by Nan Ryan
She understood nothing about this tall, intimidating man. There was not a trace left of the boyish countenance of the young, sweet Clay Knight from her childhood. At thirty-two his features had hardened and sharpened into harshly chiseled lines. Even his lips were different, still sensual but strangely firm, as if the beautiful mouth had been touched by bitterness.
He was a stranger. She did not know him.
Still, it was no use. She couldn’t shoot him.
She gave up without a struggle when he unceremoniously lifted a hand and relieved her of the pistol. He studied the firearm, then studied her face.
He warned softly, “This old pistol is dangerous, Mary. It’s likely to blow up in your face.” He stuck it inside his yellow waist sash. “Now, it’s up to you. You can make this easy or hard. It’s of no difference to me. Either way, I’m occupying Longwood.”
Beaten, she attempted to sound as unemotional as he when she said, “What would you do, Captain, if I objected? If I refused to get out of your way? I couldn’t kill you. Could you kill me?” He made no reply. “Would you? Would you take out your own pistol and shoot me? Would you cut me in half with your shining saber?” Her chin lifted a little higher, and defiance flashed from her large, dark eyes.
With the easy command of a man used to exercising authority, he said, “Such drastic measures won’t be necessary. You will obey my orders.” With the speed and litheness of a cat, he moved around her, was now between her and the front door. “Now which is it to be? Shall I take peaceful possession of the premises? Or must it be a sad surrender after a bitter battle you cannot win?”
Mary Ellen looked into his calm gray eyes and knew he meant exactly what he said. She could fight him, but it would do no good. He was bigger and stronger than she. She preferred to keep a small portion of her dignity.
“I cannot keep you out of my home, Captain Knight,” she said flatly. Then passion stirred anew in her dark eyes when she added, “But I promise you that when the war is over and the South has won, you will personally pay for this.”
24
CAPTAIN CLAY KNIGHT OCCUPIED Longwood.
Mary Ellen was heartsick as the tall Yankee Captain and a dozen of his handpicked men took up residence in the river bluff mansion.
She had no choice but to stand helplessly by in the marble-floored foyer as blue-coated men swept inside her home. They quickly fanned out through all the downstairs rooms, examining their new quarters, jovially calling out to each other. Mary Ellen gritted her teeth as they poured into the high-ceilinged drawing room and picked up valuable art objects and ran rough hands over the fine furniture. In the white-and-gold music room they banged on the out-of-tune rosewood piano and plucked at the strings of the gold harp.
It was torture, but she forced herself to keep silent. She stood there in the foyer, saying not a word, shaking her head in despair as the uninvited guests roamed about at will.
But when a powerfully built sailor came out of the parlor and glanced meaningfully up the grand staircase to the second-floor landing, her hand went to her throat and she could keep quiet no longer.
“No!” she warned, then immediately softened her request. “Please, no,” she pleaded gently, “not up there…Don’t…”
Her heart sank when, ignoring her, he brushed breezily past her and went straight toward the stairs. There was nothing she could do to stop him. She watched powerlessly as he placed a big, heavy boot on the first carpeted step of the stairs.
And she jumped, startled, when a low, deep voice from directly behind said, “Don’t do it, Boatswain Mills.”
The burly sailor stopped where he was, didn’t take another step. Mary Ellen turned about.
Captain Knight stood beside her, his attention directed to the big man standing at the base of the stairs.
“The second floor of this mansion is off limits,” he said in a soft, low voice that nonetheless conveyed command. “You and your mates are not to go topside. Whether I am here or away, you are never to be on the second floor. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye-aye, sir,” said the chastened sailor, and sheepishly came away from the staircase.
Mary Ellen experienced a small measure of relief.
It didn’t last.
While he had ordered his men never to go upstairs, the conquering Captain Knight took the second-floor master suite for his own. Over Mary Ellen’s loud objections.
“No! Not here,” Mary Ellen said, frantically following him from the suite’s luxurious sitting room into the elegant boudoir.
