The Rebel Wife Page 11

  Damnation. He sank back onto the cot and cupped his throbbing temple. “This is not good.”

  “No, it isn’t. But there’s not much we can do about it.” She abandoned her tidying and hefted her satchel off the floor. “Eat. Wash and get dressed. I’ll meet you on the deck.”

  She was one resilient lady. If it weren’t for her help the night before, he might’ve ended up as fish food. “Kitty...”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Thank you for last night. I appreciate everything you did for me.”

  Her gaze flitted to his knapsack tucked under the bed. Her frown deepened. “I didn’t help all that much.”

  She hadn’t been able to distract him by reading aloud. She couldn’t read well. That explained her odd reaction to the leaflet the major had given her. What other secrets did she conceal?

  “You helped more than you know.”

  “I’m glad.” Her sunny smile returned. “That’s what friends are for.” She turned and headed for the door, back straight, hips swaying gently against the rock of the moored ship.

  Heat swelled in his loins. He wanted her. Wanted to uncover every one of her fascinating secrets. Perhaps once all of this was over, they’d see if there could be more between them than just friendship.

  Fifteen minutes later, he headed for the deck, bathed, dressed, and a bellyful of invigorating coffee. Funny how his fake wife knew exactly what he needed.

  He found her standing near the rail with Captain Ahern, one gloved hand holding down her straw bonnet, the other restraining her skirts from the wind. Such an exquisite figure should be gowned in silk, frilly lace, and jewels. Things he couldn’t afford to give her; not on his meager income.

  She caught sight of him and smiled. “Here he is now.”

  The captain turned and gave him a nod. “Good morning, Mr. Porter. Recovered from your bout o’ seasickness, I see.”

  Seasickness? More like brain sickness. “Yes, I have. Thank you for allowing me to stay aboard and recuperate, Captain.”

  The seaman flicked a dismissive hand. “It was no bother. We had wares to unload. Besides, your wife is as persuasive as she is beautiful.”

  He nodded in agreement. “That she is.”

  A pretty blush stained her cheeks, and she tucked a hand on his elbow. “We should be on our way, Dear. Get settled at your granddaddy’s house before suppertime.”

  Damn. He’d hoped she wouldn’t remember him telling her his grandfather lived in Baltimore. Too late now.

  Ahern lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “You have family living here?”

  “My grandfather, Elias Porter.”

  “Ah yes, Elias. Freighted many a shipment for the man. Fine businessman, but a wee bit set in his ways.”

  You can say that again. He bent and plucked Kitty’s satchel off the deck. “Yes, well, as my wife said, we should be going. Thank you again for your help, Captain.”

  “Glad I could be of service. Enjoy your stay in Baltimore.”

  Not likely. He guided Kitty down the walkway to the pier below. Broad-shouldered stevedores swarmed like ants around an anthill, loading and unloading cargo while the ship captains looked on, barking occasional orders. A noisy group of disembarking passengers filed down a nearby ramp, adding to the commotion.

  “What’s that?” Kitty pointed an object shimmering in the distance. “A fortress of some kind?”

  “That’s Fort McHenry. Fifty years ago, soldiers stationed there held off an invading British fleet. Sir Francis Scott Key wrote The Star Spangled Banner while watching from the shore.”

  “Ah, the Yankee war song. Not so popular down south.”

  He chuckled and steered her around a stack of crates. “When I was younger, Grandfather would take me on trips to explore the garrison. Fascinating place.” His chest tightened as the memories rushed in, the long discussions, the picnic lunches. What he wouldn’t give to have those idyllic days back again.

  “What powerful fun you must’ve had. Lance and I would’ve been happy as clams at high tide in such a place.”

  He smiled at her turn-of-phrase. How had such a firecracker become his anchor? He didn’t want to think about what he’d do when she was gone. “It was powerful fun, as you say. I used to pretend I was bombarding the British ships with cannonballs just as my great-grandfather had done.”

  “Your great-granddaddy was a soldier?”

