The Coffield Chronicles - Hearts Under Siege E-Book

TL Dickerson

• Herausgeber: Sapphire Books Publishing
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 301

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

The year is 1862. The war between the states has been raging intensely for a year now. The country is in complete and utter turmoil, and brother is fighting brother to the death, dying for what each believed. It seems it’s all the townsfolk of New Albany, Indiana can speak of, and Melody Coffield is paying attention. Through a series of heartbreaks and sorrow, she settles on the decision to cut her hair and don men’s attire.

Going under the alias of Melvin A. Coffield, she leaves her childhood home, the only home she had ever known, and enlists in the United States Army. Chewing tobacco and drinking liquor were ways of men, and she learns quickly how to behave like one. She would soon know the horrors of battle, and what was called the glory of war, through roads that led straight to Vicksburg, Mississippi. However, her biggest concern was making sure she was not detected by the others. Keeping her secret would not only be challenging, but trying as well.

Will she remain in this solitude the rest of her life, never allowing anyone into her heart again? Or will she find love, once more, in a world that was intolerant and unaccepting of who she truly was?

Leseprobe

Summary

The year is 1862. The war between the states has been raging intensely for a year now. The country is in complete and utter turmoil, and brother is fighting brother to the death, dying for what each believed. It seems it’s all the townsfolk of New Albany, Indiana can speak of, and Melody Coffield is paying attention. Through a series of heartbreaks and sorrow, she settles on the decision to cut her hair and don men’s attire.

Going under the alias of Melvin A. Coffield, she leaves her childhood home, the only home she had ever known, and enlists in the United States Army. Chewing tobacco and drinking liquor were ways of men, and she learns quickly how to behave like one. She would soon know the horrors of battle, and what was called the glory of war, through roads that led straight to Vicksburg, Mississippi. However, her biggest concern was making sure she was not detected by the others.

Keeping her secret would not only be challenging, but trying as well. Will she remain in this solitude the rest of her life, never allowing anyone into her heart again? Or will she find love, once more, in a world that was intolerant and unaccepting of who she truly was?

the coffield chroniclesHearts under siege - book one

the coffield chronicleshearts under siege - book one

tl dickerson

Sapphire Books

Salinas, california

The Coffield Chronicles - Hearts Under Siege - Book One

Copyright © 2020 by TL Dickerson. All rights reserved.

ISBN EPUB - 978-1-952270-12-3

This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without written permission of the publisher.

Editor - Heather Flournoy

Book Design - LJ Reynolds

Cover Design - Fineline Cover Design

Sapphire Books Publishing, LLC

P.O. Box 8142

Salinas, CA 93912

www.sapphirebooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition – November 2020

This and other Sapphire Books titles can be found at

www.sapphirebooks.com

Dedication

I dedicate this novel to Angie Ramirez, my sweet mother. My mom wanted very much for me to write this story. It was her idea to blend my two loves of history and romance. She was an avid Historical Romance reader, sometimes reading up to five books a week. It took me a year and a half to write The Coffield Chronicles (Hearts Under Siege and its sequel Hearts Under Fire), and during the final pages of creation, my mother found out that she had a rather large aneurism in her aorta. Time became of the essence and I was able to finish writing it. I couldn’t even give her a polished draft to read. It was raw and unedited but she read it to the end, completing it just a week before she passed away. She loved it and told me her thoughts on it. I don’t think I could have lived with myself had she not been able to finish reading it. But the universe has a way of making sure things happen as they’re supposed to, and for that I’m thankful. Thank you, Mom, for being my best friend and always supporting me in my writing. Mostly, thank you for loving me. This one’s for you!

Acknowledgment

I’d like to start by thanking my wife, Gail Breslin, for giving me that push I needed to get back into writing in the first place. Her support and encouragement have been a bedrock for my writing, allowing me that safe place to shed my heart into words. She’s the best wife ever.

