The Wicked North (Hearts Touched By Fire Book 1) (32 page)

“As our traitor here hasn’t said a word denying these accusations,” Van Dorn continued, “they must be true. His sentence is…”

“No! Please! I have his son,” Emma cried.

Jack saw Van Dorn appraising her, and it made him furious. If that son-of-a-bitch touched Emma, Jack would kill him.

“Ma’am, you have my deepest sympathies. I’ll personally make sure you get to a safe location, wherever that might be. I give you my word.” He turned back to Jack. “But, as I was saying, I sentence you, Jack Fontaine, to die by firing squad for betraying the Confederate States of America and for killing one of our people.”

A cheer rose. Jack saw John Henry grin, General Forrest nod his head and Emma’s face go white. She broke free of her father’s hold and ran to him.

“Tell them it isn’t true,” she begged.

He gave her a slight smile. “Take care of Nathan for me. Go to my father. Please, Emma.”

His refusal to deny the accusations registered in her eyes. He hated himself for it, but it was him against the Confederate forces there, easily several thousand men. All was lost.

Anger contorted Emma’s face as she stepped back. “You bastard,” she whispered.

No tears. No desire for him. Inside, his heart broke. But what he’d done was for the best, for he knew the Southerners would make sure she and his son would arrive at his father’s safely. However, when Van Dorn sauntered over to Emma, took her hand in his, and spoke softly to her, Jack’s hands clenched. He’d kill the man! 

As Van Dorn led her away, Forrest puffed on his cigar, not taking his eyes from Jack. “Maury, get the firing squad. And tell them to be neat about it,” a smile spread slowly across his face. “I’ll be taking that jacket when you’re through with him.” And he walked away with a chuckle.

Maury moved Jack to a tree behind the tents as three soldiers arrived bearing rifles. The men looked war weary and tired, perhaps too tired to fire straight, Jack mused. A few more men followed, including John Henry.

“Jack?”

Charles appeared before him, just to the side of the firing squad.

“Charles,” Jack said, looking at his grey uniform. He squinted. Jack couldn’t figure out the intricate swirls of embroidery on Charles’ sleeves, but they obviously meant he was an officer.

“Son, let him go,” his father said sternly. “He needs to make his peace with God.”

“No, this is wrong.” Charles turned to his father. “Stop this, father.”

John Henry looked at him. “No, son…”

“You know better than half of what you said was a lie. How do you think you made it this far? Because of Jack. And he’d never hurt Emma. You know that,” Charles sputtered.

John Henry suddenly looked like the man Jack had taken from Virginia. A puzzled expression had returned to his father’s face as Charles continued addressing him. Jack just shook his head.

“Aim.”

The squad pulled up their cocked rifles. Jack inwardly scorned the Confederates. What a waste of ammunition it was to have several men shoot him. One man would do. Jack had no intention of trying anything now that he believed Emma and Nathan would be safely escorted to his father’s as promised.

From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Emma on the general’s arm and heard Charles pleading with his father.

Suddenly John Henry began choking as though he was drowning. His face contorted in pain and surprise as he gripped his chest and crumpled to the ground.

“No, father!” Charles screamed at the same instant the command to fire was issued.

When John Henry cried out, it startled the firing squad and scattered their aim. The impact of bullets striking living tissue sounded like rocks hitting a pillow, and the force knocked Jack off balance and to the ground.

He hit it hard, especially with his hands still tied behind him. He couldn’t move and was barely able to breathe with the pain. He was vaguely aware of Emma’s scream and Charles begging John Henry to move. Before passing out, one of Jack’s last visions was of Charles, calling loudly for his father.

#

Jack breathed deeply. Cold March air invaded his nostrils and its briskness woke him suddenly. With a gasp, he sat up, his eyes struggling to focus on the scene around him. White tents glowed by campfire light. The sound of crackling flames and men talking filled the air.

