Bride of the Night (6 page)

Actually, he wasn't sure he was glad for the wind; he was slowly drying, but the air was cold, and his flesh felt like ice. He'd had matches in his pocket, but they were quite worthless now.

He hunkered down to see the sand.

Footprints. The foot was fairly small, but the indentations were deep, and they almost dragged, as if the imprinter had carried a heavy load. There seemed to be drag marks in the sand, as well.

A seabird let out a raucous cry in the night, a sound so sudden and eerie in the darkness that even he tensed, spinning around. He stood quickly.

The last of the fires had burned out. There seemed to be nothing in the darkness.

He looked toward the center of the island where pines and palms had taken root, and where someone, evading capture, might well seek sanctuary.

 

T
ARA COULD SEE HIM
coming.

The man was tall. The darkness wouldn't allow much more information than that, but she had a sense about him. It was almost like she was being stalked by a jungle cat, one of the panthers that prowled the hammocks of the Everglades up on the mainland. He didn't slouch. He didn't creep along the beach. He just stood there, perhaps doing the same as she—trying to
sense
the very air around him.

He couldn't possibly see her in the dark, and yet, she felt as if he was looking right through her.

He saw her!

Or he saw something. He started walking right toward her little palm-and-pine sanctuary, and in a minute, he'd discover where she'd hidden Richard.

Tara eased to her feet; as silently as she could, she made her way behind the stand of pines and crept back into the brush and palms. Once there, she fled back toward the west, allowing the foliage to slap around her, giving a clear path to anyone who wanted to follow her.

She did well. Turning back, she saw the man was no longer on the beach. He had disappeared as if he'd been no more than a shadow in the night.

She weighed her situation. Looking up, she saw the
outstretched branch of a sea grape tree. She measured the distance, lowered herself and bounded onto the high branch. Then she sat silent, waiting.

 

E
VEN FOR
F
INN
,
PURSUIT
in the dark was not easy, though it was usually more of a friend to him, and an enemy to those he sought.

He had followed the trail, and yet, it seemed amazing that, now, the same person who had made those footprints was bounding as light as a bird through the trees. He followed with all speed, running through brush, a copse of pines and through a thicket containing a dozen different trees. He followed the thrashing he had heard, the bracken breaking underfoot, and he burst through the trees onto a higher spit of ragged brush and poor sand.

Which was empty.

He held still, listening again.

He let go of the natural sounds of the island.

The now-slightly distant roll of the waves, the rustle of branches. He heard again a sound that was guttural, like a rooting sound, as if animals—wild pigs? boars?—sought deep in the ground for some kind of food. He heard the wings of a bird as it took flight from one of the tall trees.

He knew that the Spaniards had found native tribes living on most of the islands; fishermen and others had come and gone forever. Pirates had made use of the channels and the reefs to escape capture. They'd brought new species to the little islands, and there might well be anything—plant or animal—hunting in a semitropic climate here.

Pigs, birds, insects, crabs.

He kept listening, concentrating his extrasensory abilities.

Then he could hear it.

The beating of a heart.

The sound was fast, a strong rhythm.

And then Finn knew; he was being watched, just as he was watching.

He stood where he was for a long time, and then he started back to the beach. As he did so, he heard a wild flurry of activity behind him; he turned, and he saw the figure running back into the trees.

He raced after the fleeting form, but in the midst of trees again, the subject of his chase disappeared once again. He didn't hesitate that time.

He stopped cold, and he
listened.

And found that heartbeat again.

He waited a very long time, until he was certain, until the
thump-thump-thump
grew stronger and so familiar to him that it almost seemed a cacophony.

He took aim, and jumped, certainly taking his culprit by complete surprise.

Even though the thought had crossed his mind upon uncovering the petticoat, he had not fully accepted that he might actually find the woman he had lost in Gettysburg. The experience had been such a sword in his side; he had chafed at losing her, been haunted even by what had happened, and now…

She screamed, not so much with fear, but with com
plete surprise, as he made his way to the branch, capturing her in his arms and bringing them both slamming down to the ground below. He looked into her eyes, amazed that he remembered them so well, and as she stared up at him, he realized that she found instant recognition, as well.

She stared at him as if fighting for the right words of loathing to hurl his way. She was winded, he realized, even if he'd twisted himself to take the brunt of the fall. And so he spoke first.

“Why, miss. Fancy meeting you here, on such a dark and lonely night.”

She looked back at him, gasping for breath, and he eased his hold.

“Let me go—move. You're an oaf. You're a disgrace to your uniform,” she spat out.

“I don't wear a uniform. But I
am
taking you in—”

“You have no power to take me anywhere.”

“You're a blockade runner. And I believe your name is Gator, and that you're plotting against the president of the United States of America. You will face a military tribunal, and you will hang, my dear,” he said most pleasantly.

Of course, it was doubtful that she would hang. Southern spies—women—had been incarcerated in D.C., but the judges and leaders seemed loath to take action against such a woman. Hanging one damsel—however clawed and vicious she might be—would just be another knife in the side of the Southern ethic.

And, of course, Finn thought, what a waste if she
were to hang. Even now, in half-dry, tattered clothing, hair tangled in clumps around her features, she was stunning. The same uncanny beauty he'd reflected upon since Gettysburg. She had a perfect face, with large eyes that dominated the fine, slender structure of her cheeks and jawline. Her brows were clean and even and fly-away, and if she were to smile…

She didn't smile. “You're in a Southern state, you fool,” she told him.

