The Rebel Wife

by Donna Dalton

  He reached for her. “Let me see what you’ve done.”

  Was he daft? Having him touch her was the last thing she needed. Her body was already smoldering. She shook her head. “There’s no need. It’s fine.”

  “Perhaps it is, but just to be sure...” He gently pried her hand free and examined each finger, his touch like hot coals on her skin.

  After what seemed like hours, he finally halted his agonizing inspection and looked up. His dark gaze tunneled into her. “Nothing appears to be broken. Does it hurt?”

  Only when I breathe. She shifted uneasily and looked away. “A little. It’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

  Before she could pull out of his grasp, he lifted her hand and pressed a tender kiss to her palm. She gasped and tried to wrench free. “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh.” He tightened his grip, holding fast. “Our hostess is watching from the window. Play along. We don’t want to arouse her suspicions.”

  She clinched her teeth together in frustration. This charade as husband and wife was proving more difficult than imagined. If she wasn’t careful, she might find herself falling for Jackson Porter’s enticing pull.

  ****

  Jack eyed the stockade wall running parallel to the roadway. Fourteen-foot, at least. And well-guarded. Rifle-toting soldiers patrolled a narrow parapet built along the outer edge. A few gave them cursory glances; others remained focused on prison innards. All appeared to be Negroes. Bet that went over real well with the imprisoned Southern boys.

  He reined Socks to a halt, then slipped an arm around the tantalizing female who’d tortured him for most of the day. She wiggled in his lap, fanning the fire he’d worked so hard to control. He ground his teeth around a curse. If their business partnership wasn’t over soon, he might just be tempted to consummate this fake marriage.

  He lowered her to the ground, then paused to let the blaze in his loins diminish before dismounting. He didn’t want to unnerve her with evidence of his arousal. He needed her alert and attentive. One slip and she’d expose their ruse to the soldiers.

  His lust corralled, he dismounted, snagged Socks’ reins in one hand and Kitty’s elbow with the other, and guided them toward the massive gate. At the base of the wall sat dozens of freshly lumbered pine boxes, waiting to be filled.

  Muscles tensed beneath his fingers. She had to be thinking of finding her brother already buried in one of those coffins. His own thoughts ventured along those lines, given what she’d told him about the boy.

  He gave her elbow an encouraging squeeze. “He’s fine.”

  “He has to be,” came her gravelly reply.

  “How can he not? He’s your twin brother. Surely you didn’t get all the spit and vinegar.”

  She looked up at him, green eyes flashing with challenge. “Is that your attempt at flattery?”

  Ah, there was that she-cat he was coming to admire. He smiled. “I do my best.”

  “Hmmph. You should stick to writing.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  She wrinkled her pert little nose. “’Bout as bad as the smell of this prison.”

  “Ouch. Writing it is then.”

  As they neared the gate, a guard stepped forward, blocking their path. “What business do you have at the prison?”

  “Name’s Jackson Porter.” He poked a hand in his knapsack and withdrew his papers. “I’m here to see the Provost.”

  “Major Brady’s headquarters are over there.” The soldier pointed at a nearby building, then flicked a curious glance at Kitty.

  Though the farmwoman’s dress fit lengthwise, the faded blue-checked material sagged beneath her breasts and puckered at her tiny waist. She looked like a penniless street waif seeking a handout. He shrugged inwardly. Not much they could do about her appearance right now. At least she’d tamed her fiery mane into a respectable bun.

  After securing Socks to the hitching post, he helped her up the short stairs and into the Provost’s headquarters. A framed map of Maryland occupied one wall, a portrait of President Lincoln the other. An American flag and the swallow-tailed guidon of the 20th regiment stood in the far corner next to a wooden desk at which sat a soldier, his nose submerged in paperwork.

  As the door clicked shut behind them, a faint, indrawn breath drew his attention. Kitty’s face was pale and tense. Widened eyes flicked around the room and latched onto the open window on opposite wall.

  He tensed. Gripes. Now was not the time for her to fall apart. He placed a supportive hand on her elbow and whispered an encouraging, “Steady.”

