The Rebel Wife

by Donna Dalton

  He spoke the truth. For once. She sucked in several deep breaths and worked to recover her raveled wits. Her racing pulse quieted. Sounds came to life around her, the twitter of birds, the gurgle of the nearby creek, and the gentle breaths of the man above her.

  Porter shifted slightly, his lean body pressing along her length. A sliver of heat formed in her belly and slid lower. Though slight, it was a pleasant sensation. How could she feel such things after what Bart had done?

  “Why’d you do that?” he asked softly.

  Fight him or respond in an unseemly manner? She had no answer for the latter and didn’t want to discuss the other. “D-Do what?”

  “Take me down.”

  She covered her relief with a scowl. “Hmmph. Got what you deserved for trying to kill me.”

  “You seemed to know what you were doing with a horse. Besides, Socks was barely moving when I called to him.”

  “He could’ve trampled me.”

  “He wouldn’t have done that. He was trained by a cavalry officer.”

  That explained the saddle, but not Porter’s continued closeness. She shoved at his chest, letting anger override her fear. “Get off me, you oaf.”

  “Hmmm...it’s usually One-eyed Jack or Cyclops.”

  “I can oblige you, if you’d like. I’m sure I could come up with a few new ones.”

  “I’m sure you could.” His mesmerizing gaze held her captive before drifting to her mouth.

  Was he going to kiss her? She should move, push him away, do something. But God help her, she couldn’t summon the strength or the will.

  A warm, moist muzzle prodded her cheek, jolting her from her stupor. What was she doing? Being near this wit-robbing man was far too dangerous.

  “Looks like Socks wants to apologize,” Porter said, his voice strangely hoarse.

  She pressed harder against the wide span of male chest. “I said, get off.”

  He gave her one last lingering look, then heaved himself upright. He stood over her, hand extended.

  Ignoring his offer, she rolled to her feet and brushed at the dirt and embedded thorns, giving herself needed time to regain her composure. To add insult to injury, her empty stomach decided to rumble its need for food. Embarrassment burned in her cheeks. When she finally looked up, an infuriating, amused glint lit his gaze.

  “Are you always so impetuous?”

  Another of his high-falutin words. Did he think he was better than she? “I’m not im-imp—”

  “Impetuous,” he supplied.

  “I know what it is.”

  “Good. Then perhaps you’ll think before you rush into doing something foolish again.”

  The only foolish thing she’d done was to trust an arrogant Yankee. She thrust up her chin, daring him to mock her. “You’re right. Traveling together would be a bad idea, a very bad idea.”

  “Well, at least we agree on one thing.”

  She glanced at the brightening sky. Day was wasting. She treated Porter to one last barbed glare, then strode around Socks and headed for the woods.

  “Wait,” he called out. “At least have breakfast.”

  “No thank you,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I’ve had enough of your hospitality.” If she never saw the no-good, overbearingly handsome newspaperman again, it would be too soon.

  Chapter Three

  Jack stowed the last of his gear beneath the overhang and rocked back on his heels. He lifted his hat and swiped at the sweat trickling down his forehead. God, it was hot. Oppressively so, even with dusk approaching.

  The image of Miss Carleton stomping away earlier that morning plagued him. How was she handling the heat? There seemed to be plenty of creeks around for her to slake her thirst. Would she unbutton her gown—let the air cool her sun-warmed flesh?

  His loins stirred at the memory of how soft she’d felt lying beneath him after he’d finally tamed her into submission. Gently rounded breasts had pressed into his chest. Long, supple legs stretched along his...

  Lovely. Absolutely—

  He jerked upright and nearly butted his head on the outcrop. What the hell was wrong with him? Wanting a woman, especially that woman, was the last thing he needed. She was a powder keg just waiting to explode. He was better off not thinking about, or desiring, the volatile, knife-wielding Rebel.

  He pushed away from the ledge and eyed the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. If the suffocating closeness and those thunderheads were any indication, they were in for a hell of a storm. Good thing he’d found the deep overhang. It would definitely offer more protection than a flimsy tent.

