“Have you seen three men skulking about?”
“Three men?” Cain echoed.
“Yes, one white man and two blacks. Thieves.”
Etienne blinked in the darkness of his coffin and realized that moisture coated his eyelashes. In fact, his entire body was wringing wet. The closed coffin was hotter than a sugarhouse during the roullaison boiling season.
He put a hand to the back of Harriet’s head, sensing in her rigid posture that she, too, had been awakened by the commotion. Her hair was plastered wetly about her head, dripping onto his chest. Skimming his palm lower, down her back, he found her little chemise to be a sopping film—probably transparent—covering her body. Now, that was a sight he wouldn’t mind seeing…later. If they survived the next few hours.
He squeezed her shoulder to signal caution, and she nodded. They both listened.
“Who’s your master, boy?”
“Mister Frogash, suh. But he ain’t my master. No sirree, I’s a free man. Mr. Lincoln said so.”
Oh, no! Cain’s hackles are raised now. He should know better than to react to mere words. Damn!
“Mr. Lincoln’s dead,” the first voice spat out with a cruel laugh, followed by another crash and the smack of flesh meeting flesh—from more than one set of fists, he’d wager. Listening carefully to the voices and placement of moving feet, Etienne concluded there were only two of them…thus far, anyhow.
“Yep, ol’ Abe’s eatin’ maggots,” the second man cackled, “an’ you’re gonna be joinin’ him if you get uppity again, nigger. Do you understand?”
The only response from Cain was a moan. Then he gasped out, “Choking.”
A short, mean laugh erupted from one of the men. Etienne recognized the sound of fabric passing quickly over metal and the thud of a heavy weight hitting the floor. Cain had probably slid to the floor when the thug released a choke hold on his throat.
Etienne would relish nothing more than to jump from his box and beat the two villains bloody, which was impossible with the nailed lid. Besides, they’d discussed the risks in detail. If one of them were in danger, the others were to consider the mission of more importance than any of their individual lives.
They’d worked together on other assignments before, for the Secret Service during and after the war, and now for President Grant directly. Cain had served well in “the doctors’ line,” a network of physician spies. Abel had entertained Rebel troops with his music in hotels and brothels throughout the South, where he’d picked up invaluable military information. And Etienne had been a much-prized double agent for four years before his incarceration, and an agent in the Secret Service since the war. But not much longer. Once they closed down this government corruption ring, he would be free and clear. And President Grant had promised to intercede on his behalf, releasing all the back pay for years spent as a double agent.
Yes, they had the procedure down pat, Etienne reminded himself, returning to the present. Carry no identification. Confess nothing. Avoid provocation of captors. Wait for the right opening. Never let emotion guide actions.
Besides, these men were probably just blustering bullies. A needless death wouldn’t be the style of Pope’s men. The dishonest ex-Secret Service agent wanted no bloody trail that might lead to him. And, more than anything, he’d want to recapture his gold.
Still, Etienne barely restrained himself from banging on the lid to help Cain.
“Who’s your master?” the first man demanded again. “And what are you doin’ back here? Stealin’ property from good white folks’ trunks, I reckon.”
“No, suh, I’s not a thief. I work for Mr. Frogash. He’s a mortician.”
“A mor-mortician,” the second man stammered, clearly surprised.
“Yessuh. He has a fine funeral parlor in Richmond. We’re taking those grave boxes back to Loo-zee-anna for burial. They’s dead Confederate soldiers what died at Gettysburg. I’s standin’ watch till Mr. Frogash comes back from the dinin’ car.”
“Gettysburg, huh? Hell, it’s no more’n them Johnny Rebs deserved,” the first man said. “We shoulda shot ’em all. Left ’em for buzzard bait. Like we might just do for you, woolyhead.”
Etienne’s heart raced and raging blood boiled within him. It was Harriet who signaled caution now by gripping his shoulders, then placing a surprisingly gentle hand on his cheek in empathy.
He forced himself to calm down.
