by Martha Hix
“I’ve always liked a challenge.” He ran a finger along her cheek, warming it. “With your spunk, you’ll make a difference in this godforsaken place.”
How his praise filled her heart! She chewed her lip, though, worrying about the future that was so important to this man of war. He tempted a court-martial with his kindness.
He stared at his polished boots, crossed his arms, then lifted an all-too-beautiful face. “I admire you, India.”
“You do?” Her words chimed incredulous.
“You have magical powers over men, especially me.”
His fingers wrapped around her elbows, and if not for the bad form of a thirty-year-old officer kissing a woman in public—especially one who appeared aged—she felt certain he would have kissed her.
“You have something this country needs more of. A heart that favors no flag.” He ran splayed fingers through his dark hair. “Because you did something for the Union that Congress refuses to do. You provided an ambulance for our soldiers.”
“You listened at the door!”
“To all I could hear. You’ll get no apology.” Head bowed, hands planted on his hips, Connor warned, “You’re a fool if you fall for your brother’s blackmail.”
“I won’t spring him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No. I’m concerned for you.” He lifted his eyes. “Don’t get yourself killed for him.”
“I owe him.” Unexpectedly, words started to flow. “If not for me, he could have made different choices. Matt is a Marshall. He’s got saltwater in his veins. Duty kept him at Pleasant Hill. Which belonged to my mother’s family, you see. And hers before that.”
“Explains why a sea captain is also a farmer.”
She nodded. “Winny loved everything about the land. A regular little farmer, he, dirty fingernails and all.” Finding it cleansing to speak of the anguish she’d kept to herself, India admitted, “It was my fault Winny died. We were eleven, twins. He was”—she swallowed hard, closed her stinging eyes—“afraid of the water, didn’t know how to swim. I do. One day I coaxed him into taking me on a picnic along the riverbank. It was hot. I was hot. So I jumped in. Screamed to tease him into the water. It worked.” A long pause. “Winny jumped in to ’save’ me. A water snake bit my wrist. I—I couldn’t save my twin.”
An arm wound around her; she leaned into formidable strength. “Connor, I’ve never been able to forgive myself.”
He murmured tender words, sweet words of sorrow. His hand rubbed warmth into her upper arm, giving a certain peace. It had truly been purifying to talk of Winny, that fine young boy.
“Somethin’ wrong, Miss Marshall? Get bad news?”
She opened her eyes, Connor swiveling around at the same moment. One of the guards, a friend since that day she’d tried to break open the fence, stood a few feet away, worried.
“I’m fine, Corporal. I’ll be okay.”
The elderly man tipped his kepi, took his leave.
“Indy ...” Connor spoke her nickname, and she approved, for there seemed a new bond between them now that she’d opened her heart. Now that he’d granted so many of her wishes.
“Indy, forget Zeke Pays.” Splendid hazel eyes held her gaze. “I’ll be your hero.”
A smile broke through her lingering sorrow for Winny.
“Let’s go see what we can do about putting you to work.” The magnificent major let go his hold, did an about-face.
Her feet didn’t move. Amid a gathering of curious Confederate prisoners and a heart that raced, she yet lagged behind him. Major Connor O’Brien, the handsomest man on the banks of the Mississippi, was intrigued by a box-faced spinster who spoke her mind. Aladdin’s princess had never been so lucky!
Abracadabra. Should she follow the call of an ancient Arabic catchword? She’d said she would do nothing to aid Matt’s illegal liberation. Abracadabra. A terrible dilemma. She could save Matt. Or she could save lives.
Should she stay to help the misfortunates ... and be in company with the first young man seeking to be her hero?
Nine
Being a hero didn’t come cheap. Connor signed requisition after requisition, giving over money to fund India’s dream. He’d never admit it—barely to himself—but do-gooding felt good.
