The Rebel Wife (3 page)

A moment passed. Then another. “I didn’t kill that soldier.”

There was something different in her tone, softer, slightly vulnerable. He decided to press his advantage. “And yet, here you are, using my tent to hide from a Union patrol and holding me at knifepoint.” He dabbed at the gash on his neck.

A rosy glow stained her cheeks. He kept his gaze fastened on her flushed face, refusing to apologize for any discomfort she might feel. She’d intruded on his sleep, threatened him, and now had the gall to defy him.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” she said. “But I couldn’t take any chances. There’s too much at stake.”

“You mean your accomplice.”

“Accomplice?” She frowned, then dipped her head in understanding. Pale eyes glistened with moisture. “Jeb. Yes, there’s him...” She swallowed and averted her gaze. “But there’s more than that.”

Must be a hell of a lot more for her to behave in such a desperate manner. Even if she didn’t kill the courier, there was no predicting what she might do now. “May I ask a favor, Miss..? Ummm...I don’t even know your name.”

“Does my name matter?”

“Since we’re going to be spending time in each other’s company, it might be nice to know. And I presume you heard mine is Porter. Jack Porter.”

She furrowed her brow as though considering a response.

“Or you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.” Always wise to give a cornered rattlesnake an out.

She relaxed and gave a half shrug. “No harm in your knowing, I s’pose. It’s Louisa. Louisa Carleton.”

“Nice to meet you, Louisa Carleton.” He donned the same smile he’d used earlier on the lieutenant, the one reserved for politicians, government officials, and newspaper editors. Anyone he needed to get on his side. “Now as to that favor I mentioned...since we’re on such friendly terms. Is there any way I can entice you to put down that knife?”

Her shoulders and head came up. “I won’t give up my weapon.”

“Nobody asked you to. Just tuck it away somewhere.”

She wagged her head. “I don’t know...”

“There’s no need to hold me hostage. I got rid of those men. If I’d intended to hand you over or try to escape, I certainly had the opportunity.”

“Well...” She lowered the blade a notch, yet she continued to eye him with distrust. “Yes, well, I suppose that makes sense. But I know how to use this, so don’t try anything funny. And don’t go thinking you can
entice
me to do anything.”

She put a hard edge on the word, turning her pretty mouth down in an ugly twist. Her clothes bordered on threadbare, besides being torn and filthy. Streaks on the dress looked suspiciously like dried blood. If he had to guess, he’d say someone had done a serious wrong by this girl to make her so wary and unpredictable. There was more to her situation than the Yankees, he’d bet his next paycheck.

“Why are you hiding if you didn’t do anything wrong?”

She held her ground. No telltale shifting or blinking. “It’s just like that Yankee officer told you. I was seen with that soldier, but I swear, I was only trying to help him. Not that those bluebellies would believe me. They’d hold me for as long as they pleased, asking questions, and...” She swallowed again. “I can’t afford the delay.”

“Where are you in such a hurry to go?”

“I need to get to Point Lookout Prison.”

The prison? No wedding band adorned her left hand, though that didn’t mean anything. Many women donated their jewelry to the War effort. Still, he could think of only one obvious reason why a woman would take this kind of risk.

“A sweetheart or husband?”

Pools of sadness shimmered in her eyes. “I just need to get there. And I’m running out of time.”

A million questions filled his journalist’s mind, not the least of which, what would it feel like to have a woman care so much. Not that he wanted or needed one, even if she was beautiful and intriguing and could handle a four-inch blade.

No. Miss Carleton’s man could have her and all the aggravation that most likely came with her. And that would be plenty—he was sure of it.

Hot wax trickled onto his fingers. As he adjusted his grip, candlelight flashed on the steel of her blade, a potent reminder of the threat he faced.
No more questions, Porter
.
It’s time to get rid of this crazy lady.

“If you’re in that much of a hurry...” He nodded suggestively at the tent flap.

Hardness replaced the sadness on her face. “My plans have changed a bit.”

“Oh?”

“With the soldiers looking for me, I need another way to get to Point Lookout.”

“You have something in mind?”

“Sure do.”

