Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance

by Patricia Hagan

  "And I've been crazy with worry," she cried, pressing close against him. "Are you really all right?"

  He assured her he was fine and took her hand, leading her away from the river. "Come on. I'll tell you all about it."

  She continued to pretend she was still blind. They sat down, and after a soul-searing kiss that left both of them breathless, he recounted the battle.

  "Thank God," she whispered, relieved that, for the time being, the Union had been forced to withdraw. "But what happens next?" She smiled in the darkness, confident that any plans he had made could only be enriched when he learned her vision had returned. But when he didn't answer, she felt a shiver of apprehension. Something told her whatever he had in mind he was reluctant to discuss.

  He reached for her, whispering, "We'll talk in the morning, Angel, because here and now, I want you. It's all I've dreamed about." He pulled her almost roughly down beside him. Her breasts squeezed against his chest, and his hands moved to cup her buttocks and crush her tighter still. Immediately she felt his hardness between her thighs as his mouth found hers, warm, hungry, fierce with passion.

  His tongue touched hers possessively, and he then moved to devour her face and neck, all the while nimbly unfastening the bodice of her dress, jerking it almost savagely away to free her breasts.

  Anjele was licked with flames of desire. Spreading her thighs to receive his probing fingers, she cried out as the fire burned brighter. Shamelessly, raggedly, she begged him to take her.

  A great roaring began, and she felt herself being swept away as molten waves of pleasure washed over her writhing, twisting body. She felt his hot, ragged breath against her ear, the thunderous pounding of his wildly beating heart against her naked breasts. Then he was pulling away from her, but only long enough to strip off his clothes before once more savagely, but sweetly, assaulting.

  She gasped to feel the delight of his entry. Almost furiously, he hammered into her. The explosive thrusts charged through her loins, upwards into her belly, and deeper, still, to the very depths of her enraptured soul. Mercilessly, her nails dug into the rock-hard flesh of his back as she sought to bring him yet closer.

  At last, when she thought she would surely die if he didn't end the ecstatic torture, they came simultaneously. It rocked them both with wonder, and they clung together for long moments afterward, naked flesh drenched by the sweat of near-savage consummation.

  He rolled away to lie on his back, keeping her close beside him, her head upon his shoulder. As always, they shared whispered vows of love for all eternity.

  Brett was exhausted but so grateful to be back and holding her close. Dreamily he told her, "In the spring, I hope we make love outside all the time. Maybe on a spot like this hillock. I remember it used to be covered in flowers. All colors." He turned to hold her close once more, nuzzling his chin in her soft hair. "Oh, Angel, darling, I can't wait for spring. Making love to you is like holding heaven in my hand, like finding heaven in a wildflower."

  He closed his eyes. Unable to stay awake any longer, weariness took him away.

  Anjele was drifting herself, so at peace in his arms.

  She was awakened with a jolt and sat upright. The cool breeze from the river brought her to instant alertness. This time, it was not a sound just heard but the echo of Brett's words of the night before.

  She had been dreaming, in the throes of the same, recurring nightmare. She was kneeling beside her father, straining to listen to what he seemed so desperate to tell her. Only this time, she could hear him.

  Wildflowers.

  The door had been opened, and now she knew—the last word her father had spoken had been wildflowers.

  Another memory came flashing back.

  The day they had been to the family mausoleum, he had been touched by the sight of wildflowers growing out of her mother's crypt. "Life growing out of the aperture of death," he'd said.

  And now she knew what he had been trying to tell her in his last breath—the plates were hidden in the family crypt.

  The first light of dawn was streaking the sky, and she turned excitedly to Brett. He lay with his back to her, and she touched his shoulder, anxious to share two exciting miracles, instead of one.

  He sleepily grumbled, rolled over on his back, but did not awaken.

  Anjele's hands flew to her gaping mouth.

  Dear God, she realized with a slamming jolt of her heart that left her struggling to breathe, she was looking at Gator.

  Chapter 31

  Anjele followed the course of the river.

