Scarlet Leaves Read online

  Scarlet Leaves

  Sonya Birmingham

  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR SONYA BIRMINGHAM

  Winner Of The Colorado Romance Writers Award Of Excellence.

  FROST FLOWER

  "Frost Flower is sure to steal your heart!"

  Romantic Times

  ALMOST A LADY

  "It took a fine stroke of genius to create such wonderful characters and bring them to life!"

  Rendezvous

  RENEGADE LADY

  "Sonya Birmingham captures the backwoods flavor with absolute perfection!"

  Affaire de Coeur

  "Sonya Birmingham is talented in the clever use of contrast. Her love scenes are tender, passionate, and sometimes exotic, teasing, and tantalizing!"

  Rendezvous

  SPITFIRE

  "Sonya Birmingham is a winning new talent!"

  Romantic Times

  "A Brilliant story! 4+"

  Rendezvous

  A Bittersweet Kiss

  Soft, tender feelings overcame Silky, and like a rose being torn apart by the wind, she almost surrendered to Taggart. But gradually her rational mind gained control of her desire and she realized her curiosity had gotten her into this predicament. She'd bargained for a kiss, but was getting much moremore than she could handle and still look him in the eye. Surely he would think she was an easy conquest if she didn't put a stop to the lovemaking right now. With fluttering lashes, she opened her eyes and eased away from Taggart, her skin still glowing from his hands.

  Her fingers quaking, she pulled her gown into place and met his searching gaze, realizing she'd almost lost control of herself. Now standing at arm's length from him, she surveyed his tense face, which seemed all harsh planes and angles. For a moment she glimpsed the fire within him; then she sensed he was also reining in his emotions.

  This time she'd managed to dredge up enough discipline to save her virginity, but truth be told, she still hungered desperately for his touch. She'd saved herself this time, she realized, still light-headed from the fiery kiss ...but what about next time?

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A LEISURE BOOK

  October 1996

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  276 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10001

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  Copyright © 1996 by Sonya Birmingham

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Scarlet Leaves is dedicated to my husband, Milt Birmingham,who patiently listened to me talk almost nonstop about the Civil War as I wrote the book. A gallant Southern gentleman, he has given me immeasurable love and support while I lived through the years from Fort Sumter to Appomattox Courthouse. Exhibiting the chivalry of Robert E. Lee, the tenacity of Stonewall Jackson, and the raw nerve of John Singleton Mosby, he stood up under an unrelenting barrage of adjectives, adverbs, and superlatives. Like Silky Shanahan, his war is now over and a blessed peace has settled upon the land, not to mention his battered ears. As Nathan Bedford Forrest said, he will always be the "firstest with the mostest."

  A heartfelt thanks to my amazing mother,Cordie Tucker, whose lively wit and colorful imagination are a constant source of inspiration.

  Roses to the fantastic staff of the Burleson, Texas, Public Library, who for have tracked down and obtained all those much needed historical research books, matter how obscure.

  Author's Note

  By the end of the Civil War, Union spymaster General George H. Sharpe had placed two hundred intelligence agents throughout the South, sending them into service with small fortunes in bogus Confederate money to aid their work. Coded telegraphic messages routinely flew across the lines, often unknowingly keyed in by operators who had no idea what they really contained.

  In Scarlet Leaves, the character of Caroline Willmott was suggested by the famous Union agent Elizabeth Van Lew, acknowledged to be one of the greatest female spies of all time. Before her death, she became destitute and was supported by the ex-slaves she had freed and educated, and by donations from Union soldiers she had helped.

  Upon entering Richmond, the Union forces restored order and brought the fires under control. Lee and a remnant of his army rode west, hoping to unite with Johnston for a last stand. In a final burst of glory, the starving Southern forces made a lionhearted charge in an effort to cut through Grant's lines and reach the mountains of Virgina. The Union was partially driven back, but in the end, the North's superior numbers and firepower took the day.

  Dignified and regal, and dressed in an immaculate gray uniform, Lee met Grant at Appomattox Courthouse on April 9, 1865, and received the generous terms of surrender that Lincoln wanted. Grant later reported that rather than rejoicing in Lee's surrender, he was disheartened at the defeat of a foe who had fought so long and valiantly and lost so much. After four bloody years, the battle flags were furled, the muskets were silenced, and peace once again reigned over a united America, just bursting into spring blossom.

  Chapter One

  The Blue Ridge Mountains

  Early October, 1864

  ''Lordamercy," Silky Shanahun whispered to her cousin Charlie, pulling him down behind a clot of thick laurel bushes. "There's a buck-naked man over yonder taking a bath in old man Johnson's pond!"

  Never in all of her nineteen years had Silky witnessed anything like the riveting sight before her, and she carefully peeked through the leaves at the handsome, black-haired stranger a mere fifteen yards distant. Hot blood stung her cheeks at her first glimpse of a nude male, and inside, a wild sensation flared up, thrilling and frightening at the same time.

