The Rebel Wife

by Donna Dalton

  He shifted onto his side and pulled her against him. “Does this help?”

  Pleasing heat banished the cold and her uncertainty. Her body sure knew how to greet him. She tipped her head back and smiled. “Mmm. Much better.”

  An answering grin dimpled his cheeks. “Thought it might.”

  She noted the absence of his ever-present eye patch. A grayish colored lid covered the sunken socket. Jagged white lines fanned out from the corner and disappeared into the hair at his temple.

  “You said you did this in a bar fight.” She traced the scar with her fingertip. “How did it happen?”

  His arms tightened around her, but he didn’t move to grab for the patch. He trusted her. And that meant more than she could ever have imagined.

  “It happened because of my own stupidity.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  He shook his head. “I should’ve known better...should’ve listened to my grandfather. He warned me to keep to the straight and narrow.” His chest rose as he filled his lungs with a deep breath. “And I disappointed him.”

  She knew all about disappointing the people you love. “I wouldn’t begin to judge you, Jack. I have many regrets of my own.”

  “Am I one of them?”

  “Heavens no.” She smoothed down a dark, unruly lock. “You’re the one thing in my life I did right.”

  His troubled expression softened. “I have to admit your reaction to last night had me worried.”

  “There’s no need to worry. I have no regrets.” Well, maybe one. She’d fallen into an exhausted sleep far too soon. She nuzzled his neck and drank in his scent. Sandalwood. It was a smell she’d cherish for the rest of her days. “Tell me about the bar fight.”

  A sensual growl rumbled in his throat. “I’d rather do more of what you don’t regret.”

  “Uh-uh. After your story.”

  “After?” His warm breath teased her ear. “You’re sure?”

  Tempting. Real tempting. But the reason behind his mangled eye pricked her curiosity. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Waste of a nice, quiet morning.”

  “Jack...”

  He heaved a sigh and rolled onto his back. “Guess you won’t be satisfied until you know.” He stared at the ceiling as if seduced by the plaster swirls. When he spoke, his voice came out in a harsh mixture of anger and sadness. “When Grandfather became my guardian, he sheltered me from the worst in life, thinking he was protecting me.”

  “Of course he wanted to protect you. He loves you.” As I do.

  He shook his head. “It was a recipe for disaster. When I finally got out from under his thumb at the university, I went feral. Drinking, carousing.” His jaw twitched as though he ground his teeth. “A fight broke out at one of the taprooms my friends and I had gone to. I was drunk and full of myself. Someone smashed a chair against my head. The wood splintered and...well, you can guess the rest.”

  Sorrow knifed into her at the pain and suffering he’d gone through. Was still going through, it appeared. “You were just feeling your oats like any other young man. It could’ve happened to anyone.” She gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “Look at what you’ve accomplished since then. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Jack.”

  He shook his head. “You’re nothing like her.”

  “Her?”

  “My fiancée.”

  He’d never mentioned a fiancée before. Her heart took a nose-dive. How could he offer marriage if he was spoken for?

  “Not to worry,” he said. “Felicity ended our engagement after learning of my disfigurement. Said she wouldn’t marry a reckless, deformed man.” He shrugged. “Not that I could blame her.”

  Anger at the unknown Felicity welled inside her. “It was a horrible thing to do. A person should be loved for what’s on the inside, not by their pretty outer shell.”

  “Which philosopher said that?”

  “No philosopher. Just another of Nanny Belle’s words of wisdom.”

  “I think I shall enjoy meeting this Nanny Belle of yours.” He shifted back onto his side and draped an arm across her waist. “We’ll send for her, of course.”

  “Send for her?”

  “For the wedding and to live with us afterwards.” He grasped her waist and rolled her atop him. “I love you, Louisa Carleton. And once we take care of the Lawrences and free Lance, we’ll make this sham of a marriage real. If you’ll have me, that is.”

  So he hadn’t been plying her with sweet words just for a night of pleasure. Her heart took flight. Oh, she would have him. Every minute of every day. And by the feel of his growing hardness, pretty darn soon.

