Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  The back door opened with a brisk gust of wind and dried leaves, and Ashton entered, dwarfing every other figure in the room. His eyes settled on Margaret, and he smiled and approached her, cupping her elbow in his hand.

  "Men, I don't believe you've met my intended bride, Miss Margaret. . ."

  The last name was cut off by whoops and congratulations, and Margaret realized she hadn't the faintest idea what her surname was supposed to be. But she accepted the good wishes of the young scouts, and the icy glare of Mrs. Thaw, who clearly felt Mag wasn't good enough for General Johnson. And she was probably right.

  The smell of burning bread suddenly filled the kitchen, and Margaret, who was the closest to the iron stove, grabbed the handle of a frying pan filled with cornbread.

  She gasped and the pan clattered to the wooden floor. She had anticipated, lamely, a heat-resistant handle.

  "Mag!" shouted Ashton, and a chill traced her spine. It was the exact voice she had heard before, in her other body, when she spilled the hot tea on her hand.

  Her hand began to redden, and Ashton pulled it toward a red, long-handled pump that was where the sink would be in a hundred years. With casual but obvious strength, he began to pump water into the sink, bathing her blistering hand. Everyone else remained silent, staring at the sight of the general calmly attending to the minor burn of his fiancee.

  "I'm fine, Ash," she said at last. "Embarrassed out of my wits, but fine."

  The cool water eased the sting, and with a gentle pat with a soft towel, Ashton looked down into her face. "Are you sure?"

  She nodded, still mortified, and bent down to pick up the darkened cornbread. Ashton immediately joined her, carefully placing the crumbled bread back into the pan.

  Holding a small crumb between his thumb and fingers, Ashton paused and smiled at Margaret. Their foreheads were almost touching.

  "Do you know what we call this in the army?" he asked, easing back on his haunches. He glanced to the scouts and Mrs. Thaw, all waiting expectantly to hear his words. "Ten days' rations," he said, and they all laughed.

  Except for Margaret. Her eyes slowly rose to Ashton's, and he stopped laughing, stunned by what he saw there. Her violet eyes had never held anything more than annoyance or acceptance for him. Now there was something else, a gentleness and compassion that made her features even more exquisite.

  Slowly, she reached up, oblivious to the others, and placed her small, white hand on his bronzed cheek. Her fingers stroked his temple, then with aching tenderness, touched the thick, sun-kissed hair, but her eyes remained fixed on his.

  "I love you," she said so softly that only he could hear.

  The smile faded from beneath his mustache, and she could hear his breath stop. His own hand drew to her face, and he brushed his knuckles against her cheek, and she dosed her eyes in response.

  One of the scouts cleared his throat, and Ashton, startled, returned to picking up the scorched corn-bread. Margaret placed another chunk into the pan, and Ashton eased her to her feet. His thumb stroked her elbow, lingering there before he spoke.

  Clearing his throat, he offered the pan to the men and Mrs. Thaw. "We'll leave immediately after breakfast." And they ate, without a single complaint, the burnt bread.

  They had to. It was the only food left in the house.

  Within an hour they were ready to leave. Ashton had grown silent as he made one last pass through his home, making sure there was nothing that could be of material value to the Yankees.

  The air outside was crisp but warm in the sun. Her booted feet crunched on the leaves, and Margaret glanced at the house, amazed at how little change the next century would bring to Rebel's Retreat. The biggest changes she could see now were wrought by

  the season, not the years. The leaves were spectacular shades of brown and yellow and fiery red, the shrubs, mini versions of what she had known, caught the brilliant leaves, reminding Margaret of a child wearing her mother's jewelry.

  Ashton walked beside her, carrying a large leather saddlebag, which contained most of their luggage. There was something strangely intimate about her clothes mingling with his. It was quite nice.

