Mischief and Magnolias (16 page)

“She misses me. I don't know why, but she does.”

“She's a good woman, sir.” And indeed, she was. Honor Sumner personified everything genteel and soft and sweet of her gender, but beneath all that, she had a backbone of steel. Ewell may have been a general and led men into battle, but it was Honor who led him. Remy remembered many an evening he'd spent with the general and his wife, lingering over coffee after dinner, discussing the politics of the day. Honor had her opinions and wasn't afraid to share them. Much like Shaelyn, although he rather doubted Honor would pour molasses in anyone's boots.

“That she is,” General Sumner said as he rose from his seat, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and patted the pockets. Remy thought he looked for his ever-present cigars, but something within the fabric thumped instead. A wide grin crossed the general's face as he pulled out a leather case and flipped it open. Within the box, on a bed of velvet, lay a Congressional Medal of Honor.

“She so wanted to be here when I gave you this, but wasn't able to join us.” He blushed beneath the hair on his face. “Normally, this would have been presented to you in front of your men, with all the glorious ceremony receiving this entails, but knowing how much you hate a public display, I asked for the honor.” Gratitude gleamed in the older man's eyes as his chest puffed out. He stood taller, back ramrod straight. “This gives me great pride, Remy, and I can think of no one who deserves it more. Congratulations, son.” He extended the case with one hand and offered to shake with the other.

Shocked, his heart pounding a little too fast, Remy stood, grabbed the older man's hand, and shook. He looked at the medal in its bed of velvet. Though proud to receive it, he didn't think he deserved it. The general, apparently, thought he did. He took a breath. “Thank you, sir. I know this was all your doing.”

The general shrugged and cleared his throat. “It was the least I could do. You did save my life.” He took his seat once more, crossed his long legs, and let out a long sigh. “From horses to steamers.” He laughed. “Do you miss being in the front lines, scouting ahead on Soldier Boy? Do you miss the bullets shrieking past your head? The thunder of the cannons?”

“Honestly, sir? No, I don't miss it. I do, however, miss being under your leadership. You are an excellent commander but you've taught me well, and I thank you for that.” He slipped the leather case into a drawer then folded his hands atop the desk.

“I never would have helped you get this assignment if I didn't have complete faith in you.”

High praise coming from General Sumner; however, after losing the
Brenna Rose
, Remy didn't think he deserved the general's praise, nor the medal in the drawer. “I suppose you've heard.”

Sumner inclined his head. “About the
Brenna Rose
? Yes, I've heard. Damn shame losing all those men.” He studied Remy, his eyes narrowing as he tilted his head to the side. “I hope you're not blaming yourself. I don't think it could have been prevented.”

Remy said nothing. He could have argued the point. If he had been better prepared, perhaps those men could have been saved. If he had sent scouts ahead, the
Brenna Rose
might not be sitting at the bottom of the Mississippi, a watery coffin for her passengers.

“Do you know who is responsible?”

“I have my suspicions, General, but those suspicions won't help the men who lost their lives needlessly. Most of them were so young, they'd just begun to live.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “In answer to your question, though—I believe it was the Gray Ghost and his band of rebels.”

“Bastard,” Sumner exclaimed as he smoothed his fingers along his mustache, an action Remy had seen many times before and one that signaled the general's concern. “I wish to hell I knew who he was. Where he came from. Where he hides when he's not sinking our boats, destroying our rails, or stealing our supplies.”

“As do I, General.” Remy sighed, forcing his own frustration with this unseen enemy to dissipate with his breath. “Perhaps he will make a mistake and show himself—” He didn't finish the thought, asking instead, “Would you like some coffee?”

The general shook his head. “You know my tastes run a little stronger than coffee.”

“Ah, I have just the thing for you, sir.” He turned in his seat, pulled open the door of the cabinet behind him, and withdrew a half-full bottle. The general's eyes lit up when he saw the silver and black label.

“Harte's Private Reserve Whiskey,” he said, his voice filled with surprised pleasure. “I didn't know the admiral was still in business.”

