Rebel (42 page)

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand—”

“I want to set you ashore in enemy territory, Major. You’ll have a small group of men; you’ll choose them and train them yourself. And when the runners break through the blockade and enemy spies make landfall on the peninsula, Major, you will stop them.” He stood suddenly, walked to the room’s desk, and spread out a rolled map that lay upon it. Rising, Ian quickly saw that the map included Florida, and parts of nearby states of Georgia, Alabama, and Louisiana, as well as the Bahamas and Cuba. “Major, if you’ll bear with me…”

Ian nodded, coming to stand beside Lincoln as he spoke. “Major, Florida’s inner transportation system can be called primitive as best. I’ve learned that one path planned by the blockade runners is here—Mosquito Inlet. Supplies will then be hauled by wagon to the St. Johns River, then taken by small steamer up the Oklawaha to Fort Brooks. From Fort Brooks, they’ll be carried again by wagon to Waldo, from Waldo to Baldwin by rail, then again by wagon from the Florida rail system at Madison to Quitman, on Georgia’s railway system. I tell you, Major, that is a complicated journey. Hauling heavy materials… it’s estimated it could take a month. Through poorly guarded country. A small party of specially trained men could strike quickly and without warning and do severe damage—either confiscating supplies or seeing that they’re destroyed. Here—another route I’ve been shown. An even slower route! Biscayne Bay— a fine place to anchor, since seaman say there are places where fresh water can be obtained through the salt. And here, coming in by the Miami River—you have miles and miles of nothing—except for old Indian trails. Goods obtained from Cuba or the Bahamas might readily be brought here—then north.” Lincoln looked up at Ian again. “That’s where you come in. Your home state is little more than a massive coastline. With your knowledge of the marshland and swamps, we’ll be making use of your special talents.”

“Are you asking me to spy?” Ian inquired.

Lincoln shook his head. “On the contrary. You will wear a uniform at all practicable times, Major. I mean to be prepared for what will come. There might be very little action for months… and it may all be over quickly. God knows. I don’t think so. We’ve a long way to go to create a sound military system, but our difficulties are not as great as those faced by our sisters in rebellion.” He said the last with a wry smile. He wasn’t going to say the word
enemy
.

Ian was quiet for a moment. It was not what he had expected. He wasn’t just going to fight his state; he was going to fight from within it.

“May I trust you with this mission, Major, or is there a possibility that you might choose to fight for the South? I assure you—there are many who will still be leaving the Union service as the days go by. There is certainly no dishonor in stating such a wish now.”

Ian hesitated for a long moment. The time had come; he had known it was coming. He had always known that he would reach this point, and he had known which way he would go. When he’d recently been sent down to Fort Taylor, he’d seen Jen, Jerome, and his aunt and uncle. He’d also gotten a message home, and spent time back at Cimarron with his mother, father, Tia, and Julian. His father would never condone the war, but he intended to sit tight, and not desert Cimarron. Tia had decided not to return to school, but to stay close to home. Julian had become attached to a St. Augustine militia group and been commissioned into military medical service as a lieutenant. Though they would go separate ways, they would do so without bitterness. They would all have to pray that Cimarron would survive.

Ian and Julian embraced long and hard before parting, the thought of which now disturbed Ian deeply. He was cavalry; he had assumed he’d be assigned to fight with the main branch of the army. He had hoped for, and assumed he’d be given, a command far, far from home.

“This is, of course, an informal request,” President Lincoln continued. “Your orders will come down to you from General Brighton, who will also see to it that you, your men, and whatever supplies you need are transported as necessary. Sir, will you accept your assignment?”

Ian nodded slowly. “You are, sir, the commander-in-chief.”

With a heavy heart, he stood, shook hands with the president, and left.

He heard a rumbling in the sky as he stepped out on the lawn. He looked up. There were no visible storm clouds. And still the rumbling continued.

He didn’t want the damned job he had just been given. Didn’t want it at all. Yet even as he started toward home, he was making plans on exactly how to carry it out.

