Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Excerpt
Other Books By
Dedication
Acknowledgment:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Author’s Note
Other Books By2
Copyright
Pestiny’s
Temptress
Janele
Taylor
SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT
“Would you hold me, Blane? I feel so safe in your arms.”
Blane knew the danger of their contact, yet he complied, embracing Shannon tightly and possessively. He wished once again that she hadn’t become involved in this dangerous war, but he was glad she was in his arms for the moment. He brushed kisses over her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and her chin. His face caressed hers, his hands stroked her back and arms, and he inhaled her sweetness.
As if she had been a kitten, Shannon snuggled closer and silently encouraged more stroking with her reactions. Her fingertips teased over his shoulders and back. Then she closed her eyes and let her senses absorb the stirring sensations he was creating within her. As her head rolled to his pillow, their lips touched lightly.
Savoring the feel of her flesh, he moved his fingers over her face and down her neck to journey over her arm. His hand found hers and brought it to his lips. He kissed each finger, then her palm, then worked his way over her wrist and up her arm.
Their surroundings were forgotten. The war was forgotten. And forgotten, too, were any reasons they might have had to deny their blazing passion…
ROMANCE FROM JANELLE TAYLOR
ANYTHING FOR LOVE (0-8217-4992-7, $5.99)
DESTINY MINE (0-8217-5185-9, $5.99)
CHASE THE WIND (0-8217-4740-1, $5.99)
MIDNIGHT SECRETS (0-8217-5280-4, $5.99)
MOONBEAMS AND MAGIC (0-8217-0184-4, $5.99)
SWEET SAVAGE HEART (0-8217-5276-6, $5.99)
Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the Publisher. Send cover price plus 50¢ per copy for mailing and handling to Penguin USA, P.O. Box 999, c/o Dept. 17109, Bergenfield, NJ 07621. Residents of New York and Tennessee must include sales tax. DO NOT SEND CASH.
For two.very special men: Ronald W. Morgan, who knows all the reasons why, and Richard Monaco, a terrific agent and a superb writer.
And for two very special women: Hilari Cohen, a talented editor with whom it is always a pleasure to work, and Roberta Grossman, Publisher of Zebra Books, for her continued faith and patience, and for my “discovery.”
And for my mother, Frances Davis Edwards, the Davis clan of Athens, Georgia, and all heirs of President Jefferson Davis (1808-89).
Acknowledgment:
Sylvie Sommerfield, for the loan of many books from her personal library.
The Augusta/Richmond County Library staff, for their unselfish and untiring help when deadlines are pressing.
The Chambers of Commerce in Wilmington, Charleston, and Savannah, for their assistance with obtaining historical and local information about their cities.
And my readers, friends, and booksellers who have been so patient and helpful while I was too busy catching up from 1984 to answer their letters and calls and to make appearances in their areas.
Chapter One
Washington
August 1864
Shannon Greenleaf thought she understood the risks involved in her attempt to sneak into the White House near midnight to speak privately with President Abraham Lincoln. For days she had been denied a meeting with him, and she doubted that her written messages pleading for a short conference had reached his busy hands. As a loyal Unionist, she felt she deserved a show of manners and consideration. She was fatigued and angered at being put off on this crucial matter, for both her money and her patience had worn thin. It was time for desperate and clever action, and Shannon was bold enough to take them.
To facilitate swift movement and concealment, the nineteen-year-old Georgian had dressed in dark blue male attire that almost matched her eyes. She had twisted and stuffed her long red hair beneath a felt hat, then blackened her ivory face and hands with soot. And in order not to pose a threat to Lincoln, she was not carrying a weapon.
Shannon had observed the massive white structure for several hours, knowing that somehow she would have to reach the second floor. By now, she was familiar with the guards’ patterns and felt she could slip past them, but she still had one major problem to surmount. She would have to make a rapid and stealthful entry.
The windows on the first floor had been closed and locked at dusk. Those open on the second floor were inaccessible. Four third-story windows offered hope and excitement. According to what she had learned, the third floor contained servants’ quarters and guest rooms. Yet only one of the four had remained dark throughout her vigil.
Waiting until the sentry had passed, Shannon whispered a prayer and raced behind the shrubs near the eastern side of the building. There was no time for delay. She removed her boots and hid them beneath the bushes, then, with silent thanks for the numerous days she had played tomboy with her brothers and for the countless hours of forest training she had undergone with Hawke—she deftly began climbing a sprawling Magnolia. She gingerly straddled a selected bough and, tightly grasping both sides of it between shaky hands, she lifted her hips and slid her body forward, repeating the process many times as she gradually inched herself along its surface.
Tonight her anxiety hampered her usual skill and confidence. A splintered nub from a broken limb snared her pants and slowed her progress as she stopped to untangle herself. Each time she encountered an offshoot, she would cautiously raise that leg and pass it over the obstacle. She was acutely aware that her daring plot was fraught with many perils—including that of being shot before she could reveal her identity or motive. Inwardly, she cursed the full moon above her, even though its light allowed her to climb more easily.
