The Wicked North (Hearts Touched By Fire Book 1) (7 page)

Emma sank down again on the cushioned window seat. Now she knew why he had told her not to let Caroline take her posts or retrieve them. Caroline’s animosity made her shudder. Despite the avid attention of most men who came to the house and Caroline’s flirting ways, she’d decided Jack was the one. To her, Emma was a threat. Whatever happened to the sister she’d played with as a child? What would the woman do to keep Jack to herself, she wondered?

#

Spring 1855Jack sat back in his saddle, chewing a piece of straw as he took a last look at the terrain of western Texas. In his few months there, he’d dealt with Indians, or “mustangers” as Jeb called them, with their uncanny ability to capture and train wild horses to trade for Army bread. The beauty of the land was inspiring, from the colorful fauna to the low and vast sky at night. The cry of a panther sent a chill down a man’s spine when he was resting on the range. There was never a dull moment, but despite the work, the loneliness of the frontier seeped into him.

His friendship with Jeb was particularly beneficial that spring when Secretary of War, Jefferson Davis, organized the 1
st
and 2
nd
cavalries. Jack was the 2
nd
lieutenant of the 2
nd
Cavalry, under the command of Col. Albert Sidney Johnson and Jack’s former West Point commander, Lt. Col. Robert E. Lee. Jack knew it had been Lee’s influence that opened the position for him on the roster of the 2
nd
. Another step away from his father’s influence, or so Jack hoped. Deep in his gut, he knew his father had maneuvered to bring him to New Orleans, but the new cavalry units had the Secretary of War’s hand involved, and his father had no influence in the Mississippian’s sphere.

Charles was ecstatic when Jack and Jeb arrived in St. Louis. Although Charles reluctantly admitted he hadn’t made the cut for the Mounted Rifles, he didn’t seem envious of Jack’s move to the cavalry. However, Charles bemoaned the tedious affair of being a foot soldier, stuck eight miles away from the bustling town of St. Louis.

Time together at Jefferson Barracks was short for Jeb, Jack and Charles. Jeb’s unit moved its headquarters to Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas in the summer of 1855. Jack’s unit remained at Jefferson Barracks. The 2
nd
Cavalry was often referred to as Jeff Davis’ Own or Jeff Davis’ Pet because the Secretary of War had handpicked its officers, many of them West Point graduates.

Jack finally felt as though he fit in. William J. Hardee of Georgia, graduate of the Point in 1838, was an excellent teacher of cavalry tactics. Earl Van Dorn of Mississippi, who graduated with Longstreet, grew up just across the river from Jack’s family. The man himself had become Jack’s savior when things at Bellefountaine turned ugly and Jack needed to escape his father’s rule. Van Dorn’s connections had helped Jack get into the Point, and now, serving under him in the 2
nd
Cavalry, Jack meant to show him how valuable his help had been.

But his stay at Jefferson Barracks did not last long after Jeb’s departure. The 2
nd
Cavalry was sent to western Texas soon after.

“Thought you enjoyed Texas,” Charles chortled at dinner.

Jack grunted. The next day, his regiment was to leave. He downed another shot of whiskey, savoring the heat along his throat. “Texas is fine. Just, I don’t know…”

Charles eyed him above the rim of his own glass. “You mean to tell me that you’re finding Army life not the challenge you thought?”

“It’s not that,” Jack replied. “The savages always set the schedule and change their location, so the challenge of staying on top of them and curtailing the violence is hard enough.” Frankly, it was damn lonely out there, but he wouldn’t say that to Charles. Being in St. Louis meant his mail came on a more regular basis. In Texas, it was anybody’s guess when it’d arrive, particularly on the uncivilized plains.

“Oh, I get it,” Charles snickered. “You’d be worried about missing Caroline.”

Jack quickly downed another shot. Caroline. Missing her wasn’t possible. He had a saddlebag full of letters from her. They made his nerves prickle at times. He was glad to get mail. It never failed to break the monotony—the dull routine of drills, inspections and time that filled the day. Even gambling got old. But Caroline’s long stories of every little thing she did could grate on a man’s nerves.

“No,” he laughed. “I don’t think I’ll have the chance of missing her. Her letters always come through, like a homing pigeon.” He shook his head.

