The Rebel Bride (Civil War Brides Series, #5)

by Piper Davenport

  Quincy stared out over the empty battlefield, letting his thoughts wander homeward but was shaken from his memories by shouts coming from Major General Warren. It was five a.m. and it was time to move.

  “Look alive, men,” Marcus called.

  The men counterattacked and by nightfall retook most of the ground lost during the early afternoon fighting. The lull, however, would be fleeting, and even though they gained much ground, Quincy knew they had to be on alert.

  Separating from his unit, Quincy moved to the west. All too quickly, he was forced to take cover from enemy fire, his unit several yards away from him across the valley.

  “Quinn? Quinn!”

  “Stay with the men, Marcus, and stay low.” All further conversation halted as the firing stopped for a few tense moments. Quincy chose to stay behind the cover of the trees rather than try to get to his men. He knew this was simply a brief calm before the storm but was confident the fighting wouldn’t begin again for a few hours.

  * * *

  “Umph!” Victoria landed on hard, dry ground. Opening her eyes, she saw a bright blue moon, glowing with a clarity not usually seen in the smog-laden skies of Chicago, and thought how unnaturally humid the weather was for November.

  What am I doing outside?

  Putting her hand to her forehead, she winced when metal hit her eyelid. She still gripped Hannah’s bracelet in her hand. Limiting her movement in case she was hurt, she tried to make sense of what was going on. She stared at the sky and tried to think back. Her last coherent thought was of standing in the attic of her building, gazing at an old-fashioned photograph.

  I walked up the stairs, looked at the photo... then, what? Think, Victoria!

  From her position on her back, she did a quick check of her extremities. All seemed unharmed.

  Did I hit my head?

  Upon further inspection, she didn’t feel a goose egg or have a headache, so she sat up and slipped the jewelry into the pocket of her jeans. Despite the fact she had a thin shirt on, it was long-sleeved and added to the heat. Pushing the sleeves up as far as they could go, she took a minute to look around. Surrounded by trees, Victoria didn’t understand what she was looking at. She blew a breath into her palm and sniffed.

  Was I drinking and don’t remember?

  Smelling nothing other than the minty scent of the gum she’d been chewing before she was locked in the stairwell, she took a deep breath and opened her bag. Grabbing her bottled water, she took a swig and then dug for her phone as she sat up on her knees.

  Did I have an accident?

  She rechecked her clothing, but found no evidence of blood, and she really did feel perfectly fine, so she quickly dismissed the thought. She checked her phone but couldn’t see any bars and sighed in frustration.

  The smell of smoke overwhelmed her, but that confused her even more, as she couldn’t fathom why anyone would light a fire in this heat.

  November isn’t supposed to be this warm! This is air-conditioning weather. Not light a fire, get cozy, and make s’mores weather.

  Victoria chuckled at her absurd thoughts. She just needed to get back to her studio and figure out where her missing hours had gone. As she stood, she saw the silhouette of a man hunkered down behind a small grove of trees and rocks. He turned slightly and she noticed he had what looked like a large rifle.

  Her heart raced as she tried to covertly step behind one of the trees in an attempt to hide. Her hands shook and she bit her lip, knowing she probably wasn’t quick enough. Continuing to chew nervously on her lower lip, she squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath. That’s when she heard him.

  “Who’s there?” a deep voice broke through the dark.

  Victoria froze.

  Fuck!

  “Come out, or I’ll shoot.”

  Sidling from her relative cover, Victoria moved into view, and when she noticed the man lift his gun, she raised her hands in surrender.

  “You’re a woman!” Relaxing his stance but keeping his gun raised, the man made the blatant observation and then added, “In men’s clothes!”

  Victoria stood, shaking with fear and staring at the very large, very strangely dressed man. Walking slowly toward her, he demanded, “Who are you?”

  VICTORIA TOOK A deep breath, steeling a courage she didn’t feel. “Who are you?”

  “I asked you a question, ma’am,” he said, his voice harsh. “Answer it, or I’ll be forced to take action.”

