by Jo Goodman
These same cautious and considering men never hesitated to use Logan Marshall. His youthful exuberance, his immature belief that he was somehow charmed, that death couldn't happen to him, made him ideal for risky missions. They planned; he performed. In general it was a happy arrangement. Easy-going and adventurous, Logan Marshall was still growing into himself.
Logan shifted the packet he carried from his right hand to his left. As he raised his fist to knock at the door to the Allen home, he heard a high-pitched giggle from the garden area at the side of the house. He grinned and lowered his hand. It couldn't hurt to allow himself to be sidetracked for a few minutes. Stepping down from the stoop, he circled to the side.
He saw Megan immediately. Her smile was coy, her eyes downcast at just the right angle to affect surprise at his entrance. Logan wasn't fooled. He supposed she had seen him sometime before he reached the house. He was more surprised to see her. The heady giggle that had drawn him like a magnet hadn't belonged to Megan.
He tipped his hat and made a small bow while his eyes darted around the garden. "Where is she? I know I heard the little witch cackle."
"Witch!" Mary Catherine's head bobbed up from behind the stone bench where her sister was sitting. "That's very mean of you, Logan Marshall! I am not a witch!"
"You are. Come here, Katy McCleary. Give me a kiss and I will prove it to you." He hunkered down, his saber jabbing at the ground, while Mary Catherine ran into his outstretched arms.
Megan folded her parasol and tapped it impatiently as she considered the merits of strangling her sister. Logan, she decided, was making a perfect ass of himself, though she tried to pretend that he wasn't.
It was difficult, since at the moment Mary Catherine kissed him, he began jumping around the yard as if he were a hop toad. His hat fell off and he dropped his packet, but neither of these things lessened his hopping frenzy.
"I must be a witch after all," Mary Catherine said, awed and thrilled by her power. Her eyes widened as Logan sighted an unsuspecting fly and hopped in for the kill. Was he really going to eat it? "Oh, Megan! Save him. Do something!"
"Save him? What on earth do you propose I do?" She had a good mind to hit him on the head with her parasol. Really, she thought, did he think he was amusing?
"Kiss him, silly," Mary Catherine said practically. "Change him back into a prince!" She blushed a little, having admitted that she thought Logan was a prince. Her eyes darted quickly from Logan to Megan and was relieved to know they didn't attach any importance to her confession. "Go on, Meg. How else is he going to—"
"Mary Catherine," Megan said quellingly. "You take the oddest notions in your head."
Mary Catherine sucked in her upper lip, biting it as Logan edged closer to the fly. "Do it, Megan! Quick! Before he—" She squeezed her eyes shut, hopped on one foot, and pulled both her braids in an alternating rhythm when she thought Logan was going to pounce.
"Oh, very well," Megan sighed. With little enthusiasm for the task, she bent and placed a kiss on Logan's forehead.
By Mary Catherine's count ten seconds passed before she ventured a peek. She was no longer hopping madly or tugging her braids. She had quieted when it seemed as though the very air had stilled.
The fragrance of the garden was more noticeable now. The scent of lilac and rose combined in a heady mixture. She breathed slowly, deeply, and raised her lashes the least degree necessary to view what was happening.
Logan and Megan were standing toe to tiptoe. Logan's arms circled Megan's waist; her hands clung to his shoulders. Their bodies were flush, their months fused. It was a kiss such as Mary Catherine had never seen before and it made her feel odd: flushed, anxious, excited, and embarrassed—all at the same time. She looked down at the ground to see if her heart was really lying there. It felt as if it had been torn from her. Her chest felt achy and queer, burning and heavy. The swell of emotion was almost painful, and Mary Catherine trembled with it. She caught her lower lip between her teeth to keep from crying. She reminded herself that she was an actress, playing a role. So was Megan. Still, the next time, she thought, Megan is going to play the witch!
"When you're quite finished mauling her, Marshall, perhaps you'd come inside on the business that brought you."
Mary Catherine was almost glad for the sharp, caustic voice that broke the lovers apart. Almost. In her mind Colonel Allen's presence could never really be welcome. He was standing on the side porch, leaning heavily against the curved white railing with his arms braced stiffly in front of him. The starched points of his collar held his head immobile and furthered his stern, unforgiving demeanor.