  She looked up at him, and he smiled from beneath his hat, a gray felt hat with a wide brim and a Confederate flag insignia on the band. He had also quietly strapped on a tassled sword and a heavy pistol. From the way he handled them, she could tell he was an expert with the weapons. There was an informal yet respectful grace in his treatment of them, and she shuddered, aware of the injury and death they would bring.

  "Men," Ashton called to three of his scouts, "Miss Mag here is one of the best horsewomen in Virginia. Watch her, and I dare say you'll learn something."

  The scouts looked at Margaret with new respect, and her heart sank. One of the scouts then appeared with a horse, the biggest one she had ever seen. If Pretzels the circus pony was enough to frighten her, this gray speckled beast was the stuff of nightmares. The horse snorted, a powerful cloud of steam flying from its nostrils. Even the muscled scout seemed to have difficulty controlling the animal on its lead.

  "Ah, here we go. She's looking good, Mag." Ashton took her arm and began to lead her to the horse. Surely this was a mistake. This animal couldn't be meant for her. But then she saw the sidesaddle. And, almost on its own, a curse escaped her lips.

  "Mag?" Ashton looked truly shocked.

  "I said, 'grit.' There was some grit on the ground.

  “See?" She held up her foot and tried to conceal her rampaging terror.

  The horse seemed to sense the difference in Mag. She suddenly began scratching the dirt with her hoof, snorting and swinging her head. She wanted her real mistress, not an imposter.

  "You're trembling," Ashton said as Margaret pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

  "To tell you the truth, Ash," she began, her voice reaching a higher pitch as she spoke, "I'm having second thoughts about this man versus beast thing. I mean, how do we know they don't resent us for climbing on their backs? They might be more intelligent than we are, and one day they might turn on us and . .."

  With that, Ashton lifted her effortlessly onto the saddle. The horse took two steps forward, and Margaret gasped. Shaking uncontrollably, she pulled on the reins.

  Ashton calmly reached up and patted the mare's flanks. "Atta girl, Pretzels," he murmured.

  "What's her name?" Margaret shrieked. But her voice faltered as the horse began to trot forward. The movement caught Margaret unprepared, and she grabbed onto the pommel, the shawl slipping off her shoulders and onto the mare.

  "Well, I'll be damned," one of the scouts muttered softly. "I do believe she is wearing her dress backwards."

  The shawl draped over the animal's rear, fringed and bountiful, giving the overall impression of a horse wearing a skirt.

  "Whoa." Margaret tried to keep her voice calm, but fear made it shake. Trying to get a balance, she pulled up on the reins. Pretzels, confused by the command, began a backwards prance, head held high. Margaret began to list to the right, which caused a thoroughly perplexed horse to perform a backwards trot in a large, perfectly executed circle.

  "WHOA!" Margaret shouted, her voice vibrating with every step. She leaned to the front, and the horse launched into a bold gallop. Part of her was relieved— at least the horse was going forward now. If she could only stay on the horse. Then she saw the fence.

  Hanging on for dear life, Margaret yanked back sharply on the reins, and the horse halted several feet before it would have leapt over the weathered fence. In one awful moment, the mare calmly paused to survey the scene. Margaret swiveled in the saddle like a drunken top and, with ladylike grace, tumbled over the horse's head and into a pile of leaves.

  Ashton stood in silent shock for a moment. He had never seen Mag even tilt in the saddle, much less fall. Her slender back was toward him, her black hair loosened from the snood and falling riotously about her, covered with leaves. And her shoulders were moving convulsively, as if she were gasping for b
reath. Ignoring the searing pain of his wounded leg, Ashton ran toward her, with each stride feeling his alarm rising. Even over the sound of his own ragged breathing, he could hear her telltale wheezing.

  "Mag!" He was at her side, his powerful grip pulling her toward him, his hands entangled in her silky mane. With his palm he tilted her face to his, and his mouth dropped open. She was laughing.

  A single tear slid down her cheek as she faced him, her expression contorted in hysterics.

