by Jo Goodman
When he spoke his voice was taut because of the constriction in his chest. "Only one of us is thinking clearly Mary Catherine, and it's not me. I don't think you understand how long it's been... you're making it..." Hard, he wanted to say. God, she was making him hard. He could feel his erection pushing against his drawers. His knuckles were white from pressing his fingertips into the palm of his hands.
Mary Catherine slipped the skirt of her gown past the crinoline, then stepped over the puddle of material—toward Logan. Her hoopskirt fastened at the waist and her fingers fumbled momentarily with the ties. It collapsed on the floor when she drew it off. There were two cotton petticoats, both of them shiny with wear and mended with tiny, careful stitches near the hem. She took them off, let them fall on top of the crinoline, and stood boldly in front of Logan in her shift and pantalets, shoes and stockings.
She waited, and when Logan still made no move toward her, Mary Catherine's composure faltered.
"It's because of the colonel, isn't it?" she asked plaintively. "He made me dirty."
Logan snapped. He covered the distance between them in two short strides and pulled Katy into his arms. He held her close, pressing her cheek against his chest while his fingers slipped between the soft strands of her hair. His lips touched the crown of her head and then trailed lightly toward her ear. "You're not dirty. The colonel couldn't do that to you. No one could." He held her away for a moment and looked deeply in her eyes. "Are you certain, Katy? This is what you really want? You're so young."
"You are using the wrong yardstick to measure my youth," she said softly, returning his stare. "Don't count years. Count the things I've already seen and done. Those are the markers of my age."
"Oh, God." He moaned softly under his breath. "I know I—" He didn't finish. Instead he drew Katy close again and raised her mouth to his. As the kiss deepened he lowered her to the floor, pressing her into a mound of hay. He felt her arms circle his back. She rubbed her palms along his shoulder blades. He could make out the outline of her breasts against his chest, and it was not nearly satisfying enough.
Logan's mouth left hers. He kissed the corner of her lips and then teased her with light kisses along her cheek, her jaw, and the delicious cord of her neck. At the curve of her shoulder he paused, and his teeth caught her flesh first, then the strap of her shift. With tantalizing slowness, he tugged it over her shoulder, down her arm, and lower, until the bodice of her shift slipped past the coral tips of her breasts.
Before Mary Catherine decided to approach Logan, she had given some thought to what it would be like to lie with him. What he was doing to her now was beyond anything she had imagined. That he would kiss her on the lips she had anticipated; that he would want to kiss her breasts was wholly unexpected. Yet he was doing exactly that to her now. She felt his tongue flick across first one nipple, then the other. He created a peculiar ache inside her, a burning that shimmered just beneath her skin. The heat elicited a moan that she quickly bit back.
Logan heard her moan and was glad of it. Still stinging from her request for experience, which amounted to little more than a request for him to play the stud, he intended to give her more than she had asked for. He lifted his head and raised himself so his face was above hers. A hairsbreadth separated their lips. When Logan spoke, he could feel the brush of her mouth. Her breathing was sweetly uneven.
"I think you should undress me," he said.
The flush that stole across Mary Catherine went from her breasts to her hairline. Logan's deep, appreciative chuckle sent another frisson of heat through her. "All right," she said. Her hands trailed slowly across his back and down his arms. Logan was wearing a blue chambray pullover shirt. She undid the two buttons at the front, opening the wide collar, and then tugged the shirt free of his wool trousers. His hair was mussed when she pulled the shirt over his head. She smiled because he looked young for a moment, like the enchanted frog prince.
"What are you thinking?"
Mary Catherine's smile faded. She helped him remove his knit undershirt before she straightened his dark, copper-threaded hair with her fingertips. Her fingers slid lightly over the side of his face, tracing the hard line of his jaw. She touched his Adam's apple, felt the pulse beating wildly in his throat and the heat of his tautly muscled chest. Circling his back again, Mary Catherine brought Logan closer until her naked breasts were flush to his skin. "Do we do it now?" she asked.
They would have to, Logan thought, otherwise he would do it in his drawers. Better that he was sheathed deeply inside of her, where, God help him, he wanted to be. "Soon," he whispered against her lips. "Very soon."
