by Debra Glass
Mindless, she sucked and laved and worked him with her hand and just when her jaw began to ache so badly she thought she couldn’t continue, he moaned her name. “Rose, I’m…oh…oh sweetheart…yes…” he murmured as she drank down every last drop of his salty-sweet essence.
She would have continued suckling him if he hadn’t gripped her head and then her shoulders, lifting her to her feet and twisting her and dragging her back against his chest. Her mouth still tingled with him as he began to whisper against the shell of her ear. His hands dragged up her skirts and Rose found herself surrendering, spreading for his inquisitive fingers.
“That’s right,” he muttered. “Open those legs. God, your cunny’s wet.”
Rose’s head fell back against his shoulder as his fingertips pressed and circled her clitoris. Sweetheart. He’d called her sweetheart. Oh, his fingers worked magic. She tilted her hips, giving him full access. His free hand cupped her breast and he squeezed her nipple through the layers of fabric, making her wish she was naked and in her bed with him. Sweetheart.
She sagged and would have fallen were it not for his strong arms holding her up, holding her fast against his body. His pressure increased. His fingers worked faster. “Let it come, Rose,” he said and then swirled his hot tongue around her ear.
She tilted her head, granting him admission to that sensitive orifice as well. Her thighs trembled and she began to rock against Eric’s hand, eager to assuage the flames licking her wherever he touched her.
“My cock felt good in your mouth,” he said. “And tonight, I’m going to come to your bed and fuck you until dawn.”
That was all it took. Rose’s orgasm swept over her so fast and so strong, she cried out. Eric clamped a hand over her mouth but he didn’t release her clitoris. He rubbed and kneaded and encouraged her until she grew limp in his arms.
When he finally withdrew his hand, her skirts dropped. She couldn’t move. She could scarcely breathe.
Eric turned her and held her, raining kisses across her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks and finally, her mouth. She opened to his invasion, allowing him to plunder her mouth, to take his fill. Need consumed her. But it was more than sexual need. Eric had just quenched that hunger. This need was something deeper. Something stronger.
Sweetheart.
Rose recognized it as the compulsion to give and receive, to love and be loved. But that couldn’t be. It could never be. Not while Eric was her enemy.
Shocked at herself, she dragged her mouth from his and pushed away. “Stop,” she said breathlessly. “Stop. I…I more than fulfilled your requirement. Carry out mine. Go tell Mrs. Martin her husband is coming home.”
He stared for a moment before he did up his breeches and then strode out of the shed.
Shaking, Rose gathered her shawl back around her shoulders and smoothed down her skirts. What had she done? Her face flamed with shame at the memory of wantonly opening her lips to admit his manhood into her mouth. How could she have committed such an immoral act practically out in the open?
She clapped her palm over her heated forehead. Had she gone completely mad? No, she reminded herself. At this very moment, she had no doubt that Eric was making arrangements for James Martin to go home when he was able—oath or no oath.
But a dark realization entered her mind. She would have capitulated just as easily if there’d been no bargain with Eric at all.
* * * * *
When Eric came to her room that night, Rose met him, already naked, at the door. His arms enfolded her in an embrace and as he crushed her against him, she sought his mouth. His kiss was deep and hungry. His hands traveled over her body leaving her skin flaming wherever they touched her. She thought she would never get enough of him.
And for the first time, she dreaded his leaving.
The Confederates were set to cross the river. Scouts had already brought back word cannons had been rolled into position and Hood intended to lay a pontoon bridge across the mighty Tennessee.
Sherman had wasted time, hell-bent on marching to Savannah, and had allowed the Confederates to regroup. Most of the Southern boys were Tennesseans feverish to march the twenty-odd miles north back to their home state.
But their coming was bittersweet for Rose.
Sherman’s obsession to deliver a victory in Georgia to President Lincoln had left the Union troops in Florence scattered and scant. Many of the Yankees had already received orders to pull out and head north to join Scofield’s troops. Doubtless, Eric would be among those to leave in the next few days.
