Mischief and Magnolias (31 page)

“I can help with whatever you're planning. I'm not injured,” Captain Beckett said as he joined them. “And I haven't been here as long as some of the others.”

His meaning was clear. The other men, deprived of good food and exercise for so long, were in no shape to help. Even if the desire was there.

“I need to show you something.” He helped her to her feet then moved toward the back of the building, directing her to several bales of hay that had been piled atop one another, forming a wall. Perhaps the guards thought the bales were pushed against the side of the stable, like she did at first, but they weren't. It wasn't until she followed Beckett to a space about two feet wide behind the straw barrier that she saw why they were there.

Beckett grinned at her. “I've been planning an escape,” he whispered, “but the opportunity had not presented itself. Until now.” Shaelyn followed his eyes as he glanced over the bales of hay at the men crowding the structure. A concerned expression came over his face when he focused on Cory Ames, who now seemed lost and so alone without Captain Falstead in his arms. “Truthfully, I couldn't leave without them, and Cory refused to leave without Aaron, so I put my plans on hold.” Beckett returned his attention to her, his voice still low, his eyes shining with moisture. “I don't think I could have lived with myself if I survived, but they didn't. I've already lost too much.” He took a deep breath, blinked several times in quick succession, then seemed to get control of himself.

“I've been working on this whenever possible.” He carefully shifted one wooden plank away from the rest, only by an inch or so. The piece of wood moved easily—the nails had been removed and littered the dirt floor beneath his feet. “So far, I've removed the nails from four planks, large enough for even the biggest among us to slip through.”

Shaelyn glanced at his fingers and realized, with no tools at his disposal, he'd used his bare hands to pry the wooden board away from its mates. She could see the raw and shredded skin of his fingertips, the blood under what remained of his previously clean, nicely pared nails. “What is your plan?”

He shrugged and looked at her, his eyes sharp with so many emotions she didn't want to define. “Walk out of this stable and head straight into the woods. Find help.” He grinned suddenly. “Under cover of darkness, of course, but now that you're here…”

She could have hugged him. In fact, she did. When she pulled out of his embrace, she said, “Gather the men. The
Lady Shae
is docked and undamaged. We can use her as our escape.”

He gave a slight nod and followed her orders.

Stepping out from behind the bales of hay, Shaelyn glanced around the dim confines of the edifice while Captain Beckett started gathering the men together. Those who were badly injured were helped by those who were not, and her heart lifted. She only hoped their escape would be successful and these men would taste freedom, which they so deserved.

As she watched the soldiers congregate around Jock, Captain Ames, and Daniel Bonaventure, she realized one of the officers was missing.

Where is Captain Williams? He should be here.

She didn't have time to ponder, nor did she ask, as Captain Beckett motioned for her and she stepped inside the circle of men. Her mother reached for her hand and squeezed, “I'll keep watch at the door.”

Shaelyn watched her mother walk away then cleared her throat. “Captain Beckett has a plan for your freedom.” The soldiers before her visibly perked up, hopeful smiles appearing. Several of them inhaled deeply and puffed out their chests.

Captain Beckett quickly explained the simplicity of his plan and finished with, “But we need to do something with the guards before we do anything else.” His hand moved to his belt, where his army-issue Colt revolver should have been. He frowned, his dark brows drawing together with frustration.

“How many are there?” Daniel rose to his feet, but remained beside Cory, his hand resting on the other man's shoulder.

“I don't know. There are eight that come in here often,” Beckett said, then admitted, “but God knows how many are patrolling other parts of the grounds. I have no idea how big this plantation is. Or who's in charge.”

“I say we kill them,” Cory said quietly as he wiped his hands on his trousers, trying to remove the bloodstains from his skin. “Kill them all.”

“And how do we do that? Ain't none of us as has a gun,” a young man, no older than eighteen by the looks of him, shuddered, his face gleaming white in the glow of moonlight streaming through the holes in the roof.

Cory stopped wiping his hands and held them out, palms up. “With these.”

