Rapture's Betrayal by Candace McCarthy Page A

asked.
    The man nodded, his expression stoic, and fingers of fear closed about Randolph’s throat. The officer was a stern-faced individual of high rank, clad familiarly in the red coat and uniform of the British Army.
    Randolph took off his hat and with his sleeve wiped his sweat-beaded forehead. After replacing his headgear, he climbed from his horse, his movements cautious. He was shaken by the lack of welcome. He’d not expected to be treated as royalty, but he’d hoped to have been greeted as a friend.
    No one moved. The soldiers’ muskets were trained on him as he approached.
    â€œMajor Thatcher.” Trembling, Randolph held out his hand. When the officer made no move to accept the handshake, he lowered his arm, paling. “The King waits for his Queen.” He saw that Thatcher recognized the passwords; and he smiled, no longer afraid. “I’m here to lend my services. I can be of tremendous help to you and your command.”
    Randolph extended his hand a second time, and this time—as if some message had passed between the two men—the major’s hand lifted from his side.
    â€œIt’s a pleasure to meet you, Major,” Randolph said. “Please—call me Biv.”
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    A warm breeze wafted in through the cellar opening, playing gently over Kirsten’s bare back, lifting tendrils of her silver-blond hair. She stirred and then came awake in an instant at the feel of coarse wool beneath her, the absence of the alcove walls of her bed. A smile settled upon her lips, and she closed her eyes. Memories of the night infringed on her consciousness, making her body feel hot and tingly all over. She remembered Richard’s touch, his kisses . . . his hard manhood entering her.
    Kirsten rolled onto her back, searching for the warmth of his flesh, his muscled hardness. When her hand hit the empty blanket beside her, she frowned, then opened her eyes to find him gone. Her gaze went to the opening in the opposite wall, and she experienced a sudden, squeezing, gut-wrenching fear. The British—had they gotten Richard?
    She scrambled to the doorway. There was no sign of him anywhere.
    Her heart lightened. There were no indications of a struggle either, so wherever he was, he must be all right. She recalled his fierce determination to be on his way, and felt a jolt of alarm. He’s left me! she thought. And after a glorious night of making love!
    She fought back tears. Oh, Richard, how could you have gone? Kirsten sank to the ground, heedless of her naked bottom on the ragged boards of the makeshift door.
    She sniffed. To catch a glimpse of heaven only to have it ripped away!
    Curse you, Richard Maddox, you promised to say good-bye! She wiped her eyes and straightened her spine. Crying wouldn’t bring him back. She would survive this; she was, after all, a mature woman of eighteen, and Richard . . . was the man she’d loved. But she would miss him!
    Kirsten’s lips firmed. She’d always known he’d have to leave. She’d surrendered herself to him anyway. Her pain now was her own fault.
    Oh, Richard . . . why didn’t you say good-bye? I never asked for gratitude. But, she realized, she’d asked him for more, more than he could give her. She’d asked for his love.
    She stood, wincing at the stiffness of her muscles. Her body tingled wherever he’d touched her—and he’d explored her everywhere.
    She gathered her belongings from the cellar room, folding the coarse blankets which had been Richard’s bed . . . their bed of love. Next, Kirsten collected her basket. She began to cry when she spied the radishes, recalling his pleasure when she’d shown him what she’d brought.
    But they’d never sampled the fresh vegetables or the cinnamon cakes. She caught back a sob. They’d become too involved in each other.
    Without taking the time to dress, Kirsten moved about the cellar, wiping out all traces of