Surrender the Wind (31 page)

“You are my prisoner.” His steel-blue eyes bored into hers, steelier than the pewter-cloaked clouds of an incoming storm, a menacing, vibrant, blade-sharp blue. He rubbed his knuckle against the scratch made on his throat. “The battle of North and South is a bad dance involving every kind of warfare, attack, defense, pursuit, evasion, parry, thrust, siege, with mutual respect and personal enmity.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow. “How diverting. Is your sermon intended for our personal war?”

“My advice to you,” John said calmly, “is to put the sword down before you get hurt.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulders. “Advice worth nothing is given gratis. She brushed the tip lightly to his chin, “Charming, but I find your talent for observation, flawed, for it is I who hold the sword.”

“If given the chance, would you truly harm me? Would you wish to see me dead? After all, I am your husband.”

“I am sure you’d never let me forget, dragging me off by my hair, wielding your club like an ancient Neanderthal.” Her eyes dipped to an inscription. “
Emeritus In Excelsis.
O
ne who has served with honor in the highest degree?
”

John felt like a man feels when his enemy’s protective center and flanks were about to collapse. “A Latin scholar?” Her arms trembled beneath the sword’s weight. Except—he dared not trust her. He wanted to—dared not. The fascination to her was folly, swinging from anger to desire in one wild second. John smashed the sword to one side. It clanged on the floor. He kicked the blade under the bed.

“I will have this out.” His knees shifted on the bed, his arms placed on each side of her, and entrapping her against the pillows.

“You don’t want any attachments. You want to be alone. Isn’t that right, John?”

A dangerous pulse beat in his temple. “That’s right.”

“From the folly of your first wife, you carry a heavy weight, and that load gets kind of heavy doesn’t it? You push me away before I get a chance to hurt you. Except I haven’t hurt you and you know everything I’ve told you is the truth. My only sin was not telling you who I was. I was afraid and alone. Can you imagine my fears? Mallory was in control and even in the end his lies to you were for control. I am not a spy. I never betrayed you, but sought to protect you. Even your brother, Lucas believed me.”

“Shut-up, Catherine. I don’t want to hear anymore.” He captured a frond of her hair and teased the end across the nipple of her breast, and his gut came ablaze with her throaty groan.

“You’ve thrown up a wall so high that you’ll never climb over it. The real fear is that wall can be breached.”

He would not allow her to breach that wall again.

With burning fire, his mouth came down on hers and she gave herself to the ravishment of his mouth. He unbuttoned his pants and his hand swept down, spreading the split in her pantalettes, the drugging scent of her woman’s heat assailing him. Fully aroused, desire pulsed through his swollen rigid flesh and she pressed her groin against the thickness of his erection and the head of his cock bathed in her wet heat. No. He would not enter her, not yet. He toyed with her, spreading her moisture back and forth, biding his time until he filled her. He watched her writhe when his thumb flicked through the triangle of blond curls and at the sensitive piece of flesh at the core of her.

“John.” She moaned and pulled him down into her embrace, her breathing ragged.

His breathing was ragged too, and then someone cleared their throat outside the tent. John ignored it, mesmerized by the flush on her cheeks, yet striving to draw himself from his passion-ridden lust, he struggled to focus on the reality around him, his primary thoughts, as his hardened loins dictated, on things he had to, must finish. “Who is it?” he gritted out at last.

“A courier,” his adjutant said.

“I’ll talk to him later,” John rasped.

“He’s from General Lee.”

“Damn.” John pulled Catherine to her feet. He assisted tying her corset and while she donned her dress, he buttoned his pants, straightened his shirt and waited for her to brush her hair. When he viewed the two of them in sufficient order, he threw open the tent flap.

“Salutations, General Rourke,” greeted General Benson.

John groaned.

Catherine blushed not only from his intense perusal but for what they had been doing with an audience camped on their doorstep. Without invitation, Benson stepped into the tent and stood paralyzed. “Madam, you are the most stunning creature I have ever lain eyes upon. I came to see how marital bliss agrees with you, General Rourke. Now I can report to General Lee firsthand.”

“Go ahead and try.” With a curse, John removed his box of cigars from Benson’s grasp. “Don’t sit, you’re not staying long.”