Shannon was compelled to cease all movement as the sentry made his next round, despite her precarious position. Within a few feet of the tree, the guard halted and leaned against the building while he lit a cigar and leisurely smoked it. To retain her stability, Shannon squeezed her quivering thighs around the bough supporting her, locked her ankles together, and clung desperately to the bark surface with her hands. She kept warning herself not to tremble or disturb her balance and she was almost afraid to breathe, lest the erratic sound be overheard and reveal her presence.
The Southern beauty knew she must succeed. This war had stolen too much from her. Her father and oldest brother were dead, and her other two brothers were missing. Corry could be dead, or dying; Hawke had vanished years ago. As she waited for the sentry to leave, her troubled mind wandered to the past.
Hawke…Shannon’s tender heart surged with love and anguish…They had all been surprised in ’56 when her father, Andrew Greenleaf, had returned from Texas with a half-blooded youth of fourteen who could put many grown men to shame with his prowess, physique, and looks. To everyone’s amazement, he had immediately adopted WindHawke, son of a whiteman and the Indian
woman, Flaming Eyes, who was the daughter of one Comanche chief and the sister of another. Two years had passed before Shannon and her brothers discovered that Hawke Greenleaf was their half brother. By then, it hadn’t mattered to them.
Andrew Greenleaf had met Flaming Eyes in 1841, while she was working as a cook and laundress at a Texas fort. She had been using her job as a means of spying on the soldiers for her family, and the tales of her daring feats had intrigued young Shannon. For two months the ill-fated lovers had shared a bittersweet romance and fiery passion.
Andrew had not known of his son’s existence until the Mexican War, when he renewed his liaison with the Indian beauty. And when Kerry O’Shannon Greenleaf died in 1854, Andrew was determined to recover Flaming Eyes and WindHawke. Finally locating them after two years, Andrew had found that his secret lover was dying and that hostilities between Indians and whites were increasing perilously. Flaming eyes had persuaded her son to move to Georgia with his father so that he would survive and benefit from his father’s love and guidance.
Shannon had often recalled the words of Flaming Eyes, which Hawke had repeated to her: “Go, my son; live to see many new suns and to learn many new things. Our lands and ways are vanishing with the slaughter of our people. If it is the will of Grandfather, He will recall your feet to these ancestral grounds.” After Flaming Eyes had died, Andrew had brought his third son home to live and work at Greenleaf, the family plantation, withholding his identity for two years.
Hawke’s birth had come eleven months after Corbett’s, a fact that sometimes troubled Shannon. Hawke had related many secrets to her that his mother had related to him: Andrew had loved Kerry deeply, but had feared for her life each time their lovemaking had conceived a child. The loss of their fourth one had been the cause of Kerry’s death, which had proven Andrew’s fears to have been well-founded. Andrew had not meant to fall in love with a second woman. As was the case with many men during and following their wives’ pregnancies, Andrew had believed that he was merely sating his physical needs while protecting his wife’s health and life. Yet two months later, both he and the Indian beauty knew they had fallen in love.
Andrew had tried to forget Flaming Eyes after he left Texas. He wondered how it was possible to love and need two women desperately. When Shannon was born in July of 1845, he was still dreaming and yearning for Hawke’s mother. Those feelings increased in 1846 when he discovered their love child, who was then four years old. After the war, he stole visits with his second family as often as he could create logical reasons for them.
The fates of all of them had changed dramatically when Kerry and Flaming Eyes died within two years of each other. Andrew’s relationship with women were never the same again. If he saw one, it was usually one he had hired for a few hours to assuage his needs.
Andrew Greenleaf’s four children were more fortunate; they all became fast friends. Hawke taught the three Georgians how to blend into their surroundings, to track, to fight like warriors, to handle knives and countless other defensive measures that he had learned during his warrior training. Since neighbors were ignorant of Hawke’s paternity, they expressed open scorn for the handsome young man who spent too much time with Shannon and attracted too much attention from their daughters, sisters, and sweethearts. Hawke was a male who could easily impassion a woman’s blood and heart—if that woman did not view him as a brother. The sons of those genteel neighbors despised him, though they wisely respected and envied his physical prowess. Shannon often mused that if her eldest brother, Temple, hadn’t been on the front line at Shiloh, he could have used the skills Hawke had taught him and survived.
Honor and courage could be so lethal, so demanding, so confusing at times, Shannon would bitterly reflect. As they had been expected to do, Temple and Corry had accepted their duties to their father and their country without a second thought or a debate. But the nineteen-year-old Hawke had refused to fight to the death for a cause and people that he didn’t know or understand, and her father had reacted blindly and rashly—and selfishly.
Andrew had been raised in the same manner he had raised his two eldest sons. He placed great importance on displaying paternal obedience and respect; on defending loved ones, lands, and the family name; on protecting family pride and honor; and on evincing physical and mental competence. Andrew had been taught that a man did such things, no matter the cost or his personal desires. He had ingrained those same beliefs and traits in his two eldest sons.