Mary Catherine helped him with the sash that held up his trousers, and they both tore at the side tapes closing his drawers. Her shift had climbed up to her hips and Logan reached under the material to lower her pantalets. The thin cotton drawers ripped at the waist in his eagerness to have them off her. The rending sound made him realize how little hope he had of being able to stop at this point. Mary Catherine seemed to be totally unaware of what happened. She was staring at the juncture of his thighs.
Please, God, no, he thought, following the path of her gaze. Don't let her change her mind. Logan did not thing he could tolerate maidenly protests now. Not now. Still, raising her chin so that he could capture her eyes, he asked the question. "Have you changed your mind?"
"No," she said on a mere thread of sound. "But we will have to, won't we? It will never fit inside me. You're as big as a—"
Logan had no idea what she compared him to. His thick, husky laughter drowned her out. He kissed her again, softly at first, and then harder until his hunger leveled off at a new peak. When he raised his face, he saw that her eyes were dark and vaguely unfocused. Her lips were slightly parted and tantalizingly moist. He doubted that she was aware of arching into him or spreading her legs on either side of his thigh. Logan could feel the damp heat of her against his skin. His hand slipped between their bodies and he touched the soft, sensitive bud of flesh nesting between her thighs.
Though there had been moments of almost painful embarrassment in the musky-scented arms of his first woman, moments where eagerness overruled control, Logan did not regret the experience. This was Katy's first time, he thought, and no matter how much she believed she knew what she wanted, no matter how willing she seemed, there had to be part of her that was frightened just as he had been.
His fingers continued to stroke her, exciting her to a higher pitch, and then dipping just to test her readiness. Her head moved slowly from side to side. The chignon had collapsed some time ago and hay mingled with strands of her hair. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and stifled each sound that rose in her throat.
Mary Catherine raised her hips and ground herself against Logan's hand. Whatever he was doing to her, it wasn't enough. Not quite. There was something just beyond her grasp that she continued to reach for without knowing what it was or precisely how to get it. She was certain of only one thing, and that was that Logan knew what she wanted.
She buried her face in his shoulder as she felt his finger probe more deeply between her legs. He kissed the side of her neck and sucked gently on her skin. Her fingers pressed harder into the taut muscles of his back.
Logan's hands moved to either side of her shoulders as he raised himself over her. "Now," he said inching her thighs further apart with his knee. "Now, Katy. Help me." He guided one of her hands to his cock and let her fingers close over him. "Take me in, Katy. You'll see. We will fit together perfectly."
The first blast of the shotgun sent Logan flying out of Mary Catherine's arms. Wood splintered somewhere near his head. "Jesus! What the—"
"Come out of that loft, bare-assed and buck-nekkid if you have to, but bring your Yankee hide down here."
Logan's features turned as hard as granite. The desire that had darkened his pewter eyes faded away. The stare he leveled at Mary Catherine was cold and stony. "It was all an act, wasn't it?" he said in a harsh whisper as he grabbed
his drawers. "You planned this." He did not give her opportunity to confirm or deny his words. Slipping into his underwear, considerably cooled now in that part of him he was afraid was going to be blown off, Logan walked to the edge of the loft and held up his hands in surrender.
Standing below him near the barn door was Peggy Cook. There was nothing soft or grandmotherly about her demeanor now. In her arms she held a Confederate issue, rifle-bore, muzzle-loader musket. The steadiness with which she held the deadly weapon bespoke her experience and her accuracy. Flanking her were two men about Logan's age, each wearing gray wool uniforms that had seen better days. They were both rangy, light on their feet, and they looked like scrappers. Logan knew he hadn't the strength to take one of them down, although he was tempted to try. Fighting two was out of the question.
"I don't have a weapon," he said. Behind him he heard Mary Catherine scrambling for her clothes. He wanted to push her to the forefront, show her aunt and her friends just how far she had been willing to go for the beloved and glorious cause. "I'm coming down now," he told them, lowering his hands. He hunkered down, grabbed the ladder, and swung himself around. He willed Katy to look at him before he disappeared from her view. When she wouldn't, he called her a bitch under his breath.