“There's been enough death,” Jock whispered, his accent deep, his voice harsh. “It'll be enough to incapacitate them and lock them in this stable.”

“I saw rope outside by the Gatling gun. We could use that to tie them up.” Shaelyn glanced toward the door.

“And gag them,” Beckett added. “We don't need them alerting anyone else.”

“Once the guards are in here, it'll be up to you officers to lead everyone to safety,” Shaelyn said. “The
Lady Shae
is waiting at the river, as is the
Sweet Sassy
. I'm not sure of the
Sassy
's condition. She floats, but she still may be damaged. The
Lady Shae
is in fine condition though. At least she was when we left her.” She glanced at Captain Ames. She didn't like the expression on his face and couldn't help asking, “Cory, can you help?”

He looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears, and swallowed before he whispered, “Yes, ma'am.”

“I'll stay with the guards,” Captain Beckett offered, “until the rest of you are safe.”

“I'll stay as well,” Jock said.

“What about the injured?” Someone, a young man she recognized from the
Brenna Rose
, spoke up. He stood beside a boy whose arm had been clearly broken and had begun to heal, though crookedly. A strip of someone's uniform had been used as a sling, but it was his eyes that drew her attention. They glowed with illness, and his skin, instead of being pink and healthy, seemed to have a yellowish cast to it. She resisted the urge to lay her hand across his forehead to see if he felt as feverish and hot as he looked.

“No need to worry, son. No one will be left behind, no matter how ill.” Captain Beckett touched the young man's arm gently. The boy visibly relaxed and grinned at his companion. “If I remember correctly, I saw a wagon the night they marched us in here. We could utilize that to get the injured and wounded to safety.” He paused, drew in his breath and asked, “Are we ready? Does everyone know what they're to do?”

Each officer nodded, understanding the role he was to play in their bid for freedom, the one and only chance they all might have.

Shaelyn glanced at the officers and pride made her heart swell.

“And what am I to do while you're off seeing to the guards?” Brenna asked as she slipped up to the group of soldiers.

“You're going back to the boats,” Jock announced softly as he pulled Brenna closer to him, his gaze caressing her face.

“The hell I will.” Brenna Cavanaugh never cussed, but she did now. “You want me to sit there and wait for you, not knowing what's happening. I think not, Angus MacPhee. I can help.”

Though she feared for her mother, Shaelyn couldn't have been prouder. If she'd had time, she'd tell Brenna so. She didn't have a chance though. Brenna didn't wait for a response from Jock—or anyone else. Instead, she moved away from the circle and positioned herself at the front of the stable, where she continued keeping watch through the crack between the doors.

“And what will you be doing?” Beckett asked, interrupting Shaelyn's thoughts.

“I'm going to get Remy out of that house.” She looked at all of them, pinning each one with an unflinching stare. “And don't try to talk me out of it.”

Beckett grinned. “I wouldn't dream of it. I only ask that you wait until the guards are all in here.”

“And wait for one of us to help you,” Jock suggested.

“I'll consider it.”

• • •

Pain.

Unrelenting. Excruciating pain. Not only from his leg, thanks to Davenport, but from his heart and mind as well. The sure knowledge he'd been betrayed by a man he'd trusted left a sour taste in his mouth and a hole in his heart. He couldn't understand why. Had countering Davenport's lies about Shae, forcing him to leave Magnolia House, precipitated this treachery?

No. Judging by how well everything had been set up, there had to be other underlying reasons for Davenport to be this disloyal. Remy doubted he would ever learn the truth.

There was one saving grace to the situation he found himself in. Shaelyn wasn't here with him. She was home. Safe. Unaware of the danger that had been residing at Magnolia House right under both their noses and the circumstances he found himself in now. He was thankful she hadn't argued with him when she begged to come along and he'd denied her request.

