“Sherry? Or chilled Riesling from the well house, perhaps?”
Morgan tensed. The last time he’d drunk sherry was with Jessamyn Tyler in 1863, while spying for Bedford Forrest. He’d sworn never to have it again until she was tied up in his bed, as he’d been tied up in hers. His voice was a little hoarse when he answered, “Riesling, thank you.”
“Ah yes, a cool drink to take away the heat.” Lennox returned with two tall crystal goblets, their sides sweating lightly in the room’s warmth.
Morgan accepted his with thanks and sipped cautiously. This was no time to get drunk.
Lennox sat down in a chair next to Morgan’s, rather than behind his big desk. An almost companionable silence followed before Morgan stirred.
“I brought your latest invoice,” he began.
Lennox waved the envelope aside. “Let’s not worry about shopkeepers’ trifles like that. Just leave it on the desk and I’ll send payment over tomorrow.”
“Very well.” Lennox accepting an invoice without a word of complaint? If he’d still been riding for Bedford Forrest, Morgan would have had every gun cocked and loaded by now.
“Have you ever thought of owning a great estate, Evans? A magnificent home and acres of cotton, such as your family held before the war?” Lennox’s voice was almost, but not quite, idle.
“Often,” Morgan answered honestly. He’d redeemed Longacres, the Evans family cotton plantation in Mississippi, four years ago by paying off back taxes with savings from his job. His cousin David ran it now and sent Morgan regular reports.
“A beautiful vision, is it not? The fields humming with your workers making money for your future, the mansion aglow with light beyond the driveway, and the wife eager to charm you and your guests as you build alliances. The gracious lady who comes from a family as old and noble as your own, a woman who will bear you sons.”
“A spectacular dream,” Morgan agreed, and shoved away the vision of Jessamyn Tyler doing exactly that. He took another sip of Riesling as he tried to guess Lennox’s goal in this conversation.
“I’m sure, as a gentleman born and bred, you’ll understand how terrible it is to see a lady living in surroundings unworthy of her.”
“What are you talking about?” Morgan set down his glass.
“Mrs. Ross, of course. To see her living in that Irishman’s house is an affront. I’d marry her in an instant if she were under my roof.”
“Quite so,” Morgan murmured noncommittally. He had no idea why Lennox was so set on marrying Mrs. Ross. There weren’t any other women around from Lennox’s class, but Morgan had always thought Lennox would look for a wife in New York, the city he always bragged of. The man’s repeated proposals to Mrs. Ross smacked more of obsession than love, especially since the fellow showed no signs of being besotted with her.
“So you’ll help me, then. Splendid! If you can get her out of the Donovan compound and bring her to me, let’s say tomorrow—”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Morgan came to his feet in a smooth lunge.
“Why, removing Mrs. Ross from Donovan’s grasp, of course. There’ll be good money in it for you, to help you gain a home and family of your own. Say, five thousand dollars?”
Morgan threw his wine into Lennox’s face.
Lennox sat stock still for a moment, Riesling dripping off his chin. His eyes blazed like a rattler’s considering the best strike. Then he forced a smile. “I gather that’s a refusal.”
“You’re damn right it is, you coward.” Morgan waited hopefully to hear the demand for a duel.
Lennox’s glare would have stopped a basilisk but he stayed still with a visible effort. All the while, the stamping machines pounded their inhuman beat of destruction.
“You’ll pay for that,” Lennox hissed and finally took a deep breath. “But you’re only a hired hand and not worth fighting. You may leave now.”
“Donovan will destroy you.”
Lennox laughed, a spine-chilling sound. “He can try. Do you mean to stay and debate it?”
Morgan’s fists clenched, then he turned for the door.
Two steps later, he caught a reflection on the lampshade of Lennox pulling a revolver from the desk drawer. Morgan whirled, drawing his own, just as Lennox pointed and cocked his. It was the fastest he’d ever drawn.
Each man now stared down the barrel of the other’s gun.
“If you shoot,” Lennox growled between clenched teeth, “you’ll be tried for murder.”
