The Rebel Wife Page 7

  Perhaps a good slug of spirits would help settle her rattled nerves. “Yes, I would. Thank you, Major.”

  As the officer poured a generous dose into her glass, Porter gave her a pointed look across the table. “This is wonderful French wine, Major. Very potent. I’ll bet the effects can sneak up on you real quick if you’re not careful.”

  Brady chuckled. “Right you are. Very potent indeed. I only allow it to be served on special occasions.”

  Ignoring Porter’s warning glare, she took a healthy sip. She’d have more wine if she wanted. He had no hold over her.

  Frowning, Porter downed his wine and set the goblet on the table. “Where’d you come by such exclusive stock during wartime?”

  “Ah, the rewards of capturing blockade runners. More?” At Jack’s nod, Brady refreshed his drink. “A large crate was confiscated from a French schooner bound for Norfolk. I’ve no doubt some unhappy Virginia gentleman is settling for weak blackberry extract with his dinner right now.”

  No doubt. She shook her head, and her vision swam. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. Dratted wine was almost as potent as ol’ Carson’s corn liquor. Perhaps she should go easy with the spirit. Not that Porter was right. She just didn’t need her tongue loosened any further. One furious Yankee was enough. She stabbed another bite of crab. Adding something solid to her stomach should help tame the wine’s effects.

  Porter’s mouth turned up in a satisfied smile. She smiled back. Let him think what he would.

  “You’ll have to allow me access to this blockade runner, Major,” Jack stated. “I’d love to discover his French source.”

  Brady motioned for the dark-skinned soldier standing behind him to remove his plate. It seemed, even in the Union Army, Negroes were given the lowliest jobs. “I don’t think it’d be wise for you to question the prisoners, Mr. Porter.”

  She stilled her fork. How would they find Lance if they weren’t allowed to talk to the prisoners? She clamped her teeth around the question hopping on her tongue. She’d already drawn enough attention with her remark to Calhoun.

  Porter wiped his mouth, then set his napkin beside a plate nearly licked clean of crumbs. Man had a healthy appetite—for food and knowledge. He’d uncover the major’s reason for denying them access to the prisoners. No doubt about that. She knew first-hand how the newspaperman worried at a bone until it was gnawed clean.

  “Why shouldn’t I speak with the prisoners, sir?”

  “They’re known to embellish the truth. I would hate for you to be misled by falsehoods.”

  “I’ve become pretty adept at seeing through falsehoods.”

  “Perhaps so, but...”

  Jack cocked his head to the side, his gaze drifting over her before returning to the major. “I could make it worth your while.”

  Alarm shot through her at his words. It wasn’t what he said, but how he said it. Slowly. Deliberately. As if he held a nugget the major couldn’t resist.

  Maybe her, for instance?

  ****

  Shadows lined the pathway ahead, dark pockets perfect for hiding an ambusher. Calhoun, perhaps? She shifted closer to the protective presence beside her, then tensed. Was she trading one threat for another?

  Are we not friends, little Red? Have we not tendered cheer during times of distress? Protected one another from torment?

  They had been slick words. Spoken with a friendly tongue and compelling her to go against all good sense. Porter also had the gift of gab. She’d seen him practice it on several occasions, first with the farmwoman and again with Major Brady. Would he use his smooth-talking talent, as Bart had, for ill? It would be wise to learn more about him and avoid such trickery.

  “You shouldn’t have embarrassed Lieutenant Calhoun like that,” Jack admonished.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing moved in the darkness. She lowered her voice anyway. “What I should’ve done is stick a knife in the traitor’s back. Texan, my—”

  “Now, Kitty. We don’t want to get on the bad side of these men.”

  “Do they have another side?”

  He guided her around a large puddle. “We’ll learn more if we show them we can be trusted.”

  Porter? Trustworthy? When words cloaked in sheep’s wool rolled off his tongue? She gave a soft snort of derision.

  “What was that for?”

  “That what?”

