The Irish Devil (17 page)

“What is it, Miss Viola?”

“Are you cold, Miss Viola? You’re looking a bit wan. Come in and we’ll make you a nice hot cup of tea,” Brigid’s twin sister Molly urged.

Viola’s hand closed around the button. A Confederate officer’s button. Dear God in heaven, what had Mother done?

Her heart plummeted into her stomach but she managed a smile for the girls.

Somehow Viola had become friends with them since she’d hired them a year ago. They’d matched her in age, if not education or family background. She’d taught them how to read and write, while they’d taught her how to do laundry, including the oddities of cleaning the most fragile fabrics. She knew they also protected her from some of her mother’s worst vagaries, but no one acknowledged that.

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Viola tucked the incriminating button away in her pocket as they went inside to the kitchen.

“Viola! Viola, where are you?” Desdemona Lindsay’s voice floated down the back stairs.

Molly and Brigid shared a long look before smiling at Viola. “We’ll put the water on to boil now, Miss Viola. Your tea will be ready whenever you want it.”

“Thank you.” Viola headed for the hallway, stripping off her coat and mittens. She had no eyes for the vibrant Persian carpet, the highly polished wooden floors, or the oil paintings of Empress Josephine’s roses.

“Viola!” Her mother ran down the stairs, eyes sparkling and little spots of color high on her cheekbones. She looked stunning, like a woman just returned from a ball, with a spectacular string of pearls gleaming against her dress’s cobalt blue wool. But Desdemona had excused herself from any invitations for the night before, pleading a headache.

“Yes, Mother?” Viola’s stomach was churning like a paddlewheel steamer’s wake. She heard the door into the kitchen swing shut.

“Have you seen my sealskin muff? I’m calling on Beatrice Johnson and I must look my best.”

Viola held out her hand, the officer’s button displayed on her palm like an accusing eye. Muffled sounds of cast iron banging together came from the kitchen as Molly and Brigid started to prepare breakfast.

Desdemona stopped short, her eyes fixed on the button, and her hand flew to her throat. She started to speak, caught Viola’s eye, and stopped.

“What is this button doing at our house?” Viola demanded. She was colder than she ever remembered being, despite her heavy woolen clothing.

“How dare you talk to me in that fashion! I’ll have you know I did nothing to disgrace my wedding vows. General Bryant was here only a few minutes.”

“Joseph Bryant, the rebel cavalryman? He’s been in prison for months. What did you do?”

“My duty as a Southerner, of course. By now, General Bryant should be safely across the Ohio and back in Kentucky. In a few weeks, you’ll be reading about him again in the newspapers as he wins another glorious victory.”

“Victory? He’ll kill Union soldiers!”

Desdemona harrumphed scornfully. “Conscripts, not true believers in a cause. But our Southern boys can truly fight, especially with the rifles I sent them.”

“Rifles?” Viola choked. Visions crowded in on her, of Father clutching his shoulder as blood spurted between his fingers. Of Hal, pale in death as he sprawled across his quarterdeck, a single bullet wound in his temple. “Mother, what if one of those guns shoots Hal or Father?”

Desdemona hesitated for the first time, but quickly recovered. “Impossible. I bought those rifles last summer in New York and had them delivered directly to the right people in Richmond.”

Viola flinched. All the time they’d been in New York, she’d thought Desdemona was thinking about her new grandson, not killing people.

“Besides,” Desdemona continued, “Richard and Hal understand the risks. We simply fight on opposite sides. Someone in this family must ensure we come out on the winning side and keep our property.”

Viola shuddered and buried her face in her hands. Tears welled up until they overflowed down her cheeks. “How could you do this?” she choked. “What will happen if Hal and Father discover you betrayed them?”

“They will never know because neither of us will ever tell them.”

Viola cast an incredulous glance at her mother. “You’re mad.”

“Am I wrong? Will you speak of this to them?”

