4,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: KST Publishing
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
North and South. Enemies and Lovers.
War lands on the south's doorstep. Leaving no one unscathed.
Brittany Couvion must do her part to save the Confederacy, even putting her own life in danger.
Brandon McIntyre fights battles of his own and will do whatever it takes to protect Brittany. With danger at every corner, will either of them survive?
An enchanting and spellbinding historical romance set against the backdrop of the American Civil War.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Ähnliche
Hearts Under Siege
American Historical Romance, Volume 3
Kathryn Kaleigh
Published by KST Publishing, 2020.
HEARTS UNDER SIEGE
North and South. Enemies and Lovers.
War lands on the south’s doorstep. Leaving no one unscathed.
Brittany Couvion must do her part to save the Confederacy.
Brandon McIntyre fights battles of his own.
A standalone story that introduces new characters into best-selling author Kathryn Kaleigh’s historical romance series.
Hearts Under Siege
An American Historical Romance Novel
Kathryn Kaleigh
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
HEARTS UNDER SIEGE
Copyright © 2020 Kathryn Kaleigh.
Written by Kathryn Kaleigh.
Published by KST Publishing, 2020
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Hearts Under Fire
Also by Kathryn Kaleigh
Prologue
June 12, 1863
Jeffrey Couvion stirred in a fitful slumber, the sounds of the Yankee camp bringing him momentarily to the brink of wakefulness. The sounds were normal, soothing even. A blacksmith’s hammer echoed off metal. The smell of the evening venison roasting on the fire rounded out a momentary illusion of the safety and contentment of home.
With the feel of the coarse woolen blanket beneath him and the afternoon sun against his bare back, Jeffrey sank deeper into the shadows of sleep and had that dream again.
He fought fiercely, aiming his pistol, firing, reloading, over and over and over. The enemy approached again and again. Gunpowder stung his nose and blackened his skin. The faceless enemy appeared one after another. Their cries of agony were lost in the melee as they fell one atop the other.
He ceased to see and to feel, striking out mindlessly. Then a figure before him caught his attention and jarred him out of the trance. Like him, the soldier in gray had streaks of black across his face and knelt, methodically loading his pistol. Seconds later, the soldier stood and aimed the gun, pointing it toward Jeffrey’s heart.
Jeffrey lifted his own gun, aimed at the Reb, and pressed his finger against the trigger. Something was familiar about the soldier in front of him.
Without thinking, through the force of habit, he pulled the trigger back and the gun exploded in his hands.
The face in front of him registered recognition in the same instant his own did. The soldier in front of him was not only familiar, but without a doubt, known.
His left hand flew to the end of the barrel to stop the bullet’s path, but it was too late - as he knew it would be. The bullet would meet its target. At this close range, he couldn’t have missed if he’d tried. It would pierce the soldier’s skull.
“No!” Jeffrey cried out.
Then he was awake. Sweet God above, it couldn’t have happened.
He pressed his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath, willing his heartbeat to slow to normal. The smell of the campfire replaced the smell of gunpowder.
He repeated the words over and over in his head. It hadn’t really happened. It was only a dream. It was only a dream....
The nightmare had been even more vivid this time than the last dozen or so times. He could remember every detail, every texture, every sickening scent of gunpowder, and the smell of death.
The image of the Confederate’s face was burned into his brain. He couldn’t banish the pain in the eyes of the soldier he shot and killed in his deepest nightmares. He knew that face, for it was a mirror reflection of his own.
It was the face of his twin sister.
Chapter 1
Spring, 1863
“He’ll be here,” Brittany Couvion said to no one in particular since she was the only one standing on the riverbank.
The steamboat was nowhere in sight. Brittany shaded her eyes with a gloved hand and stared hard at the horizon. The Mississippi River appeared still and smooth as glass, disguising its fierce undercurrents.
The sun shifted position, drifting downward to meet the murky waters.
Still, no sign.
