Surrender the Wind (30 page)

Catherine was sick of his high handedness and his ordering her about. She opened her mouth about to launch into a few of Brigid’s favorite Irish curses that would have scorched his ears, but decided now was not the time.

“I would hope, General,” Colonel Mosby hankered for John’s attention. “You will not be such a dullard and introduce me to this lovely lady.”

John was forced to turn his attention to the Colonel and his men, having forgotten their presence. His jaw clenched. All sixty plus riders had their sole concentration focused on her. Each man struck a different pose, wide-eyed, smiling, or to her husband’s greater disgust, with their mouths gaped open. She lifted her chin and dared to smile at him.

“She is my wife.” John let that information register. “I know…you were going to offer your condolences.”

“No indeed, my envious congratulations, General Rourke. And to you Mrs. Rourke, may I compliment your fine embroidery. I can say I have never witnessed such artistry. Why General Rourke, when General Lee hears of this, he will be attempted to rename your division to Virginia’s hearts and flowers.”

Catherine tossed her head and eyed John with cold triumph. “Hearts and flowers sounds romantic, Colonel Mosby. I must applaud you on your ingenious suggestion.”

“Catherine, did you embroider all the uniforms like this?” Her husband’s mouth set so tightly around his cigar she thought he would snap it in two.

She fanned her chest with her hand. “You mean the uniforms that were heaped in front of my doorstep?”

“The same,” John said through gritted teeth.

Her evasion vexed him. Wonderful. “Those uniforms were in terrible condition. Dousing them with kerosene and setting them ablaze would have been an improvement. I walked on water to resurrect the miraculous condition you find them in now. You should be thankful.” And then with feigned feminine confusion, she frowned, “Why on earth are you angry?”

“You already know the answer to that question.” John snapped. “Why would you even ask?”

“I’m just making conversation.” Catherine protested, pasting on her face, a picture of complete beguilement. “Conversation is one of the civilized arts, General Rourke. We can’t all stump through life with sword and slaughter, beating our chests to the world. A few of us do try to preserve the dignities. Isn’t that right, Colonel Mosby?” Then with one of her breathtaking smiles, she charmed the Colonel, and then glanced at her husband with smug delight.

“There!” Mosby smiled down on the two of them. “I do believe I could not have said it better.” He bent over his horse’s flanks and said to the general, “I can see why you are such an excellent strategist, General Rourke. Your wife hones her skills on you.” Mosby then gave an audible sigh. “I wish I could have such a lovely creature for a tutor.”

John muttered around his clamped cigar. “One such creature is sufficient indulgence for a dozen lifetimes.”

Only Mosby was in hearing distance and threw back his head with laughter that made the leaves shake in the trees. “I can see my visit has been tedious for you, General Rourke. I must say, I have not laughed so hard in a very long time. Before I forget, your horse is tied to the rear wagon, courtesy of your brother, Colonel Ryan Rourke, who sends his best regards.”

“Mrs. Rourke,” Colonel Mosby addressed her in good humor, his gaze scanning over her. “I am hopeful to make your acquaintance sometime soon.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” John bit out.

Mosby’s mouth twitched with amusement. “How ungrateful you are, General Rourke, for the bounty I have presented to you?”

“It would be my pleasure, Colonel Mosby. We are thankful, aren’t we John?” She was playing with fire.

“Perhaps she could assist your men with some of her craft with a needle,” John said tersely. “Something appropriate, perhaps harps and cupids?”

“And what will she craft for you General,” Mosby said, enjoying the sparring. “Horns and a pointed tail?”

John did not see the humor, especially when his wife dared to walk away without his dismissal.

Mosby offered his hand. “Enjoy the contraband General. It is not often our travels make us so lucky. Next time, the Yanks may not be as generous. There are a few prisoners in the rear wagon that need attending. I would take you up on your offer of a delicious meal this evening, but I do not want to leave the Valley unattended. These are tenuous times. Besides I can see you have other things on your mind.” Mosby laughed, then rearing the animal on its two hind legs in a demonstration of showy horsemanship, spurred his horse out of the camp with the rest of his men following.

