Rapture's Betrayal

Book 0: Heartfire

by Candace McCarthy

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

She Learned Of Love In A Time Of War. . . When patriotic Kirsten Van Atta found a Continental soldier lying wounded in the woodland path near her New Jersey colony home, she knew she must do what she could for the Revolutionary cause and nurse him back to health. It was a risky undertaking--there were British soldiers in residence at the local tavern. But the greatest threat came from the soldier himself. His broad-shouldered strength and russet brown eyes made her long to embark on desire's rapturous course, though she knew little about Richard Maddox except that he would soon leave her. . . He Risked His Life For A Dangerous Passion. . . Richard Maddox owed his life to the blond, blue-eyed ministering angel who'd found him when he was near death. But could he trust her, when spies were everywhere and his mission was so important? And what would she think if she saw him in his Tory uniform? The dangers were many, but in the midst of the horror of war, he could not deny himself the chance to sample the pleasures that Kirsten's lush flesh and tender touch promised. . . 110,000 Words

Release date: January 2, 2014

Publisher: eClassics

Print pages: 384

Sample

Hoppertown, New Jersey, May 1778

The moon cast a silver glow over the sleeping villages as a lone figure broke from the shadow of a large oak and ran toward the copse near the edge of the road. With a last furtive glance over her shoulder, Kirsten Van Atta slipped into the forest clearing ahead.

Her heart raced as she followed the familiar path. The trip was never more risky than it was this night; British soldiers were in residence at the local tavern. Alert for danger, her eyes sweeping the woods for any movement, she clung to the side of the road, moving stealthily from one hiding place to another. Overhead, moonlight filtered through the leafy canopy to make dusky patterns on the dirt lane. The night hummed with the song of summer’s insects, and a warm breeze caressed her skin as she picked up her pace.

She had to get home. If her father found out she’d been out at night to see Miles, there’d be hell to pay. Cousins as well as good friends, Kirsten and Miles refused to sever their relationship, though their families were on opposite sides in the war. The Van Attas were Patriots, while William Randolph, Miles’s father, was a staunch supporter of King George. Randolph had ordered his wife and son to stay away from his sister’s family, and James Van Atta distrusted his brother-in-law enough to fear for his loved ones’ safety. So Kirsten and Miles had no choice but to meet in secret, at night, when there would be no chance of discovery by their fathers. The cousins’ affection for each other was so strong that they willingly risked attack by soldiers from either side.

The night blackened as Kirsten left the road for a footpath near the river, following the trail as it curved from its course parallel with the stream, heading deeper into the woods. The breeze rustling the treetops became cooler, and the moon slipped behind a cloud.

She had been gone much longer than she’d expected, longer than was wise under the circumstances; and each passing second intensified her fear. Her gaze now darting wildly from one shadow to the next, Kirsten clutched at the collar of her dark homespun shirt. She wore her father’s shirt and breeches, both too large for her, the breeches held up by a piece of hemp. She could move freely through the forest in men’s clothing, unhampered by petticoats.

An owl hooted in the distance. Startled, Kirsten stumbled and then righted herself. She seized hold of a nearby tree, struggling for breath, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Calm down. Use your head, she told herself. No use getting excited over an old bird.

Kirsten tucked back the silver blond tendrils that had escaped from beneath her conical, linen cap before she moved on. Suddenly, the woods had grown strangely quiet. She heard the roaring current of the Hohaukus as clearly as if she stood on the river’s bank. Then lightning illuminated the sky, and she gasped at the great rumbling in the distance.

Thunder. It’s only thunder! she thought. The advent of a summer storm . . . not British cannons.

As the first raindrop settled upon her cheek, Kirsten began to run. Within moments, the rain fell in torrents, soaking her to the skin. Her head bowed against the onslaught, she caught sight of a faint flicker of light through the trees. She froze. Someone was down by the river!

Once again, her feet flew over the uneven ground as she hurried toward home. Halting abruptly near a bend in the path, Kirsten surveyed the tangled underbrush. Ahead the path wound closer to the riverbank. Dare she venture off the trail?

