Return to Me

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Return to Me Page 13

by Rosemary Rogers


  Jackson had not been in bed ten minutes when he heard a sound outside his door. He froze, listening. Someone was standing there. Right at his door. Listening. Someone who did not belong there.

  In one quick motion he drew a pistol from beneath the mattress, and by the time the door eased open, he was on his knees on the bed, weapon drawn.

  “Sweet Jesus, Jackson. What a crass way to greet a woman.”

  She closed the door behind her as he lowered his pistol. His entire body trembled, but his hands did not shake.

  “Damn it, Marie, I could have shot you,” he grumbled as he tucked the loaded pistol back under the bed.

  She stepped into the path of moonlight that streamed through the porthole, and he drew in his breath. She was stark naked.

  Against his will, his body responded and there was no way to hide it. “How the hell did you get down the passageway like that?” he snapped.

  She rested her hands on her rounded hips. She was shapelier than Cameron. Her breasts and hips were larger, her waist somehow smaller. She had let down her hair and it fell in black waves over her shoulders and down her back. She had the perfect mistress’s body.

  “When did you get to be so dull, Jackson?” she purred. “Is that what marriage has done for you?” She glided closer. “Made you a dull boy?”

  Jackson swallowed hard, then licked his lips, trying to think about something other than the dark patch of hair between her thighs. He ran a quick mathematics equation in his mind. Mentally counted the beams overhead. Made an inventory of his shoes in the trunk at the foot of the bed. Slowly, the tightening in his groin eased a little.

  “Jackson,” Marie breathed.

  And just like that, with one word from her, he sprang upright and hard again.

  It would be just one night, he thought. Just one. Cameron had thrown him out of her bedchamber. She had denied him his husbandly carnal privileges. Didn’t he have the right to seek solace in another woman’s embrace? And such a willing embrace it was.

  Jackson leaped off the bed and snatched up the sheet. When she stepped into his open arms, he covered her naked body, taking care not to touch her bare skin. “What the hell are you doing in here like this, Marie?”

  She replied by pressing her mouth to his, warm and pliant. There was something about the familiarity of her taste and the fact that she wanted him. Marie wanted him.

  Jackson’s resolve crumbled as he crushed her mouth with his. The sheet fell away and he gripped her bare, soft buttocks feverishly with both hands.

  Marie moaned, pressing her hips to his, tantalizing him.

  Jackson grabbed one pendulant breast and lowered his head to take her dark, thick nipple in his mouth. He sucked hungrily, not caring if he hurt her.

  Marie clung to him, making little panting sounds. “Take me,” she moaned, reaching down to grasp his engorged member. “Please, Jackson, take me now before I die for want of you.”

  Jackson grabbed a hank of her black hair and jerked her head backward, covering her mouth with his again. Just this one time. No one would know, he told himself. He deserved her.

  Then he opened his eyes and saw amber eyes, not black. Cameron. It was her eyes looking into his.

  He had loved Cameron from the moment he had met her. It was a deep, ferocious love, a different love than what he had ever felt for Marie or could ever feel for her.

  This…this was just physical. This was about lust and anger and pain of rejection. He knew that.

  With every ounce of strength he possessed, Jackson grasped Marie by her shoulders and pushed her back. “No, Marie.” He clenched his fists as his sides, still fighting the desire that throbbed inside like a wound that would not heal.

  “I don’t understand.” She sounded genuinely hurt and he felt his chest tighten in response.

  “What don’t you understand? I said I’m not interested.”

  “But Jackson, you kissed me tonight at the tables.” Her red lips pouted. She sounded so forlorn. “You kissed me here. I thought—”

  “Don’t confuse the game we play with reality, Marie. You know better. Out there—” he pointed “—it was all part of the game.”

  “And here?” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry.” He took another step back. The tightness in his groin was beginning to ease. His mind was gaining control of his body once again. Marie was as lovely as a dark angel, the scent of her skin, heavenly. But he could not allow himself to falter. Not again.