In the last of the wagons, Lieutenant Johnson had hauled out the captured Yanks, some frightened, others belligerent. John had seen it mirrored in their faces before. They were shipped off to prisoner of war camps until the conclusion of the war. A particular prisoner caught his attention. Even without the medical insignias braided on his coat, he would have recognized him. His memory seized the large proportions of the man with a full head of white hair, except now, he owned the world-weariness of a much older man.

“Lieutenant Johnson, bring that prisoner forward so I may speak to him.”

The Yank rubbed his chin and shuffled forward with a cautious approach per the status of being singled out. When the older man finally stood in front of John, he garnered a look of calm resignation, his fate hanging in the Rebel Commander’s hands.

John respected him. “Lieutenant Johnson, get Dr. Parks a drink of water.”

The prisoner’s blue-gray eyes lit from the general’s knowledge of his name. “I apologize for any slight, but I am clearly at a loss, for I do not recall meeting you before—” said the doctor.

“We have met…under more unfortunate circumstances. Indeed, no slight is incurred or apology needed. It is I who thank you.”

“When?” Dr. Parks searched his captor’s face for clues.

“I am General John Rourke, Army of Northern Virginia, if that means anything to you, and I beg the honor of your presence at dinner this evening in my tent.”

“I have heard a great deal, almost as much as General Lee. I do not understand?”

John held up his hand. “During the Battle of the Wilderness, a Confederate soldier, fatally wounded, met a Union doctor, presenting himself as a man of peace. The Union Doctor asked the injured Confederate why he thought a man of peace was in this war. The wounded man was in no state to reply. So the Union doctor shared his philosophy. Because fools make wars, and that he, the doctor, was the sad antidote to that reality. Then, the doctor, blind to the colors of blue and gray, gave the dying Confederate a drink of water, treating him only with courtesy and compassion. I remember that simple act of kindness as if it were yesterday.”

The doctor shook his head. “There were so many casualties that day, and then the fires.”

John nodded. From the artillery bursts, the forests had been set on fire. Men wounded or surrounded by a greater natural force were burned alive. “With so many wounded, I don’t expect you to remember, but I do. You suggested we have dinner and talk things out like God fearing men are supposed to do.”

The doctor nodded and Lieutenant Johnson appeared. John took the tin cup from his lieutenant and placed it in the doctor’s shaking hands, both men understanding the extraordinary profoundness, bridging something far more tangible than a simple gift of water. “So will you do me the honor of having a long overdue dinner with my wife and I this evening?”

Dr. Park’s voice choked. “I will look most forward to it.”

* * *

John was in a better mood after leaving Dr. Parks. The good doctor had hinted at a significant inventory of needed medical supplies. Catherine would be happy.
She’d be happy for her sworn enemy?
John saddled his horse and clicked the equine into a gallop.

Mallory’s taunts surfaced with a vengeance.

“She’s our best. But don’t be too down in the mouth, General Rourke. Miss Fitzgerald is our cleverest of agents. Her craft has been long practiced. Likewise she’s one of our most skilled, and may I add, treacherous strategists in intelligence gathering.”

So many inconsistencies. When she had found him, he wasn’t wearing a general’s uniform and why would one of the North’s clever agents be stuck in the countryside? Unless she knew who he was when she saved him.

Every night he resisted the urge to pull back the sheet and gaze at her slender white body beneath the sheerness of her gown. Every night he had to fight to suppress the almost overpowering desire to take her in his arms and let go inside of her, the violent flow of rage that swelled within him.

She was everywhere in the camp, the sight of her taking his men’s breath away, taking his breath away. There had been thousands of women since the beginning of time, but he doubted any were as unforgettable as Catherine. Damn, he had enough trouble as it was without some golden-haired goddess to complicate things.

Danny boy had become more of an attendant than a guard. Catherine would walk arm in arm with him, laughing at his anecdotes. John’s stomach hardened. He entertained cutting off Danny Boy’s arm, yet there was nothing between them other than a brother and sister friendship. Still he did not like it.

At times, John could feel her watching him and he’d look up. She’d cast him a modest sidelong glance, a morsel to tempt him, to make him trail after her like a dog behind a butcher’s cart. How he burned for her. How to stop the madness? He might as well command a river to curl back to its source.

