by Nan Ryan
“I don’t care what your name is,” she cut in quickly. “I know who you are. You’re a filthy Yankee spy.”
He simply smiled at her. “Found guilty as charged. On most counts at least. I am most definitely a Yankee and I was convicted of being a Union spy. But I do take exception to being called filthy. Cleanliness has always been important to me. Why, before supper, I washed up and …”
The tobacco-scented towel flashed through Elizabeth’s mind. Dear Lord in heaven, she had washed her face in water used by a dirty Yankee spy!
“… and before the war,” he went on, “I always—”
“I am not the least bit interested in your life’s history, Mr. … Spy.”
“Ah, well, a pity. Perhaps you’d like to tell me a little about yours. Or why you’ve had the misfortune to be thrown into a military stockade with the enemy.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest. “I am not telling a Yankee spy anything.”
“And who could blame you?” He stuck two lean fingers inside his half-open gray tunic, drew out a fresh cigar, and placed it between his gleaming white teeth. “Tell you what, though”—he struck a match with his thumbnail, lifted it, cupped his brown hands, and puffed the smoke to life—“if it’s any consolation, you won’t have to put up with this offensive Yankee spy for long.” He took the lighted cigar from his mouth, blew a perfectly formed smoke ring, and stated dispassionately, “I’m to be shot at sunrise tomorrow.”
“So am I,” Elizabeth said automatically.
His flashing eyes widened. He jammed the cigar forcefully back into his mouth and said from between clenched teeth, “Holy God! They’re going to shoot a helpless young woman? Jesus!”
“Stop your swearing, Spy. Whatever I may have become, I was raised a lady. Perhaps up North it is acceptable for Yankees to swear before a lady, but down here no gentleman does so.”
His sudden deep laughter surprised her. He took the cigar from his lips, and said, “Let me get this straight, miss. Here in the old South it’s permissible to shoot a young lady, so long as you don’t swear while you’re pulling the trigger?” His eyes twinkled with mischief as he studied Elizabeth’s rigid face.
The moonlight was flattering, so he was not certain if she was really as lovely as he perceived her to be. Couldn’t be positive if those large, luminous eyes flashing so indignantly at him were green or blue. Wasn’t sure if the long, tousled hair spilling down her back was brown or red. Didn’t know if the pale skin was as flawless as it appeared.
“Did you hear me?” her voice, lifted in frustrated annoyance, cut into his appraisal.
“No. No, I didn’t.” He took a step closer. “What did you say?”
Elizabeth was struck by his leanness. He was tall—at least six two—and broad of shoulder, but slender, the lanky frame bordering on thinness. The gray trousers hung loosely on his slim hips and the matching tunic fit across his shoulders but was slack around his trim waist. Half open down his torso, the tunic’s brass buttons winked in the moonlight and the parted opening revealed a dark, hard chest covered with thick black hair.
Instinctively Elizabeth backed away from him. “I … I won’t allow you to poke fun at our customs and beliefs. You have no idea why they are to execute me so—”
“Then tell me,” he smoothly cut in, “what have you done that’s so terrible? You don’t appear to be all that dangerous to me.”
Thinking to herself that the spy did look dangerous, Elizabeth was determined she’d not let him suspect she feared him. “You’re no priest that I should confess my sins to. I’ve no intention of baring my soul—much less to a Yankee spy. In fact, I’ve no intention of continuing this conversation.”
“Fine, but please,” he said, his gaze traveling down her slender form, “tell me just one thing.”
“I’ll tell you nothing, Mr. Spy. Keep your questions to—”
“The color of your dress, miss?”
“My … my … what difference does it make?”
“Blue, I’ll bet.”
“What if it is?”
“And it matches your eyes?”
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t. You’ve just told me.” He smiled at her, his white teeth gleaming from out of that forest of black facial hair. “I like blue eyes.”
“I don’t care what you like, Spy.” Elizabeth commandingly pointed toward the darkness from which he had materialized. “Kindly get back over there on your side of the cell. For these final hours, I may have to share this space with you, but I refuse to associate with the enemy.”