“And if you shoot first, you’ll be dead before I hit your Brussels carpet. Mexican standoff, Lennox.”
Lennox snarled but didn’t lower his Colt. “Get out.”
“My pleasure.” Morgan reached for the doorknob behind him.
“Don’t bother to come back, little man. Lennox Mining will do no further business with Donovan & Sons after this month.”
Morgan nodded curtly. “As you wish. Donovan & Sons can do without Lennox Mining, but how long can Lennox Mining live without a freighting house?”
“We’ll manage very well. Lennox Mining will be a power long after Donovan & Sons is forgotten,” Lennox sneered.
Morgan snorted and stepped out of Lennox’s office, careful to keep his eyes on the blackguard. He didn’t allow himself to relax until he reached the street.
He’d have to warn William, of course.
William quietly crossed the courtyard, enjoying the music coming from the main wing. Even the eternal billiards game had stopped so the men could listen. He’d last heard that Schubert art song in Dublin, performed by an excellent soprano and pianist. Viola played it superbly, but as an accompanist rather than a soloist, leaving space for the absent singer to provide the melody.
She finished the song just as he reached the sitting room and paused. She slowly played the opening chords of Foster’s “Beautiful Dreamer.”
William smiled. He strolled into the room, singing.
Viola’s head snapped around. She stared at him, then her eyes lit up like sunlight on the ocean waves. She continued to play the lovely song, adapting it smoothly to his voice and phrasing, until they became a single performer.
He leaned on the piano and smiled at her when they finished. “Bravo! You’re the best accompanist I’ve had the pleasure of performing with, Viola.”
She blushed, her fingers still caressing the black and white keys. “Thank you. You have a wonderful baritone, William.”
He bowed his head in silent thanks for her compliment. “Another song, perhaps?”
“‘Camptown Races’?” She struck the opening notes and he laughed.
“Doo-dah, doo-dah!” he agreed, and they joined in the rollicking tune. It was far better to frolic innocently with Viola than worry about Lennox’s villainy.
Chapter Nine
Viola shifted uncomfortably on the piano bench’s upholstery, reminded yet again of just how passionate William had been the previous night. Singing their favorite songs, then dinner, then the bedroom where they’d…
She blushed.
She’d been glad when he went to Mass that morning with Abraham and Sarah. At least now, she could focus on her music without thinking of him.
She began another popular song, stringing the songs together in a pattern similar to the way she’d played them at musicales during the fighting. Her mother greatly enjoyed those evenings, where she could roam the audience while Viola accompanied the other performers. She remembered one evening during September 1863, when she’d accompanied some young gunboat officers at just such a musicale.
Viola finished the final notes of “The Vacant Chair,” holding them a little longer than necessary to allow Ensign Johnston time to recover from his tears. He had a superb tenor and always sang on key, making him a pleasure to accompany. But he’d just returned from Vicksburg, where his gunboat had suffered heavy casualties.
He forced the betraying vibrato out of his voice and nodded at her. She let the last note die out. Their audience was most appreciative b
ut quickly started to take their leave.
Viola searched the crowd with her eyes, while automatically responding to Johnston. “Yes, I’d be delighted to accompany you at church this Sunday.”
“Perhaps we can meet before then to practice? And you can tell me more stories of your famous grandfather, Commodore Lindsay.” His voice had lowered, as if wrapping them in something private. He was well-bred, well-off, and her father strongly approved of him.
Viola ignored the ensign’s advantages as she finally found her mother. Dear heavens, she was flirting with Captain Peterson. He held an important post at the shipyards and could always be relied on to talk at great length to any woman who seemed interested.
Viola flinched.
“Shall I see you on Saturday then?” Johnston asked hopefully.
“I’m sorry but I really can’t make any plans at the moment. I must see if my mother is well. Good evening, Ensign.” She nodded to him and slipped away through the crowd without waiting for an answer.
She could hear Peterson talking about how to armor the ships from halfway across the room. Viola popped up next to her mother’s elbow and plastered a smile on her face. “Thank you for waiting, Mother,” she said mendaciously. “I’m ready to leave now.”