Andrew regretted that in a time of weakness and vulnerability, he had made a terrible mistake by yielding to his physical urges and falling in love with the object of his desire. He had paid an enormous price for ignoring the tenets of his upbringing, and his pride had suffered greatly. He had been determined to spare his sons from such mistakes and sacrifices and had wanted Hawke to prove that he was worthy of the Greenleaf name and blood—worthy of their acceptance, respect, and love.
Hawke had not viewed the war in the same light as his father and half brothers. To the half-blooded Comanche male, it was irrational that people battle to the death over slaves or over a division of tribes. Hawke could not see why the whites should kill each other because the southern white tribe wished to split from the northern white tribe. He could not dress in a white man’s uniform and wage lethal battles over such foolishness. How could he fight for the ideals of men who considered him as low as the black slaves? Why should he be forced to prove his honor and prowess?
Andrew had been angry and hurt at Hawke’s decision not to fight. He had insisted that Hawke side with the Union and had accused Hawke of bringing disgrace to the Greenleaf name with his refusal. Andrew had felt it was crucial for Hawke to publicly prove his courage and honor. It had seemed to Shannon that Hawke’s going off to war with his brothers would be some sort of test of his loyalty to and love for the Greenleafs. Shannon believed that her father had felt Hawke’s actions might somehow redeem his lost honor or at least justify the birth of a bastard son from an adulterous relationship. Andrew had wanted Hawke to become a war hero whose reputation and competence could never be ridiculed or denied. He could not understand Hawke’s refusal.
Andrew and Hawke had argued bitterly, and their verbal battle had exposed to Shannon many secrets from their entwined past. Perturbed and disappointed, Andrew had struck Hawke across the cheek as if to provoke his defiant son with a challenge. He had wanted to embarrass or to anger Hawke into obedience. When this ploy did not work, Andrew had rashly disowned and rejected Hawke in a final attempt to gain his son’s submission, ordering Hawke to return to his mother’s people and adding, “If they’ll allow a coward among them.” He then continued, “I will not allow a son of mine to blacken the Greenleaf name. If you do not care enough for your family and home to fight for them, then you do not deserve them. Prove I was not wrong to give you life, to bring you into my home and heart. Prove you are a real man, a real Greenleaf, or leave my sight forever.”
Shannon and Hawke had been crushed by that unfamiliar side of their father. Tragically, Hawke had obeyed that parental command and had left that night in March of 1861. What demons had possessed her father that awful night and had forced him to behave so differently, so insensitively? Shannon had often wondered.
Before sailing to his death, weeping over his dark behavior and his loss, Andrew had vowed to go after Hawke upon his return to Boston, where he had moved the family at the outset of the war. Then, together, they would rescue Corry. After Andrew’s death, his reasons for acting and speaking so cruelly and confusedly that night remained a mystery. Yet Shannon had always felt there must have been some logical reason. She wondered if she would ever see Hawke again. How she longed to soothe his torment with part of the truth. How she wished he would come home…
The guard finished his cigar and crushed it beneath his dusty boot. He stretched and yawned, then moved away. After he vanished around the corner of the building, Shannon exhaled to relieve her tension and quickly resumed her previous actions. As the lim
b narrowed and lessened in strength, it began to sway. Shannon sighed a prayer of relief for her meager height and weight, although she had always hated being referred to as “that dainty redhead.” She cautioned herself to move carefully, for she was very much aware of the hard ground far below her.
The limb angled to the left, placing Shannon within two feet of the open window to her right. She grasped an overhead branch and slowly pulled her quivering body upright. Before continuing, she steadied herself. Then she placed her right foot on the sill and flung her weight in that direction, stifling a shriek as she landed straddled across the wooden surface, as if she had thrown herself astride a bareback horse with a spine of oak.
Shannon glanced inside and was relieved to find the nearby bed empty. Prussian blue eyes squinted to pierce the darkness. Sighting no threat or hindrance, she threw her other leg over the sill and placed both feet on the floor. As she hesitated a moment to catch her breath and to slow her racing heart, she speculated that the worst part was over; she was inside the White House. Now, all she had to do was locate Lincoln’s private quarters and persuade him to listen to her. Having been reared to respect and follow the orders of her elders, Shannon believed she needed the permission and approval of Lincoln before she could head into Rebel territory, though her solitary flight from Boston had been a different matter.
When her eyes had become accustomed to the dimness, Shannon moved around the bed toward the closed door. Suddenly a powerful arm banded her body just above the waist and her slender back was jerked against a hard chest, driving the air from her lungs. For an instant, Shannon feared her ribs would be cracked. Her right arm was imprisoned at her side and the left one was captured just below the elbow in a grip of iron that mutely threatened to break the bone. The sharp blade of a large hunting knife was at her throat. Her captor had moved without sound and with the swiftness and success of a highly trained warrior, Shannon realized, one whose prowess could challenge and perhaps defeat Hawke’s.
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