“And the men outside?” Cyrus drawled, steel threaded through his quiet Mississippi tones.
The cavalry officer managed an excuse of a smile. “We’ll return tomorrow at first light to repair the grounds, sir. Your family’s home will receive every consideration, as if it were mine, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Good-bye.”
The cavalrymen tumbled over themselves to find the door, dragging Charlie with them. “Dammit, Jessamyn, the next time you won’t get off so easily!” he shouted.
Jessamyn shivered, gripping Cyrus’s arm for support. Dear God, if she ever had money and Charlie wanted it, he’d have no hesitation in using the most brutal tactics to seize it.
“Are you well, Jessamyn?” Cyrus asked, tilting his head forward to see her more clearly. His voice was softer now, almost coaxing. He must have used the same tones when he and his troop of dragoons rescued the wagon train from a blizzard on the Great Plains. He’d been fresh out of West Point and the emigrants had been nearly hysterical, but he’d managed to steady them. They’d written a marvelous letter of recommendation afterward, which the Memphis and Jackson newspapers had proudly printed. “Come, sit down and catch your breath. I’m sure Cassiopeia is making fresh tea for all of us.”
She settled on the velvet-covered sofa and drew Cyrus down with her, reluctant to lose contact with the one constant from her past that would carry into her future.
In a few days, after her father returned and had recovered from his journey, they’d journey to New York, a place she’d never seen and where she knew no one. They would have little money, once the surgery was paid for. If the surgeon refused to operate, then the money would be spent on making her father’s final days comfortable. After that, she’d have to make her own way, as best she could.
She also knew, with a bone-deep finality, that thinking about Morgan excited her, and terrified her, beyond her ability to be rational. What would happen when she faced him again? Would he tumble her across a bed and laugh as she begged to be mounted, as eager as any broodmare in heat? She desperately slammed the door shut on that nightmare.
She shivered, chills running down her spine, and leaned against Cyrus. He was here; he was warm and safe and reliable and strong. She didn’t have to worry about Morgan anymore.
Cyrus wrapped his arm around her and hugged her close. “Ah, Jessamyn,” he whispered, a bit huskily.
Something in his voice sounded different from how he’d addressed her when they’d last met. Her bruised femininity stirred deep within her. She laid her head back against his shoulder and looked up at him, sliding her hand along his shoulder.
He was watching her, admiring her as if she were the most wondrous being on earth, eager to memorize her. His eyes traveled over her face and lingered on her mouth. His cock stirred against her hip, but he made no move to satisfy it, nor did he try to touch her.
His hunger for her, tightly leashed as it was, brought a spark of warmth back to her heart. There would be a future and she could find joy in it, even passion with a man.
She smiled at him, a little shyly, not quite sure what to do or how much she wanted. Just that she was willing to try, with Cyrus.
Chapter Four
West Point, New York, April 1864
Heyward Tyler’s breathing rattled, fell silent, then resumed with a faint wheeze. Jessamyn stroked his hair back from his forehead, her other hand resting lightly on her small bouquet of roses. She had no more tears left to cry, at least not today. As he’d requested, time and again while his voice was still clear, she would fight to think only of the future. She would be a good wife to Cyrus and she would somehow pray that Morgan came safely home from the War.
Their cottage’s principal bedroom was sparsely furnished but the few pieces were solidly built and very comfortable. Patriotic mottoes hung on the walls, exhorting soldiers to do their duty, and lace curtains allowed the day’s last light to filter in. Plato stood silently on the bed’s other side, ready to do anything needed for his beloved master. Tears tracked slowly down his face, but as ever, he said nothing. Cassiopeia, Aristotle, and Socrates stood beside Jessamyn, clean beyond anything she’d seen before. Cassiopeia was clutching a smaller bouquet of roses, which matched Jessamyn’s, as if it might fly away. She’d even changed her favorite scarlet turban for an indigo one, on this glorious day.
The doctor was continually amazed that Heyward Tyler had lasted this long; Jessamyn wasn’t. He’d promised her that he’d live to see her married and he’d kept every vow he’d ever made to her.
