her beloved Forrest had worked so hard to attain? How could she let all this beauty be pawed by crass, looting Yankees?
“We should have gone weeks ago, Miss Marissa!” assured Lavinia, pushing Marissa toward a doorway. Tears splashed Marissa’s cheeks, falling as hard as the rain against the windowpanes as she cast a last glance around the parlor—taking in a chandelier Forrest had brought from Paris, then a pedestal table and a fireplace hewn from unpolished jagged pieces of local quarry rock. Forrest had been so precise when decorating the room, especially regarding how she should pose for her portrait and where it should hang, the key to their secret hiding place. The portrait had been removed now, but she could still see marks indicating its position.
“The chandelier!” she protested, her heart wrenching. Forrest had called it their mistletoe. Oh, how they’d kissed beneath it, holding each other and shuddering with need, wanting to consummate their passion, but reined in by the desperation of restraint, knowing it would be well worth the wait. She and Lavinia had tugged on the heavy light fixture, hoping to hide it, although it wouldn’t fit beneath the upstairs floorboards where they’d put the jewelry—all but the ring still on Marissa’s finger. The chandelier seemed to have grown a mind of its own, though, as if it had decided it wasn’t leaving Hartley House; it had taken root in a medallion of ceiling molding, as immobile as cypress trees and salt marshes.
Her heart aching, Marissa sucked in a sharp breath. She and Lavinia had been hiding here, cut off from civilization for what felt like eternity, the field hands long gone, and now Marissa realized she’d been a fool, waiting for Forrest to come back from the war. And yet he’d returned. Just a week ago, she’d seen him for the first time in two years. Appearing like a vision from one of Lavinia’s prophetic dreams, he’d been far off, coming down the shell-covered driveway in the heat of a Florida February afternoon. It was long after the morning dew had burned off and the sun had risen high in the sky, looking wavelike as it shimmered on the driveway. Forrest had appeared, without warning, wounded but still walking, using his rifle as a crutch.
Marissa had fainted dead away, but Lavinia had run for the salts, and Marissa had awakened to find her own true love peppering her cheeks with kisses. Of course, Forrest had wanted to turn around and head for the war again, but he’d suffered a gunshot wound and his leg needed tending. Even worse, he’d said the Yankees were coming.
Oh, she’d wanted nothing more than to nurse her well-loved warrior. As he’d rested this week, she’d sat beside him, staring at the man she intended to wake beside every day of her life and whose babies would soon be growing inside her. They’d decided to marry before his return to the front and spend at least one passionate night. And then she and Lavinia would travel to Marissa’s sister’s house two counties away. It never occurred to them that the Yankees would get this far, nearly to the front door of Hartley House. Come tomorrow, Forrest was to have joined the few men left in town to march north. But Forrest was dead. He had to be. No one could survive what was happening now.
“Follow me,” Lavinia commanded, turning on her heel and heading through the parlor, toward a back door.
Marissa had frozen in place. Forrest’s ring! She couldn’t wear it into the swamp. Now she wished she’d let Lavinia hide it under the floorboards with the rest of the jewelry. There wasn’t time to go back upstairs, though. Her eyes darted around the parlor—taking in the pedestal table, the space where her portrait had hung and the mantle. She’d hide the ring in her and Forrest’s special place, she thought, her heart pounding when she knelt, her heavy white skirts cushioning her knees as she twisted the ring from her finger. Oh, please, be safe here, she thought, slipping the ring into the hiding place. Then she wrenched as Lavinia’s voice sounded again. “Hurry!”
She ran then, nearly tripping on the hem of the dress, her heart lurching as she reached the back door. Howling wind caught the edge of the door, nearly tearing it from its hinges. Her finger felt bare now, bereft of the symbol of Forrest’s love, but there was no time to think about it because the door slammed against the house, and Lavinia’s taper flickered out.
Thunderclouds raced across the moon as Lavinia pocketed the candle and whispered, “This night’s the devil’s handiwork, missy.”
Shuddering, Marissa took in the shadowy shapes riding like phantom demons across the sky. There were skulls and crossbones. Angry steeds. Lavinia wasn’t lying. She dealt in herbs and voodoo and was known to have premonitions. Marissa grasped her hand and stepped onto the lawn, her head bent against the onslaught of wind and rain. The temperature had dropped, the heat of the day giving way to cooling northern winds blowing in from the sea. It was hard to run in the gown, but Marissa dodged trees in the yard, the soupy mud sucking at her slippers. Stumbling, she could barely make out the ancient moss-hung cypress trees at the edge of the swamp.
Something snagged her dress and a cry tore from her throat as satin ripped away. Her sisters—all accomplished seamstresses—had insisted on making the gown, and now it was going to be ruined. They’d made so many plans that seemed silly now, never imagining war could touch their lives.
A jagged finger of lightning illuminated the swamp, and Marissa saw Lavinia once more, a tiny firecracker of a woman with skin the shiny red color of glazed clay pottery. Beyond was the Benchley plantation, not that the Benchleys had offered assistance, even though their land was on higher, dryer ground. Men were on the shell road now, and soon they’d be in the house. Once there, they’d see remnants of dinner, and know people were hiding somewhere. Armoires would disclose the inhabitants had been women and, soon, hungry men would be in the yard, hunting for her and Lavinia.
“Get in the water, Miss Marissa!”
“Grab these roots, Lavinia,” Marissa returned as a torch flared, the fingers of pale, delicate hands gripping the mangled claws of cypress roots, just as a gust lifted her skirt and her feet, which almost left the ground. Lavinia snatch the skirt, to steady them both, right before Marissa plunged into the pulsing swirl of black waters. Madness, she thought as Lavinia followed into the icy water. Another torch flared, then Marissa heard a male voice from far off, the words unclear, but gruff, making her swoon because she’d heard what vagabond soldiers did to women. Downwind, the waters fed salt marshes, then tidewaters that met the Atlantic, and now, as she sank into the pull of currents, spiders seemed to climb the ladder of her spine; her body shook as she imagined gators circling beneath her, and she wished her gown wasn’t ballooning and deflating as the white skirts became soaked.
“Who’s out there?” came a Yankee shout, traveling on the wind. “I saw you run! Show yourselves!”
Lavinia grasped Marissa’s shoulder in assurance, but when the sky lit up again, men on horses fanned across the yard…men whose faces were no longer shadows, but rather, clearly defined, made hard by a war in which they’d seen too much killing.
The heavy winds whipped up, lifting twigs and sending them spinning, and suddenly, the hand on her shoulder was gone—simply gone! Marissa’s own hand was almost ripped from the cypress root. She gasped, and when lightning cracked again, she realized the other woman really was gone! Lavinia! Had she really lost her hold, been swept away? Was that her head bobbing in the water? A hand waving? Or just tricks of Marissa’s imagination? Marissa wrenched once more, and in another lightning flash saw…Forrest?
She felt faint. Her wet corset clung to her ribs, stealing her breath. Surely, it was her imagination, but now she saw Forrest running along the shell drive, coming toward the Yankees in the yard. Had he lost his mind? No…like her, he was in love. He was searching for her, but if she called out, they’d both be killed.
Yankees were in the house now. A taper flared in a window. Oh, how she hated those men who were defiling the home of her beloved, where she was meant to experience the passion that women only spoke about in hushed tones, behind closed
