Surrender (8 page)

David suddenly sighed softly. “It seems we’ve been at war a long time, eh, Captain? I know that I, for one, shall be dreaming of the lady asleep in your bunk. What eyes, eh, Captain? Not just blue, but crystal. And the length of her hair is sun-touched sable. She is perfection—”

“No one is pure perfection, David,” Jerome said irritably.

David shrugged. “Well, as I said, it’s been a long war! Perhaps I’ve been aboard ship too long. She appears damned perfect to me. Aye, indeed, I could easily lust over the lass. She has such pride and passion. And determination. Not to mention curves. Taper thin waist, beautiful breasts, and the curve of her hips. And her translucent flesh—”

“With any luck you’ll be free to roam the whorehouses of Nassau tomorrow night,” Jerome interrupted.
“And if you’ll excuse me for the moment, I think I’d prefer my own company.”

He brushed past David, heading toward the aft. He called out an order to keep the course steady through the night, and found himself a seat on the decking. The sea wind was cold against his wet flesh. He was glad that it was so. There were fires within him that needed cooling.

He’d always considered himself a reasonable man. Fate had made him so. His father was only half Seminole; his mother had been born pure white aristocracy. They had chosen their home in the wilds of the southern peninsula because they had realized they loved one another in a world where James McKenzie, Jerome’s father, would always be torn by the injustices done his Seminole mother’s people. Jerome knew that to many whites, an ounce of Indian blood made a man a savage, just as an ounce of African blood made a man black. There was reverse prejudice, as James had realized when he had first fallen in love with Jerome’s mother, Teela—he had discounted her ability to see through eyes that never judged a man for his birth, but rather how he chose to live his life. Jerome was well aware himself that good people came in all colors and creeds, and that malice, jealousy, and cruelty were not traits particular to one people in themselves. He was a confident man, at peace with his existence within his own heart. He could even be arrogant at times regarding his own innate abilities. But he was able to maintain his equilibrium by expecting very little from the outside world. He fought mostly for medicine, because two of his closest kin were doctors, and through them he saw the tremendous suffering of individuals, flesh and blood men who were caught in the conflict of warring giants. The agonized screams of the wounded under a surgeon’s knife when no anesthesia could be had were enough reason to risk the blockade.

He was also good at it, he thought dryly. And though he abhorred the death and injury brought on by battle, he knew that he enjoyed the strategy of besting enemy ships. Nor was he opposed to the parties and dinners thrown in his honor when he broke through the Union
line and came into ports such as Charleston, Savannah, and Jacksonville. It was gratifying to turn over desperately needed goods to doctors and orderlies—and it was damned pleasant to receive thanks from the various women of the communities he entered—both the flirtatious young debutants of the Southern aristocracy and the more decadent damsels, who seemed to offer themselves to him. All women, chaste and not so chaste, were easily swayed by a pair of silk stockings. Just as it seemed that many young ladies—as well as their doting fathers and manipulating mamas—were willing to overlook any small flaw in his lineage due to the romantic daring of his wartime calling. It was amazing how perspective could change with time and place and circumstance.

Still, he was weary of the war—and aware, as he had been from the very start—that they must win soon, or else perish. The North was a giant, bearing down on them. Irish and German immigrants stepped off ships from abroad—and into the Union army. Thousands of Union soldiers died. Thousands were replaced. Thousands of Southern soldiers died. They were replaced with old men and children. They fought a desperate war, and Abraham Lincoln, at the helm of the North, was no fool—no matter how the Southerners and cartoonists chose to mock him. Now the North had taken New Orleans. As a seafaring man, Jerome was well aware that the Yanks would move up the Mississippi and do their best to break the Confederacy in half. It only made sense.

He leaned back against the hull, feeling the breeze.

And now …

Now he had a woman aboard. A beautiful woman who was seducing his crew. Eyes like crystal, hair like a sweep of dark fire. He knew what she felt like, what she tasted like, and he knew that she was as perfect as David had suggested.

And that she was still in love with his cousin Ian.

Well, this was war, and that was her misfortune.

