Her husband's indifference prodded Kit to the limits of what even she considered acceptable behavior. She whirled from one partner to the next, dancing with Rebel and Yankee alike, complimenting each one extravagantly and letting several hold her too closely. She didn't care what any of them thought. Let them talk! She drank champagne, danced every dance, and laughed her intoxicating laugh. Only Veronica Gamble sensed the edge of desperation behind it.
A few of the women were secretly envious of Kit's bold behavior, but most were shocked. They looked around anxiously for the dangerous Mr. Cain, but he was nowhere in sight. Someone whispered that he was playing poker in the library and losing badly.
There was open speculation about the state of the Cain marriage. The couple had not once danced together. There'd been rumors that it was a marriage of necessity, but Katharine Cain's waistline was as slim as ever, so that couldn't be.
The poker game folded shortly before two. Cain had lost several hundred dollars, but his black mood had little to do with money. He stood in the doorway of the ballroom, watching his wife sail across the floor in the arms of the Italian. Some of her hair had come loose from its pins and tumbled in disarray around her shoulders. Her cheekbones still held their high color, and her lips were rosy smudges, as if someone had just kissed her. The baritone couldn't seem to look away from her.
A muscle twitched in the corner of Cain's jaw. He pushed past the couple in front of him and was about to stride onto the ballroom floor when John Hughes caught at his arm.
"Mr. Cain, Will Bonnett over there claims there wasn't a bluecoat in the whole Union army could out-shoot a Reb. What d'ya think? You ever meet a Reb you couldn't pick off if you set your mind to it?"
This was dangerous talk. Cain tore his eyes away from his wife and turned his attention to Hughes. Even though nearly four years had passed since Appomattox, social interaction between Northerners and Southerners was still tenuous, with talk of the war pointedly avoided when they were pushed together.
He looked over at the group of seven or eight men made up of former Union soldiers as well as Confederate veterans. It was obvious that they'd all had more than enough to drink, and even from where he was standing, he could hear that their discussion had progressed from polite disagreement to open antagonism.
With a last glance toward Kit and the Italian, he walked with Hughes to the men. "War's over, fellows. What do you say we all go sample some of Mrs. Gamble's fine whiskey?"
But the discussion had gone too far. Will Bonnett, a former rice planter who had served in the same regiment as Brandon Parsell, punched his index finger in the direction of one of the men who worked for the Freedmen's Bureau. "No soldier in the world ever fought like the Confederate soldier, and you know it."
The angry voices were beginning to catch the attention of the other guests, and as the argument grew louder, people stopped dancing to see what the commotion was about.
Will Bonnett spotted Brandon Parsell standing with his fiancée and her parents. "Brandon, you tell 'em. You ever see anybody could shoot like our boys in gray? Come on over here. Tell these bluebellies how it was."
Parsell moved forward reluctantly. Cain frowned when he saw that Kit had moved up, too, instead of remaining in the back with the other women. But what else had he expected?
By this time Will Bonnett's voice had reached the musicians, who gradually put down their instruments so they could enjoy the argument. "We were outnumbered," Bonnett declared, "but you Yankees never outfought us, not for a minute of the war."
One of the Northerners stepped forward. "Seems like you got a short memory, Bonnett. You sure as hell got outfought at Gettysburg."
"We didn't get outfought!" an older man standing next to Will Bonnett exclaimed. "You got lucky. Why, we had boys twelve years old could shoot better than all your officers put together."
"Hell, our women could shoot better than their officers!"
There was a great roar of laughter at this sally, and the speaker was slapped heartily on the back for his wit. Of all the Southerners present, only Brandon didn't feel like laughing.