A drop of perspiration slowly trickled down Brittany’s back underneath her corset. Even just last evening, when she had stood in this very spot near their private dock on the riverbank, it hadn’t seemed nearly this hot. Now, not even a hint of a breeze stirred.
The air was too still. Waiting.
It was almost like the spring of ‘53. . .
Through the cotton of her bodice, she reached up and clutched the silver locket hanging from a chain around her neck. Shaking off the morbid thoughts before they could take hold of her, she looked back over her shoulder toward Chene Ruelle, their whitewashed plantation manor. The house was flanked by two dozen oak trees so old and huge that several of their branches draped in gray Spanish moss dipped down to sweep the ground.
The trees had been planted by an unknown Frenchman sometime in the seventeenth century. Chene Ruelle sprawled over the spot where the Frenchman’s cabin had been. Ground to roof columns and spacious wrought iron galleries surrounded the house on all four sides. It was a massive house with three wings attached to the main structure giving it a total of nineteen rooms.
Brittany lifted her chin at the surge of pride that ran through her. This was her home. No one would ever take it away from her. Not even the Yankees. She had no desire to leave it - and refused to marry any man who would take her away. Even at the age of eighteen when the war began, she had turned the suitors away. All of them. It didn’t matter. She would lay down her life to protect this house and land.
Squinting into the blinding sun, she turned her attention back to the river and searched the horizon. She lowered her straw hat over her forehead and adjusted the white bow tied beneath her chin. If only she could shed some of these layers of clothes, she thought enviously, considering the scantily clad Negroes working in the cotton and sugar cane fields. They didn’t have to wear corsets and petticoats and stockings. And they seemed quite happy, too. About a third had run off, of course, to fight with the Yankees, but for the most part, they had nowhere better to go.
Then she saw it.
It was only a speck against the domed sky, but Brittany had spent enough hours of her childhood along the river to know a steamboat when she saw one. And a steamboat was fast approaching.
The blood rushed through her veins. She’d thought it would never happen, but Jeffy was coming home.
She and her twin brother had been inseparable until he’d left for West Point. Then he had been home less than a month when the call for arms had come.
Brittany missed him. She missed their horseback rides through the fields and along the river. She missed their quiet study hours. Besides traditional subjects like French, music, and needlepoint, she had studied history, geography, and arithmetic right alongside her brother.
But most of all, she missed their long talks. After a long day of arduous chores and tedious studies, they would lie out beneath the huge oak trees and share dreams of limitless futures and distant lands. He was a mediaeval knight rescuing damsels in distress and she was a free spirited artist traveling throughout Paris. They were alike, she and Jeffy. Nothing could ever come between them. Nothing.
The rumble of gathering wagons dampened her anticipation at seeing her brother. It reminded her of the real reason Jeffy was coming home. It wasn’t to see his family.
It was to gather supplies for the war. The supplies they had hoarded and hidden were brought out and boldly placed in the wagons. From gunpowder to hand knitted socks, they had scrimped and saved... and hidden.
Her insides twisted as she thought about the war. All Jeffy’s friends had been excited about going off to fight. But Brittany had paid attention to all those history books their old tutor, Nate Basil, had them read and analyze. In fact, Mr. Basil was the only person she knew who had shown any reluctance at going off to fight. Though he had written the family at first and kept them abreast of his location, they hadn’t heard from him in over a year. It was through his teaching and his observations that Brittany knew war was more than glory and adventure.
War was fighting.
And fighting meant death.
They had been wrong to want war. They knew it now. She hadn’t seen many of her or Jeffy’s male friends since they’d ridden off to fight. Most of them wouldn’t be coming back at all.
Even her grand-père, whom she adored with every fiber of her being, was different these days. He shut himself up in his study with men she’d never seen before. Though she didn’t know what, she knew it had something to do with the war.
Her world was breaking apart.
Again.
A rider on horseback broke away from the wagons and cantered toward her. She immediately recognized Grand-père astride his temperamental stallion, Lancelot. Despite his years, Ernest Dumon sat tall in his saddle and easily maintained control of the horse. When he removed his hat and waved to her, she could see the row of gray hair that rimmed his bald head.
