Her Beguiling Bride Page 2

  * * * *

  Alice shoved her hands in her pockets as she stalked back toward the big house. Her knees quaked, not from what she’d done with Belle, but from just how close she thought she was to losing the one woman she’d ever truly loved in her life.

  She blinked her eyes against the images of Belle with her head thrown back, her lips parted in the throes of ecstasy as Alice had felt the inner muscles inside her wet velvet sheath gripping and releasing. Alice’s channel clenched in response.

  Remorse swamped her that she’d spoken to Belle as she had, but it frightened Alice that her only connection to Belle was their own unspoken one. None of their friends or neighbors really knew of their relationship as lovers. Alice didn’t doubt they speculated. She wasn’t exactly the most feminine woman in Georgia, and people did love to gossip, despite the fact Alice had been instrumental in ridding Jonesboro of a band of nasty bushwhackers.

  Her gaze swept over the barren cotton field, stark reality eradicating any residual sexual thoughts. Who was she fooling? She didn’t know a damn thing about growing cotton. The scant crop they’d produced last year had only taught her that she wasn’t suited to be a farmer.

  Uncle Hewlett knew even less, and Alice gathered that Chester tended to be the braggadocios type whose words far outweighed his actions. A former Rattle and Snap field hand, Chester had planted and picked plenty of cotton in his day, but he had never been privy to the information of where and how much to plant. He’d returned to the plantation looking to get on as a hired hand after he couldn’t find work in Atlanta.

  Only once had Alice broached the subject of selling Rattle and Snap. She shook her head at the memory. She’d never seen Belle so mad. And yet, when Belle had explained how her grandfather had built this place from the ground up and had turned it into one of the most successful cotton plantations in Georgia, Alice had shut her mouth. All her life, she’d only wished for a family legacy like Belle’s.

  A sick feeling roiled in Alice’s gut.

  Perhaps the best thing for Belle to do would be to marry that rich planter. It pained Alice to imagine it, but how else would they be able to keep this place? Alice knew full well how difficult it was for a woman to make her way in this man’s world.

  The only time she’d ever experienced true freedom had been when she’d donned a uniform and fought for the Union Army. It was too bad saving Rattle and Snap wouldn’t be as easy as passing herself off as a male.

  She’d fooled them all! And not only that, she’d held her own in the army. She’d never forget how she’d saved the life of Phineas Ryan just outside Decatur, Georgia. On the front lines, he’d been wounded so severely, Alice knew there was no way to get him back to the field surgeons. Risking capture, she’d made a surrender flag by stabbing a piece of Ryan’s shirt to the point of her bayonet, and then she’d dragged him across enemy lines, seeking help. The Rebels had been so surprised by the both foolish and courageous action they’d taken Ryan and allowed Alice to return to her troops.

  It was too bad she couldn’t pull off the masquerade now. It was also too bad she didn’t own Rattle and Snap. As a Union veteran and Northerner, she’d get preferential treatment.

  Alice just wished there was something she could do to help Belle—and to prevent her from having to marry. She clenched her fists until her short nails bit into her palms. She’d have to think of something.

  * * * *

  Belle wiped her feet on the cast-iron boot scrape before she stepped into the house to hang her bonnet on the peg behind the door. Excited voices drifted into the spacious foyer from her father’s old office. Listening, she crept down the hallway, carefully stepping over the stubborn bloodstain that refused to come out of the heart of pine floor where she’d shot a bushwhacker dead four years prior.

  “Ah, here it is,” Uncle Hewlett’s sonorous voice rang out. “Robert Billings.”

  “Billings? That’s the man I need to see?” Alice inquired.

  “Yes. He was Mr. Holloway’s cotton agent in Savannah. He’d certainly be the man with whom to start,” Uncle Hewlett offered. “I would imagine the demand for cotton is quite high in Europe right now. Billings would get you the best price, but only if you can guarantee to produce a goodly amount of cotton.”

  Alice blew out a heavyhearted sigh. “Surely we could produce enough if we get everyone involved.”

  Belle stopped outside the door and leaned against the wall as Alice continued.

