a deserter.”
“You could let him go.” Her lips formed a thin, worried line. His gaze was drawn there.
“Impossible.”
“Why?” She fiddled with an inkwell situated on the open desk, a reddish-walnut affair bare of papers.
“There is a war going on, Mrs. Portland. I have men to protect.”
“Is he so dangerous, then?”
Will huffed a short, unhappy laugh. “The only danger he presents is the amount of fleas and lice covering his body. He’s so scrawny his bones rattle.”
“The poor soul is starving. You could leave him here.”
He wished he could. Just as he wished he could send all his men home. But because he could do neither, he didn’t respond.
Lizzy, in her snowy apron and head wrap, brought the coffee. Once again her sharp glance slid between him and Charlotte. She was watchful, protective of her mistress, and he would not be at all surprised if she stood guard outside the door.
“Your maid doesn’t trust me,” he said, after Lizzy left the room.
“Should she?”
The question bothered him. He wanted to be trusted but, indeed, with the enemy, he could not make that promise. “Have you owned her long?”
Something fierce and dark flashed in Charlotte’s expression. “My husband owns slaves. I do not. Nor would I if the choice was mine to make.”
Her passion gave him pause. He set the coffee on a side table. “You are loyal to the Union?”
“I am loyal to my home and family. Your war bewilders me.”
“As it does all of us, Mrs. Portland. There are times when I—” He stopped, aware he revealed too much.
“Times when you what, Captain? Wished you’d never joined such a ruthless cause? I’m sure those young men lying in our cemetery would wish the same if they could.”
He blanched. Yes, she’d pinched a sore spot, for he was haunted by the loss of men, some of them hardly more than boys, who’d marched to war filled with fiery idealism only to face the harsh realities of butchery and death.
“I regret every lost man, whether Union or Confederate.”
His revelation, one he’d scarce let himself think much less say, softened her. “I’m afraid I do not understand the politics of war, or the propensity of men to purchase human flesh. Both are obscene to me.”
“Would you prefer the Union remained separated?”
“I would prefer, as scripture dictates, to live in peace with all creatures whenever possible.” She grimaced and a flush colored her cheeks the shade of fresh peach skin. “Forgive me, please. Sometimes I forget myself. I shouldn’t say such things to a man of your position and rank.”
“Voicing an opinion is not a cardinal sin.”
“No? Some believe a woman has no opinion, Captain.”
He wondered if she meant her husband but refrained from asking such a private, personal question. As it was, he shocked himself at the ease with which they conversed. She was bright and knowledgeable, qualities he’d been taught to admire in a woman.
“I beg to differ, considering I have two sisters with sharp minds and sharper tongues and a mother who runs the local temperance league and is an outspoken abolitionist. Father has given up trying to contain them.”
At last, she smiled, and Will realized he’d been waiting for that glimpse of sunshine. “My father is a vicar, an ardent student of both philosophy and scripture. Unfortunately, my mother showed no interest in his rather lengthy dissertations on the human condition. I, on the other hand, enjoyed them and was allowed to read widely and speak my mind. Perhaps too much, as I have learned since coming to America.”
Ah, that explained a great deal. “How did a British vicar’s daughter come to marry a Tennessee farmer?”
He was going too far, asking questions that pushed into her private affairs, and yet for the life of him he could not stop. He wanted to know everything about her. If he told himself his reasons were for the good of his army, there was truth in the lie. Until he knew her well, he could not be assured of his men’s safety. But the rest was pure self-interest. He admired Charlotte Portland.
If his question offended her, she gave no indication. Rather, she laughed. “In the usual manner, I’m sure. Tell me, Captain, are you a married man?”
“No woman will have me,” he said in jest, and yet the stab of betrayal was anything but amusing. A man who’d loved and lost did not take such things lightly.
“Doubtful, sir.”
“And why is that?” he asked, amused, intrigued, interested.
She smiled again, the light merry in her eyes. She was enjoying their little spar, as was he. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Captain?”
“Do you have one for me?”
One pretty eyebrow twitched upward as she tilted her head, moving a smidgen closer, enough that he felt the rise in his pulse.
Voice light and teasing, she said, “Perhaps, I do.”
How charming, he thought. Charming, lovely and good.
Will leaned forward, tempted to touch the feminine fingers that draped over the edge of the desk and eager to know what she thought of him as a man. To feel the softness of womanly skin, something he hadn’t touched in so long the void was an ache as strong as hunger. Charlotte was all the good things he appreciated in a woman. Edgar Portland was a very fortunate man.
Suddenly, he caught himself.
He had no right sharing such a lively and intimate conversation with a married woman. He had less right to touch her—even if that woman’s husband had embarrassed and abandoned her.
Abruptly, he stood. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Portland. I’ve overstayed. I must see to my duties.”
“Is something wrong?” She stood with him, bewildered by his sudden change in behavior, for she couldn’t know the turmoil churning beneath his rib cage. And he certainly couldn’t tell her that he was attracted to her, man to woman, and would like nothing better than to take the weight of worry off her shoulders. Indeed, to wrap those slender shoulders in his arms and draw her close to his heart with a promise that all would be well.
“Thank you for the coffee.” He refrained from taking her hand though he wanted to badly. A touch might prove too dangerous. “I’ve enjoyed our discussion.”
“I hope I didn’t offend you with my outspoken opinions.”
“You couldn’t. I treasure them.” Again he fought the urge to touch her, only this time he longed to touch her cheek. Just to trace his fingertips over her dewy skin. “Charlotte—”
“Captain?”