  “That enchanting expression of cynicism?”

  “You were awful sociable with the Yankees, laughing, joking, toasting to their newborns.” She toed a rock and kicked it into the underbrush. “Makes a body wonder where to place one’s trust.”

  “Familiar with that old saying, ‘you catch more flies with honey’?”

  “Flies will light on garbage, too.”

  “True, and a good deal of what I say to them is just that. Rubbish. But it’s how I uncover information. Get friendly with them. Earn their confidence.” He reached up and pushed a low-hanging branch out of the way. It swished softly behind them when he released it. “Then they divulge secrets they wouldn’t have otherwise yielded.”

  Time for a little uncovering of her own. She adopted a curiously polite tone. “How long have you been a newspaperman?”

  “Since sixty-two, after my graduation from the University of Rochester.”

  “My, my, a college man. What’d you study?”

  “A liberal selection of classes...philosophy, law, economics.” His voice rose with enthusiasm. “I couldn’t get enough of books and the knowledge they contained. Enrolled in every course the administrator allowed me to take.”

  Hmmph. People were more fascinating than dumb ol’ books. “I imagine you had lots of friends.”

  “A few. Until the War started and Lincoln called for volunteers. Most of the students left to enlist.”

  “But you couldn’t because of your eye?”

  “That was one reason.”

  Muscles bunched beneath her fingertips. What was it about his eye? Just mention it, and he got pricklier than a hedgehog. “How’d you injure it?”

  “Bar fight,” he answered in a clipped tone.

  She cut a glance at him. His jaw was clamped tight as a bear trap. Nothing more would be said on that subject. Still, she itched to ask more. When had it happened and where? What had the fight been about? He didn’t seem to be the type to go around getting into bar brawls. Perhaps there was more to Jackson Porter than she thought—things that should make her wary.

  A breeze swept down the path, and she clamped a hand atop the pretty blue bonnet she’d bought along with a new dress at the sutler’s. Porter said the color brought out the highlights in her eyes. Had he been play acting for the clerk’s benefit, or...

  A ribbon of gold flashed in the sky and then disappeared, a warning beacon from the nearby lighthouse. Was it a warning for her as well? Despite the warm evening, a shiver coursed through her.

  “Are you taking chill?”

  Lordy, even with one eye covered, he noticed everything. “No. I’m fine. It’s been a long day, and I’m just played out.”

  “At least you’ll sleep on a nice comfortable bed, courtesy of Major Brady.”

  Speaking of which... “I got the impression you knew the major before the War.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “You seemed quite at ease with him. Like you were old friends.”

  “As I said before, it’s how I acquire information.”

  She regarded him out of the corner of her eye, watching for any hint of deception. “Get close to them.”

  “Yes.” His expression remained vague as the dusky woods.

  Moonlight peeked through a break in the clouds, revealing the colony of summer cottages ahead. She slowed, not ready to surrender the freedom of the outdoors or her questioning just yet. “I’m curious about something.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You told the major you’d make it worth his while to let you speak with the prisoners.” She stopped and faced
him. She wanted to see his reaction full on. “What did you mean by that?”

  “Any number of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Money. A favorable article on his prison. Whatever I can provide that he wants.”

  “Like...oh, maybe...me?”

  “You?” He glanced over his shoulder, then moved closer, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper. “I promised I wouldn’t give you up to them. I always keep my word.”

  She got a quick picture of him making merry with the Yankee officers in the mess hall. Friendly. Accepted. One of the pack. “I just can’t...”

  “It’s a little too late to be questioning your decision to play my wife, isn’t it?” Lines furrowed his brow. “You’ve trusted me this far, Kitty. What’s changed?”

  She motioned at the surrounding woods. “This.”

  “This what?”

  “This camp, this narrow spit of land.” A dozen sharp-clawed hens took to scratching for bugs in her belly. “On the ride here, there was always a way to escape if need be. But, now...”

