He smoothed her hair away from her face, something he’d been longing to do since he first saw her, and pulled the pins from the topknot, dropping them to the ground. Silken curls tumbled down her back, releasing a fragrance uniquely hers. He entwined his fingers into the burnished copper tresses as his mouth moved over hers.
The whiskey bottle tumbled off the bench onto the grass, unheeded, as she broke the kiss and moved her head to the side. Her breath brushed against his cheek, fast and warm. “Is this how the military signs a truce?”
“No, Sassy.” He murmured the words against her throat as his lips moved lower. “This is very unmilitary. This is something else. Something wild and bright and remarkable.”
“Oh,” she breathed as she offered more of her neck to him.
Remy felt her shiver, her body trembling against his as he rose from the bench, bringing her with him. They stood in the moonlight, their bodies pressed together, his mouth and hands making promises he fully intended to keep.
“We shouldn’t,” she murmured against his lips, even as she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
Her soft breasts were crushed against his uniformed chest. He felt her heat through their clothing. “Yes, we should.”
Heat curled in his stomach and moved lower as he tightened his embrace. He smoothed his hands down her back and cupped her behind through the material of her skirt and petticoat, drawing her closer against the undeniable urgency surging through him. His trousers became tight and uncomfortable and he shifted, moving his leg between her thighs.
Shaelyn gasped at the sudden intrusion. “Major! We must stop.” She turned her face away, although she remained in his arms, the slender white column of her throat exposed to his lips, her breathing heavy and labored.
He respected her wishes and released her, although letting her go was the last thing he wanted. He hadn’t intended for their kiss to become so heated, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. The feel of her soft lips and her passionate response had encouraged him to take more. He wanted more still, wanted to lie with her and touch every inch of her velvety skin, wanted…everything.
“It’s getting late. We should go inside.” Shaelyn’s hands shook as she smoothed the wrinkles from her gown. Her voice shook as well, but she hadn’t run from him or slapped him across the face, which surprised yet pleased him.
“Of course.” Remy loaded the tray with the bottle of whiskey and the glasses, then picked up his cane. He didn’t apologize for his behavior. In truth, he wasn’t sorry he had kissed her. “Will you walk with me? I promise—hands off.”
He watched her as he waited for her answer. Her mouth seemed swollen from his kisses and her face still bore the flush of passion. In the glow of moonlight, he saw the blush staining her cheeks, and her eyes! How they twinkled, like the stars gracing the heavens above.
She returned his gaze, nodded, and fell into step beside him. “What happened to your leg?” Curiosity and boldness colored her sweet voice before she sucked in her breath and her tone changed to one of embarrassment. “Forgive me. That was awfully rude of me. I shouldn’t have asked and you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want.”
“It’s all right. I don’t mind telling you. I was leading a small contingent of men on a scouting mission when we were attacked by sharpshooters. Or at least I think they were sharpshooters.” He frowned. He didn’t mention that he took the bullet meant for his commanding officer or that he lay in the blood-soaked mud, his leg nearly crushed beneath Soldier Boy’s heavy weight, his body a mass of pain for hours. The memory still had the power to make him shudder.
“I spent four months in a hospital, recuperating.” Sympathy glowed in her eyes and he knew he had her rapt attention. “I almost lost my leg. What am I saying?” he asked with a chuckle. “I almost lost my life. Too many wounded. Not enough doctors and nurses. The smell of—Forgive me. You don’t need to hear that.” He nodded toward the bottle on the tray. “General Sumner, my superior officer, my father, and grandfather along with a bit of Harte’s Private Reserve saved my miserable hide.”
“You were fortunate to have them.” Her soft voice floated over him like fine mist and eased some of his horror. “If you were a scout, how did you come to be here? In control of my steamers and everything else my family owned?”
