How he would resist the temptation of her lovely face and body, he had no idea.
In mid January, Silky approached Taggart as he paced about his room, scanning some papers he'd been working on. Smiling, she clasped his arms and sensuously ran her fingertips over them. "Do you have to finish that this afternoon?" she asked, her heart beating a little faster. "Let's talk for a while," she urged, hoping he would give her some attention and perhaps even take her in his arms.
He briefly regarded her, his expression veiled and a bit cool. "No, that's impossible, I have work to do," he bluntly answered. He walked away, sat down at his desk, and shuffled through the papers once more.
Tears stung her eyes. Since Christmas he'd seemed more secretive and evasive than evermore emotionally remote from her, she decided, staring at his broad back. Deep in her heart she knew she'd made a mistake telling him that she considered them handfasted. Since her admission he'd retreated from her. He was gone so often, stayed out so late, always playing poker with a group of officers at the American Hotel. Something was wrong between themdreadfully wrong, she thought with a feeling of helpless despair.
Summoning every ounce of her courage, she walked to his desk, determined to find out what it was. "I need to talk to you," she announced, actually taking the rustling papers from his hand and tossing them aside.
Dark hair falling over his forehead, he looked at her blankly. "Very well," he replied mechanically. "What do you want to say?"
Silky couldn't believe her ears. The man who'd always been so warm and caring, so passionate and full of life, now seemed coolly impersonal and remote. "D-Do you know we haven't made love since Christmas Eve?" she stammered, feeling a blush heat her cheeks even as she said the words. "That was three weeks ago."
He stared at her silently for a moment, then rose and combed a hand through his hair. Turning his back to her once more, he strode to the windows and stood there, golden light streaming over him.
What was wrong with him? she wondered frantically. Lately his reactions left her totally puzzled. A few days ago when the Richmond papers had printed the terrible news about the loss of Fort Fisher on the North Carolina coast, it didn't seem to phase him a lick. True, he expressed deep concern about the fall of the last Confederate port, but she sometimes sensed he really didn't care, and the thought chilled her more than the winter wind. If only she could break through this wall of reserve he'd built about himself and make him talk to her.
She moved to him, wanting to smooth her hands over his hard-muscled shoulders, but she feared he might walk away again. "What's wrong?" she suddenly asked, her voice raw with emotion. "Have I done something? Offended you in some way?" she inquired, her pride cut to the quick.
He continued to stare through the lacy curtains, the only sound the rattle of supply wagons from the street below; then at last he spoke in a deep but almost emotionless voice. "No," he answered quietly. "Nothing is wrong. You haven't offended me. You're usually asleep when I go to bed. I didn't want to wake you."
Silky felt a flicker of hope, and she tried to believe what he was saying, but in her heart of hearts she could not. "But we never talk anymorenever laugh like we used to."
"I've been busy," came the answer. "Certainly you know how busy I've been."
"I see," she replied softly, bravely accepting his excuse with a husky whisper. "I just hoped we might spend some time together."
In the mountains the girl she was might have reacted more aggressively, pursuing the subject further, but she was no longer that girl. She was a full-grown woman, changed and tempered by the things she'd passed through these last months. And although she sometimes made light of being a lady, she secretly wanted to be one very badly so she would be worthy of Taggart's upbringing. Surely a lady would handle this delicate situation with quiet dignity and do nothing that would lessen his opinion of her. Still, his sudden and mysterious rejection crushed her, and she longed desperately to make things right between them.
Taggart turned and considered Silky's dejected countenance, realizing how hungry she was for a bit of companionship. As planned, he'd spent less time with her lately, waiting until she'd gone to sleep before retiring so he wouldn't be tempted to make love to her. But noticing her dispirited expression, he asked himself if he'd gone too far. Perhaps he'd cut himself off from her too much in his attempt to put some space between them. And after all, who knew how long they still had with each other before Grant took possession of Richmond and put an end to the war? All this in his mind, he realized he owed her at least one day's outing to relieve the winter's tedium.
