by Alyssa Cole
She had been foolish to think a man like Daniel would want or need anything from a woman like her. He was . . . substantial, like one of the marble columns that lined the porch of the house. Janeta was an overexposed photograph who could be blown away with a light breeze.
After smiling and faking her way through dinner, and learning even more about the Sons of the Confederacy, who would have benefited from her information if she’d sent it, she’d claimed fatigue and went to lie in her bed. Now it was Lord knew what time of night and she was wide awake. She pulled on the thick dressing gown she’d been given and tied it shut. Even with that and her sleeping gown, she still felt a bit of a chill.
She made her way down the hallway of her wing of the house and into the library she’d discovered while aimlessly wandering the halls as Daniel and Roberts worked. She’d always gone to the library at Villa Sanchez when she was upset—not because she particularly cared for reading, but because the rest of her family certainly did not. Their library was for show, a room to be used for the occasional business meeting. She could always be alone there, and this library was no different it seemed.
High shelves full of important-looking books written by men who looked like Roberts or Papi or Henry. A small cabinet for the alcohol—brandy here, not rum. A fine, thick carpet that sank beneath her feet, and two upholstered chairs before the fireplace, which was cold but occupied by a stack of logs.
Perfect.
She lit one of the candles on a low side table and placed it in front of the fireplace, then stepped back as far as she could across the room. She reached into the pocket of her gown and closed her fingers around the cold blade of a throwing knife.
This was what a library was to Janeta—a room in which she could do as she pleased without her sisters calling her wild or an embarrassment. She could read books in a parlor without censure, but this was something that had required more privacy, and perhaps the use of a leather-bound book as a target if there was no wood lying about.
She was a little rusty, but she didn’t worry about missing as she considered the balance of the first knife, found the perfect equilibrium as she took aim at the log behind the glowing candle, and let the sharp metal fly.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Three lines of metal embedded in the log now reflected the candle’s dancing flame, and Janeta felt some of her frustration loosen within her. She went and collected the knives and repeated the motion again and again, until her wrist hurt and her mind was cleared of everything but the feel of warm metal in her palm and the satisfaction of hitting her target.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Sanchez.”
The voice came from the darkness as she collected the knives and began to slip them into her pocket. It so startled her that she gasped and whirled, knocking the candle over. Just before the flame guttered out she caught sight of Daniel, emerging from the shadows. His eyes had caught the light, amusement and curiosity in an orange glow before darkness fell.
“How long have you been there?” she asked. Her own racing heartbeat thudded in her ears and she felt on the floor for a candle, grabbing it though she had no means of lighting it again.
“I’ve been coming here the past few nights to read.” His deep voice sounded from across the room, but moved closer to her as he continued speaking. “It seems something about these moldy books is very efficient at putting me to sleep. It’s a shame I can’t carry a library in my pocket.”
He was near her now. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel his presence. She was glad she couldn’t see him. Glad he couldn’t read the panic in her eyes.
“It’s good that you’ve been able to sleep,” she said quietly.
“But you haven’t. I was more than a little confused to awaken to the sight of you throwing knives in a state of undress.”
She’d forgotten that she was only in her sleeping gown. It didn’t matter. That was the least of her problems and besides, she’d done much worse with Henry while wearing layers upon layers of skirts and frills.
But this wasn’t Henry. It was Daniel. Daniel who had looked at her with such warmth as they’d talked over the past few days. Daniel who had every reason to hate her if he found out the truth.
“It’s a habit. Something I’ve done since I was a child. It’s comforting, in a strange way.”
He chuckled, and the sound wrapped around her in the darkness. She wondered what it would feel like vibrating against her skin and her eyes glossed with tears.
Tonta. Tonta.
“Your mama let you throw knives in the house?” he asked.
“No one knew. The library was always quiet. No one would judge me there.”
“Library. Your home had a library. I take it this wasn’t a corner of a room with books your mother collected while cleaning the homes of rich whites, like my family’s.”
He wasn’t judging her, just stating a fact—one that made clear he understood she’d provided less details about her background than she could have. She’d known when she’d said it that it would jostle something in his mind, and begin laying down the foundation for a truth she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t. How could she?
She had to.
“Yes, I grew up in homes not very different from this. Large, and staffed by slaves. I lived a lavish, pampered lifestyle that was the result of a wealth made from the work of those very same slaves.”
He didn’t speak, but she could feel his silence and all it might contain—judgment, anger, hate. It didn’t matter. Lying was so easy to her, but the truth? If she was going to tell the truth, she was happy to do it in the dark.
“I am a spy, Daniel. I was one, rather. No, I still am, but not how I was . . .” She growled in frustration as the words piled up on her tongue. “Odio este lengua feo! I am not what you think, Daniel. I am a bad person. I—”
I can’t tell him. I can’t. Why? He doesn’t have to know.
A sob trembled from her lips instead of what she needed to say. The darkness had provided her too much confidence. The sun would rise, soon, and there would be no hiding from Daniel’s hatred of her.
