Forsaken Dreams (14 page)

“I am familiar with your symptoms, Colonel.” She wiped his cheek.

He merely stared at her in wonder as if she had descended from heaven.

“Many soldiers suffer as you do,” she continued. “There,” she added, “no more pox.” She rose, but his frown had returned.

“I am not
many soldiers
.” He pushed to his feet, avoiding her gaze. “Sounds like the Yanks have left. I should go above to see if I can help.”

Eliza didn’t want him to leave.

He found his coat hanging on a hook and grabbed it as shame weighed heavy in the air between them. His shame. Unnecessary shame.

“You really ought to sit and have some tea before you leave.”

He glanced at her then—an apologetic glance. “You are a kind woman, Mrs. Crawford.” Then weaving around the operating table, he headed for the door.

“Who is Jeremy?”

He froze. The deck tilted. Eliza grabbed the table for balance.

“Where did you hear that name?”

Eliza nearly cried at the sorrow in his voice, the anger. “You spoke it in your delirium.”

He turned. His Adam’s apple slid down his neck as he studied her, assessing her—assessing her worthiness, perhaps. “My brother,” he finally said.

“I’m sorry.”

Tossing his coat on the table, he said, “Perhaps I will have that tea, after all, Mrs. Crawford.”

Her smile swept the gloom from the cabin. Her understanding touched a place deep in his heart he thought long since extinct. She brushed past him to retrieve the pot of tea, making apologies for her wide skirts and saying something about how ships were not made for women’s fashions. It brought a much-needed chuckle to his lips and stole away a smidgeon of the embarrassment from his episode. Episode. For he knew not what else to call them. They’d started after the Battle of the Wilderness in ‘64 and had only gotten worse when the war ended. He hated that Mrs. Crawford had witnessed his weakness, hated that anyone had. He was the leader of this expedition and must be in control at all times. But, heaven help him, he could use a friend on board. And Mrs. Crawford filled a void he’d long since assumed was dead and buried.

She handed him a cup and squeezed past him to take her seat in the chair once again, apologizing for the cold, stale tea. But Blake could not care less. Heat trailed his skin where their arms had touched ever so briefly. He was starting to enjoy the ship’s tight quarters.

He leaned back against the wooden slab that served as an operating table. His leg ached, and he rubbed the familiar pain.

“I can have a look at your leg, Colonel.”

He sipped his tea, examining her. “It’s nothing. Old bullet wound.”

“But it pains you.” Eyes as golden and glistening as topaz showered him with concern.

“Now and then.” Blake reached for his coat on the table, plucked out the belt plate he’d been carrying around for four years, and handed it to her.

She examined it. “A military belt buckle. Georgia, if I’m not mistaken.” She flipped it over, no doubt noting the initials
JSW
etched in the metal.

“Jeremy Steven Wallace.”

She swallowed and cupped it in her hands as if it were precious. “What happened?”

He shrugged, fighting back the pain, not wanting it to show. “The same thing that happened to thousands of other young men—he died in battle.”

She said nothing, only gazed at him with as much pain in her eyes as he felt in his gut.

“He was only seventeen.” He set his cup down on the table with a
clank
, feeling the familiar anger scorching his belly. “Wounded at Antietam, then finished off by a Union officer while he lay on the field. Or so I heard.”

Her eyes glassed with tears, causing his own to rise. Standing, he turned away and crossed his arms over his chest, seeking anger instead of sorrow. Anger was much easier.

“And the rest of your family?” she asked.

He clenched his jaw. “Died in our home in Atlanta when Sherman burned it to the ground. My sisters were only five and twelve.” He stared at the shadows of light and dark oscillating over the divots marring the deck. He heard her stand, heard the swish of her skirts, felt her touch on his arm where all that remained of his family were five black bands.

She leaned her head on his back as if she were trying to absorb his pain. The gesture eroded the fortress around his heart. He wanted to embrace her, run his fingers through her hair, cry until the pain ceased, but instead he stepped away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with my sad tale.”

“It helps to talk about it.”

“Not for me.” His temple throbbed. “The Yankees took everything: my family, my home, my leg. And as you saw earlier, my sanity.” He gripped the edge of the table until his fingers hurt. “I hate them. Loathe them, in fact. All Union officers and their families should be hanged. No, worse. Quartered and then hanged. And anyone who had anything to do with them.”

Eliza shrank back. The hatred spewing from Blake’s mouth filled the room, sending its venom into every crack and crevice. She’d seen plenty of anger during the war, and plenty more hatred over the past years, but she’d never seen such malevolent contempt. The man’s eye even began to twitch. She wanted to tell him that forgiveness was the only way to peace. But that hadn’t worked with her own family, why would it work with this raging beast before her? For that was what he’d transformed into. A beast with the gleam of murder in his eye.

But then he drew a breath, lowered his shoulders, pried his fingers from the table, and the old colonel was back. “Forgive me, Mrs. Crawford, I’ve distressed you.”

“I don’t distress any easier than I frighten, Colonel.” She offered him a smile.

One which he returned. “But I’ve gone on and on about myself. I know you lost a husband in the war, probably other family members as well. I’ve met very few who haven’t.”

