Adella's Enemy

by Jacqui Nelson

  “Everything that happened there was true. I was shot. The doctor didn’t remove the bullet. Declan died in a cell. I almost did as well. But the war ended too early to grant me that release. When the gates were thrown open, I hobbled out of Camp Douglas with a limp. My body healed as best as it could, but a couple of months ago I injured my leg again and this time gangrene threatened. Once more, I was dying but this time I was alone.”

  “Alone?” Her usually cooperative brain refused to function. “Where was Cormac?”

  “We’d completed the transcontinental and gone our separate ways. He headed to Ireland, and I decided to drink myself into oblivion.” Fergal laughed a harsh self-deprecating sound. “Coward that I am, when faced again with my own death—by a festering broken leg—I suddenly wanted to live. Fortunately, this time around I had power. I had enough money to persuade a doctor to dig out the old bullet and set the bone…rather than look the other way and leave me to die. I also had time to heal, and to think. That’s when I decided to come work for the Katy.”

  “But why act injured when you aren’t?”

  “So I wouldn’t be suspected of my other activities.”

  Her mind blanked again, rejecting his words. “Fergal, no. You can’t want to—”

  “I do. And you do too. Otherwise why are you here? We’re here because we both came to the same conclusion about the war, Dec’s death and his killer. We must do everything we can to make that Yankee pay for his sins.”

  “I want him to pay as well. Creating delays, making him lose money. I hoped my ill-deeds would end there. But they don’t. Those men on the train could’ve been killed.”

  “Causalities are inevitable in war.”

  Pain sliced her, sharp as the day she’d received the news of her brother’s death. “Causalities like Declan?”

  He jerked as if she’d wounded him as well. “You said you didn’t want to talk about him.”

  “I was wrong. By never speaking of Declan I forgot who he was. I’ve spent the last hour rereading his letters.” She extracted the bundle from its special compartment and tossed the valise aside.

  “This is all that’s important.” She touched the letters reverently. “I’d forgotten how Declan craved peace. All throughout the war he wrote about it, about his hopes for coming home, about rebuilding rather than destroying.”

  She pressed the letters into Fergal’s hands. “He wrote about you reciting the Battle Cry of Freedom. He wrote about his worry for you. He wrote how the war had changed you and to him that was the greatest loss of all. Then…he asked me to look after you, and he stopped writing. But I was selfish, wallowing in my grief and revenge. I never even looked for you.”

  Fergal frowned at the letters. “He asked me to take care of you as well. But you’ve never needed that. You’re stronger than us all.”

  She shook her head. Her strength was an act, like Fergal’s limp. A ruse to keep others at a distance.

  “He’s arriving in New Chicago on the next train.” Fergal’s words yanked her from her thoughts.

  She blinked. “Who?”

  “The rich Yankee responsible for Dec’s death. He won’t be leaving town.”

  No! She wouldn’t be responsible for more death. Not even Parsons’. “I can’t let you do this.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “What if others get in the way and you kill them too?”

  He frowned at her. “Stay away from the train station, Adella.”

  “I don’t mean me. I mean people like the crew on that train.”

  “You’re all grown up, Adella, but you remain that little girl from Georgia who went out of her way not to step on flowers. Sometimes you have to crush a few stalks to get where you’re going.” Fergal held Declan’s letters out to her. “You need these more than me.”

  She wrapped her hands around his, pressing his fingers tight against the letters. “You’re wrong. You need Declan’s words just as much as I do. Read them. Remember him.”

  Behind her, the tent flap jerked open with a snap. Cormac’s giant frame shoved through the narrow gap. The scowl on his face was ten times fiercer than any she’d ever seen.

  Chapter 8

  Cormac halted inside the tent, staring at Adella pressing a packet of letters into Fergal’s hands. His fury lessened just a fraction, allowing him to think. She wasn’t hurt. He wouldn’t have to attend anyone’s funeral—namely Fergal’s. Adella looked ready for one, though. She wore the black dress of a mourner and the ashen face of the deceased.