He nodded his assent. “A loyal Rebel to the end.” He leisurely backed away until he was completely swallowed up in the darkness. A pause. A rustling of the straw. Finally, silence. Then, from out of the blackness came that deep, bodiless voice. “Admirable, though, and quite touching, miss.”
Elizabeth gave no reply. She knew he was making fun, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was for the devilish bearded Yankee to leave her alone. She wouldn’t press her luck by arguing.
She strained to locate him in the darkness, but could not. The wispy hair at the nape of her neck lifted. She sensed that behind that teasing smile and calming voice was a dangerous man. The way his arm had flashed through the bars and grabbed Stark’s throat had been frightening and impressive for its sudden violence. If he chose, he could seize her just that swiftly and she’d be totally helpless.
Elizabeth stood in the moonlight, blinking, wishing he would light another cigar so that she could establish his exact position. As if he had read her mind, a match flared and he puffed a fresh cigar to life. He was in the darkened corner and the glowing cigar told her that he was lounging on the hay, his back against the wall.
Relieved, Elizabeth turned away, went to the moonlit corner opposite him, sank down onto the scattered hay there and waited. She listened intently and watched alertly for any sign of movement that might signal danger.
Finally she sighed and relaxed a little.
Long minutes passed.
Silence.
Then, from out of the darkness: “Should you need me, I’m right here for you, miss.”
Elizabeth jumped, startled. She hurriedly laughed to show her poise and contempt. “I need no one. Least of all you, Mr. Spy.”
3
SOON A DEEP NIGHTTIME silence settled over the stockade, the stillness broken only by the gentle sigh of the south wind pressing against the small, high window. Outside, the air was cool and sweet, but little of it found its way down into the close, stuffy cell.
Where Elizabeth waited with the bearded spy for their dual dawn execution, it was warm and uncomfortable. The scattered straw did little to cushion the hard stone floor. Her full skirts, bunched around her legs, were cumbersome and hot. The satin of her chemise clung damply to her tired back, her long red hair stuck to her neck and throat.
Her face was shiny with moisture and she could feel beads of perspiration pooling between her breasts. She twisted and fidgeted and exhaled loudly. She put her hands under her heavy hair, impatiently swept the flaming tresses up atop her head, and twisted the long locks into a plump rope. But her arm soon tired, so she sighed and released the wild mane. It spilled back down around her shoulders. She bowed her head.
In seconds she raised it, made a face, and wondered how she could be worrying about something as trivial as heat and discomfort when in just a few short hours she would face a firing squad.
It was foolish, she knew, and yet she yearned for a bath and a soft bed. She envisioned a big marble tub with lots of soapy bubbles and gallons of cool, soothing water. She pictured a high feather bed with silky sheets of fresh snowy white and downy pillows in lace-edged pillow slips. And herself, squeaky clean and pleasingly cool, lying atop that inviting bed.
Physically exhausted from her long afternoon before the tribunal and lulled by the silence and the heat, Elizabeth allowed her thoughts to become focused only on pleasant things. On much-missed luxuries and h
alf-forgotten gaiety. Refusing to dwell on the horror that lay before her, she daydreamed of the past in the stillness of her last night.
She relived some of her favorite occasions, pulling up from memory happy times and beloved faces that filled her with joy. It became a welcome diversion, a mind exercise requiring total concentration. The intriguing game transported her out of the too-warm Louisiana stockade and into a carefree world.
When the bell in Shreveport’s riverfront Presbyterian church tower chimed midnight, Elizabeth, abruptly brought back to the present, was amazed at how rapidly the time had passed. Only a few hours left. Dawn would break and then they would …
Elizabeth realized she had all but forgotten about the Yankee spy sharing her death cell.
She raised her head and looked across the small chamber, saw the orange tip of his cigar glowing in the darkness, and wondered what he had been thinking as he sat there silently smoking. Was he reliving his past? Was he recalling happy times with a wife or sweetheart somewhere?
Was he afraid to die?