He stretched, his body aching throughout. Moving his arms brought a fresh wave of pain on his left side. Glancing downward, he saw a rip in his jacket, just above the flesh wound beneath and realized the wound had been bandaged. He was to have been executed so why was he bandaged? What the hell had happened? He remembered the firing squad and John Henry collapsing. He remembered people yelling, the firing squad and hitting the ground himself.

Suddenly, he heard a noise to the left, and it sounded like metal hitting dirt. Slowly, he turned and saw Charles, jacket off despite the cold. He was digging a hole–a difficult task in late winter with the ground still frozen. Jack was confused. Why would a Confederate officer dig a grave? Especially by himself? Was it for Jack? But, he wasn’t dead, as he could tell from the searing pain he felt. Then who was the grave for?

A body lay no more than twelve feet away. Wrapped in heavy canvas, the inert form held Jack’s attention. Rising, he walked over to Charles.

The man was concentrating so hard on his work that he didn’t notice Jack.

“Charles?”

He looked up at Jack, face drawn, and he stared. Jack saw no light in his friend’s eyes. Something was amiss.

“So, you are up,” Charles stated, continuing to shovel.

Jack blinked hard and nodded. “What, I mean, who are you digging for? For me? Apparently, your firing squad missed. And where is Emma?”

Charles shoveled a little more before answering. “My father, Jack, I’m digging my father’s grave.”

“What?”

Charles stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow. “He wasn’t well, Jack. You had to know that. Why he accused you of what he did, I don’t know. And don’t explain it to me. I don’t want to know. Not now.” He swallowed hard and loudly. “And, whatever was wrong with him must’ve ate at him, the war or home...” His voice began to falter so he closed his mouth and pushed the shovel in for another mound.

Jack felt as though the world had changed but that he hadn’t changed with it.

“He started to say somethin’, maybe to save you. Or accuse you of more,” Charles laughed acidly again. “A man he called a traitor.” He looked up at Jack, his eyes filled with pain. “Did you kill Billy?”

Jack shook his head, unable to find his tongue.

“And what about my sisters?”

Yes, what about them? Jack’s mind whirled. Charles’ tormented gaze bore into him. He deserved to know the truth about all he’d lost fighting for “The Cause.”

“Caroline…We had,” he paused. “Problems. I sent her home. She died while birthing our son. Emma…” He looked around. “Where is Emma?”

“She’s gone. Father’s dead and you—” he glanced up and down at Jack. “Everyone. The troops, command, the surgeons are all gearing up for battle. But me? I’m busy with my father’s dead body. Emma was too distraught to stay. With another round of battles coming, it’s not safe for her here anyway, not even to see to a funeral for our father, let alone a burial.

“No!” Jack lashed out. “I need her!”

“Did you seduce her, too?” Charles glared. He threw the shovel down, his hands clenching into fists.

“I love her,” Jack stated loudly, not moving away even though he knew Charles was on the verge of striking him. “I always have. I can’t explain about Caroline.” Not in a way Charles would have wanted to hear. He glanced at the nearly empty camp. “How long was I out?”

“Most of the day.”

Jack’s right upper chest stabbed with white-hot pain, and he gritted his teeth, trying to subdue it. When the pain subsided, he said, “Did you bandage this?”

Emotions flashed in Charles’ eyes. Hate. Anger. Sorrow. All combined, each struggling for control. It took him a minute to unclench his hands and shovel the ground again, and then he snorted. “Best I could do, though why I did it still escapes me, considering my father’s accusations.”

He threw another clod of dirt to the side. “You’re lucky. Only one bullet hit because everyone’s aim was thrown off when father collapsed and Emma screamed. You got a deep gouge, so I cleaned it the best I could. Most of the surgeons weren’t going to waste time on a traitor.” He shrugged and continued shoveling.

Jack nodded. “Thank you.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of the shovel in the dirt.

“I need to get to Emma. Where is she? Where’s my son?” He turned toward the road.

