Beguiled: Beguiled, #1

By Paisley Smith

The Civil War has torn Isabelle Holloway’s world apart, and now she has little help to manage her vast Georgia plantation. But when the Union Army leaves a brash Yankee Zouave behind, Isabelle is inexplicably moved to nurse this gravely wounded, startlingly beguiling soldier. Alice O’Malley wants nothing more than to recover from her injuries, don her male attire, and rejoin the Federal Army. But after the alluring Southern Belle discovers her true identity, their clash of wills soon transforms into passion-filled nights in each other’s arms. Alice has been in love with a woman before, and fears risking everything for her enemy lover. As war returns to Isabelle’s doorstep, Alice discovers the wounds of the heart are far more vital to heal than the wounds of the flesh. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paisley Smith
• Release date: Oct 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519956095

Book preview

Beguiled

by

Paisley Smith

www.PaisleySmith.net

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or shared.

Copyright © 2014 Paisley Smith. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

Cover design by Tricia Pickyme Schmitt.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the servicewomen of the US military, both past and present.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank my fellow authors, Titania Ladley and Naima Simone, for their help and suggestions in bringing Alice and Isabelle to life.

I’d also like to extend my gratitude to plantation-life historian, Amy Batton, and military historian, Heath Mathews, for sharing their invaluable historical knowledge and research with me.

Chapter One

Throughout the endless, hot summer of 1864, Isabelle Ryan Holloway had watched her entire world crumble around her like the parched, red Georgia clay.

Her heart plummeted to the toes of her well-worn shoes as she, her mother, Caroline, brother, Grayson, and Uncle Hewlett, the grizzled old manservant who’d attended her father until his death, walked up from the servants’ quarters to take back possession of her house.

They’ve cut down every tree, she cried. A jagged stump remained where an oak once stood her father had planted as a boy.

They used them for firewood, Uncle Hewlett murmured. Some of the chairs, too.

Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut against the sight of the charred remains of one of her dining room chairs her Grandmother Ryan had imported from England.

How many happy, carefree meals had her family shared, seated on those very chairs, when her father and grandparents still lived?

It was as if those chairs represented a different time. A time before war had come to Georgia, before the Yankees had come winding up the drive at Clover Bottom, like a writhing snake, poised to strike. Soldiers on foot, on horseback. Wagon after wagon—all filled with wounded.

She’d faced the Federals down, pitchfork in hand, but in the end, she’d had little other choice than to acquiesce, and give them the house to use as a hospital, or risk losing it to their torches.

There’d been so many men. So many blue coats interspersed with the less common, colorful Yankee Zouave uniforms. And if, on that fateful day, they’d charged her, there hadn’t been much she could have done other than add a couple more wounded to their number. Further resistance had been futile.

Smoke, acrid and ominous, curled up from the burnt remains of her memories. She covered her mouth with her fingertips to suppress a sob.

What other treasures had the Yankees destroyed to fuel their campfires?

Isabelle shook. She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to face this. Every fiber of her being longed to twist time backward, to return to that guileless young bride she’d been three years ago.

Had it only been three years? It seemed a lifetime.

Then, her only concerns had been building her trousseau, and fretting about the wedding night. She’d looked forward to parties, to church picnics, to beginning her life as a dutiful wife to a man as equally ingenuous as she had been.

Two years ago, she’d never given a thought to managing a plantation. Her father had done all that, or rather, he’d hired, or bought men to do all that. Isabelle had been doted on by a houseful of servants and had lived a life filled with easy grandeur, and charming male suitors—until Dalton Holloway had come along.

But hotheaded men had changed all that. Phrases such as states’ rights, taxation without representation, and abolition had become commonplace at every gathering. The men had been eager to fight, eager to seek independence, to prove themselves the physical, intellectual, and financial superiors to their northern counterparts.

When war finally came, Isabelle had married Dalton in a ceremony that happened so quickly it’d made her head spin. Her wedding night had been an awful thing. Rushed. Filled with pain and shame. No one had prepared her for the horror of the things she’d endured that night. Dalton, it seemed, had transformed into a brutish animal. Sweating. Grunting. And when he’d finally rolled off her, he’d fallen asleep while Isabelle had silently shed tears to the raucous sound of his snoring.

The very next day, unable to face her family, Isabelle had watched from her bedroom window as Dalton rode off to defend the newly formed Confederacy, his horse rearing as he waved his ostrich-plumed hat in the air, war-whooping with all the other eager Georgia volunteers.

