Destiny's Temprtress

by Janelle Taylor

  Considering her opponent’s strength, she knew she dared not struggle and incite a battle. From her position, she could tell that he was very tall and extremely muscular. But if she hurriedly explained her behavior, she would be safe, she believed, just as soon as she could breathe and speak.

  “Where do you think you’re going, little Reb, sneaking in here like a contemptible Comanche? Davis want his lads to die young?” a surly voice questioned at her left ear. The man’s grip tightened painfully.

  Shannon lost her breath again within the vise of his arm. In a strained tone, she replied, “I must…see Pres…ident Lincoln. It’s urgent.”

  As the cold blade lightly touched her clammy skin, his grip applied more pressure. “Urgent enough to sneak into my room and risk death?” the voice inquired sarcastically. “Who sent you?”

  “No one. When the guards and staff refused to let me see him, I tried to contact him by letter. When that failed, I sneaked inside,” she explained in a muffled voice. “I’m unarmed. I only want to talk,” she hastily added. Shannon tried to inhale and refill her lungs, but his steely grip prevented it. She was alarmed by this unseen peril.

  Testing the intruder’s claim, Blane Stevens’s left hand shifted up and down her shapely frame and he was startled that it was a woman’s voice, fragrance, and figure that assailed his senses. Keen perception warned him to be patient with this rash invader. Without a weapon or strength, she posed no threat to him. Blane placed the knife in its sheath and tried to turn her to face him. He had been leaning against the side of the window frame in pensive thought and had caught sight of her slipping across the lawn to shinny up the Magnolia. Now he wanted a look at this reckless vixen who smelled of jasmine and climbed a lofty tree like an agile bobcat.

  Shannon used that moment when his grip loosened to pitch forward, then backward, to throw her captor off balance. Then she raced for his door. Before she could open it, she was seized and thrown to the bed. Pinned under a stalwart body, she was powerless. “I must see Lincoln. It’s a matter of life and death,” she panted breathlessly.

  “I’m sure it is,” the icy voice sneered. “Who are you? What do you want from the President? You Rebs don’t give up easily, do you?” Why did some females view spying as glamorous and exciting? he wondered in digust.

  “It’s personal,” Shannon replied obstinately. “Get off me.”

  “Am I dreaming, or are you a woman?” he asked, laughter edging his voice when he realized how helpless she was. He would teach this little wildcat a lesson! When she didn’t respond, his right hand held her wrists captive above her head while his left hand moved over her squirming figure. “Very nice,” he remarked playfully. “Any chance your face is just as pleasing?” he asked to provoke her.

  Shannon warned herself not to shout or scream, actions which would alert and summon guards who would carry her off to prison before she could get to Lincoln. This rogue was just another obstacle. She told herself to stay calm and cool, for she would surely find a way to trick him. “Get your bloody hands off me or I’ll kill you when I get free,” she warned.

  Blane was amused and intrigued. “Such an attempt would certainly liven up a dull evening.” Blane chuckled, curiously enjoying this crazy encounter. He knew that few women would have the mettle or skill to climb a towering tree and steal into the White House. His previous feelings of exhaustion and ennui vanished. After what he had seen and endured lately, he realized he needed a spark of excitement. Lord, he was tired of the killing and fighting, and tired of his responsibilities to friend and foe.

  “I demand to see the President,” Shannon remarked sternly.

  “You demand, my little Rebeless?” he taunted. He could smell the soot on her face and hands, and silently admired her daring and cunning. From what he could tell, she was less than five feet five inches tall and weighed a touch over a hundred pounds. He noted that her felt hat had been knocked from her head and he wished for more light to determine her age and looks. A smart man could tell a lot about a woman from her eyes and mouth. The moonlight suddenly streamed across the bed to reveal flaming hair to match the temper he was encountering. And he heard the undeniable inflections of culture and dialect in her voice, which piqued his curiosity.

  Shannon wiggled beneath his tall body and pulled on her wrists to free them. He was immensely strong and stubborn. “You’re heavy. I can’t breathe. I told you, brute, I’m unarmed.”

