Bride of the Night

CHAPTER FOUR

TARA STOOD STILL, for a moment not sure that he'd said what she thought he'd said. Maybe her fear of discovery was becoming irrational. Maybe she was imagining things.
She stared back at him, desperately praying that she would show no emotion.
There were others of her kind; she knew that. And that "her kind" came in full-blood and half-blood-those who had an ancestor generations before, and had inherited certain traits. Her mother had done her best to teach Tara everything that she had known, that she had learned from Tara's father. Tara had never actually met another of "her kind," but she knew that someone was out there; she also had half siblings, and she often felt an emptiness inside, wishing desperately that she might know them. She had sisters and brothers and...?.
And a father.
Finn was staring at her. She tried to stare back at him, her head cast at an angle, a slight smile curving her lips.
"Yes," Finn told her. "I said exactly that-I know what you are."
She waved a hand in the air. "A Southerner?"
He laughed. "Well, that would be true, too, I imagine. No, I know what you really are. Half-breed. Blood-sucker. Vampire. Some might call you a succubus, demon or lamia. What they call you doesn't matter."
She shook her head, incredibly wary of the man who seemed to have her at his mercy. He'd been ahead of her all night long-even though she had managed a smooth escape from him at Gettysburg. She could have escaped him tonight, too, but for Richard.
"No tricks," he told her.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she assured him.
He indicated the path where they had ripped through the foliage in their chase. "I'm going to suggest that we head back-before the angry men who just lost their ship come upon your friend."
She hesitated. "I'm telling you, neither of us is a spy. And neither of us is an assassin."
"You're both blockade runners."
"Richard is a merchant, nothing more."
He sighed. "Of course. But merchants running arms at times of war are by definition blockade runners. I am a tremendous believer in due process of law. If you come with me now, I can guarantee that nothing will happen to either of you on my watch. So, if you value your friend's life..." He let his voice trail and indicated she begin walking.
Tara did so. She turned and began moving quickly through the brush, doing her best to make sure that every branch she passed slapped back into his face.
He didn't say a word, he simply caught the branches.
She let her words trail over her shoulder at him, along with her anger. "Due process of law. That means you get us into a puppet military court, and see that we're hanged."
"If you're innocent, you have nothing to fear."
"You're looking for someone called Gator. I'm not Gator. Richard isn't Gator. There's no reason that you should suspect either of us as your man."
"We'll see, won't we?" was all he replied.
"You should be worried, you know," she said smoothly.
"Oh?"
"Lamia! You see me now, but I'll turn to smoke, and you'll find me behind your back, slipping around your side, seeking your jugular vein."
"That's always possible."
"You should tremble. You shouldn't push my temper," she warned.
"I'm a mass of trembling flesh. Please keep moving."
As she walked, she became aware of the shouts and instructions of the other Union men in the distance-one booming voice, and then others that rang back and forth as they scurried to obey the commander.
Tara quickened her pace. Finn Dunne hurried behind her.
When she at last neared the little copse where she had left Richard, she ran the last few steps.
She raced by the last tree. From there she could see that men had pulled longboats up on the beach, and that they were being sent out to gather firewood.
There seemed to be a lot of them.
Tara slid down to her knees at Richard's side. His eyes were still closed; he had barely moved. But a quick check assured her that he was still breathing. His pulse even ticked a little stronger than before.
Finn Dunne was down beside her. He could move with an astonishing ease, especially for a man so tall. She tried to ignore him, but could not.
"Richard Anderson," he said.
"Yes, his name is Richard Anderson."
"And your name is...?"
"Tara. Tara Fox."
"What?" His tone was so sharp that it stunned her.
She looked at him. His features were hard and tense; his eyes seemed to be burning as he stared at her. They were such unusual eyes.
"Tara Fox," she repeated.
To her surprise, his eyes said he knew her name.
"Look, I don't know what information you've been given, but you're mistaken in me. I would never hurt Lincoln. Never. I would do anything to stop any evil being done to the man. Even a fool knows that we'll need his strong leadership when it's time to make peace and reconstruct the South. Stop looking at me like that. I am not a monster."