  His frown deepened. “And what about your trustworthiness?”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes, yours. How do I know I can trust you? You’ve only given evasive answers regarding your reason for coming here.”

  She lifted her chin, letting anger soothe her unease. “You don’t need to know my private affairs. It wasn’t part of our agreement.”

  “I beg to differ. In case you’ve forgotten, I could be imprisoned for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”

  “Well then, I s’pose that leaves us at a draw, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it does.”

  Fury bubbled inside her at his haughty tone. “Perhaps we should just end this silly charade and be done with our doubts.” Without waiting for his reply, she gathered her skirt and brushed past him.

  As she stomped down the path, sanity pounded behind her. Why, oh, why couldn’t she hold her tongue? What if he decided to take her up on her foolish suggestion? Where would she be then? What about Lance and Jeb?

  Frustrated with her rashness, she dashed up the stairs and pushed inside their cottage. Only a thin shaft of moonlight stabbed through the gloom. Shadows hung in the corners like ambushers waiting to attack.

  A familiar fist of fear clamped around her throat. She skidded to a halt. The room remained quiet and still. The only sounds were the reassuring call of night insects drifting through the open door behind her.

  She pushed out a breath. She’d always preferred the outdoors. But ever since Bart had trapped her in that shed, the need to be unconfined nearly strangled her.

  A shadow fell across the floor.

  She whirled, unable to contain a gasp even though she knew it had to be Porter. Her vision blurred. The figure in the doorway distorted, wavering and shrinking and changing to a man of smaller build. Dark hair turned light. Chiseled features plumped. Her mouth went dry. Bart.

  Boot heels thudded across the floor, matching the rapid thump of her pulse. She stood there unable to move, her limbs frozen. Then came the soft hiss of a match, and golden lamplight flooded the room.

  “Kitty.”

  Darkness turned to gray and slowly brightened. She blinked and blinked again. A taller, slimmer man stood by the sideboard, his eye covered with a patch. Jack.

  “I am not your enemy, Kitty.”

  How could she be sure? Had something deep inside her twisted Jack into the image of Bart as a warning? Feeling returned to her legs. She took a step back, and another, until her thighs pressed into the side of an arm chair.

  Jack shifted as if about to move forward, then stopped, hands clamped to his sides. A scowl rutted his brow. “You’re not just angry, you are afraid of me. Why?”

  She wanted to swallow, but her mouth was drained as a summer pond. “I...You...” She drew in a calming breath. “I just know so little about you.”

  His scowl softened. “What would you like to know?”

  Everything. Nothing. Her wits were as muddled as how she saw words on a page. “I-I’m not sure.”

  “Well, you know about my profession.” He pointed to the decanter of whiskey on the sideboard. “Would you like a drink?”

  She shook her head. Spirits would only add to the scramble in her head. She stepped sideways and sank onto the chair.

  The soft gurgle of pouring whiskey rose up. Jack faced her, drink in hand. “Just so there is no confusion, I do trust you.”

  Her fingers suddenly captured her attention. Hangnails were ever more fascinating than hawk-like stares. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He went silent for a few seconds as if waiting for more. She didn’t have more to give him. Not yet.

  He cleared his throat. “As for learning more about me, I told you a little about my grandfather during our ride here.”

  “The odd one. Who said you squirmed worse than a worm in hot ashes. Is he still alive?”

  “Very much so. He lives in Baltimore.”

  “And his wife? Your grandmamma?”

  “She passed long before I was born. Grandfather says I have her coloring. The Halliday dark hair and dark eyes.” Jack chuckled. “He called us his little gypsies.”

  His easy manner and openness tamed the paw scratching at her insides. She looked up and met his warm gaze. “Do you get to visit him very much?”

  He took a sip of whiskey and then another. His attention shifted to the far window. His expression turned dark as if shadowed by a passing cloud. Did thoughts of his family cause him pain?

  “I try to visit,” he finally answered. “My job leaves me little time for social calls.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They died when I was just a boy. In an accident.”

