Southern Rapture

by Jennifer Blake

  "He wouldn't have got much. But whatever he intended, you seem to have changed his mind, and for that I'm grateful." The older woman loosened the last rope and looked up, her mouth opened to speak. She made no sound, however, but sat gaping as she stared at the front of Lettie's pink nightgown.

  Lettie, rubbing her chafed wrists, looked down. There was an object clinging to the cotton flannel just over the soft and rounded peak of her right breast. Fragile-looking, a light tan-gold in color, it appeared to be the empty shell of some insect. It clung by its desiccated claws, which were still intact. It was quite whole except for the split down its back where the insect had emerged. Thrust into that split so that it came out the bottom was a tiny tapering spike that was polished to a shining black.

  "What is it?" she asked as she detached the shell, turning it this way and that in the lamplight.

  "A locust shell and a thorn."

  The blood drained from Lettie's face. She dropped the shell to the table as if it had been a scorpion. A locust and a thorn, left attached to her where the man who had entered the room had touched her last. They were symbols of the man known simply as the Thorn, the vicious murderer who had killed her brother, the man she had come South to find.

  The name rose unbidden to her lips, a soft whisper.

  "It must have been him the hounds were after," Aunt Em said in agreement.

  "Yes." Somehow, Lettie had not connected the man with the pursuit by the Union troops and their bloodhounds. It seemed obvious now. He had given his pursuers the slip by some trick and doubled back, looking for a place to hide. He must have thought he had found it until he discovered her. She had been close, so close to him. He had held her, kissed her. She raised the back of her hand to her lips, wiping them in sudden disgust.

  "He might have killed me," she said in strained tones, "or—or worse."

  "Oh, no, my dear! Never think such a thing!"

  "But I've heard such stories!"

  Aunt Em shook her head. "I don't know what you've heard, or where such things get started for that matter, but the Thorn has done as much good as harm around here. I can't believe he would hurt a woman."

  "You can't know that," Lettie protested. "The soldiers were after him. That must mean something."

  "Humph. Probably means their officers needed something to keep them busy."

  A quiet knock fell on the bedchamber door that Aunt Em had left standing ajar as she entered. Two people appeared in the opening, a man and a young boy. Lettie, her nerves still disordered, looked up quickly as the man spoke.

  "What is it, Aunt Em? What's wrong?"

  The older woman swung around. She caught hold of the table and pulled herself upright, puffing a little. Instead of answering the question put to her, she said, "Ranny, what are you doing up? This is no place for you. Run along now, there's a good boy."

  The man stepped into the room. He was tall and broad and so very handsome, in the fashion of the sword-wielding archangels depicted by the old masters in their religious paintings, that he was beautiful. He was perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties; his forehead was broad and his golden-brown brows straight and thick above heavily lashed blue eyes. His nose was strong and straight, and in one cheek was a slight hollow that looked as if it might crease into a dimple when he smiled. His jaw was square and his chin firm, and his mouth had the chiseled molding and wide curves that spoke of strength and of strong desires held in sure control. His hair was soft and blond, shining with sun streaks, and combed back from his face in soft waves that at his left temple almost covered his single blemish, the jagged mark of an old scar that was silvery-gray against the bronze of his skin. The clothes he wore were old and faded: a pair of butternut gray pants and a soft blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.

  Lettie got to her feet and moved in haste to where her dressing gown lay across the foot of the bed. As she leaned to pick it up, she was acutely aware of the way the heavy material of her nightgown swayed against her, outlining her waist and hip. Grasping the dressing gown to her chest, she swung around with it in front of her as a covering. She held her chin high, but there was the heat of a flush across her cheekbones and an odd trembling in her hands that could only be reaction from the incident just past.

  "I heard a noise," the man called Ranny said to Aunt Em before repeating his first question. "What's wrong?"

  "This lady had a fright, a visit from the Thorn if you must know."

  Ranny looked at Lettie. "The Thorn? But why?"

  "No reason," Aunt Em said, "just a mistake."

