An Extraordinary Union

by Alyssa Cole

  “I’ll come along. This is the most eager I’ve ever seen you to be in my presence, after all. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true.” He paused, waited for the spark of acknowledgment to light her eyes. She glared at him. “Ah. Now I’m worried that you’ll shoot me before the interrogation even starts.”

  “As you should be,” she gritted out. Her eyes held his as he marched past her, past MacTavish, and into the dim back room. He sat on a chair that felt as if it would give way beneath him at any moment and wondered if she’d planned it to make him feel unsteady. His brother, Ewan, had told him of such tactics, but Elle was in the detective game, not counterintelligence.

  “Bar the door,” Elle said over her shoulder to MacTavish. “And leave us be. If I need help disposing of the body, I’ll call for you.”

  Despite his precarious situation, Malcolm smiled. Damn, she was impressive. If she didn’t kill him, he’d tell her so.

  CHAPTER 9

  “When last we met here, we shared information that was sent on to the Capital. Information about the movement of Rebel troops,” she said, leaning back on the desk. Her hand clasped the gun against her skirts, and she pushed away thoughts of the path that Malcolm’s hand had traveled the last time they were in the same space. It had been wrong then, but now that he was possibly a double agent, it was galling. “When the Capital sent troops to waylay that movement, they were ambushed.”

  She stopped talking and stared at him. She wished to intimidate him, and she wasn’t sure she could do that around the lump of emotion in her throat.

  Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “I understand that this is upsetting, but I don’t see why it calls for drawn weapons and backroom interrogations. If you have something to ask me, then ask it.”

  A tract of text popped up in her mind’s eye, a common occurrence since she had so many of the dad-blamed things committed to memory. “‘No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true,’” she said.

  “I don’t know what you’re quoting at me, but I do know what it implies,” he said. There was an undercurrent to his voice that she hadn’t heard before, one that reminded her that despite his easy demeanor with her, Malcolm was a dangerous man. Possibly a treasonous one.

  Elle hated the assuredness of his voice, as if he were the one in charge. She was tempted to raise her weapon, but instead she laid it on the table beside her, showing that she wasn’t someone who would hide behind her revolver. She kept her hand next to it, though; she wouldn’t let ego be her undoing, either.

  “You are the only other person besides me who was aware the Union possessed that information. Now good men lay dead or taken off to Confederate prisons,” she said, trying to hide the shake in her voice. “I will know if I was betrayed.”

  When she’d heard about the ambushing of the regiment, her heart had dropped. She didn’t want to believe it was Malcolm, but the words of Sun Tzu had sprung to her mind, unbidden: “It is essential to seek out enemy agents who have come to conduct espionage against you and to bribe them to serve you. . . . Thus double agents are recruited and used.” Malcolm had sought her out . . . and the bribe he’d given her? The kiss she’d fallen into instead of running from.

  Malcolm straightened in his seat, making his massive size, compared to hers, even more apparent. His brow creased and his eyes narrowed.

  “I will tolerate only so much of these shenanigans, Miss Burns,” he said. His voice was rough with suppressed anger. “I will not have my loyalty questioned after all I’ve done to serve my country.”

  “I have the blood of twenty men on my hands, Mr. McCall,” she said. She stood, no longer wanting the support of the desk. “I cannot worry about bruising your feelings. If they’re so tender that they cannot withstand a simple line of questioning, perhaps you’ve chosen the wrong profession.”

  She stared at him and he held it, but she saw the anger drain out of his expression. It was replaced by sadness. No, that wasn’t right—it was pity. “Twenty men? Lord above. I’m sorry, Elle. Was it the information about the troops massing to move to South Carolina?”

  She nodded, hating the sympathy in his voice.

  He sighed. “Is this the first time you’ve had a bad batch?”

  “Batch?” she asked.