"That's debatable," he murmured, getting to his feet.
As he did so, a loud shout rose in the air.
"Dunne! Agent Dunne! Are you here?"
Tara touched Richard's face gently and rose, as well. On the beach, she counted ten men. Several were still securing their boats.
The others had their guns at the ready.
"Here!" Finn Dunne called out. "I have the survivors from the Rebel ship. They're unarmed. Hold your fire!"
Tara looked at him, feeling a sudden surge of anxiety. The Union men could have come upon them after the sea battle with guns blazing. This man had prevented that. She could only pray that the Pinkerton meant his words, that they wouldn't be harmed.
In her heart, she honestly believed that most men were honorable. Union men would not murder a man in cold blood. And yet, despite the decency and courtesy displayed by commanders on both sides, horrible murders had occurred. While she understood that John Brown had wanted to make all men free with his campaign against slavery, he had in fact committed murder-and in the Kansas and Nebraska territories, men had committed murder in retaliation.
Wasn't war just sanctified murder?
She just stood there, tense, terrified and praying. The philosophy of man wasn't something she could solve, and certainly not at this moment.
Please, God, don't let them hurt Richard.
A young soldier came through the trees. She thought that she recognized him-that bit of scruffy beard on his chin-but he was so covered in soot that she couldn't be sure. He looked at Tara with surprise, his brows shooting up. Then he looked at the man on the ground and spoke to the Pinkerton agent.
"Sir!" the young man said, addressing Finn Dunne. "The men are busy setting up on the beach, sir. Captain Tremblay set off a flare, and he says we can expect a Union ship by tomorrow. There are always ships ready to move with all speed from the fort." His eyes kept darting with surprise toward Tara. He gasped suddenly. "Tara!"
"Billy Seabold?" she asked.
Billy nodded.
"You two know each other?" Finn asked sharply.
Billy nodded. "Well, a bit, anyway." He scrambled to take off his military jacket, and offered it to Tara.
"I'm fine, thank you, really."
"Please, Miss Fox, allow me the courtesy," Billy said.
She thought to refuse would be rude, and so she accepted the jacket. Dunne was looking from one of them to the other, as if mentally shaking his head over the naivety of youth-in his mind, apparently, Billy was offering comfort to a venomous snake.
Finn cleared his throat.
"Oh...oh! If you'll follow me to the beachfront, please?" Billy said.
Tara hunkered back down by Richard. Finn lowered himself as well, moving her aside with the breadth of his shoulders. "I will take him," Finn said.
"He's-he's my friend. My brother, really," she added softly. "I will tend to him."
Finn's voice lowered. "You want everyone wondering how you have the strength of ten men?" he queried.
She fell silent, lowering her eyes. He could, if he chose, kill her-he knew how. Why didn't he? Was he actually decent in his way, loathe to murder without the facts established?
Finn took care as he lifted Richard's form, keeping the man's head rested in the crook of his arm. Tara rose with him and followed them to the beachhead.
Men were already busy setting up makeshift tarps for a shelter. Two others were collecting wood for a fire.
An elderly man, dead straight and dignified, was the one calling out the orders.
"Captain Tremblay, Agent Dunne is here, sir! With the, um, the Rebs," Billy said.
Tremblay seemed equally surprised to see a woman. "Well, Agent Dunne. Are these the culprits you meant to apprehend?" Tremblay asked.
"It's hard to know for certain, sir, until I'm able to question them thoroughly, and as you can see, this one is scarcely in shape for questioning."
Tremblay looked at Richard, still in Dunne's arms.
"He lives?" Tremblay asked.
"Yes, sir."
"We'll have the good doctor see to him, then," Tremblay said. "MacKay! Doc MacKay! We've a man in need of your tender touch, sir!"
One of the men building the fire came over and nodded to Finn. "Bring him under the tarp, will you, please, Agent Dunne? Billy, I'll need some light-will you see to it, lad?"
"Aye, sir," the young soldier said.