Colonel Allen was neither handsome nor ugly. Most of his features, in fact, were quite ordinary. His hair was an unremarkable shade of brown. He wore it parted on the left side and drew it across the crown of his head to cover the beginnings of a bald spot.
His sideburns were long, blending into his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He stood taller than some men, shorter than others. He was not particularly muscular, nor was he lean. Had it not been for the fact that his green eyes were flecked with gold so as to appear yellow in some light, Colonel Allen could have easily gone unnoticed in a gathering of officers. The men who served under him, in the field or in his office now that he was an aide, called him Cougar—but never to his face. It was generally believed the colonel knew about the name and was secretly proud of it, but no one dared confirm that suspicion. Richard Allen was a man who got things done, a man with powerful connections, and a man who did not suffer fools gladly. Men who crossed him were dispatched without remorse. He remembered friends and enemies. The former could count on his help, the latter, his revenge.
Upon his marriage to Rose McCleary, the colonel left his field post for a more prestigious—and secure—placement in Washington. Friends believed the move was prompted by Allen's wish not to make Rose a widow a second time. Rose alone was privy to the colonel's political aspirations.
Logan picked up his fallen hat and tapped it against his thigh a few times to get rid of bits of grass and dirt. He addressed the colonel and tried not to look guilty. He had hardly been mauling Megan. It was only a kiss. "Good afternoon, sir," he said, replacing his hat on his head. "Katy, be a good girl and hand me that packet, will you?"
Mary Catherine found the packet and gave it to Logan. "He's very angry," she said in a whisper that would have been more appropriate on stage.
Logan had no trouble discerning that for himself. The colonel's hard stare was nearly blinding. Logan gave Mary Catherine a smile that was supposed to reassure her. It was so lacking in confidence that the little girl's anxiety increased tenfold. "Ladies," he said, "perhaps another time." He took his leave of the garden and followed Allen into the house.
"You shouldn't have kissed him like that!" Mary Catherine snapped when Logan and the colonel were out of earshot.
Megan, who had sat down heavily on the stone bench and was staring off into space, didn't even hear her sister's comment. She touched the outline of her lips with her fingertips. They were slightly swollen and still sensitive. She could feel the imprint of Logan's mouth on hers. "Hmm? What did you say, dear?"
Mary Catherine kicked at the bench, scuffing the toe of her red shoe. "I don't think you were acting! I think you really liked that kissing!"
That brought Megan around. "Oooh, what do you know! You're just a child." But of course she had liked the kissing. Very much. It could be difficult to remember that Logan Marshall was the enemy. "Go help Angel in the kitchen or something. Leave me alone."
Swallowing all the unkind things she wanted to say, Mary Catherine walked away, her chin high and her spine as stiff as a metal rod. She was a great lady, a duchess perhaps, and duchesses did not scrap like common cats—even in their own garden.
As she passed through the kitchen, she said to Angel, "I'll have tea and cucumber sandwiches in the library, I think."
Angel, who was up to her dimpled elbows in bread dough, stopped kneading long enough to is
sue a warning. "You go in that library and there'll be the devil to pay for it. The colonel's in there with Mr. Marshall."
"Oh, very well. You may bring me tea in my room."
Sprinkling more flour on the table, Angel went back to pounding. "I wil be bringin' a switch, is more like it," she mumbled as Mary Catherine walked away. "A body never knows what notion she'll take to next. Tea and cucumber sandwiches." She snorted. "I should let her chaw on some shoe leather. That'd wake her up."
In the library, Colonel Allen was pouring himself two fingers of bourbon. He knocked the drink back quickly, poured another, and this time carried the tumbler to his desk, where he sat. He swiveled in the cane-back chair to face Logan, crossing his feet at the ankles. Rolling the tumbler between his palms, he studied Logan consideringly. "She's quite a looker, isn't she?"
Logan felt a need to clear his throat or swallow or pull his collar loose from his Adam's apple. "Sir?" Thank God his voice didn't crack.
