An Extraordinary Union

by Alyssa Cole

  He’d always prided himself as a friend and ally to every man who sought equality, but was that true? Or had he imagined himself a savior instead?

  He shook his head, disgusted with himself. With everything. When he spoke again, his voice was a raw whisper in the silence. “You deserve to be outraged. All of your people do. Why you didn’t set this country ablaze a hundred years ago is beyond me.”

  Elle jumped to her feet, not very much taller than him even though he knelt and she stood. When she spoke, her fury was constrained in a voice that fairly dripped with annoyance at having to explain something very obvious to him. “Because, unlike you, we don’t have the luxury of being outraged. If we rebelled and set half the country on fire, where would that leave us? You think that would make folks see us as more human?”

  “Given the way they treat their slaves, maybe it would,” he muttered darkly. “Maybe the only way for this country to be cleansed of its sins is to burn them away.”

  “What, an eye for an eye?” she scoffed. “ ‘If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear’? What rubbish.” She fixed him with a look that made him regret that the words had even crossed his mind, let alone left his mouth. “The blood of my people permeates the very foundation of this country. Even if everything from the Eastern seaboard to the furthest territory out West was razed to the ground, it couldn’t make up for the injustice. And if you think that’s what I’m fighting for, what every Negro putting their life on the line to stop the Confederacy is fighting for, then you’ve misunderstood everything. You’ve misunderstood me.” Her hands clenched the letter she held, and she dropped it before she could damage it further.

  Her words eviscerated him. He held her gaze, glossy with emotion and tight with impatience.

  “Help me to understand,” he said. He was still asking of her when he should be giving, but he didn’t know how else to proceed.

  “We don’t want revenge, Malcolm.” She looked at him like he was the densest bastard to ever walk the earth. “We want life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, just like any damned fool in these United States is entitled to so long as he isn’t Black or Red. So you can keep your outrage. All I can do is try to make a difference.”

  Despite all her talk of not being angry, Elle was fairly shaking with it. She stood barely a step away from him, hands balled into fists. Her eyes were glossy with tears he knew she wouldn’t shed out of pride, and she bit her lower lip as if to keep it from trembling. Despite her fury, there was something soft and pleading in her look, something that shook Malcolm to his core. So far he’d seen Elle annoyed, or flustered, or defiant. She was strong, without a doubt. But this despair made her seem vulnerable and quite easy to break should anyone choose to do so.

  “Don’t you see?” she asked. “This is our homeland, too. We shouldn’t have to wreak havoc on the land to be seen as citizens! We shouldn’t have to.”

  Her voice broke on that last whispered word, and something in him cracked along with it. Malcolm rose to his feet, his gaze locked on hers as the tension between them morphed from anger and frustration to something that burned with a much different accelerant. Elle’s chest rose and fell as if she’d been running instead of quietly eviscerating him with her truth. Warmth flamed up the back of his neck, the hairs there rising with awareness.

  Malcolm didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to being tongue-tied, or to the all-consuming desire to give comfort.

  Her eyes darted back and forth, searching his; what she looked for, he didn’t know, but in that moment he wanted to give her everything. The feeling streaked through him like hot lead—a desperate desire to please her, to tear down the world and build it anew if he had to. He’d never experienced the sensation. He’d spent a lifetime steeling himself against just such an occurrence, but that meant nothing in the face of his desire to feel her mouth against his, to taste her against his tongue, to kiss the sadness and despair right out of her.

  He slid his hands up her arms and tightened them against the rough homespun of her dress, just a little. Just enough to let her know what he wanted of her. Even a simple embrace was fraught with danger and placed the burden of an entire country’s horrific origins on their shoulders—he wouldn’t force his comfort on her any more than he would his desire. It was something she had to choose for herself, by stepping forward or pulling away. What he wanted wasn’t the best choice for her, and was far from the safest for either of them, but he willed her to come to him all the same.

