by Martha Hix
“I’m liking it to the point that I can’t help but wonder—” He moved his hands to her arms; the fingers dug in. “You’re up to something. And it’s not handing out goodies to a bunch of Rebel prisoners.”
All she could do was brazen it out. “I, um, I’m up to warming my toes on a cold winter night.”
He frowned. “India, don’t do this to yourself. Whoever you are, whatever you are, you’re too brave a lady to fall to the illicit. I won’t take advantage of you.”
You’re too unattractive, that’s the problem. A dull ache in her heart, she lashed out, “You have the charm of a billy goat.”
His generosity of spirit plummeted, as well it should have. “Who needs charm? I’m not the one trying to melt the pants off a man.” He stepped back, folding arms over his chest. “What is it, Miss Marshall? What’s of such importance that it’s worth degrading yourself to get?”
Shame should have worked its way into her veins, but it didn’t. By gosh, she’d liked degradation, or whatever this sort of seduction was called. Nevertheless, she presented her back to the son of Memphis who would bring no smiles to his native townsfolk. “Believe me, I’ll never try to charm you again.”
“Fine. You’ll be leaving, anyway. Let’s keep our good-byes brief. Good night, good-bye. Now, march!”
Determination had a word with pride, since she must get into that prison barracks, hang the cost. Besides, he was no paragon, either. “You don’t strike me as a man who’d be choosy about a woman’s morals at a time like this.”
“ ‘A time like this.’ Interesting phrase, considering the politics of the times. And you, I do believe, don’t represent the Sanitary Commission. I think you’re a Confederate spy.”
She flipped a clot of back-combed hair over her shoulder—Persia Marshall Glennie had been an excellent study—and whirled around to face her accuser. “I’m not a spy. I’m nothing more than a woman with a mission who refuses to fail.”
She couldn’t, not before distributing the materiel bought from the proceeds from a sale of many cherished family heirlooms. Heirlooms had lost their appeal to her. Success had not. She had to get to Matt. Her brother could save a very worthy cause.
Coiled on his rattles, the Yankee snake struck. “You may be a natural in your responses, but, lady, you haven’t had much experience kissing. How come you’re willing to warm your toes next to mine?”
Once, she’d overheard crude men talking about someone not being able to “sell ladybirds in a log camp.” India supposed she couldn’t even give herself away in one.
The major took a step in her direction; his hazel gaze softened. “I’ve hurt your feelings. Forgive me.”
Was he contrite?
“Know something and know it well, Connor O’Brien. I may be a virgin with a higher goal than saving her dubious charms, but I don’t give in. Or up.”
“If all the soldiers in the fields had your strength,” Connor muttered dryly, “the Confederacy would be history.”
There seemed a grudging respect in his voice. Why count on it? “So much for me,” she said. “Let’s talk about you. I believe you’ve been thinking cloak-and-dagger all day and into the evening, yet you’ve chosen this particular moment to back off. I’d say the issue of honor is a nebulous one. So is my lack of experience. We’re just one man and one woman, and I have something I thought you wanted enough to make a very small concession, for the sake of human kindness.”
“The United States government takes care of its prisoners. What is your true purpose?”
“Helping the sick and injured.”
Truth—she spoke it. It was India who took care of the people at the Marshall cotton plantation, when Granny Mabel couldn’t. And how many hours had India given aid at Port Hudson, during the final battle for control of the Mississippi?
“I have cried for soldiers, be they blue or gray,” she admitted. “Each was an individual with his own hopes and dreams. All were swept into a wave of no return. Theirs was a much bigger sacrifice than my offering up my virginity.”
“You’re talking in circles.”
Could she do nothing right? “I’ll spare words. If I need to degrade myself for a purpose—I’ll do it.” She resorted to a try at humor. “Would you rather I wait for one of those old-goat guards to hobble out of the stockade then mesmerize him with my wig and spectacles?”
The humorless churl replied, “I’d rather you simply leave. As I asked and ordered.”
“I won’t be riding the rails on the morrow.”
Fury shot into his eyes. He lifted a finger to jab it close to her face. “You, by damn, will.”