“Here will do nicely,” he said, turning around and around in the spacious bedroom, where gigantic gold-leaf framed mirrors gracing all four walls reflected his every move. He laid a tanned hand on the huge four-poster’s mattress, tested its softness, and shook his dark head approvingly. “I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable here.”
“Have you no decency?” Mary Ellen said, glaring at him. “This was my parents’ suite.”
Not bothering to look at her, he said coldly, “They no longer need it. I do. It now belongs to me. It is mine for as long as I’m in Memphis.” His gaze shifted from the four-poster to Mary Ellen. “And you, Mary? Still have the same room?” He lifted a hand, rubbed his firm chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see, that means you’ll be right across the hall from me.”
“You heartless, insolent bastard!” she snapped, whirled about, and left the room in tears.
A long, tense summer had begun for Mary Ellen Preble.
Mary Ellen hurried down the stairs and stormed out of the house. She went straight to the hospital, glad she had somewhere to go to get away from the infuriating Captain Knight.
She threw herself into the work of caring for the sick and wounded, determined she’d not give the bullying Yankee Captain another thought. Within minutes she was so busy she hardly noticed the hours ticking away. There was precious little time to think of anything save the terrible tasks at hand.
But when her back ached dully from lifting and lowering sick patients and she was so exhausted she could hardly put one foot before the other, Mary Ellen glanced out a window and saw with dismay that the summer sun was going down.
She was instantly alarmed.
She had to get home at once. As tired as she was, Mary Ellen walked at a brisk pace all the way to Longwood, propelled along by a rising sense of unease.
There was a house full of unwelcome, unruly Union sailors at Longwood, and only one could be trusted. The Captain’s aide, Ensign Johnny Briggs, was a freckle-faced, red-haired young man with a sweet smile and good manners. The others were animals. She was alone and unprotected with a bunch of big, rough men.
As threatening as they were, Mary Ellen realized she was far more afraid of Captain Knight than she was of his men. He was a cold, uncaring man. He took what he wanted, when he wanted.
A man like that was dangerous.
As she climbed the front steps of Longwood, Mary Ellen paid no mind to the half dozen uniformed men lounging about on the gallery. She knew at a glance that their Captain was not among them.
Mary Ellen let herself in and made her way straight through the house to the kitchen. She pushed open the swinging kitchen door and stopped short.
Captain Knight, his knees spread wide, his shirt carelessly open down his dark chest, lolled lazily on one of the straight-backed chairs, smoking a cigar and enchanting a captive audience of two. Mattie, the old black cook, stood at the wood stove, pouring him a fresh cup of coffee. And old Titus, his eyes twinkling, his mouth fixed in a permanent wide grin, sat at the table, listening attentively as the Captain told of his adventures on the high seas. He fell silent when he caught sight of Mary Ellen.
Without a word she turned and left them looking after her. She was furious with her servants. It was one thing to accept and make the best of this enemy occupation, quite another to coddle and cozy up to the intrusive Yankee commander!
Dark eyes snapping with outrage, Mary Ellen hurriedly climbed the stairs to her room. S
he’d go to bed hungry rather than risk not being locked safely inside when the hated Captain Knight came upstairs. She rushed into the shadowy bedroom, threw the bolt, leaned back against the locked door, and sighed wearily.
She was hot and tired and hungry.
She crossed the dim room, lighted the coal-oil lamp by her bed, took the oyster-shell combs from her heavy hair, and let it fall around her shoulders. Then she started stripping off her hot, soiled clothing. She kicked off her shoes, sat down, and rolled her cotton stockings down her aching legs. She rose to her feet, unbuttoned her green poplin dress, pulled it up over her head, and released it. She yanked at the tape of her wilted petticoats, shoved them impatiently to the floor, and stepped out of them.
Sighing with exhaustion, she undid the hooks going down the center of her white camisole, shrugged her slender shoulders, and let the undergarment slide down her arms. Her thumbs were in the waistband of her pantalets when the knock came at the door.
