Mischief and Magnolias (34 page)

Remy tried to focus, but with the sweat dripping into his eyes, everything blurred. He blinked several times but it didn't help.

More noises from outside. Remy stood up straight and puffed out his chest. If this was death, then he'd face it head-on.

“It's me, laddie.”

Relief surged through him, a reprieve from the terror that had rocked him. “Jock,” he whispered, surprised but infinitely grateful as the Scotsman climbed in through the window.

“I'm here too.” Captain Beckett followed the older man inside. They both approached the table where Remy waited, unwilling to let go of something stable beneath his hand.

“Ach, laddie, look at ye!” Jock exclaimed as he studied Remy's face. “Davenport worked ye over pretty good.”

“If my hands hadn't been tied, I could have fought back.”

“I know that, laddie.” Understanding and sympathy glowed from the man's eyes as he reached out and gently touched Remy's shoulder. “No need to worry about that. Or him anymore, either. Davenport'll get what's comin' to him. We caught the bastard leadin' a horse into the stable. He's trussed up and waitin'.” He chuckled then and smiled, his mustache stretching across his upper lip. “Brenna's holding a gun on him. She's a bit shaky with that pistol so I doubt he'll be making any moves.”

“Brenna is here?” Remy couldn't hide the surprise in his voice, nor the sinking feeling in his gut.

“Seems she's got a bit of stubbornness in her too. I'm guessing almost as much as her daughter.” He rocked back on his heels, his pride showing. “I suppose ye seen Shae.”

“She loosened my ropes so I was able to get free before she left with Brooks.” Remy swallowed hard. “James Brooks is the Gray Ghost and he's got her, but I don't know where.”

“I knew that boy was no good, first time Ian brought him home from school!” The Scotsman cussed in his native tongue then shook his head. “An' her! Damn fool woman. Runnin' off on her own. She was supposed to wait for us, but as soon as our backs were turned, she lit out, lookin' for ye.” He cleared his throat, as if dislodging the emotion growing there, then pulled a revolver from where it had been tucked in the sash of his uniform and handed it to Remy.

And not just any revolver, either, but his own army-issue Colt, the one Davenport had taken from him. The grip felt comfortable and familiar in his hand. Truthfully, Remy couldn't wait to see if the weapon still shot as cleanly as it had before. Though he'd kept the revolver clean, he hadn't used it since the day of the ambush.

Self-doubts rushed through his mind, eroding his confidence. The revolver might fire true, but could he see clearly enough to aim?

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the demon of skepticism nipping at the edges of his brain. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he doubted himself.

The Scotsman took a step back, his eyes bright as they drifted from Remy's feet to his hand, resting on the table, to the top of his head then back, stopping briefly at this thigh. “Can ye walk, laddie?”

“Of course.” Remy let go of the table and took a step. Pain, sharp and hot, flared in his thigh, nearly bringing him to his knees with its intensity. Nausea curled in his stomach once more and a cold, clammy sweat chilled him to the bone. He took a deep breath, then another, and remained on his feet. Given his condition though, he didn't know if he'd be a help or a hindrance. The last thing he wanted was for his weakness to be the cause of more heartache.

“Maybe this will help. It's not your cane, but it'll do.” Beckett handed him a stout, crooked stick. Thicker than his cane, it was just as sturdy and the perfect height.

Remy hefted the piece of wood, felt its heaviness. Not only could he use it to take some of the pressure off his leg, but it would come in handy for cracking a skull or two. “This will do nicely. Thank you.”

“So what's the plan, laddie?”

“We'll have to take care of the guards before we can do anything.”

“No need. It's all been done,” the Scotsman said. “The guards are waiting for us on the
Lady Shae
, bound and gagged and under the watchful eyes of Daniel and Cory.”

“Our soldiers are on the steamers as well,” Beckett chimed in. “And the wounded are being looked after.”

For a moment, Remy was overwhelmed by what had been accomplished without his leadership, but the feeling passed. Being a good leader meant those under one's authority could do the right thing even when one wasn't there to help. “Then there's nothing left for us to do except get Shae, capture the Gray Ghost, and get the hell away from this place.”