“I wouldn’t go there.” Charles’ words stopped Jack. “You may have gotten off but Emma’s pretty upset. She was trying to blame you for our father’s death.” He paused, his brows furrowed. “She was rambling on about being abandoned, Jack.” He drove the shovel into the ground again. “Been thinking she may be right. Caroline turned mean as we grew up, makin’ sure she was always the favorite, mostly at Emma’s expense. And I, being the only son, got lots of attention.” He shrugged. “Then momma died, and Caroline and Billy too. Since I’ve been in the war, I haven’t written her to speak of, and with Rose Hill gone, the few letters I sent probably never made it to her. And now our father is dead.” He shoveled again.

“Well I’m here now, so I’ll ask again—where is she?”

“I done told you. Gone,” Charles stated drily. “Left yesterday.”

Jack had spent too long thinking he wasn’t good enough for Emma and that he had nothing to offer her. He was a traitor to the South but mostly to her. First he had betrayed her love because of Caroline’s manipulations. Then, on this trip, he never should have touched her. He’d only made things worse after refusing to offer her his hand. No doubt she believed he had used her and needed her only for Nathan. She didn’t know he loved her. Because of her, he had thwarted death on the battlefield before. Now that it had happened a second time, he needed to redeem himself and refused to let her go. At least, not without telling her he loved her and begging her to stay with him.

“They thought you’d likely die, too. Heard them tell her you were a goner with a chest wound. Hell, you looked dead, with that jacket all torn, blood everywhere and you white as a ghost, laying all still.” He shook his head and dug deeper with the blade of the shovel. “I was so busy with my father’s body, I never had a chance to check on you. By the time I got everything arranged, she was gone.

Jack shifted, causing another shot of pain from his wound. As he gritted his teeth against it, his mind raced.

“Damnation,” he muttered. “Charles, where did they go?”

“She doesn’t want you, Jack.” His voice was cold.

“I love her Charles.” Jack walked up to him and grabbed the shovel to make him look at him. “I need to find her. She’s got my son. And my heart. I can’t live without her.”

Charles frowned. “A son and her, I don’t know Jack. That’s family. Responsibility. Said you never wanted that. Being saddled with Caroline was one thing. Just let Emma go. She’ll take your son to Bellefountaine and be on…”

“She’s taking him to my father?” He grabbed Charles’ shirt.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Yes, he had told her to go there because he was going to die and his old man would protect them, but he hadn’t died. Evil reigned at Bellefountaine. Without Jack there to smooth the path and persuade his father to get them out of the country, Jack couldn’t bear to think what might happen. His head hurt. He let go of Charles and pushed against his temples. “I must leave.”

“Why? If all you need is a mother for your son, find another woman. Emma deserves more than that. I won’t let you hurt her by just using her for that,” Charles snarled.

Charles’ statement hit Jack hard. He did need a mother for his son, and Emma was already acting that part. Like so many widowed men with children, he was expected to remarry–no man raised a child alone. But he wouldn’t do that to Emma. He needed her, wanted and loved her too much to just marry her for Nathan’s sake. He’d put it off before, thinking he had nothing to offer but now, he’d give her all he had, including his heart, if she’d take him back.

“I love her,” he restated.

As he turned to look for his horse, Charles snorted. “Dammit, you’re just as determined as she is. Look, if you’re going after her, let me tell you something. I know she loves you. It’s written all over her face. But after everything, it’s goin’ to be harder to win her than just tellin’ her you love her too. She can be quite stubborn. About the only way I see you getting anywhere with her is if you’re willing to fight for her, make her yours truly…”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want and will do.” It wasn’t just a mindless response. She was his heart.

Charles sighed as though he thought Jack had lost his mind. “Then good luck, Jack. You’re going to need it.”

Jack struggled to mount his horse, fighting the pain, but once on Goliath’s back, he nodded to Charles. Nudging the horse forward, Jack knew he’d need more than luck. He’d need a miracle.