Could she see the loneliness in his soul? Would she heal it? Or would she trample it with her dainty foot?
No. He could not get hurt.

He stopped his horse at the crest of a hill. The animal pawed the earth and chomped at the bit. John dreamed of her, slept beside her, yet kept away from her, shunning her, daring not touch her. The pretense of hostility wove a safety net between them. Best to keep it that way.

He drove the horse hard, and then circled to camp. At a distance outside his tent, he dismounted and gave the horse to a soldier to feed and brush down. At full attention, Danny boy stood solid, refusing to allow John to take another step.

Did the boy dare to confront him? “Move aside, Danny. I’ve business with my wife.”

“That’s the point, General Rourke, Sir. She did her best to stitch those pants.”

John crossed his arms. “I am aware she did
more
than her very best. You are to report to Brigid and have her prepare a special meal for three this evening—in my tent.”

Danny refused to leave. “I would take exception if you were to do anything disciplinary with Mrs. Rourke.”

Rourke sighed. “Are you countermanding my order, private?”

Danny lifted his chin.

“I appreciate your loyalty to my wife—”

“I must have your word, Sir, no harm will come to her,” Danny demanded.

“My word?” A cold edge cracked in John’s voice. “I hate to be bored, Danny Boy, so I am doing my best to assume you are amusing me. This will be the last and only time I’ll explain myself, soldier, because I’m feeling charitable at the moment. I have never laid a hand on my wife despite the fact I’d like to wring her neck for insubordinate behavior. Right now, I wish to have a private conversation with
Mrs. Rourke
. If you are not out of here in one second, I will be forced to toss you across this camp.”

“Just a conversation?”

“You heard me soldier. Get going!”

Mollified, Danny Boy dashed away, leaving John bemused.

* * *

Inside the tent, Catherine had fretted hours. What would John do to her? Whether he hated her or not, he would never hurt her, that much, she had learned already. But the embroidery? Then, embarrassing him in front of Colonel Mosby and his men? She bit her lip not even attempting to guess.

The tedium of waiting for John wore on her nerves. The longer she waited, the angrier she became. No doubt, he’d force her to wait until late at night. She leaned against his desk, opening and closing a wooden cigar box, inhaling the strong tobacco scent. The tent grew warm and humid, her clothing prickled against her skin. Releasing a ragged sigh, she took off her dress and loosened the stays of her corset, stripping down to her chemise and pantalets. Finding comfort, she threw herself across the bed, stuffing a pillow beneath her chin.

“A strange man you are, John,” she said aloud, gazing at the blue-black gun barrels, gleaming, much the same color as his hair.

There is no trust.

She rolled onto her back and punched the pillow. He did not love her. How often had she turned to his sleeping form at night? His warmth so close…her throat ached, and she had an unexpected powerful yearning to be held in someone’s arms…John’s arms. In Pleasant Valley, they were happy and in love, caught in a paradise immune from the horrors and intricacies of the outside world. Her mind drifted to his first wife where divorce was a disgrace, especially finding the woman with her lover. She shook her head, imagining the wound to John’s pride, a lesion that blinded him to everything else. The dilemma twisted in her heart…but was there something more?

In the dark entrails of despair there still glimmered flashes of hope in the remembrance of what had been left unsaid between them, of distant echoes of emotion, of silent flashes in his tormented eyes, and that thin, tenuous filament between them that could not be denied.

His sword dangled from the center tent pole, a gorgeous piece of cutlery, with an ornamental hilt. Up on her knees, she drew the sword from its scabbard and a sharp play of light gleamed upon the blade. If she had to hold it upright for any length of time, her arms would ache. John came into the tent. She yelped, her mouth caught in a silent “O”, and the sword’s point dropped to his heart.

“Planning on killing some Rebs?” He challenged, moved to the bed where she knelt with the sword. “Why did you walk away from me without a dismissal?”

“Before your dismissal? Your treasure of genius forgets that it was you who ordered me here in the first place. Yet how can I forget that your every command is laced with a war whoop for the Confederacy and glorious cry of the South?” When he dared to take a step closer, she lifted the tip of the sword to his throat.