Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance

by Patricia Hagan

  "It doesn't matter. And if you'll stop interrupting, I'll explain your place in all of this."

  Brett gave a curt nod. Inside, he was bristling, knowing he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear.

  "As I said, we feel Sinclair told his daughter where the plates were hidden, but she obviously hasn't been able to get them to the right people, because they haven't shown up anywhere. Believe me, we'd know if they had. And it will be even more difficult for her to do so now, because she's been sent to prison on Ship Island for giving refuge to Reb bushwhackers."

  "Prison?" Brett reeled. "But—"

  "She's been quite a Rebel, herself, Cody. She gave us no choice."

  Brett shook his head. Despite everything, goddamn it, the thought of Anjele in prison was too much. "It's not right."

  "Well, I'm glad you feel that way, because you're going to get her out."

  "You seem to forget I'm not exactly wearing her favorite color uniform."

  "You are to convince her you're actually a spy for the Confederacy. You'll use a false name, and you'll tell her the Rebs know her father took the plates, and you've been assigned to help her escape so she can find them, because they're desperately needed.

  "We believe," Hembree rushed to add, noting how Cody suddenly looked amused, "that you're the person for the job, because you know her. You know her people. You know how they think and act, and you should be able to persuade her. You also know your way around the area, and you'll be able to find where the plates are hidden from her directions, and—"

  Brett burst out laughing. All of a sudden, the absurdity of the scheme was too much. "You don't know as much as you think you do, Major," he said, still chuckling. "Yes, I was romantically involved, as you call it, with Anjele Sinclair, but evidently your sources didn't have all the facts. The truth is, she accused me of raping her, and that's why I had to leave here. I'd be the last person she'd confide in.

  "I think"—the mirth faded, as his eyes became hard and cold with rekindled bitterness—"you'd better get somebody else if you want her to talk."

  Hembree solemnly shook his head. "You're the man for the job. You can do it. As I said, you know her, know what she's like. Admit you're a Southerner who only pretended loyalties to the North. Hell, tell her you're Acadian, from Mississippi. I don't really care how you work it as long as you get your job done. Manipulate her, Cody.

  "Hell, you did it once before, didn't you?" he finished with a sly wink.

  Brett let the sarcasm pass, though he felt like slamming his fist in his face. "That was a long time ago. The memories aren't pleasant. She'll take one look at me and it will all be over."

  Hembree chuckled. "But she won't."

  Brett was confused. "She won't what?"

  Major Hembree reached for a cheroot and took his time lighting it. He leaned back in his chair, watching the smoke spiral upwards, enjoying Cody's suspense. Finally, he said, "She won't know it's you." He grinned in triumph. "You see, Anjele Sinclair is blind."

  When Brett left, somewhat in a daze, Major Hembree stood at the window and watched him going down the street. Captain Bishop, seeing him leave, came into the office to ask how everything had gone.

  "Fine," Hembree told him. "He was shocked at first, as I knew he would be, when I told him about her blindness, but he'll do the job."

  Bishop conveyed his relief, then wanted to know, "Are you going to tell our contact about your plan, how you're going to arrange for her to escape and lead our man to where she hid them?"

  "No," Hembree replied without hesitation. "Because I don't care what anybody says, I don't trust these Southerners who claim to be working for the Union. He's served his purpose. We won't be telling him anything else."

  Chapter 24

  No one paid any attention to Leo as he slowly shuffled along Basin Street. Shoulders stooped, head bowed, he looked neither right nor left, for he knew the way well. Each night, he made the pilgrimage to St. Louis cemetery, proud of his disguise as an old, bedraggled man.

  At last he saw the gates looming and quickened his pace. He was broke. Dead broke. Had been for nearly a week. He'd been evicted from the boardinghouse, forced to sneak into a livery stable and sleep in a straw-littered stall. Sometimes, when he managed to steal whiskey and drink himself into a stupor, he'd wake up to find he'd rolled in a pile of horse dung. And damn it, he didn't like living that way, and if The Voice didn't return pretty soon, Leo knew he'd have to find a job, which was impossible in New Orleans, unless he was willing to work the fields like a slave, and he sure as hell wasn't. So he would have to leave town, head west, maybe, so's the army wouldn't slap a uniform on him, stick a gun in his hand, and kick his ass right into the goddamn war. But if he did hightail it, The Voice might find out and see him arrested for murder.