One’s heart grows sick of war, after all, when you see what it really is; every once in a while I feel so horrified and disgusted – it seems to me like a great slaughter-house and the men mutually butchering each other – then I feel how impossible it appears, again, to retire from this contest, until we have carried our points.

—Walt Whitman, USA, Letter to his mother, September 8, 1863

Chapter Thirty-One

Bellefountaine Plantation

Louisiana, March 1863

Early spring in Louisiana included humidity that Virginia lacked. After rain in the pre-dawn hours, the air felt heavy, almost uncomfortable in the sunshine. Emma fanned her face, trying to dry the moisture that had formed as she sat on the second-story veranda overlooking the Mississippi River. Despite the pretty view, her stomach was roiling, which she attributed to the weather.

Tilly appeared at her side, carrying a glass of watered sugar-laced raspberry vinegar. It was a repulsive concoction but it soothed her insides.

“Where’s Nathan?” she asked, sipping the vile drink.

“He be playin’ in the nurser’ wit that lady,” the slave replied, removing a rag from a basin of water and wringing it out. She put the damp cloth around Emma’s neck.

Emma moaned. “Thank you.”

As Tilly backed away, Emma’s thoughts returned to her arrival at Bellefountaine. Mrs. Fontaine had been so thrilled to meet her first grandchild that she rarely left him alone. At another time, Emma might have felt threatened by the woman’s doting, but now, relief filled her as her energy fled with the heat and the nausea it caused.

She sighed and sat quietly. Too tired to move, she watched the river, focused on it, forcing her mind to stop tripping over memories best buried. It was an impossible task, she discovered. If she slept, and slept she did at first, they emerged, prodding her emotions. Tears often threatened. Everyone was gone. Dead. Her mother, Caroline, Billy and now, her father. She feared she’d lose Charles as well.

And there was Jack.

Her breath hitched as her throat constricted. The only thing that made life worth living was Nathan. His sweet cherub face, with that easy grin and those sparkling emerald eyes made him look like an angel. But because he was the spitting image of his father, he might have been a demon too.

If she were lucky, perhaps numbness would return to her mind and her body. She had welcomed General Van Dorn’s attentions, which had soothed her and made her feel cared for.

As she was leaving the Confederate camp, Charles assured her that he would write and let her know how he was, but no letters had come. Granted her trip by military escort had taken two long, tedious weeks. A lady friend of the General’s, a Miss McCoy of Corinth, was large, chatty, and bothersome and always wore strong, sweet perfume. But she had provided a welcome distraction to Emma, who was now a widow and an orphan. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm her.

Tilly pressed the cup to Emma’s lips again.

“Drink, Miss Emma, you needs to drink,” she coaxed, taking the fan from Emma’s hands and waving it frantically in front of her.

Emma took another sip and pulled back, grasping the slave’s wrist. “Enough, Tilly.”

“Good morning, how are we doing this morning, Mrs. Bealke?”

She closed her eyes and resisted the urge to clench her hands. Why hadn’t she heard the woman enter? “I’m feelin’ better this mornin’, Mrs. Fontaine.” The woman’s greeting reminded Emma that she’d forever be known as Mrs. William Bealke, never Mrs. Jack Fontaine. When it became obvious that Jack didn’t want her, she tried to convince herself that she didn’t want his name either.

Marie Fontaine’s green eyes stared at her like a mother hen–one with an attitude. Emma wasn’t sure whether she liked being under the Fontaines’ care, but until she could arrange transportation and funding of some type, she had to rely on their hospitality. As Nathan’s aunt, she could remain with them for some time.

Marie’s angular face was framed by blond hair pulled back into a chignon. Her hairstyle and dress, probably adapted from the latest British trends, gave her the look of a Continental.

When she smiled, she reminded Emma of Jack. With effort, Emma returned her smile, trying hard not to cry.

“Emma, m’aime, please call me Marie.”

She nodded. “Yes, but of course.”