  Had Miss Carleton wisely sought shelter as well? She’d trailed him for most of the day. He detected her movements an hour after breaking camp. She followed closely but not enough to expose herself. She had plenty of pluck, he’d give her that. But would it see her through the approaching tempest?

  He forced thoughts of the intriguing woman from his head. Socks needed tending, and supper needed cooking before the squall hit. Miss Powderkeg had made her bed by stomping away from him. She could damn well sleep in it.

  An hour later, the storm struck. Jagged streaks of lightning lit the dark, rolling sky, followed by the sharp cracks of thunder. Outside the overhang, rain drummed a deafening beat on the parched earth. A cool mist drifted on the swirling air, dampening his face and evaporating with a hiss in the fire.

  He pressed further back against the wall in an effort to stay dry. A tiny brown fur-ball scurried into the nearby shadows. Wasn’t even a fit night for the forest creatures. And Miss Carleton was out there somewhere, most likely cold, wet, and miserable. Not to mention hungry. She’d haughtily refused his offer of breakfast, even when he knew from the rumble of her empty belly she needed it.

  Guilt pelted him. He knew firsthand the difficulties of being dependent on the land for sustenance. A lady, no matter her background or temperament, didn’t deserve to be put through such torture.

  Cursing at his foolhardiness, he yanked on his hat and darted into the sheeting rain. He trotted slowly, seeking firm footholds on the wet pine needles as he hurried toward the last location he’d detected her. A gust blew the rain sideways. He paused to swipe water from his face, little good it did, and to regain his bearings.

  Lightning flashed overhead accompanied by the boom of thunder and cracking wood. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His ears rang. His skin tingled.

  A second later, a huge limb crashed to the ground a scant ten feet in front of him. Startled, he jumped and crouched low. The acrid scent of scorched wood filled his nostrils. He blew out a ragged breath. Damn, that was close.

  A faint scream filtered through the buzz in his ears.

  He planted a hand on his hat and raced toward the sound. A flash lit the edge of a ravine. He skidded to a stop and leaned over, angling his head to get a better view. Another burst illuminated the figure clinging to a protruding root, her hair and muddied gown plastered to her body.

  “Miss Carleton,” he yelled over the pounding din.

  The shadowy form shifted, head lifting.

  He reached for her. “Grab my hand.”

  She hesitated, her fear radiating up the gully in waves. Angry water churned around her, threatening to sweep her away.

  “Hurry!” he shouted.

  Her fingers found his in the darkness, and he hauled her to the top. She swayed against him, and he slipped a steadying arm around her waist. Using the lightning bursts, he guided her back to the overhang where he ducked inside and pulled her with him. She curled against the back wall, arms crossed over her chest, shivering.

  His own skin pimpling from the dampness, he shrugged out of his wet jacket and began stoking the fire with tinder he’d collected earlier. The flames erupted into a warming blaze.

  Across from him, Miss Carleton stared out into the darkness, shoulders sagging, her customary fiery gaze doused by weariness. He poured coffee into a tin cup and held it out to her. “Here, drink this.”

 
; Pale eyes shifted in his direction. “Why?”

  “To warm your insides.”

  She shook her head. “Not, the coffee. Why’d you come after me?”

  Why indeed? Something told him he’d regret his rash sprint into the woods. He gave a half-hearted shrug. “I’m impetuous?”

  “Uh-uh. You think on things far too much for that.” She narrowed her gaze. “Have you changed your mind about helping me?”

  Brains to go along with all that beauty. “No.”

  “If it’s money you want...”

  “I don’t need your money.” He swallowed the lie with a gulp of the coffee she clearly didn’t want. A bit of extra pocket money would come in handy until his next paycheck arrived. But she didn’t need to know that.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm had passed, leaving only a gentle shower and cool breeze in its wake. Miss Carleton shivered and rubbed her upper arms as though trying to generate some warmth.

