained; she was increasing, and her condition brought mixed emotions. Willa had neither seen nor heard from Aidan since his stormy visit ten days ago, but she had heard the rumors whispered throughout Georgetown and noted the looks of pity sent her way. The British had branded Aidan Sinclair, Baron Montford, a traitor. But the gossips were misinformed, she told herself. No one in Georgetown, particularly those calling for his head, knew of his true mission, that Aidan was really spying for Cornwallis. She had to believe that. Her child’s father could not be a traitor. Aidan or Cornwallis must have started the gossip as a deception to solidify Montford’s position with the rebels.
She flattened a hand against her belly and felt no difference in its size, but then she had missed only one of her monthly courses. She could be no more than a month with child. No one knew. She revealed her secret only to her father while sitting beside his bed and holding his limp hand. As he had remained since her return, he showed no reaction. Willa cried to think of how proud the colonel would be to know his daughter would bear the next heir to the noble house of Montford.
Not if you are unwed,
a persistent voice inside her cried out.
‘Tis his bastard you will birth, not his heir.
She silenced the voice as she did each time it surfaced to admonish her. She would not wed Baron Montford. Even should he go down on a knee and beg for her hand, she would refuse to relent.
An image of what Tarleton’s men visited upon Emma’s mother returned often. She compared it to Aidan’s assault. They were more than similar. He allowed her no opportunity to voice her protest or to escape. He used his greater strength to coerce her into compliance with his desires. He neither waited until her body was ready to accept him nor cared a fig about her own pain or pleasure. Pure and simple, he violated her. She could not believe otherwise despite knowing she could have stopped him had she only told him “no.”
Regardless, the child was innocent of its father’s sins. Willa already loved it with a keening softness she once reserved for the special man in her life. She loved it unwaveringly and vowed to protect it, bastard or not. The new life she carried eased the pain in her heart Aidan had caused. And rather than sorrow and resentment, a blissful peacefulness swirled inside her.
Her door opened suddenly, and Marlene came into the room in a cloud of perfume. She folded her white arms under her breasts, her expression haughty. Soulless blue eyes examined Willa in minute detail, like an inchworm beneath a magnifying glass. Willa gave back the look measure for measure.
“Major Digby and I are desirous of discussing a matter with you in the parlor,” Marlene said.
The woman’s blatant animosity and self-satisfaction dug their claws into Willa. “And suppose I have no wish to speak with you? I cannot see that we have anything to discuss.”
Marlene curved her mouth in an enigmatic smile. “Oh, you will see, Wilhelmina dear. ‘Tis to your best advantage to attend us immediately.” With those inscrutable words, she swept out the door.
Did they suspect she was with child? Willa laid a protective hand on her belly and girded herself to face the dragons who had invaded her home. She cared not whether they did suspect. Marlene might be her guardian while her father lay dying in the room down the hall, but Willa vowed the witch and her lover would have no hold over her … or her child.
She descended the stairs, anxious to dispense with the odd interview, and strolled into the parlor. Her face flooded with heat at the sight of Digby perched on the edge of her stepmother’s satinwood sideboard, one leg braced on the carpet and the other swinging free. She had a sudden urge to find a polishing cloth and clean the wood surface. He stood when she entered and gave a slight bow. After gesturing to a chair, he sank back down on the elegant piece.
Willa settled into the chair and rested her elbows on its upholstered arms. Marlene’s skirts murmured as she seated herself on the sofa against the windows.
Digby produced a civil smile.
Willa declined to return the gesture.
“It seems the only times we speak of late are times of sorrow,” he said. “I am sorry to say that this is no exception.”
A scaly hand clutched her heart. Had her father died? She visited him less than an hour ago. At the time, his shallow breath hardly stirred his chest, but he was still alive.
Digby reacted to the panic in her eyes. “Allow me to ease your mind. This interview does not concern your father, though the doctor informs us that Colonel Bellingham has little time left. We asked you here to speak of Lord Montford.”
She sighed and loosened her tense fingers digging their way into the brocade upholstery. Digby and Marlene had heard the rumors and now had it in their minds to taunt her.
“From all accounts, Lord Montford is not whom you believe him to be,” he said.
How did she ever consider Digby’s voice seductive, his face handsome? Her adolescent admiration of his questionable charms pointed to another example of her poor judgment in men. Still, she correctly deduced the reason for this meeting.
“Your betrothed is a traitor, a spy for Francis Marion,” he continued.
Willa laughed and waved away his declaration. This situation was spinning out of control. Were Digby to express his views in public, he would fan the flames in Georgetown and perhaps bring down real harm upon Aidan from some overzealous citizen. Regardless of what Aidan had cautioned, the time had arrived for the truth to come out. What harm could result from informing Digby, who shared her father’s confidence?
“As is your customary wont,” she said, “you are quite incorrect. The gossip you heard is false. In truth, Montford is a spy for Lord Cornwallis. Only Cornwallis and Lord Montford have knowledge of this fact so as to prevent it from leaking to the enemy. I would suggest you keep the information to yourself should you wish to retain your commission.”
He leaned toward her with a grin that stirred her bowels. “Not so, Wilhelmina; ‘tis you who labor under a misapprehension. Having received word that Lord Montford was sighted with the Swamp Fox, I spoke personally with Lord Cornwallis and broached the very possibility that Montford was a British spy. I found the general’s response quite revealing. He was livid at the suggestion. He admitted he had made Major Sinclair’s acquaintance, but he assured me they had no such covenant between them. Lord Cornwallis, himself, put Montford to the horn.”
“You are mistaken,” she gasped, half-rising from her chair.
“I assure you, I am not. But there is more you will wish to hear.”
Blood roared through her head, and she fell back into the chair. She was inclined to reject his assertion, but his words gradually began to make sense. She recalled her first reaction to Aidan’s story, the feeling that she had missed some vital detail. One now poked its thorny head through the wall of her illusions. Aidan knew the exact location of Marion’s camp. Were he spying for Cornwallis, would he not have sent in soldiers to capture the rebel leader and end the resistance? She had said something similar to Emma that night at Gray Oaks. With Marion removed from the war, the rebellion would collapse in South Carolina. The partisan leader’s participation in the rebel cause was that crucial. No other man in the state could successfully take up his banner.
But it did not happen.
An inconsistency had bothered her. Aidan’s intimate knowledge of the camp’s coordinates was that contradiction.
“Lord Montford is dead,” Digby was saying when Willa emerged from her stupor to pay attention again.
“Dead?” she echoed. A hollow ache rent her breast, and tears sprang to her eyes. “When? How?”
He paid her outburst no mind. “In fact, Lord Montford died many months ago, days after he departed ship at Charles Town. The man who showed up at this door and presented himself as Aidan Sinclair is not only a traitor, he is a fraud. His true identity is that of a rebel dirt farmer from Virginia named Brendan Ford.”
“And were that not delicious enough, Brendan Ford is the bastard of the late Baron Montford, Gerald Sinclair,” Marlene added with glee.
“Brendan Ford is Francis Marion’s creature,” Digby said. “After murdering Aidan Sinclair on the road from Charles Town to Georgetown, Mister Ford took his half brother’s place in order to spy on your father and Lieutenant Colonel Tarleton for Francis Marion. He used you without conscience.”