Above, lightning streaked the sky and thunder shook the heavens. Kirsten decided there was nothing she could do but go on. If she didn’t, she’d have to go back to Miles and endure her father’s wrath. Hands shielding her face from the stinging rain, she plodded ahead determinedly.

Richard Maddox huddled beneath the tree, seeking shelter from the storm. Despite his cocked hat the wind whipped rain into his face. Biv is long overdue, he thought. Only a few minutes and he’d have to leave.

Richard waited, although he was chilled to the bone and hunger gnawed painfully at his belly. A twig snapped, and he stiffened.

“Maddox! Don’t turn around, ye bloody traitor!” The guttural growl came from behind him.

Richard felt a jolt of surprise. How did the man know his real name? He cursed. He should have been more careful, watched his back. To lower one’s guard was a dangerous thing in this time.

A gusty wind caught hold of his hat, and he grabbed for it.

“Don’t move, I said!”

Richard froze as he felt the sharp edge of a bayonet, thrust through two layers of clothing, nick his damp skin. One good clean strike and all will be over, he thought. This is all wrong! I won’t die this way!

He should have suspected that something was wrong when Biv changed the meeting date. By the king’s royal arse, I’ve been set up! His body tensed with his anger. He wouldn’t go down without a fight, nor would he be stabbed clean through like a skewered pigeon.

The heavy downpour continued as Richard slowly lowered his arms to his sides. He clenched his jaw as he anticipated the stranger’s next move.

“That’s it!” came the hateful voice. “Wouldn’t want to frighten me and ’ave me slip.”

“What do you want?” Richard asked.

“Want? Why nothing, mate.” The man’s harsh, mirthless laughter sent chills down Richard’s spine. “You’re the one who wants it. And the others thought I’d be just the one to give it to you.”

“Where’s Biv?” Had Biv been caught, too?

The man snickered. “Sorry, but Biv couldn’t make it tonight. ’E sends ’is regards, though.” He snorted. “Snivelin’ coward if you asks me. Always wantin’ me to do ’is dirty work.”

Richard controlled his temper, his fists clenched at his sides. Damn, he’d been tricked by the man who was to have helped him!

Biv is one of them, he thought, his muscles coiling in readiness to spring. A whoring murderer like this bastard behind me. He angled his chin slightly to the right, heedless of the bayonet point at his back. If he could just get a look at the man . . .

Suddenly, Richard sensed that they were no longer alone. From the corner of his eye, he spied a small figure farther along the trail.

The stranger inhaled sharply, apparently catching sight of the newcomer. “What the ’ell—”

Richard spun sidewise, smashing his fists against his assailant’s face. The man staggered, but recovered quickly. Dodging the bayonet, Richard came back swinging. The stranger grunted under the force of Richard’s fist and leapt back, brandishing his musket.

Rain fell in a deluge, blinding Richard as he fought for his life. He gasped, wavering, when the bayonet pierced his arm. Rallying, he landed a solid blow to his opponent’s midsection. The man slipped in the mud and lost his weapon. Richard lunged for the gun, tripping in the slimy ooze. He fell on his injured arm. His head spun, and he could see spots before his eyes.

The pain was so intense, Richard knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. He sensed that his opponent rose to his feet and retrieved the weapon. Richard’s vision wavered as he fought to see him. He waited for the death strike. Suddenly, he heard a high-pitched scream and, on instinct, spun backward. Excruciating pain sliced through him as the bayonet penetrated his thigh. Richard’s world went black as he lost consciousness.

Kirsten shrieked as she saw the bayonet plunge downward and sink into the felled man’s flesh. In the eerie flash and fire of the storm, she could still make out the attacker poised over his victim. He looked up and stared at her.

Her heart skipped a beat. The man’s face was horribly disfigured. When she realized that he was scanning the woods beyond her, she broke from her stupor and ran.

Terror kept her from looking back as hot tears mingled with rain on her cheeks. The wind howled a mocking litany: He’s coming to get you. He’s coming to get you! She tripped, rolling as she fell, a wet tangle of cloth and scraped limbs.