Since that day, a good many of those volunteers had found graves on their proving ground. None of them could have ever foreseen the fierce determination of Lincoln and the North to preserve the Union.

Year after year, day after day, the Confederate Army gave up inches, yards, miles of land. They paid with their blood and their lives while Georgia waited, praying for a victory. But like a swiftly moving thunderhead, the boom of cannons, and the retort of rifles had grown increasingly nearer. And for two days, the big guns shook the earth while locals cowered in their root cellars, desperately hoping for a Confederate victory, waiting endless, hot and humid hours for news from the front.

Until the cannons stopped.

Until the Federals swarmed the little railroad town of Lovejoy’s Station, descending on them like a horde of locusts.

What’s that? Grayson asked, his horror-stricken stare trained on a heap near one of the windows.

Flies swarmed the pile. Isabelle squinted as her vision focused on a bloody arm, a foot, a mangled hand. Severed limbs. God in heaven… Horror seized her. She blinked, trying to obliterate the image, but when she closed her eyes, it was as if the awful mound had been indelibly imprinted on her brain.

Bile rose, and shaking, she dropped to her knees on the barren lawn and retched.

Covering his nose and mouth with his hand, Grayson approached the pile.

They used the front bedroom for a surgery, Uncle Hewlett said.

Isabelle shook her head. She ached to curl into a ball, to make this all go away. She didn’t have that luxury. Wearily, she wiped her mouth with her apron, and allowed Uncle Hewlett to help her to her feet. She straightened and swiped one damp, trembling hand down the front of her threadbare day dress.

She wanted to scream until her throat was raw. She clenched her fists so hard at her sides, her nails bit into her palms. Desperation seized hold of her, and she battled the overwhelming urge to flee. But there was nowhere to run and no one to run to. She ached for Dalton to come swooping in to rescue her, but she hadn’t heard from him in months.

It was up to her to save her charges, to do whatever it took to keep the roof over their heads for as long as she could.

She blinked and in her mind, saw Clover Bottom as it had been before the war. Stately. Grand. One of the finest cotton plantations in Clayton County. Now, the paint flecked off the whitewashed brick walls and columns adorning the front veranda. Weeds crept up from between the pavers. One of the chimneys was in desperate need of repair. Two broken windows had been boarded up with no hope of getting any glass to replace the shattered panes.

Her father’s prized pea-fowl, that had once graced the lawn, had disappeared, doubtless eaten by the heathen Yankees. The horses and mules had long ago been pressed into service. And before the Yankees had come, all of the field hands had marched away with the beleaguered Confederates, forced to build fortifications against the Federal onslaught.

Not one had returned.

Clover Bottom wasn’t much any longer. But it was all Isabelle had.

Oh, Uncle Hewlett…I can only imagine what the devils have done to the inside of the house.

Caroline stood by, mute. She’d suffered a stroke while giving birth to Grayson, and though she could perform a few basic tasks, she now lived a world unto herself—a child in an old woman’s body.

His face mottled with red splotches, Grayson returned from the pile of limbs. He shook with fury. Those are going to have to be moved away from the house and burned.

He looked to Isabelle as if she’d know what to do, how to kindle a fire hot enough to burn flesh and bone.

Even Uncle Hewlett seemed to await her word.

But Isabelle didn’t want this responsibility. She couldn’t accept it. A sob choked her and she fell against Uncle Hewlett.

Hush, Miss Isabelle, he said, cradling her head so close she felt the trembling in his body.

She shook uncontrollably. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. It was all a nightmare.

Hush, child, Uncle Hewlett whispered again.

But Isabelle couldn’t afford to hush or to be weak, as much as she yearned to do just that. She had to be strong. Papa would have expected her to pull up her bootstraps, to do what she could to save the house and their meager provisions for the winter.

Resolved, she tore free of Uncle Hewlett’s comforting arms, and batted her tears away.

She looked back at him, instantly regretting it. A big tear rolled down his cheek. Timeless in appearance, he’d looked the exact same age all Isabelle’s life. With his freckled cocoa skin, woolly gray hair, and deeply lined face, he appeared ancient. But in spite of his years, he’d always carried his six-feet-three-inch frame like a gladiator marching into the arena. Today, however, he seemed old and tired.

Isabelle had never seen him cry before. Clover Bottom had been his home, too. Even longer than it had been hers. She drew his handkerchief out of his pocket to dab away his tears.

His bottom lip trembled as he took the handkerchief from her. I can’t bear it, Miss Isabelle. He shook his head.

Me either, Grayson blurted. I’m going to find the army and join up.