  Illuminated by the rosy sunset, the tall, well-built man whistled as he splashed water over his muscled arms, obviously unaware of his secret observers. His clothes were draped over a log at the side of the pond while his horse, one of the finest mares Silky had ever seen, cropped grass, her reins loosely tied to a sapling.

  When Silky had set out squirrel hunting this pleasant October afternoon, she'd never expected this. She and Charlie had just called it a day when she'd spotted the man. Now, dry leaves crackling beneath her, she scrunched on her stomach so the stranger wouldn't see her.

  Fourteen-year-old Charlie, his freckled face alight with curiosity, pulled down his Confederate cap and scooted to her side. "Do you think he's ours or theirs?" he asked, echoing Silky's own thoughts.

  "I don't know. That's what I'm trying to find out."

  With the war raging, every able-bodied male in Sweet Gu
m Hollow had joined the Confederacy, leaving only feeble grandfathers and skinny boys like Charlie in this part of Virginia, so she hadn't seen such a fine specimen of manhood in years.

  His broad, thickly haired chest lathered, the stranger turned about, presenting a view of his firm backside and slim hips. Letting her gaze move upward, Silky considered his haircut, then swallowed hard. This wasn't just any stranger, she suddenly decidedthis good-looking man was the enemy!

  With a soft chuckle, she elbowed her cousin in the ribs. "I think the good Lord has just given us the opportunity to participate in the war," she murmured, clutching the stock of her 1ong-barreled rifle. "I'd bet my last Confederate dollar that's a Yankee we're looking at."

  The redheaded boy squinted at the man. "Lordy ... you can tell he's a Yankee buzzard by just lookin' at his backside?"

  Silky pulled in a breath of pine-scented air, thinking that sometimes Charlie stretched the bonds of kinship to the limits. "No, of course not."

  The stranger turned around, facing them as he lathered his legs.

  "Look at his hair," she advised in a low voice. "Most of our soldiers lop off their own. That's a high-dollar barbershop haircut if I ever saw one." She nodded in the man's direction. ''And that fancy mustache of his has a peculiar droop to it."

  "That ain't all that's droopin'," Charlie replied with a dry chuckle. "That water must be a mite chilly, but not as cold as it's gonna be a couple of weeks from now when the weather starts turnin'."

  Silky, knowing a haircut wasn't enough to go on, studied the man's mare. "Take a gander at that fine piece of horseflesh," she ordered, surveying the grazing animal. "lf I'm not mistaken, that's a U.S. Army saddle on that mare."

  With a thoughtful frown, her cousin obeyed, then glanced at the stranger's discarded clothes. "Maybe so, but I don't see no Yankee uniform on that log."

  "The man's probably a Union scout. Sometimes they don't wear uniforms."

  "He might be just another drummer up from the flatlands," the boy proposed hopefully.

  Silky considered the stranger's fine, high boots that he'd discarded near the log. "I don't think so. A drummer hasn't been through this neck of the woods since the war started. And I never saw a drummer wearing boots like that." She refocused on the man's magnificent body. No, this was no drummer, not this man, who positively radiated an air of vitality and confidence. She gave her floppy mountain hat a decisive tug. "I expect he's a Yankee, all right, and we're going to capture him."

  "Capture him?" Charlie blurted out a little too loudly.

  The soft wind had been covering their voices, but the stranger stopped bathing and, instantly alert, scanned the bushes.

  "Now you've done it." Silky groaned, clasping the boy's arm. "We'll have to do something right away or he'll be moving on quicker than a snake through a hollow log."

  Charlie widened his eyes. "I don't know about this. I"

  She clapped her hand over his mouth. "Are we going lay here jabbering, or get up and capture the rascal like the good Confederates we are?"

  He pushed her hand away. "Land o' livin' "he moaned"what'll we do with him if we catch him?"

  Silky knew there was a home guard in the hollow, but most of the men were so old and feeble they might let him get away, while the others were mean as striped snakes and would kill him before he could be properly questioned. "We'll put him up in the smokehouse," she answered easily. "We'll keep him locked up until a regular Confederate column comes through, then turn him in."

  Charlie's lips trembled. "I-I've never taken a prisoner of war before."

  "When I holler 'now,' " Silky commanded, giving his shoulder a little shake, "just stand up, point your rifle at him, and follow me. You can do that, can't you?"

  For a moment her own courage wilted; then she remembered her brother, Daniel, soldiering with one of General Joe Johnston's regiments. With all he'd given to the Cause, how could she flinch from capturing one Yankeeespecially when she'd literally caught him with his pants down? Why, it was her honor-bound duty to take the rogue in!

  Her heart slamming against her ribs, she rose, cried "Now!" and started running. At the same time Charlie shot up and, making a great thrashing sound against the bushes, trailed her flying heels.

  The startled bather dropped his soap in astonishment as Silky rushed toward him. An oath tumbling from the man's mouth, he moved toward dry land, but she cried, "Freeze, stranger, or you'll be shaking hands with eternity." She zinged a shot over his head to stop him. "Get your hands up and keep 'em up. I'm taking you prisoner of war!"