“Do you think we should check them out, Luther?” the second man asked. The voices were closer to the caskets now.
Luther? It must be Luther Brisk. He’s the meanest son of a bitch working for Pope. Learned all his dirty tricks riding with Sherman’s Bummers.
Most people knew of “Sherman’s Hairpins,” the heated and deformed railroad tracks the general had left in his wake as he marched through the south, and “Sherman’s Monuments,” the chimneys that were the only remains of the civilian homes he had burned to the ground. But few talked about “Sherman’s Bummers,” the lawless gang who performed fiendish outrages as they followed on the flanks of the regular army.
“Oh, hell! I s’pose so,” Brisk said. “That’s the first thing Pope’ll ask us…if we checked all the hidin’ places.”
“You’re right,” the second man agreed. “Come on over here, boy, and open these lids.”
Without any warning, several loud gunshots reverberated through the freight car. Etienne suspected that the bullets had hit one of the coffins in front of them.
“What’ja do that for?” Cain whined.
“Just shooting me another Reb soldier,” Brisk boasted.
“Lordy, Lordy, my boss is gonna have a hissy fit. Them pine caskets cost good money to build. You splintered the wood on that one worse’n a Virginny woodpecker.”
The woman began to shiver with terror. He placed a hand over her back and patted her in reassurance, though he had to admit he wasn’t feeling too calm himself. Especially when he heard Cain rise and shuffle over toward them.
“Mr. Frogash ain’t gonna be too happy ’bout this, no sirree.”
“Shut up,” the second man snapped. “Now open the damn box so we can get on with our business.”
A squeaky noise followed, as Cain pried up the nails, one after another, in the nearest casket. He and Harriet were in the one at the back of the car.
“Godamighty!” Brisk exclaimed as Cain presumably lifted the lid. It sounded as if he’d jumped back.
“Holy thunderation! It really is a Reb soldier. And take a gander at that bullet hole in his jacket, right over the heart, and the bloodstain.”
“The Yankee that downed this one musta been a crack shot,” Brisk observed with morbid enthusiasm.
“Should we open the other ones?”
“I dunno. Let’s look in these trunks first,” Brisk said.
“Oh, Lordy!” Cain muttered. “You shouldn’t be openin’ people’s private property.”
“Shut up, nigger,” Brisk snarled again, “and do as you’re told.”
Etienne felt the body pressing down on him begin to tremble and he knew, he just knew that Harriet was about to scream. Panic had a way of turning the brain to mush, as he well knew. He’d screamed himself on more than one occasion.
She made a little squeaky whimper, presaging a full-blown howl to come.
He clamped a hand over her mouth, moving it only when he felt her body relax.
“What was that?” Brisk asked.
“Rats,” Cain answered with his usual quick thinking. “They’re attracted by the corpses. That’s why my boss wanted me to stand guard.”
The other man gagged.
“Damn, Franklin, you must have the weakest stomach in the world. How can you strangle a man without blinking, and lose your breakfast over a puny dead body?”
“It’s the rats,” Franklin choked out.
Etienne understood only too well about the rats and Franklin’s horror of the vermin. With a shudder, he banked his repulsive memories and honed in on the name Fr
anklin. So, it was Luther Brisk and “Mad Brad” Franklin. Not too bad. He and Cain could handle these low-level ex-agents. But Pope surely had more of his men—those sharper and more adept at spy-catching—waiting for them down the line. This was only one danger they had to face.
Harriet chose that moment to go rigid, her heart pounding rapidly against his—thud, thud, thud. He was surprised everyone didn’t hear. She raised her head slightly at the same time he placed a hand on her jaw and felt her mouth begin to open.
Acting quickly, Etienne took steps to stop her scream. Sensing protest, he imprisoned both of her wrists in his one hand, behind her back, and he snaked both of his legs around her calves, locking her in place. Then he moved his other hand to her nape and clamped her mouth over his in a rough kiss.
It was the most dispassionate of kisses, the most unsexual embrace.
