River Magic (11 page)

Worn to a frazzle. No other phrase described India's state, two weeks into do-gooding. She reached beneath the nurse's pinafore to rub her shoulder while studying the third appropriated sick house. Zeke helped out in the wards, bless him. So did Doot Smith, when he could break away from the returned Opal Lawrence; and, last but not least, the Lawrence niece, recovered from her bout with influenza, had volunteered.

Despite a doctor staying three sheets to the wind, sickly men were nestled in, several having recovered enough to play checkers. Further, twenty more patients were expected here as soon as beds on this side of the ward were readied.

Work progressed, a good feeling. It gave India a lift that set her to changing linen on a cot.

“Let me help you.”

She turned to smile at Antoinette Lawrence, wearing a pinafore, too, though hers enhanced her looks. India said in her best old-lady voice, “I can always use a second set of hands. But you look wan, m'dear. After your illness, perhaps you should have a cup of beef tea and a moment off your feet.”

“I'm fine. Your zeal has fired my recovery.”

Scanning the ward, India took comfort in knowing the men were on the far side of it, thus giving conversational privacy. “Would that Opal Lawrence shared your enthusiasm.”

Spiked lashes fell over blue eyes, highlighting alabaster skin. “Auntie Opal applauds your efforts secretly. She fears Uncle Rosc's wrath. And she stands by her man.”

The women stretched the cotton linens, tucking them in as the blonde continued. “Uncle Rosc won't be pleased the Sanitary Commission stepped in. If I have anything to say about it—and he rarely denies me anything—he'll let you continue here.”

Confidence flashed in her eyes, not unlike a woman very sure of her man. In this case, her uncle.

Antoinette plumped a pillow. “I won't allow Uncle to deal harshly with Major O'Brien.”

“Let's pray your influence is strong.”

Should the Lawrence miss fail, how would Colonel Lawrence deal with his second-in-charge?
What do I owe Connor?
Save for stubbornness over Matt, he had acquiesced to many demands. Connor was no rotten egg.

She glanced at the blonde. “Aren't you the least bit concerned what your uncle will say about your own actions?”

“Not at all. I do have him wrapped around this.” She twirled her pinkie. “Anyway, all's well that ends well, to quote the Bard. I intend to land a rich husband on this island.”

India couldn't help but laugh, almost losing her old-lady voice. “Young lady, you are barking up the wrong tree. Southerners aren't rich, not after three years of war.”

“Oh, I'm not thinking to tree any of them. My eyes are on richer game. O'Brien game.”

A coil tightened India's limbs, spiraling upward, while a terrible pain grabbed her heart. “I should imagine you won't have much trouble. Do tell this old spinster something, though. How long has Major O'Brien been courting you?”

“I don't mean a penniless soldier, no matter how handsome he is, or how dashing he is. I refer to his brother, Burke.”

The twisted insides relaxed; India sighed in relief. Antoinette had no designs on Connor. Wonderful! And he had a brother. It came as a shock to realize how little India knew about the man she'd been kissing each evening.

“Uncle told me Burke owns O'Brien Steamship Company,” the other woman was saying. “Four freighters already, more planned. Such promise! He's twenty-six, and a bachelor to boot.”

“How will you know if Burke O'Brien is right for you?” She went to the next cot. “Will his money be enough?”

“Money is my ticket out of Illinois.” Antoinette glanced away. “Especially Rock Island.”

She's unhappy.
Why? Well, why not? It wasn't easy being of marriageable age during war, when all the best catches had been snagged by the military.

Collected, Antoinette smiled brightly. “Captain O'Brien will stop here soon. Mark my words, I'll be waiting for him.”

“Good luck with your campaign.”

“I won't need luck, Miss Marshall. I'll just wrap him around this.” Again, a pinkie waved.

Oh, for such poise. It was awful, the jealousy that had coiled India tighter than a seven-day clock, but the uncoiling brought another worry. Too green to make a conclusive study of her feelings, she wondered,
How much does Connor mean to me?