  Trust me, he thought as he stared into her eyes. She resisted, and he relaxed the gentle pressure on her arms. Then the tension against his fingertips slackened—Elle had stepped into his embrace, releasing a shuddering sigh as she did. Malcolm gathered her in his arms, simply holding her in the dim, dusty storeroom. In the silence he heard the noise of customers entering the store and MacTavish, who could disrupt them at any moment.

  They were on stolen time.

  He pressed her close against him and emitted a noise of relief at how right it felt to hold her. She tilted her head up toward him in surprise. Her lips were a dusky rose, slightly parted as if blooming for him, and the sight sent a jolt through him. His mind ceased functioning, and for a moment all that existed for him was her.

  What in the hell is wrong with you?

  Malcolm had heard men wax poetic about meeting the woman for them and just knowing, but he’d always thought of it as people making myths of their own mundane lives. Looking down into Elle’s wide brown eyes, he wondered if he’d been mistaken.

  There was only one way to find out.

  He kissed her.

  The kiss was chaste, merely the soft press of his mouth against hers, but Malcolm was nearly undone by it. Her lips were so soft, warm, and lush, and her kiss was sweet, tasting of cinnamon. Warmth settled heavy in his stomach as she responded, her mouth meeting the pressure of his.

  He didn’t know when their tongues joined the fray, or even who initiated it. Everything was blocked out by how good it was, their shared desire filling him with a terrible ache that swelled through him from his toes straight up his spine. Dear God, had he ever felt anything like this? A simple kiss that hit him like a horse hoof square in the chest?

  Elle was responsive, meeting each stroke of his with one of her own. Their tongues sparred now, as if continuing the argument they’d been having but on more sensual terms. Malcolm’s hands moved between them, up her waist to skim the outline of her breasts. He caressed the undersides tenderly, gently kneading as he explored their heft and circumference.

  Her hands flew to his lapels, clutching at them as he grabbed her waist and whirled her around, seating her on the edge of the desk. In an instant, he had her skirts up around her knees. His fingers encircled her ankle, feeling the birdlike bones flex beneath the cracked leather of her old boots. The texture beneath his palm changed as his hand worked its way up; smooth, warm skin greeted his questing hand. She gasped as he caressed the length of her calf to her knee with one heavy stroke, and the look of heated surprise that brush of skin elicited spurred him on.

  “MacTavish could walk in at any moment,” she breathed. She didn’t push him away. Her lips were moist and plump, abraded by his kisses. Her eyes were bright; it seemed he had finally provoked something other than consternation in her.

  “Well, then, we’d better be quick,” he whispered. His hand continued its course, straight up her thigh, and just as he cupped her mound, the dampness of her drawers pressing into his palm, she shook her head and slammed her legs shut. It was like a steam engine running out of coal, the way she went from hot to cold on him.

  He pulled his hand away. “Elle?”

  When she looked at him, he expected fury, as she’d displayed the night before on the hill, but instead there was only confusion and sadness. As he watched, her expression went blank. She hopped down off of the desk and straightened her dress, then took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “I should be getting back now, or Mary will be sending ou
t a search party for her bags of meal,” she said calmly, as if he hadn’t just kissed and caressed her. As if his cock weren’t so hard and his mind so jumbled that he didn’t know what to do with himself. She turned and gathered up the scattered letters.

  “I hope I can see you again soon,” he said.

  Her back was to him, so he couldn’t see her face when she replied. Couldn’t read truth or falsehood in her eyes. “You’ll be over to see Susie and Senator Caffrey, so I expect we’ll meet by and by,” she said. “But do not hope to see me again. Do not hope for anything more from me, other than Union business. I’ve already told you this cannot be, and yet you persist.”

  Malcolm was learning many lessons in MacTavish’s back room, including what true rejection felt like. He couldn’t say he liked it, the sick, sinking feeling caused by Elle’s words.

  “You returned my kiss, Elle, and with fervor,” he challenged. “What am I supposed to make of that?”