“No,” Viola whispered, acknowledging the brutal truth. Father’s sanity might survive his wife’s betrayal, but Hal? How could she tell him their own mother had risked his life?

The front doorbell rang, startling them both. Viola’s heart stopped beating, while Desdemona turned white.

Molly tapped lightly on the kitchen door, then came through into the hallway.

“Shall I say you’re at home to callers, Mrs. Lindsay?” she asked calmly, ignoring Viola’s tear-stained face.

“I am not at home but my daughter is. I’ll be in my room.” Desdemona ran upstairs faster than she’d come down.

A man pounded heavily on the door. Viola’s stomach dived for her boots. She gripped a baluster, willing the dizziness to recede.

“Are you sure you’re feeling well enough for callers, Miss Viola?” Molly questioned in a much warmer tone than she’d used for the senior lady of the house.

Viola nodded and released the wooden prop to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yes, of course.”

Molly walked slowly to the front door and opened it deliberately, catching the Union officer with his fist raised to knock again. Captain Edward Ross, with a half dozen soldiers behind him. Viola shook and fought to compose herself.

“I’ve come to speak to Miss Lindsay,” he announced, looking past Molly. Five and a half feet of stolidity, he’d done well at Shiloh. Since then, he’d occupied himself, so to speak, commanding the guards at the big shipyards. He came from a poor family in Pittsburgh and reeked of whisky at any time of day. Viola had always avoided him, despite his frequent attempts to court her and flatter her mother.

“Yes, Captain, I am here. What can we do for you?”

“May I speak to you privately, Miss Lindsay?”

Viola gulped but nodded. “In the library.”

Leaving the other soldiers outside the house, Ross shut the library door with an ominous thud, turned to Viola, and held out his hand. A single button gleamed in the center.

Viola’s knees went weak. She held herself upright by sheer force of will.

Ross’s eyes never left her face. He smiled slowly, like a lion surveying an injured gazelle.

Viola wished she’d eaten something, anything, before going to Christmas Mass. Perhaps nausea wouldn’t be so strong if she had a full stomach.

“I see you recognize it.”

“What do you want?” Viola disdained beating around the bush. She’d rather get this over with as fast as possible.

“Mrs. Lindsay’s the one who got him out, isn’t she?”

“I cannot answer that.”

“You’re no hand at lying. I can see the truth in your eyes.”

“What do you want?”

He ignored her question as he smirked down at her. “I can cover it up. Nobody will ever know that fancy reb general was here.”

“How?”

Ross laughed, the sound a mockery of honor and duty to his country. “How doesn’t matter.”

“What if the authorities suspect?”

“They can suspect all they like, but nobody will touch Captain Richard Lindsay’s son-in-law.”

“No!”

“Oh yes. You’re going to marry me and we’re going to have a real fine life together, thanks to your money.”

“What if there’s no dowry? You must know Captain Lindsay is not fond of you,” Viola stammered. Her father had cut Ross dead at church the one time they’d met.

“He’ll come around. No man’s going to cast off his little daughter. I’ve already picked out where we’ll build our house.”

“He is not known for letting sentimentality guide him,” Viola insisted desperately, hoping for a way to escape Ross’s blackmail.

“He’ll give us the money because you’ll make sure of it. Otherwise, I’ll tell him about his wife’s treason.”

“Dear God Almighty,” Viola breathed.

“I’m glad you finally see the inevitability of our union, my dear.”

The next four months had been a long series of fights, both in writing and in person, whenever a Lindsay male visited Cincinnati. Viola had insisted on marrying Ross but she’d never said why. She simply couldn’t bring herself to claim love for Ross, or even a pretense of infatuation.

Finally Ross had set a wedding date, confident her father would change his mind once they were married. He’d been wrong: Father had disinherited her on the same day, swearing he’d never speak to Captain or Mrs. Ross. Hal had done the same, cutting off all contact with her.