  “Rather than everyone being in competition, I think if I convince them to all work together, then we’ll have a respectable crop,” Alice stated. She chuckled. “Maybe I’ll enlist Granny’s help to get everyone to cooperate. Even after I routed that gang of thieves, there are still those who are suspicious of me.”

  Uncle Hewlett cleared his throat. “Alas, outsiders have never been much welcomed here.”

  “I don’t care,” Alice said. “This land is important to Belle, and I’ll do anything to see that she keeps it.”

  Belle’s heart turned over. Hard.

  “And if that fails,” Alice added, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I’ll just have to step aside and let her marry that rich planter.”

  That was it. Belle stepped into the study. She ignored the memory-provoking scent of Pa’s pipe tobacco that still lingered in this room. Her hands found her hips. “I’m not marrying anyone.”

  Alice looked up from the elegantly carved desk that had somehow miraculously managed to survive General Sherman’s troops who’d burned scores of their other furnishings. Her tousled, short auburn hair wildly framed her face. Uncle Hewlett straightened from where he’d been leaning over her while they pored over the plantation log books. The pair of them looked strangely incongruous with Alice seated in her homespun breeches, suspenders, and white shirt and Uncle Hewlett turned out impeccably in a dark sack suit, vest, and creased trousers.

  “I do think asking everyone to combine their resources to sell the cotton as one crop is a brilliant idea,” Belle said, avoiding looking at the portrait of her father, which hung over the marble mantel. Grief for him still riddled her. “And you’re right. The locals might respond better to Granny, who has a knack for making everyone around her do as she says.” She couldn’t quell the grin that claimed her lips.

  Alice’s grayish blue eyes flashed with mirth. She rested her elbow on the desk and supported her chin in one palm.

  Never relinquishing Alice’s gaze, Belle circled the desk.

  Alice’s chair groaned as she leaned back and folded her hands over her stomach.

  Belle arched an eyebrow in warning. “I don’t want to hear any more talk about me marrying that man.”

  “‘If you can look into the seeds of time and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak,’” Uncle Hewlett quoted resoundingly.

  “Macbeth!” Alice chimed in, excitement evident in her voice.

  Belle waved her hand in dismissal as she eyed Alice and Uncle Hewlett. “Let me know what you need me to do.”

  If Uncle Hewlett felt chagrined at not being praised for his quotation, his expression did not show it. “First of all,” he said, tugging on the lapels of his immaculate black frock coat, “you need to go to Savannah and let Robert Billings know that Rattle and Snap is still very much in the cotton business.”

  Chapter Two

  Belle stepped off the train at the depot in Savannah, Georgia, which teemed with soldiers decked out in uniforms of all kinds, both Confederate and Union. She’d never seen such a sight in her life. Accents of all kinds filled her ears. Northern. Southern. Foreign. Jaunty Irish music filled the station, and Belle noticed two men sawing away at fiddles for a toe-tapping crowd. An upturned hat lay on the floor before them, and listeners dropped in coins. Green bunting draped overhead, reminding Belle that it was nearly St. Patrick’s Day.

  Even though the train ride from Jonesboro had only lasted seven hours, the coastal weather proved drastically different than the climate they’d left. Belle shrugged off he
r blue crocheted shawl and folded it over her arm. She’d left Rattle and Snap in a coat, and here, in balmy Savannah, she didn’t even need a light cape.

  She twisted, trying to catch sight of Alice, who’d disappeared just as the train rolled into the station after telling Belle she was off to collect their luggage.

  A loud hiss emanated from the stack at the front of the train, obliterating the boisterous clamor around her. Belle winced at the noise as panic rose in her breast. It was foolish of them to travel to Savannah without a male escort. What if she and Alice were separated?

  “All aboard!” the conductor yelled.

  Belle whirled, looking everywhere for Alice. She leaned and stretched trying to see over and around the throng pushing their way through the depot. “Alice!” she called, but her voice faded into the cacophony.

  She stumbled as a man swept past her in a rush to board the train. Stepping out of the way was nearly impossible, but Belle gathered her skirts and threaded her way to the side. She never should have agreed to let Alice get the bags by herself.