  “That even a woman who knows better can appreciate a moment’s distraction.” She turned and raised her brows at him. Now even the sadness was gone, and all that remained was a coldness that could freeze the James over in an instant. “It was just a kiss, Malcolm. Now your curiosity has been sated and we can do what we’re meant to be doing. I hope you didn’t expect that one demonstration of your prowess would be enough to change my mind.”

  She laughed. Laughed! If Malcolm hadn’t felt her trembling under his hands mere moments before, he would have believed her.

  “Get this fool idea out of your head, McCall. I will not have you.”

  Malcolm felt a strange desperation twist up his insides. He didn’t believe she really felt nothing for him, but that was of no importance. If she was determined to push him away, she would. Her stubbornness was one of the things that made her so attractive, but it was not his ally.

  “I know you don’t take me seriously, but I . . . I feel something when I’m with you.” He saw her face screw up, and kept talking before she could stop him. “I know I’m not entitled to anything. Everything in the world conspires against anything being possible between us, but the world can go screw.”

  He’d never spoken such words to a woman before. He expected them to work like a skeleton key, unlocking the warm, vivacious woman who had just kissed him as if her life depended on it. Elle remained firmly shuttered.

  “The world?” she asked, incredulous. “The world can go screw, indeed! It is I, Ellen Burns, who says we shouldn’t be together. You claim to respect me, yet you cannot accept that perhaps there’s one woman in the world who doesn’t want you? I’m sure Susie Caffrey will kindly fulfill any services you need rendered in my stead, and that would be much more helpful to the Cause.”

  “I don’t want Susie Caffrey,” he said, and he knew that she understood the unspoken words that followed. I want you.

  “All that we seek in this world is not always provided, Mr. McCall,” Elle said. “Maybe it’s time you learned that. You obviously haven’t if you think that there is anything more to say on the topic of you and me.”

  Her gaze was hard. Malcolm could see why she made an excellent detective. Still, he was one of Pinkerton’s best for a reason. Even if she wanted to believe her words were true, she was bluffing him. He thought better of calling her on it.

  “You’re clear to come out, unless ye want to continue this staring match.” MacTavish poked his head through the door, his boozy scent permeating the room again.

  “Here are the letters, Tav,” Elle said, tearing her gaze away from Malcolm to hand the grocer the packet. “These are very important, be sure they get there as quick as can be.”

  “At your service, love,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze as she passed.

  They walked out into the main area, Elle pretending she didn’t know Malcolm as she picked up her purchases and left in silence. Malcolm watched her go, surprised at how much it stung when she didn’t look back.

  He turned to find MacTavish looking at him suspiciously. He lifted his hat to the man. “Good day.”

  “Humph,” was all he got in reply. The old man turned and began tallying receipts, and Malcolm walked out into the bustling street, drawing back just in time to avoid being barreled into by a huge red-haired man. Rufus.

  “Pardon,” Malcolm said by way of greeting, and moved to continue on his way, but Rufus stepped in front of him, his chest nearly pushing Malcolm back into the store.

  There was no greeting or other segue into conversation, simply a brusque declaration. “Susie is mine.”

  Malcolm grimaced. Is this how he’d appeared to Elle, a possessive fool who wouldn’t take no for an answer? Had he been this ridiculous in the thrall of his desire?

  “I’m very happy for you,” Malcolm said, clapping the younger man on the back a bit harder than necessary. “Perhaps you should relay that information to her, though. Much like the lands out West, she doesn’t seem to be aware that she’s conquered territory.”

  Rufus’s eyes narrowed. “You can keep up your fancy talk, McCall, but watch that you stay away from that which don’t belong to you.”

  Elle’s incredulous laugh rang in Malcolm’s ears and a burst of anger flared in him, heating the back of his neck.