He seemed to sense this as well because with a growl, he lifted Rose off the floor and then carried her to bed. After hastily shucking his shirt and trousers, he joined her and made good on his promise to fuck her until dawn.
Well, almost.
Exhausted, Eric had fallen asleep sometime after hearing the clock strike three.
He opened his eyes at daybreak and eased out of the bed to gather his clothes.
Rose didn’t move. Eric stared at her. She was beautiful with her black hair trailing across the pillow, with her tiny fist curled against the sheet. He brushed her temple with a kiss before he tiptoed out of the room. After closing the door behind him, he quietly made his way to his own room.
When he opened his door, he stopped and stared. His bed was made. The same clean washcloth was draped over the edge of the basin. Dawn’s first rays streamed through the window casting the room in a golden glow and while everything looked perfectly as it should, Eric had the distinct impression that someone had been in here during the night.
The papers in his jacket pocket had been moved.
* * * * *
Queenie shot Rose a knowing glance as she came into the dining room. Heat flamed the back of Rose’s neck. Queenie knew. It was obvious in her brown eyes.
“He ain’t come down yet,” Queenie said.
Rose’s stomach turned a somersault. She averted her guilty gaze. “Did Rueben move the salt?”
“Yessum and it w’tn no easy task with his game leg.”
Rose retrieved a warm biscuit that was wrapped in a tea cloth. “None of us have easy tasks these days,”
Queenie snorted. “I wouldn’t mind trading with you.”
Rose nearly choked on her bite of biscuit. She swallowed it as she crossed the floor to where Queenie stood. “Not a word of this, do you hear me?” she whispered. “If you go gossiping at the O’Neals’ to Aunt Retta or any of the others, you could endanger all our lives.”
Queenie’s dark eyes flashed mischievously. “Thought you told me he was the devil.”
Rose took another bite of her flaky biscuit. “He is.”
Queenie’s hands found her hips. She arched an eyebrow. “Then you’s playing with fire.”
Queenie didn’t have to tell her that.
Footsteps sounded on the floor overhead. Rose glanced up at the ceiling as she heard an upstairs door close and then Eric’s heavy boots echoing on the steps as he descended them. Her pulse accelerated as he neared and by the time he appeared in the doorway to the dining room, Rose’s heartbeat was so erratic she thought her chest would burst.
His gaze found hers and held for mere seconds before he turned his radiant smile on Queenie. “Those biscuits smell wonderful. I’ll have to see that you get some flour and other provisions. Make me a list, will you?”
“I can’t write but Rue—” Queenie began but Rose quickly interrupted.
“I can. I will make you a list, Colonel Skaarsberg.” After what had transpired last night, calling Eric by his last name seemed stilted but with Queenie present, she had no other choice. Besides, Queenie was about to divulge that Rueben could read and write.
While most Florence citizens knew that fact, the less the Yankees knew the better.
His gaze swiveled back to Rose and the flicker she spotted in his blue eyes caused her insides to clench. “Let me know whatever you need,” he said softly. “Or want, for that matter.”
Rose’s corset con
stricted her sharp intake of air. She resisted the urge to fan her sweltering cheeks. She knew he’d noticed her blushing face because his smile widened. Rose averted her eyes. What was wrong with her? In a matter of days, she had allowed herself to become a fallen woman. Not only was her reputation at stake, now, her soul was in peril because the thoughts she entertained about Eric Skaarsberg were positively sinful.
He drew two biscuits out from under the tea cloth and brought one to his mouth where he bit into it like a ravenous dog.
The sight of his white teeth brought back torrid memories of him biting and suckling her neck while he rooted deep inside her the night before. She gripped the edge of the table to maintain her balance. Why wouldn’t he just leave? This was unbearable.
Rose forced herself to straighten. “You could start with some butter and eggs.”