Matters of men being Antoinette's forte, surely she could offer wisdom into India's fogged state of ardor. “Have you ever been smitten with a young man for no other reason than for himself, warts and all?”
Not that he has an off-putting blemish.

“Smitten? Let's get down to brass tacks. You mean lust.” The tips of the blonde's fingers patted her azalea-pink lips. “I'll have no more of it. Never again will I subject myself to a racing pulse, or to a pattering heart, or to the lack of courage to say good-bye. No more lust for me.”

Oops.
I've got it bad, lust.

“Money is enough,” Antoinette restated, tidying her coiffure. “Make no mistake, though, it won't hurt, should Burke O'Brien be anywhere near as head-turning handsome as the major.”

Quite interested in Major Easy On The Eye, India asked, “What did your uncle tell you about Major O'Brien?”

“Once I knew he was thirty and didn't have a dime to show for it, I quit asking about him.”

 

 

Antoinette turned from the nurse-sanitarian. Really, it was depressing in this sick ward. She glanced at Miss Marshall, who wasn't the least bit put off at changing the dressing on a sullen Johnny Reb's arm. That spinster was a saint.

Antoinette was not a saint.

The only reason she'd volunteered? To garner Connor O'Brien's praise, which would surely make a good impression on his shipping-baron brother. For all her outward confidence, she wasn't confident at all. Heaven knew she needed something above looks and charm.

Looks were looks, and charm was charm, each having gotten her away from her mother's despicable tavern, but she used the wrong man to gain freedom. That freedom had converted to sexual servitude.

For the finer things, she'd done vile things with her uncle. She'd had to. Nothing came free from the miserly Roscoe Lawrence.

Any man with a brain—and what self-made man didn't have one?—would know she lacked virginity. Yet she'd not been pure, even before Rosc. Young and stupid, she'd fallen victim to lust, had later learned her lover already had a wife. Like she'd told Miss Marshall, she'd never be stupid again.

Not that she'd get the chance. Rosc Lawrence would never let her out of his grip. He barely allowed her to room in town, so how could she escape him? Where could she go, should Burke O'Brien prove immune to her pinkie?

“Miss . . . help me.” A patient coughed. “My brow is fevered.” The appeal came from a South Carolinian. He marshaled enough strength to grin like an idiot and say, “Ma'am, you're fetchin' as a speckled pup.”

Unimpressed, she bathed his brow, and was exceedingly glad that was all he needed.

 

 

Leaving her patient, India tossed the spoiled dressings in the laundry, but halted upon a bouquet of paper flowers being thrust in her hand. “For the purtiest gal on the Mississippi.”

“Thank you, Zeke.”

He tapped his nail against a wrinkled cheek. “How 'bout a thank-ye kiss?”

She gave him the sort of buss that she'd given her late uncle Omar. Several patients clapped. Obviously they thought it splendid, a last chance at love for an elderly pair.

“Get away!”

That masculine shriek drew her attention to a one-armed boy just brought to the infirmary. The drunken lout Hanrahan, a leather apron tenting his belly, tried to hold the youth down.

“Get away! I ain't having none of you and your saws!”

India thrust the flowers back into Zeke's hand and rushed to the bedside, giving Hanrahan a quelling look that brought him to unsteady feet. “You're frightening the patient.”

“Stay outta this, you meddling old crone.” His billowed breath would have gagged even the field surgeons at Port Gibson.

Zeke, like a bantam rooster, hopped between her and the doctor. “Miss India done asked ye time and again not to wear that there leather apron.”

True. She spent too much time soothing the infirm when they first caught sight of that symbol of amputations.

“Zeke, I'll take care of this.” She smiled at his gallantry. “Please go on with distributing your flowers.”

He had a look of doubt in his dear eyes, but being a man who liked to please his lady, Ezekiel Pays receded.

“Take off that apron, Dr. Hanrahan.”

“Lady, you don't tell me what to do.”

“That will be enough, Hanrahan.”

Connor.

