In His Eyes: A Civil War Romance Page 14

  Westley rubbed the back of his neck. Perhaps not entirely innocent. Had he not seen women use their ample skirts and their wiles to smuggle supplies? Seen them spy and deceive? A war must be fought on all fronts. Such things could not be helped. Though a tragedy, some civilians got stuck in the crossfire. That was the way of war.

  He dropped back into his chair and massaged his temples. Her words kept slithering back to him, slippery syllables that carried the weight of guilt like a millstone around the neck. And though he longed to deny it, he had to admit that he could not blame her. She had lived that pain, and he possessed no right to deny her the expression of it.

  He rubbed a hand over his face and tried to dislodge the image of her that even now remained in front of him—how her eyes sparked when she threw her daggers at him. A dragon, that one. A tiny dragon, to be sure, but one with flames and claws to spare. And her voice….

  Westley allowed himself a moment to let his anger fizzle beneath the intoxicating quality of her voice, even if what came from her lips aimed to wound. The more she raged, the more her Southern sounds sifted together with a melodious lilt as exotic as her sunset hair. Had she been reared among immigrants?

  He shook his head. He should not try to unravel the mysterious woman whom he felt certain hid more layers than he had yet seen. That path only led to further trouble.

  Curse it! Westley pushed to his feet and plucked the cane from where it rested upon the table and shifted it in his hand. He would do right by her, but only to honor his mother. His curiosity over her continued to make things worse. If he had sent her away yesterday, he wouldn’t be contemplating his own morality now.

  Her mysteries did not matter. He did not need to know why her words tilted or why she blushed when he said he’d like her company. He didn’t need to discover why her sparkling eyes could seem so innocent one moment and hardened the next. And he did not wish to know the story or circumstance that left her with a fatherless child upon his door.

  He ground his teeth. He needed none of those answers. He needed only….

  “See! It was a good thing I didn’t call him Archibald!”

  The little dragon’s voice bounced around the foyer and smacked into Westley like a volley. Archibald? What did she rant about now? He shifted his weight and moved toward the door.

  “Now, Miss Ella! You come back here!” Sibby’s voice followed the sound of clicking shoes across the floor, and then was nearly lost with the slam of the front door.

  He took two steps toward the foyer when Sibby appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed. “What you do to her?”

  Westley curled his lip. “Excuse me?”

  Her eyes flashed, and he nearly felt a pang for his harsh tone, but he had not the patience for her bayoneted words at the moment.

  “What you say to her that made her storm outta this house?”

  “She called me a devil, and I dared to disagree.”

  Sibby’s mouth fell open, but she snapped it closed. “She took the boy wit her!”

  He rolled his shoulders. “He is her child, and she can go where she pleases.”

  Sibby gasped. “He ain’t! And she got no way to feed him.” She whirled around and strode out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’s bringin’ them back, and there ain’t nothin’ you gonna do about it!”

  The door slammed again and Westley groaned. Not one, but two fiery women furious with him. And here he’d thought he’d left the war behind. He stood there a moment, maybe two, then he walked to the foyer and plucked his hat from the hook.

  He twirled it in his fingers, sat it on his head, and paused. No. He would not chase after that woman. She hated him, and he couldn’t say as though he blamed her. What a fool he’d been to think he could return to the South and not be hit full in the face with the destruction the North caused here. Had he not set fires to fields and barns? Did he not see men twist railroad lines to send the passengers to their deaths? Yes, he carried that responsibility. He played a part in what war had made of Eleanor Whitaker, and countless others like her.

  How often had he dismissed tales of soldiers plundering under the guise of the Confiscation Act? Westley closed his eyes. He’d turned his head when men boasted of finding women alone. Making sport of them….

  He placed the hat back on the peg and trudged toward the library. No, it would do no good for either of them for Westley to go after her. Sibby’s odd words tickled his ears, but he smothered them under forced indifference. Another mystery about Miss Whitaker he did not need—nor want!—to know the answer to.

