Mischief and Magnolias (12 page)

She took a breath, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribcage.

“Both my brother and I were born on the
Brenna Rose
,” she told him proudly. “My father named the
Lady Shae
and the
Sweet Sassy
after me.”

“Sassy,” he interrupted, the nickname falling from his mouth in a slow, seductive tone. “I thank you for your offer, but this is a military operation. My men will handle it.”

Shaelyn's eyes narrowed and the inclination to pour the contents of the tureen into his lap flared in her brain. The urge became almost overwhelming, but as if he could read her thoughts, a certain expression came into his eyes and the message was clear. He had looked upon her previous pranks with amusement, but this…there would be no way on earth he'd forgive her for dumping hot gumbo in his lap. The consequences of such an action would be nowhere near as pleasant as being forced to spend the day with him.

Carefully, making sure she didn't spill a drop, she ladled the thick stew into his bowl. “I'll never forgive you if something happens to my steamer, Major. Never.” She dropped the ladle into the tureen, spun on her heel, and left the room at a near run, hoping no one would see the tears of frustration, anger, and hurt fill her eyes.

The hour grew late as Remy sat at the desk in the Cavanaugh study, maps of the Mississippi River spread out before him. Captain Davenport's ledger, containing all the supplies and artillery stored in the warehouse, lay open as well. Beside the ledger was a thick sheaf of papers—a registry of soldiers who had experience with steamers, from cabin boys to those who had stoked the fires, an inventory of the artillery and armaments to be boarded, a list of food supplies for the troops. All was in readiness. Or as ready as he could make it.

He heard the men say goodnight to each other and climb the stairs to their rooms, heard a few rustlings, doors closing, soft footsteps on the floor above him, then silence. He leaned back with a sigh and rubbed his leg.

His thigh ached and throbbed. He'd been sitting too long, staring at the maps as he tried to decipher all the little markings. He needed to move. He needed to sleep, too, but sleep, he knew, would be a long time in coming. He didn't relish the nightmare that awaited him when he closed his eyes, but then, his eyes did not need to be closed in order to remember the devastation of being ambushed.

Wearily, he ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, and slowly stood, gingerly testing his leg for strength. A sharp, grinding pain shot through him and he sat quickly, before his leg collapsed, unable to bear his weight. He cursed.

Remy hated weakness and loss of control, more so in himself than in anyone else. Frustration filled him. After five months, he should be able to move about freely, without fear his leg would give out on him. He did have to admit, though, he was getting better, the bouts of infirmity getting farther and farther apart. Still, at times like this, that knowledge wasn't helpful.

He took another deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable rush of pain, and stood again. This time, his leg held. He grabbed the cane leaning against the desk and limped toward the window.

He spread the heavy drapes and gazed into the moonlit night. His gaze found and settled on a lone figure sitting on a bench beneath the huge magnolia trees for which the house had been named.

He smiled
and whispered,
“Sassy.” The name truly did fit her. She was spunky, feisty. Another woman would have crumbled when faced with the circumstances she had been faced with. To lose one's home and one's business in one fell swoop to a man she considered an enemy would have broken a weaker person, but not her.

She had surprised him tonight with her offer to pilot the
Brenna Rose
down the Mississippi, but then everything she did surprised him. Indeed, amused him and made him want to laugh, made his heart pound harder in his chest.

His smile faded as he stared at her through the window and wondered what thoughts roamed through her mind. Was she still upset about the
Brenna Rose
? Or thinking of new ways to torment and tease him? Was she confused? He knew he was. Would she ever look at him with the same passion that had darkened her eyes when she spoke of her beloved steamers? Did he want that from her?

Yes, he did. From the moment she'd flown into his surprised embrace, he'd wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her sweet, tempting lips. Nothing had changed in the time he'd been here. His feelings for her had grown stronger as she tempted him with every saucy turn of her head.

But did she want him as much? Her heart had beat faster when he held her wrist. He had felt her pulse against his fingers as he caressed her velvety skin. He had seen her watching him, her gaze drawn to his face more often than not.

