The Rebel Wife (29 page)

“Miss Carleton, how good to see you.” Mrs. Gardner held out a linen-covered basket. “Here. Take this basket of muffins. We’ll be going inside soon.”

Inside. A familiar jangle played through her. Lance was close. Real close. She could feel his presence straight down to her marrow.

“You can wait over there with the others if you’d like,” Mrs. Gardner added.

Louisa joined the other basket-toting ladies waiting near the entrance. Armed soldiers stood before the massive gate, the last barricade between her and Lance. Off to one side, a tall, arresting Yankee watched over the proceedings, his hawk-like gaze taking in everything around him.

“Major Beale!” a man called out to the officer.

The basket handle bit into her clenched palm. She doubted the major would recognize her as he’d only visited Spivey Point a handful of times. But the toadish man waddling toward him would. Henry Lawrence had practically lived at the plantation after the death of his older brother.

He wore a top hat, fancy suit, and carried a gold-handled cane. Still as dandified as ever. Though there seemed to be more of him. Too much time spent at the slop trough, most likely.

He turned toward the group of women, and she ducked to hide her face. She couldn’t let him spot her and spoil her plan. But oh, how she ached to pull the knife from her boot and thrust it into his fat, twisted heart.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a thick-chested soldier moving toward them. “Good afternoon, Ladies,” he greeted, his voice syrupy sweet and grating on her already splintered nerves. He strutted around them like a rooster in yard full of hens. “Hope you had a pleasant ride through town.”

There were a few soft-spoken replies and a faint giggle or two. Reckon Yankee women could also spot a cock for what it was. More crow, than meat.

The burly soldier stopped a few feet away from her and buried his nose in a basket. “Smells mighty fine, Mrs. Johnson.” His beady gaze shifted to another woman. “And what about you, Miss Lacey? What goodies have you brought our lucky prisoners?” He angled closer to the blonde, and unfortunately closer to her.

Louisa took a step to the side, putting a broad-hipped woman between her and the nosey bluebelly. Sweat dribbled from beneath the rim of her bonnet and dampened her brow. With both hands occupied holding basket and satchel, she wasn’t able to get to her handkerchief. Hopefully the soldiers would credit her perspiration to the heat and not to nerves.

A large hand clamped on her basket handle. “I have to inspect your basket, ma’am.”

Startled, she glanced up at her challenger. Not the burly soldier, but one just as unnerving. Blue eyes met hers, interest flaring in their pale depths as he studied her face. His lips curved into a more-than-friendly smile, and he dipped his head in greeting.

Great. Just what she needed, an admirer. She mumbled a polite, “Certainly,” and handed him the basket.

He lifted the covering and gave the contents a quick inspection. “Very good.” He gestured to her satchel. “Now that.”

It’d been risky bringing Jack’s journal with her. If anyone read the contents before she could get it to the senator, it’d put them all in danger. Maybe catching the soldier’s eye wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

“Ma’am?”

She fumbled with the latch, her feeble efforts more genuine than pretend. “I’m so sorry, Lieutenant.” She supplied him with her most sugary smile. “The catch sometimes sticks.”

He shook his head and pointed to the single stripe on his sleeve. “I’m just a private, ma’am. Not an officer.”

“Oh my, you look so imposing in that uniform. I just assumed...”

His chest puffed ever so slightly, and she stuffed down a grin.
Easier than taking candy from a baby.
She yanked on the latch, and it popped open. “Nothing much in here. Just a few personal items. My diary...” She batted her eyelashes to draw his attention away from the satchel contents.

Her efforts paid off. His gaze barely skimmed the satchel before returning to her face. “Did you just join? The Women’s League, I mean. I don’t recall seeing you before.”

“I’m new in town. Mrs. Gardner invited me to come and see some of the charitable events the League conducts for the city.”

He handed her the basket. “It’s admirable what you ladies are doing for the prisoners, but you never know what an ornery Reb might do.” He leaned closer, his eyes near devouring her. “Pretty thing like you will draw them like bees to clover. You just call out if they bother you. I’ll be right there to help.”