A huge shout out and thank you to Heather Flournoy for not only being such a great editor but for taking me under her wing. I’ve learned a lot already just from the short amount of time we’ve worked together. You have a way of explaining things in such a way that it’s almost impossible to misunderstand. That put me at such ease that I had no problem delivering what you asked for, and I appreciate it more than you know.

A heartfelt thank you to Chris Svendsen, publisher of Sapphire Books, for taking a chance on me and this story. It’s been my life’s dream to be a published author. I needed to know if my writing was good enough for someone to publish, and that question has now been answered. I appreciate the opportunity.

I’d also like to thank Colleen Decicco and Debi Wagner for helping propel me to this point of getting published by Sapphire Books. The time you both took out of your busy lives to help ensure the best draft of the story I could send out to Sapphire is much appreciated and must be noted. Thank you.

Lastly, I’d like to thank my father, Henry Ramirez, for his immeasurable support of my sought-after writing career. You set the groundwork for me, setting that example of going after your dreams and staying focused by not listening to the naysayers of the world. I love you, Dad.

Chapter One

Dark, looming clouds tore across the late afternoon sky, threatening to impede our normal routine of herding in the cattle. Rounding them back up and leading them back into the barn was a dreaded chore. At age fifteen, and being the scrawny tomboy that I was, fighting the wind while riding my horse and corralling cattle through a now pelting rain was no easy task. But proving my capability and strength to my father was always foremost in my mind.

“Melody, go around,” he said, doing his best to help me guide the filthy, wet beasts through the barn doors.

Angus Coffield was not only my father, he was a good man who worked hard, and I respected his integrity. He was my favorite person in the whole wide world, even if that whole wide world consisted of only the twelve-mile ride between Borden and New Albany, Indiana. Borden had been my home since my birth, May 29, 1842.

We were guiding the last cow in when my dad turned to me with a deep concern in his eyes and said, “Melody, we need to talk.” He raked his long, thick fingers through his soaking wet hair, shaking the excess water from his hands. “It’s about Lydia.”

Lydia Spencer was our neighbor’s teenage daughter, just a year or two older than me, though I was much more mature than she was. Her parents owned the chicken farm two miles up the road. We had been spending a lot of time together recently, and had become rather close. It was lonely being an only child, and Lydia’s company was welcome.

“What is it, Father?” I asked, a bit confused as I anticipated his response.

The rain pummeling the roof of the barn was the only sound slicing through his silence. His face was pained, and he fidgeted and seemed uncomfortable in his own skin over the conversation he was about to have with his teenage daughter. “Well, I know you’ve been spending a lot of time together recently and…” He paused for a moment before finding the courage to go on. “I’ve noticed how close you’ve become.” I stood there quietly, not sure what he was going to say next. Then, “I want you to stay away from her.”

My eyes widened at the very thought. I had become accustomed to seeing the pretty girl with the long, red hair on an almost daily basis. I didn’t quite understand my own feelings. My stomach fluttered and my palms got sweaty whenever she was around. Whatever these feelings were, I knew they made me feel good.

“But Father, why?” My eyes pleaded with him to take back what he said.

“Sit down, Melody.” He gestured toward an overturned bucket that we used to milk the cows, and I sat down. My attention was given completely to him as he started. “When your beautiful mother died giving birth to you, it was both the worst and best day of my life. Your mother was my world, and I have yet to stop reeling over the loss of her. Had it not been for you, I may not be walking this earth as I do today. You were a part of her, and you needed me.”

I had no idea where he was headed with this, but I listened intently. “It was just me, and I didn’t know how to raise a child on my own, let alone raise a girl. I cursed God for not giving me a son. A boy I could raise to be a man. But a girl…” He paused once more, seeming to have forgotten he was talking to me altogether. His gaze roamed the extent of the barn before bringing his attention back to me. “I didn’t know how to raise a girl, so putting you in britches instead of dresses seemed easier. Your mother would never have approved, but she left me to raise you by myself.”

