“Screw this,” she muttered.
When she started to turn away from the voice, it seemed as if a huge black shadow rushed up behind her, pushing her. She stretched her hands out instinctively, trying to keep from falling, and touched something that felt like rusting metal. She heard a screeching sound as the metal gave against the pressure of her hands, and she stumbled.
Then…
Another push.
And then she screamed, because she was falling….
The Flynn Plantation
1863
Brendan Flynn had returned from the delivery of a prisoner of war to Beast Butler’s headquarters in New Orleans, though he had never actually seen the infamous general.
Bill Harvey, a no-account drifter who had fit well into the army—if being mean, vicious and even sadistic added up to being a good soldier—had been lounging outside when he arrived.
“Hey, Flynn.”
“Bill,” Brendan had muttered, reaching to open the door to the plantation house where Butler had made his headquarters.
“You know the rule, right?”
Bill Harvey was grinning ear to ear with licentious pleasure, which was always a bad sign.
“What are you talking about, Bill?”
Bill’s grin deepened, if that were possible. “Why, you know what General Butler said about these women, spitting at us soldiers and all. If they spit, if they’re nasty, well, then, they’re just whores, and we can treat ’em like the whores they are. And that gal living up in the Flynn place…she’s the nastiest bitch of all.”
“Fiona?” He was honestly puzzled at first. Fiona’s upbringing had ensured that she would never be anything but polite on any occasion. And he’d warned her never to go near the Union soldiers. The property hadn’t been confiscated, because he would inherit it, should Sloan be killed in the war. He had made it clear—precisely to avoid anyone trying to confiscate the house, at least—that he had staked his claim.
“Uh-huh. A few of us fellows were out along the river last week, looking for food. And she was nasty as hell,” Bill said.
Brendan took a step closer, then struck, his fingers closing like a vise around Bill’s throat, pinning him against the column where he’d been lounging just seconds before. Bill squawked and wriggled, but he was no match for Brendan, and he knew it. “What the hell? You’ll face a court-martial for this!” he gasped.
“What did you do to her?” Brendan demanded.
“Nothing! Nothing, I swear!” Bill’s face was turning red. Other soldiers had gathered around, but they just stared. Bill was an ass, not well liked. And most of the men were sickened by the cruelty that had been shown to their conquered brothers—and sisters.
“It’s Victor Grebbe…. He took off this afternoon with…Art Binion.”
Brendan released the other man. “How long ago?” he demanded.
Bill started rubbing his throat. His face was still red. “Fuck you, Flynn—” he began.
Brendan had him pressed against the column again in seconds.
“Thirty minutes,” Bill gasped.
Brendan swore. He could do something about the situation through the proper channels. But proper channels wouldn’t save Fiona.
Or his cousin’s infant son.
Brendan forgot all about the prisoner waiting to be handed over, turned on his heel and headed straight back for his horse. Mercury had been bred on the family plantation, just like Sloan’s faithful Pegasus. Poor damned horse. He had to be exhausted. But Brendan kneed him hard, racing down the street and out to where the roads turned bad and rutted, where they’d been worn down by too many horses and too many men.
Worn down by too much war.
Damn the war, damn the death. Damn the circumstance that allowed men to forget right and wrong, mercy and humanity.
The skin at his nape prickled. He’d heard things about Victor Grebbe. Heard that he had a sick thing for women, and that some who’d gone with him hadn’t been seen since.
It was a long, hard ride out to the plantation. He urged his horse on, hoping he could overtake the men bent on abusing their power, men bent on rape and maybe even murder, but they had too much of a head start, and no doubt fresh horses, besides.
And then, finally, it was there, ahead of him. From a distance the house looked as quiet and gentle as his family had once been. Until the war.
War was about causes, about territory.
But this? This was personal.
As he raced along the oak-lined drive, there was but one thought in his mind.
Fiona.
He arrived just in time to see her plummeting from the balcony. He heard her scream, and he saw the enemy, a Confederate soldier, in the yard. The Reb fired at the balcony, screaming in raw fury, a Rebel yell like nothing Brendan had ever heard. The shot exploded in the beautiful stillness of the spring day, and Brendan did what any man would do.
He drew his weapon.
And he fired on the enemy.
It was only when the enemy turned, mortally wounded, to shoot in return, that he saw who was wearing the butternut and gray.