“Janeta.” Daniel was right next to her now, and she felt his touch ripple through the darkness right before his fingertips reached her sleeves. There was no anger in his grip on her arm, and that gentleness was what pulled a hiccupping sob from her. She remembered her first thought had been that he would be easy to take advantage of because he was alone and needed a friend. In the end, she was the one who needed him.
“Tell me.” His voice was deep and smooth and encouraging.
“You will hate me,” she said.
She waited for him to remind her that he already did. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, holding her loosely so that she wasn’t pressed against him.
“I thought the only thing I had in me was hate, but oddly enough I don’t hate you,” he said. “Not sure I can. I’ve certainly tried.”
She let her head drop down and rest on his shoulder. He would push her away eventually, but she was pathetic enough to steal this comfort while she could.
“I am Cubana, descended of slaves and conquistadores,” she said, finally. “My mother was a slave on my father’s plantation, and he married her after his first wife died. I grew up doted on, loved, but reminded constantly, constantly, that I wasn’t like them working the field.”
His body tensed, but she plowed forward. There was no going back now, just like dawn couldn’t be held back to keep the world shrouded in the safety of the shadows.
“I wasn’t allowed to mingle with the slaves, and though there were free Blacks, my parents didn’t associate with them. Then Mami died and we moved to Florida because that was easier than living in Santiago without her, I suppose. America was hard for me—I was always assumed to be a slave, or worse, my father’s mistress.” She shuddered at the memory of the lewd insinuations she’d overheard. “And then Henry started courting me, started telling me that I was beautiful
just as I was. That I was beautiful because of what I was. When the war came, all he asked for in return was information. That didn’t seem like a lot to give to be loved.”
Daniel had stopped breathing as he listened. She could sense his stillness. She hurried to get out the rest.
“When my father was imprisoned by the Union because of information I provided Henry with, Henry told me to join the Loyal League. He said that finding out your secrets would help my father get free, and that there was some group, the Sons of the Confederacy, that would make sure of it.” She tightened her fingers around his forearms. “I haven’t told him anything. I know my word means nothing, but I swear—”
He sucked in a breath. “How could you even consider it? Betraying your own people?”
“I never had people.” She tried to keep the tears out of her voice. “I only knew what I’d been taught, and what I was taught was wrong. And I’m angry because I believed it. I wanted to please everyone, but I couldn’t. Now I know the truth—Henry used me. I can’t free my father. I’ll be kicked out of the Loyal League. And then there’s you.”
Her teeth ground together as her mouth snapped shut. She knew what to do to make him pity her. To make him soothe her. But she couldn’t bring herself to say any more. She didn’t want to manipulate his affection. She wanted what she couldn’t have. She wanted him to love her as she was—willful and weak, brazen and broken, devious y descarada—of his own volition.
Impossible.
“You embarked on your quest to join the Loyal League with the intention of spying for the Confederacy. Is that all?” he asked.
She whipped her head up. She couldn’t make out his features, just the vague shape of his head, but for some reason she knew he was grinning. There was amusement in his voice when there should have been anger.
“What?”
“Janeta, I’m no Ellen Burns, but I am a detective who’s seen more than his fair share of action. Did you really think I knew nothing about this?”
Her head was spinning, spinning, and her knees buckled beneath her. Daniel caught her because of course he would.
“You knew? How?” She couldn’t stop the heaving sobs of relief that shook her body. Her hands clasped at his clothing and she came up with fistfuls of his shirt and held on for dear life.
He guided her to the chair in the darkness, seemingly feeling his way, and dropped her into it before perching on the arm beside her. He ran his hand over her hair, the soothing sensation calming her though she shook with emotion.
“LaValle, the man you first presented yourself to, suspected you because of intelligence he’d received from sources in Florida while tracking illegal importation of enslaved Cubans. He sent out a call for information, and as you know, the enslaved hear all. You traveled from Palatka in a coach driven by an enslaved man, and on a train with enslaved porters, and your contacts had enslaved people around them as they discussed how useful you would be to their cause.”
Her chest hurt and she was having trouble breathing. He knew. He had always known.
“They paired me with a new detective with no training and no common sense because they know I won’t show you any mercy.”
Now she understood the meaning behind those words.
“Why.” Her body felt heavy and her tongue heavier. She didn’t have the strength to make the word a question. “You could have . . . stopped me.”
She should have been frightened right now, with his hand resting on her head, and his strength so much greater than hers, but she knew Daniel wouldn’t hurt her as he could have. As perhaps he should have hurt an enemy spy.
“Well, you might have been useful to our Cause,” Daniel said quietly. “I was tasked with watching you, making sure you didn’t pass on information, and seeing what I could learn from you. Dyson assigned you to me because the Sons of the Confederacy were my particular interest—and because he thought I was a ruthless bastard who would do what was necessary to make sure you didn’t threaten the 4L or the Union.”
An unexpected, and ironic, flare of anger and betrayal rose up in her as she thought of his probing questions and his annoyance with her and his insistence on what a burden she was to him. Now she knew why he had been so extremely aggravated, why he’d treated her like a child he had to watch over. That had been his explicit task—to watch over her. To fool her into opening up to him. And to get rid of her if necessary. Perhaps his kindnesses had been false ones. Perhaps he had used her just as Henry had—and as she had intended to use him.
