His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) (4 page)

"You're a singularly curious child," Logan said.

Because she didn't know what had just been said to her, and pride dictated that she keep ignorance to herself, Mary Catherine scrunched her nose and stuck out the tip of her tongue.

Logan laughed and leaned forward in the chair. Drawing his outstretched legs toward him, he rested his forearms on his knees. "What time is it?"

"Almost eight."

He swore under his breath, shot Mary Catherine a guilty glance, and raked his hair with his fingers. "Where is everyone? Why didn't somebody wake me?"

"Colonel Allen said you should sleep," she said, answering the second question first. "Mama's already aired the guest bedroom for you, as the colonel says you're to spend the night. Mama, Colonel Allen, and Megan have all gone to a ball at Mrs. Barker's to raise money for the hospital. I think Megan wanted to wake you up so you could escort her, but the colonel said absolutely not."

"I can just imagine," Logan said, thinking back to Colonel Allen's wed-then-bed policy regarding his stepdaughter. "So it's just you and me."

"Oh, Angel's here. She's keeping your dinner warm in the kitchen. We all ate hours ago and Mama wanted to wake you then but the colonel said—"

"No," Logan finished for her.

"Actually, he said that your stomach would wake you when you were more hungry than tired, but I suppose all he meant was no, we couldn't wake you."

"I think I'd like that dinner now," he said, holding out his hand to Mary Catherine. He pulled her to her feet, then she pretended to pull him to his. It was too bad, she thought, what she was going to do to him, but she supposed it couldn't be helped. For all his many kindnesses, Logan Marshall was still the enemy.

Logan almost fell asleep at the kitchen table in the middle of a bite. He couldn't remember when he had ever felt more tired. If it hadn't been for Mary Catherine's help, he wouldn't have made it to the guest bedchamber. His legs were wobbly and his vision so blurry that he kept passing a hand in front of his eyes to lift an imaginary veil. He remembered Mary Catherine's wide and slightly anxious eyes staring down at him. The wet end of one of her braids brushed his cheek. It made him smile.

Mary Catherine told herself that Logan was really to blame for his own drugging. If he hadn't fallen asleep in the colonel's study, he would have attended the ball with Megan. If he had been at the ball as planned, then he wouldn't have posed a threat to Mary Catherine's mission. No threat, no drug. It was his fault.

Feeling somewhat relieved by the mitigating circumstances, Mary Catherine returned to the colonel's study. She used a hairpin to open the locked desk. It wasn't as difficult as Megan told her it would be. The secret drawer was hardly a secret any more. Her mother and Megan had explained exactly where it was and how to open it. Once, while fumbling for the catch, Mary Catherine heard approaching footsteps. She held her breath until Angel passed in the hallway on the way to her room and then let it out slowly. It was the trembling of her hand that finally released the spring. The panel snapped open. Mary Catherine, certain she had officially joined the Confederate ranks as their youngest—and perhaps stealthiest—spy, took out the packet Logan Marshall delivered to the colonel. The photographs, while interesting, were of less importance to her them the dispatch. Taking out the colonel's own paper and pen, Mary Catherine carefully copied the letter.

Her mind wandered as she worked. She was a monk in a monastery, copying manuscripts for posterity in black ink and gold leaf. She wore a brown hooded robe and her back was permanently hunched because of her diligence to duty. The tip of her tongue touched the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. There was no work more important in all the world. This is my finest role, she thought.

After the ink dried, Mary Catherine folded her copy and put it in her apron pocket. She returned the dispatch and photographs to the packet exactly the way she had found them, put the packet in its drawer, secured the panel and the spring, drew down the ridged desk cover, locked it, and backed out of the colonel's study.

* * *

"I want to see you, Mary Catherine," the colonel said. His voice was chilling. He had opened the door to Mary Catherine's room just far enough to poke his head through. She was curled on the far side of her bed, her back to him. He saw her stir, relax, then become rigid as she realized she had not mistaken the intrusion for any part of a dream. She didn't turn to face him. "Now," he said. "Downstairs, in my study. Don't pretend you haven't heard me, because I know better. And don't take the time to dress."

