Surrender (9 page)

She couldn’t hear him, but she knew he followed her. She tried to close the door quickly behind her; he caught it with the palm of his hand and entered in her wake. He closed the door and strode by her, wrenching open a drawer in his desk to produce a bottle of brandy and a glass. He poured out a portion of the liquor, and thrust it toward her.

“No, thank you—”

“Take it. You’re soaked. Shivering.”

She angrily grabbed the glass and swallowed the brandy, then slammed the glass down. They circled one another slowly and warily around the desk. She felt the
brandy burn through her, consumed far too quickly on an empty stomach.

He refilled the glass. She assumed it was for her and was about to protest, but … it wasn’t for her. He tossed down the amber liquor himself. Barefoot and shirtless, dark hair dripping on his shoulders, he carried an air of authority.

“You know, you may leave now,” she informed him. “I am safely returned,” she said, finding a certain sense of security by remaining on her side of the desk.

He ignored her comment. “You know, Miss Magee, I may be a Rebel, but I don’t lie, and I warned you that you were encountering a ship full of deserters.”

She stiffened, standing very straight, seeking dignity—which was just a bit difficult when her clothing was shredded once again.

He had poured more brandy—for her or him, she didn’t know. She snatched up the glass, swallowed the contents whole, and set the glass back down. “McKenzie,” she said coolly, “may I remind you, I was nearly at the ship before you stated that she was manned by deserters.”

He ignored the glass then. Staring at her, he took a long swig of the brandy right out of the bottle.

“Miss Magee, may I remind
you
, you were still quite willing to cry out, even once I had come upon you. And deserters or good loyal Yanks—they would have happily shot me in the water. Nice thanks after my gallant rescue.”

She did her best to stare at him with cool dispassion. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have been so determined on the rescue.”

He extended the bottle. She accepted it, and swigged brandy from it just as he had done. He took it back, swallowed deeply, slammed it firmly down on the desk.

“Perhaps,” he told her, “I shouldn’t have bothered with an attempt at rescue. I should have left you to the wolves. Except that I am responsible for your welfare.”

“You’re responsible for my welfare! Now, that, sir, is quite amusing.”

“Is it?” He took steps around the desk, facing her then just to the side of it. Too close. Far too close.

Her head was spinning.

“Amusing?” he inquired. “I don’t see it as so. Not if I’m to hang for whatever ill befalls you.”

She shivered suddenly, despite the deceptive warmth of the liquor burning through her. The room was tilting. She wondered if they had set sail again.

“Cold?” he inquired politely, yet she imagined he damned well thought she should be freezing, that she definitely deserved to suffer for her folly.

“Cold, yes. I am soaked. Perhaps, if you would be so good as to leave a prisoner at peace, I could change.”

“Oh, could you? Change—into what?” he inquired flatly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Into what, indeed? It wasn’t as if she had packed for this trip. Even the tatters she now wore were borrowed.

“Well, surely—”

“Surely, yes, we should find something for you! You know, Miss Magee, there is a war on. We are plagued by endless shortages, and here you are, plunging time after time into the sea, ruining perfectly good clothing. Now, if you can’t learn to take care of your things, I’m afraid you’re simply going to have to go without in the future.”

“Oh, really?”

“My funds are limited. Money is dear to the Rebels, and all goes to pay for the war effort. New clothing for you can hardly be considered a necessity to the war department.”

“You may rest assured, McKenzie, that I would not accept so much as a half-cent from you—or your war department.”

“Then, what shall you do?”

He said the words with an amused certainty that she would have to throw herself upon his mercy. Her blood seemed to simmer in her veins. In a moment of sheer lunacy and anger, she decided to call his bluff.

She said as lightly as she could manage, “The weather is pleasant enough. If I’m to go about naked, I shall go naked. It will be interesting to see, however, what disciplinary problem it creates among your men. I’m quite certain, though, that being
your
men, their minds are as pure as the driven snow. Of course, they are
surely superior to any Yank deserters. I’d gladly cost the Confederacy any victory, but I’d be damned before I’d cost you a red penny!” And so saying, she shed the torn skirt and peeled the soaked bodice over her head.

Lunacy—and too much brandy.

