Return to Me

by Rosemary Rogers

  “I’m telling you what Thomas told me,” Taye continued. “He’s been south to see to his father’s law offices. He says they are in great need of repair. Vagabonds were actually living there. It would take a lot of work before he could even set up his practice.”

  Cameron’s lower lip trembled. “So that’s where you intend to go, after you’re wed? Home?” Her voice quavered with the last word.

  “I don’t know where we’re going yet,” Taye said gently. Her tone lightened. “Besides, it’s too early to talk of such plans. It’s completely inappropriate. We’re not even officially engaged yet. We’ve yet to make the announcement.”

  “Well, as soon as that matter is taken care of, we’re going to make the engagement official.” Cameron reached out and squeezed Taye’s hand. “And I’m going to throw you the biggest engagement ball Baltimore has ever seen.”

  Taye beamed. “It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.”

  “And that’s why you shall have it.” Cameron walked to the full-length mirror to take in her reflection. She reached out her arm and pulled Taye beside her. Taye had picked a charming blue-and-yellow gown with a shockingly low bodice and short, billowed tulle sleeves.

  The two women didn’t look much like sisters. Cameron was half a hand taller than Taye and was more greatly endowed with womanly curves. Cameron’s hair was a deep auburn—her paternal grandmother’s Highland hair—and her eyes were a honeyed amber. Taye had locks the color of a silken crow’s wing and exquisite pale blue eyes, so unusual for a mulatto. And her skin was a honey-bronze sun-kissed color, her complexion perfect. She had their father’s nose. Cameron could see it now, though she had not noticed it before. Perhaps because she had been afraid to…

  “We should go downstairs,” Taye suggested softly.

  Their gazes met in the mirror.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Cameron said softly. It was difficult for her to articulate her feelings sometimes, but she needed Taye to know how greatly she cared for her. “I wish that we could never be separated again.”

  Taye laughed and kissed Cameron’s cheek, then smoothed it to be sure she had left no telltale lip pomade. “You’re so serious tonight, too serious for a ball. Let’s go, cherie. I want to dance and sip champagne.”

  Cameron turned to Taye, her sister’s laughter contagious. “Is this the same girl that I had to coerce into putting on one of my ball gowns and coming down to watch others dance only a few short years ago?”

  Taye’s blue eyes sparkled with fond memories. “And then your dashing Jackson asked me to dance—”

  “And you shocked everyone in the county,” Cameron recalled proudly. “Don’t you remember? Grant stomped right up to you on Papa’s ballroom floor and accused Jackson of dancing with one of his servants.”

  Taye pressed her lips together at the mention of Grant, and Cameron reached out to touch her arm. “I’m sorry. Tonight is supposed to be a happy night. I shouldn’t have mentioned him.”

  Again, Taye’s blue-eyed gaze met Cameron’s. “But we do need to talk about him. About what happened at Elmwood that night,” she finished softly.

  “Another time,” Cameron said softly.

  “Yes,” Taye agreed as Cameron offered her hand and the two left the bedchamber together. “But we must talk of it, sometime.”

  “We will, just not tonight.” Side by side, arm in arm, the two walked gracefully down the grand staircase to greet their arriving guests.

  Every room in the town house was filled to capacity with men dressed in handsome blue officer’s uniforms and ladies in their finest ball gowns. The war was over and there was no longer a need to pinch pennies or wear last year’s gown. The fabric colors seemed even brighter than they had been before the war: blues, yellows, greens, peaches. The women were like a great bouquet of spring wildflowers blooming amid the classical Greek urns, glittering chandeliers and marble pillars. The halls and chambers of the house were filled with the sounds that came only from victory at war. There was gay laughter, manly boasting and a few shed tears.

  And the music…While Cameron had been annoyed that Jackson had secured musicians without consulting her, she had to admit he had hired the finest in all of Baltimore. Every room was filled with the sweet resonant sounds of violins and the echo of a grand piano from the ballroom. In one secluded room a young woman, dressed in a Grecian white gown to match the cavorting nymphs pictured in the shockingly expensive, hand-painted Italian wallpaper, strummed a harp.

