Confederate Vixen

By Teresa Howard

As a spy for President Jefferson Davis, spirited patriot Kinsey Blake could fight for her beloved South. . .and for the sake of her dead husband, she would have her revenge! If only the man she suspected of his murder--Major Dr. Chapman Turner--weren't so handsome and charming. No sooner had Kinsey set eyes on the virile Union officer than hunger for vengeance exploded in soul-searing desire. . .a passion that branded her soul and divided her heart. . .


Chap had seen enough blood to last a lifetime, and the war was still far from over. He needed to escape the chaos and destruction--and exquisite, emerald-eyed Kinsey seemed to offer just such a haven. Though he sensed that she harbored dangerous secrets, fiery passion soon consumed all doubts. Now all Chap wanted was this stormy beauty in his arms for endless nights of soaring rapture--two lovers bound forever in a joyous union that knew no sides and took no prisoners. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: eClassics
• Release date: Oct 1, 1993
• ISBN: 9781601831897

Teresa Howard

Teresa Howard makes her home in Hoover, Al, where shares her abode with Gracie Jane, her furry dachshund friend. She is a life-long fan of science fiction and fantasy and her dream since childhood has been to see her books in libraries and bookstores.In 2000 Teresa participated in a Writers Workshops taught by the late Ann Crispin and has been a regular at DragonCon’s Writers Track led by Nancy Knight for many years.Though she was employed for many years as a technology coordinator and computer lab instructor in the Birmingham School System, Teresa’s passions remained writing science fiction and fantasy and researching genealogy. Many of her stories have elements of both. Her work covers a wide range of speculative fiction and has been published in magazines, anthologies, webzines, and on iPhone aps in the U.S., Canada, and the U.K.

Book preview

1862

Prologue

Early summer, 1862

Washington—The Federal Capital

United States of America

Today was the day. He was getting married.

The minister in front of him, family and friends at his back, oldest brother at his side. Spine stiffened ramrod straight, he was standing at attention, barely breathing, staring at the winding staircase, awaiting his virginal bride.

He was getting married. Today.

With less than steady hands, Major Dr. Chapman Turner adjusted his swallowtail coat and wondered, not for the first time, why he was marrying a woman he had known less than three months. She was a beautiful, precious, gentle creature—granted. But the question remained. Why? More to the point, why now?

The answer was simple. It was this damnable war. All over their divided nation, Southerners and Northerners alike were rushing to the altar. Some marrying childhood sweethearts, some mere friends. And some, like himself, pledging to love and cherish virtual strangers.

All in haste.

Actually, he had scoffed at precipitous nuptials until now. He would never do such a thing, he had declared. In times like these, every day could be a man’s last. It was cruel to subject a wife to such uncertainty. Needlessly cruel. Contrary to popular opinion, marrying in haste wasn’t romantic; it was damned irresponsible.

And everyone knew that Assistant Medical Director Chapman Dean Turner never, ever did anything irresponsible. He never made snap decisions, never planned a move with less than military precision. Even in his personal life, he considered every possible angle. Without emotion.

But that was before he ran headlong into Miss Kinsey Miranda Blake. Before the horror of the past year. Before she and the war had shaken him, causing him to reexamine his life. Now he hardly recognized himself. He had become a real softie, as his baby sister, Ann, would say. He stifled a grin.

Lately, he had developed a monstrous craving for stability, peace, a home, a serene haven that only Kinsey could provide. And he wanted it now. Not after the war. God alone knew when that would be. He needed Kinsey’s calming influence today . . . immediately . . . forever. It frightened him to realize just how much he needed her.

The notion of Kinsey, so delicate and innocent, providing stability for him, so tough and worldly, struck him as odd. As a Union surgeon, he had already seen so much suffering. He had smelled gunpowder in the heat of battle; he had amputated limbs of kids who were barely old enough to shave. Such things had taken their toll.

But Kinsey helped him forget. When he looked into her eyes, the color of spring grass, when he kissed her lips, like dew-kissed rosebuds, sanity returned. The madness of war ceased to exist.