Grand-père was too old to be riding, but no one would try to take that away from him. Horses were his life. He had continued to raise fine, prize horses long after he’d grown wealthy beyond imagination off sugar cane and cotton. Even now, with Confederate money practically worthless and most everything lost but the house and land, he had managed to hold onto half a dozen of his best horses.
Climbing the gentle levee, Grand-père reined up beside her and nodded toward the boat. He looked more like his old self today, less distracted, more focused.
“I told you he would be here today,” Grand-père said, with a wink.
“I hope he’s on the boat.”
“He’s on it. A rider came by this morning with a message.”
“A message,” she repeated, grabbing his sleeve, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Grand-père’s gray eyes twinkled. “It seems he spent the night in New Orleans last night. You’ll see your brother soon enough.”
“I miss Jeffy so much, Grand-père. Now everything will be the way it was before.”
A shadow crossed Grand-père’s features and his tone was distant. “Time stands still for no one, Kitten. Those tranquil days of old are memories now. Fond memories to guard carefully.”
“I know, but I miss him so much,” she said again.
Grand-père’s mood seemed to lighten. “Hop on up and we’ll wait for him at the dock,” he said.
He reached down, easily swept Brittany up in front of him, and settled her upon the horse. Though she was petite for a twenty-year- old, he strained with the effort.
As he turned and started toward the dock, she slipped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. For the moment, she was a little girl again, safe and protected. There was no war. No pain.
She knew Grand-père had tried to show equal favoritism between his two grandchildren, but Brittany had no regrets about claiming more than her share of his time and affection. He’d personally taught her to ride and shoot as well as any lad, maybe better.
Suddenly Grand-père stiffened against her and the steamer’s whistle shattered the silence. He tugged on the reins and turned Lancelot around in the direction of the boat. The steamer wasn’t alone on the river. Only a few feet behind it was another steamer, hidden from view only minutes earlier. Now, it had pulled forward enough for them to clearly see.
Glancing at Grand-père’s worried expression, she swallowed thickly. Something was wrong. His arms tightened around her. The steamers were moving too fast. They had no intention of stopping at this dock or any other for miles.
Brittany saw the flames seconds before she heard the explosion. The first steamer listed and turned sideways. She and Grand-père watched in a helpless trance as the second steamer rammed sideways into the first. The flames fed hungrily on each other, leaping skyward. A dozen or so people managed to leap overboard only to trade a fiery death with that of a cool, wet one. No one could fight the currents to swim that far to either bank.
Distantly, Brittany heard herself cry out and her hands flew to her mouth. Then she was off the horse, running. Running back the way they had come, toward the muted shrieks.
She crashed through the tall grasses sending small animals scurrying, whether gators or snakes, she neither noticed nor cared. Tripping, she ripped her skirt and soiled her white gloves. She reached the site, but the boats were half a mile out on the water. She stood at the edge of the deceptively innocent water and screamed Jeffy’s name.
She was helpless in the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop the tragedy unfolding before her. Grand-père was behind her, waving his arms at the slaves, and yelling for help.
She could hear the cries clearly now. The floating palaces were engulfed in flames, their passengers trapped. No one surfaced from the water for long before being sucked along in the current.
Falling to her knees, Brittany broke into sobs wrenched from deep inside her.
“Not Jeffy, too! Please, God, not Jeffy.”
Then through the haze of shock, she realized Grand-père was there, bending over her. For an instant, her mind rejected what had happened. Then she smelled the smoke. The smoldering mass had moved downstream, its horror standing out blatantly against the murky water.
“No,” she sobbed, burying her face against Grand-père’s chest. He was silent and unmoving as he held her. There had been some mistake. Jeffy hadn’t been on the boat. He couldn’t have been.
Brittany’s mind raced frantically. She’d read about steamboat explosions before. They happened all the time and there were always survivors. Weren’t there?