The doctor backed away. Following the acting commander's orders, a pair of Confederate sickroom volunteers moved forward to comfort their upset compatriot.

Connor led her to the aisle. “How 'bout a cuppa coffee?”

“After I finish with the beds.”

He turned his darkened gaze on the Iowan now handing out nosegays but eyeing India with concern. “Let Lover Boy do it.”

“Now, now, Connor.”

Her hungry eyes devoured him from the top of his dark head to the toe of his shining boots. She not only checked her beginning grin, she gave thanks that he wasn't rich enough for Antoinette's pinkie.

She wagged a teasing finger. “Work on your attitude toward precious Zeke. The boys do love his paper bouquets.”

“So do you.”

“So do I.”

She'd have her tongue cut out before admitting how much she enjoyed the battle between heroes. Never had she been the center of attention, and, by darn, she liked it. “It ought to be beneath your dignity, acting childish toward an elder.”

“Do you want coffee, or not?”

Connor stomped to the cordoned-off kitchen. She followed. The delicious scents of bread rising and beef tea simmering, in addition to the aroma of coffee, met them. A bushel of apples stood by the door. The kitchen shelves were lined with rice for pudding, oats for gruel, and bottles of whiskey for toddies that brought comfort to boys on the mend. Lastly, cheesecloth hanging from a hook separated the liquid from clabber for farmer's cheese, which had been Doot Smith's idea.

The cook outdoors shoveling coal into a bin, Connor poured coffee into tin cups and spoke the benign. “You've got a well-stocked kitchen.”

Government money had paid for these provisions—thanks to a good egg!—while the largesse from Rock Island benefited many of the hale. “The women have been generous. And that reporter from the
Argus
wasn't such a bad sort.” India, cup in hand, went to the table and sat down on a bench. “His article brought in even more donations for the prisoners.”

“Be careful of generosity.” Connor slid three fingers beneath the cup handle. “Especially where Antoinette Lawrence is concerned. Word has it she's got two sides.”

“Don't we all?” India came back, not at all concerned.

He strode to the table, scooted next to her. While the scent of wool and woodsmoke and man accompanied him, the heat of his thigh sautéed through her pinafore, woolen dress, and cotton underpinnings, swiftly sizzling her blood all the way from a shaking thigh to a heart that thumped with excitement.

Eyes half-lidded, he canvassed her figure. His baritone deepening, he whispered, “I've ordered fresh air. Your brother has just finished a walk.”

It was all she could do not to throw herself into her very own Aladdin's arms! “ 'Twas a lucky day, when I met you.”

“Who's to know how our luck will hold, but, Squirt, I'm feeling pretty lucky, too.”

She liked the way he called her a nickname, though she might not have picked that particular one. What did it matter what he called her, as long as he did it with interest?

And he did show interest.

She yearned to go beyond the blistered-lips stage, but balked. Once, she'd offered virginity. Now, she recognized problems on the horizon. If she ever touched the flame, she feared she would never be able to deprive herself of it.

The fire must be watered.

Refusing to study Connor's pleasing face nor the breadth of his shoulders, she asked, “What would Cook think, should he return and find you cuddled next to an old woman?”

“I get reckless around you, don't I?” The crook of his forefinger boosted her chin. “I haven't seen you in that Oriental nightgown since the night we met. Wear it tonight.”

Silk and sin—oh, what a temptation. Her disobedient body knew more fire than any attempts to tamp it. “Connor, I want to know something. Are you married?”

“I am.”

Crestfallen, she steadied herself. Why had she never considered
that?

“I'm married to the Army,” he clarified, calming her.

“I—I should have guessed you'd say that.”

Running the edge of his thumb along her jaw, he whispered, “Leave your hair unbound tonight I like it down.”

His right arm stole across her shoulder as he brought her closer. Victim to the conflagration, she lifted her arms to Connor's shoulders. “If you wish.”

 

 

Deuteronomy Smith backed away from the kitchen doorway. Disgusting. It was plain vulgar, Major O'Brien and the old lady from the Commission locked in a kissing embrace.