He looked first at Kit and then at Cain. The injustice of their marriage was a splinter under his skin. At first he'd been relieved not to be married to a woman who didn't behave as a lady should, even though it meant the loss of Risen Glory. But as the weeks and months had passed, he'd watched Risen Glory's fields bursting white with bolls and seen the wagons laden with ginned cotton head for Cain's spinning mill. Even after he'd become engaged to Eleanora, who'd bring him the Planters and Citizens Bank, he couldn't erase the memory of a pair of wicked violet eyes. Tonight she'd had the audacity to poke fun at him.
Everything in his life had soured. He was a Parsell and yet he had nothing, while they had everything-a disreputable Yankee and a woman who didn't know her place.
Impulsively he came forward. "I believe you do have a point about our Southern women. Why, I once saw our own Mrs. Cain shoot a pinecone out of a tree from seventy-five yards, even though she couldn't have been more than ten or eleven at the time. There's talk to this day that she's still the best shot in the county."
Several exclamations met this piece of information, and once again Kit found herself the object of admiring masculine eyes. But Parsell hadn't finished. It wasn't easy for a gentleman to settle a score with a lady and remain a gentleman, but that was exactly what he intended to do. And he'd settle with her husband at the same time. It would be impossible for Cain to go along with what Brandon was about to propose, but the Yankee would still look like a coward when he refused.
Brandon fingered the edge of his lapel. "I've heard that Major Cain is a good shot. I guess we've all heard more than enough about the Hero of Missionary Ridge. But if I were a betting man, I'd put my money on Mrs. Cain. I'd give about anything to send Will across the street for his matching set of pistols, place a row of bottles on Mrs. Gamble's garden wall, and see just how good a Yankee officer can shoot against a Southern woman, even if she does happen to be his wife. Of course, I'm sure Major Cain wouldn't permit his wife to take part in a shootin' contest, especially when he knows he has a pretty good chance of coming out the loser."
There were hoots of laughter from the Southern men. Parsell had put that Yankee in his place! Although none of them seriously believed a woman, even a Southern one, could outshoot a man, they'd enjoy seeing the match all the same. And because she was only a woman, there'd be no honor lost to the South when the Yankee beat her.
The women who'd gathered nearby were deeply shocked by Brandon's proposal. What could he be thinking of? No lady could make such a public spectacle of herself, not in Charleston. If Mrs. Cain went along with this, she'd be a social pariah. They glared at their husbands, who were encouraging the match, and vowed to curtail their consumption of spirits for the rest of the evening.
The Northerners urged Cain to accept the challenge. "Come on, Major. Don't let us down."
"You can't back out on us now!"
Kit felt Cain's eyes on her. They burned like fire. "I can't permit my wife to engage in a public shooting contest."
He spoke so coldly, as if he didn't care at all. He might have been talking about a mare he owned instead of a wife. She was merely another piece of property.
And Cain gave away his property before he could become attached.
The wildness claimed her, and she came forward, sparking fires in the beads of her gown. "I've been challenged, Baron. This is South Carolina, not New York. Even as my husband, you can't interfere in a matter of honor. Fetch your pistols, Mr. Bonnett. Gentlemen, I'll face my husband." She shot him a challenge. "If he declines, I'll face any other Yankee who'd care to shoot against me."
The shocked gasps of the women went unheard beneath the triumphant whoops of the men. Only Brandon didn't join in the joviality. He'd meant to embarrass them both, but he hadn't meant to ruin her. After all, he was still a gentleman.
"Kit-Major Cain-I-I believe I was somewhat hasty. Surely you cannot
-"
"Save it, Parsell," Cain growled, his own mood now as reckless as his wife's. He was tired of being the conciliator, tired of losing the battles she seemed determined to thrust them into. He was tired of her distrust, tired of her laughter, tired even of the expression of concern he glimpsed too often in her eyes when he came in exhausted from the mill. Most of all, he was tired of himself for caring so damned much about her.
"Set up your bottles," he said roughly. "And bring as many lamps as you can find into the garden."
With a great deal of laughter, the men moved off, Northerner and Southerner suddenly drawn together as they figured the odds on the match. The women fluttered with the excitement of being witnesses to such a scandal. At the same time, they didn't want to get too close to Kit, so they drifted farther away, leaving husband and wife standing alone.