It was true. My father had me in britches since I could remember. His brother, my uncle Conrad, and his wife, Lucinda, had made the 190-mile trek from Marion to Borden when I was a toddler. They were both horrified to see this tiny, curly haired girl dressed like a boy. Aunt Lucinda immediately bought suitable dresses for me. But much to her dismay, I cried my little eyes out and stomped my feet every time she put one on me.

My father eventually realized that he could only use the excuse of me doing men’s work on the farm to keep me in britches for so long. The only time I was forced to wear a dress was when we went into town for supplies, or when he took me to church. I was thankful that church wasn’t an every-Sunday occurrence. He was a God-fearing man, but he was a tired man. At least that’s what he would say to me.

It was mostly just us who ran our dairy farm. With the assistance of a few hands a few times a week, we did all right, and were able to get by with the things we needed to survive. We cultivated a section of land to grow all sorts of fruit and vegetables, and we sustained ourselves on this food all year. We kept pigs and chickens as well. My uncle Lester and a couple other cousins of my father butchered hogs in November or December, so as to limit spoilage. The meat was stored in a smokehouse all winter.

He was a tired man indeed. Not only did my father have to maintain the farm and hands that helped out, he kept our home. He left the cleaning to me, and he cooked until I learned. Most of his free time was spent being my teacher. He never sent me to school, instead choosing to school me at home. He taught me what he thought was necessary in life: reading, writing, arithmetic, and how to be self-sufficient. He never wanted me to have to depend on a man to survive. Somehow, I think he knew from when I was a very young age that I was different than most girls. He was preparing me for an unknown future.

“You’re growing and developing at a speed beyond my comprehension,” he admitted, and added, “And Lydia, although she’s a nice girl, has been coming around and spending a lot of time with you. I realize you’re at an age where boys are going to start courting you.”

I was even more confused by his words. My face scrunched up in total distaste. “I don’t like boys,” I said as plainly as possible, never afraid to confide in my father yet not wanting to disappoint him.

“Maybe it’s time to start wearing some dresses. Boys like girls that wear dresses.”

“But I don’t like boys, Father,” I reiterated, raising my voice a little too loudly for his liking.

“Melody, if you don’t like boys, you can’t like girls either. It’s not acceptable.”

“I don’t like girls,” I said, leaning back, unsure of my own words.

“I’ve seen the way you and Lydia look at each other. It needs to stop. Your life will be ruined.” He paced the length of the barn, the hay breaking and flattening below his feet. On his way back, he stopped dead in his tracks, bent down to my level, and directly said, “No matter how much you think you care for a lady, you must never lay your hands on her. Do you understand?”

I looked at him, dumbfounded, and replied, “No, Father, I don’t.”

“Romantic love…romantic love can only be felt between a man and a woman. Whatever romantic feelings you think you have toward Lydia, you must never act on them. If you won’t take a man, you’ll be a spinster your whole life. Are you all right with that?”

I frowned, unhappy about even having this kind of talk. He kept going, though. “Society is unforgiving, Melody, and unwilling to overlook such abnormalities of the heart. It’s perverse. Do you understand?”

Again, he waited for me to say something in return to his wisdom. Rather than go on with this conversation any longer, I simply nodded yes.

I only saw Lydia once more, when my father brought me to church. Awkwardly wearing a dreaded dress, I sat in the pew with him and searched the crowd of parishioners to find her. When my gaze finally fell on her, she was sitting calmly with her parents, her yellow dress flowing freely over the bench and her hands folded in her lap. Always the proper girl. I finally gained her attention, but when I did, she quickly averted her eyes. Several times she lifted her gaze from the ground, only to find me still focused on her. The last time she looked up, our eyes locked for a moment, and she smiled, even as her mother shot me a look of pure disgust and leaned into her husband’s ear to whisper something. I’m sure it was about me. She abruptly took her daughter’s hand and hurried both Lydia and her husband out the door, leaving Mass early.