“And, pray tell, what is that?”

Her almond-shaped eyes gleamed like a cat with a fresh kill. “Apparently we’re married, so I’ll travel with you, Mr. Porter.”

Chapter Two

The newspaperman’s jaw sagged. “Are you addled?”

Addled. Stupid. Dim-witted. The names stung. Just like they had most of her life. Anger rose in her, and she forced a calming breath. Now wasn’t the time to be showing temper. “Don’t call me names. Please.”

His lips puckered for a brief moment. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply...” He flicked his gaze to her knife as though deciding if he was about to get gutted for his insult. “Your suggestion of traveling together...well, it’s just not a good idea.”

“I disagree.” She lowered the blade to her lap. Just enough to put him at ease, but not so far she couldn’t protect herself. “I can pose as your new bride.”

“My bride?”

“Yes, like you told those soldiers.”

He shook his head, sending dark locks skidding over a deeply furrowed brow. “That was a ruse to get rid of them.”

“A very
clever
ruse.” Already her mind raced toward the possibilities. If he was heading to Point Lookout, Jackson Porter could very well be the answer to her prayers. She wasn’t as
addled
as he might think. “What’s this assignment you have for
The Herald
? Will you have access to the prisoners?”

“My assignment has no bearing on this.”

“It has every—”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t be part of...whatever trouble you’re in.” His tone, though hard-edged, was polite.

Candlelight played over his firm lips and mulish, jutting chin. Convincing this man of anything was going to be harder than catching a mud-slicked pig.

“Why are you being so unreasonable?” She shifted to a more comfortable position. It appeared she was in for a long battle. “We’re both heading in the same direction.”

“Me, unreasonable?” He gave a harsh snort. “You crawl into my tent in the middle of the night, threaten me with a knife while I’m half-dressed, and make ridiculous demands. And
I’m
unreasonable? Gripes, woman.”

“Don’t call me ridiculous.”

“Not you, in particular. I mean this farcical idea of yours.”

“Give me one good reason why my idea is...what’d you call it?”

“Farcical.”

“I suppose that means you don’t think it’ll work. Why?”

He scowled at the top of her head. “In large part, that.”

“That what?”

He made a gesture. He had long fingers, clean nails, no calluses that she could see. But then a man wouldn’t get rough hands working a pencil all day.

“That fiery mane of yours.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“The soldiers are looking for a woman.” He scoured her from head to toe. “A scrawny woman with brightly colored hair.”

A slight? She couldn’t be sure. “Many women have brightly colored hair.”

One eyebrow drifted upward. “Not like that, they don’t.” He looked her over again, slower this time. The corner of his mouth curled into a faint smile. “Though I must say, you’re not as scrawny as I thought based on their description.”

Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. She wanted to look away, but even with a single good eye, he held her captive. She’d felt it before, that intimate male inspection, and it usually led to no good. Perhaps she should rethink her plan. Experience warned she could be making a pact with the Devil.

She forced in a steadying breath. As much as she hated being dependent on anyone, especially this uppity, pig-headed Yankee, she needed his help. Nanny Belle’s favorite lecture rose in her mind.

You kin catch mo’ flies with honey, Miz Lou.

Lordy, for all the honeyed words she’d choked up lately, she ought to be coated sticky-sweet by now. “Perhaps,” she said, with that good-natured voice she always used with the Lawrences, “we can come to some sort of agreement.”

“No.”

“But—”

“With all due respect, Miss Carleton, why would I want to make a deal with a wanted woman?”

“An innocent woman.”

He hesitated, thinking about that. She worked on looking innocent.

“Regardless of your innocence or guilt, if I’m caught hiding you, my assignment, hell, my life, could be at risk.” He shook his head. “I’m not willing to take that chance.”

Well, if honey wouldn’t work... “What if I paid you? How much would make it worth the risk?”

His grunt this time was downright rude. “You don’t look like you have more than a nickel to your name.”

That came as a slap. For most of her life, she’d worn the Lawrences’ cast-offs and never minded. An overseer’s daughter had to make do, after all. The clothes, like everything else Fannie and Beth had, were the finest their daddy’s wealth could buy, and the girls tired of them long before the gowns showed any real wear. She’d felt almost pretty in the dresses.