  “There are weapons, and there are…weapons,” he teased. “If you want to breathe again, you had best answer my questions.”

  “You wouldn’t dare slay a woman right under Lincoln’s nose,” she asserted bravely. Shannon was acutely aware of the man’s rich voice, his powerful physique, his manly scent. She found this battle fascinating, for she had always enjoyed matching wits and wills with men. Let him have his fun and show of power, she told herself. Soon…

  As his mouth brushed against hers, he murmured devilishly, “How was I to know you were a conniving female before my knife slipped across this blackened throat? Indian fighters are trained to attack rapidly and lethally, especially if they’re in a foul mood.” His teeth nibbled at her earlobe as he inhaled her sweet fragrance. To intimidate her, Blane remarked casually, “’Course it’s been a long while since I had me a woman, and I could interrogate you later—much later,” he warned deceitfully. If she thought this mission would be simple and quick, he would prove her wrong, he decided. Soon he would have her weeping, trembling, and begging to tell him all he wanted to know. When he finished with her, she would think twice about spying again! “Yep, I could use a tasty woman to soothe my woes tonight.” One hand deftly unbuttoned her cotton shirt, then his tongue flicked over a nipple.

  Shannon inhaled sharply. As if it had been a soldier called to attention, her breast responded instantly to his bold action. “How dare you!” she panted in dismay, thrashing angrily beneath him. “Release me this instant. I know important people,” she threatened desperately.

  “So do I, love,” he retorted. Concentrating his attention on unnerving and terrifying this Rebel spy, he ignored Shannon’s struggles as he shifted his mouth from one breast to the other several times. Despite her slender figure, she was nicely rounded where it mattered, he found. His mouth covered hers as she was about to speak. Then his tongue darted between her lips and his hand released hers to wander into her hair.

  Shannon comprehended his misconception and intended to correct it soon, but now she was puzzled by his sudden gentleness and ardor. She found the mingling of their mouths enticing and briefly allowed the pleasant sensation to continue. Unlike those who had kissed her before, this man possessed talented lips and hands—those of an expert lover, she realized. She wondered about his looks, age, and character. Why was he here and behaving in this brazen manner? What an arrogant, crude rake! She believed that revealing her identity would afford her protection from his vile treatment. When his mouth drifted to her ear, Shannon vowed, “I’m not a Rebel. I came from Boston on a vital matter. Please stop and listen.” Her voice quavered with apprehension and vulnerability.

  Blane leaned backward. “If that isn’t a Southern accent, I’m Jeff Davis. You’re playing a dangerous game, little Reb. Surely you know how this break-in appears. I’ll have to hand you over to the guards…unless you give me good reason not to.” Blane’s body was reacting passionately to Shannon’s scent, feel, kiss, and voice.

  Shannon panicked. If they tossed her into prison…“I am from Georgia, but I’m with the Union,” she argued truthfully. “I came to seek the President’s help and advice. The Confederates have captured my brother; they’re holding him at Danville Prison. They’ve already slain my father and older brother. I have to get to Danville.” Shannon wondered how far she should go to obtain his trust and assistance. If she lost Greenleaf and Corry, what did life matter? Without family, home, and money, what kind of destiny would she face in a wartorn country, especially if the South were defeated and she couldn’t prove her claims? If
she must play the temptress to entice him to help her, so be it! After all, tempting and complying were two different things. And against such a powerful man, those were her only weapons, just as he had teased.

  There was something in her voice and words that tugged at him, though he retorted, “You steal into the White House with a wild story like this?”

  “It’s the truth!” she protested. “I was desperate. I was going to offer my services to Mister Lincoln in exchange for his help with rescuing my brother. Let me up; I’ll explain everything.”

  “You mean you’ll try to escape,” he refuted.

  “Damn you, then bind my hands! Just give me time to talk. I’m from the South, so I can be of assistance to the President. I know many important people and leaders. They would never suspect I was assisting the Union. With a little help, I could get in and around. I’m not a fool; I know I can’t do this alone.” Shannon had learned that in some situations it was unwise for a woman to reveal too much courage, aggression, or intelligence. She had to pretend she needed and wanted help. But once she was inside Rebel territory, she would rescue Corry and take him home to Greenleaf. All she needed was a travel pass, weapons, supplies, and the names or locations of Unionists who offered rest and food.

