Bride of the Night (8 page)

She suddenly realized how thirsty she was. For water, at the moment.

MacKay offered her a canteen. She accepted it gratefully. After drinking a long swallow of cool freshwater, she looked at the doctor, who was studying her in return. She felt a flush come to her cheeks. “Thank you. We are receiving far greater kindness than I expected.”

“This is a war wherein fathers fight sons, and sons fight brothers. The intent is not to torture others, just to bring the conflict to an end.” He grinned, and she liked his grin. “Besides, I have taken an oath to save lives,” he reminded her.

“The truth, however, will be known.”

Tara hadn't seen Finn Dunne return to stand near Richard's head beneath the tarp, but she knew the sound of his voice instantly.

She looked up at him. “Well, Agent Dunne, I am cer
tainly eager that the truth shall be known. Two survived the explosion of Richard's ship, the
Peace
—Richard and myself—and neither of us has ever been called Gator, gone by the name Gator or had any particular affinity for gators in the wild, or in any so-called human form. So bring on your truth, sir. We are innocent of what you seem so desperate to find as fact.”

“We'll see, won't we?” he asked.

He turned and walked away. The manner in which he did so—dismissing her words as if she were obviously the most heinous liar—disturbed her. She leaped to her feet, following him. He had been heading back toward the bracken and she caught up with him away from the tarp and the fires that burned on the beach.

She slammed a hand against his back, hard. He turned to stare at her, a scowl tensing his features. “What?”

“I'm not a spy! I'm not an assassin! Neither is Richard.”

“Spy, assassin—those facts need corroboration and truth. Your friend is a blockade runner, at the very least.”

“Not
Gator!
”

“And you?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

She let out an exasperated sigh. “I am not Gator! You have it all wrong. I am Lincoln's greatest supporter. I know that he is wise, war-weary, decent and kind. He saw saving the country—a united country—as his call
ing, his duty under God. I believe he is our salvation. I would never want to hurt the man!” she told him.

“Pretty speech, now that you are captured,” he told her.

She set her hands on her hips. “Well, you're just a fool, because you're holding us, and the man who you know as Gator is still out there somewhere!”

“And, assuming you're not Gator, how do you know that your friend isn't?”

She stared at him, speechless for a minute. “Because he's not! Because I know Richard. He's no murderer. Yes, fine, he's a blockade runner. Until the war is over, this is the Confederate States of America. He's doing what he can to see that Southern children eat!”

“So noble,” Finn said mockingly.

“He is noble. You have no right to run around judging people you don't know.”

“No, I am not a judge. We'll see to it that you are brought before a tribunal.”

“I would think that you need evidence to convict us of anything.”

“We have a witness sitting in prison right now, ready to do just that. His life will be spared when he identifies Gator,” Finn said. “You'll be decently treated in transit and while awaiting trial. As will the suspect.”

He started to walk away. Incensed, she followed him, pushed past and stopped in front of him, blocking his way.

“You're an idiot!” she told him.

“And you're a prisoner. Leave me alone—before I see that you're shackled.”

She drew herself up with dignity. “You can't shackle me, not really,” she informed him.

“Believe it or not, I can.”

“You said that you know what I am,” she said softly. “But do you? Do you really know exactly what I am?”

“I do.”

“And how can that be?”

“Because, Miss Fox,” he began, pushing past her, “I am what you are.”

 

H
E SHOULD PUT HIS PRISONER
into shackles, Finn thought.
His
shackles, specially designed of wood and silver, with a unique configuration of crosses intricately laid into the woodwork. They had been blessed and could contain almost any creature.

High in a treetop, looking out as the night slowly began to ease into the golden rays of dawn, he mused on his captive.

At the moment, it wasn't really necessary. He couldn't shake her off if he wanted to. She wouldn't attempt escape without her friend.

No, she wouldn't need restraints.