Suddenly, he was desperate to see his bride. He willed her to appear. His arms ached with the need to hold her again.

As if his yearning set the ceremony in motion, the string-quartet struck up the wedding march. The crowd grew hushed. All heads in the elegantly appointed parlor swiveled toward the winding staircase.

A fetching urchin—Kinsey’s tomboy niece, Randee—gowned in pale pink taffeta, strewing like-colored rose petals, descended the stairs. Kinsey’s cousin, Anita, marched exactly three paces behind the child.

He winked at the flower girl and smiled at Anita when they reached his side. Both were lovely, though not as lovely as his bride. No one was as lovely as the angel he was marrying.

He suspected that he had a smitten look on his face but truth to tell he just didn’t care. He was far too happy to concern himself with maintaining his usual military demeanor.

The music swelled and the bride and her father stepped into view. Everyone stood.

The groom’s heartbeat quickened. His eyes widened, without so much as a blink. Lord, she was beautiful!

Like so much fairy dust, a frothy confection of white gros de Suez silk over Esterhazy gray satin swirled about Kinsey’s ankles. She floated down the staircase, closing the space between them.

His heart nearly burst with pride. Could such an ethereal creature really belong to him? Each time he saw her, he was enchanted anew. Inordinately small, incredibly fragile, seductively pure, she heightened every masculine—protective—urge he possessed.

When she halted just inches away, eyes trained on the floor, he wondered why she looked so sad on this, their wedding day. Her forlorn expression tugged unmercifully on his heartstrings.

Instinctively, he inclined his head toward hers. Why wouldn’t she look at him? Was she suddenly shy, or perhaps fearful of the night to come? That must be it, he decided, slightly relieved.

His chaste bride was afraid of him, afraid of the intimacy they would share as husband and wife. How predictably dear. Wanting to reassure her, he stretched forth a gentle hand and caressed her pale, procelain cheek.

Her bottom lip trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned into his hand for a scant second. They were both visibly moved by the brief physical contact. But drawing a deep breath, Kinsey pulled away. She blinked her eyes and squared her shoulders. She would not meet his gaze.

Taking her white-gloved hand, he tucked it into the curve of his arm, signaling the minister to begin. He covered her fingers with his own. His hand shook slightly.

Silk and satin whispered against upholstery; the assemblage seated itself.

At first all was quiet, broken only be a muffled cough and the morning noises along Pennsylvania Avenue. In the distance, a child laughed; a dog barked. On the sill, a bluebird warbled his airy tune. He sounded lighthearted as a snowflake, unlike the tense air cloaking the wedding party. Reverend Josiah Beavers stared at the subdued bride for a long, uncomfortable moment.

Proceed, the major whispered authoritatively.

Responding automatically, the clergyman began his familiar recitation, droning on in a monotone, until finally, he posed the inevitable question. First the groom, to a resounding I will.

Then the bride, Will you Kinsey Miranda Blake take Major Doctor Chapman Dean Turner as your lawfully wedded husband, to love, honor, and obey as long as you both shall live?

The groom turned expectantly toward his bride. Slowly, she fixed her gaze on the minister and pressed her bouquet against her chest as if to ease the pain. A lone tear slipped softly down her cheek.

Every eye was on her; every breath was held. The world seemed to be in a state of suspended motion.

The characteristically stoic major knew a moment of panic. Involuntarily, he squeezed her hand. After what seemed an eternity, she whispered the single word that brought his world crashing in on him.

No.

Part One

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

Pope

1

July 21, 1861

One year earlier

The First Battle of Bull Run

In Major Chapman Turner’s estimation it was the darkest day in human history, though the preceding week had been characterized by optimism.

On the morning of July 16, the Union army left its encampment near Washington and took a leisurely stroll to Fairfax Courthouse, a mere six miles away. Spirits were high, fear nonexistent.

Then on the eighteenth they proceeded at a snail’s pace to Centreville, Virginia. From there, they planned to attack the Confederate army entrenched in and around Manassas Junction. Fatigue, lack of proper sustenance, and the hot summer sun began to wear on the troops, yet confidence was the order of the day.

