Bride of the Night (7 page)

She turned back; she could hear noise on the island. The men from the Union ship had reached the shore at last.

How many men had survived from the Union ship? Oh, God, if the men thought that one of them was an assassin, indeed, they might not make the night.

She wanted to sink to the sand in exhaustion; she must not.

She turned again, forming a plan in her mind. She had to keep them away from Richard through the night, and in the morning steal one of their longboats. No one
knew the coast and channels and the islands like Richard did. If she could steal one of the longboats, they could escape. That was it, a simple plan.

She stiffened, her muscles suddenly burning again as if the fire on the ship raged near once more; she
felt
him behind her,
knew
that he was there.

How?

She turned, and he was.

Just behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his body, sense him there.

He stared at her, waiting; she didn't speak. “Agent Finn Dunne, miss. Pinkerton. By the power invested in me by the United States of America, I'm placing you under arrest for seditions and attempted murder.”

She gasped. “I'm not attempting to murder anyone! And you're still an ass. I will not go anywhere with you.”

“I honestly suggest that you do. I can chase you around the island all night, or you can come with me now. You can bring me to your companion, and when the others arrive, we can administer medical aid to him.”

“I don't have a companion.”

“Really, miss. I've seen whereabouts you've hidden your friend. Not very endurable alone and injured, and he probably does need medical attention.” He shrugged. “Such as we can offer.”

She shook her head, feeling lost, impotent and helpless.

She could escape. Eventually, she could escape.

But Richard…

“Whatever you're thinking someone is guilty of doing, it's not us.”

“You were on a blockade runner.”

“We are still at war,” she reminded him.

“Choice is yours,” he said softly. “Show me to your friend, and we can see to him. Keep trying to escape, and I will keep coming after you. I never give up, miss. And if my companions come upon
your
companion without my protection, well, I'm not sure how things will go.”

“You will not hurt Richard?”

“That I swear.”

“And I should believe you? Why?”

“My word is sacred to me. And besides, you really have no choice. I don't know if you've heard it yet or not, but the Yankee longboats have reached the shore.”

“Then we will return to Richard,” she said.

He nodded. She was surprised when he looked at her curiously, head at a slant, dark eyes seeming to have that ripple of fire again. “Richard. Richard…?”

“Richard Anderson,” she said. “Captain Richard Anderson.”

He nodded and came closer to her. She bit her lip. She wasn't going to move.

“And you?” he said politely. “Who are you? I don't know your name, or who you are—even though I'm quite sure that I know exactly
what
you are.”

T
ARA STOOD STILL
,
for a moment not sure that he'd said what she thought he'd said. Maybe her fear of discovery was becoming irrational. Maybe she was imagining things.

She stared back at him, desperately praying that she would show no emotion.

There were others of her kind; she knew that. And that “her kind” came in full-blood and half-blood—those who had an ancestor generations before, and had inherited certain traits. Her mother had done her best to teach Tara everything that she had known, that she had learned from Tara's father. Tara had never actually met another of “her kind,” but she knew that someone was out there; she also had half siblings, and she often felt an emptiness inside, wishing desperately that she might know them. She had sisters and brothers and…?.

And a father.

Finn was staring at her. She tried to stare back at him, her head cast at an angle, a slight smile curving her lips.

“Yes,” Finn told her. “I said exactly that—I know
what
you are.”

She waved a hand in the air. “A Southerner?”

He laughed. “Well, that would be true, too, I imagine. No, I know what you
really
are. Half-breed. Blood-sucker. Vampire. Some might call you a succubus, demon or lamia. What they call you doesn't matter.”

She shook her head, incredibly wary of the man who seemed to have her at his mercy. He'd been ahead of her all night long—even though she had managed a smooth escape from him at Gettysburg. She could have escaped him tonight, too, but for Richard.

“No tricks,” he told her.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she assured him.

He indicated the path where they had ripped through the foliage in their chase. “I'm going to suggest that we head back—before the angry men who just lost their ship come upon your friend.”

She hesitated. “I'm telling you, neither of us is a spy. And neither of us is an assassin.”

“You're both blockade runners.”

“Richard is a merchant, nothing more.”

He sighed. “Of course. But merchants running arms at times of war are by definition blockade runners. I am a tremendous believer in due process of law. If you come with me now, I can guarantee that nothing will happen to either of you on my watch. So, if you value your friend's life…” He let his voice trail and indicated she begin walking.

Tara did so. She turned and began moving quickly
through the brush, doing her best to make sure that every branch she passed slapped back into his face.

He didn't say a word, he simply caught the branches.

She let her words trail over her shoulder at him, along with her anger. “Due process of law. That means you get us into a puppet military court, and see that we're hanged.”

“If you're innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

“You're looking for someone called Gator. I'm not Gator. Richard isn't Gator. There's no reason that you should suspect either of us as your man.”

