The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Morgan’s mouth curled in a mirthless smile as he acknowledged the warning. Jessamyn might seem like any other innocent Southern belle but she’d managed to attract and hold the loyalty of competent, deadly predators.

  Aristotle snorted softly at Morgan’s expression. Then he settled into his chair, eyes half-shut, allowing Morgan a small semblance of privacy.

  Not being fool enough to take that posture as anything other than pretense, Morgan shook his head and headed for the chamber pot. Five years of almost constant fighting, first with the Apaches then with Forrest’s cavalry, had taught him to take advantage of whatever he could, when he could. A few minutes later, he was gnawing on a chicken leg, savoring the complexities of Cassiopeia’s cooking—and calculating distances and angles.

  He needed to be out of here before Cyrus arrived. Cyrus was extraordinarily precise on points of honor, especially when it touched family. His father had been a Texas land promoter turned swindler. One of his victims had called him out and killed him in a duel. Every penny had gone to paying off those he’d fleeced. Although he never spoke of it, Cyrus seemed determined to prove that his sense of honor was far better than his father’s. Morgan knew damn well what Cyrus would do if faced with a choice between honor and family: arrest him immediately.

  By the time Morgan had finished the fried chicken, his headache had faded and he’d returned to devising ways to wring Jessamyn’s pretty neck. He was trapped in this room for as long as she chose to keep him here, until Judgment Day perhaps, dammit. He spat a curse in Apache and tried to think of a different way to wriggle out of the shackle, just as a light tap sounded on the door.

  Aristotle came alert immediately and rose to his feet. An instant later, he had the door open and was bowing greetings. “Miss Jessamyn, I didn’t expect you so early. Socrates.”

  Socrates, Aristotle’s brother and Jessamyn’s personal groom, nodded a silent greeting from behind her shoulder. He was loyal to her unto death, as Morgan had used more than once to his advantage during a childhood prank.

  Jessamyn stepped forward to study Morgan critically. “He looks rumpled and half-asleep,” she observed.

  “We weren’t expecting you so early,” Aristotle offered, rapidly clearing the table beside him.

  “Father just left for Somerset Hall with Plato,” Jessamyn answered, tearstains visible on her face. “He’ll stay with the Burkes for a few days after it’s sold before returning in time to meet Cyrus.” Her voice sharpened. “How’s our prisoner doing?”

  Morgan was immediately wary at the look in her eyes. Despite his rage, he’d hoped his captivity was only a temporary sojourn, a small contretemps between friends. But Jessamyn didn’t lose her temper very often—and she didn’t cool quickly at all, once it happened.

  He adopted his best manners. “Quite well but a little stiff.” He started to swing his feet over the side of the bed.

  Jessamyn studied him, clearly seething with anger, her skirts and petticoats swirling around her legs, before turning to Aristotle. “I want to speak to him alone.”

  The big man stirred out of his impassivity. “That’s not safe for you, Miss Jessamyn. Either I or my brother should stay here with you.”

  “What I have to say to him needs to be said in private.” Wry amusement colored her voice. “If I know you, Aristotle, you have more than one way prepared to tie him up. Is one of those methods something that will hold him while I’m alone with him?”

  Aristotle blew out a breath, looking both embarrassed and guilty at the same time. “Well, now, one of them might be. But it’s something I learned in a house of ill repute on the dockside and no decent woman should see it.”

  “That should do then. Can you and Socrates manage him or should I summon Cassiopeia to assist?”

  “Two of us will manage him jes’ fine,” Aristotle rumbled, with a swift glance at his brother. The ever-silent Socrates nodded and came forward.

  “Lie down on the bed, on top of the quilt, Mr. Evans, and this will go easy on you,” Aristotle said calmly, standing in front of Morgan.

  “Like hell,” Morgan spat and sprang. He fought hard, using every dirty wrestling trick he’d learned from the Apaches. Aristotle and Socrates knew counters for most of them; besides, there were two of them and only one of him. Still, he had the satisfaction of once hearing Aristotle huff in surprise.