In Centreville, Turner and his immediate superior, Medical Director Dr. William S. King, commandeered a hotel, a church, and a large family dwelling for makeshift hospitals. Thinking this was sufficient, they looked toward the plains of Manassas.

The Union army fully expected to overwhelm Confederate Brigadier General Pierre G. T. Beauregard and his 22,000 troops. To give them the sound thrashing they deserved, without raising a sweat.

Major Turner noted with disgust that some of the Union officers even wore their dancing shoes into battle, in preparation for the victory ball to be held in their honor. Once they reached Richmond. After they sent the Rebels packing.

The ninety-day volunteer recruits were as confident as their superiors. They jested that the only thing impressive about Beauregard, the Reb general who had ordered the firing on Fort Sumter, was his name. He and his toy soldiers would fall like cornstalks in a tornado at the hands of Abe’s boys. The war would be over in a day.

As the major feared, they were gravely mistaken.

It’s no use, General. Major Chapman Turner’s words were lost in the thunderous roar of battle. He spurred his mount alongside that of Brigadier General Irvin McDowell, supreme commander of the Grand Army of the United States. It’s no use, sir, he repeated, shouting to be heard.

General McDowell glanced at the young officer, then allowed his gaze to sweep the field. It was high noon and the day had a nightmarish quality about it. All around, men were dying—soldiers wearing blue, soldiers wearing gray.

There are too many, Turner yelled. He thrust a long list of wounded and dead into his commander’s hand. McDowell stared at it as if it were venomous. Finally, he took the paper by one corner, and held it away from his body. Still, he didn’t speak.

Early that morning the major had been ordered to accompany his commander, pad in hand, and list the casualties. The Union brass expected to whip the Rebels and come away virtually unscathed. Turner knew that expectation was ludicrous. Though confident of a Union victory, he didn’t share McDowell’s naivete. Nor his arrogance. There would be casualties, he predicted. Too many to list.

But he didn’t voice his opinion. As always, he followed orders. A good officer never questioned a superior. And Major Chapman Turner was a good officer. So he had listed names until his hand grew numb. And still, they kept falling. Falling, suffering, and dying.

His heart ached and the physician in him cried out. He was a surgeon. A damned good surgeon. Not a secretary. Let someone else list their names; he would try to save their lives. The only way he knew how. Permission to tend the wounded, sir, he requested.

Medical Director King approached on horseback, having assessed the battle. With the general’s permission, Major Turner, I’ll assist the field surgeons. I need you to proceed to Sudley Church. Prepare it and the other buildings close by to receive the wounded. I’ll have the worst cases transported to you.

Turner saluted King before turning toward McDowell. For a long, tense moment, he surveyed the field. How could a battle so meticulously planned be so poorly executed? The answer was beyond him. General? he prompted.

The commander schooled his expression and nodded tersely. Granted.

Major, I’ll need a good man to organize the transport, King added. See to it.

Yes, sir. The major wheeled about, issuing orders to the nearest sergeant at hand. Sudley Church. It’s located just beyond the unfinished railroad line to the north.

I know where it is, sir, the non-com shouted over the din.

Remove the seats, cover the floors with blankets, make sure there’s plenty of water. And send out a detail to gather hay for bedding.

He saluted crisply. Yes, sir.

Beckoning the nearest regimental surgeon forward, Turner continued, Follow him. He gestured toward a loaded wagon. Take those supplies with you and place the instruments and dressings where they’ll be needed. Rig up an operating table. Face carefully blank, the major looked at the carnage about him. Captain . . . we’ll need as many tables as you can find.

Without waiting for the surgeon’s response, he enlisted the aid of yet another medical officer. There are three unoccupied buildings, situated about seventy-five paces farther down on the opposite side of the road toward the creek. Take your men, commandeer the buildings, and prepare them for wounded. When you finish, have a detail clean out under the grove of trees surrounding the church.

