Mischief and Magnolias (15 page)

“Well then, you know what I'm talking about. You, my friend, have fallen under whatever spell Shaelyn Cavanaugh has cast over you,” he scoffed. “Whether the
Brenna Rose
was ambushed, as Major Johnson suspects, or exploded and sunk, there is only one person who could accomplish that. And you know who it is.” He drew in his breath, his eyes flickering away from Remy to stare at the amber brew in his glass. “I've seen the way you watch her. You're so blinded by your—shall we call it weakness?—you don't seem to recall Miss Cavanaugh being present while we discussed plans.” He paused, looked up from his drink, and pinned Remy with a relentless glare. “She heard everything. She could have told anyone. She could have tampered with the engines, too.”

The words Davenport uttered shocked him, rocked him to his soul, almost as much as what the captain didn't say, the label left hanging in the air between them without being spoken. Remy said nothing, despite the tone in which those sentiments were delivered and the feeling he'd just been kicked in the teeth.

He drew in his breath, his gut clenching. Could it be? Was Shaelyn a spy?

He took a deep swallow of the whiskey and replayed everything in his mind.

Yes, she had heard everything, but only the night before. She wouldn't have had time to tell another person what she knew. Unless she snuck out under cover of darkness. Between the time she'd learned of their plans and the moment he kissed her in the moonlight, she could have stolen away and met someone. Even after their kiss, she could have slipped away.

No. He would have heard her. He'd always been a light sleeper and that night, he hadn't slept at all, desire for her keeping him awake long after he should have surrendered to slumber.

The thoughts running through his mind made his head ache, made his heart ache as well, and yet he said nothing to Vincent. Didn't deny what the man said. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Davenport had made up his mind, already thought he and Shaelyn were lovers. He'd stated as much before the
Brenna Rose
set sail.

Remy limped toward the desk and pulled out the chair, the sharp ache in his leg seeming to build with each passing moment. His gaze never left the captain's face. Something flickered in Davenport's eyes. Was it disgust? Triumph? Something else? It didn't matter. “I would like to be alone now. There is much I need to do.”

Pain burst in his heart as he took his seat behind the desk and pulled stationery and Captain Ames's file from the drawer. Though he knew the words on paper would never make up for the loss of Captains Ames and Falstaff, he'd write condolence letters anyway. He'd done it before, too many times since the fighting broke out in '61, and would most likely do it again.

And regardless of what Davenport thought, he'd have to tell Shaelyn the
Brenna Rose
was lost. He did not relish the task, but better to get it done now, as quickly as possible, though that wouldn't make the telling easier.

Vincent remained seated, swirling the remains of his drink in the bottom of his glass.

Can the man not take a hint?

Remy let out a long sigh. Davenport still hadn't moved from his seat, although he did reach for the bottle on the desk.

Apparently not.

He cleared his throat, drawing the other man's attention. Davenport caressed the bottle, but didn't pick it up and refresh his drink. His eyes slid over Remy and his lips pressed together. Was that annoyance? Irritation? Remy cleared his throat again. “If you should see Miss Cavanaugh, would you let her know I'd like to see her?”

Davenport finally took the hint, although not without protest. “But, Remy, she—”

“Dismissed, Captain.”

“As you wish, sir.” Davenport slid his glass onto the desktop, his movements slow, and rose from his seat. There could be no denying the man was unhappy—the sharpness of his tone could have drawn blood. Watching him, Remy couldn't be certain what irked the man more—that he'd been dismissed or that he hadn't agreed with Davenport's unspoken accusation.

The pocket doors slid closed silently as Davenport left the room. Remy shook his head to clear his mind, perused Cory's file, then dipped the pen in ink and began the letter to Cory's wife. The words were hard to find, even harder to write. He'd been fond of Cory Ames, regretted the fact he hadn't allowed himself to know him better. The words on the page blurred. Sympathy flared in his heart for the daughter Captain Ames had never seen and the wife he'd left behind.