"You've got your match," he said stonily, "just like you've gotten everything else you've wanted."
When had she gotten anything she wanted? "Are you afraid I'll beat you?" she managed to ask.
He shrugged. "I figure there's a pretty fair chance of it. I'm a good shot, but you're better. I've known that since the night you tried to kill me when you were eighteen."
"You knew how I'd react when you forbade me to shoot, didn't you?"
"Maybe. Or maybe I figured that champagne you've been drinking has tilted the odds in my favor."
"I wouldn't count too much on the champagne." It was false bravado. Although she wouldn't admit it, she had drunk too much.
Veronica descended on them, her habitual amusement cast aside. "Why are you doing this? If this were Vienna, it would be different, but this is Charleston. Kit, you know you'll be ostracized."
"I don't care."
Veronica spun on Cain. "And you… how can you be a party to this?"
Her words fell on deaf ears. Will Bonnett had reappeared with his pistol case, and Kit and Cain were swept out through the back doors into the garden.
20
Despite the moonless night, the garden shone as brightly as if it were daylight. Fresh torches had been lit in the iron brackets, and kerosene lamps had been brought outside from the house. A dozen champagne bottles perched along the brick wall. Veronica noticed that only half of them were empty and gave hurried orders to the butler to replace the others. Honor might be at stake, but she wouldn't see good champagne wasted.
The Southerners groaned when they saw the matching guns Bonnett had produced. They were the Confederate version of the Colt revolver, plain and serviceable, with walnut grips and a brass frame instead of the more expensive steel frame of the Colt. But they were heavy, designed for wartime use by a man. This was no gun for a woman.
Kit, however, was accustomed to the weight and barely noticed it as she took the gun nearest to her from the box. She inserted six of the paper cartridges Will had provided into the empty chambers of the cylinder and pulled the loading lever down each time to press them into place. Then she fitted six copper percussion caps at the other end of the cylinder. Her fingers were smaller than Cain's, and she was done first.
The distance was marked off. They would stand twenty-five paces from their target. Each would fire six shots. Ladies first.
Kit stepped up to the line mat had been scratched in the gravel. Under normal circumstances, the empty champagne bottles would have held little challenge for her, but her head swam from too many glasses of champagne.
She turned sideways to the target and lifted her arm. As she sighted through the notch and bead, she made herself forget everything except what she had to do. She pulled the trigger, and the bottle exploded.
There were surprised exclamations from the men.
She moved on to the next bottle, but her success had made her careless, and she forgot to take those extra glasses of champagne into account. She fired too quickly and just missed the second target.
Cain watched from the side as she picked off the next four bottles. His anger gave way to admiration. Five out of six, and she wasn't even sober. Damn, but she was one hell of a woman. There was something primitive and wonderful in the way she stood silhouetted against the torch flames, her arm extended, the deadly revolver forming such marked contrast to her loveliness. If only she were more manageable. If only…
She lowered the revolver and turned to him, her dark brows lifting in triumph. She looked so pleased with herself that he couldn't quite suppress a smile.
"Very nice, Mrs. Cain, although I believe you left one."
"That's true, Mr. Cain," she replied with an answering smile. "Make sure you don't leave more than one."
He inclined his head and turned to the target.
A hush had fallen over the crowd as the men became uneasily aware of what Cain had known from the start. They had a serious match on their hands.
Cain lifted the revolver. It felt familiar in his hand, just like the Colt that had seen him through the war. He picked off the first bottle and then the second. One shot followed another. When he finally lowered his arm, all six bottles were gone.
Kit couldn't help herself. She grinned. He was a wonderful shot, with a good eye and a steady arm.
Something tight and proud caught in her throat as she gazed at him in his formal black-and-white evening dress, the copper lights from the torches glinting in his crisp, tawny hair. She forgot about her pregnancy, she forgot her anger, she forgot everything in a rush of feeling for this difficult and splendid man.