He held up his cane. “As you can see, I never completely healed from my injury. Sitting on horseback for days at a time would probably cripple me for life. I knew I couldn’t do it.” A long sigh escaped him. He still missed the feel of good horseflesh beneath him. Short trips on horseback he could handle, but anything longer than thirty minutes or so left him nearly crippled. Despite that, he never again wanted morphine, which the doctors had given him to ease his pain. The drug had the desired effect; however, he didn’t feel in control of himself or his actions when he took it, and loss of control was tantamount to a death sentence.
“On one of his last visits at the hospital, the general asked what I wanted to do. I could have gone home, but I’ve been a military man since I was sixteen. I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself.” He tucked his cane under his arm and walked rather slowly beside her. In truth, he slowed their pace because he didn’t want to lose her company, and he would as soon as they entered the house.
“I’m not quite ready to take over the family business and truthfully,” he continued, “the business isn’t for me. Oh, I can take care of the books and distribution and the day-to-day operation, but my brother, Win, is much better suited. He has a talent, much like my grandfather, for distillation.” He glanced at her. She hadn’t taken her gaze from him since they started walking. “It doesn’t matter anyway. My father isn’t quite ready to give it up. Neither is my grandfather.”
He grinned. “The last time I tried to brew a batch of Private Reserve, I singed my eyebrows and eyelashes, and burned my hand.” He held up his hand and nodded toward the scar, almost invisible now after so many years. “I almost blew up one of the stills. My father, the very patient, very loving Jackson Harte, immediately banned me from the distillery, but honestly, it was a pleasure to go back to West Point.”
“You haven’t answered my question. How did you come to be here?”
“The general again,” Remy replied. “He found the post, but not the place. Jock MacPhee provided the location. He claimed your steamers were the best on the river.” He glanced at her and smiled. “You have your Uncle Jock to thank for the intrusion into your home.”
Shaelyn said nothing as she passed through the door he held open for her. A single candle burned in the middle of the kitchen table, where he placed the tray, the light shimmering on the walls…and on her hair, which tumbled down her back in wild, burnished curls. Tomorrow, he’d have to find all the pins he’d pulled from those shimmering tresses and return them to her, but for now, he wanted once more to run his fingers through the heavy, silken weight. He took a step toward her and raised his hand, intending just that…one more touch of her hair, and perhaps an opportunity to pull her close and feel the heat of her body next to his again.
As if his intentions were clear to her, Shaelyn’s eyes widened, the candlelight reflecting in the deep blue. She neatly stepped away from him and slipped into her room before he could act on his thoughts. “Good night, Major.”
“Good night, Sassy.” Remy lowered his hand as she slowly closed her bedroom door.
• • •
It was just a kiss.
Shaelyn knew she lied to herself as she leaned against the closed bedroom door and listened for his footsteps to recede. It wasn’t just a kiss. Not if she could still feel the touch of his lips on hers even now. The usual tingle in her belly had turned into a raging fire within her, the flames licking at her insides, heating her blood, making her heart pound, all because he’d held her in his arms, and his lips had tasted hers.
She’d never felt like this before.
Not even when James had kissed her.
James.
She realized she hadn’t thought of him in some time.
James’s kisses had been chaste, to say the least. She had never opened her mouth to him and he had never asked it of her—their tongues had never touched, never tangled, never slid against each other. James had never pulled her into his arms and held her as if he were drowning and she his salvation, his only hope. Nor had he ever had the audacity to hold her closer so she could feel the solid hardness of him through her skirts as he insinuated his thigh between hers.
She let out her breath as she heard the major’s footsteps lead away from her door, unaware she’d been holding it, but instead of relaxing, she held herself rigid against the exciting—and frightening—sensations rippling through her.
She undressed in the silvery light of the moon and slipped into a nightgown. The soft cotton brushing against her body simply added to the sense of urgency and need already sweeping through her. With trembling fingers and a heartfelt sigh, she fastened the buttons on the bodice and tried to ignore her growing fascination with both the major and the things he made her feel. She crawled into bed, pulling the light blanket over her.