  “Of information.” He placed his hands on his thighs and she remembered how strong they had been beneath her as they hid on the bluff. How, beneath the fear of discovery, it had been nice to let someone else carry her weight for just a moment. She was weary, and this war had only just begun. Maybe she’d been wrong to spurn Daniel. Even if she didn’t love him how a woman should love her husband, having someone to sink into after such a blow would be wonderful.

  Malcolm ran a hand through his hair. “I know how you feel. On one of my first missions during this conflict, I passed on bum information. I’d been told that Confederate troops were setting up camp in a certain section of wood and passed that information along to my superiors. When the Union forces showed up, there was a camp, but it was empty. It was an ambush, and there were no survivors. Those men had gone there on my word, and they died because of it.”

  She bit her lip against the anguish that rose in her throat.

  “Why should I believe you?” she asked after a moment. “I’ve already seen that you lie as easily as you breathe. It’s not as if you would confess your treason.”

  The words were harsh, but they came out heatless; her fiery surety had burned down to ashes. She had relayed information that resulted in tragedy, but she still trusted her gut. Despite the fact that killing him would make her life a damn sight easier, she didn’t think he had betrayed her. Worse, she was relieved.

  “I already offered to let you kill me,” he said with a shrug. “You missed your opportunity and now you’re just going to have to trust that, although I lie for my country, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “And why is that?” she asked.

  “I’d tell you, but I don’t think you’d believe me.” His eyes were dark with an emotion that didn’t match his grin.

  “I could still shoot you,” she said. He raised his brows, and she looked away from him. “I need you to be straight with me, McCall: Did you share what you read in my letter with anyone?”

  “No one,” he said. “I didn’t even write it in my ledger. You can’t know what happened. The likeliest thing, with the way this war operates, is that it was simple bad luck that fell upon those men. Or, since the information was thirdhand at best, who knows how many others heard it and passed it along?”

  Elle nodded. He was right, but that didn’t make her sadness disappear. Of all the hundreds of books she’d memorized, none had provided her with a good answer to the dread that sat heavy in her chest. The burden seemed too great.

  “How did you move past it?” she asked. She didn’t want to be told to soldier on. She’d thought to exercise her fury on Malcolm, but he’d played no part in this. Now all her pent-up emotion had no vent. She stood, walked a few steps, and then realizing she’d nowhere to go, sat on the rickety wooden stool with a thump.

  Malcolm rose and walked toward her, and she knew already that he wasn’t going to offer her a clap on the back and a swig of bourbon, as she’d seen other operatives coddled in their lowest moments.

  He pulled up a stool beside her. The wood creaked under his weight; then he was sitting so close that her shoulder pressed into his biceps. The way he leaned into her was friendly, but his nearness made her senses stand at attention. She thought of moving away from him, but it was nice to have something solid to prop her up. He smelled of leather and wool, and his warmth seemed to draw some of the fear and anger from her.

  “It’s a hard thing, Elle, but you cannot let this shake your confidence. It could have been a devious trap, or it could have been simple conjecture like half the things you hear in this city. Either way, it’s not your fault.”

  “That doesn
’t bring those men back,” she said. She leaned into his warmth, promising herself it was just for a moment.

  “Neither does flagellating yourself,” Malcolm said quietly. “What would you say if a fellow operative came to you feeling sorry after passing on bad intelligence? Would you tell them to go jump off a cliff? And remember now, you’re not giving the advice to me, so be kind.”

  A low laugh rose in her throat, despite her despair. “I would tell them . . . that the best thing they could do to honor those fallen soldiers would be to work hard and discover information that helped the Union win.”

  Malcolm nodded, but he didn’t lean away from her. In fact, he settled in closer so now their knees touched, too. Part of her itched to shove him away. She couldn’t understand why being close to him felt so good, even as her logic railed against it. She hated how her body had gone warm and her stomach fluttered with anticipation every time he moved an inch.

  “Are you still planning on killing me?” he asked. “If so, you should call for reinforcements. I think you might need more help than that wee scrap of a Scotsman to carry my body out.”