  “The entire Yankee army couldn’t keep me from marrying you, Jackson Porter.”

  “What a news headline that would make.” He twirled a stray tress around his finger. “Flame-haired Reb takes on Union battalion.”

  She dug an elbow into his ribs. “I prefer to keep my battles private, Mister Newspaperman.”

  “What? Don’t you want to see your name in ink? Become all rich and famous with notoriety?”

  “Don’t know what notoriety is, but from the sound, I don’t think I’d like it much. I’d rather have a simple, humble life. With you.”

  “Simple, I can do.” His mouth twisted into a lop-sided grin. “Not so sure about humble.”

  She pressed her lips to his in a quick, tender kiss. “You can be whatever you set your mind to. I knew from the day we met you were someone special. I love you, Jack Porter. And I can’t wait to start our lives together. In New York, or Baltimore, or wherever we decide.”

  The color faded from his face. His grip on her waist dropped. “There’s something I need to tell you.” He pushed out a ragged breath. “About Baltimore and grandfather.”

  ****

  Louisa slowed her pacing and glanced at the mantel clock for seemingly the hundredth time. It’d been four hours since Jack had left for the prison, far longer than he said he’d be gone. Was everything going as planned? Had Beale figured out the plot against him and arrested Jack?

  She slumped onto the window seat. Silly to let such gloomy thoughts hold sway. Jack was a very capable man, always thinking two steps ahead of everyone, her included. It was one of the things she loved most about him. He’d triumph over Beale. And also over his stubborn grandfather.

  The elder Porter had agreed to lend Jack travel funds in exchange for him giving up on any type of relationship with her. Although his disapproval of her stung, she understood that love drove him to make such a steep demand. She’d just have to trust that Jack would find a way over that hurdle.

  As she started to stand her foot struck something. She bent to find she’d kicked over Jack’s knapsack. His journals had spilled onto the floor. Curiosity nipped at her. What exactly did he write in those ledgers? He sure labored over them often enough. Why just this morning, he’d sat at the window seat, brow furrowed, his pencil scritch-scratching as he logged his thoughts onto a page.

  She picked up one of the journals. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she took a peek. He was always pestering her to practice her reading. Besides, what could he have to hide?

  She flipped the ledger open and concentrated on the muddle of marks, plucking out a word here and there. Henry Lawrence. Fort Delaware. Camp Douglas. Shady dealings?

  So, he suspected Lawrence of wrong-doing at other prisons as well. It wouldn’t surprise her if his suspicions turned out to be true. A more crooked man she couldn’t imagine.

  She skimmed her finger beneath more letters. Em-bez-zling. There was that word again. Embarrassing heat flamed in her ears at the memory of her earlier blunder. At least she knew what it meant now.

  Sergeant Johnston, supply clerk. Dis-parity with Re-quisi-tion. More high-falutin words. She might not know their meanings, but she got the general idea. He had a source at the prison. Some supply clerk he’d wrangled information out of. Jack was plumb good at his job, she’d give him that.

  Since there were no other notes in th
at journal, she selected another and thumbed to the middle, expecting to find remarks about Point Lookout or Elmira.

  What sort of man is Lance Carleton? Driven and determined like his sister? She blinked in confusion. Why had he written about her and Lance? They had nothing to do with the operation of Yankee prisons.

  Include their father’s questionable death in article.

  Her head reeled as if she’d been struck. Jack had been using her all along—gathering information on her family’s troubles for some damned newspaper article. A pang knifed into her heart. Had he used her for his pleasure as well?

  A shout clambered through the open window, drawing her attention to the street below. Melons, corn, and tomatoes littered the roadway around a mule-drawn wagon. A bearded man in a straw hat paced through the clutter, waving his hands at the young Negro hurrying to gather the scattered produce. Poor fella. Probably wasn’t even his fault.

  An aproned woman stood in the doorway of a nearby mercantile, hands planted on her hips as she watched the two men. Above her, a banner attached to the store fluttered in the breeze. Annual Women’s League Parade and Charity Fair. Saturday.

