Rebel Rose

by Debra Glass

  “Ma’am?” he asked, shaking her out of her reverie.

  “I…I have several servants. It’s coming upon the time of year when I will need to salt down a good deal of meat and—”

  “Six barrels is more than one woman and a handful of servants need.”

  Anger roiled. Rose clenched her fists. “Sir, would you have us starve this winter? Would you have what we have worked hard for this past year go to waste because we have not enough salt?”

  “I’ll write you a permit for three barrels.”

  Rose took two steps toward him, forcing him to look her in the eye. Green. His eyes were the palest spring green. Rose stared for a steep second before she remembered what she was there to do. “Your own Colonel Cornyn carted off my livestock and produce but a year ago. I have struggled to restock my spare larder.” She took one more calculated step closer. “I have faith a good Christian man such as you would not deny me.” She took a deep breath, knowing her breasts rose and fell seductively with it.

  His gaze never wavered from her eyes. “Three.”

  Rose shook. She resisted the petulant urge to stamp her foot. “I need six.” Her voice rose in pitch and she realized she was about to lose control of her temper.

  “I am authorized to write you a permit for three,” he said.

  “Very well,” Rose said, daring to take another step closer to this giant of an angel. Her black skirt swept over the toes of his polished boots. “Then write me two permits. Each for three barrels of salt.”

  “Madam, rhetoric and pretty persuasion are regrettably lost on me. I could not write you more than one permit—for three barrels of salt—if I wanted to. Surely you realize how tight the reins are on rations in these trying times.”

  “There would be no trying times if you Yankees would just go back where you belong.” Rose wanted to kick herself. Hard. What the devil was she doing? She should be smiling, batting her eyelashes, even working up tears. Instead, his denial and blatant rejection of her had transformed her into a snappish shrew.

  She breathed as deeply as she could, wishing she had not asked Queenie to lace her stays so tightly. Obviously, a slender waist—or any of her others wiles—had no effect on this man.

  “You wouldn’t want my servants and me to starve with winter coming on, would you, Colonel Skaarsberg?” she asked, looking up at him with what she knew was the perfect pout on her rouged lips.

  His gaze flicked to her mouth and then he averted it again. A small triumph welled in her breast. Rose did not miss a trick. She moved so that she was once more in the line of his sight. “Please, Colonel. It’s only three more than you have agreed to give me.”

  He merely stared.

  Rose inhaled, summoning courage. She’d never stooped this low before but with the Confederates nearby and the threat of losing her hard-earned provisions again, she felt she had little choice. She leveled her gaze on his. “I…I would be willing to…offer you a trade.”

  “A trade?” he asked. His eyes were so cold, like green ice.

  She cleared her throat. “My…services for your supplies.”

  “Services? What type services? Are you a seamstress?”

  He was making this very difficult.

  Rose forced herself to hold his gaze. “No.”

  “Then what?” he asked impatiently.

  Her chest rose and fell with her deep breaths. What if he agreed? She didn’t want to think about what she’d do if he didn’t agree. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly form the words. “I…I realize you are far from home. Far from female…companionship. I could offer you that.”

  “Female companionship?”

  Rose wanted to scream. “Sex, Colonel Skaarsberg. Sex with me for your supplies.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched before he promptly spun on his heel and went back to his desk.

  Victory was close. Rose watched him dip his pen in the bottle of ink on his desk and scrawl something on a piece of paper. Her heart pounded but she made sure he saw the dimples in her cheeks as he handed her the permit.

  “Good day, Mrs. O’Kelley.”

  Rose’s gaze fell to the paper. Her spirits plummeted. Three? “Three? But—” she began but he quickly cut her off.

  “Good day, Mrs. O’Kelley,” he said tersely.

  Rose stammered, trying to think of words that would not come. She could not believe he had refused her so coldly. She stared as he returned to his seat, donned his spectacles and went back to the task he had been performing before she had entered his office.

  Heat flooded her cheeks. She wanted to rail at him, to throw the permit back in face. She did neither. Instead, she spat out an insincere “thank you,” spun and stalked from the room.

  Her skirt swept the floor as she descended the staircase. Poole caught up with her as she fled the building. “Always good to see you, ma’am,” he fawned.

  Rose was in no mood to charm the sergeant. “Tell me, Sergeant Poole—is the colonel always so disagreeable?”

  “Disagreeable? To you?” Incredulous, he glanced back toward the stairs.

  Rose burst through the open doorway. “Let’s go, Rueben,” she said as she continued moving to the street. She could not get away from this place fast enough.

  “Did he give you the permit?” Rueben hobbled to keep up with Rose.

  She clutched the permit in her hand so tightly it crumpled. “He gave me a permit for three barrels,” she said practically spitting the words out.

  Rueben glanced back at the gothic brick building. “That him?”

  Rose stopped in mid-stride and whirled so quickly her heavy hoop swung her slightly off balance. She sidestepped to right herself before she trained her gaze on the window where Colonel Skaarsberg stood, staring down at them with his expressionless face.

  “Yes,” Rose said, jerking her chin at him as she turned her back on him once more. “That’s the blue devil.” The irony was not lost on her that only moments ago, she had pictured him as an angel.

