Mischief and Magnolias

by Marie Patrick

  “Gentlemen! May I have a moment of your time?”

  • • •

  A frisson of uneasiness snaked up Remy’s spine and the fine hair at his nape bristled as he felt it again—an unrelenting stare filled with malicious intent boring into his back. He remembered that same feeling, the same evilness, just before he and his men had been ambushed months ago.

  Some feelings one never forgets.

  He turned quickly, looking for the source of his discomfort, and stiffened, his hand gripping the head of his cane a little tighter. Captain Davenport stood a few feet away. Remy could have sworn he saw hatred—pure, unadulterated hatred—in Davenport’s dark eyes, but that couldn’t be. He blinked and looked again.

  He was wrong. Hatred did not gleam in Vincent’s eyes, only frustration. Furrows mussed his hair, as if his fingers had run through the light auburn strands many times, and redness tinged his face.

  Irritation showed in his stiff-legged walk as he approached. “You really must do something about her, Remy.” He had rolled the inventory lists into a tube and slapped his hand with it.

  “Who?”

  “Miss Cavanaugh.” He spat her name as if it were a curse. “I don’t care if she is your lover. She doesn’t belong here. She’s interfering with everything.” He flung his arm wide, motioning to the men moving heavy artillery. “She is overriding my orders and rearranging all the equipment we’ve brought on board.” He stared at Remy, his chest puffed out, face flushed with indignation and something Remy couldn’t define.

  Remy glanced over Vince’s head and saw the object of his frustration. Shaelyn had, indeed, commandeered the men to move the heavy artillery. She stood on a barrel, her back to him, in the middle of a swarm of blue uniforms, shouting to be heard over the noise. “I’ll take care of it.” He started to walk away then turned. “Just for the record, Captain, Miss Cavanaugh is not my lover and I never want to hear you talk about her that way again.”

  “Yes, sir!” Davenport saluted, but in Remy’s eyes, it wasn’t a true salute, a sign of respect. Somehow, when Vincent raised his hand to his brow, there was something mocking in the action, almost scornful, and yet he just couldn’t be sure. Davenport had been an underclassman at West Point before the war. Remy knew him as well as he knew any of the other men with him—knew their backgrounds, their military records, understood what drove them to accomplish what they had, but he’d managed to keep his distance. Except for Jock, he didn’t have a personal relationship with any of his men.

  After the ambush and losing the men he’d grown close to, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t become that close to anyone again—at least until the war was over. It was too easy to lose a friend, a companion, or a superior to a sharpshooter’s bullet or cannon fire, too easy to lose heart and hope when someone he cared for drew his last breath.

  Remy mentally shook himself free of his own rambling thoughts, returned the salute, and strode away, the uneasiness making his back stiff as he limped over to Shaelyn. She had removed her hat, and her hair, tied up once more in the loose knot she preferred, gleamed with fiery brilliance in the morning sun. Wispy tendrils fluttered in the breeze.

  The memory of pulling the pins from her hair and feeling the silken tresses between his fingers flared in his brain. He’d found every one of those pins—some gold, some silver, one with tiny seed pearls—this morning and returned them to her. She had taken them from the palm of his hand, blushed a deep red, thanked him quickly, and disappeared. Belatedly, the thought occurred to him that he should have kept them as a memento of their first kiss. He shook his head. He didn’t need a reminder of the touch of her lips on his. He’d remember that always.

  He watched her now, listened as she gave orders in a sweet, honey-toned voice, a natural-born leader. The men rushed to obey her commands, moving cannons and Gatling guns into position.

  Remy cringed as he watched the movement on deck. They weren’t men. They were boys. And so young. Some of them, their faces still shiny with youth, had never used a razor. Some had nothing but peach fuzz on their cheeks, and yet, here they were, fighting in a man’s war, hungry for adventure, yet so naive of the hardship of battle. Not one of them considered that he might lose a limb—or worse, his life—or knew what it felt like to have bullets flying close to one’s ears.