Ross had been furious. He’d sworn he’d be richer than her father was, even if he had to dig gold out of the ground to do it. Viola’s decision to marry Ross was privately reinforced by Lincoln’s assassination and the public anger toward all traitors. Her only consolation in the following years was that Hal didn’t know of their mother’s treachery.

After tasting the fruit of her mother’s lies, Viola could hold to William Donovan’s honesty for three months. She turned her attention back to adding up the tally sheets and deliberately lost herself in contemplation of how many barrels of beans were currently in the depot.

She refused to consider the invoices and letters awaiting filing on the shelf next to her desk. They came from nearly every state and territory in the Union, damning evidence of how widespread Donovan & Sons’ connections were. And just how much William sought money.

“Mrs. Ross?” William’s broad shoulders blocked sight of the corrals beyond the doorway as he stepped into the office. “Are you daydreaming?”

“Of course not,” Viola answered automatically. “I’ve almost finished accounting for the gunpowder barrels.”

“Are you sure about that?” He shut the door behind him. He’d shed his jacket and his sleeves were rolled up. He was dusty and sweaty and completely masculine, far more interesting than any proper businessman. A single finger pushed his hat back on his head. His eyes were very intent on her. “You look like an impertinent clerk to me.”

Something clenched deep inside her core at the look in his eyes. She remembered his words about playing games, in a manner similar to a pageant. This must be what he wanted now. Viola tried to think of what an uppity employee might do.

“Mr. Donovan,” she began, as superciliously as possible, “your account books are intolerable.”

His eyes heated while his mouth twitched, then firmed. Encouraged, Viola went on.

“You, sir, must take immediate steps to correct this situation, before I am forced to count barrels myself.” She tilted her nose in the air.

“I must do something?” he drawled. “I am your employer and you are the one who must do as I say.”

“Impossible, Mr. Donovan.” Viola sniffed and cast a hopeful glance at his trousers. The ridge behind his fly was most pronounced. “You are the one who must act and should do so immediately.”

William vaulted the desk. He grabbed Viola’s hands and held them over her head. She was intensely aware of his strength and yet she felt free to enjoy herself. She was suddenly glad she’d practiced those exercises earlier.

“You are most definitely an impertinent clerk,” he drawled, more casually than the tight grip of his hand around her wrists indicated. “What should I do with you? I warn you, further insolence would warrant a heavier punishment.”

Viola’s ears pricked up. “Why, you…you brute,” she tried a phrase as she twisted away halfheartedly. He leaned against her a bit closer, bracing his free hand on the other side of her head. His wonderful scent enveloped her and her breasts promptly firmed in response.

“Such resistance to my will,” he clucked, and circled his hips against her. Somehow the ridge inside his trousers seemed larger than before. “Mrs. Ross, have you any idea of how foul language could add to your punishment?”

Her eyes widened. In six years around miners and teamsters, she’d heard a great many words unworthy of a church hall. Perhaps he wanted to hear some of those.

She fought him, kicking his shins and cursing him in the foulest terms she knew, even inventing a few phrases. Her struggles didn’t harm him, of course, especially when muffled by her skirts. Finally, he pressed her hard against the wall and bracketed her with his big body.

She could feel every inch of him, from the hard muscle in his chest and thighs, to the fierce erection pressed against her belly.

Words failed her. Her pussy was wet and aching, desperate for him.

He pushed his hips against her. “You are an uppity female, Mrs. Ross. Your behavior demands retribution.”

“No,” she gasped, forcing her eyes to stay open. She needed a kiss so badly. Dew slipped down her thigh.

“Little liar. Your nipples are begging for my touch.” His free hand stroked up her side and teased her breast.

Viola moaned at the echoing pulse in her loins. “Yes, Mr. Donovan.”

“Say my name, as I taught you.”

“William.”

He took the final syllable from her with a kiss, his mouth plundering hers like Stuart’s cavalry. She met him fiercely, angry at him for delaying the passion he evoked so effortlessly. He kneaded her breast until she arched against him, groaning.