Everything in Isabelle’s world suddenly lurched another notch of

f-

kilter. She balled her fists to keep from slapping him. Don’t you dare leave! How could you be so selfish? If you go, I’ll be left here with nobody but Mother and Uncle Hewlett. I’ll never be able to tend to the goats by myself.

At least the Yankees hadn’t found the dozen goats she’d hidden in a dilapidated house in the woods on the back of the property. If they had, all of them would be without milk, butter, and cheese, or any way to trade with the neighbors for whatever they had to spare.

Grayson’s threat to traipse off and join the army pushed Isabelle to the edge. I can’t survive one more tragedy.

I’m going, he said. I should have gone as soon as we heard the Yankees were marching into Jonesboro.

Hot fury boiled inside her. Enraged, Isabelle shook, aching to pummel him. Stinging tears blinded her.

Mister Grayson, Miss Isabelle needs you around here, Uncle Hewlett reasoned. Those goats aren’t going to milk themselves, and Miss Caroline’s not any help.

No! Grayson’s voice rose in pitch as he protested. He’d begged for years to join the army, had even lied about his age, but had been turned away by the enlistment officers.

See reason, son. Uncle Hewlett’s sonorous voice was filled with patience. You’re needed here even more than you’re needed on the front. Mister Dalton signed up to do the fighting for this family. Sending one man to the front lines is enough.

And where’s Dalton now? Grayson railed.

His gaze clashed with Isabelle’s, and she shuddered at the cold accusation there—as if all this were her fault.

Instinctively, she plunged her hand into her apron pocket as if the wadded-up casualty list might not be there, as if that, too, had all been a nightmare. Missing…

Not captured. Not killed. Not wounded.

Missing.

Uncle Hewlett seized Grayson’s arm and he gave him a fierce shake.

Grayson yanked free, and raked a trembling hand through his black hair. Tears flooded his dark eyes, and with a sob, he whirled and took off, darting down the drive as fast as his bare feet would carry him.

Isabelle didn’t call after him. It was no use. He’d always been stubborn. Instead, she committed the sight of her little brother to memory, reliving the same sick knowing that roiled in her gut the day her husband rode away with Cobb’s Legion. He’ll never return…

She tried to summon up some semblance of emotion. Grief. Anger. Fear. But all that remained was this hollow blackness in her chest. The stark knowledge that she was alone. Hopeless. With a sigh, she touched Uncle Hewlett’s sleeve. Let him go. There’s nothing we can do to stop him anyway.

But the truth remained that she’d grown weary of struggling, of grasping and clawing as everything she’d previously known slipped her fingers.

‘See first that the design is wise and just; that ascertained, pursue it resolutely,’ Uncle Hewlett mused aloud.

Don’t quote Shakespeare to me now. Exasperated, Isabelle blew out a harsh breath. Right now, she simply couldn’t tolerate Uncle Hewlett’s egg-headed pontificating.

Avoiding the sight of the mound of Yankee arms and legs, she turned back to the house.

Clover Bottom was but a shell of its former self.

Lacing her fingers with her mother’s, she squeezed her eyes shut. Surely, the Confederates couldn’t possibly have much fight left in them. As soon as this blasted war was over, Dalton would come home.

She nodded her head as if to confirm her thoughts. When Dalton returned from Virginia, everything would be put to rights. He’d see to hiring field hands, and planting a new crop of cotton, and Clover Bottom would be as good as it was before. Better.

He’d be a stranger to her, but it wasn’t as if she’d really known him the day she married him.

Grayson would come home and marry. Life would return to normal.

But until then, she couldn’t spare a minute to worry about Dalton and Grayson. Not when the whole damned world was crashing down around her and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

She gazed up at the big Georgian house and sighed. She’d always loved the shelter of this cavernous house with its double porticoes graced with soaring columns. The elegant porches wrapping to each side of the house were the envy of the county.

And though the weathered old mansion had seen better days, it still stood—which was more than she could say for a good many of the farm and plantation houses in the area.

Her gaze shifted to the sickening pile of severed limbs and she swallowed down the rising bile. Let’s go see what kind of mess the Yankees have left for us. Steeling herself, she ventured inside, her mother on her arm, Uncle Hewlett beside her.

The Federals had left the front door open.

Though the house looked as though a storm had swept through it, relief flooded Isabelle at the sight of so many familiar things. The walnut hall tree. The parlor furniture.

Still so many other treasured pieces lay ruined beyond repair.