He closed his eyes, and saw her as he would always see her…violet-blue eyes grown darker with passion and twinkling with just a hint of mischief, her hair spreading out on the pillow as she lay back in the bed they shared, beckoning to him, offering comfort and relief. To sink into the solace she promised, to…

Remy shook his head, erasing the image. He sucked in his breath and concentrated on not passing out, refusing to surrender to the blessed darkness overshadowing his mind. He had to remain awake and alert and figure a way out of this. But what? One of his eyes had swollen nearly shut, and the vision in the other kept blurring. His hands were tied behind his back. Tight. Numbness crept up his arms and already his shoulders ached from the unnatural position. Even if he wasn't bound, he doubted he had the strength to crawl to freedom, let alone stand.

He watched Davenport flit around the room, building the fire, laying out bread, cheese, and fruit. He even produced a bottle of Harte's Private Reserve. Someone was expected. Someone important, judging by the way Davenport kept peering out the window.

The captain—no, traitor—turned away from the window and glanced at Remy. Coldness radiated from his eyes, the black eyes of a snake, as he sauntered closer.

Why had he never noticed before?

Remy prepared himself for another kick, another punch, but neither came. Instead, Davenport hunkered down and grinned. Remy wished he hadn't. There was nothing friendly in Davenport's smile. “Do you know how lucky you are?”

“Lucky?” Remy swallowed hard and tasted blood. “I'm not feeling so lucky right now.”

Davenport chuckled. “No, I don't suppose you would, but I swear, Remy, you have the nine lives of a cat. Do you know how many times you should have died?”

“At least once.”

“Oh, the ambush? That, actually, was a mistake.” He grinned a bit sheepishly, as if he should be forgiven a mistake that cost men their lives. “You weren't supposed to get shot that day, but things got a little out of hand. My companions saw blue and that was enough for them to start firing.” He shrugged, the gray of his uniform stretching across his broad shoulders and wide chest.

Remy's stomach twisted as the betrayal deepened. “You tried to kill me.” He grit his teeth, clenching his jaw so tight he saw flashes of white behind his eyes.

Davenport shrugged. “I wasn't aiming for you. I was actually trying to kill General Sumner, but you had to go and make yourself a hero.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Both of you were getting too close to our headquarters. You had to be stopped.” He rose, standing tall. “It was that simple.”

Remy strained his neck to look up into Davenport's smug face. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“It's nothing personal, Remy. Not in the least. I have nothing against you.” His shrugged again as his attention was drawn to the window.

“Not personal?” Remy gestured to his thigh with a nod of his head. “This feels pretty personal to me.”

“I've been given orders, Remy, and I have every intention of following through on those orders. You, above all others, should understand that.” He began to pace, going back and forth between the window and where Remy rested on the floor, his hands clasped behind his back in a perfect imitation of General Sumner. “There were days when looking at you, having to take orders from you, made me physically ill.” He turned and grinned. “But it was all worth it, as there were days when I could rejoice in your suffering. I will be greatly rewarded for my service.”

“Rewarded?” Remy couldn't keep the contempt from his voice.

If Davenport noticed the derision, he didn't act upon it, for which Remy was grateful. He kept pacing and speaking. “When this war is over and the South rises again, there'll be new opportunities for me. I will have power and authority. Control. No more will I take orders from someone who is not my equal.”

“And that day is coming sooner than you realize, Davenport,” a man said as he stepped into the room. He wore a Confederate general's uniform, complete with gold epaulets and a gold-handled saber hanging from the scarlet sash around his waist. As he stood at the threshold, he removed his leather gloves and waited, expectantly, for Davenport to salute him. The captain didn't disappoint.

“Sir!” Davenport straightened, puffed out his chest, and brought his hand up to his brow, showing respect for the general. “My apologies, sir. I did not hear your horse. I would have…”

Remy watched the exchange. He didn't recognize the general, but he acknowledged the carriage and bearing of one who was used to giving orders and not taking them.

“At ease, Davenport,” the general commanded as he strode across the room to the blazing fire. He tossed his gloves on the table and then held his hands out to the roaring flames. “No harm done,” he said over his shoulder, then turned and faced Remy.