At first.
While Brisk and Franklin rummaged through the clothing and personal articles in the trunks, Etienne loosened his pressure on Harriet’s neck, still holding her firm but allowing for movement. He shifted the position of his face so their lips were slanted for a better fit. With a silent groan of pleasure, he moved his mouth against her lips, shaping and coaxing till she parted for him.
“They must have jumped off the train right after Memphis,” Brisk concluded with disgust. “Hell, we’ve checked every damn car on this train.”
Etienne ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, tasting. Then slowly…ever so slowly…he tortured himself with the exquisite pastime of riposte and retreat. And, damn, but his sword was made for her welcoming sheath. Instantly, he was on fire, but not from the temperature. He wanted the woman with a fierce need. And all he’d done was kiss her thus far.
“If they jumped off, what do you think they did with the gold?” Franklin wondered.
Etienne barely registered the words through the blinding haze of his passion. Especially since the witch in his arms was reciprocating his deep kiss, pressing her little cat tongue in and out of his mouth in counterpoint to his own strokes. And, damn, Abel had been right. It was abrasive.
“Franklin, your skull’s gotta be thicker’n a fence post. They wouldn’t be dumb enough to bring so much gold on a train!”
“You think you know everything, Brisk. They could have brought it on board, easy. Why, it could even be in those caskets over there.”
“Well, then, why don’t you just go on over and open ’em up? ’Cause I ain’t rummagin’ through a bunch of bones.”
Etienne stiffened at the renewed danger, though how he’d managed to hear the new threat amazed him. The woman was drawing rhythmically on his tongue, which he’d just discovered had an invisible, inner connection to another body part. Every time she sucked, it pulsed. Could a man die from ecstasy?
“And bottle flies,” Cain interjected. “Don’t forget the bottle flies.”
“Huh?” the two men exclaimed.
“The other bodies are still ripe. Them cold northern winters must preserve a body some, I reckon. Last I checked, they was covered with those pesky bottle flies.”
Franklin gagged again, and Brisk spat with revulsion.
The war had been over for five years, and the Battle of Gettysburg had taken place two years before that. If these two dunderheads were thinking, they’d know corpses would have long dried out and withered to dust by now.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Franklin suggested.
Brisk must have agreed, because Etienne heard departing footsteps, then Brisk giving Cain one final parting shot. “If you see those men…or anything suspicious…you come get me right away. You hear me, boy?”
“Yessuh,” Cain replied docilely.
Etienne almost shot up against the lid of the coffin when the woman, who now moved her lips slickly against his from side to side, added a new facet to her assault. She was moving her hips against him with little jerky spasms.
Or am I the one assaulting her?
Who cares?
Not me.
Etienne couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so hard and eager. Excitement throbbed throughout his body, centering on his sex and rippling outward in waves.
It must be madness.
Breaking the kiss, he fought for control, panting into her ear. He still held her firmly by the neck with one hand, her hands imprisoned behind her with his other hand and her legs enveloped by his thighs.
He should release her now.
He smiled against her ear. He wasn’t that mad yet.
Harriet was absolutely terrified and burning up with arousal. This was the worst of her sexual dreams thus far. In the past, she’d never been so wanton and needful. Steve had been the aggressor, she the passive recipient of his raging passions.
She was practically melting in the close confines of the hot casket. Maybe it was just the heat generated by the tight space and the high outside temperatures of the semitropical South.
No, she had to be honest. The rogue in the undertaker’s suit was responsible for her present dilemma. The one who was licking the whorls of her ear and then—oh, mercy!—thrusting the hot tip of his tongue in and out with erotic rhythm.
She sighed. She couldn’t resist him, even in the midst of danger, although she was pretty sure the two psychopaths attacking Cain had left. But even if they hadn’t, she was beyond rational thought. Locked in Steve’s…rather Etienne’s…tight embrace, Harriet couldn’t move. She was a prisoner to the tantalizing sensual ravishment, and was not surprised when the ache between her legs began to grow under the seductive foreplay.