  He fished in his haversack and hauled out a wool blanket. “Here. This’ll help warm you.”

  She stared at the blanket a moment before taking it from him. “Thank you.” Weary eyes met his. “And thank you for rescuing me from that flood. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.”

  “What? Needing rescue?”

  “Thanking you.”

  “Eats at you, does it?”

  She fell silent, head bowed, fingers absently plucking at the folds of the blanket.

  Perhaps that was a bit uncharitable. From what he could tell, she’d been through hell trying to get to Point Lookout. He tugged the blanket from her hands. “It works better if you put it around you.” He flicked the blanket over her shoulders and tucked the ends under her chin.

  Her soft musky scent teased his senses, and his loins stirred. Though his own choice, it’d been months since he’d had a woman. And this one called to him like a siren to a drowning sailor. He leaned closer, heeding the summons.

  Green eyes flashed with heat and a good dose of panic. Her mouth thinned, no doubt preparing to deliver a tongue lashing for his familiarity. He rocked back, away from temptation. Only a fool would set lips to a powder keg, especially one primed by fear and anger.

  “How’d you know where to find me?”

  He leaned against the rocky wall, using the roughness to stub the fire in his groin. “I sensed you from the moment I broke camp. Knew you were following me.”

  “I wasn’t hiding from you. Figured since we were going in the same direction anyway, I’d stick close. If the Yankees showed up, I’d be hidden, and—”

  “And the patrol’s attention would be focused on me.”

  She gave a half smile. “Exactly.”

  “You’re bound and determined to get to Point Lookout, aren’t you?”

  “I have to.” Her smile faded. “As soon as I can.”

  “Why the rush?”

  She remained silent, the muscles beneath her milky skin twitching as if she clenched her teeth. Gripes, she was one stubborn female. She reminded him of the high-strung filly his grandfather had purchased years ago, a head-tossing, long-legged bundle of trouble. Yet, with a lot of patience and soft words, the stable master had finally persuaded the willful thoroughbred to trust him.

  Calling on his own waning patience, he gave her a steady look. “Have you given up then?”

  “Given up?”

  “On trying to convince me to help you.”

  “Makes no sense beating a dead mule.”

  “I’m very much alive, Miss Carleton.” He had an uncomfortable bulge in his trousers to prove it.

  She regarded him through wary eyes. “What do you want from me?”

  “Only an explanation.” There had to be a powerful reason for her desperate and dangerous undertaking. The journalist in him hungered for her story—among other things. “Perhaps I might be compelled to help you.”

  She peered beyond him into the darkness. After a few seconds, she blew out a soft sigh. “I’m going after my brother.”

  “A Reb soldier?”

  She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded.

  Such pretty teeth. Pearly white and perfectly formed. He busied himself with adding another log to the fire and ignored the one smoldering in his loins. “How long has he been at Point Lookout?”

  “I’m not sure. He was captured at Rappahannock Station in early November. I only found out last month where he was being held.”

  He pulled reports of the skirmish from his memory. “Jubal Early’s division was overrun by Meade there. Over fourteen hundred Confederates were captured.”

  “That was Lance’s regiment.”

  “I know prison isn’t the most enjoyable place to be, but why the urgency to see him?”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. She blinked and averted her gaze. “Lance is different than most. He’s...” She swallowed, her throat muscles quivering with the effort. “He’s a thinker, like you. Not at all the type to fight in this War, much less suffer the torture of being in prison. He never should’ve enlisted.”

  “Then why did he?”

  She pulled the blanket tighter around her. “He had to.”

  “He was conscripted?” He moved the coffee pot closer to the flames. “If I recall correctly, Confederate law allows for substitution or exemption. Surely if you had the means and your brother didn’t want to fight...”

  “Let’s just say, I’m here to right his mistake.”

  “So you intend to buy him special treatment. Even care for him yourself. If the Yankees will allow it.”

  “I’ll see to Lance, but not inside the prison.”

  If not inside, then... “Gripes, you want to help him escape.”