He'd already decided to take the train to Petersburg the next day, then rent a buggy and revisit some of the fortifications that made a southern loop about that city. Since she'd already guessed where his mission was and he hadn't planned to speak with anyone, no real harm would be done by bringing her along. Drawing in a deep breath, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Would you like to accompany me to Petersburg tomorrow?" he proposed thoughtfully, watching her face bloom with joy even as he spoke the words.
"So that is where you go," Silky remarked with glistening eyes, obviously thrilled that he'd invited her. She walked to him and circled her arms about his neck, forcing him to fight every natural impulse within him for kissing her.
A radiant expression lit her countenance. "Yes, of course, I'd love to come," she answered, her warm voice resonant with happiness.
The next afternoon Taggart pulled a buggy off the side of the dirt road that ran parallel to Petersburg's earthen breastworks. Feeling Silky clutch his arm, he turned to her, glad he'd asked her to come. He decided he needed to give her some companionship today, but still maintain a distance between them. Only, God knew how difficult that would be when he wanted to make love to her this very moment.
Dressed in her red wool mantle and sporting a fur muff, she looked the picture of fashion. A chilly wind whipped little strands of hair from beneath her toque and pinked her cheeks, making her look especially young and pretty. To a casual observer, she might appear nothing more than another lovely Southern belle, but from the sympathetic look in her eyes as she observed the soldiers, he knew she had weightier matters in mind.
He pointed at a group of soldiers standing atop a breastwork. "The men have been dug in, holding this line for nine months. Living in that maze of trenches they're exposed to the sun and rain as well as shell and mortar fire." He let his gaze travel over her, noting a frown knitting her smooth brow.
"Why are they standing out in the open?" she asked. "That looks mighty dangerous to me."
Taggart laughed. "It is. Some Yankee sharpshooter could pick them off in a heartbeat if he had a mind to. The poor devils are so bored they've become utterly reckless."
He snapped the reins and the team slowly pulled the creaking buggy back onto the road, billowing up little puffs of dust behind them. For another hour he and Silky rode about the Confederate battlements, and when the ragged soldiers shouted and waved their caps at her, she returned their greeting, raising her slim, black-gloved hand.
Pulling her mantle tightly about her against the icy wind, Silky scanned Taggart's face, shaded by a slouchy Confederate officer's hat. Just look at his expression, she told herself wearily. He's totally absorbed in those trenches and breastworks. Why, all he talks about or thinks about is the war, she thought sadly, snuggling against him just to make sure he knew she was there.
Once again she told herself that she'd made a mistake telling him that she considered them handfasted. Perhaps he was busy as he always said, but more likely he was just tired of her, she worried, desperation welling up within her. Her greatest fear, the possibility that some gorgeous woman like Caroline Willmott would steal him away from her, tied her stomach in knots every time she considered it.
She glanced at his clear-cut profile. Well, she'd just have to worm her way back into his affections, she thought with fresh determination. And today would be a good start. Why, it was the first afternoon she'd had him a
ll to herself in weeks. Putting on a smile, she leaned against his shoulder, feeling steely muscles ripple under his overcoat. "Why are you always coming down here to Petersburg?" she quizzed. She was truly interested, but also trying simply to stir up some kind of conversation between them. "Why are you so interested in these old trenches?"
Taggart lit a cheroot and looked down at her. Narrowing his eyes against the cigar smoke, he met her searching gaze. "As I've told you so many times before, that's my business, Miss Pinkerton," he answered, not unkindly, but with a smidgen of irritation. He studied her inquisitive eyes. "You haven't told anyone about my visits here, have you?"
She laughed merrily. "No, of course not. Who would I tell? Delcie?"
"Good, see that you never do," he ordered, putting some authority into his voice. "The fact that I come here is our secret and our secret alone. Understand?"
She let out a frustrated sigh. "Yes, yes, I understand."
Taggart regarded her pleading expression, sensing how badly she wanted to talk. "The truth be told," he explained leisurely, "these old trenches, as you call them, are the only thing keeping the Yankees from taking Richmond at the moment." He pulled a teasing face. "What kind of impression would we make on good Queen Vic and those uppity Frenchmen if we couldn't hold our own capital?"