Although I was as heartbroken as a fifteen-year-old girl could be, I held my head high and listened to the rest of the preacher’s sermon. In that instance, I realized and sorrowfully accepted that my life would be a lonely one. I wasn’t fit to be with a man, even if a man did court me. I knew I would have absolutely no interest. I would become the spinster my father said I would become.

Returning home from church that day, I set out to work hard and hone the skills my father had taught me. It was bad enough coping with the loss of my friend Lydia, but trying to handle my feelings for girls, feelings that grew stronger every day, was something I had to work on. I knew I had to hide those feelings and wear a mask, so to speak. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was necessary.

Luckily, I had a few abilities that would help reinforce the feminine façade. Of all the skills my father taught me, sewing was the one chore he hated most, and he insisted that I learn it and learn it well. I got so good at it that his bachelor friends began bringing their clothes to me for tailoring and their socks for mending. Even some of his married friends came to me to tailor their suits. By the time I was nineteen, their wives were impressed with my work as well. Some of them even began coming to me for my services. I had enough work by that time, so I started charging money for my talents. The second skill he taught me was how to cut his hair. That one took a little more practice, but after many, many bad haircuts I finally got the hang of it. I didn’t know then how important a craft it would turn out to be later in my life.

We usually rode into town about once a month to replenish supplies, and although we had just been to town a couple of weeks ago, I was in desperate need of a few spools of thread. The trotting of the steeds leading our buggy kicked up rocks and gravel as we rode down the rugged dirt road and through the center of town. We passed by the milliner’s store, a cigar shop, and then the saloon before coming to a halt in front of Perkins General Store.

My dad hopped out of the buggy and tied the horses to a hitching post. “Go get what you need. I’ll be across the way in the cigar shop,” he said as he walked one way and I walked the other.

I opened the front door of the store and entered. The room was dimly lit, and the potbelly stove, though not in use, was in the way. The dampness made for a musty smell, and with it a sneeze from me.

“God bless you, Melody Coffield,” I heard from behind the counter. Violet looked up from the cash register at me, a big smile adorning her lovely face. She pulled the handle, and the cash drawer popped out from underneath. Her eye contact sent butterflies rushing and tumbling through my stomach.

I felt my cheeks flush. “Thank you, Violet Perkins.”

I browsed the store, sifting through boxes and barrels of goods crammed together on the floor beneath some shelves. I acted as though I was perusing, when in fact I knew the entire time exactly what I needed and where it was located. Every time I came into the store, I couldn’t help but take my time accumulating my purchases. Anything to spend as much time as I could with the bewitchingly beautiful Violet. Granted, I knew to keep my facial expressions plain, to not give up my feelings through my eyes or smile, but each time I stole a glance at her, my heart swelled and my throat became dry, as if it were stuffed with cotton.

Her features were dainty and her wrists small as I watched her reach up onto a shelf too high for her to get to without a step stool. Her low-cut bodice accentuated the milky apricot color of her skin. The fullness of her breasts dared to challenge the confines of her dark green dress. Tiny curling tendrils escaped the heavy silken mass of hair that was as black as a starless night. Her facial bones were delicately carved, her lips full, but the most accosting feature on her were her sparkling eyes, bluer than the summer sky. The infectious grin on her face always set the tone for our brief encounters.

People that roamed the small store conversed with each other openly about their opinions of our new president and the onset of a civil war with our brethren to the south. In our great state of Indiana, people seemed to be torn on the subject of slavery, and whether new states entering the Union were to be slave or free. I didn’t really have an opinion one way or the other. I hadn’t known any negroes. They just weren’t around where I was from. The only time I’d ever seen negroes was in New Albany, and they were only passing through with their masters on the way to the bigger city of Indianapolis. If asked to ponder on the issue and give an opinion one way or the other, I didn’t think it proper, or Godly, to enslave another human being. To call another person chattel was ill will of evil men. If I’d been a man and had to pick a side to fight for, well, quite frankly, I would have fought for the North. I knew a couple of boys from out in the sticks who were willing to take up arms with them boys in the South, but I didn’t think I could.