  His tone warbled slightly, and her heart went out to him. She knew how painful losing a parent could be. To lose both of them at the same time? A bridge stretched between them, a connection she felt straight to her core. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “No need to be. It was a long time ago.”

  “You must miss them.” She knew from experience that ache never fully receded.

  “I do miss them. But I found other things to fill my life.”

  Things? Like a pet? “Such as?”

  “Books, the theatre. My writing.”

  A woman? “Have you ever been in love?” The words darted out before she could stop them. She snapped her mouth shut with a click of her teeth. Now where had that notion come from? She had no reason to ask such a personal question.

  His gaze brushed over her, slow and gentle with a whisper of heat. No ice filled her veins. No panic fluttered in her breast. Just a soft, pleasing warmth swelled inside her.

  Jack might be educated like Bart. Might have the gift of gab like him. Yet instead of repulsion, he filled her with a sweet, tender yearning.

  He opened his mouth as if to answer her question, but the bark of gunfire cut him off. The noise rattled the windows and sent her heart hurtling against her ribs.

  Jack slammed his glass onto the sideboard. “Stay here,” he warned, before sprinting out the door and down the steps, leaving her alone and defenseless and aching for his answer.

  Chapter Six

  Fifty-one. Fifty-two...

  She stilled her brushing. What good would a hundred strokes do? She’d have shiny locks, but those green eyes in the mirror’s reflection would still look the same. Haunted. Lifeless. Cheeks, once rosy with life, were pale and sunken. Papa had called her his little beauty. If he could see her now, would he make the same claim?

  She shifted uneasily on the bench. Would any man think her pretty? Would Jack? She’d often dreamed of finding a man who would look beyond her flaws and love her for herself. Could Jack be such a man? Was he even capable of love? He never had the chance to reply to her question before dashing out the door. Now that some time had passed, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to hear his answer. She couldn’t handle any more disappointments.

  Lamplight win
ked on the locket nestled between her breasts. Lance had given her the necklace one Christmas. Threaded onto a thin gold chain, it held her brother’s picture and reminded her why she was here. She tightened her grip on the brush handle. She couldn’t waste time on foolish notions. Lance and Jeb needed her. Her needs, her desires, would have to wait.

  A flash of lightning lit the bedroom, followed instantly by the boom of thunder. Out of habit, she doused the lamp. Papa could easily calm rebellious slaves. He could beard the Lawrences in their den and come out unscathed. But he couldn’t deal with thunderstorms. They terrified him. Whenever one approached, he made everyone sit in the darkened parlor, no talking, no playing. Noise and light drew the storm, he’d said. Odd reaction for a book-learned man. Belle told them as a child, he’d been knocked from an apple tree by a bolt from heaven. One minute he’d been swinging from a branch. The next, he was lying flat on the ground, looking up at the sky, the breath knocked from him. Reckon something that horrifying would put the fear into anyone.

  The creak of door hinges rasped into her thoughts.

  She froze as the chilling image of Calhoun, red-faced and stomping out of the mess hall, rose in her mind. She set down her brush and reached for the lamp, a sturdier weapon should she need it.

  “J-Jack? Is that you?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I should’ve called out.” The door clicked shut. “I thought you’d be asleep by now and didn’t want to wake you.”

  She relaxed her grip on the lamp. “I was too worried about those gunshots to sleep.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine. Go on to bed. I’ll make a pallet here in the living room to sleep on.”

  Not just yet, Mister Dash-out-the-door Porter. She crossed to the open doorway. He stood near the settee, his attention focused on unbuttoning his shirt. She recalled his nakedness when she’d held him at knife point. Sleek muscles flexing beneath smooth skin. Dark hair dotting his broad chest. Her stomach did an odd little flip, and she pressed a hand to calm it.

  She must’ve made a noise because he halted his task and looked up, his intense gaze finding her in the doorway. Heat surged up her neck and into her ears at being caught staring.