  His voice was calm as he spoke to her, but his pulse raced—perhaps even faster than her own. She could feel it. Heat wound sinuously through her body, flaring as his hand began to move up and down her arm. The touch was meant to be soothing, but the pull of his fingertips against the fabric of her dress was erotic, despite his intentions. Despite her common sense.

  “Not if I chopped you into pieces first,” she said. “I can dress a deer lickety-split; I imagine an annoying detective wouldn’t be much different.” She looked up at him, feeling his laugh roll through her. The sound resonated in every part of her body, like when she stood too close to the church bell tower. There was nothing holy or sanctified about the sensation Malcolm’s laugh caused in her, though.

  “I still feel like I failed,” she said, trying to distract from the increasing heat along the seams where their bodies touched.

  She pulled away from him then, remaining seated but leaving some distance between them. It wasn’t right allowing him that kind of liberty. An even deeper shame pressed at her, piling on to the self-doubt that was already shredding her sense of purpose.

  You’re a disappointment. To your country. To your cause. To your people.

  Elle stiffened, the blows of her own thoughts more painful than Malcolm’s lack of response. What was she doing? What had she gotten herself into? And how would she ever make things right?

  Malcolm sighed and finally spoke. “And what if you did fail?” he asked finally. There was no censure in his words. “That tends to happen to human beings every now and again. No one expects you to be perfect, Elle.”

  Her breath drew sharp into her lungs at his words. He was wrong, of course. All of those years on the abolitionist circuit, her years as a teacher, her trip to Liberia. People had always expected perfection from her, as if her flawless memory superseded her right to be a human being. She didn’t know when she’d started believing it, too, but she had.

  She let out a startled laugh. “I’m allowed to make mistakes,” she said. “I’m allowed to fail and not feel like I’ve disgraced my entire race? Imagine that.” Her voice was tight with emotion, a pent-up ache that sought release somehow.

  “You’re allowed that. That and more,” Malcolm said. She couldn’t see his hand, but she felt the warmth of it beside her arm. He’d reached for her, but hesitated, and although her logic was firmly against the idea, some villainous part of her willed him to move his hand that inch closer that would bring contact.

  It seemed that insurrection was catching.

  His fingers grazed her sleeve, tentatively, and then his grip tightened. His large hand was a circle of heat as it encircled her arm. His hand slid up, the fabric of her dress dragging against his rough palm as it squeezed the curve of her biceps and caressed the round of her shoulder, moving up the slope there until the back of her neck was cupped in his hand. His touch against her sensitive skin sent little blips of pleasure through Elle, like messages down a telegraph line. More. Stop. Please. Stop.

  “You’re allowed whatever you want, as far as I’m concerned. What do you want, Ellen?”

  “I want . . . comfort.” The words came out deep, rough. Elle was ashamed to discover that she was trembling, her duplicitous body plainly broadcasting the desire she wished she could hide from him, and especially from herself.

  “Can you be more specific, love?”

  She couldn’t. All the fancy words she had accumulated over the years were stuck in that logical portion of her brain, the part that knew what she was about to do next was madness.

  She kissed him.

  She could feel his surprise in the stiffening of his body as her mouth pressed against his. That was all it took to knock some sense into her. She started to pull away, but then his mouth opened wide against hers and his tongue pushed past her lips and there was no escaping. One arm crushed her close to his side, pulling her halfway onto his lap, and the other cupped her chin, tilting her head back for him.

  “Mmmmmmm.” The sound he made was familiar, but somehow obscene and inviting at the same time. It was the groan of a man who had tasted something delicious, and that something was her. Chills of delight traveled over her body, all heading toward the bundle of throbbing sensation between her thighs. His hand left her chin and followed, curving over her breasts and down the plane of her abdomen as if her desire bade him come quickly, the desire that she’d flatly deny if her mouth wasn’t pressed against his.

