Bride of the Night (9 page)

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.

T
HE STRANGEST THING
about the visions or dreams that plagued Tara was that they were so real.

This time, she was walking down a long corridor. The walls were painted, and hung with scenes from American history. She could see men talking at the end of the corridor, and she could catch snatches of their conversation. Something was said that referred to Sherman's next move, and someone else was bemoaning the relentless tactics of General Grant, while another was arguing that he was getting the job done. “I know Robert Lee,” another man was saying, “and he's a brilliant, brilliant man, and general. He sees that there is little hope. I don't believe that the fighting can go on much longer.”

“But we might well be looking at draft riots again,” another man said.

She was walking toward them, where they stood, all awaiting an audience with the president. She thought that they had to be his advisers, or perhaps even members of Congress. She was sure that arguments regarding the war had gone on at the end of that corridor since the fighting had first begun.

She wasn't going to reach the men. The president's door was ahead, on the left.

She entered.

Lincoln was not seated behind his great desk. He was in a chair near the door, and she was certain that he could hear every word being said. His head was bowed; he rubbed his temples as he listened.

She didn't want to interrupt him; he looked as sad and weary as if he had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and of course, he had been carrying the weight of his own world. He'd seen a child die while in office, and for years he'd born the ridicule of the people when his generals had lost battle after battle, and the count of the dead had steadily risen to unthinkable numbers.

He looked up, aware that she was there. And he offered her a weak smile, standing as a gentleman would do.

“You've come. I've been expecting you, waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I've come to beg you take care. You know that you have enemies all around you.”

“I entered the great fray of politics—no man in politics is at a lack for enemies,” Lincoln assured her.

She shook her head. “You know that your situation is different. Sir, you can't be so open. You expose yourself to the trust of the people far too often. You must understand how fragile you are as a human being.”

He walked to the window, and stared out at the length of the mall. His hands were folded behind his back.

“I am not worthy. How can I serve people, if I cannot be among them? I can't give them the answers they want far too often. But I can see that they know that my heart breaks when a man or a boy is killed. They can know that I spend my every waking hour thinking of ways to end this horror as soon as possible. I pray that we win the battles, so that the bloodshed can stop. We have come this far—we cannot be swayed from our position.” He turned back to her. “I feel that we are close. Having stayed our course, we will be triumphant.

“I sometimes fear for myself, but more often I think of Mary. She weeps so often. Her family is Southern, and they suffer so. She is delicate. ‘Spiritualism' became so popular in the Midwest when we were home, and at first, it seemed that she enjoyed exploring the possibilities—and, of course, the social interaction. But then our Willie died. She's had séances here, in the Red Room. I have been, and I have seen, and we've had Dr. Henry—the head of the Smithsonian—in to investigate. And while he finds shenanigans among the mediums, Mary is unconvinced. She has seen the ghosts of my predecessors here, in the White House. She has seen Thomas Jefferson and Andrew Jackson and John Tyler. I know how troubled her mind is, but I…well, I have felt that I have known who will win a battle, and often my instincts have proven true. And I—”

“Sir,” Tara interrupted, hurrying over to him. “What's
important is that you realize your physical danger. You are mortal. Any man might be an enemy.”

He turned to her, and she could feel his hand as he touched her hair, smiling as gently as a father. “I will see you soon, I believe. I will see you soon.”

Suddenly, she felt as if she was being pulled away from him. Great shadows that insinuated diabolical faces rushed between them. She was being hurled away, farther and farther, and she cried out, fighting the swarm of shadows.

“Hey!”

She awoke with a start, and became aware of the hands firmly holding her shoulders. When she tried to bolt up, she was pushed back down.

There were no shadows around her. She was lying on a blanket on the sand, her bed beneath the shelter of the tarp, the world around bursting with sunlight. She was even aware of the smell of something roasting, and the aroma was provocative.

And she was facing the Pinkerton agent, Finn Dunne.

“You're dreaming. Calling out and fighting in your sleep,” he told her.

She stared at him a moment, trying to shake off the shadows and fog of the dream. She had no intention of giving him any explanations.