  In its constant turning and twisting, the Mississippi relentlessly ate into the banks, making undercuts on one side, new points on the other. Riding Brett's horse, she had to be ever alert, for the way was treacherous, and what appeared to be solid ground could actually be eroded beneath.

  She rode doggedly, wanting to get as far away as possible before Brett woke up to find her gone.

  Brett...

  She bristled, burning with white-hot rage.

  Gator...

  She cursed herself for not realizing the truth but how could she? He'd had the advantage, because she could not see him, and he had successfully endeavored to mask other ways he might be recognized. He had changed his voice, his personality and mannerisms, and, blast him, even the way he'd made love to her.

  Anjele also reminded herself that Gator had been out of her life for over four years.

  Oh, she was furious. To think it had all been a trick, a scheme, from the very start. Brett was a Yankee soldier. Somehow, someone had discovered she had once made a fool of herself over him and figured, given her blindness, he could use the same guile to bewitch her again. Of course, the motive was for her to eventually lead him to the lost plates.

  Perhaps some things did change, she thought with a grimace, but not Brett's ability to deceive.

  The pieces began to fall together. Now she knew why he hadn't taken her to the Confederates. He wasn't worried about someone trying to kill her. He just wanted to make sure he was the only one around when her memory returned. The attempt on her life had no doubt been staged to make her look to him for protection, willing to believe any tiling he said.

  In that frozen moment, when she saw the truth, the scream of indignant rage had mercifully locked in her throat, allowing time for shock to melt into seething anger and force her to realize she had to flee. Once he discovered she knew of the ruse, there was no telling what he might do. But one thing was certain—he'd never let her go.

  Anjele knew she had to get to New Orleans as quickly as possible to find out if she was right about the meaning of her father's last word. If so, if the plates were indeed hidden in her mother's coffin, she would retrieve them and then make her way to Richmond and turn them over to the Confederacy. Brett would come after her. She had no doubt about that. Once he found out from Rufus she could see, he'd know she had recognized him at first light and quickly left in a rage. He would also conclude she'd head back to New Orleans to try and find the plates, suspecting she had known all along where they were, and the fact that she was considered an escaped prisoner by the Union would not stop her from returning.

  She had taken his horse, and that would slow him down a bit. He would lose time having to find another, because he couldn't take the small boat all the way downriver to New Orleans, and there was no other means of water transportation. Steamers and paddle wheelers were, of course, no longer operating for passengers.

  She passed a few cabins along the way but waited till almost dark to stop at a small farmhouse. A friendly elderly couple, who introduced themselves as Jasper and Daisy Kinston, kindly gave her shelter, especially when she told her hastily contrived lie about being on her way to New Orleans in hopes of reaching her ailing mother before she died.

  Jasper, however, was very vocal about the dangers she faced. "You ain't got no business travelin' by yourself. And you not only have to worry about Yankee raiders and foragers, but Rebel deserters, too. Lots of meanness goin' on out
there now, missy, and it'll be suicide when you get to Natchez Trace. Ain't even safe there during daylight hours, but at night it's terrible, the haunt of the worse scourges of Mississippi and Louisiana—murderers, renegades. You'd never make it."

  Anjele knew he spoke the truth and wasn't just attempting to frighten her. "I've got to try," she said with firm resolution. "No matter what, I've got to try to reach New Orleans as fast as possible."

  Daisy thought of her daughter, who'd died at the age of four. Perhaps she would have grown up to be as pretty as Anjele, Her hair had also been the color of a March sunrise, and she had a little dimple in her cheek, too. Daisy couldn't bear the thought of someone not helping her daughter, if she were trying to get to her as she lay dying. Reaching to cover Jasper's hand with her own, she asked hopefully," What about your brother in Baton Rouge?"

  "What about him?" Jasper sharply asked, suspicious as to what she had in mind.

  With an embarrassed smile in Anjele's direction, Daisy informed him, "I happen to know a few things that go on in your family, Jasper, and I've known for some time how Luther and those friends of his sneak into New Orleans every week to sell home brew to some of the soldiers.