Mary Ellen flinched and threw her arms across her bare breasts. She stood there frozen, afraid to answer, afraid not to. If she didn’t answer, surely he would go away. She kept silent.
Again the knock, prodding her into action.
“Go away! You hear me? You get away from that door this minute!”
“Miz Mary Ellen,” came old Titus’s thin, frightened voice, “don’ make me go ’way. Mattie tol’ me to bring up your supper and not be comin’ back down till you took it.”
Mary Ellen exhaled loudly with relief and exasperation. “Give me a minute, Titus.”
She snatched the blue silk wrapper lying across the foot of her bed and hurriedly drew it up her arms. She tied the sash tightly at her waist, pulled the lapels together, pushed her wild, unbound hair behind her ears, and opened the door halfway.
The old black butler stood there with a cloth-covered tray in his arthritic hands and a somber look on his face.
“Is somethin’ wrong, Miz Mary Ellen?” he asked innocently, his eyes big, his wrinkled chin starting to tremble.
His question struck Mary Ellen as funny. Hysterically funny. Here she was, nearly destitute and alone. The South was at war. Memphis had fallen to the Federals. The Yankees had occupied Longwood. The conquering commandant was the heartless lover of her youth. Her own servants were treating the Captain like visiting royalty. And Titus—sweet, dear old Titus—wondered if anything was wrong.
Mary Ellen began to laugh.
She couldn’t help herself. Her nerves were raw, and she was so physically exhausted she was on the verge of hysterics. She started laughing and couldn’t stop, startling the old servant, frightening him half to death.
She leaned for support against the solid door frame and laughed, unable to speak, unable to tell Titus what was so funny. Tears filled her eyes, so she closed them. Wildly she shook her head back and forth. Her eyes tightly shut, the tangled white-blond hair hiding her hot face, Mary Ellen continued to lean against the door frame and laugh until her stomach hurt. She clutched it with both hands.
She was out of control and knew it. She laughed until she was so weak she could hardly stand and felt almost physically ill.
Finally she began to calm a little. Coughing, gasping for breath, she raised her head and slowly opened her eyes. She lifted her hands and shoved her wild hair off her face. She blinked once, twice, to clear her tear-blurred vision.
And almost had a heart attack.
Titus was gone.
In his place stood the tall, dark Captain Knight with the tray balanced on the palm of his hand.
The laughter immediately choked off in her throat, and Mary Ellen involuntarily trembled under his cool, brazen scrutiny. His pale silver eyes were not on her flushed face. They were on her breasts. Mary Ellen suddenly realized that with her violent shaking laughter the lapels of her blue silk robe had parted to expose her bare bosom.
Frantically she pulled the slippery lapels together over her naked breasts, hoping he hadn’t seen too much.
As if he read her mind, he said, “Only that which can be seen in your most daring of ball gowns.”
Their eyes clashed then. His cold, calm, assessing. Hers hot, angry, mortified.
He said, “Your dinner, madam.”
He held out the tray. She refused to take it.
“Shall I bring it inside, then?”
Her hand shot out and slammed against his dark chest where the shirt was open. Her palm flattened in the crisp black hair covering the hard, sculpted muscle. Pushing against him with all her might, she said, “I’d starve to death first!”
“Then take the tray.”
“I will not,” she said, her hand steadily applying pressure to his chest.
“You’re behaving like a child.”
“I’ll behave any way I choose. This is my home, Captain!”
He said nothing more, but raised a dark eyebrow and pointedly lowered his glance to the pale hand on his dark chest. Mary Ellen’s gaze followed his, and she frowned with distaste when she saw her fingers entwined in his curly black chest hair. She yanked her hand away as if it were burned.
“Stay away from me!” she hissed, stepped back inside, slammed the door in his face, and leaned against it as if to hold him out physically.
Through the door he said, “I’ll leave the tray here. You may get hungry before the night is over.”
Her cold hands, trembling body, and hot cheek pressed flush against the solid door, Mary Ellen said nothing. Just prayed that he would go away and leave her alone. She stayed there for several long minutes, her heart beating fast, her breath coming in short, hurting gasps. She was afraid. Afraid of him. Afraid of the dark allure he held for her.