She should get some sleep. Tomorrow, she planned on being aboard the Brenna Rose while Remy’s men loaded the supplies and armaments for New Orleans. But how was she to sleep when he still filled her senses?
Her eyes wouldn’t stay closed. Well, that wasn’t the truth. The truth was, when she did close her eyes, she saw him—his blue-gray eyes mesmerizing, hinting at a passion he kept at bay, his crooked grin that tugged at her heart as much as she wanted to deny it.
It was just a kiss.
But it wasn’t, and she was fooling herself to think otherwise.
Frustrated, not only by the circuitous route her thoughts were taking, but also by the physical ache building within her, she flipped her pillow to the cool side, punched it down a bit, and laid her head in the indentation. It didn’t help. The moment she closed her eyes again, she felt his lips on hers, tasted whiskey, and smelled fresh air and citrus.
Oh, this will never do!
She slipped from the bed and moved to the small desk in the corner, where she lit a candle. Pulling several sheets of paper from the drawer, Shaelyn settled herself in the chair and began to make a list of the reasons why she should never allow Major Remington Harte to kiss her again.
Chapter 9
Shaelyn grabbed the last breakfast dish from her mother’s soapy hand and almost dropped it in her hurry to be done and on her way.
Exasperated, Brenna let out a long sigh, grabbed the dishtowel draped over her shoulder, and dried her hands. “Shae! What is wrong with you this morning?”
Shaelyn stood on tiptoe and carefully placed the plate on the stack in the cabinet. “I can’t let them leave without me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’re loading up the Brenna Rose today. I want to be there.”
“I doubt they’ll enjoy having you there, pointing out their every mistake.”
“Whether they enjoy my presence or not, I need to be there. You didn’t see them moving their trunks into their rooms when they first came here, Mama. There are still scratches on the floor.” She glanced at the timepiece pinned to her blouse and swallowed hard. Five minutes to eight. “I’m sorry, Mama, but I need to go.” She dropped the dishtowel on the table. “I don’t want him to leave without me, but I’ll finish my chores when I get home.”
Brenna cocked an eyebrow but said nothing, although Shaelyn saw the smile tilting the corners of her mouth, as if she knew something but would keep the information close to her heart.
Ignoring her mother’s mischievous grin, Shaelyn ran down the hall toward the front door, checked her appearance in the mirror above one of the few remaining ornate tables there, then grabbed a straw hat from the hook where it resided and plopped it on her head. The plain black skirt and white blouse she wore would suffice—she didn’t have time to change anyway—but she smoothed the wrinkles before slipping into a fitted red, black, and gray plaid jacket with big black buttons.
The briskness in the very air lifted her spirits as she stepped through the front door and closed it behind her just in time to see Captain Davenport race by on his horse. She checked her watch once more and grinned. She had two minutes to spare—two minutes in which to relive, as she’d done several times already this morning, the kiss she’d shared with Remy. And how could she not? The taste of him lingered on her lips, as sweet as it had last night.
The sound of hooves and hard wheels on the crushed shell of her drive drew her attention away from the memory and she started down the stairs long before Captain Ames brought the landau to a halt in front of the house. He climbed from his perch and checked the horse’s rig one more time, making sure everything was as it should be. He grinned as she approached. “Will you be joining us today, Miss Shae?”
“I thought I would, yes.”
He gave a slight nod, bowed, then offered his hand, helping her into the carriage. She didn’t have very long to wait before Remy and the remaining captains appeared. If nothing else, the major was punctual. When he said eight o’clock, he meant it.
A frown darkened his features as he made his way slowly down the steps, cane in hand, his eyes darkening to polished pewter…and trained on her.
He stood beside the landau, one hand resting on the side and stared at her. The crooked smile she’d come to adore was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his sensuous lips pressed together in annoyance. “What are you doing here?”
She took a deep breath and returned his unrelenting stare with one of her own. “You’re loading the Brenna Rose. I want to be there.”
