Unwilling Warrior Read online

  “I’ll do no such thing. Besides, James told me yesterday that Nora Mae married the man in a private ceremony.”

  “Y’ don’t say!”

  Valerie turned to her. “I shouldn’t have even repeated that, except there’s nothing wrong with saying a wedding took place, right?”

  “Right.”

  Valerie narrowed her gaze. Maybe she had succumbed to gossiping after all.

  “Now you’d best get downstairs.” Adalia wisely changed the subject. “Mr. Ladden’ll be here soon, and you know how impatient that one gets if he has to wait even a minute.”

  “You go on down. I’ll be there in a bit.” Valerie wanted to check her reflection one last time.

  “Don’t tarry.”

  “I won’t.”

  The maid left, and Valerie checked her reflection once more. It felt good to shed those black mourning clothes. She thought of all her friends she hadn’t seen in the almost year and a half since she’d been away at Miss C. J. Hollingsworth’s. They’d always been such fun-loving girls. Valerie smiled, thinking about how they used to laugh together with chatter of balls and beaus and fashion.

  Would it be the same when they saw each other again tonight? Sadness spilled over her when she thought things might have changed. She felt so removed from those subjects now. They seemed trite, considering her present circumstances. She’d never imagined her life without Mama. But here her future lay, stretched out before her in grim uncertainty.

  Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee . . .

  Valerie smiled as part of Mama’s favorite psalm waltzed across her mind. Drawing in a deep breath, she plucked her satin shawl from where it lay on her canopy bed. She pulled it around her bare shoulders, admiring its ivory softness, and fixed her mind on the gala. She’d laugh and dance, and maybe some semblance of joy would return to her life.

  Leaving her bedroom, Valerie made her way down the stairs to the parlor. As it happened, she turned out to be the one who did the waiting. It seemed forever before she heard James’s carriage pull up in front of the house.

  At long last he entered the foyer, looking dapper in his overcoat with its fur-trimmed collar. He shed it and handed the garment, along with his hat, to Adalia. Valerie noted his foggy-gray dress coat, waistcoat, and matching trousers. The flame-red curls on his head, usually unruly, were combed neatly back.

  “Why, James Ladden, don’t you look handsome!” She held out her hand in greeting, and he took it at once.

  “Thank you, honey. I’ll have you know this suit is cut from the best cloth money can buy.”

  “It’s quite . . . nice.” Valerie felt a bit wounded that he didn’t remark on her gown or the style of her hair.

  Instead James puffed out his chest and smiled. “We have some time before we have to go.” He ambled across the parlor’s large Persian carpet. “Perhaps a drink to warm the blood would be appropriate.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll call for Adalia.” She flicked a glance at him, hoping he didn’t imbibe like Father. This was, after all, their first public outing together. A moment later she decided to serve hot cider in spite of the fact he hinted at something stronger.

  She looked at him again. James had been a childhood friend, an auburn-headed prankster who annoyed her by putting twigs in her braided hair and calling her names. He threw slimy, creepy-crawly creatures at her and laughed when she screamed in terror. But then James matured into a dashing young man, and when he discovered that she’d come home from school, he offered to escort her to every social event in New Orleans beginning this New Year’s Eve. She’d accepted because . . . well, it was a kind offer, and James seemed to have transformed into a gentleman.

  “Is your father home?”

  “No, he chose to ring in the New Year at the club.”

  “He won’t be at the Donahues’, then?”

  Valerie shook her head.

  “I had hoped to speak with him tonight about an important subject.” His frown turned to a smile. “You.”

  “Me?”

  “I have courtship on my mind.”

  His news surprised her. “I thought we were just friends, James.”

  “We are. But the way you look tonight makes me wish we were more.”

  So he’d noticed. That was something anyway. However, his backhanded flattering didn’t change her feelings for him. But unwilling to hurt him, she chose her words with care. “I am fond of you. It’s just—”

  “Y’ father’s houseguest just arrived.” Adalia poked her head into the room. “What would you like me to do with him, dearie?”