“We'll see, won't we?” was all he replied.

“You should be worried, you know,” she said smoothly.

“Oh?”

“Lamia! You see me now, but I'll turn to smoke, and you'll find me behind your back, slipping around your side, seeking your jugular vein.”

“That's always possible.”

“You should tremble. You shouldn't push my temper,” she warned.

“I'm a mass of trembling flesh. Please keep moving.”

As she walked, she became aware of the shouts and instructions of the other Union men in the distance—one booming voice, and then others that rang back and forth as they scurried to obey the commander.

Tara quickened her pace. Finn Dunne hurried behind her.

When she at last neared the little copse where she had left Richard, she ran the last few steps.

She raced by the last tree. From there she could see that men had pulled longboats up on the beach, and that they were being sent out to gather firewood.

There seemed to be a lot of them.

Tara slid down to her knees at Richard's side. His eyes were still closed; he had barely moved. But a quick check assured her that he was still breathing. His pulse even ticked a little stronger than before.

Finn Dunne was down beside her. He could move with an astonishing ease, especially for a man so tall. She tried to ignore him, but could not.

“Richard Anderson,” he said.

“Yes, his name is Richard Anderson.”

“And your name is…?”

“Tara. Tara Fox.”

“What?”
His tone was so sharp that it stunned her.

She looked at him. His features were hard and tense; his eyes seemed to be burning as he stared at her. They were such unusual eyes.

“Tara Fox,” she repeated.

To her surprise, his eyes said he knew her name.

“Look, I don't know what information you've been given, but you're mistaken in me. I would never hurt Lincoln. Never. I would do anything to stop any evil being done to the man. Even a fool knows that we'll need his strong leadership when it's time to make peace and reconstruct the South. Stop looking at me like that. I am not a monster.”

“That's debatable,” he murmured, getting to his feet.

As he did so, a loud shout rose in the air.

“Dunne! Agent Dunne! Are you here?”

Tara touched Richard's face gently and rose, as well. On the beach, she counted ten men. Several were still securing their boats.

The others had their guns at the ready.

“Here!” Finn Dunne called out. “I have the survivors from the Rebel ship. They're unarmed. Hold your fire!”

Tara looked at him, feeling a sudden surge of anxiety. The Union men could have come upon them after the sea battle with guns blazing. This man had prevented that. She could only pray that the Pinkerton meant his words, that they wouldn't be harmed.

In her heart, she honestly believed that most men were honorable. Union men would not murder a man in cold blood. And yet, despite the decency and courtesy displayed by commanders on both sides, horrible murders had occurred. While she understood that John Brown had wanted to make all men free with his campaign against slavery, he had in fact committed murder—and in the Kansas and Nebraska territories, men had committed murder in retaliation.

Wasn't war just sanctified murder?

She just stood there, tense, terrified and praying. The philosophy of man wasn't something she could solve, and certainly not at this moment.

Please, God, don't let them hurt Richard.

A young soldier came through the trees. She thought that she recognized him—that bit of scruffy beard
on his chin—but he was so covered in soot that she couldn't be sure. He looked at Tara with surprise, his brows shooting up. Then he looked at the man on the ground and spoke to the Pinkerton agent.

“Sir!” the young man said, addressing Finn Dunne. “The men are busy setting up on the beach, sir. Captain Tremblay set off a flare, and he says we can expect a Union ship by tomorrow. There are always ships ready to move with all speed from the fort.” His eyes kept darting with surprise toward Tara. He gasped suddenly. “Tara!”

“Billy Seabold?” she asked.

Billy nodded.

“You two know each other?” Finn asked sharply.

Billy nodded. “Well, a bit, anyway.” He scrambled to take off his military jacket, and offered it to Tara.

“I'm fine, thank you, really.”

“Please, Miss Fox, allow me the courtesy,” Billy said.

She thought to refuse would be rude, and so she accepted the jacket. Dunne was looking from one of them to the other, as if mentally shaking his head over the naivety of youth—in his mind, apparently, Billy was offering comfort to a venomous snake.

Finn cleared his throat.

“Oh…oh! If you'll follow me to the beachfront, please?” Billy said.

Tara hunkered back down by Richard. Finn lowered himself as well, moving her aside with the breadth of his shoulders. “I will take him,” Finn said.

“He's—he's my friend. My brother, really,” she added softly. “I will tend to him.”

Finn's voice lowered. “You want everyone wondering how you have the strength of ten men?” he queried.

She fell silent, lowering her eyes. He could, if he chose, kill her—he knew how. Why didn't he? Was he actually decent in his way, loathe to murder without the facts established?

Finn took care as he lifted Richard's form, keeping the man's head rested in the crook of his arm. Tara rose with him and followed them to the beachhead.

