Rebel Rose

by Debra Glass

  “Thank you,” he said, turning to quit the room—and the widow’s bewitching presence. His gaze found hers and he struggled to remind himself that she was a spy whom he was here to catch and arrest. He hadn’t missed how she ogled the fake orders in his pocket he’d placed there just to lure her. “I am grateful for your…er…hospitality, Mrs. O’Kelley.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And I am grateful for the permits. Thank you, Colonel Skaarsberg.”

  With her dusty apron and hair in disarray, she seemed small and fragile. The mourning gown gave her the illusion of being a victim of this war—and of himself. Eric could easily see why so many men had given her whatever she desired. Sherman had called her a Jezebel.

  Eric’s gaze ventured from her face to her open bodice where just the slightest swell of one breast was visible. Although she’d offered the trade herself, he still wondered just what she would do if he slid his hand inside, searching until he found her nipple. What sounds would she make? Would a look of ecstasy come over her face?

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning aloud. And then, as if he had no will of his own, he took a step toward her intent on acting out his fantasies.

  “Miss Rose?”

  The voice jolted Eric out of his trance and he spun to discover the black man with whom he’d seen her walking earlier. The man looked much younger than he had seemed from the window and Eric guessed him to be about his same age.

  “Rueben,” Rose said. “This is Colonel Skaarsberg. He will be quartering in our house.” Her tone was so flat Eric could not tell if it was edged with spite or resignation.

  Rueben’s eyes narrowed into threatening slits. “There are a good many other rooms in this house. Why are you taking the missus’ room?”

  “She offered it,” Eric said but a pang of guilt swept him. Truthfully, he had tricked her into offering it. He’d not really intended to stay in this room—at least not all night. He had only wanted to gauge her reaction.

  “I don’t care if she offered you the crown jewels of England. You ain’t staying in this room,” Rueben said. “This is Miss Rose’s room.”

  Rose said nothing but victory gleamed in her steady gaze.

  Rueben limped into the room and took up one side of the trunk. “Colonel, if you’ll just get the other side, I think the two of us can manage it.”

  Eric repressed a smile. The only thing with more spit and venom than a Southern woman was a Southern black. This particular one was not about to back down and see his mistress’s room confiscated by a Yankee. No matter how much he had longed to sleep in Rosalie O’Kelley’s bed, Eric knew the prudent thing to do was to take up his side of the trunk and relocate to one of the other rooms.

  He grabbed the handle and with a grunt, he and Rueben hefted the trunk and moved toward the door with it.

  “Come down for supper when you’re settled in,” Rose called.

  This time, the smug tint of triumph sang in her voice.

  * * * * *

  Queenie waddled into the dining room and set a plate on the table in front of Eric.

  “Thank you, Queenie,” he said. “This looks delicious.”

  “Queenie is the best cook in Florence. I don’t know how we’ll make do when the baby comes.”

  Queenie grinned and patted her swollen belly. “Ain’t no baby gonna stop me from cooking.”

  “You might be surprised,” Rose said grimly. She sipped a cup of coffee.

  Eric studied her. Before the mention of Queenie’s baby, Rose had been talking in an almost jovial manner. Now, she seemed pensive. Distracted.

  “Do you have children Mrs. O’Kelley?” he asked.

  Queenie nearly dropped the plate she had for Rose.

  Rose hesitated before she replied. “No, Colonel. I do not have children.”

  There was something bleak in her eyes and in her tone that made Eric wonder.

  “Colonel, if you don’t mind, I will bless our food.” Rose bowed her head and muttered a quick, rehearsed prayer.

  At the risk of being sacrilegious, instead of closing his eyes and bowing his head, Eric watched Rose.

  Her dark hair gleamed in the lamplight. Her lips moved quickly as she spoke and Eric could not help but wonder what it would be like to feel those very lips moving over his mouth, his skin.

  His cock lurched against his trousers. He inhaled. He’d never been so physically attracted to a woman before. Although Rose wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, she was easily the most alluring.