Her fingers were shaking by the time she came to the tiny buttons on the pantalets. Her anger was fading beneath his cobalt scrutiny, yet she had gone this far. She was now literally half naked. No lady, from either North or South, would be so rashly indecent, and yet, as he kept reminding her, this was war.

And she was gratified to see that the glitter of mocking arrogance was leaving his eyes. He stared at her as if she had taken total leave of her senses.

Which she had.

She slipped from the pantalets, and started toward the door, straight, dignified, smooth.

“Excuse me. I think I’ll step outside into the sun and breeze to dry,” she told him, starting past him.

Yet as she did so, her bravado was turning to panic. What had she done? What on earth would her father say? What of all those officers, politicians, and distinguished men and women she had met as her father’s hostess in Washington? She was General Magee’s daughter, admired near and far for her intelligence and composure.

And she was about to walk naked before a crew of sailors. She had already stripped in front of the enemy. She suddenly wanted to crawl beneath the floorboards of the captain’s cabin—and die. Was it possible to die from humiliation? If so, she would do so now. Should she continue this decadent charade? What choice did she have?

He would stop her. Surely, he would stop her. She had seen the look in his eyes change as she had shed her clothing.

But he didn’t stop her. His tone was composed and cool as he said, “My men will be quite thrilled, Miss Magee. We’re in a foreign port where almost anything is for sale, and they have the run of the island tonight. You’ll surely whet their imaginations. Although, I must say, I’m quite certain that what they can afford on their
seamen’s pay won’t compare to the view they’re about to enjoy.”

She set her hand on the door. Were they both bluffing?

“Go to hell, McKenzie,” she said, her back to him.

“Want a blanket?” he offered dryly at long last.

She replied with what dignity she could. “Yes, actually.”

She heard him pull the blanket from the bunk. A moment later it was draped over her shoulders. She pulled it tightly around her, painfully aware that he stood just inches away.

“You are trouble, you know, Miss Magee, pure trouble,” he informed her softly.

She kept her back to him. “I believe that the enemy is supposed to cause trouble, Captain,” she said, and turned around at last. “And I am your enemy.”

He nodded, but there was a strange smile curved into his lips.

“You find my words amusing?”

“I find everything about you to be … stimulating, shall we say.” He laughed lightly. “At the moment I am gratified. You’ve just addressed me by something other than ‘McKenzie’ for the first time. Who knows? We may be heading for a better relationship.”

“A better relationship? We have
no
relationship.”

“Ah, but we do. This is war. You became involved, and you were caught. That means you’re now a prisoner of war, and this ship is your jail. I own the ship, so I am your jailer. Therein lies your relationship, Miss Magee. You’d do well to respect it. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

She nearly jumped as he set his hands on her shoulders. Yet all he did was move her out of the way of the cabin’s door. His eyes met hers. “By the way, Miss Magee. I’d have been damned before letting you take one step outside this cabin naked,” he assured her. He stepped by her, and exited the cabin. The door closed tightly behind him.

She’d had far too much brandy, and she’d played at war far too dangerously. She leaned against the door. Her knees buckled, and she sank against it.

She closed her eyes, swearing silently against him, then Alaina, then Ian …

Then anyone so rude as to bear the McKenzie name.

T
he brandy and the swim had all but done her in. She’d slunk back to the bunk and fallen into a deep sleep.

When she awoke, darkness had fallen. The lamp burned on the desk, and since she awoke only half covered by the blanket, she worried about who had come in to light it.

There was clothing at the foot of the bunk. A man’s white cotton shirt, and breeches. She realized they had probably come from Jeremiah. Though he was a tall youth, he was slender, and he was surely the best candidate to donate clothing to a slim, wayward captive.

She dressed quickly, tying the rope belt tightly to make sure she didn’t lose the breeches, afraid as she donned the clothing that someone would appear. And though there was little she need actually hide from her captor now, memories of brazenly peeling her wet clothing from her body were nothing less than entirely mortifying now. She would never take a sip of brandy again as long as she lived. Yet she wondered if she could blame what had happened on the brandy alone. She’d been in a tempest—with him, with herself.

