The Southern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Mercifully, they’d have time to heal before the heavy snows came in September and closed the trails. They’d be well enough to take the gold with them by then. She didn’t know how they’d fetch the horses out of Memphis any sooner.

  Morgan touched Jessamyn’s good shoulder. She glanced up at him and he inclined his head. She rose silently and followed, easily able to see him by the light of the full moon.

  He led her to the lake’s far shore, near the waterfall. It was a beautiful night, serene and peaceful with the moon gleaming on the lake and flowers shimmering amid the grass. Even the great ponderosa pines added their gentle mystery, rising tall but standing far enough apart so they appeared to be protective giants above a fairytale parkland. Water lapped against the lakeshore and the waterfall’s roar was a muted hum, reminding her that tomorrow they’d begin working to bring the gold out of the cavern.

  “You’re probably worrying about Aristotle and Socrates,” Morgan drawled, his normally melodious voice harsher than usual.

  “Plus Cassiopeia and the horses,” she agreed, studying him. She was glad he’d brought the subject up now; otherwise, she’d have worried about them all night. If they waited until all the men healed to leave, fever season would be over in Memphis and who knew if her friends would still be alive and the horses safe? Word had to go to them quickly—and money, if at all possible.

  “I asked Grainger if his family’s stud farm could move the Somerset Hall horses to safety.”

  “What?” A bubble of hope began to grow in her chest.

  “He agreed with, I might add, a rather wicked amount of alacrity. So he and Little will make a fast run to Santa Fe, leaving tomorrow morning. Once there, he will order his family’s stud farm to move the Somerset Hall horses to safety. We’ll repay him when we bring the gold out. Aristotle, Socrates, and the rest will accompany the horses, of course.”

  “Thank God, thank God.” Jessamyn leaned her head against his chest, almost sagging in relief. “I’ll have to speak to them before they go, try to express my gratitude.”

  “Certainly you’ll want to.” He touched her cheek lightly and stepped away. “But there’s more I need to say, Jessamyn.”

  He bowed his head, his fists clenching and unclenching at his side. She blinked, startled by his discomfort. What could make him so uncomfortable? Was he upset that she’d declared her love for him? She hadn’t had time to be nervous before, thanks to the fight, but the delay seemed to triple her misgivings now. “Morgan?” she breathed. “Did I say something wrong?”

  He shook his head fiercely, silencing her. She stared at him, unable to guess what he wished to discuss.

  Then he blew out a long breath and lifted his face, gray eyes fixed on hers. “You accused me of avoiding my responsibilities by becoming a teamster, of never marrying and settling down. You said I was a rogue and a scoundrel without a care in the world for anyone but myself.”

  She reached out to him. “Oh, Morgan, I’m so sorry I ever thought such things! Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course.” He smiled at her, the moonlight making his face’s harsh planes look like a statue of King Arthur’s knights. “Because I roamed to avoid seeing you with Cyrus.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. She’d always thought he hated her so much, he wanted to have her far away from him. “What?”

  “I never married because I never found anyone to look at me the way you looked at Cyrus. God knows I never looked at anyone else the way I’ve always regarded you, with love and passion—and yes, respect.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips. “Will you marry me, Jessamyn, and live with me forever?”

  Joy ran through her veins, like liquid gold. “Oh yes, Morgan, I would be honored to be your wife.”

  He kissed her hand and gathered her up to him, his arms wrapping around her waist. “Dearest Jessamyn.”

  He tasted her lips gently at first, as if she were a delicate virgin who might shrink before a man’s bold assault. She answered him sweetly, her tongue touching his delicately to explore his different textures. He groaned softly and pressed her closer. She murmured his name into his mouth. Her love.

  He claimed her hungrily, pressing himself boldly against her. She threaded her fingers through his hair, enjoying the promise of his hot, hard cock against her hip.

  “I have land in California that would make a perfect horse farm. We can take your horses there, the gold of Somerset Hall,” he whispered against her throat, “and build a country estate for ourselves there.”

