When he reached the top, he spotted the cedar chest in front of the small room’s only window. As he crossed the plank floor, something other than the musty odor of closed-off space snagged his senses. Cigarette smoke. He turned to scan the area. It probably had been a servant’s room at one time but was clearly used for storage now. Old chairs and crates, trunks, a broken table, stacks of newspapers.
Who would be smoking up here? Jim? Surely not any of the ladies, although last night at dinner, Miss Lydee had confessed she’d dipped snuff at one time. Probably nothing, but he’d report this to Mr. Carey.
Eight sat at dinner, the numbers perfect. Gillian, seated beside Reuben, kept the conversation lively, engaging everyone. Though her gaze kept wandering to Alex who sat opposite. Little tell-tale gestures let him know she didn’t admire Reuben, and he found that fact as palatable as the roast beef and creamed potatoes. Miss Maybelle sat between Alex and Cal with Miss Lydee on the other side and Julia at the end, her husband at the head.
The master and mistress of the house were clearly not enjoying themselves. Mr. Carey ate mechanically, staring off into space, lifting his fork, answering questions in monosyllables. The man was preoccupied with more pressing concerns. Alex would bet Mr. Carey didn’t know what his food tasted like.
A sour expression on Julia’s face revealed her mood, as well as the sharp darts she shot at her husband and Gillian.
Alex didn’t have to use his skills as an investigator to read his dinner companions. He had the feeling if the O’Grady sisters weren’t present, the meal would have been a somber affair.
Gillian turned the talk to her upcoming trip to Atlanta, as if she’d tired of home already, and was ready for something new. Should he tell her about his plans to travel to Atlanta? Maybe she could leave with him? No, she’d already rejected Reuben’s services as escort. Bringing up the subject would only serve to put her in a difficult situation and spur a barrage of uncomfortable questions he had no intention of talking about with everyone present.
Gillian abruptly changed the subject as she was apt to do. “Papa, the Rougets’ train will arrive next Thursday, and we won’t leave until Friday. Is there a room available for them to spend the night?”
Mr. Carey sent her a startled look from over his water glass. He set it down without drinking. “Yes, we have a guest room.”
From the end of the table Julia cleared her throat. “I don’t think it would be suitable to give servants the guest room. I’ll have Maudie clean out the old servants’ quarters. It’s really a larger room.”
Gillian sent a searing glare to her step-mother. “The Rougets are hardly servants. Jacque is a renowned chef.”
Julia laughed. “A chef, a cook, what’s the difference?”
Gillian turned her attention back to her father. “The Rougets can have my room for the night. I’ll take the guest room. I’m not a servant.”
Alex, along with the others had watched the exchange. It was highly unlikely these two women could live peacefully in the same house.
Mr. Carey’s sigh said he thought the same. “I’m sure we can work things out. Since we’ve finished eating, why don’t we go into the drawing room?” He threw his napkin down in his plate and nodded to his wife. She dutifully pushed up from the table, standing only long enough for the women to rise, then marched off as if a pack of demons chased her.
Alex fell behind the ladies, noting how Reuben staked out his claim to the seat beside Gillian. Speaking to her in low tones. Daring any other man to interfere.
He had a hard time keeping Gillian’s attention, though. Every time Reuben brought up a subject, she’d direct her comments to someone else. Alex could almost feel sorry for Reuben. Gillian wasn’t impressed with his overly effusive attempts at flattery. She valued transparency and honesty in a man, above all.
And genuine affection. He’d seen the hunger for affection in her eyes, and never had he wanted to give a woman affection more than now. But how could he offer her honesty without confessing that he was investigating her father or might be responsible for her brother’s death?
It was a blessing she couldn’t go with him to Atlanta. A blessing for her anyway. She didn’t yet know how she affected him, and some distance and time between them would save her from finding out.
Reuben finally ran out of compliments, and Gillian sprang from the sofa. “I promised Miss Lydee and Miss Maybelle I’d play and sing tonight, if no one has any objection.” She strode to the piano and began shuffling through the music, obviously not expecting any objections.
Reuben followed her like a puppy dog. “I’ll turn the pages for you.”
