Kary, Elizabeth (34 page)

Leigh
struggled with her conscience for a moment, weighing personal loyalty against
the truth. "I sent no messages south for Hayes," she finally said.

"Leigh,
be sensible," Crawford cajoled. "We found letters to your mother's
family and to Brandon Hale in the same pouch as the letter Banister had sent to
Sarah Dean."

"That
doesn't prove a thing."

"Not
by itself, no." Crawford paused. "But the courier confessed that you
brought Banister's letter to her only a few days before, along with half a
dozen others."

"The
courier could be mistaken," Leigh volunteered, "or lying to save
herself."

"I
think not."

Then
a new idea struck Crawford, born of Leigh's denial. Was it possible that Leigh
Pennington herself was involved in smuggling information south? Leigh was from
a family with strong Confederate ties, and she had never declared herself for
one side or the other in this conflict. What were the woman's politics; just
where did her loyalties lie? And how would she respond to an accusation of
treason?

"Could
you be keeping Hayes Banister's secrets because you're both involved in the
same deception?"

Crawford
had expected some reaction, but not the angry intensity that flared in Leigh's
eyes when her stunned surprise had dropped away. "That's absurd!" she
snapped.

"Is
it? I think you know far more about Banister and Nathan Travis than you are
letting on, and perhaps the reason is that you are in collusion with them to
undermine the Union."

Leigh
said nothing, but swiftly began to realize both the savage ruthlessness of her
inquisitor and her own untenable position.

"Leigh,
tell me what you know about Hayes Banister and Nathan Travis."

There
could be no doubt that it was unwise to give Major Crawford the information he
was seeking, but under his unrelenting eyes, Leigh felt deceived and hopelessly
vulnerable. What was it Hayes had done, and why was she protecting him?

"Leigh."
Crawford leaned forward from his perch on the edge of the desk until his face
was inches from her own. "Leigh, this needn't get unpleasant. Tell me what
I want to know."

She
could see the malicious set of his lips beneath the sweep of his hussar's
moustache, smell the faint, sickly scent of his hair oil in the tiny, stifling
room. His threat was implied, but as real as the horror of nightmares in the
dark, as real as her own fear of betrayal and impermanence. Yet Leigh
stubbornly refused to yield.

His
hands closed hard upon her arms as Crawford dragged her out of her chair.
"Leigh, I want you to tell me everything you know about Nathan Travis and
Hayes Banister."

His
fingers were embedded in her shoulders, like the talons of a hawk sunk deep in
its prey. With equal parts of pain and anger stirring her blood, Leigh shook
her head.

Crawford's
eyes darkened as he recognized her defiance, and he caught her wrists in one
hand, twisting them behind her. Leigh fought helplessly against his hold, but
could not break away. With deliberate menace Crawford drew her closer, until
she lay along his length, her breasts pressed close to his broad chest, her
skirts tangled with his legs.

"Tell
me what I want to know, Leigh," he murmured against her mouth. "Tell
me about Banister's letters."

As
he spoke, his free hand caught in her hair, his fingers clenching in the open
grid of the snood, catching the heavy strands beneath and holding her
helplessly immobile. With almost playful malice, he lowered his head and
brushed her lips with his.

"Let
me go, Aaron," she hissed, struggling within his grasp. "I won't tell
you anything, no matter how you mistreat me."

Abruptly
Crawford loosened his hold and shoved her toward her chair. "Since when
are a man's attentions mistreatment?" he demanded, furious and red-faced.
"There's no reason why you should refuse me either the information I am
seeking or the simple pleasure of a kiss."

Truculently
her chin came up, and she held her ground. "When a man forces his
attentions on any woman, as you've tried to do on me, it is a violation of both
her body and will. Nor can I tell you things I know nothing about."

Silence
fell in the small, stuffy office as the major glared at the woman before him.
It was this fiery spirit, tempered with icy resolve, that made Leigh Pennington
so tempting to possess. Still, he knew he should not confuse his role as
seducer with the one he had come here to play. He was the provost marshal of
St. Louis, seeking to apprehend a clever Confederate spy, and this woman knew
more about his activities than she was prepared to admit. Perhaps it was time
to play on more basic loyalties than those Leigh felt for the other man.

"I
still need information about Banister's letter, Leigh, and about any other
messages you might have sent south on his behalf," he continued, returning
to his probe. "As you must know, there are far more unpleasant ways for me
to convince you to talk about Banister than the ones I have employed thus far.

"I
could have you thrown into the Gratiot Street Prison for corresponding with the
enemy or on suspicion of being a spy," he suggested, then paused,
searching her face for any sign of reaction. "And perhaps for company, I
could have your mother join you. As I said, we found letters from Althea in the
sack of mail we intercepted. And in the midst of a war as desperate as this, we
must carefully guard our secrets."

"Mother's
only written to her family in Louisiana!" Leigh cried passionately,
breaking her self-imposed silence.

Crawford's
voice was soft and chilling in response. "I only know that those who break
the law are subject to their punishment."

Leigh
raised her eyes to the glacial gray of his and found no mercy in their depths.
"She doesn't know anything about Union secrets or sending messages south.
I took the letters to the courier. Please, Aaron, leave my mother out of it!
This is between you and me."

"Is
it?" Crawford taunted. "I already have quite enough evidence to have
you both arrested."

Crawford
was smugly silent as he watched Leigh, knowing that he had found her weakness.
For too long, she and her father had conspired to shield Althea Pennington from
any unpleasantness, to see that nothing interfered with the genteel life of
leisure Althea loved. And as he watched the woman before him, Crawford knew it
was for her mother and not herself that Leigh was most afraid.

"I
doubt that Althea would like the prison any more than you," he pointed
out. "It's a place whose horrors are legend: the filth, the food, the
vermin."

