by Mary Ellis
Exhausted, he finally crawled into bed for an hour of rest. But his troubled sleep did little to refresh or restore. Phantoms filled his dreams, those of the past and those yet to come. And a red-haired nymph, wearing a dark cloak in the dead of night, danced through them all.
Emily didn’t sleep much that night either. She awoke in the dark with a start, momentarily confused by her surroundings. When she recalled each sweet kiss and tender touch, a blush filled her cheeks and warmth spread through her belly. Drawing the quilt up to her neck, she savored the memory of the most enchanting evening of her life. Alexander—tousle-haired, dreamy-eyed, and honey-lipped—a dream that had swept her up and carried her away. Emily laughed at the absurdity of kissing him in the garden as though they were characters from a dime novel. But Alexander wasn’t a dream or a storybook character. He was a man of flesh and blood, one she had considered her enemy not long ago. Did I really say I might be falling in love with him? Remembering her heat-of-the-moment confession, she pulled the covers over her head.
“Never drink champagne again,” she moaned aloud.
Then she recalled something odd he had said as well: I don’t wish to take advantage of your situation, especially because we’re in the midst of a war. What an odd comment from someone who bred horses far from the horrors of the battlefield. Matthew would never return to make her his bride, to build a home for them. She was no longer an engaged woman with a future. The fact they were in the midst of war was the reason she sought an evening of human companionship.
Throwing back the covers, she scampered to light the mantel lamp. But halfway across the floor she paused as a bolt of lightning shot through her head. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she slumped into a chair, the sharp pain a reminder of the champagne. Surprisingly, she felt no pangs of guilt for kissing Alexander at dinner or in the garden. Would this bold behavior become normal for her after a lifetime of proper decorum? She hoped not, but the man seemed to have changed everything.
“Alexander.” She whispered his name in the dark bedroom, as though testing the sound of it for the first time. “Alexander Wesley Hunt,” she said with a Southern drawl. “Alexander Wesley Hunt of the distinguished line dating back to the Mayflower Wesley Hunts.” She said that in a British accent, making the words sound the way Miss Turner would have said them, and then giggled. Emily knew she was acting like a girl with her first schoolyard crush, but she hadn’t felt like this about Matthew. She’d never experienced these emotions before.
Wrapping a shawl around her nightgown, she walked onto the verandah. No one stirred outdoors—even the servants were asleep at this hour. She climbed the steps to the upper gallery, treading mouse-like past each dark bedroom until arriving at the one she knew to be his. The French doors were ajar to catch the evening breeze, and a kerosene lamp had been left burning, it’s wick trimmed low. Careful not to make a sound, she sidled to the doorway for a peek. She’d never seen a sleeping man before other than her father, who snored loud enough to wake neighbors a mile away.
But a view of Alexander curled under the embroidered coverlet, shrouded by muslin, was not to be. His room was empty. Only a tangle of bed sheets, wadded into a ball, indicated someone had been there earlier. Boldly, Emily crept into the room, knowing that she could be discovered and questioned at any moment. Then she would be fired and sent back to Ohio without references or prospects of employment. Yet his room drew her like a moth to a flame.
Is this what love did to a person—made one reckless enough to trespass into another’s private domain without invitation? She glanced back at the open doors with a shiver, but she didn’t run this time. Instead, she lifted the lamp from the table and padded over to the armoire where she’d seen the Oriental robe. What would silk feel like next to her skin? Was she brave enough to try it on? But when she reached for the robe, she noticed that the butternut uniform with brass trim and tassels was missing. Emily turned up the lamp and thumbed through the hangers to no avail. The gift from a dead childhood friend, an impetus to join the Glorious Cause, was gone.
