Rebel Rose

By Everly Ryan

They say she's a Rebel spy…

Rosalie O'Kelley is not above using her feminine wiles to secure much-needed supplies for her fellow townspeople. But when Union Colonel Eric Skaarsberg is put in charge, Rose's usual tactics fail miserably. In exchange for supplies, she comes to a scandalous arrangement with him. She agrees to become his willing plaything—to fulfill his every physical need, eagerly and without hesitation.

Eric is duty-bound to ferret out the spy who has been leaking information to the Confederates. All evidence points to the passionate belle who readily responds to every touch and taste he metes out. One by one, he strips away Rose's secrets, but Eric is not satisfied with owning the she-Rebel's luscious body. He must uncover the truth of her past at any cost—even if it means the destruction of them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Everly Ryan
• Release date: Feb 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386608509

Book preview

Rebel Rose

Everly Ryan

They say she’s a Rebel spy…

Rosalie O’Kelley is not above using her feminine wiles to secure much-needed supplies for her fellow townspeople. But when Union Colonel Eric Skaarsberg is put in charge, Rose’s usual tactics fail miserably. In exchange for supplies, she comes to a scandalous arrangement with him. She agrees to become his willing plaything—to fulfill his every physical need, eagerly and without hesitation.

Eric is duty-bound to ferret out the spy who has been leaking information to the Confederates. All evidence points to the passionate belle who readily responds to every touch and taste he metes out. One by one, he strips away Rose’s secrets, but Eric is not satisfied with owning the she-Rebel’s luscious body. He must uncover the truth of her past at any cost—even if it means the destruction of them both.

Rebel Rose

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Rebel Rose Copyright © 2017 Everly Ryan

Edited by Meghan M. Conrad

Cover art by Debra Glass

Electronic book publication February 2017

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Everly Ryan.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

REBEL ROSE

Everly Ryan

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Stormy. Your friendship has enriched my life immeasurably. Thank you for reading, plotting, encouraging and conspiring with me.

Prologue

General Sherman’s Headquarters

September, 1864

Colonel Eric Skaarsberg knocked the mud off his boots before he ducked into General William Tecumseh Sherman’s tent at the Federal headquarters near Atlanta.

Poring over field maps, the general did not seem to notice Eric, who took the opportunity to study the man he had not seen since the fighting at Pittsburgh Landing in 1862. Then, Eric had only been a lieutenant in the Union Army, a youngster assigned to the field hospital where Sherman had been brought after some Arkansas boys had put not one but two bullets in him.

Eric was stunned at the general’s hardened and aged appearance. A greasy shock of chestnut hair interspersed with gray clung to Sherman’s forehead. The skin on his face was as sallow and lined as a well-traveled saddlebag. One hand trembled as if he’d been stricken with palsy.

After Shiloh, rumors circulated that Cump Sherman was insane. To do what Sherman had done these past few years, Eric knew the man would have to be somewhat insane. But no one seemed to spread that gossip anymore since Grant had made Sherman commander in the West—and since he had pushed the Confederate Army completely out of Georgia.

Eric had heard of the letter Sherman sent to President Lincoln in which he vowed to make Georgia howl and Eric knew Sherman’s hard-won victory had also secured another four-year term for the president.

Twisting his slouch hat in his hands, Eric cleared his throat to get the general’s attention.

Sherman twisted in his chair and looked over the top of his spectacles to eyeball Eric. Colonel, he greeted.

Eric gave him a smart salute. You asked to see me, Sir?

You’re being sent to northwest Alabama.

Yes Sir, Eric said. To Florence.

Sherman tugged at the collar of his shirt. It’s hot as hell down here.

Eric agreed. It was already the third week in October and still, the stifling Southern heat clung like stubborn cockleburs.

That little corner of Alabama is a hotbed of bushwhacker activity, Sherman said, dragging his spectacles off and tossing them on one of the maps he’d been perusing. The worst I’ve seen.

Eric had been told Florence was friendly to the Federals. He was not, however, going to disagree with his commanding officer. Yes Sir.

Those folks up there will kotow to you, give you anything you want, and then stab you in the back with a smile on their face. Do you understand, Colonel? Yes Sir.

The women are worse than the men, Sherman continued.

Eric’s spine stiffened. No one had to tell him women could be deceitful creatures.

Sherman pinned Eric with such a stare that a twinge of dreaded expectation fluttered inside him. There was more to this meeting than he had anticipated.

It’s my belief there are several smugglers up in that area, Sherman said.

Smugglers?

Somehow, the Rebels are getting their cotton through to somebody who’s been paying a pretty penny for it. And that area ain’t hurting for nothing. Sherman drummed his fingers on the map as if he were in thought. Then, the tone of his voice dropped as he murmured, I fell prey to her, myself.

Her? Eric shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Yes, there was much more to this meeting than Eric had assumed.

Sherman drew in a deep breath and then blew it out slowly. There’s a she-Rebel who lives there by the name of Rosalie O’Kelley. I want you to keep a close eye on her, Colonel Skaarsberg. General Pike tried to ferret out her secrets last year but Pike is well—not a man of your…shall we say, stature and fine looks.