“My, you’re stubborn. And unwilling to budge.”
Earlier, before the recital, she’d asked Antoinette Lawrence why the major had been assigned to the prison, but the blonde hadn’t known. India knew one thing well. War hawks fought without arms, and sometimes legs—at least for the Confederacy. Why didn’t Connor, so tenacious, so physically conditioned, fight for the Union?
Well, wasn’t he? He was darned sure fighting her.
“I’m just as pigheaded,” she said. “I will not stir from this island. I’ll wait for the colonel’s return.”
How best to handle Lawrence she’d worry about later, even though an image of a wild boar caught in tintype flashed before her eyes and sent a tusk into her composure. Buck up, Indy. She did. In the period between now and Lawrence’s return, she’d do everything in her power to get inside the compound. “Try to stop me, Major O’Brien, and I will slit your throat while you sleep.”
Slit his throat? Jumping Jehoshaphat! Where had that come from? No matter. She wouldn’t back down, verbally.
“You won’t be slitting anyone’s throat, Miss Marshall. Not if you’re in manacles, on your way to trial in Washington.”
India straightened her back, resorting again to the bluff. “I am a nurse-sanitarian for the United States Sanitary Commission with papers to prove it. If you do anything to stand in my way, you’ll be in manacles, awaiting a court-martial.”
He took a giant step to her, his fingers digging into her shoulders again. “Damn you. Damn your devious little heart to hell. You won’t ruin me. I won’t let you.”
Ah, ha! She’d found his Achilles’ heel: fear of getting in hot water with the brass.
She took a gamble, bet a hand of threes and fives, jack high. “Surely would be a shame if the bonhomie of this place got stirred up, wouldn’t it, Major? It would look bad to the war hawks in Washington. No telling what kind of hell might pop.”
Moments drifted by, heavy with the weight of her gamble.
“I don’t like threats. But I don’t like trouble, either.” Teeth clenched, his features hard, the major didn’t surrender passively, at least in heart. “You can stay till Lawrence returns. Ask him to open the gates.”
“How long before he returns?”
“Could be a month. Maybe longer.”
“Thank you.” She whirled around, leaving his room. Once she reached her own, she wilted onto the bed and prayed for strength to see her ambitions through. Anger and embarrassment burned through her.
“I’ll eat a bucket of fishing worms before Connor O’Brien hears another seductive word from my lips.” Treat him like the despicable worm that he was, that was how she’d treat him.
For the longest, until the lantern died out, Connor sat in a chair in his room and pondered the path India had taken.
War had found him. She had something important to do—albeit detrimental to his purposes, no doubt—but he had to admire her spirit. The challenge of India Marshall intrigued him, and the rascal in Connor looked forward to the tussle of getting her gone before Dimpled Darling returned.
“Gran’son,” he could almost hear Fitz O’Brien lecturing, “you be nice t’ the lasses.” Fitz had tried to rear decent grandsons, had tried to instill his own credo: Worship the ladies, and treat the women as if they were ladies.
Congress may have made Connor a gentleman, but to
night he hadn’t been all that gentlemanly, shouldn’t have pointed out her inexperience, a state that usually brought men joy rather than censure, him being no exception. It had riled him, though, once he realized what she was willing to barter. A woman as strong as India Marshall shouldn’t dishonor herself.
Strange. Connor had known his share of women, yet he couldn’t recall a time he’d wanted one as badly as he’d wanted India tonight. It took a store of strength to push her away.
The urge to take Intrepid out for as good a ride as possible came over Connor. He didn’t. The sleek Arabian hadn’t yet become accustomed to the cold clime of Illinois, so why disturb his faithful steed at this dark hour? Connor’s was a lonely vigil, coming to grips with the latest turn in his life.
To justify his attraction to India Marshall, he lined up her good qualities. She had the makings of a good soldier. Yet her soft heart for prisoners-of-war gave her character and depth. She had substance, certainly wasn’t selfish.
But he was no closer to the truth about her. Why not send a telegram to the War Department, check on her? No. If what he suspected turned out to be fact, he’d have no choice but to arrest her, and that didn’t appeal to him.
