The Rebel Wife Read online

  He patted her hand resting on his bent arm. “Don’t worry. The trains will start running again. We’ll be in Elmira and with Lance before you know it.”

  We. Her belly knotted. It was time to tell him about her decision. No more shilly-shallying. “Jack, about that—”

  “Shhh. Let’s not talk about Lance or the train. It’s too nice of a day to worry about things we can’t control.”

  “But I have something I need to tell you.”

  “Later. The market is just ahead. Let’s enjoy a brief sojourn from our troubles, shall we?”

  By his cheery tone, a sojourn must be a good thing. She didn’t have the heart to deny him this small pleasure. Besides, the walkway was filling with people again. Better to wait until they had more privacy.

  He guided her into a long, open-air shed. From one end to the other, stalls displayed everything from ice-packed meat and fish to bins of apples, melons, and berries. There were as many people milling about as there were types of produce for sale.

  She collapsed her parasol and drew in a deep breath, savoring the pungent hodgepodge of aromas. “Mmmm. Don’t you just love that smell?”

  “What?” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “The odor of dead fish?”

  “No, silly. The smell of earth’s bounty.”

  “Smells more like earth’s—”

  “Jackson Porter!” A well-dressed man stepped into the aisle in front of them. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  A smile lit Jack’s face, and he extended a hand in greeting. “Mr. Abell, so nice to see you again, sir.”

  The older man shook Jack’s hand while eyeing her with friendly interest. “Are you in town visiting Elias?”

  She shifted uneasily under the man’s scrutiny. He appeared to know the Porters. Would that knowledge put her at risk?

  “Yes, we are.” Jack pressed a reassuring hand to the small of her back. “Kitty, may I present Mr. Abell, a long-time family friend. Sir, this is my wife.”

  “Well, well.” The older man doffed his hat and gave her a welcoming smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Porter.”

  She inclined her head. “Sir.”

  “Mr. Abell is the owner of The Baltimore Sun where I worked after graduation.” His voice rang with respect. “Learned everything I know about journalism from this man.”

  “I can’t take all the credit, Jackson. You appear to have done quite well since leaving us. By-lines in The Herald. Acclaimed as a brilliant War Correspondent. And not to mention a beautiful new wife.”

  Drat. Not the direction she wanted the conversation to drift. She adjusted the market basket on her arm. “I imagine you two would like some time alone to get reacquainted.” And talk about something else besides me. She glanced at a nearby produce stand. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll have a look at those apples.”

  Jack gave her a loving smile. “That’s fine. I won’t be long, dear.”

  Dear. Was he still playacting? She couldn’t be sure. The line between charade and truth was blurring faster than footprints in blowing sand.

  She lifted her skirt out of the sawdust and crossed to the produce stall. Dozens of shiny red apples filled the wooden bin. She picked one out to test for firmness. It had a bruise near the stem that would only get worse and spread. Just like Jack’s heartache if she allowed his feelings for her to grow.

  “Only one,” a stern female voice commanded.

  A few feet away, a young boy stood on tiptoe over a pickle barrel, his guardian watching him like a mother bear with a cub. His sleeve shoved to his elbow, the youngster beamed with excitement as he fished in the briny water. Most likely groping for the largest pickle he could lay his fingers on, just as she and Lance had done at the General Store in Richmond.

  “Got it!” The boy withdrew his dripping arm and held his prize aloft. And a grand pickle it was. One she and Lance would’ve been proud of netting.

  Her heart lurched. Would she reach Lance in time so they could make more such fond memories? She could only pray she would.

  As the boy and his guardian moved on, the prickling sensation of being watched raised the hairs at the back of her neck. It was the same eerie sensation she’d felt at Spivey Point, just before Bart had trapped her in the tack shed—and again in Richmond—days before Papa had been struck by a runaway carriage.

  The marketplace buzzed with shoppers, none of whom appeared to be paying her any attention. Jack and Mr. Abell were still absorbed in conversation. Were her fears getting the better of her?