  Valerie grimaced. “Oh, yes . . . ” She’d almost forgotten about the man. “Show him in.” Looking back at James, she said, “Excuse me for a few minutes.”

  “What’s this?” He stepped forward, frowning his displeasure. “What houseguest?”

  “Forgive me. My father only told me at the last minute.” She moved toward the door. “I must see to him. It won’t take too long.”

  Putting on her best hostess’s smile, Valerie strolled into the foyer in time to see a tall but shadowy figure of a man coming down the hallway. He must have entered through the back way. Over his shoulder he carried a large satchel and, in the opposite hand, a valise. As he neared, she saw that he was soaked to the skin. Rain dripped from the wide brim hat.

  “Good evening.” He set his burdens down with a thunk onto the tiled floor. “Name’s Benjamin McCabe.”

  “Valerie Fontaine.” She held out her hand to him. He took it politely, and Valerie felt how cold he was. He also appeared young, in his midtwenties. Hardly the old codger she and Adalia had envisioned.

  “Miss Fontaine, I must say you look . . . lovely this evening.” He spoke in a velvet baritone, and yet Valerie heard a hint of a twang in his voice.

  “Why, thank you.” It had been more of a compliment than what she’d received from James.

  He shifted his stance. “The liveryman is seeing to my wagon.” He gave a backward nod. “I trust it will be safe in the stables. Most of my equipment—”

  “Your wagon will be just fine,” Valerie assured him. “Willie is a very capable attendant.”

  An awkward moment passed as Valerie tried to get a better view of the man standing there in the dim, candlelit entryway.

  “I apologize for dripping rain on your floor.” Mr. McCabe glanced down at the puddle forming beneath him. “That last downpour caught me.”

  “No need to apologize. But I imagine you’d like to get out of your wet clothes. Adalia here—” She inclined her head toward the maid. “—will show you to your room.”

  The man nodded his gratitude, taking hold of his baggage again. “It won’t take me long to change. I take it dinner is to be a formal affair?” He glanced over her attire once more.

  “Oh, well . . . ” Of course he’d be expecting dinner. He was an invited guest. “Actually, there’s a gala tonight at the home of some friends. You’re more than welcome to join us.” The offer rolled off her tongue before she could think better of it.

  “That’s a fine invite.” She saw his smile in the partial darkness. “Yes, I’d like that.” With one last mannerly bow, he shouldered his satchel again and followed Adalia up the stairs.

  Valerie pivoted around, facing the parlor. She squared her shoulders and returned to James.

  But her thoughts followed the new stranger up the stairs—who was he to her father? And why had he come to see him?

  Two

  Had he ever seen eyes that particular shade of blue? Maybe. On a perfect Missouri summer day when the corn grew high in the fields and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  Idiot! Ben admonished himself. He couldn’t allow himself to get blindsided by another beautiful woman. Not like he had by Miss Gwyneth Merriweather. No sir. He wasn’t about to lose his common sense over a woman a second time. He had to focus on finding his brother.

  Ben’s heart grew heavy. Luke went missing after the battle at Bull Run. Not a w
ord from him. Nothing since. It wasn’t like Luke, not to at least write to their mother in Jericho Junction.

  He had to be alive. Luke’s name hadn’t appeared on any lists of the wounded or killed. Ben scoured each and every one of those printed columns the newspapers published. However, the question nagged him: If Luke was alive and well, why hadn’t he tried to contact their parents in Missouri?

  Setting his valise on the neatly made bed, he glanced around the tastefully decorated room. The Federal style furniture gave it a stately feel. As comfortable as these quarters appeared, he would be here for only a few days, just long enough to keep his promise to his father. Then he’d get back on the trail in his quest to find Luke while photographing battles and skirmishes with his partner Clint Culver.

  He brought his mind back to the task at hand. Rummaging through his things, he found his best clothes, noting that they were wrinkled beyond compare.

  “Allow me, sir.”