  “He commanded one of the artillery regiments. Unfortunately, he was fatally struck by shrapnel. He held on long enough to lead his men to victory. Died as the last of the British ships left the harbor.”

  “You must be proud of him.”

  “I am. I only wish I could have known him.”

  “I know what you mean. I wish I could’ve—” She tightened her grip on his arm, eyes going wide as saucers. “Oh, no.”

  He glanced around to see what had alarmed her. A small contingent of soldiers blocked the entrance to the pier and were ordering the approaching crowd to line up, papers in hand.

  “Relax,” he warned softly. “The soldiers are no threat. I have transit papers.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not the soldiers.”

  “What then?”

  She turned her back to the quay. “Over by that small shed on the mainland. The well-dressed man standing in the doorway. He knows who I am.”

  Gripes. He swiveled his head slowly as though taking in the wharf. A tall, slender man stood shouldered against the doorjamb, a glowing cheroot clasped between his lips. Dark trousers and a tweed jacket indicated a more refined gentleman, though the wary eyes scanning the crowd were those of a street-wise ruffian.

  “Who is he?”

  Trembling fingers adjusted the laces of her bonnet. “We sailed together on the blockade runner crossing the Potomac. Said his name was Smith.”

  “Did he say what business he had in Maryland?”

  “He didn’t say much a’tall. We parted ways when we landed at Tall Timbers.” She stilled her fidgeting, the color draining from her face. “Do you think he’ll give me away?”

  “If he’s here for illicit reasons, revealing your identity will reveal his. I don’t think you have anything to fear from him.” However, an anonymous note sent to the city Provost should arrest any potential problems.

  “I pray you’re right.”

  “I’m sure of it. Just act normal. We’ll soon have our papers checked and be on our way.”

  As they moved forward, another batch of debarking passengers surged around them. Someone bumped into him. An elbow jabbed his back. Before he could turn, the barest hint of a tug jostled his jacket.

  His skin rippled in alarm.

  He yanked his head around. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a pint-sized figure disappearing behind a pile of crates.

  No. Hell no. He swiped a frantic hand inside his pocket. Nothing. He’d been robbed. Picked clean as a chicken bone at a charity kitchen.

  Damnation. Bad enough he had to swallow his pride and ask Elias to put them up for a few days. Now he’d have to ask for money, too.

  Chapter Nine

  Though the doors were cast wide open, little air circulated in the stuffy parlor. The drapes hung like wilted fronds at the windows, in desperate need of a drink. Like her. She fanned her sizzling skin. Perspiration trickled between her breasts and further dampened her sweat-soaked chemise. Lordy, even at dusk, the July heat was suffocating.

  Outside the doors, a maze of rose bushes, hedges, and summer flowers lined a graveled path that disappeared into the gardens. What she wouldn’t give to grab a pair of gloves and a hoe and dive into the little oasis. Let the hard work take her mind off the heat and Lance and Jeb and her attraction to Jack Porter.

  Yet, she knew better. Her troubles would intrude. They always did.

  Footfalls sounded behind her. Then came the rasp of a glass stopper and the tinkle of pouring liquid. But no conversation. Not that she expected any. Jack and his granddaddy remained silent, just as the
y had since she and Jack had arrived at the townhouse, and all through the awkward supper meal. The only time they’d spoken was when the two men closeted themselves in the study. To discuss her.

  Jack had decided it would be best if they told his granddaddy the truth. The shrewd badger would see right through their sham. He might grumble about being put in the position of housing a fugitive, but he wouldn’t turn her in. He hated the War almost as much as he hated the politicians who started it. Louisa gave a soft grunt. Grumble about housing her? From the heated voices that’d poured through the study door, it sounded more like the roar of an angry bear.

  She turned to find Jack standing near the sideboard, one hand fisted around a glass of brandy. Jaw muscles twitched beneath smooth shaven skin as he stared beyond her into the courtyard. He was definitely out of sorts. His face twisted into a scowl, then with a jerk of his hand, he downed the drink and reached to pour more.