Still, it was chilling to imagine what might have happened if she had managed to reach the anchored ship with the deserters on board before he had come to stop her. She didn’t try to tell herself that they might have held enough remembered loyalty to the Union to help her. She was well aware that she was in far safer hands with her Rebel captors.

There was a tapping on the cabin door. She walked to it and opened it. Jeremiah was there, bearing a tray of food.

“Ah, you’re awake and well, Miss Magee,” he said pleasantly. “You must be starving. I’d have brought something sooner, but Captain McKenzie said as how you were sleeping, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

So no one but Jerome McKenzie had been in the cabin. She wondered why the sense of relief she felt was so disturbing.

“I’m awake, Jeremiah. If these things belong to you,” she said, indicating her clothing, “I’m grateful for the loan.”

“They do, indeed, belong to me. Yet they somehow appear far more appealing on you,” he said, grinning.

“Well, thank you.”

He nodded and brushed by her, placing the tray on the desk. “Shrimp with brown rice, Miss Magee. Hope you enjoy it.”

“I can’t complain about the shipboard food,” she said.

“We’re lucky. Evan Deiter, ship’s cook, worked in Paris. Then he was in one of the finest steak houses in Virginia before opening his own restaurant in Jacksonville.”

“How fortunate for those aboard the
Lady Varina
that he’s not still tending to his own restaurant.”

“Oh, well, he couldn’t be doing that. The Yanks burned down his place the first time they occupied Jacksonville.”

“Oh,” Risa murmured.

“Sometimes, I admit, it makes me feel a mite guilty—eating so well. There’s places where our soldiers are making do on hardtack and bitter coffee.”

She hesitated, sitting behind the desk, and looking at the boy. He had such a charming, earnest young face, with freckles to complement his straw-blond hair and blue eyes. “You shouldn’t feel guilty, Jeremiah. You’re too young to be fighting a war.”

“Ah, well, boys my age have died aplenty, Miss Magee. I do feel that I’m lucky to be aboard the
Lady Varina
. And serving with Captain McKenzie.”

She didn’t answer that comment, but tested a shrimp. It was delicious. It was quite obvious that the ship’s cook had run a restaurant—the trays were not just filled with appetizing food, they were also beautifully presented. That afternoon, her napkin had been folded into a
flower. Tonight, a wedge of fresh melon garnished her plate and the crystal wineglass on the tray was filled with ruby-red burgundy.

She groaned, looking at it.

Jeremiah was instantly concerned. “Is there something wrong? I mean, well, we do get little critters in the rice and stores now and then. Maggots in the beef. That’s why the cook is so fond of our bringing in fresh seafood—”

“There are no little critters in the rice, Jeremiah. It’s just that … is there coffee by any chance?”

“Can you make do without milk? We’ve got sugar; we can pick up some fresh milk now that we’re taking on supplies—”

“Black coffee will be just fine,” she assured him.

He smiled, and left the cabin, eager to do her bidding.

He was only gone a few minutes, but in that time, she devoured every bite on the tray. She had been starving. Her head had felt like a mushroom. Food made it all much better.

Jeremiah returned with a mug of steaming coffee just as she ate her last bite. She accepted it gratefully from him. It was delicious. Yet as she sipped it, she found herself suddenly ready to lay her head on the desk and cry. He was adorable. So eager, so loyal to his captain, and yet so determined to be kind to her. And it was true. War was killing boys like him, and war was making enemies of them all.

“Whenever you’re done, miss, I’m to see you to Mr. Douglas.”

“Mr. Douglas?” she inquired.

“Mr. Hamlin Douglas, Miss Magee. First mate.”

“And what will I be doing with Mr. Douglas?”

“He’s to see you ashore, Miss Magee.”

So she was going ashore! Why? Despite the fact she was growing convinced that Jerome McKenzie was determined that no real harm should come to her, the idea made her very nervous.

“My name is Risa, Jeremiah. My friends use it all the time. I’d like to consider you a friend.”

He smiled broadly. “Yes, ma’am. I am your friend.”

“Jeremiah, why am I going ashore?”

“Oh, well, because we’re here for the night. And the captain has decided that you should have a room at the inn, seeing as how he’s growing weary of swimming after you all the time—” He broke off, his cheeks pink. “I’m sorry—”