The Rebel Wife

by Donna Dalton

  “Regardless of your innocence or guilt, if I’m caught hiding you, my assignment, hell, my life, could be at risk.” He shook his head. “I’m not willing to take that chance.”

  Well, if honey wouldn’t work... “What if I paid you? How much would make it worth the risk?”

  His grunt this time was downright rude. “You don’t look like you have more than a nickel to your name.”

  That came as a slap. For most of her life, she’d worn the Lawrences’ cast-offs and never minded. An overseer’s daughter had to make do, after all. The clothes, like everything else Fannie and Beth had, were the finest their daddy’s wealth could buy, and the girls tired of them long before the gowns showed any real wear. She’d felt almost pretty in the dresses.

  She wrapped both hands around the knife hilt to keep from smoothing out the wrinkles in her gown. She was merely rumpled from travel, was all. Never thought of herself as second-hand. Until now. In front of this man.

  She held her head high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hit his mark. “I can assure you, Mr. Porter; I have money.”

  “Not enough to persuade me to take you near the prison, I’d wager.”

  “You’d lose that bet.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his chin, thinking. He seemed to do a lot of that.

  “You’re taking a big risk telling me this, aren’t you? You don’t know me. I could kill you while you sleep. Take your money.”

  Yes, she was taking a big risk. But given a choice between him and the Union patrol, the newspaperman seemed the lesser of two evils. Besides this probably wasn’t the last risk she’d face before her task was done. “You wouldn’t do that,” she said, not sure which of them she was aiming to convince.

  “And you know this because..?”

  “You ain’t—” She bit off the words with a click of her teeth. She’d worked hard to refine her speech, watching, listening, and mimicking the Lawrences, so she’d be accepted at the big house, so Papa would be proud of her. But low-bred talk often found a way out of her mouth, especially during times of great fluster and distraction. This man, with his questions and his mule-headed stubbornness, had her all fiddle-fuddled.

  She licked her lips and tried again. “I know this because you didn’t turn me over to that patrol. Unexpected gallantry from a Yankee.”

  He rummaged in the pile of clothing beside him. “It wasn’t gallantry; I assure you. I just didn’t want to explain what you were doing in my tent and make trouble for myself.” He shrugged into a shirt, sleek muscles flexing as he moved.

  The breath caught in her throat. He’d mentioned being half dressed. It hadn’t registered until now. Another time, another man, darted through her mind. Her mouth went dry. She yanked her gaze back to his face. “E-Even so—”

  “Thanks, but no thanks, Miss Carleton.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I decline your proposal of matrimony.” His gaze trailed over her again, lingering on her breasts an instant too long for politeness. “Intriguing as the notion might be.”

  Apprehension rifled fast and hot through her belly. That bare skin and flash of heat in his gaze uprooted memories she thought she’d buried. Her control slid away. The tent walls closed in. Her nostrils filled with candle smoke, damp earth, and the sharp scent of male sweat.

  She needed fresh air. Now.

  She made a frantic dash for the tent flap, batting at the stiff canvas to clear her path. Outside, cool air bathed her face, and she drew in breath after breath in an effort to recover her wits.

  Slowly, the songs of night insects surrounded her. Stars winked in the broad, black sky. Her pulse slowed. Her breathing evened out. It’d been a long time since thoughts of Bart Lawrence had troubled her. Mainly because she’d managed real well to stay clear of anything, or anyone, who raised those old ghosts. Why here? Why now? Well now, that was a silly question, wasn’t it? If she were smart, she’d put miles between her and Mr. Fancy-Talking, Half-Dressed Porter.

  Around her, the clearing glowed in the pale moonlight, giving her the first good look at the lay of the land. Just the other side of the fire pit, hoof prints roughed up the ground. Beyond that, trampled grass stretched to the darkened edge of the forest.

  Yankee tracks.

  She couldn’t rush headlong back into the woods. The patrol might still be lurking about, doubling back, trying to catch her slipping through. Her best bet would be to remain near the tent. Ease back inside to hide if need be. Then, come daylight, she’d resume pleading her case to the mule-headed newspaperman. Perhaps after a good night’s sleep, he’d be a little more agreeable.

