Hearts Under Siege (Civil War Collection) (2 page)

The sun drifted beneath the trees, leaving them in the glow of twilight.

When three men appeared on the dock with a small fishing boat, Alexandra inched back towards the river. Grand-père had gotten back on his horse and faced the opposite direction. Sadie stood several feet away, retying the redchecked kerchief wrapped around her head.

Alexandra didn’t hesitate. Picking up her skirts, she darted toward the water’s edge. Just as the last of three servants stepped into the boat and shoved off from the bank, she leaped into the small craft.

Her skirts flew everywhere, and one of the rings in her hoop skirt cracked. Her elbow scraped a rough edge of the boat and stung.

“Miss Alexandra, what you doing here?” Jackson asked, his paddle poised in the murky water.

“Don’t stop,” she blurted. “Grand-père said it was all right. I might be able to help someone who’s injured.”

Jackson nodded and resumed paddling. Alexandra glanced at the scar on his forehead from a gash she tended a couple of summers ago. Luckily, he suffered no infection from that injury.

Sadie located her charge and stood on the levee motioning frantically. Grand-père guided Lancelot to water’s edge and called after her. For a moment, Alexandra thought he would lead the horse into the water after them.

Jackson looked over his shoulder at Alexandra and frowned.

“Oh dear,” Alexandra said, “they want me to come back after my bag of bandages and things. But there isn’t time. I’ll have to make do without it.”

Jackson shook his head but didn’t slow down. Unlike Sadie, he stayed out of things.

Alexandra drew in a deep breath and straightened her skirts. Brushing the windblown hair from her face, she turned to look at Grand-père; though he was already too far away for her to make out his expression. A lump of regret sat like a pit in her stomach for going against his wishes. But she’d had no choice. If Jeffy were out here, she would help him.

Everything she had experienced in her life seemed to lead to this point—all her training as a healer, all her schooling in self-control. Her knowledge of the land.

Despite being surrounded by men loyal to her and her family, this task was hers to do. Loneliness settled over her, sealing in her resolve to see it through.

Finally, the small boat nudged against the east bank, and Jackson reached a calloused, strong hand out, gripped her wrist, and pulled her ashore. After crossing the river amidst the carnage, her stomach turned, and her muscles throbbed with fatigue. Each time they came across a body, she bit her knuckles, her breath suspended, and she didn’t breathe again until she saw the face of the body
.
It’s not Jeffy. It’s not my brother.

Though most of what was left of the steamers had drifted downriver out of sight, in the swirling currents chunks of wood, along with body parts, had washed ashore. The little search party started downriver.

They hadn’t taken more than half a dozen steps before coming across a young girl, her eyes closed, lying on her side on the riverbank. Alexandra took a deep breath and approached her. She wasn’t more than ten or eleven years old. Her tattered dress hung from her thin frame, and black scorches ran the length of her arms and cheek.

With a sigh, Alexandra smoothed the girl’s blonde hair back from her forehead. This pretty child would now be forever disfigured, burn scars on her soft skin.

Grasping the child’s wrist, Alexandra felt the thump-thump of a clear pulse. She sighed with relief. The girl lived, but Alexandra couldn’t tend to her out here.

“She’s alive. We’ve got to get her to the house.”

“You get her across the river and come back to find us,” Jackson said, gesturing toward the other two servants, Ham and Washington, who had crossed the river with them.

After Alexandra saw the child safely nestled in their boat, she and Jackson continued along the bank overgrown with weeds. Alexandra allowed Jackson to lead the way and tried not to think about the snakes that could be slithering invisibly out of their path. After finding the child, her hope surged. Jeffy, too, could be here—alive.

They had gone less than a dozen yards when shots rang out from behind them.

Alexandra froze.

Jackson grabbed her around the waist and pulled her beneath him as they fell to the ground. The wind was knocked out of her, and for a moment, she struggled to breathe, panic swiping at her senses. Who would shoot at them? They were trying to help, for God’s sake.

The ground rumbled with tramping feet, heading toward them.

Then she saw them.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Yankees.

Not now, she screamed silently.

“Jackson,” she called in a hoarse whisper. Perhaps they hadn’t been discovered yet.

Frantically, she pushed at his weight. They had to hide. Where were Ham and Washington? They had to have heard the gunfire.