By now the plantation bell was ringing and at least a dozen slaves descended upon the levee. Brittany wanted to scream at them. To tell them to go away. Her brother was out there somewhere. He could be dead and all they could do was stand there and gawk.
Silently Grand-père moved from her side, his face suddenly hard and unemotional. “Jackson,” he commanded, “get your boat. You and two others cross the river and see if you can find anybody who made it ashore. The rest of you can check this side of the river.”
The sun’s glare was muted now and Brittany stared hard at the wreckage. A movement beyond it caught her attention. It wasn’t clear and she couldn’t be certain that it was human. It could be nothing more than a piece of wood splintered from the ship or someone’s baggage drifting ashore. But whatever it was, it was definitely moving.
“Grand-père,” she said, keeping her eyes on the moving object. “There’s something moving out there. I think it’s somebody.”
Grand-père was sending people up and down the bank to search. He took a step, closing the distance between them, and gently took her arm. She pulled her attention from the river and met his unreadable gaze.
“I’m sending the Negroes out to search though I doubt anyone could survive that explosion and even if they did, they wouldn’t make it ashore. The river’s too wide here. Some of the bodies will eventually wash ashore somewhere.”
“But it could be Jeffy. I know it could.” Not bodies. Please don’t say bodies.
“Brittany, go to the house.” He turned to a slim black woman standing nearby. “Sadie, take Brittany back to the house.”
“No,” Brittany cried, pulling away from her grandfather. “I’ve got to see. I have to know.”
“Come on, Child. Your grand-père’s right. You got no call to be out here in all this commotion,” Sadie said.
Brittany scanned her grandfather’s face and swallowed her protests. His jaw was set. She’d seen him this way only once before. It was during the 1853 wave of yellow fever.
Dismissing her, Ernest sent a rider into New Orleans to report the disaster. Even running the horse nonstop, it would be well after dark before anyone could come to help. If anyone came at all. With the war going on, even the best of neighbors didn’t venture far.
Brittany walked slowly toward the house and Sadie followed. Sadie was a house servant who knew her place, but rarely stayed in it.
“You ain’t got no call to be involved in this, Miss Brittany,” she stated again.
“And why not? Those men don’t know how to help anyone. What if they find Jeffy and can’t help him?”
Brittany’s eyes grew misty as she recalled all the time her mother had spent teaching her the basics of healing. Since then, Brittany had used her skills to save half a dozen injured people on the plantation and helped more sick ones than she could remember.
She could have saved her mother, too. But her father hadn’t let her go near the fever. Then when her father had contracted the disease, Grand-père had literally locked her away from the sick room.
She hadn’t been too young and innocent to help then, and she certainly wasn’t now. And no one, not even Grand-père, was going to keep her from trying to help anyone else she loved. And she loved Jeffy. Loved him more than her own life.
Three men appeared with a small fishing boat and Brittany stopped walking. Grand-père had gotten back on his horse and was facing the opposite direction. Sadie was several feet away retying the red checked kerchief wrapped around her head.
Brittany didn’t hesitate a moment longer. Picking up her skirts, she darted toward the water’s edge. Just as the last of the three Negroes stepped into the boat and shoved off from the bank, she leaped into the small craft.
Her skirts flew everywhere and one of the rings in her hoop skirt cracked. Her elbow scraped a rough edge of the boat and stung sharply.
“Miss Brittany, what you doing here?” Jackson asked, his paddle poised in the murky water.
“Don’t stop,” she said quickly. “Grand-père said it was all right. I might be able to help someone who’s injured.”
Jackson nodded once and resumed paddling. Brittany had tended a gash across his forehead a couple of summers ago. Although he still had the scar, he had never shown any sign of infection.
By now, Sadie had located her charge and was standing on the levee motioning frantically. Grand-père guided Lancelot to the edge of the water and called after her. For a moment, Brittany thought he was going to lead the horse into the water after them.
Jackson looked over his shoulder at Brittany and frowned.
