Return to Me

by Rosemary Rogers

  “I…I should go.”

  “Don’t.” His arm circled her, catching her and pulling her close.

  Taye opened her mouth to cry out, and the mysterious man shocked her by covering it with his own.

  9

  Taye lifted her arms to push the stranger away, but he was too strong for her. His mouth was hot and hard against her lips and she couldn’t move, could not breathe. His warmth and the scent of his maleness enveloped her.

  Against her will, her lips parted.

  He pulled her even closer, wrapping his arms around her. His tongue entered her mouth, wet and warm and tasting of good brandy.

  Her mind screamed no, yet a part of her body was saying yes. Her mouth slacked. She stopped fighting him. The taste of him and the feel of his body molding to hers overcame her.

  She had never tasted, never felt anything so astonishing. Her skin leaped in reply.

  Shocked by her own reaction, Taye jerked back suddenly and he released her. She struck him hard in the face with her palm. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she accused heatedly. “I’ll have you know I’m an engaged woman!”

  A smile played on his sensuous lips. “You do not kiss like a woman engaged to another man.”

  Taye lifted her skirts, turned and ran back down the path she had come.

  Thankfully, she found her way out of the garden immediately. She ran in the back door, through the kitchen and up the servants’ staircase, not intending to stop until she reached the sanctity of her bedchamber.

  Her breath came in great gulps. How dare he kiss her? He had not even introduced himself. She didn’t even know his name!

  Unconsciously, her fingertips brushed her swollen lips as waves of heat washed through her. She swallowed against the constriction in her throat and tried to pretend that his lingering scent didn’t cling to her skin and gown.

  She was shocked by own behavior. A part of her had taken pleasure in the exhilaration. A part of her had enjoyed the passion of his kiss.

  She was mortified by her response to the man’s mouth on hers.

  Taye hurried down the hall to her room and slammed the door behind her, trembling. Here she would be safe from that detestable man, but would she be safe from herself?

  Cameron found Jackson surrounded by a group of army officers. Where was that beautiful, white-gowned woman? She pushed through the circle without so much as a pardon me and lifted her chin to meet her husband’s charming gaze eye to eye. “May I speak with you privately, Captain Logan?” she asked icily.

  “Why, certainly, madam. Gentlemen, if you will pardon us?” Jackson smiled as he offered his arm to escort her from the room.

  She spun on her heels, her petticoats a swirl of green satin broche, and walked out of the parlor and down the hall.

  “Won’t here do?” Jackson asked as they passed a servant carrying a tray of champagne glasses on his shoulder.

  “I think not,” she snapped over her shoulder, dodging the champagne. “I want to go somewhere where I can shout.”

  He exhaled loudly. “Cameron, General Grant is expected—”

  “It cannot wait,” she intoned from between clenched teeth, walking down a back hallway and out a door that led to the courtyard.

  “It’s cool out,” he said as they walked into the open, away from the protection of the redbrick walls of the house. “I should get you something for your shoulders.”

  “I don’t want a wrap.”

  “Cameron—”

  She spun around. The bricked courtyard was illuminated by a dozen burning torches and was filled with carriages and horses. It was empty of humans, however, save for the stable hands near the barn doors.

  Cameron caught and held Jackson’s gray-eyed gaze. “Elmwood is still standing,” she said quietly.

  “What?” He blinked as if he had expected her to say something else.

  “Mrs. Martin.” She threw up a hand. “She was once Mrs. Fitzhugh. You remember her from Jackson? Always twittering and batting her lashes at my father? She was at that last ball at Elmwood, the night the South fired on Fort Sumter.”

  “You brought me out here to tell me who Mrs. Fitzhugh is?”

  “Who she is doesn’t matter, Jackson. What matters is that Mrs. Martin says she passed by Elmwood only a few weeks ago.” Her voice caught in her throat. “And she tells me Elmwood still stands. She tells me that my home did not burn to the ground that night the soldiers came and we fled for our lives.”

  “Cam.” Jackson reached out to take her arm.

