He ignored her mockery. “The thought has crossed my mind.”
“Like walking downstairs to get to heaven.” And because she had to know, she asked, “And your family?”
“The greatest of all costs,” he said, the sharpness in his voice betraying his unwillingness to discuss the matter further. Yet there had been a flash in his eyes, too complex to indicate a particular sentiment. Anger? Hurt? Despair?
What was it that drove him to be head of Civilian Spying when his family’s sympathies lay with the South? To go up against his family must have been a difficult decision. Did rejection spur his desire to succeed? Might there be more to Colonel Rourke than pride, promotion and career?
He meandered about the room, taking in the disregarded, overlooked, and ignored furnishings—brown plaster on the ceiling from water damage, a stretch of drooping wallpaper, a chipped marble washstand, worn expensive area rugs, bricks in the fireplace that lacked mortar, and scuffed wainscoting. “You did not finish how you arrived in the venture of espionage,” he said.
She smoothed her skirts, inclined to point out that he was the one who had changed the subject. Regardless of his belligerent mien, she needed someone to communicate with as much as the air she breathed. “Of course, the Confederacy espoused that their ideology was far superior. When the mess over Fort Sumter occurred, nobody cared whether it was a constitutional right they were exercising, or an act of revolution. In the delirium of the hour, reason was silent, and passion prevailed. The people of Virginia could barely suppress the war cry, ‘To arms!’ they all shouted, and their hubris resounded throughout the land. So then came secession and the boilerplate of war. The chaos freed me to begin my activities with the Saint.”
Rachel had emerged as the notorious Saint. Dressed in a multitude of disguises, the Saint’s destinations pinpointed army camps near sites of military importance, crossroads settlements, and small towns filled with new recruits.
Sometimes she had set out as a humble civilian, an Irish peddler of notions clothed in a butternut suit, a broad-brimmed hat, beard with a stick and pack over her shoulder. To everyone she met, she played the part of a moron salesman, a contrived fool of nature. Other times, she adopted the costume of a slave or ancient prostitute.
She developed a vast underground network of slaves, abolitionists and others sympathetic to the Union. Notes were sent northward by folding them lengthwise and stuffing them into the craw of a chicken, boot heels or emptied eggs carried by an innocent farmwife or slave. Her genius was infinite.
If she was ever suspect, she had a back-up plan to escape to Washington where she kept a home.
“What type of activities?” Colonel Rourke prompted her out of her silence.
To give him a little information seemed plausible. “Once, I learned a much larger submarine had approached near completion at the Tredegar Iron Works. Of course, Captain Stanton was delighted to escort me there, attuned to my every desire. At Tredegar, he pointed out equipment and devices, and I listened and permitted myself a few questions. After I feigned a headache, the good captain escorted me home where I spent two whole days in seclusion. I labored over notes and sketches, putting down everything I committed to memory. I included the trivial or important sounding, what was clear or vaguely understood. Despite my lack of engineering background, I have been congratulated on my detailed specifications.”
Colonel Rourke strode across the room, towered over her. “The Saint has overused you, and your idea that a lone woman can abolish slavery for the South is foolishly mistaken.”
“Then wallow in your ignorance!”
He scoffed. “My intentions are honorable and meant to keep you out of harm’s way…I do not encourage the use of young unprotected women. For that, I consider the Saint the worst of scoundrels.”
“You never know when the Saint will be listening,” she taunted.
“You are confident of that, are you?” He glanced at the wall, separating their rooms.
“Yes.”
Their gazes locked, his guarded, always mindful of impending danger.
“Am I to assume he is in the bedroom next to mine?”
It was her room, and he knew it. If he believed she slept with the fictitious Saint, then so be it. What end would it serve to supply him with her innocence when her identity needed to be protected?
“Perhaps.”
She cringed beneath his hot scrutiny. For once, she did not want to engage in the role she played. But she’d have to provide him with the truth instead of allowing him to think her…a harlot.
“You don’t have any fears, do you?”
She clenched her hands into fists. Her nails bit into her palms as she translated his words…you don’t have any morals, do you?The fool. He did not realize his greatest asset was right in front of him. His greatest ally was her.
She forced a coolness in her voice. “I fear drowning. I fear fire. It haunts me sometimes. Do you have any fears, Colonel Rourke?”
His cobalt eyes bored into her. “Not being able to protect the people working under me.”
She rose, stood her ground. “I suppose you have no flaws?”
“There are times, I think before I act. You’re flawed because of your undying loyalty to the Saint.”
The mockery in his voice set her teeth on edge.Stubborn, arrogant man.“Are you jealous?”