Charles cocked his head. “Emma?”

Jack quickly looked away. Emma. Her letters were short, very rare and hardly personal. Not happy about her brevity, he couldn’t really complain either. He had plenty of other beauties who wrote. No, the problem with Emma was she invaded his dreams. They had shared only one kiss, but the impression of it and the feel of her in his arms remained strong. How many times had he awakened from dreams of her naked, in his arms? He even tried to wash the desire away with whiskey and whores, but that didn’t work. All he got for it was a bad headache and frustration.

Charles gazed at him. With a half smirk, Jack replied, “No, I hear from her, too. Not as much, mind you. Perhaps it’s melancholy.”

“You? Melancholy? I doubt it,” Charles chuckled. “Thought you never wanted to go home again.”

His eyebrows raised. Charles had figured it out. Jean Baptiste Fontaine had destroyed that longing years ago. Jack was just surprised he’d been that transparent about his feelings.

“Jack, both my sisters like you,” Charles continued. “I’m sure you’ll hear from them again. And perhaps you’ll get lucky and get leave or reassigned back East.” He poured a shot for Jack and himself. Pushing the glass to his friend, Charles raised his. “To freedom!”

Jack raised his glass and downed the amber liquid. Perhaps if he drank enough tonight, he’d sleep without dreaming of Emma, but he doubted it.

I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of
this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood.

—John Brown, 1859

Chapter Seven

Harper’s Ferry, Virginia, 1859

Robert E. Lee stood behind his desk at his home in Arlington, organizing for his return to Texas. His leave in 1857 to head back East because of the death of his father-in-law, George Washington Parke Custis, had extended into two years of various assignments for the War Department. But now, his time home was over. As much as he hated to leave his wife, he had his orders.

He wiped his brow on the warm October morning, supervising his slaves with the luggage. Parks, one of Custis’ slaves that Lee had inherited, dropped the trunk, spilling papers, ink and books across the parquet floor. The man glanced at his new owner before slowly bending over the mess, his movements sluggish. Anger flared through Lee. His distaste of the peculiar institution of slavery grew daily, especially with those slaves he inherited from Custis. The lot of them had to be the worst he’d ever seen, rebellious beyond reason, despite Lee’s care of them.

“Reuben,” he said, straining to keep his voice even.

The elder slave appeared at his side. “Yes, massa.”

“Parks here needs to be reminded of his position,” he stated loudly.

Reuben retained his stance, not flinching from his owner’s command, but both knew Parks would never change, no matter how many chores or whippings he got. The abolitionist who had come to Parks, Reuben and the other Custis slaves spewing trash about them being free because of their master’s death had left an indelible impression on them. And Lee had spent the last twelve months showing them otherwise. Reuben, however, knew his place. He gave a curt nod and grabbed Parks roughly, pulling him out of the room.

Slavery left a bad taste in Lee’s mouth and he so wanted to throw all his darkies out, let the world treat them however it would, but he couldn’t. He sighed heavily. It was his duty to care for these ill-begotten ignorant people, but he hated it.

“Samson, get this,” he pointed to the mess on the floor.

“Yessum.”

“Colonel Lee?” A voice from the hallway drifted in.

Lee turned. “Jeb Stuart! What a pleasure to see you.”

Jeb tilted his head, the feather from his overly plumed hat hiding the face of his compatriot.

Coughing loudly through the plume, Jack waved the hat off Stuart’s head. “Pardon me, Beauty.”

Lee smiled. “Jack Fontaine. To what do I owe this honor, gentlemen? Is there anyone left in Texas, or am I to see the 2
nd
here as well?”

Stuart’s mouth thinned. “No sir, we’ve orders from Washington for you.”

Lee took the slip and opened it. He inhaled deeply and looked at his two former students. “Gentlemen, I’m to leave immediately, so I beg pardon for the departure.” He grabbed his hat and started for the door.

Jack stepped next to him. “Sir, we’d like to go with you on this.”

“Yes, perhaps as your aids,” Jeb offered.

Lee stopped and gave them an appraising glance. Yes, he remembered them well. Both good Southerners and the type he could use for this. “You gentlemen know what’s afoot?”