  He thumped his cane down the foyer, each tap reminding him of his frailty and stirring the pain in his leg. Perhaps he might still find Father’s secret bottle of brandy behind The History of Europe. Something to dull the ache in his leg. And more, perhaps, to dislodge the images of laughing faces that he’d ignored instead of reprimanded and countless other memories searing in his head. Then, tomorrow, he would leave money for Sibby to take care of the girl and her son. Next, he would go to the Federal outpost and pay the taxes for Belmont.

  And then what?

  He hobbled into the library, plucked the book from the shelf, and smiled at the niche behind it. A decanter still sat there, the amber liquid inside promising to sooth his frayed nerves and relieve some of the pain. He slid his fingers over the smooth crystal and pulled it from its resting place.

  He grabbed the beveled glass from behind it and poured it half full, then sat on the armchair. What then, indeed?

  He leaned his head back against the cushion and pulled a long draught from the glass. The liquid burned his throat and slid all the way to his stomach, lighting a fire in his gut. With two more gulps, the fire increased. By the time he had drained the glass, the fire had started to burn away the throbbing in his leg.

  But the flames did not find the memories, nor did they diminish the guilt. Major Westley Archibald Remington. W.A.R.

  A man born to war. A man that, if he were to admit it to himself, did not find the glory he sought in battle. Instead, he found only anguish, pain, and darkness. War made men do things they would have never thought to do in pleasant society. It twisted soldiers from men of honor to men who were little more than plunderers, murderers, and thieves.

  Men who spilled their devious ways on women. Women like Ella….

  He rolled her endearment name around in his mind. Testing it, feeling it. Why hadn’t he seen what was so obvious? Her shyness…her fear? Those things did not drape a woman who had taken coin for her services. They cloaked women who had things stolen from them.

  Westley sighed and closed his eyes. He would let her stay. Let at least one woman scarred by what men had scourged find safety.

  Then, when the accounts were settled, he would go west. And never force her to look upon his devil’s face again.

  Ella tucked a restless piece of hair behind her ear. The wind continued to tug bits free, and by the time she reached the river road, wayward locks scurried over her nose and irritated her eyes. She pulled Lee tighter against the cold air that denied the presence of late spring.

  He made little gurgling noises that scraped at her heart. How long would it be before those sweet coos turned to hungry wails? She drew a long breath, letting the wind course an icy path down her throat to cool the burning that forewarned tears.

  Oh, why hadn’t she stilled her tongue? She let her temper get the better of her. Try as she might to be nothing like Papa, she carried the same tendencies as he. Mama called it the fire of the Scots. When she was a girl, Papa had been feisty, and a bit hotheaded, but always gentle with her. But after Mama died…

  She shook her head. It didn’t matter. They were both gone now, and Ella was on her own. Sometimes she wondered what life would have been like if Papa had approved of that sailor. A fine-looking Navy man from the New Orleans port. He came to their farm one balmy spring to buy a new stallion for his younger brother and had taken a shine to Ella. A week later he returned and of
fered for her, though they had only just met. A girl of seventeen, she’d been taken by his handsome face and the thought of traveling the world. But Papa would have none of it. He’d said the man swam the wrong way, and no lass of his would be a notch on that man’s schooner.

  She’d had no idea what he meant at the time, but she’d stayed mad at him for a month. No other men had shown any interest in her, and then the war came and made devils out of men that might have had the chance to be decent. At least, as decent as someone who saw the fairer sex as goods to be traded or a prize to be lorded over could be, anyway.

  She looked down at Lee as the cold wind gained strength and began to carry a fine mist. He would be different. She would raise this one to be nothing like her father or the soldiers who had ruined this country. She would rear her little Lee to be a man of character, with a soft heart toward women. And someday, a young lady would be worthy of Ella’s treasure, and more wee ones would cling to her skirts.

  She lifted her hem and started forward again. A strong son and a bushel of grandchildren. She didn’t need anything more than that. So she would do what she must to secure the only future that offered any hope at happiness.