  She drew back as if she had been burned. Her eyes filled with tears and she tried to brush them away with her hands.

  “Damn you, I feel so betrayed, betrayed by the one person I love most in the world. First there was…was that nasty gossip this week, and now this. How could you?” she whispered raggedly, choking back sobs. “You know what Elmwood meant…means to me.”

  He frowned, looked down at his highly polished boots, then at her again. “Exactly what did Mrs. Fitzhugh say?”

  “Martin,” she corrected.

  “Whoever the hell she is!”

  “She said Elmwood still stands. My home isn’t destroyed. What more is there to say?” Cameron beseeched with open arms.

  “Did she tell you that the kitchen addition on the back of the house is gone? Did she tell you that many of the windows are shattered?” He took a step closer, becoming more callous with each word he spoke. “Did she tell you that soldiers took shelter in your father’s office and burned his rare books and antique furniture for fuel? That horses were stabled in the west parlor? How about the pigeons roosting in the upper bedchambers and bats in the chimneys? Did she mention that in her report?”

  “This isn’t about Mrs. Martin! This is about you.” She poked her finger at him. “You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just allowed you to believe what you already thought to be true because the house was in such ruin. Because you couldn’t go home anyway.”

  Cameron’s lower lip trembled. She didn’t care about the kitchen or the windows or the pigeons or even her father’s books. All she cared about was that Elmwood was still there. It was still standing, and she could go home to it. Home to her father’s memory. And no one could stop her.

  Jackson glanced away, his body stiff, his jaw tight with anger. “This is neither the time nor the place to talk—”

  “When is the time?”

  “Not now.”

  A cold tingling sensation pricked the nape of her neck. Hadn’t she said almost the same thing to Taye earlier when her sister had wanted to talk about what had happened the night Grant died? For a moment, she felt almost lightheaded.

  “Not while we are entertaining guests,” Jackson finished, snapping her back to the present. She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. She would not fall for his game again. She had been trying for weeks to get Jackson to talk about Elmwood, to talk about at least considering going home. If he had been unwilling in the last three weeks, what made her think he would change his mind now?

  “Fine,” she heard herself say flatly.

  “Cameron, don’t be like this.” Tiny lines formed around his mouth and eyes. “Listen to me. I didn’t do this to hurt you. You have to believe that. My only intention was to protect you.” She refused to meet his gaze.

  “You have no idea what the South looks like. The desolation is beyond imagination. Typhoid. Cholera. Consumption. It’s not a healthy atmosphere for a woman in your condition.”

  “I’m not a frail blossom, Jackson. I’m strong. Our baby is strong.”

  “You are not immune to disease. And that aside, Mississippi is not the place you knew. The people are not the people you—”

  “It’s clear to me that you think you know what’s best for me. That you think I’m incapable of using judgment concerning my own life…concerning our life.”

  “Damn you, woman! It’s not like that.”

  “No? Isn’t it?” She shrugged. “I should
return to my duties as hostess. That, perhaps, I am capable of performing—with my limited intelligence. If you’ll excuse me.” Suddenly she was cold and near to shivering. She brushed past him abruptly, hugging herself for warmth.

  She lifted her skirts and hurried for the door that led into the house, determined not to let him know how badly he had hurt her.

  “Cameron—”

  Instead of joining her guests, Cameron ran up the servants’ back staircase and retreated to her bedchamber.

  “Damn that busybody Mrs. Fitzhugh,” Jackson seethed, considering going after Cameron. But he knew there would be no talking to her now. Not tonight. He’d have to wait until she calmed down, until she would listen to reason.

  As he glanced at the door that had swung shut behind his wife, he reached inside his coat and drew out a French cigar. Damn, he’d made a mess of this, of his entire homecoming, it seemed.

  What had ever made him think he was going to be able to do this? To be a husband? A father? What could possibly have made him think he could succeed as either? Had he been such a love-struck starry-eyed fool?

  And that beautiful, spoiled, high-strung girl he’d taken as his bride, could she ever be content in the role of lady, wife and mother?