Just as it was now his misfortune that he should lie here in a strange blaze of agony …

Wanting her.

When she first awoke, Risa could hear the water lapping against the ship and feel a gentle, swaying motion. It was morning. Sunlight streaked through gaps in the draperies.

She had slept remarkably well. Thank God for rum.

She rose, feeling energetic and redetermined to take on the Southern navy.

She washed in the fresh water young Jeremiah Jones had brought for her last night. There were a few small advantages to being imprisoned upon a blockade runner—he’d also managed to bring her a good toothbrush and French tooth powder. Teeth scrubbed, hair brushed, face thoroughly washed with clear cold water, she felt ready to battle whatever demons she must.

She walked to the leather upholstered window seat at the rear of the cabin, drawing the draperies all the way back. They were at anchor, she realized. She could see an island port in the distance, and other ships at anchor nearby. There was a spyglass on the captain’s desk, and she quickly acquired it to peruse her surroundings again.

They weren’t far from shore. Small boats from the
Lady Varina
had already headed into port, she was certain, since the sun was well up in the sky. She figured they were probably not flying their flag—for she saw no flags on the other ships anchored nearby. Identities were kept quiet here, she reasoned. What deals were made, were made in secret. What battles were fought, were fought on the open seas.

Yet, as she looked through the glass, she felt her heart begin to pound, for on the deck of one of the ships—not a half a mile away—she was certain she saw seamen moving about in
Union naval uniforms
!

Her breath quickened. She rose, set the spyglass down, and determined that she must move hastily. This might be her only chance. If she had been left unguarded …

Her palms were moist. She dried them on her skirt and tried the door to the cabin. It opened. She stepped out carefully.

There were seamen about the deck. They carried their rifles, but they seemed at ease. One of them, an older
man—the slim, graying fellow to whom Jerome McKenzie had given the order to sail last night—nodded her way.

“Good morning!” she called politely.

He nodded again. She saw Jeremiah Jones then, sitting on a keg, polishing a rifle. “Hello, Jeremiah.”

“Miss Magee.”

“It’s a beautiful morning. Is it all right if I walk the deck?”

Jeremiah looked to the older man. He shrugged in return. Apparently, it was generally assumed that she could cause little trouble aboard ship. It seemed they’d been given no direct orders regarding her—and that they’d paid little heed to their captain’s warning that she had a penchant for swimming.

“I’m sure it would be fine, Miss Magee,” Jeremiah said. He offered her such an innocent and earnest smile, she felt a moment’s guilt.

“Thanks, Jeremiah.”

She walked casually around the deck.

The ship carrying the Union soldier was off the aft of the ship. Risa made her way there, aware that the remaining skeletal crew of the
Lady Varina
paused in their work and conversations to observe her. She smiled to them; they nodded in return. When she reached the aft, she leaned against the railing, as if she enjoyed the breeze. The men who had watched her warily as she passed grew weary of their surveillance after a while and returned to their tasks.

Risa waited.

She heard the hum of conversations as the men talked and worked.

She looked down to the water. The
Lady Varina
was not a large ship, and yet the surface of the sea seemed very far away. She reminded herself that she needed to slip over the railing quietly, without making a splash.

She pondered the distance to the Union ship, and the weight of her skirts. She wasn’t laden down with petticoats today. And she was a strong swimmer. Her father had thought that only fools refused to learn to swim when bodies of water were so abundant. Swimming, to
an army man, might mean survival. So Risa swam, and well. She could do it.

She casually glanced back. The aft of the ship was deserted except for two fellows who were mending a canvas sail. Their heads were lowered over their stitches.

She hastily scooted up to the railing, swung her legs around, and looked down to the water once again. Then she slipped in with what grace she could manage, attempting to fall with her body straight and slim so that she wouldn’t make a splash audible to the men above.

The water was neither too cold nor too warm, rather it was cool and pleasant. Her dive had taken her straight downward, perhaps ten to twenty feet into the water. She swam hard, trying to put some distance between herself and the ship before she surfaced.

Her head broke from the water, and she inhaled on a deep gasp. Air filled her lungs. It was delicious.