An odd frisson of fear snaked up her spine. Closing the highboy, she returned the lamp to table and hurried from the room. She paused on the balcony, hidden from below by entwined grape vines, and clutched her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Darkness shrouded the world, the eastern sky yielding only a hint of dawn. In the garden, owls called to their mates, while bats swooped in their eternal quest for mosquitoes. Emily crept toward the top of the steps and then froze at the sound of a scraping latch. Squinting in the direction of the noise, Emily watched a tall, powerfully built man lead his horse from the barn. Clad in dark clothes and high boots, he stopped at the water trough. If he hadn’t allowed his horse to drink, she never would have learned the identity of the nighttime rider. In the moonlight, she recognized the profile of Alexander and his horse, Phantom.
Where could he possibly be going at this hour? Is he bound for the bed of another woman because I permitted only a few kisses?
Emily leaned precariously over the rail and glimpsed the butternut uniform with shiny brass buttons and a strangely plumed hat. Had she not been infatuated and consumed with female jealousy, she might have drawn a different conclusion from his attire. She watched until he mounted his horse and rode away, vanishing into the inky night. Then she returned to her own modest accommodations, not wishing to remain in a rake’s room another moment longer. As a tear slid down her cheek, she knew she had seen all she needed to see. How foolish she had been to believe he could love a woman like her.
“I’ll teach you to sass your betters.”
You have your secrets, Alexander, and I have mine. Now I won’t feel so guilty with what I plan to do.
“Colonel, sir!” Captain Smith snapped a salute as his superior rode into a misty clearing in the forest.
Alexander was late. He had selected the midnight rendezvous at their last parting and now it was several hours past. As he reined in Phantom, forty rangers stopped what they were doing and gave him their attention. Those assembled were his best and most trusted. He wished he could greet each man personally, but time was precious. “Gentlemen, dawn lies within the hour and there is much to do, but I need a moment with Captain Smith.” He offered his men a rare smile and then nodded at his second-in-command. He swung off his horse, handed the reins to the nearest soldier, and then walked to the smoldering fire. Nathan Smith followed at his heels. The men around the fire stepped back to give them some privacy.
“What have you learned, Captain?”
Smith handed him a cup of coffee. “Our scouts have been gathering intelligence for the past several days, sir. Meade’s army has moved from Centerville and is camped outside Warrenton.”
Alexander grinned at the news. “They are very close. The Yankees are coming to us this time.”
“I believe they’re planning to stay awhile, sir. A wagon train left the depot at Gainesville and is headed this way. Supply wagons have been coming down Warrenton Turnpike all day and night.” Smith gestured toward the west with a gloved hand.
“You don’t say. I haven’t seen you this excited in a long time.” The colonel slapped his adjutant on the back. “Are you telling me no troops guard this delectable string of wagons?” He sipped the steaming, bitter coffee.
“I’m afraid we’re not that lucky, sir. They set up a cavalry screen for a ten-mile perimeter around their camp, and have cavalry riding alongside the wagons with infantry guards too.”
“Is that so? Sounds like they expect us, Captain.” He finished the coffee with another gulp.
“Yes, I believe they do. Why don’t we fool ’em and ride up Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington to pay old Abe a social call? I doubt they’re expecting us there.”
Alexander scratched his new growth of chin whiskers as though pondering the idea. “Do our scouts have any idea what’s in those wagons? We’ll get mighty steamed up if we risk our lives for more bolts of calico.”
Captain Smith grimaced at the memory of
one of their less fortuitous raids. “They have horses for sure—fine cavalry stock and mules, lots of mules. Plus whatever’s inside the covered wagons.”
“How many animals?”
“At least a hundred. Maybe a hundred and fifty.”
Alexander threw his coffee grounds into the fire and walked from the ring of light into the dense woods. Smith knew better than to follow him, but he didn’t have long to wait. It never took the notorious Gray Wraith long to hatch a plan. That was one of the reasons Alexander was so good at what he did. Within minutes he emerged and began kicking dirt onto the fire. “Break camp, Captain. We’re riding to Salem. We’ll hit them tonight after dark.”
No other explanations were necessary. Whatever they needed to know would be made clear to them when the time was right. After the last man swung into his saddle, they followed their caped leader to the west with complete faith. For several hours the rangers picked their way single file through spiny brambles and new growth forest, swatting at mosquitos and sweating from the heat and humidity. Finally, when the overgrown path joined a dirt road used by local farmers, conversation became once again possible.
