by Martha Hix
“If I unlock the manacles . . . hell, I won’t bother to ask for your word of honor. I know it’s worthless.” He grabbed the key from its hook, then jabbed it in the wrist lock.
With a scrape of metal against metal, she went free. And it felt good, even though her arms took on a worse tingle than from being constrained. “Thank you.”
Connor laid the manacle key on a crate, then backtracked to the key fitting the door’s padlock. With a sidelong glance at India, he tossed the second key out the window flap. “A tactic measure,” he said unnecessarily. “You will reach Washington.”
They were locked in.
This wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her. In fact, she liked the idea. On their way to dire fates they might be, but she had the man she loved, and provided she could get past his anger—they were days from Washington, hadn’t even reached Chicago—why not start on an apt good-bye?
She made quick work of the dress fasteners, then shimmied out of the garment. Picking it up, she turned to fold the lavender dress and place it atop a crate marked fragile. Better keep the boots on, she decided, mindful of cash and weaponry.
“Would you help me with the corset laces?” she asked and pivoted around. “I can’t reach them.”
He set to work, retreating as she spilled free. “Ahhh. This is like being let loose from a vise. I must look a mess.”
“You don’t.” A moment passed. “You are lovely, India. Know it. Know you’ve never given yourself the proper credit.”
“You’ve never seen my sisters.”
“Wouldn’t change my opinion.”
Something in the way he spoke quelled her comeback.
She felt Connor at her back even before he touched her shoulder. An earthy quiver raced through her that stymied worries about consequences. She needed what they had started all those weeks ago in her lent bedroom. She wanted to give herself to Connor. She would give herself to Connor.
But his ideas were elsewhere. “India, why did you do it? Why surrender?”
“Like I tried to tell you, for you.”
“I want the truth.”
“That is the truth.”
“How could it benefit me, your masterminding Matt Marshall’s escape?”
“Escape!” She whirled around. “What do you mean, escape? You pardoned him. Where is he? Where is my brother? ”
“You tell me.”
Confused, she asked, “What happened to his pardon? Zeke said Matt was pardoned. What happened? Did you not sign it?”
“It’s signed. Legal. You and your Johnny Reb brother went to needless trouble and unnecessary danger. I hate to ask, and I dread hearing your answer, but what did you do with him?”
A terrible sick feeling clawed at her. Her feet no longer able to conform to the boxcar’s swaying, she grabbed Connor’s arms to steady herself. “I know you mean to punish me, but I can’t take teasing. Not where Matt is concerned.”
“I’m not teasing.”
He had to be. Or was he? “Connor, I went to Colonel Lawrence, secure you’d freed Matt. I felt certain you’d put him aboard your brother’s steamboat.”
“You told my aunt, straight out, you sprang him.”
Reality sank in. Connor hadn’t had a hand in Matt’s freedom. Mattie, no! The steel wheels clambered like colossal anvils as the train rolled eastward, farther and farther away from the Mississippi. She knew her brother. Knew his capabilities. He would escape by water.
How? With what?
Pull yourself together, Indy. You’ve got to get Connor to understand. “Yes, I told Phoebe I’d freed him. I didn’t mean by my own hand. Did she tell you I wore a dress with popped button? The same dress I wore when you and I argued in the Gowen. Would I have gone back to the island with my bosom exposed?”
“Marshall couldn’t have gotten out of the wrist manacles. Not without help.”
That. Her eyelids fell momentarily, but she opened them to meet Connor’s angry glare. “Yes, I unlocked his hands. Days ago. But I did not set him free.”
Reality finally reached Connor. “Good God.” He ran a hand down his face. “Marshall escaped on his own.”
What could she do? Where could she turn? She forced reason. “Knowing Matt, he’d try to escape by water. And your brother’s was the only vessel at the wharf. With any luck he got aboard the Delta Star.”
“As of a quarter of midnight the night we left, Burke hadn’t found him.”
“There was a search for Matt?”
“Yes. Even my aunties and Jinnings got into it.”