“Of course. It would take more than a war for my father to close down the distillery. The admiral,” he said, referring to the man General Sumner knew well, “is already thinking about expanding when the war ends.”

He poured the amber liquid into glasses and handed it to the general. “See if that won't soothe your parched throat.” He put the bottle on the desk, within the general's reach. “I found four cases in the cellar. Apparently, the owner of this home enjoyed Harte's Private Reserve and kept plenty on hand.”

“Oh, that's smooth,” Sumner said after he took a sip and lingered over the taste in his mouth. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Uncrossing his legs, he leaned closer to the desk, his hand still clutching the cut crystal glass. “I had several reasons for seeing you, Remy, most importantly, I wanted to know how you were faring and personally give you your medal, but I also have an assignment for you, other than what you're already doing.”

“Of course, sir. I am more than happy to do as you ask.”

“I'm sure you've heard I've given up my command.”

Remy nodded. The news had saddened him, but he understood the reasons. After the ambush and coming so close to losing his life, Sumner wanted nothing more to do with battlefields or bloodshed.

“I'm trying to work on an exchange of prisoners. Theirs for ours.” He took a long drink of the whiskey and sighed. “You're aware of the deplorable conditions men are suffering in our prison camps. On both sides.” Sadness tinged his voice. “I'd like to, if nothing else, ease a bit of that, perhaps enable these men to go home, especially those who are ill. I'd like your advice, Remy. And your help.”

Remy said nothing, for he understood both the situation and the kind of man General Sumner was. He'd never been battle hungry. Instead, he promoted peace and understanding, even when it seemed impossible, and he remained, as always, humane. Remy often wondered why this compassionate and gentle man joined the military and how he became a widely respected, brilliant officer.

They spent the next hour going over details and how best to utilize the Cavanaugh steamboats to accomplish more than one goal. By the time the bottle of whiskey was gone, several plans were put in place and the general stood and stretched.

Remy stood as well, limped around the desk, and grabbed the general's coat from the back of the chair. He held it up, allowing Sumner to slip his arms into the sleeves.

“Major, it's been a pleasure, as always.”

“Thank you, General, for everything. It's been wonderful to see you.” He could have said more, but Ewell Sumner, as compassionate as he was, grew uncomfortable with shows of appreciation and sentiment.

The general pulled on his gloves as Remy ushered him into the hallway then he turned and whispered in a conspiratorial manner, “So tell me about this Shae Cavanaugh.”

“Would you like to meet her? I'm sure she's around here somewhere. Or perhaps she's down on one of her steamers. Believe it or not, she has consented to maintain her boats for us, despite who we are.”

“Is that wise, Remy?”

“Truthfully, sir, it was the wisest thing I could have done. Miss Cavanaugh—Shae—loves her boats. Of that, I have no doubt. She'd never do anything to hurt them in any way.” Sunlight streamed in through the long, rectangular windows on either side of the front door, the glass sparkling, and if he wasn't mistaken, he could smell the distinct tang of vinegar in the air, which made him believe Shaelyn had just cleaned these windows. “I could find her if you'll give me a moment.”

“Perhaps another time.” The general waved away the offer. “I was just curious about her, that's all. The officers at Rosalie
regaled me with some funny stories, but I must admit, I'm not sure if I believe them. It seems Miss Cavanaugh is quite the spirited lass. A handful, as it were.”

“That she is, sir.” Remy opened the front door and accompanied Sumner down the stairs, his cane tapping on the stone steps. The general's horse waited at the bottom of the staircase, reins tied to a post.

“Hmm, reminds me a bit of my Honor, being a handful and all.” He chuckled, and for a moment his face took on a pinkish hue beneath the whiskers. “Did she really pour molasses in your boots?”

“Yes, sir, she did,” Remy replied with a grin.

Sumner burst out in laughter. “Personally, I'd rather fight the enemy I know.” He climbed into the saddle with the ease of many years practice. “Good luck to you, son.”

