by Martha Hix
Work progressed, a good feeling. It gave India a lift that set her to changing linen on a cot.
“Let me help you.”
She turned to smile at Antoinette Lawrence, wearing a pinafore, too, though hers enhanced her looks. India said in her best old-lady voice, “I can always use a second set of hands. But you look wan, m’dear. After your illness, perhaps you should have a cup of beef tea and a moment off your feet.”
“I’m fine. Your zeal has fired my recovery.”
Scanning the ward, India took comfort in knowing the men were on the far side of it, thus giving conversational privacy. “Would that Opal Lawrence shared your enthusiasm.”
Spiked lashes fell over blue eyes, highlighting alabaster skin. “Auntie Opal applauds your efforts secretly. She fears Uncle Rosc’s wrath. And she stands by her man.”
The women stretched the cotton linens, tucking them in as the blonde continued. “Uncle Rosc won’t be pleased the Sanitary Commission stepped in. If I have anything to say about it—and he rarely denies me anything—he’ll let you continue here.”
Confidence flashed in her eyes, not unlike a woman very sure of her man. In this case, her uncle.
Antoinette plumped a pillow. “I won’t allow Uncle to deal harshly with Major O’Brien.”
“Let’s pray your influence is strong.”
Should the Lawrence miss fail, how would Colonel Lawrence deal with his second-in-charge? What do I owe Connor? Save for stubbornness over Matt, he had acquiesced to many demands. Connor was no rotten egg.
She glanced at the blonde. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned what your uncle will say about your own actions?”
“Not at all. I do have him wrapped around this.” She twirled her pinkie. “Anyway, all’s well that ends well, to quote the Bard. I intend to land a rich husband on this island.”
India couldn’t help but laugh, almost losing her old-lady voice. “Young lady, you are barking up the wrong tree. Southerners aren’t rich, not after three years of war.”
“Oh, I’m not thinking to tree any of them. My eyes are on richer game. O’Brien game.”
A coil tightened India’s limbs, spiraling upward, while a terrible pain grabbed her heart. “I should imagine you won’t have much trouble. Do tell this old spinster something, though. How long has Major O’Brien been courting you?”
“I don’t mean a penniless soldier, no matter how handsome he is, or how dashing he is. I refer to his brother, Burke.”
The twisted insides relaxed; India sighed in relief. Antoinette had no designs on Connor. Wonderful! And he had a brother. It came as a shock to realize how little India knew about the man she’d been kissing each evening.
“Uncle told me Burke owns O’Brien Steamship Company,” the other woman was saying. “Four freighters already, more planned. Such promise! He’s twenty-six, and a bachelor to boot.”
“How will you know if Burke O’Brien is right for you?” She went to the next cot. “Will his money be enough?”
“Money is my ticket out of Illinois.” Antoinette glanced away. “Especially Rock Island.”
She’s unhappy. Why? Well, why not? It wasn’t easy being of marriageable age during war, when all the best catches had been snagged by the military.
Collected, Antoinette smiled brightly. “Captain O’Brien will stop here soon. Mark my words, I’ll be waiting for him.”
“Good luck with your campaign.”
“I won’t need luck, Miss Marshall. I’ll just wrap him around this.” Again, a pinkie waved.
Oh, for such poise. It was awful, the jealousy that had coiled India tighter than a seven-day clock, but the uncoiling brought another worry. Too green to make a conclusive study of her feelings, she wondered, How much does Connor mean to me?
Matters of men being Antoinette’s forte, surely she could offer wisdom into India’s fogged state of ardor. “Have you ever been smitten with a young man for no other reason than for himself, warts and all?” Not that he has an off-putting blemish.
“Smitten? Let’s get down to brass tacks. You mean lust.” The tips of the blonde’s fingers patted her azalea-pink lips. “I’ll have no more of it. Never again will I subject myself to a racing pulse, or to a pattering heart, or to the lack of courage to say good-bye. No more lust for me.”
Oops. I’ve got it bad, lust.