  Cameron and Taye separated in the receiving hall and Cameron made her way from room to room, greeting what appeared to be all of Baltimore and Washington society. She smiled at her husband’s guests, laughed at their jests and called again and again for more champagne, more canapés, and tried not to think of her own tribulations. The war had been long and costly, and Baltimore society was ready to take a fresh breath of air and enjoy the finer amenities life had to offer. And tonight Captain Jackson Logan was providing them.

  An hour or more after Cameron descended the stairs, she breezed through one of the parlors and caught a glimpse of Jackson. He was dressed handsomely in a dark blue frock coat, slender trousers and a starched white shirt and cravat. His hair was tied back neatly in one of her own navy satin ribbons which was so Jackson-like that she wanted to laugh. What man on earth would dare wear a woman’s ribbon in his hair in public but Captain Logan?

  And was the ribbon a flag of truce? She had to wonder.

  He was standing near the window with a group of gentlemen, one talking heatedly. In the midst of the men in uniform, he stood out like a majestic peregrine among pigeons. As she glided through the room, she could feel her husband’s gaze on her. Hungry. It was the first he had looked at her that way in days.

  She felt as if she were standing naked in the middle of the room…and that both thrilled and angered her. She was thrilled to still feel such passion for her husband, but angered because it meant he held a control over her that she did not care to acknowledge.

  Cameron had told Jackson she would not sleep with him until matters between them had been settled. But she had not realized how much she would be punishing herself…how many hours she would lie awake, straining to hear the sound of his footsteps in the hall or the squeak of her bedchamber door. She could have sworn her hunger for him had grown since she’d discovered that she was with child.

  She glanced up and, against her will, flashed him a suggestive smile. She didn’t care if it was utterly inappropriate in public; at this moment it felt to her as if it was just the two them in the room. Besides, this was their home, and she was married, wasn’t she? Didn’t a woman have a right to flirt with her own husband? Especially when all the other women in the house seemed to think they could flirt with him?

  Jackson took a step as if coming to speak to her and her heart leaped in her breast. She did miss him so in her bed. Thinking about him coming to her after the party, imagining that they might slip away to be together amid the gathering, caused her nipples to grow taut and slick moisture to gather in the most intimate parts of her body.

  Then reality washed over her like cold rain, and her resolve stiffened as she glided out of the room. She was not going to make this easy for him. If he wanted her, he would have to apologize first.

  Jackson watched Cameron hasten from the room to avoid him and he stopped short. He wanted to go after her, to sit and talk with her and try to work out their differences, but she was making it so damned hard.

  “There you are, Jackson.”

  Before he turned, he knew who it was. That silky voice, that scent. “Marie,” he said softly, turning to face her.

  “Surprise.” She held up her hands. “What do you think of my new gown? It’s all the rage in Europe.”

  She looked like a Greek goddess in a filmy white empire waist garment with yards of folded fabric that fell from beneath her breasts in a cloud of sheer silk. She looked so remarkable that she could have been one of the sculptured marble goddesses in the hous
e, come to life. Jackson frowned and spoke beneath his breath. “I asked you not to come.”

  She smiled regally. “I couldn’t very well tell the congressman I couldn’t attend with him, now, could I? Besides, I have more information. We leave for New Orleans tomorrow.”

  He walked to a table that had been set up for gentlemen to help themselves to various brandies. He passed over the brandy for scotch. If anyone pointed Marie out to Cameron, they were liable to have a catfight right in the middle of the ballroom floor. He needed to get Marie out of here before too many people saw her. “You need to leave here at once. If it’s absolutely necessary, I can meet with you in the morning.”

  “Leave? Whatever will I tell the congressman?”

  He kept his rigid back to her. “I don’t give a damn what you tell him.”