  “What’re you doing here?” Fergal growled. The last time he’d heard that particular tone was when Fergal had been drunk and cursing Adella’s father.

  “The men reported raised voices. They mentioned a woman’s voice.” The McGrady Gang said they’d heard Adella pleading with Fergal. The thought still made his temper spike. Praised be the Saints that his gang had come to him.

  “You’ve interrupted a...” Fergal’s gaze slid from him to Adella and back again, “…lover’s quarrel.”

  She jerked away from Fergal, her face flushing scarlet in the lantern light. “I have no idea who you are anymore. You certainly aren’t the friend from my youth.” She squeezed past Cormac and out of the tent.

  Turning to follow her, his gaze snagged on her bag lying forgotten on the floor. He paused to grab the handle. The already opened bag released a stream of photographs and papers. Cursing, he knelt and stuffed them back inside.

  “Adella, wait! You forgot—” He leapt outside…and lost her. Fingers numb, he dropped the bag and plunged into the night. Eyes straining for a glimpse of her, he followed the footpath—and hopefully Adella—into the center of New Chicago.

  Worry seized his heart with the strength of a vulture’s talons. How would he find her in this rabbit warren of side streets and back alleys? Should he head straight for her hotel? Muffled piano music sounded up ahead. Then the usual male guffaws that were never far from Eden’s establishment. Should he go in and ask if she’d seen Adella?

  A curse came from the alley alongside Eden’s, followed by a scream, the crack of a slap, and then a man’s voice.

  “Bite me again and I’ll hit you twice as hard. If yer found outside a brothel, especially at night, yer looking for a customer.”

  Cormac tore down the alley. A lantern sat on the ground beside three men crouched over a struggling woman. One pressed his hand over her mouth. Another pinned her arms above her head. The last man shoved up her skirt. The white of Adella’s petticoats flashed stark against the black of that dress.

  He slammed into the men with a roar. Kicked the first man in the ribs. Punched the second in the jaw. Kneed the third in the face. The final strike was the most satisfying as he thought he heard bone break and it set Adella free. She scrambled to her feet. A red handprint marred her pale cheek. A cheek already starting to bruise.

  Swift as a spark touching gunpowder, his rage exploded. He spun to face her abusers, hands clenched ready to inflict more damage.

  The men stood together. Cowards always found bravery in numbers.

  “You should have brought more than muscle to this fight,” one of them said. “You should’ve brought a weapon.”

  “I don’t want a weapon. I want to rip you three apart with my bare hands.” But he couldn’t take such a risk and leave Adella open to another attack. He positioned himself between her and the men. “Still have your gun?” he called over his shoulder.

  “You think you can hoodwink us?” One of the men snorted. “That we’re blind as well as stupid? She ain’t got no gun. And she wanted us to roll her. She was even grabbing her skirt, no doubt to raise it, when we found her.”

  Adella’s footsteps told him she’d moved to stand beside him. He kept his gaze locked on the men.

  “Can you hold this for me?” Her hand nudged his fist.

  His fingers uncurled immediately at her bidding. She pressed something warm and cylindrical against his palm. He took it and raised his hand between him and the
men, wondering what was so bloody important to give him. She’d handed him a knife.

  “I’m a trifle shaky and require both hands.” The hammer of a tiny gun clicked softly.

  The men lurched back, hands raised. “Whoa, now! Don’t get excited. We only wanted a little touch.”

  The blast ricocheted off the alley walls. So did the howling as the man who’d shoved up her skirt hunched over clutching his hand. Blood seeped through his fingers.

  “You’ll never be touching a woman with that hand again. Welcome to southern justice.” Another click primed the second shot as she swung the gun toward the next man. “Your turn.”

  The men spun and dashed down the alley.

  The knife she’d passed to him was still warm in his hand. “Where did this come from?”

  “My boot.” She retrieved the knife and returned it to its hiding place. “Men don’t usually pay attention to that area when they’re under a woman’s skirt.”

