The Rebel Wife

by Donna Dalton

  She leaned toward him and whispered, “What’s that sailor doing?”

  Jack swallowed past the barnacles in his throat. “Measuring the depth. Those knots on the rope are six feet apart. He counts how many disappear into the water until the weighted end hits the bottom. We’re sailing over...” He swallowed again. “Sixty feet of water.”

  “Lordy, that’s near as tall as the granddaddy oak at Spivey Point. Is that why you’re uncomfortable around the ocean? Because of its size?”

  “It’s not just the size.”

  “What then?”

  Might be best if she knew. The nightmares would come no matter what he did. “I had a bad experience with water when I was younger.”

  “Oh? What happened?”

  “Remember I told you my parents had died in an accident?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “It happened one night during a rainstorm.” He gripped the railing, drawing strength from the solidness. “Our carriage skidded on the wet road and crashed over the side of a bridge. It toppled into the river below. My parents...”

  The macabre tale caught like a sliver of bone in his throat. He spun around, away from the water, away from her observant gaze. Away from the deaths that haunted his nightmares.

  “Go on,” she urged, her sweet voice lapping at his raw nerves.

  “I survived the accident. My parents didn’t. I had nightmares for a long time afterward.”

  “And being around water makes you feel like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.”

  He shook his head at her amusing turn of phrase. “That sounds like something Grandfather would say.”

  “It’s one of Nanny Belle’s.” She glanced skyward, then gave him an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry. There’s nary a cloud in sight. We should reach Baltimore quite safely.”

  “From your pretty lips to God’s ears.”

  She ducked her head, pink staining her cheeks. “Thank you for sharing that about your parents. I know it wasn’t easy.”

  “You’re welcome. And thank you for being so understanding...about my weakness.”

  “We all have weaknesses, Jack.”

  And she was rapidly heading to the top of a long list of his.

  Chapter Eight

  Louisa grabbed for her glass before wine sloshed onto the spotless, linen tablecloth. Dratted ship rocked worse than the rickety hobby-horse she’d found in the barn loft at Spivey Point. At least in the barn, she’d been pitched into a pile of straw. Here, it’d be onto the unforgiving plank floor.

  She eyed the open doorway. Jack had politely declined the captain’s dinner invitation. Said he preferred to stay on the deck where he could see the shoreline. Seasickness, he called it. She knew better.

  “You and Mr. Porter haven’t been married very long, have you?”

  Her dinner companion regarded her from across the table. A mass of gray curls that must’ve taken some maid hours to shape framed a plump, rosy-cheeked face. Pearls decorated her ears and neck. Congressmen, it appeared, made good money.

  “Um...no, ma’am, we haven’t,” she answered. “Just three weeks.”

  Mrs. Clark gave a knowing smile. “It shows.”

  Drat. What had she seen? Possibly overheard? She forced a smile of her own. “What shows?”

  “The secretive glances you give one another. As though you’re not quite sure about the other but are excited about the prospect of learning more.” She ladled up a jiggling spoonful of pudding. “Not to mention your distraction since dinner was served.”

  Embarrassing heat flamed up her neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was being inconsiderate.”

  “No need to apologize. I was once newlywed myself.”

  Louisa relaxed, reassured by the woman’s shrewd yet warm expression. “And now?”

  “Now, according to Arthur, I’m an old married hen who knows her husband’s mind better than he does.”

  “And tells him so at every opportunity,” added the man seated beside her.

  Louisa hid her amusement behind her wine glass. That was the type of marriage she wanted. Comfortable. Respectful. Full of good humor.

  “Are you staying long in Baltimore, Mrs. Porter?” asked the congressman.

  She shook her head. “I wish we could. I’d love to visit the city. But we need to catch the next available train to New York.” Not quite the truth, but close enough.

  The captain cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mrs. Porter. But Confederate raiders destroyed the trestles north of town last week. I doubt you’ll find any trains heading for New York any time soon.”