Finn Dunne walked with the doctor and beneath the canvas tarp that had been lifted about fifty yards in from the shoreline. There were already blankets spread out beneath it, along with a captain's portable desk; the men of the Union ship had known they were in trouble, and they had salvaged all that they could.
"Fresh water might be in order," Doc MacKay said, preceding the others.
Tara found herself longing to follow, and yet, under the scrutiny of Captain Tremblay.
She looked up at him. He appeared to be a fine and gentle man, and she wondered how he went to war, and watched everything that happened around him, and still maintained that sensibility.
"So," he said, "you're our culprit. You're from Key West, child?"
"My name is Tara Fox," she told him. "And I'm not a spy. I have no intention of bringing harm to anyone."
Except, she thought, maybe Agent Finn Dunne. I'd love to give him a good slap right across that smug face!
"Tara Fox..." the captain murmured, looking at her speculatively.
"Seminole Pete is a dear friend," she told him.
Tremblay smiled. "I don't frequent the taverns of the island, my dear. Mine is to set an example."
Tara stood there awkwardly, wondering what she was supposed to do. No one seemed ready to tie her up or confine her. Maybe they realized that she would be making no escape attempts when Richard Anderson was in their care.
Or, perhaps, they didn't think that she was capable.
Tara smiled, looking at the captain. He was reassuring; she didn't believe that she had fallen into the hands of cold-blooded murderers. "Sir, I promise you, I don't sit around the tavern gulping down rum or beer. Pete is like a father to me, just as the young man now in your care, Richard Anderson, is like a brother."
"Your young 'brother' is one hell of a seaman, Miss Fox. And, I admit, I wish that he were on my side. But as he is not, he is not a man in my good graces, as my ship will soon be at the bottom of the sea, providing a home for the fish."
"He is not a man who seeks to harm others."
"He's a blockade runner," Tremblay said flatly. "Let me rephrase-was a blockade runner."
"You will never be able to prove that Richard is anything other than a merchant, carrying food-"
"Young woman, do I look like a fool?" Tremblay demanded.
She shook her head. "No, sir, you don't. I merely mention that in any legal court of law-"
"War changes everything, doesn't it?" he said plainly.
"What will you do with us?" Tara asked politely, switching tactics.
"Well, had I just brought down the ship, I'd have seen that you were held at the fort, confined until this weary bloodbath limps to its halt. But you are prisoners of Agent Dunne, and I believe it's his pleasure that you be brought to the capital."
"Sir, we are not the cold-blooded killers he thinks us to be," she said.
"The problem with war is that it makes cold-blooded killers out of all of us, now, doesn't it?" Tremblay asked. "Never mind, child, the weary philosophy of an old tar. I believe you are standing there anxiously awaiting a chance to see to the welfare of your young seaman. You are free to do so."
Thus encouraged, Tara gave him a grateful nod and headed for the tarp. A pallet had been set up for Richard. Doc MacKay was down on his knees. And seeing that Richard had come to, she let out a little cry of joy and slid down next to them both.
"Easy, now," MacKay said. "The boy has taken a good rap to the head."
"Richard!" Tara said happily. He looked at her, his face still ashen. He tried to smile. He caught her hand. "Thanks, my friend," he murmured.
"You got him here-you swam?" MacKay asked, studying her. She flushed slightly, just imagining what she must have looked like in her tattered, salt-, sandand debris-covered clothing, and sodden hair plastered to her face.
"I'm from Key West. I'm a strong swimmer," Tara said.
"So you must be," MacKay said. "I don't believe there's more than bruising to the skull-I can find no crack or rift-and I believe that Mr. Anderson will make a full recovery. Rest is in order now, but as we are awaiting rescue, rest can be easily procured." He looked at Tara again. "What about you? You must be thirsty, my dear."
She suddenly realized how thirsty she was. For water, at the moment.
MacKay offered her a canteen. She accepted it gratefully. After drinking a long swallow of cool freshwater, she looked at the doctor, who was studying her in return. She felt a flush come to her cheeks. "Thank you. We are receiving far greater kindness than I expected."
"This is a war wherein fathers fight sons, and sons fight brothers. The intent is not to torture others, just to bring the conflict to an end." He grinned, and she liked his grin. "Besides, I have taken an oath to save lives," he reminded her.