  The man turned and raised his hands, his rakish grin saying he couldn't believe what had just happened. "Oh, you are?" he replied in a low, raspy voice. "Would you mind telling me why?"

  Surprisingly flushed and weak kneed, Silky gazed at his sapphire eyes and flashing smile. Besides an abundance of crisp, black hair, he'd been blessed with a chiseled nose, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. Lord, Yankee or not, he was the handsomest devil she'd ever clapped eyes on, and for some strange reason, every nerve in her body tingled with anticipation. "Because you're a Yankee, that's why," she answered loud and clear. "If you aren't aware of it, there's a war going on and you're the enemy."

  The words you're the enemy lingered in the air as Major Matt Taggart of the Army of the Potomac surveyed the unlikely pair. A cool breeze played against his wet skin, and he repressed an urge to groan and laugh at the same time. After slipping into Virginia by way of the Blue Ridge to avoid detection, the Union intelligence officer had just reached what he'd thought was a totally isolated area where he could rest and bathe. Now, ironically, he'd been abducted by a feisty mountain girl and a gangly boy with a cowlick poking from beneath his cap.

  Over his first shock, Taggart let his gaze skip over the girl once more, and decided he'd never seen a more tempting example of Southern womanhood. Garbed in boots and snug buckskins, her soft curves had snagged his attention at first glance, but it was her creamy skin, sparkling green eyes, and cloud of auburn hair under a battered hat that now held his attention.

  "Look here, Fancy Pants," he said expansively, noticing the dangling fringe on her buckskin breeches. "You've got it all wrong. Why, I was born and bred in the South."

  "You don't sound like any Southerner I ever heard."

  "Good God Almighty, woman," he said, realizing she was nobody's fool. "Who in the blue blazes are you, anyway?"

  Silky lifted her chin a bit higher. "My first name is Silky and my last name is Shanaban." Her eyes on Taggart, she tilted her head toward her cousin, who clenched his rifle so tightly his knuckles had turned white. "This is my cousin, Charles Lynchfield McIntire, but the home folks just call him Charlie."

  Taggart noticed the cool, slick pond bottom against the soles of his feet as he eased into the deeper water, covering up his vital areas. "If you'll permit me?" he asked, purposefully sending her his best smile. "I've always felt even a prisoner of war should be accorded some measure of dignity. You being a lady and all ... "

  Silky gave him a measured glance. "Don't be thinking you can smooth-talk your way out of this situation because I'm a girl, Yankee. There aren't any womanly curves on my trigger finger."

  Taggart edged toward his clothes, only to hear two bullets whiz past his ear and explode into the log. With an astonished blink, he saw the log had been splintered and his belongings bounced on the grass. Jerking about, he noticed a mischievous grin race over Silky's lips.

  "Seems we're not speaking the same language, stranger. I think I'll let this Henry repeating rifle do the talking for me," she said saucily. "I can load it on Sunday and shoot all week."

  "I thought I'd put on my clothes. I"

  "I'll tell you when you can put on your clothes, Yankee." Irritation raced through Taggart's veins like wildfire. At first the situation had surprised him, then amused himbut Lord Almighty, no woman told him when he could put on his own pants, no matter how fetching she was. "Now look here, you spitfire," he announced, narrowing his eyes at
her. "I'm coming out of this pond, I'm putting on my pants, and I'm riding out of here." He jabbed a finger at her. ''Do you understand that?"

  Silky blasted three more shots into the pond, spewing water over him. "Move again and you'll be pumping thunder in hell at three cents a clap," she promised evenly.

  Damn, the little heller was crazy. Crazy as a Confederate bedbug and determined to take him in! Stealing a swift glance at the boy who'd calmed down enough to hold the rifle without shaking, he realized that he wouldn't get any help from him either. No, this pair wouldn't be bullied into letting him out of the pond, so he'd have to change his battle plan. The only way through this situation was brazen charmsomething all the ladies in Ohio told him he possessed in abundance.

  Silky, her demeanor all business, studied him like a suspicious hawk. "What's your name and what's your company, Yankee?"

  "My name is Matt Taggart," he answered in a warm, charming voice, "but I'm not a Yankee. I'm a Confederatea lieutenant in the Forty-third Virginia Cavalry," he announced, making up the first thing that came to his mind. "I'm on extended compassionate leave. I've been taking care of my widowed aunt in the Shenandoah."

  "The Shenandoah? That devil Sheridan is burning the Valley."

  Taggart held a forced grin. "That's why I was there. The Union fired my aunt's farmhouse and I've been helping her relocate. I'm just taking a shortcut through this gap to get back to my company on the Rappahannock River."

  She glanced at his clothes, then back at him. "Where's your uniform, then?"

  He smiled, relieved he had a good answer for her. "As you know, the Yankees make frequent raids on the Shenandoah," he explained with a chuckle, "so I thought it might be a good idea not to wear one." To his dismay, Taggart noted that her suspicious gleam hadn't wavered one iota.

  "How do you explain that saddle your mare is wearing?" She sniffed loftily. "It looks like U.S. government issue."