“Which way?” Beckett asked as his gaze swept the room.

Remy pointed toward the door Shae disappeared through earlier. “There's a parlor that way. What lies beyond the parlor, I don't know.” He turned to Beckett and gestured to a door at the opposite side of the room. “Why don't you take that direction?”

“Of course.” Beckett drew his revolver and stepped quickly but quietly across the room and through the door.

“Can you make it, laddie?” Jock asked when they were alone.

Remy didn't answer. He stood up straight, chest out, shoulders back. Renewed confidence swirled through him. Even his vision was beginning to clear. “Let's go.”

They left the dining room, Jock in the lead, his pistol drawn. The formal parlor, where Remy had first met the Gray Ghost, was empty, though a fire burned behind the grate. A glass of whiskey and a half-empty bottle were on the table beside the fire. There was another glass on the table as well, but that was empty. Had Brooks offered Shaelyn a drink? Had he tried to be social before…

He didn't finish the thought, forcing himself, instead, to move on. Pocket doors, which he hadn't noticed when he'd been in this room before, stood wide open.

He hadn't had time to analyze the floor plan as he was being pushed and shoved toward this house, but he did remember clearly the home had only been one story. Remy crossed the room, every step a new experience in pain, and entered a long, dark hallway. He smelled mildew and despair and shivered.

A faint light glowed from beneath the door across from him. He stopped and listened, but heard nothing. He turned and motioned to Jock, then took a hesitant step forward, his heart beating double time in his chest.

His hand closed over the doorknob. He took a deep breath then twisted. Unlocked, the knob turned easily. He opened the door and stepped into the room.

Candles flickered in the wall sconces, illuminating the scene before his eyes, and it was all he could do not to scream Shaelyn's name as soon as he saw her sprawled on a bed. His heart, which had been beating so quickly before, nearly stopped. She breathed, her chest moving with each inhalation, but her eyes were closed. She didn't make a sound.

Brooks sat on the side of the bed, hovering over her, his back to the door. He had already unbuttoned her uniform shirt as well as his own, and now his hands were on her, sweeping through her long hair, caressing her face. He whispered, words Remy couldn't hear, but he didn't have to.

The urge to kill surged through him like an out-of-control fire.

He's touching my wife!

He cocked the revolver and aimed.

“If you value your life, Brooks, you will move away from my wife,” he warned, his voice deadly calm. “Now.”

Brooks stiffened, but didn't do as he was told. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, his hand resting firmly on Shaelyn's chemise-covered ribcage, but he turned slightly. His gaze swept Remy from head to toe and back, as a slow, contemptuous smile spread his lips. “You won't shoot me.” Even his voice held contempt. “You won't risk hitting her.”

“Don't kill him, laddie,” Jock said as he entered the room and came up behind him. “Let 'im hang.”

The urge to shoot the man wouldn't be appeased, but Jock was right. Killing him now was too good for him. Remy uncocked the pistol and slowly lowered it.

Triumph flared in Brooks's eyes, but it was short-lived.

Remy sucked in his breath as Shaelyn's eyes sprang open. She moved quickly, rolling off the bed and out of James's reach, pulling the edges of her shirt together. “Shoot him!”

Despite his pain, Remy moved quickly toward the bed, swinging the heavy makeshift cane toward Brooks's head. The wood made a satisfying crack as it connected with its intended target. Brooks slumped to the mattress. His eyelids fluttered once, twice, then closed.

“Are you all right?” Remy asked as he rushed to Shaelyn. She met him halfway, falling into his arms as Jock pulled the cords from the draperies and tied Brooks's hands behind his back. The Gray Ghost didn't make a sound, nor did he move.

Her eyes bright with unshed tears, she nodded.

“He didn't hurt you, did he?” He gently touched the bruise forming on her chin.

“No.”

Remy enfolded her in his arms and squeezed gently. “You have no idea what I thought when I stepped through that door and saw you.” Relief made him weak, more so than the beating he had received. That feeling didn't last very long, though, as anger replaced it. “What the hell were you doing? I know you weren't unconscious when I came in this room.”

“I was waiting for my moment.” She brought her knee up to her stomach and pulled the small derringer from her boot. “I was going to shoot him.”