  “My, we are testy tonight. The gentleman who came to do my hair this afternoon intimated that Captain Logan is no longer welcome in his wife’s bedchamber. I set it aside as gossip, but now I see there is some truth—”

  “Marie,” Jackson said sharply, turning to face her.

  She pressed her ruby lips together. “You’re serious. You want me to go.”

  He nodded.

  She paused, studying his face. She was so lovely, she could take a man’s ability to breathe from him. Certainly his ability to reason.

  “All right, Jackson,” she murmured, reaching a gloved hand to stroke his cheek. “But we do need to talk. Send me a message in the morning. Early. I’ll meet you wherever you like.”

  Jackson nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He drained his glass as she turned and glided out of the room.

  Cameron swept into the hall from the library, bound for the kitchen, when she caught sight of Jackson, still in the parlor, out of the corner of her eye.

  That woman! Smiling flirtatiously up at Jackson. Her gloved hand stroking his cheek. Who was she? She had to be the wife or the daughter of one of the many honored guests. But how dare she flirt so openly with her host while Cameron, his wife, was present? How dare he! A shaft of anger cut through her.

  Hearing her name frantically called, Cameron turned to a matronly woman who was waving her lace fan, trying to catch Cameron’s attention.

  Cameron vaguely recognized her, but couldn’t place the face at first. Then suddenly it all came tumbling back. Home at Elmwood, dancing in the ballroom. This woman had begged a dance from Cameron’s father. A widow, she had been chasing the senator like a bear after honey for months.

  “Mrs. Fitzhugh!” Cameron walked over and hugged the rotund woman with genuine delight. “It’s so good to see you.” She leaned back to gaze into the older woman’s round face. “The last time I saw you was at Papa’s farewell ball the night Fort Sumter was fired upon. What are you doing here?”

  “Why, I’ve married,” she gushed. “Mr. Martin works in the war department. A very essential post.” She lowered her lashes. “Of course, I’m not at liberty to say what he does.”

  “So it’s Mrs. Martin now,” Cameron said kindly, her gaze straying to the older woman’s dark, highly arched eyebrows. “How long have you been in Washington?”

  “Not long, not at all.” Mrs. Martin’s slack-jawed face grew rosy with pride. “We’ve just set up housekeeping not far from the White House.”

  Cameron reached for her hand that protruded from lace half gloves. “How long since you’ve been in Jackson, Mississippi?”

  “Why, only a few months. My father died and I had matters to settle there.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Cameron peered into the older woman’s light brown eyes. “Did…did you happen to pass Elmwood in your travels?” Cameron didn’t know why she asked. She didn’t know what she expected Mrs. Martin to say or why she would want to hear a first-person account of the burned ruins of her home, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” Mrs. Martin fluttered her carved ivory fan, excited by the attention she was receiving from the hostess of the ball. “A few windows broken, and the grass is high, of course, but she really looked rather fine, considering what—” She clutched her fan to her chest. “Considering what we have all been through.”

  “I’m…I’m sorry. You must be mistaken,” Cameron managed, her heart beating far faster than it had a moment before. “Elmwood burned in the summer of ’61. I saw the smoke myself, smelled the burning wood as we ran for our lives.”

  “No, no, I’m quite certain, dear. Elmwood still stands. Most of the outbuildings are gone, of course, burned to the ground, as you say. Those lovely stables of yours, gone. But the manor house still stands, I assure you.”

  Cameron felt light-headed, and for a moment feared she might faint.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” Mrs. Martin clasped Cameron’s hand. “Should I call for a servant? Have you need to lie down?”

  Cameron willed the room to cease spinning. She took a great breath of air that now seemed stifling in the house, and then another.

  Elmwood was standing? Why hadn’t Jackson told her? He had been there with her the day they’d fled the plantation with Taye and the slave girls. He’d seen the soldiers and then the smoke, too. They’d hidden all day in the crumbling mill ruin, hidden from Confederate soldiers who were burning everything they couldn’t use to prevent the Union from using it.