  But in the end, Aristotle caught Morgan’s free leg in one ham-sized fist and shoved it—with the rest of Morgan—back toward the bed. Socrates grabbed Morgan’s shoulder and snapped another cuff on Morgan’s wrist.

  A minute later, he was spread-eagled across the bed, every limb firmly chained to a separate bedpost. His nightshirt was hiked well up on his thighs. He could wriggle a bit on the quilt, or arch his back, but he couldn’t leave the bed.

  Disliking his helplessness and disarray intensely—especially in front of Jessamyn—Morgan glared at Aristotle. The big man simply shook his head before bowing to his mistress, genuine respect filling his attitude. “Is there anything else, Miss Jessamyn?”

  “No, that will be all, Aristotle. I’ll call you when I leave so you can return to sentry duty.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He glanced back at Morgan. “Just be very careful how you behave around him. A polecat still has sharp teeth, even when you’ve got him in a trap.”

  She patted his arm reassuringly. “Thank you for warning me, Aristotle. I’ll be very cautious.”

  He disappeared slowly down the stairs, lamplight glinting on his shaven skull. She closed the door behind him and made her way to the center of the room. She surveyed Morgan from there, emerald eyes traveling over him slowly. She seemed an innocent girl in her simple gray dress with the starched white apron and collar.

  Morgan fought the temptation to yell at her. No innocent miss could have drugged and kidnapped him so successfully. The only thing he could use against her was his voice. “Jessamyn, we’ve known each other for years. Our families planned our marriage in your cradle. Let me go.”

  Her green eyes drilled him, filled with a cold anger he’d never seen before. But he didn’t dwell long on that, given his own fury at her treatment of him.

  “Like hell,” she snapped back. “You’re a Rebel spy and Union soldiers will die if you walk out of here with that information.”

  How had she found out? He shrugged the disquieting discovery off and tried to cozen her. Unfortunately, his voice roughened. “Jessamyn, we played together as children. You know me.”

  “I don’t believe I do, especially since you dragged me into your spying. You used me to find out the fastest way to learn Grierson’s orders, didn’t you?”

  Morgan’s eyes widened in shock. He controlled himself instantly but the damage was done.

  “Damn your lying, thieving ways!” Jessamyn cried, bright spots of color on her cheeks. “I always thought that you were an honorable man—not a lazy, skulking spy who’d take advantage of a dying old man’s kindness! You knew your own army considered him too ill to fight, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You could have gone to a tavern, or stayed in a shed, and found your own sources of information about Grierson. But no, you had to stay with your dying godfather because he might be able to find the news faster for you!”

  Dammit, why could Jessamyn always see the truth? Morgan’s rage boiled to the surface. “Dammit, Jessamyn, I’m a soldier, fighting for my country. I have to use every weapon—”

  “What sort of weapon is an old man being eaten alive by cancer? You have no honor when you don’t protect the helpless! Was spying for the rebellion all you could think of?”

  Morgan yanked against the chains, clenching his fists. There was just enough truth in her accusation to cut him to the quick. “If you feel so strongly about loyalty to the Union,” he snarled, attacking the least of her accusations, “then why haven’t you married Cousin Cyrus, that West Point graduate, and started rearing a brood of Yankee troopers?”

 
; “Because I,” she gritted between clenched teeth as she stood over him, “unlike some men I could name, have a sense of duty toward those who trust me. I will care for my invalid father first, before I seek my own satisfaction in the marriage bed.”

  Morgan flinched and opened his hands, acknowledging a hit. He was too fond of her father to overlook the older man’s need for Jessamyn, as death approached.

  “You’re a Rebel spy, Mr. Evans,” she snarled at him, “who should be handed over to the authorities immediately, before you can cause any more harm. However, because of our families’ long friendship…”

  Why didn’t that sound like the complete truth?

  “You’ll only be held here a few days. Then you’ll be released outside the city to join the rest of your miserable, lying, Rebel friends.”

  Morgan frowned slightly, sifting rapidly through what she had and hadn’t said. “I’ll still have the information I stole from the Union Army.”