  She pulled back. “In California?”

  “They’d be safe from yellow jack there.”

  Doctors’ stories ran through her head, told by military doctors and riverboat captains. California, where her friends would be safe from yellow jack? Where the horses could run on broad fields of green grass below the tall Sierra Nevadas? She saw herself and Morgan, laughing as they galloped over their land toward their home, a white-columned building like Longacres. “Oh yes!”

  His gray eyes were heavy-lidded with passion. “And save Somerset Hall for our children, for when someone knows how to cure yellow jack.” His eyes flickered to where the pulse beat in her throat. He lowered his head again, his hand gently caressing her waist.

  She fought to think against the rising carnal tide in her veins. She gently put her hand on his forehead, stopping him. “Where is your home?”

  He shrugged, pulling her close enough to slide a leg between hers. She hadn’t changed back into skirts. “I don’t own one. I have apartments in Denver and San Francisco.”

  “Can I build one, besides the country estate?” He needed something solid and impressive, as befitted his position in society. This conversation was sounding even more delightful.

  He regarded her quizzically. “Is that something you’d like to do?”

  “Oh yes,” she cooed, considering the joys of finally setting down roots after nine years of living on either Army posts or charity.

  “Then certainly you can build the town house of your dreams,” he said gallantly. He nuzzled the back of her ear, sending a frisson down her spine.

  “In San Francisco, I think,” Jessamyn said emphatically, locking her knees against the urge to drag him down onto the grass in the moonlight.

  Morgan chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through her bones. “Lordy, Jessamyn, how happy my father would be to hear you say that. He always wanted me to have a wife who valued life west of the Mississippi.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Denver, October 1872

  It was the very best of days. The weather was perfect, a brilliantly crisp autumn afternoon in late October. Inside the church, the organ was rippling through baroque preludes like waterfalls pouring down a mountainside, while the final guests were seated.

  The wedding itself was to be everything Jessamyn’s father and Morgan’s parents had ever planned, as overseen by Cousin Sophonisba and Great-Aunt Eulalia. The largest church in Denver was barely enough to hold all of Jessamyn’s Army friends, Morgan’s business associates, and their families from Tennessee and Mississippi. A grand banquet would follow and dancing until dawn at the best hotel in Denver.

  Jessamyn waited patiently in the church’s anteroom, her heart soaring like a lark. Elizabeth Anne Spencer, Jessamyn’s best friend as an Army wife, and her two daughters fussed over the yards-long train of Jessamyn’s wedding dress. Michael Spencer warily watched the women from as far away as he could stand and still be ready to escort Jessamyn. She’d asked him to give her away to Morgan, since Cyrus and Michael had pledged to look after each other’s families should the need arise. The curate stood next to him, casting an approving eye over them all.

  A tree shifted in the breeze outside, opening a golden beam through the stained glass. Suddenly she could feel Cyrus, as if he’d touched her on the cheek with the sunbeam. She smiled and shaped a kiss. The tree shifted again and he was gone.

  She brought herself back to the present and looked over her shoulder, sending
her hat’s trailing ribbons and her ringlets sliding forward. “Are you finished yet?”

  “Not if you do that!” yelped Naomi, the youngest Spencer girl, and leaped up. “You must stand perfectly still.”

  Jessamyn rolled her eyes and met Michael’s amused glance. Naomi quickly restored Jessamyn’s coiffure to order and all three women stood back for a final inspection.

  The wedding dress was a masterpiece of French craftsmanship, whose creation had dictated the wedding date. A princess tunic in Nile green silk, the season’s most fashionable color, was swept back into a myriad of tiny flounces, which extended into the train. The skirt was of the same Nile green silk, with matching flounces, while her small hat trailed green ribbons. Her eyes twinkled hopefully at Morgan’s likely reaction to her undergarments.

  Elizabeth Anne and her two daughters circled Jessamyn like Indian warriors eyeing a wagon train. Jessamyn grinned at her old friend, unable to contain her joy. “Will I do?”