When all was set in motion, he sent two additional surgeons to Sudley, then headed downhill. He found his brother, Major Radford Turner—a regimental surgeon with Colonel William T. Sherman’s third brigade—in a field hospital, shirtless, covered with blood from fingertip to elbow.

He was operating on a soldier, repairing a gaping wound through both his thighs and scrotum. The heat was oppressive, the stench worse. The patient was little more than a boy. When the assistant medical director halted just outside the tent, his brother looked up.

I need you, was all that he needed to say.

Captain, take over here. Washing his arms and hands, donning his shirt and coat, and tying his green silk medical sash around his waist, the regimental surgeon joined his brother. Where to? he asked, hopping up onto a horse that one of his staff provided.

King needs you. He pointed in the direction he had come. Up there with McDowell. To organize transport.

Where will you be?

Sudley.

The deafening roar of a cannon burst in their ears. Rocks and dirt flew up into their faces. Their horses danced nervously. Both majors suffered superficial cuts. Both wiped blood away with the tail of their green silk sashes while bringing their horses under control.

Their sapphire-blue eyes met and held; words were unnecessary. They nodded slightly, kicked their horses into a gallop, then headed in opposite directions.

Mounting the hill, Major Turner came face to face with the enemy; two Confederates on horseback, obviously separated from their regiment, reined in less than forty feet away. One was a large man, the other a boy. The kid had a surprising lack of fear in his bright green eyes. Grudgingly, Turner admired him.

Don’t shoot. I’m a surgeon, the medical officer called. He had sworn to ease suffering and save lives. He sure as hell didn’t want to kill anybody. Not even a Johnny Reb.

But that was not to be. Issuing a Rebel yell, the big man moved between Turner and the boy, in a protective maneuver. The Reb raised his rifle and trained his sights on Major Turner.

Don’t, he yelled. But it was too late. His enemy fired—and missed. Fortunately for the major, the man’s horse stumbled at the crucial moment. Knowing he wouldn’t be so lucky a second time, Turner had no choice but to return fire. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

With an eerie wail that caused the hair on Turner’s nape to stand on end, the boy sailed from his saddle and threw himself across his friend’s corpse. He seemed to recognize immediately that his comrade was dead.

Still he showed no sign of fear. He was either the most courageous lad, or the most foolish, Turner had ever seen. Or perhaps he just didn’t care anymore; perhaps he didn’t want to go on without his partner.

I’ll see you in hell, the boy shrieked, running toward Turner. The mount shied away from his reach. Fighting and screaming, the Reb finally grabbed onto the major’s green silk sash. He tried to pull him from the saddle.

If they weren’t so pitiful, his puny efforts would have been humorous. Dammit kid, let go! I don’t want to hurt you. Turner struggled to free himself from an iron grip, fighting to control his horse, trying to avoid trampling his small assailant. Although his hands were delicate and slender, the kid was stronger than he looked; the major couldn’t wrest the silk from the boy’s hands.

Luckily, Turner wasn’t wearing a saber belted around his waist. So, with a mere flip of his wrist, he loosened the sash.

The Reb sailed backward, landing on the ground, the length of green material clutched in his hand. Looking at it with repulsion, he threw it down and surged to his feet. He attacked the major again, grabbing the hem of his tunic.

Turner could hardly believe the lad’s bravado; he outweighed the boy by at least a hundred pounds. Give it up, kid. I can swallow you in one gulp.

Yankee scum. I’ll kill you first. I’ll send you to hell. His high-pitched voice broke on this last.

With sympathy darkening his eyes, Turner pulled free. Hell couldn’t be worse than war, kid, he responded, kicking his mount in the flanks. Before he disappeared over the hill he cast a glance over his shoulder. The boy was sobbing over his friend’s body.

Suddenly, Major Turner was very, very weary. And this is just the beginning, he muttered prophetically.

Later that day, the blue tide swept back toward Washington in a frenzy. Army-issued wagons, ambulances, horses—anything that could move was filled with fleeing Union soldiers.