  The knowledge that she’d nearly been raped, despite all his pitiful attempts to guard her, made him light-headed. He dropped his forehead into his hands. “Adella—”

  She removed the distance between them, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing close. “Thank you for coming after me. For not giving up on me.”

  He held her tight. “Why would I give up on you?”

  “You found me in Fergal’s tent. He said—”

  “I found you with a friend. One who, although I want to slug him for his comment, needs as much help as you.”

  She pulled free of his embrace.

  “Don’t be cross, lass. I didn’t mean—”

  “I can’t stay out here any longer. It’s too dark.” Her golden irises were rimmed in white. Her gaze darted left and right, searching the shadows. She pressed the lantern into his hand. Derringer raised and cocked, she pulled him down of the alley.

  Only after she’d entered the hotel, did she return her gun to its hidden pocket. When she opened the door to her room, he pulled back. He shouldn’t go inside. With his worry for her riding him, he wouldn’t be able to leave. And Adella had just been through hell. The last thing she needed was him pawing at her.

  “You don’t want to stay with me.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

  Regret flooded him. “Adella, I do. But I—”

  “Thank you for coming to my rescue and returning me safely to my hotel.” She crossed to stand by the window, moving as far from him as the room allowed. With trembling hands, she gripped the windowpane. “You’re a good man.”

  “I want to be more than that. I want to be more than your guardian or even your lover.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to rally his restraint, his common sense.

  Too hell with it.

  He reached for the door. Stepping inside the room, he closed the door behind him. “I want to share everything, and I’m not leaving this room until we do.”

  ***

  Clutching the window, Adella strained to follow the sound of Cormac’s quiet footsteps. He wanted to share— “Everything?” The word came out more squeak than coherent speech.

  Cormac’s fingers brushed her arm and she jumped.

  The warmth of his hand retreated. “I want you to tell me about your brother. Then I want to undress you and make love to you in this room until the sun rises.”

  Longing squeezed her chest and left her lightheaded. “What if I become pregnant?”

  “The prospect scares the hell out of me. But if you were happy and healthy, then nothing would give me greater joy than seeing you with my child. Would it…” his warmth returned, hovering near her shoulder, “… make you happy?”

  “I think it would.” Releasing the window, she leaned back into his hand. His strength and gentleness allowed her to breathe again. But her heart remained tight with uncertainty.

  His hand on her shoulder tightened, then relaxed. “Then I think our sharing will work out well.”

  Would it? While she hated to speak of Declan, Cormac might be the only person who could understand her all-consuming guilt. Four of his sisters had died, had starved before his eyes.

  “My brother—” Her throat constricted, but she forced herself to go on. “He— He died in a Union prison camp.”

  Sturdy, rock-hard arms enveloped her from behind with infinite tenderness. “I’m sorry, lass.”

  She welcomed his strength. “What is it like? Is it—painful?”

  “Is what painful?”

  Imaging Declan’s suffering hurt like a railroad spike to the heart. “Starving to death,” she whispered. “That’s how my brother died as well.”

  Every one of his muscles—in his arms, shoulder, chest and abdomen—tensed around her, protecting her. “Adella, you don’t want to know. Stop torturing yourself.”

  “Why? I deserve it. You were too young to save your sisters but you tried. And you were with them when they died. I was off spying for the Johnny Rebs.”

  “Did you know your brother was starving?”

  “No, but—”

  “That’s where you learned to be a spy? In the war?”

  She nodded.

  His lips brushed the top of her head. “Well then, you were doing what you could to win the war and ensure your brother’s release.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t there when he needed me most. I—” Guilt compressed her chest, stalling her breath again. She didn’t want to tell Cormac about her last conversation with Declan, but she must. To repeat what she’d said would be like living it all over again. “I told him that…if he left home and joined the war…I wouldn’t be there to help him when he needed me. I wanted to keep him from the fighting.”

  “Sounds like you were being a big sister trying to protect her brother.”