When she scrambled up, gasping, afraid, she searched for the disfigured man, but could find no sign of him. Where was he? Out there, waiting to pounce on her?

A twig snapped in the bushes behind her, and she held her breath. Seconds later, air left her lungs in a whoosh of relief. She saw two gleaming eyes in the darkness, before a deer, startled from its hiding place, turned and sped off into the night.

A loud crash reverberated overhead. Kirsten jumped, then fled for cover behind a huge boulder. She held a hand to her mouth as she crouched, swallowing against the bile of fear that rose to her throat.

She had no idea how long she huddled in her hiding place. Her legs were cramped, she’d lost her hat, and the rain drenched her hair and formed a puddle about her feet. She was cold, frightened, and wanted nothing more than to be home and in bed.

But despite her discomfort and the storm, she couldn’t stop thinking of the murderer’s victim. What if he wasn’t dead?

She shuddered. How could she in all good conscience leave him, knowing there was a slim chance he might be alive?

She rose and then gasped as feeling returned to her sleeping limbs. A check of her surroundings showed there was still no sign of the disfigured man.

I have to get home, she told herself. . . . But an injured man may be lying alone by the river!

If he was struggling for life, she might be able to save him. Kirsten thought of the risk involved in returning to the clearing. What if the man’s attacker was there? What if he’d come back to finish the job?

Go home, her common sense insisted. Why risk your life for a stranger?

Kirsten headed back toward the river.

It was drizzling when Kirsten entered the clearing, clutching a solid tree limb. The man lay in the mud where he’d fallen. Still. Alert for danger, she approached the victim cautiously. She moved to within a few feet of his body and stopped, her stick raised, ready to defend herself against attack. She scanned the tree line before returning her gaze to the felled man.

Her eyes stung with the threat of tears as she studied him. He was a pitiful sight. Rain beat down on his twisted body. He appeared pale and lifeless.

He’s dead! A tear escaped to trail down her cheek. I’m too late! She’d risked her life for a dead man.

Then, on impulse, Kirsten gave the body a nudge with her stick, and the man moved. Encouraged, she crouched beside him and placed a trembling hand on his shoulder. Had his chest risen or had she imagined it? She shook him lightly, and then again.

“Mynheer?” Her whisper was loud in the quiet after the storm. “Are you alive?” Was he friend or foe? She realized it didn’t matter which side of the war he was on; he was someone who needed help—her help.

Lightning flashed across the river, followed by the low rumble of distant thunder.

Kirsten stood. “Mynheer, speak to me!” she pleaded. “You are alive, aren’t you? Please . . . you have to be alive.”

She glared at the man with frustration. “Move—drat you! Show me you’re alive!”

Kirsten stared at him, wondering what to do. Whether the man was living or dead, she couldn’t just leave him lying here! But if he had already died, what else could she do?

“Please,” she whispered brokenly, “you can’t be dead. You don’t deserve such an end.” She had a vivid memory of the struggle between the two men, and a chill ran through her as she recalled the hideous face of the one who’d wielded the bayonet.

Suddenly, the man on the ground groaned. Surprised from her thoughts, Kirsten bent closer and, with a cry of gladness, carefully eased him onto his back. She experienced an overwhelming rush of pity then. His face revealed that he was young, and she noted that he wore a fringed rifle shirt, which was muddy and torn, and breeches, which fit him snugly and were in worse condition than his shirt.

He’s alive! Kirsten thought, and she grinned. She’d found him in time!

She sobered. But now what do I do? How could she move him if he couldn’t walk?

After setting down the stick, she grabbed the man’s shirt and tugged hard to get him to move. When he didn’t respond, she tried again.

“Mynheer, speak to me,” she commanded. “I’m a friend. I want to help.” Instinctively, she spoke in Dutch, the language of her people.

The man mumbled, and Kirsten leaned closer to hear him. She gasped when he grabbed her wrist, astonished by his show of strength. She fought to free herself, and he moaned, releasing her to clutch his arm in agony.