  “I’m not a man who gives up easily, young Rufus,” he said. “Not in battle, and not in matters of the heart. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He pushed past Rufus, whose beefy body barely registered the insult. Let Rufus think he was speaking of his dainty Southern belle. Malcolm had the kiss of a real woman thrumming in his veins, and he couldn’t settle for anyone less after that. In fact, he was worried that he couldn’t settle for anyone else at all.

  CHAPTER 7

  Elle knew that, outwardly, she was composed. She was practiced at withdrawing her true self behind an impenetrable barrier; such a skill was necessary when one was trotted about and forced to perform humiliating acts for strangers. Being asked to recite poetry or recall tracts of literature wasn’t degrading in and of itself; it was people’s reactions that had made it feel like something tainted. For a brief period, when she was very young, she’d thought that people were impressed with her. The first time an angry, indignant man had asked how a darkie could possibly possess her memory and intellect had remedied her of that belief. The question had reduced her to tears, but by the end of her tenure with the abolitionists, she’d mastered the art of the cool glare.

  Thus, no one in the Caffrey household could tell that her thoughts were in tumult as she quietly sorted through the cornmeal, searching out the grubs that were vying with hungry Virginians for the meager stores of food. But the grain wasn’t the only thing that had been infiltrated; thoughts of Malcolm had gotten past her defenses and ate away at her attention.

  What had happened the previous day in MacTavish’s back room had been unacceptable. She’d been on the verge of making an important connection between their information when he’d interrupted her with his pathetic apologia; the usually well-oiled machine that was her mind had run off the tracks when he’d knelt before her. His mere proximity had shaken her, and when he touched her—oh, she couldn’t think of it. It was wrong for someone who looked like her to react in such a way to someone who looked like him, and while he wore a Rebel uniform no less. She felt like the worst kind of traitor.

  That she, who had been appointed a freedom fighter for her people, would now cavort with the enemy could not be tolerated. And yes, he was the enemy, despite his allegiance to the Union. It could not be otherwise with such an imbalance between them; one wrong word from him and she would lose her life, whereas his sex and skin color inoculated him from harm at her hand.

  Yet, he’d saved her in Baltimore. That had been no small feat in the midst of a crowd of crazed men looking for the slightest sign of affection for the North. And something had compelled him to offer her his protection here, although he hadn’t recognized her. Or had he? Perhaps this was all some trick, like the one he’d pulled in the carriage.

>   “You still sorting that meal?” Mary asked benignly enough as she walked up to Elle, although what she meant was, “This is taking you entirely too long.”

  Elle nodded apologetically and hurried her pace, and Mary smiled in approval. Elle was glad she didn’t have to speak. Who knows what she would have blurted out. A white man kissed me and I enjoyed it. I can still feel his touch on my skin, and last night when I went to bed, my hands retraced his path....

  Dammit, this was ridiculous. Elle repressed a shudder as one of the worms curled in her palm before she threw it into a bucket with the others. She took both the bucket and the worm-free meal and headed toward the kitchen, dropping the meal off with one of the grateful cooks. She grabbed a woven basket as she headed out the back door, toward the henhouse.

  “Hey there, Elle,” Timothy said. She hadn’t seen him since he made his request for her to pick up a package. “How did it go the other night?”

  Curiosity glinted in his hazel eyes as he regarded her. Timothy wasn’t much taller than her, and he was skinny as a billy goat to boot. His size and demeanor led people to underestimate him, but the man was intelligent and wily, and he did nothing without careful deliberation.

  Elle scanned the backyard; there was no one about to see as Timothy followed her into the small structure. Perhaps it would be better if there was. A dalliance with a fellow slave could serve as useful cover if they ever had to slip away on Loyal League business. People were more forgiving if they thought you were snatching a moment of joy during the bleak drudgery of working without respite.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that the package was a man?” she whispered, masking her voice beneath the cooing and clucking of the hens. Feathers floated in the air around them as chickens hopped out of their path or scratched at the ground in anticipation of feed. She let her tone say what her words did not: a white man. “Was this some kind of test? Something LaValle put you up to?”