  "People say he's a bad man. Did he hurt you?" Ranny's candid gaze was still on Lettie's face.

  "No, not exactly," she answered, lowering her lashes, looking away.

  "Your arms are red."

  "It will go away soon. I'm fine."

  "I'm glad." The blond man turned to his aunt. "Who is she?"

  Aunt Em made a sharp sound with her tongue. "This is Miss Lettie Mason, Ranny. Lettie, my nephew, Ransom Tyler."

  The man inclined his head, surveying Lettie once more. To his aunt he said, "Why is she here?"

  "Really, your manners, Ranny! She's staying with us, our first boarder. You will meet her at breakfast, but just now she doesn't want to see you or anyone else. Go back to bed." Aunt Em's words, for all their astringency, had a coaxing undertone.

  "Yes, ma'am. She's a pretty lady."

  Aunt Em looked beyond her nephew to the young Negro boy who was his companion. "Lionel, please?"

  The boy, perhaps twelve years old, with tightly curled black hair and huge brown eyes in a triangular face, stepped forward. He moved to the side of the handsome man and reached to catch his square, well-formed hand, holding it in his two smaller ones. "Come on, Mast' Ranny."

  Ransom paid no attention. He stared at the young woman in front of him, inspecting the shimmering mass of her hair; the creamy perfection of her skin; the regularity of her features in the oval of her face; the rich, almost pagan, brown of her eyes with their sherry-wine tint around the pupils. Her form, even hidden by her enveloping nightgown, was magnificent, the slim proportions perfect. Her every movement held grace and confidence.

  There was only one flaw. She lacked warmth. Her mouth, though beautifully formed, was pinched at the corners like that of a confirmed spinster, and her expression held reserve overlaid with suspicion. And yet there was in the depths of her dark eyes a hint of banked fires, almost, but not quite, smothered. She was, in fact, altogether intriguing. It was a good thing he had kissed her before he had seen her, otherwise he might not have dared.

  Lionel tugged at his hand. "Mast' Ranny, come on, you making the lady blush."

  Ranny looked down at the boy. He smiled. "I mustn't do that, must I?" He permitted himself to be led away. He paused at the door. "Good night," he said.

  Without waiting for an answer, the two of them, the blond man and the black boy, stepped into the dark hallway of Splendora and moved out of sight, their footsteps slowly receding.

  "Oh, dear," Aunt Em said, "I'm so sorry. I should have told you about Ranny, but I never expected—I thought there would be plenty of time to explain in the morning. He had one of his headaches this evening. He doesn't see company, doesn't do much of anything except lie in a dark room until they are over."

  "When you mentioned a nephew earlier, I somehow expected a small boy." Lettie made a valiant attempt to gather her self-possession enough to clarify the matter.

  Aunt Em sobered. "Ah, well, you weren't so far wrong, but Ranny is the owner of Splendora, the house and land, everything. I just look after it for him."

  Lettie returned the gaze of the older woman, saying with some delicacy, "I presume that's because—because he can't look after it himself."

  "He's like a child, the way he was when he was eleven or twelve. It just breaks my heart still, after all this time, but there it is."

  "I see."

  The older woman squared her shoulders. "He's a dear, sweet boy, wouldn't
harm a fly, but I'll understand if you feel you can't stay here in his house, especially after your scare tonight. If you want to leave, I'll see that you have a ride into town in the morning. Your money will be returned, of course."

  Lettie had certainly felt the impulse to flee, but with human perversity, the instant the means to do it was offered to her, she became determined to stay. Though the man Ranny was disturbing, she was not afraid of him. And if the Thorn had appeared at the house once, he might do so again. Her voice firm, she said, "I wouldn't think of leaving."

  "I knew it!" Aunt Em exclaimed in satisfaction, her face beaming. "I knew you had gumption the minute I saw you."

  Lettie smiled in return, a movement of her mouth that altered its curves, touching her face with classic and breathtaking beauty. "Thank you, but perhaps it would be as well if I knew a little more about—about the situation here."