  When the man lapsed into silence, Shannon pressed, “I’ve met President Davis, Robert Toombs, General Bragg, John Breckenridge, and Joseph Johnston. I’ve also met Robert E. Lee. They all knew my father from the Mexican War; they’ve visited our plantation. With luck, they’ll remember me. Even if I can’t get any valuable information for President Lincoln, I might acquire their help with freeing my brother before he dies in one of those awful prison camps. To protect our lands from angry Confederates, Father made certain that they believed we were loyal Southerners. I know you think one life doesn’t count for much during a war, but it does to me. Please help me.” She was appealing to his masculine ego, and hopefully to his conscience.

  Blane was off Shannon instantly, pulling her to her bare feet. He gently pushed her into a chair, then pulled her arms between the spindles. After removing his belt, he secured her hands behind her back. Then, after locating his mask, he donned it to protect his identity, hoping that this little hellion didn’t already know who and what he was. He lit an oil lamp and visually scanned her features, then frowned as he noticed that the soot she had used had rubbed off on him as well. Blane poured water into a basin, grabbed soap and a cloth, and scrubbed Shannon’s face until it was pink.

  Shannon winced in discomfort and wiggled. “Hold still,” he commanded. “I want a good look at you. Faces are one thing I never forget. For your sake, little vixen, I hope you told the truth. If there’s one thing that riles me as much as Comanches, it’s a treacherous woman who thinks her beauty and charms will protect her.”

  Blane couldn’t decide why he was taking the time and energy to listen to her. There was no way she could be of any real help to him or the Union. He had gotten into this repulsive war because of his determination to help a woman—the one woman he cared about. Perhaps he listened because this minx had snared his curiosity. Perhaps he wanted a woman’s company and conversation tonight. Perhaps he yearned to gaze upon something unmarred by the war. Perhaps he wanted more…

  Shannon clenched her teeth as the man’s keen eyes roamed her features, eyes that appeared the color of maple stain and filled with green flecks. How she wished she could see and study more of his face. He was well built and she estimated that he was probably three or four inches over six feet and weighed about one hundred and eighty pounds. Dark blond waves with reddish gold highlights peeked around the edges of the black mask. Thick, silky hair teased his blue collar and fell over the top of the mask. Shannon noticed that the area of his chest that was exposed by his unbuttoned shirt was hairless and its golden surface appeared smooth and hard. His hands indicated that he was a man accustomed to physical labor, a man of immense dexterity. His shiny, trimmed fingernails told her another pleasing fact—he practiced cleanliness. The timbre of his voice caused her to question his birthplace, for it sounded as if he might be Southern, or perhaps Southwestern.

  Blane Stevens was astonished by Shannon’s incredible beauty. Perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t seen her face and figure earlier! he mused. She had large, expressive eyes, as dark blue as a Federal uniform. She had the kind of eyes that instantly drew another’s vision to them, eyes that would change from a mellow cornflower blue to a Rebel flag blue according to her emotions. Their mesmeric shape and color were in striking contrast to her fiery hair and pale skin. There was a tiny smattering of very light freckles over her nose and cheeks, which supplied her features with an air of innocence and youth. Her skin was the color of heavy cream, its surface unflawed and rose petal soft. Her lower lip was fuller than the shapely upper one, which would give her a sensual pout if she chose. He noted smugly that he had guessed her height and weight correctly.

  Her hair once again captured his attention. It fell to her waist in mischievous curls, its texture almost crinkly. The crown’s strands were trimmed shorter and lay in wispy curls across her forehead. Its color reminded him of the mountains in the West, which became vermillion shaded when the rising or setting sun beamed down on them. She was exquisite, highly desirable. And although she appeared delicate, Blane knew she was plucky and resilient. A vulnerable Southern belle who needed help…

  His greenish brown eyes helplessly lowered to her partially exposed bosom and a noticeable gleam filled them. Old Jeff Davis sure knew how to pick his spies! What naïve lad could withhold a secret from this disarming angel, this magical temptress? It would be a shame to confine such beauty to a stifling cell. Yet, such beauty and skills could prove dangerous if she were allowed to operate on susceptible Union soldiers.