“You…I…damn!” Remy stammered, then closed his mouth and shook his head. The woman would be the death of him. She was decidedly too daring for her own good. And too…

There were so many things he wanted to say to her. They were on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't utter a single one. There would be time for that later, once they were home. In the meantime, he was just happy she was safe and, aside from the bruise on her chin, unharmed, though he was certain he'd have nightmares of this day for years to come.

“The next time I tell ye to wait for me, I expect ye to listen, lassie,” Jock admonished her as he finished tying Brooks's hands behind his back.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is everyone all right?” Beckett rushed into the room, his revolver drawn and aimed. He stopped short, uncocked his pistol, and shoved it back into the sash around his waist as three pairs of eyes turned toward him. “Shae.” He grinned and gave a slight nod of his head, then glanced at the man on the bed. “So this is the Gray Ghost. He doesn't look like much, does he?”

The man on the bed moaned and moved his head slightly.

“He's coming around.” Jock nudged him, trying to speed his recovery. “What do ye say we get out of this place?”

“Yes, let's go home,” Remy agreed, and let out his breath in a long sigh. Shaelyn was safe. They'd captured both the Gray Ghost and Davenport and freed the men who'd been held prisoner.

Beckett and Jock hauled Brooks to his feet and walked him out of the plantation house toward the stable and the wagon waiting in the yard. Defeated, hands bound behind his back, the man didn't even try to wrestle himself free, didn't look at anything except the ground.

Remy and Shaelyn followed. He leaned heavily on his makeshift cane, but managed to hold her close, determined never to let her go. “You and I are not done with this adventure of yours,” he whispered in her ear.

She shivered against him and then turned that impudent grin toward him, reassuring him once again she had not been the least bit hurt from the events of the night. “Yes, sir.”

“Brenna?” Jock called as they got closer to the stable. “You can come out, my love. It's all over. We've captured the Gray Ghost.”

Brenna slipped out of the stable, the pistol gripped tightly in her hand. She stopped short and looked at the man standing between Jock and Captain Beckett. Her eyes opened wide as she sucked in her breath.

“James? You're the Gray Ghost?” Her voice was soft and hoarse with repressed tears before she slapped him across the face, her expression a mix of anger and disappointment. “I am ashamed of you!” she declared, her warm blue eyes frosty at the moment. “You were welcome in my house, sat at my table, and ate the food I cooked for you and this…this is what you've become.” She raised her hand, intending to slap him again. “Where is my son?”

“He's not here, Mama. He went to Washington.” Shaelyn rushed forward just as Jock grabbed Brenna and pulled her away before she made good on her threat.

“That's enough now, my love,” the Scotsman said as he led her toward the wagon. He helped her up and then went back to assist Beckett with the prisoners. Hands bound behind their backs, both Davenport and Brooks were loaded into the back of the cart, much more gently than they deserved. Both were tied to the cart's railings before Jock climbed in and joined Brenna behind the seat.

Remy watched the proceedings and then helped Shaelyn into the wagon seat. He studied the height of the seat and wondered briefly if he had the strength to follow suit.

“Need a hand?” Beckett asked from the other side of the wagon.

“No, thank you. I got it.” He took a deep breath, then another, forcing the pain away, and climbed into the seat.

Beckett swung up next to Shaelyn and grabbed the reins. With a well-practiced flick of his wrist, the wagon started moving.

Sunrise was still hours away as they rambled down the path toward the river, Brooks's horse clopping along behind the wagon. All were weary, not only physically but mentally as well, and no one spoke. Not even Brooks or Davenport, although Remy felt the heated glare of Davenport's unrelenting stare in the middle of his back. He resisted the urge to shudder, as well as the impulse to turn in his seat and use his makeshift cane on the man's head.

Shaelyn rested her head against his shoulder and entwined her fingers with his. He rubbed his chin against the softness of her hair, so thankful she hadn't been hurt…or worse.

The
Sweet Sassy
and the
Lady Shae
came into view, moonlight illuminating the smokestacks and pilothouses, while lantern light glowed intermittently along the railing. Men crowded against the balustrade and along the landing stage, ready to lend a helping hand.