The Rebel Wife

by Donna Dalton

  The train lurched to a stop, jarring him from his thoughts. He opened his eye and wiggled his shoulder. “Kitty,” he called out softly. “It’s time to wake up.”

  She lifted her head, taking her warmth with her. Hooded green eyes drifted up to meet his. His loins stirred at the dazed, lover-like expression sketched on her face. He sucked in a soft breath.

  As though she realized his ardent interest, the corners of her mouth dipped into a frown. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and pushed upright, glancing around the busy railcar as she moved. “Have we arrived?”

  “Yes,” he replied, ignoring the disappointment that flooded him. “We just pulled into the Elmira depot.”

  “Good. I’ve had enough of this hard bench.” She grimaced and arched her back in an easy cat-like stretch.

  His mind filled with a sudden shocking vision of her naked, arching beneath him, his hands drifting along the curve of those smooth, limber muscles. He forced a dry swallow and shoved the image away.

  “Uh, yes...me too,” he croaked as he stood and moved into the aisle. The bench wasn’t all that was hard. His lack of control embarrassed and annoyed him. “It’s near midnight,” he went on, his tone still husky. “We should find a hotel and get some proper rest. I suspect tomorrow will be another trying day.”

  She gave him a searching glance, then grasped her satchel. “Yes, I suspect it will.” She eased past him and headed for the exit along with the other passengers.

  Wondering if she’d noticed his rusty tone, he gathered his knapsack and followed her, his gaze riveted on the gentle sway of muslin-encased hips. He felt his throat close further and hoped for a few extra minutes before he had to speak again. Not that time would matter. The woman could entice words from a mute.

  Once on the platform, she stopped and pivoted around. “Drat, I forgot my book. I’ll have to go back and get it.”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “Stay here. I’ll get it for you.” The task would give him more time to rein in his body.

  He retraced his steps into the railcar, found her book, and made his way back to the dimly-lit and now deserted platform. Though he had himself under control, he couldn’t stop his heart from leaping in alarm. Where had she gone? He knew in his gut she planned to give him the slip once they reached the city. But now? In the middle of the night where anything could happen to her?

  “Kitty?” he called out, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

  “Shhh,” came her reply from the shadows. “Over here.”

  Relieved, he joined her in the darkened pocket. “What are you doing?”

  “I saw something, so I moved over here out of the lamplight.”

  “What did you see?”

  She pointed to the far end of the station. “People climbing out of the boxcars.”

  In the faint light spilling from the stationhouse, he could just make out a slender man assisting others out of a baggage car. The dark-skinned figures glanced from side to side, then trotted across the platform toward a waiting wagon.

  The journalist in him stirred. He’d heard about the Underground Railroad. Hadn’t seen it in action until now. “Runaway slaves.”

  “Runaways? Here?”

  “Apparently so.” He tugged her forward. “Let’s find out more.”

  As they approached, the conductor of the operation barked a sharp command, and all movement stilled. The man eyed them cautiously, shoulders pulled back, head raised.

  Jack gave him a friendly smile. “Don’t be alarmed, sir. We mean you no harm.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Jackson Porter. I’m a journalist with The New York Herald, and this is my wife.”

  The man’s dark face sagged with relief. He grasped Jack’s hand in a firm handshake. “John Jones, suh. Ma’am.”

  Jack nodded at the boxcar and the shadowy figures crouched inside. “I’m assuming these are fugitives from the South.”

  “Yes, suh, they is.”

  “I’d be interested in hearing about their journey and your part in helping them. It would make a mighty fascinating article for my paper.”

  “I’m sure it would, Mista Porter.” Jones gave a wry smile. “But I hope you understand that I has to keep this part of the operation secretive. Some folks ’round heah don’t cotton to aiding slaves.”

  Kitty stepped from the shadows. “Do I detect a Virginia accent, Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes’m, you do. I was born on a plantation in Leesburg. Belonged to the Elzy family. I ’scaped in forty-four and made my way heah where I been livin’ eva since.”