She bowed her head, feigning coyness while bile rode up her throat. Ornery Rebs, her fanny. “Thank you, Private. I feel much safer knowing you’ll be nearby.”
Hmmph
.
Safe as a rabbit in a fox den.

He gave her one last appreciative look, then moved on to continue his inspections. After a few minutes, he called out an, “All clear.”

The signal was repeated down the line until the screech of hinges rang out. A widening arc of daylight bloomed ahead, and the women surged forward. She moved with them, her blood singing, her heart dancing a jig.

They passed through the open gate and into a huge compound. Freshly-hewn plank buildings lined the enclosure. Men knelt on the rooftops, the tap-tap of their hammers echoing against the stockade walls. In the distance, white canvas tents dotted the horizon like clouds in formation. Was Lance in one of them? The thought had her fairly skipping over the ground.

The strutting Sergeant led them into a long, rectangular building where a row of tables had been arranged. “Line up on the other side of these tables,” he instructed. “The prisoners will arrive shortly. And remember, ladies, no talking. Just hand out your items.”

She joined the other women behind the tables, setting her satchel at her feet and the basket of muffins on the tabletop. Before long, the thud of footsteps sounded, and the prisoners began shuffling inside, one-by-one, eyes down-cast, their bony faces framed by long scraggly hair. Tattered clothing hung on bodies that had no more meat to them than a scarecrow.

As they filed past, some dipped into her basket for a golden muffin while others opted for fruit or a blanket from another. She studied each dirt-smudged face, hope fading as none held the features she’d hoped to find.

Her gaze drifted to the entrance. The major stood by the door, silent and erect as a pine tree, while his piggish partner simpered and fawned over a well-dressed newcomer. Senator Morgan, most likely, considering the herd of newspapermen hovering nearby, pencils busy as they observed the procession. None wore a black eye-patch.

She swiped sweat from her palms and tucked trembling hands into the folds of her skirt. Jack’s absence might not mean a thing. No sense getting all worked up. Besides, the last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself.

Pale green eyes staring out from a thin face caught her notice. A quiver started deep inside her, and thoughts of Jack waned as she gave the approaching prisoner a closer look.

Matted locks brushed his shoulders, the color hidden beneath a thick coat of filth. A scruffy beard concealed his chin and jaw. Yet when he brushed a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture, the breath lodged in her throat.

Lance
!

Only two buttons held his ragged shirt closed. Weather-worn trousers hung low on his hips, lashed in place by a thin rope. He hobbled forward, favoring one leg. He was alive, but clearly not unharmed.

Tears swam in her eyes. She wanted to reach out and touch him—to see for herself he was real. But such a gesture would put them both at risk. She’d just have to wait until the Lawrences had been dealt with. Then she’d give him the biggest, longest hug ever.

Green eyes met hers and went wide with recognition. His shuffling gait faltered. He started to lift his hand, then dropped it back to his side. He too knew the danger of acknowledging one another.

A shadow fell across the table. Lance gave a slight jerk of his head. Someone was behind her. She nodded in response.

“Is anything amiss, ma’am?”

Drat. It was her admirer. She turned, forcing a smile. “Everything’s perfectly fine, Private.”

“Frank.”

“Pardon?”

“Name’s Frank. Frank Schofield.” He bent closer and lowered his voice. “If you’re interested, I’d like to meet you after my shift. We can talk some. Get to know each other better.”

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”

“You sure?” He brushed a finger along her upper arm, then cupped her elbow. “Seemed like you were interested earlier.”

She shrank away from his touch. “Please don’t.”

A blood-curdling yell froze them both. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a rag-clad figure leap across the table and slam into Private Schofield.

Chapter Eighteen

“Throw Corporal Carleton into the pit with the other one.”

Though Lance stood motionless between two rifle-toting guards, his shoulders stiffened at Major Beale’s order. Lips smeared with blood pulled tight. Clearly
the pit
was not a good thing.

“Please, Major.” She swallowed her pride with a hard gulp. She’d beg ’til the cows came home if it saved Lance. “Don’t blame the Corporal. It wasn’t his fault. I was the one who broke the rules.”