  "They make good money off them Yankees, too," she remarked gleefully before asking, "so why can't they take Anjele with them next time they go? Nobody searches their boat, 'cause they know what they're hauling—sin in a jar, that's what." She frowned with disapproval.

  Anjele leaped at the idea. "Yes, that would be perfect. All they have to do is get me to the outskirts of the city, and I can make it the rest of the way."

  Jasper pursed his lips, scratched his head, thoughtfully looking from one to the other as he tried to convince himself it could work. Finally he announced, "If it's all right with Luther, why should I care?"

  Both Daisy and Anjele hugged him with grateful joy.

  Within three days, Jasper delivered her to his brother, who agreed to smuggle her into New Orleans in exchange for the fine horse she was riding. Anjele didn't bat an eye at turning over the stallion. It was a kind of redemption, she felt, since the horse belonged to Brett, as though he were the one financing her journey home.

  Luther's partners, Hollis and Edwin, were, like Luther, too old to go to war. Anjele liked them at once, finding them to be kind and polite and felt at ease around them.

  They smuggled her on board, where she hid in the smelly bait well below deck, along with the bottles and jars of their homemade whiskey. Once they were safely out of port, they invited her topside, where she would remain, sleeping on deck, for the two-day journey into New Orleans.

  They confided that they were making quite a bit of money, explaining how Federal officers had access to alcohol, but the common soldiers had to scrounge for theirs. Since Baton Rouge had fallen to the Union after fierce fighting last August, the trio had been slowly getting rich off thirsty Yankees.

  Anjele was grateful for their company, as well as shared news of the war. Engaging in conversation kept her from thinking about the smoldering rage within.

  "Rains and high winds," Luther grumbled as they reached the outskirts of New Orleans. "Weather's been like this for weeks now. One of the soldiers said the streets in the Vieux Carré look like canals."

  Hollis spoke up to add, "Colder than normal, too. And lots of pneumonia and not enough doctors. Them that didn't go off with the Confederates 'cause they were too old, like us, ain't allowed to work nowhere 'cept the Union hospital, and then they ain't allowed to treat anybody that ain't took the oath."

  Edwin joined in the conversation to share, "There's a terrible shortage of everything. "No candles. Folks either make their own or do without. And no kerosene. Gas is turned off at dark, so there's no streetlights, and everybody's scared to go out after dark."

  "Who wants to?" Hollis said with a derisive snort. "I got a cousin who still lives there, and she says the Yankees just march in any time they want to, lookin' for contraband, like gray wool, anything with Confederate colors. Even sheet music of Southern songs. If they find anything, they just run the people out of their house and confiscate it.

  "Jelsie," he went on, "my cousin, she was bound and determined she wasn't gonna take the oath. Said she'd die and go to hell first. But then she realized those what didn't could expect to be raided every night, so she said hell, she'd sign it. Didn't mean nothing, no how. Said it was like a young'un promisin' he wouldn't steal no more cookies. Like me, she said why not use the sons of bitches? We keep 'em in rotgut whiskey and grin when we take their money."

  By the time they arrived, Anjele was in a very foul condition. Her clothes were filthy, tattered, and torn. Her hair hung limp and loose about her face. But her spirits were high, and she knew that was all that mattered. She had her precious eyesight, and she was nearly home.

  They put her ashore about a mile out of town just before daylight. They took turns bidding her farewell and wishing her good luck the rest of the way.

  Hollis pressed money into her hand as he hugged her, saying, "Rent you a buggy to get where you're going. A pretty girl like you don't need to be out alone around them damn Yankees."

  Edwin also gave her a few Federal greenbacks and told her to buy a new dress.

  Luther's donation was for a bath, as he apologized to have to tell her, "You're going to scare folks to death, the way you look and smell, missy."

  With tears of gratitude and a heart filled with love for all their kindness, she gave them each a warm hug and a fond kiss on their whiskered cheeks.

  Waving them away, she hurried into the woods to get her bearings and try to figure out what to do next. The only people at BelleClair she felt she could trust were Raymond and Mammy Kesia, but she didn't intend even to encounter them if it proved possible to slip in and out without doing so. Even so, looking as she did, she wasn't about to be seen by anyone. Then she thought of Melora Rabine. If she was still there, Anjele knew she would help.

