Surrender the Wind (8 page)

“Tell me, was it foolish of General Lee to invade the North when he was outgunned and outmanned…and knowing the Union would come looking for you? Tell me, General Rourke, did Lee learn a lesson at Gettysburg?” Her eyes flashed. “How about General Ulysses Grant?”

“General Grant?” John grew pensive. Grant had thrown Yankee forces at the Confederates in the Wilderness. Since his capture, he had no news of the outcome. Grant was new. He had not figured him out yet. Frowning, he said, “You Yanks call him, “Unconditional Surrender” Grant. He’s an enigma although his western campaigns show he is a fighter and that surprises me. Lowest in rank in his class at West Point, and rumors abound he favors the fermented flavor of wheat and barley too much.”

“We shall see, General Rourke. The mongrel dog is always stronger than the thoroughbred.”

“But Grant hasn’t met Bobby Lee.” He touched his forehead in a mock salute.

“Your Bobby Lee is as useful as a milk pail under a bull,” she snapped.

“I see you’ve been sharpening your sword early today. However, time will tell on your General Grant, your supposed hero of the North.” He caressed her cheek with the knuckle of his forehand. He wanted to touch her and keep on touching her.

“What about Jackson? Pickett? Longstreet? Hill?”

“Slow down, Miss Callahan, my mind’s dizzy with all you require. Are you asking for yourself—or for Mr. Lincoln?” He quirked a speculative brow.

“I doubt very much if you are ever addled, General Rourke.”

His breath whistled out. When she looked up and offered him a beguiling smile that lit the heavens, his knees went weak. “Another compliment? How can I refuse such a delightful woman on a picturesque day? General Jackson—Stonewall that is, now deceased, God rest his soul. Now there was a man who knew how to fight. Did you know he was superstitious? Wouldn’t eat pepper. Felt it made his left leg stiff.”

“Eccentric,” she huffed.

With her cheeks rosy from the sun, her hair curling in thick golden waves about her shoulders, and that bare dip between her breasts—was there any defense? “A little eccentricity isn’t bad in a general. It helps with newspapers and women. Southern women are crazy over our generals who are both pious and a little crazy themselves.”

“Spare me.”

He laughed at her. “There’s General A.P. Hill—Texan through and through, but a Southerner first. Always wears a red shirt going into battle, and boy, can those Texans fight. General Pickett—perfume and all. General Longstreet, dark and gloomy at times, but can be humorous. Hell of a fighter and strategist.”

He stopped, picked several, yellow, bell-shaped flowers and presented them to her, his fingers warming as they brushed across her hand. “Trout Lilies.” He bowed gallantly.

“Why thank you, General Rourke.” She extended a slight curtsey then singled out a lily for inspection. Her finger traced the subtle shape of each dip and turn, then rubbed against the thick ridge of the stem. An arrow of liquid heat went straight to his groin.

“You may find this contradictory, but Lincoln never desired war.”

“If Lincoln had any clear idea of the nature of war and politics, he showed a delicate art of concealing it.” Images of her stroking him like the lily passed hot, raw and carnal.

A slow condemnation grew in her wide emerald eyes. “It seems hard to digest you delivering opinions on Lincoln. We should admire his genius. What he does is for the greater good. President Lincoln said—he’d rather be assassinated than to see a single star fall from the flag of the United States.”

To hell with Lincoln.
Despite her spectacles, she was alive, animated…her voice, lilting, musical…her golden hair and her shining countenance almost made him want to jump up and shake Lincoln’s hand. God she was a siren, leading him to wreck upon the shoals.

They continued walking, and then circled back toward the house. When they approached the rear of the barn, he dragged his feet. No way did he want the spell broken. He stopped, observed her puzzlement. She took to the shade and leaned against the barn, waiting. John squinted at the sky and then focused on her face. Shaking his head, he removed her glasses. “That’s a hell of a lot better.”

“You are quite presumptuous, general.”

He placed both his hands against the barn, trapping her in between. He lingered, awareness filled his every pore, even the air he breathed. He remained duty bound for reasons she could not understand. He’d be returning soon.
Who knew if he’d survive the war?
They would never see each other again. He could not make a commitment, the way she deserved.
Honor.
His mind repeated the words but his gaze fell on her lips.