The sun had really risen high, but then she hadn't gone to sleep until it had started to rise. She smoothed back her hair, grateful that she'd been given a bit of
soap by Captain Tremblay, and that she didn't feel like a complete salt block.

“Richard?” she asked. Her voice was thick.

Finn offered her a canteen of water. She accepted it. The water was cool, crisp like the day, and it tasted delicious.

“Richard fares quite well. He has been up and about, and is working with some of the men on salvage. Some of the goods aboard both ships survived. A few trunks floated to the surface, and Richard has suggested that we arrange a diving party to bring others up from the seabed.”

“He knows how to dive,” Tara said, setting a hand on Finn's chest to force him far enough away so that she could push up to a sitting position. “I'm excellent. I can help.”

“And you can disappear in the water, too,” he said crisply, rising.

“You know that I won't leave. You know quite well that I could have left already,” she said, finding her feet, as well.

“Richard in the water, you in the water…not a good scenario for me, I dare to think. The men hunted down a boar, and there's coffee and dried meat that came from one of the rescued barrels. I left a special canteen, just for you, near the palm where you watched over Richard yesterday…”

He turned away from her.

“And where are you going?” she called after him.

He paused, as if surprised by the question, or surprised that she would dare to question him.

“To help with the salvage, of course,” he told her. “I'm not from an island, I fear, but time has taught me well. Billy is tending the camp, should you need assistance.”

He had been by her side…and he had refused to let her dive while Richard was doing so, and yet, he seemed to think that it was safe to leave her to roam the island. Well, it was, of course; he knew that she would certainly try to escape—but only if she had Richard at her side.

She splashed some of the canteen's water on her face and rinsed her mouth, then headed for the tantalizing scent of the boar that continued to sizzle on the stake.

She found Billy tending coffee and the meat by the fire.

“Good morning, Tara,” he said pleasantly.

“Good morning, Billy.”

He had a soldier's mess kit out, and quickly poured her some of the hot coffee. “There's still a chill here. Seems that winter's cold can seep into the bones, even if it doesn't begin to compare with the brutal snow and sleet of the north.”

“It's a wet cold, Billy, and that's why we feel it,” she murmured.

“The meat's a bit stringy, but decent,” he told her, cutting her a slice from the carcass.

She accepted the plate and sat on one of the logs that had been dragged close to the fire. Tasting the meat, she
realized that she was ravenous. She didn't eat daintily, but devoured the portion.

Billy poured himself more coffee, looking over their camp area. Blankets and a few pallets lay in order beneath the tarp. With their longboats, the Union men had managed to come away with a fair amount of supplies. She had the feeling that Tremblay was a man who had sailed the sea so long that any situation was a matter of following regulation. His ship was floundering and going down, and therefore you set to the task of securing the most necessary supplies. When survivors became beached on an island, there was still order, and men were set to work.

Billy cleared his throat, looking at her.

“There are books in Dr. MacKay's trunk, if you would like something to occupy your time,” he suggested.

“Thank you, Billy. I will most certainly see what reading material the doctor carries. But I thought I would amble about a bit—if your job isn't to stop me from doing so?”

“You are free to wander the island.”

She smiled, rose and started for the spit of ground where she had buried Richard beneath the branches the day before.

Just as Finn had said, there was a canteen leaning against one of the palms, half-hidden by branches. She unscrewed the top, and discovered that it was indeed filled with blood. She sniffed it.

Boar's blood.

Tara drank her fill, and discovered that she yearned for more, and then more. The previous day had taken a great deal of her strength, and the blood washed through her body like an elixir.

She drank it all down, and returned the canteen to its place, wondering if she should have been so selfish. How odd—the man seemed out to prove she was guilty of the most horrible offenses, and yet, he meant to see to it that she was supplied with this secret necessity.

The better to keep her alive and torment her, she thought.

However, with her new sense of energy filling her limbs, she couldn't help but be grateful. He knew what she was; he could present her to the others as a monster.