  Jessamyn laughed at him. “Grierson will already have marched and met Forrest in battle. Any other information you might have gained will be of little consequence.”

  He gaped at her, stunned by her accurate and succinct opinion. Hell and damnation, Forrest himself couldn’t have summed up the situation more neatly than this seventeen-year-old gentlewoman, who’d never done anything riskier than shoot a few deer and birds.

  “If you love the Union so strongly,” he asked, slowly feeling his way through the web of her loyalties, “then why haven’t you simply reported me to the local authorities?”

  She glared at him, before she answered. “They’d shoot you as a spy or send you north to a prison, where you’d die of starvation or disease. We—our families—have been friends for too long. For my father’s sake, I can’t let that happen.”

  He frowned, considering her options. “And?” he probed.

  Her chin came up as she met his eyes defiantly. A pulse beat hard in her throat, above her simple pearl brooch. “Holding you captive, privately, until your information becomes worthless is the only way to ensure that my duties both to the Union and to my family are satisfied. If the Union Army comes here searching for you, they will find me but not my father. They are welcome to imprison me, if they don’t take him.”

  Morgan stared at her, startled out of his anger into assessing her situation. Devil take it, she had struck a difficult balance and she’d pulled the wool over his eyes to do it. Respect sprang up hard but he tamped it down ruthlessly. Forrest and his command could be wiped out if he didn’t return with the news.

  “Jessamyn, I’m working to help my friends in Forrest’s army.”

  She pulled a face. “Traitors to the Union.”

  “Soldiers fighting for their cause who know the odds against them,” he corrected as gently as possible, despite his anger. “My friends George and Nathan—we’ve fought and bled together for years. Huddled together against the cold and wept over our friends’ graves. I can’t let them die, Jessamyn.”

  Her mouth tightened.

  “The new men have no weapons. If Grierson catches them, they’ll be butchered like baby rabbits caught by a fox.”

  She flung up her hand. “Enough, Morgan. You have your loyalties and I have mine. We can agree that both are valid—but I will not release you from this room a minute earlier.”

  He accepted the small concession. “Very well. Your Union boys are good fighters, after all.”

  He eyed her expression and read her pacing’s slower tempo as signs of hot temper, albeit slightly more under control. He’d have to tease her out of it, when both of them were calmer. He relapsed into silence, thinking hard. He needed to pick the locks on his shackles but with what? Something sharp, slender, flexible, and quite strong.

  “You should not be alone with him, Miss Jessamyn,” Aristotle repeated vehemently much later that night. Thanks to the lamplight, she could clearly see him shoot a livid glance at Morgan. “He’s a fighter and a spy. You’d be better off trusting a water moccasin, which can also kill you with one bite.”

  “I know that, Aristotle.” She patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Since Socrates has to help the Hutchinsons’ mare give birth and Cassiopeia has already started boiling sugar for candy, I’m the only one who can watch Morgan. You’re the only one here who can lift the kettle for her. Otherwise, she could drop it and burn herself with those five pounds of sugar, maybe even kill herself.”

  Aristotle grunted furiously and eyed his captive, clearly unappeased. Morgan didn’t blame him.

  “What can he do to me?” Jessamyn argued, in the clear tones of someone who relied on logic rather than instinct. “You and Socrates have already spread-eagled and shackled him to the bed. He’s wearing his nightshirt so you’re sure he doesn’t have any weapons. Where’s the danger?”

  No damn danger at all, agreed Morgan unhappily. He’d be more than happy to provide some, if he could think of a way. But his only weapon was his voice and his one hope to escape was to use her hairpin as a lock pick on his shackles. Very thin odds—but not quite impossible. Time was passing, dammit; he needed to escape soon before Grierson destroyed his friends or the Yankees found him here.

  “Do you want to search him again?” Jessamyn offered.

  Morgan stiffened, appalled. Please, God, no! Aristotle’s idea of a search was extremely thorough.