Catherine’s wicked heart betrayed her, thundered in her chest. “I believe we should remain formal. I—I think it is safer.”

He chuckled, deep and throaty. “Did I ever tell you about Molly? She’s one of my loves back home. Gorgeous, long, slender legs, and beautiful red blond hair. Always loyal and willing to—”

Catherine pushed away from him. He didn’t budge. “How would you know she has long slender legs?”

“Why she shows them all the time.”

“Get away from me.” She shoved at him with all her might, having suffered enough of his arrogance to last a hundred lifetimes. “You, General, are obtuse and dim-witted!”

“And you woman talk too much.” He flattened her to the barn.

Her mouth went dry. With cast-iron certainty, he faked his injury. Why he could probably lift a horse. “I am sure you make your southern belles swoon with glib flattery by hailing your exploits with other women, and then settling on them like an anaconda and swallowing them whole. Pray save your amorous attentions for your lamentable homeward souls.”

“Do I detect a wholehearted spurning? Or jealousy? He touched her hair, streaming it through his hand. “I am only a man.”

“That is a most flattering dedication. Perhaps the lowest specimen I have met. To think you graduated from the nation’s top military school. Without question, West Point has lowered its standards.”

“You humble me.”

An instant of pretended offense stole into his expression and she flinched when he caressed the side of her face. Warm. Intimate. His hand moved down her throat, down the side of her breast and withdrew. A jolt of deep female longing shot through her body.

Catherine doubted the general had one humble bone in his body. “Your only desire is to display yourself like some banty rooster with all the conceit you can muster.” Again, she pushed against his form, steadfast, unyielding, like dislodging a locomotive.
Impossible.

A Satanic smile spread across his face.
Dangerous.
He leaned against her, long, lean and hard. The palms of her hands burned where they lay upon his chest.
How many foes had he fought? Who would survive this battle?

“How you damage my reputation.” His voice lulled her. “Here I am, yours to abuse on the altar of sacrifice. Would you miss me when I am gone?”

“I would grieve in the span of time it takes to clap my hands together.”

Clasping another tendril of hair, he trailed it over her breast, barely a warm brush, just a whisper. Except this time, his hand did not stop at her breast, but continued down her waist to the round curve of her hip.

“Are you going to kiss me?” she asked, though she knew full well what he intended.

“Do you want me to?”

Just as she said, “You can’t,” he lowered his head. Waves of excitement rippled through her.

“Why?”

“Because I saved your life.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that.” His fingers slid under her chin, lifting her face to his. “I think I should kiss you all the time. It is the only remedy to keep you quiet.” In one forward motion his lips stirred against hers, gentle at first, then challenging…and persistent. If only she could remain stiff, immune. The gentle massage of his kiss sent currents of desire through her. Blood pounded in her brain, leapt from her heart and made her pulses race like quicksilver.

He broke apart only inches from her mouth, his steel-blue gaze, hot like molten rock riveting her to the spot. “Perhaps my years at war have lessened my desirability. Do you think you could try harder?”

Catherine strove to gather her wits. Try harder? The arrogant cad. “Let go of me.”

Instead, his body imprisoned her, and his lips came down upon her once more. He devoured her. She moved toward him, pressing into him, impelled by her hunger.

He dragged his lips from hers. “Do you think the war has made its mark on me? Will I be cursed in my…” he paused then deliberately used her words, “…senior years? Do you think the ladies of the South will find my kisses pleasing?”

“Yes.” Catherine practically screamed, her lips burning in the aftermath. “They’ll find you very pleasing. Now let me go.”

He did not release her, tilted his head, as if weighing the matter. An odd twinge of disappointment covered his countenance. “I have a secret which I beg you will keep in strictest confidence?”

Catherine nodded her head. She would do anything to get away from him.

“I don’t feel very secure about myself. In fact, I think I am at risk. Do you think if I do more battle it will help me improve?” A flash of humor crossed his face.

“Then go do battle with General Grant!”