  Jackson walked across the brick pavement toward the stable where several young men had slipped out to smoke. “Can I bother you for a light?” he asked grimly.

  One of the boys hurried to offer a sulfur match. Jackson stood in the front of the stable and drew on his rich, pungent cigar. He exhaled slowly and watched the curl of smoke drift into the darkness. He knew he should return to his guests, at least speak to General Grant, whose arrival had just been announced, but his quarrel with Cameron had left a bad taste in his mouth. So had Marie’s bold appearance in his home. He would have to rein her in or tell Seward he could no longer work with her.

  He dropped the cigar to the bricks and ground it out with his boot, realizing he hadn’t really wanted it in the first place. One of the stable boys scooped it up to dispose of it, and Jackson nodded in thanks.

  Jackson gazed up at the massive redbrick house that had once been his father’s, and movement to the left caught his eye. He spotted the figure of a man at the end of the garden path, and squinted in the dim torchlight to see if it was who he thought it was.

  “Cortés?” he called into the darkness.

  The raven-haired man stepped into the torchlight. “Jackson.” He offered his hand and the men shook, then embraced. It was not Jackson’s way with other men, but it was Falcon’s.

  “It’s good to see you, my friend.” When Jackson was with Falcon Cortés, he found himself speaking in the same measured cadence. There was something simple and direct about Falcon’s speech patterns, and Jackson admired the man for that directness. “I didn’t think you would come. I know how you feel about public gatherings.”

  Jackson had met Falcon Cortés in New Orleans in the winter of ’62. Falcon had worked for the Union Army as a spy on occasion, and he and Jackson had gotten into several precarious skirmishes, the kind that bind men for a lifetime. Jackson figured he owed the Indian for saving his life at least twice, maybe three times, and he had done the same for Falcon. Though there was a great deal of discrimination against men like Falcon Cortés, born of a Cherokee mother and a Mexican father, Jackson didn’t care what color the man’s skin was. He had seen the man’s heart, and for that heart, he would love Falcon like the brother he never had for the rest of his days.

  Falcon stepped back and lifted one broad shoulder. “It was good of you to invite me.” He spoke perfect English, but there was a lilt to his voice that Jackson only ever heard among the Indians. “To not come would be a dishonor to your name.”

  Jackson chuckled. “I don’t know about that, old friend, but I’m glad you came. You’re staying the night, aren’t you?”

  Falcon nodded.

  Jackson indicated the garden. “Taking a little walk?”

  “Do you know you have a nest of baby rabbits near the back gate?”

  “I did not.”

  “And a beautiful woman near the statue of the angel.”

  Jackson grinned. Falcon liked the ladies as well as any hot-blooded male, but Jackson had never known him to have a relationship that lasted more than a few days. Most, only one night. In the months he had worked closely with Marie LeLaurie and Jackson, it was obvious he did not approve of their relationship.

  “You found baby rabbits and a woman in my garden? Sounds like you had a successful evening.” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest, thankful for the excuse to remain outside a few moments longer. Hopefully, by the time he entered the house, Marie would be gone and Cameron would have calmed down a little. “So who was the fortunate young lady, might I ask?”

  “She has skin the color of peach honey and eyes of blue topaz,” Falcon said in a poetic voice. “She is called Taye, I have been told.”

  Jackson lifted a brow. “Taye is it?” He chuckled. “My sister-in-law. She is indeed beautiful. She is also taken by another man.”

  “I am not so sure of that,” Falcon said with a sense of mystery in his voice.

  Jackson studied the Indian carefully, but his friend gave no further explanation, and he knew him well enough to know he would not. “Well, my friend, I should return to my guests. I’ve been out here long enough.”

  Falcon looked to the great house where sounds of music and laughter wafted from the open windows. “I wondered why you were here and not within the walls of your lodge.”

  “Little spat with my wife.”

  “Ah. Hair of fire, tongue of fire.”

  Jackson chuckled. “You’ve got that one right.” He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “She’s been a little temperamental the last few weeks. She is expecting our first child.”