The high cost, of course, wouldn’t pay out in dollars. He knew Lawrence, expected in a week or so, would have his head, but Connor would fight the fight, and if he got in trouble for spending money Congress had allotted for prisoner care, then he’d go to a higher authority. If he got the chance. As commander of this post, Roscoe Lawrence had rights to deal with subordinates as he deemed fit. Military justice, grassroots level.
So be it.
As India had said once, Lawrence wasn’t here, and he was. Right now, Connor was military justice, grassroots level.
Omnipotent he might be, but he hadn’t been able to budge India from the island, and, frankly, he’d decided to let her stay until the last possible moment. This place needed her.
He tramped through melting snow—winter was breaking at last—and headed for the barracks that had been earmarked as hospital and pest house. Convict laborers were lugging the infirm into buildings, a score of workers correcting slipshod workmanship on the roofs built just over a half year ago.
Connor rounded the hospital building and found India bent over in a makeshift chicken yard, luring a Rhode Island red with, “Here, chickee, chickee,” and a few clicks of her tongue.
“Hello”—he almost said “farm maiden” but checked the maiden part, for her image’s sake—“Nurse Marshall.”
Feathers drifted as scared fowl took cover from his voice.
Indignation itself, India shoved one fist against her curvaceous waist, covered by a white pinafore and the usual gray frock. Her cape, a new one, fell behind her, to the ground. Under her arm was tucked a tome that Connor guessed to be Arabian Nights Entertainment.
A lock of atrocious wig had come loose from its granny bun. She blew it out of her eyes. “Sonny Boy,” she said in her easily employed old-lady voice, “you’ve frightened away all prospects of chicken soup.”
“My apologies, ma’am. To atone for my insensitivity, I’ll have the post butcher send a side of beef to your cook.” And pay for it out of Connor’s pocket. Being around India had definitely rubbed off on him. “Will that return me to good stead?”
She blinked behind those eyeglasses that were off-kilter, thanks to that night in the mansion library. “A whole side of beef? Dinner, and pots and pots of beef tea for the infirm. Sir, you gain in stead as each moment passes.”
“In that case, humor me. Let’s take a walk, Miss Marshall.” He collected her fallen cape, fitted it around her shoulders, and offered an arm, which she took.
They headed out the gates and to the unpopulated side of the island, the eastern portion. There he helped her to a tree stump and sat down beside her. “I’m surprised at you,” he said, luxuriating in the clean scent of lavender. “You’ve worked hard over the past week, getting your medical compound in order, yet you have a book under your arm. Have you fooled me all along? Are you a laggardly bookworm?”
“I read to the workers when they broke for lunch.” She pulled the volume from under her arm. “I prefer poetry, but this is a special book.”
The red cover had faded with age, but one could still read the stamping. Arabian Nights Entertainment.
“My great-uncle gave this to me on my tenth birthday.”
“You’ve enjoyed the gift. The night I turned your room upside down, I flipped through it. Most pages are quite worn.”
“Especially the pages that deal with Aladdin.”
“Your literary hero.”
The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her upper lip, and Connor didn’t miss the eroticism of it. She said, “I’d be lying if I said I’m not intrigued with the young man whose every wish was for his adored. Aladdin went to all lengths and measures to please Princess Badroulboudour.”
Connor g
rinned a wicked grin. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she’d like to measure his length.
His fingertip tilted her chin to him, and he pressed a kiss on her nose. He wouldn’t try for more. Not yet. When they made love, he wanted to be certain she did it for the impulse, not to wrangle promises out of him.
He went with curiosity. “Just when I think I understand you, you throw me off once again. Why is it you were reading in Louisiana when you ought to’ve been accepting gentlemen callers?”
She blushed behind a powdering of ashes. “Don’t mock me.”
“I don’t. Why are you twenty-four and unwed?”
“Because I was the ole brown workhorse amid a stable of lovely white Arabians, that’s why.”
He slipped the glasses from her nose in order to enjoy her indigo eyes. “There are several shades to the Arabian strain, as Intrepid attests.” I do love straddling a fine Arabian. “How could you not stand out, and just as well?”