Eric’s lips parted to utter a refusal or a request for anything except what he worried Sherman would say next.

I know that you, better than anyone, can spot a spy. You did good work in Nashville, Sherman commended him.

Yes Sir, Eric said but the blood in veins turned to ice. Although his commanders had applauded him, Eric did not feel like a hero. Not in the least.

He had been fooled by a woman—a woman he had not known was one of the most infamous prostitutes in Nashville’s bawdy house district known as Smokey Row. She had vowed she loved him. She had undressed for him, all the while playing the innocent Union sympathizer. She had collected information, which she passed on to the Confederates and Eric had only realized it at the last moment. His unbridled lust and foolishness ended in the loss of eight Union lives. While the army regretted these deaths, the leak of information had led Eric to realize his lover was a spy.

No, he did not feel like a hero.

Nor had he felt like a hero when he’d watched her being taken into custody or when he’d personally written eight letters to eight grieving families.

Sherman came to his feet and took a step that closed the distance between them. Rosalie O’Kelley is a blockade-running Jezebel. She will stop at nothing to get what she wants from you. Permission to travel through the lines, special privileges, whatever she wants.

Has she taken the oath? Eric asked in reference to the oath of allegiance all secessionists were required to take before they were granted services from the Federal Army.

Of course she has. Sherman’s eyes narrowed. And in spite of it, the Widow O’Kelley is also a Confederate spy.

Why hasn’t she been arrested? Eric knew the tremor in his voice betrayed emotion he thought he had long since quelled.

Sherman scratched his rust-colored beard. That’s what I need you to do.

Arrest her? Eric asked.

Sherman’s eyes flashed. Find irrefutable proof that she’s a spy.

Forgive me, Sir. But spies have been arrested for much less, Eric said.

Rosalie O’Kelley is the sister of Brigadier General James Ross Brownlow.

Eric stared. General Brownlow had been a war hero—for the Union Army. He’d fallen at Shiloh in the same Rebel rout where Sherman was wounded. I see, Eric said.

Do not tarry, Colonel Skaarsberg, Sherman said. Right now, Hood is knocking on the door of the Tennessee River in Decatur. We’re holding him fast but I don’t doubt if he’s thwarted in Decatur, he’ll move west to cross at Florence.

Despite the Indian-summer heat, a chill swept up Eric’s spine. If the twentythousand strong Confederate Army of Tennessee got across the river, they would have no trouble retaking north Alabama and most of southern Tennessee. If they took Nashville and possession of the Cumberland River, the entire fate of the war might turn.

Men fighting for their own homes were a fiercer lot than men who fought because they’d been drafted.

If Mrs. O’Kelley can get information to General Forrest, heaven help us all, Sherman said. Many lives depend on you, Colonel Skaarsberg. You don’t want the blood of our men on your hands. Again.

Chapter One

Florence, Alabama

October, 1864

Rosalie O’Kelley inhaled the crisp fall air. Dread settled in her tightly corseted stomach as she gazed up at the castle-like façade of the college building the Yankees had established as their headquarters.

You ain’t goin’ in there by yourself.

Rose glanced at the freedman servant who’d borne her husband’s corpse all the way back from Shiloh battlefield. Rueben was as dedicated to the cause of getting much-needed salt, sugar, medicine and fabric to war-torn north Alabama as she was but he did not approve of her methods. I shall be just fine, she said.

Rueben shook his cane in her direction. You don’t know this Yankee. He might not be as…generous…as the last one. Rueben was only thirty-two years old but he had the demeanor—and the gait—of a man twice his age.

I haven’t come across one yet who wasn’t…generous, Rose said as she deftly unfastened the top two buttons of her black mourning gown.

I don’t like it. Rueben shook his head. I don’t like it at all.

Rose remained silent. She didn’t like it either but her only other choice was conceding defeat and that was not in her nature.

Neither would Mister Billy, Rueben muttered.

Rose drew in a sharp breath. Mister Billy’s dead and I am only doing what I have to do.

Rueben’s head dropped and he continued to murmur unintelligible words about Rose’s deceased husband. Rose missed Billy too but her heart went out to Rueben. After all, he and Billy had been half brothers. Although on paper, one had owned a brickyard and the other had been his slave, the two had always acted as brothers. And when Billy’s father had died, leaving Billy everything he owned, Billy’s first act as heir was to free Rueben.

Billy had signed the papers before his father’s body had been interred in the Florence Cemetery. Rueben had been the only family Billy had left besides Rose.

The two men had grown up a year apart in age. Since Billy had donned a gray uniform and was killed fighting for the Sixteenth Alabama Infantry, Rueben was the only family Rose had left. Then, the soldiers had been confident of an early victory, of chasing the Yankees out of the Confederacy.

Rose’s heart twisted when she thought that her own brother might have fired the bullet that had made her a widow at nineteen. Or perhaps, Billy had fired the bullet that had killed the brother. Either possibility was the stuff of her nightmares.

Darkly, she wondered if the stress of both deaths had been the reason her baby girl had died in her womb.

It had been two years since she’d become barren and widowed. Now,