Amidst the contrary bickering between the townsfolk, Violet smoothly made her way over to me as I chose several spools of thread. Her father rung people up on the cash register, keeping an eye on his daughter, who was just a year older than me. I had known her since we were children, meeting in this store and sharing in the holy gospel on Sundays. Violet had several suitors wishing to court her over the past year, but showed no interest in any, much to her parents’ chagrin. They had been encouraging her to marry since she was sixteen, wanting her to have her own life with a husband and children. Her brothers and sisters were already married and had moved from the family homestead, starting their own lives and families. But Violet remained at home, helping out with the family business instead.

“Hi, Melody.” She spoke softly to me, her eyes flirting with me, and I struggled to keep my wits about me.

“Hi, Violet,” I replied, suddenly aware of the stares we were getting even as we simply greeted one another.

Although I wore a dress when I wasn’t at the farm, the townspeople had their suspicions about me. They were all aware of the way my father had raised me and disagreed strongly with his childrearing ways. They insisted that he had ruined me from birth. I never did get used to the stares or whispers. It was uncomfortable to say the least, and standing here talking to a beautiful young woman, not yet married and gazing at me with a gleam in her eye, made the others gawk at us as they peered up from their own conversations to invade ours.

“I missed you the last time you and your father were here. I was away visiting family in Indianapolis. How have you been?” she asked, uncaring of the continued eavesdropping surrounding us.

“I’ve been well. Caring for the farm as always, and becoming quite the tailor.” I gestured at the threads in front of me, and continued. “How was the city? Did you get to visit with your uncle Alexander?” I asked because I knew he was her favorite of her many uncles.

“Sadly, I did not. He’s leading the organization and training of Union troops there, says he has a calling to do his duty.” She was clearly glum over his absence, but understood he needed to do what a man does in honor of his country.

“God be with him and this country,” I said, afraid for what the future held for our great nation.

“And what about you?” Violet asked. “I understand you have people from all over town coming to you for tailoring and mending of garments. Maybe you could teach me sometime. I’ve never been so good at it, and—”

“Violet, that’s enough fraternizing with the customers. Get to your chores now,” her father said sternly, abruptly breaking up our already short conversation.

She glanced at her father, and then back at me, rolling her eyes as she did so. “I guess I’ll see you next time you come to town. You have my address, so I don’t know why you never write to me.”

“I’m not so good with words, Violet. I would only sound foolish, and I don’t like to sound foolish.”

My eyes shied away from the intense gaze she had on me, before her father once more, and with greater bravado, snapped, “Violet! Now.”

Needing no other commands, she turned from him and bid me farewell. “See you again, Melody Coffield. Take care.” She gave a half wink and scurried out the back door, leaving me standing there empty in her wake. I had hoped to spend a little more time with her today, even under the scrutiny of her father’s ever-watchful eye, but it was not to be. I picked up the few remaining items I needed and approached the register. Her father rang up my purchases, but in between each item he took a gander at me, trying to figure me out. My father had taught me well, and I knew to wear a poker face. Our transaction and awkward interaction ended, and I was thankful to get away from him and out the door.

My father was already waiting in the buggy. I hopped in and put my sack of merchandise in the back. When I lifted my head and looked at my father, he had a cigar in his mouth, lit and puffing away. “You ready?” he asked. I nodded my head, and he directed the horses to trod back down the center of town, taking the same route back that we had taken here.

Fall soon came to a close, and while winter came on with such force, my father fell ill. I could barely get him up most mornings, and work was almost unheard of. He spent most days sitting in the kitchen huddled up as closely as he could to the potbelly stove in the center of the room. I couldn’t cover him in enough blankets to keep him warm. But nighttime was the worst. He sweat so badly that I would soak a wash rag in a bucket of water and dab his forehead for any relief possible. The cough seemed to get worse by the day.