  Remy shook his head and cleared his throat of the lump that had risen. He’d been that young once, that naive, so full of ideals and dreams. He cleared his throat again. “Shae.”

  She turned quickly, her lace-edged skirt swirling around her ankles. “Yes, sir?”

  “Would you mind explaining what you’re doing?”

  She tilted her head as she looked down at him, her eyes wide and guileless. One shapely brow rose. “I’m having the men rearrange the cargo.”

  A smile threatened to curve his mouth and his heart beat a little faster in his chest. She looked utterly adorable. And capable. And for a moment, he forgot why he’d come over to her. With effort, he dragged his gaze away from her. “Why?”

  “Captain Davenport tattled on me, didn’t he?”

  “He has every right, Shae. He is in charge.”

  She shrugged, as if she didn’t care, then put her hands on her hips. “Then the boat will list, Major. All the heavy artillery had been pushed to one side of the Brenna Rose, creating an imbalance. Weight must be distributed evenly, otherwise you’ll lose time and fuel and risk capsizing.” She smiled then, her lips spreading into the teasing grin he saw even with his eyes closed, tempting him beyond reason.

  He didn’t care that the Brenna Rose swarmed with men and they weren’t alone. He just wanted to kiss her, to taste and touch her as he’d done last night, feel her body next to his. She’d fit him so well, her curves melting into his hardness. Even now, he had some difficulty concentrating.

  He almost reached out to touch her. Almost. Instead, realizing some of the men were staring at them, he focused on the task at hand and slowly nodded. He also realized she may be right. “Carry on.”

  Once again, Shaelyn flashed an impish grin at him and his heart thumped harder in his chest. He didn’t know exactly why, but he trusted her, despite the pranks she’d played. She loved her steamers so much, she wouldn’t let anything to happen to them.

  Before long, all the equipment had been loaded onto the Brenna Rose, situated exactly as Shaelyn wanted it. After Remy, Shaelyn, and all his officers, except for Captains Falstead and Ames, left the boat, the landing stage lifted. Steam huffed from the pipe before a sharp whistle rent the air and the red-painted wheel began to turn, shushing the water. Captains Falstead and Ames leaned out the window of the pilothouse and gave another toot on the whistle. The troops gathered at the Brenna’s Rose’s railing and waved, although no one stood on the quay to wave back, wish them luck, or pray for their safe return except for himself, his other officers, and Shae, who stood beside him, her handkerchief a white flag.

  Remy watched the water beneath the wheel churn faster, listened to the excited voices, and drew in his breath sharply. Dread, deep and dark, filled him, and a sense of foreboding he couldn’t explain or deny added to the malice directed at his back.

  Chapter 10

  Shaelyn knew the moment she looked out the study window into the side yard, dust rag in hand, something wasn’t right. Was it news about Ian? She didn’t think so. Otherwise, Remy wouldn’t be receiving the information.

  He stood with his back to her, perfectly still, his entire body as rigid and unbending as steel while the young man facing him gestured wildly with his hands.

  She pressed her nose against the window glass for a closer look and sighed. The young man couldn’t be older than fourteen or fifteen. She noticed the difference in their dress. Remy in his spotless, pressed uniform, the boy’s filthy and torn. Remy freshly shaved with his thick, dark hair brushed back from his forehead, the young man’s dirty locks poking from beneath an equally dirty hat, and if she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes glistened. Tears had made tracks throug
h the dirt on his face.

  Remy folded a piece of paper and stuffed it in his pocket, his movements slow and stiff, as if every motion pained him. He nodded several times then patted the young man’s shoulder and directed him toward the back of the house and the kitchen, where Brenna would give him a good hot meal. The young man nodded, swiped at his dirty face, and followed the path.

  Her heart in her throat, Shaelyn couldn’t take her eyes from the major. He just stood there, unmoving, until finally his head dipped slightly as if he studied the ground…or prayed. She had an insane urge to go to him, offer solace for what had obviously been bad news and yet, she remained rooted to the spot, her nose touching the window, fighting her own sense of dread.

