An interlude, or, my lousy attempt at a subplot

If I figure out how to make this subplot make sense, it'll be pretty sweet. Right now... it stinks. Honestly, it's only here for word count, not that it's very many words. But that's ok. The next chapter is pretty good. Wait for it.
*Note: the italics indicate that it's separate and apart from the main action of the story. Just so you're not confused. :)
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Holding her breath, Abigail peered up through the brambles at the blue-clad Union soldier. How could she have known they’d be patrolling this area? They never had in the past. She’d traveled this route many times, delivered the letters with no fear of capture. Someone had betrayed her. That was the only answer. She cursed the unknown traitor under her breath.
“Who’s there?” The soldier’s voice, though stern, gave away his age; he couldn’t be more than twenty-two. Abigail bit her lip. Did she dare take the risk? If it worked, she could get to the rendezvous point easily… but if it didn’t, it would cost her life.
She’d never been one to shy away from danger.
“Please, don’t hurt me. I just want to get back home, and—“
She rose slowly from the bushes, and found herself at the end of a musket. The boy was handsome, with cocoa brown eyes and a chiseled jaw. Perfect. She extracted herself from the thorns, well aware of the gunpoint that followed her every move. “Please, sir. I didn’t know you were, and…” She cupped her hand over her mouth, as if confiding a secret, “I had snuck out to meet my beau. I thought you were my mother.” She laughed a girlish giggle, and tried her best to blush. The musket slowly began to lower.
“Although, truth be told, you’re much more handsome than him.” She drew out the words and placed a dainty hand on his shoulder. “Please, won’t you let me go home? I don’t need any more trouble.”
His stern eyes twinkled at her. “You’re a minx, you are. Run along home, morning glory. Your secret’s safe with me.”
She beamed her best smile at him and kissed his cheek. Freedom at last. She picked up the hem of her skirt and dashed into the darkness. Once she was far enough away she spat on the ground and wiped her mouth, determined to get the dirty Yankee off her lips. How idiotic they were, what backwards views they had of women! How easily they believed in the naivety of a young girl! She patted the hidden pocket of her gown, feeling the parchment of the plans between the folds of fabric. She had three hours to make it to her rendezvous point in New York. If she had anything to say about it, the Confederacy would win this war.