  “And now you’re helping others find their freedom,” Jack added. “I applaud your generosity. Perhaps after the War, we can have a long chat, Mr. Jones.”

  The conductor smiled, his teeth white against his dark face. “Yes, suh. I’d like that.”

  “Well then, we’ll let you get back to your work.” He pressed a hand to Kitty’s back, urging her forward. “We should be going as well, dear. Find us a hotel for the night.”

  Jones pointed at the far end of the street. “Try the Depot Inn on the corner. Mista Silas runs a simple, but clean establishment. He might have a room ’vailable.”

  Jack thanked the man and guided Kitty across the street.

  She glanced over her shoulder as they walked. “I often worried about the slaves who escaped from Spivey Point. Where did they go? What became of them? I can only hope they met someone as charitable as Mr. Jones.”

  “I’m sure there are others like him out there, else the operation wouldn’t be so successful.”

  Kitty fell silent for the rest of the walk, most likely agitating over her dark-skinned friends. She had a big heart, bigger than most. Was it any wonder he loved her?

  They reached the end of the street and entered the three story wood-frame inn on the corner. Lamplight lit the front counter and the clerk bent over a registration book.

  The elderly man looked up and smiled. “Welcome, sir. Ma’am. Are you just off the train?”

  Jack nodded. “We are.”

  “Well you’re in luck. I have one room left.”

  One room. Gripes. He cut a glance to the side. Slightly pursed lips were the only outward sign of Kitty’s displeasure at the news. He shrugged inwardly. Not much they could do about it now. It was far too late to search for another hotel. Besides, he was too exhausted to be troubled with the notion of sharing a room with a woman, no matter how enticing.

  He slipped his wallet out of his pocket. “We’ll take it.”

  After paying the clerk and signing the registration book, he escorted her up the stairs to their room. Lamplight from the hall spilled into the small bedchamber and onto a quilt-covered four poster pushed against the far wall. His loins stirred at the thought of her stretched beneath him on that bed, her smooth skin pressed against his heated flesh.

  Damnation. He’d never make it through the night if he kept this up. He tossed his knapsack onto a chair and busied himself with lighting the lamp. Not such an easy task when his groin twitched at every enticing swish of her skirt.

  Bed ropes creaked, and a soft, feminine sigh sent his pulse bucking. “I’m so exhausted. This could be a mattress of moldy straw, and I wouldn’t care one whit.”

  He knew he shouldn’t, but he turned to look. She reclined across the bed, eyes closed, lips parted in silent invitation. God, she was beautiful. He fought the urge to join her. One day, they would share a bed. But not now. First, he needed to earn her trust.

  He reached for the blanket folded at the foot of the bed. “I’ll just make a pallet over by door. Then you can ready yourself for bed.”

  She sat up, a frown tucking more lines on her weary face. “A pallet? You shouldn’t sleep on the hard floor after that horrid train ride.”

  “Where else would you have me sleep?”

  She glanced at the bed, and pink stained her cheeks.

  “Thought so.” He crossed to the door and unfurled the blanket onto the floor. “I’ll face the wall, so you can have all
the privacy you need.”

  “Here.” She plucked a pillow off the bed and tossed it to him. “At least you can rest your head on something soft.”

  He caught the pillow and smiled. Ever the thoughtful wife, even if she wasn’t his. Not yet, at least. He lowered himself onto the makeshift pallet, removed his boots, and then lay back, facing the door, head cradled on the down-filled pillow.

  Soft sounds caressed his ears—the faint pad of bare feet on the wood planks, the shush of fabric as she undressed, and the snick of brush bristles sliding through unbound hair. He didn’t need to see her. His mind created a picture of that glorious mane tumbling around bare shoulders and down her slender back. Embers he’d successfully banked flared to life. It’d been a while since he’d been with a woman. Not by choice. The War had kept him focused on staying alive. Now that he was away from the battlefields, need charged through him like a Confederate incursion.