“How dear of Phoebe. And Tessa and the Arab.” Any other time, she’d have jumped in with questions and observations regarding his colorful kin and friend. But this was not any other time. “What could’ve happened to Matt?”
“The rapids.”
“No.” Her head shook vigorously. “I can’t accept that.”
“Then you can’t accept reality. He’s gone, India.” The friction left Connor’s tone, even though his words were to the point. “For you, I am sorry.” He wound his arms around her, bringing her short-lived comfort. “We’ve lost, sweetheart.”
Lost. Mattie lost. Lost to all holding him dear. India balled her fist, banging it against the solid wall of Connor’s back. She stumbled. Fell against his chest. They sank to the planking. For the longest time she cried as he held her. Murmuring tender sympathy, he spent what seemed like hours consoling her.
It was up to Zeke to save the Marshall fortune.
It was up to India to deal with her awful sorrow. Would it have been easier had she and Matt not made their peace? No. He was her brother, good, bad, or indifferent. Before meeting Connor, she had lived to see Matt’s smile.
Now she gave in to despair, wallowed in it, and wet her face and hair as well as Connor’s hair-dusted chest with her tears. Somewhere along the line, she came to a conclusion. It would be better to hang from a Union scaffold than to cause her family any more pain with her good intentions.
The lantern flame flickered, died. Like Mattie.
“Kiss me,” she urged, needing solace, needing to forget.
“No, honey. That would be taking advantage.”
“Take it. Kiss me. Now.”
He did more than that. His lips, his hands caressed and gave what she needed. Her fingers canvassed the long lines of his arms and rib cage, to commit him to memory forevermore. At one point he hesitated on the snake-bite scar, but moved on quickly. She knew why. He wouldn’t take note of the evidence of another Marshall brother lost, would spare her the reminder.
A quiver went through her, wrought from the hot dance of his breath against her skin. As he had in the hotel, he now cherished her breasts. She bowed to meet him. “Don’t stop,” she murmured. “Don’t ever stop.”
He was hard, truly hard, both of muscle and nature. But he was Connor, and she would, for however long they had together, accept him as he was. Like she’d decided in Opal Lawrence’s drawing room. Oh, how she loved him. As is. Connor, the warrior. Connor, her captor. Connor, her beloved. Temporarily.
But this was tonight. She would think about nothing beyond the moment.
And his lovemaking wove sweet, so gentle yet ardent as he slipped her underskirts up, then set fire to her insides. Her leg slid over his shoulder, for she was eager for more, more, more. And the more that he touched her, the higher her spirits lifted. A wild rush went through her, licking, laving, sending her to a place she’d never been before. A dizzying place of satisfaction, yet it was a place that intuition told her was not the definitive frontier.
“Indy, my precious Squirt,” Connor whispered, angling up to her face. “You test my will.”
“I know.” She couldn’t help chuckling, despite the sorrow that delved in her soul. “But you give me strength of will.”
Matt might be gone, but she mustn’t give up on life. She must live. For Granny Mabel, who’d have grieved for her. For the family counting on her to save the scant fortune, if Zeke failed. For Con
nor, who might need her to nurse him, should a Confederate weapon do nothing more than injure him.
And she needed to live for herself.
“Let me make you happy. Finish making me happy. Make me forget Rock Island.” Her hands lifted to Connor’s head, her fingers combing into his thick, dark hair. She curved her body to meet his, yet he went still. “We are meant for each other.”
Until death parts us.
“Indy, this is insane,” he said with a groan, and wrenched away from her. “I won’t take you. Not here, not like this.”
Why the reluctance? “Your privates still smart?”
“No.” He gentled a kiss on the inside of her wrist. “You deserve more than a coupling brought on by grief.”
“But I need you.”
“And I need you. But you were right in the Hotel Gowen. If we started a babe . . .” His hand cupped her jaw. “More than that, I won’t dishonor you, sweetheart. You’re the most decent, most honorable lady I’ve ever known, India Marshall.”