Hers had always been a curious nature. She wanted to know what was on the Yankee spy’s mind. More importantly, she longed to hear the soothing sound of a firm male voice, even if it belonged to the enemy.
Her life was rapidly ticking away and there was nothing she could do to stop it. As the hour of execution neared, her fear of death escalated. There was only one person to whom she could turn in her need.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Ah … Spy, are you … are you afraid to die?”
For a few seconds there was no reply. Then, “No, miss. Not particularly. My only concern is that the firing squad we’re to face are a bunch of peach-fuzz-faced kids and likely the worst shots in either army.”
Elizabeth was immediately defensive. “Young boys are all that the beleaguered Confederacy has left, Spy! It is not their fault they aren’t expert marksmen!”
“Your loyalty is laudable, miss. Nonetheless, the results are the same.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to make a cutting reply, then changed her mind. Like it or not, what the spy said made sense. On her walk to the jail this evening she had seen nothing but untrained boy soldiers. The Yankee was right. Those young, green recruits were likely less than expert shots.
Elizabeth’s apprehension grew. She mulled the situation over in her mind and came up with a solution to the problem.
“Spy, can you see me?”
“Why?”
“Just answer the question!”
“No.” His eyes, at that particular moment, were shut. So it was not a lie when he said, “I can’t see you.”
He immediately opened his eyes and smiled. She was perfectly framed in the moonlight and he had been leisurely observing her off and on all evening. He had seen her squirm about on the hard stone floor. Had seen her impatiently sweep her long, thick hair up atop her head. Had seen her smile dreamily and sigh wearily. Had seen her frown and shake her head. Had hardly taken his eyes off her.
“Good,” Elizabeth said, then jerked up her blue skirts, reached for the bottom of her lace-trimmed white petticoat, and pulled it up past her knees.
His dark head came away from the wall. He sat up straighter and his teeth practically cut his cigar in two. He had no idea what she was up to, but whatever it was, he didn’t mean to miss it. While he stared intently, she held the hem of her petticoat in both hands and yanked on it with all her might.
Obviously, she was trying to tear it. He was tempted to offer a hand, but didn’t dare. He swallowed with difficulty when finally she lifted the stubborn petticoat all the way up to her face. His narrowed gaze swept appreciatively over shapely thighs and womanly hips covered only by silky pantalets and stockings.
He grinned when she put the petticoat’s hem into her mouth. With her small, perfect teeth she ripped the fabric, then tore a long, narrow strip from the petticoat.
Puzzled but fascinated, he watched while she tore three more strips from the undergarment, and was so entranced he didn’t realize that the cigar in his mouth had burned down.
“Ouch! Damn to hell!”
Elizabeth, her blue skirts and white petticoat pulled up around her waist, jerked her head around. “What is it?”
“I burned my lower lip.”
“Oh? Did you doze off?”
He smiled. “Yes. Fell asleep with the damn thing stuck in my mouth.”
“Since you’re awake, will you come here, please?” She tossed her skirts back down over her feet.
“On my way,” said he, grinding out the smoked-down cigar beneath his boot heel. He rose and crossed to her. She looked up at him and wondered if she could trust him. He looked tall and menacing standing there. She motioned him down to the stone floor. Leisurely, he eased down into a crouching position directly in front of her.
“What is it, miss?”
“You got me to thinking.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. You see, you’re absolutely correct. The men on the firing squad are unproven and that could mean pain and suffering for us. Like you, I don’t mind dying, but the prospect of suffering frightens me terribly.”
“Ah, now, miss, I should never have said anything.” He tried to sound reassuring. “It will be swift; we won’t suffer.”
“No use taking a chance. I’ve come up with a foolproof plan.” Proudly, she lifted the white strips of material. “I tore these from my petticoat.”
“Really?” He could hardly keep from grinning.
“Yes, and if you sit down here on the floor, I will sew a white cross directly over your heart.” She almost smiled at him. “That way, the worst firing squad can’t miss their target.”