Suddenly, she was successful, and Jackson slid off her side. Her hands and her dress were damp with the stickiness of his blood. In the darkening light, she managed to turn him on his back and looked into his face—his eyes were staring but not seeing.

She screamed.

Before she could struggle to her feet, half a dozen bayonets were aimed inches from her.

Chapter Two

Despite his blue uniform, Thomas Munroe was as Southern as the Louisiana soil he stood on. Though he hadn’t responded to the sound of gunfire, there was no way in hell he would stand by and ignore a woman’s scream.

“Where are you going?” Rafe, standing a few feet to his right, asked. Rafe was the Yankee soldier he’d been assigned to work with.

Turning from their vantage point across the river from Chene Ruelle, Thomas didn’t bother to answer. A southern gentleman never ignored a lady in distress. If Rafe needed an explanation for that, well, then, he was just showing his Yankee colors.

They watched Chene Ruelle for three days, using two of the most powerful spyglasses Yankee money could buy. It was the easiest assignment anyone had given Thomas since he’d joined the cavalry.

He knew of the Champagne family. He had even encountered the boy, Jeffrey, at a gaming table once. Jeffrey was an honorable lad, but too idealistic. He had seen the girl, Alexandra, too, from a distance, but no one ever introduced them. She was far too popular for his taste, and too beautiful, too. Popular, beautiful women weren’t for him. He preferred the sweet, innocent ones.

When he’d heard the explosion, he’d been at their camp a few yards from the riverbank, making coffee. He and Rafe hadn’t been alarmed at her surveying the river, as she did so often.

Although their assignment was to keep an eye on Chene Ruelle, they’d been spending a lot of time watching Alexandra stare at the river, or at least Rafe had. He couldn’t really blame the man for being enchanted with her.

At the sound of the unnatural commotion, Thomas dropped the coffee pot and raced to the edge of the river. Gaping through his spyglass, he tamped down a surge of temper when he saw Alexandra coming across the river with three servants. What was Dumon thinking when he allowed his granddaughter to gallivant across the river with Yankee blue-bellies behind every tree?

They mounted their horses and followed Alexandra and the three servants along the riverbank. With a start, Thomas spotted the patrol of Yankees
—
rea
l
Yankees. They must have seen the explosion too, and rushed toward the small search party.

Thomas’s fingers itched to grasp his revolver. He had already waited too long. He waited because it would have been impossible to explain to Rafe, who was standing right behind him, why he, dedicated of all Yanks, fired upon his own kind. There was no doubt the Yankees would cross Alexandra’s path. He could only hope they were sympathetic.

Moving stealthily, he dismounted and knelt behind a sparse, prickly brush and motioned for Rafe to do the same. His heart pounded deafeningly in his ears as the soldiers passed. The scent of their unwashed bodies assailed his senses as the ground vibrated beneath their footsteps.

He blinked as one of the men triggered a sense of familiarity. He knew him—the one with the scar cutting a straight line from the inner corner of his left eye down to his left ear.

These men weren’t Yankees. They were deserters, deserters ravaging the land posing as Yankees. It seemed he wasn’t the only one donning a uniform of the enemy.

Only these men were far more dangerous than Yankees.

The time for delay had passed. He needed to reach Alexandra and protect her.

A gunshot rang out.

Too late.

Glancing at Rafe, he stood his ground. Rafe wasn’t big, but he was tough as a whip—and wily. Damn. Here he was stuck in the middle of a war wearing the wrong uniform, making him an enemy of both sides.

That’s when his blood had turned to ice at the sound of a woman’s scream.

“I’ve got to help her. You go back and watch Dumon,” Thomas commanded Rafe.

Risking everything, he left the path and ran to the left of the commotion, out of the line of likely fire. No sense in getting himself shot.

****

Alexandra scanned the leering faces above her, and though she wanted to shrink away, she stood her ground and hoped they couldn’t see the trembling going on inside her. There were at least twelve of them standing over her with their sabers pointed in her direction, and one on horseback. The haggard brown horse snorted and pounded the ground. Its teeth gnashed, and she struggled unsuccessfully not to shrink away.

The rider laughed, his teeth yellow and his cheeks hollow beneath a scraggy beard. The other men in faded blue joined the laughter.

