Bride of the Night. Heather Graham
Pirates had made use of the channels and the reefs to escape capture. They’d brought new species to the little islands, and there might well be anything—plant or animal—hunting in a semitropic climate here.
Pigs, birds, insects, crabs.
He kept listening, concentrating his extrasensory abilities.
Then he could hear it.
The beating of a heart.
The sound was fast, a strong rhythm.
And then Finn knew; he was being watched, just as he was watching.
He stood where he was for a long time, and then he started back to the beach. As he did so, he heard a wild flurry of activity behind him; he turned, and he saw the figure running back into the trees.
He raced after the fleeting form, but in the midst of trees again, the subject of his chase disappeared once again. He didn’t hesitate that time.
He stopped cold, and he listened.
And found that heartbeat again.
He waited a very long time, until he was certain, until the thump-thump-thump grew stronger and so familiar to him that it almost seemed a cacophony.
He took aim, and jumped, certainly taking his culprit by complete surprise.
Even though the thought had crossed his mind upon uncovering the petticoat, he had not fully accepted that he might actually find the woman he had lost in Gettysburg. The experience had been such a sword in his side; he had chafed at losing her, been haunted even by what had happened, and now …
She screamed, not so much with fear, but with complete surprise, as he made his way to the branch, capturing her in his arms and bringing them both slamming down to the ground below. He looked into her eyes, amazed that he remembered them so well, and as she stared up at him, he realized that she found instant recognition, as well.
She stared at him as if fighting for the right words of loathing to hurl his way. She was winded, he realized, even if he’d twisted himself to take the brunt of the fall. And so he spoke first.
“Why, miss. Fancy meeting you here, on such a dark and lonely night.”
She looked back at him, gasping for breath, and he eased his hold.
“Let me go—move. You’re an oaf. You’re a disgrace to your uniform,” she spat out.
“I don’t wear a uniform. But I am taking you in—”
“You have no power to take me anywhere.”
“You’re a blockade runner. And I believe your name is Gator, and that you’re plotting against the president of the United States of America. You will face a military tribunal, and you will hang, my dear,” he said most pleasantly.
Of course, it was doubtful that she would hang. Southern spies—women—had been incarcerated in D.C., but the judges and leaders seemed loath to take action against such a woman. Hanging one damsel—however clawed and vicious she might be—would just be another knife in the side of the Southern ethic.
And, of course, Finn thought, what a waste if she were to hang. Even now, in half-dry, tattered clothing, hair tangled in clumps around her features, she was stunning. The same uncanny beauty he’d reflected upon since Gettysburg. She had a perfect face, with large eyes that dominated the fine, slender structure of her cheeks and jawline. Her brows were clean and even and flyaway, and if she were to smile …
She didn’t smile. “You’re in a Southern state, you fool,” she told him.
“There’s a massive Union fort down at the tip, in case you hadn’t noticed. And let’s see, the Union has held St. Augustine since ‘62. Plus, there’s a host of Union sailors about to land on this little islet, while I’m not seeing any boys in butternut and gray marching along the sand to save you. Oh—and since we’re at war, I think I’m doing okay,” he told her pleasantly.
To his amazement, she smiled, giving no resistance.
And then she did.
He had eased his hold to something far too gentle; she was small, but apparently built of steel. She suddenly shoved him aside with exceptional strength, kicked out hard, catching him entirely by surprise and with a sound assault, and leaped to her feet.
“Ass!” she hissed.
And he was, of course, because she was gone.
IT WAS EASY ENOUGH to escape him; she could move quietly and with the speed of light when she chose … of course, she was exhausted, and laden with the heaviness of the salt water still soaked into her clothing. And still, she had managed to take him by surprise.
As he had done with her.
But now she knew; now, she would not take her eyes off him.
Even with this resolve, her heart sank; she was certain that he was telling the truth. The Yankee ship was going to go down, but not as Richard’s Peace had.
The men aboard the Union ship had survived, and they would be coming to the island.
Trying to keep a step ahead of him, and draw him away from Richard, she headed toward the western side of the island. Moving through the trees and brush, she burst out somewhere near the southwest, at a copse leading straight out to the water, to an inlet where old coral formed some kind of a seawall.
She bent over, breathing hard, pondering her next move—her way to save Richard—when she heard his voice again, and jackknifed instantly to a straightened position.
“You are stubborn, my dear. But you’ll not get away. Not this time.”
She stared at him, incredulous. How was he standing before her? How had he reached the copse before she had managed to?
“You’re supposedly some kind of officer of the law, is that what it is? Well, you’re insane. I wasn’t in Gettysburg to hurt anyone. And I’m not hurting anyone on this island. What, did they put you in charge of the blockade? Are you trying to starve women and children?” she demanded.
“I’m not in charge of the blockade. And the blockade isn’t to starve anyone, but instead to stop a war, and any reasonable student of military history is surely aware of that fact. But, no, I’m not in charge of the blockade. I’m in charge of rounding up would-be assassins.”
Up close, within an arm’s breadth, he did tower well over her and, while he appeared lean in what remained of his white cotton shirt, muscle rippled at his chest where the buttons had given way from throat to midabdomen. She looked into his eyes, however; his physical prowess was not something that really worried her.
“There are no assassins on this island,” she said. “In fact, this is my home. You’re rude. You’re trespassing.”
“You came off the blockade runner. This is not your home.”
“It’s certainly far more my home than it is yours, or the North’s.”
“It’s not a qualifying point at all—this island is deserted, and you came off the blockade runner. For that, you will answer to the government of the United States of America.”
His eyes glowed so darkly that they almost appeared to be red fire in the night. His features might have been chiseled for a great warrior statue, and he seemed to have the ego and arrogance of a god to go with the hard-wrought classicism of his face. She felt the urge to take a step back, but, of course, she would never do so. She wouldn’t lose.
“I am not a citizen of the United States of America, sir, and therefore, I will not answer to any government other than my own.”
He stared at her without speaking, and then shook his head sadly. “You people would prolong this war forever. You would watch thousands and thousands more die.”
“I am not fond of war!” she snapped back sharply. “But, sadly, I am