  Droplets of mist swirled on the wind and landed like tiny diamonds on Lee’s head. Ella frowned. She’d let her anger carry her out the door before she thought anything through. Halfway down the drive she told herself she would go to town and ask after another nurse. She’d even heard of women giving goat’s milk to babes in need. If she could figure out a way to get a goat, she and Lee wouldn’t need to depend on anyone. But now she stood at the edge of the river road in paralyzing indecision. She could neither keep the baby out in this weather nor return to the house.

  “Miss Ella!”

  Sibby’s voice carried on the wind and flitted around Ella’s ears. Heat radiated from her chest and chased away the chill that began to gather in her limbs. She cringed. Perhaps she could scuttle away and pretend she didn’t hear. Sibby would want to dress her down for certain. She’d said some terrible things to Major Remington, and Ella knew the affection Sibby held for him.

  She snuggled the wee one closer and turned. No use further setting flame to any help she might have remaining. She’d take the scolding and beg for mercy. For Lee’s sake.

  It plucked at her pride, but Ella held her ground and watched Sibby scurry down the drive, a blue scarf draped over her head. When she reached Ella, her breath came out in smoke that mingled with the mist.

  “What you thinkin’ traipsin’ around out in this here nasty weather?”

  She hadn’t been thinking, but what good would it do to admit it? They already thought her low on wits. “I intended to go to town. I did not know the weather would so quickly turn foul.”

  Sibby drew her eyebrows low, creating dark curved lines that sat heavy over her eyes. “You ain’t talkin’ no sense. Now get on back to the house.”

  “The major will not want me back inside.”

  Sibby snorted. “I done told him I was acomin’ to get you.”

  Ella hesitated. Would he let her return? At least until the weather passed and she could find a way to care for Lee? “You are sure that is a good idea?”

  Sibby grabbed Ella’s elbow and started to tug. “Good idea or not, I ain’t lettin’ you stand out here and get that baby sick.”

  Fear lashed at her, and Ella drew Lee closer. He looked peaceful, sleeping in his little cocoon. Droplets clung to his lashes, but he didn’t seem to mind. His pink cheeks were flushed with warmth from being held so close.

  Sibby tugged again. “Don’t you go lettin’ some stubborn ideas make no fool out of you.”

  Ella relented. It wouldn’t do to keep Lee out here. Might as well face the man’s wrath. She’d suffered men’s fury before and survived. She could do so again. And this time she wouldn’t be held down in the dark shadows. If he were going to beat her, it would have to be in the daylight in front of the people of Belmont. Without a word, she ducked her head and followed Sibby back toward the long lane that led up to Belmont.

  Wind whipped her hair and tugged Sibby’s mumbled words from Ella’s ears before she could comprehend them. The mist turned to drizzle, and by the time they made the bend and could see the house, the drizzle turned into a downpour.

  As icy water slid off her hair and down her nape, Ella shivered. The thin cotton dress stood no match against the biting rain, and in moments sodden fabric clung to her limbs and tangled around her feet.

  “We need to hurry!” Sibby yelled, her last word lost under the crack of thunder.

  Ella lifted her skirts higher, exposing her ankles and most of her calves and broke into a trot. Lee bounced against her, and she thought he would cry out, but he remained silent. Pulling the babe tighter with one hand while trying to keep the fabric from tripping her with the other, Ella ran.

  Sibby kept pace, her body not encumbered by an infant. Boggin skirts! Always they tangled about the legs. A man’s invention to make it harder for women to get away! The wind gusted harder, as though chiding her for using one of Papa’s Scottish words that she knew wouldn’t be acceptable in polite company. Well, good thing that word had stayed in her head where it belonged.

  Not like the others she’d spit out at the Yankee major without the first bit of thought.

  Ella clenched her teeth and blinked against the driving rain. A bit farther and they would reach the house—safety from the storm, if not from the man within.

  Suddenly Sibby squealed and her hands flew up in the air as her body lurched to the side. Ella stumbled to a halt and whirled around, only to find Sibby lying on the ground and clutching her ankle. Mud splattered across her bodice and Sibby’s shawl took flight like a tornado swept blue jay.