Yankees.

Alexandra had never seen a Yankee up close. They were not the orderly soldiers she had expected. These men looked more like the scum on the docks at New Orleans than the proud Confederate soldiers she was used to.

“What have we found ourselves, fellows?” the rider asked.

Alexandra glanced at Jackson lying motionless. They shot and killed him for no reason.

Her anger flared. What right did these men have to kill an innocent man who was only trying to help others? War or no war, they had no right.

Ignoring the pointed sabers and the fear in her heart, she stood up, raised her chin, and despite the fact that she was shorter than they were, she seemed to look down at the soldiers.

“You Yankee bastards! Go away and leave us be.”

A round of laughter erupted.

The man on the horse moved closer. She held her ground.

Reaching out with a grubby hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair.

“I think it’s time you learned to respect your betters, Little Miss High Horse.” His hand swept to her collar, and he yanked her.

She screamed and slapped his hand away. Turning, she clutched the remnants of her already threadbare dress.

Then the sharp prick of a saber stung her back. She froze as the realization of just how alone she was swept over her. She had sent Ham and Washington across the river, and it would be some time before they made it back. In the meantime, darkness sifted over them, lending surreal tones to the whole experience. A man with a scar across his cheek reached out and grabbed her around the waist. As he pulled her close, the smell of his rotten breath reminded her of their outhouse as he exhaled against her cheek. She swallowed thickly, but the bile pooled at the back of her throat.

She screamed again, and they laughed.

“What are you going to do with her now, Jake?”

“He has no idea,” one of the men said.

“Remember, Jake, share and share alike.”

“Leave Jake alone,” the man on horseback commanded. “You had a deal, if you recall.”

“That’s right,” Jake said, with a leer.

Alexandra cringed and tried to push away his hands.

“We ain’t no gentlemen. Who cares if we had an agreement? This is the purtiest thing in the south. Don’t think I’m gonna let go easily.”

“Quiet,” the leader demanded. “Jake, take her over there behind them bushes, and be quick about it. There are others waiting, you know.”

Alexandra’s fight was useless. Jake gripped her arm like a band of steel. No one had ever treated her this way. Ever.

Jake wrenched her behind a patch of briars and fallen tree branches, several feet from his friends.

“Now let’s have a taste of this sweet skin,” he said, ripping her chemise.

She swatted his hands aside and held the torn pieces of cloth together.

“What’s this?” he asked, lifting the heavy silver locket from between her breasts.

“No. Leave me be.”

“This’ll be something for me to remember you by.” He yanked and the gold chain cut into her skin. Then the clasp broke, and the chain came loose in his hand.

“No!” She kicked hard at him, and his expression changed to surprise. He fell forward and rolled aside with a gasp.

A knife protruded from his back.

“Let’s get out of here,” a deep male voice demanded.

Her head jerked up at the unfamiliar voice, and her heart skipped a beat. A tall man in a clean blue uniform stood over her with a hand outstretched. Clear blue eyes stared at her from an honest, clean-shaven face. This was not one of her ruffian attackers.

Nonetheless, he was a Yankee.

But he’d just killed the man about to rape her. There was no choice. With the crude comments of the ruffians in her ears, this man, at least, appeared to be sane. A gentleman even. She reached out and placed her hand in his.

Swallowing, she glanced down at her torn dress and chemise. Her clothes hung in shreds, and both hands were required to hold the pieces over her breasts. Meeting his urgent gaze, the heat of embarrassment reached the roots of her hair.

With an unintelligible groan, he reached down and scooped her up. She turned toward him and placed one arm around his neck. The Yankees called to Jake, and their crude laughter hid the sound of their hasty footsteps as they made their escape.

Tears stung her eyes as she realized how close she’d been to disaster. If her rescuer had shown up a few minutes later, she would have been ruined.

When they reached a horse tethered nearby, he stood her on her feet, and, removing his jacket, threw it around her shoulders. The Yankees’ laughter changed to a low rumble of discontent. It seemed they discovered Jake. After mounting the horse, Alexandra’s rescuer reached down and pulled her up in front of him. Sitting sidesaddle, she put her arms around him and leaned her cheek against his shoulder.