Bareheaded, barefoot, exhausted, many retreated without their guns and knapsacks. Some were nearly naked, having had their clothes torn off in hand-to-hand combat. Countless poor souls were wounded, blood flowing from gaping holes in their bodies. There were scores of broken limbs, hands torn to pieces, body parts literally blown away.

All a mass of suffering humanity. Seething . . . out of control . . . only one purpose in mind . . . to flee the Confederate army . . .

2

Some months later

Richmond—The Confederate Capital

Republic of Virginia

Confederate States of America

Kinsey, do sit down before you wear a hole through Mama’s rug.

I can’t sit down. I’m too nervous. He could send word any minute now. Kinsey Miranda Blake Bower pivoted on her heel, retracing her steps in front of the low settee, barely missing Anita’s toes as she passed.

And you know what that answer is going to be as well as I do. They are not going to let you fight, sweet pea. You’re a woman. War is for men. Women are supposed to stay home, sew uniforms, tents, linen, whatever our soldiers need. We aren’t supposed to be soldiers.

Kinsey ground to a halt and turned turbulent green eyes on Anita. I know. Hell’s bells, Neethee. Don’t you think I’ve heard it all before?

Anita’s eyes narrowed at her cousin’s unladylike use of profanity, but she didn’t shy away from the vehemence in Kinsey’s voice. Kinsey and Anita were twenty and twenty-two, respectively. Anita was convinced that those two years made her responsible for her naive cousin’s well-being, especially when the matter under discussion was becoming a soldier. And you’ll hear it again, she said with feeling.

If only she could make Kinsey see reason. She hated to see her beloved cousin set herself up for a fall. Again.

I don’t give a tinker’s damn what he says. Kinsey planted her fists on her hips and cocked her head in the way Anita knew meant trouble for somebody. General Lee said he would be honored to have me fight alongside his men and I blame well intend to do it! She thumped her chest for emphasis.

What did you expect him to say after you told him your husband had been killed at Manassas and you had been serving in his place ever since?

Well, it’s true. Kinsey’s drawl deepened, betraying her emotion. She and Alan had married and joined the Confederate army the same day. They spent their honeymoon in the saddle and most of their brief married life preparing for war. When he was killed at Manassas—when the big, blond Yank cold-heartedly shot him out of the saddle—she was at his side.

Although she was disguised as a Dixie boy, her regiment had known her true identity from the beginning. They had protected her secret as best they could. Even after Alan’s death, she had stayed with them. Not fighting, really, just walking the picket, standing guard, cooking, nursing. She did anything she could to help the men in her unit.

But twice she had been wounded; twice her gender had been discovered; twice she had been sent home. It was those blasted surgeons who had turned her in. The quacks! Never did trust those saw bones. And now they were set on keeping her off the battlefield for good. Just let them try!

A familiar pain began to throb behind her eyes. Sighing heavily, she massaged her temples in a circular motion.

I know it’s true, Anita continued quietly, mindful of Kinsey’s frequent headaches. But really, Kinsey, crying buckets of tears, favoring your wounded arm . . . I doubt you cried that much when the Yankees shot you.

Kinsey dropped her head, hiding a smile. Perhaps she had laid it on a bit thick. But you had to do that with men sometimes—even generals—to get them to listen. Otherwise they just stared at you.

You knew he was much too chivalrous to refuse a lady, Anita added in a low voice. If Bobby Lee is anything, he’s a true Southern gentleman. How could he deny the request of a widowed, bawling, wounded, war hero who wanted nothing more than to risk her fortune and pretty little neck fightin’ dirty ole Yanks?

How Anita made the hell of war sound funny, Kinsey would never know. But she did. God bless her soul. Kinsey’s discomfort disappeared as her tickle box turned over. Peals of feminine laughter bounded off the parlor walls.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, she fell onto the settee beside Anita. Together they laughed. And laughed. And laughed. It felt good. There was so little to laugh about in the South these days.

What a lovely sound. A deep, masculine voice drew their attention.