  She frowned. Surely such carrying-on wasn’t good. Especially after his excess the night before. The quarrelling appeared to be equally unhealthy for Jack’s granddaddy. The older man’s face had a gray pallor, as if he’d recently taken ill. Rattle-headed men.

  A slender Negro woman appeared in the far doorway, her gray hair scraped into a bun at her nape. Shrewd brown eyes scanned the room, then settled on the elder Porter sitting in a chair near the hearth. “’Scuse me, Mister P. Will you be wantin’ yer usual game of checkers this evenin’, sir?”

  Mr. Porter glanced at Jack, gave an ill-humored grunt, then shifted his attention to her. “What about you, Miss Carleton? Do you play checkers?” He mashed his lips into a thin line. “It’d be nice to have someone else to play with. Usually all I have is Sally.” He grunted again. “And the blasted woman cheats.”

  Her chest tightened with a familiar tug. Checkers. She and Papa had spent many an evening bent over a game board he’d fashioned from a discarded plank of wood. He’d taught her all about strategy and reading people. She wished he was here now to give her some pointers. He’d know how to deal with stubborn, feuding men.

  “I’d love to play, Mr. Porter.” She fanned at her face. “However, I am feeling a little warm. Perhaps Jack and I can take a stroll through the garden first.”

  “Wonderful,” the elderly man replied. “You go ahead. Sally and I will set up the board while you’re gone.”

  One Porter taken care of. Now for the other. Jack’s piercing gaze tunneled into her, making the summer heat feel almost tepid. He set down his empty glass and in four stiff strides, reached her side.

  He gave a brisk wave at the doorway. “After you, Miss Carleton.”

  Though his tone was cordial, the underlying tension was thick as month-old molasses. She brushed past him. This wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all.

  Once outside on the terrace, she rounded on him, hands planted on her hips. “What has you so prickly, Jack? You’ve been acting like a caged animal since we arrived, glowering at everyone, pacing the floor.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing my...Is it me?”

  “You?”

  “Is my being here causing you and your granddaddy to be at odds?”

  “Our quarrel goes back many years.”

  She cupped his arm in a soothing gesture. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Muscle twitched beneath her fingertips. He glanced down at her hand, then over at the open doorway. His frown deepened. “There’s nothing you can do. This is for Grandfather and me to sort out.”

  “But I’d like to help. I owe you for all you’ve done.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.” He swept her hand off his arm and tugged her forward. “Let’s continue with that stroll you so needed.”

  She dug in her heels, slowing his headlong dash. “Stroll, Jack. Not a footrace.”

  He said nothing, merely adjusted his pace and continued down the path. Though improper, she let him keep hold of her hand. Something told her he needed an anchor. Lord knew she’d relied on his strength often enough.

  They rounded a bend in the path and came upon a life-sized statue of a priest with a bird perched on his shoulder. Saint Francis of Assisi, if she remembered correctly from her stolen moments in the Lawrence library.

  “I didn’t realize you were Catholic,” she said.

  “We’re not. The statue came with the property. Grandfather took a liking to the priestly saint who condemned violence and war and decided to keep it.” He guided her around the leaning figure. “Don’t get too close.” He pointed to the crumbling base. “As you can see, it needs repair and is quite unstable.”

  “I do hope you’re able to repair it. It reminds me of the statues at The Louvre.”

  “The Louvre? I thought Maryland was the farthest east you’d been.”

  “It is. I saw drawings in a picture book. It amazes me how anyone can carve such tiny designs in stone.” She trailed a finger over a pink hydrangea blossom. “I wouldn’t have the patience.”

  “Hmmph. I have little patience with many things.”

  The pathway opened up onto a small clearing with a circle of stone pavers at its center. Rose bushes of varying colors and sizes surrounded the quad. It reminded her of Mrs. Lawrence and the Spivey Point gardens. Woe to anyone who, accidentally or not, damaged her prized blooms.

  Jack released her hand and motioned to a wooden bench tucked beneath a vine covered arbor. “Please, have a seat. We should be able to catch a bit of the breeze coming off the water.”

  She hesitated. Trouble always seemed to find her in confined spaces.