  His hand slipped under her dress, atop the loose folds of her drawers and cupped her mound. “Malcolm.” His name slipped from between her lips as if to stay his progress. She knew she was damp there and the weakness embarrassed her. Her chagrin didn’t stop her from lifting up, pressing her sensitive nub into the heel of his hand as he rubbed it in rough circles.

  “Is this comfort enough, Elle?” he asked. His palm massaged her through the rough fabric, each controlled twist of his wrist sending a burst of pleasure through her. Elle could feel his touch in her breasts and in her toes and in the impossibly delicious feeling that had her inner walls clenching in anticipation of being filled. She thought of what it would be like to have Malcolm hard inside her and she let out a ragged pant. If his palm could do this to her, unassisted by those digits that supposedly made man the most superior of animals, she was afraid of what else he could wring from her.

  “Yes, it’s enough,” she said, although she hoped he wouldn’t stop. The way he looked down at her was dangerous. It was the look of a man who would not be deterred, not in war and not in making love. His fingers replaced his palm and she swallowed a cry, her head lolling against his shoulder as the increased pressure sent even stronger bolts of all-encompassing pleasure through her.

  His other hand slid up to her neck, and she felt a gentle tug as he wrapped her plaits around his hand—once, twice—and gently tugged her head back to place a trail of kisses along the exposed path that led from her jaw to her collarbone. His lips lingered in the notch of her neck, and she could feel the fluttering of both of their pulses combined where their skin met.

  “You think I want you for a taste of something taboo,” he whispered. “But you’re any man’s dream: intelligent, brave, and so damn lovely I can’t tear my eyes from you. That’s why I want you.”

  She shook her head. Malcolm used his grip on her hair to angle her head back and kiss her, his tongue tracing her bottom lip before slashing over her entire mouth.

  “Yes, Elle,” he said. His fingers circled faster, urging her toward completion even as her back arched and her hips bucked wantonly. “Take your release, lass.”

  She looked into his eyes. “No,” she whispered, then bit her lip against the moan that fought to follow the word out into the silence of the back room. That’s when the sensation burst in her, pure and bright and sweeter than anything she’d ever felt before. There was no sadness or recrimination in the heat that raced t
hrough her body, just pleasure. Just Malcolm.

  He eased his hand away as her shuddering subsided, and she leapt from his lap and onto wobbly legs. She could feel his gaze seeking hers out, but she refused to meet it.

  “We shouldn’t have done that,” she said after a long moment. “We shouldn’t have done that,” she repeated, as if saying it twice was a charm that could undo what had passed between them. “But it made me feel good. You made me feel good. What does that make me?”

  The enormity of what she’d allowed to pass was too much to process. Perhaps it had been another Elle who parted her thighs for the rogue across the room? The one who looked ready to sink to his knees—to sink into her—if only she gave him the go-ahead. Her quivering knees were a testament to her physical reaction, but the ridiculous thoughts that now swarmed her mind were much worse. She wanted to run her hands over his body. She imagined what his face would look like as his climax took him, and just the thought made her shiver with want.

  He shook his head and shrugged. “I can’t answer that, but I can tell you it makes me happier than a fish in the James.”

  She glared at him. Of course the fool would say something like that. He wasn’t the one who had betrayed everything he believed in, so it was fine for him to make silly jokes about the river . . . the river that passed right through Richmond . . . where they had seen men planning to move something. And what was that she’d read in one of Malcolm’s letters?

  All shame and dismay were lost as the realization that had been on the edge of her consciousness the last time they’d been in MacTavish’s back room finally coalesced. The text of the letters she had intercepted at the Caffrey’s and the information from Malcolm’s reports flashed in her mind’s eye, the relevant parts jumping out at her.

  “Ironclad!” she whispered excitedly. Elle felt a rush nearly as good as the climax she’d just experienced as the random information formed into unified theory.

  “Pardon?” Malcolm asked. He adjusted the tented groin of his pants. “I’m not familiar with that particular euphemism, but I’m not opposed to it.”