Startled, they surged to their feet, curtsying to the aristocratic gentleman standing in the doorway. They moved gracefully, their skirts billowing, giving them the look of delicate spring flowers nodding in the breeze. President Davis, they breathed in tandem.

Ladies. Jefferson Davis entered the room, fairly mesmerized by the lovely belles.

Lovely Southern belles, he amended, noting with appreciation that Miss Anita Kensington was dressed in Confederate red and red-white. Her cousin, Mrs. Kinsey Bower, was in soft gray. As usual.

Coming face to face with Kinsey, the infamous Vixen in Gray, Davis could understand her complimentary nickname.

Even Robert E. Lee—the Gray Fox—had been impressed with the young lady. And not with her beauty alone. According to Lee, the girl had been wounded protecting a fallen comrade. The general had written a letter in her behalf, telling of her courage and requesting that she be given a full commission in the Confederate army.

Davis had been amused by the request. Give a woman a commission? Indeed! The girl would do well to go home to her father’s ranch in Texas where she would be safe, he had declared.

Then he reconsidered, at his darling wife’s urging. Varina had suggested that a woman of Mrs. Bower’s reputed bravery . . . and beauty . . . might be useful elsewhere. Off the field of battle.

So he agreed to see Kinsey for himself. The reports of her beauty had not been exaggerated. If anything, his staff had not done her justice.

Southern women were known for their beautiful skin, but Davis had never seen a complexion to compare with Kinsey’s. It appeared the color and texture of a white rose—smooth, pale, with a dewy glow. Below classically high cheekbones in an oval-shaped face, her cheeks had the blush of roses. The contrast of shiny black hair to her porcelain skin was more than striking.

She was a tiny thing, soft and sweet. Her shimmery gray gown fit over gentle curves that set a man’s heart to pumping. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes she was breathtaking.

Davis noted the three-quarter-length sleeves then. He had been told she always wore long sleeves, to hide her scars. The thought of one so lovely and fragile being shot was sobering.

Granted, she had more than a pretty face and an enticing body. But did she possess the courage needed for what he had in mind? The question remained.

Crossing to the ladies, he bowed gallantly over their hands.

Anita gushed. We’re honored, Mister President. How kind of you to call. Please have a seat. May I offer you refreshments? We have tea. No sugar. But who in the South has? She laughed self-consciously, awed to have the President of the Confederacy in her home. Just let me run upstairs and fetch my mother and grandmother. I’m sure they would love to have a nice, long visit with you.

Kinsey regained her composure. Anita, sit down and calm yourself before you have a fit of the vapors. I’m sure President Davis is far too busy for social amenities. Perhaps we’d best hear the reason for his visit so he can be about the business of running our country.

Mrs. Bower is right, Davis said, somewhat distracted by Kinsey. His admiration for her rose another degree. Obviously, she was not easily impressed by his commanding presence. She seemed unflappable, really. That quality could be useful. And her beauty, one must not forget her beauty.

Still, he was not convinced that she would do. She appeared so delicate, so young, almost breakable . . .

Kinsey dropped to the settee again, tilting a stubborn jaw. She didn’t really need to hear what the President had to say. She already knew his answer. She could tell by the way he was looking at her. Appreciatively, protectively, like a man. Hell’s bells.

Obviously, he had received General Lee’s request. And she was quite certain the esteemed statesman would rather suck socks than allow her to fight alongside his gallant lads in gray.

Well, he should have sent an aide to give her the bad news and saved himself a trip, she thought peevishly.

We really should proceed. But I would consider it an honor to visit with the other ladies at a later date, Davis concluded diplomatically, noticing Anita’s disappointment.

Anita nodded graciously.

He turned toward Kinsey then. I assume you have knowledge of General Lee’s request in your behalf?

She nodded.

Denied.

When Kinsey opened her mouth to protest, President Davis raised a quelling hand. She clamped her lips together tightly.

Although stubborn as a set-down jackass, she was loyal to the Confederacy. She would not defy her President . . . to his face. After he left, she would dress in men’s clothes again and find a regiment to join. She would even raise and finance her own, if necessary.