  She had been flirtatious that morning but now she was icy. Reserved. Was it because she’d gotten what she wanted? Or because Sherman had been wrong about her? No. Eric could tell that Rosalie O’Kelley was a woman of her word. She’d offered a trade. Her body for supplies. And before the week was through, Eric had no doubt she’d make good on that trade.

  “Amen,” she said and her eyes opened.

  Eric’s face warmed when her gaze collided with his. “Amen.” He cleared his throat and slid his napkin into his lap, shifting to relieve the pressure of his trousers on his swollen cock.

  “So, Colonel Skaarsberg,” Rose began. “Where are you from?”

  “Ohio,” he replied.

  “Do you have a family there?” She cut into her fried chicken.

  “My…my parents are both deceased,” he said, driving down a torrent of memories.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Rose said and then her eyebrow arched. “You’re not married?”

  He shook his head. “Before the war, I worked as an apprentice for an attorney. I plan to open my own law practice when this war is over.”

  She swallowed the bite of meat she’d taken. “It seems as if a good many people plan to do a good many things when the war is over.”

  “What about you, Mrs. O’Kelley? What are your plans?” he asked before he took a bite of Queenie’s creamy mashed potatoes.

  Rose stared. “I’ve stopped thinking in terms of a future.”

  Eric’s heart twisted. On the exterior, she seemed so strong and confident. She possessed all the wiles and independence of a stray cat. But although he’d only known her for a few hours, something about her filled him with the inexplicable urge to shield her from the world.

  He sorely reminded himself he was here to do a job. Sympathizing with Southerners would only get him into trouble—and God knew he’d known his share of trouble at the hands of secessionists.

  Rose nibbled her food, hardly tasting the blend of savory spices in which Queenie had breaded the fried chicken. A sense of melancholy descended on her and she realized she hadn’t thought past the war.

  Right now, she felt as the damned thing might never end. Since her husband’s death, her life had consisted of finagling goods and supplies out of the Yankees, trying to hold onto what worldly possessions she had left, and trying to keep food on the table.

  She’d never dropped this low, though. She’d never offered more than the promise of a peck on the cheek for a permit. Now, she was willing to trade her body for a few barrels of salt.

  Times were different. Times were worse. The Yankee only had a week or two left to remain in Florence at the very most. General Hood’s entire Confederate Army was assembling just across the Tennessee River and when they crossed it, they’d be ragged and tired and hungry—and frightfully low on supplies. They’d take everything Rose had in her stores. And while she didn’t begrudge the soldiers who were fighting for her independence, she realized this war was all but over. Why should she smile and hand over everything for which she’d sold her soul?

  And what about after the war?

  How would she make ends meet? Would she marry again?

  What else was there for a woman to do?

  She glanced at Eric. Despite their decadent agreement, he was the first man who’d actually caught her attention. Realistically, Rose knew all too well there was more to a man than a comely appearance. Still, she wondered what it would be like to be naked in such a handsome man’s arm
s, to feel his body moving over and into hers.

  The muscles in her thighs tightened in dark anticipation. She squeezed her legs together but the motion only made the throbbing between them worse.

  Her hand trembled as she reached for her cup so she held it with both hands as she brought it to her lips. She had to talk, to say something. The tension hung taut between them and she could tell by the way his gaze moved over her body that he was thinking the same thing she was.

  She hadn’t realized until now exactly how lonely she’d been or even how much she needed a man’s touch. Certainly, she touched herself in the dark but fantasies could not replace the feel of strong arms and warm kisses.

  Her cheeks warmed and she hoped the colonel didn’t notice that she was blushing. But even at the risk of giving away her lurid thoughts, she scandalously wondered when he intended to demand payment for their trade.

  * * * * *

  Rose pulled her threadbare shawl close and gazed up at the brilliant stars. Even though there was a chill in the autumn air, she enjoyed sitting outside at night. The insects from summer had gone away with the first frost earlier in the month and now there was no chirping or buzzing in the darkness. There was only silence.