  A head poked through tent flap. “Miss Carleton, are you ill? Do you need any help?”

  She squared herself. She lied better standing up straight. “No, I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure? You seemed to be a little... spooked.”

  “I wasn’t spooked. I just needed some air. It’s been a long day, and wrangling with you...well, I’d had enough.” For tonight at least.

  “Glad to hear you’ve given up on that idea.”

  “The farcical one, you mean?”

  He smiled. She gave a little grunt. Let him think what he wanted. In the morning, he’d sing a different tune.

  “So you’ll be heading out?”

  “In a bit. I s’pect those soldiers aren’t too far off yet. Thought I’d lay low a while.”

  “Stick to the woods and off the roadway,” he added, like she was too dumb to know that on her own. “Less chance for the patrol to come up on you unawares.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Porter.”

  “And you might want this.” He tossed her the knife. “You dropped it during your rather hasty exit.”

  She thought of Nanny Belle and fastened on her sweetest smile. “Thank you again,” she managed through her teeth. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Miss Carleton. And good luck with your endeavor.” He nodded and ducked back inside.

  Endeavor. Farcical. Lordy, he loved those big, fancy words. A book man. Just like Papa and Lance. While she...

  She swallowed her shame in a hard gulp. Fancy words and book-learning wouldn’t get her brother free. Grit and determination would. Those she had a’plenty.

  She squatted next to the campfire. Several of the rocks ringing the pit had been knocked aside. Probably by one of those big-footed Yankees. She rolled the rocks back into place. Using a fallen pine bough as a broom, she swept at the ashes that’d scattered outside the circle. Papa had liked things neat and tidy. She had preferred to spend her days cooling by the river. The clutter certainly wasn’t going anywhere, and if cleaned, it always found its way back. But Papa had always said, a place for everything and everything in its place. Papa also said look before you leap.

  Tears she’d held in check while wrangling with the newspaperman spilled over. She’d ignored that warning, hadn’t she. Had landed herself and everyone she loved smack in the middle of a briar patch.

  A muffled thud sounded in the woods, then came the faint hoot of an owl. She jerked upright at the familiar signal, one she’d heard hundreds of times at Spivey Point.

  “Jeb,” she whispered into the darkness.

  The woods remained silent. She walked to the edge of the clearing. “Jeb,” she called out again. Nothing. She slumped over, remembering. The Yankees had Jeb. That hoot had come from a real owl. Jeb wouldn’t be waiting behind some big oak before they snuck off to the river to do a little night fishing. If his bullet wound got the better of him, he wouldn’t be waiting for her anywhere but in God’s house.

  ****

  She drifted up from the blackness. Warmth radiated from the solid form resting next to her. She snuggled closer. Nice. Very nice.

  The hardness groaned and shifted.

  As the fog of sleep faded, realization dawned. She opened her eyes. A bare back lay inches from her nose. A little ways higher, black locks curled just below the nape of a tanned neck.

  Her pulse s
kipped. How had she ended up beside him? Last night, she curled up next to the fire pit, but the sound of crackling brush had woken her and sent her scurrying inside the tent. She’d lain at the entrance, as far from him as she could get. Somehow, she’d managed to—

  The smooth muscles bunched. A second later, cool air churned around her as the newspaperman bolted upright.

  “What the..!”

  She rolled away and scooted for the tent flap. Best to put a little distance between them until she sized up his mood.

  He rounded on her, his good eye glaring, the other covered by the patch he’d slipped on quicker than a fox darting into a hen house. “You! I thought you’d left.”

  Still ill-tempered, it appeared. She stopped at the entrance and thrust up her chin. She’d never backed down from a fight and wasn’t about to start. “You thought wrong.”

  “I told you last night I wasn’t interested in your offer.”

  “And I can’t take no for an answer.”