He found himself wondering about the relationship between the two, and he was surprised to discover that he was annoyed with his own turn of thought. He'd wanted to capture the wretched woman since she'd eluded him at Gettysburg. He hadn't realized then ex
actly why she had escaped so easily, because her—
their
—hereditary disposition was rare.

He should have known then. He should have at least suspected.

But he hadn't.

And now, he knew. This, of course, made her all the more dangerous, and made him more intrigued.

“Agent Dunne!”

He heard his name called through the scruffy brush and trees that dotted the central area of the island. It was Billy.

He leaped down easily, soundlessly, and walked along the path created by his own forage through the growth until he reached the young man's back.

“Agent Dunne!” Billy shouted again.

“Yes, seaman,” he said, standing just behind the boy's back.

Billy spun around, startled.

“There's water, sir. The army must have come through here before. There's a cistern, filled with water. The captain wanted me to let you know. We've also salvaged a trunk of fresh clothing. He thought you might be feeling the discomfort of the dried salt water and be wishing for something a bit fresher.”

“That's very courteous.”

Billy produced a neatly folded stack of clothing—plain blue breeches and a cotton shirt. They'd probably do well enough; he was taller than Tremblay, but not by
much. And the clothing would be far more comfortable than the now-stiff and clammy shirt he was wearing.

“The captain respects your mission, sir,” Billy told him.

Finn nodded in return to the statement. “Where would this cistern be, Billy? I saw a fair amount of the island, but not a cistern.”

“Extreme northeastern side, Agent Dunne. I can escort you there.”

Finn started to tell him that it wouldn't be necessary, but he remembered that Billy was familiar with the island of Key West—and its inhabitants.

“So, Billy, how long have you been at Fort Zachary Taylor?” Finn asked him.

“Oh, a long time now, Agent Dunne. I was there at the outbreak of the war. I was there when the Union forces dug in—after Florida joined secession.”

Finn looked over at the man. “You don't look old enough to be in uniform—much less have spent years at the fort.”

“I'm twenty-three, Agent Dunne. Older than many a man dead on the field.”

“True,” Finn agreed.

“So, where did you hail from?”

“Chicago. And will you head back when the war is over?”

Billy smiled and shook his head. “No, sir, I will not. I love the island. There's a breeze in the air, even on the hottest day. And the ocean is there, and the folks…
well, some are a little lost. Some are starting over. Many are different, and in a world where they are accepted. Men grew rich on salvage, and then no one questioned where they came from before or what they do. It's my home now. I'll go where they command me while this war goes on, then I will be home in Key West.”

“So, you know the local population fairly well,” Finn said.

“Indeed.”

“And they are Southern sympathizers, living by a Union fort,” Finn said.

Billy shrugged. “The state was split on the vote from the beginning. There's been talk of an ‘East' and a ‘West' Florida. Sure, like men everywhere, the men spew their opinions on the war, on the generals.” He paused. “Talk has changed, though, since the actual fighting started. No one is running around saying, ‘We're going to whip their tails in two weeks,' or any other such nonsense, neither side. No one has really had their tail whipped, and we've all watched two weeks turn into four bitter years…?. God alone knows how long it can go on. Some folks, of course, talk about the draft riots in New York, but, hell, Lincoln is president again, and that man is as tenacious as a rat terrier! So, the old coots at the bars talk, and sometimes they're rude when the Union soldiers are about, and sometimes, some lets out a squeak for the Union. Mostly, folks just want to make a living and get by, and it is an island, so we're pretty isolated.”

“Except for the blockade runners.”

Billy shrugged.

“And you know the two we captured tonight—Miss Fox and Mr. Anderson.”

Billy nodded.

“What kind of talk have you heard from them?”