At first, she thought the blinding light resulted from the overpowering orgasm that pounded out from her center in increasingly stronger waves as Etienne bucked his erection against her. Short strokes because of their space limitations, but hard.
His rasp of sweet torment broke the silence, and that was what pushed Harriet over the edge. Arching her neck back, she cried out her release.
“Well, if that don’t beat all. No wonder you two didn’t hear the password. I said ‘rooster’ so many times, hens from miles around are cluckin’ to high heaven. They heard me, but not you two cotton brains.”
Harriet blinked, adjusting to the harsh light after being in the dark for so long. Raising her head slightly, she gazed down at Etienne, whose passion-misty eyes regarded her with bafflement. She could sympathize with his confusion. This instant chemistry between them was a puzzle to her, too.
And, golly, even in his sweat-soaked condition, with his black hair hugging his head wetly, he was heart-wrenchingly handsome.
Was that swelling of his lips from her kisses? Was that bite mark on his neck from her teeth? Was the tense set of his jaw a sign of the arousal that still racked his body?
“Whoo-ee! So this is the forceful seduction the wench has been harping about,” Cain whooped, pointing at Harriet’s still restrained hands and legs. Etienne loosened his grip, as if her flesh suddenly scorched him.
Addressing Etienne, Cain inquired, “Was it as good as it appeared?”
A lazy male smile spread across Etienne’s face as he came slowly back to the present. “Better,” he drawled. “Much better.” He winked at her.
With utter mortification, Harriet became aware of her position and what she’d just done. She hid her face against Etienne’s chest, which was rumbling with laughter now. Whether at his own actions or hers, she couldn’t be sure.
Cain muttered something about roosters coming back from the dead.
“Are you all right?” Etienne asked Cain, suddenly remembering the beating they’d heard from the casket. He sat up in the box, taking Harriet with him to rest on his lap.
“I’ll be fine,” Cain said, “though I wouldn’t mind being the one in the coffin next time.” He waggled his eyebrows at Harriet, whose damp nightie left little to the imagination.
Embarrassed, she buried her face again in Etienne’s shirt-front.
“Are you sure?” Etienne questioned as he automatically pulled of
f his jacket, wrapping it around her. “You’re going to have quite a black eye and a swollen lip.”
Cain shrugged. “The worst is my ribs, but I think they’re only roughed up a bit, not broken. I’ll check later.” Then Cain said he was going to go see if he could find some food and water. “I don’t think Brisk and Franklin will be comin’ back, at least not right away. But be careful anyway.”
Etienne nodded in agreement.
When Cain was gone, Harriet rose from the casket. The jacket parted in the process, exposing her wet nightie.
Etienne’s eyes about bugged out, and he gasped for breath.
Harriet couldn’t be concerned about modesty now. She had a much more important problem. All her principles were shot to hell. Dr. Harriet Ginoza had just succumbed, willingly, to forceful seduction with an oversexed ape in a coffin. “I just want you to know,” she said in a strangled voice, “that I don’t usually do things like this.”
“It was a first for me, too, darlin’.” Etienne was standing beside the coffin, trying to adjust the bulge in front of his trousers. The man had no shame at all.
“I haven’t been with a man for a long time…except for you, in my dreams. That must be why—”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “How long?”
She blushed. “Two years.”
“Two years! I thought six months was a long time for me!”
“Anyhow”—she gulped—“I’ve never done anything like this before. And my only explanation is that I was…I was…”
“Deprived?” He grinned at her discomfort.
“No, deranged is more like it.” Harriet cringed with humiliation. He wasn’t making this easy for her.
His eyes were raking her clinging leopard-print nightie every time the jacket flapped open. Somehow, the jacket’s contrast with the nightie created an even more titillating image.
Harriet realized she had to cover herself better before Etienne decided to do something about that bulge. Right now. On the floor. With Cain coming back any moment. And, considering the way her heart continued to race, she feared that she might just welcome him.
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