She took back her previous thought: Daniel could hurt her. Not physically, but the pain in her chest was no less real than if he had pulled his blade on her. His words ricocheted through her body like buckshot, the implications multiplying. If everything she knew of him had been a lie, everything she had based her new truth in was, too.
Hot tears slicked down her cheeks. She tried to breathe, and managed somehow, though she felt as if she might rip apart the seams of the self she’d pieced together since infiltrating the Loyal League.
“What did you learn from me?” she asked. “Wait, I can tell you. That I’m a foolish woman who everyone pats on the head and allows to believe she might have some use in this world?”
Her voice broke on the last word and she raised a fist to her mouth to silence her sobs in the darkness. That fist couldn’t stop her shoulders from shaking. Daniel’s hand slid from her hair, down her neck, to rest on her back. He rubbed there gently, his large hand warming her as he soothed.
Soothed.
“I learned that you are an intelligent, caring woman who has the potential to be quite the Loyal League detective, no matter how you came to join.” His hand circled slowly between her shoulder blades, loosening the anxiety there. “It’s not like my intentions for joining were so pure. I’ll be the last person to judge you.”
“How can you not?”
Her words echoed in the darkness of the library, followed by the slide of the fabric of his pants along the arm of the chair. He moved in front of her.
“For what?” He made a sound of annoyance. “All right, I can’t say spying for the Confederacy is something that should be overlooked. But you are the product of your family, and at the first opportunity to do the right thing, you did. I won’t laud you, but I won’t mark you as a lost cause, either.”
Janeta wanted to scream. All the stress and all her fears—this wasn’t how she’d imagined the revelation going at all. She hadn’t thought through what would happen if he didn’t hate her because that had seemed like an impossibility.
“I was so scared you would find out. And then I was scared you wouldn’t. Because what I want—” She swallowed against her fear. “What I want is for you to know me, Daniel. But to know me is to know this terrible thing I have done.”
“I know you, Janeta.”
Janeta shook her head, but warmth was flowing through her. “No, if you did, you would know I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“What exactly did you do that I should punish you for?” he asked, a familiar exasperation creeping into his voice. “I’m certain you didn’t pass on any information.”
“I didn’t. But I was determined to.” She couldn’t let him brush this aside.
He sighed. “I’m sure you were. Luckily for us both you’re a terrible detective.”
Laughter bubbled up in her, pushing past the obstruction of fear and shame, surprising her.
“Both Dyson and me were counting on the fact that I have no heart.” His fingertips brushed her cheeks as he moved from his perch on the arm of the chair, and she could make out the darker shadow of his bulk as he kneeled before her. “I was wrong about that. I have one, and it’s beating so strong and steady I almost can’t stand it. It’s beating again.”
His words grated from his throat, a painful confession, and she realized what had happened in the safety of the dark library. They’d opened themselves up completely in a place their vulnerabilities were less visible. But she’d already known Daniel
had a heart. And he’d already discovered something good in her, too. They had already seen each other, could see each other even now, in the deepest, darkest night. That was as much a miracle as either of them being there to begin with.
She placed her hand against his chest again and spread her fingers.
“Daniel. I want to kiss you,” she said. “May I?”
“I will never again prevent a woman I care for from doing what she wants. As long as it’s not spying for the Rebels, that is.” His voice rumbled out, deep and amused and moving closer in the darkness until the warmth of his breath caressed her cheek. “Kiss me.”
She turned her head and heeded his command, but in the darkness her lips crashed into his nose. They laughed, the sound full of anticipation; they moved toward each other again, more slowly this time, and the laughter dissolved into groans of pleasure as their mouths connected.
She grabbed his face in her hands to hold him close to her, so that nothing could come between them—not even the velvet shadow of night.
His kiss tasted of the earth, something green and bittersweet—likely the tea he’d drank before bed. His lips moved against hers with a focused intensity that seemed to somehow match that taste, inexorable as nature itself. His tongue probed her mouth with such shocking intimacy that it made her body heat; she’d been waiting for their kiss since the morning by the creek, and it seemed he had, too.
There was a sensual hunger in the press of his lips and his grip on her arms. She moved her hands, stroking up past his stubble and over the tight curls of his hair, down to his neck. She was afraid to let him go, she realized; she decided she wouldn’t.
He was moving, though, and for a moment she was afraid he would pull away, but his hands patted over the chair and then her body before he slid one beneath her thighs and one at her lower back and lifted.
She felt herself hauled up against his chest before he took her place in the chair and lowered her onto his lap. She hiked up her gown as she settled her knees on either side of his waist, and when she lowered herself the bare skin of her inner thighs brushed the rough fabric of his trousers, a shocking friction. He was still kissing her, and now that she was settled his hands began to roam. His palms explored her curves, coiling the want and need inside of her. She moved her hips, pressing herself against the hard length of him.