“The color of your uniform makes no difference to me, sir.” Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, yet still glittered like rare dark sapphires. “What offends me is the color of the blood that runs so freely because of this war. What offends me is the way you all do whatever you all damn well please, without thought for the consequences of your actions. What offends me, at the moment, is you!”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Cavanaugh.” He’d always admired a woman with strength and courage, with character, with what his mother called fortitude. Shaelyn Cavanaugh seemed to have all that and more, and he rather enjoyed this confrontation, despite the circumstances, despite how her attitude had changed. It made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt in quite some time. “Regardless of your feelings, this is the way it is. You must accept it as fact.”
He straightened and took a step toward her. Before they’d left the parlor, she’d been willing to swallow her anger and strike a bargain. Now, however, she didn’t seem so willing. “I find it remarkable how much your manner has changed since we left the parlor.”
She glared at him, her head tilting back on her slim neck, but she didn’t move, didn’t back down.
His attitude softened as she stood in front of him, defiant and bold. He expected her wrath, even her resentment. Almost welcomed it. He would have been in full fury if his home and business were taken away. “You wished to strike an agreement?” he reminded her.
“My mother is an excellent cook. She will prepare meals for you and your men and I will clean, do your laundry—” she paused and licked her lips “—and anything else you need to have done if you will allow us to stay in our home.”
Her words finally penetrated his brain. No wonder she looked at him as if she would happily stab him through the heart. His blood ran cold as he realized she assumed by confiscating her home, he’d be asking—no, telling—them to leave, throwing them into the street. He’d seen it happen before. No doubt they had, too. Truthfully, he had planned to ask them to leave, though Jock had asked him to allow Shaelyn and her mother to stay. He hadn’t quite made up his mind….not until he met her and then everything changed in a split second.
He should disabuse her of her misinterpretation at once but just…didn’t want to. No one had dared to stand up to him such as she had in a very long time, and the longer they stood staring at each other, the more fascinated he became. She drew in her breath, the flesh above the décolletage of her white blouse turning red. A vein throbbed along the side of her neck, drawing his attention to the soft column of her throat. His gaze rose higher and he watched the subtle shading of her eyes darken to almost violet.
He hid the smile that threatened to turn up the corners of his mouth. “You and your mother may stay with conditions.”
“And what would those conditions be?”
“You will treat my men with respect, regardless of the color of their uniform or the reasons they are here.”
“I would have it no other way,” she told him, her mouth set. “By the same token, I will have the same from you. My mother is a kind, gentle woman, Major, and naive in many ways. I will not have her abused or mistreated, by either you or your men. If we must treat you and yours with respect, then I demand you treat my mother that way as well.”
“You aren’t in any position to make demands, Miss Cavanaugh.”
“I understand. I still ask you to honor my request.”
Remy’s heart skipped a beat as he gazed into her flashing eyes. They didn’t merely sparkle; they danced in her lovely face. He detected no fear in those glimmering orbs of blue, just fury. What would she look like with her temper—or her passion—unleashed?
“It will be as you wish, Miss Cavanaugh,” Remy conceded. “My men will show your mother the respect she deserves.” He took another step forward and smelled the warm, inviting fragrance of her perfume. The alluring scent conjured images in his mind, images better left alone. He wanted to touch her, to kiss the spot on her neck where her pulse throbbed, to rub his thumb against her lips and feel them soften. “And what of you? Do you not deserve the respect of my men as well?”
“I expect nothing less.”
Intoxicated. That’s what he felt. As if he’d drunk all the whiskey his father distilled. Her scent wafted gently to his nose and a vivid vision filled his mind. He saw her in his arms, saw them making love until they were both breathless, moonlight glowing on her bare skin, passion flushing her lovely face—
She’s taken, promised to another.
The reminder did little to stop the kaleidoscope of visions cascading through his mind. With a bit of disappointment, Remy mentally shook himself and moved away from her, more to save himself from her sensual, alluring fragrance and the images in his mind than anything else.
“I realize this is an inconvenience for you, Miss Cavanaugh, but I will try to make it as pleasant as possible.” He gazed into her eyes. The most peculiar sensation settled in his chest, one he could not define, but which made his heart a little lighter. “I suggest we both make the best of a bad situation. I am willing to allow you and your mother to stay. Do we have an agreement?”
Slowly, she let out her pent-up breath and stuck out her hand. He grasped it firmly and a jolt of desire slammed into him. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her tempting lips. Now. If she felt it too, she gave no sign.
He pulled his hand away quickly and cleared his throat. “Please show me the rest of the house.”
“As you wish.” She led him out of the study, her hands balled into fists at her side, and into the central hallway. Remy followed, admiring the subtle sway of her hips beneath the plum skirt, the long line of her back, the wispy tendrils curling at the back of her neck, begging for his touch.
From the study, they took the marble-tiled corridor toward the rear of the house. She poked her head into the sun parlor, where Brenna held Captain Davenport in subdued conversation. Her mother looked up. Shaelyn said not a word, but the expression of relief on the older woman’s face could not be denied.