“Oh dear,” Brittany said, “they want me to come back after my bag of bandages and things. But there isn’t time. I’ll have to make do without it.”
Jackson shook his head, but didn’t slow down. Unlike Sadie, he stayed out of things.
Brittany exhaled deeply and straightened her skirts. It didn’t matter at the moment that she was sandwiched between two smelly Negroes and her shoes were filled with water.
Brushing the wind-blown hair from her face, she turned to look at Grand-père though he was already too far away for her to make out his expression. She was sorry for going against his wishes. But, she’d had no choice. If Jeffy was out here, she had to help him.
She’d never been more determined in her life.
And she’d never felt more alone.
Finally, the small boat nudged against the east bank and Jackson helped Brittany step ashore. After crossing the river amidst the carnage, she was weak with nausea. Each time they came across a body, she bit her knuckles until she was certain it wasn’t Jeffy.
What was left of the steamers had drifted downriver. The little search party started in that direction.
They hadn’t taken more than half a dozen steps before coming across a young girl lying on her side at the edge of the water. Brittany took a deep breath and approached the unconscious child. She wasn’t more than ten or eleven years old. Her dress was in tatters and she had burns along her arms and on her cheek. With a sigh, Brittany gently smoothed the girl’s blonde hair back from her forehead. Though the child was undeniably pretty, her soft skin would now be forever disfigured.
Grasping the child’s wrist, Brittany located a clear pulse. The girl was alive, but Brittany couldn’t help her out here. She didn’t even have any ointment for the burns.
“She’s alive. We’ve got to get her to the house.”
“You get her across the river and come back to find us,” Jackson said, gesturing toward Ham and Washington.
After Brittany saw the child safely nestled in the boat, she and Jackson continued along the bank. Brittany allowed Jackson to lead the way and tried not to think about the snakes that could be slithering invisibly out of their path. After finding the child, her hope was surging. Jeffy, too, could be here - alive.
They had gone less than a dozen yards when they heard the shots.
Brittany froze.
Jackson threw her to the ground and fell across her. Who would be shooting at them? They were trying to help.
She heard them first, heedlessly tramping toward them.
Then she saw them.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Yankees.
Not now, she screamed silently.
“Jackson,” she called in a hoarse whisper. Perhaps they hadn’t been seen yet.
Frantically, she pushed at his weight. They had to hide. Where were Ham and Washington? They had to have heard the gunfire.
Suddenly she was successful and Jackson slid off her side, face up, his eyes staring, but not seeing.
She was covered in blood.
She screamed.
Before she could struggle to her feet, half a dozen bayonets were pointed at her.
Unconscious, Jeffrey Couvion lost his grip on the empty wooden water cask and sank into the cool water of the Mississippi River. Immediately coming to, he instinctively fought his way back to the surface and grabbed the barrel.
He was alive. But how? Bodies lay strewn everywhere - and pieces of bodies. This was worse than any battle. Fighting the nausea that rose in his throat, Jeffrey closed his eyes and tried to remember the events before the explosion. He had almost been home.
They’d rounded the bend just before Chene Ruelle when he realized they weren’t slowing. He’d spent the afternoon below in his cabin, alone. Thinking. He hadn’t even known about the race until he came out on deck, prepared to disembark.
How was he going to tell his family about his decision? They would never understand.
But none of that seemed to matter now.
All that mattered was that he get ashore alive. He’d been lucky. If this barrel hadn’t been within reach, he would be just like the other unfortunate people sucked into the murky depths of the river. He kicked hard. The sun was going down. Nobody wanted to be caught in these waters after dark.
It was bad enough in the daylight, Jeffrey thought, trying not to imagine what lay beneath the water’s opaque surface. Between the water moccasins and the gators, he was far from safe. The predators would doubtless be drawn to the smell of blood on the water.
Time lost all meaning as he focused on hanging onto the barrel and moving his feet. He didn’t know how far or how long he drifted. Relief flooded through him when his feet touched the bottom of the river. It was twilight when he dragged himself from the water.