  “But I miss you. I need you. Don’t you still desire me?” she questioned in a husky, sensuous voice.

  He gestured stiffly, his words stiffer. “I’m a married man now.”

  She drew closer. “You were a married man that night outside of Atlanta, too.”

  Jackson turned away from Marie, her naked body still silhouetted lusciously in the golden moonlight. “I told you that was a mistake.”

  She stepped closer, ran a hand down his bare back, over his buttocks. “But it wasn’t a mistake. It was the best—”

  “Marie! Damn you!” He clasped both of her arms and pushed her away from him. “That was a mistake.” He looked away, unable to face her…to face himself. “I was lonely. I was scared. I—”

  “You could never be scared of anything, Jackson. That’s why I’ll always love you,” she whispered.

  “Well, you mustn’t.” He made himself look into those dark eyes that he feared might yet cast him under a spell. “You mustn’t because I love another now.” He wanted to tell her she had had her chance years ago, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to talk about their past. He just wanted her out of his cabin. “I love my wife. I love Cameron and I don’t love you.”

  “You bastard,” she stormed, taking a step toward him.

  There was a soft tap on the door and Jackson’s gaze flickered to the wood paneling.

  “Jackson?”

  “Come in,” he called gruffly.

  Marie made a barely audible sound of derision under her breath as she wrapped the sheet tighter around her nakedness. She didn’t like Falcon any more than he liked her.

  The Cherokee appeared in the doorway, cast in shadow. “I heard voices,” he said. “I wanted to be certain you did not need me.”

  Jackson smiled in the darkness. Falcon was clever; he would give his friend that. “Marie was just leaving. Would you walk her back to her cabin and be certain she gets inside safely?”

  Falcon held the door open, giving Marie no choice but to walk out the door as graciously as possible, given the circumstances.

  “One more day,” Jackson called quietly after her. “And then I’m going the hell home.”

  At Jackson’s insistence, they disembarked the riverboat in Baton Rouge two days later. Marie’s contact had never appeared and Jackson was in a foul mood, feeling that she had wasted his time.

  “I don’t understand why you don’t want to stay a day or two,” Marie said from beneath the lace of her pale yellow parasol as they crossed the rotting dock where the riverboat had moored. “You always loved Baton Rouge.” She slid her hand over his shoulder. “Baton Rouge always loved you, Jackson.”

  Ignoring her, he glanced over at Falcon. “As soon as the bags are unloaded, we’ll go to the station. God only knows how long we’ll have to wait to catch a train north. Tracks are still out all over the South.”

  Falcon nodded his dark head, his gaze darting about as a crowd of vendors elbowed between the sweating lines of black men unloading the ships to envelop the disembarking passengers. Crowds made the Cherokee uncomfortable.

  A dirty woman with a huge goiter on her neck pleaded for travelers to buy her fresh milk. A young boy in a straw hat hawked a tin of sweets. Behind them, a coffee-colored dwarf with a shaven head was doing a brisk business in steamed crawfish. The humid air hung thick with the scents of rotting fish, tar and stagnant water. The stench assaulted Jackson, battering his senses as much as the cacophony of whistle blasts, cursing, creaking cart wheels, braying mules and the off-key serenadi
ng of a band of musicians who obviously believed that volume could overcome a lack of talent and sobriety.

  “Sir, a few pennies for a man in thirst?” A bearded, one-armed soldier garbed in the tattered gray rags of what had once been a Confederate uniform thrust his face into Jackson’s, startling him.

  Marie gave a squeal of disgust, drawing back for fear the filthy man might touch her.

  “Step aside,” Falcon grunted, trying to put himself between Jackson and the soldier.

  Jackson thrust his hand inside his coat for loose coins, unable to keep himself from pulling back as the stench of the man’s body assaulted his nostrils. “You’d do better to buy yourself a meal and a bar of soap than a shot of whiskey.”

  “Captain Logan,” the soldier whispered, bringing his face even closer. “I’ve got a message for you.” He spoke like an educated man.