  As if suddenly aware she watched him, Remy turned and faced the house. Shaelyn sucked in her breath. She felt his barely controlled rage through the panes of the glass. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but the heat of his gaze scorched her very soul.

  As he made his way up along the flagstone path toward the veranda steps, he appeared to lean heavier on his cane. He seemed to have aged a lifetime in just the few moments she’d been watching him. He disappeared from view, going around the corner of the house. She heard his footsteps then and the heavy thump of the cane hitting the floorboards of the veranda surrounding the first floor. He came closer, ignoring the front door in favor of the study’s French doors. So he wouldn’t be seen? So he could gather his thoughts together in private?

  Should she remain in the study? She could escape into the hallway before he reached the door. Undecided, she remained rooted to the spot, unable to move.

  Too late.

  Shaelyn stepped away from the window as he let himself into the study. “Major? Is everything all right?”

  She must have startled him as well, for he jumped and barked, “Not now!”

  His voice sounded hoarse and almost tormented as he closed the French doors behind him, limped across the room, and pulled the pocket doors open, but his tone gentled as he stood beside the open door and looked at her. “Please, leave me.”

  Shaelyn dipped her head, gathered her cleaning supplies, and made a hasty retreat, but not before she caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest. Whatever the young boy had imparted to him must have been devastating. She took one last glance at him then hurried to the kitchen.

  • • •

  “How could this have happened?” Remy asked as he paced the study a short time later, his cane thumping on the thick carpet covering the floor. He’d had opportunity to share the news with his officers, each of whom had taken the information in the typical stoic manner he expected from West Point-trained leaders. It was he himself who struggled to bring his emotions under control. The only thing he felt as he turned to Vincent, who had remained behind after the other officers departed, was anger.

  “How could they have known, Vince? How could we lose the Brenna Rose before she reached the rendezvous point? No one knew she was sailing for New Orleans except those of us around the table.”

  Anguish colored his voice. Stress made his shoulders stiff and the loss of innocent men made his heart hurt.

  Captain Davenport sat up straighter in his chair and reached for the bottle of whiskey on the desk. “You’re forgetting one thing, my friend.”

  Remy turned and faced the man. Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his hair. “What? What have I forgotten?”

  Vince’s brows rose in surprise. “You’re so besotted with her, you can’t see the obvious.” He poured them both a healthy portion of liquor.

  “Besotted? What the hell are you talking about?” He stepped closer and reached for the cut crystal glass Vince held out.

  “Do you not know the meaning of the word?” Vince asked, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

  “Of course I do,” Remy snapped, and tried hard to ignore the cynicism and disdain he heard. Under normal circumstances, he would not tolerate Vincent’s tone of voice, but these were hardly normal circumstances.

  “Well then, you know what I’m talking about. You, my friend, have fallen under whatever spell Shaelyn Cavanaugh has cast over you,” he scoffed. “Whether the Brenna Rose was ambushed, as Major Johnson suspects, or exploded and sunk, there is only one person who could accomplish that. And you know who it is.” He drew in his breath, his eyes flickering away from Remy to stare at the amber brew in his glass. “I’ve seen the way you watch her. You’re so blinded by your—shall we call it weakness?—you don’t seem to recall Miss Cavanaugh being present while we discussed plans.” He paused, looked up from his drink, and pinned Remy with a relentless glare. “She heard everything. She could have told anyone. She could have tampered with the engines, too.”

  The words Davenport uttered shocked him, rocked him to his soul, almost as much as what the captain didn’t say, the label left hanging in the air between them without being spoken. Remy said nothing, despite the tone in which those sentiments were delivered and the feeling he’d just been kicked in the teeth.

  He drew in his breath, his gut clenching. Could it be? Was Shaelyn a spy?

  He took a deep swallow of the whiskey and replayed everything in his mind.

  Yes, she had heard everything, but only the night before. She wouldn’t have had time to tell another person what she knew. Unless she snuck out under cover of darkness. Between the time she’d learned of their plans and the moment he kissed her in the moonlight, she could have stolen away and met someone. Even after their kiss, she could have slipped away.

