You Belong to My Heart (20 page)

He was astride a spirited, high-stepping stallion whose sleek, shimmering coat was as black as his rider’s midnight hair. Man and beast were perfectly matched; both were sleekly handsome, incredibly graceful, and very likely dangerous.

Following several paces behind their mounted commander, a column of armed, blue-coated men marched determinedly up the drive toward the big bluffside mansion.

Her heart pounding with emotion, her pale hand gripping the pistol at her side, Mary Ellen Preble stood alone on the wide front gallery and watched as the Yankees moved steadily closer.

She despised them, each and every one. But it was their dark, arrogant commander she hated most of all.

Mary Ellen took a long, deep breath and lifted her chin proudly as Captain Knight dismounted just beyond the front lawn. Dropping the long leather reins to the ground, he spoke softly to the black stallion, put his troops at ease, then turned and let himself in the heavy wrought-iron front gate.

Mary Ellen stiffened.

She felt short of breath as he entered the estate’s grounds, which were badly overgrown with dying vines.

The brass buttons on his chest catching the noonday sun, he advanced up the flagstone walk as if he belonged there. When he reached the steps of the shaded gallery where Mary Ellen waited, he stopped.

He put a booted foot on the first step, rested his hand on the hilt of his gleaming saber, looked directly at her, and said in a low, even voice, “I told you I would be here at noon, and so I am.”

“And I told you I would never allow you to set foot inside Longwood.” She clamped her jaw down and lifted the heavy dueling pistol. Holding it in both hands, she pointed it directly at Captain Knight.

He didn’t flinch or make a move.

“Are you meaning to shoot me, Mary?”

“If necessary,” she told him, dark eyes flashing dangerously. “Take one more step and I’ll pull the trigger.”

“I suppose I should be frightened,” he said, the relaxed attitude of his tall, lean body indicating he wasn’t. “But you can’t kill a dead man,” he said, and leisurely climbed the remaining steps.

“Get back!” she warned, the gun growing heavier in her shaking hands. “I’ll shoot you, so help me I will!”

“What are you waiting for?” he asked in a low, even voice as he moved forward until he stood directly before her, filling the entire scope of her vision.

Finally he was so close that the wavering silver barrel of Mary Ellen’s raised pistol was pressed to his chest.

He said, “That’s not quite the right spot.”

And he helpfully shifted slightly so that the barrel was directly over his heart. If she pulled the trigger, it would kill him instantly.

He knew it.

She knew it.

Mary Ellen battled with her conscience. She was frightened by the strength of her desire to actually shoot this hard-faced Yankee Captain whom she had hated for the last dozen years. It would be so easy simply to squeeze the trigger and end his life as he had ended hers when she was a young, trusting girl.

Mary Ellen looked into his pale gray eyes and saw not the slightest hint of fear. She was baffled by his strange behavior. It was as if he didn’t care whether he lived or died. And what had he meant when he’d said you couldn’t kill a dead man?

She understood nothing about this tall, intimidating man. There was not a trace left of the boyish countenance of the young, sweet Clay Knight from her childhood. At thirty-two his features had hardened and sharpened into harshly chiseled lines. Even his lips were different, still sensual but strangely firm, as if the beautiful mouth had been touched by bitterness.

He was a stranger. She did not know him.

Still, it was no use. She couldn’t shoot him.

She gave up without a struggle when he unceremoniously lifted a hand and relieved her of the pistol. He studied the firearm, then studied her face.

He warned softly, “This old pistol is dangerous, Mary. It’s likely to blow up in your face.” He stuck it inside his yellow waist sash. “Now, it’s up to you. You can make this easy or hard. It’s of no difference to me. Either way, I’m occupying Longwood.”

Beaten, she attempted to sound as unemotional as he when she said, “What would you do, Captain, if I objected? If I refused to get out of your way? I couldn’t kill you. Could you kill me?” He made no reply. “Would you? Would you take out your own pistol and shoot me? Would you cut me in half with your shining saber?” Her chin lifted a little higher, and defiance flashed from her large, dark eyes.

With the easy command of a man used to exercising authority, he said, “Such drastic measures won’t be necessary. You
will
obey my orders.” With the speed and litheness of a cat, he moved around her, was now between her and the front door. “Now which is it to be? Shall I take peaceful possession of the premises? Or must it be a sad surrender after a bitter battle you cannot win?”