Time would give the true tale of India Marshall. During her brief stay at Rock Island, he’d keep her at arm’s length, and within arm’s reach.
Five
Streaks of morning light were painting the breakfast room when Phoebe O’Brien sat down to a plate of ham and eggs. Already she’d seen to Fitz’s comforts, not that her father needed it. By the time she reached his room, a servant had beaten her to fresh clothes plus porridge, juice, and a Havana cigar.
Fitz O’Brien, spry despite eighty-six years of crabbing about rheumatism, would soon be on his way to do damage at the establishment that had never had a name change, even after Daniel’s death: Fitz & Son, Factors.
Phoebe forked a slice of ham. “Better it should be Fitz & Daughter, Factors,” she muttered, aggravated that neither Connor nor Burke had seen fit to serve the family business.
Forty years the company bookkeeper, Phoebe would follow Fitz at her own pace. For now she read the newspaper and ate. It wouldn’t be any time, she figured between the front and second page, before Tessa would make an appearance to babble about Connor’s birthday.
Sister had been waiting for yesterday since July of 1860, and Phoebe had heard a thousand scenarios of The Perfect Bride.
By page three, Tessa, bouncing like a girl, right down to the sausage curls, entered the eating room. “Oh, mercy, Phoebe, I do wonder who Connor’s bride is. I hope she knows how to cook his favorite foods,” she summed up in Scenario of the Day.
“Eat your banana, Tessa.”
“I can’t eat! I’m too excited. I just can’t wait until my Genie awakens. We’re going down to the wharf, to call on Burke. I’ve decided to travel up to Rock Island and find out exactly who will be the new member of the family.”
Yes, Burke’s flagship, the Delta Star, was docked in Memphis, but the thought that he would be called on to grant favors galled Phoebe. “Burke is a businessman. His first concern is making money. Write Connor a letter, Sister. Don’t impose on Burke.”
“Impose? How can you say such a thing? Burke knows his brother was to meet his future bride yesterday.”
“Yes, you’ve bent our second nephew’s ear about that magic-malarkey. And bent it, and bent it, and bent it. Burke puts no stock in magical wishes, although he does humor you to the point of the ridiculous.”
“That’s what nephews are for, Phoebe. Anyway, Burke is set to steam up to Illinois as soon as there’s no danger of ice. He has cargo to collect up there, for the war effort.”
The war effort. Tessa, like Burke and Father and Connor, had sided with the North in the War Between the States. Phoebe, on the other hand, had Southern sympathies. And why not? She was a product of Memphis, a staunchly southern city now in the hands of Union forces.
The O’Briens, rich for two generations, had pots of money stashed away, and had done even better by war, revealed by this simple room. It was the least grand in a more than comfortable home. As usual, silver serving dishes and Irish crystal rested on the shelves beneath the beveled bay windows, but the bunch of bananas lazing in sun rays showcased the difference between the O’Briens and many of their neighbors.
How many Southerners were privileged with tropical fruit?
Her sister pulled her out of mental meandering. “You will join us on the trip up to Rock Island, won’t you, Phoebe?”
“No.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Phoebe meant it. But had second thoughts. No telling what kind of mischief Tessa would create up there. Tessa, who didn’t know a debit from a credit, had idle hands, truly the devil’s workshop. “I suppose you’re taking Eugene along?”
Aged blue eyes got dreamy. “That goes without saying.”
Phoebe’s glare smoldered with rebuke, yet she went silent. Tessa had an awful crush on Eugene; and no matter that Burke, not to mention Phoebe herself, despised the sponge, Tessa wouldn’t be swayed from him. Nor would she be swayed from her faith in the powers of a silly lamp that sat in Fitz & Son, Factors’ reinforced safe.
Phoebe folded the newspaper, pushed her plate of breakfast aside, and crossed her arms over her flat chest, silent no more. “You know, I’m liking the idea of a trip to Illinois. It will prove what a ninny you’ve been since Marseilles. You’ll see that Connor hasn’t met a future bride.”