  Leo gave a soft growl of frustration as he took shuffling steps into the cemetery, appearing drunk if anybody was watching and wondered why he'd dare go in at midnight.

  The sight of the impaled white glove evoked an excited gasp. At once, he ran nervous fingers across the cold stone inset about the door, laughing out loud to discover the desperately needed money.

  "Be quiet, you fool," The Voice cracked from within. "Some other drunk might be around to hear and wonder what's going on."

  Leo stuffed the money in his pocket before crouching in front of the door. "Okay. I'm here, and thank God, you are, because I'm broke."

  "Follow my orders, Leo, and you'll never have to worry about money again."

  "I'm listening."

  "Anjele Sinclair has been arrested and sent to a Federal prison on Ship Island. She's housed in a shed situated next to a swampy area that runs into the ocean. Go to Biloxi. Find a man named Seward, who owns a little fishing boat. He's been paid to take you to the island."

  "And do what?" Leo was elated to think it might soon all be over. He could collect the big money and hightail it out of New Orleans, and the South, forever.

  "She's inaccessible to us now. We can't watch her every move. She might suddenly remember everything, including you, Leo." The Voice paused to give him time to absorb what that could mean. "I'm afraid I'd have to have you killed. I couldn't risk your implicating me."

  "Hell, I don't even know who you are," Leo roared. "Shit, you're just a voice inside a grave, damn it. I couldn't say nothin' about you—"

  "I wouldn't be comfortable if you were alive, should she name you as her father's murderer. No..." The Voice sighed in resolution, "The time has come to get rid of her. I have too much at stake. I want you to kill her."

  Leo smiled in the darkness. "You gonna pay me good, right?"

  "Oh, yes. But only if you succeed. And if you don't, you will keep trying. She's got to die."

  Brett studied Anjele's file, then had another session with Major Hembree. He would have liked to question Dr. Duval about her condition and prognosis, but Hembree said Duval, along with several business associates of her father, had requested and been granted permission to visit her in prison to ensure she was being properly cared for. Brett couldn't risk Duval telling her someone had been making personal inquiries. He was going to have a tough enough time winning her confidence, anyway, especially while being careful lest she figure out who he was.

  At first he had been puzzled to learn that Claudia was the one to marry Raymond but figured Elton Sinclair probably hadn't been able to keep Anjele's so-called rape a secret. Raymond had found out about it, no doubt from Claudia, and apparently decided Anjele was soiled goods, unfit to be his wife.

  Yet, when reading about Anjele's first encounter with the Federal navy, Brett wondered why she'd been coming in from Europe at such a dangerous time and what she'd been doing over there in the first place. Hembree then related Claudia's story but also shared Anjele's tale of wanting to be with her father after hearing of her mother's death.

  Brett felt pity but remained impassive as Hembree talked on. The fact was the card shuffle of life had dealt her a losing hand, and no matter how she'd betraye
d him, Anjele didn't deserve such misery.

  The mission had to be kept secret, Hembree decreed, warning, "You're on your own. If you get caught, it will have to be revealed you were on assignment and not actually working for the Confederacy, so you won't hang. But the risk will be your getting shot if you're discovered helping her escape. You won't have any cover. It's got to look like a guard was actually a Reb spy, helping get another spy out of prison."

  Brett agreed, pointing out, "We can't even risk letting the guards in on the setup, in case the Rebs really do have a spy planted."

  "Exactly. It's got to be earned out quietly and discreetly."

  Brett confidently assured him it would be.

  Face set and grim, Hembree issued his final orders. "Once you have her off the island and safely ashore, you have permission to use any means necessary to get her to tell you where the plates are hidden. Understand?"

  "And then what?"

  Hembree shrugged, lips quirked in a mirthless smile. "There's an insane asylum in New York. We'll have her sent there to get her out of the way."