  Her heart plummeted along with the ship. If it wasn’t for bad luck, she’d have none.

  Mrs. Clark, her wide brow creased with a scowl, wagged her spoon in the air like a general wielding his baton. “This close to Washington, you’d think the Army could prevent such attacks.”

  While the captain and Congressman Clark nodded in agreement, Louisa merely dabbed at the wine that had sloshed onto her hand. Though she cheered Confederate victories, getting to Lance was much more important. If only the Rebs had postponed their raid for another week. Then she’d be well on her way to Elmira and not facing a frustrating wait in a city chock-full of Yankees.

  She set her napkin on the table and rose. Her appetite, along with her enthusiasm, had fled. “Thank you for dinner, Captain. The food was delicious.” She forced a wan smile. “But I’m afraid I may be suffering the same difficulty with the sea as my husband. Perhaps a stroll on the deck will help. If you’ll excuse me?”

  Both men pushed to their feet, nodding and wishing her a quick recovery. She gave her good-byes and hurried out of the stuffy stateroom. Once in the corridor, she pressed a hand to her throbbing temple. Her ill-health was more real than contrived. Concentrating on every word, every movement, so she appeared a well-bred lady had taken its toll. A good dose of fresh air should help. And so should Jack. She could let her guard down around him. Speak and act without pretense. He was truly the perfect husband.

  Her step faltered, and she nearly tripped. Husband. She never thought she’d call any man that after what Bart had done—much less find the word slipping so easily off her tongue.

  As she pushed through the doors and onto the deck, a gust snapped at her skirts, and she reached to tame them. She’d better do the same with her silly thoughts. To consider more of her relationship with Jack would be pure folly.

  All around her, sailors skipped in and out of the flickering lantern light. The weather had turned since she’d gone down to dinner. It was colder and much windier. The boat dipped and pitched, making walking an effort. Not a problem for the able seamen going about their duties. But what about for a man deathly afraid of the water?

  She squinted into the gloom. “Jack?”

  Only the wind whipping through the rigging answered her.

  “Jack, are you out here?”

  Still nothing. Perhaps he’d gone to their cabin. As she turned to leave, a faint moan rose over the creak of the ship.

  On the other side of a stack of crates, she found him propped against a barrel, necktie unraveled, jacket and shirt unbuttoned, his hat planted atop a bent knee. Normally slicked-back locks stood at odd angles from his scalp. One hand gripped a half-empty bottle of whiskey; the other was fisted around the thick shaft of a nearby anchor.

  “Land-sakes, Jack. What are you doing?”

  He looked up, blinked, then supplied her with a lopsided smile. “G’evening, Kitty.” He hefted the whiskey bottle into the air. “Having a drink. Care t’ join me? Nish Scottish malt.”

  Her heart sank. She’d done that to him. Her insistence that they travel by ship had forced him to turn to hard spirits in order to deal with being on the water. It was up to her to right that wrong.

  She bent and captured his arm. “Come, Jack. Let’s get you to our cabin.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Sure you can. Just stand up. Then you can lean on me
while we walk.”

  He wagged his head. “Can’t leave...need to shtay here. Safer.”

  Whiskey fumes assailed her, and she wrinkled her nose. “Phew. You smell worse than a brewery. After all that liquor clouding your head, I doubt you’ll even notice where you’re sleeping.”

  “I’ll notish.” He tipped to one side, barely catching himself from plunging head-first onto the deck.

  She clucked softly and hauled on his arm. “You can’t stay out here corned as you are. The boat’s rocking too hard. What if you roll into the water?”

  He glanced at the railing and shuddered.

  “Please, Jack. For me?”

  His bleary gaze returned to her, his expression softening. “Do anything for you, Kitty.” He licked his lips. “But the dreams...bad...”

  “You told me about the nightmares. No need to worry. I’ll be right there with you.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “In bed?”