  And Jackson had been to Elmwood during the war! The bastard had brought her the portrait of her, Grant and Taye, painted when they were young, saying the canvas had somehow survived.

  The bastard. The liar. He didn’t want her to know her home still stood. He didn’t want her to go home to Elmwood.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Martin. Duty calls.”

  The elderly woman swept a curtsy and Cameron hurried off in the direction she had last seen Jackson.

  Taye slipped out of the parlor and down the hall, holding back her tears of frustration. As she hurried, the music from the ballroom faded.

  She and Thomas had shared a glass of champagne and danced several waltzes, but he had made no attempt to get her alone, or to even speak alone with her. He didn’t seem to want to get to know her better, and yet, when she tried to talk to him about it, he didn’t understand what she meant. He was hurt, thinking she thought he was neglecting her in public. That wasn’t it at all; he was the perfect gentleman in front of everyone. But she wanted intimacy. She wanted passion. Was it too much to ask for that, when they were not yet wed?

  Taye walked down the hall, her yellow-and-blue gown rustling with each step. With the money her father had left her in the form of a pouch of jewels, she was now a wealthy woman. Because she had invested the money well, she was quite independent; she didn’t have to marry at all. But she wanted to marry. She wanted to have children. She wanted a passionate life with a man she loved, a life like the one her sister had. Was that too much to ask for?

  At the end of the hall, Taye slipped out a side door and followed a brick walk around the house to the garden. The moment she stepped into the open, she hugged herself in the surprising chill of the June evening.

  She turned and looked back at the imposing brick house, and considered returning for a shawl. But as she stared at the twinkling lights that spilled from every window, as she listened to the hum of voices and the music of the violins, she knew she couldn’t go back inside. Not now.

  She would take a walk, get a breath of fresh air, and then she would go back inside to stand at Thomas’s side and try to be the woman he wanted her to be.

  The large, English-style garden, with winding brick paths, hidden benches and vined arbors, was really quite breathtaking in the daylight and just a little spooky at night.

  A quarter moon lay low in the sky, and when Taye glanced overhead, she could see the pinpricks of thousands of stars. Staring up at the sky, she followed a little path that she thought led to the fountain with the stone angel, one of her favorite pieces in the garden.

  Taye turned the corner around a boxwood hedge and walked into something sol
id and warm on the path. Startled, she drew back. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry,” she said, flustered.

  The handsome man, dressed in a black coat and black trousers, looked at her but did not speak.

  She took a step back, feeling a shiver of fear, and turned to go, but then she felt his warm hand on her bare arm.

  “Do not retreat so fast.” He had a strange accent, one she could not place. His voice was warm and liquid, like molten iron. “I mean no harm to you.”

  “You’re here for the ball,” she said shakily. Every bit of instinct she possessed told her to run.

  “I am not one much for such large gatherings,” he said, slowly letting his hand fall.

  She looked up, and in the moon’s glow she saw almond-shaped black eyes, black hair pulled back to trail down his back and a long, distinct nose. The stranger’s skin was close to the color of her own, yet she knew instantly that he was not mulatto. European, perhaps? Yes, that was it. He must be a native of one of the Mediterranean countries, which would account for his complexion. Yet his accent was definitely not Italian, and not Greek, either.

  “I…I just came out for a breath of fresh air,” she stammered, attempting to regain her composure. “I am Taye Campbell.” She didn’t offer her hand. She kept her fingers clasped together at her waist to hide their trembling.

  “I know who you are.”

  There was something about the timbre of his deep voice that mesmerized her. “You do? Have we been introduced? You must forgive me,” she said. “I’ve met so many this evening. Captain Logan has many friends.”

  “We have not been introduced. But I have been watching you all night.”

  “You have?” She swallowed, that ripple of fear present again.

  “You are very different from your sister.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. “We had the same father, but not the same mother,” she explained stiffly.

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  Taye nibbled on her lower lip. The man was standing too close for propriety. She could smell his hair, his skin that seemed to have a copper red hue. He smelled fresh, like the woods.