Erin's Rebel (4 page)

Erin closed the trunk and pushed it under the bunk to hide the book. She’d have to read it later when she had some privacy. She stood and pulled back the tent flap. A small, plump woman with light brown hair covered with a white cap resembling a handkerchief beamed at her.

“Help with what?” Erin frowned.

The woman brushed her hand over her apron. “Doc told me you had a bad fall last night and lost yer memory.”

“Oh—ah—yes, I can’t remember a thing.” She eyed the woman, who nodded. “And you are?”

“I’m Brigid Malone. Me husband’s Sergeant Thomas Malone. I do a great deal of the cooking in camp.”

Erin glanced at the table and large wooden tub set up under the tarp outside her tent. “And what do I do?”

Brigid gasped. “You poor dear. Why, yer one of the camp laundresses.” She clucked her tongue. “Then ’tis true. You really cannot recall a thing.”

Erin shook her head, figuring she should just play along.

“Well, then, I’ll help you start yer fire. We’ll brew some tea and cook breakfast—then we’ll boil the water for the laundry.”

Erin nodded. She
was
hungry. And another thought—bathroom facilities.

Brigid helped her locate her chamber pot and the paper put aside to use with it. She also showed her where to empty it. Erin recalled camping a few times when she’d been a teen, but most of those campgrounds had flush toilets. Except for one time they had to use an outhouse. She shuddered at the memory. This was even worse. She had to go in a pot and clean up the best she could with no running water. And the paper provided was coarse and scratchy.

How in the hell was she supposed to live like this? She wanted to go back to her city apartment, her job, her friends. This sucked!

Before she left, Brigid stoked the fire pit with kindling and helped Erin locate her box of matches.

Later, she sat under her tarp, chewing on the hoecakes the Irishwoman had helped her cook. The hot food fortified her body but did nothing for her spirits. Seeing no way out of this mess, she had to use her wits to stay on top of things.

If she really
was
in the past, and after seeing Captain Montgomery she had no doubt of that, could there be a way to return home? Had the car accident brought her here, or had it been the brooch? As she recalled the ominous vibration, a chill went through her. Where
was
the brooch?
Think, Erin, think.
At the time of the accident, the jewelry had been pinned to her blazer. But she didn’t have her blazer. That meant the brooch was still in the future.

Grandma, I need you
. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, and a lump rose in her throat. She seldom cried but was on the verge now. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to go home.

Chapter Four

When Captain Montgomery had escorted Erin O’Connell to her tent early in the morning, Jake took notice. But more important than that, he must confront her about where she had planned on going last night.

After getting her the position of camp laundress two weeks before, he’d been feeding her information about officers and plans for troop movements. Although he’d joined the Confederate Army the second year of the war, he felt no allegiance to the State of Virginia or “The Cause.” After his pa had kicked him out, an Army recruiter convinced him army life would be a way to earn pay and keep a roof over his head—although that roof was made of canvas. He didn’t care. Memories of the leaky roof of the shack he’d grown up in outside Mason assured him he’d made the right decision.

His mother had run off when he was three, leaving his pa with four boys to raise alone. And Pa’s way of dealing with boys was to use his fists or any other implement he could lay his hands on to beat some sense into his disobedient offspring.

Yes, his present life suited him fine, as long as he could escape being hit by Yankee bullets. And he had found a way to make it better when he befriended the man who’d been in camp two months before posing as a photographer but who was actually a Federal spy. That Yankee had promised him money and other benefits if he simply appointed Erin O’Connell to the position of laundress.

Once he agreed, Jake was rewarded with the excitement of espionage and the promise of sampling the Irish woman’s charms. All he had to do was supply military information she could send to her Yankee contacts.

He struck a match against the heel of his brogan and lit a hand-rolled cheroot. The day had passed quickly, and he still hadn’t had the chance to talk to her. First, that busybody Brigid Malone had shown up. Then he’d been assigned duties that took up the rest of the day. He’d just completed his last assignment for today, assigning men for picket.

The overcast sky and the lateness of the hour cast the camp into near darkness. The tip of his cheroot glowed red, the only illumination around. Everyone must be asleep, including the laundress.

He hesitated for a moment, then eased his way to her tent. He’d find out what the hell she was up to. He had every right, since they were in this together. If caught helping her, he’d be shot as a traitor.

Glancing around to be sure no one saw him, he crept around her tent. He ground his cheroot under his boot and ran his hand along the canvas until he found the slit. Feeling along the edge, he felt the ties that held the tent closed and fastened from the inside. He inserted his fingers and worked the knot until it came loose, then untied the other strips above and below it to lengthen the opening.

Jake allowed his vision to adjust before edging forward in the dark interior. He banged up against the edge of a table and stifled a curse.

The cot creaked, as a body shifted.