  "You mean about Ranny. There's not much to tell, really." The older woman sat down rather heavily in the chair Lettie had vacated. "You saw the scar on the side of his head? He was wounded in the war like so many others. He was an artillery officer, Confederate, of course." The older woman sent her a quick glance, half-apologetic, half-defiant. "There was a skirmish during the last months of the war. One of the big guns exploded and a piece of the barrel cracked his skull."

  "It's a wonder he wasn't killed."

  Aunt Em nodded. "His men left him for dead, but he was found by a Union patrol and treated in a field hospital. He was unconscious for weeks and would have died most likely if it hadn't been for Bradley, his body servant from childhood who had been with him all through the war. Bradley went with him when he was transferred to a hospital near Washington. When peace came, he brought him home."

  "And your nephew was … like he is now?"

  "No, not then. He had come to his senses in Washington, Bradley said, and was nearly normal, except he couldn't remember a lot of things. But the trip home was too much. He had terrible headaches all the long way. Somewhere in Mississippi he just passed out. By the time he reached Splendora, he was nearly gone. He stayed unconscious, perfectly senseless, for the best part of six months. When he finally woke up that time, he was—was the way you saw him."

  "It must have been distressing. He is, if I may say so, such a nice-looking man."

  "Oh, but you should have seen him before the war, when he was full of his devilment, always laughing and carrying on, always pulling a joke or off on some wild rampage. The house was full in those days, boys and girls coming and going, a party every Saturday night, the boys—young men actually—acting like fools, the girls setting their caps all innocent-like for Ransom while he never noticed. They all used to dance and sing, to play charades and get up amateur theatricals—why, there are still three trunks in the attic full of outlandish getups they used to wear. I filled 'em up with popcorn, cookies, and candy, and enjoyed it all as much as any."

  "The boy Lionel, is it really necessary for him to lead your nephew about?"

  "Not exactly. Lionel is Bradley's boy, raised by his grandmother, Mama Tass, our cook here at Splendora for thirty years. Not only Lionel's father, but his grandfather and great-grandfather had served the Tyler men in the past. The boy was always around, even after Bradley left us to go looking for his freedom. Ranny, in the early days when he was convalescing, used to forget sometimes where he was, what he was doing, and Lionel got in the habit of leading him back to the house, helping him dress and undress, taking care of him. The boy's a big help to me."

  "I'm sure," Lettie murmured.

  Aunt Em got to her feet. "Well, is there anything I can get for you? A glass of warm milk or maybe some of my blackberry cordial? I wish I could offer you something a bit stronger, but it's been years since we had spirits in the house. Such things are higher than a cat's back, I do swear."

  When Lettie declined, Aunt Em offered to make up another room for her or even to let her sleep in her own bedchamber if Lettie was reluctant to remain where she was. Lettie thanked her for her thoughtfulness but finally convinced the older woman that she was not going to lie awake starting at shadows for the rest of the night.

  Later, when Aunt Em had gone, taking away the lamp, Lettie lay wide-eyed in the middle of the great tester bed. She was not certain she should have been quite so intrepid. The curtains at the window shifted like pale ghosts in the night air that sighed through the opening. The house creaked and popped, while outside could be heard now and then the soft rustling of some night creature prowling among the shrubs and perennials of Aunt Em's door-yard garden. Lettie thought of getting up and closing the window, but the night was too warm for that. Besides, she was loath to go near it. She did not really think that the Thorn was lurking outside, waiting to grab her again, but her rational thought processes and instincts seemed to be at odds.

  She had never felt so helpless in her life as she had in that moment when the Thorn had held her. She had never been kissed like that, so thoroughly, yet with such vital enjoyment. It was not an experience she wished to repeat.