Moonlight filtered through the trees now, illuminating her light auburn hair and delicate features. She looked like a statue he'd once seen of the goddess Diana.

Despite the pain in his leg, a decision came to him. He should stay closeted in the study, going over all his paperwork to make sure every piece of equipment made it onto the
Brenna Rose
, but she drew him as surely as the moon drew the tide. And he just couldn't resist. Didn't want to resist spending a moment or two in her company, as prickly as she might be.

He gathered a silver tray, two cut crystal glasses, and a bottle of Harte's Private Reserve whiskey and exited the study through the French doors. He moved slowly, balancing the tray on one hand and leaning on this cane with the other, praying with every step his leg would not give out on him. Pain jarred him, but at least, it was bearable. Even so, he could feel the dampness of perspiration on his back.

“It's rather late, Shae,” he said as he approached her. “May I?” He nodded toward the empty half of the stone bench.

Shaelyn turned to face him. “Why ask? You'll do as you please anyway.”

Taking her tart statement as an invitation, he placed the tray on the bench then eased down with an audible sigh and placed his cane within easy reach. “Would you like a drink?” He didn't wait for her to respond. He poured a small amount into a glass and handed it to her.

“I see you found my father's private stash,” she commented when she saw the familiar bottle. “This was his favorite. He only brought it out on special occasions.”

Remy smiled. “That pleases me.” She raised a questioning eyebrow. He pointed to the label. “Harte's Private Reserve. That's my family. My father and grandfather have been making this fine sipping whiskey for more years than you and I have been alive.” He took a long swallow and savored the warmth of the liquor as it eased down his throat. “My grandfather says a glass a day is the key to a long and healthy life. He'll be eighty-two on his next birthday and still taste-tests every batch of whiskey we produce.”

She took a sip and shivered but said nothing as she clutched her glass. Indeed, she didn't even look at him, but kept her gaze on the amber liquid shimmering in the cut crystal.

“Why are you up so late? Thinking of what else to do to me? It wasn't enough to put vinegar in my coffee or molasses in my boots?” She didn't say a word as she glanced at him, but her lovely face flushed in the moonlight. He lowered his voice. “I will say I admire your creativity.”

“I apologize for behaving like such a spoiled brat.” Humor touched her voice and floated over him like a silken web. She took another sip of the whiskey. “I shouldn't have done those things to you. Call it impetuousness on my part. I was trying to make you leave. I realize now that you're more stubborn than a Yan—well, more stubborn than I could have anticipated.” She turned to face him.

Sweet heaven! She is beautiful.
Remy struggled to breathe. All he could do was stare at her as the words he wanted to say became stuck in his throat.

Moonlight glinted off the loose knot of hair at the top of her head, turning the light auburn locks to liquid fire. Wispy tendrils framed her face. He had a strong desire to pull the pins and let the mahogany tresses cascade down her back. He'd never seen her hair loose, but he had imagined what it would look like, imagined running his fingers through the fine silken strands too many times to count.

“We made a bargain, you and I,” he said when he found his voice. “Perhaps, what we really needed, Shae, was a truce.”

“A truce?”

She looked at him, and he all but melted within the warmth of her gaze.

“Yes. For the good of us all.” He reached for her hand then thought better of it. She would only pull away. “You and I need to declare peace. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on my work when I'm wondering what you'll come up with next. Frankly, I can do without the distraction.”

He didn't tell her that just looking at her distracted him. He didn't tell her that the alluring scent of her perfume conjured visions in his head or that the mere touch of her hand sent his heart racing. The simple truth was, since the moment they'd met, she disturbed his every thought, waking and sleeping. When he should have been concentrating on gathering the appropriate supplies and armaments needed for his Union brothers, he was thinking of her.

“All right, Major.” Her soft voice sent a shiver up his spine. “We'll call a truce.” She put her empty glass on the bench beside her then stuck out her hand.

