Once Upon a Wager (35 page)

Shaelyn gave him a tremulous smile. Every muscle and sinew in her body tensed with apprehension as she moved behind the settee, her hand resting on her mother's shoulder.

Captain Davenport handed Brenna her teacup and attempted to give one to Shaelyn as well, but she declined without a word, afraid her voice wouldn't work over the lump constricting her throat.

Major Harte straightened and limped over to the chair opposite the divan, a grimace tightening his features. Shaelyn watched his painful progress and a surge of sympathy rippled through her.

“Now, Major, please tell us why you're here. If it's bad news, don't make us wait, I beg you.” Brenna's voice shook as she said the words. She grabbed Shaelyn's hand and squeezed.

He hesitated. Shaelyn wanted to drag the words from his mouth. Whatever he needed to say, she just wished he'd do it. He took a deep breath. She prepared herself, swallowing hard against the bile burning the back of her throat.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh, are you the owner of Cavanaugh Shipping and the steamboats the
Brenna Rose
, the
Lady Shae
, and the
Sweet Sassy
?”

“Since my husband passed away,” Brenna replied. “Yes, I am, but Shaelyn runs the business. She's quite good at it, despite this terrible war.”

“And are you the owner of record for this home, Magnolia House, and the warehouse and shipping office located in Natchez-Under-the-Hill?”

“What is this all about, Major?” Shaelyn asked. She didn't like the expression on the major's face at all. He seemed sad almost, as if he didn't relish what he needed to do, and her dread intensified, those icy fingers no longer plucking at her spine, but squeezing her heart. She stiffened against the blow that was sure to come.

He removed a document from his uniform pocket, slowly unfolded it, and began to read. “By the order of the government of the United States, for the duration of this war or until they are no longer needed,” he said softly, “you are hereby commanded to relinquish your home, steamboats, warehouse, and shipping office to the Union Army. Specifically, me.” He glanced at Shaelyn, an apology in his eyes.

“What!” Shaelyn let go of her mother's hand and came around the sofa on legs that felt like wooden stumps instead of flesh and bone. “You can't do that. They belong to us.”

She stopped in front of Major Harte and stared at him. The brief moment of sympathy she'd had for him vanished, and her face burned with anger. Indeed, her entire body felt as if fire consumed her. She grabbed the document from him, but her hands shook so badly, she couldn't read the paper in front of her.

“Indeed, I can, Miss Cavanaugh,” he said, his voice no longer soft, but commanding and strong. “I have my orders.” The expression in his eyes hadn't changed, though. They were still apologetic.

She knew the army, on both sides, frequently took homes and other possessions, but it didn't assuage her anger one bit. “Why my steamers? And my home?”

“The Union Army has need of your boats to transport men and supplies and your home, being in such close proximity to Rosalie
,
is perfect to quarter my men.”

“What are we supposed to do? How will I support us if you take my steamboats? Where are we to live?” Incredulity made Shaelyn's voice sharper than normal. Although she was usually unflappable, even in the most dire of circumstances, this whole tableau had her feeling like she was someone else, someone she didn't even recognize. “What if I refuse, Major? What will you do then?”

A muscle jumped in the major's cheek as he stood to tower over her. “You have no choice in this matter, Miss Cavanaugh.” His voice remained strong, but the warmth of his eyes conveyed another message. “It's nothing personal. Consider this your contribution to the war effort.”

The lump constricting her throat threatened to suffocate her. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

“My my mother and I have already contributed far more to this blasted war than you could ever imagine.” Her voice barely above a whisper, she almost choked on the words. “My father suffered a stroke when war was declared. I watched him struggle for life for two months before he succumbed.” She blinked against the tears filling her eyes. “I have heard nothing from my brother or my intended in over a year. I can only hope they are still alive and were not at Gettysburg. I have lost two riverboats to shell fire. They lay at the bottom of the Mississippi, along with the people who were aboard.”