An eyebrow rose, then the corner of his mouth rose as the other officers climbed into the carriage and pretended they didn’t see what was before their eyes. “I can order you to stay here.” His voice caressed her, much as his fingertips had last night.
“But you won’t,” she said, confident by this time that she knew him, just a little. If nothing else, Major Remington Harte was a fair man, though praying he’d understand didn’t hurt. “You know how much the Brenna Rose means to me. Please.”
“Ach, let her come, laddie. What’s the harm?” Jock climbed into the carriage and adjusted the crease in his trouser leg as he sat across from her. She graced him with her widest smile, glad at least one person sided with her.
“Then she’ll be your responsibility.” Remy pinned the Scotsman with a steely stare, then stepped into the vehicle and sat in the only place open, beside her.
“I don’t need anyone to be responsible for me.” She turned to look at him. The sharp spark of anger along with the undeniable physical awareness of him jolted her senses. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Remy said nothing as he crossed his arms over his chest and looked straight ahead.
“Is everyone ready?” Captain Ames didn’t wait for an answer. He flicked the reins with a well-practiced shake of his wrists and moved the carriage at a quick pace from the bluffs down to the river. Short—but much too long—and silent, the trip took only minutes…long enough for the heat from Remy’s thigh to warm hers.
Captain Ames brought the vehicle to a halt then swung down from his seat. He opened the door and held out his hand. Shaelyn slipped her hand in his and stepped out of the carriage, followed closely by the rest of the captains.
“Stay out of the way and stay out of trouble.” With those parting words, Major Harte and his men left her to her own devices. Shaelyn didn’t move from her spot for a few moments, caught up in the excitement, her heart pounding. Uniformed men swarmed around the Brenna Rose’s landing stage, and still more were coming from the warehouse, bringing crates and barrels of much-needed supplies.
The scene brought back memories of life before the war, when Natchez and Natchez-Under-the-Hill teemed with people embarking on leisurely trips down the Mississippi aboard fabulously appointed steamboats. Cargo, now as then, was scattered around the landing,
waiting to be loaded. The sound of men shouting orders and grunting beneath their labors brought a lump to Shaelyn’s throat. Tears misted her eyes and blurred her vision as the past flooded her. How many times had she stood here, beside her father, watching and learning? And how long ago it all seemed. Another lifetime.
She took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and instead of memories of how it used to be, saw things as they stood at this moment. She left her spot beside the carriage and walked down the gravel road toward the Brenna Rose, neatly sidestepping a young man rolling a barrel down the graded path.
Oh, this is even worse than when the captains moved into Magnolia House.
She saw it all so clearly. There was no sense of order, no organization, no clear direction. The men—boys, really—were dropping crates and barrels and other supplies willy-nilly, most of them pushed against the far rail. Several of them pushed a Gatling gun on its giant wheels up the landing stage then just left it sitting there, in the way of those bringing other supplies. It was chaos and utter confusion.
Already, she could see the damage to her riverboat—torn carpeting, scratches on the new paint—small things, yes, but still…
And above it all, she heard the strident tones of Captain Vincent Davenport, ordering the men to “Hup to. Double time.” He stood on one of the upper decks and leaned against the rail as if he were the king and the men scurrying below him his subjects. He pointed and shouted, as if he actually knew what he was doing, but in the few moments Shaelyn watched him, she knew. The man had never loaded cargo onto a steamboat before, had probably never loaded anything other than his pipe or his rifle. He may be quartermaster and in charge of the supplies, but she hated to think what the warehouse had looked like before the men emptied it. Probably as bad as her steamer.
Thinking only of the safety of the men the Brenna Rose would be transporting, Shaelyn climbed up on a barrel someone conveniently left in her path. What was in the barrel, she didn’t know. Furthermore, she didn’t care. What she wanted—no, what she needed—was to gain the attention of the men.
Mischief and Magnolias Page 10