Thank God for Alaina. For the amazing relationship they had come to share. He had thought that the actual outbreak of war would have driven them completely apart. Yet not so. Since the shelling of Fort Sumter— and especially since Rose had lost her child—Alaina had been quiet, but loving and supportive. The night he had first come home, she had said she loved him, and nothing could have surprised him more—nor so swiftly and completely captured what remained of his heart. He admitted to himself that he had been falling in love with her ever since he’d seen her all grown up—dueling on his lawn, since the night of their marriage when he had first taken her into his arms. If only…

It didn’t seem to matter now.

After his talk with Lincoln, he returned home to find that she was entertaining Rose Greenhow and several other women in his parlor. “Excuse me, ladies, please, don’t let me interfere,” he said, but Alaina had risen, and at her cue, the other women rose as well. Ian left them, going upstairs. Since he’d come home last, he’d slept with her in her room every night. But now he came to his own room. He was delighted to see that some good soul had managed to prepare a hot bath in anticipation of his return home, and he gladly stripped and sank into it.

He had scarcely slipped into the water and leaned his head back against the tub’s rim when he heard his door opening. He didn’t open his eyes; he didn’t need to. He could sense her presence. But long minutes passed, and he opened his eyes, turning.

She had slipped silently out of her own clothing and walked toward him now, naked as Eve, her long hair
streaming behind her in a golden cascade. He stared, fascinated. She came to the tub, knelt by it, leaned over to kiss his lips—long, lingering, seductive. He felt himself harden in the warm water long before she slipped her hand into it to soap and caress his sex. He rose slightly, slipping an arm around her, dragging her down with him. Water sloshed over the tub. Heedless, he returned the wet, openmouthed passion of her kiss, running his soapy hands over the length of her body, caressing her breasts, hips, thighs, and mound. She moaned against his kiss and he rose, lifting her in the tub, and again the water sluiced from them and over the rim, onto the floor. He carried her to the bed and laid her down. But she was instantly upon her knees, meeting him, her lips on his again, then showering kisses over the matted dampness of his chest. Her hands stroked down his backbone, over his buttocks. Her caresses slid lower and lower until she took him completely, driving him to something near frenzy, desire so hot and vivid that the threat of war faded away, and life was a burst of brilliant white fire and flash. His body constricted as tautly as a bowstring, the pleasure in him so exquisite that it was sweet agony. When he could bear no more he captured her, forcing her down into the depths of the bed, finding himself in the very depths of her, and making love with a fever both violent and tender. When surcease came, he climaxed so volatilely that it was long, long moments before he could feel again at all, breathe—hear the world again despite the still raucous beating of his heart.

And she remained with him. Golden hair tangled all about him, one knee cast against his thigh. She was curled against him, sleek with the dampness of their lovemaking, her scent hinting erotically of that most recent bout, and still carrying a sweetly feminine hint of roses.

He pulled her even closer to him, sighing softly.

“Thank God for you,” he told her.

She trembled suddenly, but smoothed a lock of his hair from his forehead.

“I thought that you seemed depressed,” she murmured.

“Orders.”

She sat up then, golden eyes on his with grave concern.
“What orders, Ian? Talk to me, tell me what’s going on, let me share it all with you.”

He stared up at her. God, she was beautiful, strands of her glimmering hair falling over the fullness of her breasts, her body sleekly lovely, her eyes filled with concern. He reached out and touched her face, and the slightest little twist of guilt gripped him, then released. He might have married Risa, and he would have loved her, and they might have shared such moments. But he had married Alaina—and even if the circumstances which had seemed so crucial then paled now before the onslaught of war, he couldn’t help but be glad of Alaina now, of her petite beauty, of the passion with which she could make love and ease his spirit. Yet even as he opened his mouth to talk to her, some strange intuition kept him quiet.

He drew her back into his embrace. “Just the situation, my love,” he said. And he told her a bit about the many troops from different states filing into Washington. He gave her careful bits of information, things that the general populace might easily learn, and wondered how, when she had suddenly come around so magnificently as a wife in the midst of all else, he was just so damned…

Uneasy.

“Naturally, dear, the most important information we need now has to do with the immediate movements of the troops,” Rose Greenhow told Alaina, playing with Sean as she spoke.