  Her breath left her in a harsh whoosh, somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “We were twins. I was only minutes older than Declan. Despite my words, he wrote me a letter every month during the war. But the things I said, that I wouldn’t help him if he got in trouble, hung between us. Then he stopped writing when he was captured. When I heard he was in prison, I should’ve ridden straight north and bribed every Yankee I met into smuggling food into that death camp.”

  “He probably knew that wouldn’t work.”

  “From the very beginning I should’ve guarded my words with him.”

  “I’ve learned that sisters can’t help being bossy where their brothers are concerned.” He gently tugged a lock of her hair.

  “Do you still think about them?”

  “Every day,” he murmured.

  “Will it stop?”

  “I hope not. I want to remember them forever.” His reply was swift and strong. Then his muscles rippled against back as he blew out a breath. “I’m trying to recall only the good memories though.”

  “Like when you rode those stolen ponies with Molly?” She reached back and poked him in the ribs, hoping to brighten his mood.

  He captured her hand and turned her to face him. The corners of his lips twitched. “I’m not the only thief in this room. You stole that telegram from Stevens’ railcar.” He pressed a kiss against her palm, sending shivers up her spine.

  “Thanks to you Stevens got his telegram back the very next day,” she teased.

  “I also returned the landlord’s ponies safe and sound. Did them all a favor. Those horses needed exercise and they enjoyed my attention.” He nipped her hand.

  Craving more of his attention, she pressed against him, molding her curves to his hard planes. They were so different, yet they fit so well together.

  His lips brushed her ear. “I love you, Adella.”

  Joy pounded in her veins. “I love you, too.”

  With a growl, he carried her to the bed. Kneeling beside her on the mattress, he made swift work of removing her dress and corset. His fingers traced the neckline of her chemise. Ribbons unfurled. Cotton slid down her shoulders.

  She caught its descent. “There’s something I’ve dreamt of doing. Will you allow me a minut
e to indulge myself?” She made room for him on the narrow mattress.

  His brows arched, but he lay down beside her without a word.

  The tweed of his waistcoat and trousers were rough under her fingertips, his linen shirt only slightly softer. Beneath his clothing, his muscles were smooth and warm. They flexed and tightened at her lightest touch. She left no terrain unexplored.

  “Time’s up.” His voice was hoarse, his breathing ragged as he reached for her chemise.

  They removed the last of each other’s garments together. His callused fingertips teased her inner thigh as he introduced her again to the pleasures from the barn. An ache blossomed deep inside her, as if the sun finally found her via his touch. Soon her breathing matched his. Then he sent her over the familiar, but still astounding, precipice.

  Guiding her legs around his waist, he pressed his hips to hers, and paused. “Remember what you told me in the barn?”

  Confused tightened her brow. She’d told him many things.

  He kissed her forehead. “That you’d never lain with a man before? Are you sure you want this?”

  His hardness lay nestled between her legs, waiting to press home. She wasn’t sure what she wanted. But she knew she didn’t want time to reconsider, to retreat, to regret.

  “You’ve never done this,” he continued. “And I don’t want to hur—”

  She thrust herself against him, taking him to the hilt. The stab of pain startled her. She cried out. So did he.

  He hovered over her, inside her. Motionless. Then he shuddered as if in pain as well. “I’ve hurt you. From the moment I saw you, I worried I would. I’m sorry.” He gathered her close. His heart raced in time with hers. “But I’m not sorry about what comes next.”

  “What comes next?”

  “When you’re ready, you’ll see.”

  “How long will that be?” She shifted against him, trying to get comfortable. Unexpected pleasure streaked through her. A groan rumbled deep in his chest and his hips rocked hers. Another all too fleeting burst of desire left her undulating with need.

  Cormac moved with her, setting a pace she eagerly followed. Her need swelled, rising in surges, like waves on an ocean with no end in sight. Then her hunger spiked, sudden and overpowering as Cormac sent her over the edge and followed. She soared in weightless wonder, then drifted free of thought or care.