“Yessir,” Jack answered sharply. “Captain John Brown and his group have taken Harper’s Ferry Arsenal. They claim to be willing to arm slaves and help them fight for freedom.”

Lee caught the distain in Jack’s voice, sounding as if this was a minor incident. “Sir, you do realize he’s stolen federal property.”

“Yessir, I do.”

“And his type will bring havoc to the nation over our God-given right?”

Slavery—a peculiar institution—godsend of the labor-needy South but abhorred by abolitionists in the North. Lee knew he wasn’t alone in hating it, but, without a viable alternative for laborers, slavery remained. It was costly for Lee and most of his fellow Southerners, yet they wouldn’t let the lot go free without some form of compensation, a notion abolitionists refused to address.

“Yessir.”

“You realize it is our duty to save these peoples’ souls by helping them through this life and in the ways of the Lord,” Lee pushed. He had to make sure the Louisianan before him, who he knew had some aversion to going home, understood that slavery was God’s answer to the black race.

Jack swallowed. Slavery. The biggest political nightmare in the United States. He hated it. It held back their great nation from modern thinking. Jack had seen this time and time again. His father was a walking example and worse. To keep everything the way it had always been. Tradition, patriarchy, all the trappings of feudal England gripped the South, and Jack swore it would kill it.

But men like the Colonel considered it to be righteous. Jack felt the strength of Robert Lee’s beliefs, and who was he to deny the man’s integrity? His respect for the man outweighed the arguments of Northerners who knew nothing of the South. Yet, did Jack want slavery to continue? Tradition?

Ever since that spring years ago, of himself obeying his father’s command and the look on Fanny’s face, the fear…

“Yessir, we both do,” Jeb answered for him.

Jack knew Lee’s eyes remained on him. He had taken too long to answer. It should have come naturally to him to agree. After all, he was a Southerner. A shudder from the past swept over him, of that day behind his home on the Mississippi. After all these years, he prayed that being away from home and his father, the nightmare would fade, but he felt Fanny’s fear invade him again. He hated himself for following his father’s orders, like the good son he was told to be. But the act had destroyed any love he had of family.

Jeb flicked his hat into Jack’s face. The feather hit his nostrils, and it snapped him back to the present. “Yessir. Always.” His late reply brought a flash to Lee’s eyes. Anger? Distrust?

“Then gentlemen, we must depart.”

#

Caroline sat on the edge of the bed and stretched her legs, flexing her feet. She sighed. As she arched herself, her blonde hair cascaded down her naked back and tickled the hairs on Billy’s outstretched arm.

“You come here,” he growled, his arm snaking around her waist to pull her back to him.

She giggled when he leaned over her shoulder and tugged on her earlobe with his teeth.

“Billy, I do declare, you’re getting better and better,” she teased him.

He rose above her, kneeling over her body. Ah, yes, Billy’d grown to be so luscious, she could barely contain herself with him. All those years of working on his daddy’s farm made him lean, his muscles hard like marble.

“I’m going to have you, Caroline, till you scream my name again,” he growled, his eyes dark.

Caroline’s mouth twitched. Her hand touched his chest and skimmed over his toned stomach down to his hard, thick member. When she wrapped her fingers around it and squeezed, he closed his eyes and held his breath. Oh, she loved this. He was so easy. All it took for him to come running was a note to meet her wherever she said and at whatever time. Her power over him gave her such satisfaction and was worth more than those dreary housekeeping lessons her mother tried to teach her. She had learned through Billy that she could control men just by tweaking her finger, promising them she was theirs.

Billy grabbed her hand and gave her the look saying he was in charge. She laughed, because she knew better.

“No, little missy, you are going to scream for me,” he stated again as he bent over her, kissing down her stomach to the spot between her legs.

Caroline loved to scream for him. At this little shack in the woods, near the edge of her family’s property, no one would hear them. Only her slave, Tilly, knew she was here. The little ninny even acted as their lookout. And she was good about it, or she knew Caroline would have her whipped if she failed.

She gasped when he licked the folds of her sex. Spreading her legs farther, she sighed, “Yes, Billy, harder.”

He inserted one finger, then two while his tongue played with her swollen nub. When she moaned, he looked up at her. “Aren’t you the good sister, helping me to learn all this?”