Captain Smith brought his horse up to ride beside the colonel, leaving the men a short distance behind. “Did you ask her?”
“Ask who what, Captain?” Alexander knew what Smith inquired about, but he had no desire to discuss the matter.
“Ask that governess what the devil she was doing in Berryville. She was a long way from Hunt Farms, but maybe not so far from her Yankee friends.”
Alexander shot him a cautionary glare. “No, I did not.”
“Confound it, Alex, why not?” His adjutant leaned forward in his saddle, expecting an answer.
“Let it go, Nathan. The woman is no spy,” he growled. Then he softened his tone to his most trusted friend. “The subject didn’t come up because we were engaged in other activities.”
This took Smith, not quite as quick-witted as Alexander, a moment to digest. “Good grief, man. You mean you took that Yankee to your bed?”
Alexander’s arm shot out to grab Smith by the sleeve, nearly pulling him from his horse. “Watch your tongue regarding Miss Harrison or I’ll thrash you right here. She is a lady, whether a Yankee or not.”
Smith righted himself in the saddle. “Easy, man. I meant no disrespect. I was just curious as to what she was doing at that barn.”
Alexander released his grip on Smith’s sleeve. “Remember what curiosity did to the cat.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Smith glanced over his shoulder. “I haven’t seen you this vexed since the schoolmarm caught you kissing Margaret O’Brien. Didn’t she make you sit on the girls’ side of the room for a week?” He reined his horse to a slower pace.
Alexander clenched down on his back molars. “We’re not schoolboys anymore, Captain. I’ll find out why she was in Berryville in due time. In the meantime, hold your tongue in matters regarding Miss Harrison. Now drop back and ride with the men.” He spurred Phantom and surged ahead down the narrow road.
He had much to think about—the raid they would undertake this evening and that red-haired governess, the one he’d vowed to keep his distance from. His anger was more with himself than with his inquisitive adjutant. Have I lost my mind? With no end to the hostilities in sight, he was in no position to lose his heart to a woman. Defeat could come at any time from faulty information or a simple miscalculation of enemy strength. His troops were always outnumbered. Only their tactics of surprise, subterfuge, and quick escapes had allowed them to prevail thus far. If he were captured, he would be sent to a Northern prison or the gallows. He didn’t need someone to worry about other than his aging parents. He ground his teeth at his reckless loss of control. Why had he kissed her at supper and again in the garden? Was the Quaker schoolteacher from Ohio simply a challenge? Had he become that much of a dissipated scoundrel? No. She had wormed her way into every waking thought as well as his dreams.
Yet the fact remained that she was a Yankee, raised in a household where slavery was an abomination, not a mere philosophical debate. How far would she go if her antislavery convictions were as strong as his love for the Glorious Cause?
Would she be willing to sacrifice as much as he was?
Would she be willing to sacrifice him?
More importantly, would she sacrifice his men? Alexander didn’t fear of his own death, but he wouldn’t jeopardize the lives of his rangers again. An image of the traitorous Rosalyn soured his stomach, banishing his pleasant thoughts of Emily. How stupid he had been. Some women would say or do anything to get their way. For the remainder of the ride to Salem, a single question plagued him. Am I a fool to trust a woman again?
The wagon train heading to the Union encampment from the Gainesville depot turned out to be well guarded indeed. However, Alexander’s scouts reported troops and artillery mainly at the front and rear, leaving the center relatively unprotected. The undertaking was now possible, but still not easy. Even if they attacked from the side, teamsters driving the wagons could easily alert the regiments of troops. But the colonel knew just the diversion to use. He sent Dawson and eight men dressed in Federal uniforms to masquerade as a cavalry unit on provost duty. The imposters arrested the Union officers guarding the middle and ordered the wagons to fall out of line. Then the rangers surrounded the teamsters, tethered the horses and mules, and confiscated several wagonloads of food before the rest of the caravan knew a thing. And without a single shot being fired. The colonel then delivered the animals and provisions to the Confederate troops in the Shenandoah’s foothills.