  Louisa stiffened at his outraged tone. Gripes, indeed. He sounded as though she aimed to murder the Yankee President. She lifted her chin in defiance. “Yes, I plan to get him out of prison.”

  “How?”

  “My methods are none of your concern.”

  “How, Miss Carleton?” He folded his arms over his chest, his expression that of a stern guardian unwilling to put up with any sass from his charge.

  She returned his glare. Even in the backwoods, with his linen shirt and tailored vest dark with rainwater, he looked the perfect, polished gentleman. Very well, Mr. High-and-mighty, choke on this. “Bribery.”

  “Bribery,” he repeated in his customary, mocking tone.

  She ignored the dig. “I s’pect the Yankee guards at Point Lookout are little different from the ones in Richmond. Many a bluebelly disappeared from Libby prison during the night with rumors of pay-offs whispered the next morning.”

  He uncrossed his arms and leaned closer. “If by some strange stroke of fortune you manage to get your brother out of prison, how will you get him home? He’ll be weak and possibly ill after months of imprisonment. It’s no picnic inside those prisons.”

  The air went out of her, and she slumped against the rock wall. Jeb was supposed to help her get Lance home. He’d insisted on accompanying her to Maryland despite the danger. And look where his loyalty had gotten him. A bullet and possibly a prison cell.

  She closed her eyes against the ache of despair. “I’ll do whatever I have to.” For Lance and for Jeb.

  “I have no doubt you will.”

  Another man had befriended her with softly spoken words. Would this one turn out the same? Earn her trust, then shatter it without a second thought? She squared herself and pushed back into the rocks, gaining strength from their hardness. Only fools let themselves get burned twice.

  “Well then, Mr. Porter. Was my story compelling enough for you to accept my offer?”

  “Jack.”

  “What?”

  “If we’re to act as husband and wife, you’ll have to start calling me by my first name.”

  Hope warred with caution. “You’ll help me then?”

  “Your notion of corruption at the Union prison intrigues me. It could be an interesting angle for my article.”

  “Th
ank you, Mr...er...Jack. You don’t know what this means.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t heard my conditions.”

  His bedroll loomed in the corner of her vision. Panic slithered into her belly. He’d mentioned acting as husband and wife. Would he insist on the intimacies that came with it?

  She groped in the dirt, fingers finding and closing around a large rock. Not if she had any say. “What are your conditions?”

  “This will be a business arrangement only.” He prodded the fire, and sparks shot skyward. “Until we part ways, you’ll defer to me on every aspect of our journey. No arguments. No lone undertakings. And most definitely, no knife wielding.”

  Those conditions she could handle. “And what about you? Do you promise not to hand me over to the bluebellies at the first opportunity?”

  “I assure you, I won’t.”

  Could she trust him? He had rescued her from the storm and brought her to warm by the fire. Had even tenderly wrapped her with a blanket. But he was still a stranger—a very smooth-talking stranger.

  She loosened her grip on the rock. Regardless of her doubts, accepting his help seemed to be her only option in getting to Point Lookout without precious delays. She poked a hand through the gap in the blanket. “We have a deal then. A business deal,” she emphasized.

  He clasped her fingers in his warm grasp. “It appears we do.” He released her and reached for the soot-blackened coffee pot warming by the fire. “What shall I call you?”

  “Is there a problem with my name?”

  “Miss Carleton obviously won’t work, and Mrs. Porter seems a bit too formal. Louisa...” His mouth flattened into a thoughtful line. “If the soldiers manage to get any information out of your Negro—”

  “He’s not my Negro,” she interrupted. “He’s my friend. If those bluebellies do anything to hurt him...” Beneath the blanket, her fingers found the hilt of her knife. She pulled the blade out of its sheath. Then pushed it back in. Out and in. Out and in. No one would hurt Jeb. She would see to that.

  “I doubt they’ll torture a black man, especially one who may have been forced into servitude.”

  She sheathed the blade with one last shove. “He wasn’t forced. He offered to help.”