Vases littered the floor in shattered pieces. The turkey carpets bore the mud-stained footprints of the Northern invaders. Paintings had been ripped from their hangings and tossed around the room. A quick visual inventory left her relieved that only one had been knifed through. The crimson velvet drapes in the parlor hung by one hook. Drawers had been pulled open, their contents scattered. The heart of pine floors were caked with mud. And blood.

So much blood.

Her nose wrinkled at the stench of dampness and rot pervading the rooms that didn’t have an eastern or western exposure.

A little sob caught in Isabelle’s throat as she released Caroline’s hand. Undaunted by the disaster, Caroline shuffled into the parlor and began methodically putting it back to rights.

Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut against a new onslaught of tears. It’s not fair, she muttered under her breath. None of them had done anything to deserve this.

It wasn’t as if any of them had donned a uniform or invited this fight. Damn the Yankees, and damn the Confederates, too, for their swaggering boasts!

She shook her fist at her side, but quickly reined in her anger. There was little she could do about it now, other than help her mother and Uncle Hewlett clean up the house.

A clawing sound emanated from the dining room. Holding her breath, Isabelle listened. Her gaze connected with Uncle Hewlett’s while the scraping continued.

What is that? she whispered.

She crept stealthily toward the room, craning her neck to see. Just as she arrived at the doorway, something big and red flew out at her. A scream tore from her throat as she jumped back.

Their ornery rooster, Lucifer, landed in a heap of ruffled feathers at her feet, his scrawny neck cocked to the side. He eyed her as his wings reached up and out, a stance Isabelle knew all too well.

Uncle Hewlett challenged him with a broom. Get out of here, you grand rascal!

Lucifer ducked his head and darted between them, narrowly escaping a broom swat to his tail feathers.

The boney rooster was the only chicken left on the plantation, his status a testament to his meanness. Everyone at Clover Bottom had felt the sting of his spurred heels.

Hand over her heart, Isabelle laughed. I see the Yankees didn’t manage to catch hell.

Uncle Hewlett closed the door. They could use that bird in the Confederate Army. I imagine more than one Yankee left Clover Bottom bearing a scar inflicted by Lucifer’s spurs.

He disappeared into the dining room with the broom.

Isabelle turned back to the mess in the foyer. That one moment of mirth had been all too fleeting. She surveyed the wreckage again and tamped down the overwhelming emotion of not knowing where to begin. After tucking an escaped strand of hair back into her chignon, she bent to pick up an overturned chair.

She slid it against the wall and then righted the mirror hanging there. Her appearance shocked her. The crack down the center of the looking glass made her seem far older than her twenty-three years. Her gaunt face betrayed the load she now shouldered almost by herself. She was barely a woman. Hardly a wife. If only she could just collapse and refuse to go on.

Envy that she couldn’t be as oblivious and uncaring as her mother snaked its way through her heart.

But before Isabelle could swat away the tear streaking down her cheek, a loud, hear

t-

wrenching moan echoed through the house.

Isabelle froze. Someone was in the house. The Yankees had left one of their own behind.

She stepped over the remains of a vase, and clutched the bannister railing. Who’s there? she called up the stairs.

The pain! the voice cried piteously. Give me something for the pain!

She glanced at Caroline, and then, wary that someone would dart out, she eased up the staircase, her back gliding against the wall. Stories had circulated about the godless Yankees and what they did to women left alone and unprotected.

Isabelle tried to swallow but couldn’t. Her mouth and throat were too dry.

Again, the horrible moans resounded, coming from her father’s bedroom. Quaking, Isabelle slipped her shoes off, and sneaked down the wide hall to peep in the doorway.

A stranger lay entrenched in her father’s bed. When he saw Isabelle, his eyes went wild.

Clutching the sheets, he tossed from side to side in the bed. Isabelle blinked, realizing that he couldn’t be still. She’d seen one of the servants carry on like that with labor pains, but it shocked her to see a grown man writhing in abject agony.

Sweet mercy, he gasped. Help me, lady!

Isabelle quickly surveyed the room before going to the soldier. He was a miserable looking creature with piggish eyes and a scraggily beard. A fetid stench hovered around him. Isabelle grimaced, trying to summon sympathy for his plight, but the ragged blue uniform jacket and tatty kepi in the chair next to the bed eliminated any semblance of compassion for the man. He was one of them. A Yankee.

Stop screaming, you brute! She snatched up his coat and delved into the pockets. Did they leave you anything? Any laudanum? she asked him, raising her voice to shout over his wretched moans. For a fleeting moment, she considered swallowing it herself