Love’s Betrayal Read online

  Love’s Betrayal (previously titled The Turncoat) ©2003 by DiAnn Mills

  Faithful Traitor ©2004 by Jill Stengl

  Print ISBN 978-1-63409-779-6

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-913-4

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-914-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Faithful Traitor Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Prologue

  1776

  Henry O’Neill studied the blue waves slapping against the sides of the British war vessel as it sailed into Boston Harbor. The wind gathered momentum and rocked the vessel from side to side. Glancing above the sails and tall masts to a gray, turbulent sky, he watched the clouds roll toward the bay. At least they would land soon on the American soil and be free of nature’s pending fury. Henry believed in God, not omens, but a clear blue sky and a sparkling ray of sunlight flitting off the waters would have suited him much better.

  Glancing at his bright red jacket with its deep blue facing and white metal buttons, he could not help but feel proud of what his uniform represented. As a foot soldier in Colonel Hamilton’s Twenty-first Regiment, he shared in the objective to help squelch the rebellion. These colonists were an unruly lot, but they were no match for King George’s army.

  No matter what lay ahead in the line of duty, serving the king provided the distinction of being a part of the world’s strongest fighting force. The distinction also kept clothes on his back and food in his belly, although the latter hadn’t settled well during the lengthy voyage. Henry cringed. His stomach had wretched more times than he cared to recall, and he could not wait to set foot on solid ground.

  A twinge of excitement and fear raced up his spine. Henry never thought of himself as a hero. His livelihood before enlisting depended on weaving cloth, an honorable trade taught to him by his father. Unfortunately, his father couldn’t feed all twelve of his brood in Ireland, and Henry had vowed not to go without food, clothing, and proper shelter again. This new land offered so many opportunities for a skilled craftsman, and he eagerly anticipated setting up his loom for business once he had fulfilled his responsibilities to His Majesty.

  He stiffened. Yes, he’d fight for King George. Henry had declared his allegiance, his very life if necessary, to defend the crown and uphold the king’s edicts.

  A few short months should manage the rebellion quite nicely. Then on to his new life.

  Chapter 1

  January 1776

  Delight Butler stuffed a folded piece of paper into her apron pocket and peered to the right and to the left of Boston’s bricked street for any sign of redcoats. A gust of wind whipped around and caught her unaware, and she pulled her coat tighter to fight the biting chill. A few soldiers emerged from down the street and marched toward her and her sixteen-year-old sister, Charity. Although she believed they would not harm them, a measure of anxiety nipped at her heels nonetheless.

  Where is he?

  Sometimes she read the papers before delivering them to the designated patriot or member of the Continental army, but not today. William Taylor needed this as soon as possible.

  “How much farther to the Taylor home?” Charity said with a sigh. “Mama will be expecting us.”

  Delight frowned at her sister and adjusted the wooden bucket dangling from her arms. “Papa promised this to Mr. Taylor. We only have to cross over to Hanover Street.”

  Charity tossed her dark head, her mobcap trimmed in lace bobbing like a chicken pecking for grain. “I don’t like walking with the redcoats marching by.”

  Delight stopped in the street, her attention focused on the approaching soldiers. Just the mere sight of them infuriated her, and the thought of flinging a jeer their way teased her mind.

  “Sister?” Charity said with a stamp of her foot.

  Delight found her senses. “We shan’t be much longer, and I must say the walk home will be more pleasant without the sight of the British soldiers.”

  “I agree. I am simply thinking of the work awaiting us at home, and this cold has my fingers and toes numb.”

  Delight ignored her. She didn’t have the time or the whim to indulge Charity. The soldiers moved closer. Their hands gripped their muskets, poised and ready for a fight. Their boots pounded a rhythm against the packed snow, leaving the impression they stomped every patriot in Boston. A twinge of fear assaulted her, although not for her safety but for those defending freedom. She held her breath as they passed, not wanting to offer any respect for their pompous mannerisms, least of all for King George and his outrageous demands.

  Will these despised soldiers ever leave Boston? “Let us hurry on,” Delight said. She recoiled when the five soldiers turned onto Hanover Street. Suspicion crept over her. She picked up her pace in an effort to make Charity think she was obliging her.

  “Has Mr. Taylor paid Papa for the buckets?” her sister said.

  “He traded with Papa for an iron pot. We only need to make the delivery.” How could she give him the document with Charity nailed to her side? She should have anticipated this problem when Mama suggested Charity accompany her and carry the second bucket for Mr. Taylor.