"Don't play the half-wit with me, Marshall. Hooker wouldn't have trusted you with that packet if you only had cotton between your ears. Tell me one thing. What are your intentions toward Megan?"
"My intentions, sir? Do you mean, do I want to marry her?"
Allen's glance became sharper and his upper lip curled sardonically. "Bravo. I mean exactly that."
"No... that is, I hadn't thought... I'm not sure I want..." His voice trailed off. This interview couldn't have been more uncomfortable had he been in front of his own father.
Allen leaned forward. "Listen to me carefully, Marshall. If you want her, she's yours. But if you don't intend to wed her, don't think about bedding her. Her mother and I want a good marriage for Megan, You're still green but your family's wealthy and well-connected. If you're fool enough to get yourself killed, Megan will be cared for. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, sir." Megan was definitely a pariah as far as Logan was concerned. Marriage was not in his immediate future. Certainly not one where he had a shotgun pressed to the small of his spine. He hadn't considered taking Megan to bed either. It was only a kiss, for God's sake. If one didn't count the milk cow he lassoed for his unit last week, he hadn't kissed a female in five months.
"Good." Allen set down the tumbler. "Now let me see this packet. Make yourself a drink while I go over the material."
Logan handed over the packet, poured himself a double shot of whiskey, and sat on the edge of a delicate, spindle-legged chair covered with cross-stitched roses.
Without looking up, Allen said, "You're as comfortable as a roach on a hot griddle. Take that leather chair by the hearth. This will take a while."
Feeling somewhat like a bull in a china shop, Logan moved. He sunk into the soft chair, welcomed the faint scent of cigar smoke and brandy that clung to the pores of the material, and rested his heels on the marble apron of the fireplace. He hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. In five minutes he was making up for that oversight.
Except for the muted yellow candlelight from the sconce above the mantelpiece, it was dark when Logan woke. For a moment he was disoriented. The pair of curious brown and gold eyes studying him was only vaguely familiar. When he recognized Mary Catherine, he relaxed, leaning back in his chair again and smiling faintly. She was sitting on the apron of the fireplace near his feet. Her legs were curled to one side. The black-and-red-checked dress she wore was tangled and twisted around her legs and she was sucking on the end of one of her honey-colored braids. Her poise was a little unnerving. Even when he woke, when he caught her in the act of staring at him, her gaze didn't waver.
"What in God's name are you finding so fascinating?" he asked quietly. His voice was raspy and deeper than usual from sleep.
Mary Catherine removed the braid from her mouth just long enough to answer. "I was wondering if the spider on your shoulder would crawl into your ear."
"You're an outrageous liar, Katy McCleary." He wondered if he dared brush at his shoulder. Which shoulder? If there really were a spider, would it crawl in his ear? To hell with it. Logan flicked at both shoulders with his fingertips. When he heard Mary Catherine giggle, he knew he'd been had. "Just as I thought. Katy's a liar."
"You're the only one who does that," she said. Her eyes didn't waver from him, her stare was still frank. Logan Marshall was easily the most beautiful man Mary Catherine had ever seen. With some insight older than her years, she realized she would have embarrassed him, telling him that, so she made up the story about the spider. He would find it easier to believe that she was more interested in spiders than in him.
"The only one who does what?"
"Calls me Katy."
"You don't like it?"
She pitched the braid behind her shoulder and shrugged. "It's all right." She wished he would open his eyes a little wider instead of watching her with his lazy, hooded stare. From the first time she had seen his eyes, their cool pewter color fascinated her. She thought she should have been afraid of eyes like that, but she wasn't.
Logan Marshall was the scout who had first chanced upon the McCleary women after the battle at Stone Hollow. It was Logan who offered them protection and escorted them to Colonel Allen's camp. Rose and Megan shared a stray mount that Logan captured for them, but Mary Catherine rode with Logan. She knew she had been asleep in the beginning because the first thing she remembered was Logan's eyes, almost silver in the pale wash of moonlight, looking down at her. She was cradled against him as if she were a baby. She would have been indignant if she hadn't been so weary and sad and if she hadn't felt so safe in the arms that encircled her. She forgot to ask about the Hollow; she forgot to ask about her mother and sister. The most important thing, it seemed to her, was to know the name of her prince. "Logan," she repeated when he told her. "You're so very kind." She had fallen asleep almost immediately, his name on her lips, his beautiful face imprinted in her memory. She had been twelve then, but she knew about love.