  The Women’s League. Of course. She’d nearly forgotten about their visit to the prison. She gathered the journal detailing Lawrence’s wrong-doings and crossed to the bureau. She’d deal with Jack’s deceit later. First she had to make sure he was safe.

  Then she’d kill him.

  She tore out a blank page and began copying his notes. Writing was near as troublesome as reading. She gripped the pencil tightly, forming the letters as best she could. She poked her tongue out the side of her mouth as she’d seen Jack do. Seemed to help him concentrate when he wrote. Oddly, the gesture was calming.

  Twenty minutes later, fingers cramped from holding the pencil so long, a rarity for her, she tucked the folded note and Jack’s journal into her satchel. It was done. Chicken scratching or not, the letter would have to do.

  As she pulled on her bonnet, the clock struck the half-hour. Twelve-thirty. There was no time to waste. Satchel in hand, she hurried out the door, down the stairs, and into the lobby. Blue eyes lit up as she approached the front desk.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” the clerk greeted. “What can I do for you this fine afternoon? Interested in finding another place to eat?”

  “Not today. Thank you.” She eyed the registration book. “Are there any rooms available?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Had two guests leave just this morn.”

  She fished in her pocket and withdrew a coin. “I’d like to reserve one of them, please. For my brother, Lance Carleton.” Whatever the outcome of her visit to the prison, she wanted to have options.

  He took the coin and scribbled a notation in his ledger. “Anything else?”

  “I need to know how to get to the prison.”

  “Camp Rathbun?”

  Rathbun? What the devil kind of name was that?

  Her confusion must’ve shown as he added, “The prison where the Rebel prisoners are being taken?”

  She nodded. “That’s the one.”

  He scratched his stubbly chin and regarded her over the rims of his spectacles. “Not exactly an ideal place for a woman to go visiting alone.”

  Lordy, what was it with over-protective men? “I’m meeting my husband.”

  “Oh, well, that’s more tolerable.”

  She clamped down on a curt reply and merely broadened her smile. More flies with honey...

  “It’s down on Water Street beside the Chemung River,” he said. “A short hack ride from here, or longer if you’re inclined to a walk.”

  Hack ride. Not a convenience her meager funds would allow, nor could she afford to wait for one to be sent for. “It’s such a nice day. I believe I’ll take that walk instead. See a bit of your lovely city on the way.”

  “Fine afternoon for a stroll, indeed.” He flicked a hand at the open doorway. “Outside the door, turn right and continue down Railroad Street until you reach Water Street. Make another right and go about seven blocks to Walnut. You’ll see the prison encampment on your left. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you, sir. There’s one other thing.” She pulled the folded note from her satchel along with another coin. Though precious, the payment was a necessary evil. It may very well save all their lives. “I need this delivered to Senator Morgan. I’m not sure where he’s staying, but I’m sure a clever man like yourself could find out.”

  He took the note but left the money. “I’d be more than happy to see this gets to the senator, ma’am.”

  “Thank you again, sir. I’m mighty beholden to you.” She pocketed the coin. More than you’ll ever know.

  She left the hotel, feeling a tad more comfortable with her plan. It was still risky, but she had no other choice. Lance and now possibly Jack depended on her reaching Senator Morgan at the prison.

  Hazy shimmers rose from the dirt-packed roadway, carrying with it the rank odors of manure and garbage. Across from her, the farmer and his Negro helper were just loading the last of the melons into the wagon bed. At least the man had sense enough to stop his ranting and help before his produce spoiled.

  She glanced down one end of the sidewalk and then the other. Turn right outside the door, the clerk had said. Drat. Right and left always got her fiddle-fuddled. Those no-account words ought to be stricken from the English language. She pretended to hold a pencil. She wrote right-handed, so she was told. Therefore...she turned in the direction of her writing hand. This must be right. She hoped.