  While they hastened their pace, Delight’s gaze fixed on the soldiers who marched past Mr. Taylor’s blacksmith shop. Thank Thee, Lord. She’d delivered more than one message to Mr. Taylor and knew his boldness. While soldiers waited for him to shoe their horses, they talked among themselves, and he forgot nary a word. Delight knew only one of his contacts, the man who’d given her the document today—a close friend of her father’s who was a tanner by trade and lived on the outskirts of the city.

  Once at the blacksmith, Delight peered into the darkness. “Mr. Taylor,” she called out. “This is Delight and Charity Butler. We have come to deliver your two buckets.”

  The lean-looking man stepped out of the shadows and smiled broadly. “Good afternoon.” He took the pieces and admired the craftsmanship. “What a fine job your father does, and I sorely needed these today
.”

  “Papa will be pleased.” Delight touched the crisp document in her pocket. Now, how would she be able to distract her sister?

  “Do you have a favorite piece of scripture?” Mr. Taylor said.

  Her code. If Charity had not been with her, she wouldn’t have had to deal with procedures. Mr. Taylor needed to be assured of her purpose, and in the past she had been alone. “Yes sir, I most certainly do. It is from Psalm 37:4. ‘Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.’ ”

  “Ah, commendable. Your namesake verse, perhaps?”

  We are using all our formalities today. I wonder why. “Yes sir. All of my sisters have one in accordance with their name.”

  “I’ve finished with the iron pot your mother requested. Would you like to take it with you?” Mr. Taylor gestured toward a bench in the corner, crowded with tools, nails, ox- and horseshoes, and her mother’s pot.

  “Of course.” Delight stepped over to retrieve the pot—a bit heavy, but she had Charity to help her carry it back. Spying a pile of nails, she elected to slip the message under them. Her fingers grasped the paper.

  “William Taylor!” a man’s voice boomed.

  Charity gasped, and Delight whirled around to see British soldiers pointing their bayonets at the blacksmith. Oh no. He has been found out.

  “That be my name,” he replied without reservation.

  Delight took her sister’s arm and pulled her away from the soldiers’ path. She could feel Charity trembling and feared the young woman might faint.

  “The colonel would like to speak with you,” the same soldier said. “He does not like to be kept waiting.”

  “About what matter?” Mr. Taylor crossed his arms over his chest.

  “It matters naught to you. It is the king’s business. Come along without another moment’s delay.”

  Mr. Taylor laid his leather apron aside and glanced at Delight. In the dim light she could not read his eyes, but the document still rested in her pocket. “Go ahead and take the pot—and give my utmost to Mistress Butler.”

  Delight nodded and lifted the pot from the bench. “Godspeed, sir. Our prayers will be with you.”

  “He will need them,” another soldier said with a chuckle.

  Elijah Butler pounded his fist onto the table, his round face and bald head flushed crimson. “How dare those lobsterbacks seize our friends and frighten my daughters! I wish I had the likes of King George for five minutes. I’d tell him to keep his soldiers out of our country!”

  He plopped down onto his chair while Delight and her sisters set wooden bowls on the table for the evening meal. The tantalizing aroma of an oyster stew and hot bread with freshly churned butter filled the air. Once he had calmed and the family had taken their places on the benches, he thanked God for His bountiful blessings and asked Him to take care of William Taylor.

  Delight lifted her gaze and glanced around the table at her mother and six sisters: Charity, Remember, Faith, Patience, Mercy, and Hope. I am the oldest and expected to be a Christian example to my younger sisters. How would Mama and Papa feel about my assisting the patriot cause?

  The precious document in her pocket plagued her mind. She would have to leave in the dark of night in order to deliver it, and she hadn’t the opportunity to read the contents or know where it should be delivered.

  “I have made up my mind,” Papa lifted his chin.

  Stirred from her musings, Delight gave him her full attention. Papa never made rash decisions.

  “We shall leave Boston. It is no longer safe for my family.” He nodded at Mama with a slight smile. “We shall go to Chesterfield, where my brother tells me there is need for a cooper.” He leaned in closer, peered from side to side. “And if the British soldiers continue to disturb our lives, then I shall join the patriot army,” he whispered.

  Mama drew in a sharp breath. “Praise God,” she said, then moistened her lips. “Not that you might consider such foolishness as enlisting at your age, but that you have seen fit to rescue us from the yoke of the British soldiers.”

  Delight’s heart pounded harder than Mr. Taylor’s hammer against his anvil. Chesterfield. How can I help the cause there? Who will be the courier here? She looked at her father, searching his face for answers. “How will we be able to leave?”

  Papa nodded his understanding. “We cannot leave together, and it must be done in secrecy to avoid the soldiers.”

  Charity gasped at Papa’s words. Because she was given to fainting, everyone looked expectantly at her pale face. “I’m fine, Papa.”