  He swallowed hard and mentally recited the Lord’s Prayer. Minute by agonizing minute, he confined his desire until the overriding lust diminished to a flickering flame. He shoved out a relieved breath. Perhaps he wouldn’t make a fool of himself after all.

  He relaxed and congratulated himself on his victory. Until the tantalizing rustle of bed sheets reignited his desire. He recalled the feel of her soft curves as he’d carried her from the garden after the Calhoun debacle. It seemed inappropriate at the time to lust for her, but now...

  The moan he’d caged escaped.

  Bed ropes squealed. “Jack? Is something wrong?”

  His pulse leapt at her velvety tone. Hell, he must’ve been mad to think he could sleep in the same room with her and not go crazy with want.

  “Jack?” she whispered again.

  “Everything’s fine. Go on to sleep.”

  “I thought perhaps...it sounded like you might be having another of your nightmares.”

  Oh, he was having a nightmare. But this one wouldn’t be banished so easily come daylight. He shifted on the hard pallet. “No nightmares,” he assured her. “Just trying to get comfortable.”

  “Would you like the quilt for some extra padding? It’s warm enough that I don’t need it.”

  He stuffed down a groan at the thought of her uncovered on the bed, a feast waiting to assuage his hunger. “No. What I have will do.”

  “But it wouldn’t be any trouble for me to—”

  “Goodnight, Kitty.”

  Her softly muttered, “mule,” drifted across the room. He smiled. He would endure the torture of unfulfilled desire and a sleepless night, if it gained her trust.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The clatter of hooves on street cobbles rattled into her sleep. She opened her eyes and blinked at the brilliant sunlight streaming through the window. Was it morning already? Had she even been asleep?

  Though exhausted from the long train ride, she’d found it difficult to drift off the night before. Tormenting sounds kept her wakeful, and oh-so-aware of the man sleeping a mere eagle’s wingspan away. His soft, even breaths. His faint groan as he’d turned in his sleep. Even his tantalizing scent had wafted across the room, making each breath a torture.

  When she finally did fall asleep, her dreams had been plagued with images of him joining her in the bed, his hands and mouth roaming her body and finding those secret places that ached for his touch. Heat coursed through her at the memory, and she couldn’t hold back a moan of pleasure.

  Mortified by her wantonness, she bolted upright. The pallet on the floor was gone. So was Jack. Embarrassment turned to dismay. Had he sensed her plan to slip away and decided to strike first?

  A folded note propped on the dresser caught her eye. She rolled out of bed, grimacing as stiff muscles screamed in protest. Too many nights of hard earth and harder railcar benches were taking their toll.

  She hobbled to the bureau and picked up the letter. Though printed in neat even strokes, the writing still looked like a hodgepodge of letters. How was it other people read without difficulty? Surely they cheated in some way.

  She concentrated on each word, sounding them out in her head as she read. Thought it best... Lordy, he was always thinking. Her brain would be mush if she pondered as much as he did.

  Thought it best...if I...checked...out the prison first.

  She tightened her grip on the note, resentment curling inside her like a prickly vine. He had no right to make such a decision without her.

  You stay...here...and rest. Be back soon. J.

  Stay here and rest. Infuriating man. Treating her like some silly goose of a girl who needed to be looked after. She balled up the note and tossed it onto the bureau. Let him think he was the cock of the henhouse. He wouldn’t find this hen waiting for him when he returned.

  She shook the dust from her new dress. Widow’s weeds, Jack had called it. Sanity settled over her. Running off half-cocked to the prison might put Lance in danger and make the mourning outfit not just for charade. Her recklessness had hurt too many people. Time now to practice a little restraint, no matter how much it galled.

  She dressed and made her way to the lobby where she learned from the desk clerk of a suitable eatery across from the train station. Might as well get something to eat, even if all she could afford was a biscuit and tea. Besides, the outing would make the wait go by faster.