Shaelyn opened the swinging door to the kitchen a moment later and stood aside. She said nothing as he inspected the room, but her anger smoldered. The heat he’d felt earlier shimmered around her. He couldn’t concentrate on the room’s appointments. Instead, he felt the intensity of her stare and turned to face her.
A blush spread across her face, but her eyes never left his.
Is that a challenge I see?
He tore his gaze away from her and walked around the kitchen, opening all the cabinets and drawers, inspecting their contents, satisfied his stay at Magnolia House would be a comfortable one.
He finished looking into the cabinets and moved to a door to his left. His hand rested on the knob. “Where does this lead?”
“The cellar, backyard, and a small room where one can remove muddy boots.” Her answer was clipped, bordering on rude. “Also the servants’ stairway.”
Remy ignored her tone as he nodded and limped to another set of doors. “And these?”
“Servants’ quarters.”
He opened the door to the first room, noticed it was clean, the small bed made, but vacant, as if no one had resided there in a long time. “Where are they now? Your servants, I mean.”
“Gone. I couldn’t afford to pay them anymore.”
He closed the door and walked around the butcher-block counter in the middle of the room. A set of carving knives sat on the surface, and he wondered if he should remove them before they became an enticement for her.
Another swinging door led to the dining room. Shaelyn pushed through it a few steps before him and let it swing back. He drew in a deep breath and stopped the door from hitting him in the face with his hand.
This is going to be more difficult—and more entertaining—than I thought.
He didn’t take more than a moment to glance around, but in that time he saw all he needed to see. The dining room table, covered in a lace cloth, seated twelve comfortably. Extra chairs lin
ed one wall and a long sideboard sat across from it against another. The hutch stood empty—perhaps the fine china had been sold to put food on the table.
Shaelyn left and waited in the hall. Impatient, her foot tapped a beat on the marble floor. Remy grinned and slowed his pace to annoy her a bit more.
The ground floor of Magnolia House held a myriad of surprises, not the least of which was a billiard table in the game room and a fine piano in the music room. No artwork adorned the walls, but he noticed bright squares on the wallpaper where pictures had once hung. No carpets covered the floor, either, and the rhythmic tap of his cane seemed very loud, especially in the room he suspected was the formal parlor, which contained not a stick of furniture, not even a plant. Perhaps the furniture and paintings had been sold as well. Or bartered.
“This is a lovely home, Miss Cavanaugh.”
“Yes, and I’d like to keep it that way, Major. I would appreciate it if you and your men leave it exactly as you find it.” She led the way upstairs to the bedrooms at a quick step. Remy followed slowly, using his cane and the carved banister for support. After so many hours on horseback, his leg felt like a foreign appendage made of lead as he placed one foot in front of the other on the treads. Each time he put pressure on his leg, a fresh wave of pain shot through him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Still, he endured, welcoming the burning rush. His circumstances, like so many others, could have been much worse and he could have died, several times, since the day he’d been shot.
Shaelyn waited at the top of the stairs, her fingers gripping the banister, knuckles white. He looked at her for a moment, saw how stiffly she stood, and forced himself to move faster. He had too much pride to show her his weakness.
When he reached the landing, he took a deep breath. He didn’t apologize, nor did he acknowledge her as his gaze swept the upstairs hallway.
There were six bedrooms in all on the second floor, some with adjoining sitting rooms, some without. All led out to the gallery, which encircled Magnolia House. He inspected each bedroom, mentally naming who would occupy which.
The manse more than met his expectations. His officers, those who had elected to stay with him and not somewhere else in Natchez, including the apartments over the Cavanaugh warehouse, would be quite comfortable here for the duration of their stay. The proximity to Union headquarters at Rosalie was perfect.
Between the last two bedrooms stood a closed door. Thinking it held linens and such, Remy opened it. A smile curved his lips.
“The bathroom,” Shaelyn said from behind him.
The small room contained a commode, a sink with brass spigots, and a large clawfoot bathtub. “Indoor plumbing,” he remarked with pleasure. He entered the room and faced the sink, then turned the tap and waved his finger beneath the flowing water. Steam rose to coat the mirror and he wondered if there was, perhaps, a copper tank somewhere in the house that kept water heated. It didn’t surprise him. Sean Cavanaugh owned steamboats. Surely he could devise something…or pay someone to devise something. Remy didn’t ask though. Instead, he wiped the steam away and caught his grinning reflection. And something else—a tile-floored structure in the corner of the room. “What is this?”
“We call it a rain bath.” Shaelyn moved into the room, opened the wooden door, and pulled the lever connected to the pipe leading up to a wide, round brass…thing. Water flowed onto the tile floor, like it sprinkled from the sky during a rainstorm, before she turned it off. “Instead of taking a bath, you can stand in here and let the water flow over you to get clean.”
He’d heard about them, but had never seen one. And couldn’t wait to try it. The structure gave a completely new way to keep clean, and after what he’d been through, cleanliness was something he valued. He said nothing more as she moved past him and stood by the door to the last room, her arms folded against her chest as she waited for him.
Remy poked his head through the doorway. He liked the stark simplicity of this room. The walls were papered in a soft white with sprigs of purple violets and green leaves. The draperies repeated the pattern. An intricately carved four-poster bed took up space between the French doors leading to the gallery. The bed looked inviting with its plump pillows slanting against the headboard.
