She cleared her throat of the lump that had sprouted of a sudden. “On a summer morning, before it gets real hot, you can sit out on the point and watch the barges piled with all sorts of goods and supplies, coming ’round the curve down from the terminal.”
“Heading to the bay.”
Heading to the bay and to places she’d only dreamed of seeing. Though she loved Spivey Point, she’d itched to explore beyond the estate. To touch and hear and taste new worlds, not just what she could see in a picture book.
She passed him the canteen but held onto the cap so he could take a drink. “There’s just a little bit left. And you’re right...water’s not real fresh.”
He tipped back his head and drained the contents. Sure did have a nice neck. All tanned and sleek. Except for that tiny scabbed-over nick. One she’d put there.
He lowered the canteen. “You live there long?”
So many prying questions. The nick on his neck pulsed. A moneylender calling in its dues. She prodded her stingy tongue. “All my life. Lance and I were born at Spivey Point. We’re twins. We lived in a small cabin just up from the main house.”
“You were comfortable there, I take it? Happy?”
There being no simple answer, she just nodded.
“And your father?” He gave her a questioning look. “As overseer, he managed the labor?”
“He was in charge of the slaves, if that’s what you mean.”
“Don’t get prickly. I wasn’t asking—”
“Sure you were. Or you were going to.” She squared her shoulders as that old familiar resentment crept up her spine. “That’s all you Northerners can see when you look at us. Haven’t met a Yankee yet didn’t think every one of us feeds on hate and mistreatment. You don’t know there are respectable folks out there, trying to do right. Good overseers who stay on, working for ignorant masters, so they can guarantee decent care of those poor souls.”
She fisted her hand around the metal canteen cap, squeezing until it bit into her palm. Nobody outside of Spivey Point would ever know of Papa’s charity or the risks he’d taken.
“Your father sounds like a conscientious man. Can’t imagine he thinks too fondly of his daughter running off on a foolish quest.”
“My father’s dead.”
“I’m sorry. Was it recent?”
Some days, it seemed like years ago. Other days, when the grief snuck up on her, it felt like it’d just happened. “He died this past winter.”
“And your mother?”
“Dead, too. For a long time.” Tears burned in her eyes. She combed her fingers through Sock’s mane, smoothing, straightening. Tidying.
Porter gave her another quick, unnerving squeeze. “I just keeping sticking my foot in my mouth, don’t I? That leaves just you and your brother.”
“Here.” She thrust the canteen cap at him, almost striking him in the nose again.
“Kitty, I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh look,” she blurted, pointing to the white-washed structure taking shape through the greenery ahead. Thank heaven for small favors. “That must be the farmhouse.”
He grunted in agreement and shifted around to stow away the canteen.
“I don’t know about you,” she added. “But I could use a break. Stretch my legs. Get the blood flowing again.” Get away from all these pestering questions. And all that muscle and heat and that rich voice rumbling through her with every word. “That canteen needs refilling, too.”
He grunted again, apparently having decided he’d eaten his own hoof enough for one day. Another gift from above. She settled her skirt. Nothing would be gained by telling him everything. What little he knew should be enough to get her to Lance.
She’d deal with the rest.
He guided Socks off the roadway and onto a narrow, rutted lane. The path opened up onto a large clearing occupied by a two-story, white clapboard farmhouse, several outbuildings, and a barn. Half-a-dozen chickens pecked at the sun-dried grass dotting the yard. Papa had often spoken of buying a parcel of land to farm. Had even mentioned building a big, white farmhouse. Her chest tightened. He’d never have the chance to realize his dream.
The squeal of hinges rang out, and a slender woman toting a rifle stepped through the doorway and onto the front porch. Narrowed eyes glared at them from a time-worn face. “That’s far enough,” she called out, leveling the gun barrel in their direction.
Jack reined Socks to a stop. “We mean you no harm, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “Name’s Jackson Porter and this is my wife. We saw your place from the road and thought you might be able to help us.”
“Help you with what?”
“Water, for one thing.”
The woman jerked a nod at the side of the house. “Well’s over there. What else?”
“Last night’s storm spooked my wife’s horse. He dumped her and took off with her belongings. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of the beast since.”