  Jackson’s gaze flitted to Falcon, silently telling him to drop back. Then he looked back at the soldier and drew out a suede coin purse from his coat, knowing anyone could be watching them. “Have you no pride in yourself, man?” he chided.

  “I cannot believe you are going to give him money,” Marie protested, shaking out the hem of her yellow lawn gown. “Beggars will never learn to find honest work if we continue to give them handouts.”

  “What is it?” Jackson whispered to the soldier, taking his time to remove the coins from the bag. “And why should I believe a word you say?”

  “For the sake of ‘Puck’s Hill,”’ the veteran replied.

  Jackson nodded, recognizing the current password, one that even Marie didn’t know. He glanced at Falcon, who moved to block her view.

  “Jessop, the man you were supposed to meet…” the soldier whispered harshly. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Jackson met pale brown eyes that had suddenly filled with tears.

  “They killed him.”

  “How do you know?”

  He wiped at his eyes with the back of a dirty hand. “Because I buried him. Jessop was my son. He bought into this for a while. When he realized its madness and tried to back out, it cost him his life.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “You know who. Thompson’s men.”

  “So they’re real?” Jackson pressed coins into the soldier’s filthy hand. To anyone who saw them, it would appear that he was simply offering money and sympathy to one of the South’s bravest, now left destitute.

  “Of course they’re real. When will you damned Yankees stop underestimating us? Thompson’s Raiders are real and they’re growing in numbers by the day,” the soldier growled under his breath.

  “To what avail?” Jackson began to walk again, as if attempting to rid himself of the beggar. “The war’s over.”

  “This isn’t about states’ rights anymore. It’s about hatred. Vengeance.”

  “Where’s Thompson?”

  “I don’t know. My son wouldn’t tell me. You need to see a man named Spider Bartlett in Birmingham, but he won’t be in place until next month. He’s one of Thompson’s men. Or so Thompson thinks.” The old soldier winked.

  “Bartlett in Birmingham,” Jackson repeated.

  “Thank ye for the coin. It will buy a bottle of comfort. Strong drink’s all that keeps me going now. The world’s not what it was…nor ever will be again.”

  The soldier disappeared into the bustling crowd. Marie slipped her arm through Jackson’s, her eyes slanting with pleasure. “It was him, wasn’t it?” she whispered in his ear. “He was just a little late.”

  “No, it wasn’t him.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “We’ll discuss it later.”

  “Jackson.” She clutched at his arm as strain and annoyance made her voice strident.

  He shook off her hand. “I said, ‘later.”’

  “How long?” Cameron barely whispered, her voice raspy.

  Taye tipped the glass of water to her lips. “Eleven days.”

  Cameron squinted at the bright light that seeped from behind the closed drapes. “Eleven days? Almost two weeks.” She took another sip and then lay back on the bed again, exhausted from just that little bit of exertion. “It seems like we arrived only a few minutes ago.”

  “You were very ill.” Taye set down the glass and brought a damp cloth to her sister’s forehead.

  Recalling her symptoms, Cameron suddenly lowered her hand to her flat abdomen. “The baby?” she whispered.

  Taye smiled, wiping her forehead and then her cheeks. “Fine. Naomi thinks it was the water. Evil spirits.” She rolled her eyes indicating she wasn’t sure she believed such superstition. “I don’t know. We all drank the water that night at dinner. But Naomi says your soul is weaker because you’re carrying the baby.” She removed the cloth and dropped it into the washbowl beside the bed. “I think she’s full of voodoo nonsense.” She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “But I boiled the water anyway and you did seem to get better. We’re drinking only boiled water as well.”

  Cameron gazed around the shabby hotel room. It had been cleaned up in the time she had been ill, but the wallpaper was still faded and torn, the draperies still tattered. At least it no longer smelled of kerosene smoke and mold. “Where’s Naomi?”

  “Gone to the market. Since you fell ill we haven’t dared eat the food here at the hotel. Naomi has been cooking for us in the fireplace.” She nodded toward the glowing coals. “It makes the room hot, but at least no one else had been poisoned.”

  “Ngosi?”