  Brett knew he wasn't going to let that happen. "What if all this is a waste of time?"

  "She goes to the insane asylum, and we cross our fingers and hope Sinclair died without telling anyone where he hid them."

  Brett swapped uniforms, stepping down to the rank of private. With proper legal orders assigning him to the position of guard at the Federal prison on Ship Island, he reported for duty.

  Sgt. Edgar Bodine was in charge.

  Brett looked him over and decided the man's eyes reminded him of a wharf rat. A matted beard covered the lower part of his face. He was short, with ham-like arms, stomach protruding to hang over his belt. He did not offer to return a salute when Brett reported to his office, nor did he stand or hold out a hand in greeting. He merely continued to sprawl in the chair behind his littered desk, picking his yellowed teeth with a letter opener.

  Gaze flicking over Brett in arrogant scrutiny, he took the folder containing his orders from him, absently tossing it among the rest of the clutter. "So you're the new guard," he said, unimpressed. "Sit down."

  Looking around, Brett saw only an overturned crate, and declined, along with Bodine's offer to help himself to a bowl of fried pork rinds.

  "Good stuff." Sergeant Bodine shoved a handful into his mouth and talked around crunching. "You'll like it here. Easy assignment. The navy takes care of the water, and we take care of the prisoners. Not many of 'em, thank God, so there ain't a lot to do. We keep 'em in what the Rebs used to use for a barn. They sleep on straw in the stalls and gather in the large area during the day. All we gotta do is post guards outside the door and take food in twice a day. Nothin' to it."

  Brett felt his nerves stretch raw to think of Anjele being here. He dared venture, "I hear there's a woman prisoner. She doesn't stay in the barn, too, does she?"

  "Are you crazy? Damn it, it's a pain in the ass to have her here, I'll tell you. We don't have no facilities for a female, especially one that's blind. I told headquarters that, but they wouldn't listen, said for me to do the best I could. So I did. I had a storage shed fixed up for her, put a cot in, a table and a chair. Somebody takes her food out three times a day, and other than that, she's on her own. I locked her in at first and then decided she wasn't going anywhere. She's got a bolt on the inside, makes her feel safe, I guess.

  "Frankly," he finished with a yawn, "I don't think I've seen her outside over once or twice. Guess she's scared to walk by herself, after I told her about the swamp behind her place."

  Reminding himself to appear nonchalant, Brett probed, "What about medical care? I suppose that's another responsibility."

  "Not really. She's been here less than two weeks, and already her family doctor came out here to check on her. Also the family lawyer and some guy who says he's a banker in New Orleans. According to the doc, other than not being able to see, she's okay.

  "So go find a place to call home," the sergeant said in dismissal. "Introduce yourself around to the other boys. Not much to do here. We play a lot of poker. Saturday nights I let a few cross over to the mainland for a little fun. You know, find a woman that ain't untouchable." He grinned and squeezed his crotch for emphasis.

  Brett turned away, all the more determined to get Anjele out of there for reasons of his own. She wasn't safe. Sooner or later some soldier would have too much to drink and get bold.

  And this time, he frowned to think, she wouldn't be lying if she called it rape.

  He had left his horse stabled on the Mississippi coast in Biloxi, then sought transport to the island on a gunboat. All he had was a haversack, and he left it on an empty bunk in a forgotten corner of the barracks, then forced himself to take time to meet the other guards.

  The others seemed friendly enough, and he saw at once they'd become lazy and overweight from too much food, too little work. They spent all their time gambling. Guard duty was merely a temporary distraction, and it looked as if Brett's assignment was going to be easier than he'd thought.

  On the pretense of learning his way around, after sharing a quick lunch with the others he set out to explore the area. The base of operations, he discovered, was at one end of the island, which he guessed to be about ten miles in length, while the area designated for a prison was situated at the other. That, he surmised, was the reason the sergeant and his guards could get away with their drinking and revelry. Until more prisoners were brought in, their responsibilities were few, and no one came around to monitor their activities.