She wrapped both hands around the knife hilt to keep from smoothing out the wrinkles in her gown. She was merely rumpled from travel, was all. Never thought of herself as second-hand. Until now. In front of this man.

She held her head high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hit his mark. “I can assure you, Mr. Porter; I have money.”

“Not enough to persuade me to take you near the prison, I’d wager.”

“You’d lose that bet.”

He scrubbed a hand over his chin, thinking. He seemed to do a lot of that.

“You’re taking a big risk telling me this, aren’t you? You don’t know me. I could kill you while you sleep. Take your money.”

Yes, she was taking a big risk. But given a choice between him and the Union patrol, the newspaperman seemed the lesser of two evils. Besides this probably wasn’t the last risk she’d face before her task was done. “You wouldn’t do that,” she said, not sure which of them she was aiming to convince.

“And you know this because..?”

“You ain’t—” She bit off the words with a click of her teeth. She’d worked hard to refine her speech, watching, listening, and mimicking the Lawrences, so she’d be accepted at the big house, so Papa would be proud of her. But low-bred talk often found a way out of her mouth, especially during times of great fluster and distraction. This man, with his questions and his mule-headed stubbornness, had her all fiddle-fuddled.

She licked her lips and tried again. “I know this because you didn’t turn me over to that patrol. Unexpected gallantry from a Yankee.”

He rummaged in the pile of clothing beside him. “It wasn’t gallantry; I assure you. I just didn’t want to explain what you were doing in my tent and make trouble for myself.” He shrugged into a shirt, sleek muscles flexing as he moved.

The breath caught in her throat. He’d mentioned being half dressed. It hadn’t registered until now. Another time, another man, darted through her mind. Her mouth went dry. She yanked her gaze back to his face. “E-Even so—”

“Thanks, but no thanks, Miss Carleton.”

“But—”

“No buts. I decline your proposal of matrimony.” His gaze trailed over her again, lingering on her breasts an instant too long for politeness. “Intriguing as the notion might be.”

Apprehension rifled fast and hot through her belly. That bare skin and flash of heat in his gaze uprooted memories she thought she’d buried. Her control slid away. The tent walls closed in. Her nostrils filled with candle smoke, damp earth, and the sharp scent of male sweat.

She needed fresh air.
Now
.

She made a frantic dash for the tent flap, batting at the stiff canvas to clear her path. Outside, cool air bathed her face, and she drew in breath after breath in an effort to recover her wits.

Slowly, the songs of night insects surrounded her. Stars winked in the broad, black sky. Her pulse slowed. Her breathing evened out. It’d been a long time since thoughts of Bart Lawrence had troubled her. Mainly because she’d managed real well to stay clear of anything, or anyone, who raised those old ghosts. Why here? Why now? Well now, that was a silly question, wasn’t it? If she were smart, she’d put miles between her and Mr. Fancy-Talking, Half-Dressed Porter.

Around her, the clearing glowed in the pale moonlight, giving her the first good look at the lay of the land. Just the other side of the fire pit, hoof prints roughed up the ground. Beyond that, trampled grass stretched to the darkened edge of the forest.

Yankee tracks.

She couldn’t rush headlong back into the woods. The patrol might still be lurking about, doubling back, trying to catch her slipping through. Her best bet would be to remain near the tent. Ease back inside to hide if need be. Then, come daylight, she’d resume pleading her case to the mule-headed newspaperman. Perhaps after a good night’s sleep, he’d be a little more agreeable.

A head poked through tent flap. “Miss Carleton, are you ill? Do you need any help?”

She squared herself. She lied better standing up straight. “No, I’m fine.”

“You’re sure? You seemed to be a little... spooked.”

“I wasn’t spooked. I just needed some air. It’s been a long day, and wrangling with you...well, I’d had enough.”
For tonight at least
.

“Glad to hear you’ve given up on that idea.”

“The farcical one, you mean?”

He smiled. She gave a little grunt. Let him think what he wanted. In the morning, he’d sing a different tune.