“Did you eat this morning?”

Emma nodded slowly. Breakfast had tasted wonderful. Scones with orange marmalade and tea. It wasn’t her usual morning meal but she had enjoyed the sweet twist. And she’d kept it down.

“I’m glad. No doubt, it’s all the turmoil you’ve been through that’s caused you to be out of sorts. A few days of rest and a better diet should make you well again.”

“Yes, thank you. I do feel better.” She sat straighter, putting down her fan, but her stomach began rumbling anew. As bile started climbing, she hastened to the chamber pot and almost ran into Tilly. And she lost the breakfast she had so enjoyed. When would this illness pass?

Putting the lid on the pot, Emma leaned back, weak and lightheaded. She heard Marie murmur something to Tilly and then helped Emma return to her chair.

“I’ll call Dr. Spalding.” She left the room as Tilly resumed fanning Emma.

Emma closed her eyes tightly, fighting another wave of nausea. She truly believed she was going to die and hoped death would come soon.

#

Louisiana’s warmth and humidity continued into the afternoon, and a light rain began to fall. Emma had no tears left to accompany the rain. Dr. Spalding had arrived just before midday and examined her, the memory of which still made her uncomfortable. He had been invasive and his questions too personal to suit her. However, she had heaved again, confirming his diagnosis.

Emma was carrying Jack’s child. Biting her lower lip, she placed her hand on her stomach, which was still flat. Although her corset fit, her breasts felt heavier, larger, and her nipples had become sensitive.

“Miss Emma,” Tilly said softly, handing her a cup of tea.

Emma took the cup but didn’t drink. Her nerves were still on edge. Should she be excited about carrying the traitor’s bastard?

“Miss Emma?”

She hadn’t noticed the slave was still at her side. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she tore her gaze from the river and focused on the girl. Tilly looked nervous and was wringing her hands.

“What, Tilly?” she snapped, sounding like Caroline. She inwardly cringed.

“Well, ma’am, if’n you don’t wanna carry, I can give you somethin’ to stop it.”

Emma’s eyes widened. The slave knew of a potion to make her lose the child? Her gut twisted in revulsion, but something told her not to dismiss the idea. Could she bring herself to do that? She’d always wanted a child. And she had wanted to bear Jack’s, but after what he’d done, could she bring herself to do so? Emma’s indecision made Tilly even more nervous, and it showed in her eyes as she fidgeted, waiting for a response.

“Tilly, thank you. I’m not sure.”

“All yous gots to do is lets me know, and I’ll brin’ it to ya,” she stammered.

Emma nodded. It was a repulsive option—one of several she faced regarding her future. As a widow, she had the chance to strike out on her own, move to where she wanted and make a life for herself. Problem was, she had brought her charge, Nathan, to his paternal grandparents’ home. In Louisiana, a state that still adhered to Napoleonic law, their hold on the child was greater because they had the resources to raise him. She, on the other hand, was homeless and penniless—Nathan’s unfortunate aunt. Could she leave him? With a child on the way, her life as an independent woman would be short-lived, even after the war, because she would be expected to marry again for the child’s sake. After losing Billy, who she didn’t truly love, and Jack, who she loved but didn’t fully trust, could she even think of being intimate with another man, let alone live with him? Her head throbbed the longer she debated about what she had and what she wanted.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the faint but growing sound of someone approaching, and she strained to see who it was. A tall, dark-haired man dressed in tan trousers and riding boots, a pristine white shirt, sapphire blue brocaded waistcoat and black fitted jacket walked her way from the other end of the veranda. His sky-blue eyes sparkled in the noonday sun, and he had an air of confidence about him.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” his rich, deep voice drawled as he took her hand, bringing it to his lips. “So nice to finally meet you.” He smiled warmly at her.

Emma stared at him, feeling her face flush at his touch. The man before her was strikingly handsome. Like Jack. When she said nothing, he laughed apologetically.