This wasn’t how she wanted these moments to end, yet she valued his slanted praise. Took his advice. Too often India had thrown herself on opportunity, the results unsatisfactory. She had all the way to Washington to convince him to stand by her side as she gained her liberty.
Then she’d repay the gesture by proving she could stand by him, whatever happened on the battlefield.
Trouble was, her gnawing conscience asked, What will you do for the family? Zeke’s old. Can he make it south?
Eighteen
At last she slept. Slept in his arms. Her lips were parted, as if to accept his kiss. Moonlight from the boxcar’s window limned a body shapely and responsive. Hungry desire on the verge of starvation stabbed through Connor, and he knew the only way to sate that appetite would be to fasten his lips to the tip of India’s breast, then allow his hands to touch her curves, to explore her womanly reaches, then guide him between her legs.
It would be easy, too easy to take his fill of India. He wouldn’t, for the reasons he’d given her. Like a battle-worn soldier, he lay inert, trying to reason with himself. Halting their lovemaking had been the honorable thing to do. For her sake. He found it a blessing, the lantern having burned out what seemed like hours ago. He had no wish to gaze in full light at her face and see her giving, giving heart.
“Poor darling Squirt,” he whispered. “Forever diligent. Forever thwarted and off-track. Where did it get you?”
As surely as he felt her presence on this train, he expected trouble, had been aware of it since an hour after pulling out of Rock Island. That was when he discovered something odd in the leather pouch.
Someone had switched the orders giving Connor permission to transport the accused to Old Capitol Prison. The one now in his possession—no doubt transmitted to the War Department—carried a date of one day earlier than the original given him.
That someone had to be Roscoe Lawrence. Or attached to the dimpled darling. Probably Doot Smith.
The trickery had two edges to its blade. If the prisoner didn’t arrive according to the original orders, both Connor and India would be considered fugitives. In the least it would create chaos if they arrived a day later than expected.
The other side of the sword? Thanks to tattler Doot’s telegram, and Connor’s loss of control upon finding out Lawrence had India, the colonel figured nature would prevail, that Connor either would let her escape or take her anywhere but Washington.
The caper didn’t have Lawrence’s mark on it. Dimpled Darling knew nothing of intrigue, knew only balls-to-the-wall frontal attack. Someone had to have put him up to it.
Connor hadn’t, and wouldn’t, mention the scheme to India, not when she had enough on her mind, grieving for Matt Marshall.
Besides, Connor had insurance.
Before leaving Rock Island he’d sent a telegram to Stewart Lewis. His message, in the shorthand of long-distance communication, had sketched the problem, told about India’s good works, had given exact plans for transferring her to the capital.
He’d kept his original instructions, had made certain the paper carried the telegraphic operator’s initials.
Furthermore, Lawrence’s first option had a serious flaw. He couldn’t have signed his order, not when he wasn’t on Rock Island at the time. Roscoe Lawrence would not claim victory.
Glancing down at the sleeping India, Connor smiled and whispered, “Don’t worry, Squirt. I’ll take care of you.”
Bless her, she’d tried to look out for him. “Forgive me for misjudging you. And for jumping to conclusions. I should’ve given you the benefit of the doubt, should’ve listened to the aunties and Jinnings, too.”
It had been quite a row, the threesome ganging up on him at the Hotel Gowen, certain of her character. Their argument hadn’t abated after Connor shuffled them to the Delta Star. Burke, after showing amazement that big brother had it in him to get in a “tizzy” over anything beyond the military, had advised him to proceed with caution. Every once in a while, a man ought to listen to his family.
“They were right about you,” Connor whispered to his sleeping India.
For Major Connor O’Brien, Union officer and devoted soldier, the dove of peace had offered her life.
Didn’t she always put others above her own benefit? This was different. Never had she verbally indicated her feelings as the everlasting sort, but actions spoke the language of truth.