  Scoundrel. “No. But close by.” She plucked his hat off his knee and plopped it on his head. “Come on now. Be a good boy and stand up.”

  He heaved a resigned sigh and pushed to his feet. Whiskey sloshed inside the bottle as he fought to right himself. A soft curse spilled from his lips. He was definitely not a seaman. And for sure, not a practiced drunkard.

  “Here.” She ducked under his arm. “Lean on me.”

  He latched onto her shoulders and slouched against her, his warmth searing through the thin muslin of her dress. Her insides nearly capsized. She braced herself against her reaction and his ungainly weight and propelled them both forward.

  After a few stumbles and a narrow miss with a swinging rope, they made it across the deck and through the door to the staterooms. She panted softly as she slipped from beneath his arm and propped him against the wall.

  “Stay there while I unlock the door.”

  He merely grunted and leaned his head back, eyes closed, lips thinned into a taut line. Hmmph. If he thought this was bad, wait ’til morning when his head and belly staged a nasty revolt. A stolen jaunt into Mr. Lawrence’s corn mash had taught her that lesson quite well.

  She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Before she could reach for him, he lurched forward and stumbled inside, careening across the floor and collapsing with a groan onto the shelf bed.

  Bug-headed man. She closed the door, then went up on tip-toe to turn up the lantern hanging overhead. Golden light flooded the small cabin. Barely enough room existed in which to turn around. No windows. Only one door. Her mouth went dry. Just like the Spivey Point tack room.

  Blackness began to encroach on her vision. A shadowy image formed in the corner, slowly growing from mist to a solid shape. Ice filled her veins. She couldn’t move. Could hardly draw breath.

  A noisy belch punched into the darkness. Jack.

  She sucked in several deep gulps of air then gave her head a violent shake. Jack needed her. The images would not win. Not this time.

  She squared herself and anchored her focus on the man lying on the bed. Lamplight brushed his features in a golden hue. No monster there. He was her archangel. Her breathing evened out. Warmth returned to her arms and legs. A grimace lined his face, and tender concern for him cast out the last trace of panic fluttering in her breast. She smiled. There. Done. No more bad memories. For tonight, at least.

  Jack tipped the bottle as if to take another drink. Oh no, mister. She crossed to the cot and reached for the whiskey bottle.

  “I think you’ve had enough of this.”

  He tightened his grip. “Need—”

  “You don’t need it. Now, let go.”

  He slackened his hold and muttered something about mulish females beneath his breath.

  She wagged the bottle at him. “You knew that when you married me, Jackson Porter.”

  “Shoulda thought that through a little better.”

  Though said in jest, the barb stung. Would he really regret taking her as his real wife?

  The ship listed to one side, and he moaned. She stashed the bottle into the dresser drawer, then turned back, concern for him overriding her smarting pride. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  When his gaze flicked to the bureau, she added, “besides whiskey.”

  “No,” came his clipped reply.

  “Some water, a wet cloth?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine to me. You’re as white as that bed sheet.” She moved to the end of the cot and began unlacing his shoes. “Let’s make you a bit more comfortable.”

  He tried to lift his head but only managed a couple of inches before he plopped back to the pillow with a groan. “You don’t have to...not neceshary.”

  “I want to. Besides, removing shoes is a cakewalk compared to some of the things I’ve done for Fannie.”

  She shucked off one brogan, then the other. Her fingers skimmed over his sock-clad heel, across his high arch and down his long, perfect toes. Pleasing warmth fired through her. Cakewalk, her rosy behind. She dropped his shoes to the floor and buried her hands in her skirts to hide the trembling.

  “There, all done,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tell me. I’ll be happy to do it.” As long as it doesn’t involve touching you.

  “Read to me.”

  That caught her off-guard. Her pulse dipped. “R-Read to you?”

  “I need...a distracshion.”

  “Jack, I—”

  “Tennyson’s poems. In my knapshack. Under the bed.”