  Ben turned to see a slim, well-dressed gentleman at the doorway of his bedroom. An educated light shone from the man’s eyes.

  “I’m Ephraim,” he said in a formal tone. “Miss Fontaine sent me in case you’d need some assistance.”

  “Well . . . ” Ben stared at the rumpled garments in his hand. “Looks like these have been through a war all their own.”

  “Not to worry, sir.” The valet gave a stiff incline of his head. “I shall have your things pressed while you wash up.”

  “That’d be some kind of blessing. Thanks.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Ephraim’s thin lips. “You’re welcome, sir.” With that, the lanky man strode purposefully from the bedroom, garments slung over one forearm.

  Ben stared at the empty doorway in the servant’s wake. It seemed the valet was a hired man, just like the British maid. He hadn’t seen any slaves around. Ben’s opinion of the Fontaines went up a few pegs.

  He crossed the expanse of the room to the polished mahogany chest of drawers on which the porcelain washbasin stood. Beside it lay a bar of soap, tied with a fabric ribbon. The small card attached to it read: Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.

  He smiled at the encouraging passage, trying to recall where in the Bible he’d read those words. Psalms? Then he took a whiff of the bar, and his senses came to life at the woodsy and spicy mix. He felt a second wind coming on.

  ***

  “James, I can’t abandon my father’s guest.”

  “But—” James began to protest.

  She sent him her sweetest smile, and he raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “There’s something else, James.”

  “Oh?” He arched his brows.

  “I invited Mr. McCabe to come with us tonight.”

  “What?”

  Adalia suddenly bustled into the room, carrying a tray containing a carafe of hot cider and two cups and saucers. Valerie let out a sigh of relief. She hoped James wouldn’t argue further. Then the maid poured out some of the cinnamon-spiced mixture.

  Sitting in the armchair, Valerie lifted the cup and saucer from the tray. “Some hot cider, James? Chastean’s best.”

  He snorted. “A glass of bourbon would suit me just fine.”

  “I’m not serving bourbon.”

  Adalia snickered softly as she left the room.

  Valerie decided to change the subject lest James become insistent. “I was reading in the newspaper that oil of every kind is getting scarce and that we need to do our part to conserve by using candles. It appears that most folks can’t afford store-bought ones anymore, so the article suggested making one’s own tapers.” She sipped from her demitasse cup. “The article gave instructions on how to make good candles, and I cut out the recipe . . . just in case.”

  “You shouldn’t be reading the newspaper,” James groused. “It’s not healthy for women to read such goings-on. Keeps them up all hours of the night fretting.”

  “I sleep quite soundly.” Valerie arched a brow, wondering how he knew what kept women awake all night. No matter. Setting the cup in its saucer, she discounted the remark and continued to prattle on about everything from candle making to cannon fire in order to keep James from discussing either his taste for alcoholic beverages or courtship.

  A long while later Mr. McCabe reappeared, and Valerie thought he made for an impressive figure, standing there in the doorway. He wore a long, shiny black dress coat and waistcoat. His trousers were of a contrasting fabric, a charcoal gray in color, and he wore a crisp white shirt and a dark cravat tied in a floppy bow.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He gave her a polite half bow before entering the parlor.

  “Quite all right.” She took in the handsome stranger’s straight blond hair, parted neatly to one side, and his eyes—why, his eyes were the exact color of her father’s scotch. Golden brown.

  A slow smile worked its way across his face, and Valerie realized he had caught her appraising him.

  She lowered her gaze while an embarrassed blush spread across her face.

  James cleared his throat. “Valerie, honey, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to introduce us?” He strode toward her guest.

  “Forgive me.” She set aside her cup and stood. “Mr. McCabe, this is James Ladden, my escort for this evening and my, um . . . friend.” She ignored James’s sudden scowl then couldn’t help noticing that their guest stood a good half a head taller than James. His shoulders were wider as well.

  He extended his right hand in greeting. “A pleasure, Mr. Ladden.”

