He glanced at her occasionally, and she averted her eyes, unwilling to have him see the apprehension and fear there. All of his faculties needed to be focused on his military duties, not on the bride he left behind.
How much longer did he have? Perhaps the pattern of events would remain the same, and he would be killed by a sharpshooter on a dusty road in Atlanta the following July. Then again, perhaps the course of history would be altered, and he would have less time. Maybe he would not survive to see his next birthday. Everything had changed. She had changed everything.
With her head turned away, Margaret wasn't able to observe the expression on his face. His usual hard features softened when he turned to her, the piercing eyes that usually saw with such savage clarity clouded, and he was consumed with the unnerving sensation of not being able to see at all. He was only able to feel, not only his own overwhelming sensations but her changing emotions as well. They were as clear to him as though coursing through wires.
"Margaret," His voice was so low she almost didn't hear him. On the lawn outside were the sounds of his scouts waiting, soft conversation and laughter, respectful but still impatient.
Ashton stood in front of an open window, the bright sunlight tumbling over his shoulder, making his features indistinct. It was almost a silhouette, and she thought of the framed cutout silhouette of the little boy holding a ball. His arms were open now, ready to receive her, and she at once flew to him, to be enveloped in his warm embrace.
His strong hands ran over her back and upper arms, as if to imprint her in his mind, to carry the feel of her with him forever. Her eyes were closed, and he hungrily raked over her with his sharp gaze, her hair, the crest of her eyebrows, the long dark lashes, and her smooth nose. Always he would return to her mouth, soft and parted.
She floated her hands over his back, the knotted muscles under the fine gray uniform. Then his mouth bent down to hers, and her feet seemed to lift above the ground. Gently he kissed her at first, a sweet farewell. Then his body seemed to clench, and the kiss became savage, demanding, more intimate than anything she had experienced before. His hand was at her throat, an almost primitive gesture. With any other man the pressure at her throat would have felt threatening, but his touch was protective, fervent, heartbreakingly tender.
They began rocking gently back and forth, a soothing motion that neither remembered initiating. In their swaying embrace the kiss softened, and Margaret opened her eyes, coming again to her senses, wanting to see her husband's face.
He was watching her already with a gaze of such feverish intensity that she felt a jolt shudder through her.
"General," came a voice from outside. "We're ready now, sir."
Ashton smiled, his focus never wavering from her eyes. "They make it sound as if they've been keeping me waiting." His voice was gravelly and soft.
An uncomfortable knot welled in her throat, and she tried to swallow it away, but it wouldn't leave. Instead, a sob escaped her lips.
"Shush, love." His finger crooked under her chin. "I'll be back soon. I always am." His rough thumbs smoothed the tears from her cheeks.
"For your birthday?" Her voice was strangled, and he brushed a light kiss on her forehead before strapping on his sword and pistol and reaching over for his saddlebags. She wasn't sure if he heard her, so she repeated the question.
"Perhaps." His answer was distracted. She realized that in a very real sense, he had already left her.
Now she was alone .at The Oaks.
Of course the house was brimming with people, strange faces she was supposed to know, her new relatives by marriage. Only Lizzie seemed comfortable to be with, her easy banter was reassuring and light, as if there were nothing wrong in the world.
Everyone else was friendly, but Eddie seemed to treat her with grinding civility. His words were polite, but there was an underlying distance that he seemed eager to preserve. With Lizzie he was playful, trying to trip her skirts as she walked ahead of him, telling her some of the repeatable jokes he had heard from other soldiers. But when Margaret joined in the laughter, Eddie's face would become impassive, and he would change the topic.
Within hours of Ashton's departure, she felt the full crush of loneliness. She wandered in and out of the rooms where he had grown up, perusing books in the library, trying to decipher the signatures on some of the landscapes in the hallway.
She was looking at an old map of Virginia when she heard voices and started toward the small parlor. She needed cheering up, and there was the welcome sound of Lizzie's giggle wafting from the room. Then she heard Eddie's voice, and hesitated. She didn't want to spoil their fun, and Eddie would certainly view her company as a most unwelcome addition.
"Tell me, Eddie," pleaded Lizzie, her voice teasing.
"Well, I'm not so sure if Ash wants everyone to know . . ."
"Oh, come on, you goose. He told me about the last one. Sort of."
Eddie cleared his throat. "Very well. Do you remember that scout named Ethan?"
"Of course I do."
"He is not just a scout, not by a long shot. Before the war he studied the telegraph at Samuel Morse's school in Washington City. Did you see that funny round pocketknife of his?"
There was silence, and Margaret assumed Lizzie was either nodding or shaking her head. Then Eddie continued. "It's his special design, an instrument for cutting into telegraph wires. He's able to slice into the wire without interrupting the current, so no one on either end knows he's in on their conversation. So you see, it's like eavesdropping on old Abe Lincoln himself. Ethan and Ash have discovered some Union wires, and that's not all."