Each new sunrise brought with it colder and colder temperatures, and maintaining my farm duties became impossible. My father was my right arm on the farm, and I was his. Without him, I couldn’t keep up. I needed reinforcements, and I needed them quickly. Father wasn’t getting better, and I needed help with him, too. I sent word to Uncle Lester and Aunt Betty, who lived in a neighboring town, to come as soon as they could.

Lester finally arrived after the new year, but without Aunt Betty. She was to stay and look after the home and their children. As long as he could make the fifteen-mile trek back and forth every so often to see them, he would stay as long as I needed. He slept on a feather mattress in the front room of our house, since bunking with my father was out of the question for fear of contamination.

The farm started to function once again, but my father’s health was deteriorating. My uncle finally convinced me to contact the local doctor in Borden. Dr. Evans took the five-mile ride from town, and when he saw the condition of my father, he shook his head back and forth, almost as if he knew right away what was wrong with him. He examined him anyway, coming to the same conclusion he no doubt had silently reached when he arrived.

“Consumption,” he simply said, diagnosing my father with what we all knew was a deadly disease. “Best he can do is rest, eat well, and get outside in the fresh air to exercise some.”

“I can barely get him out of bed most days, Dr. Evans. How am I going to get him to exercise?”

“Well, at least get him outside in the fresh air. The air is good for his lungs.”

“I’m having a hard time caring for him by myself. Uncle Lester is a big help with the farm, but caring for him…” I nodded toward my dad, curled up in a ball under a blanket in his bed. “I need more help.”

“I’ll ask my niece, Violet, if she wouldn’t mind helping out with the cooking and cleaning for a bit. I’ll get back to you when I speak with her.”

“Wait…who?”

“My niece, Violet. I believe you know her from the general store in town, yes?”

“Oh, um, yes. Yes, I do.” I had thought about Violet often since our last encounter, but I hadn’t seen her since the end of November, when my father had begun to get sick and money was scarce.

“Well, then, I shall send for her at once. I’m sure it would be her pleasure, being she hasn’t married yet.” He snickered, grabbed for his overcoat, and left through the front door.

The anticipation of seeing Violet again ran rampantly through my thoughts. Her sweet face and adoring smile were welcome visions in my mind. Winter had been cold and dreary, bringing with it a loneliness I had never felt. I prayed for better days ahead and wished for spring to come early this year.

Chapter Two

I rode the extent of the 200 acres of farmland and woods atop my favorite red dun quarter horse, Crimson. It was almost dusk, and the chill in the air was crisp. The clouds in the sky suggested possible snowfall. We traversed through the grove, trotting around trees with the fallen brown leaves of winter crunching under the hooves of my steed. When we came into a clearing, I brought him up to a gallop. I needed to expend some energy, energy that wasn’t from work but from concern. My thoughts were all of my father. Coping with his illness hadn’t been easy, and recognizing that he might never get better was painful to my heart. I was doing the best I could, but it was all up to God now, and I would have to accept whatever the outcome. It was simple to say, but in reality my heart couldn’t deal with the possible death of the dearest person in my life.

On the last leg of our journey, Crimson’s stride quickened with the lash of my riding crop to his hide as he dashed toward home. I held on to the reins while the cold wind whipped over my face. As I approached the house, I noticed a horse and carriage coming up the drive, and I raced in that direction to meet whoever had arrived. The carriage came to a halt and the driver got down to open the door for the passenger inside. Crimson stalled immediately in front, but before I could get down, the mystery visitor appeared from within. My eyes laid vision to the lovely Violet as the driver offered his hand to help her down.

Her dark blue dress, with its pagoda sleeves, included a high neckline and collar. Draped over her shoulders was a chestnut-colored wool cape with black trim braiding and fringe, tied at her neck. She was a sight for sore eyes. My internal battle began as I admired the curves of her hips where the dress flared into a bell. I quickly shook the perverted thoughts from my head and climbed down from my horse.

“Good evening, Violet. I’m surprised to see you.” I grabbed her travel trunk from her driver.