The path of her own thoughts caused her poise to shatter. She felt a flush of hot color touch her neck and cheeks and pressed her palms to either side of her face as if she could hide her embarrassment. Logan's lazy half-smile didn't help. He couldn't possibly know what she'd been thinking, but when he looked at her that way it seemed as if he did.
"You're a singularly curious child," Logan said.
Because she didn't know what had just been said to her, and pride dictated that she keep ignorance to herself, Mary Catherine scrunched her nose and stuck out the tip of her tongue.
Logan laughed and leaned forward in the chair. Drawing his outstretched legs toward him, he rested his forearms on his knees. "What time is it?"
"Almost eight."
He swore under his breath, shot Mary Catherine a guilty glance, and raked his hair with his fingers. "Where is everyone? Why didn't somebody wake me?"
"Colonel Allen said you should sleep," she said, answering the second question first. "Mama's already aired the guest bedroom for you, as the colonel says you're to spend the night. Mama, Colonel Allen, and Megan have all gone to a ball at Mrs. Barker's to raise money for the hospital. I think Megan wanted to wake you up so you could escort her, but the colonel said absolutely not."
"I can just imagine," Logan said, thinking back to Colonel Allen's wed-then-bed policy regarding his stepdaughter. "So it's just you and me."
"Oh, Angel's here. She's keeping your dinner warm in the kitchen. We all ate hours ago and Mama wanted to wake you then but the colonel said—"
"No," Logan finished for her.
"Actually, he said that your stomach would wake you when you were more hungry than tired, but I suppose all he meant was no, we couldn't wake you."
"I think I'd like that dinner now," he said, holding out his hand to Mary Catherine. He pulled her to her feet, then she pretended to pull him to his. It was too bad, she thought, what she was going to do to him, but she supposed it couldn't be helped. For all his many kindnesses, Logan Marshall was still the enemy.
Logan almost fell asleep at the kitch
en table in the middle of a bite. He couldn't remember when he had ever felt more tired. If it hadn't been for Mary Catherine's help, he wouldn't have made it to the guest bedchamber. His legs were wobbly and his vision so blurry that he kept passing a hand in front of his eyes to lift an imaginary veil. He remembered Mary Catherine's wide and slightly anxious eyes staring down at him. The wet end of one of her braids brushed his cheek. It made him smile.
Mary Catherine told herself that Logan was really to blame for his own drugging. If he hadn't fallen asleep in the colonel's study, he would have attended the ball with Megan. If he had been at the ball as planned, then he wouldn't have posed a threat to Mary Catherine's mission. No threat, no drug. It was his fault.
Feeling somewhat relieved by the mitigating circumstances, Mary Catherine returned to the colonel's study. She used a hairpin to open the locked desk. It wasn't as difficult as Megan told her it would be. The secret drawer was hardly a secret any more. Her mother and Megan had explained exactly where it was and how to open it. Once, while fumbling for the catch, Mary Catherine heard approaching footsteps. She held her breath until Angel passed in the hallway on the way to her room and then let it out slowly. It was the trembling of her hand that finally released the spring. The panel snapped open. Mary Catherine, certain she had officially joined the Confederate ranks as their youngest—and perhaps stealthiest—spy, took out the packet Logan Marshall delivered to the colonel. The photographs, while interesting, were of less importance to her them the dispatch. Taking out the colonel's own paper and pen, Mary Catherine carefully copied the letter.
Her mind wandered as she worked. She was a monk in a monastery, copying manuscripts for posterity in black ink and gold leaf. She wore a brown hooded robe and her back was permanently hunched because of her diligence to duty. The tip of her tongue touched the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. There was no work more important in all the world. This is my finest role, she thought.
After the ink dried, Mary Catherine folded her copy and put it in her apron pocket. She returned the dispatch and photographs to the packet exactly the way she had found them, put the packet in its drawer, secured the panel and the spring, drew down the ridged desk cover, locked it, and backed out of the colonel's study.