Finally she moved away. Her shoulders slumping with fatigue and emotion, she sat down wearily on the armless rocker.
She was still as hot and tired and hungry as ever and now upset as well. She wanted to cry.
It was only his first night under her roof, and already the cool, compelling Captain Knight had her off guard, confused, embarrassed, mixed up, and…attracted?
This dark, disturbing stranger who had occupied her home was not the sweet, good-natured Clay of her youth. Captain Knight was handsome, suave, confident, and menacing.
His low voice still had that gentle Tennessee twang, but he now spoke with a slow, measured calm. The beautiful gray eyes that had once shone with such warmth and boyish enthusiasm were very different. Now those chilly silver eyes—eyes that never missed anything—were shadowed, predatory, fearless. But it was the mouth that had changed most of all. Lips that had been soft, sweet, and sensual were now firmly sculpted, touched with cynicism, and threateningly provocative.
His was such a strong masculine presence, it was impossible to ignore. The sight of him bothered her in a terrifying way. It wasn’t just his dark good looks. It was the strangely appealing, icy air of command combined with an underlying, carefully leashed sensuality.
Mary Ellen shuddered and automatically pulled the lapels of her silk robe tighter, feeling her nipples tighten involuntarily. Instinctively she knew that beneath the steel exterior of the unemotional Captain Knight lurked a hotblooded, highly passionate male. And his threatening sexual presence unnerved her.
Mary Ellen was achingly aware that the disturbing Captain Knight was, this very minute, just across the hall. Was he awake or asleep? she wondered. Dressed or undressed? In bed or out?
Captain Knight’s close proximity caused goose-flesh to pop out on Mary Ellen’s arms. Ashamed and terrified of the unwanted feelings he stirred in her, she got up from the rocker, crossed the room, and checked the door to make sure it was locked.
She closed her eyes in an attempt to shut out the handsome, hawklike face and forced herself to remember the kind of man he was.
Unfeeling. Ruthless. Cruel.
She hated him. She hated him and would always hate him. The day would never come when she’d forgive him for what he had done to her.
Across the hall on that warm evening, the
object of Mary Ellen’s undying hatred lay stretched out naked atop the wide featherbed, smoking in the darkness. It was a hot, muggy Memphis night, and the Captain was uncomfortably warm.
The sticky heat made him miserable. He felt as if he couldn’t get a breath, and his long, lean body was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration.
But it was heat of a different kind that most vexed him. He couldn’t forget that Mary was just across the hall, and the knowledge tortured him.
At the mere sight of her standing there in her blue silk wrapper, laughing, he’d felt a wave of the old pleasure and passion wash over him. She wasn’t a girl any longer; she was all woman. The tomboyish awkwardness of youth had vanished. She moved with a natural feline grace and managed, even in the sweltering heat, to look generally cool, unruffled, and demure.
She didn’t look demure in the blue silk robe. She looked warm and soft and desirable. What a sight she made with her magnificent mane of white-blond hair falling about her lovely face. As she’d laughed, the slick silk of her robe had hugged hips that were lush, feminine, rounded. Best of all was the fleeting glimpse he’d had of a soft pink nipple when her robe’s lapels had parted. His hands had ached to reach out and slip his fingers inside the robe.
Captain Knight took a long drag from his cigar.
No woman had so stirred him. He’d been all over the world, and he’d had his pick of beautiful, exotic women. But none had made his blood run thick and hot as Mary did.
Damn her.
Damn her to hell.
She was a beautiful viper who’d stung him badly once. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t avail himself of her charms. She was available to him whether she realized it or not. He’d caught the guarded glances she cast his way; had noted the mixture of fear and fire in the depths of her dark, passionate eyes.
If she didn’t know the full meaning of it, he did. He excited her. Not that she cared for him; she didn’t. No more than he cared for her. But hers was a fiery, sensual nature, and she was a divorced woman who probably missed the comfort and pleasure of connubial bliss.