“Money is enough,” Antoinette restated, tidying her coiffure. “Make no mistake, though, it won’t hurt, should Burke O’Brien be anywhere near as head-turning handsome as the major.”
Quite interested in Major Easy On The Eye, India asked, “What did your uncle tell you about Major O’Brien?”
“Once I knew he was thirty and didn’t have a dime to show for it, I quit asking about him.”
Great. I don’t even know if he’s married.
Antoinette turned from the nurse-sanitarian. Really, it was depressing in this sick ward. She glanced at Miss Marshall, who wasn’t the least bit put off at changing the dressing on a sullen Johnny Reb’s arm. That spinster was a saint.
Antoinette was not a saint.
The only reason she’d volunteered? To garner Connor O’Brien’s praise, which would surely make a good impression on his shipping-baron brother. For all her outward confidence, she wasn’t confident at all. Heaven knew she needed something above looks and charm.
Looks were looks, and charm was charm, each having gotten her away from her mother’s despicable tavern, but she used the wrong man to gain freedom. That freedom had converted to sexual servitude.
For the finer things, she’d done vile things with her uncle. She’d had to. Nothing came free from the miserly Roscoe Lawrence.
Any man with a brain—and what self-made man didn’t have one?—would know she lacked virginity. Yet she’d not been pure, even before Rosc. Young and stupid, she’d fallen victim to lust, had later learned her lover already had a wife. Like she’d told Miss Marshall, she’d never be stupid again.
Not that she’d get the chance. Rosc Lawrence would never let her out of his grip. He barely allowed her to room in town, so how could she escape him? Where could she go, should Burke O’Brien prove immune to her pinkie?
Keep trying. Keep at Rosc, and maybe he’ll let you go.
“Miss . . . help me.” A patient coughed. “My brow is fevered.” The appeal came from a South Carolinian. He marshaled enough strength to grin like an idiot and say, “Ma’am, you’re fetchin’ as a speckled pup.”
Unimpressed, she bathed his brow, and was exceedingly glad that was all he needed.
Leaving her patient, India tossed the spoiled dressings in the laundry, but halted upon a bouquet of paper flowers being thrust in her hand. “For the purtiest gal on the Mississippi.”
“Thank you, Zeke.”
He tapped his nail against a wrinkled cheek. “How ’bout a thank-ye kiss?”
She gave him the sort of buss that she’d given her late uncle Omar. Several patients clapped. Obviously they thought it splendid, a last chance at love for an elderly pair.
“Get away!”
That masculine shriek drew her attention to a one-armed boy just brought to the infirmary. The drunken lout Hanrahan, a leather apron tenting his belly, tried to hold the youth down.
“Get away! I ain’t having none of you and your saws!”
India thrust the flowers back into Zeke’s hand and rushed to the bedside, giving Hanrahan a quelling look that brought him to unsteady feet. “You’re frightening the patient.”
“Stay outta this, you meddling old crone.” His billowed breath would have gagged even the field surgeons at Port Gibson.
Zeke, like a bantam rooster, hopped between her and the doctor. “Miss India done asked ye time and again not to wear that there leather apron.”
True. She spent too much time soothing the infirm when they first caught sight of that symbol of amputations.
“Zeke, I’ll take care of this.” She smiled at his gallantry. “Please go on with distributing your flowers.”
He had a look of doubt in his dear eyes, but being a man who liked to please his lady, Ezekiel Pays receded.
“Take off that apron, Dr. Hanrahan.”
“Lady, you don’t tell me what to do.”
“That will be enough, Hanrahan.”
Connor.
The doctor backed away. Following the acting commander’s orders, a pair of Confederate sickroom volunteers moved forward to comfort their upset compatriot.
Connor led her to the aisle. “How ’bout a cuppa coffee?”
“After I finish with the beds.”
He turned his darkened gaze on the Iowan now handing out nosegays but eyeing India with concern. “Let Lover Boy do it.”
“Now, now, Connor.”
Her hungry eyes devoured him from the top of his dark head to the toe of his shining boots. She not only checked her beginning grin, she gave thanks that he wasn’t rich enough for Antoinette’s pinkie.