She sighed in resignation. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Not for an enterprising woman like herself. And Kinsey could be quite enterprising, when the need arose.

You might be needed for a much more important mission.

More important than fighting? Kinsey asked incredulously. Jeff Davis had her full attention now.

Your father and niece are residing in Washington, are they not?

Yes, sir.

At your aunt’s boardinghouse on Pennsylvania Avenue? Along with a number of politicians and Federal officers?

. Yes, sir. She narrowed her gaze suspiciously.

Her father, the former senator from Texas, was indeed in Washington. He had remained neutral in the war. She wished otherwise and had told him so. Loudly. Frequently. She had been sorely disappointed when he refused to embrace the Confederate Cause exclusively. Still, she wouldn’t have him maligned. Not even by her President.

Would you be willing to join him, my dear?

Kinsey hated to beg, but if it would get her a commission, she would. She could nurse her wounded pride later . . . after she got what she wanted. "No. I don’t want to go to Washington, Mister President. I want to fight for my country. Please. You have to let me. Just because I happened to be born a woman doesn’t mean I’m any less devoted to the cause than . . . than . . . you are.

How would you like it if you were told to sit by the fire and sew buttons on uniforms?

Anita gasped at Kinsey’s audacity, though she shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing Kinsey did should surprise her anymore. The girl was turning into a regular zealot. Still, this was the President she was addressing. Not so discreetly, she jabbed Kinsey in the ribs.

Davis noticed the action and chuckled. He leaned back in his chair, amusement clearly written on his face. It had been quite some time since he had seen a woman with Mrs. Bower’s spirit. Reminding him of his Varina, she held him spellbound.

Suddenly, he wanted to hear what she had to say. If anything, it would be entertaining. If her previous plea was any indication, it would be downright uplifting. Continue, he said.

Kinsey didn’t appreciate his expression of superiority, but since he was willing to listen, she overlooked it. Leaning forward, she began her plea. Words poured past her lips, straight from her heart. "I love the Confederacy, Mister President. As much as you do. My husband was killed defending it. He was killed defending me. I can’t sit idly by. I need to help. If I don’t, the Yankees will defeat me. Alan’s death will be for nothing. I can’t live with that. Please don’t ask me to.

"Even women have to face themselves in the mirror. We have our pride. We’re not so different from men. We believe in honor. We want justice. We feel a sense of responsibility to family and country.

And we despise the damn Yankees just as much as you do!

Anita almost choked. Kinsey Miranda, remember yourself!

Kinsey ignored her; she was gaining momentum. Recalling the offer she had made to General Lee, she continued, I have a great deal of money, left to me by my mother. I’ll donate it to the Confederate treasury. You can have it. She gestured expansively. "You can have it all. Just think of the munitions it will buy abroad. The hospital supplies. The lives it will save.

All I want is a chance to serve. My money means nothing to me. My life means nothing to me. But my country . . . my husband’s memory . . . please Mister President. Please. Emotionally spent, Kinsey dropped back, wilting, her soft, white hands clutched in supplication, tears turning her eyes the color of dew-laden grass.

My dear, President Davis began, halting to clear his throat, inordinately moved by Kinsey’s eloquent plea. Your country doesn’t want your money. God knows you’ll need it, when this is over. And we don’t want our ladies risking their lives on the battlefield, either.

When Kinsey dropped her gaze to hide her pain and disappointment, Davis had to hide his own distress. He wanted to return the beautiful smile to her face, to rekindle the light of passion in her eyes. In your visits to Washington, have you ever met Mrs. Rose O’Neal Greenhow or Mrs. Augusta Morris Mason? he asked cautiously.

Kinsey’s brow furrowed. Slowly, she raised her head. They’re acquaintances of my Aunt Nelda’s. I’ve met Mrs. Greenhow and know Mrs. Mason by reputation. I know them both by reputation.

Davis rested his forearms on his knees in a relaxed pose. His eyes, however, were alert, trained on Kinsey. By reputation? He arched a thick brow.