Suddenly weary and overwhelmed, not only by the sheer loss of human life, but by the insinuation Shaelyn Cavanaugh could be a spy, Remy sat back in his chair and stared at the intricate design on the ceiling.

How had it come to this?

The answers he sought were not in the plaster hearts and flowers forming a border where the walls met the ceiling.

With a sigh, he took another swallow of whiskey and forced himself to continue writing the letter.

“You wished to see me, Major?”

Remy looked up to see Shaelyn standing in the doorway, frozen to the spot, as if afraid to come any farther into the room, her expression wary. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and clasped her hands in front of her.

“Please. Come in.”

She entered the room, but not full steam ahead like she normally did. She walked slowly, as if she already knew he had bad news to impart.

He gestured to the chair in front of the desk. She sank into it and adjusted her dove gray skirt, hiding a recently mended tear. Her eyes flitted toward the letter in front of him and widened, but she said nothing. Remy continued watching her, waiting for her to speak, but for once, she demanded nothing of him, remaining silent though her direct gaze seemed to settle on his heart and stay there. The thought of causing her pain hurt him all the way to his soul.

Remy cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but words would not come. He tried again and had the same result. He just didn't know how to tell this woman her beautiful steamboat was gone, perhaps sunk into the mud at the bottom of the Mississippi, after she'd been assured her riverboats would be safe, after she'd been asked to trust him. Remy tried one more time. “Shae―”

“Whatever it is, Major, just say it. I already know it isn't good news. I saw you talking to that boy. I saw your face.” She held herself rigid, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, her knuckles white. Her voice lowered. “Just tell me.”

Remy gave a slight nod then poured her a small draught of whiskey. He pushed the glass across the desk and waited until she picked it up and took a sip. “The
Brenna Rose
is lost. She never made it to the rendezvous point. There are reports she was ambushed and sank.” He said it bluntly, as if saying the words that way could ease some of the pain.

Color drained from her face, leaving her cheeks pale. Sudden tears made her glorious eyes shine. Shock and sadness changed their color to a deep indigo, not the violet of anger he saw more often.

“I am sorry about your steamboat.”

She gasped and every muscle in her body tensed. “Do you think me so callous and mercenary, Major, that I have only a care for my steamer?” Her eyes narrowed. “You are wrong.”

He could see her struggle for composure.

“I was thinking of the mothers and fathers who have lost their sons.” She took a deep breath and continued, “Of the wives and loved ones they're leaving behind. It doesn't matter what color uniforms they wore—they were just boys. Most of them weren't old enough to shave.”

Her voice cracked with emotion, and though her eyes glowed with tears, she did not cry as one would expect. Or perhaps she just would not cry in front of him. “Captain Ames's daughter will never know what a wonderful, brave man her father was.” She rose from her seat as stiff as an old woman and stumbled before she grasped the back of the chair as if it were an anchor, the only thing keeping her from collapsing to the floor.

“I won't deny I am devastated by the loss of the
Brenna Rose
, but…” She stopped speaking, as if unable to continue. The muscles of her throat moved as she swallowed—hard—several times and swiped at her eyes, which remained on him.

No, Captain Davenport couldn't have been more wrong. Despite his intimations, Shaelyn hadn't done this. Seeing the pain on her face, hearing it in her voice, Remy knew, without a doubt, she wasn't responsible.

She'd always been honest. Despite her pranks, which, he realized, were only aimed at him, she'd never done anything harmful. It simply wasn't in her to spy. Or to tamper with her steamboats.

He didn't know what to do. She needed solace, as did he, but would she swallow her pride and allow that from him? At this moment, would she allow that from anyone? Stubbornness alone, it seemed, kept her standing upright, although her hands still gripped the back of the chair for support.

“If that is all, Major?”

Whether she accepted his comfort and concern or not, he would offer it just the same. He needed to—not only to ease her sadness, but to ease some of his own. He rose from his seat and limped around the desk, for once forgetting the cane that was so much a part of him. “No, that is not all,” he said as he swept her into his arms and wrapped them tight around her. There was nothing sexual in either his embrace or his intention. He simply needed to hold her.