"The truth, however, will be known."
Tara hadn't seen Finn Dunne return to stand near Richard's head beneath the tarp, but she knew the sound of his voice instantly.
She looked up at him. "Well, Agent Dunne, I am certainly eager that the truth shall be known. Two survived the explosion of Richard's ship, the Peace-Richard and myself-and neither of us has ever been called Gator, gone by the name Gator or had any particular affinity for gators in the wild, or in any so-called human form. So bring on your truth, sir. We are innocent of what you seem so desperate to find as fact."
"We'll see, won't we?" he asked.
He turned and walked away. The manner in which he did so-dismissing her words as if she were obviously the most heinous liar-disturbed her. She leaped to her feet, following him. He had been heading back toward the bracken and she caught up with him away from the tarp and the fires that burned on the beach.
She slammed a hand against his back, hard. He turned to stare at her, a scowl tensing his features. "What?"
"I'm not a spy! I'm not an assassin! Neither is Richard."
"Spy, assassin-those facts need corroboration and truth. Your friend is a blockade runner, at the very least."
"Not Gator!"
"And you?" he asked, an edge to his voice.
She let out an exasperated sigh. "I am not Gator! You have it all wrong. I am Lincoln's greatest supporter. I know that he is wise, war-weary, decent and kind. He saw saving the country-a united country-as his calling, his duty under God. I believe he is our salvation. I would never want to hurt the man!" she told him.
"Pretty speech, now that you are captured," he told her.
She set her hands on her hips. "Well, you're just a fool, because you're holding us, and the man who you know as Gator is still out there somewhere!"
"And, assuming you're not Gator, how do you know that your friend isn't?"
She stared at him, speechless for a minute. "Because he's not! Because I know Richard. He's no murderer. Yes, fine, he's a blockade runner. Until the war is over, this is the Confederate States of America. He's doing what he can to see that Southern children eat!"
"So noble," Finn said mockingly.
"He is noble. You have no right to run around judging people you don't know."
"No, I am not a judge. We'll see to it that you are brought before a tribunal."
"I would think that you need evidence to convict us of anything."
"We have a witness sitting in prison right now, ready to do just that. His life will be spared when he identifies Gator," Finn said. "You'll be decently treated in transit and while awaiting trial. As will the suspect."
He started to walk away. Incensed, she followed him, pushed past and stopped in front of him, blocking his way.
"You're an idiot!" she told him.
"And you're a prisoner. Leave me alone-before I see that you're shackled."
She drew herself up with dignity. "You can't shackle me, not really," she informed him.
"Believe it or not, I can."
"You said that you know what I am," she said softly. "But do you? Do you really know exactly what I am?"
"I do."
"And how can that be?"
"Because, Miss Fox," he began, pushing past her, "I am what you are."
HE SHOULD PUT HIS PRISONER into shackles, Finn thought. His shackles, specially designed of wood and silver, with a unique configuration of crosses intricately laid into the woodwork. They had been blessed and could contain almost any creature.
High in a treetop, looking out as the night slowly began to ease into the golden rays of dawn, he mused on his captive.
At the moment, it wasn't really necessary. He couldn't shake her off if he wanted to. She wouldn't attempt escape without her friend.
No, she wouldn't need restraints.
He found himself wondering about the relationship between the two, and he was surprised to discover that he was annoyed with his own turn of thought. He'd wanted to capture the wretched woman since she'd eluded him at Gettysburg. He hadn't realized then exactly why she had escaped so easily, because her-their-hereditary disposition was rare.
He should have known then. He should have at least suspected.
But he hadn't.
And now, he knew. This, of course, made her all the more dangerous, and made him more intrigued.
"Agent Dunne!"
He heard his name called through the scruffy brush and trees that dotted the central area of the island. It was Billy.
He leaped down easily, soundlessly, and walked along the path created by his own forage through the growth until he reached the young man's back.
"Agent Dunne!" Billy shouted again.
"Yes, seaman," he said, standing just behind the boy's back.