“Oh, don’t be such a skeptic.” Tessa fluttered her fingers. “You’ll see. Just you wait and see. Right now, our Connor has met his future wife. And she’s the most wonderful young lady on the face of the earth.”
Looking down her sharp nose, Phoebe admonished her sister. “You’re absurd. And I’m tired of hearing about that foolish lamp you bought from a thief who never sent those rugs to the Lady America.”
“You needn’t be mean.”
“How can you trust a man like Hasan al-Nahar to be honest about the origin of a lamp?”
Tessa wilted onto a chair and settled her forearms on the tabletop. “It is Genie who brings magic to the lamp.”
“Horse feathers. He’s empty pockets, a bottomless pit for a stomach, and a permanent fixture in the garçonnière.”
“The boys don’t need the bachelor quarters anymore. Why shouldn’t our guest use them?”
“How many years does it take for a guest to become a resident?” Her irritable voice covered concern for her beloved, gullible sister. “Everyone in town laughs at you, Tessa O’Brien. You’re a laughingstock, in company with an earring-wearing Arab with no visible—or invisible!—means of support who won’t even tell you his real name.”
“Eugene Jinnings is real enough for me. As for the gossips—let them gossip. Father approves.”
“Don’t get me started on that.”
Phoebe swallowed a piece of biscuit that now tasted like a big wad of flour and water. Fitz O’Brien did lavish clothing and finery on Eugene, and he gave lip service to the outlandish courtship. But his reasons had nothing to do with approval. He was glad not to listen to Tessa’s prattling, even if it meant supporting a sponge.
Tessa poured herself a cup of coffee. “You may be satisfied to spend a lifetime with no gentleman friend to keep you company, but I wasn’t.”
“Don’t bring me into it,” Phoebe replied, hurt that her sister knew not her feelings.
Each time she, as a girl, had eyed a young man, Father or Mother had picked him apart, had warned her to take more care than Daniel had taken in choosing a mate. Theirs had been a good enough argument. Yet Phoebe pined for the man she’d never had.
And with the space of years having opened her eyes, she now knew Fitz O’Brien had kept her a spinster so as not to lose a good bookkeeper.
“You resent Genie,” Tessa said, and peeled her banana.
It wasn’t that Phoebe resented Eugene so much, it was that she resented his monopolizing Tessa. The sisters
had been thick as thieves before Eugene Jinnings butted in.
“What good does he do you, Tessa? You and I both know he got his pecker loped off in a seraglio.”
The cherubic mouth dropped in an equally angelic face. A blush stained cheeks having known smoother days. “How do you know he isn’t intact?”
The elder sister snickered, smoothing one side of her age-faded red chignon. “Tessa O’Brien, I may be pushing fifty-five, but I still make it a habit to find out what needs to be found out.”
“How do you know he isn’t intact?” Tessa repeated.
“I peeked as he bathed.”
“That was wicked of you.”
“Granted.”
“Sister,” Tessa asked, cocking her head, “what did you mean about a harem?”
“Where else would his castration have occurred?” Phoebe rejoined, not on firm ground about Arabic conventions.
More interested in her nephew, she got back to him. “What if Connor met two women yesterday? What does that do to magic?”
“He didn’t. Genie promised he wouldn’t.”
“Eugene . . .”
“What is the matter with my lady? You never call me Eugene.”
Snuggled in the big bed that a nephew had once occupied in the bachelor quarters, Tessa O’Brien wiggled even closer to her pruned admirer, who was stroking the breasts that sagged pitifully. “Genie, my sister put the awfullest bug in my ear. What if Connor met two women yesterday?”
Genie tweaked the stem on one fallen melon. His tongue flicking at her earlobe, he assured, “Have faith in me, my lady. I will never dissatisfy you.”
“You never have.” Tessa remained a virgin in the strictest sense of the condition, but her Genie had introduced her to all sorts of interesting conditions. “I’m not worried. Connor has met his lady.”
“Um. So he has.” The eunuch moved lower on her body.
Tessa, for once, stopped him. “There’s something else I want to ask you. You never say much about yourself. But—”