  He was determined not to go near the building where Anjele was imprisoned until it was his turn at duty, so as not to arouse suspicion. But God, it was tempting, for it had been so damn long. Yet he had only to remind himself bitterly how those sweet memories had been shadowed by deceit, and the pangs of longing would fade to jolts of anger. He had a job to do. He was also compassionate enough to want to get a blind woman out of prison. That's as far as it would go, as far as he could let it go.

  He was forced to wait three days, and during that time he planned the escape route. There was a small cove where a rowboat was kept for emergencies. With a distance of nearly twelve miles to shore, Brett estimated, it would no doubt require a real crisis to make a man take on such a formidable task. Well, if all went according to plan, he had one coming up, for sure. Besides, his experience at sea gave him confidence, for he'd been out in similar craft in rougher waters than the bay between the island and the coastline of Mississippi.

  At last it was his turn to take Anjele's trays.

  "All you gotta do," said Ramey Stocks, the instructing guard, "is knock on her door, and she'll unlock it from the inside. But it takes awhile, 'cause she's got to find her way. She's blind, remember."

  Brett nodded, pained. Since hearing of her loss of eyesight, he could not get out of his mind the sweet memories of the nights they'd shared when he'd pointed out the sights of the bayou. At least, he thought, dispirited, she had those memories indelibly etched in her mind, but wondered if she ever thought of them at all.

  Ramey was continuing, "So you hand over the tray. You don't go in unless she asks you to, like if she wants you to take out her bucket and bring her a fresh one. Something like that. She's friendly, though. I guess she gets lonesome. Once she asked me inside"—he boasted grinning—"to get a splinter out of her finger, which I did, and Lord, I was struck by how she's such a pretty thing. Hair like spun gold. And when you look at her, you can't even tell she's blind. Her eyes are a green and yellow color. Reminds me of a cat's eyes. But they don't look like she can't see out of 'em, a'tall. When she keeps on staring straight ahead, though, you can tell she ain't seein' nothin. A shame. Real shame." He shook his head. "But she's a spy, you know. They say she was givin' refuge to Reb soldiers."

  Brett didn't comment, feigning disinterest.

  He got her breakfast from the kitchen, noting it looked a bit more appetizing than the buckets of slop disguised as food given to the male prisoners. Then he
headed toward the shed, which was situated at the edge of a small, swampy area.

  Standing before the door, he braced himself before calling, "Breakfast, Miss Sinclair."

  He heard the sounds of movement inside, and then the door was opening.

  Brett could not speak. Actually, he almost forgot to breathe as he drank in the sight of her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, despite the tattered dress she wore, her dirty and tangled hair. He stared down at her upturned face, long, silken lashes framing hazel eyes that saw only heartache, sadness. His hands gripped the tray he longed to toss aside so he could grab her, crush her in his arms, and kiss away the years and all the pain. God forgive him for being such a fool, but he was never more sure he loved her still.

  "Who's here today?" she asked softly. "Ramey?"

  "No," he replied in a tight voice. "Not Ramey. Want me to set your tray down?"

  "Inside. On the crate." She moved aside, felt him pass. Having noticed a hint of Southern accent, she remarked, "You must be new. Where are you from, soldier?"

  Brett knew he had to gain her confidence from the start. There could be no slipups. If she spooked, it was all over. And he'd probably find himself swinging from the end of a rope before Major Hembree even heard about it and had a chance to intervene. Careful, he reminded himself, watch every word. "Mississippi."

  "Oh," she said in a condemning tone. "You're one of them—the traitors who turned against the South."

  "Not exactly." Damn, he was off to a bad start.

  She lifted her chin in a gesture of scorn. "There's no getting around it, soldier. You're a Southerner. You fight for the North. To me, that spells traitor."

  "A man does what he must, Miss Sinclair. Just like you. This isn't exactly the place a Southern belle should call home, you know. And I hear you don't venture out much." Lord, it was all he could do to keep his voice from faltering.

  Anjele slowly found her way to the cot and sat down. While she didn't like him being a Yankee, it was nice to have someone to talk to. "I'm afraid I'll fall into the water, though sometimes drowning doesn't seem like a bad idea."