After the door shut, Mary Catherine lay there, frozen, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands locked into rigid, white-knuckled fists. She could feel him outside the door—waiting. The colonel was a cougar, a sharp-eyed, heartless predator.

"Now," he repeated stonily from the hallway.

Mary Catherine shivered. Every sense alert, she heard him walk away from the door, pause at the top of the staircase, then trip lightly down the carpeted steps. Downstairs the study door opened and closed.

She sat up and pulled on the robe lying at the foot of her bed. The hardwood floor was cold on the bare soles of her feet. Where was her mother? Megan? Her apron was hanging over the top rung of a ladder-back chair. She checked the pocket. The dispatch was gone. Her mother had probably taken it last night when she returned from the belli. Mary Catherine wondered what time that had been. She had tried so hard to stay up but even the heady excitement of her first mission wasn't enough to keep her awake. Had her mother been pleased?

The carpeted hallway was warmer. The door to the guest room was closed. Mary Catherine was tempted to see if Logan had already left, but she didn't act on the urge. The house was very quiet. She listened for sounds that Angel was moving around in the kitchen or tidying one of the parlors. Nothing. Mary Catherine was suddenly very afraid she was alone in the house with Colonel Allen.

Her palm was slippery on the brass door handle. She had to grip it twice to twist it. The colonel was sitting at his desk when she entered. He turned in his chair, motioned to her to close the door, and then crooked his index finger at her to indicate she should approach.

Mary Catherine did so cautiously. "Yes, sir? You wanted to see me?" For the first time she noticed he was holding something between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth. Her face paled. The thing that looked like a toothpick at first glance was one of her hairpins.

The colonel patted his knee. "Come here, Mary Catherine. I think we should talk."

She hesitated until his green-yellow eyes narrowed. She came to stand between his splayed knees. The movement of his thumb and forefinger was mesmerizing. When he touched her wrist she sat down on his knee without the slightest protest. One hand was at the small of her back, steadying her.

"What is this, Mary Catherine?" His fingers stopped moving. He held up the hairpin so she could see it clearly.

"It looks like one of my hairpins, sir."

Her honesty caught him off guard momentarily. "That's what I thought. Do you know where I found it?"

She shook her head. "May I have it, please?"

"In a moment. After you tell me what you were doing in my desk."

Mary Catherine imagined herself on stage. The audience was hushed as they waited for her response. She could feel their anticipation. They were with her, urging her to find a way out of the trap. "You're mistaken, Colonel. I wasn't in your desk." She heard the audience gasp. She should have thought of something better to say or given her voice more conviction. "I was in your study to wake Mr. Marshall and make sure he had some dinner. I could have dropped the hairpin then."

"I'm certain that's when it happened," he said, watching her carefully. He put the hairpin on the desktop. Now free, his hand moved to the side of Mary Catherine's face. The backs of his fingers touched her downy cheek. Her skin was velvet soft. His thumb touched the corner of her mouth.

Mary Catherine hid her revulsion. Beyond the footlights the audience held its collective breath. Here was a stunning performance. "I don't understand," she said. Her voice barely broke a whisper. She couldn't look at the colonel. His face would be flushed, his eyes dark. He wanted something from her, but he never said what it was, never told her more than that he wanted to touch her. Still, even to Mary Catherine's young eyes, he always seemed expectant.

"Tell me about the hairpin," he said. "That's what you used to pick the lock to my desk. Your mistake was to use another pin to lock it up again. You left the first one in plain view on the desktop. I saw it as soon as I lifted the cover this morning. I've straightened it already but it was slightly bent when I found it. What were you looking for, Mary Catherine?"