  “Sure you can. It’s easy.” He jerked a nod at the tent flap. “Just back out and head south.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Porter, I’d rather be anywhere than here with you. But I don’t have a choice. I need to get to Point Lookout. And right now, you’re my only option.”

  “There are always other options.”

  “None that will get me there as quick as traveling with you.”

  “Why are you in such an all-fire hurry to get to that prison?”

  Mule. She couldn’t risk telling him her reasons. He might have earned a small scrap of trust by concealing her from the Yankees, but not that much. Perhaps this required a different approach. If that brief flash of heat in his gaze last night was any indication, he wasn’t immune to a woman’s charms.

  “I understand your reluctance.” She mimicked Fannie Lawrence’s sugary, simpering tone. All those years of playing handmaid to a spoiled, rich girl might finally be worthwhile. She batted her eyelashes. “I’d be an awful burden on you, not to mention I’m wanted by the Yankees.”

  “Precisely.”

  She dug her fingernails into her palms, using the pain to keep from cursing, and forced a smile. “Couldn’t you just open up that lil’ ole heart of yours and help a desperate, defenseless woman without knowing the why-fors?”

  “You might be desperate, Miss Carleton. But you’re far from defenseless.” His gaze drifted to her neck. “Even with your dress undone.”

  Her dress un...

  Heat scorched her cheeks. She’d loosened her collar during the night to cool her skin. Now too much charm was on display.

  She reached up and fumbled with the loops. Tarnation. Why couldn’t she fasten buttons like any normal woman? Even Belle with her stubby fingers had no trouble.

  “Need a hand?”

  “No, I don’t.” A button slipped from her grasp, and she muttered a curse under her breath.

  “Take your time,” he urged, his cheery tone like fingernails on slate. “Rushing will only make it more difficult.”

  “I know how to fasten buttons, thank you.” She shot him a glare, then returned to her task. One loop slid on. Then another. And another, until she had all three buttons refastened. Hallelujah. One chore done. She eyed the newspaperman. One thornier one left.

  “Good.” He flashed that same breath-robbing smile he used the night before. “Now, you’re ready to leave.”

  “Please...” In any other circumstance, she’d be mortified by pleading. “I understand how risky traveling with me is. But I promise, once we reach the prison, you can wipe your hands of me.”

  “I doubt getting shed of you will be that easy.”

  She sensed an undercurrent as though he meant more than what he said. He raked back his hair, missing one unruly lock that stuck out over his ear. Something made her want to touch it, something else told her to stay away. Perhaps he was right, and this was a bad idea. She could get into real trouble pretending to be his loving wife.

  A chirping chorus sifted through the tent walls now glowing with a faint rosy blush. Dawn. A new day, and she was still miles from her destination. Trouble or not, she had to make use of the handsome newspaperman.

  “And just how will you explain the absence of a new bride?” She gave him a pointed look. “That patrol is sure to spread your joyful news to the other soldiers.”

  “I’ll tell them the truth. That you held me at knife point and forced me to lie.”

  Clearly a good night’s sleep had done little to curb his orneriness. Was he a late riser like the Lawrence brood? He certainly acted like them with his educated talk and puffed-up airs. “Perhaps we should discuss this after you shake the sleep from your head.” She began backing out of the tent. “I’ll just wait outside.”

  To her dismay, he followed her. “I’m fully awake. And there’s nothing more to discuss.”

  “You don’t understand...”

  “Oh, but I do understand. Perfectly.” He shrugged into his shirt, making short work of the buttons, unlike her feeble efforts. “And the answer is still no.”

  “But—”

  “You’re wasting your breath, Miss Carleton.” He pulled on his boots, then crouched beside the fire pit and began adding small twigs to the ashes. “I’ll cook us some breakfast, then we part ways.”

  “I don’t have time to waste on breakfast.”

  He glanced at the woods. “Well, then...”

  Lordy, he was far more pig-headed than she had imagined. Talking him into anything was going to require a good helping of patience. Not her strong suit.

  A low nicker sounded in a nearby thicket.