  She headed into the city, moving at the edge of the woods, unnoticed by anyone traveling on the road. Head bowed against the chilling, slicing wind, she absently thought how it had been so unseasonably warm only a few hundred miles north, warm enough to—

  She gave herself a vicious shake.

  Never, she vowed, would she allow herself to think of that warm night in Brett Cody's arms. She would force herself never to think of any time with him at all.

  It was the only way she could cope with the nightmare of the past.

  Reaching New Orleans, she went directly to Melora Rabine's house, praying to find her there. Creeping in by a back alley, she felt a hopeful jolt at the familiar sight of the old carriage in the rear yard.

  She moved quickly, not wanting the neighbors to see and wonder why such a wretched-looking woman was in Melora's yard.

  After a few rapid knocks, the door opened and Melora's mouth dropped open at the sight of her. "Oh, dear God, child, come in," she cried, reaching out for her, and then the miracle dawned, "You can see! Oh, praise God, you can see, Anjele!" She burst into tears.

  Worn out, exhausted physically and mentally, Anjele gratefully collapsed in her arms.

  Melora clucked over her, insisting she lie down while she fixed something for her to eat and heated a tub of hot water. "Then you can tell me everything. I heard how you'd been sent to prison for harboring bushwhackers, and it made me so mad, especially when I heard that little witch Claudia was responsible for your getting caught. Then I heard you'd escaped, and I've been worried sick ever since that something terrible had happened to you.

  "At least," she rattled on, "I've got something to feed you. I signed their stupid oath, and while it's not much, I do get a ration of potatoes and little beef to boil now and then, and I'm glad to share it with you, darlin', so glad...." Her eyes sparkled with tears as she paused to hug Anjele again.

  Finally, clean and fed, Anjele told Melora part of the truth—that she had escaped from prison and was on her way to BelleClair to get some things that belonged to her. "I don't i
ntend to stay long, and I know I'll have to sneak in. Otherwise, with my luck, Major Hembree would meet me at the door and take me straight back to Ship Island."

  Melora grinned and told her, "Oh, no, he won't. He left when Butler did, back in November. General Banks is in charge now. Conditions are some better, but not a lot." She went on to describe some of the horrors, how planters who refused to sign the oath of loyalty had been rounded up, along with refugee slaves, and made to work on fortifications of the city. "Even old men and children are prodded by soldiers with bayonets. Why, anybody going out on the streets is in danger of being hauled away at any time. The only reason I've fared as well as I have is that I agreed to teach music to the officers' children."

  "What about others I used to know?" Anjele asked. "Poppa's lawyer, Mr. DuBose? What about Dr. Duval? And did the Maxwells get their house back when the Hembrees left?"

  Melora told her Hardy Maxwell did indeed regain possession of his house, and he and Millard DuBose had both signed the oath and now worked in the Federal bank. Dr. Duval was one of the head doctors at the Union hospital. "I don't suppose they're any prouder of themselves than I am," she was sad to point out, "but we did what we had to do to survive. Still, the Yankees haven't had as easy a time as they thought they would, because we haven't groveled at their feet. We've let them know we hold them in contempt."

  She went on to express sympathy for the Negroes who thought they would be better off once the Union took control. No distinction had been made between freemen and slaves, and all were rounded up either to labor in the city or be carted off to plantations and warned not to return to New Orleans. Women whose duties had never been harder than caring for their mistresses' wardrobes, or wet-nursing their babies, had found themselves at hard labor.

  Anjele could only shake her head with sadness.

  "The Union wives have behaved the ugliest," Melora angrily continued. "Our women have to stand back and wait in the shops while they push their way to the front. And we're supposed to step off the banquettes into the gutters, in mud if need be, to let them swish by, three or four abreast, noses up in the air like we're just dogs. And they ride along in carriages or horse-cars, while we have to walk. I got to keep my buggy, as you may have noticed, because I go to their homes to teach music, but they've told me if I'm caught using it for any other reason, it will be taken away."