  “Oh, very much so!” They embraced, cheek to cheek, Elizabeth Anne careful to protect the wedding dress. “You are the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”

  “The second most beautiful bride I’ve ever encountered,” Michael said gallantly, coming forward at last, beside the curate.

  His wife blushed and smiled at him. “Thank you, dear heart. Girls, you must find your seats now, quickly.”

  The two disappeared into the church rapidly, banging the side door in their haste. The organ inside started repeating arpeggios, stalling until it could announce Jessamyn’s arrival.

  Michael hastened to catch the door and ease it shut. “They’ll probably dance the night away, with all the newfound handsome young men.” He smiled ruefully. “Is it time to begin, sir?”

  The curate expertly assessed their readiness and nodded his satisfaction. Permission thus granted to proceed, he flung open the doors to the church and the organ swung into “The Rejoicing” from Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks. Elizabeth Anne started down the long aisle, carrying her bouquet of roses, and Jessamyn took one last sniff of her roses for courage. If it had been left to her, she’d have flown down the aisle on wings of joy.

  She stepped into the church on Michael’s arm, and looked for Morgan. He stood at the front, dressed in an impeccably tailored black frock coat and charcoal gray trousers, William Donovan at his side. She smiled at her future husband and lifted her bouquet slightly, with its white roses—and a single red rose in the center from his mother’s favorite rosebush at Longacres.

  Morgan inclined his head, tears gleaming in his eyes, and touched his boutonniere made of matching red and white roses.

  Then Michael patted her arm and they started down the long aisle, past the remarkably clean teamsters wearing city clothes. Grainger and Little, Lowell, Mitchell, Rutledge and Calhoun, and all the others. Past Cassiopeia, Aristotle, and Socrates with their families, including Cassiopeia and Aristotle’s daughter, who looked just like Cassiopeia. Past her friends from the Army, splendid in dress uniforms, and their wives and families. Past all of the relatives, who were nudging each other and grinning, especially George, who’d been telling everyone for months that he alone was responsible for this match. She thought she could even see Cyrus, her father, and Morgan’s parents, smiling proudly beside the masses of flowers. Everyone, living or dead, was a blur, compared to Morgan’s gray eyes drawing her closer.

  She loved all of the guests but she had difficulties appreciating Michael because he insisted on keeping to the same steady pace, rather than letting her run to Morgan.

  At last Morgan’s hand closed over hers, a smile trembling on his dear mouth. “Dear love,” she whispered, so overcome by emotion that those simple syllables were all she could utter.

  Joy flashed in his eyes and he kissed her hand. They turned to face the minister and gilded light poured over them like wings.

  The ceremony’s beautiful words wrapped around her, and she couldn’t stop smiling at Morgan. It was a mercy that the minister announced everything she needed to say, because she had a very hard time tearing her eyes away from Morgan. Her voice wavered slightly when she pledged her vows, but his beautiful voice was strong and clear when he gave his vows, weaving magic around her.

  She sighed, gazing into his eyes. Dear heavens, all he ever had to do was speak and she’d do anything for him. He smiled back at her, equally passionate in his silent pledge.

  Elizabeth Anne nudged her. The minister repeated himself, granting permission for the groom to salute his bride. Morgan blinked, grinned wickedly, and crushed her against him. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him with enthusiasm.

  Hours later, Morgan brushed a kiss over Jessamyn’s knuckles. “My dear lady wife, do you feel properly married now?”

  “Not really, dear husband.” She glanced up at the enormous and very ugly brick mansion he’d rented, which was dark except for a few lights on the top floor. Still, she hadn’t wanted to return to a hotel after the ceremony and he’d respected that wish.

  He raised an eyebrow. He’d loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his collar as soon as they’d entered the carriage, so he now presented a most appealing picture of masculine dishevelment. She’d taken off her hat at the same time and she suspected at least one of her ringlets was sliding down, given his attentions in the carriage. “Is that a challenge, my dear?”

  “Would I dare to challenge you?”