  “If you’ve memorized my anatomy, sir, would you mind buttoning my shirt?” she inquired scornfully, glaring at her arrogant foe whose greedy gaze was eyeing her like a sumptuous treat about to be devoured.

  Muffled laughter sounded in the room. Blane knelt before her and obeyed, to her surprise and his. “I sure am sorry you weren’t sent to work on me,” he jested, caressing her scarlet cheek. “Yankee prison can be a rough place for a ravishing, though misguided, Southern lady. Drop this wild tale and give me your name, age, and mission.”

  Shannon narrowed her blue eyes and clenched her teeth. She started to refuse but realized that would be foolish. She was trapped in the room of a man who viewed her as a Rebel spy and perhaps as a woman to be used as he desired. To get to Lincoln, she would have to get past this vexing male whose gaze and manner were alarmingly disturbing.

  Stalling for time and an opportunity to escape, she gave him a few facts. “Shannon. Nineteen last month. I’ve been trying to see President Lincoln for over a week. If you’ll check, my ignored messages might be lying around somewhere. If not, the staff should recall a pesty redhead who’s been here many times. I have little money left. And I can’t return to Boston for personal reasons. I was hoping to exchange favors with the President—my assistance for his.”

  “What about your family? Who’s letting you gallivant over the land disguised like this?” he probed, hunkering before her.

  She remarked contemptuously, “Almost my entire family has been annihilated by this travesty. My older brother was killed during the Battle of Shiloh in the spring of ’62. Last May, my younger brother was taken prisoner at Chancellorsville. A friend got a message to my father that he was being held at Danville in Virginia, a horrible place. We kept hoping and praying that the war would end soon, but it didn’t. Last October, my father decided more arms and better pay might give the Union the edge to win this vicious conflict. He sailed from Boston for England to sell future cotton crops of Southern loyalists to earn money for Union supplies. His ship was attacked and sunk by a Rebel blockade runner. I waited and prayed as long as I could, then I had to act. My brother’s all I have left, except for…a few friends. I was hoping the President would help me get through the Rebel l
ines so I could at least discover if he’s still alive. If so, I plan to find a way to get him out of that wicked place. If I fail, I can work and provide him with food and supplies. Don’t you realize how many prisoners die under those horrid conditions? Is that sufficient, Mister…?”

  “You plan to travel through enemy territory for weeks, then single-handedly rescue your brother from a Confederate prison?” Blane queried in disbelief.

  “I know how to ride and shoot. All I need is a contact here and there for rest and food. In return, I’ll report anything I see or hear to the President. I read the newspapers and magazines, so I am familiar with the treatment given female spies on both sides. I know they aren’t shot or hanged. Besides, I am…was a Southerner. We have a plantation in Georgia. Please convince Mister Lincoln to help me.” Shannon wondered if she was making a mistake by trying to enlist Lincoln’s aid. She had gotten this far alone; maybe she didn’t need anyone’s help or permission. She could take care of herself under most circumstances, but a ravaged land with crazed soldiers was not a normal situation. If only Hawke weren’t in Texas; he would help her. He wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. Why had her father shamed and rejected him? she wondered once again. It wasn’t like Andrew Greenleaf to be so volatile and cruel. Hawke would know what to do. But for Shannon, getting to Savannah would be easier than getting into Comanche territory, and if Hawke returned, she knew it would be to Greenleaf.

  Blane eyed Shannon up and down several times. There was a ring of verity in her tone. Yet he sensed she wasn’t being totally open and honest. “If this tale is for real, you’re mighty naïve. Don’t you realize there’s no way you can get to Danville? Don’t you own a mirror? I doubt you could get five miles without being ravished, or at least robbed and left stranded, or captured by Rebs. Then you might join your unlucky brother,” he stated harshly, envisioning this vital creature enduring such an ordeal.