Eric gave her a respectful nod and then he turned to Queenie. “Again, my thanks for the delicious biscuits. They don’t make these where I’m from.”
“Yessuh,” Queenie said, preening and twisting.
Rose shot her a nasty look. She was Rueben’s wife. She shouldn’t be flirting with the colonel. But then, shock swamped Rose. She was jealous of the attention Eric had paid Queenie! No. It wasn’t possible.
“Good day, ladies,” he said and then stuffed the other half of his first biscuit in his mouth.
As he walked by Rose breathed in the clean, familiar scent of him.
He stepped so close to her that his legs brushed her broad skirts. Instinctively, she took a step backward that put her back against the sideboard. Her quick motion caused the dishes inside its cupboards to rattle.
Eric chuckled as he slipped out the back door.
Rose stared after him, watching him through the window until he was out of sight. When he was finally gone, she turned back to Queenie who was eyeing her and grinning.
“What are you looking at?” Rose asked, angered that she’d been caught gawking.
“You reckon he’s really gonna give us them eggs and butter you asked for?”
* * * * *
Eric dismounted once he reached the college that was being used as Union headquarters. The sun was bright and the sky was that deep blue that one only saw during the month of October. A gold leaf fluttered to the ground in front of him but Eric was all but unaware of his surroundings. His mind was consumed with Rose.
She must have stolen out of bed in the night and rifled through his pockets while he slept. His insides roiled when he recalled how he’d made love to her time and time again while she’d succumbed with sighs and ribald encouragements. Had it been real? Or was she playing him for a fool, lulling him with her feminine vulnerability?
His ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Last night, he had imagined they were simply two people enjoying the comfort of another’s closeness. The outside world had disappeared until there was only the feel of her satin skin, the scent of her hair and her sex and the sound of her punctuated breaths. But in the morning light, all that had faded.
In its place lurked mistrust and deceit—and the knowledge he would have to arrest his lover for espionage.
The Confederates were already close enough that she could get the information he’d planted to them.
Eric breathed in the autumn air. If Rose was a spy, he would know it within the week.
* * * * *
“Miss Rose, they’s a Yankee at the door!” Queenie called from downstairs.
Rose smoothed the strands of hair that had escaped her chignon behind her ears and then wrung her hands on her apron as she descended the stairs. Who could it be now?
Queenie was right. It was Sergeant Poole. He stood on the porch, gnawing his bottom lip and hefting a crate. “Let him in,” Rose said.
Queenie opened the door and held it while Poole stepped across the threshold.
“Colonel Skaarsberg asked me to bring this to you.”
Rose peered into the crate. At least two dozen eggs sat atop a bed of straw. There was also a block of something wrapped in paper and Rose knew it must be the butter she’d asked for.
“He said to get these to you right away,” Poole said proudly. “There’s a sack of meal in the wagon.”
From where Rose stood on the stairs, she could see the wagon parked out front through the transom over the door.
“The kitchen out back,” Queenie said. “Come with me.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Poole,” Rose called as he followed Queenie through the center hall.
“Yes ma’am,” he said and tipped his kepi.
Poole would have had to go down to the commissary to retrieve the eggs and butter. That trip alone would have taken him at least an hour.
She bit her bottom lip. Tonight, they could have cornbread with butter. They could have eggs with their biscuits tomorrow. Rose sighed and felt the tension drain out of her shoulders. For the first time since the war started, she did not have to wonder how they could make do with what they had.
The feeling both irritated and relieved her. Eric’s presence in her life was temporary at best. The war would end. Hood’s army was already in Tuscumbia, which lay just across the broad expanse of the Tennessee River. Town gossip indicated that the Confederates were a bedraggled, war-weary bunch who didn’t have a hell of a lot of fight left in them.
Everyone already knew what no one wanted to say aloud. The war was all but over. The Yankees had licked the South.