Billy looked at him and exhaled. “I've seen Miss Fox a fair amount—Mr. Anderson, not so much. Miss Fox is always courteous to everyone. Kind of grave and somber, but courteous. She serves sometimes at Seminole Pete's. Her mom and Pete were awful close. From what I heard, her father wasn't around much. Came down to the Keys, lived with Tara's mom, and I guess most folks thought they were married, exceptin' legally, I guess they weren't. There's some girls on the island who think they're all social princesses or the like, 'cause their fathers or grandfathers or uncles or what have you were the first Americans down in the area and they live in those big fancy houses. But you ask me? Miss Fox, she's the real deal. She knows her manners. Oh, her momma died a few years back, and I guess that hurt her bad. But she's good. She helps out at the church, helps with the sick and injured—and she's never seemed to care if it was a Yank from the fort or a Rebel off the island.”

“Sounds like you've something of a fancy for the lass, seaman,” Finn said.

Billy flushed. “Oh, she's not for me, Agent Dunne. No, no, she's not for me.”

“And why do you say that?”

Billy looked at him, studying his face for a moment. “Because you can just tell, Agent Dunne. You can tell by the way a woman looks at you, as if you could be the man she wanted. She looks upon me kindly enough, but there's nothing of magic or mischief in her eyes when she does so, and I know—I'd not be what she was wanting.”

Finn thought about that. He was silent as they walked, thrashing through the trees as morning's first light began to cut through.

“Some women have an agenda, Billy. They can be more like a man. They see a purpose in life, and they have to follow that purpose.”

“Maybe that's what it is, sir. But what purpose would that be? I think she loves her home. Loves Key West.”

“And does she love Richard Anderson?” Finn asked.

Billy grinned. “I don't see the locals all that much, but, yes, from what I've seen and heard, yes. Why, you see, his father was hanged. His father was a pirate. And the two of them, well…not a nice thing to say regarding a lady, but legal truth is truth, so…a bastard and a pirate? Even in Key West, such a state of birth calls for the whispers. And the rich girls—half of them ugly as sin—keep up a barrier. Tara—she's just not one of them, you see.”

He was surprised to feel that he was thinking defensively of her position.

No, she would not be one of them. She would speak her mind, she would fight for what was right…
?.

Like her love for the South?

And, yes, when she had spoken about Lincoln, there had been such a depth of sincerity in her words.

Almost as if they shared their opinion of the man who was still holding the country together—while being lampooned in papers and magazines across the country, belittled by his political opponents and appearing years older on a daily basis.

“The cistern is ahead, sir, just ahead,” Billy said.

“Thank you. Extend my gratitude to the captain, as well. It seems that the sun is rising, and there's hope we will see a rescue ship on the horizon soon,” Finn said.

Billy nodded and stepped back.

Finn continued forward and then paused.

Ahead of him lay a bricked-in cistern. He was not an engineer, but he could see that the planning had been well executed. The ground here was higher. It must have been the oldest section of the island. The coral rock beneath the scrub in the area made an excellent filter, while the water flowed from the catch basin of the cistern to form a little freshwater pool. Had it been only the cistern there, what fresh water that was collected would have grown stagnant.

As he came closer, he realized that he was not alone.

The sun was just rising in the east and the sky was slowly becoming pink and yellow, but those colors were
still vibrant between layers of mauve, the remnants of the night.

And there, silhouetted on the horizon, was the woman who seemed to be consuming his thoughts.

Angel—or demon? he wondered.

At the moment, she was pure angel, though she seemed to offer pleasures of the deepest, darkest delight. She had shed her salt-logged clothing, and done her best in the cold water to bathe.

She was there, body slightly arched, head thrown back as she rinsed and tossed her hair, body at a graceful arch that allowed an almost mystical, mermaid-view of her torso, waist and breasts. The moment was so sudden, the vision so striking…?.

He stood there, dead still and silent, and aching.

The war… It took so much from one.

He'd forgotten what it was like to see something so beautiful. To want…want a woman with such an aching, all-consuming desire.

He stepped back.

He closed his eyes, and willed the vision to leave his mind. He realized that it never would.