  Taye smiled. “He’s fine on his mama’s milk. Getting bigger by the day.”

  Cameron smiled and settled back on the pillow again. She wanted to ask if Taye had heard from Jackson, but that was silly, of course. He was in New Orleans. He thought she was in Baltimore, safe and sound. “I want to go home, to Elmwood, Taye.”

  “In a couple days. Naomi said you need to get your strength back before we travel again. She’s been to the train station several times and she thinks she’s figured out a way to get us to Jackson.”

  Cameron reached out and took Taye’s hand in hers. “Thank you so much for taking care of me,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be silly.” She squeezed Cameron’s hand and then got up, fussing with the wash bowl. “I didn’t do anything for you that you wouldn’t do for me under the same circumstances.”

  Cameron sat up to study her lovely sister through new eyes. She had once thought Taye weak, but she was as strong as any Campbell. Perhaps stronger because of her mother’s heritage. “I hope that’s true.”

  “Of course it is. Now hush this talk and let me get you something to eat. Naomi has made a savory lentil soup I know you’ll want to try.”

  Cameron lay back on the pillow, thankful her father had loved a woman like Sukey enough to bring a sister like Taye into the world.

  12

  Jackson returned to Baltimore just after dawn. When he entered the house, all was still quiet. He didn’t see a soul, except for a sleepy houseboy, as he slipped up the staircase and into a guest bedroom to bathe before he went to Cameron.

  The boy brought up hot water and Jackson shaved and washed the grime of his unsuccessful trip off his body. As he dressed in clean clothes, he contemplated what he would say to Secretary Seward when he met with him tomorrow. The contact had never shown himself on the riverboat and the trip had been a waste of time. He still knew nothing more of Thompson than he had two weeks ago and he was becoming frustrated.

  Jackson felt it was his duty to support and aid the president in any way he could, out of loyalty not just to him, but to his fallen predecessor.

  The house was still relatively quiet, but he now heard stirrings downstairs in the direction of the kitchen as he walked toward his bedchamber. No doubt Naomi had the women buzzing around the house, preparing for the day. She had turned out to be an excellent housekeeper, perhaps because she did not see herself as a slave any longer, as many of his employees still did.

  As Jackson walked down the silent hallway, he deci
ded he’d spend the day with Cameron doing whatever she wanted to do. He’d shop, ride in the park, even go out to see those damned horses of hers, if that would make her happy. He owed her that much. Perhaps his undivided attention was what she needed…and a little gift.

  He halted at his bedchamber door and drew the small black velvet bag from inside his coat. He opened the drawstring top and pulled out an emerald eardrop to admire it. He knew Cameron would love the acorn-sized earbobs, and the deep green color would complement her red hair beautifully.

  He dropped the jewel back into the bag and rapped lightly on the door. “Cameron? Cam, honey, it’s Jackson. I’m home.”

  He turned the doorknob, thinking he would surprise her by waking her up, or perhaps leaving the velvet bag on her pillow beside her.

  Just before he pushed open the door, he spotted Addy coming up the back staircase carrying an armful of clean linens. “Capt’n!” she cried, looking as startled as if she had seen a ghost.

  “’Morning, Addy. I just got back from my trip.” He nodded toward the slightly ajar door. “Mrs. Logan isn’t awake yet, I take it?”

  Addy’s mouth opened and closed but no words came out. Something was wrong.

  Jackson flung open the bedchamber door.

  The lush bedchamber, with its velvet draperies and brocaded bed curtains, was empty. Their massive carved bed was made.

  Cameron was nowhere to be seen. No teacup marred the bedside table. Not a single book or petticoat lay discarded on the floor beside the bed.

  “Addy!” he shouted. He needed to think there was a perfect explanation for Cameron’s absence at eight in the morning. She’d risen early to ride before the summer sun was too hot. She had an early appointment with a dressmaker.

  But the tightness in the pit of his stomach told him that was not the explanation. That little bitch, he thought. “Addy, where is Mrs. Logan?” he barked, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it anyway.

 

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