"Someone could walk with you," he said. "Keep you from hurting yourself."
"They don't have time. I can hear them sometimes, hear their drunken revelry. I'm sure you're a part of it."
"Actually, I'm not. I just got here a few days ago, and I see how it is, all right, but I've never cared much for drinking and gambling." He hesitated, then plunged ahead to offer, "I'd be glad to take you for a walk any time you want to go. I'm sure it'd be all right with Sergeant Bodine. He'd probably be relieved to see you getting some fresh air."
Anjele stared into the dark abyss, moved by his gentle voice, his apparent attempt at kindness, yet she was wary. He was still the enemy, and she was helpless. "I'll think about it," she said finally, stiffly. "I don't know you. I don't know if I can trust you."
"I guess it's like having faith, Miss Sinclair. You have to believe in what you don't see." He said it before he thought about it and was astonished by his own proclamation. Maybe some of his mother's earlier teachings had actually been instilled someplace deep within, waiting to be summoned one day.
Anjele was likewise impressed but cynically countered, "And sometimes, soldier, things you can see are not real."
Unsure of what to say next and deciding he'd tarried long enough for a first visit, he turned to go.
"What's your name?"
"Cody. Private Brett Cody."
"Well, Private Cody," she said pleasantly in dismissal, "I'll just think about your offer to go walking."
He hurried out, anxious to get away and pull himself together.
When he carried out her lunch tray, she greeted him with, "I've decided to take you up on your offer, Private Cody. I realized I'd be a fool not to. After all, I need the exercise and fresh air, and I figure it's daylight. What can you do to me in daylight?"
"You've nothing to fear from me daylight or dark, Miss Sinclair." Brett moved by her to set the bowl of fish stew on the crate by her bed. "I'll come back later after you've eaten—"
"No," she all but shouted and with a shy little smile hastened to explain. "I don't want anything to eat. I'd really like to go for that walk now, if you don't mind. It's been so long. Besides, the stew smells awful." She laughed, wrinkling her nose.
Brett, very controlled, agreed. Then, bracing himself for the sweetness of her touch, reached for her hand.
He would have liked to steer her toward the clump of sheltering palmettos but knew they would raise fewer eyebrows if observed out in the open. The other guards would, no doubt, mercilessly tease him about honeying up to the pretty prisoner, and he would, of course, let them think they were right. All had to go according to plan. No one could suspect anything.
It was bittersweet delight to witness Anjele's rediscovery of the world around her. He found himself easily becoming her eyes, responding to her eager questions. Yes, he confirmed, it was a sea gull she heard, and he described it for her, the graceful arc of glistening white wings a silver shadow on the rippling turquoise waters.
"Is the sky blue today?" she innocently inquired, turning her face heavenward. "It must be. I can feel the sun, and it's wonderful."
Brett swallowed, coughed, struggling with the sudden rush of emotion. God, it was unbearable seeing her this way, so helpless and lost to the splendor of the world surrounding.
Drifting in happiness for the moment, Anjele paid no attention to his silence and went on to share, "I used to live on a plantation south of New Orleans, right on the Mississippi River, and I had this special place on the bank where I could lie on my back and look up at the sky and wish the world would turn upside down so I could swim in it. And when there were big, puffy clouds, I'd see faces in them, shapes. They came alive to me." She laughed, reveling in backward flight to happier times.
Brett hung onto her every word but sensed her chattering was merely a way of covering up her nervousness. After all, he was a stranger, and the enemy, as well.
After awhile, she confided eagerness to hear of the war, and he accommodated. He told her how most of the fighting seemed concentrated in Virginia, though skirmishes were widespread in many states. England, he advised, was still staying out of the conflict.
But she also wanted to know other things besides battle stories, such as how the South was faring in other areas, food, clothing, and money.
Brett found her curiosity as to finances interesting. Was she wondering whether the engraving plates were sorely needed, and if so, grieving because she couldn't get them to the right people?
He went on to tell her candidly of damages in her parish. Expensive cypress rail fences around plantations were being used for firewood by Yankee soldiers to heat their rations, and he predicted it would get worse as winter came on and there was a need for heat. Racehorses and mules had been confiscated, creating a hardship for planters trying to get their crops in. Furniture and fixtures in abandoned houses were handsome booty, but Northern entrepreneurs, as they called themselves, were flocking South to take over mansions and farms after Congress passed the July confiscation act. It had been decreed that property considered used in aiding the Southern rebellion was to be seized by the Union to dispense any way it wanted.
He also described how partisan activity was drawing the wrath of the Union. In reprisal, Farragut had ordered raiders to attack the steamboat Sumter while it was being loaded with sugar at Bayou Sara, burning it.
And the levees were fast deteriorating, he said, due to shortage of laborers. Malaria was on the increase, because quinine was hard to come by. "As for money"—he watched her face for any reaction—"it's practically disappeared in the South. Folks are having to barter. Of course, those who can get their hands on Federal money, greenbacks in particular, are finding a way to get anything they need."
Anjele shook her head in sympathy but made no comment, gave no clue she might have the means to help her people.
They walked together that day till nearly sunset, and she made him promise to return the next afternoon for another outing.