  Aristotle blew out his breath, clearly unhappy, and drummed his fingers on the bedrail. “No, not again, Miss Jessamyn. But I won’t be gone long. If he causes you any trouble”—he glared at Morgan, who glared back—“I’ll see that he deeply regrets it when I return.”

  Jessamyn smiled. “Agreed.”

  Morgan grumbled internally.

  Aristotle left with one more warning look at Morgan, who barely managed not to sneer. She settled herself in the chair across from the bed, out of reach but able to see him clearly, and began to flip through a book.

  Morgan watched her broodingly. He needed to start her talking, move her closer so he could obtain that hairpin. But how? She had a great deal of glossy ebony hair, all neatly done up with a multitude of hairpins. Some of those Federal officers had watched her hair very closely. In fact, they’d ogled her.

  “You’re looking very well tonight in that dark green dress, Jessamyn,” Morgan offered, wishing he knew more about flirting. But two liaisons, totaling less than four hours—and less than one hour of preparatory chatter—weren’t much to go by. He’d have to make it up as he went along, judging by how she responded.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Thank you, Morgan. Why the sudden interest in my clothes?”

  “They’re far more interesting than the décor in this room,” he answered, which was at least somewhat truthful.

  She snickered and his heart leapt hopefully. Maybe she could relax with him and come closer. Maybe.

  “Almost anything would be more interesting than walls covered with fat yellow roses,” she agreed. “But don’t think I’ll release you from those shackles, just because you have a golden tongue.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he agreed mendaciously. “But I would like to remind you of all the admiring glances sent your way at last night’s dinner party.”

  She blinked and a trace of color crept into her cheeks. For the first time, she looked like a young girl. “Morgan…”

  “That young lieutenant across from me could hardly keep his eyes from you,” he continued, forcing his voice to stay gentle and teasing. Why the devil did he want to growl and change the subject? Then storm out and tell those Federal fools to stay the hell away from her? “In fact, I believe he said something about how beautiful your eyes were, like a forest glade in springtime.”

  She blushed and looked away, her eyelashes sweeping down to veil her expression. “Morgan, please. I rarely attend dinner parties with bachelors. You must be mistaken.”

  His voice deepened, despite his strong wish to retain a light touch. “Perhaps I did misunderstand his reaction. If I’d seen a beautiful girl, I woul
dn’t have stayed on the other side of the room from her. For a start, my body would have driven me closer to her.”

  She blinked at him, those long, long eyelashes fluttering over her deep green eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Hell, could Jessamyn truly be so ignorant of a man’s response to her attractions? But Uncle Heyward had always guarded her closely, which was understandable given how his wife had gallivanted off.

  “When a man sees a lovely woman, he starts imagining what he’d like to do with her. Kiss her, touch her, fondle her, take her clothes off…”

  “Morgan!” She stared at him, her eyes wide and her breathing very fast. Her expression was shocked and quite fascinated.

  At least she hadn’t slapped his face or run away, and his body liked this train of thought. “Look at me, Jessamyn. Do you see anything different below my waist?”

  Her gaze roamed over him before dipping slowly, shyly down to his hips. His cock promptly surged upward.

  “You—you’re lumpy down there,” she breathed, staring at him.

  Hell, yes, he was lumpy. In fact, he was half-hard and becoming rapidly firmer. “Would you like to look, Jessamyn?”

  “Look?” she squeaked, giving him a look of shock—and intense curiosity. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  He recognized her expression immediately. She’d worn it when he’d dared her to ride her horse through the swamp near Somerset Hall. “Scared, Jessamyn?” he drawled, in exactly the same tone he used then.

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  He laid his head back and started whistling, determinedly ignoring his aching cock. “Of course you are.”

  “Am not!”

  Morgan did his best to look innocent. “Prove it: touch me.”

  She went completely still.

  Her pulse speeded up.

  Touch him? But what harm could that do? The key was by the door, not on her. Surely he couldn’t hurt her.

  She eyed his iron shackles warily. Hercules couldn’t have broken free of them. “Of course I’m not scared,” she said proudly and stepped up to the bed.