Mary Ellen looked into his calm gray eyes and knew he meant exactly what he said. She could fight him, but it would do no good. He was bigger and stronger than she. She preferred to keep a small portion of her dignity.

“I cannot keep you out of my home, Captain Knight,” she said flatly. Then passion stirred anew in her dark eyes when she added, “But I promise you that when the war is over and the South has won, you will personally pay for this.”

C
APTAIN CLAY KNIGHT OCCUPIED
Longwood.

Mary Ellen was heartsick as the tall Yankee Captain and a dozen of his handpicked men took up residence in the river bluff mansion.

She had no choice but to stand helplessly by in the marble-floored foyer as blue-coated men swept inside her home. They quickly fanned out through all the downstairs rooms, examining their new quarters, jovially calling out to each other. Mary Ellen gritted her teeth as they poured into the high-ceilinged drawing room and picked up valuable art objects and ran rough hands over the fine furniture. In the white-and-gold music room they banged on the out-of-tune rosewood piano and plucked at the strings of the gold harp.

It was torture, but she forced herself to keep silent. She stood there in the foyer, saying not a word, shaking her head in despair as the uninvited guests roamed about at will.

But when a powerfully built sailor came out of the parlor and glanced meaningfully up the grand staircase to the second-floor landing, her hand went to her throat and she could keep quiet no longer.

“No!” she warned, then immediately softened her request. “Please, no,” she pleaded gently, “not up there…Don’t…”

Her heart sank when, ignoring her, he brushed breezily past her and went straight toward the stairs. There was nothing she could do to stop him. She watched powerlessly as he placed a big, heavy boot on the first carpeted step of the stairs.

And she jumped, startled, when a low, deep voice from directly behind said, “Don’t do it, Boatswain Mills.”

The burly sailor stopped where he was, didn’t take another step. Mary Ellen turned about.

Captain Knight stood beside her, his attention directed to the big man standing at the base of the stairs.

“The second floor of this mansion is off limits,” he said in a soft, low voice that nonetheless conveyed command. “You and your mates are
not
to go topside. Whether I am here or away, you are never to be on the second floor. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye-aye, sir,” said the chastened sailor, and sheepishly came away from the staircase.

Mary Ellen experienced a small measure of relief.

It didn’t last.

While he had ordered his men never to go upstairs, the conquering Captain Knight took the second-floor master suite for his own. Over Mary Ellen’s loud objections.

“No! Not here,” Mary Ellen said, frantically following him from the suite’s luxurious sitting room into the elegant boudoir.

“Here
will do nicely,” he said, turning around and around in the spacious bedroom, where gigantic gold-leaf framed mirrors gracing all four walls reflected his every move. He laid a tanned hand on the huge four-poster’s mattress, tested its softness, and shook his dark head approvingly. “I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable
here.”

“Have you no decency?” Mary Ellen said, glaring at him. “This was my parents’ suite.”

Not bothering to look at her, he said coldly, “They no longer need it. I do. It now belongs to me. It is mine for as long as I’m in Memphis.” His gaze shifted from the four-poster to Mary Ellen. “And you, Mary? Still have the same room?” He lifted a hand, rubbed his firm chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see, that means you’ll be right across the hall from me.”

“You heartless, insolent bastard!” she snapped, whirled about, and left the room in tears.

A long, tense summer had begun for Mary Ellen Preble.

Mary Ellen hurried down the stairs and stormed out of the house. She went straight to the hospital, glad she had somewhere to go to get away from the infuriating Captain Knight.

She threw herself into the work of caring for the sick and wounded, determined she’d not give the bullying Yankee Captain another thought. Within minutes she was so busy she hardly noticed the hours ticking away. There was precious little time to think of anything save the terrible tasks at hand.

But when her back ached dully from lifting and lowering sick patients and she was so exhausted she could hardly put one foot before the other, Mary Ellen glanced out a window and saw with dismay that the summer sun was going down.

She was instantly alarmed.

She had to get home at once. As tired as she was, Mary Ellen walked at a brisk pace all the way to Longwood, propelled along by a rising sense of unease.

