She tensed, pulled away to cry, "But why? What could any of that have to do with me?"
"Because somebody thinks you do know where they're hidden, and since the plates haven't turned up by now, they figure you're the only one who knows. With you dead, the plates stay hidden and pose no problems by falling into the hands of the Confederacy."
"Dear God. As I told you, I don't know anything about them. And that's the truth. I swear it.
"I believe you, but evidently your enemies aren't taking any chances. That's why I've got to get you out of here. Tonight. Because they may try again."
Panic was mirrored on her face. "But where would you take me? To another prison inland, or up North somewhere? No! They'd find me, but at least here my father's old friends can keep a check on me, and when I tell them about this, they'll see to it a guard is outside that door all the time."
"Anjele, it's too risky. They'll keep on trying till they succeed in killing you. I don't think you realize what a catastrophe it would be to the Union for those plates to be used to make counterfeit greenbacks. They'll stop at nothing to see you dead."
"Even if I knew where they were, I'd never tell the goddamn Yankees!" She struck at the air with her fist, causing him to duck instinctively.
He urged her to keep her voice down lest someone hear, explaining, "You don't understand. I'm not taking you out of here to another prison, Anjele. I'm helping you escape. And the Yankees aren't going to know anything about it till it's too late."
"The Yankees," she sneered, "You make it sound like you aren't one of them, Brett."
"I'm not."
Stunned, she waited for him to continue.
He told the lie, and she listened quietly, thoughtfully, but he could tell she was having difficulty believing him. "Trust me," he urged. "I mean you no harm. I'll get you to safety, I swear."
"How do I know this isn't a trick? I'm no fool, Brett Cody. And besides, how many times do I have to tell you I don't know anything about those damn plates?"
"You might remember later on, but I'm not concerned with any of that now. All I want to do is protect you."
"I don't know," she bit down on her lower lip.
"Hell, Anjele, you don't have any choice." He grabbed her shoulders, gently shook her. "The sergeant has already said he thinks I'm spending too much time with you. Tomorrow he's assigning me to other duties. I won't be able to look out for you. Don't you see? You have to trust me.
"Listen," he rushed on, beginning to feel desperate, "Remember that day you asked me if the sky was blue, and I said it was? Anjele, it could have been gray. It could have even been the middle of the night. You had no way of knowing. You had to trust me. And you did. Because you wanted to. You wanted to believe that sky was blue. It's called blind faith, and it's what you've got to have if I'm going to be able to help you."
Her lips sardonically curved. "Blind faith, Brett Cody? You're asking me to believe because I want to?"
"Angel," he said softly, tenderly tracing his fingertips down her lovely face, "I can't think of a better reason."
She shrugged away his touch, afraid he could feel how she was trembling. "Wanting to believe hasn't got anything to do with it, but like you said, I really don't have a choice, do I?"
"Afraid not." He grinned, relieved, then went on to confide the plans he had made, finishing by saying they should leave shortly after dark.
"But what happens when we reach shore? Where will you take me?"
"Somewhere safe." He wasn't about to tell her of his decision to go home, to Black Bayou. He couldn't take a chance on running into soldiers from either side, and it was the only place he could be certain of refuge. When the time came, he'd worry about encountering people who used to know him all those years ago, who, God forbid, might call him Gator.
It started raining around noon, so they couldn't go for their usual walk. Brett knew better than to linger very long in the shed, lest eyebrows be raised. He told her to get some rest. Later he would bring her supper tray and pretend to lock her up for the night as Sergeant Bodine had ordered. And, as soon as everyone quieted down for the night, he would return.
The afternoon seemed to last forever. Brett tried to keep busy, polishing his boots, cleaning his gun, staying out of the way of the other soldiers lest his nervousness be obvious. He didn't want to answer any questions, didn't want to be bothered talking to anyone. All he wanted was for the infernal clock to move a little bit faster.