Kirsten was alarmed to see the slit in his sleeve near the shoulder. Fresh blood seeped from it. She stared at him, not knowing what to do. The man gazed back, his eyes wide, his lips moving soundlessly. Ashamed, she realized that he was only desperate to be understood.

“What is it? Tell me.” She laid a hand on his brow and spoke to him soothingly.

“Bri . . . hide . . . me,” he gasped.

She frowned. “I cannot understand you. Tell me again.” She placed her ear nearer to his lips and was barely able to make out his next words.

“Please . . . hide . . . me . . . Brit . . . sh . . .” The man spoke English, and Kirsten understood him.

He wanted her to hide him from the British! She knew then that he was a Continental soldier. Remembering the redcoats at the tavern, Kirsten stood, terrified, half expecting to see that they were suddenly surrounded.

She mentally berated herself. It was foolish to think that the British would have to hide from a woman and a wounded man.

Her gaze returned to the injured soldier, whose eyes were open and glazed as he struggled to see her. Moved by his plight, Kirsten hunkered down and touched his arm. She started but didn’t withdraw when his fingers latched onto her hand.

She reassured him in English. “I’m going to help you. Do you understand?”

The man nodded. She saw him relax and close his eyes.

Studying him, Kirsten bit her lip. “Can you walk?” she asked softly. There was movement, a barely perceptible negative shake of his head. “Then, I shall have to leave you for a while. To get a wagon.” His dark eyes opened with alarm, and Kirsten patted his hand. “Relax. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She searched the area for a place to hide him. “We had better get you into the bushes. That man”—she shuddered—“he may come back.”

The soldier tried to sit up, and Kirsten moved to help him. He howled in pain, groping for his right leg. To her horror, she saw a second wound. Blood was spurting from his thigh.

“My God!” she breathed.

No wonder he can’t walk, she thought. If he attempted it in his condition, he’d bleed to death. She’d have to leave him until she could return with the wagon.

But first she had to stop the flow of blood; he’d never survive until her return if she didn’t. Kirsten tore two strips from the hem of her shirt, stopping once to breathe deeply. The sight of so much blood made her woozy. She brushed her hair back with shaking fingers. Then, using both hands, she pinched the edges of the leg wound closed and bore down with a steady pressure. His warm red blood drained between her fingers, filling her with alarm.

Finally, the stream slowed and then stopped. Kirsten breathed easier.

She’d done it! She’d stopped the bleeding! She bound the limb above the wound and then bandaged the gash itself. Please God, she prayed silently, let him live!

The soldier seemed to be resting quietly now. A good sign, she thought. Hopefully, in passing out, he had escaped the worst of the pain.

Kirsten felt shaky. She’d never had to hurt anyone before; it brought little comfort to her to know that doing so had been necessary.

“I hate to leave you here, but I have no choice. You must save your strength.” She spoke aloud, thinking that somehow, even though unconscious, the man would understand. “When I get back, we’ll get you in the wagon. I don’t know how we’ll manage, but we will.”

Kirsten was soothed by her own words as she made light of the upcoming struggle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I had to . . .” She went to the river and rinsed her hands.

The soldier needed her; she wouldn’t let him down. “You are going to live,” she vowed as she returned to his side.

She looked for a place to hide him, then decided she’d cover him up and leave him where he lay. She found several suitable branches with leaves intact, and shielded him with the leafy foliage.

After a last peek at the wounded man, Kirsten felt satisfied. She headed for home, her pace hastened by concern.

“Three o’clock and all’s well!” The klapperman’s voice rang out in the silence of the rain-washed night. Kirsten was on the Ackermans’ farm when she heard the familiar sound. She quickly hid behind the barn. The last thing she needed was to be discovered by the man making his rounds. Garret Vandervelt was a friend of her father’s and would no doubt see that she got home—and that her father knew of her escapade.

Vandervelt carried his lighted lantern and a timepiece—a brass hourglass. Kirsten watched him set his hourglass on the Ackerman’s stoep before he pulled out his rattle, or klapper, from his coat pocket.