  A gust blew across her face, hot and smothering, like Satan’s breath. She drew in a belly-deep slug of air, trying to fill her starving lungs.

  A hand closed on her elbow, and she jumped.

  “Has something upset you?” Jack asked.

  She swallowed. “No. Nothing. You just startled me is all.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to do that. We should get your honey and be on our way. Sally will have our hides if we’re late for dinner.”

  Fine with her. That strange sense of being watched still lingered. The sooner they left, the better. She angled closer to him as they continued down the aisle. Odd how she now trusted the man she’d once held at knifepoint.

  “So, how was your visit with Mr. Abell?” she asked, using small talk to take the corners off her edginess.

  “Very interesting. He offered me a job at The Sun if I decide to return to Baltimore after the War.”

  “Will you return?”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

  “The War won’t last forever...I hope.”

  “I hope not either.” He stopped in front of a produce stand and fished coins from his pocket. “Crock of honey,” he told the vendor.

  The man ducked under the counter and returned with a small clay crock. “Anything else, sir?”

  “That’ll do.” Jack paid the man, then placed the honey in her market basket. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” More than ready.

  He reached up and brushed a piece of straw off her arm. “You wanted to tell me something earlier?”

  The loud thud rang out. She flinched and jerked her head toward the sound. A vendor stood over a board he’d tossed onto the ground. Sawdust swirled around his feet.

  “Kitty?”

  She gave herself a mental shake. “It can wait.”

  “You seem skittish. Is something wrong?”

  Lordy, the last thing she needed was to give him a reason to insist on accompanying her to Elmira. A pack of blue uniforms ringing an oyster stand caught her eye. She faked a shudder. “It’s nothing. I’m just not comfortable being around so many Yankees.”

  The soldiers did make her uneasy. But not as much as the unknown, unseen threat.

  ****

  She closed the door to the bathing chamber and headed back to her bedroom. The sinfully long bath had been just what she needed. Clean and refreshing, the lavender scented water had cooled her sun-warmed skin and soothed her tense muscles. For the first time in days, she felt relaxed and rested.

  Clad in a borrowed robe, she stood before the bureau mirror and mopped her wet hair with a towel. The sweet scent of hydrangeas wafted through the nearby open window, reminding her of home and Lance. She’d give anything to be able to turn back the hands of time and be back at Spivey Point, enjoying the simpler, happier times with her family. Like the Christmas she and Lance had gathered and sold sprigs of mistletoe so they could purchase the fancy smoking pipe Papa had admired in a Richmond storefront. It was the same Christmas Lance had given her the lovely gold locket.

  Feeling lost without her necklace, she set down the towel and rummaged on the bureau-top. It wasn’t there. She pushed aside her brush, the desk clock, and the oil lamp. Nothing.

  She pulled open a drawer and rifled through the neatly folded garments. Gloves, handkerchiefs, and stockings, but no locket. She searched the other drawer. Not there either. She bent and checked the floor. The necklace hadn’t fallen. Where the
devil was it? She’d set it on the bureau before her bath.

  As she straightened, a movement in the mirror caught her eye. She whirled to find Lieutenant Calhoun shouldered against the end bedpost.

  “Looking for somethin’?” Sunlight cut through the parted chintz curtains, framing him in a bright halo and sparking off the locket.

  Her heart nearly leapt into her throat. With Jack and his granddaddy out running errands, she and Sally were alone in the house. And vulnerable.

  She snatched the edges of her robe together, clutching the gathers against her thudding chest. “How did you get in here?” she demanded in as stern a tone as she could muster.

  He shrugged, a carefree gesture that failed to reach his steely eyes. “I walked in.”

  “You couldn’t just...where is the housekeeper? Surely she didn’t let the likes of you just walk in.”

  “Perhaps she went a visitin’.”

  “She wouldn’t just up and leave without telling me.”

  “The behavior of Porter’s servants doesn’t concern me.” He snaked a tongue over his lips as though anticipating a tasty meal. “I have better things to occupy my time.”