  “Yes . . . nice meeting you too, McCabe.” There was no mistaking the clipped tone in James’s voice.

  “I hope I’m not imposing by coming along.” Mr. McCabe looked from James to Valerie.

  “Not in the least,” she replied before James could answer.

  “Well, good.”

  Was that amusement she saw in his gaze? Their mysterious guest moved to the hearth where he warmed his hands. She remembered his cold grip. “But if you’re not up to it, Mr. McCabe, we could stay home. I could have our cook prepare—”

  “Valerie.” There was an edge to James’s voice, and she wondered if their guest detected it too. But then he softened his tone. “The Donahues are expecting us, honey.”

  Mr. McCabe turned from the brick fireplace and eyed James, but he spoke to her. “Thank you, but I’m feeling just fine, Miss Fontaine, and looking forward to this evening.”

  The remark almost sounded like a challenge, but when she searched his features for traces of offense, she found none.

  A soft light entered his eyes as his gaze came to rest on her, followed by a wry grin that tugged at the corners of his nicely shaped mouth.

  “Valerie!”

  The second warning in James’s tone surprised her. Only too late Valerie realized she’d been ogling their guest again. Rude and inappropriate . . . it just wasn’t like her.

  Tearing her gaze away, she couldn’t deny the man’s inexplicable allure.

  “Seriously,” he repeated, “no need to stay in. I’d enjoy a celebration tonight.”

  “Well, then, it’s settled.” She pushed out a smile of her own.

  Minutes later Adalia brought in their outerwear, and Valerie secured her velvet bonnet beneath her chin. As they left the house, the trusted maid whispered, “Have y’self some fun, dearie.”

  “Yes, I plan to.”

  They exchanged conspiratorial smiles.

  The coachman assisted Valerie into the carriage, and, once seated, she began the task of straightening her skirts. Mr. McCabe climbed in next and seated himself beside her. He shifted one way then the other in an effort to make himself more comfortable. Valerie could feel the roughness of his woolen overcoat as it brushed against her forearm. He smelled of the cedar and sage, one of her mother’s more masculine-scented soaps that he evidently used to freshen up. She inhaled again, hoping for a second whiff. The scent was one of Valerie’s favorites for men. Mama had come up with the concoction of herbs as a surp
rise for Father, although he never became fond of it. He preferred a more subtle and sweet fragrance that he acquired from Paris.

  “I hope I’m not squishing the life out of you, Miss Fontaine.” Mr. McCabe flashed a charming grin.

  “Not at all.” In fact, the warmth emanating from his body proved far more effective at quelling the night’s chill than her cape.

  James boarded and, sitting across from them, frowned at the arrangement. “Look here, McCabe—”

  “We’re so glad you could join us,” Valerie put in quickly. “Isn’t that right, James?” Her father would be appalled if he learned James acted rudely to an invited houseguest. “Right, James?” She repeated the words with a bit more force.

  He pressed his lips together in acquiescence.

  They rode for a good mile in silence until Valerie couldn’t stand it anymore. She began making small talk with Mr. McCabe since James seemed to be brooding.

  “The weather has really been quite awful.”

  “I know.” A note of amusement carried in his voice.

  “Of course you do. You said you’ve been traveling all day.”

  “Mm-hmm. My partner, Clint Culver, and I have been following various Confederate regiments all over the Confederate States.”

  “Do tell.” James leaned forward, looking suddenly very interested. “Which troops?”

  Mr. McCabe listed them by name. “Third Regiment, Arkansas, Second Georgia Infantry, although those men are just getting organized . . . ”

  “You’re a Confederate?”

  “No. But I’m not a Federal either. I’m a freelance photographer, and I’m looking for my brother. He went missing after the battle at Bull Run.”

  “That’s awful!” Valerie couldn’t imagine the angst he felt. “You have no idea as to his whereabouts?”

  Mr. McCabe shook his head.

  “Is he in the infantry?” James asked as he leaned forward on his knees. The carriage rocked to and fro.