She wagged a teasing finger. “Work on your attitude toward precious Zeke. The boys do love his paper bouquets.”
“So do you.”
“So do I.”
She’d have her tongue cut out before admitting how much she enjoyed the battle between heroes. Never had she been the center of attention, and, by darn, she liked it. “It ought to be beneath your dignity, acting childish toward an elder.”
“Do you want coffee, or not?”
Connor stomped to the cordoned-off kitchen. She followed. The delicious scents of bread rising and beef tea simmering, in addition to the aroma of coffee, met them. A bushel of apples stood by the door. The kitchen shelves were lined with rice for pudding, oats for gruel, and bottles of whiskey for toddies that brought comfort to boys on the mend. Lastly, cheesecloth hanging from a hook separated the liquid from clabber for farmer’s cheese, which had been Doot Smith’s idea.
The cook outdoors shoveling coal into a bin, Connor poured coffee into tin cups and spoke the benign. “You’ve got a well-stocked kitchen.”
Government money had paid for these provisions—thanks to a good egg!—while the largesse from Rock Island benefited many of the hale. “The women have been generous. And that reporter from the Argus wasn’t such a bad sort.” India, cup in hand, went to the table and sat down on a bench. “His article brought in even more donations for the prisoners.”
“Be careful of generosity.” Connor slid three fingers beneath the cup handle. “Especially where Antoinette Lawrence is concerned. Word has it she’s got two sides.”
“Don’t we all?” India came back, not at all concerned.
He strode to the table, scooted next to her. While the scent of wool and woodsmoke and man accompanied him, the heat of his thigh sautéed through her pinafore, woolen dress, and cotton underpinnings, swiftly sizzling her blood all the way from a shaking thigh to a heart that thumped with excitement.
Eyes half-lidded, he canvassed her figure. His baritone deepening, he whispered, “I’ve ordered fresh air. Your brother has just finished a walk.”
It was all she could do not to throw herself into her very own Aladdin’s arms! “ ’Twas a lucky day, when I met you.”
“Who’s to know how our luck will hold, but, Squirt, I’m feeling pretty lucky, too.”
She liked the way he called her a nickname, though she might not have picked that particular one. What did it matter what he called her, as long as he did it with interest?
And he did show interest.
She yearned to go beyond the blistered-lips stage, but balked. Once, she’d offered virginity. Now, she recognized problems on the horizon. If she ever touched the flame, she feared she would never be able to deprive herself of it.
The fire must be watered.
Refusing to study Connor’s pleasing face nor the breadth of his shoulders, she asked, “What would Cook think, should he return and find you cuddled next to an old woman?”
“I get reckless around you, don’t I?” The crook of his forefinger boosted her chin. “I haven’t seen you in that Oriental nightgown since the night we met. Wear it tonight.”
Silk and sin—oh, what a temptation. Her disobedient body knew more fire than any attempts to tamp it. “Connor, I want to know something. Are you married?”
“I am.”
Crestfallen, she steadied herself. Why had she never considered that?
“I’m married to the Army,” he clarified, calming her.
“I—I should have guessed you’d say that.”
Running the edge of his thumb along her jaw, he whispered, “Leave your hair unbound tonight I like it down.”
His right arm stole across her shoulder as he brought her closer. Victim to the conflagration, she lifted her arms to Connor’s shoulders. “If you wish.”
Deuteronomy Smith backed away from the kitchen doorway. Disgusting. It was plain vulgar, Major O’Brien and the old lady from the Commission locked in a kissing embrace.
All along, he’d admired that Miss Marshall, had thought her nicer than even his own grandma. Could be it was right what folks whispered about unchaperoned ladies in the company of men. They just weren’t upstanding. As for the major—there was no excuse for his behavior.
“He’s a devil,” Doot muttered.
Throwing off his once-prized gloves and tossing them to the infirmary floor, he stomped through the ward, out the door.
Ezekiel Pays followed. “What be wrong, Smith?”
“Your lady friend is sinning with the major.”