  She hurried past the pretty display of dishes and another of ladies bonnets. As much as she enjoyed window gawking, there was no time today for her favorite pastime. The acrid odor of coal smoke drifting across the street from the railroad depot coiled around her. Passengers swarmed on the platform like bees around a hive. With any luck, she and Lance would soon be joining them, heading south, heading home.

  Her trek brought her to a junction with another street. Just beyond the intersection, sunlight glistened on the surface of a churning river. Hallelujah. Right had been right, after all.

  Smaller than the James, the Chemung still had that same powerful scent, a wet, earthy odor that clung to a person long after a stolen dip. It was a reminder of Spivey Point and the heartache she’d brought her family. Soon, very soon, she’d put things back to right.

  She quickened her step, eager to reach her destination. Before long, the massive stockade walls rose into view. Just as at Point Lookout, armed guards patrolled a walkway that stretched along the top edge. As she drew closer, three carriages and a wagon pulled up to the curb. Black-garbed women swarmed from the coaches and gathered in front of the prison.

  The Women’s League. She’d made it in time.

  She crossed the street and searched the chattering flock for the friendly Mrs. Gardner. She found the woman supervising the distribution of baskets from the back of the wagon.

  “Miss Carleton, how good to see you.” Mrs. Gardner held out a linen-covered basket. “Here. Take this basket of muffins. We’ll be going inside soon.”

  Inside. A familiar jangle played through her. Lance was close. Real close. She could feel his presence straight down to her marrow.

  “You can wait over there with the others if you’d like,” Mrs. Gardner added.

  Louisa joined the other basket-toting ladies waiting near the entrance. Armed soldiers stood before the massive gate, the last barricade between her and Lance. Off to one side, a tall, arresting Yankee watched over the proceedings, his hawk-like gaze taking in everything around him.

  “Major Beale!” a man called out to the officer.

  The basket handle bit into her clenched palm. She doubted the major would recognize her as he’d only visited Spivey Point a handful of times. But the toadish man waddling toward him would. Henry Lawrence had practically lived at the plantation after the death of his older brother.

  He wore a top hat, fancy suit, and carried a gold-handled cane. Still as dandified as ever. Though
there seemed to be more of him. Too much time spent at the slop trough, most likely.

  He turned toward the group of women, and she ducked to hide her face. She couldn’t let him spot her and spoil her plan. But oh, how she ached to pull the knife from her boot and thrust it into his fat, twisted heart.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a thick-chested soldier moving toward them. “Good afternoon, Ladies,” he greeted, his voice syrupy sweet and grating on her already splintered nerves. He strutted around them like a rooster in yard full of hens. “Hope you had a pleasant ride through town.”

  There were a few soft-spoken replies and a faint giggle or two. Reckon Yankee women could also spot a cock for what it was. More crow, than meat.

  The burly soldier stopped a few feet away from her and buried his nose in a basket. “Smells mighty fine, Mrs. Johnson.” His beady gaze shifted to another woman. “And what about you, Miss Lacey? What goodies have you brought our lucky prisoners?” He angled closer to the blonde, and unfortunately closer to her.

  Louisa took a step to the side, putting a broad-hipped woman between her and the nosey bluebelly. Sweat dribbled from beneath the rim of her bonnet and dampened her brow. With both hands occupied holding basket and satchel, she wasn’t able to get to her handkerchief. Hopefully the soldiers would credit her perspiration to the heat and not to nerves.

  A large hand clamped on her basket handle. “I have to inspect your basket, ma’am.”

  Startled, she glanced up at her challenger. Not the burly soldier, but one just as unnerving. Blue eyes met hers, interest flaring in their pale depths as he studied her face. His lips curved into a more-than-friendly smile, and he dipped his head in greeting.

  Great. Just what she needed, an admirer. She mumbled a polite, “Certainly,” and handed him the basket.

  He lifted the covering and gave the contents a quick inspection. “Very good.” He gestured to her satchel. “Now that.”

  It’d been risky bringing Jack’s journal with her. If anyone read the contents before she could get it to the senator, it’d put them all in danger. Maybe catching the soldier’s eye wasn’t such a bad thing after all.