From this close, she could see Desdemona Lindsay clench her teeth briefly. But the woman recovered quickly and smiled charmingly at Peterson. “Please forgive me, Captain, but my daughter needs me. I would greatly enjoy hearing the remainder of your fascinating discourse. Perhaps tomorrow at the Floyds’ dinner?”
Peterson bowed. “My pleasure, dear lady.”
Viola made a mental note not to let her mother out of earshot at that dinner party. She hadn’t planned to attend, but the presence of an adult daughter seemed to be an excellent conversational damper, especially for attempted flirtations with men who possessed information related to the war effort.
She sighed inwardly but kept her face straight. She didn’t eat when she was guarding her mother, not that food seemed appetizing anymore.
Desdemona Lindsay glared at her daughter as they boarded the carriage. She sank into the luxurious velvet upholstery and seethed for the entire drive. Viola settled into the smallest space possible, carefully avoiding her mother’s ornate dress, and kept her mouth shut. Silence had become their usual custom when they were alone together, once Desdemona had realized no amount of tantrums would shake Viola’s determination to keep her from gaining information useful to the South.
At the Lindsay mansion, Desdemona went straight upstairs, where her old maid waited to undress her, ignoring the Irish maids who had waited up for them.
Viola sighed privately, but greeted Molly and Brigid warmly. Thankfully, neither showed any inclination to chatter. Molly helped Viola undress, while Brigid fetched a cup of mint tea to settle Viola’s stomach. They disappeared quickly afterwards and Viola was left alone with her books in her sanctuary.
Dumas, Sir Walter Scott, James Fenimore Cooper looked back at her from her bookcase: The Three Musketeers, Ivanhoe, The Last of the Mohicans. Her best-loved books, although the shelves were full to overflowing. D’Artagnan, the country bumpkin and great swordsman, was her favorite hero. She had a weakness for Athos’s bitter past but D’Artagnan held her heart.
Viola stretched, then idly fondled her breasts. The only advantage of their small size was that her slender hands could easily hold and rub them. She sighed as she imagined D’Artagnan in his rough country clothes, all raw masculinity as he strode through the marketplace.
She moaned softly as her breasts firmed and swelled in her hands, her nipples peaking against her fingers.
She blew out the lamp and settled against her pillows to fantasize. It had rained earlier that evening and the air was gentle and cool as it whispered through the room. Her embroidered white lawn nightdress was soft and sheer, the perfect weight for a late summer evening. It was also exactly what a young lady would have worn while chained in the cardinal’s prison.
Viola plucked her nipples, enjoying the sharp stab that ran through her body as she considered the dungeon. It would be dark, of course, with only a few torches to give light. The guards would be in the guardroom playing cards, not close enough to hear her.
She drew her nightdress higher up on her thighs as she fantasized.
She’d be chained to the wall with her hands high and her legs wide, helpless to resist any man who chanced by. But no one would have come yet.
Her fingers slipped under her nightdress and stroked her intimate folds with the ease of long practice. She knew just the motions that would sharpen her pulse and she employed them now. Dew flowed, dampening her fingers and her nightdress underneath her legs.
D’Artagnan would appear suddenly out of the darkness, tall and strong with a face like an angel. His sword would be ready in his hand.
Her hips twisted at the thought and dew gushed forth. She moaned and fondled her bud where it hid between her legs. It throbbed in response. Viola closed her eyes, enjoying the sensations. Yes, oh yes…
“Mademoiselle, you are beautiful,” he would say, his eyes devouring her. “My senses are ravished by the sight of you.”
Viola moaned. Her body arched as her pulse pounded. Her fingers delved deeper. A single fingertip actually entered her body and moved rhythmically in and out. In and out…
“One kiss for your rescuer before we depart,” D’Artagnan would say. His mouth would close over hers. Sweet-tasting, of course. His lips would be firm and his tongue would sweep between her teeth…
She rubbed her bud rapidly. Her body arched again as the soft pulse of rapture flowed sweetly through her veins.
Lovely. She smiled, and rolled over as she settled herself to sleep.