The woman was absolutely amazing, Alaina thought. Since Rose had first suggested there might be some good she could do for the Confederacy in Washington, things had moved rapidly along.

Rose had become the center of a spy ring.

Rose was first approached by a Captain Thomas Jordan, who had been serving as an assistant quartermaster on the War Department staff. Though Captain Jordan had served the Union, he had been covertly planning an intelligence system long before the shelling of Fort Sumter, and Mrs. Greenhow—who was admittedly an anti-abolitionist and pro-South, but a true matriarch of Washington society and friend and confidante to many in high places—had seemed the perfect woman to have in his
network. Captain Jordan had now joined the Confederacy, but he had left a cipher with Rose, and she would communicate information to him through enemy lines.

It was frightening. It was fantastic.

It was for the rights of men. The Confederacy had the God-given right to independence, just as the thirteen Colonies had had the right to rebel against England all those years ago. The Rebs were the patriots now, acting like their forefathers.

Bankers, socialites, doctors, maids, and even soldiers were all part of Rose’s secret ring. Many people in Washington were for the Southern cause—despite the fact that it was the Northern Capital. Alaina was glad to help Rose in any way she could, especially since her assignments were generally quite simple. Rose spent most of her time charming two men in particular: Colonel Keyes, who was secretary to General Winfield Scott, general-in-chief of the army, and Senator Wilson of Massachusetts. As Rose’s guest, Alaina drew certain men into conversation, gaining from them every little bit and piece of military information possible. It was easy; and Rose was quite pleased with her.

Alaina felt passionately about her task: The better information the Southern commanders had, the more quickly it might all be over. Rose had taught her what a good spy learned: description and destination of forces; quantities of artillery, cavalry, and infantry; dates of intended departures and arrivals.

Sometimes it frustrated Alaina to realize that many a dazzled man was eager to tell her all about his day, while it seemed that Ian managed to say nothing to her at all—no matter what the heat of their passion. She wondered why he kept quiet, but sometimes she was glad he said so little to her, because it was one thing to spy for one’s country, and another to betray one’s husband.

As spring turned to summer, the situation grew increasingly hostile between North and South.

At the beginning of July, Alaina came home from an afternoon tea to find that Ian was in the bedroom with Sean, almost six months old now, sleeping peacefully in his arms. He held his son with such a tender closeness that Alaina felt an aching in her heart—and a sudden fear.

“Ian?” she questioned nervously, hurrying to his side, falling to her knees, and placing her hands upon his knees. “Shhh,” he murmured, smiling sadly as he eased up, placing Sean in his cradle. He came back to Alaina, stooping down to draw her to her feet. “I sail out tomorrow,” he said.

She inhaled sharply; there were no troop movements that she knew about as yet. The army had been amassing in Washington, but according to Rose’s best sources, they weren’t due to leave until the middle of July.

“Oh, Ian!” she whispered.

He said nothing else to her, but slipped a hand beneath her knees to pick her up. She clung to him. He had left her before, but this time… there was something very wrong with this time.

They left Sean sleeping in her room as Ian carried Alaina down the hall to his own. The shades were drawn; the afternoon was dark. He set her down without a word. She removed his sword and scabbard, feeling the blue fire of his eyes on hers. He shed his jacket and shirt and then had her in his arms, kissing her, holding her, tasting her, ravaging her mouth with a fierce hunger.

Somehow they both knew that this time together must be branded in their hearts and minds for a very long time. He removed her clothing with patience… and impatience. Some buttons were undone. Some were torn from the fabric. He kissed her flesh everywhere, as if imprinting himself upon her, as if taking her taste and feel and the scent of her into him to have for now, forever. She made love as wildly, with every bit as much abandon, close to tears many times, wondering how it was possible to feel such heartache even as she felt such pleasure and sweet, aching, spiraling happiness. She wanted to memorize him so badly. The breadth of his shoulders, the texture of his skin. The taste of his lips, the fire in his eyes, the supple length of his back, the feel of him, inside her, part of her. She clung to him, and kissed and teased and tasted in return, and, even when exhausted, so sated she could scarcely move, she held him still, her cheek against his chest, and she couldn’t stop a sudden flow of tears that dampened them both.