Though disoriented and exhausted, he focused on seeking shelter for the night. Unless someone found him soon, his stomach would be gnawing his backbone by morning. Pulling himself to his feet, Jeffrey made it to a dry patch of land beneath a black willow tree.
A couple of months ago, he’d lost his horse in a skirmish somewhere in Mississippi. He still hadn’t gotten used to fighting with his bedroll and supplies slung across his shoulders. At this moment, however, he was grateful for the habit of keeping everything he carried on his back. After the explosion, he’d somehow managed to hang onto everything except his rifle and his hat.
After removing the soaked blanket and haversack, he checked his canteen. It was still tightly sealed. Following a sigh of relief, he swallowed a third of the clean water he’d picked up in New Orleans.
Using his last remaining strength, he gathered up enough twigs and branches to start a fire. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to rub two sticks together and the way things were going, it wouldn’t be the last. Stripping to his cotton drawers, he laid his gray wool trousers and jacket across a tree limb near the fire. There wasn’t enough left of his socks to warrant concern. With a sigh, he tossed them into the fire. It sizzled beneath the dampness.
The tattered remnants of his socks were much like the tattered remains of his life. He’d fought hard for the Confederacy. Fought hard for two years.
The only thing was, Jeffrey didn’t believe in what he fought for. He didn’t believe the Southern states had the right to split up a union. A union forged on blood and freedom. He believed no man should own another, black or white.
Brittany and Grand-père would never understand. Especially Brittany. She’d never forgive him.
Perhaps it was best if she believed him dead. No one would ever know. There were always lost bodies after steamboat explosions.
But how could he let her go through the agony? It would kill her to think him dead.
At least in death she would have no reason to hate him. If she found out, she would never forgive him for what he was about to do. He had to do it now or never. This was the perfect opportunity.
Jeffrey Couvion was off to fight with the Yankees.
Chapter 2
Despite his blue uniform, Brandon McIntyre was as Southern as the Louisiana soil he stood on. Though he hadn’t responded to the sound of gunfire, there was no way in hell he was going to stand by and ignore a woman’s scream.
“Where are you going?”
Brandon didn’t bother to answer Rafe’s question.
They had been watching the house for three days using two of the most powerful spy glasses Yankee money could buy. It was the easiest assignment he’d been given since he’d joined the cavalry. But then, he supposed it didn’t take much effort to be a Yankee. He knew of the Couvion family. He had even encountered the boy, Jeffrey, at a gaming table once. He was an honorable boy, but too idealistic. He had seen the girl, Brittany, too, from a distance, but had never been introduced to her. She was far too popular for his taste. And too beautiful, too. Popular, beautiful women weren’t for him. He preferred the sweet, innocent ones. No, she definitely wasn’t suited to his taste.
When he had heard the explosion, he had been making coffee while Rafe watched the girl. They hadn’t been alarmed at her watching the river, as she did so often. He had dropped the coffee pot, and raced to the edge of the river. Gaping through his spy glass, he curbed his temper when he saw Brittany coming across the river with three Negroes. What was Dumon thinking when he allowed his granddaughter to gallivant across the river with blue bellies behind every tree?
They had mounted their horses and carefully followed Brittany and the three Negroes along the riverbank. With a start, he spotted the patrol of Yankees - real Yankees. They had seen the explosion, too, and were quickly approaching the small search party.
Finding the injured child slowed Brittany’s progress. Brandon’s fingers itched to grasp his revolver. He had already waited too long. It would have been impossible to explain to Rafe, who was standing right behind him, why he, dedicated of all Yanks, was firing upon his own kind. There was no doubt the Yankees would cross her path. He could only hope they were sympathetic Yanks.
Moving stealthily, he dismounted and kneeled behind some brush and motioned for Rafe to do the same. His heart pounded dangerously as the soldiers passed. He could smell their unwashed bodies as the ground vibrated beneath their footsteps.
He blinked. He knew that man. The one with the scar across his cheek.