“Play some of the old war songs, Gillian.” Miss Maybelle spoke up. “It seems that all we hear now are dirges.”
“What a wonderful idea. Will sent me the music for several tunes, and I learned them by heart. They weren’t well received in Grandmother’s drawing room, but I loved them.” Gillian set the music sheets aside. “I don’t need the music, Reuben.” She ran her fingers over the keys. “Everyone, sing along.”
She began with Bonnie Blue Flag.
Alex kept time with his boot, though he didn’t join in. He loved music, and Gillian played well and sang better. Without stopping for breath, she went from one ditty to another. Johnny Comes Marching Home, Yellow Rose of Texas, and Eatin Goober Peas.
Gillian caught his gaze at the last stanza. “Alex, I don’t see you singing. I want everyone singing for this last one.” She ran over the first strands of Dixie.
The O’Grady sisters clapped and bobbed their heads to the beat.
Alex pushed away from the wall. This was actually one of his favorite tunes. Everyone sang except Reuben who took out a tin of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette.
He was about to strike a match, when Gillian paused. “Reuben would you take your smoking outside. I don’t mind Papa’s pipe, but for some reason I detest the smell of cigarettes.”
Miss Maybelle tutted. “I don’t favor the smell either but don’t know why. Y’all recall Father grew tobacco before the war. There is no odor as pleasant as tobacco leaves curing in the barn. Yet cigarette smoke stinks. I wonder why.”
“I think they add something to it when it’s ground.” Miss Lydee said.
“But what?” Miss Maybelle asked. “Stinkweed?”
Reuben bowed formally. “I accede to the ladies’ wishes and will smoke on the porch.” He smiled before taking his leave as if it didn’t bother him, but Alex knew it did. Very much.
Julia’s lips squeezed shut, her eyes shuttered like a cat watching a mouse hole.
Gillian rolled her hand across the piano keys to get everyone attention. She lifted a smile to Alex. “I’d like to dedicate the next song to Alex and Cal. Everyone may not know this one, so I’ll sing the verses. Just join me in the refrain.”
She began singing the haunting strains of The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Her blue eyes reflected the chandelier’s lights and her lips curved into an I’m-doing-this-to-please-you smile.
His eyes stayed focused on her mouth as she sang. What would it be like to kiss those full, luscious lips? Desire flared in him, and he forced his gaze away, but it kept wandering back until heat rose up his neck and beaded his brow with sweat.
Her beautiful voice mesmerized him as surprising emotion moistened his eyes. By the time the last Halleluiah sounded, the lump in his throat made it impossible to speak.
“Thank you, Miss Gillian.” Cal spoke for both of them. “That’s the prettiest I’ve ever heard that song.” He turned to Alex. “Why don’t you go get your trumpet and play something for the folks?”
Alex came to. “They don’t want to hear my squawking.”
“Don’t let him fool you. He’s been in the army band since he was a private. The band played at President Grant’s inaugural.”
“I, for one, would like to hear.” Gillian twisted around on the piano bench, smoothing her skirt, readying herself for his performance.
“I’ll
go get it.” Before Alex could stop him, Cal had rushed off.
While Cal was gone, Miss Lydee regaled them with a story about a former beau who tried to court her by playing the harmonica under her window at night, though the only tune he knew was Jimmy Crack Corn.
All too soon, Cal returned and shoved the trumpet into Alex’s hands. He cleared his throat and wet his dry lips. “I’ll just play one number and…ah…dedicate it to the belle of the ball.”
He knew the song to perfection, had played it a hundred times, but a new depth of feeling flowed from the strains of Stephen Foster’s best-known ballad, Beautiful Dreamer. Gillian held him in a steady gaze, her eyes soft, her lips slightly parted like he’d taken her to a dreamland.
When the music concluded, a silence hung over them for several seconds. Then Gillian burst out in loud clapping. Polite applause skipped around the room.
Alex pulled his gaze away from Gillian’s blue eyes. Reuben had returned. The look he gave Alex was one of contempt.