Brett lay awake a long time that night, aware his quest had begun and realizing it was even more difficult than he'd imagined it would be. How much easier it would be if he'd kept on hating her, if anger still raged. To be so near, yet so far, was anguish untold. But he had no choice except to go through with it. And not because of the damned plates. Hell, he didn't care anymore about them than he did the war. If she did know where they were, maybe it was best to let them stay there, of no use to either side. They could decide that later. The task now was to build, little by little, to the point where she would believe his story of being a Confederate spy.
He was concerned Anjele could be in danger from several sources. No doubt one of the vigilantes involved in seizing the U.S. Mint had been a spy and was responsible for the Union finding out. So others had to know. Some of Elton's accomplices might also have been aware of the theft. Both sides would be keeping an eye on Anjele's movements. Then there was the matter of her father's murder. Her memory might be dim for the moment, but no doubt the murderer was sweating over how she could start remembering and point the finger at him.
Brett knew he had to move fast, because Anjele's life might be in his hands.
Chapter 25
In the days that followed, Anjele knew she was inexplicably drawn to Brett Cody. And not because he filled a void in her miserable existence. There was more. Much more. Not only was he kind and gentle, tender and caring, but he seemed to have taken it upon himself to become her window into the world. And why? The question plagued her, kept her awake, haunted her dreams.
And not once, in the hours and days they'd spent together, had he made any improper overtures.
Her laugh was bitter.
Why would he?
No, she decided, he was just passing time. After all, he had told her that first day he had no interest in gambling and drinking, and what else was there to do at the remote prison—except be kind to a blind lady?
She told herself she was being a fool to feel anything for him. After all,
she was painfully reminded, once before she'd dared let herself care about a man, be taken in by charm. Never again.
Still, she couldn't help wondering what he looked like. She could tell he was tall, because once when they'd been walking, she'd stumbled, brushing her head against a broad, strong shoulder. He had to be tall. And his hands were large, and...
She gave her head a brisk shake to dispel such nonsensical daydreaming. One day, maybe soon, he'd be sent somewhere else, and she'd go back to long, lonely days of staring into the cesspool of darkness, thinking how merciful it might have been had the killer succeeded in also murdering her.
Dear Lord, it wasn't fair, any of it, and it was the reality of the horror of her life that nagged her to reach out for any shred of happiness offered.
And, for the moment, Brett Cody was all she had to cling to.
Brett arrived with her noon meal of fish cakes and cheese and cheerily suggested a picnic on the beach. "It's a nice day, hot, but a good breeze. I'll even take you wading."
Anjele bounced up and down on her toes, clapping her hands in childlike glee. "I'd love it. I used to go wading in the river back home."
He took her hand and led her into the sunshine, urging her to talk. Already she had told him about BelleClair, how happy she'd been growing up there. But he had noted how she declined to discuss anything beyond childhood. It was as though her memories stopped after adolescence. When he had mentioned hearing that her first encounter with the army was upon her return from England, he'd asked what she had been doing over there. Curtly she said she'd been in school, then changed the subject.
They talked about the war, how they both wished the dying and suffering would end. She wanted to know what made him turn against the South and fight for the North. "I didn't turn from it," he hastened to say. "I guess I thought it was more important to preserve the Union."
She shook her head, not understanding how anyone could abandon his heritage. Then, turning her head toward him, as though desperate to see his face, she said with candor, "I like you, Brett Cody. You've been a good friend to me. You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago...." her voice trailed away. She bit her lip, turned away, cursing herself for being so brazen.
Brett's heart slammed into his chest. Did she know it was him? He'd been careful not to let on, watched every word. "What do you mean?" Icy fingers of apprehension clutched at his spine. "You make it sound like it's bad that I do. Who was this person?" He forced a convincing laugh.
Anjele shuddered, shook her head, and murmured, "It doesn't matter. I was young then, and very foolish. He... he isn't worth remembering. But there was a time, before I came to my senses, when I found him to be a very gentle man, like you. And no,"—she managed to smile in his direction, assuring—"it's not bad that you remind me of that part of him. I don't mind remembering that at all."
Brett clenched his fists, glad they were not sitting close beside each other lest she feel his tension, the smoldering resentment, the echoes of bitterness to hear her say he wasn't worth remembering.
He stared out at the greenish blue ocean, absently noticed the lazily drifting fishing boat just offshore.
Damn it, he'd been young. Foolish. She had never loved him. He was a Cajun, looked down on by people like her. He had been nothing more than a lark, tempting her capriciousness. He'd been a fool then. He was a fool now. He told himself to get on with the scheme, fulfill his mission, and get her out of his life once and for always. Yet he dared to probe further, asking, "What happened? You seem bitter?"
"We came from two different worlds. I realized I was a fool ever to get involved with someone like him, and I really don't want to talk about it."
"I think there's a lot you don't want to talk about," he said sharply, without thinking. Seeing her frown, he added, "What I mean is, I don't blame you. You've obviously been through a lot, and there's no need in chewing an old bone."
She didn't respond.