When the Gray Wraith’s troops finally returned to one of their secret camps, they had much cause for celebration. They had relieved the Federal Army of approximately twelve thousand dollars’ worth of replacement mounts and procured a feast of delicacies for their supper. That night they dined on smoked fish, fresh oranges, sweet potatoes, rice, and pickled beans. They passed around a bottle of brandy saved from the crate delivered to Confederate officers. Spirits soared among the men around the campfire…all but those of their leader.
Alexander picked at his food. When Captain Smith passed him the bottle of brandy, he refused to imbibe. Spirits only weakened his willpower and lowered his inhibitions. He knew too well what happened when he gave in to pleasure. Not wishing to eat, and not eager to sleep for fear a dark-haired siren or a red-haired governess would haunt his dreams, Alexander did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He crept off into the forest, lowered himself to his knees, and began to pray.
No lives had been lost in today’s mission. Divine Providence had again intervened, sparing the lives of his troops and the enemy alike. Divine Providence had bestowed favor on a man not entitled to grace. The least he could do was express his gratitude.
TEN
Nathan Smith was not a happy man either. Normally easygoing, he had been raised a gentleman. Although his family wasn’t as prosperous as the colonel’s, he had been denied little while growing up. And a gentleman learned never to show anger when it could be avoided. Rarely had any man raised his ire like this, and never had he been so angered by a woman.
Shortly after Alexander walked into the woods, Nathan rode out of camp. He didn’t wait for the beef roasting on the spit, even though the aroma made his mouth water. He packed beans, salted pork, two oranges, and a full bottle of whiskey into his saddlebags despite the colonel’s aversion to strong spirits in camp. “Whiskey makes intelligent men do stupid things” was the colonel’s favorite expression. He allowed only fruit brandy or an occasional cask of wine. But what the colonel didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And right now the colonel wasn’t exactly Nathan’s favorite person.
He didn’t appreciate being pulled from his saddle and threatened with a thrashing. What if one of the rangers had ridden up and overheard their argument? The last time he and Alexander resorted to fists during a disagreement they had been sixteen years old. They had vied for the affection of the same girl at a summer
fair. The end result of their altercation had been two bloodied noses; one blackened eye—his, one split lip—Alexander’s; and plenty of torn clothing that got them both in trouble. And the girl in the middle shared her picnic with Jake Finley, throwing salt into their wounds.
That woman had been a redhead too. What is it about freckle-faced carrottops and Alex? The Bennington governess was too skinny—all knobby knees and bony elbows with no bosom to speak of. Women should be soft and well-rounded.
Taking a hearty swig of whiskey, Captain Smith spurred his horse away from camp to let things cool off with the colonel. The foray in Salem couldn’t have gone better. Now he needed to drive the image of Emily Harrison from his mind. He couldn’t allow her to come between himself and the person he respected the most. How could a woman cause such problems—and a Yankee, no less? If women were ladies, they should look pretty, smell nice, and not talk too much. But this governess from Ohio was no lady, regardless of how much schooling she had. She came from a hardscrabble farm on the wrong side of the Ohio River. Her Quaker sodbuster father probably hadn’t saved two dollars during his entire life.
Smith reined his horse to a walk and took another deep pull of whiskey. Not just a Yankee but a Quaker. Something jangled in his liquor-sodden mind, something he’d overheard at home. Their overseer spoke of someone stirring up the field hands with talk of freedom in the North. None of his house servants said much when he questioned them. He figured it was rumor. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Is that what you’re up to, Miss Harrison?” he whispered to the enveloping darkness. “Showing slaves the path to Freedom Road? Why, you meddlesome little troublemaker. Don’t you know what we do to your kind in Virginia? I would happily tie you to a tree and deliver the twenty lashes myself.” Smith gritted his teeth, remembering Emily sneaking from a barn in the dead of night.