He smiled fully at her. Permission no sooner granted, he quickly turned about and sat down beside her. He leaned back against the wall, put a dark hand to a shiny brass button in the center of his gray tunic, and asked, “Shall I take this off?”
Her swift reply was, “No. I’ll have to do my sewing with you wearing the tunic. Otherwise, how would I know I had the cross in exactly the right place? Directly over your heart.” She looked away, drew from her reticule a needle and thread, and turned back to him. “Ready, Mister Spy?”
“Ready, miss.”
Elizabeth first laid a hand over his heart, atop the gray tunic. She felt a slow, steady beating. “That’s the spot,” she said, placed a strip of the fabric vertically over his heart, and came at him with her needle.
He reached out, caught her wrist. “You aren’t going to stick me, are you, miss?”
“No, Spy. While I sew, I’ll keep my other hand inside your tunic so that if anyone gets pricked, it will be me.”
He immediately released her wrist and Elizabeth went to work. From low-lidded eyes, he watched as she painstakingly stitched, her lovely face one of total concentration. Her left hand was inside his half-open tunic, its soft back against his bare chest. The delicate knuckles brushing his flesh caused his heart to skip a beat, and he wished she would turn her hand over and touch him.
Really touch him.
Elizabeth kept her eyes on her work, anxious to be done. She didn’t like being this close to the Yankee spy, didn’t like having her hand inside his tunic. Of necessity, the back of her hand was pressed against his chest. The texture of crisp dark hair and the fierce heat of his smooth flesh was such a curiosity, Elizabeth found she was half tempted to turn her hand over and touch him.
Really touch him.
None too soon she completed her task. The sewing was finished, nothing left to do but snap the thread. Elizabeth never gave it a minute’s thought. She leaned her face down to his chest, and bit the thread in two. A snowy white cross was now neatly stitched on the left side of his gray tunic. It would give the firing squad a target which could not be missed.
“Thank you. I appreciate this, miss,” he said, and meant it.
“I’m glad.” She proudly examined her handiwork, then guilelessly asked, “Now, will you kindly return the favor?”
&n
bsp; “You mean—”
“Yes, Spy. Will you please sew a cross over my heart so I won’t have to suffer?”
Charmed by her mettle, the bearded man nodded, took the needle and thread from her. Unceremoniously, he laid his right hand over her heart, atop her blue bodice, his long dark fingers gently pressing the soft undercurve of her full, high breast.
Elizabeth’s heart immediately speeded; he felt its rapid beating against his palm.
“That’s it. That’s the spot,” he said softly.
“Spy, wait!” she said, pushing his hand away; “I’ll take off my—”
“No,” he interrupted, “I’ll have to sew the cross on while you’re wearing your dress.” Smiling in the shadow, he added, “Otherwise, how will I know if I have the cross in exactly the right place? Directly over your heart.”
Skeptical, Elizabeth reluctantly said, “Well, all right. But make it snappy, Spy.”
“Unbutton your bodice, miss.”
“Unbutton my … now, really, this whole thing is—”
“Then I’ll do it,” he said, and with one dexterous hand he flipped open the buttons halfway down to her waist while she wordlessly stared at him.
His hand slipped inside her opened bodice. Her face flushed hotly when the back of his hand touched her breast through the thin covering of her chemise. But he seemed not to notice. He was, she told herself, solely intent on sewing the cross over her heart. Likely he didn’t even realize that his hand was touching her. After all, it was only the back of his hand brushing her lightly.
Still, Elizabeth was acutely aware of that strong male hand inside her bodice. A little involuntary shiver raced through her as she guiltily considered what it might feel like if that dark, long-fingered hand suddenly turned over and he touched her.
Really touched her.
“I didn’t stick you, did I?” His low, even voice startled her.
“No. No, it’s just … will you kindly hurry?”
“Sure thing,” he said. And didn’t hurry at all. While he worked deliberately slowly, his thoughts were no longer on the white strip of cloth he was stitching to the bodice of her blue cotton dress. Nor were they on the dawn date with a Confederate firing squad.