Smiling and unaffected by her husband’s rudeness, Benson took off his hat and bowed to her, “I’m General Benson. I have to introduce myself seeing how John is so flustered. Was it my untimely arrival?”

John bit the end of a cigar. “Next time, I’ll have you cool your heels until you rot. Was this an actual assignment or purely voluntary? And when I get flustered, I have the urge to bury my fist in someone’s face.”

General Benson put his hands up and let out a hoot of laughter. “No need to take offense. I came on a mission for General Lee. Indeed, a pleasure to be welcomed by you, General Rourke, sharing in your genial mood and impeccable manners. You always were a clever rascal. Never could outwit you at West Point, which, by the way, calls me to reflect on our school days. Perhaps Mrs. Rourke would be entertained with some of our exploits?”

“Hardly,” John growled. “Let’s get down to business.”

Benson pulled several rolled maps from waterproof casings. “Excuse me, Mrs. Rourke.” General Benson addressed her and then turned to Rourke, speaking in Latin.
“Res circum Fredericksburgem gravis est cautione versimile, mox extraharis ut Richmondum defendas.”

Catherine translated Benson’s words,
“The situation around Fredericksburg is serious. With all probable caution you may be pulled back soon to defend Richmond.”

John held up a hand for Benson to stop. “The information is too sensitive. My wife is a Latin scholar.”

Benson clamped his hat to his chest. “Amazing. How did you and the general meet?”

Uncertain of what to say, Catherine glanced at John, his mouth twisted into a threat. Images flashed of what he had done to her before Benson appeared. John was selfish, arousing her carnal nature as a way to deny his love. Yet a crack yielded in his wall that he could no longer hide. She would chisel it apart, chink by chink.

Then she dredged up memories of his body thrown from the train…how she almost buried him alive. She bit her lip, the gruesome ordeal not a romantic way to meet one’s spouse. But John’s persistent warnings and stubbornness irked her. Inspiration struck. “He literally fell at my feet.”

Her husband’s expression became one of pained tolerance. “As I recall, my loving wife nearly buried me alive with her initial adoration.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes. “Not to mention I should have hit him over the head with a shovel…would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

“I believe you have some duties to perform,” John interrupted her.

“General Rourke,” General Benson protested, “Mrs. Rourke may stay. I am sure her duties can wait.”

“Without question.” Catherine breathed a most captivating smile for General Benson’s benefit, as if her approval was the most important mission he could attain in life.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw John mutter a curse. He opened his mouth to argue with her but his gaze was drawn to her bosom. With certainty, he recalled where his hands had been moments before. He shifted in his chair. “Go to the kitchens and help, Brigid.”

At first, Catherine gloated at her ability to rattle her husband. But for her duplicity, her body responded to the heat of his gaze with such a blazing fire, it could have burned down the tent. Heat rose to her breasts. She put her hands to her face, flushing, conscious of his scrutiny.

“Ahem!” General Benson cleared his throat, letting the two of them know of his forgotten presence. “I insist Mrs. Rourke stay. I am sure her duties can wait.”

Like her, John was yanked back to reality. “Mrs. Rourke has pressing requirements that need her attention. She is quite handy with the needle and obliged to make mending repairs. Isn’t that right, Catherine?”

John gave final notice. She glared at him, but when she turned to General Benson, she pasted on a look of angelic innocence, pleading and exaggerating the weakness of her sex. “Since my duties are overlong, I shall aspire to a fit of vapors that only hartshorn and hand-slapping will put into order.”

“I must protest, General Rourke. It is not necessary for the wife of a general of the Southern States to work her fingers to the bone. You are a very harsh man, and I take exception to your insensitivity. Your wife is a delicate flower.”

With her head held high, she sailed out the tent, slapping the flap down. She paused to smooth her skirts and heard the pinning down of maps to the table and imagined John hovering over the charts, laying out strategy that he would later concur with General Lee.

John blew out a loud breath and said, “I caution you, General Benson. She’ll have your skull for a drinking cup before the sun sets, while roasting your entrails and drinking your blood with a toast to the moon.”