He mimed a dubious expression. “That’s not what I had in mind. General Grant’s charms do not interest me as much as yours do.” And before she could protest again, his lips came down on hers, this time hard, searching…a kiss so hot it could fuse metals. Catherine quivered. Her knees weakened. Peaches. She moved her hands up his chest, and without guile, her fingers continued upward until they lightly stroked the dark hair at his nape.

He outlined the tips of her breasts with his fingers and her traitorous nipples grew taut. His other hand splayed across the small of her back and Catherine gasped, felt his hardness through their clothes. He cupped her breast in his hand and kissed her eyes, nose, and hollows of her neck and down…

He demanded everything, her compliance, her surrender…

A loud shout heralded from in front of the house. The screech of wagon wheels braked to a stop. She managed to twist from his embrace. Their breathing came in unison. Time froze.

His hands fell to her waist. Yet, he did not release her. At full attention, battle ready, he focused on the anonymous visitor.

She peeked around the barn and shook her head. “Dinkle, from the dry goods. Samuel was supposed to deliver the rest of my order. Dinkle must not see you.”

He held her hand. “It was a mistake…for both of us. It won’t happen again. I’m leaving—tonight.”

A mistake…leaving…tonight?
Catherine stood motionless. “Why?”

He said nothing.

A sob trapped in throat. Before she became a pawn in his game…like his Molly, she grabbed her spectacles and ran for the house.

It was well past midnight when the wagon pulled up in front of her house. When Elias Dinkle had delivered her purchases earlier in the afternoon, she accepted his invitation to a church dance—anything to get away from General Rourke. Of course, she had insisted it was too much of an inconvenience for Elias to return for her. So startled had been Elias when she climbed into his wagon that he started hiccupping.

The social turned out to be a fiasco with someone spiking the punch, and church revelers falling drunk all over the dance floor. Catherine was spared this humiliation for Elias could not dance. The evening might have had a bite of humor except for Elias’s endless bout of hiccupping that matched the movement of his Adam’s apple to the rhythm of the band music. After listening to Elias’s soapbox standing on the perils of bird watching, she didn’t even have to feign a headache and begged to go home.

The house remained dark. Good. No doubt the almighty General John Daniel Rourke of the Confederate Army had taken himself south. She dreamed of spending a peaceful night—alone in her bed.

On her porch, she searched for the key in her reticule and missed the strange forward motion of Elias Dinkle. He locked his arms around her.

“Elias Dinkle! What on earth are you doing?”

“I thought you and I could spend a little time together. You living here all alone…no one to keep you…warm.” He hiccupped. His breath reeked with the foul stench of liquor.

“You weasel.” Shaking off her surprise at his complete change in disposition, she jerked to the side just as he lunged forward, his wet lips puckered for a drooling kiss. She smacked him with her reticule.

“Please, Miss Callahan, just one smooch. Your perfume does funny things to my mind.” His hands were everywhere, her spectacles went flying and her hairpins clinked on the planks.

“Elias, get a hold of yourself and release me this minute.” But Catherine had hardly pushed at Elias, before he went flying across the porch, seemingly on his own volition.

Leaning casually against the door frame, his arms folded in front of him, stood John. Was that glowering murderous rage directed at her or Elias? He inclined his head toward Elias and drawled through clenched teeth. “Is that the way you treat a lady?”

Elias’s Adam’s apple bounced moonbeams in the dark but the liquor fortified his gumption. “She’s fair game, the schoolteacher.”

Before Elias could get one more word out, John had him picked up by the shirt collar and bent the smaller man back over the porch railing. “You owe, Miss Callahan an apology.” A chill hung on the edge of his threat.

“I-I apologize. Who are you?” Elias choked, and appealed to Catherine, then glanced to the man holding him.

Catherine put her hand on John’s sleeve, before he said anymore, his strong southern accent forming questions in the storekeeper’s mind. Elias could wreak a lot of damage. “He’s my cousin…remember the one I told you about.”

Elias frowned. “No way does he look simple. He looks plain dangerous. Were you really dropped on your head?”

“Dinkle, you’re either stupid or a fool.” With one punishing right hook, John dealt a blow that knocked Elias over the porch railing.

Catherine peered over the edge. The store clerk wobbled when he stood, nursed a swelling eye and picked barberry thorns off his scalp and neck.