“No horses here. Yankees conscripted ’em all. Even took my plow mules.”
He patted Socks’ neck. “We can make do with this one. It’s not much further to the garrison at Point Lookout.”
The farmwoman frowned and stepped to the edge of the porch. A yellow tabby brushed past her skirt and darted down the stairs. “You don’t look like a soldier. What business you got at Camp Hoffman?”
“I’m a journalist for
The New York Herald.
I’ve been assigned to write a piece on the treatment of Confederate prisoners being held there.”
“The prisoners. Hmmph. Ought to be writing about how poorly the Yankees treat innocent folk outside the prison. Trampling their gardens. Raiding their livestock and larders.”
He gave an understanding nod. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, ma’am, but as you can see, my wife’s dress is ruined. We were wondering if you might have a spare one we might purchase.”
Wary brown eyes focused on her. Louisa smoothed down a wrinkle, hoping the stains looked more like dirt from where the rifle-toting woman stood.
The farmwoman lowered her weapon. “Get yourself a cool drink from the well. I’ll see what I can find for your missus.”
As the woman disappeared through the doorway, Louisa slid from his grasp and slipped to the ground. She hurried toward the well, her skin tingling from his intimate hold. Yes, she definitely needed some water—a whole pail full to pour over her rebellious body.
Footfalls and the clop of hooves thudded behind her. Ignoring the newspaperman’s approach, she grabbed the wooden pail and lowered it until a faint splash echoed up the well shaft. She began hoisting, a difficult task now that the bucket was heavy with water.
“Let me help you.” Porter leaned over, spooning his chest along her back.
Flames licked at her spine. She twisted sideways to break the contact and lost her grip on the handle. The lever spun wildly and nipped her fingers. She yelped and cradled her throbbing hand to her stomach.
He reached for her. “Let me see what you’ve done.”
Was he daft? Having him touch her was the last thing she needed. Her body was already smoldering. She shook her head. “There’s no need. It’s fine.”
“Perhaps it is, but just to be sure...” He gently pried her hand free and examined each finger, his touch like hot coals on her skin.
After what seemed like hours, he finally halted his agonizing inspection and looked up. His dark gaze tunneled into her. “Nothing appears to be broken. Does it hurt?”
Only when I breathe
. She shifted uneasily and looked away. “A little. It’ll feel better in a few minutes.”
Before she could pull out of his grasp, he lifted her hand and pressed a tender kiss to her palm. She gasped and tried to wrench free. “What are you doing?”
“Shhh.” He tightened his grip, holding fast. “Our hostess is watching from the window. Play along. We don’t want to arouse her suspicions.”
She clinched her teeth together in frustration. This charade as husband and wife was proving more difficult than imagined. If she wasn’t careful, she might find herself falling for Jackson Porter’s enticing pull.
****
Jack eyed the stockade wall running parallel to the roadway. Fourteen-foot, at least. And well-guarded. Rifle-toting soldiers patrolled a narrow parapet built along the outer edge. A few gave them cursory glances; others remained focused on prison innards. All appeared to be Negroes. Bet that went over real well with the imprisoned Southern boys.
He reined Socks to a halt, then slipped an arm around the tantalizing female who’d tortured him for most of the day. She wiggled in his lap, fanning the fire he’d worked so hard to control. He ground his teeth around a curse. If their business partnership wasn’t over soon, he might just be tempted to consummate this fake marriage.
He lowered her to the ground, then paused to let the blaze in his loins diminish before dismounting. He didn’t want to unnerve her with evidence of his arousal. He needed her alert and attentive. One slip and she’d expose their ruse to the soldiers.
His lust corralled, he dismounted, snagged Socks’ reins in one hand and Kitty’s elbow with the other, and guided them toward the massive gate. At the base of the wall sat dozens of freshly lumbered pine boxes, waiting to be filled.
Muscles tensed beneath his fingers. She had to be thinking of finding her brother already buried in one of those coffins. His own thoughts ventured along those lines, given what she’d told him about the boy.
He gave her elbow an encouraging squeeze. “He’s fine.”
“He has to be,” came her gravelly reply.