“You’ll have your say soon enough, Miss Carleton.” He motioned to the row of tables, empty now of the Women’s League and their baskets. “Go wait over there. I’ll be with you shortly.” His tone, though firm, was composed and gave no hint as to his mood.

“But—”

“Let’s not cause any more trouble, miss, shall we?”

Trouble. That was her middle name. Yet again, Lance had landed himself in a kettle trying to defend her. Why did she always find herself in situations that provoked his brotherly sense of duty?

Lance looked up, and the love and understanding in his green eyes wrapped around her like a hug. A sob hung in her throat, and she mouthed the words,
I’m sorry
. He gave a tiny shake of his head. He was so forgiving, so caring. She’d get him out of this horrid place, or die trying.

One of the guards shoved him with the butt of a rifle. Lance stumbled and a pained grimace shot across his face. He righted himself, then shuffled forward, mouth clamped tight, skin pale as the white-washed walls.

She bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying foul. Hard as it was to watch Lance suffer, taking the major to task would only make matters worse. If she’d learned anything these past few weeks, it was how to hold her tongue. Beale would get his just desserts soon enough.

As Lance exited through one doorway, Mrs. Gardner appeared in the other, her face strained and lined with concern. Probably regretting her decision to let a Rebel Southerner join their outing.

“Major Beale,” the League leader called out. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

“I’ll be with you in a minute, ma’am.”

“You have no call to hold Miss Carleton,” the woman persisted. “She did nothing wrong.”

Louisa straightened. Didn’t that beat all? A Yankee was actually defending her.

“I’ll be the judge of that, ma’am. We have rules here for a reason.”

“I understand, but—”

“Then you’ll understand why I must insist you go back outside with the others.” Only a slight tightening of Beale’s jaw muscle betrayed his annoyance. “Miss Carleton will be dealt with appropriately.”

How appropriately? With a knife? A bullet? No runaway carriages around that she could see. But then dead was dead.

The burly soldier from earlier, Sergeant Wilson she overheard someone call him, entered the room and stopped before the major. One eyelid puffed and was going purple. Dried blood clumped in the corner of his mouth. Lance had gotten in a few good licks before being subdued. If she wasn’t so worried about what they were going to do to him, she might’ve cheered.

“Prisoners are all back on their wards, sir,” the sergeant reported. “With no further incidents.”

“Good.” Beale gestured to the doorway. “Escort Mrs. Gardner outside with the other ladies, then see them all to their carriages. This one’s staying a while longer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Once the League is gone, take care of that situation in the pit. There’ll be two of them.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The sergeant pivoted in a squelch of boot leather and headed for the door. He motioned for the two soldiers guarding the entrance to join him, and then guided a protesting Mrs. Gardner through the doorway.

That left her alone—with one of the rattlesnakes that had ordered Papa to be killed and planned God-knew-what for Lance. The other viper had slithered to safety during the ruckus. Lawrence would soon be crawling out from under his rock. Time to leave before she got snake bit.

She took a step forward, only to be rudely jerked to a stop.

“Just where do you think you’re going, Missy?”

Henry Lawrence.
He’d used that tone with her right after Bart died. He sounded just as venomous now as he had back then, and it made her skin crawl.

She turned and faced him, chin thrust up. A year ago, she had cowered before his vicious taunts, too distraught over Bart’s attack and Lance’s flight to do much else. Not now. Not since Jack’s love had shown her just how valuable she was.

“Take your hands off me,” she ground through clenched teeth.

His face turned a mottled red, eyelids narrowing to slits. “Don’t go giving me orders, you little strumpet.” He tightened his grip, fingers digging like fangs into her skin. “You’re the reason my nephew’s dead. If you hadn’t led him on with your female trickery, he’d still be alive.”

Female trickery
! Fury bolted inside her like a runaway horse. “Why you overblown, bigoted toad. The only ones to blame for Bart’s death are you and your no-account family.” She poked a finger at him. “Y’all spoiled that boy. Gave him anything he wanted. He never had to do an honest day’s work in his life; thought everything was his for the taking—including me.”