He shook the klapper once, before putting it away. Vandervelt then proceeded to the neighboring farm, where he’d repeat the ritual. The sound of his voice would be heard at each home in Hoppertown every hour until dawn, Kirsten knew, and she was relieved to see him go none the wiser as to her presence. His deep cry was reassuring to the Hoppertown villagers, for it warned all, housekeepers and convicts alike, that he was on the watch to keep everyone safe.

Once the rattle-watch was out of sight, Kirsten left her hiding place. Moments later, she was home and inside her father’s barn.

“Pieter?” Her voice was but a whisper in the dark interior of the stable. There was no sign of the groom.

A horse nickered from the nearest stall, and Kirsten smiled and slipped inside the cubicle to stroke the mare’s neck. “Easy, girl. It’s only me.”

The sleek hair of the horse felt smooth against her palm. The mare snorted in pleasure at the young woman’s touch, and Kirsten laughed softly, her spirits rising.

But dawn was fast approaching, and she realized that she had much to do before daybreak. The smile left her face as she gave the horse one more pat. “Sorry, girl, not this time.”

The mare nudged Kirsten with her nose as she turned to leave. She studied the bay gelding snorting restlessly in the opposite stall, and then she glanced at the mare, whose big eyes seemed to plead with her.

“But you understand, Hilga, don’t you?” she murmured to the mare. “If I let you come, you have to be quiet.” She found the halter and slipped it over Hilga’s head. “I’m depending on you now. Don’t let me down. The man’s life is at stake.”

Closing her eyes, Kirsten rested her head against the horse’s side. “He deserves to live, girl. No one deserves to die that way.” She sighed and lifted her head, stroking the mare’s chestnut coat. “He needs us, Hilga. It’s up to us girls to see that he makes it.”

The moon broke through the clouds as the wagon wheels creaked over the muddy road. Kirsten gripped the reins fiercely. It had been a hair-raising experience, hitching up the wagon and escaping the farm without sound. But we did it! she thought smiling at the horse.

The worst of it hadn’t ended there, though. Twice the wagon had become stuck in the mud on the journey through the woods. Kirsten was glad she’d chosen Hilga; the mare’s docile nature had made things easier. Both times, the young woman had climbed down from the wooden seat and had urged the horse on with soft words and a hard tug on the reins. Each time the cart had rolled free of the mire, Kirsten had made a silent vow to reward the animal.

The wind stirred the treetops, sending a cascade of cold water down upon woman and horse. Kirsten had no idea how much time had elapsed since she had left the Continental soldier. The treacherous condition of the turnpike forced her to a slow, steady pace, which made the journey nerve-wracking. She was anxious to get to him.

Was he all right?

Kirsten pulled the wagon off the road and onto the narrow path, silently praying that the cart would fit past the trees and bushes. She’d have to drag the soldier several yards if it didn’t. She swallowed hard. Perhaps he wouldn’t survive that ordeal.

The cart fit through the thicket easily. Kirsten halted the vehicle under a tree and jumped down to secure the mare. Moving toward the mound of branches she had left, she was shocked to find that they’d been disturbed. Her blood ran cold when she spied a trench in the mud leading to a coppice.

Had the attacker come back to finish off his victim? That thought was just too terrible, too awful for her to take in. Kirsten’s stomach heaved. Trembling, she advanced, parting the bushes to peer inside.

“Thank God!” A quick check told her the man was still alive. He must have dragged himself through the mud. Her relief was short-lived when she noted fresh blood on his pantleg. His thigh was bleeding again; the crimson stain appeared black against the muslin bindings.

“You fool,” she scolded. She wasn’t angry; she was too happy and relieved to find her patient alive. The wind had been fierce; no doubt it had disturbed his makeshift cover. The poor man must have awakened and sought refuge elsewhere.

Tearing a fresh strip from her shirt’s hem, Kirsten rebound the wound. She didn’t know how she’d explain the ruined garment, but she’d think of something. If not, she could always bury the shirt in the woods.

How was she going to move the soldier, though? Unconscious, he was dead weight. If she could wake him, she could help him to his feet. She tried rousing him with a light shake and then shook him harder when he didn’t move. When she again failed to rouse him, Kirsten stood, tears of frustration coming to her eyes. What am I going to do?