  Fear clawed at her spine. She took several steps back until she reached the comforting hardness of the bureau. Hopefully he was alone, but just in case, she’d make sure no one got the jump on her from behind.

  “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  He gave her a lazy smile and twirled her necklace chain around his finger. “I came into town on an assignment. Caught sight of you at the marketplace and thought we might have a friendly little chat.”

  Someone had been watching her at the market. A polecat of a someone. She glared at him. “You want to chat? In my bedchamber?”

  “Why not? It’s cozier in here.”

  Cozier. That didn’t sound good. She squared herself, summoning a courage that was fast deserting her. “Get out. Before I call for someone to throw you out.”

  “Come now.” He widened his slick smile but remained braced against the bedpost. “You wouldn’t begrudge a war-weary soldier the pleasure of your company, now would ya, darlin’? You do owe me for those unkind words in the officer’s mess.”

  “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “You know...” He tilted his head to the side and studied her. “Ever since we met, I suspected somethin’ was odd about you.”

  Her pulse skipped in alarm. “There’s nothing odd about me.”

  “No?” His gaze roamed the length of her, leaving a slimy trail in its wake. “You don’t appear to be the type a prominent newspaperman would wed. A mistress perhaps, but not a wife.”

  “How dare you say such a thing.” She fisted the robe tighter to keep from slapping his smug face. Best not rile him and make things worse.

  “I dare a lot of things, darlin’. Just like you.”

  “We’re nothing alike.”

  “I beg to differ. We’re both pretendin’ to be somethin’ we’re not.”

  Sweet Mary. What did he know about her? She lifted her chin in a show of confidence while her stomach churned with rancid doubts. “I’m not pretending anything.”

  He glanced at her left hand and cocked an eyebrow.

  She rubbed her bare ring finger and cursed her lack of forethought. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”

  “No. But it sure does look peculiar. Rich man like Porter...” He looked around the bedchamber. “If you’re married as you claim, where are his things?”

  “Things?”

  “A spare shirt. Cologne. I only see female trappin’s in here.”

  “Our sleeping arrangements are none of your business.”

  “I doubt any man, includin’ Jackson Porter, would allow a woman as captivatin’ as you to sleep alone.” He pushed upright and regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Miss Carleton.”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. He knew. “C-Carleton?” She shook her head and forced a reply past a throat gone tight and dry. “You’re mistaken.”

  “I think not.” He jogged her locket in the air. “Why else would you carry the picture of a captured Reb in your locket—a Corporal Carleton, if I remember correctly?”

  He recognized Lance. This was bad. Very bad. “I know nothing about a Corporal Carleton.”

  “Are you denyin’ this locket is yours?”

  “No. It’s mine.” She held out a hand, keeping the other one fisted around her robe. “Give it to me.”

  He shoved the locket into his trouser pocket. “Soon enough, Miss Carleton.”

  “I am not that woman.”

  “Interestin’ that patrols are lookin’ for a Miss Lou Carleton, a purported spy and murderess.” His pale eyes scoured her from head to toe, lingering on her breasts before returning to her face. “A scrawny woman with bright hair.”

  Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Her ears rattled with the din. “Why do you keep calling me that? I’m not this Carleton woman.”

  “Didn’t you sail across the Potomac with your black buck and land at Tall Timbers?”

  How did he know about that? Ice swam in her veins. Had the Yankees tortured it out of Jeb? They couldn’t have. Loyal, faithful Jeb would never willingly give up such information. He’d die first. She swayed on unsteady legs. Jeb couldn’t be dead. He was strong and brave and full of life. He’d taught her so many things over the years. Like how to face-down a mean old badger they’d accidentally jumped up at Spivey Creek.

  She drew on the memory of Jeb’s courage to face the varmint in front of her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lieutenant.”

  “Maybe we ought to let the Baltimore Provost determine the truth of your claim.”

  “You have no right to detain me.”