“This will be my room.”
“But…but this is mine,” Shaelyn sputtered.
“No longer,” he said as he made his way down the hallway. “Have your possessions removed before dinner. Your mother’s also.”
“And where am I supposed to sleep?”
He turned and grinned at her, couldn’t help it. “You could stay with me.”
Her eyes widened and color stained her cheeks. She drew in her breath sharply. “How dare you even…suggest…such a thing!”
Remy shrugged. “It’s your choice.” The idea of her warming his bed brought a vivid image to his mind.
“I am not that sort of woman!” Her eyes flashed with pride.
He took pity on her and relented. She didn’t know him, didn’t know his sense of humor. She couldn’t have known he wasn’t like most men, who would have taken advantage of this kind of situation. “You may move into the servants’ quarters for the duration,” he said over his shoulder as he continued down the hall.
“I thought we had an agreement, Major. You said you’d try to make your stay as pleasant as possible.” She caught up with him and grabbed his arm, stopping his progress. Her eyes narrowed. “You said—”
“I know what I said, Miss Cavanaugh.” He looked at her small white hand on his arm and felt an infusion of warmth seep through his sleeve. Her touch ignited a fierce yearning in him. In another time and place—he didn’t allow himself to finish the thought. “I am allowing you and your mother to remain here, but make no mistake. I am in command. My orders will not be questioned. I don’t accept it from my men and I won’t accept it from you. Do I make myself clear?”
Shaelyn nodded and stepped back, releasing her grip on his arm.
“I’m glad we understand each other. We are in the middle of a war. We all must make sacrifices.”
“Yes, Major, we are in the middle of a war,” Shaelyn said, her voice strong with defiance, her body stiff and unyielding. “But your battle has just begun.”
She spun on her heel and sashayed down the stairs. Remy watched her, fascinated. “If it’s a battle you want, Miss Cavanaugh, it’s a battle you shall have.”
Chapter 2
Shaelyn heard his words and cringed as the front door slammed shut behind her. She needed more than a moment to gather her thoughts and bring her temper under control. When she told her mother of the agreement she’d made with Major Harte, she wanted to be perfectly calm. Right now, calmness seemed beyond her capability.
She walked the garden path to the edge of the bluffs. A stone bench shaded by magnificent magnolia trees awaited her, and her gaze swept the horizon as she sat.
“Oh, Papa.” She stared at the Mississippi flowing so peacefully below her. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stop them from taking everything—the house, your business, your beloved riverboats. I couldn’t save what you loved so much.”
She allowed herself the luxury of a few tears then took a deep breath and forced herself to stop. Crying never solved anything. Although her heart remained close to breaking, she would carry on, as she had done every day since the Civil War broke out, since burying her father and watching her brother march off to join the battle.
Sean and Brenna Cavanaugh had not raised a spoiled child. Shaelyn had not been coddled overmuch, although she knew she had been loved deeply. Her parents always encouraged her to be confident and independent, spirited and outspoken—within reason—and she’d done her best to make them proud. She wouldn’t let the Union occupation of her home change her.
A soft breeze rustled through the trees and several leaves fluttered to the stone path, the scent of autumn heavy in the air. For the moment, a sense of peace flowed through her, as if Sean Cavanaugh understood. “Thank you, Papa.”
<
br /> Her resolve once more restored, she rose and took two steps toward the kitchen door before a rumbling noise caught her attention. She looked up. Not a single cloud marred the darkening violet sky stretching into the distance. The sound grew in volume until it seemed to thunder all around her and the earth shook beneath her feet.
Shaelyn followed the flagstone path around to the front of the house, her feet lightly skipping over the stones in her haste. She stopped and stared at the sight before her, unable to move a muscle.
The entire Union Army filled her driveway. Or what seemed like the entire army. Wagon after wagon pulled to a stop on the circular path. Men in uniforms jumped over the sides and quickly set to work.
The front door of the house swung open. Captain Davenport came out and stood on the steps, his hands on the wrought-iron balustrade. A wide smile parted his lips.
“I see you found us without problem.” Shaelyn heard him say as several officers climbed down from the carriages. They joined him at the top of the stairs.
One of the officers, a man with gray in his sideburns, shouted, “Start unloading. Bring the provisions into the house.”
The men formed a line up the steps, past the officers, and into Magnolia House’s central hallway. Item by item, they unloaded the wagons. Sacks of flour, sugar, and coffee were tossed man to man down the line. Barrels were rolled up the steps and down the hall.
Shaelyn raced up the curved staircase and pushed her way through the circle of officers on the veranda, her focus on Captain Davenport.
“Are you in charge of this this chaos?” The temper she had tried so hard to control simply broke loose. She couldn’t help it, nor could she stop it. “You couldn’t have them pull around to the back of the house to unload the wagons? There is an entrance to the cellar, right off the kitchen, Captain. Look what they’re doing to my floor!”
Captain Davenport turned and glanced at the dirt being tracked into the house. Scratches from the barrels marred the beautiful marble. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize—”
Mischief and Magnolias Page 2