Men were already busy setting up makeshift tarps for a shelter. Two others were collecting wood for a fire.

An elderly man, dead straight and dignified, was the one calling out the orders.

“Captain Tremblay, Agent Dunne is here, sir! With the, um, the Rebs,” Billy said.

Tremblay seemed equally surprised to see a woman. “Well, Agent Dunne. Are these the culprits you meant to apprehend?” Tremblay asked.

“It's hard to know for certain, sir, until I'm able to question them thoroughly, and as you can see, this one is scarcely in shape for questioning.”

Tremblay looked at Richard, still in Dunne's arms.

“He lives?” Tremblay asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“We'll have the good doctor see to him, then,” Tremblay said. “MacKay! Doc MacKay! We've a man in need of your tender touch, sir!”

One of the men building the fire came over and nodded to Finn. “Bring him under the tarp, will you, please, Agent Dunne? Billy, I'll need some light—will you see to it, lad?”

“Aye, sir,” the young soldier said.

Finn Dunne walked with the doctor and beneath the canvas tarp that had been lifted about fifty yards in from the shoreline. There were already blankets spread out beneath it, along with a captain's portable desk; the men of the Union ship had known they were in trouble, and they had salvaged all that they could.

“Fresh water might be in order,” Doc MacKay said, preceding the others.

Tara found herself longing to follow, and yet, under the scrutiny of Captain Tremblay.

She looked up at him. He appeared to be a fine and gentle man, and she wondered how he went to war, and watched everything that happened around him, and still maintained that sensibility.

“So,” he said, “you're our culprit. You're from Key West, child?”

“My name is Tara Fox,” she told him. “And I'm not a spy. I have no intention of bringing harm to anyone.”

Except,
she thought,
maybe Agent Finn Dunne. I'd love to give him a good slap right across that smug face!

“Tara Fox…” the captain murmured, looking at her speculatively.

“Seminole Pete is a dear friend,” she told him.

Tremblay smiled. “I don't frequent the taverns of the island, my dear. Mine is to set an example.”

Tara stood there awkwardly, wondering what she was supposed to do. No one seemed ready to tie her up or confine her. Maybe they realized that she would be making no escape attempts when Richard Anderson was in their care.

Or, perhaps, they didn't think that she was capable.

Tara smiled, looking at the captain. He was reassuring; she didn't believe that she had fallen into the hands of cold-blooded murderers. “Sir, I promise you, I don't sit around the tavern gulping down rum or beer. Pete is like a father to me, just as the young man now in your care, Richard Anderson, is like a brother.”

“Your young ‘brother' is one hell of a seaman, Miss Fox. And, I admit, I wish that he were on my side. But as he is not, he is not a man in my good graces, as my ship will soon be at the bottom of the sea, providing a home for the fish.”

“He is not a man who seeks to harm others.”

“He's a blockade runner,” Tremblay said flatly. “Let me rephrase—
was
a blockade runner.”

“You will never be able to prove that Richard is anything other than a merchant, carrying food—”

“Young woman, do I look like a fool?” Tremblay demanded.

She shook her head. “No, sir, you don't. I merely mention that in any legal court of law—”

“War changes everything, doesn't it?” he said plainly.

“What will you do with us?” Tara asked politely, switching tactics.

“Well, had I just brought down the ship, I'd have seen that you were held at the fort, confined until this weary bloodbath limps to its halt. But you are prisoners of Agent Dunne, and I believe it's his pleasure that you be brought to the capital.”

“Sir, we are not the cold-blooded killers he thinks us to be,” she said.

“The problem with war is that it makes cold-blooded killers out of all of us, now, doesn't it?” Tremblay asked. “Never mind, child, the weary philosophy of an old tar. I believe you are standing there anxiously awaiting a chance to see to the welfare of your young seaman. You are free to do so.”

Thus encouraged, Tara gave him a grateful nod and headed for the tarp. A pallet had been set up for Richard. Doc MacKay was down on his knees. And seeing that Richard had come to, she let out a little cry of joy and slid down next to them both.

“Easy, now,” MacKay said. “The boy has taken a good rap to the head.”

“Richard!” Tara said happily. He looked at her, his face still ashen. He tried to smile. He caught her hand. “Thanks, my friend,” he murmured.

“You got him here—you swam?” MacKay asked, studying her. She flushed slightly, just imagining what she must have looked like in her tattered, salt-, sand
and debris-covered clothing, and sodden hair plastered to her face.

“I'm from Key West. I'm a strong swimmer,” Tara said.

“So you must be,” MacKay said. “I don't believe there's more than bruising to the skull—I can find no crack or rift—and I believe that Mr. Anderson will make a full recovery. Rest is in order now, but as we are awaiting rescue, rest can be easily procured.” He looked at Tara again. “What about you? You must be thirsty, my dear.”