He tried to figure out who wanted Anjele dead. Major Hembree wouldn't be involved, and Brett knew he wouldn't be where he was if the army had any hand at all in passing the death sentence. No, it had to be someone not directly connected with the army, and, assuredly, responsible for Elton Sinclair's murder. So he decided to stick to his original theory that it was all tied together. And while he wasn't sure how the pieces fit, he was firmly convinced Anjele was in real danger.
Finally it was time.
"I'm not hungry," Anjele told him when he arrived with her supper. "Just hurry up, lock me in, and come back, and let's go!"
"You'd better try to eat. I can't promise you when you'll have another opportunity. Food is going to be scarce." He planned to skirt around heavily traveled areas, going up the Wolf River into the heart of Mississippi, then going on foot to the Pearl River, which would take them all the way to Vicksburg and the Black Bayou to the west. He would buy a few supplies in Biloxi after hiding Anjele somewhere. But there wouldn't be much time, and they needed to get out of the area as fast as possible.
After he left, Anjele was still too nervous to eat and stuck the biscuits and plums into the pockets of her muslin dress for later. She frowned to think that it wasn't even her dress. Her nice clothes had been stolen. Not that there'd been that much to begin with. Someone, probably Kesia, had sent a trunk to the jail in New Orleans, she'd been told. Upon arrival at the island, someone had said the wife of a fisherman would come ashore once a week to pick up her dirty laundry and deliver clean. She'd known after the second visit that her good things had been replaced by cheap, worn garments. No doubt the fisherman's wife thought because she couldn't see, she wouldn't notice. But she'd said nothing, because what did it matter... till now, when she found herself wanting to look nice for Brett.
She told herself she was a fool. What difference did it make how she looked? She was still blind. And what man wanted to be saddled with a blind lover? A blind wife? He was only doing his job as a spy for the Confederacy, as he'd said. And he was a diligent soldier, a kind man, and no matter how she was feeling inside, it didn't matter. She would not let it matter.
She sat on the edge of the cot, poised and ready, every nerve raw, tense. As she waited, she thought back to the trepidation of the night before. She'd been saved not only by her sense of awareness, but now she realized she'd actually smelled the danger. It was as though the monster had exuded an aura of blood and violence.
With a shudder, her thoughts drifted back to another nightmare, and in the darkness that was her existence, she once more saw her father's face, how he begged her to listen to—what? What was it he was trying to say? Would she ever be able to remember or would she forever be haunted because it escaped her?
"Anjele."
She leaped to her feet, ran to the door without hesitation, unbolting it from her side, as sounds told her it was being unlocked from outside, as well.
She flung it open and said excitedly, "I'm ready."
He took her hand and squeezed. "Do as I tell you, and remember, don't be scared. I will be your eyes."
And my heartbeat, as well, she thought, chiding herself for allowing the folly of such fanciful musings.
By the light of a waning moon, Brett led her along the path he had memorized. He stepped cautiously, making sure there wasn't anything she could stumble on, before guiding her to follow. He kept a firm grip on her hand, sometimes putting his arm around her waist when the trail was wide enough to walk side by side. Always, he talked to her, in a quiet but careful
ly reassuring tone.
Anjele knew she could never truly be afraid of anything as long as Brett was close by. Something about him, and not merely the comforting words he spoke, filled her with a sense of being safe from all harm. Yet, while she reveled in the feeling of security, she prayed he was not lying, that he would take her behind Confederate lines. And, hope against hope, she prayed for the cobwebs in her memory to dissipate, revealing the link, the clue, to finding the all-important plates.
Brett was impressed that Anjele showed no fear during the less-than-comfortable crossing. He continued talking, weary of hearing his own voice but could tell she clung to the sound as tightly as her hands clutched the boat on each side of her.
He described how the moon slipped in and out behind silvery-tipped clouds, sprinkling the dancing ocean with thousands of tiny, shimmering diamonds, only to snatch them away in a passing shadow. All the while he rowed as fast and hard as his burning muscles would allow, careful to glance down at the compass each time the moon afforded enough light. He wanted to come ashore in the sequestered cove, away from the main harbor of Biloxi. He was also anxious to make land before the first creeping fingers of dawn began to erode the camouflage of night. He could discern distant outlines of Federal gunboats and knew there was always a chance, if he was spotted, that they might investigate. These fears he also related to Anjele, so she would be aware of everything going on.
