To escape to the backwoods cabin had been a simple matter. Father O’Connor’s man had been thorough, leaving a veritable feast, and surprising Rachel for times were hard. Inside the basket, Rachel had plucked out a smoked ham, oat bread, apple pie, cheese, and a jar of peaches. Apparently, invoking the Saint’s name had come with prominence.
“I think I could eat solidly for a week,” she said, licking apple pie from her fingers, and keeping the conversation light, knowing they had important issues to discuss.
The single-room cabin was cozy and surrounded by abandoned beehives. A taint of sweet honey tinged the air and the scratch of squirrels crawled through dead leaves beneath. To her delight, a copper tub lay upright against the corner, and with Lucas’ help, she dragged it down. Water steamed from an iron kettle over the crackle of wood fire, and her limbs tingled with the prospect of soaking in a hot bath. Her arms went slack.
The wedding.Oh, how she had gone along with the ruse to fool the Rebs. To toy with madness was one thing; when the madness toyed back, and the nuptials proved to be authentic, she had nearly lost her mind.
She sank on a rickety bench, clasped her hands together and stared at the large ring Lucas had placed on her finger. Heavy and awkward, she twirled the band admiring the artfully carved lustrous gold with ruby center, reflecting warm and brilliant in the firelight. She clasped her palm to her chest.They were truly married.
Her vision blurred. The wedding was nowhere near what a girl dreamed about; flung over Lucas’ shoulder was not a conventional courtship, more like the way his primeval ancestor might have done, dragging his bride into a jungle. Neither listening to the ribald conversation of Rebel soldiers, not what a lady would hear, and with certainty would make her mother in heaven swoon.
With somber curiosity, her gaze followed to where his head was bent, studying the fire as if he, too, were weighing their vows. No doubt, he was scrambling to reverse events. Her bruised heart jolted as a pang pierced it through.
There would be nothing she’d like better than to be married to Lucas—if he loved her, and how easy for her to love him back. How she wanted him to reassure her. How many times had she fantasized about kissing him, smelling his hair, the touch of his breath on her face…his hands on her? She wiped her damp palms on her skirts. A longing grew like she’d never felt before. She shook her head.
Do not leave yourself open for that kind of hurt, Rachel.
The marriage existed as a farce, the Saint’s greatest role to fool a Confederate audience. The fiasco wasn’t Lucas’ fault. He’d strove to keep them from getting their necks stretched.
The night, like the cabin closed in. The wind blew, scraping branches against worn outside shingles, and whistling drafts through the cracks in the wall. Rachel pushed off, anxious to escape Lucas’ withdrawal, and the suffocating silence between them. There was a slight give of a rotten floorboard beneath her step, causing a mouse to shoot out and exit a hole in the corner.
She strung a rope across the middle of the room and draped a threadbare sheet across the line, satisfied her privacy was guaranteed. Lucas stirred, emptied the kettles of hot water into the tub and taking a bite of apple, chewed, and then wiped the juices on his pants before returning to his wobbly stool.
She stood on tiptoes and glanced over the line. “No peeking,” she insisted in an unsteady voice and hooked a dented lantern on a rusty hook.
He arched his brow in that all-knowing attitude that set her teeth on edge. “I’m a gentleman.”
The way he said it made Rachel’s bared toes curl against the cold wood planks. She glanced over the line again, satisfied he busied himself, whittling. The draw of a steaming bath overcame her misgivings about disrobing in the same room. She shrugged. Hadn’t she undressed in the hearse when she rescued him? That was different.
Rachel reached behind her and unbuttoned her dress, sliding the fabric from her shoulders where it settled on the floor in a soft swish.
“Need I remind you, this was your decision? You’re the one who insisted on Father O’Connor’s safe house. You’ll have to live with the consequences.”
She ripped at the laces of her corset, Lucas’ words as scouring as the scrape of his knife against the wood. “You can’t outwit fate by standing on the sidelines placing little side bets about the outcome. Either you jump in, take the risks, or don’t play at all,” she told him.
Lucas grunted.
If Rachel had learned anything from her undercover work, it was that those who seized the offensive typically held the high ground. “May I point out, my decision was made on the heels of your fool judgement of insisting on the train.” Rachel dropped her corset, took a breath, and paused before peeling off her chemise and exposing her breasts to the chilly air.
“Well…” If a voice could convey a shrug, Lucas’ did so. “After the events of the last few days, you know, and I know, that we’ve already taken the first steps down a joint path.”
Rachel stood behind the sheet, naked and shivering, her arms wrapped around herself as she took in Lucas’ words. She barely noticed her nakedness, as it was her insides that seemed so entirely exposed and vulnerable.
Woodchips hit the floor. “In terms of making decisions, we’ve already made ours—you yours, me mine.”
She kicked her mud-caked dress that the farmer’s wife had attempted to clean across the floor, stepped into the tub, and lowering herself, sighed as the water rose to her shoulders.
“Still, between individuals like us, there is a need for a proper yes or no, a simple, clear answer to a simple, clear question,” he said.
She picked up a bar of soap that smelled like honey and rosemary and began to vigorously scrub. “To my estimation, our marriage is not legitimate,” Rachel said, allowing the hot water and honeyed soap to soothe the chill and the aches from her stiff muscles.
Lucas’ rude snort echoed off the splintery walls, amplifying his contempt.
“You don’t want the marriage any more than I do, Lucas.” She regretted the words the moment she spoke. But she had to. She didn’t want Lucas commanded by his sense of honor to be obligated to a marriage he did not want. “We’ll get an annulment.”
In answer, she heard Lucas hurl a block of wood on the fire and imagined red cinders flashing up the chimney. She skimmed her hand across the still water, pricking her fingertips and an unexpected wave of sorrow gripped her.
“You find the idea, distasteful?” he asked.