  "I... hope . .. your . . . men learned something." She giggled, slumping against his broad shoulders as a new wave of laughter consumed her.

  It took several moments for Ashton's mind to register what was happening, that the ever-haughty Mag was actually laughing at herself. Then he, too, began to chuckle, plucking the twigs and leaves from her hair.

  "They will replicate your maneuver on their next drill." He grinned as she began to hiccup. "Complete with skirted horses and rolling dismount."

  Margaret, who had been unaware of the location of the shawl, craned her head around to see Pretzels and was again thrown into a fit of hysterics. The horse snorted indignantly and walked a few steps away.

  Their laughter faded into brief spurts, and Ashton rose to his feet, bending down to help Margaret. She swept the leaf-covered snood into her hand, suddenly self-conscious as she flicked the debris from the velvet netting.

  "What happened just now?" Ashton's voice was steady and serious.

  "I fell off a horse." Her eyes flashed to his, but he wasn't smiling. "I don't know." She took a steadying breath and returned to the snood, intent on removing every particle of leaf and twig.

  He remained silent, waiting for an explanation. His eyes didn't leave her face as he reached over and snapped the shawl off Pretzels' back, gently wrapping it around Margaret's shoulders. His hands remained on her, and he turned her toward him.

  "Your dress is on backwards, Margaret, and you're not wearing your usual corset and half dozen petticoats. You've been kind to Mrs. Thaw and the scouts, then you fell off a horse as if you'd never ridden before. Something's very wrong."

  Her smooth brow furrowed, and she finally looked at his face, taking in every detail as the breeze ruffled the ends of his hair. "Something has happened, Ash-ton. I just don't know what." She swallowed, and he watched the delicate column of her throat move as she continued. "The other day when you helped me. Do you remember?" He nodded, and she paused for a moment before speaking again. "Please don't think I'm insane, but I believe Mag died, and I—Margaret —took her place. I'm not the same person, Ash. I'm the one who wrote the last two letters, but I'm not the same woman you have always known."

  Instead of disagreeing with her, his eyes focused just over her head, as if mulling over what she had said, weighing her words, "But just before it happened." His voice was a harsh whisper. "You were different then, too, when you woke up and saw me."

  Margaret nodded, hoping he would believe her. "Yes. Then I seemed to have an asthma attack, and Mrs. Thaw came into the room and said I was dead, and you breathed life back into me, and she told you to stop . .." "You remember that?" "Yes," she said softly. "Do you believe me?" In the moments before he answered she heard the scouts talking to Mrs. Thaw, and the clip-clop of more horses being brought from the back of the house. An animal, perhaps a chipmunk or a rabbit, scurried through the bushes nearby.

  "Margaret," he said at last, "I believe what happened the other day indeed changed you. It's happened before on battlefields. Wounded men recover and are never the same. That is what happened, love. You came as close to death as anyone I've seen ere you. As a result, you are a different person."

  As if that settled the matter, he brushed a kiss on her forehead and began walking to the horses. "You'll ride with me on Waffles, and Pretzels can serve as our porter."

  Margaret watched his broad back as he returned to the men, the hilt of his sword glinting in the morning light. She shrugged, tucking her hair back into the confines of the snood. His explanation would just have to do. For now.

  They made their way carefully down the mountain, a nigged path so narrow they were forced to ride single file. The main road was far too dangerous, with enemy troops everywhere. It was peculiar for Margaret to view Union soldiers as the enemy. But for the moment, as long as she inhabited this body and time, her own nation's army was the enemy.

  Margaret had been heartily impressed with Mrs. Thaw, who appeared wearing a heavy brown divided skirt and jaunty hat, and rode her horse astride, like the scouts. She had complimented her with such lavish sincerity, Mrs. Thaw actually smiled back.

  The scouts, too, were remarkably good-natured, especially considering her humiliating display of riding. The one in the plaid vest, whose name, she discovered, was Ethan, shot her a sympathetic grin and flushed when she returned the smile.