Billy spun around, startled.
"There's water, sir. The army must have come through here before. There's a cistern, filled with water. The captain wanted me to let you know. We've also salvaged a trunk of fresh clothing. He thought you might be feeling the discomfort of the dried salt water and be wishing for something a bit fresher."
"That's very courteous."
Billy produced a neatly folded stack of clothing-plain blue breeches and a cotton shirt. They'd probably do well enough; he was taller than Tremblay, but not by much. And the clothing would be far more comfortable than the now-stiff and clammy shirt he was wearing.
"The captain respects your mission, sir," Billy told him.
Finn nodded in return to the statement. "Where would this cistern be, Billy? I saw a fair amount of the island, but not a cistern."
"Extreme northeastern side, Agent Dunne. I can escort you there."
Finn started to tell him that it wouldn't be necessary, but he remembered that Billy was familiar with the island of Key West-and its inhabitants.
"So, Billy, how long have you been at Fort Zachary Taylor?" Finn asked him.
"Oh, a long time now, Agent Dunne. I was there at the outbreak of the war. I was there when the Union forces dug in-after Florida joined secession."
Finn looked over at the man. "You don't look old enough to be in uniform-much less have spent years at the fort."
"I'm twenty-three, Agent Dunne. Older than many a man dead on the field."
"True," Finn agreed.
"So, where did you hail from?"
"Chicago. And will you head back when the war is over?"
Billy smiled and shook his head. "No, sir, I will not. I love the island. There's a breeze in the air, even on the hottest day. And the ocean is there, and the folks...well, some are a little lost. Some are starting over. Many are different, and in a world where they are accepted. Men grew rich on salvage, and then no one questioned where they came from before or what they do. It's my home now. I'll go where they command me while this war goes on, then I will be home in Key West."
"So, you know the local population fairly well," Finn said.
"Indeed."
"And they are Southern sympathizers, living by a Union fort," Finn said.
Billy shrugged. "The state was split on the vote from the beginning. There's been talk of an 'East' and a 'West' Florida. Sure, like men everywhere, the men spew their opinions on the war, on the generals." He paused. "Talk has changed, though, since the actual fighting started. No one is running around saying, 'We're going to whip their tails in two weeks,' or any other such nonsense, neither side. No one has really had their tail whipped, and we've all watched two weeks turn into four bitter years...?. God alone knows how long it can go on. Some folks, of course, talk about the draft riots in New York, but, hell, Lincoln is president again, and that man is as tenacious as a rat terrier! So, the old coots at the bars talk, and sometimes they're rude when the Union soldiers are about, and sometimes, some lets out a squeak for the Union. Mostly, folks just want to make a living and get by, and it is an island, so we're pretty isolated."
"Except for the blockade runners."
Billy shrugged.
"And you know the two we captured tonight-Miss Fox and Mr. Anderson."
Billy nodded.
"What kind of talk have you heard from them?"
Billy looked at him and exhaled. "I've seen Miss Fox a fair amount-Mr. Anderson, not so much. Miss Fox is always courteous to everyone. Kind of grave and somber, but courteous. She serves sometimes at Seminole Pete's. Her mom and Pete were awful close. From what I heard, her father wasn't around much. Came down to the Keys, lived with Tara's mom, and I guess most folks thought they were married, exceptin' legally, I guess they weren't. There's some girls on the island who think they're all social princesses or the like, 'cause their fathers or grandfathers or uncles or what have you were the first Americans down in the area and they live in those big fancy houses. But you ask me? Miss Fox, she's the real deal. She knows her manners. Oh, her momma died a few years back, and I guess that hurt her bad. But she's good. She helps out at the church, helps with the sick and injured-and she's never seemed to care if it was a Yank from the fort or a Rebel off the island."
"Sounds like you've something of a fancy for the lass, seaman," Finn said.
Billy flushed. "Oh, she's not for me, Agent Dunne. No, no, she's not for me."
"And why do you say that?"
Billy looked at him, studying his face for a moment. "Because you can just tell, Agent Dunne. You can tell by the way a woman looks at you, as if you could be the man she wanted. She looks upon me kindly enough, but there's nothing of magic or mischief in her eyes when she does so, and I know-I'd not be what she was wanting."