“How rude of me to disturb you. Let me introduce myself. I’m Francois Fontaine, at your service.” He bowed.

She blinked rapidly, trying to recall the social graces–her manners had been neglected since the war began. No time for pleasantries when the enemy was all around. “Excuse me, I seem to have lost my manners. I’m Emma Fon…, I mean, Mrs. Emma Bealke.” Had she really almost called herself Emma Fontaine?

He gave her a sly, devilish grin. “If I can be bolder, Mrs. Bealke, may I call you Emma?”

She relaxed and returned his smile. The man was wickedly attractive. “Yes, if I may be granted the same favor.”

“Wonderful,” he exclaimed. Looking around the porch, he asked, “Shall we be expecting Mr. Bealke soon?”

Her grin disappeared. “No, sir, I am a widow.” Then she realized that because she wasn’t wearing widow’s attire, no one could tell her marital status.
I’m so
s
orry, Billy.
It was a fault she’d have to correct soon.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, his own smile fading momentarily. “Is there a possibility I could entice you to take a walk with me? The grounds are lovely. We have several magnolias blooming and flowers back in the garden as well.” He offered his hand. It was bare, but, then, why would a gentleman on his own land wear gloves when it was barely past noontime?

Pulling her bottom lip under the scrape of her teeth, Emma worried about whether her stomach would behave if she went. Oh bother! She placed her own bare hand in Francois’ palm. The warmth of his hand invaded her skin, making her tingle. It felt wonderful. But she reminded herself that such thoughts were inappropriate for a widow and because of Jack. And that was the issue, wasn’t it? She felt more loss over him than Billy.

Emma rose and smoothed the skirts of her borrowed dress and crinoline.

#

“Bellefountaine is primarily a sugar-producing estate,” Francois told her as they strolled the grounds, her arm in the crux of his, his free hand resting on hers.

Under the shade of a parasol, she avoided the sun and a slight breeze blew across the land. For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, she relaxed. The tension in her body seemed to ease thanks to Francois’ deep and sensual voice and their quiet walk. The guilt that had plagued her at first slowly seeped away.

“You said your family’s been here a generation?”

He chuckled. “Several, actually. Came over here under the French. You’ll see more of Francais in my father, though.”

“When will I meet him?”

“Soon enough, m’aime.”

She had also heard that endearment from Marie. For once, she felt a part of something but knew her status was precarious. All depended on Nathan, she was sure.

The land was rich and vast, several thousand acres. Even now, during the war, she looked past the garden into the fields and found slaves busy at work. How had they managed to keep so many, considering?

Closer to the main house, Emma noticed the slaves they passed had lighter skin color. Nothing unusual about that, but she noticed something else too.

“Ah, Colette,” he called softly to a slave girl.

The young slave, her skin a light cocoa, hair black, straight and long, sauntered up to him. Emma frowned. Colette, who wasn’t much younger than Emma, was way too forward with her master. Despite the fact that her stomach was round with child, she walked seductively, her hips swaying.

Francois talked to the girl in French. Emma saw Colette lower her eyelids invitingly and nod. As she walked away, he offered Emma his arm again. Gingerly, she took it.

“We’ll have tea, non?” He guided her to a gazebo in the shade of tall, flowering magnolia trees.

The space was small and to get to the chair, she brushed past him. Her breast slightly touched his arm, sending tingles down to her lower belly and creating a pool between her legs. The reaction scared her and she quickly sat, praying she wouldn’t touch Francois again. He was so handsome, his voice so sensual, her body had reacted instinctively. Her hands clenched. This was wrong. He was Jack’s brother!

Yes, but Jack is dead
. Her mind stumbled. Memories flooded her. Jack before the firing squad, her father collapsing, guns exploding and Jack falling. General Van Dorn’s reassurance that Jack was dead and condolences over her father as he hastened her away from the activity of soldiers preparing to leave. She had faltered, was nearly hysterical, a feeling that had enveloped her all the way to the transport…