She drew in her breath, tried to control her shaking body, and tried but failed to control her temper. “Now you will take my home and my business, and I am to give it to you graciously? I don't believe I can, Major.”

A strong desire to do him bodily harm made her clench her fists as he stood before her, his expression impassive.

“I am sorry for your losses, Miss Cavanaugh, but we have all made sacrifices,” he replied softly. His gaze held hers and he shifted his weight to his other leg, as if mentioning the word
sacrifices
made him remember his own. “Some more than others. It is the way of war.”

“Your war, not mine!” The words exploded from her, despite the constriction in her throat. How much more would this blasted war take? How much more could she give? Had she brought this on herself by applying for a government contract? She'd been denied, of course, and immediately tried again and again. Had she drawn attention to Cavanaugh Shipping by her sheer persistence? Instead of getting the contract she so hoped for, she had her possessions taken.

A small sound drew her attention. Shaelyn tore her gaze away from the major and glanced at her mother. Brenna had not moved, had not uttered a sound except for a small whimper, but her face had lost all color. Her chin trembled and tears shimmered on her lashes. Pain and confusion flashed in her eyes. Shaelyn's heart came close to shattering.

She had promised her father she would always take care of her mother, a privilege she gladly accepted. She wouldn't break her promise now. She took a deep breath and managed to smile at her mother to let her know it would be all right.

“I'm certain you are a reasonable man, Major.” She forced her gaze away from Brenna and faced the man who stood to take everything from her. “We have nowhere to go, sir. No family left, no friends able to take us in. The war has seen to that.” She took a deep breath and tried to keep her anger under control. “Perhaps we can strike a bargain?”

• • •

Intrigued, Remy cocked a dark eyebrow. He hadn't missed the look she'd given her mother, nor could he mistake the devastation on the older woman's face and his part in putting the desolation there. He hadn't had this issue with the other homes where some of his men were now staying. “A bargain, Miss Cavanaugh? What did you have in mind?”

“Perhaps we can discuss this privately,” Shaelyn suggested, and nodded toward Brenna.

“Of course,” he conceded, and followed her from the parlor. They stepped across the hall, toward the front of the house, and into a well-appointed study. Remy limped to the desk and leaned against it, taking the pressure off his leg in an effort to alleviate the pain, which never seemed to abate.

Shaelyn shut the pocket doors then moved to the center of the room. A ray of sunlight fell on her, and Remy sucked in his breath.

Heaven help me, she is a beauty.
Damn Jock MacPhee!

Her light auburn hair, twisted haphazardly into a loose knot atop her head, left wispy tendrils to frame a lovely, heart-shaped, and at the moment, angry face. Bright patches of color stained her cheeks. Dark brows arched over smoldering eyes the color of cobalt. Her pert nose turned up slightly at the tip. He had no doubt her mouth, now compressed in annoyance, broke hearts when she smiled.

She had spirit. He'd give her that. Her rage was tangible; he felt the heat radiate from her from across the room. Her eyes never left him. They sparkled with dangerous intent.

“You have my undivided attention.” He hid a smile as she stomped toward the desk, the lace at the hem of her dark plum skirt swishing like ocean foam. He wondered briefly if the skirt had had lace originally or if she had used it to hide a badly frayed hem like so many other young ladies did during these difficult times. She wore no hoops or crinolines beneath her skirt, but he did glimpse pristine white petticoats and the tips of her worn, scuffed shoes.

Shaelyn said nothing. The expression on her face spoke for her. Remy kept his gaze steady on hers, frankly admiring her blushing cheeks and flashing eyes.

“You're staring daggers at me, Miss Cavanaugh. Does the color of my uniform offend you?” he asked, unable to resist.

“The color of your uniform makes no difference to me, sir.” Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, yet still glittered like rare dark sapphires. “What offends me is the color of the blood that runs so freely because of this war. What offends me is the way you all do whatever you all damn well please, without thought for the consequences of your actions. What offends me, at the moment, is you!”