  “My name is Victoria Carrington,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  “What are you doing in the middle of a battlefield?”

  Her head whipped up. “Excuse me?”

  “War, woman. We’re in the middle of a war. What the hell are you doing in the middle of a skirmish?”

  A shot rang out and Victoria jumped before the man pushed her to the ground. “Get off me—”

  “Stay down!”

  As the man edged away from her, Victoria took a minute to observe him. “Why are you wearing a uniform?”

  He turned slowly to face her and she noticed frustration cross his face. “I’m a soldier.”

  Victoria frowned as she took in details of his appearance. “Oh! It’s a Civil War uniform. Are you doing a reenactment?”

  He pulled her back to the ground and growled, “Stay down!”

  Victoria did what he asked—sort of—rolling onto her side and leaning on her forearm. “Are you doing one of those mock battles?” she asked, but then noticed they were alone, under a full moon and stars that shone like spotlights. No spectators in sight. Victoria mumbled, “Why would you perform a mock battle at night? Are you rehearsing for something?”

  What kind of director would have their actors rehearse at night? This doesn’t make sense.

  “Are you doing a roving action sequence? I saw that once in a play where the audience actually had to walk to each scene. It was kind of cool, a take on Shakespeare, I think.” Rambling now, her nerves shot, Victoria put her hand to her forehead again and tried to rub her confusion away. “Did I walk into the middle of your play?”

  “Ma’am?”

  Tears filled her eyes as confusion and fear overwhelmed her. “I don’t understand why I’m outside,” she protested. “This makes no sense.”

  Glancing up, she watched him closely as he seemed to sort something out in his mind. Shifting his rifle, he glared at her. “You’re a Johnny,” he accused.

  Taken aback by the anger in his voice, Victoria’s ire rose. “Nooo, I’m a Victoria.”

  “How the hell did a rebel get past our lines?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about! My name is Victoria Carrington, and I don’t know how I got here or why I’m suddenly in the middle of this reenactment.”

  Her guard up, she watched as he moved his head slowly, surveying their area. “Where did you come from?”

  Victoria huffed. “What do you mean? I’m from here.”

  “I deduced that from your accent, ma’am.” He glanced her way and then back to the open field. “What I want to know is what you are doing on my side of the battlefield and why.”

  “I don’t understand. If we’re in Chicago, how could you deduce that I’m from here? I’m originally from Kentucky.” A chill went up her spine as she imagined all the horrible things this man could do to her if she didn’t get away from him. “You’re scaring me, and I’d really like to go home.”

  “What does Chicago have to do with a battle in Virginia?” he asked as he pulled his cap from his head. “Did you wander from your home?” His eyes narrowed. “Is there a husband looking for you?”

  Victoria’s head whipped up in shock. “Virginia? No, you’re mistaken. I was in my studio on First Street and I passed out. I was in the building and now I’m here and outside... but I don’t know why I’m outside.”

  “You’re in Virginia.”

  She waved her hands dismissively. “No, no, I can’t be. I am in Chicago.”

  Victoria reached for her bag and couldn’
t stop a few tears from sliding down her cheeks. She glanced up and his eyes widened and then just as quickly, squinted. “Ma’am, you’re not in Chicago. For all I know, you’ve been sent here by the Confederacy to spy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Perhaps with another soldier you would have been more convincing.”

  “Convincing? What am I supposed to convince you of?”

  “That you’re a damsel in distress, of course. The enemy’s quite adept.” He smiled sardonically. “I’m impressed with your performance, particularly the tears. I have always been amazed how ladies are able to cry on a whim, however, the jig is up, and you’ve been found out.”

  She stood, her fright forgotten, now replaced with anger. She clenched her fists, but before she could comment, he growled, “Get down.”

  “No! I’m not performing anything, Sir Rude-A-Lot. I’m originally from Kentucky, which is why I have a southern accent, but now I go to school here... and don’t call me a rebel!”

  With a firm voice, Quincy continued his tutelage, “If you’re going to attempt to pull the wool over someone’s eyes, ma’am, a word of warning. Keep enough truth in your story for it to be believable.”

