Free Kiss of a Traitor by Cat Lindler Page A

weasel from the pantry and dropped it on a hall table. “I shall inquire whether Lady Wilhelmina is receiving.” After escorting him into the family parlor off the hallway, Quinn waved to a velvet-covered sofa. “Should you care to wait in here, I shall ring for tea.”
    Ford inclined his head, flipped aside his coattails, and settled on the sofa. He rearranged his wig, which had slipped to one side, lounged back, and crossed his legs.
    Fifteen minutes of polite conversation. Then he could leave, his blasted duty completed, and deliver the message for Marion to the tree at the edge of Socastee Swamp.
    Tarleton planned to raid the Chester plantation on the morrow. Rumor had it that Chester had collected pewter plates and tea sets from his neighbors and melted them down for bullets, which he planned to pass on to the partisans. Tarleton had voiced his determination that no undeclared planters would aid Marion and his criminal band. He intended to strike the plantation shortly before midnight and hang the planter as an example to other would-be traitors. Should Tarleton prove successful, Chester’s family—those who survived the raid—would sit out the war in a British prison hulk in Charles Town Harbor. Ford was just as determined to see Tarleton fail.
    He drummed his fingers on the table beside the sofa and removed the gold watch from his fob pocket. Where was the chit? She was such an odd creature, and he hardly expected her to be a paragon of punctuality, but surely someone in the household had enough intelligence to read a clock. The rhythm of his tapping grew more rapid the longer he waited. He swung his free leg like a pendulum in time to the Ormolu clock ticking away on the mantle and tugged at his scratchy lace cravat. Tea arrived on a silver serving tray, and the servants withdrew. The tea grew cold. Still, the girl failed to appear. Ford got to his feet and strode across the carpet, his hands clasped behind his back. As time passed, he took longer, increasingly intolerant strides.
    He was on the verge of seeking out the butler and demanding the man find the girl when Wilhelmina clomped through the parlor doors in heavy boots. Her windblown dark hair tangled around her head and stuck up above her ears. Her face was flushed, as if she’d been running, evidenced as well by the way her breath wheezed from between her lips. The ill-fitting day dress, fashioned from washed-out blue cotton, lacked panniers or any fashionable ornamentation. A muddy ring stained the hem. She looked a fright, her outward semblance confirming his first impression of her as a plain, untidy wren. But the memory of her standing nude in the moonlight, arched above the pool, mollified his irritation. The recollection triggered a tightening in his groin and a swelling in his britches he had no prayer of hiding without his hat to hold before him. He bowed and trusted the girl was innocent enough to overlook his obvious condition.
    “My lord,” Willa panted. She ducked into a clumsy curtsy.
    “No need to ‘my lord’ me, my dear,” he said tightly, giving her a sour look. “Since we are affianced, I do believe ‘tis customary to address each other less formally. I give you leave to call me Montford, the name by which my friends know me. Of course, once we wed, you may call me Aidan. Should you have no objection, I shall address you as Wilhelmina.”
    “You are too kind, my—um, Montford,” she murmured. “I apologize for having kept you waiting. I fear I was occupied when Quinn located me.” She turned her head as though someone had poked her in the ear, then reached up and plucked out a stem of straw from her hair. As Ford viewed her dress with a disapproving expression, she glanced down to shake the bits of hay and horsehair from her skirt.
    He pulled out his quizzing glass and perused her in slow motion, from scattered hair to muddy hem. His lips thinned and flattened. When he stepped closer to incline his head over her hand, his