She laughed, her eyes shining. "Not a very good one, I'm afraid."
As the buggy rolled over the bumpy dirt road, they talked about the fortifications and laughed together for the first time in weeks. If he could only take her in his arms and explain everything, he thought wistfully. But it was not to be. How long things could go on this way, he had no idea, for he daily felt the ever-growing tension between them.
Yes, Caroline was right about his mission being vitally importantly, he thought, watching Silky's face brighten under the first real attention he'd given her in weeks. But what a terrible personal price he was paying to complete that mission.
January had flown past with a rash of bad news for the citizens of Richmond. Starved and broken of spirit, thousands of the South's finest soldiers had perished, their places taken by mere boys, while the well-fed Union forces increased with frequent drafts and an infusion of Irish immigrants. Still, the people of Richmond put on a brave face, indulging in glittering socials as they lived on hope, refusing to believe a cherished way of life was passing away before their very eyes.
Now in mid-February, as Taggart and Silky danced at a ball at Burton Harrison's home, everyone was abuzz with the sad news of Sherman taking Columbia and the evacuation of Charleston. "How can this be happening?" Silky demanded, staring up at Taggart with questioning eyes as he swept her about the crowded dance floor. "Wasn't there just a peace conference at Hampton Roads?" Her brow knitted with frustration. "How can the Yankees keep pillaging the South when they asked for a peace conference themselves?"
Taggart studied her tense face. He knew it would be almost impossible to explain to her that the South was losing the warmainly because she refused to look at the facts. "The peace conference failed," he offered indulgently, hoping he might make some headway this time, "because Davis insisted on recognition of Southern independence, a proposal the Union couldn't accept."
She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Well, Lordamercy, that's what it's all about, isn't it? We're a separate country and our independence should be recognized." Dressed in a low-cut gown of pink that displayed each swell and curve that lay so temptingly beneath it, she stared up at him, challenging him to defy her words.
Taggart negotiated a reverse, then, increasing the pressure of his gloved hand, brought her closer to him. "Unfortunately the North doesn't see it that way, and they never will."
She tilted her head, her gold earrings glittering in the light of the huge chandelier sparkling above them. "Well, the North's opinion doesn't amount to a hill of beans anyway," she replied quickly, her creamy breasts rising and falling with each breath she took. "Lee is sending Johnston to meet Sherman in the Carolinas and Uncle Joe will whip his pants off. I just know he will!"
It's no use, Taggart thought dully. Like most of the populace of the South, Silky failed to see the yawning chasm that lay just ahead for the Confederacy. With a deep inward sigh, he decided to close the subject for the evening. Since they were no longer sleeping together, an unspoken tension so thick it was almost palpable lay between them, and even small matters turned into disagreements. Why spoil the first good evening they'd enjoyed for weeks with further discussion about the war?
At one corner of the large room, he spied Burton Harrison smoking a cigar as officers with frowning faces surrounded him. Judging from their scowls and animated gestures, they were asking him to explain some of Davis's decisions, and the sight reminded him that he needed to spend more time with Caroline discussing possibilities that were opening up along the beleaguered Rebel line.
Taggart felt a tap on his shoulder and, turning about, noticed Captain Fouche, the young assistant provost marshal of Richmond. He'd met him at a poker game at the American Hotel and disliked him immediately because of his arrogance. From what the other Confederate officers said, he knew the man also abused his considerable power, and his first impulse was to ignore him totally. But realizing the slight would be taken as rudeness by the rest of the officers, he finally loosened his arms about Silky and stopped dancing.
Fouche bowed formally. "With your permission, I would like to waltz with your cousin," he stated in heavily accented English. "I saw her at a function in December. Since then, I've been out of the city, but all the while, I've thought of nothing but her lovely face."