“Because I’m the fourth of five stunning daughters. Or was. Until France passed away. Now I’m third among four.”
“And because no one paid any attention to you, since your birth was linked with a precious son? The Winny who could have taken the reins at the family farm?”
“Yes.”
“Your uncle paid attention, though.”
“Yes. Uncle Omar took me under his wing. He’s passed on now.” In her usual matter-of-fact delivery, she went on. “Don’t get the impression I’ve had a bad life. My parents may have favored their other children, but I had Granny Mabel and Persia. They’re my anchor. Mattie is the big fish I always angled for.”
“You’re number one with me. Know it well. But you’re not telling the whole story. Once you must’ve been number one to another man.” Connor laced fingers with hers. “Was Tim Glennie an Aladdin to you before he changed affections?”
“In some ways. I was much smitten.”
Although a tad jealous at the thought of another man having had her heart, Connor reasoned with himself. And, after all, this was another thing he liked in her, honesty. Honesty given without study to make herself more likable, or to shine artificial light on her.
“But Tim Glennie broke your heart,” Connor prompted, wanting to know everything.
“I got over it when he chose my little sister. Actually, I then saw him clearly. He wasn’t nice, but Persia loves him, so who’s to complain?”
“What did you love about him, in the beginning?”
“I didn’t love him, mine was a crush. I don’t know about love, as it pertains to men and women, but I did admire Tim. He spoke temperance in matters of war. And he reads poetry.”
Connor had seen the type pontificating on street corners.
“I’ve read Tennyson’s ’Charge of the Light Brigade,’ ” he announced. Read the poet only recently. Thanks to her mention of the Crimean War poem at his birthday tea. “This paragon turned mortal, is Glennie back at the family farm?”
“If he were, he could run it.” She set the book on the boulder. “Tim joined forces with General Bedford Forrest.”
Connor couldn’t help it. He tossed back his head to laugh, round and deep. “Your peace-dove poetry hound follows an illiterate. That’s rich! Forrest is the wildest general in the Confederate Army. He leads a band of devils.”
“Well, I told you I fell out with Tim.” Her mouth curved into a smile of discovery. “Connor . . . this is the first time I’ve heard you laugh. I didn’t think you were capable of it. But it pleases me so to know I was wrong.”
They were, he believed, on the verge of impulse.
“I’m pleased you’re pleased, India.”
“Connor . . . will you forgive me for assuming you cruel and uncaring?”
“Watch out, you. You’ll soon make me sound like a peace-thumping poetry reader.”
She laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder. “You dickens, I’ll never accuse you of moldering in some stuffy library, your fine nose stuck in Keats or Tennyson. One read of ’The Charge of the Light Brigade’ does not a versifier make.”
“Glad we’re straight on that score.”
She tilted her chin up to him, her eyes sparkled, and a grin of contentment molded her lovely mouth. This is the woman he’d wanted to find these past weeks. The amenable India.
The India who’d gotten all asked-for concessions.
It was time for impulse.
He guided her to his lap and gathered her into his arms, kissing her deeply and fully. She moaned; it vibrated against his tongue. The tips of his fingers slid beneath the pinafore, finding their way to her breast. So nice. So full. So soft.
Before meeting India, Connor had never been a man overset with burning salacious desires, not that he hadn’t known his share of women. There was something different about India, something that appealed to him on many planes, which made the difference between just plain sex and the celebration of lovemaking.
The Army ranked first with Connor, but riding out part of the war with the seductive India interested him highly.
She, however, wasn’t ready for another level. Disheveled, she pulled out of his arms. “Listen here, hero,” she scolded softly, “if you’re going to order that side of beef, we’d best get back to the fort.”
“Right.”
He was almost glad she’d found an excuse to pull away. Making love in the snow wasn’t the right place for claiming her virginity. It simply wasn’t heroic.
“You’ve found a champion in Major O’Brien.”