  In truth, with the exception of the chaste salutes on her forehead of her father when she was a child, she had only been kissed by one other man. Her fiancé, Charles Smallwood, had swept her into a dark corner once or twice, and had even driven her out into the country one spring day with just such caresses on his mind. Those caresses had never been particularly pleasant. His lips had been hard and puckered and his excitement so great that he had bruised her mouth and left her feeling mussed and indignant instead of …

  Lettie turned her head sharply on the pillow, flinging her arm up to cover her eyes. Charles was dead, killed at Manassas. Her brother Henry was dead also, dead and buried here in the South where he had been sent as an officer of the Union troops to enforce Reconstruction. That her womanly senses could have been stirred by the man who had shot Henry in the head as he knelt to drink at a wilderness spring filled her with shame and distress. She had never lied to herself, however, and she would not deny that she had sensed the rise of some unholy desire. If she had felt that way when Charles had kissed her, she might have succumbed to his pleas to be wed before he went to war, might have submitted to the frenzied need for physical union that he had pressed upon her.

  Instead, she had been cool and sane and sensible. When he had broken down and cried, begging for her affection, she had retreated into hauteur, assuming an air of superior wisdom that now made her wince to remember. That coolness had been possible because she had been so little moved by her fiancé's touch. Strange, but she could not think now why she had ever agreed to marry him. Except that she had been seventeen and Charles had looked so very mature in his uniform, and all her friends had been getting engaged or married.

  The curtains billowed at the window and she turned her head toward the faint movement. The Thorn. She could not believe he had been there in her room. It was almost as if she had imagined the whole thing, had conjured him up out of her intense need to bring her brother's killer to justice. She tried to think of what he had looked like but could form no real picture. He had been big and had a mustache, and she had the impression that he was dark, though the room had been so dim she could not be certain. What she remembered best was the quietness with which he had moved, his strength and lightning reflexes, and the feel of his body that was as lean and tough as cured leather.

  At least she knew she had come to the right area, the right place. If she believed in fate, she might think that she had been led to Aunt Em and Splendora.

  Aunt Em was a dear, so warm and concerned. She did not fit Lettie's conception of a Southern lady, someone pampered and protected, used to being waited on hand and foot, insulated from life's daily problems. The way of life that had supported such women was gone, of course, had been swept away when the war began nine years ago. So many men had died; in her trip South it had seemed that most of the women in every town she passed through were dressed in black. There must be many who, like Aunt Em, were learning to cope with their changed circu
mstances, to make the best of what was left to them.

  Aunt Em not only had a house to keep up and provision to make for herself, but she had the care of her nephew. What a tragedy it was that he had been so incapacitated by his injury. To look at him, one would never guess. There was intelligence and sensitivity in the molding of his smooth-shaven, golden-tan features and a sense of fathomless depths in his eyes. She had felt drawn to him, aware of him, to an astonishing degree. It was most peculiar.

  It was also confusing. There had never been a great deal of warmth or overt affection in her family. Composure under all circumstances was greatly admired, displays of emotion frowned upon. They all liked and respected one another, and she and Henry had been close, but she had grown up believing that the nature she had inherited from her parents was cool. It was strange then that she had been so affected by two different men on the same night. Perhaps it was something about being in Louisiana. Some claimed that the damp heat of such Southern climes seeped into the blood and inflamed the senses, that it advanced the passionate responses so that women matured young, coming into early bloom like flowers forced in a glasshouse.

  It really was quite warm. If the gesture were not so unthinkable, so entirely abandoned, she would like to strip off her heavy nightgown and throw it on the floor to lie naked on the high mattress of the bed.

  What if she did that and the Thorn returned? Dear heaven, there was no way of saying what might happen to her!

  She was being ridiculous. There had been nothing in her response to either the man known as the Thorn or Ransom Tyler that was not easily explained by the upheaval of the incident that had occurred and the strangeness of her situation here among people unknown to her, combined with her extreme fatigue from the three-day journey here.

  Reaching back under her neck, Lettie dragged the thick silken swath of her hair from under her shoulders and spread it to one side over the pillow for coolness. She pushed up the long sleeves of her nightgown and undid two of the three buttons that fastened it at the neck. For long moments she lay still with her eyes closed and her hands at her sides. A faint breeze drifted in at the window, touching her face. It brought with it the sweet scent of magnolias and some other fragrance that she thought might be honeysuckle.