Taggart resisted the urge to tell Fouche she was not his cousin. He resisted a stronger urge to escort her across the ballroom, out of the man's sight; then at the last moment his common sense asserted itself. Let him have the rest of the dance, he sternly advised himself, stepping back with a hardened jaw. Better that than cause an explosive scene. But he'd be damned if he'd give the perfumed fop the courtesy of an introduction. And he'd be watchingwatching the suave captain's every movement. Noticing Silky's confused expression, he inclined his head and kissed her gloved hand. "I'll be waiting for the next dance," he announced meaningfully, shifting his eyes toward Fouche, then back to her. "So save it for me."
After Taggart walked away, Silky turned her attention to the officer standing before her and realized he was the same man who'd watched her so closely at Colonel Lehman's cotillion. At last she'd met the stranger who'd made such an impression on her weeks before. His eyes widened a bit and gleamed with speculation as he surveyed her in a sharp, assessing manner.
He bowed gallantly. "My name is Guy Fouche," he said warmly, extending a white-gloved hand. He gave her a smile, too intimate, she thought, for their first conversation. "Would you do me the honor of sharing the rest of this waltz?" he went on in a soft, purring voice.
Restrained by the rules of society, she could only nod and accept his proffered hand. "Of course," she replied, already feeling his other hand at her waist.
Once they were dancing, he gazed down at her, his dark eyes alive with some indefinable emotion. "Your cousin is very protective, isn't he?"
Silky moistened her lips. "At times, sir. But I'm sure he's only trying to do his duty as a kinsman."
Fouche transferred his gaze to Taggart, who stood at the punch bowl, a scowl on his face. "His duty indeed. He never takes his eyes from you. He has the look of a suitor, not a kinsman."
Silky's heart jolted against her bosom and she laughed nervously. "Why, sirwhat a thing to say. I don't agree at all!" Desperately wanting to change the subject, she put a pleasant note in her voice and commented, "I can't place your accent. You're not from Virginia, are you?"
Fouche's expression softened. "No, I'm not, chérie," he replied, his tone shot with pride. "My home is just outside of New OrleansBelle Carin plantation. My family raises sugarcane. My ancestors were some of the first settlers in Louisiana. We've preserved the old traditions, so I grew up speaking French, t
hen learned English later."
All the while they moved about the ballroom, Silky sensed something slightly amiss about Fouche. It certainly wasn't his appearance. In fact, he was a good-looking, dark-haired Creole, who held himself ramrod straight. His manners were perfect and his actions bespoke his genteel upbringing, but there was something in his smile, she thought vaguely, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.
They chatted a while about Richmond, and as they discussed some of the generals, Silky found her partner had a biting wit and was a keen mimic. Appreciating his effort to put her at her ease, she became less distrustful of him, and when she relaxed a bit more, she had to admit he was truly a wonderful conversationalist. After he'd made a particularly funny remark and she'd laughed in spite of herself, he looked down at her with hopeful eyes. "I would like to call on you, Miss Shanahan," he declared, his voice threaded with longing. "Perhaps you would permit me to visit you in the lobby of the Spotswood?"
Silky's mind whirled with confusion. How could she tell him she was already in love with Taggart? If she refused him flatly, he might realize they were not cousins, and the story would be out all over the city. Best to be polite but cool, she thought, trying to come up with some acceptable answer. ''Y-Yes, perhaps," she stammered, hoping she didn't sound too enthusiastic.
Two lukewarm words of encouragement were all Fouche needed. "Bravo," he exclaimed warmly. "Your answer has made my evening." His face glowed with pleasure. Holding her more closely, he whirled her about the ballroom, a broad smile on his lips that spurred her deepest apprehensions.
Lordamercy, she'd made a terrible mistake, she suddenly realized, wishing she'd given him a flat no. She'd only been polite, not eager, but the Creole hadn't taken it that way at all, almost trapping her into accepting his proposal with his confident enthusiasm. Over Fouche's shoulder, she glanced at Taggart and noted his dark glower. Although he continued to rebuff her advances, she still loved him with all her heart and hoped to rekindle the spark of passion, but matters were becoming more strained between them every day, with her seeing less and less of him. What would she tell him when the handsome captain in the dashing uniform started paying her court at the Spotswood? More important, she thought uneasily, what would Taggart tell her?
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