“I think we should retire for the night, Cal. We have to be up by six.” Alex nodded to his hosts. “Mrs. Carey, Mr. Carey, thank you for a delightful evening.” He turned to Gillian. “And to you, Miss Carey. Your voice will haunt me through my dreams.” He stepped back and bowed to the gathering. “Good-night all.”
Gillian touched the piano keys softly with a familiar cord. “Stay for one more.”
Her beautiful voice and the melody would have moved him, even if he hadn’t recognized it. He dropped into his chair and let the tune take him home. Shenandoah was a sailor’s song, telling the story of a fur trader who fell in love with the daughter of the Indian chief, Shenandoah.
He’d told her he came from Missouri, and the song referred to the Missouri River, but he was fairly certain he’d not mentioned that Shenandoah was his favorite tune. How did she know?
He closed his eyes to shut out all but her voice, flowing golden and thick as honey—a balm for the soul. She sang this particular song just for him, as he’d played Beautiful Dreamer for her.
Later, as he lay in bed, her voice continued to haunt him, finally lulling him to sleep. Then she appeared in his dreams, singing to him as he waltzed her around some grand ballroom. When he leaned in to kiss her, she disappeared. Suddenly, he was in the thick of battle, men falling on either side of him.
Click. A real gun cocked. Years of battle-hardened training made him react. He jerked on his side as a rifle blast jarred the air.
***
A loud bang jolted Gillian awake. She stared into the blackness, trying to decide which side of sleep the sharp sound came from. Had someone broken another window in the dead of night?
Footsteps pounded down the hall.
She threw back the thin sheet and sprang from bed, fumbling in the drawer of her bedside table for a match. After lighting the lamp, she found her robe. Without wasting time to find her slippers, she gripped the lamp’s handle, and made her way to the door.
Dark figures huddled at the end of the hall and male voices argued. As she got closer, she made out Papa, Jim, and Alex.
The door to the O’Grady sisters’ room opened, and Miss Maybelle stuck her head out. “What in the world?”
Papa whirled around. “Stay inside your room, Miss Maybelle. The culprit has fled, but keep your door shut.”
“What culprit?” Gillian held her lamp high. “What happened?”
“Someone shot the captain, dear. We’ll catch him, but you should stay in your room until morning.”
Now she saw blood spreading across Alex’s white nightshirt. “You’re injured.”
“It’s nothing.” A grimace belied Alex’s words.
Cal came out, stuffing his shirt inside his pants, a pistol tucked inside the waistband.
Papa was fully clothed, like he hadn’t retired for the night, although it must be well past midnight.
“Jim, you go with the lieutenant,” Papa ordered. Gillian expected them to rush down the hall. Instead they bounded toward the narrow stairs that led to the third floor.
“I should check outside.” Alex swayed.
Gillian clutched his arm. Had someone thought to call the doctor? “You should lie down.”
“Gillian’s right, captain,” Papa said. “I’ll fetch a doctor and look around on my way out.”
Alex scowled, but offered little protest as she urged him inside to his bed. When he stretched out, she lifted the lamp to get a better view and became truly alarmed. He’d lost a lot of blood. It had to be stopped. “Let me help you take off the shirt.” She tugged the sleeve over his hand.
He jerked his hand back and sat up. “What are you doing? I’m not dressed as it is.”
Heat rose in her cheeks, suddenly aware she stood here in a man’s bedroom, both of them dressed in their nightclothes. It couldn’t be helped though. His injury required urgent care, and she wasn’t going to let propriety stand in the way. “I grew up with three brothers. I’ve seen plenty of male chests before.” A man’s chest couldn’t be much different than a boy’s, could it?
A nervous giggle broke through her parted lips. “You have your long johns on. How can I inspect your wound if the shirt isn’t removed?” Not permitting any more silly objections, she pulled the sheet off. Maybe she could tear it into strips.
With a sharp intake of breath, Alex yanked the sheet out of her hands and fell back on his pillow, obviously exhausted.
His modesty irritated Gillian, but she couldn’t risk fighting him. Every time he moved his arm, the bleeding increased. She ran to the adjoining room and stripped the sheet off Cal’s bed. Eyeing a knife on the window sill, she grabbed it and rushed back to Alex.