But then, wouldn't he have to admit himself a monster, as well?

She couldn't begin to fathom the working of his mind.

Tara left the little copse and started walking along the beach. She waved to Billy, and kept walking back around to the tangle of mangroves she'd stumbled upon the night before. From there, she could see that a number of the Union longboats were out in the vicinity of where
Peace
had gone down. One trunk bobbed in the water, and three sailors in a boat were trying to capture it with a hook. Tremblay himself was aboard another of the boats, and, as she watched, Richard surfaced, dragging a rope. Tremblay and another man reached for the sal
vage he had secured from the ocean floor, dragging the barrel aboard their ship. A moment later, Finn surfaced, another of the barrels in his arms. He managed to lift his arms high above the water himself, and Tremblay needed only to lower the barrel to the boat.

Out by the remains of the Union ship—its masts all that rode above the waterline—she could see that the men were busy. They had apparently fashioned a diving bell out of scrap metal, and they had a man down to find what he could.

She chafed, being on shore. She knew that she would be excellent at finding whatever treasures might have been blown clear of Richard's ship.

She noted, however, that hanging on the longboat catching their breath, Finn and Richard seemed to have easy enough conversations.

Did Finn seriously believe that she or Richard could be Gator, the spy supposedly known to be heading north to attempt an assassination attempt? She had expected grueling interrogation, not collective efforts to secure supplies.

She watched the work, a sense of bitterness overriding the moment's goodwill she had felt toward Finn Dunne. He couldn't begin to imagine how tormented she was, longing to help the man he seemed convinced she wanted to kill.

And, of course, he should be careful with her; perhaps he had a matching strength, but he should really know better than to underestimate her.

Tara hesitated another minute, and then could stand it no longer. She was already down to little more clothing than a cotton blouse, pantelettes and skirt. She doffed her shoes, made her way over the mangrove roots and dove in.

It didn't take her long to near the area where the Union longboat awaited the divers. She surfaced there and faced Tremblay.

“Captain, I can help,” she told him.

He looked at her, and smiled slowly. “There was chloroform on the
Peace,
so Richard has told us. I believe we have thus far raised coffee and rum, clothing and a score of boots.”

She nodded. “The chloroform is heavily wrapped, sealed in a barrel, sir. It might have exploded, you know, along with the gunpowder.”

“We will search a while longer,” Tremblay said.

As she clung to the hull of the boat, speaking with Tremblay, Finn surfaced again, bearing a carpetbag that was the worse for wear, but still closed. She knew the travel bag; it was her own.

Finn gave no thought to the bag, tossing it into the boat. He stared at her, his eyes burning with that red tinge that seemed to warn of danger, his brows knit in a scowl. “You were told not to assist, I believe, Miss Fox!”

He was shirtless, down to his breeches. Water sluiced over his shoulders and she saw the sun-bronzed ripple of his shoulder and back muscles. Sleek dark hair slashed
in wet disarray over his forehead, and she was disturbed to realize that, even wet and dripping, he was an imposing man. And an attractive one.

“I can help,” she said, wishing there wasn't quite so much of a plea in her voice. She didn't look at Finn; she gave her attention to Captain Tremblay. “I'm an excellent diver, sir. Very, very good.”

“Find the chloroform,” Tremblay said. “God knows, enough soldiers, both sides, will be needing that.”

She didn't look back at Finn, but gave herself a push from the boat and pitched downward, passing Richard on his way up as she dove. Today, despite the cold of the water that remained like an icy bath, the sea was beautiful. They were by the side of the reef that had been the final death grip for Tremblay's ship, and fish were about in a burst of color. Tangs, yellow and blue, swam by as she propelled herself along the outskirts of the reef, searching the sandy bottom and the jagged coral for signs of the sealed barrel that carried the chloroform. She saw another barrel on the sand bottom and dove for it; this barrel had split. It had carried salt or sugar, she thought, but the contents were now lost. She pushed herself harder and farther, was forced to surface, and then pitched down in a dive again. The water, even where there was an absence of coral, was no more than forty or forty-five feet deep.