  She blinked and gave a brief nod.

  “Can I help you, sir?” The adjutant rose to his feet, a frown creasing his baby smooth face. Seemed the longer the War dragged on, the younger the soldiers got.

  He moved closer and handed over his papers. “We’re here to see Major Brady.”

  The soldier studied the documents, then looked up. “Very well, just one moment.”

  He disappeared into an adjacent chamber. A few minutes later, he returned and ushered them into the major’s office. The faint odor of cigar smoke lingered in the air, an expensive brand like the one grandfather enjoyed with after-dinner brandy.

  “Mr. Porter.” Meticulously turned-out in a crisp uniform jacket and neatly pressed trousers, Major Allen Brady crossed toward them, hand extended. “What an honor it is to have you here. I’ve read nearly every one of your insightful articles chronicling the War.”

  He shook the officer’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I do my best to report things as I see them.” He inclined his head toward Kitty, grateful to see the color returning to her cheeks. “May I introduce my wife?”

  The major gave a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  She dipped her head. “Thank you, Major. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

  “I wondered why I hadn’t seen your by-line in The Herald recently.” A smile lifted the officer’s bushy mustache. “Now I see why.”

  Jack returned the major’s smile and placed a possessive hand at the dip in Kitty’s back. “We met last month in Virginia. I found myself hostage to her Southern beauty and charm.”

  She tensed beneath his fingertips, apparently grasping his innuendo. She shifted and arched her back just enough to escape his touch.

  “Ah, that explains the lovely accent.” The shrewd officer regarded the ill-fitting dress, his smile fading.

  Before Jack could offer an explanation, Kitty ran a hand down her skirt as though smoothing a wrinkle. “I do wish I could’ve been better attired for our meeting, Major. Unfortunately, we met with some difficulties, and my clothes were lost.” She batted her lashes and heaved a disconsolate sigh. “I had to beg this dreary dress off a poor farmwoman.”

  Jack stuffed down a snort at her contrived grandeur. He needn’t worry about Miss Carleton. She played her part well, too well, if the appreciative look on Brady’s face was any indication.

  “You poor dear,” the officer said with a cluck. “Well, hopefully your stay at Point Lookout will ease the discomforts of your journey. I’ve ordered my adjutant to arrange quarters for you in one of the summer cottages. You can relax there away from the noise and odor of the prison.”

  “Summer cottages?” she asked.

  “Before construction began on Camp Hoffman, Point Lookout was a civilian resort town. There’s an old lighthouse at the southern tip you might want to explore while your husband tours the prison.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “How thoughtful of you, Major,” Jack interrupted, pressing his fingers once more into her spine to get her attention. “I’m sure my wife will welcome a relaxing respite from our travels.” He shrugged and forced a wry smile. “We barely said our ‘I do’s’ before I had her on the road heading for the prison. Deadlines, you know.”

  Brady nodded. “Yes, indeed I do.” He motioned to the pair of chairs facing his desk. “Please have a seat. We can chat while your quarters are being readied.”

&
nbsp; He assisted Kitty onto one of the wooden chairs, giving her a warning glare before settling himself on the seat beside her. Those pouting lips were oh-so-pretty, but dangerous as well. If the wrong words spilled out of them, their mission was dead.

  As Brady took his seat behind the desk, Jack reached into his pocket and extracted a notepad and pencil. Time for a little investigative journalism. “We might as well take advantage of our time together, sir.” He thumbed to a fresh page. “If you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?”

  “Certainly. What would you like to discuss?”

  “Let’s start with the population. How many soldiers are you holding?”

  “We have approximately ten thousand prisoners. But not all are soldiers. Some are civilians who sympathize with the South. Blockade runners mostly, caught on the Potomac and out in the Bay.”

  “That’s a lot of prisoners to watch over. Any escapes?”

  “Not since I took charge in April.” The major puffed up his chest, full of his own self-importance. “I made certain of that.”

  “In what way?”