  She stomped her foot. “I’m not lying!”

  “Ma’am, you cannot expect me to believe that a woman of your obvious beauty would do anything other than marry and have several children. There are no schools hereabouts accepting ladies, unless school means something entirely different than what I think.”

  “Stop calling me ma’am!” She ran her hands through her hair and glared at him. “I’m enrolled at DePaul University in Chicago, Illinois. I’m currently third in my class and expect to graduate in a little over a year!”

  He smirked. “What exactly are you studying at this so-called DePaul University?”

  Victoria raised her chin in defiance. “Law.”

  “A woman lawyer,” Quincy droned, his sarcasm evident. “How ambitious of you. Will the presidency be your next goal?”

  Victoria swore. “Look, you fucking Neanderthal! Forget it! If you could just direct me out of here, I’ll grab a cab home.”

  “Cab? Do you mean transport?” Without waiting for her to clarify, he continued, “There are no buggies in the middle of a battlefield, woman. Are you daft?”

  Taking a deep breath in an effort not to slap the arrogantly raised eyebrow from his face, Victoria narrowed her eyes and spoke very slowly, “Apparently daft enough to sit here and take your abuse.”

  “Perhaps you have a head injury.”

  What sounded like a cannon went off a few hundred feet from them, the smell of gunpowder smoke overwhelming her senses. Victoria screeched as he pulled her down next to him again. “What are you doing?”

  “Get down and stay down!” he hissed.

  Suddenly face to face with him, she looked up into a very familiar pair of eyes. She took a deep breath as he looked in each direction and then back down at her. As his face caught the light from the moon, his eyes were illuminated. Emerald.

  “Oh, my god, it’s you!” she exclaimed as she looked into the face of her photograph.

  His eyebrows puckered into a V. “Do I know you?”

  She shook her head. “Um, no. Sorry.”

  “Tell me again what you’re doing on this field and how you got here?”

  “I don’t know!” Victoria sighed. “The last thing I remember was standing in a room above my studio, when everything went black.”

  Quincy sighed. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Duh, really?”

  “Why are you wearing men’s clothing?”

  “Excuse me?” Before they could continue, a loud bang made her jump. Pushing him away from her, she sat up. “You know, I must admit, this all sounds very real. I had no idea reenactments could be so loud. I don’t remember them being this way at home.”

  “Ma’am? Did you hit your head?”

  “What? No, I don’t think so!” She paused briefly before adding, “Actually, I’m not certain.” Another explosion sounded. Victoria sat up a little more and looked around. “Where did that one come from? It sounds close.”

  “Ma’am, you need to get down.”

  A series of rifle shots sounded and then another loud boom of cannon fire that actually made the earth shake. Suddenly curious, Victoria stood and moved closer to the sound of gunfire. “I always wanted to visit Gettysburg,” she said. “They’re fake rounds, right? I mean, blanks?”

  “Get down!”

  Victoria turned at his order but was unprepared for the large hand reaching out and pulling her to the ground. “What the—?”

  “I said, get down!”

  “Look here, buddy! I’m about to lose my religion. Tell me how to get out of here.”

  * * *

  The two glared at each other for several seconds before Quincy looked away briefly. “Just sit there and don’t move,” he ordered.

  As the noise and smoke of the battlefield dissipated, Quincy took a moment to study the woman seated beside him.

  It’s a shame a woman of her beauty is mad.

  Holding her forearm, he absently rubbed the silky skin and studied her outlandish garb. She wore tight-fitting breeches in a blue fabric that appeared to be denim. But no woman of class would wear the newly discovered fabric, not to mention the shirt that hugged full breasts. He wondered how he’d missed it in his previous assessment. His body now virtually thrummed with an arousal he hadn’t felt in a while... shoved down with the reality of war. This observation shook him and he forced air into his lungs in an effort to calm himself.

  “Ma’am,” he continued, his tone gentler than before. “Who brought you to this field?”

  She tried to pull her hand away, but he held firm. She raised glistening eyes to his. “I told you, I don’t know!”

