by Alyssa Cole
Malcolm nodded and pushed himself into the carriage. He sat down and closed the door, keeping as much distance between them as possible. She’d meant to warn him off, but that brief, glorious expanse of leg was nothing less than pure temptation.
It was going to be a long wait.
CHAPTER 5
Elle’s neck was stiff, and not because she’d been whipped to and fro by the runaway carriage before Malcolm’s strong hand had grabbed her and held her steady. His touch had shocked her into calmness, and she still wondered at the fact that in a moment of calamity his instinct had been to protect her. Being this close to McCall after their encounter on the bluff should have filled her with only fury, but there was another sensation in the mix that she refused to acknowledge. One that was becoming too well-acquainted with the contours of his palm and the rough calluses that graced it.
She drew herself up straighter, pressed her legs together more tightly. The jab of her sheathed knife into her thigh was a reminder of the precariousness of her situation, but also of the sensitivity of the skin there, and of how good it might feel to be caressed by a hand other than her own....
She hadn’t thought of such things since she’d cut off relations with Daniel. How long had it been—one year? Longer? As soon as her friend had begun to consider their temporary arrangement as a precursor to marriage, she’d ended the sexual aspect of their relationship. She’d encountered many fine men offering their services since then, but the risks were too high for a woman like her and the returns too few. Especially with a man like McCall.
She thought of how he’d been with her on the bluff: so natural and relaxed that she’d temporarily taken leave of her senses. He’d disarmed her, lulled her into a sense of security. And then he’d made her burn for him.
One may smile and smile and be a villain, she reminded herself. Best to recall Shakespeare’s tragedies and not his comedies when it came to Malcolm.
She dared to look across the cab of the carriage and found him already watching her. His expression was neutral, but his eyes . . . she’d seen that color and intensity only once, when a savage tempest had struck during her return to America, tossing the ship about on the waves like a bundle of twigs. She’d barely weathered that storm—if she allowed McCall any further liberties, she’d be forsaken like the less fortunate ships that had splintered to pieces in the wide, wild ocean.
She glanced away from him but knew that he still watched her. She usually hated the feeling of being observed, but she didn’t get the sense that he was searching for a flaw, or for an explanation of her existence. He seemed content to simply regard her, which was unnerving in an entirely different way.
“You haven’t proven yourself to be a good detective, but anyone worth his salt would be thinking about the earthworks or the blast that spooked the horse right now, not gawking like he had a ticket to the side show,” she said.
“As the soldiers who were kind enough to get rid of Miss Susie for us weren’t in a rush, I doubt the Union has started their invasion of Richmond. It was likely ordnance being tested. Or testing itself,” he said. She heard the fabric of his damnable uniform scrape over the stiff seat as he shifted. “As for the earthworks, I couldn’t exactly jump out of a moving carriage to examine them, now could I? I plan on taking a long walk early tomorrow morning and gathering information.”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t enjoying yourself with Susie, whether it was playacting or not.” She’d meant to talk to him about the earthworks, but the way he brushed aside his behavior slid snugly into the notch of her annoyance, pushing it forward like a moving gear.
“I’m trying to retrieve information, which is to both of our benefits,” he said, leaning toward her. “How else should I behave toward her?”
Anger flared in a rush of heat up Elle’s neck.
“Funny that, when you wanted information from me back in Baltimore you insinuated I was a whore and threatened me. Should I feel slighted that you’re all lashes and flirtation with Susie? But I’ve forgotten, you’re the noble Malcolm McCall, who doesn’t see my people as inferior, so I shouldn’t make assumptions.”
She stared at him and, this time, he could not hold her gaze.
“I won’t make excuses for that. I apologize,” he said. His expression was somber, as if he actually felt ashamed. Whether he really was, she’d never know. Such was life when dealing with a roguish detective.
“Do you carry a pencil and paper for taking notes?” she asked in a tone that insinuated she doubted he would do anything so sensible. His apology she ignored. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of forgiveness when she was still so piqued, at him and herself.
“I do,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Not all of us are blessed with a memory like yours.”
Elle rolled her eyes. “You get to walk the streets unaccosted, flirt as you please with whomever you please, and generally carry yourself with an air of omnipotence even if what you know could fit in a thimble. I, on the other hand, can remember every chamber pot I’ve scrubbed at the Caffrey household. What a blessing.”
She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Malcolm McCall was actually capable of blushing, profusely, and was doing just that as he clutched his pencil and ledger. Elle felt a pang of regret. The man had saved her once before. She could at least be cordial with him.
Oh, you’d like to be more than cordial.
His expression of shocked incredulity bordered on . . . she didn’t want to admit the word that was bobbing to the surface of her mind at the sight of his creased brow and exaggerated frown. “A thimble?” he asked. “Truly?”
“I’m sorry,” she huffed. “That was mean-spirited. You didn’t create this society we live in, even if you reap its benefits. I’m just tired and angry after spending an entire day being told what a disappointing slave I am. As if working myself to the bone for no compensation is something I should aspire to be better at.”