He turned to her, his head tilted.
"Good shooting, my darling," she said softly.
She saw the surprise on his face, but it was too late to snatch back the words. The endearment was a bedroom expression, part of a small dictionary of love words that formed the private vocabulary of their passion, words that were never to be used in any other place, at any other time, yet that was what she'd done. Now she felt naked and defenseless. To hide her emotions, she tossed her chin high and turned to the onlookers.
"Since my husband is a gentleman, I'm certain he'll give me a second chance. Would someone fetch a deck of cards and pull out the ace of spades?"
"Kit…" Cain's voice held a brusque warning note.
She turned to confront him and wipe away her moment of defenselessness. "Will you shoot against me? Yes or no?"
They might have been standing alone instead of in the midst of dozens of people. The onlookers didn't realize it, but Cain and Kit knew the purpose of the contest had shifted. The war that had raged for so long between them had found a new battleground.
"I'll shoot against you."
There was a deadly quiet as the ace of spades was fastened to the wall. "Three shots each?" Kit asked as she reloaded her gun.
He nodded grimly.
She lifted her arm and sighted the small black spade at the exact center of the playing card. She could feel her hand trembling, and she lowered the revolver until she felt steadier. Then she lifted it again, sighted the small target, and fired.
She hit the top right corner of the card. It was an excellent shot, and there were murmurs from the men as well as from the women who'd gathered to watch. Some of them even felt a secret burst of pride at seeing one of their own sex excel at such a masculine sport.
Kit cocked the hammer and adjusted her aim. This time she was too low, and she hit the brick wall just below the bottom of the card. But it was still a respectable shot, and the crowd acknowledged it.
Her head was spinning, but she forced herself to concentrate on the small black shape at the center of the card. She'd made this shot dozens of times. All she needed was concentration. Slowly she squeezed the trigger.
It was nearly a perfect shot, and it took the point off the spade. There was a trace of disquiet in the subdued congratulations of the Southern men. None of them had ever seen a woman shoot like that. Somehow it didn't seem right. Women were to be protected. But this woman could do that for herself.
Cain lifted his own weapon. Once again the crowd fell silent, so that only the sea breeze in the
sweet olives disturbed the quiet of the night garden.
The gun fired. It hit the brick wall just to the left of the card.
Cain corrected his aim and fired again. This time he hit the top edge of the card.
Kit held her breath, praying that his third shot would miss, praying that it wouldn't, wishing too late that she hadn't forced this contest upon them.
Cain fired. There was a puff of smoke, and the single spade in the center of the playing card disappeared. His final shot had drilled it out.
The onlookers went wild. Even the Southerners temporarily forgot their animosity, relieved that the natural law of male superiority had held firm. They surrounded Cain to congratulate him.
"Fine shootin', Mr. Cain."
"A privilege to watch you."
"Of course, you were only firin' against a woman."
The men's congratulations grated on his ears. As they pounded him on the back, he looked over their heads at Kit, standing off by herself, the revolver nestled in the soft folds of her skirt.
One of the Northerners shoved a cigar into his hand. "That woman of yours is pretty good, but when all's said and done, I guess shootin' is still pretty much a man's game."
"You're right there," another said. "Never much doubt about a man beating a woman."
Cain felt only contempt for their casual dismissal of Kit's skill. He thrust the cigar back and glared at them.
"You fools. If she hadn't been drinking champagne, I wouldn't have had a chance against her. And neither, by God, would any of you."
Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the garden, leaving the men gaping after him in astonishment.
Kit was stunned by his defense. She thrust the revolver at Veronica, picked up her skirts, and ran after him.
He was already in their bedroom when she reached it. Her brief happiness faded as she saw him throw his clothing into a satchel that lay open on the bed.
Just Imagine aka Risen Glory Page 28