Shaelyn didn't fight him, didn't struggle to escape his embrace. She sank against him, her arms snaking around his waist, head resting against his chest, accepting what he offered without so much as a whimper. She did not cry, not even then, but he could feel how stiffly she held herself, willing herself not to give into the tears she needed to shed.

How long they stood there in each other's arms, he didn't know, nor did he care. Whatever comfort he offered her, she returned.

“I am sorry about the
Brenna Rose
.”

She nodded against his uniform and sniffed. “She was just a steamer, Major, made of wood and paint, not flesh and blood like all those boys. I may have lost her, but I have not lost my memories.” Her voice cracked with the emotion she couldn't quite hide as she pulled away from him. “I need to tell Mama.”

Knowing how difficult the task had been for him, he sympathized with the anguish reflected on her face. Remy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently blotted the wetness from the corners of her eyes, then handed her the square of pressed cotton. “Would you like me—”

“Thank you for the offer, Major, but no, I will tell her. It's not the first time I've had to share bad news with her, nor is it the first steamer I've lost.” She let out a long sigh. “I am grateful the news wasn't about Ian. I don't think I could have borne that.”

She left the room as silently as she had entered, walking slowly as if headed toward the gallows. She did not turn and look back at him, or change her mind and ask for his help in explaining to Brenna what had happened.

Shaelyn Cavanaugh was a remarkable woman. She truly was.

Flour. Sugar. Molasses. Coffee. Stubborn. Strong. Spirited. Beautiful.

Remy blinked and tried to focus. He looked at the words he had written and grimaced, embarrassed by the turn his thoughts had taken. What had started as a list of needed provisions had turned into an accounting of Shaelyn's attributes. Actually, the list could pertain to Brenna as well. The good lady had taken the loss of the
Brenna Rose
as well as her daughter had. No hysterics, no accusations, no tears—just a calm acceptance and a prayer for the men and their families.

He shook his head, scratched out the words with a quick flourish of his pen, then thought better of it and scrunched the paper into a ball. He tossed the wad into the fireplace, where it quickly disappeared in a flash of flames, and started the list again. This time, with concentration and a dogged determination, he was able to complete it without writing down another one of Shaelyn's charms. With one task complete, he started on another that was much more pleasant…his weekly letter to his parents.

“Good morning, Major.”

He looked up from the correspondence on the desk and smiled. General Ewell Sumner stood in the study's doorway, the medals on his uniform gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the window. Remy rose quickly to his feet and saluted, though the stiffness and throbbing pain in his leg reminded him he'd sat too long once again.

“I was at Rosalie and couldn't resist the opportunity to drop in on you as well, my boy.” He returned the salute with a grin. A big man, not only in height but in breadth as well, General Sumner lumbered into the room as if he owned it and tossed his coat over a chair. He glanced around at the fine furnishings as he approached the desk and nodded with appreciation. He gestured for Remy to sit. “Nice home. How are you faring? How is your leg?”

“Fine, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“I have a vested interest in that leg.” The general took a seat in a comfortable leather chair pulled close to the desk, crossed his legs, and adjusted the sharp crease in his trousers. “You almost lost it on my account. Have I told you how grateful I am? I'd be standing before St. Peter's Pearly Gates, begging to be let in, if you hadn't thrown yourself in front of that bullet.”

A blush spread over Remy's face. “It was my pleasure to serve you, sir.”

He meant every word. General Sumner had been his instructor at West Point. Over the years, they had grown very fond of each other. When the opportunity arose for Remy to join the general's regiment, Remy considered the appointment an honor.

The general snorted. “Like hell, Remy. You could have lost your life with your actions. I'm just an old warhorse. My life isn't worth that much.”

“I disagree with you, sir. And what's more, I would do it again. Without question.” He grinned, catching the warm glow of pleasure in the older gentleman's light brown eyes. “And I'm certain your lovely wife would disagree with you as well.”