“How can he not? He’s your twin brother. Surely you didn’t get
all
the spit and vinegar.”
She looked up at him, green eyes flashing with challenge. “Is that your attempt at flattery?”
Ah, there was that she-cat he was coming to admire. He smiled. “I do my best.”
“Hmmph. You should stick to writing.”
“That bad, huh?”
She wrinkled her pert little nose. “’Bout as bad as the smell of this prison.”
“Ouch. Writing it is then.”
As they neared the gate, a guard stepped forward, blocking their path. “What business do you have at the prison?”
“Name’s Jackson Porter.” He poked a hand in his knapsack and withdrew his papers. “I’m here to see the Provost.”
“Major Brady’s headquarters are over there.” The soldier pointed at a nearby building, then flicked a curious glance at Kitty.
Though the farmwoman’s dress fit lengthwise, the faded blue-checked material sagged beneath her breasts and puckered at her tiny waist. She looked like a penniless street waif seeking a handout. He shrugged inwardly. Not much they could do about her appearance right now. At least she’d tamed her fiery mane into a respectable bun.
After securing Socks to the hitching post, he helped her up the short stairs and into the Provost’s headquarters. A framed map of Maryland occupied one wall, a portrait of President Lincoln the other. An American flag and the swallow-tailed guidon of the 20th regiment stood in the far corner next to a wooden desk at which sat a soldier, his nose submerged in paperwork.
As the door clicked shut behind them, a faint, indrawn breath drew his attention. Kitty’s face was pale and tense. Widened eyes flicked around the room and latched onto the open window on opposite wall.
He tensed. Gripes. Now was not the time for her to fall apart. He placed a supportive hand on her elbow and whispered an encouraging, “Steady.”
She blinked and gave a brief nod.
“Can I help you, sir?” The adjutant rose to his feet, a frown creasing his baby smooth face. Seemed the longer the War dragged on, the younger the soldiers got.
He moved closer and handed over his papers. “We’re here to see Major Brady.”
The soldier studied the documents, then looked up. “Very well, just one moment.”
He disappeared into an adjacent chamber. A few minutes later, he returned and ushered them into the major’s office. The faint odor of cigar smoke lingered in the air, an expensive brand like the one grandfather enjoyed with after-dinner brandy.
“Mr. Porter.” Meticulously turned-out in a crisp uniform jacket and neatly pressed trousers, Major Allen Brady crossed toward them, hand extended. “What an honor it is to have you here. I’ve read nearly every one of your insightful articles chronicling the War.”
He shook the officer’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I do my best to report things as I see them.” He inclined his head toward Kitty, grateful to see the color returning to her cheeks. “May I introduce my wife?”
The major gave a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
She dipped her head. “Thank you, Major. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”
“I wondered why I hadn’t seen your by-line in
The Herald
recently.” A smile lifted the officer’s bushy mustache. “Now I see why.”
Jack returned the major’s smile and placed a possessive hand at the dip in Kitty’s back. “We met last month in Virginia. I found myself hostage to her Southern beauty and charm.”
She tensed beneath his fingertips, apparently grasping his innuendo. She shifted and arched her back just enough to escape his touch.
“Ah, that explains the lovely accent.” The shrewd officer regarded the ill-fitting dress, his smile fading.
Before Jack could offer an explanation, Kitty ran a hand down her skirt as though smoothing a wrinkle. “I do wish I could’ve been better attired for our meeting, Major. Unfortunately, we met with some difficulties, and my clothes were lost.” She batted her lashes and heaved a disconsolate sigh. “I had to beg this dreary dress off a poor farmwoman.”
Jack stuffed down a snort at her contrived grandeur. He needn’t worry about Miss Carleton. She played her part well, too well, if the appreciative look on Brady’s face was any indication.
“You poor dear,” the officer said with a cluck. “Well, hopefully your stay at Point Lookout will ease the discomforts of your journey. I’ve ordered my adjutant to arrange quarters for you in one of the summer cottages. You can relax there away from the noise and odor of the prison.”
“Summer cottages?” she asked.
“Before construction began on Camp Hoffman, Point Lookout was a civilian resort town. There’s an old lighthouse at the southern tip you might want to explore while your husband tours the prison.”