When they’d come to New York, the surgeon had quickly operated, shocked that Father had survived with a tumor so large. He’d done well at first, all the while strongly encouraging her budding relationship with Cyrus. Jessamyn still blushed to think of how he’d more than once “accidentally” locked her out of their little cottage, thus ensuring that she’d spend more time with Cyrus. There were also the times when he’d left Jessamyn and Cyrus alone in the front parlor. Oh, Cyrus knew very well how to bring her to ecstasy!
She could only guess why he’d supported Cyrus’s courtship so strongly, despite his attachment to the Southern cause. Cyrus was the best of men, despite his occasional bouts of temper, and they’d known each other since childhood. Or perhaps it was because her father knew how little time he had left. In any event, less than a month ago, the tumor had returned and was growing far faster than before.
Cyrus had been a first lieutenant before the War, although one with an excellent record. Most Southern-born officers who chose to stay in the Union Army had a difficult time, but thanks to Cyrus’s old friends, whom he’d saved from the blizzard, he’d been brevetted to major and sent to a Northern state’s cavalry regiment, rather than a regular army regiment. Brevetting was a form of temporary rank that lasted only during wartime; when peace returned and the army shrank to its smaller size, an officer would go back to his former rank. Cyrus had fought brilliantly and been brevetted to lieutenant-colonel, before his wound at Gettysburg had sent him to West Point as a professor.
Yesterday Cyrus received orders to report to Washington and take command of a cavalry regiment, an unbelievable honor for a Mississippi-born officer. He’d leave tomorrow for the front, where he’d barely survived the last battle.
Her throat tightened at the thought of Cyrus dead or dying. She closed her eyes, fighting for composure. She had to learn how to survive this fear, had to go on even when it felt as if her gut were being ripped out through her backbone…
When he received the orders, Cyrus had called on Father immediately and they were closeted for well over an hour. Then Cyrus had sought her out, gone down on his knee—she smiled, tears welling up at the memory of that proud man down before her—and begged her to consider his suit. He hadn’t planned to ask her so quickly but her father’s illness and the War’s dangers had forced his hand. If he died, she’d at least have his pension and his friends to protect her.
The silly man had then apologized for not giving her time to fall in love with him and she’d laughed. She’d known to the roots of her being that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. She’d hurled herself at him, knocking him over, and oh, dear Lord, how they’d kissed. It was truly amazing that she was still a virgin. Only Cyrus’s self-control could account for it, not hers.
She smiled reminiscently, curling her fingers around her father’s paper-dry hand.
So here she sat, in a made-over wedding dress and veil, with a chaplet of flowers on her head, waiting for Cyrus by her father’s side. The bedroom was decked in roses and orange blossoms, with netting and white ribbons everywhere possible, until it resembled a wedding bower. Colonel (Bvt.) Michael Spencer, Cyrus’s West Point roommate and best friend, would be the best man. Michael’s wife, Elizabeth Anne, was waiting in the front parlor with the chaplain, while his two daughters were playing outside, delighted at the opportunity to be attendants.
If she had been marrying Cyrus in Mississippi or Tennessee, Morgan wo
uld probably have been Cyrus’s best man. Jessamyn flinched at the thought of standing close to him again. Would she still be as incredibly conscious of every breath he took?
Then horses’ hooves and the crunch of steel wheels over gravel announced a small carriage rolling up the driveway. Cyrus was here, safe for the moment. Joy blazed through her, until she felt she could have floated to the ceiling.
“Daddy! Daddy!” exclaimed the two Spencer girls, their affection for their father carrying even into the bedchamber.
The front parlor windows squeaked, probably because Elizabeth Anne and the chaplain were looking out. “How very thoughtful of them,” the chaplain’s booming voice observed.
“What?” Jessamyn whispered. She started to rise, trying to shake out the pins and needles in her hands from staying in such a cramped position for so long.
“Sit, sit!” Cassiopeia shooed her back into position. Jessamyn rolled her eyes but obediently turned back to the bed.