Finn thought about that. He was silent as they walked, thrashing through the trees as morning's first light began to cut through.
"Some women have an agenda, Billy. They can be more like a man. They see a purpose in life, and they have to follow that purpose."
"Maybe that's what it is, sir. But what purpose would that be? I think she loves her home. Loves Key West."
"And does she love Richard Anderson?" Finn asked.
Billy grinned. "I don't see the locals all that much, but, yes, from what I've seen and heard, yes. Why, you see, his father was hanged. His father was a pirate. And the two of them, well...not a nice thing to say regarding a lady, but legal truth is truth, so...a bastard and a pirate? Even in Key West, such a state of birth calls for the whispers. And the rich girls-half of them ugly as sin-keep up a barrier. Tara-she's just not one of them, you see."
He was surprised to feel that he was thinking defensively of her position.
No, she would not be one of them. She would speak her mind, she would fight for what was right...?.
Like her love for the South?
And, yes, when she had spoken about Lincoln, there had been such a depth of sincerity in her words.
Almost as if they shared their opinion of the man who was still holding the country together-while being lampooned in papers and magazines across the country, belittled by his political opponents and appearing years older on a daily basis.
"The cistern is ahead, sir, just ahead," Billy said.
"Thank you. Extend my gratitude to the captain, as well. It seems that the sun is rising, and there's hope we will see a rescue ship on the horizon soon," Finn said.
Billy nodded and stepped back.
Finn continued forward and then paused.
Ahead of him lay a bricked-in cistern. He was not an engineer, but he could see that the planning had been well executed. The ground here was higher. It must have been the oldest section of the island. The coral rock beneath the scrub in the area made an excellent filter, while the water flowed from the catch basin of the cistern to form a little freshwater pool. Had it been only the cistern there, what fresh water that was collected would have grown stagnant.
As he came closer, he realized that he was not alone.
The sun was just rising in the east and the sky was slowly becoming pink and yellow, but those colors were still vibrant between layers of mauve, the remnants of the night.
And there, silhouetted on the horizon, was the woman who seemed to be consuming his thoughts.
Angel-or demon? he wondered.
At the moment, she was pure angel, though she seemed to offer pleasures of the deepest, darkest delight. She had shed her salt-logged clothing, and done her best in the cold water to bathe.
She was there, body slightly arched, head thrown back as she rinsed and tossed her hair, body at a graceful arch that allowed an almost mystical, mermaid-view of her torso, waist and breasts. The moment was so sudden, the vision so striking...?.
He stood there, dead still and silent, and aching.
The war... It took so much from one.
He'd forgotten what it was like to see something so beautiful. To want...want a woman with such an aching, all-consuming desire.
He stepped back.
He closed his eyes, and willed the vision to leave his mind. He realized that it never would.
He opened his eyes. She still didn't know that he was there. She emerged, looking around. She found her clothing on the shore, and quickly slipped back into it, shivering. The morning air was cold.
Finn waited, not breathing.
She paused for a moment, tense as she looked at the sky. For a moment, he could almost feel her intense desire to escape. Her shoulders fell.
Richard. The son of the hanged pirate.
She was going to return to the camp.
Of course, he thought. Richard was there.
For a moment, he envied the man with an intensity that was frightening. And then he remembered that he had a cause himself, that he'd never been a fool for a woman, and this was not the time he could neglect duty.
He waited until he watched her walk toward the foliage closer to the beach, intent on returning to the camp.
As she turned down the trail, the sun rose higher, and it caught the dark vibrant red within the tresses of her freshly washed hair.
Longing wedged in his throat, and he felt that he missed something, something precious in life.
When she was gone, he gritted his teeth and mentally willed himself to remember his quest. He hurried to the little pool created by the cistern, stripped his clothing and nearly dove into the shallows, he was so eager to feel the icy blast of the water.
And it was cold...?.
He stayed, and he washed away the seawater, but for the life of him, he could not wash away the vision that had so entranced him.