She looked out the windows again to be sure no one was approaching, then turned back to him. “Besides, I’m sure you have at least a ladle full of knowledge sloshing around up there if you’re a Pinkerton. Now, about the earthworks: There are six of them set in a demi-circle around the city, mostly on hills and other elevated points. They average about thirteen feet wide, ten feet deep, and hold from six to sixteen guns ranging in caliber. Obviously, the approaches from Manassas and Fredericksburg are the most heavily armed.” He was still looking at her like he’d been dropped on his head, so Elle reached over and tapped his pencil with the tip of her index finger. “You should be writing this down. And I do hope you’re using some form of encryption in that booklet of yours.”
Malcolm finally stopped staring and got to writing. The only sound in the cab was the scratch of lead on paper and the icy tinkle of snowflakes hitting the carriage. Elle took a deep breath, surveilled the road again. It was odd to be there alone with him, uncomfortable in a way she hadn’t imagined.
In the novels she’d read, carriage rides were where men and women held intimate conversations and got to know one another. It struck her that Malcolm had already played that scene out with Susie; Elle was only useful to him for information.
And warmth.
The sensation of his fingertips slipping over her collarbone on the bluff had warmed her indeed. She shook her head, dismayed with the bent her thoughts kept following like a rut in the road. Malcolm McCall was nothing more than a low seducer, even if they were for the same cause. She refused to fall for his tricks as easily as that featherbrained Susie Caffrey.
“How did you get this information?” he asked as he wrote. “And what was the depth again?”
“Ten feet,” she said. “And who do you think built the batteries that will ‘keep Richmond safe by land and sea’? Certainly not the men who claim they would sacrifice anything as they fight for freedom from oppression. They will sacrifice much, but not the sweat it takes to dig such large trenches.”
Malcolm finished his notes and lo
oked up at her.
“The slaves who dug the batteries passed on the information to you?” Malcolm asked, then shook his head. “Of course. They’d know the measurements in their bones.”
“They dug throughout the summer,” Elle said, and that anger that had come upon her as she set the dining table returned. “A swampy, humid Virginia summer. They built the means of protecting the city that enslaves them. You said yesterday that you knew my people weren’t inferior. Have you tried passing on that information to your fellow man? Or does pretending to be a Rebel allow you to act out all those things you pretend you’re above?”
Elle sucked in a breath. That had been an unkind cut, one he didn’t deserve. The man just got her back up, though.
Malcolm tucked the ledger and pencil into his pocket and adjusted his cuffs. When he moved from the seat across the carriage to the seat just beside her, it wasn’t done quickly. It was slow, deliberate, either to give her a chance to leave the carriage or to intimidate her with his bulk.
She sat firm and looked up at him, unblinking.
“Give me your knife,” he said. His voice was deeper than it had been, and heavy as a stone.
She scoffed. “You must have your own, Johnny Reb.”
Regretting her words was one thing, taking orders from him quite another.
His hand went to her skirt quickly, and though she pushed him away, that didn’t stop him from reaching her sheath and pulling out the knife. He avoided touching her skin with his own, but his pinky grazed her thigh as he pulled his hand away and devil take her, she felt it. Everywhere.
As she watched in confusion, Malcolm positioned the sharp tip of the knife at his breast, right where his heart beat beneath the gray fabric if the anatomy book she’d read was correct. His other hand gripped one of her own and closed it around the hilt of her knife. This was all done with the same controlled anger that had carried him beside her.
“If you doubt my commitment to the Cause, or the words I spoke to you on that bluff, you may as well get this over with now.”
He exerted the slightest pressure on her hand, pushing the knife’s tip through his jacket. She knew it pressed into his skin now, and she glared up at him.
“What trick is this?” she asked.
“This is no trick,” he said gravely. “You may scorn me, but if you doubt me—if you cannot trust that I mean what I say to you—I’m already a dead man.”
Elle looked up into his eyes. She sensed no malice or ill will, but the intensity of his gaze was an undeniable force that held her in place.
“If your life expectancy rests on my opinion of you, I hate to tell you this, but you haven’t very much longer to live,” she said.
Malcolm’s mouth twitched, and she saw him resist a smile before continuing. His voice was still serious. “If your opinion of me is so low, we will accomplish nothing together. I overstepped my bounds last night—”
Elle made a sound of irritation.
“I was wrong to touch you that way, especially after promising you would be safe in my presence. I cannot say that the desire has left me, because that would be a lie.” He exhaled softly. “You’re right. I won’t say I’ve had an easy life, but I’m a man who hasn’t wanted for much. That doesn’t mean I’m not a damned good detective. That doesn’t mean I won’t put the Union above my own wants.”
“Petty wants,” Elle sniped, annoyed that he was making such a scene when there were other matters of import at hand.
Malcolm shook his head. “I know all of the ill that could be read into my desire for you, but there is nothing petty about it.”
It was strange. His warm hand was still wrapped around her fingers and the knife hilt, and Elle was still spitting mad, but there was something else filling the carriage besides her confused annoyance. The air throbbed with something dark and fierce and, despite all her stock of knowledge, unknown to her.