Remy laughed. “I don't think so. The last time we shook on an agreement, you short-sheeted my bed. No, I think this time, we'll seal our bargain with a kiss.”

Her eyes widened and she sucked in her breath. “A kiss, Major?”

He grinned at her startled expression. “Why not? Or do you still consider me your enemy?”

“No, you're not my enemy.” Her sweet, tempting lips curved generously into a smile that nearly took his breath. “You're more of a thorn in my side.”

She touched him then, just patted his hand, and Remy felt his whole world turn upside down, more so than when he held her fragile wrist and felt her pulse beat beneath his fingers.

She puckered her lips and leaned forward, eyes closed. Remy grinned. That kind of polite, chaste kiss was not what he had in mind. He wanted to feel her lips soften and open beneath his, wanted to feel her response as his mouth moved over hers. Very slowly, he placed his hands on either side of her face, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones. He lowered his lips to hers and tasted her tempting mouth.

The first touch of his mouth on hers held a spark of surprise. He'd imagined her lips would be soft, but not so incredibly warm and pliable as they molded to his. He didn't expect the sudden rush of heat coursing through him, either, nor did he expect the response of his own body.

He didn't expect to feel the compelling desire to keep kissing her until neither one of them could breathe.

Her breath quickened as he deepened the pressure of his mouth on hers. His tongue slid along her lips before slipping inside to taste the warm confines of her mouth and the whiskey she had drunk.

A small sound escaped her. A sigh? A moan of desire? Or revulsion?

She placed her hand on his chest and his heart responded, beating harder.

Does she feel it? Can she hear it? Does she know what she's doing to me?

He'd kissed women before, but never had he felt like this—as if he were a drowning man finally coming up for air, all with the softest touch of her lips.

He smoothed her hair away from her face, something he'd been longing to do since he first saw her, and pulled the pins from the topknot, dropping them to the ground. Silken curls tumbled down her back, releasing a fragrance uniquely hers. He entwined his fingers into the burnished copper tresses as his mouth moved over hers.

The whiskey bottle tumbled off the bench onto the grass, unheeded, as she broke the kiss and moved her head to the side. Her breath brushed against his cheek, fast and warm. “Is this how the military signs a truce?”

“No, Sassy.” He murmured the words against her throat as his lips moved lower. “This is very unmilitary. This is something else. Something wild and bright and remarkable.”

“Oh,” she breathed as she offered more of her neck to him.

Remy felt her shiver, her body trembling against his as he rose from the bench, bringing her with him. They stood in the moonlight, their bodies pressed together, his mouth and hands making promises he fully intended to keep.

“We shouldn't,” she murmured against his lips, even as she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

Her soft breasts were crushed against his uniformed chest. He felt her heat through their clothing. “Yes, we should.”

Heat curled in his stomach and moved lower as he tightened his embrace. He smoothed his hands down her back and cupped her behind through the material of her skirt and petticoat, drawing her closer against the undeniable urgency surging through him. His trousers became tight and uncomfortable and he shifted, moving his leg between her thighs.

Shaelyn gasped at the sudden intrusion. “Major! We must stop.” She turned her face away, although she remained in his arms, the slender white column of her throat exposed to his lips, her breathing heavy and labored.

He respected her wishes and released her, although letting her go was the last thing he wanted. He hadn't intended for their kiss to become so heated, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. The feel of her soft lips and her passionate response had encouraged him to take more. He wanted more still, wanted to lie with her and touch every inch of her velvety skin, wanted…everything.

“It's getting late. We should go inside.” Shaelyn's hands shook as she smoothed the wrinkles from her gown. Her voice shook as well, but she hadn't run from him or slapped him across the face, which surprised yet pleased him.

“Of course.” Remy loaded the tray with the bottle of whiskey and the glasses, then picked up his cane. He didn't apologize for his behavior. In truth, he wasn't sorry he had kissed her. “Will you walk with me? I promise—hands off.”