  “Kitty?”

  “Um...sure.” She moved to the bench and sat on the edge, ready to spring up if the need arose.

  A warm breeze played through the canes, sending a sweet flowery aroma wafting around her. She drew in a deep breath and relaxed. Any place that smelled this nice couldn’t be but so bad.

  Hands tucked behind his back, Jack strode to the edge of the clearing, paused to stare at the distant harbor, then stalked back, his boot heels grinding into the pavers.

  Man was definitely rattle-headed. She patted the space beside her. “Won’t you join me, Jack? Surely you must be plumb tuckered out from all that pacing.”

  He stopped in front of her, a wry smile tipping his lips. “Ever the concerned wife.”

  “I am concerned. But I’m not your wife.”

  “No, but you play the part well.” He sat beside her, his thigh pressing intimately into her skirts. “Very well, I might add.”

  Ill-at-ease with his closeness but unwilling to add to his fluster by moving, she worked at smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her gown. “As you said, I play the part. Pretending is easy, if you put your mind to it.”

  “But you go beyond the call of duty.”

  Lordy, was he aware of her oh-so-wifely attraction to him? She kept her focus on the folds of her skirt, so her eyes wouldn’t betray her feelings. “How so?”

  “For one, you helped me through my attack on the ship when you didn’t have to.”

  “I only did what needed to be done.”

  “You could’ve gone to Captain Ahern and requested one of the sailors to look after me.”

  His tender tone pulled at her. She looked up, her pulse jumping as it always did when their gazes met. “You were out of your head with drink. What if you’d jabbered my real name by mistake? Besides, I wanted to help. I know what it’s like to be frightened of something.”

  “What could scare a tough, little Reb like you?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “This I have to hear.”

  Perhaps if she opened up, he’d do the same. Then she could discover the reason for the quarrel between him and his granddaddy and maybe help them get beyond it. She owed Jack that much for all he’d done for her.

  “I used to be a very curious child. Went full-chisel at everything.”

  A teasing glint lit his eye. “Used to?”

  “Do you want to hear my story or not?”

/>   “Please, go on.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “I promise to be quiet.”

  Hmmph, just like the sun promised not to shine. She gave him a pointed look, then continued. “Fannie had boasted of staying in the root cellar overnight, a place the house servants claimed to be haunted. I decided if prissy Fannie Lawrence could face a ghost, so could I. So, I mustered up my courage and went down that dark, rickety stairway.”

  She grimaced inwardly. Going into that cellar was a picnic compared to what she’d endured in the tack shed. “I almost turned back twice, but I wasn’t about to let Fannie win. My knees were shaking, and I had to hold onto the stair railing just to stay on my feet.”

  “That frightening was it?”

  She shook her head. “I’d never put much stock in all those stories, but at that moment, in the dark, I believed every one of them. And admitting that the demons must be real, made everything that much worse. I scrambled for the exit, only to find someone, most likely that mean, ol’ goat Fannie, had bolted the door.”

  He gave a soft cluck. “Poor little chick. Is that why you always seek the exits when you enter a room?”

  Lordy, he didn’t miss a thing. “I imagine it is,” she said, unwilling to reveal the truth about her fear of confined spaces. “I had nightmares for weeks afterwards. Belle would sit by my bed and hold my hand until I fell asleep.”

  “Like you did for me.”

  “Having someone nearby comforted me. I could only assume it would help you, too.”

  “It did. More than you know.”

  He leaned toward her, and before she could stop him, he pressed his lips to hers. Gentle at first, then more demanding when she didn’t resist. How could she resist? His kiss was like a pirate ship running a blockade. Swift and bold. Unstoppable.

  Tingles sailed delightfully along her neck and down her spine. Her lips, having a mind of their own, parted. His tongue delved inside with a daring swipe. He tasted of tobacco and after-dinner brandy. Her head swam. Potent stuff, his kiss.

  A bluejay’s shrill squawk brought her back to port. She stiffened. What was she doing? Giving her desires free reign with Porter was the last thing she needed.