Her father stirred. “Jessamyn?” he croaked.
Her throat tightened at how weak his voice was and how faded his eyes were. “Yes, Father, they’re here,” she said gently, leaning over him. “Can you sit up now?”
“Yes.” He coughed and tried to lift himself. Plato immediately gathered him in his arms, while Aristotle came to his aid but was hardly needed. Jessamyn quickly shifted her flowers to the table, her heart shattering once again at how easily the much smaller manservant could maneuver him. Socrates shouldered in to plump up a pillow, an odd sight in those big hands.
With the ease of long practice, they soon had her father settled against the pillows and whisked away the bloodied handkerchiefs from his resulting coughing fit. The cancer was breaking down the inside of his mouth and throat faster and faster. Cassiopeia carefully gave a different elixir to him, one with a sharp scent that startled Jessamyn. She shot a hard look at Cassiopeia.
Her father’s eyes suddenly brightened and he almost had all of his old alertness, as he reclined against the pillows. Cassiopeia slipped the spoon and small bottle into her pocket, her mouth grim.
Jessamyn closed her mouth reluctantly, her throat tight. Cassiopeia must have given him the special tonic he’d asked for, the one that would enable him to witness all of the wedding, even if it ripped away much of his little remaining strength.
For a moment, tears threatened Jessamyn. She’d rather have as many days as possible with him.
But he grabbed her hand and squeezed it in a shadow of his old strength. “You make a lovely bride, my dear. John and Rosalie Evans would be very happy for you.”
The tears receded, allowing her to live in the moment. “Thank you, Father.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead. He kissed her hand, only briefly fumbling for her fingers.
A brief spurt of excited voices, quickly hushed, announced the men’s arrival. The chaplain came into the bedroom, smoothing his vestments, and Elizabeth Anne began to play Handel’s “Largo” on the piano in the front parlor.
Jessamyn gathered up her flowers, while Cassiopeia stood beside her. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought her father must be able to hear it. For a few hours today, she would have her entire family together.
The two Spencer girls, one blond and one brunette, came solemnly through the door, their eyes enormous, and lined up alongside the wall.
Then Michael Spencer appeared—in a black frock coat and charcoal gray trousers, not a uniform. Civilian clothes?
He paced forward, clearing the way for her to see dearest Cyrus.
And Cyrus, too, was wearing a black frock coat and charcoal gray trousers, the clothing of peacetime. On this day of days, there would be no reminder of brother against brother, cousin against cousin, or bloody death.
She wanted to run to him, hurl herself at him, tell him he was the best of men for being so kind.
His mouth quirked and he winked at her very deliberately. She beamed at him and Cassiopeia gave a great, heaving sob of joy.
In deference to her father’s fragile health—and Cyrus’s limited time here—the chaplain kept the service very simple. A brief prayer, a simple yet graceful reminder of the joys and duties of marriage, then he led them through their vows. Jessamyn swore with a clear heart, gazing into Cyrus’s loving face, and at the end she impulsively kissed his hand. He caught her cheek then and rubbed his thumb across her mouth in a foretaste of the night to come. She could hardly wait.
Cyrus’s voice was deep and solemn, very steady like the man himself. But when the chaplain pronounced them married, Cyrus swept her up, off her feet, and kissed her until the world spun around her in a cascade of stars. Fires raced through her veins and her breasts ached to be free of her corset. More, oh more, please, she moaned into his mouth, twining her arms around his neck…
Jessamyn blinked at him when he lifted his head. “Hmmm?” she mumbled. Applause filtered into her dazed brain. She blushed but didn’t try to move away.
He caressed her cheek, his good eye desperately hungry but leashed. “We have the rest of our lives, love, as long as God grants us. Let us spend this time with your father.”
As long as God grants us. A shiver ran down her spine but she cloaked it, tossing her curls back. “Let us rejoice together, dearest husband.”
Memphis, June 1865
Morgan eyed the bustling docks and considered the fruits of war, while gnawing on a chicken wing—his first meal all day. Up here on a tin roof above a saloon, the air was comparatively quiet even if odiferous.