"What else?" Her voice was excited.
"Ethan can mimic the taps of other telegraph operators. He was telling me just this morning that every operator has a distinctive style; it marks a man every bit as well as a voice or a face. Well, Ethan and Ash have rerouted a few of Mr. Lincoln's men in blue. Ethan pretends to be, say, the operator at a Maryland station, and orders General So-and-So to some distant place."
"Go on!"
"Remember last spring, when McClellan just sat with his troops, whittling away time? Our own Ash made the poor sod believe there were hundreds of thousands of angry Rebels just waiting to take aim on his men. Ash called it a bloodless victory, or something along those lines. McClellan got the sack because of Ash and Ethan."
"So what is Ash going to do next?"
Margaret could hear the grin in his voice. "He's going to take a few nips at General Grant now. Says he's been enjoying southern hospitality altogether too long for his liking. If anyone can run circles around Grant, it's Ash. He'll do his old trick of coming out of nowhere, taking a couple hundred prisoners, some horses and rifles, then he'll vanish. Grant will never know what hit him."
"How does Grant measure up to the other Yankee generals?" Lizzie sounded more pensive now.
"Well, he's a far sight better than the other ones. He must have Bobby Lee worried, because he wants him out as soon as possible. Ash is going to try his darnedest to make Grant look like the biggest fool on the face of the planet."
Eddie's easy knowledge of Ashton's movements infuriated Margaret. Of all people, she should know where he was. Not only was she his wife—she was the only person who knew the basic sweep of both armies.
She alone could keep him from wandering into the enemy's clutches.
The enemy. She thought of the Union Army now in terms of the enemy. She swallowed hard, trying to dismiss a terrible thought. If her husband was successful in his mission, and General U.S. Grant—who, teamed with Sherman, would bring the Confederacy to its knees—was indeed disgraced and dismissed, the South could very well win the war.
"I want him to bring me some Union jackboots like his. Did you notice them? His other boots got torn up at Gettysburg ..."
Margaret no longer heard Eddie's voice. She closed her eyes and pressed against the cool wall.
"Why, Mag! You poor dear, you're as pale as a ghost." It was Aunt Eppes, flutter
ing a black-edged handkerchief in front of Margaret's face. "Eddie and Lizzie, you two take care of your cousin Mag."
In spite of her misery about Ashton's mission, Margaret's eyes widened. "Cousins? We're cousins? Ashton and I are related by blood?"
"Why, of course, Mag. You're second cousins once removed, I believe. Isn't that right, Eddie?"
Eddie and Lizzie exited the small parlor stiffly. Eddie's face was flushed red; Lizzie looked like a rabbit caught in car headlights, startled and frozen. They said nothing.
"Now, you two help poor Mag up to her room. I'm sure she misses her Ashton, as we all do. My own Mr. Giles passed away five years ago, and I do believe I miss him as much as ever."
Lizzie rolled her eyes. "Mother, please. It's not as if Ashton's dead." Her eyes flicked to Margaret, apologetic. "I'm sorry. But Ash will be back—he always comes back."
Eddie and Lizzie each took hold of one of Margaret's shoulders, Eddie using a little more pressure than absolutely necessary. They marched her up the stairs and into her room, the room she had shared with her husband just hours before.
A sudden, absurd thought sprang into Margaret's mind, fueled by exhaustion and her aching need for Ashton. She thought of penning a letter to an advice columnist. In her mind she could envision the column, typeset into a newspaper from a hundred and thirty years in the future.
Dear Abby,
I have enjoyed your column for years and can't believe I am actually writing you now. I have a problem I have never seen addressed by you. Perhaps other readers are in the same situation.
You see, some time ago I time-traveled back to the American Civil War. The good part is that I now inhabit the body of a beautiful southern belle and am married to the most magnificent man I could ever imagine. The bad news is that he is a Confederate general and I am a Yankee. Also, Dear Abby, he is a very good general. If he succeeds, if he even survives this war, there is a good chance the United States will be destroyed. I can probably help him defeat the Union troops he is facing and save his life. The cost would be the eventual end of the United States. That would be placing my own selfish happiness above that of the entire world. Can you imagine what would have happened in World Wars I and II without the United States? Can this marriage be saved?
M.J.
The Oaks
Amelia Station
(near Petersburg, Virginia)
1863
P.S. I have also just learned my husband and I are cousins. Will our children have webbed feet?
Just before Eddie closed the door to her bedroom, he saw a brief smile flit across Margaret's lovely mouth.
"Damn," he muttered to Lizzie in the hallway. "Ash is going to have my hide over this one."
He paused, a brilliant idea forming in his mind. He would simply tell his commanding officer the entire situation, and cross his fingers that his colonel would understand how important it was to the cause to post a man at The Oaks. His new sister-in-law needed to be watched. Carefully.