  “First and foremost, I enforce all federal regulations to the letter. Body searches. Twice daily roll calls.” He tossed a glance at the darkening window. “After sundown, all prisoners are confined to their quarters. Anyone caught outside is shot without question.”

  “I see.” He wet his pencil nib with the tip of his tongue and struck a bold underscore beneath the notation enforces regulations to the letter. “Do you take any preventative measures outside of regulations?”

  “Any I deem necessary.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “I can. For example, any new captives found wearing federal blue are stripped of those uniforms. Too easy for them to blend in, if they do manage to escape.”

  “A wise precaution.” Hell, with all those safety measures, Kitty might find getting her brother freed quite a difficult undertaking. The more he heard, the more he believed she was only chasing a fantasy. “Is alternate clothing provided for the prisoners should they need it?”

  “We have a storehouse of donated items. Also, many prisoners write to their families and request clothes or money. Of course, all packages are inspected by this office before being distributed.”

  Warning bells clanged in his head. Packages inspected before being distributed? Even the most dedicated army officer might be tempted to steal from the helpless prisoners. Who would the Reb soldiers complain to? The idea definitely warranted further exploration.

  “Clothes, I can understand,” he tendered. “But why would they need to request money if they’re imprisoned?”

  Brady’s gaze remained steady, no blinking, no tell-tale shifting. “Prisoners are allowed to purchase necessity items from the sutler’s store against accounts set up in their names.”

  Damn. Either the man was a good actor, or he had nothing to hide.

  “The sutler’s carries a variety of stock,” Brady continued. “Including female attire.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a leaflet which he handed to Kitty. “I’m sure you could find a few things to tide you over, Mrs. Porter; though it won’t be anything as fine as a well-bred Southern lady like yourself is accustomed to.”

  She stared at the paper, eyes wide, fingers clasped on the edges. A second passed, no more, then she gathered herself and treated the officer to a dazzling smile. “Thank you, Major.” She folded the leaflet onto her lap. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  “Glad to help. I’ll have my adjutant escort the two of you to the sutler’s. Then you can join us for dinner in the officers’ mess hall.”

  Jack stowed her strange reaction to the leaflet to the back of his mind for later reflection and returned to his questioning. “Speaking of feminine attire, do you have many female prisoners?”

  “A few. Most were captured along with the units they fought with.”

  “And the others?”

  “We have one female spy imprisoned, and another we’re currently searching for.”

  “How do you know the other one’s involved in espionage?”

  “Won’t know for sure until we capture and question her. However...” Brady tapped a packet of papers stacked on the corner of the desk. “This report says she was seen kneeling beside a dead courier just north of here with blood on her hands. Field orders were missing from his sack. That’s mighty condemning evidence.”

  Kitty shifted in her chair, white-knuckled fingers clamped around the armrests. Her face had gone pale as the papers stacked on Brady’s desk.

  Damn. She was going to give them away. Jack cleared his throat in an effort to keep Brady’s focus directed on him. “I believe we met the patrol looking for her. Do you have any information on this woman?”

  “Only what we gathered from her Negro’s feverish mumblings. He’s being cared for at the prison hospital. Seems his mistress is from Virginia, and her name is Carleton, Miss Lou Carleton.”

  Chapter Five

  Louisa pushed the fried summer squash into a neat pile with the tip of her fork. Jeb was here at the prison. And he was alive, feverish, but still alive. The garden peas formed a smaller hill. It’d make freeing him and Lance all the easier. She slid the crab cake to the edge of the plate. Provided the bluebellies didn’t put two and two together and come up with her.

  All around her, conversation hummed, low and threatening like the buzz in a busy hive. She sat in its center, an intruder in the nest, and any moment they’d spot her. Stomach roiling with unease, she forced a bite of crab between her lips and made herself swallow. It felt as though sawdust raked her throat. She grabbed for her wine.

  The officer beside her on the bench shifted and reached for a basket of rolls. His thigh brushed her skirts. She tried to inch sideways but met the end of the bench. As honored guests, she and Porter were seated at the head of the table with Major Brady, and there was no place to go without landing on the floor.