  “Oh, I have every right. The city is under military rule. Has been since the start of the War. I can hold you as long as I please.”

  Hold her. Confined. Trapped like an animal. The open doorway beckoned. Freedom was only a short dash away. All she had to do was get past a six-foot rattlesnake. She sucked in a breath and prepared to run.

  “There’s no one to hear your scream,” he taunted, mistaking her intent. “I made sure of that.”

  He made sure of...

  She froze as his meaning took hold. “What have you done with Sally?”

  “Sally?”

  “The housekeeper.”

  “Eh, she’ll be fine.”

  Her fingers curled around an imaginary knife. Hers was across the room still sheathed in her boot. “Where is she? You’d best not have hurt her.”

  He hooked thumbs over his belt, fingers pointing to his groin in a suggestive manner. “We have more pressin’ matters to deal with than worryin’ about some old Negress.”

  Her stomach roiled at his oily tone. “Arrest me then,” she spat out. “If that’s why you came here.”

  “Oh, I will, darlin’. Make no bones about it.” He eyed her with the ferocity of a cat stalking a kill. “But first, I thought we might get to know each other a little better.”

  Get to know each other. Bile seared her throat. Bart had uttered those same words, just before he had attacked.

  “If you’re nice to me,” Calhoun added in a silky voice as he took a step toward her. “I could put in a good word with the Provost. Might make your incarceration easier to bear.”

  No. She would not be a victim again. Ever. She gathered herself to flee.

  Calhoun anticipated her move and blocked her path to the door. “Ah-ah-ah,” he clucked in warning. “You’re not goin’ anywhere just yet.”

  That’s what you think, bluebelly. She reached behind her, grasped the oil lamp, and with a jerk of her hand, tossed it at him. As he hunkered down to avoid the blow, she darted around him and raced for the door.

  The clatter of glass and Calhoun’s angry bellow followed her into the hallway. Heart thumping, she hiked up her robe and dashed down the stairs as fast as her feet could carry her. At the bottom, she turned and s
printed for the parlor and the doorway to the garden.

  Footfalls banged on the steps behind her. “You little whore. You’d best stop if you know what’s good for you!”

  She increased her pace and shot through the open doors and onto the terrace. The stone pavers lining the path bit into the pads of her bare feet. She pushed onward, ignoring the pain.

  The bend in the path and Saint Francis loomed ahead. Behind her, she could hear Calhoun’s labored breaths drawing closer. She risked a peek over her shoulder, then wished she hadn’t. The sight of his angry, lust-crazed expression turned her insides to stone. If he caught her—

  The glance cost her momentum. Calhoun dove for her. She thudded heavily to the ground, his hand clamped on her ankle. Her breath left her with a whoosh. Stars danced in her vision. Stunned, she worked to fill her lungs by taking rapid gulps of air.

  Calhoun’s hand raked up her leg, beneath her robe, fingers biting in the sensitive skin behind her knee. “Gotcha now, my feisty little filly.” He pushed up on one knee and loomed over her. “I’m gonna enjoy tamin’ you.”

  Bile again burned in her throat. Get away. Escape. Now.

  She kicked out, and her heel connected with soft flesh. He grunted in pain and for a brief moment, his hold loosened. She wriggled free and scrambled to her feet.

  Before she could move, he grabbed her waist and tugged her against him. Memories surfaced—of Bart’s arms crushing her chest. His body grinding against hers. His mouth on hers, bruising and demanding. His rough hands ripping at her clothing, touching her, invading her, and then the pain...

  No. No. No. Not again.

  She twisted in his grasp, flailing her arms in an effort to break free. Her fist connected with his chin. As he jerked back, she lunged forward. The motion carried them colliding into a solid object.

  She bounced to one side.

  Calhoun stumbled. A loud scraping noise filled the air. His expression turned horrified.

  “Get out of the way—” He threw up his arms, then careened into her, pushing her to the ground. Before she could roll free, he thumped atop her, his weight forcing the air from her lungs.