  Well, well. Porter had a horse. She crossed to the edge of the clearing and parted the bushes. A long-legged bay gelding jerked up his head and blew a noseful of air at her. Had she known such a fine-looking animal was available for the taking, she might’ve reconsidered her plan to hide in the tent. She smiled, pleased by her find. It wasn’t too late to correct that mistake. She freed the tether and led him out of the thicket.

  Porter rose to his feet. “What are you doing?”

  She pulled the bay to a stop beside the tent where a saddle sat canted on one end. “I’m using one of my other options.”

  “That’s my horse.”

  “Not anymore.” She bent and scooped up the saddle, a light-weight McClellan. Odd that he owned a cavalry model and not some fancy leather and brass contraption like all the other uppity, rich folks.

  “Are you planning to steal my horse?”

  She slung the saddle and pad across the bay’s sleek back. “Borrow. I’ll leave him near the prison for you when I’m done.”

  He closed the distance between them, and she inched a hand toward the knife tucked at her boot. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she couldn’t allow him to interfere. She’d already lost too much precious time running from the bluebellies.

  He merely shouldered against a nearby pine. “I doubt Maryland law will see any distinction between stealing and borrowing.”

  Keeping a wary eye on him, she pulled the cinch under the bay’s belly and slipped the leather end into the buckle. “Will you have me arrested, then?”

  “I might.”

  Ornery fingers slipped, and she almost dropped the cinch strap. Drat. Of all times to fumble.

  He cleared his throat, and she stiffened, waiting for his jeering remark. None came. A Christmas gift in July. She wrestled the buckle fastened, then snatched the bridle off the ground. The gelding took the bit good-naturedly, and she soon had him bridled and ready to ride.

  “Do what you must, Porter.” She tucked up her skirts and footed the stirrup. “I’m taking your horse.”

  The bay pranced backward. She sprang upward and eased into the saddle. Once seated, she clucked softly and nudged the horse with her heels. Muscles bunched beneath her. She squeezed her knees to secure her seat, then reined the animal away from the camp. The horse spun around and leapt forward.

  A piercing whistle rang out.

  The b
ay skidded to a halt, haunches plowing under him.

  Unprepared, she slammed into his neck like a rag doll. She grabbed for anything she could get her hands on. Before she could secure a firm hold, the horse scrambled to right itself. She snagged his neck and swung under him, dangling like a possum from a limb. A second later, her hands slipped, and she crashed to the ground. Sharp pricks stabbed through the thin material of her gown and into her skin. She moaned and closed her eyes, willing the burn away and the earth to stop spinning.

  As her breathing evened out, fear gave way to fury. She’d fallen from a horse. Something she rarely allowed to happen. All because of—

  Footfalls sounded beside her, then shiny black boots came into view. “You knew,” she spat. “The whole time, you knew I wouldn’t make it out of camp on your horse.”

  “I did.”

  “You polecat. That was a rotten trick.”

  “Only got what you deserved.”

  Frustration and rage pounded in her head until she thought her skull might explode. She needed to get to Lance and Jeb. And this arrogant, black-hearted Yankee stood in her way.

  Not for long. She thrust her legs to the side and caught his ankles in a scissor-kick.

  He went down with a grunt.

  She kicked free of him and scrambled away. But he reacted quicker than expected. He lunged forward, grabbed her arms, and rolled until he rested atop her.

  Images surfaced of other hands holding her down. Panic galloped inside her. Her blood ran cold. Trapped. Again. She began thrashing from side to side, trying to get free.

  The hands restraining her tightened. “Whoa, Miss Carleton. Settle down.”

  “No. Don’t.” She couldn’t contain a whimper.

  His weight pressed down on her, containing her efforts. “Stop fighting,” he said in a low, soothing voice. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “Let me go. Please.”

  “Easy now. I’ll let you go as soon as you calm down.”

  She tempered her struggling. A few seconds passed, then a few more. The body atop her remained in command, but unmoving. The stampede in her chest slowed. She stilled all efforts to escape and just lay there, waiting.

  “You see. Nothing is going to happen to you.”