Kinsey weighed her words carefully. They’re Confederate spies, are they not?

Davis smiled. Let’s just say they have proven helpful on occasion. His expression sobered. Unfortunately, Mrs. Greenhow is still being held in Old Capitol Prison.

Everyone above the age of three knew that Rebel Rose was incarcerated in the infamous Yankee prison. Why did Davis bring that up at this point? Kinsey wondered.

And today we received word that Mrs. Mason has been arrested as well, Davis continued, his expression grim. There was no sense telling them that the Federals were closing in on Belle Boyd, he decided. Perhaps the brave young lady would get away yet. And he almost forgot about Mrs. Baxley. She was being detained in Old Capitol as well. Such lovely ladies, every one of them. And loyal to a fault!

But Mrs. Mason has children. Two boys I believe, Anita interjected, breaking into Davis’s thoughts.

I’m afraid not. Shortly before her arrest, one of the boys died. The other little fellow, Frank, is locked up with his mother.

Kinsey jumped up, her eyes flashing rebel fire. How horrible! Putting a child in prison. That’s low, even for Yankees.

Davis did something very strange in view of the serious conversation; he laughed aloud. No, I’m not being callous, he hastened to assure the women. It’s a report we received. Seems ever since the little fellow was locked up with his mother, he’s been kicking against the door, yelling, ‘Let me out, you damned Yankees, you.’ His mother is quite embarrassed.

Anita and Kinsey smiled. Good for him, Kinsey declared.

Anita sobered. You want Kinsey to take their place? It was a tense question, betraying Anita’s concern for her cousin.

Davis knew what she was asking. Before he answered her, he looked at Kinsey. Taking in her expectant expression, the lack of fear in her eyes, he made the only decision he could . . . for his country. Yes. That’s exactly what I want. Rose and Augusta are going to be escorted south, if, and when, they are released. Their absence from Washington will leave a gap in our information-gathering team. It is imperative that they be replaced.

Anita smiled ruefully. Politicians always manipulated words to suit their purpose. Information-gathering team, bull! He wanted Kinsey to join an infamous spy ring.

Not aware of Anita’s unflattering assessment, he explained quietly, Through her aunt, Mrs. Bower has entry to Washington society at its highest level. I can’t stress the importance of that enough. Rubbing shoulders socially with Yankee brass and Federal politicians can be quite enlightening. Especially if you’re beautiful, charming, and courageous.

He turned to Kinsey. And eventually, it could lead to that commission. But consider your decision carefully, my dear. What I’m asking of you could be as dangerous as serving on the front. Perhaps more so.

He felt as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. He hated putting one so young and innocent in such a volatile situation. He almost hoped she would refuse. Mrs. Bower, if you’re caught, you could be hanged.

Still, fear was absent from Kinsey’s eyes. Then I won’t get caught.

Anita groaned. There would be no stopping Kinsey now.

With a sad smile, President Davis asked, Does that mean you accept?

Yes, oh yes. Kinsey threw herself onto her knees before her startled President. Thank you. You won’t be sorry, she promised, squeezing the man’s hands so tightly she all but cracked a few bones. I’ll make you proud of me.

Kinsey was blissfully unaware of the tension in the room. She was much too happy at the prospect of her mission. She would be given the opportunity to serve her country and she wouldn’t have to eat stale food, drink lukewarm water, or bathe and sleep outdoors to do it. It was too good to be true.

She would be able to live and act like a woman, like a lady. And as much as she hated to acknowledge it, she loved being a lady, wearing beautiful, frilly things, smelling good, acting feminine. Always had.

Lord help her, she even enjoyed flirting. Men acted like such idiots when she flirted with them; they amused her.

Until now she had considered her appreciation for this blantantly female pursuit a weakness. But no more. Now she could indulge herself, be just as feminine, delicate, and gregarious as she wanted, and help her country at the same time.

All she had to do was outsmart the enemy. By using her God-given abilities. What an exciting challenge! She hadn’t felt so alive since before Alan’s death.

Davis appreciated the look of sheer delight and