Viola shook her head, remembering that young girl’s innocence. To climax, simply by dreaming of a kiss.
Now she slept with a man whose kisses were an enticement to carnal delights she still didn’t have words for. He was everything Sally had spoken of and more, as her sore body could attest.
She squirmed on the bench, remembering just how her thighs had come to be so tender. Then she determinedly started to play the piano, choosing a piece that wouldn’t remind her of a young girl’s innocence. A Chopin étude stormed from her fingers as she fought not to think of what William might want to do next.
Morgan took another sip of coffee as he read David’s latest report on Longacres, while Mrs. Ross played the piano inside. He was happy to guard her while William, Abraham, and Sarah attended Mass. He’d be happier when he finally killed that scoundrel, Lennox.
Mrs. Ross was a gutsy little lady with a good many friends. She was always helping folks out, no matter who they were. Pretty enough, although not as beautiful as Jessamyn Tyler.
He’d seen her often enough, thanks to that so-called friend of hers, Maggie Watson, who had constantly tried to gain his attention. He’d finally told her, in no uncertain terms, that he had no interest in her as a wife. She’d married Jones a week later and left town. For good, he hoped.
The music stopped and Mrs. Ross wandered outside, stretching. He stood up politely. “Ma’am.”
Mrs. Ross’s head snapped around. Her jaw dropped and she turned flaming red when she saw him. Clearly William hadn’t warned her who’d be guarding her this morning. Pity swept over him at her embarrassment. He kept his tone gentle. “You’re a very fine piano player, Mrs. Ross. Chopin, wasn’t it?”
She visibly pulled herself together. “Thank you,” she stammered. “You’re very kind. Yes, that was the Étude in C Minor.”
Evans nodded. “Thought I recognized it. My mother also enjoyed playing the piano and tried to teach me. But I’m afraid I defeated her best efforts. Would you care for a cup of coffee, ma’am?”
“Thank you.” She turned to the fountain as he went inside, and was adding an extra rose to Abraham and Sarah’s shrine when he returned. After that, she strolled the herb garden with her coffee until William returned.
Viola stole
another glance at Evans, still embarrassed at meeting him in public. He’d treated her with every courtesy, but everything about him, from his face to his clothes to his voice, told of his good breeding. Although not as attractive to her as William, Evans was a very handsome man with his chestnut hair and gray eyes. His cavalry mustache was neatly groomed, as was his beautifully tailored suit and the immaculate linens that covered his long-limbed frame. His skin was darkened by the sun, but his long fingers were elegant and deft as he dined. He ate his eggs au gratin and ham—how had Sarah provided ham in Rio Piedras?—with every appearance of enjoyment.
He insisted on treating her as William’s hostess, giving her all the respect she’d had before accepting William’s protection. Of course, then she’d been watching Maggie chase Evans like a housewife at breakfast time with only one chicken in the yard: intent and frantic. He must have finally said something very blunt to Maggie. Viola didn’t know precisely what, just that Maggie had been furious. The next week, Maggie was married to Charlie Jones and gone from Rio Piedras.
She dipped into her own eggs au gratin and caught William eating a spoonful of oatmeal. Viola stared. He’d wrapped his lips around her breast in exactly the same fashion, little more than an hour ago. He’d used his teeth in the same way, too: slow, steady, gentle bites that had set her moaning in anticipation of his next move.
Viola blushed and looked down quickly. She needed to stop thinking about him, which was impossible in this compound. Every room in this wing held memories of his lovemaking.
Even the clothing she wore reminded her of sensual games. At the moment, she was dressed in a very fashionable royal blue walking dress, whose numerous folds cushioned her from the chair’s brocade seat. But she’d have to change to its Chinese counterpart, a sinfully smooth blue tunic and pants, before he returned from the depot that evening.
Just so she’d be ready for his return, he’d ordered as he’d laced her into her low-cut French corset this morning. Then he’d suckled her breasts till they hardened and ached, and kissed her silly while his hand played wicked games through the slit in her drawers. She’d shattered in pleasure, gripping his shoulders till her fingers turned white.
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