  She glanced at the canvas bag poking from beneath the cot. He might as well ask her to fly to the moon. “I’m sorry...but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wish to God I could, but I can’t read to you.”

  He regarded her through a half-closed, bloodshot eye. “Never learned?”

  “I know how to read.” She averted her gaze, humiliation burning her cheeks. “I’m just not any good at it. The words...I don’t see them like everyone else does.”

  “What if you try to—”

  “I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “I truly want to help. But I can’t.”

  “No matter.” He groaned again and shifted on the cot, turning his back to her. “Just wake me shoon as we dock.”

  Her stomach churned around the fish stew, now soured and heavy. He would suffer more than necessary due to her no-account reading skills. She didn’t deserve to be called his wife, either in charade, or in truth.

  ****

  A thud vibrated him to wakefulness. He slowly surfaced and tested the light before submitting his vision to any glaring brightness. The lantern was thankfully turned low, gilding the cabin in a soft glow. He blinked several times then mentally took stock of his body.

  No hovering images. No nausea. Just a slight pounding in his skull. The whiskey had worked. Or had some other charm kept the nightmares at bay?

  “Rise and shine,” came a perky Southern drawl.

  He gathered cramped muscles and sat, snatching up and sliding on his eye patch as he moved. His gut knotted at the thought of her seeing him without it. She knew more about him than he’d ever revealed to anyone. And that scared the hell out of him.

  Haloed by the faint light, she crossed the room, her sunny smile a welcome treat. He’d rather walk the plank than see revulsion or pity for him etched on her lovely face. She carried a wooden tray on which sat a water pitcher, a plate of biscuits, and a steaming cup of what he hoped was coffee.

  “You’re awake. Good.” She set the tray on the nearby dresser. “I was starting to get worried.”

  The heady scent of coffee invaded his senses. Rich. Strong. Real coffee. Not the weak chicory he’d been forced to drink while traveling with General Pope’s brigade in Northern Virginia.

  He swung his legs over the side of the shelf bed and ran a hand through his hair. “How long was I out?”

  “Once you gave in, you slept through the night, though most of it was
fitful.”

  “You stayed with me?”

  “Of course.” She poured water from the pitcher into the wash basin. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  He eyeballed the tiny bed. Surely he would’ve remembered that soft body pressed against his. “Where did you sleep?”

  “On the floor. I made a pallet with the blanket.”

  So his memory hadn’t failed him. “I’m sorry you were inconvenienced. You should have woken me. I would’ve traded places with you.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve slept on worse. Besides, once I started moving around, the cricks disappeared.”

  It was then he noticed the calm, no listing, no slap of waves on the hull. “Have we docked?”

  “Nearly two hours ago.”

  Two hours ago. “Gripes, Kitty.” He pushed off the bed and stood, feet braced against the swimming in his head. “Why did you let me sleep? We need to get ashore.”

  “Don’t get all in a pucker. After last night, I figured you needed all the rest you could get.” She cocked her head to the side and studied him. “How’s your head, by the way? Any backwash from the whiskey?”

  He wagged his head, then groaned as pain harpooned his skull. Whiskey might’ve been his friend last night, but this morning, it was his enemy.

  “Coffee will help that,” she said with a wifely cluck. “Biscuits for your belly, too.”

  He kept his head still. “There’s no time for food. We need to get to the station and secure passage on the next northbound train.”

  She fussed with the towel and soap, moving them around on the dresser until she had them just so. She always set to arranging things when upset or agitated. Not a good omen.

  Her pretty mouth dipped into a frown. “We won’t be traveling anywhere today.”

  “What happened?”

  “Captain Ahern sent one of his men to the train station for me. It appears all the northbound trains are delayed.”

  The knot in his gut tightened. “Delayed? For how long?”

  She adjusted the china cup on the saucer, twirling it around until the rosebud embellishment faced outward. “For a few more days. At least until the Army repairs the trestles the Rebs torched last week.”