Brett was tempted to get up and walk away and keep on going. But he knew he had a job to do. And despite everything, he intended to see her to safety. Best, he commanded himself, to leave the past alone. Bad memories were like scabs on wounds. Pick at them, and the wound bleeds and takes longer to heal. Leave it alone, and the scab eventually falls off. It leaves a scar, but it happens quicker.
They were sitting on a small stretch of sandy beach. So much of the island was surrounded by bulkheads. Brett had found the isolated spot on one of his explorations and knew they had complete privacy there.
The others knew he was spending all his free time with the female prisoner. He had turned a deaf ear to the ribbing from the other guards. Sergeant Bodine warned him about getting too overzealous in his attentions to his prisoner, saying "You lay one finger on her, and she'll tell those friends of hers from New Orleans, next time they come out here, and you'll find yourself in front of a firing squad for rape. General Butler might take up for his soldiers, but I'll wager even he wouldn't take kindly to a Union soldier forcin' himself on a blind woman."
But Brett had assured the sergeant he only felt sorry for her, all the while knowing he had to move as fast as possible to get her out of there. For the time being, everyone was merely amused by his paying so much attention to her, but sooner or later, they might get suspicious.
Anjele had taken off her shoes and was digging in the sand with her toes. Suddenly she squealed with delight and scrambled to grasp a seashell. Turning in Brett's direction, she pleaded, "Describe it to me."
He told her it was a conch. Large. Spiral-shaped. "Sort of like a twisted horn."
"And the colors," she said, running her fingers over the marble-like texture. "Tell me about them."
As always, Brett felt a wave of pity and obliged. "It's kind of a milky white, with streaks of peach and pink. And the inside is peach but deepens to a pink down inside. Here. Let me show you something." He took it from her and gently pressed it against her ear.
Her sightless eyes widened as she cried, "It sounds like the roar of the ocean. That's amazing."
"It sure is." He laughed with her, glad to see her so happy.
"I want to keep it."
He examined it carefully, explaining that crabs sometimes lived inside, though this one seemed to have been abandoned.
"Maybe it's a Rebel crab," she teased, "and he ran when you Yankees came ashore."
"Here." He pretended gruffness. "Take your shell, Rebel wench."
She could hear the smile in his voice and squeezed his fingertips as he placed the shell in her hands once more. "I'll keep it always," she murmured. "And when I hear the ocean, I'll think of you, and this very special day."
Reaching out, she touched his face.
He did not move.
Slowly, gently, she traced her fingertips along the firm line of his jaw, then trailed to his chin, softly touching his mouth.
Brett could not hold back, pursing his lips in a kiss, touching his tongue ever so lightly to her fingers.
She drew a sharp breath, quickly dancing her caress up to his nose, then across his cheeks, onward to his brows and forehead. "You've a nice face, Brett Cody," she said in a quivering voice. "I can tell. Handsome. Strong. But I wish I could see your eyes. Eyes tell so much about a person, most of the time...." She winced to remember other eyes, warm and laughing, caressing with mirth, then smoldering with the heat of desire. Never had she seen deceit in Gator's eyes, but in her naiveté, she had not looked.
Brett caught her hand, pressing it against his lips once more. Damn it, don't do it, his brain pounded, don't grab her and kiss her till she's breathless. It didn't work before. It won't work now. "You've nothing to fear from me," he assured her. "I'm your friend."
"You are, indeed. But I must tell you something." She pulled her hand from his, not liking the way her stomach was starting to feel as if she'd swallowed butterflies. "I have considered the possibility that you may have been sent to try to get information from me."
Brett was jolted, caught off guard
. It was only with great effort he was able to coolly, calmly respond, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Surely you've heard what a desperate criminal I am, haven't you? Why, if I weren't blind, I imagine I'd be locked in a cell with bars, wouldn't I? I mean, after all, I did give food to a starving soldier, and frankly, I probably wouldn't have cared at the time if he had been a Yankee.
"And no doubt," she rushed on, "you know about the Yankees accusing my father of breaking into the Mint in New Orleans last winter and stealing engraving plates? That's probably why he was murdered. And now they think I know where they're hidden, so it stands to reason they'd think a pitiful, helpless damsel like me would warm to a charming soldier who'd shown a little kindness."
Brett was only mildly uncomfortable. After all, Anjele Sinclair was an intelligent woman. It was only natural she'd have suspicions, and he was ready for them. "I knew your father was murdered. I knew you were also injured that night, and that's what blinded you. I also knew why you were sent here, but I didn't know about any engraving plates, and my only motive was, whether you believe me or not, to try and bring a little sunshine into your life. You're a beautiful woman, Anjele," He gazed down at her adoringly. "A man would be a fool not to want to make you happy."
"You're kind," she murmured, wondering whether it was her imagination or could she actually feel the warmth of his eyes upon her. "And I appreciate all you do for me. I dread to think of the time when you're gone. It gets terribly lonely."
"Maybe the guard who takes my place will be the one sent to find out about the plates." He wanted to talk, not only in hopes of learning something but also to steer away from the intimacy that was making him extremely uncomfortable.
"What would you do if I told you where they are?" She taunted. "Would you run to your commander and tell him?"
Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance Page 28