These men weren’t Yankees. They were deserters. Deserters ravaging the land posing as Yankees. It seems he wasn’t the only one donning a uniform of the enemy.
Only these men were far more dangerous than Yankees.
The time for delay had passed. He had to reach Brittany and protect her.
A gunshot rang out. He was too late.
Glancing at Rafe, he stood his ground. Damn. Here he was stuck in the middle of a war wearing the wrong uniform making him an enemy of both sides.
That’s when his blood had turned to ice at the sound of a woman’s scream.
“I’ve got to help her. You go back and watch Dumon,” he commanded without waiting for an answer.
Risking everything, he left the path and ran to the left of the commotion. No since in getting himself shot in the process.
Brittany warily scanned the leering faces above her. At least twelve of them stood ever her, one on horseback. The haggard brown horse snorted and angrily pounded the ground. Its teeth gnashed and she struggled unsuccessfully not to shrink away.
The rider laughed, his teeth yellow and his cheeks hollow beneath a scraggy beard. The other men in faded blue joined the laughter.
Yankees.
Brittany had never seen a Yankee up close. They were not the orderly soldiers she had expected. These men looked more like the scum on the docks at New Orleans than the proud Confederate soldiers she was used to.
“What have we found ourselves, fellows?” the rider asked.
Brittany glanced at Jackson. He was dead. They had shot and killed him for no reason.
Her anger flared. What right did these men have to kill an innocent man who was only trying to help others? War or no war, they had no right.
Ignoring the pointed sabers and the fear in her heart, she stood up, raised her chin and, despite the fact that she was shorter, seemed to look down at the soldiers.
“You Yankee bastards! Go away and leave us be.”
A round of laughter erupted.
The man on the horse moved closer. She held her ground.
Reaching out with a grubby hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair.
“I think it’s time you learned to respect your betters, Little Miss High Horse.” His hand swept to her collar and yanked.
She screamed and slapped his hands away. Turning away, she clutched the remnants of her already threadbare dress.
Then the sharp tip of a saber pricked against her back. She froze as the realization of just how alone she was swept over her. She had sent Ham and Washington across the river and it would be some time before they made it back. In the meantime, darkness was sifting over them. And she was alone with a dead man in the midst of the enemy.
A man with a scar across his cheek reached out and grabbed her around the waist. As he pulled her close, she could smell his rotten breath as he exhaled against her cheek. She was going to be sick.
She screamed again and they laughed.
“What are you going to do with her now, Jake?”
“He has no idea.”
“Remember, Jake, share and share alike.”
“Leave Jake alone,” the man on horseback commanded. “You had a deal, if you recall.”
“That’s right,” Jake said, with a leer.
Brittany cringed and tried to push away his hands.
“We ain’t no gentlemen. Who cares if we had an agreement? This is the pertiest thing in the south. Don’t think I’m gonna let go easily.”
“Quiet,” the leader demanded. “Jake, take her over there behind them bushes and be quick about it. There are others waiting, you know.”
Brittany’s fight was useless. Jake’s grip around her arm was like a band of steel. No one had ever treated her this way. Ever.
Jake roughly pulled her behind a patch of briars and fallen tree branches several feet from his friends.
“Now let’s have a taste of this sweet skin,” he said, ripping her chemise. She blindly swatted his hands aside and held the torn pieces of cloth together.
“What’s this?” he asked, lifting the heavy silver locket from between her breasts.
“No. Leave me be.”
“This’ll be something for me to remember you by.” He yanked and the gold chain cut into her skin. Then the clasp broke and the chain came loose in his hand.
“No!” She kicked hard at him and his expression changed to surprise. Then he fell forward and rolled aside with a gasp.
There was a knife in his back.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Her head jerked up at the unfamiliar voice and her heart skipped a beat. A tall man in a clean blue uniform stood over her with a hand outstretched. He was clean shaven with clear blue eyes and an honest face. This was not one of her ruffian attackers.
Nonetheless, he was a Yankee.
But he’d just killed the man about to rape her. There was no choice. She reached out and placed her hand in his.