  Falcon nodded. “You must be very proud.”

  “Scared shitless, if you want to know the truth.” There was an easy pause between them. That was something else Jackson admired in Falcon. He was comfortable in silence in a way most white men were not.

  At last, Jackson gave a wave. “Come in. Let’s share a glass of firewater, and I’ll introduce you to General Grant. It’s about time you met the man you’ve been working for.”

  Jackson walked down the hallway, boots in his hand so that he would not disturb his guests staying the night. The last carriage had pulled out around three in the morning, and he had sent the servants all to bed. The ball had been an astounding success, and the cleaning could be dealt with tomorrow. The entire household staff had worked flawlessly tonight, and he guessed they wanted just what he wanted, a soft pillow beneath their heads.

  Jackson halted at the bedchamber he shared with Cameron. He had decided on his way upstairs that he needed to at least tell her good-night. He knew he’d probably end up down the hall again, but he wanted to put forward that small gesture. After their argument, he’d seen her only once, dancing with General Grant.

  Jackson laid his hand on the doorknob, then thought again. Instead of just walking in, he knocked. “Cameron?”

  He heard movement and the door jerked open. “What do you want?” she challenged.

  She was dressed in a pale yellow dressing gown, her hair pulled back girlishly in a ribbon, her eyes tear-swollen.

  Jackson immediately grew defensive. “I just came upstairs to—”

  “You’re not sleeping here, if that’s what you think!”

  His jaw tightened. “Please, Cam…the guests—”

  “Don’t you tell me what to do! I’ll shout if I want!”

  “Fine,” he said turning away. “Good night.”

  “Don’t come back, either,” she called after him, “because the door will be locked.”

  “Have no fear,” he muttered, turning to leave, his boots in his hand.

  “What?”

  Jackson knew he just needed to walk away. He was tired to the bone and he worried about this whole Thompson’s Raiders assignment. His last bits of i
nformation had been rather disturbing, and he would have to meet with Marie tomorrow whether he wanted to or not. He had to find out what she knew.

  Just walk away, he told himself. But he couldn’t. He turned around to face her. “I said you can have no fear. I won’t be knocking on your door again any time soon, Cam. You highly overrate your attraction to me.”

  “Good!” she shouted. “Because I don’t want you near me! Do you understand?”

  He chuckled, but he was far from amused. “You won’t have to worry about me tapping on your door, dear wife,” he said sarcastically. “Because I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  He didn’t wait for her to ask for where. He’d had no intentions whatsoever of going with Marie, but now that he had spoken the words, his mind was made up. “I’m going to New Orleans. I don’t know for how long. Maybe your disposition will be improved by the time I get back.”

  “And maybe it won’t!” she yelled, slamming the door. “Son of a bitch,” Cameron muttered under her breath as she turned the key on the door and wiped at the hot tears that ran down her cheeks. Fine, he could go to New Orleans. He could abandon her like he always did. But she wouldn’t be here when he got back.

  Jackson stomped down the hall, his boots still in his hand, but he didn’t go to the bedchamber he’d been relegated to. He was too angry to sleep. Instead, he headed back down the grand staircase, in the dark, for a drink. Maybe a good scotch would settle him. Right now, all he wanted to do was hit something. Hit someone.

  He was surprised to see lamplight coming from under the door of his study. He opened the door and walked in, and was pleasantly surprised to see Falcon Cortés.

  Falcon turned from the open window that looked out into the dark garden. “I thought you had said good-night.”

  Jackson shrugged and sat down on the edge of a leather chair. He dropped his boots on the floor. “No bed to go to,” he grumbled.

  Falcon chuckled. “Locked out?”

  “Of course not.” Jackson kicked one boot with his stocking foot. “Yes. Locked out, if you must know. I suspect everyone in a one-hundred-mile radius already knows.” He rose, walked to his desk and reached for a bottle of scotch. “Of course, I could get in, if I wanted to. This was my damned house to begin with, before I got the clever idea to marry the little chit.”