  He glanced at Mama. “You, Mercy, and Hope will leave tomorrow. I will give you detailed instructions later.”

  Delight picked at her stew. She was foolish to have her thoughts linger on her own importance. Of course the patriots would find someone else to deliver messages. Boston was full of those committed to the cause, those who longed to see liberty in the colonies. Indeed she thought too highly of herself. Perhaps she had fulfilled the destiny God intended, but she’d found meaning in her life by combining her faith in God with the efforts of the colonies to unite for freedom. Disappointment raged through her.

  “Delight, have the happenings today stolen your appetite?” her mother said. “Perhaps the soldiers frightened you more than you revealed to us.”

  “No, Mama. I am merely thinking.” She wanted to voice her concern over the move but dare not sound disrespectful. “Papa, are you sure leaving our home is necessary? Can’t we stay and be wary of the British?”

  He shook his head. “I think not. When I look around the table, I see seven beautiful, brown-eyed daughters and their lovely mother. Our home is to be peaceful, not surrounded by strife and oppression. We will pack our belongings and sojourn to Chesterfield.”

  “When will all of us be together for the journey, Papa?” Mercy, the eight year old, said. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Four days hence,” Papa said and downed his buttermilk.

  “We know you have friends here.” Mama’s gentle tone seemed to appease Mercy. Even after seven children, her face bore few lines, and tenderness prevailed in her spirit. “But you will find new ones in Chesterfield.”

  Papa cleared his throat, an indication of the importance of his words. “Let us all be in constant prayer for a safe journey and a prosperous life in a new home.”

  “May we bring Bear?” Little Hope reached down to stroke the dog’s sleek coat.

  “Of course,” Papa said. “We shall try to take all we can. I have made arrangements with your uncle Matthew to secure us a good house and means for me to continue in building buckets and barrels once we arrive.”

  Delight’s sisters chatted on. Some were excited and relieved, and others were not. Luckily Papa was not of the mind that children should always be seen and not heard.

  “One question at a time,” he said. “What you have to say is important to me.”

  But the discussion of the move only firmed Delight’s resolve that at the first possible opportunity, she needed to read the document in her pocket and learn its destination. Only then could she consider what God intended by uprooting her world.

  Long after the small house quieted and the only sounds were the even breathing of her family, Delight rose, dressed, and tiptoed to the fire, where the embers had not yet died. She carefully opened the document and squinted to read only enough to determine that it should be delivered to the owner of one of the taverns near the wharf. The British had closed Boston’s port. Even so, it was not safe for a young woman to be out alone after dark. Papa would be terribly angry if he discovered she was venturing toward such a rowdy place. But she must.

  Oh heavenly Father. Protect me this night from the perils lurking where I must walk. Guide my feet, and shelter me in the shadow of Thy grace.

  Somehow Delight found the courage to step out into the dark with a lantern turned down low and hooded. She must not be seen—either by the town crier or by soldiers. She shivered in the frigid temper
atures and stole toward the tavern, slipping on the ice and praying she didn’t fall. Although she silenced her feet against the street, every sound alerted her to possible danger and reminded her of the vital information concealed in her right shoe.

  She glanced at the starless night hosted by only a quarter moon. How wonderful if God had blessed her with light. Her deliberations told her He had done so. She simply had to believe He honored her cause.

  The time was long after midnight, and the tavern would be closed. Still, the area alarmed her. Every sound alerted her: the bark of a dog, the distant laughter, and the rowdy talk of soldiers. An eerie sensation trickled through her, as if someone trailed her steps. She had perceived this before and ignored it, but tonight the sensation felt so true. Nonsense, fear would not rule over her responsibilities.

  When the establishment came in sight and the pronounced smell of fish met her nostrils, she didn’t know whether to let out a sigh of relief or pray harder. To reach the back door of the tavern, she would have to risk attracting the attention of anyone who might be hiding in wait for a victim or wallowing in drunkenness. Worse yet, she might be detected by a redcoat. Chills raced up her arms, and she longed to turn and hurry home. Only her sense of mission enabled her to keep one foot in front of the other.

  Delight realized she had held her breath until she felt faint. For the first time in her life, she wished she’d held the thoughts and desires of other young women her age—a home and family. Not that she didn’t want those admirable blessings, but she felt duty-bound not to seek such a future until the war for independence had been won. Perhaps God had made a mistake, and she should have been born a man.

  Clenching her fists, she rapped on the tavern’s door. The deafening sound caused her to hastily glance into the darkness. Along with the smells of the wharf, she inhaled the odor of sour ale. When no one appeared at the door, she knocked again a little louder.

  “Who goes there?” a gruff voice called.

  Delight took a deep breath. “One bearing scripture fitting for the times to Cavin Sullivan.”