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Miss Cavanaugh.” He'd always admired a woman with strength and courage, with character, with what his mother called fortitude. Shaelyn Cavanaugh seemed to have all that and more, and he rather enjoyed this confrontation, despite the circumstances, despite how her attitude had changed. It made him feel alive in a way he hadn't felt in quite some time. “Regardless of your feelings, this is the way it is. You must accept it as fact.”

He straightened and took a step toward her. Before they'd left the parlor, she'd been willing to swallow her anger and strike a bargain. Now, however, she didn't seem so willing. “I find it remarkable how much your manner has changed since we left the parlor.”

She glared at him, her head tilting back on her slim neck, but she didn't move, didn't back down.

His attitude softened as she stood in front of him, defiant and bold. He expected her wrath, even her resentment. Almost welcomed it. He would have been in full fury if his home and business were taken away. “You wished to strike an agreement?” he reminded her.

“My mother is an excellent cook. She will prepare meals for you and your men and I will clean, do your laundry—” she paused and licked her lips “—and anything else you need to have done if you will allow us to stay in our home.”

Her words finally penetrated his brain. No wonder she looked at him as if she would happily stab him through the heart. His blood ran cold as he realized she assumed by confiscating her home, he'd be asking—no, telling—them to leave, throwing them into the street. He'd seen it happen before. No doubt they had, too. Truthfully, he
had
planned to ask them to leave, though Jock had asked him to allow Shaelyn and her mother to stay. He hadn't quite made up his mind….not until he met her and then everything changed in a split second.

He should disabuse her of her misinterpretation at once but just…didn't want to. No one had dared to stand up to him such as she had in a very long time, and the longer they stood staring at each other, the more fascinated he became. She drew in her breath, the flesh above the décolletage of her white blouse turning red. A vein throbbed along the side of her neck, drawing his attention to the soft column of her throat. His gaze rose higher and he watched the subtle shading of her eyes darken to almost violet.

He hid the smile that threatened to turn up the corners of his mouth. “You and your mother may stay with conditions.”

“And what would those conditions be?”

“You will treat my men with respect, regardless of the color of their uniform or the reasons they are here.”

“I would have it no other way,” she told him, her mouth set. “By the same token, I will have the same from you. My mother is a kind, gentle woman, Major, and naive in many ways. I will not have her abused or mistreated, by either you or your men. If we must treat you and yours with respect, then I demand you treat my mother that way as well.”

“You aren't in any position to make demands, Miss Cavanaugh.”

“I understand. I still ask you to honor my request.”

Remy's heart skipped a beat as he gazed into her flashing eyes. They didn't merely sparkle; they danced in her lovely face. He detected no fear in those glimmering orbs of blue, just fury. What would she look like with her temper—or her passion—unleashed?

“It will be as you wish, Miss Cavanaugh,” Remy conceded. “My men will show your mother the respect she deserves.” He took another step forward and smelled the warm, inviting fragrance of her perfume. The alluring scent conjured images in his mind, images better left alone. He wanted to touch her, to kiss the spot on her neck where her pulse throbbed, to rub his thumb against her lips and feel them soften. “And what of you? Do you not deserve the respect of my men as well?”

“I expect nothing less.”

Intoxicated. That's what he felt. As if he'd drunk all the whiskey his father distilled. Her scent wafted gently to his nose and a vivid vision filled his mind. He saw her in his arms, saw them making love until they were both breathless, moonlight glowing on her bare skin, passion flushing her lovely face—

She's taken, promised to another.

The reminder did little to stop the kaleidoscope of visions cascading through his mind. With a bit of disappointment, Remy mentally shook himself and moved away from her, more to save himself from her sensual, alluring fragrance and the images in his mind than anything else.

“I realize this is an inconvenience for you, Miss Cavanaugh, but I will try to make it as pleasant as possible.” He gazed into her eyes. The most peculiar sensation settled in his chest, one he could not define, but which made his heart a little lighter. “I suggest we both make the best of a bad situation. I am willing to allow you and your mother to stay. Do we have an agreement?”