“Thank you, General.” Remy handed him the reins. “I think I need all the luck I can get.” He grinned as he saluted.

“I'll be in touch.” The general returned the salute then kneed his mount's sides.

Remy stood in the driveway and waited until the general disappeared from view before he went into the house, his mind not only on the exchange of prisoners they had discussed, but also on the loss of the
Brenna Rose
…and Shaelyn Cavanaugh. In truth, she was never far from his thoughts.

• • •

Shaelyn finished packing Captain Ames's belongings in the trunk she remembered him pushing across the marble tiles of her hallway. How long ago it all seemed. How quickly she'd become fond of the officers living in her home. She bit her lip in order to keep her emotions at bay and closed the lid. In tribute to the gentle man who was no longer with them, she said a silent prayer as she tugged his trunk into the hallway.

She'd already done the same for Captain Falstead's possessions.

She hadn't been asked to perform this particular task. She'd taken it on herself as a kindness, and though the chore was painful for her, she could only imagine how much worse it would have been for Remy. After he had held her and offered comfort when the
Brenna Rose
was lost, it was the least she could do for him.

Piano music floated up the stairway and a smile spread her lips. She recognized the tune echoing through the house. Beethoven's “Moonlight Sonata.” Her mother's favorite piece.

Her heart lifted with joy. She hadn't heard her mother play in a very long time, the love of music almost dying within her when the man she loved passed away. How many evenings had they sat in the music room and listened to Brenna play? How many rousing reels had they danced?

Shaelyn wiped her hands on her apron and slowly made her way downstairs, the music becoming stronger and lovelier than she remembered…and somehow, subtly different.

“Mama! It's so good—” The words died on her lips and her heart slammed against her ribcage. Her mother did not sit at the piano.
Her
fingers did not splay over the keys and produce such beautiful notes.

Instead, Remy sat on the bench, dressed not in his uniform but in a white shirt, open at the collar to expose his strong neck. The cuffs of his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. She'd never seen him like this. Out of uniform. Relaxed. He'd given the officers a day to themselves to do as they chose and they'd taken advantage of the time. So, apparently, had he.

If she startled him, he gave no reaction, just kept playing without missing a note, though his gaze rose and rested on her. Goose bumps broke out on her flesh as his fingers gently caressed the keys, each touch vibrating through her body with exquisite sensation, even though he didn't touch her at all.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered over the sudden dryness in her throat. “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“You're not interrupting. Please, come in.” Remy smiled with his invitation, the little-boy grin melting her heart. “Join me.”

“I really shouldn't.” She hesitated in the doorway, torn between wanting to listen to him play and needing to stay away from him. He didn't help matters by looking so handsome, his smile so inviting. Nor did it help that she had dreamed of him again last night and had woken up with every nerve in her body feeling as if it had been stretched tight, like fabric pulled through an embroidery hoop. Why she dreamed of him kissing her, caressing her, she didn't know. She just wished it would stop. Longing filled her, a yearning for things she could not have, should not think about wanting, and yet, with each dream, the ache within her grew. The physical demands of her chores helped to take some of that away, but not all of it, and she struggled to maintain her composure. “I have chores to finish.”

“Five minutes? Please?”

Against her better judgment, she gave in. “Five minutes.”

Five minutes turned into fifteen as she sat beside him on the bench, shoulder to shoulder, while he finished playing the sonata and played another. And it was just a little bit of heaven. The scent of citrus and fresh air filled her, the warmth of his body next to hers making her so aware of him as a
man
—a virile, hard-muscled man. She glanced in his direction as his fingers splayed over the keys and caught the fine sprinkling of dark hair revealed by the open collar of his shirt. Oh, how she wanted to reach out and run her fingers through that silky hair, touch his strong, muscle-corded throat, kiss the spot where his neck met his ear.

“Where did you learn to play?” Shaelyn asked as she rose from the bench and put some distance between them…at least some physical distance. It didn't help. The impulse to touch him grew stronger.