Down there, Federal troops, fat and happy in their blue uniforms, trotted back and forth unloading barrels and crates from riverboats. Wagons and drays rushed along the bluff while dogs scampered, hunting for scraps of food. There was even a very professional outfit, led by a tall black-haired man, loading gunpowder into a heavy Conestoga wagon with its canvas cover folded back.
The winning side, in other words.
After four years of war, Morgan was twenty-three years old and still half-starved. He was the lucky possessor of a very good, and equally half-starved, horse as well as Longacres, a few thousand acres of prime cotton-growing land in Mississippi.
He was also the Evans of Longacres and, as such, the head of the family. Cousin George, for one, looked to him for advice and assistance. Cousin David, whose arm had been shattered at Chickamauga, needed a place for his family of seven to stay, as well as an income. He was the best damn farmer in Mississippi, too, and if anyone could rebuild Longacres, it was him. Morgan had pointed him in that direction, told him where the last of Father’s English gold pieces were and how to pay off the taxes, and promised he’d tell him later where to send reports. He’d also asked him to send Cousin George to read law, a profession where a windbag like him should do well.
Morgan broke the wing apart and began to suck the bones clean. When he finished, he’d have to beg some work so he could buy the gelding some feed. Then he’d have to figure out how to get them both across the river.
After that he’d head west, as he’d always dreamed. Once he’d seen Texas when he was fifteen, he’d known the wide-open spaces beyond the Mississippi River were where he belonged, although he’d never believed in the Great Southern Empire that Jefferson Davis had preached and his father had followed. His father had gone beyond Texas and settled in Arizona, where the Southern imperial dream said there’d be a railroad, cattle, and a golden empire.
But Morgan had found his own pleasures instead. Riding with Cochise had seemed like paradise, while the Apaches had treated an Anglo teenager as a man and taught him how to be a damn good cavalryman. Those times in Arizona before the War seemed like a dream now, when the Apaches fought Hispanics, not Anglos, before Cochise had been bitterly insulted and attacked by that stupid Army lieutenant and turned forever against Anglos.
There was too much open warfare now in Arizona for Morgan to make anything of his father’s old holdings. But perhaps in a few years…
After he’d surrendered at Franklin—Morgan reflexively snarle
d at the memory—he’d thought briefly of crossing the Mississippi at St. Louis.
But Cyrus was stationed there, at the big Army depot. Cyrus with his beautiful wife, Jessamyn. The happiest man in the world, as Great-Aunt Eulalia reiterated in letter after letter.
Cyrus, the one man in the whole damn world whom Morgan would never try to cuckold.
So he’d have to give up the idea of revenge on Jessamyn. Shit.
Morgan thought of all the things he’d planned to do to her, how he’d have kissed until her mouth was red and pouting, teased her until she was pleading for more, and seen her legs widen in eagerness…
His cock swelled yet again inside his threadbare gray trousers. He cursed viciously and hurled the chicken bones away.
They caught a cat on the rump. It sprang into the air, yowling like a demon evicted from hell and alarming every horse for two blocks. Anxious neighs filled the air. A dozen horses reared, while a previously placid saddle horse bucked. Someone ran to calm it—and tossed his cigar toward a bucket. Unfortunately, it caught a flag flying below a third-floor window.
Equally upset by the ruckus, the lead mules hitched to the powder wagon brayed and reared. Unfortunately, their driver had been watching the barrels being loaded, not his animals, and lost control of the reins. The team bolted, swerving into the main street, and sending the driver off the seat.
Morgan’s heart leaped into his throat.
The smoldering flag and flagpole were now a merry little blaze. The team was aiming to pass directly underneath it, unable to see the flames. If the flagpole fell into the wagon and those kegs of powder caught fire, the entire block—if not the neighborhood or even the town—would be blown up. Men ran for their lives in all directions.
“Shit!” The mules were coming toward him and he might be able to jump into the wagon, if the mules came closer to his side of the street. The tall, dark-haired man was running behind the wagon, trying to catch it.
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