At last, they reached the cove. "Just in time." Brett breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the foaming surf to drag the boat onto the beach. "It's almost light. Another fifteen or twenty minutes, and we'd have been spotted."
"Do you think we've been missed by now?" she asked, unable to hold back a yawn. She was exhausted from lack of sleep as well as the mental anxiety of the night just past.
"Probably. And the first thing they'll do is discover this old boat missing, so they'll be trying to communicate with the fleet to start searching the water. We've got to hurry. I know you're tired, but you can rest while I'm getting the things we need to go upriver."
Doggedly, Anjele tried to keep up with him, and this time as he talked, describing everything in their midst, she could tell he was also weary and offered, "You don't have to keep being my eyes, Brett. I know you're tired, too."
He squeezed her hand, and she could feel the warmth of his gaze. "But I want to be your eyes, Anjele. I want—" He caught himself, about to confess that he wanted to be everything to her. Quickly he altered, "I want to make sure you're aware of everything around you, so you won't be scared."
"I won't be, as long as you're with me."
"Well, I'm going to leave you soon. There's an abandoned shack ahead. This is a deserted stretch. I've already made sure of that. I'll be back as soon as I can."
When they reached it, he told her there was nothing around but some scrub palmettos. The blanket he'd left over a month ago was still there, and he spread it on the sand, guided her to it. "Go to sleep. I'll try to be back by the time you wake up."
He turned to go, but she flailed out with frantic hands, touching, grasping his sleeve. "What if you don't come back? What would I do? Please, take me with you."
Pushing back a golden curl from her forehead, he dropped his hand to cup her chin. "I can't. You'd slow me down, and I've got to get in and out of town fast. Besides, I don't want anyone remembering a Union soldier with a blind woman. Now, don't worry. Nothing will stop me from coming back, I promise."
It was as natural as drawing a breath, how he bent slightly to press his mouth against hers. Her response was to twine her arms about his neck, melding against him as his lips began to roam her face, bestowing light kisses to her cheeks, her eyelids, her temples, and the tip of her nose. All the while his hands held her tightly by the waist, finally slipping to her back to pull her ever closer.
Anjele reveled in the delicious feel of his warm mouth against her flesh.
Brett knew he had to end the torture. Stepping back, he sighed in apology, "I didn't mean for that to happen. Forgive me, Anjele."
She traced his mouth with her fingertips and said, "You don't need to be sorry. I think I've been waiting, wanting this moment. I'm glad it's here."
Brett caught his breath, for all at once it struck him that she might actually be falling in love with him. Dear God, without knowing she'd once felt him not good enough, now, depending on him for survival, she dared to care. He wasn't sure how it made him feel.
He caught her wrist, held it, kissed her fingertips, then stepped away. "I will be back," he promised, a slight tremor of emotion in his tone.
She heard the soft crunching of his boots on the sand, retreating, disappearing. Finally she lay down, curling on her side, a smile on her lips.
Maybe, she dared fantasize, he could love her despite her blindness. But did it really matter, she was pained to wonder? Did she dare think of permanence in any situation in these turbulent times? It was only the here and now that mattered.
And Anjele intended to grasp every second.
Leo wasn't the least bit scared to tell The Voice what had happened. "Hell, what was I supposed to do? She knew her way around in the dark, and I didn't. And I wasn't gonna go stumbling around looking for her and maybe wind up getting shot."
There was only silence, no sound from within the tomb.