“A loving woman is the best gift a man can ever find, better than a pot o’ gold at rainbow’s end,” he could almost hear Fitz O’Brien saying. “A prize was your granny Edna. The best thing that ever happened t’ this worthless Orange Irishman was Edna. Without me lady, I wouldna amounted t’ O’Shanter’s tam.”
Then, Connor had scoffed at the sentimentality. Not now.
Suddenly, his religious education took hold. Everything happened for a reason, was God’s Will and Great Plan. Without India, Connor would have never learned the true meaning of love.
It was the gift, not the take.
She loved him.
A heavy weight for his shoulders.
He cared for India as he had never cared for anyone, but crowding his shoulders with strong emotions just didn’t fit into his plans. Face it, O’Brien. She’s wedged her way into your heart, whether you want her there or not.
He heard a moan, felt her body thrash. She was having a nightmare. Suddenly, she cried out, “Connor? Where are you?”
“Right here.” He brought her shaking form closer into the shelter of his arms. “Shhh. Everything’s okay.”
“No. It’s not. I saw it, saw home. Bad dream. He didn’t make it to Louisiana. Too old.” Fully awake, she next said, “Connor . . . I can’t go on to Washington. I made an arrangement to get word to the family about Natchez, but—”
“What kind of arrangement?”
“I asked Zeke to go to Louisiana and speak with my granny, in case Matt didn’t make it.”
Good Lord.
“Now”—she swallowed—“it looks as if Matt won’t. And I cannot, must not, depend on an elderly man to travel all the way to Pleasant Hill. Furthermore, Zeke thinks the colonel is up to chicanery. We—”
“Don’t worry about Lawrence. I’m a step ahead of him.”
“That’s good.” She went silent, her faith absolute.
Resting her cheek against his shoulder, India swallowed. Several minutes passed. In a voice quiet and longing-filled, she said, “Too bad that magic lamp is a hoax. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to make a wish upon it? And be confident everything would turn out all right.”
“That’s a lot to expect from one lamp.”
“It brought us together.”
“No. You’re responsible for that.”
She chucked his jaw. “Leave me to my fantasies, Sonny Boy.”
He chuckled. Sonny Boy. How different she’d been on the day they had met, old and crotchety. Had some mystical force been at work on his birthday?
If so, too bad Aunt Tessa didn’t a
dd a codicil to her wish, asking for fields of clover to accompany the bride. “No harm in fantasies . . . I suppose.”
Seconds passed, and he heard his “bride” breathe evenly, as well as the click of her tongue. Where were her fantasies leading her? The answer came. With strident appeal she said, “Connor, take me to Louisiana.”
“Don’t ask that of me, India. Don’t.”
Disappointment in her tone, she said, “You’re right. I shouldn’t have. Especially not when you are on your way to your true love. Battle.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
What words did he seek to utter? Not these: He’d never imagined such a moment happening, but a battle raged in his heart. Amazing. He wanted India. And he wanted to ride into Georgia to uphold his vow to defend and protect the Union.
Georgia, of course, wasn’t an option. It was an obligation. He could get out of it, could do as many men had done—buy his way out of the military.
He refused to consider such a move. West Pointers did not cash out of the Army. “India, don’t ask me to choose between you and my duties.”
“Because I’d sound too much like your late mother?”
He groaned. And got a vivid mental image of what had precipitated this. Aunt Phoebe had been talking. His mother being the last topic he wished to discuss, he said nothing.
“Connor . . . do you love your brothers?”
“Of course I do.” Loving a brother wasn’t the same as loving a woman, was familiar territory. Growing up in the O’Brien family hadn’t been clover and pastoral fields. It had been awful, his parents constantly quarreling, then the culmination that ended the altercations forever. “We brothers stuck together.”
“Do you . . . do you ever think about Jon Marc?”
No use asking how she knew about him. “I do.”
“If he asked you to do something, would you do it?”
Connor knew where this headed, and he didn’t like it. “That’s an irrelevant question. Jon Marc has never asked anything of me, so I don’t know whether I’d help him or not.”
“That’s a cold statement.”