  The crowd thinned, and with a puff of smoke, the great locomotive lurched forward and churned out of the station. Belle stepped back toward the middle of the platform to search for Alice.

  A man clad in an elegant sack suit and black bell crown topper hat strode toward her. He sported a decorative cane in one hand and under the arm he carried two bags—one of which Belle recognized as her own.

  She squinted, and her lips parted as realization sank in. The man was Alice! Belle gaped as Alice made a show of depositing the bags on the ground and removing the hat before making a sweeping low bow.

  If Belle hadn’t been so taken aback, she would have laughed outright. Instead, she stared, stunned. Alice was downright handsome in her male finery. On closer inspection, Belle identified the embroidered gray silk vest and black gabardine frock coat as her deceased husband’s.

  A sideways grin claimed Alice’s full lips—the only girlish feature she possessed while dressed in these clothes. “Granny retailored them to fit me. I hope you don’t mind. I thought I might be taken more seriously as a man.” She whispered the last word.

  Belle couldn’t speak. She could only take in the sight of her lover looking every bit a southern country squire. Knowing the very feminine secret that lay beneath the male clothing caused a stirring in her pantalets. She gulped. “I agree,” she managed.

  Obviously pleased with herself, Alice rocked back on the heels of her black leather brogans. “Shall we see how convincing I can be?” she asked and turned, her gaze scanning the crowd. “Porter!” she called, waving her cane in the air.

  “Alice,” Belle hissed under her breath. Alice could be fined, jailed, or worse. Perhaps it’d be best not to attract too much attention. But Belle had no such luck. A porter already scurried their way.

  “Yessuh, can I get your bags?” he offered.

  “Yes, please. And could you also hail us a hansom cab?” Alice asked with all the aplomb of a gentleman.

  “Of course, suh,” the porter said. “Where will you and the missus be going?”

  Belle’s stomach flipped. The missus?

  “We have business with Robert Billings, the cotton agent,” Alice said, lifting the bags and passing them to the porter.

  “Yessuh,” he said. “This way.”

  Belle tried not to gawk as Alice offered her an arm. They followed the porter out of the depot to where several horse-drawn cabs waited. Alice stepped up next to the hansom and presented her hand to Belle who, still in a state of amused shock, climbed in. She couldn’t resist glancing around the side of the cab as Alice tipped the porter, gave the address to the driver, and stepped into the vehicle.

  “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Belle asked as Alice sprawled in a very unladylike manner on the seat next to her and leaned back against the squabs.

  “I think it’s safer this way,” Alice muttered under her breath. “Besides, both Granny and Uncle Hewlett thought as a man, I’d get a better price for our cotton.”

  Alice eyed her, and Belle knew better than to question both Granny and Uncle Hewlett’s advice. She released a breath. “Suppose you’re caught?”

  Alice shrugged. “I could have fooled you.”

  “You did for a second,” Belle said, unable to stop the smile that played on her lips.

  Alice’s gaze brushed Belle’s lips and lifted to her eyes once more, kindling the desire already simmering between her legs.

  “No one knows me here,” Alice whispered. “No one knows I shouldn’t be doing this either…”

  Belle did not resist when Alice’s mouth found hers. The kiss was gentle at first. Soft. Lips grazed lips for a steep moment before Alice curled her fingers around Belle’s neck and pulled her close to kiss her with possessive intent.

  Belle’s lips parted as she accepted the tongue teasing through her lips. The kiss left her breathless. Defenseless. Alice let out a soft moan as she scooted even closer on the bench. Her fingers flexed and pressed into Belle’s thigh.

  Belle’s head swam. It was wildly erotic to be kissing another woman, virtually in public. Her body heated, making her skin itch to be free of the layers and layers of clothing she wore.

  Warm fingers entwined with hers, the heat radiating through her lace gloves. Belle’s clitoris pulsed, and all thoughts of cotton bargains fled as she anticipated arriving at the hotel later.

  When Alice finally released her, Belle sagged against the back of the seat, the sights and sounds of Savannah a blur.