  In fact, the only sound that disturbed the quiet was the intermittent kiss of Rueben puffing on his pipe. Oddly enough, the colonel didn’t smoke. Most soldiers did. Billy had.

  Queenie rested her head on Rueben’s shoulder as he rubbed a palm over her back. The sight of them together, so easy with each other, made Rose miss her husband. She heaved a silent sigh.

  Two long years. Briefly, she closed her eyes. It seemed more like a thousand years since she’d felt safe, since her only responsibilities consisted of managing the household. Now, it seemed as if the whole town depended on her. The others weren’t brave enough to demand stores from the Yankees but they were willing enough to accept her charity.

  She gazed across the street at the imposing façade of the Irvine house. No lights shone in the window. They were either all abed or spying from within to catch a glimpse of the new Yankee quartermaster.

  Even the Foster house at the head of Court Street was dark. Before the war both houses had been grand mansions. Now they were as ragged as everything else in the South. There wasn’t a house in Florence that wasn’t in need of a fresh coat of paint.

  Rose imagined she was very much like those once grand houses. Long ago, it seemed, she’d been vibrant and beautiful. Now she was only tired and ragged.

  Dark and sad.

  She cut her eyes at the colonel. He sat with his feet propped casually on the porch railing. His body stretched so long that with his chair rocked back on its hind legs, he could rest his head against the exterior wall of the house. She wondered what the neighborhoods looked like where he was from. Did the houses need paint? Were the women garbed in old, tattered dresses because there was no fabric or need for new garments? Were the people weary, widowed and cheerless?

  “Where are you from?” she asked suddenly overcome with curiosity.

  He put the chair back on all four feet and sat up straight. “Originally from Connecticut,” he said. “But currently from Ohio.”

  Rose had never traveled any farther north than Kentucky. “Is it cold there?”

  “Bone-chilling,” he said. “The winters here are just as bitter. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. They simply don’t last as long.”

  “It astounds me that a country can have such different climates and landscapes,” Rose mused. “Have you been west?”

  “No farther than Arkansas,” he said. “Rough country, that.”

  “I was hoping maybe you had tales of the Indians to share,” Rose said.

  “My mammy remembered when the Indians were here,” Queenie interjected.

  Rose never spoke of it but her own grandmother had been a Cherokee woman who’d been forced to leave her home in Tennessee to join the infamous Trail of Tears. She’d fallen ill near Florence and had been taken in and nursed back to health by Rose’s grandfather. After that, she’d changed her name from Gahlilahi, which meant pretty in Cherokee, to Gillianna and claimed she was Black Dutch instead of Cherokee. When enough palms were greased, the authorities tended to look the other way where marriage between whites and natives was concerned.

  Queenie stood, bracing her back with her hands. Her swollen belly jutted, straining the homespun fabric of her dress.

  “Are you turning in?” Rose asked.

  “Yessum,” she said, patting her stomach. “This little fella makes me powerful hungry and powerful tired.”

  Rose smiled, recalling the odd, joyous, terrifying sensation of a baby growing inside. “Good night,” Rose whispered.

  Rueben puffed his pipe and cast a watchful eye at the Yankee. “You want me to stay up awhile longer, Miss Rose?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said.

  After the couple disappeared around the corner of the house, Eric turned to his pensive hostess. “What about you?” he asked. “Are you originally from here?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How did your brother come to fight for the North?”

  “He settled in Kentucky,” she told him. “And I suppose he felt an allegiance to his West Point classmates from up North.”

  “More than family?” Eric prodded.

  She shot him a glance he could not read. Was that spite or remorse? “He married a girl from Massachusetts. She became his family.” She stared into the darkness. “She’s a widow too, now. Just like I am.”

  “I did not know your husband but I was acquainted with your brother. He was a gallant man.”