  He hooted in derision and picked her up in his arms, tossing her train across her lap. From this close, he smelled of sweat from that last wild polka. And musk, too, both scents she was sure would grow stronger very soon.

  “You will always ensure that I behave as you consider best,” he retorted.

  She smiled at him demurely and wrapped her arm around his neck. “As you will do for me.”

  “Always,” he agreed, his eyes twinkling.

  The great carved door swung open at the head of the stairs, revealing a liveried butler with a lantern. Morgan carried her up them effortlessly, his heart beating steadily against her cheek like the pledges they’d taken that afternoon. She kissed him on the cheek, wishing strongly that they were already upstairs. The butler, who was clearly startled at their behavior, stood aside for them when they entered and shut the door behind them.

  But Morgan didn’t stop: he continued up the great, massive staircase. Jessamyn squeaked, “Put me down!”

  He ignored her.

  She hit him on the chest. “Morgan, put me down. Dammit, Morgan, I want a wedding night, not a contest for who can pant loudest!”

  “I’m stronger than that,” he averred without breaking stride.

  She thumped him again. “Are you? I have been planning a very long wedding night. What were you thinking of?”

  He slowed down.

  “We’re at five thousand feet,” she teased him and began to unbutton his shirt for additional emphasis. She wiggled two fingers inside and found his collarbone. So very close to his heartbeat, the sign of the lover’s life she’d almost lost in the San Juan Mountains. She shivered at the memory and undid a few more buttons. “A very, very active wedding night.”

  He came to a stop on the landing. “We’d reach the bedroom faster if I carried you.”

  “We’ll both be stronger if we run together.” She traced his dear, stubborn jaw.

  “You have a magical way of stating our partnership, Mrs. Evans.” He kissed her fingers and set her on the ground, sliding her along his body so she felt the full force of his desire. “And I, too, would prefer a very long wedding night.”

  He caught her by the hand and began to run, barely giving her enough time to snatch her train up. She leapt up the stairs with him, delighted that he was holding back just enough to let her match her pace to his. They reached their suite together and he shouldered the doors open, swinging her up and over the threshold in a wild tumult of silken flounces and petticoats. “Morgan!”

  He looked down at her, unrepentant and not quite laughing as much. “I
want all the superstitions on our side tonight, Jessamyn.”

  She blinked back unexpected tears, standing before him in the great master suite. “We have them, dearest. We have all the love and the luck tonight as we never did before. Besides, who could want for anything in a room like this?” She gestured, indicating the entire space.

  The master suite was an amazing cross between a medieval hunting lodge and a Gothic fantasy, with hanging tapestries, ornately carved beams and matching furniture, a fireplace large enough to roast a calf in, and oriental carpets on the floor. A bottle of champagne awaited them in a silver cooler, with frosty beads sliding down its sides, beside a great bowl of red and white roses. The immense four-poster bed was bedecked with still more tapestries, a silk coverlet and sheets. Furs were tossed across the coverlet and the carpets, while small golden lanterns hung from the ceilings and walls. A couple of small coal furnaces hid in the corners, keeping the temperature toasty enough for an Arabian prince.

  They’d never slept in this room before, choosing to save it for the first night when their union would be blessed by the church. The first time when they hoped to make a child.

  “A palace for my princess,” Morgan said softly and cupped her cheek. “But we’ll break ground on your San Francisco house next spring.”

  “A new beginning,” she agreed, threading her fingers into his thick chestnut hair. It was warm and soft against her skin, as vibrant as he was.

  Morgan kissed her hand, his gray eyes glinting at her wickedly. “Shall we drink a toast to that with iced champagne, my dear? Or are you perfectly comfortable buttoned up to the throat and down to the wrist?”

  “Are you comfortable, my dear?” she teased. “Would you rather I insisted that you wear your long johns until dawn?”

  She chuckled at his look of mock horror and caught his face between her hands. “You silly, silly husband. Of course I want to see you without clothing.” She reached up to kiss him and found herself crushed in his arms.