  The sound of pounding footsteps distracted him, and he turned to see a man running out of a wall of what appeared to be thick, black smoke. A shot rang out, and the man fell down hard, although his body continued to twitch for a few minutes.

  “Wow, he looks quite convincing,” she murmured and stood, despite Quincy’s effort at a death grip on her arm.

  “Stay down!”

  She moved toward the fallen man. “No, I want to see.”

  Quincy, growing increasingly angry at her apparent indifference to her own safety, stood quickly and grasped her waist before tackling her to the ground.

  “Hey! You need to quit with the Hulk Hogan shit!”

  Quincy looked down at her in surprise when she punched his shoulder. He rolled off her but grasped her arm again. “You’ll be killed if you don’t stay down.”

  “Riiight, by the fake bullets coming out of the fake guns, during a mock battle.”

  Quincy hissed as he kept his hand on her bicep.

  “Fine, I’ll stay down for now.” Victoria wiped dirt from her hands. “What’s your name?” He didn’t respond. “Dude! What the hell is your problem?”

  Although confounded by her strange speech, Quincy chalked it up to her southern accent and ignored her question.

  “Hey! I asked you a question. What’s your name?”

  He frowned. “Ma’am, you need to close your mouth and stay down.”

  Victoria snorted. “Grumpy Gus, apparently.”

  “Leave it!”

  Victoria glared at him. “Don’t speak to me that way! I told you my name. I simply don’t understand why you won’t do the same.” She grabbed her bag, swinging it over her left shoulder, and let out a loud, unsubtle huff. “All right, Gus, don’t tell me. Do you think you could find the road, so I can hail a taxi?”

  “What is a taxi?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Quincy shook his head. “Ma’am, you are not going anywhere. I will turn you over to my superiors when the battle dies down and it’s safe to move.”

  “Your superiors? Which ones would those be? The fake ones who are going to do what, exactly? String me up by my thumbs, or do they use s
tocks in fake battles? A bit of overkill, don’t you think? I mean, come on. Yes, you look very genuine.” She swept a hand toward him. “Whoever made your costume did a really good job, but I think we need to get back to reality so that I can figure out what’s going on.”

  He stared down at his jacket. “Ma’am, this is a Union-issued uniform. One that is damaged, granted, but still Union issued.”

  “Mm-hmm. Sure, it is,” she said as she looked around quickly. “Perhaps you’re the one with the head injury.”

  “Ma’am,” he asked slowly. “Are you all right?”

  “That’s good, Gus. Next you’ll tell me it’s 1862 and we’re in the middle of a Civil War battle.” Quincy narrowed his eyes, and Victoria glared at him. “What?”

  “It’s August 1864. And we are in the middle of a battle—the War Between the States. Weldon Railroad, in fact.”

  Victoria crossed her arms. “Oh, please. I might have been born in a small town, but it wasn’t yesterday.”

  “Ma’am?” He touched her arm gently. “Did you wander from your home and wind up here?”

  Standing quickly, she accused, “Now you’re just being mean. Stop this. I need to get out of here.”

  He pulled her back down. “It’s not safe, Miss Carrington.”

  “Oh, I’m Miss Carrington, now? Not dirty rebel?”

  “I never said dirty,” he retorted.

  The ground shook and dirt peppered their faces as the deafening crash of explosions filled the air. Victoria screamed. “This is too much. I need to go.” She scrambled to stand again.

  “Miss Carrington, you need to wait.” Concerned with her sanity, he reached for her. “It’s too dangerous. The sun will be rising soon.”

  “Okay, Gus, what do you suggest we do then?”

  Quincy rolled his eyes. “Quincy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name... it’s Quincy Butler, or Quinn.”

  Victoria raised an eyebrow. “Somehow, Gus suits you better.”

  “It does?” Quincy had to stop himself from laughing when she mumbled something under her breath. He was not prepared for her to be both beautiful and funny. His stomach started to growl, and it was the first time in an hour he’d noticed he was starving. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the previous day, and that was only one piece of hardtack.