Eliza clasped her hands before her. “No, my family still lives. My father and an uncle and aunt. My father is Se—” She slammed her mouth shut, shocked that she’d almost given his name. A name any military officer who had dealt with President Smith would know. A name that had been tainted by his traitorous daughter. “A … good man. He and my aunt and uncle”—she babbled on in order to cover her stutter—“own a grand hotel in Marietta.” Fiddle! She was giving him too much information

“Hmm. I hear the town was occupied in ’64.” Lines deepened on his forehead. “Lots of destruction.”

Eliza had heard as much as well. And although she’d not been allowed home, she had prayed for her family daily. “We suffered through it.” She looked away.

“And your mother?”

“Died when I was twelve.” That much was true. The words still stung as if it happened yesterday. She pressed a finger on the locket hidden beneath her bodice and tugged on the chain to pull it out. “My mother,” she said, opening it to reveal the portrait and the lock of hair that were all she had left of the woman who had meant the world to her.

Leaning forward until she felt his body heat, Blake studied the picture. “She’s beautiful.” His eyes shifted to the lock of hair attached to the inside of the lid. “And your hair is the same color.”

Eliza swept back a tear. “Thank you. My father gave the locket to me on my sixteenth birthday.” She snapped it shut and allowed it to dangle down the front of her gown. “I haven’t taken it off since.” Her life had changed drastically the day her mother died. “After Mother’s passing, Father became quite obsessed with my safety. Barely let me out of his sight.” Smothered her was more like it.

“Odd that he allowed you to run off to the front lines as a nurse.”

Eliza realized her mistake too late as skepticism flickered across his face. “I fear when I get something in my mind, it is hard to stop me.” She gave a nervous giggle. Oh how she hated bending the truth to this man.

He smiled. His gray eyes studied hers. The air between them heated, and Eliza swallowed at his intense perusal. He was so close, she could smell him, hear his breath, see the pulse throbbing in his taut neck. “And your husband. May I ask what happened to him?”

“Killed in action.” She wouldn’t tell him for which side. Could never tell him. The past few days, she’d harbored a small hope that perhaps he wouldn’t fault her for her marriage, that perhaps they had a chance at building on what was obviously a strong mutual attraction and admiration, but after hearing his rage at Yankees and everyone associated with them, that hope was crushed. She pressed down the folds of her skirt and took a step back, if only to break the spell he cast on her. Regardless of the way this man made her feel, regardless of her admiration for him, there could never be anything between them. Ever. She would be his friend. Help him with his condition if he allowed her. That was it.

Blake took her hand in his. His warm strength folded around her fingers, and she hadn’t the will to pull away. “I’m sure he was a hero. What is his name?”

C
HAPTER
10

E
liza bit her lip, trying to think of a name, any name but the one the colonel asked of her. But in her fear, her mind became a vacant hole with only one name filling it: Brigadier General Stanton Watts, commander of the 106th Harrisburg brigade—Union army. So loud did it ring in her thoughts, she feared it would slip past her lips and her guise would crumble, leaving her an enemy to all on board the ship.

But God took pity on her yet again in the form of a knock on the door and the cheery face of James, who eyed their locked hands with upraised brows and a slight smile. “Ah, you’re on your feet, Colonel. The captain wishes to speak to you. If you’re up to it.”

The colonel released her hands, cleared his throat, and took a step back. “The frigate?”

“Gone. Along with half of our weapons, a good portion of our rice and fresh produce, and all of our pigs.”

“The passengers and crew?” The colonel grabbed his coat.

“All present and accounted for. Thank God.” The doctor scratched his chin. “However did you elude them? They seemed quite intent on finding any Rebel officers on board.”

The colonel and Eliza shared a glance and a smile that caused a tingle all the way down to her toes. “It would seem I had a guardian angel,” he said, his eyes remaining on hers as if held there by some invisible force. Finally, he cleared his throat, thanked her for the tea, and sped out the door. Without his masculine presence, the cabin grew large and cold. And it felt less safe somehow.

Picking up his cup, she ran her fingers over the brim where his lips had been, remembering his pain, the agony in his voice when he spoke of his family. All of them gone.
Lord, why? How could You allow so much suffering?
It was too much to bear. Too much for one man. No wonder he hated the Yankees. And anyone associated with them. Which meant her, of course. No, even if her past was never revealed, it would be unjust, even cruel to befriend him, let alone consider anything beyond friendship. She must put the colonel out of her thoughts.

Setting the cup on the tray, she began to tidy up the cabin when a knock on the open door turned her around to see Magnolia, an anxious look on her face.

“Magnolia. You startled me. Are you ill?” Eliza started toward her, only then noticing that the young woman’s hands trembled.

Pressing down her skirts, Magnolia floated into the cabin, her sapphire-blue eyes skittering over the sideboard containing medicines and surgical implements. “It’s my nerves, Eliza,” she said in that accentuated Southern drawl that was as sweet as warm molasses. “I cannot seem to relax.”

“Understandable.” Eliza studied the young woman as she squeezed her own skirts through the narrow space between table and bulkhead. “It was a most harrowing day. I trust you’ve not been in a battle at sea before.”

This drew a smile from Magnolia as she shook her head, sending flaxen curls bouncing over her neck. “I was wondering if you had something to soothe my nerves.” Her gaze sped to the medical cabinet once again before her face crumpled. “I simply cannot tolerate another moment on this ship.”

“You don’t have seasickness, do you?” Eliza took her hand in hers.

“No.” She tugged from Eliza’s grasp and plopped down in the chair. Then dropping her face into her hands, she began to sob.