“There's a massive Union fort down at the tip, in case you hadn't noticed. And let's see, the Union has held St. Augustine since '62. Plus, there's a host of Union sailors about to land on this little islet, while I'm not seeing any boys in butternut and gray marching along the sand to save you. Oh—and since we're at war, I think I'm doing okay,” he told her pleasantly.

To his amazement, she smiled, giving no resistance.

And then she did.

He had eased his hold to something far too gentle; she was small, but apparently built of steel. She suddenly shoved him aside with exceptional strength, kicked out hard, catching him entirely by surprise and with a sound assault, and leaped to her feet.

“Ass!” she hissed.

And he was, of course, because she was gone.

 

I
T WAS EASY ENOUGH
to escape him; she could move quietly and with the speed of light when she chose. Of course, she was exhausted, and laden with the heaviness
of the salt water still soaked into her clothing. And still, she had managed to take him by surprise.

As he had done with her.

But now she knew; now, she would not take her eyes off him.

Even with this resolve, her heart sank; she was certain that he was telling the truth. The Yankee ship was going to go down, but not as Richard's
Peace
had.

The men aboard the Union ship had survived, and they would be coming to the island.

Trying to keep a step ahead of him, and draw him away from Richard, she headed toward the western side of the island. Moving through the trees and brush, she burst out somewhere near the southwest, at a copse leading straight out to the water, to an inlet where old coral formed some kind of a seawall.

She bent over, breathing hard, pondering her next move—
her way to save Richard
—when she heard his voice again, and jackknifed instantly to a straightened position.

“You are stubborn, my dear. But you'll not get away. Not this time.”

She stared at him, incredulous. How was he standing before her? How had he reached the copse before she had managed to?

“You're supposedly some kind of officer of the law, is that what it is? Well, you're insane. I wasn't in Gettysburg to hurt anyone. And I'm not hurting anyone on this island. What, did they put you in charge of the
blockade? Are you trying to starve women and children?” she demanded.

“I'm not in charge of the blockade. And the blockade isn't to starve anyone, but instead to stop a war, and any reasonable student of military history is surely aware of that fact. But, no, I'm not in charge of the blockade. I'm in charge of rounding up would-be assassins.”

Up close, within an arm's breadth, he did tower well over her and, while he appeared lean in what remained of his white cotton shirt, muscle rippled at his chest where the buttons had given way from throat to midabdomen. She looked into his eyes, however; his physical prowess was not something that really worried her.

“There are no assassins on this island,” she said. “In fact, this is my home. You're rude. You're trespassing.”

“You came off the blockade runner. This is not your home.”

“It's certainly far more my home than it is yours, or the North's.”

“It's not a qualifying point at all—this island is deserted, and you came off the blockade runner. For that, you will answer to the government of the United States of America.”

His eyes glowed so darkly that they almost appeared to be red fire in the night. His features might have been chiseled for a great warrior statue, and he seemed to have the ego and arrogance of a god to go with the hard-wrought classicism of his face. She felt the urge to take
a step back, but, of course, she would never do so. She wouldn't lose.

“I am not a citizen of the United States of America, sir, and therefore, I will not answer to any government other than my own.”

He stared at her without speaking, and then shook his head sadly. “You people would prolong this war forever. You would watch thousands and thousands more die.”

“I am not fond of war!” she snapped back sharply. “But, sadly, I am not in charge of the state of affairs, and to my knowledge, the war still exists.”

She felt a strange chill; it was what she believed, and she so wanted it to be over. Every day was futile now; every day was just more loss of life.

“I have no intention of discussing my feelings regarding this war—or anything, for that matter—with you, sir.” She set her hands on her hips, trying for some form of dignity, which was actually quite ridiculous under the circumstances. Had someone called her
bedraggled
at that moment, it would have surely been a compliment.

He didn't take a step toward her, but, hands folded behind his back, he took a step around her, making her far more uneasy than she wanted to admit.

“What is your name, and where are your accomplices?”

“I don't have accomplices,” she replied.

“You were sailing that ship on your own?”

“I didn't come off that ship. I live here.”

“You didn't come off the ship, yet you're caked with sand and seawater.”

“If I choose to take a dip at night, it's no one's concern.”

“The water just about has frost in it,” he said dryly.

“I am from here. I am accustomed to bathing through the year. One can become quite adept at the water in the islands,” she assured him.

“Interesting. I last saw you in Gettysburg. Stalking the president.”

“I was not stalking the president,” she said.

“I suggest that you tell me about your companions—or hang alone,” he said agreeably.

“You are an arrogant and extremely rude person, and I know your countrymen far too well to believe that many share your total lack of courtesy. I am guilty of nothing, and I suggest you leave me be, or the fate that awaits you will be far worse than hanging.”

He laughed, and for a moment she was, despite the circumstances, struck by just how appealing his dark good looks were.

Except, of course, he was an ass.

“I weary of this. Leave me be, and no harm will come to you.”

He shook his head, still smiling, and amused that she would dare to threaten him.

“You'll excuse me?” she said, her tone equally modulated, as if they were in a fine drawing room.

He didn't move. She stepped toward him, took one hand and set it on his chest, and pushed.

She had expected that he would go flying. He did not; she took him by surprise again, but he barely budged. His movement, however, did give her the escape she needed. With the foot and half that lay between them, she turned, and burst back through the brush and trees.

Where to go? Oh, God, where to go? She couldn't lead him back to Richard…?.

Had Richard awakened to consciousness yet?

She tried leading the tall stranger deep into the trees, and far from the eastern spit of beach where Richard lay covered in the sheet of branches. To the northwest…that was the way she had to go. Again, she ran, swift as sound and the darkness.

But she could sense her pursuer at every turn.

She burst into another copse, aware that her strength was waning.