"What
makes you think that you can get away with imprisoning us?" she challenged
in a desperate effort to resist him. "My father has friends in high
places, and his loyalty to the Union cause is unimpeachable."

"And
for all his influence, Leigh, there are just as many who know of your mother's
support of the Confederacy, including General Halleck himself."

Color
drained from Leigh's face. What Aaron said was true. Halleck had reason to
remember his humiliation at Althea Pennington's hands and might welcome a
chance for revenge.

"I'll
do it, Leigh," he persisted. "I'll sign the order this afternoon.
Can't you simply tell me what messages you sent south for Hayes Banister?"

The
need to protect Hayes rose in her again, warring with the threat to her
mother's safety. Doubtless Hayes could withstand the rigors of the Gratiot
Street Prison better than either Althea or Leigh herself, but if he was
arrested as a spy, he would be in far graver danger than they. While it was
only a matter of time before their innocence was proved, Hayes might well face
a trial for treason, a trial that could lead him to the gallows.

Whatever
Hayes was involved in, whatever he had done, Leigh knew she must protect him.
She could not talk about the letter to Sarah Dean or the others Hayes had given
her just before Christmas. She could not tell Crawford that all of them had
been sent to Nathan Travis at a series of addresses in western Tennessee. That
would come too close to proving the major's suspicions, and no matter what the
forfeit, Leigh would not betray Hayes's secrets.

"The
need for these constant threats is quite tedious, Leigh. Please tell me what I
want to know so I won't be forced to bully you." Crawford's voice broke
into her thoughts, and as he spoke, he reached to take one of her hands in his.
Hers was a capable, work-roughened hand: slender, but not fragile; feminine,
but with underlying strength. "Please, Leigh, be sensible," he
murmured as he exerted subtle pressure in the center of her palm that sent a
thread of unexpected pain chasing up her arm.

Leigh
shook her head, and raised stunned, accusing eyes to his as the grip on her
fingers tightened. She had withstood his advances, his threats, and now
Crawford was trying a new tactic to force her compliance. It seemed impossible
that such a simple thing could cause her so much pain. Leigh drew a ragged
breath and shook her head. "I don't know anything about messages Hayes
Banister sent south. Please, Aaron, let go. You're hurting me."

"Don't
you know anything about them, Leigh? I neither want to hurt you nor send you
off to prison, but I will have the truth."

A
blur of pain was beginning to overwhelm Leigh, and she dimly realized that she
must convince Aaron that somehow he had succeeded in forcing her to tell him
everything she knew. Crawford obviously had intercepted Hayes's letter to Sarah
Dean, she reasoned foggily, so it seemed safe to acknowledge taking it to the
courier. If she could make him believe that the single message he had
intercepted was the only one she had sent for Banister, perhaps she could save
both Hayes and her mother without volunteering more information. The pain in
her hand and arm was gradually increasing, making Leigh light-headed and
bringing tears to her eyes.

"I
hate you!" she whispered breathlessly, as wetness spilled down her cheeks.
Yet she hesitated one last moment before she gave him the answer he was
seeking. "All right, Aaron, I admit that I sent a letter south for
Hayes."

"Tell
me about it," he demanded, loosening his hold a little.

"It
was addressed to a woman named Sarah Dean; she is his cousin's wife, I think.
He wrote to tell her that he had been with her husband at Shiloh when he
died."

"When
did you mail it and how?"

"I
took it to a woman who lives on Washington, just west of Eleventh Street, last
Tuesday or Wednesday." Leigh said. "I had written to Brandon Hale,
and my mother had letters ready to send to her family. I took those there as
well."

The
information was accurate, as Crawford was well aware. "What other messages
have you sent south on Banister's behalf?"

"None,
I swear it!"

His
hold tightened again, and a sheet of sweeping agony moved up her arm. Leigh
twisted helplessly in her chair, but his grip was unrelenting. "Tell me
the rest of it, Leigh!" he threatened.

"Oh,
God! Aaron, please. There's nothing more to tell! Hayes and I had a falling-out
just after the new year, and I hardly spoke a word to him between then and when
we made up at the hospital after Shiloh."

Aaron
knew that Leigh and Banister had been at odds, and it was more than possible
that Leigh was telling the truth at last. Satisfied for the moment, Crawford
released her, and Leigh crumpled back against her chair, cupping her wounded
palm.

"Oddly
enough, Leigh, I do believe you, at least for now. With what I already know
about Banister's activities, I think I can convince my superiors of the need
for further investigations. But, Leigh"—-Crawford gathered up his hat and
gauntlets and moved to stand by the door—"no more letters south, not your
own, and certainly not for Banister. Do you understand?"

Leigh
nodded mutely.

"Good,"
he added as he took his leave, "and by all means, Leigh, give my best to
your charming mother."

Leigh
sat for a moment glaring after him, loathing the major with a dark, ferocious
hatred that was foreign to her nature. How her mother could bear the man's
company was beyond Leigh's comprehension, and she intended to tell Althea just
how Aaron Crawford had treated her. But more important, she needed to talk to
Hayes Banister and find out what he was doing and where his allegiance lay.
They were to go for a drive in the morning, and it seemed the perfect
opportunity to determine if Hayes was indeed what Aaron Crawford accused him of
being: a Confederate spy.

***

May 23, 1862—Alton, Illinois

"No,
Pincheon, I'm through with you and your missions!" Hayes Banister
reiterated as he took a turn around the small hotel room. Its shades were drawn
to provide the other man with either the privacy or the perpetual gloom he
seemed to crave, and the air hung thick as a blanket in the confined space.
"The ships I'm building with James Eads are quite enough to keep me
occupied, and I don't need your plots and intrigues for further
diversion."

The
smaller man sat back in his chair silently, letting Banister's aggravation run
its course.