  Alice laced her fingers with Belle’s. “Smell that!” Alice inhaled deeply. “I’d forgotten how good the salt air smells.” Her blue eyes lit up with wonder as she drank in the charming pastel-colored houses with their lacy woodwork adorning the gallery porches. Tendrils of Spanish moss swayed like unkempt beards from the thick limbs of live oaks. Saw palmetto trees lined the sandy streets, and gulls crooned as they wheeled overhead.

  Belle couldn’t suppress her delight either, but hers was bittersweet. A twinge of sadness passed through her at the memory of coming to Savannah in years past with Grayson and Pa. She took solace in the fact that the city looked remarkably different, presumably since the war. New construction rose on every block. Competing with the noise of horses and street mongers were the echoing taps of hammers and the grating of saws on lumber skeletons that would soon be buildings and houses.

  Even more workers stretched bright green banners across the streets in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day. Funny, she thought, how the world ground on in spite of war and death and everything else.

  She’d heard Sherman had laid waste to Savannah on his infamous march to the sea. As hard as those war years had been, Belle could not regret them entirely. For that had been when a badly wounded Yankee soldier had been found out to be a woman and had been left to die of an awful leg wound at Rattle and Snap. A shudder raced up Belle’s spine at the fleeting memory of the other soldier who’d been left. That one had died. At the man’s delirious request, Alice had mercifully fired a bullet in his head to put him out of his misery.

  A sense of gratitude flitted in Belle’s stomach like a butterfly. Alice’s strength had gotten them all through hard times.

  The hansom drew up to a wood-planked sidewalk. Alice hopped out and offered her hand to help Belle down. She watched, amused, as Alice extracted some coins from her vest pocket. “Can you wait for us, good sir?”

  “Yessuh,” the hansom driver said with a vigorous nod.

  Alice had fooled everyone with whom she came in contact. Belle bit her bottom lip to keep from giggling at just how easily it was done. Her nerves settled somewhat at the prospect of deceiving the cotton agent.

  “Darling,” Alice said with a conspiratorial wink as she offered Belle her arm. The pair ascended the three steps leading up to the gallery. Coastal homes were designed with tiered porches that ran the sideways length of the house. The actual front entrance was more often than not situated in the center of the
lower gallery. A bell rang out when Alice opened the door to the cotton agent’s office.

  Belle’s nerves bunched as she walked into the foyer. The office was in the first room on the right. A sultry breeze set the long white curtains in motion, enveloping Robert Billings in a billowy haze for seconds before he materialized in the flesh. Upon seeing him, Belle vaguely remembered coming here with Pa before the war. The years had not been kind to Billings.

  Hunched at the shoulders, he walked with a cane, but the thing didn’t look as if it would do him much good, it trembled so in his gnarled hand. A shock of snow-white hair fell across his wrinkled and age-spotted forehead as he shuffled toward them.

  The shadowy office reeked of a mixture of lemon oil and Billings’s pomade.

  “Why, if little Miss Belle hasn’t grown up entirely!” he chirped.

  Belle dipped into a polite curtsy. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Billings.”

  “So sorry to hear about your father and of course, your brother,” he warbled, peering up at them from clouded blue eyes.

  “Thank you,” Belle told him. “Mr. Billings, this is…this is…”

  “O’Malley,” Alice said, stepping forward to shake the man’s hand. “Al O’Malley.”

  “Irish are you?” Billings said, turning to shuffle back to his desk.

  “Aye,” Alice said proudly. “My folks settled in Boston.”

  “A Yankee too? I’ll swear.” Billings waved his hand at a couple of chairs across from his desk. “Sit, sit.”

  Belle sat as Billings dropped heavily into his chair, which squeaked in violent protest. “Well, that won’t matter a bit at the St. Patrick’s Day celebration. You are attending the parade, I hope?” You fought for the North? In which unit?”

  Alice remained standing. She twisted her topper in her hands. “Yes, sir. I served in the Seventeenth New York Zouave Infantry until I was wounded too severely to continue.”

  Billings stared for a steep second before riffling through several papers on his desk. He finally withdrew the letter Belle had sent him last month. “You’re trying to revitalize your cotton crop?”