“Shud up that lyin’ mouth of yern!” Spittle flew, landed on Pays’s white beard.
“Open your eyes, Gramps. She ain’t what she seems.”
Fingers becoming chilled without Miss Marshall’s gloves, Doot filed away, making for the telegraph office. Arrived, he ordered the visored operator, “Sir, send a message to Washington. Attention Colonel Roscoe Lawrence.”
India was in no mood for lavender silk.
After being swept into the tourbillion of Connor’s kisses, she’d visited her brother. Fresh air had whetted his appetite for liberty. Matt wanted out, he wanted out now, and if she didn’t spring him, then she was no sister of his. She considered extricating him, but any such path would make the road rockier for her hero.
India dressed for bed that evening, choosing flannel.
“You disappoint me,” Connor remarked upon eyeing flannel and the single plait of hair that lay over her shoulder.
While trying to ignore the manly combination of bath soap and bay rum, India tossed her head to rid a stray lock of flyaway hair from her eyebrow. Her accomplishment? It made it easier to see that he’d shaved, had brushed his molasses-brown hair, and had abandoned the uniform tunic. Her fingers tingled to slide beneath his suspenders and touch his hair-whorled chest. But where would that get her? “Connor, I’m weary. Please leave.”
She might as well have saved her breath. The click of the door latch was like a cannon volley in her ears.
“India, you were expecting me.”
Lacing fingers behind her back, she walked to the window and found Solitary. Abracadabra. Not making sense, even to herself, she said, “You are too much for me.”
His bare feet made little sound as he negotiated the bedroom, though she felt the heat of him even before he pulled her back against his front. He unlaced her hands. The fan of his breath drew a shiver as he lowered his lips to her ear. “How do you know I’m too much? How do you know . . . without trying?”
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Connor’s hand moved up the nightgown to find an all-too-willing breast. Caressing the mound and tweaking the flannel-covered tip, he ground his hips against her. He felt good. Lavishly good. Mindlessly so.
She turned into his arms. At her back, she felt the window frame. Her palms flattened on his chest, and her eyes begged understanding as she admired his hazel gaze. “You’d be in a better position to deal with the colonel if we aren’t . . .” What word, if any beyond lust, described the situation between them? “If we don’t—”
When he gave her a moment to breathe, she had to have a word with herself about sticking to intentions. “We must stop this madness. We are doomed. Let’s not create more problems. Please leave. And don’t make any more visits to my room.”
Connor did not withdraw. One hand on the wall, the other on the window sash, he captured her in the cocoon of his nearness. “Why are you pouting? I gave Marshall fresh air.”
“I’m tired. Too tired.” Yet, here was the perfect opening to press her brother’s case. “I wouldn’t be upset if you gave Matt his freedom. For humanitarian purposes. It’s done. I know it’s done. You, as acting commander, have the authority.”
“India.” Connor pulled out the syllables. “Enough with favors. I’m out of them.”
She wouldn’t stop. “What would it hurt, pardoning Matt? He’s needed at home, so he won’t rejoin the Confederate Army. And a troublesome prisoner would be out of your hair.”
“You’re not going anywhere. Not yet. You’ve built a fire in me that needs putting out.” He nuzzled her neck. “Impulse be damned,” he uttered.
The shivers he summoned were almost more than her wits could handle, lust being formidable. “I can’t go through with this.” She thought of but one excuse that would grant a respite to raging desires. “I want to talk. I don’t know you, not really, yet you know reams about me. Tell me about yourself.”
“Not now.”
“I barely know you don’t have a wife.” Her eyes trailed from his face to a wide shoulder and down an arm dusted with coarse body hair. Good gracious, don’t look at him, else you’ll throw yourself in his arms. “I’d like to know more about you.”
He tipped her chin up. “You didn’t know anything about me the time you offered your virginity. Why is it an issue now?”
“I was crazed that night.”
Ever interested in the slightest nuance concerning him, she centered on the tiny pockmark at his forehead. How old had he been upon contracting smallpox? “Now that we’ve known each other a few weeks, I feel I have a right to know about my hero.”