There was a rope in the wagon. It could be slipped under his arms and tied so he could be hoisted onto the wooden platform. It just might work! She had to try; there was no other choice. Kirsten returned to the wagon and untied the horse.

She was so cold! The wind had died down, but she was soaked to the skin. She glanced at the man lying senseless. If she was cold, what about him? She shivered. There was no time to lose—he could be dying.

She sprang into action. Guiding the mare through the mud to the small copse and then crouching beside the injured man, she again tried to wake him. This time he moaned. There would be no help from that quarter, she realized. It was entirely up to her to save him.

“Mynheer? It’s me—Kirsten. I’m back. I brought the wagon just as I promised. See?” The man blinked once and then his eyes closed. Kirsten rose, retrieving the rope. After directing a few gentle words to the faithful mare, she returned to him. His eyes were open.

“I have a rope,” she explained, “and I’m going to tie it around your chest.” The man struggled to sit up. Suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of warmth, Kirsten continued. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m afraid I have to. When I get you to the barn, I’ll see to your wounds and you’ll feel better.” She paused. “Can you lift up this arm? That’s it!”

Murmuring words of encouragement, she looped the piece of hemp about his body. She flinched when he groaned, but hardened herself against his body’s protest. Finally the rope was secure. Kirsten’s brow furrowed as she pondered what to do next.

She tugged on the rope. I have to get my arms under his! She cried out at first, staggering under his dead weight. When she tried again, however, her burden felt lighter. Utilizing his last ounce of strength, the man rose to his feet. Then, exhausted by the effort, he passed out.

He fell against the wooden platform with a thud. Kirsten inhaled sharply as she fought to keep him from sliding to the ground.

It was like a game of tug of war as Kirsten battled with the inert form of the Continental. Finally, she was able to push him halfway onto the wagon. Grabbing hold of the rope, she then moved to the front end of the vehicle, slipped the piece of hemp under the seat, and pulled it to her over the top. She heaved until her efforts warmed her.

There was a loud scraping noise as the man slid across the wooden platform. Kirsten felt faint with relief at her success. Time was precious; she had to hurry before the sun rose and the townspeople woke. She grabbed the reins, hopped up onto the wagon seat, and clicked her tongue. Hilga shifted and then obeyed the command. Soon the wagon was rolling along the road back to the Van Atta homestead. Fortunately, the wheels ran smoothly through the mud on the return trip.

Kirsten maneuvered the wagon beside a thicket near the edge of the Van Atta property. After a quick check to see how the man had fared, she jumped down and ran toward the barn. No one moved within its dark depths, save the horses inside their stalls. Soon, the groom Pieter would be rising, and the barn would be stirring with life.

She couldn’t bring him here! A barn was not safe from the British, who often appropriated the horses and cattle of Hoppertown residents. And she couldn’t risk endangering her parents.

On the far side of her father’s land were the remains of the old Van Atta mill. It had been abandoned when Kirsten’s grandfather had built one closer to the village. The ruin held fond memories for Kirsten. She and cousin Miles had played there often as young children. But that was before the war, before the bloodshed . . . Those days were forever gone.

I’ll take him to the mill’s cellar. Hurrying to the wagon, Kirsten then headed for the safety of the deserted mill.

The man, wrapped in several blankets, was sleeping peacefully on the dirt floor of the cellar when Kirsten made for home. He’d be safe until morning, shielded from the weather by the wooden floor of the room above.

His wounds would need more doctoring, though. Tomorrow she’d bring a bread-and-milk poultice.

It was near daybreak, with the birds chirping their morning song, when Kirsten crept past the room in which her parents’ still slept and slid tiredly onto the soft feather tick of her bed.

“Kirsten? Kirsten! Get up, you lazy daughter. There are chores to be done!”

Groaning, Kirsten sat up and yawned. She brushed back a tumble of platinum blond hair and blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes.

“Kirsten! Did you hear me?” Her mother’s voice was sharp, even through the closed doors of the alcove bed.

“Yes, Moeder. I’m getting up.”

“Well, be quick about i. . .