With an urgent kick in the animal’s sides, they headed away from the river. Alexandra dug her fingers into his cotton shirt and clung to his midsection. Twigs scraped at her legs, and leaves tangled in her black hair now trailing down her back. The night air stung her eyes as darkness closed over them. An uncharacteristic chill came off the river.

She buried her face against his chest as he deftly guided the horse. He smelled of soap and cigars. She didn’t know this man, this Yankee, but she knew he would protect her. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks as the events of the evening swept over her in a rush. Would she ever see Jeffy again?

The man held her tightly against him with his free hand, and with the feel of his steady heartbeat against her, she began to calm. She let the wave of exhaustion take over and numb her aching heart. The feel of his hand against her back was like a balm that refocused her attention and blocked out all thoughts except those that made her aware of his presence…this man whose name she didn’t know.

****

Alexandra woke to the muted glow of candlelight. Totally disoriented as to where she was, she found nothing familiar about her surroundings, from the musty scent to the stiff mattress beneath her.

“Jeffy,” she called out, sitting up abruptly— her heart racing and her palms sweaty.

“It’s all right. You’re safe,” the man’s gentle voice announced as he nudged her back down and tucked the stuffy, rough wool blanket beneath her chin.

“Where am I?” she asked, as memories of her predicament returned.

“We’re in a cabin I discovered earlier. It’s well hidden from wandering eyes, especially this time of year, what with all the vines flourishing in the moist heat. I didn’t light a fire, though. I didn’t want anyone to see the smoke and discover us.”

She focused to clear her vision and scanned her surroundings. They were in a one room log cabin, unfurnished except for a crude table and the cot she lay on. His saber and rifle rested nearby on the floor. A flash of fear surged through her at the sight of the weapons, but she quickly returned her gaze to the man’s clear blue eyes and kind features. Her fear receded.

“What is your name?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Thomas,” he answered without hesitation.

“Would that be Captain Thomas?” she asked grasping for some way to avoid the familiarity of his first name.

He didn’t answer. Instead he went to the window and looked out.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m a scout,” he replied, coming back to stand at the end of her cot. “I’m sorry about those men.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You saved my life.”

A shadow of a smile crossed his features. “It was nothing any honorable gentleman wouldn’t do.”

“I didn’t realize there were honorable Yankees.”

“Of course there are. Just as there are dishonorable Rebs.”

“I’ve not met a Reb yet who was dishonorable.”

“Well,” he said, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Perhaps you have, and you just didn’t realize it.”

“Perhaps, but I’ve never met anyone as despicable as those Yankees out there.” An involuntary shiver ran down her spine.

“Ma chérie, you had nothing to do with that.” He approached her and placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face upwards. “You did nothing wrong. You were only trying to help and got caught up in unfortunate circumstances.”

“Captain Thomas, why did—?”

“Please, just call me Thomas.”

“Very well, Thomas,” she said, determining that the situation, with all she’d been through, allowed some latitude with respect to propriety. “I don’t understand. You’re from up north, yet you spoke French with a Creole accent.”

“Naturally,” he said, and smiled. “I was practicing law in New Orleans when the war broke out. I have many friends who speak French.”

“I see,” she said, frowning
.
A Yankee officer in South Louisiana.

“Do you find that odd?”

“Yes. Nonetheless, Captain Thom—Thomas, I insist on thanking you properly.” She brought her hand out from beneath the blanket and held it out to him. “Please come by my home, Chene Ruelle, across the river, as soon as possible so that my grandfather and I may express our gratitude by having you for dinner.”

Thomas’s lips tugged upward in the beginnings of a smile. “I would be honored, Miss Alexandra, though just being in your company is more than payment enough,” he said, taking her hand in his. His hand was large and gentle.

She gasped and jerked her fingers out of his grasp. “How did you know my name?”

“Everyone in New Orleans knows of Chene Ruelle. You can be none other than Alexandra Champagne, granddaughter of Ernest Dumon.”

For a Yankee, he knew far too much about not only her country, but about her.

“How could you do it?” she asked, looking into those deep blue eyes reflecting the flicker of muted candlelight.

“Do what?”

“How could you take up arms and fight against your friends?”

“It’s a decision I make several times a day. Each day it grows harder as I witness the endless death and horror of it all.”