There was a house full of unwelcome, unruly Union sailors at Longwood, and only one could be trusted. The Captain’s aide, Ensign Johnny Briggs, was a freckle-faced, red-haired young man with a sweet smile and good manners. The others were animals. She was alone and unprotected with a bunch of big, rough men.

As threatening as they were, Mary Ellen realized she was far more afraid of Captain Knight than she was of his men. He was a cold, uncaring man. He took what he wanted, when he wanted.

A man like that was dangerous.

As she climbed the front steps of Longwood, Mary Ellen paid no mind to the half dozen uniformed men lounging about on the gallery. She knew at a glance that their Captain was not among them.

Mary Ellen let herself in and made her way straight through the house to the kitchen. She pushed open the swinging kitchen door and stopped short.

Captain Knight, his knees spread wide, his shirt carelessly open down his dark chest, lolled lazily on one of the straight-backed chairs, smoking a cigar and enchanting a captive audience of two. Mattie, the old black cook, stood at the wood stove, pouring him a fresh cup of coffee. And old Titus, his eyes twinkling, his mouth fixed in a permanent wide grin, sat at the table, listening attentively as the Captain told of his adventures on the high seas. He fell silent when he caught sight of Mary Ellen.

Without a word she turned and left them looking after her. She was furious with her servants. It was one thing to accept and make the best of this enemy occupation, quite another to coddle and cozy up to the intrusive Yankee commander!

Dark eyes snapping with outrage, Mary Ellen hurriedly climbed the stairs to her room. She’d go to bed hungry rather than risk not being locked safely inside when the hated Captain Knight came upstairs. She rushed into the shadowy bedroom, threw the bolt, leaned back against the locked door, and sighed wearily.

She was hot and tired and hungry.

She crossed the dim room, lighted the coal-oil lamp by her bed, took the oyster-shell combs from her heavy hair, and let it fall around her shoulders. Then she started stripping off her hot, soiled clothing. She kicked off her shoes, sat down, and rolled her cotton stockings down her aching legs. She rose to her feet, unbuttoned her green poplin dress, pulled it up over her head, and released it. She yanked at the tape of her wilted petticoats, shoved them impatiently to the floor, and stepped out of them.

Sighing with exhaustion, she undid the hooks going down the center of her white camisole, shrugged her slender shoulders, and let the undergarment slide down her arms. Her thumbs were in the waistband of her pantalets when the knock came at the door.

Mary Ellen flinched and threw her arms across her bare breasts. She stood there frozen, afraid to answer, afraid not to. If she didn’t answer, surely he would go away. She kept silent.

Again the knock, prodding her into action.

“Go away! You hear me? You get away from that door this minute!”

“Miz Mary Ellen,” came old Titus’s thin, frightened voice, “don’ make me go ’way. Mattie tol’ me to bring up your supper and not be comin’ back down till you took it.”

Mary Ellen exhaled loudly with relief and exasperation. “Give me a minute, Titus.”

She snatched the blue silk wrapper lying across the foot of her bed and hurriedly drew it up her arms. She tied the sash tightly at her waist, pulled the lapels together, pushed her wild, unbound hair behind her ears, and opened the door halfway.

The old black butler stood there with a cloth-covered tray in his arthritic hands and a somber look on his face.

“Is somethin’ wrong, Miz Mary Ellen?” he asked innocently, his eyes big, his wrinkled chin starting to tremble.

His question struck Mary Ellen as funny. Hysterically funny. Here she was, nearly destitute and alone. The South was at war. Memphis had fallen to the Federals. The Yankees had occupied Longwood. The conquering commandant was the heartless lover of her youth. Her own servants were treating the Captain like visiting royalty. And Titus—sweet, dear old Titus—wondered if anything was wrong.

Mary Ellen began to laugh.

She couldn’t help herself. Her nerves were raw, and she was so physically exhausted she was on the verge of hysterics. She started laughing and couldn’t stop, startling the old servant, frightening him half to death.

She leaned for support against the solid door frame and laughed, unable to speak, unable to tell Titus what was so funny. Tears filled her eyes, so she closed them. Wildly she shook her head back and forth. Her eyes tightly shut, the tangled white-blond hair hiding her hot face, Mary Ellen continued to lean against the door frame and laugh until her stomach hurt. She clutched it with both hands.