He hadn’t moved. His head lay on the pillow, his eyes squinted shut. Stomping sounded from above, and his eyes shot open. She followed his gaze to the ceiling where light glimmered through a hole in the plaster. Papa should get that repaired.
She slashed the sheet and ripped it. “How did the assailant get into your room?”
“He didn’t.” Alex’s voice strained with obvious pain. “The shot came from up there.”
A chill sliced through Gillian. Someone had lain in wait up there to assassinate the captain. Here in Papa’s house. Now she understood why Cal and Jim had gone to the attic. They evidently didn’t find anything because the noise from their footsteps receded before she’d finished ripping the sheet into strips.
She unbuttoned Alex’s shirt. His jaw tightened, probably as much from aggravation as from pain, but he helped her get the shirt off his injured shoulder. Blood matted the fine dark hair of his chest. A magnificent, muscular chest that rose and fell normally.
Gillian stared longer than she should have. Apparently a grown man’s chest was different than a boy’s.
Blood covered his left side. She wasn’t very familiar with anatomy, but the heart was on the left, along with the stomach and some important blood vessels. With a wadded strip, she wiped the blood away, praying the puncture wasn’t near the heart.
It wasn’t. In fact, the gunshot hole was high on the shoulder, but it still pumped blood. Alex craned his neck to get a look. “It’s nothing but a flesh wound.”
“It’s more than that, I think.” Her forced smile felt like a too-tight corset. She wadded another strip and pressed it firmly over the puncture to stem the flow. “Have you been shot before?”
“No, but I’ve seen plenty of gunshot wounds. I did get nicked once by a bayonet.” He turned his arm over to show her the three-inch scar on the inside of his forearm.
She swatted at him. “Stop that. You’ll get it bleeding again.” She forced his arm back on the bed.
His gaze captured hers and a crooked smile quirked his lips. “Where did you learn to attend gunshot wounds?”
“I read a book about a man who went on a cattle drive. He got shot by rustlers, and his friend had to dig the bullet out.”
He had the nerve to laugh when she’d just saved his life. “I suppose with such fine medical education, I can tr
ust you, but I hope you don’t intend to dig the bullet out.”
“No, we’ll wait for the doctor, and anyway, the bullet went clear through you and the bed.” She rolled another strip and quickly replaced it for the soaked one. “Do you know who might have done this?” It occurred to her, instead of providing protection to the house, Alex might have brought the danger.
“I have no idea, but why did you have to goad Mr. Dabney by showing me favor and…flirting.”
She crooked a brow. “Flirting? Well, maybe I did use you to discourage Reuben.” She sent another glance to the ceiling. “Surely you don’t think Reuben shot you.” Her derisive laugh showed him what she thought of that. “Reuben may be the most boring man in the Georgia, but he wouldn’t have shot you over jealousy.”
“Men have been known to shoot another for less reason.”
“Well, believe me. It wasn’t Reuben. He wouldn’t have shot an army captain. He’s not that stupid.” Her stare held his green-flecked hazel eyes. “Do you have any enemies?”
“Everyone has enemies, Gillian. In some cases, we don’t know who they are.”
She bit the inside of her mouth. Something was going on inside this house, though Papa wouldn’t admit it. An urge to flee hit her. She wished she could leave for Atlanta. Tomorrow wouldn’t be too soon.
Chapter 9
An oppressive cloud of fear and suspicion enshrouded the house followed the shooting incident, making it as happy as a tomb. Neither the local authorities nor the army found the shooter.
Alex’s wound wasn’t serious, and he left on some army mission two days after the shooting—with his arm in a sling.
He didn’t even have the decency to tell her where he was going. Cal remained, but he was evasive, as if it were a big secret. She’d finally wheedled out of him that Alex had gone to Atlanta.
That shouldn’t bother her as much as it did. She’d let herself care too much for Alex.
Gillian had learned early how to guard her heart. From her father’s indifference. From her mother’s disappointment. From her schoolmates bullying. She’d learned her lesson well—recognizing and protecting herself from Lord Brimington’s insincerity.
The Captain's Challenge (The Wolf Deceivers Series Book 3) Page 9