Jake froze, holding his breath, then slid a hand against smooth wax in the shape of a long tallow candle set in a metal stand. Pulling out a match, he struck it and held it to the wick. A soft glow illuminated the interior.

A form lay on the cot beneath a worn patchwork quilt. At the top of the cot, a shock of red-gold hair cascaded over the covers. He bit his lip, itching to run his fingers through the loose, silken strands.

She moaned and turned over, her face exposed. He focused on her mouth, wondering how those generous lips would taste. The woman was no virgin. She’d told him she’d been married. Mr. O’Connell had died of scarlet fever before the war started, leaving his wife of two months, newly arrived from Ireland, in dire straits.

He knelt before the cot and leaned toward her lips. Her sweet scent intoxicated him as his mouth came within a breath of hers.

Her eyes opened wide. She inhaled sharply, then let out an ear-splitting shriek. Afraid she’d wake others, he grabbed her shoulders and pressed his lips to hers. She fought like a wildcat—the way he liked it. He took his fill of her honey-sweet mouth before she pushed him away.

Gaping at him, her blue eyes wide, she said, “Who
are
you? And what the
hell
are you doing here?”

****

Heart hammering, Erin stared at the man who held her pinned to the cot. At first, she’d thought he was trying to smother her. Once she realized his mouth was pressed against hers, outrage overtook fear. Even after she’d pushed him off, the taste of tobacco and whiskey on his breath made her gag.

“I need to talk to you now. I couldn’t allow you to scream.” He grinned as if that explained everything.

She clutched the quilt to her chest, realizing she’d seen this man before. Long, dark lashes shaded his pale eyes and copper-colored brows. A memory surfaced of a soldier sitting near an open fire.

“I saw you yesterday.”

“And I saw you,” he said, “being escorted by the
captain
.” He nearly spat the word. “And then I hear tell of the goings-on last night.”

She stared at him. “Do I know you?”

After a brief hesitation, he asked, “What kind of game are you playing now, woman? What in tarnation happened to your brogue, or was that part of your spy cover?” His fingers bit into her shoulders.

“Ow!” She wriggled, trying to free herself. Who the hell did he think he was? “Let me go.”

He lifted his hands from her and stood.

Gathering the quilt, she rose to a seated position. She needed time to think—to clear her head. And she needed this man out of here.

“If you must know,” she said, “I don’t remember anything about last night.”

His ice-blue gaze narrowed. “Were you drunk?”

“I don’t drink.”

“The hell you don’t.” He rolled his eyes.

She ignored his statement. “When I fell, Doc thinks I lost my memory.”

“About last night?”

“About everything.”

He scowled. “Are you saying you don’t know who I am?”

“No—I don’t remember you.” This guy was really starting to piss her off.

He shook a dirt-streaked finger at her. “If you’re lying...”

“I’m telling you the truth. I don’t even know who I am.” She wrapped the quilt around her and rose to face him. He stood only a few inches taller than she—not as tall as Captain Montgomery. Why had she made
that
comparison? The idea of having the captain in her tent, instead of
this
bastard, sent a thrill through her.

“I don’t understand this at all,” he complained. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I think you should leave, now.” Erin glared into his ice-cold eyes. Her pulse raced, and she found breathing difficult. What would she do if he said no?

“I’ll leave. But you best take care what you say to the captain.” He pushed open the tent flap and disappeared into the night.

She stood a moment longer, trying to control her breathing then sank back onto the cot. She watched the open flap, half expecting him to return. Sighing, she pushed back her newly acquired mass of hair. This was all too real. Somehow, she now occupied Erin O’Connell’s body. If she only knew what had happened to her own body back in the future. She could be dead. Or lying in a hospital in a deep coma. And how was she supposed to get back after she did whatever she was expected to do?

A scene from the movie,
Back to the Future
, flashed through her mind. Things she did here could have an effect on her own or her family’s future.

Her gaze rose to the open tent flap. A light breeze waved the canvas back and forth. She rose and poked her head outside. The man had disappeared. She tied the flaps back together, then paced the confined interior.

Who was he to Erin O’Connell? She didn’t even know his name. But he knew her. She wiped the edge of the quilt across her mouth to erase his rancid taste. She didn’t know if she’d get any more sleep tonight. She just hoped to God he didn’t come back.

Chapter Five

“Miss Erin?”

Erin groaned as the lilting voice pierced through her dream. Or had it been a nightmare? She’d dreamt she was lost in a forest. Men with rifles chased her...

She rolled over and slid off the narrow bunk. “What the hell?”

“Miss Erin?”

She glanced in the direction of the voice. Light slivered through the opening in the canvas. “Oh, no,” she groaned. “I’m still here.” She dragged her aching body from the rug covering the dirt floor. Remembering she only wore a loose cotton chemise, she grabbed the tattered quilt from the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders before unlacing the ties that held the tent closed.