She laughed. She had said she’d teach him how to please a woman so he’d be good for Emma. But as the “lessons” continued, she knew he wanted her and not Emma in his bed. A tiny voice inside reveled in satisfaction because he favored her now, but a bit of guilt tugged at her. She loved the attention she was receiving from all her men callers, but she wanted to wed Jack. Until then, Billy could fulfill her needs. Too bad she didn’t want him all the time…

He suddenly stopped and moved up to nibble her breasts. He’d ignited such a fire inside her she didn’t want it to end. But when he bit her nipple, her eyes flew open.

“Ah, you see, you’re in my clutches,” he whispered and turned her over. He lifted her pelvis and shoved a pillow under her. He nudged between her legs, his manhood resting on the crest of her anus.

“Billy, what are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” he growled, spreading her cheeks and sliding his shaft into her slick canal, filling her. She gasped. He felt different inside her this way, with her hips tilted higher and her face buried in the mattress. His hand wrapped around her hair, pulling her head back.

“Oh, yes, yes!” she cried.

His free hand squeezed her hip. “Say it. Say my name.”

“Yes, Billy, oh yes,” Caroline screamed and shattered against him.

“Oh, Caroline!!!” he shouted as he climaxed and withdrew, his member falling onto her buttocks and spilling his seed across them.

#

Emma sat on the window seat in her room, staring outside at nothing. To avoid another afternoon of embroidery work, she had claimed she had a headache. Who cared what her pillowcases looked like? Nearly twenty, she supposed she should be building her trousseau in happy anticipation
of
marriage. But in fact, she feared she might never wed.

Caroline would get married of course. She had several gentlemen callers, and Emma cringed every time one of them showed up to fawn over her sister. Naturally, Caroline enjoyed their ludicrous endearments. She was the pretty Silvers girl, so petite and dainty, always outshining Emma.

Several of Caroline’s callers paid their respects to Emma as well, though she knew they did so only to be polite. Billy was her only friend and companion. They knew so much about each other, having grown up together. Billy, four years her senior, would have a substantial farm from his father’s holdings, and he had been tutored for the last few years, so he was learned as well. If he asked for her hand, there was no reason to turn him down. She sighed. No reason except for the green-eyed man who wrote to her periodically. Whenever she felt Billy would be a good husband for her, Jack invaded her dreams, and she awoke tense and excited.

But as Jack’s letters became more infrequent, her dreams about him did too. Granted she hadn’t responded to him quickly. It was hard to concentrate on writing with all the tension brewing around her. The meetings her father held and the men ranting in the library about politics grew so loud and vicious they could be heard through closed doors.

A light sound at Emma’s door interrupted her thoughts.

“Enter.”

The door opened, and Annie, her slave, slipped in. In her hands, she clutched the
Richmond Post
. “I’s got it ‘fore your daddy done seen it,” she said slyly, handing the newsprint to Emma.

Emma took the paper and opened it. The headline covered half the page.

Execution of John Brown & Scenes at the Scaffold

December 1, 1859

She read the article, her blood racing as fear rose. The fact that some deranged man could think of arming slaves, believing they’d give their blood for freedom appalled her. She glanced up at Annie. The slave was making herself busy, straightening the perfume bottles and knickknacks on the dresser. Was Annie miserable being a slave? She received everything she needed to live—food, clothing, shelter—wasn’t that enough?

Emma opened the paper again and read the articles about the upcoming elections. The Southern viewpoint of states’ rights aligned with Emma’s beliefs, although she didn’t fully understand the arguments for and against. Who could she ask? With Charles gone, her father never discussed politics with the family, and the few times she asked why his meetings were so loud, he soothed her by saying they were dealing with issues beyond her worries. Perhaps if she wrote Charles…

A flicker of activity outside the window caught her eye. She turned in time to see Caroline’s buggy returning from town. Though she claimed she would take Emma, Caroline told her she’d no doubt find it boring and useless because she was going to the apothecary. Emma frowned and looked at the clock. Four hours at the apothecary? It wasn’t that far away…

Hooves pounding down the lane called her attention back to the window. It was Billy. She smiled. Folding the newsprint, she handed it back to the slave.