  The walkway was surprisingly deserted for so late in the day. Only a few people braved the mounting heat. A shopkeeper sweeping dirt from his stoop gave her a nod. Another store owner was busy adjusting the colorful awning perched over his door. A pair of youngsters rushed past, each toting an armful of newspapers. It was a quiet, peaceful morning and just what she needed to keep her mind off Jack and Lance.

  Sunlight glistened on an assortment of china dishes arranged in a display window. Plates, bowls, cups and a large tureen, all edged in feathery blue trim. So elegant and pretty. And most likely horribly expensive. It had cost her two weeks wages to replace a similar dish she’d dropped and broken in the Lawrence dining room. Wedgewood, they’d called it. Fine bone china. Might as well’ve been made of gold. She gave the dishes one last look and moved on. Such luxuries were well beyond her means.

  The Silver Spoon loomed ahead. She entered and found the eatery filled to the brim with lively, chattering women. So much for peace and quiet. Once seated, she found her attention drawn to the conversations flowing around her.

  “Blueberries, Gertrude. Use blueberries in your muffins. I’ll bet those Southern boys have never tasted anything as fine as our sweet Northern berries.”

  “I just don’t understand why we must provide for them. Seems to me there are more worthy folk in need of aid than heathen, slave-owning Rebels.”

  “Now, Jennie,” another woman said. “Whether we agree or disagree with their views, it’s our Christian duty to see those prisoners are treated with kindness.”

  “They don’t deserve our kindness.”

  “Only God can make such a judgment.”

  Louisa nodded. Amen, lady. It was a shame more Yankees didn’t have such charitable attitudes. Maybe they could’ve avoided war altogether.

  “Imagine your Henry confined in some Confederate prison,” the wiser woman went on. “Wouldn’t you want someone to help ease his suffering?”

  “Hmmph. If they can mistreat slaves, how do you expect them to be kind to an enemy soldier?”

  The woman’s words struck a sore spot. Louisa angled around in her chair. “Excuse me for meddling, but you’re wrong, ma’am. There are decent Southern folks who do their best to look after your men.”

  Hazel-colored eyes looked down a pointed nose. “And you are..?”

  “Louisa Carleton. Of Virginia. I know for a fact many Richmonders took food and supplies to the soldiers being held at Libby prison.”

  “You were one of them?”

  “My family didn’t have the means to donate, but we helped where we could.” She held her head high, proud of their charity, no matter how modest.

  Taut lips slackened.
“Well, that’s certainly heartening to hear.”

  A round-faced woman with a wide, friendly smile patted the empty chair beside her. “Won’t you join us, Miss Carleton?”

  Louisa shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your gathering.”

  “We insist. Please, come tell us about your hometown. Richmond, did you say?”

  She shrugged. Why not? What could it hurt? Besides, talking with these ladies would be a sight better than being alone with her thoughts. She took the offered seat, greeting each of the ladies as they introduced themselves. They were members of the Elmira Women’s League and were holding their weekly business meeting.

  “What brings you to Elmira?” asked Mrs. Gardner, the sweet-natured lady who’d invited her to join them.

  “My brother. He’s one of the prisoners sent here from Point Lookout.”

  “You came all the way from Virginia to see your brother? How courageous of you.”

  Courageous or mighty stupid. There was a fine line between the two, and she was beginning to wonder which half she’d crossed into. “It really wasn’t a question of coming or not. I had to. My brother’s not a strong man. He could easily fall prey to disease or infection.” Or worse—a madman’s bullet.

  Mrs. Gardner motioned for the waiter to pour more tea. “Unfortunately, being captured is one of the consequences of soldiering.”

  “That’s just it. He’s not the soldierly type. Never was. I’m afraid he joined for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Many a young man got caught up in the excitement and later regretted his decision.” Mrs. Gardner ladled cream into her cup, the spoon tinkling against the porcelain as she stirred. “Perhaps you should have a word with Senator Morgan.”

  “Morgan? Can’t say I know the man.”

  “He’s our New York congressman. He’ll be in town tomorrow to tour the prison facility. I heard he’ll give pardons to prisoners if they swear loyalty to the Union.”