  She leaned against Ashton's chest and sighed, his arm instinctively tightening around her waist. The horse Waffles was a massive animal, a glossy chestnut stallion, and her legs were sprawled like a child's in the large saddle. She was held so closely that every jolt was cushioned by Ashton's body. He absorbed the shocks while she simply enjoyed the physical closeness, one of her hands resting on his powerful thigh, the other clutching the saddle.

  They rode in the front, and she was aware of some danger to this position. But Ashton alone knew the path, and she watched in fascination as his eyes scanned the foliage and trees that bordered the twisty trail, noting every movement and detail in his piercing sight. She turned to face him a few times, and his eyes would flicker to hers and mellow, and his mustache would quirk over a fleeting smile before his gaze returned to the path.

  A thought occurred to her after one of those warm smiles of his. No matter how focused his attention, how riveted his well-honed senses were to the task at hand, Margaret—by just being there—was a distraction. In all probability, Mag should have died a few days ago after that asthma attack. It was Margaret's interference that caused Mag's shell, the exquisite body, to continue living.

  Margaret had been confident with the knowledge that she had until next summer to prevent Ashton's death, but maybe that was not the case. Perhaps Ash would become distracted and they would wander into an ambush. Perhaps by spilling the breakfast that morning, Margaret had delayed them, and the timing would be deadly for Ashton and Mrs. Thaw and the young scouts. Maybe, if there had been more food to share—without Margaret's extra mouth—the five men and Mrs. Thaw would be able to concentrate on their surroundings.

  Without warning, Margaret felt the now familiar constricting in her chest. No, she thought angrily. She will not have an asthma attack. Ashton's hand moved above her waist, and he could feel her mounting struggle, but he said nothing, gave no indication that he noticed. There was something in the set of her shoulders that told him she wanted to be alone.

  Her balled fist slid from his thigh to the pommel, so both of her hands were grasping the saddle. She closed her eyes, remembering a girl she knew in high school who had asthma. The girl was able to control it to some degree by using a form of meditation. Whenever she felt an attack, she would shift her mind to a soothing image, something restful and pleasant.

  A beach. She thought of a long stretch of beach in the summer, of walking barefoot in the surf and feeling the foamy water lick her toes. And wet sand, the feeling of sinking when you stop in one place and allow the waves to roll over the tops of your feet.

  Warm sun and cool water, the laughter of children racing with the surf. The lone piercing whistle of a lifeguard perched on a white chair, zinc oxide on his nose and reddened shoulders.

  And suddenly, the clawing feeling in her throat was gone, her breathing steady and even. Her palms were damp, and she wiped them on her skirt before returning her one hand to Ashton's thigh, the other to the saddle, no longer in a white-knuckled clench.

  Ashton said nothing, but Margaret felt him swallow hard as she settled back into his embrace. Just before she drifted off into an exhausted sleep, she a
lso felt his heart drumming hard and fast against her back and wondered what he could have possibly seen in the woods to cause such a reaction.

  She awoke with a start just over an hour later, Ashton's finger lightly touching her lips.

  "Hush, love," he whispered into her ear.

  They were stopped, and Ashton's other hand was up in the air, a silent command to the other riders to halt. The hooves behind them stilled instantly, and Margaret felt Ashton's arm shift, his hand slipping to the pistol while he still held her securely.

  At once, from both sides of the path, came a clattering of riders, branches splintering in their haste. Before Margaret had time to blink, they were surrounded by six men on horseback, all brandishing pistols or rifles.

  And they were all wearing dark blue uniforms.

  "Well, well," said one of the Union men. From the way the other Federals glanced at the man speaking, Margaret knew he was in charge. "Johnny Reb and his fair ladies," he sneered, staring at Mrs. Thaw. Then his eyes came to rest on Margaret, and he licked his lips. Margaret's nails dug into Ashton's thigh.