* * *

John checked his watch. Catherine had dogged him as to who was their unexpected dinner guest. From General Lee to President Jefferson Davis, he let her guess, remaining mute. Catherine fussed with the silverware, glasses for wine on the table set with a white cloth and linen napkins. Brigid had cooked a sumptuous feast for the occasion and his mouth watered with the prospect of the rare treat ahead.

The candle flames wavered as she checked her image in the mirror and patted her hair in place. She didn’t need to. Her hair was perfect. Brigid had swept it up in an elegant coiffure, secured with a tortoiseshell comb, and his hands itched to touch the ringlets cascading down her back. The fitted bodice of her iced-blue satin gown had an off shoulder neckline framed in ruffled beaded lace. Courtesy of Mrs. Briggs, the simple lines and rich detail of the gown made Catherine look like a fairy-tale princess. His chest swelled.

Ian appeared, escorting the Union doctor.

The doctor did a double take. “Miss Fitzgerald this is a surprise.”

“Dr. Parks, is it really you?” She hugged the snowy white-haired doctor, and then stretched her arms out and shook her head.

“You know each other?” John moved off the platform and shook the doctor’s hand, mystified from the revelation.

“Of course I do. Miss Fitzgerald is legendary, known for her work for the poor and destitute of New York. She has used her family’s wealth and influence to build an orphanage, expending funds to house the orphans of soldiers lost in this terrible war. Then she worked with me at Mac Dougall Hospital in New York. Everyone knows of the tireless hours that she has devoted to working with the children and the soldiers, commendable for a woman of her stature.”

“Thank you, Dr. Parks. But your praises are also to be recognized.” The doctor drew out her chair and seated her. “Dr. Parks is a genius at modern surgical techniques. One of his techniques implemented during the war has been successful in saving men from losing their limbs, earning wide acclaim in the medical societies from Boston to Washington. He is amazing.”

The doctor rubbed the back of his neck. “I am a little confused, but how is it you are so far south, Miss Fitzgerald?”

“I can answer your question,” John said, “Catherine Fitzgerald is my wife.”

“But how?” The doctor scratched his head, clearly perplexed on distant barriers and backgrounds. “I thought you were in Washington, Mrs. Rourke.”

“It’s a long story,” John said, and then changing the subject to safer territory, he asked, “Have the two of you known each other for a long time?”

Dr. Parks warmed to the question. “The first occasion,
Mrs. Rourke
had hosted a party for her father in their home before the advent of the war. It was a lovely time and I made plenty of fine acquaintances, good friends of her family, and I remember it as if it were yesterday. If I recall, those in attendance were William Astor, General Winfield Scott, Horace Greeley and Colonel Ulysses S. Grant. The latter, I believe has since been promoted.”

John ticked off the names, Astor, the richest man on the continent, General Winfield Scot, John had served under in the Texas-Mexican War, and Greeley was the editor of the New York Tribune. John turned to Catherine. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Grant?”

She gave a dainty shrug to her shoulders, and as if it was of no consequence. “You never asked. I know President Lincoln too.” She turned to Dr. Parks. “Please call me Catherine. We are friends.”

Conversation flowed through dinner on a wide range of philosophies. Catherine excelled as a hostess and had a flair for a multitude of topics, and at once, he imagined her, in her element at the top of the social whirl in New York. Catherine personified womanhood, quintessential femininity, and an air of mystery that at times seemed unfathomable.

Mallory’s words slithered into his mind.

All wars are won with spies. However, the North’s most prized possession or weapon is our beautiful seductress, Catherine…our most skilled intelligence operative.

“You should have seen how your wife worked with those orphans. She didn’t worry about getting her hands dirty like other useless females of her society. Got right down on the floor and played with those children. Bathed them, fed them, nurtured them and gave them the love that they needed. Then she assisted me with surgeries, unusual for any woman. She was a quick learner and very efficient nurse. I found her indispensable. She is the most selfless person I have ever met. I cannot say enough about her fine character.”

John finished his meal and lit a cigar, letting the doctor and Catherine monopolize the discussion. He threw back the remainder of his wine.

“Lovely is she not? You are not the first to be enticed. Many before you have confided and fallen prey to her charms.”