“Miss, that’s heavy. I should take that from you.” He reached to take it back.

“Leave it. I can manage,” I snapped, more than capable of carrying the heavy item.

“It’s all right, Henry. You may leave us now,” Violet said, dismissing him.

He shrugged his shoulders, and replied, “Suit yourself, miss.” He took his leave, climbed up in the driver’s seat, and yelled, “HA!” giving the reins a good shake and setting the horses into motion.

As he disappeared down the drive, Violet turned to me and asked, “Why are you surprised? Uncle Thomas told me you were expecting me.”

She was speaking of Dr. Evans. “Yes, he did say he would send for you, but truthfully speaking, I didn’t think your father would allow it.”

“Well, being as truthful as I can with you, he wasn’t happy about it.” She walked toward the steps to the porch. “He was worried at first, you know, about my reputation, but I assured him I was only coming to help care for your dear ill father.”

I didn’t have to ask why he was worried. I knew. And she knew I knew. We were comfortable enough with each other that she felt free to speak, even if the subject was uneasy for me. We both climbed the steps and went through the front door. I bent down to place the trunk on the floor, but when I stood up, she was standing close to me. A little too close. The long lashes of her startling blue eyes batted at me as her gaze ran the length of my body.

I don’t know what she saw in me that made her look at me with want. I was dressed in a man’s blouse shirt, trousers, and muddy boots that came up to my knees. A black slouch hat covered my long, light brown curls that were tucked underneath, and I immediately removed it in front of the lady, allowing my long hair to spill out and down my back. At nineteen years of age I had sprouted, and stood about five inches taller than she did. She looked up at me, her mouth forming into a besotted grin. For a moment, I lost myself in her trance. Involuntarily, I ran my tongue over my lips, moistening them, and found that I began to lean into her. Our faces crept closer to one another, and our lips were just mere inches from each other.

“Let me show you to your bedchamber.” I abruptly stopped myself from my own wickedness. My thoughts were unclean, and I needed to regain my composure.

She seemed to snap back into the present as well, the look in her eyes changing from a soft gaze into one of sharp focus. “Yes, that will be fine.” She straightened her dress at the waist and proceeded to follow me up the staircase to the two bedrooms there, my father’s and mine.

We entered my room, and I placed the trunk in its resting place, then turned to her. “There are no other rooms. You’ll have to sleep here with me.”

“Naturally, silly girl. When I stay at my cousins’, us girls have to share a bed. I’m sure I’ll rest pleasantly.” Again she held my gaze, and I swallowed hard, trying my best to fend off pleasures of the flesh my body so clearly told me it wanted.

“All right then. My father’s in bed if you would like to check in on him. I have to finish up some sewing downstairs.” I forced myself to turn from her, breaking the spell she had on me once more, and took the steps so quickly one would have thought the devil himself was chasing after me.

That night, I stayed up as late as I could keep my eyes open. I dreaded going to bed, knowing she would be lying there. Keeping space between us was necessary. As the rest of my candles burned out, I picked up the last one to light my way up the stairs. I opened the door, giving my best efforts to not make any noise, but failing in that quest when the door creaked as it came to a stop. I closed it behind me and set the candle down. Undressing quickly, I put my men’s night attire on and climbed into bed.

Her breathing was measured, and I knew she was asleep. I lay there on my back, practically on the edge of the bed, creating as much distance as I could between us. With my hands at my sides, I tried like the dickens to fall asleep, but slumber would not come easy. I was very aware of the attractive woman lying beside me. At that moment, she stirred and rolled over toward me, but I was already on the edge of the bed still attempting to keep that space. I rolled the other way, and promptly fell to the floor.

“What? Who’s there?” She awoke, startled by the loud thump I created.

“It’s just me, Violet,” I said calmly, picking myself up off the floor and getting back into bed. “Go back to sleep.” In an instant she was back in dreamland, only now in the center of the bed, on her side still facing me. I clung to the very edge of the feather mattress, feeling her knee pressed up against my hip.