Bride of the Night. Heather Graham
form, keeping the man’s head rested in the crook of his arm. Tara rose with him and followed them to the beachhead.
Men were already busy setting up makeshift tarps for a shelter. Two others were collecting wood for a fire.
An elderly man, dead straight and dignified, was the one calling out the orders.
“Captain Tremblay, Agent Dunne is here, sir! With the, um, the Rebs,” Billy said.
Tremblay seemed equally surprised to see a woman. “Well, Agent Dunne. Are these the culprits you meant to apprehend?” Tremblay asked.
“It’s hard to know for certain, sir, until I’m able to question them thoroughly, and as you can see, this one is scarcely in shape for questioning.”
Tremblay looked at Richard, still in Dunne’s arms.
“He lives?” Tremblay asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll have the good doctor see to him, then,” Tremblay said. “MacKay! Doc MacKay! We’ve a man in need of your tender touch, sir!”
One of the men building the fire came over and nodded to Finn. “Bring him under the tarp, will you, please, Agent Dunne? Billy, I’ll need some light—will you see to it, lad?”
“Aye, sir,” the young soldier said.
Finn Dunne walked with the doctor and beneath the canvas tarp that had been lifted about fifty yards in from the shoreline. There were already blankets spread out beneath it, along with a captain’s portable desk; the men of the Union ship had known they were in trouble, and they had salvaged all that they could.
“Fresh water might be in order,” Doc MacKay said, preceding the others.
Tara found herself longing to follow, and yet, under the scrutiny of Captain Tremblay.
She looked up at him. He appeared to be a fine and gentle man, and she wondered how he went to war, and watched everything that happened around him, and still maintained that sensibility.
“So,” he said, “you’re our culprit. You’re from Key West, child?”
“My name is Tara Fox,” she told him. “And I’m not a spy. I have no intention of bringing harm to anyone.”
Except, she thought, maybe Agent Finn Dunne. I’d love to give him a good slap right across that smug face!
“Tara Fox …” the captain murmured, looking at her speculatively.
“Seminole Pete is a dear friend,” she told him.
Tremblay smiled. “I don’t frequent the taverns of the island, my dear. Mine is to set an example.”
Tara stood there awkwardly, wondering what she was supposed to do. No one seemed ready to tie her up or confine her. Maybe they realized that she would be making no escape attempts when Richard Anderson was in their care.
Or, perhaps, they didn’t think that she was capable.
Tara smiled, looking at the captain. He was reassuring; she didn’t believe that she had fallen into the hands of cold-blooded murderers. “Sir, I promise you, I don’t sit around the tavern gulping down rum or beer. Pete is like a father to me, just as the young man now in your care, Richard Anderson, is like a brother.”
“Your young ‘brother’ is one hell of a seaman, Miss Fox. And, I admit, I wish that he were on my side. But as he is not, he is not a man in my good graces, as my ship will soon be at the bottom of the sea, providing a home for the fish.”
“He is not a man who seeks to harm others.”
“He’s a blockade runner,” Tremblay said flatly. “Let me rephrase—was a blockade runner.”
“You will never be able to prove that Richard is anything other than a merchant, carrying food—”
“Young woman, do I look like a fool?” Tremblay demanded.
She shook her head. “No, sir, you don’t. I merely mention that in any legal court of law—”
“War changes everything, doesn’t it?” he said plainly.
“What will you do with us?” Tara asked politely, switching tactics.
“Well, had I just brought down the ship, I’d have seen that you were held at the fort, confined until this weary bloodbath limps to its halt. But you are prisoners of Agent Dunne, and I believe it’s his pleasure that you be brought to the capital.”
“Sir, we are not the cold-blooded killers he thinks us to be,” she said.
“The problem with war is that it makes cold-blooded killers out of all of us, now, doesn’t it?” Tremblay asked. “Never mind, child, the weary philosophy of an old tar. I believe you are standing there anxiously awaiting a chance to see to the welfare of your young seaman. You are free to do so.”
Thus encouraged, Tara gave him a grateful nod and headed for the tarp. A pallet had been set up for Richard. Doc MacKay was down on his knees. And seeing that Richard had come to, she let out a little cry of joy and slid down next to them both.
“Easy, now,” MacKay said. “The boy has taken a good rap to the head.”
“Richard!” Tara said happily. He looked at her, his face still ashen. He tried to smile. He caught her hand. “Thanks, my friend,” he murmured.
“You got him here—you swam?” MacKay asked, studying her. She flushed slightly, just imagining what she must have looked like in her tattered, salt-, sand-and debris-covered clothing, and sodden hair plastered to her face.
“I’m from Key West. I’m a strong swimmer,” Tara said.
“So you must be,” MacKay said. “I don’t believe there’s more than bruising to the skull—I can find no crack or rift—and I believe that Mr. Anderson will make a full recovery. Rest is in order now, but as we are awaiting rescue, rest can be easily procured.” He looked at Tara again. “What about you? You must be thirsty, my dear.”
She suddenly realized how thirsty she was. For water, at the moment.
MacKay offered her a canteen. She accepted it gratefully. After drinking a long swallow of cool freshwater, she looked at the doctor, who was studying her in return. She felt a flush come to her cheeks. “Thank you. We are receiving far greater kindness than I expected.”
“This is a war wherein fathers fight sons, and sons fight brothers. The intent is not to torture others, just to bring the conflict to an end.” He grinned, and she liked his grin. “Besides, I have taken an oath to save lives,” he reminded her.
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