  How could he have been so unresponsive to her entreaties? She’d offered him her body and he’d dismissed her as if she had been an old crone instead of an Alabama belle in her prime. And a widow at that. Didn’t widows have the reputation as being a bit more amorous than their maiden counterparts?

  She slowed her pace to match Rueben’s. He’d been wounded in the fighting where her husband was killed. Rueben did not talk about it but Rose had read letters that detailed how Rueben had been so grief-stricken at the loss of his brother, he’d taken up one of the new Enfield rifles and single-handedly put five Federals in Tennessee graves that stormy April day.

  “I guess Hood’s army will just have to make do with what we have,” Rueben said, resigned.

  Rose sighed. “Not if I have any say so in the matter. I’ll get that salt. Just you wait and see.”

  The colonel was just harder to persuade. That was all. And he did not have any idea just how persuasive Rose could be when she wanted something.

  Chapter Two

  Eric inhaled. The she-Rebel’s fragrance still lingered in the air. She was everything Sherman had warned him about and more.

  He gritted his teeth and shook his head. It was apparent that she was not accustomed to being denied. Anything.

  And now, Eric could easily see why. During his time in the South, he had learned that there were two types of women referred to as Southern belles. One was the naturally pretty and sweet-tempered blonde or redhead. The other was a dark beauty whose hair and eyes evidenced a native heritage.

  Rosalie O’Kelley was the latter.

  When she had first entered his office, Eric had been aware she was wearing mourning. So many women in the South were these days. He’d purposefully not looked up, simply to gauge her reaction to his indifference. But when he had…

  His insides seized at the memory. Rosalie O’Kelley was the most stunning widow he had ever laid eyes on. It had taken every ounce of iron will he possessed not to go slack-jawed and gape at the woman. Her
hair was the same black as her dress and gleamed like a crow’s back in the sun. He recognized the stain of rouge on her fuller-than-fashionable lips and, although he was not one who approved of paint on women’s faces, the hint of color on her high cheekbones gave life to her pale olive complexion.

  Graceful as a black cat, she had floated toward him and that’s when he had noticed the color of her eyes. From across the room, they appeared an indistinguishable brown. Up close, he could see they were the color of summer leaves at twilight, deep, dark green—and just as mysterious.

  He knew, of course, that she was playing him but when the smile formed on her lush lips…he’d wanted only to grant her every desire just to see those dimples deepen at the corners of her mouth again.

  General Sherman had assured him that Rosalie O’Kelley was a virtuous woman despite her wiles but Eric found himself wondering if it were true—and hoping it was not. She’d offered herself to him but only as a last resort. Doubtless the other quartermasters had fallen at the first bat of her black lashes. In spite of the fact that he knew better, it would be to his advantage if the widow was the spitfire she seemed.

  She had unwittingly played right into his hands and although he’d prepared himself to do anything to discover her secrets, the thought of taking her offer terrified him to the core. But he had learned from the best and now he would do anything to stop more Union soldiers from dying.

  After the bewitching widow disappeared from sight, Eric moved from the window and began writing out a permit for three additional barrels of salt. He took a deep breath and blew it out as he returned his pen to the holder. This permit would be hand delivered—when he informed the widow he would be quartered in her house.

  * * * * *

  “I’ll have to check with Miss Rose before you come in here!” Queenie’s voice echoed in the foyer.

  Rose brushed a loose strand of hair back with her wrist and then wiped her hands on her apron. She twisted from where she had been cleaning with a feather duster and glanced at the clock on her dresser. It was nearly six in the evening. Who would be coming to call at this time of day?

  From the tone of Queenie’s voice, Rose realized it was certainly no one she knew. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach. It had been nearly a year since the Yankees had quartered in her home, forcing her to sleep in the servant house out back with Queenie and Rueben.

  And as far as Rose knew, the only new Yankee in town was—

  She darted into the upstairs hallway just in time to see Colonel Skaarsberg ascending the stairs. Two soldiers followed, wagging a trunk.

  Rose’s heart plummeted.

  “Good evening, Mrs. O’Kelley,” the colonel said with an insolent nod of his head.

  “I told him he couldn’t come in here,” Queenie called from the ground floor.

  “It’s all right, Queenie,” Rose said, glancing to make certain her servant was indeed all right. Queenie was expecting a baby within the month and Rose knew full well what excitement could do to a woman in a delicate condition.

  She turned to Skaarsberg. “What are you doing in my home?” she demanded although it was very obvious what he was doing here. Her pulse accelerated and she took a step back as he reached the top of the stairs.

  His gaze raked her in blatant appraisal making Rose regret that she’d spent the entire afternoon cleaning. Her hair was askew. Her apron was dirty. Mud spattered the hem of her dress and the worst of it all, was the smug gleam in Skaarsberg’s eyes.

  Rose truly hated this man.

  “I will be quartering here,” he told her with a lopsided grin that made Rose ache to slap him.

  She swallowed thickly. “There are a good many other houses in town which are less…modest…than mine.”

  “This one will do nicely,” he said, his gaze leaving hers to scan the three upstairs rooms which were visible from the small hallway at the top of the stairs.