Opal Lawrence, having returned home from tending her niece, cornered India after the sickly prisoners had enjoyed a second supper of beef tea. The colonel’s wife had India trapped at the head of the stairs; she waited for a reply, which didn’t come.
The ear trumpet absent, she shoved paper and pencil into India’s hand, saying, “I’ve been told two barracks have been cordoned off. One as a pest house, the other as an infirmary.”
“That is true.” Each rectangular structure, with a kitchen built on its end, had a capacity of forty patients. India supposed Opal didn’t want to hear what she had to say, but why not say it, along with scribbling a reply? “A detail of Confederate inmates volunteered their services to the effort.”
“If you are so worried about the spread of disease, why aren’t you concerned for their health?”
“Each is either a survivor of smallpox or has been vaccinated against it.”
“The serum provided by the Federal government, no doubt.” Opal’s mouth pursed. “I am unhappy that my husband’s orders have been rescinded. Do you not know Roscoe is adamant that government money be saved?”
“At what cost? Human lives?”
“The prisoners are Confederates who took many Federal lives.” Indignant, tired eyes added to the challenge.
“Mrs. Lawrence, you’ve said your piece, and I understand your point of view. But the Commission sent me to aid the cause of Hippocrates. I cannot allow individuals to block my efforts.”
“I shall write to Roscoe. He’ll deal with you.”
“Will your letter have time to reach Washington? Isn’t your husband due to arrive in Rock Island in a few days?”
“He’s been delayed. Trouble at the War Department.”
It was all India could do not to wipe her brow and exclaim, “Whew!” Each day was another struggle to come up with a way to get Matt out of Solitary, legally. For every passing twenty-four hours, she’d have more occasions with the major who reeled her senses.
“Do write your letter, Mrs. Lawrence. I look forward to calling your husband down for the ignoble commander that he is.”
“You dare!” Opal, consummate wife, snatched writing implements from India’s fingers. “I wish you’d never arrived here. You are not as kindly as you’d have people think! ”
Opal huffed down the stairs.
India headed for her room. Lawrence’s wife didn’t unduly trouble her, since she must be gone by the time the colonel returned. With river ice crac
king—the temperature had even risen enough to sprout daffodils in Opal’s garden—travel by steamship would soon be possible, so India need not chance riding a train through Yankee territory.
How could she leave, though? Her efforts toward the needy prisoners had given her such inner peace, and what guarantee did she have that the infirmaries would continue?
None.
Albeit she couldn’t stay here forever. She’d done her best, and lives were being saved. That was all she could do. As for Matt, his wounded limb had begun to heal. If only he could have a few moments of fresh air, it might clear his head. Surely he’d then tell her the gold’s location. Surely!
Yet . . . an awful ache in her breast told her she’d pine for never seeing Connor again, once she departed.
The kisses they had shared should have left blistered lips. Her heart had blisters from the many times he’d warmed it. Oh, Connor, how you have turned me off poetry readers.
India changed course and went to his room. The door cracked, she saw him taking off boots. “Connor ...” How easy it had become to use his given name. “I have one more request.”
He groaned. Wiping a hand down his splendid face, he asked in a tone that showed dread in her answer, “What now?”
“It’s about Mattie. He needs fresh air.”
“No.”
He didn’t yield in refusal, not then, and not over the next few days. If Connor wanted to be a veritable Aladdin, he ought to let Matt have a breath of spring air. Fresh air wasn’t much to ask for. His resistance reminded India of the difference between her and her hawk-of-war hero.
Ten
Worn to a frazzle. No other phrase described India’s state, two weeks into do-gooding. She reached beneath the nurse’s pinafore to rub her shoulder while studying the third appropriated sick house. Zeke helped out in the wards, bless him. So did Doot Smith, when he could break away from the returned Opal Lawrence; and, last but not least, the Lawrence niece, recovered from her bout with influenza, had volunteered.
Despite a doctor staying three sheets to the wind, sickly men were nestled in, several having recovered enough to play checkers. Further, twenty more patients were expected here as soon as beds on this side of the ward were readied.