Mary Catherine heard the epithet and cringed at the venom in Logan's voice. She slipped the straps of her chemise in place and pulled on her dress. There was no time to bother with the corset or petticoats or pantalets or crinoline. Those things were abandoned where they lay. She fastened the buttons on her bodice and smoothed the material before she stood. Logan was already being held between Hank Fairfield and Joe Littlebury by the time Mary Catherine reached the ladder. He wasn't even struggling, although that made no difference to Hank and Joe. They had him immobilized in their iron, double-fisted grips. Aunt Peg had her musket leveled at his chest.
Mary Catherine went to stand beside her aunt. "What are you going to do to him?" She was surprised to hear her voice was trembling. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Logan's lip curl in distaste and disbelief. His eyes were accusing.
It was not her aunt who answered Mary Catherine's question. Joe Littlebury stuck out his chin and aggressively demanded, "What did this Yankee trash do to you afore we got here? Answer that, and we'll tell you 'xactly what we are goin' to do with him."
Mary Catherine felt four pairs of eyes boring into her and the hottest and the sharpest belonged to Logan Marshall. She averted her head and stammered an unintelligible reply.
"Speak up, girl," Joe said.
No words would come and the silence began to condemn her. She looked helplessly at her aunt.
Peg intervened. "I told you at the church that Katy was afraid he was leavin' this morning. She returned to keep him here until I come back with help. Clear as the nose on your face what she had to do to make him stay. Don't look at her as if she's poor white trash now. My niece is no slattern."
Mary Catherine shuddered. It was precisely what Joe and Hank had been thinking. Logan's suspicions were confirmed. "I didn't... that is, he didn't..."
Eyes narrowing on the love bite on Mary Catherine's neck, Peggy poked the barrel of her shotgun at Logan's gut with enough force to make him groan softly. "Hang him up, boys, no need for me to waste lead shot on his jewels."
Hank and Joe started to drag Logan toward a particularly sturdy-looking rafter.
"No!" Mary Catherine pulled on her aunt's sleeve. "Don't let them kill him! You don't know about him, Aunt Peggy! I didn't tell you who he is!"
"Just a minute, boys," she called to them. "Hold up there. That's it, keep him steady." Peggy turned to her niece and gave her a hard look. "Now, what is it that you haven't told me?"
"His name. He's Logan Marshall. He's the one who took Mama and Megan and me from Stone Hollow."
"That doesn't speak well of him. He delivered you to that viper, Colonel Allen, didn't he?" She didn't wait for an answer, but lowered her gun slightly. "Guess he's the same one that got you away from him, too."
Mary Catherine nodded. Although she didn't thank Logan, she knew her aunt did. "It was his dispatch that I copied for Mama and Megan. Remember?"
Her revelation floored Logan. Rose and Megan and Mary Catherine? All spies?
"I know Mama told you all about the Yankee defeat at Chancellorsville," Mary Catherine said. "Before he could return to his unit, Logan was captured, probably because of what we did. Send him back to Libby Prison, don't—"
"No!" Logan's cry was torn from his very soul. "Damn you to hell! Let them kill me! Let them—" Hank Fairfield's fist plowed into Logan's midsection. He sank slowly to his knees, supported only by his captors. Joe's knee caught him in the jaw, and he actually saw blinding splinters of light before darkness engulfed him.
Peg hefted the musket and cradled it against her ample bosom. She looked at Logan's crumpled form dispassionately, then at her niece. "He wants to die," she said. "You heard him. Prison's a terrible thing, Katy. We'd be doing him a favor by killing him now."
"No! I don't believe that!" She lowered her voice so that Hank and Joe couldn't hear her. "Please, Aunt Peg, I lied before. He had me. I could be carrying his child. It's not the same as it was with Megan."
"You sayin' he didn't rape you?"
"That's what I'm saying."