  Ella dropped to her knees, sodden skirts landing hard in the muck that accumulated near the carriage block. She adjusted the baby and reached to grasp Sibby’s shoulder. Rain ran in rivers down the woman’s dark skin and mingled with the sea of mud beneath her. “Sibby! What happened?”

  “Don’t know. I tripped on somethin’.” She wailed. “It hurts right awful!”

  Ella grasped her upper arm and tried to get her to her feet. “We have to get you inside!”

  Sibby grabbed her leg and moaned. “I can’t! Get Mista Westley!”

  Ella set her teeth and struggled to her feet, her shoes sliding and sending her careening sideways. She stumbled through the mud and blinked her eyes against the stinging rain. The stairs made her feet tangle in her skirts and she nearly fell, but she managed to right herself and pull her soggy frame onto the front porch. The wind plastered her dress against her, but at least she no longer stood beneath a waterfall.

  She threw the door wide, and it slammed against the wall. “Major!”

  No reply. Torn with uncertainty on whether to search for him or try to put Lee down and help Sibby by herself, Ella hesitated for a moment, dripping water on the polished floor. She bit her lip. If Sibby had broken her leg, Ella wouldn’t be able to carry her in the house.

  With a groan she lifted her soggy skirt once more and carefully traipsed across the floor into the ladies’ parlor. She tracked mud across the fine rugs, passed through the pocket doors into the men’s parlor, left a trail of leaves and dirt inside the dining room, yet still didn’t see the man anywhere.

  “Major!” she screamed, frustration and fear pitching her voice to a near wail.

  A noise. She scrunched her nose and followed it to the door under the stairs that hung ajar. Ella put her fingertips on the fine wood and shoved, sending the door flying backward and banging against a set of the library shelves.

  Major Remington startled in the leather armchair, the glass in his hand rolling to the floor. His dark eyes sprang open, and in one movement he leapt to his feet and threw his fists in the air.

  Ella couldn’t breathe. Major’s Remington’s pupils were dilated as he tried to focus on her. Her gaze darted to the glass on the floor and then up to the small table where a nearly empty decanter
perched precariously on the edge. She forced air into her lungs.

  He’d found the devil’s drink and would be in its clutches. She backed away slowly, her pulse pounding in her ears. Perhaps she could close the door and find a way to secure him inside….

  Clarity pushed away the fog in his eyes and he dropped his hands. “Miss Whitaker! What are you doing?”

  Ella stared at him. Was he in the drink’s clutches or merely startled from a deep sleep? Her hand tightened on the doorknob.

  The confusion—and dare she think worry?—on his face lowered her pulse. Perhaps only the final dregs of sleep.

  “Miss Whitaker? Are you all right?”

  Ella jerked her chin toward the foyer. “Sibby fell. She can’t get up, and she’s stuck out in the storm.”

  Confusion marred his deceptively handsome face, and he plucked his cane from where it rested against the bookshelf. Ella groaned. He wouldn’t be able to carry Sibby either! He could barely carry himself.

  As though sensing her thoughts, his wide shoulders stiffened. “Best you wrap your son in a warm blanket and come help me.”

  Ella slipped around him to pluck a folded quilt from the other armchair by the hearth. He waited, and Ella scurried around him and away before he could grab her. He made no move to snatch her, however, and by the time she wrapped Lee tightly and laid him in the cradle in the parlor, he passed through the foyer behind her. The thump of his cane went to the porch, and then disappeared beneath the howling wind and rolling thunder.

  Ella rubbed her fingers across Lee’s brow, but he didn’t stir. His skin felt warm beneath her chilled hands. Perhaps the quilt made him too hot. She loosened the edges and draped it over him. He sure slept soundly for one who had been jostled so much.

  She leaned nearer to put her lips on his tiny forehead when shouts from outside reminded her of her mission. Ella straightened, and telling herself he would be safe for a few moments without her, hurried out into the rain.