Well, Rose thought. She could do a lot worse than befriending one of the enemy. Rueben was always fond of reminding her that she could catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
But what would happen when the war ended and the soldiers came home? There’d be more mouths to feed and no work for the men who’d risked their lives for their homes and country.
Would the Yankees stay behind or would they go home?
An icy chill swept up her spine. Would she ever see Eric Skaarsberg again?
The thought of not having him in her life—and in bed—filled her with dread.
She snatched her bonnet off the wall. Eric had gone to great lengths to see that she got the butter and eggs, not to mention the salt, for which she’d asked. The least she could do was thank him.
Chapter Seven
Rose’s pulse accelerated as she climbed the stairs to Eric’s office. She had asked the sergeant at the door not to announce her. She wanted to surprise him, to see his reaction when she caught him unawares.
Her black skirts swept the wide planks on the floor as she turned down the hallway. Before, this building had been teeming with Yankees. Today, it seemed quiet. Almost desolate.
She peeped through the open door to the former classroom which was now Eric’s office. Her stomach drew into a nervous knot at the sight of him.
Head down, his blond waves fell forward almost obscuring his wire-framed glasses. His ink pen scratched hastily across a page. Rose wondered what he was writing. Under the desk, she could see his shiny black boots crossed at the ankles. He glanced out the window, pursed his lips in thought for a moment and then went back to writing, so engrossed in what he was doing, he didn’t notice her in the doorway.
Less than a week prior, Rose had found him to be cold and unresponsive. So much had changed in so little time. She’d thought her life was over when Billy died. Now, she wondered what the future would bring.
She shifted slightly and Eric looked up. His lips parted and Rose could have sworn she saw excitement flash in his eyes but just as quickly, his serious demeanor returned.
He placed his pen back in the holder and snatched a cloth to wipe the ink off his fingers as he came to his feet. “What brings you here?” he asked, his voice cool and devoid of emotion.
Instantly, Rose regretted coming here. “I-I wanted to thank you for the…cornmeal and butter. It was very kind of you to have them sent to us.”
He shrugged. “I’m quartering in your house. It was the least I could do.”
Dismay flooded Rose’s chest. She had hoped he wo
uld offer more than that. Coming here had been a mistake. She turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called.
Rose stopped.
“Where are my manners?” he asked, all smiles once more. “Come in. Would you like a glass of water?”
Rose walked into the classroom turned office. “No, thank you.”
“You came all this way merely to thank me?” he asked.
Rose cocked her head. This was the reaction she had first expected. She nodded. “Yes.”
His gaze slithered down her body and then lifted once more to her eyes. “Is that the only reason you came here?”
Her breath caught. Surely he could not be suggesting that she had come here with the notion of coupling with him in broad daylight. She was shocked she had even considered the idea herself.
But she had. She was considering it right now.
He beckoned her with his index finger. The gesture was positively indecent but Rose closed the distance between them. Her pulse pounded.
Eric sank into his chair. “Are you wearing any bloomers under that skirt?”
Rose had never felt so bold. “Why don’t you look and see for yourself?” A blush flamed in her cheeks as she lifted her hem.
Eric leaned forward in his chair and reached underneath, all the while holding Rose’s gaze. Warm fingers traveled up one calf, pausing to caress the back of her knee. Rose wanted to melt. Her channel pulsed. She’d never done anything this reckless and spontaneous in her entire well-ordered life.
He made a little face of dismay when he discovered she was indeed wearing her drawers but as one hand continued to roam higher, he dragged her even closer with the other.
Rose gasped. “We shouldn’t—”
“Hush,” he whispered. “I need to listen to see if anyone comes up the stairs. Spread your legs.”
She shifted one foot and his fingers found the slit in her under things. Rose held her breath as the inquisitive finger meandered through her folds and then wriggled into her opening.
He pulled her closer so that she was wedged in between his legs and the finger inside her pushed home. She fell forward and caught herself by planting her palms on his broad shoulders.