  She lifted her wineglass and hid her trembling lips as she peered over the rim at the blue uniforms lining the long, linen-draped table. Yankee officers. Two dozen of them at least. Another bead of perspiration trickled between her breasts, adding to the discomfort of her sweat-soaked chemise. Once again she’d trusted a man and now had herself truly trapped.

  “You look oddly familiar, Mrs. Porter,” said the officer beside her, a Captain Riggs, if she remembered correctly. He puckered his brow as he studied her. “Have you ever visited Southern Maryland before now?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Had he been part of the Yankee patrol chasing her and Jeb? She swallowed and lowered her glass. “No, Captain.” She fought to keep the quiver from her voice and concentrated on speaking like a well-bred lady. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

  He broke off a bit of bread and continued to look at her as he chewed. “Connecticut, maybe. That’s where I’m from. Middletown actually. South of Hartford.”

  “N-no. I’ve never—” She dragged in a shaky breath. “—never been any further north than this.”

  “Strange.” He brushed crumbs from his neat blond moustache. “You look...” His gaze drifted to her hair. He shook his head. “I’d swear I’ve seen you before.”

  Dratted hair. It always seemed to draw attention and comment, mostly of a non-pleasant sort. Once, in what seemed a lifetime ago, as she’d dressed Fannie’s lank brown locks, the eldest Lawrence daughter had screwed up her face and declared Louisa’s coloring more suited a pleasure house than a lady’s parlor. There were times she wondered if maybe Fannie was right.

  “Perhaps you mistake me for someone else.”

  “Where’re y’all from then, darlin’,” came a drawl from farther down the table. A lieutenant with a cocky grin and looking much too young for his rank leaned forward on an elbow. “Talk s’more so I can hear that lovely voice.”

  Y’all? Darlin’ ? Her shock must’ve shown for Captain Riggs stepped in.

  “Don’t mind Calhoun, Mrs. Porter. He’s from Texas. Been complaining since he arriv
ed here that the only folks he understands are the Reb prisoners. Oh, begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  She dismissed his apology with a shake of her head. “No offense taken. While I am a Southerner, I don’t hold with slavery. Never have. However, I do feel forcing the issue with violence is wrong.”

  Calhoun snagged a chicken leg from a platter. “I disagree. Only way to get through to a slaver is with force.” He ripped off a hunk of meat with his teeth, then chewed ill-manneredly while talking. “Give ’em back what they been dishin’ out to the Nigras.”

  A knot of resentment coiled in her belly, for the moment muzzling her fear. She met Lieutenant Calhoun’s smug gaze straight on. “Those are mighty Republican beliefs for a Texan.” She deepened her own drawl. “When on earth did Texas take up the Union cause?”

  Color rushed into the lieutenant’s face. He dropped the mauled drumstick to his plate and opened his mouth to reply.

  But she didn’t give him a chance. He’d smeared Papa, Lance, and her with his comment. It was not to be borne. She heaved a sigh that would’ve rivaled any of Fannie’s theatrics. “I do swear, one would think having a newspaper man for a husband, one would occasionally hear some news. Good or bad. Perhaps I should have married a soldier after all.”

  There was a moment of uncertain silence, then all down the line, laughter exploded. Calhoun, crimsoned-faced, pushed to his feet. He tossed her a furious glower, then slammed his napkin on the table and stormed toward the door.

  His comrades threw taunts after him, several mimicking his Texas twang. Others toasted her witty humor and though the moment was clearly hers, she found little to enjoy. A chill scuttled down her spine. Curse her flap-happy tongue. Now she had a new, more personal enemy to watch out for.

  She eyed the empty doorway. “Oh, dear...I didn’t intend to upset the lieutenant.”

  “Don’t you fret none, Mrs. Porter,” Major Brady soothed. “Calhoun gets a bit hot-headed at times. He’ll soon simmer down.” He reached for the wine bottle. “Would you care for more wine?”