  Twisting his slouch hat in his hand, he brushed past her and Rose took two faltering steps backward. Once again assaulted with his clean, masculine scent, she wondered why he had to be so fine-looking. Her heart felt as if it were beating in her throat.

  Once he reached the center of the bedroom, he turned to her. “Is this your room?” The tone of his voice dropped and there was no mistaking his unspoken implication.

  A surge of heat flooded Rose’s cheeks and radiated to the back of her neck. “Yes,” she said, moving inside to run her fingers over the cool marble top on her dresser.

  He stared as if he were debating claiming it as his own. Rose could not read him well enough to know what he would do if she protested. Begging certainly had not gotten her anywhere with him. But would he take her room—and her bed—just to spite her? Dominate her?

  The abrupt thought of him dominating her in her own bed intruded into her thoughts and shocked at herself, she lowered her lashes. She’d never had such indecent thoughts about her husband. Why this man? This hateful Yankee! She forced the unwelcome thoughts away and lifted her gaze to his. It was time to try a different approach. “The other beds in the house are not large enough for a man of your…size. You should take my room.”

  Something flashed in his eyes. Surprise? Triumph? Rose could not tell. Please don’t take my room, you Yankee bastard.

  The tiny muscles at one corner of his mouth twitched. After a steep silence he said, “How very generous of you. Again.”

  With a wave of his hand, the two soldiers carted his trunk into the room and put it at the foot of the bed before they left.

  Rose’s heart sank. There was little she could do about Skaarsberg quartering in her home—and sleeping in her bed—and she knew it. For the time being, she would have to feed him, do his laundry and even entertain him. Spite for him welled and she clenched her fists so hard her nails bit into her palms. She fought to keep from lashing out at him.

  “Oh, by the way,” he began as he started toward her. “I have reconsidered your request.”

  Without warning, he took her hand in his and lifted it. Rose resisted the impulse to jerk away from him. Instead, she stifled a gasp as he put a piece of folded paper in her palm. His hands engulfed hers, lingering uncomfortably long. Rose drew back and he released her but when she looked down to see what he had given her, the victory was not as sweet as she would have thought. It was a permit for three additional barrels of salt.

  She knew she should thank him but it was the very least he could do given the circumstances. She shoved the paper in the pocket of her apron. “I suppose I should take back those hateful things I said about you,” she told him as she swatted an errant strand of hair away from her forehead.

  “What hateful things?” he asked.

  “The things I said about you as I left the college,” she snapped. “And suppose my offer has been withdrawn?”

  He laughed outright and God, what a laugh. The sound of it filled the room and her ears, reverberating in her head. His laughter was disarming and in any other place, she would have found the sound of it attractive, charming even.

  Heavens, he was so close. His presence made Rose acutely aware of everything—her thundering heartbeat which caused her open bodice to flutter, the subtle movements of her skirt, the rise and fall of his shoulders and feel of his gaze on her face.

  More obvious, was a pack of folded papers peeping out of the pocket of his uniform jacket. Permits? Rose gulped. If only she could get her hands on those. She tried very hard not to stare at the papers.

  As it was, she was pinned between him and the dresser and if she moved first, she would have to venture even closer to him. Heat radiated from his body. And that scent. She inhaled. Leather. Man. Soap. Did he know what he was doing to her? Because if he did, he was even more reprehensible than she’d first thought.

  “I…I need to collect my things,” she said briefly looking into his eyes before pretending to have great interest in a speck of dirt on her apron.

  He made no move to step out of her way.

  The wind
ows were open. It was October. Why was it so miserably hot in here? A bead of perspiration trickled downward between Rose’s shoulder blades. “Sir, I shall have to retrieve my…unmentionables from this chest. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  And then, he did the unthinkable. Rose froze as he took his own handkerchief, slipped one hand under her chin and lifted it so he could wipe a smudge off her cheek. The act was so presumptuous and so intimate that all Rose could do was gape. Every ounce of decorum she possessed screamed at her to accuse him of lechery but she did not.

  No. She needed to use his obvious change of heart to her advantage. Perhaps he had reconsidered his harsh treatment of her earlier. Something warm and liquid unfurled inside her.

  “You had a bit of dust on your cheek,” he murmured, caressing her chin as he released her.

  Rose displayed her dimples. “I thought you Yankees liked to see us Southern girls covered in grime and sweat.”

  Eric stared, trying to figure her out. The voice in his head urged him to say ribald things to her. Take your clothes off, right now. He fought the impulse. “Grime no. Sweat, now that’s another story entirely,” Eric told her.

  He stepped back and turned away from her so she would not notice the cockstand pushing against his trousers. He shut his eyes briefly but the image of her brilliant smile was already branded on his brain, sending blood pumping straight to the area where he least needed it to go right now.

  He drew in a deep breath and blew it out, trying to forget the beautiful spitfire who was standing behind him. What Herculean task had Sherman asked of him? Sakes alive, he was only human. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I will give you a few moments to collect your things.”

  “Queenie should have supper ready by now,” the widow said, her tone reverting back to the intruded-upon Southern sympathizer.