Ashton's men were delighted to see him. Some of the other high-ranking officers offered him some gentle ribbing on his marriage to the beauteous Mag, careful not to cross over the lines of ribald impropriety.
Their campsite was close enough to the Federals that they could hear the enemy's bugler at night. The Confederate pickets shouted over to the Union counterparts, issuing song requests, swapping gossip about women, asking to trade their plentiful tobacco for Union food and real coffee beans.
Ashton's aide-de-camp entered his tent with a crisp salute. "Sir," Sam Walker began, "the scouts have located the Yankees' main storage area. It is lightly guarded at the present time, and the men were wondering if you still plan on a midnight raid. The men are anxious for an answer, sir."
The bright-eyed eagerness of the youth made Ashton grin, and he stood and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "You tell them to get a few hours' rest. The raid is on, just as we mapped out."
"Yes, sir!" Sam began to leave the tent and paused, his hand holding the flap open. "Oh, and sir?" Ashton glanced at the younger man. "May I tell you how very pleased we ail are to have you back. Everyone's morale was sinking mighty low, and you have cheered them up faster than a Christmas turkey. If you understand my meaning, sir."
"I thank you, Sam." Ashton frowned slightly as his aide left. How would his men react if they knew he'd give just about anything in the world to have this cursed war over? And the fearful part was, he was getting to the point where he didn't give a damn who was victorious. He simply wanted to see an end to the slaughter.
Waffles, Ashton's horse, tapped the ground with his front hooves, ears flat against his sleek head. Ashton patted the animal as he peered through the field glass to the camp just beyond the creek. Even in the darkness he could sense his men waiting in the foliage, horses primed and trained.
This had to work. The blow to the Federal supplies had to be swift and certain; there was no time for indecision. Once he issued the command, there would be no turning back.
The time was just about right. A memory kept flitting in and out of his consciousness, of Margaret, her eyes moist with tears. Damn. He had to push the thought away.
The first thing he had done when he returned to his command was to order one of his best scouts back to The Oaks. For his own peace of mind, he needed to know that his wife was not a spy. How would she feel, knowing that her own husband trusted her so little that he would spare one of his precious scouts to prevent her from spying?
But part of him did trust her. He trusted her with his heart and soul, opened himself to her as he had never imagined possible. He had always felt secure in the knowledge that he was in love with Mag. Yet what he felt now, the way he found it hard to breathe when she was near, told him how wrong he had been.
It was only since she became so ill and recovered that he knew the true meaning of the word love.
A branch snapped, and Ashton turned angrily to the sound, his hand raised for silence. A few more clumsy noises like that, and they would all be guests of the United States Army. If they were lucky.
His mind returned to Margaret. Her smile, the way she fumbled with her hair. She hadn't done that before, it was a new habit and, as with everything about her, he found it enchanting. Again, he pushed her from his mind.
He held the field glass to his eye. The time was right. He felt the peculiar sensation of his heart turning over, it happened every time before a raid. The excitement. The fear. His hand raised higher, and he sensed his men positioning themselves. This had to work.
"Now!" he rasped, and from all sides there was a thundering of horses' hooves pounding the damp grass, the hollow clump when they passed over stone. Each man knew his target, each man thoroughly understood his specific duty in this raid.
There was a blur of flashing rifles in the dark, the shouts of his own men, and the gasps of the startled Federals. Everything was going as planned. Some of his men were already leading dozens of Union soldiers, some clad only in their long Johns, over the hill where more of his men were waiting to receive the prisoners.
Three of his raiders hurriedly stockpiled clothing, shoes and jackets and hats and as much underwear and blankets as they could carry. His men desperately needed the items. A barefoot cavalry would hardly spark fear in the enemy.
Others watched for the onslaught of Union troops that would sweep the area the instant they discovered what was happening. Ashton patrolled as the raid concluded, wandering behind a trio of tents, searching for any signs of trouble.
And within moments, he found it.
Even above the din of his own men and their activities, he heard the clattering of another cavalry just over the hill. The Yankees were on their way.
Ashton whirled Waffles around and galloped to the center of his frantic men. He whistled twice, the predetermined signal for the raid to conclude and for the party to dash as swiftly as possible to their own lines. Three extra lines of Confederate pickets were crouched in the bushes, readying as they heard the distinctive w
histle.
The mounted men swiftly began their retreat, and Ashton took one look around the camp before he himself escaped. There, right beside a dying campfire, he saw Wade Corbett, one of his newest recruits, struggling with a Union soldier. Corbett's horse was nowhere to be seen, and even in the darkness of the night Ashton could see the wild fear in young Corbett's eyes.
Ashton aimed his pistol, but the men were rolling around so much that he could not fix his target without his own man coming into the sight.
He could hear the voices of the Feds now, hissing in anger, and knew his time had evaporated. With a galloping sweep, he bent down and pulled Corbett into his own saddle, praying that the extra weight wouldn't slow Waffles down enough to cause their capture.
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