The Patriot and the Loyalist
Completing his three years in the Continental Army, Daniel Reid still has no desire to return home—not after losing the woman he loves to a British Captain—so he volunteers to ride south through enemy lines and deliver a message to Colonel Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox. With his temper needing a release and a dark haired beauty finding her way into his broken heart, Daniel decides to join the Swamp Fox’s efforts against the British. Little does he know the British still have the upper hand.
Lydia Reynolds has learned that love comes at a price, and she refuses to pay. Better to close her heart to everything and everyone. When her brother-in-law won't grant her passage to England, where she hopes to hide from her pain, New Englander, Daniel Reid, becomes her only hope—if she can induce him to give her information about the notorious Swamp Fox and his troops. When the British grow impatient and Daniel evades her questions, Lydia must decide how far to take her charade. The poor man, already gutted by love, hasn’t grown as wise as she. Or so she supposes…
Until the truth is known, the muskets are loaded…and it is time to decide where true loyalties lie.
South Carolina, November 1780
Daniel Reid slowed his horse and sucked air into his lungs as he reined to the road’s grassy edge. Blood pulsated behind his ears but in no way drowned out the pounding hooves of the approaching soldiers, the green of their coats almost deceptive. He was used to scarlet, but no doubt they were British. He’d been warned of Colonel Tarleton and his Green Dragoons.
With a smile pressed on his lips, Daniel nodded to the commander of the orderly column. The gesture was not returned, only the narrowing of dark eyes—like a snake seeking the next target for his wrath. The colonel looked to the cane fastened to the side of the saddle. Stale breath leaked from Daniel’s lungs, and he laid his fingers over the brass handle, hoping they believed he had need of the cane as he surveyed the rest of the well-armed cavalry.
Mud and manure-ridden boots. Dark scuffs across legs and sleeves. The acrid aroma of smoke. Horses walked with heads down, weary like the men who rode them. Obviously, they’d already had a long, productive day, and yet their polished blades glinted with the late afternoon sun, and the barrels of their muskets did not carry the stain of powder.
As the last soldier passed, Daniel pulled his bay mare back onto the road and encouraged her pace. He raised his gaze to the strip of blue high above the treed banks of marsh and swamp. Sweat tickled the back of his neck. Nervousness, or the heavy humidity? Not that it mattered. He’d volunteered for this.
Thin swirls of smoke rose from the horizon, the first a mile off. Maybe two. Daniel spurred his mount in that direction. He’d never find Colonel Francis Marion if he avoided the prospect of danger.
The trees thinned into farmland and opened into fields left barren from harvest. The sky hazed behind the dissipating smoke. A crumbled barn, not much remaining of it but charred boards and glowing coals, stood not far from a grand house. Was this Tarleton’s work? Or Colonel Marion’s?
The panicked cry followed a boy as he darted into the brick edifice he no doubt called home—much different from the two-room cabin Daniel had been raised in. Moments later, several young faces appeared in the crack of the open doorway. Dirty, tearstained faces. None were older than ten. Surely this was the work of the British and not the man he sought. Daniel had lost the taste for such deeds years ago. A man should be able to leave his woman and children safely at home. War belonged to men.
The oldest boy, a sandy-haired lad, stepped back out onto the porch and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you want here, Mister?”
Daniel swung out of his saddle and held his hands away from his sides. “Where are your folks?”
The scowl only deepened on the boy’s face as he widened his stance. “You have no right on our land. You’d best get back on that horse of yours or I’ll—”
The door pushed wide and a woman appeared, a lady, despite her disheveled appearance. “Hush, James. We have no means of knowing who this man is.”
“But Mother.” He spun to her. “You should not be up. I can take care of this.”
“I know you can, James, but I will be fine.” With a hand on her son’s shoulder, she gazed at Daniel. Though her chin showed confidence, her eyes pooled with the pain she tried to keep contained. “Who are you, sir?”
“I was passing by when I saw the smoke. Who did this?”
She straightened, wincing as she did so. “You have yet to answer me, sir.”
Daniel couldn’t help but glance around. This far behind enemy lines…yet to complete his mission, how much did he dare reveal? If only he could be certain Tarleton had done this misdeed. But he couldn’t. “I am Sergeant Daniel Reid.”
He met her gaze, trying to read it. Not a single clue. “Of the Continental Army.”
Her shoulders sagged and trembled. “Praise the Lord.”
Daniel’s hands dropped to his sides. “So the British are responsible.”
“Yes.” She stepped around her son and sank to the top step. “My husband was General Richard Richardson. He was taken prisoner by the British because he refused to support them. He’d resigned the army already, but because he couldn’t be bought, they hauled him away, keeping him locked up until he was ill. They let him come home to die. He passed away a couple of months ago.”
She shook her head as though to wave away his condolences, while glancing to the small family cemetery across the road. A mound of dirt stood dark between the headstones. “Tarleton dug up his body. He gave some excuse, but really he was treasure hunting.” Her fingers hid her eyes. “What sort of monster digs up a man’s grave?”
The boy set a protective hand on his mother’s head. “Or burns animals to death.”
Daniel cringed as he looked back at the remains of the barn. That explained the more pungent stench wafting on the air. “Do you know how to find or contact Colonel Marion?”
“No.” Mrs. Richardson blinked hard. “I knew the British hoped to attract him here, so I sent one of my boys to warn him away. Who can say where he’s gone.”
James nodded. “Though, if he had come, the British wouldn’t have had the nerve to flog a lady.”
Daniel’s gut twisted. The attractive, middle-aged woman was obviously used to a genteel living despite being displaced this far from a town. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“I will be fine.” Her jaw stiffened and raised a degree. “I only wish I could speed you on your way with the Colonel’s location. You could ask at his plantation. Or check at Port’s Ferry. Rumor has it he camped there most of last month.” The lady waved him nearer and lowered her voice. “Or Thomas Amis’s Mill. The Colonel has been there, as well.” She pushed to her feet, her hand braced on the railing. “You are from the North?”
She looked his homespun up and down. Not near as fine as the uniform he’d worn the past three years. “I thought as much. Do not get lost in the swamps trying to locate him. Go to Georgetown and find Mister Lawrence Wilsby. He was a friend of my husband’s and true to the cause. He might be able to help you.”
“Thank you, but…” Daniel glanced to the barn, and then back to the three young boys who had made full appearance behind their mother and older brother.
A woman, her skin shades darker than his own tanned face, now stood in the doorway with a scowl.
Two men, their complexions even darker, moved around from the back of the house.
Slaves, probably—something quite foreign to him. In the Mohawk Valley, a man labored with his own hands, not someone else’s. Daniel dragged his focus back to Mrs. Richardson. “Is there anything I can do?”
Her lips tightened as she shook her head. “I have the help I need. May God speed your way, Sergeant. And may scum like Tarleton reap His wrath.”
Amen. Daniel mounted his mare.
The oldest boy moved to his side, eyeing the cane. “What is that for, sir? You don’t seem to have a limp?”
Daniel gave the cane a pat. “This is to keep the British from asking any pressing questions about why I don’t fight for them.” He winked, and then with a tip of his hat, reined toward the road. “Thank you, ma’am.”
He fought to keep his mind in the present as he encouraged his horse to a faster clip. But, as always, the image of a barn left in ash accompanied a spade full of guilt and the memory of a woman with hair like new corn silk.
He had prayed that three years would be enough to rid her from his mind.
“Come on, Madam!” He nudged the animal with his knees, craving speed, as though the wind could snatch him from the past. Besides, if he kept up the pace, he could reach Georgetown before nightfall.