Swallowing thickly, she glanced down at her torn dress and chemise. Her clothes were in shreds and both hands were required to maintain her modesty. Meeting his urgent gaze, she blushed to the roots of her hair.
With an unintelligible groan, he reached down and scooped her up. She turned her exposed body toward him and placed one arm around his neck. She heard the Yankees calling to Jake and their crude laughter hid the sounds of their escape.
Tears stung her eyes as she realized how close she’d been to disaster. If her rescuer had shown up a few minutes later, she would have been ruined.
When they reached his horse, he stood her on her feet and removing his jacket, threw it around her shoulders. The Yankees’ laughter had changed to a low rumble of discontent. They had discovered Jake. After mounting his horse, Brandon reached down and pulled Brittany up in front of him.
With a rough kick in the horse’s sides, they headed away from the river. Brittany threw both arms around his midsection and clung tightly. Twigs scraped at her legs and leaves tangled in her black hair now trailing loosely down her back. The night air stung her eyes as darkness closed over them. There was an uncharacteristic chill coming off the river.
She buried her face against his chest as he deftly guided the horse. She didn’t know this man, this Yankee, but she knew she was safe now. It was intuition that went down to her very bones. The tears started and she didn’t try to hold them back as the events of the evening swept over her in a rush. Would she ever see Jeffy again?
The man held her tightly against him with his free hand and with the feel of his steady heartbeat against her, she began to calm. She let the wave of exhaustion take over and numb her aching heart. The feel of his hand against her back was like a balm that refocused her attention and blocked out all thoughts except those that made her aware of his presence. This man whose name she didn’t know.
Brittany woke to the muted glow of candlelight. Totally disoriented, she found nothing familiar about her surroundings from the musty scent to the stiff mattress beneath her.
“Jeffy,” she called out, sitting up abruptly with a feeling of dread.
“It’s all right. You’re safe,” The man’s voice was gentle as he nudged her back down and tucked the blanket beneath her chin. It was made of rough wool and was musty, but it was warm.
“Where am I?” she asked as memories of her predicament returned.
“We’re in a cabin I had discovered earlier. It’s well hidden from the eyes, especially this time of year what with all the vines flourishing in the moist heat. I didn’t light a fire, though. I didn’t want anyone to smell the smoke and discover us.”
They were in a small one room log cabin, unfurnished except for a crude table and the cot she lay on. His saber and rifle rested nearby. A flash of fear surged through her at the sight of the weapons, but she quickly returned her gaze to the man’s clear blue eyes and kind features. Her fear receded.
“What is your name?” she asked softly.
“Brandon,” he answered without hesitation.
“Would that be Captain Brandon?” she asked grasping for some way to avoid the familiarity of his bare first name.
He didn’t answer this time. Instead he went to the window and looked out.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m a scout,” he replied, coming back to his perch on the foot of her bed. “I’m sorry about those men.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You saved my life.”
A shadow of a smile crossed his features. “It was nothing any honorable gentleman wouldn’t do.”
“I didn’t realize there were honorable Yankees.”
“Of course there are. Just as there are dishonorable Rebs.”
“I’ve not met a Reb yet who was dishonorable.”
“Well,” he said, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Perhaps you have and you just didn’t realize it.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve never met anyone as despicable as those Yankees out there.” An involuntary shiver ran down her spine.
“Ma Cherie, you had nothing to do with that.” He placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face upwards. “You did nothing wrong. Don’t ever forget that. You were only trying to help and got caught up in unfortunate circumstances.”
“Captain Brandon, why did - ?
“Please, just call me Brandon.”
“Very well, Brandon,” she said, determining that the situation allowed some latitude with respect to propriety, “I don’t understand. I mean, you spoke French.”
“Naturally,” he smiled. “I was studying law in New Orleans when the war broke out. I have many friends who speak French.”
“I see,” she said slowly, frowning. A Yankee officer studying law in south Louisiana.
“Do you find that odd?”