The ship with the Union soldier aboard seemed farther away than it had from the deck. Her clothing, even minus petticoats, was heavy. She needed to move, and quickly.

She was exhausted, nearly spent, by the time she neared the ship. She paused, breathing deeply, treading water. She opened her mouth to cry out to whomever might be aboard, but before she could do so, she was gripped firmly by the ankles and jerked beneath the water’s surface.

She inhaled salt water. Her lungs and nose burned.

She was jettisoned back up, where she coughed and choked, desperately gasping to breathe. She wondered what form of monster had so nearly killed her, and she struggled to free herself from the arms holding her. She twisted to realize that her Rebel captor had come upon her, even there, in the very midst of freedom.

“Let me go this instant! I’ll scream—”

“If you do, you’re an idiot,” he told her flatly, his eyes reflecting the sun’s glitter on the water.

“That’s a Union ship—”

“That’s a nest of deserters, Miss Magee.”

“I don’t believe you. And I will scream!” She opened her mouth to do so. He swirled her around, clamping a
hand over her mouth, and plunging them both beneath the water.

She struggled to free herself, incredulous and irritated by the strength he displayed in the water. Beneath the surface, arms engaged in keeping her prisoner, he still managed to jettison them some distance from the Union ship with the sheer power of his muscled legs before they surfaced.

She wanted to strike out at him—she could not. She gasped for air, clinging to him to stay afloat. “It’s a Union ship!” she insisted. “And I will scream and bring every last man jack of them—”

She broke off, hearing a peal of laughter float over the water. She held dead still, watching as a half-clad soldier appeared from a deck cabin, a black-haired woman—just as brazenly half naked—on his arm.

“Hey, Tully!” he called to the man who had apparently been keeping some kind of watch on deck. “Now, tell me, boy, isn’t this much better than sweating in a hellhole gun port on the Mississippi somewhere? Leave the rich boys and the abolitionist bitches to their bloody war! This is the life for me! Palm trees, rum—and women! Ah, yes, ’tis your turn now lad with good Mary Terese. She’s a might worn-out, but you’re a young ’un, quick as a flash in a pan, eh? Pity we have to share, but when the crew is back from gaming and whoring on the mainland, we’ll find more women. Aye, boy, that we will!”

Risa stared in horror, rudely awakened to the fact that the world was not so simple as blue and gray.

She was roughly jerked around.

“Still want to scream?” Jerome asked politely.

“Oh, let me go!” she lashed back, and breaking free, she started swimming toward the
Lady Varina
. She was actually sorry she had been so determined to escape him. She was exhausted. Her clothing seemed to weigh hundreds of pounds.

One of the small boats was down, coming toward her through the water. She paused, trying to tread water as she waited. Her skirts swirled around her legs, heavier than ever. She took a deep breath, starting to sink.

She felt swift movement around her legs; she realized
that she was freed from the cumbersome skirt, that she could kick and propel herself upward. She surfaced, aware that Jerome McKenzie had once again made tatters of her clothing in order to save her life. As she emerged above the water line, raggedly inhaling, strong arms reached out for her and she was dragged on board a small boat.

“Miss Magee, you will be the life of us yet!”

It was Michael who pulled her up. She didn’t answer him; she couldn’t. She laid back, feeling the sun warm her face as she gasped for air time and time again.

She was aware when Jerome McKenzie eased himself over the side into the small boat. “Back to the ladder, Michael, if you will,” he said.

“Aye, sir.”

She was still struggling for breath as Jerome McKenzie propelled her up the ladder, strong hands upon the damp bands of satin and lace that lined her pantalets in rows. She moved as quickly as possible to avoid his touch, her cheeks on fire.

He came deck side right behind her, silent and swift as a cat. The crew of the
Lady Varina
had stopped at their tasks, and all eyes were on the two of them.

“Gentlemen, to your work,” he commanded lightly, just an edge of steel underlying his voice. “And you, Miss Magee, to the captain’s cabin.”

She spun about, irritated that she should feel so humiliated standing there, dripping. Half clad once again, she was anxious to reach the master’s cabin.