Elle pulled her hand and the knife from his grip and slipped it back into its sheath with shaking hands. She’d thought to shock him with its revelation earlier, but he’d turned the tables on her, as he seemed to each time they met.
“You have quite a flair for the dramatic, Mr. McCall.” Those were the only words she could manage. She looked out the window again, watching the meager snowflakes drift to the ground and melt. It was the slight rock of the carriage that alerted her to his movement.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Detective.” The velvety richness of his voice joined the throb in the air and Elle tried not to savor it. “I think I’ll take some air. The driver should be returning soon and it wouldn’t do for the windows to be fogged up when he returns.”
“Don’t you think they’ll find it bizarre that you’re out in the cold while I’m inside?” she asked, ignoring his implication.
“If they do, I’ll come up with some reason or other for it,” he said, his gaze searching the horizon line.
Because that’s what he does: Act as the situation demands of him. You’d best keep that in mind.
He rubbed his hands together, then stuffed them into his pockets. “I’m supposed to dine with Caffrey tonight, but I don’t think we’ll be able to talk more, given your own tendency for the dramatic.”
Elle gave a sigh of her own. “Tomorrow morning I’ll be doing errands for the Caffreys downtown—alone this time. MacTavish the grocer is the man to see about getting correspondence to the Capital, if you don’t already have a means of sending your messages in place. If I see you there, we can share information and see if we’ll even be of any use to each other.”
She sat up primly in the seat, looking away to show she didn’t care about his reaction.
“I’m sure we’ll find something of mutual interest to us, Miss Elle.”
With that, the door shut between them.
As it should be.
She busied herself with recalling the entirety of The Art of War until Reibus returned, if only to remind herself that only a fool would trust the no-good, sweet-talking detective in a Rebel uniform standing right outside her door.
CHAPTER 6
Staying with the carriage, and helping with the repairs upon Reibus’s return, had garnered Malcolm even more favor with the senator. Over a meal much too sumptuous for wartime fare, he’d repeatedly brushed off any accolades for his behavior and talk of reimbursement. He’d already received his reward: time spent alone with the vexing Elle.
Dinner at the Caffreys’ had gone well: Susie had resumed her flirting, Rufus had continued his glowering, and Malcolm and the senator had talked long into the night over glasses of whiskey. He’d played his jovial role, but all night Elle’s words had echoed in his head, probing at his own fears. If he could fit in with the senator and Susie so easily, was he really much different from them? That fear, and thoughts of Elle and her knife sheath, had made for a fitful, restless night.
The next morning found Malcolm back downtown, in the barber’s chair. The barber shop was always a good place to find information; the profession was third in line after priest and barmen in the list of those strangers to whom a man would bare his soul. Fourth, really, if you included adventuresses. Men loved to boast and conjecture as they sat in the leather chairs or waited on benches for their trim.
He straightened his hat and smoothed his sideburns as he stepped onto busy Main Street and began walking with the flow of foot traffic. The haircut hadn’t been entirely necessary, but it didn’t hurt to have Susie think he’d gotten all cleaned up for her. Still, it was Elle’s reaction he’d thought of as the barber clipped away. It was her hand he imagined smoothing his hair back before she leaned in to kiss him. . . .
He hadn’t gotten any valuable information during his time in the chair, only news of the latest skirmishes and what the odds were that the blockade would be broken before springtime. As usual, the men had spoken of the weakness of the North and the impending victory of the South, but there was a fear in their eyes borne of the scant goods in the marketplace and the threadbare dress
es and darned stockings worn by their women. They’d thought the war would be over and won in a week, but instead it pressed on with no end in sight.
Now he wound his way through the crowd, giving hearty hellos to the acquaintances he had cultivated during his various trips through Richmond. He made friends easily, and always had, despite his generally solitary nature. The talent proved quite useful for infiltrating groups of Rebel plotters, but Elle seemed to be proof against this particular charm of his.
Jesus, man, get ahold of yourself.
A tumbling sensation in his chest seemed to auger danger ahead. He’d been infatuated before, when he was young and foolish, but never had a woman so relentlessly intruded upon his thoughts. Apprehension raised the hairs on his neck as unpleasant memories rose to the fore—hissed threats of violence and fits of sobbing regret, all fueled by a love transformed by jealousy.
No woman will ever drive me to that madness, or be on the receiving end of it.
Still, Elle’s bemusement with his theatrics in the carriage came to him then. She was a woman who’d tolerate no such foolishness from the man lucky enough to have her. But he would never be so lucky, even if he were the kind of man who allowed for such a thing as love. Society had already sorted this problem for him, despite the fantasies that tormented him and drove his hand to his cock like he was a sap-filled youth.
But not necessarily . . . he thought of the Bergers, who worked a small farm in the town where he’d been raised. Mr. Berger was a quiet, serious German émigré, his wife a former slave he’d met when she purchased a horse from him. The investment had worked out well for the both of them. Their marriage wasn’t recognized by law, or by many of the townspeople, but they’d been together for as long as he could remember. If their love could move against the tide, was it possible for him as well?