Peggy shook her head. "I can't believe that." She gave the gun to Mary Catherine and climbed into the loft. She examined her niece's undergarments, saw the torn pantalets, and came to the only conclusion she could accept. It was easier for her to believe Katy was lying than to admit her niece had willingly taken a Yankee's seed. "I suppose I can understand that you might want to protect him," she said when she returned to Mary Catherine's side. "But I saw your drawers, and I know the truth. You want to send him to prison? That's fine with me. He'll die there anyway. Probably suffer longer, too." She motioned to Hank and Joe. "Katy here wants him in prison, boys. He helped her family once upon a time so she feels beholdin'. Can you take him back to Libby?"
They shook their heads in unison. "No, ma'am," Joe drawled. "They'd kill him for certain. Not that it would matter to me, but it don't make no kind of sense to take him there just to see him kilt. Hell, we could do that here. Place to send him is Andersonville. That's where they're sendin' Yankees these days. I hear tell there's fighting down Georgia way anyhow. Sherman's got his troops headed for Atlanta. Hank and me been thinkin' of trailin' behind, gettin' us a few Yanks like they was easy pickin's at a turkey shoot. We can get rid of this 'un just as soon as we come across a prison train."
Peg turned to Mary Catherine. "That meet with your approval?"
She nodded quickly, guiltily. "They won't kill him?" she asked again, needing reassurance.
"They won't kill him," Peggy promised. "But if he survives Andersonville and ever decides to look you up, you'll wish they had."
Chapter 3
May 1872—New York City
The playbill said her name was Katy Dakota. Logan Marshall knew different. She could have changed her name to Sara Smith or Barbara Jones, and he still would have known Mary Catherine McCleary. After what she had done to him, after what she had cost him, he was incapable of forgetting. Forgiving never occurred to him.
Logan tried to relax in his seat, stretching his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. The box he shared at Wallack's with his brother and sister-in-law gave him a commanding view of the stage. They were seeing Manners, a play that purported to show that among the New York elite there were none. If the playwright were to be believed, then fidelity, honor, and tradition were values that were given lip service by the wealthy and left to the growing middle class to uphold. Manners was meant to shock theatre-goers with its seduction scenes, the frankness of its dialogue on divorce, and the flouting of conventional morals by the characters. Manners proved to be so shocking that it played to packed houses each night since its opening two weeks earlier. Everyone seemed to agree that the play and its female lead were a scandalous success.
J
enny Marshall nudged her husband delicately and indicated with a flick of her finger that he should look at his brother. Christian turned his head slightly, just enough to see Logan's profile. He didn't know what to make of what he saw. Clearly Logan's attention was on the play, yet his eyelids were heavy and lowered, shading the cool pewter gray of his eyes. He could have been sleeping, yet there was a thread of tension running the length of him. Christian knew his younger brother well enough to know the relaxed posture was a sham. Turning back to Jenny, Christian shrugged and pretended he was not concerned, but his own aquamarine gaze narrowed on the stage as he tried to understand what it was his brother was seeing and thinking.
Jenny was regretting that she and Christian had talked Logan into joining them at the theatre. She had meant it to be an evening's light entertainment. Both men had been working so hard of late, holing up for hours at a time in the study discussing how the Chronicle should handle the latest scandal from Tammany Hall. For Christian it was a personal crusade; normally he left the running of the family-owned paper to his brother. For Logan the long hours were accepted as part of his commitment to the Chronicle and the competition with the New York Times.
Without appearing to let her attention stray from the stage, Jenny studied Logan out of the corner of her eye. The resemblance he bore to his older brother was nothing short of striking. They were of a similar height, both over six feet, with broad, tautly muscled shoulders that filled out a black tail coat so that women actually had been heard to sigh as the brothers passed in tandem. Their hair was threaded with strands of copper but Logan's was darker, more like an old penny piece. Their profiles were sharp, yet rugged.
At thirty-four, Christian was five years older than his brother, but the lines at the corners of Logan's eyes and the often serious—even grim—set of his mouth erased the difference in their ages. Jenny remembered when Christian had looked as hardened as Logan, as if he were always trying to temper his anger. The tension in the long line of Logan's body, the muscle working rhythmically in his lean cheek, and the steady rapping of his fingertips against the scrolled arm of his chair, reminded Jenny so much of Christian a few years ago that she stole a glance at her husband just to make certain he had not reverted.