  No. He would have heard her. He’d always been a light sleeper and that night, he hadn’t slept at all, desire for her keeping him awake long after he should have surrendered to slumber.

  The thoughts running through his mind made his head ache, made his heart ache as well, and yet he said nothing to Vincent. Didn’t deny what the man said. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Davenport had made up his mind, already thought he and Shaelyn were lovers. He’d stated as much before the Brenna Rose set sail.

  Remy limped toward the desk and pulled out the chair, the sharp ache in his leg seeming to build with each passing moment. His gaze never left the captain’s face. Something flickered in Davenport’s eyes. Was it disgust? Triumph? Something else? It didn’t matter. “I would like to be alone now. There is much I need to do.”

  Pain burst in his heart as he took his seat behind the desk and pulled stationery and Captain Ames’s file from the drawer. Though he knew the words on paper would never make up for the loss of Captains Ames and Falstaff, he’d write condolence letters anyway. He’d done it before, too many times since the fighting broke out in ’61, and would most likely do it again.

  And regardless of what Davenport thought, he’d have to tell Shaelyn the Brenna Rose was lost. He did not relish the task, but better to get it done now, as quickly as possible, though that wouldn’t make the telling easier.

  Vincent remained seated, swirling the remains of his drink in the bottom of his glass.

  Can the man not take a hint?

  Remy let out a long sigh. Davenport still hadn’t moved from his seat, although he did reach for the bottle on the desk.

  Apparently not.

  He cleared his throat, drawing the other man’s attention. Davenport caressed the bottle, but didn’t pick it up and refresh his drink. His eyes slid over Remy and his lips pressed together. Was that annoyance? Irritation? Remy cleared his throat again. “If you should see Miss Cavanaugh, would you let her know I’d like to see her?”

  Davenport finally took the hint, although not without protest. “But, Remy, she—”

  “Dismissed, Captain.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Davenport slid his glass onto the desktop, his movements slow, and rose from his seat. There could be no denying the man was unhappy—the sharpness of his tone could have drawn blood. Watching him, Remy couldn’t be certain what irked the man more—that he’d been dismissed or that he hadn’t agreed with Davenport’s unspoken accusation.r />
  The pocket doors slid closed silently as Davenport left the room. Remy shook his head to clear his mind, perused Cory’s file, then dipped the pen in ink and began the letter to Cory’s wife. The words were hard to find, even harder to write. He’d been fond of Cory Ames, regretted the fact he hadn’t allowed himself to know him better. The words on the page blurred. Sympathy flared in his heart for the daughter Captain Ames had never seen and the wife he’d left behind.

  Suddenly weary and overwhelmed, not only by the sheer loss of human life, but by the insinuation Shaelyn Cavanaugh could be a spy, Remy sat back in his chair and stared at the intricate design on the ceiling.

  How had it come to this?

  The answers he sought were not in the plaster hearts and flowers forming a border where the walls met the ceiling.

  With a sigh, he took another swallow of whiskey and forced himself to continue writing the letter.

  “You wished to see me, Major?”

  Remy looked up to see Shaelyn standing in the doorway, frozen to the spot, as if afraid to come any farther into the room, her expression wary. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and clasped her hands in front of her.

  “Please. Come in.”

  She entered the room, but not full steam ahead like she normally did. She walked slowly, as if she already knew he had bad news to impart.

  He gestured to the chair in front of the desk. She sank into it and adjusted her dove gray skirt, hiding a recently mended tear. Her eyes flitted toward the letter in front of him and widened, but she said nothing. Remy continued watching her, waiting for her to speak, but for once, she demanded nothing of him, remaining silent though her direct gaze seemed to settle on his heart and stay there. The thought of causing her pain hurt him all the way to his soul.

  Remy cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but words would not come. He tried again and had the same result. He just didn’t know how to tell this woman her beautiful steamboat was gone, perhaps sunk into the mud at the bottom of the Mississippi, after she’d been assured her riverboats would be safe, after she’d been asked to trust him. Remy tried one more time. “Shae―”