  Her gaze swiveled to his again and she stared a moment. “Sir, I am wise enough to know that no one is truly gallant. Not Billy. Not my brother. It was kill or be killed in that Tennessee peach orchard. I’ve grown weary of talk of courage and gallantry. What it is, is stupidity and stubbornness.”

  With that, she stood and went inside. “Good night, Colonel Skaarsberg,” she called as he heard her footsteps ascending the staircase.

  Chapter Three

  Rose awakened the next morning to the sound of hammering. Bewildered, she got out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. The way the sunlight streamed through the window told her she’d grievously overslept.

  She stepped into her slippers and then, holding her robe close, she ventured into the hallway. Out here, the hammering was even louder.

  The colonel’s door was ajar. He was already up.

  She looked toward the ceiling. The hammering was coming from the roof. She blew an exasperated breath through her lips. Rueben had no business on the roof. After his injury, he wasn’t as able as he had once been. And especially with Queenie in a delicate condition! She didn’t need to be nursing her husband and a baby.

  Gathering up the long skirt of her robe, Rose rushed down the stairs. “Queenie?” she called but got no answer. “Queenie, where are you?”

  The screen door creaked and Rose darted toward the back of the house. “Queenie?”

  But it was Rueben who stood at the door and yet, the pounding still continued.

  “What’s going on?” Rose demanded. “It sounds as if someone is tearing the house down.”

  Rueben’s eyes lifted and Rose stepped out onto the back stoop. Someone had leaned the ladder against the house. Her gaze traveled up the rungs to where two black boots appeared over the eave. Rose darted off the porch and shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand, looked up to discover the Yankee colonel descending the ladder with a hammer lodged in his belt.

  Were it not for his blue uniform trousers, he would have looked like any other man. Rose swallowed thickly. Not any other man, she thought. Without his frock coat and vest on, every muscle in his shoulders and back was delineated underneath the perspiration soaked, cotton shirt he wore.

  “That should take care of those loose shingles,” he said cheerily as he reached the bottom of the ladder. He turned, wiping the sweat from his b
row with the sleeve of his shirt. “Oh, good morning, Mrs. O’Kelley,” he said and flashed her a smile.

  Rose gaped. “What were you doing on the roof?”

  He withdrew the hammer from his belt and handed it to Rueben. “Nailing down the loose shingles. You could use a bit of tar up there to reinfor—”

  The last time the roof had been patched, Billy had done it. Inexplicable rage flooded Rose at the memory. She cut the colonel off. “We are perfectly capable of fixing our own roof, thank you, Colonel Skaarsberg.”

  “Miss Rose,” Rueben began.

  But it was the colonel’s turn to interrupt. “Would you have me believe you’d send this man up a ladder with that game leg?”

  “I—” Rose started. She closed her mouth. “No.”

  “And her?” the colonel asked, gesturing to Queenie.

  “Of course not.” The back of Rose’s neck grew hot.

  “I think fixin’ the roof is the least he can do if he’s gonna sleep in our house and eat our food,” Queenie interjected.

  Rose’s gaze darted from Queenie to Rueben and then to the colonel. He was dividing and conquering. He’d won the others over with his glib tongue and misplaced generosity. Well, he wouldn’t get under her skin. Rose wouldn’t let him.

  His dimples deepened.

  But, oh dear Lord, that smile!

  Resigned, Rose sighed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said and then turned to Rueben. “I’ll see if I can scare up some grease for that stubborn pump handle, too.”

  Clutching her dressing gown close, Rose watched the colonel amble into the shed. She crossed her arms over her chest. He must really be looking to make good on our agreement.

  “Miss Rose,” Rueben scolded once the colonel was out of earshot. “There’s a long list of things that needs to get done around this house. Do I need to remind you that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

  She stared at the shadowy opening to the shed—the last place she’d seen the colonel. “No. I don’t need reminding.”

  Rueben took a step closer to her. “Mister Billy ain’t around and I can’t—”