The neckline of her cotton nightshift was rounded. Her robe wasn't closed tightly enough to shield the smooth line of her collarbone from the colonel's gaze. She could feel his eyes on her. His fingers trailed from her cheek to her throat. She held herself very still.

"Was it money? Is that what you hoped to find?"

How foolish she had been! Of course the colonel wouldn't suspect she was a spy. Money was the obvious answer. She should have thought of it herself. Mary Catherine averted her head, feigning shame and guilt.

"I thought as much." He sighed. His large hand cupped the side of her neck. He could feel the wild flutter of her heartbeat in her throat. She was a fragile, fey child; he had thought so from the first. Her mother was handsome, her sister, lovely. But being with Mary Catherine made him feel powerful beyond all his imaginings. Her immature beauty drew him. It was his darkest, most guilty secret.

"If you wanted something, you should have told me," he said. "You know I like to buy you things. You liked the shoes, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"Come closer, Mary Catherine, whisper in my ear. Tell me what it is you want."

She didn't move. "I don't want anything. Really, I don't. You've given me quite enough. I'm not ungrateful." Even as she spoke, the colonel was pulling her closer. She strained against his grip.

"Just a little kiss for the colonel," he cajoled. "One kiss, on the lips, and I'll forgive you for breaking into my desk."

Mary Catherine wanted to cry. She hated this part of the colonel's game. She didn't want to kiss him on the lips or anywhere. The pressure on her neck increased. She gasped, a puff of air caught in the back of her throat. She felt his fingers dip just below the neckline of her shift. Her skin burned. Her ears were ringing and there was a blackness clouding the edge of her vision. She suspected she was going to faint.

"Take your goddamn hands off her." Logan spoke from the doorway. One shoulder was braced against the jamb for support. The muscles in his forearms bunched as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

"Now see here, Marshall, just what do you—"

Logan crossed the room in four long strides. Mary Catherine was terrified by the hardness in his face, the repulsion in his eyes. The colonel's hold on her was even tighter than before. There would be bruises later. But as hard as her stepfather held her, it was nothing compared to the grip that Logan placed on her. His fingers ringed her upper arm and with an ease that surprised Mary Catherine and shocked the colonel, he yanked her free. She stumbled across the floor, falling to her knees as she was flung away.

The colonel was jerked out of his chair. "How many times?" Logan demanded. "How many times have you touched her?" He didn't wait for an answer. "How long has this been going on?"

"Look here," Allen said stiffly. Logan's youth, his strength, or his anger did not intimidate him. "I don't know what you think you saw, but you've got it all wr—"

"Stuff it, you miserable bastard. I know exactly what I saw. I know what I heard."

"Take your hands off me." The colonel glanced beyond Logan's shoulder to Mary Catherine. "Say something," he said impatiently. The look in his eyes was meaningful. Say the right something, it said. Remember our secret.

"Please don't hurt him," she said. The tears that came to her eyes were real. "It's a mistake. You don't understand."

Logan ignored her. He pushed the colonel backward until he had Allen pressed against the wall, his head jammed in the corner made by the wall and the mantel. The gilt-edged portrait of some long-dead relative slipped off center as Logan pulled Allen forward and slammed him against the wall again. "What have you told her?" he said with soft menace. "What makes her want to protect you?"

Still icy under pressure, the colonel chose an alternate strategy. "I'm going to have you court-martialed."

"I'm not one of your men. This uniform's my own, not army issue. I work for Brady and whomever else I want to. And I damn well don't want to work for you. Now, you can take your threat and do whatever you want with it—except use it on me. When I brought Rose and her daughters to your headquarters, I thought I was putting them in good hands. When I heard you were marrying Mrs. McCleary, I was happy that I'd had a small part in it. What I just witnessed made me realize how wrong I've been. Does Rose know?"

Mary Catherine jumped to her feet. "No!" She attacked Logan from behind, sending him off balance so that he released the colonel. She pounded on his back. "No! You can't say anything! You'll ruin everything! It's a secret! Our secret! Mama can't know!"