Leo gritted his teeth. As soon as he had got back to New Orleans, he had impaled an old glove on the bottom of the fence as a signal of his return just as The Voice had instructed. Every night for five nights, he had come by at midnight, but the glove was always there, burrowed down in autumn leaves, noticeable only to someone looking for it. Tonight, he'd been relieved to see it was gone and immediately crouched down in front of the mausoleum door to recount his failed mission. Only now he was starting to wonder if maybe somebody else had taken the glove, and he was only running his mouth to the corpses in there. He got up to go. "To hell with it—"
"I don't blame you, Cody. Sit down."
With a sigh of relief, he did so.
"It was a quick plan. A desperate plan. Haste and desperation seldom spawn success."
It dawned on Cody then that The Voice didn't sound surprised, and he said as much.
"I'm not," came the matter-of-fact declaration. "When I heard Anjele had escaped from prison, it was obvious you'd failed."
"Escaped?" he cried. "How could she? She's blind."
"She had help. One of the guards is also missing. He had been spending much time with her, I hear. We can only hope he wasn't a spy. We'll know sooner or later, if the Confederacy suddenly starts trading in millions of greenbacks," he sardonically added.
"So what do you want me to do? I'm still gonna be paid, ain't I?
"You will come by here once a week, as you have done in the past. A little money will be left over the door to compensate you for your trouble. If the glove is here, so am I, which means I've succeeded in finding out where she's hiding.
"Which also means," he added, "you will kill her, because I intend to find her for you."
Leo laughed. "Don't worry. You find her, and my knife will find her throat. And this time, she'll be just as dead as her poppa."
Chapter 27
"Claudia could only stand there, blue eyes fear widened, mouth agape, as Major Hembree read the order from General Butler.
It was early morning. They stood on the columned porch, Claudia still in gown and robe, golden hair flowing loose around her face and shoulders.
Beside her, leaning on his cane, Raymond could scarcely hold back a gloating grin. He had waited for this moment, for Claudia to come crashing down from her smug throne of confidence. He had figured all along the complacency of the owners of plantations south of New Orleans would be short-lived, and once General Butler was prepared to spread out his sphere of operations, he'd grasp the rich section with little effort. Most planters had abandoned anyway, but some, like Claudia, by virtue of patronizing the enemy as well as signing the requisite oath of loyalty to the Union, had blithely
and ignorantly thought their lives would be unchanged. So Raymond was glad to see her comeuppance, though distressed to hear the circumstances.
"I tell you, Major, if my father was involved with vigilantes, I don't know anything about it," Claudia declared furiously.
Major Hembree conceded. "We understand you two weren't close, but we believe he did, in fact, confide in Anjele."
"Well, you won't find any stolen government property at BelleClair, I assure you." Claudia leaned over to whisper, lest the others overhear. "I really can't believe any of this, Tyler. You know your wife and I are like sisters. This is an outrage. Why, she'll no doubt have the vapors when she hears of your insulting me by searching my house."
The corners of his mouth twitched with amusement as he, too, lowered his voice. "She does know, Claudia, and she's very upset to hear about all this. She asked me to tell you not to expect her and the other ladies for tea tomorrow afternoon. Wouldn't do, you know, for them to be seen at BelleClair once word spreads your father was a thief."
Raymond was pleasantly surprised to think of Elton having had the mettle to get himself involved with vigilantes, yet concern over Anjele's escape and present whereabouts shadowed his pleasure.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Raymond saw Claudia raising her hand, knew she was about to slap Major Hembree. Lifting his cane to block her hand, he said, "I don't think that's wise, my dear. You could wind up replacing your sister at Ship Island."
"An astute observation," Hembree said, "but I'm confident Anjele will be recaptured. Meanwhile, we'll proceed with what should've been done long ago—finding out if those plates are hidden around here."
He motioned to his waiting soldiers, who began eagerly scattering in all directions. A dozen or more rushed across the porch and through the doors and into the house.
Claudia screamed, hands flying to her ears to mask the sounds of furniture being turned over, smashed, paintings torn from the walls, draperies being yanked down. "Bastards! All of you! How could you do this to me after I opened my home to your entire army? You had refuge here, all the comforts BelleClair could provide. And now you destroy it."
Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance Page 30