River Magic

By Martha Hix

India Marshall took one look at the Union Army's Rock Island Prison Camp, on the banks of the Mississippi...and prayed for strength. The determined Confederate belle had vowed to set her brother free at any cost. If she could somehow entice Major Connor O'Brien into trusting her, she might be able to stage a prison break...until she found herself caught between fear and desire, desperation and a passion that promised to break her heart.

West Point soldier Connor O'Brien fought for the North, even though his big, brawling family came from Tennessee. He had mixed feelings about guarding this prison camp, but no doubts about the southern charmer who was placing both their lives at risk. Now, as the dark currents of war and treachery swept them toward certain betrayal, Connor and India were trapped between the loyalties they held dear and the love they could no longer resist...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zebra Books
• Release date: Apr 1, 1995
• ISBN: 9781420142327

Martha Hix

Martha Hix -- author of 15 romance novels, one medieval novella, and a section of the Lair of the Wolf continuing story at Romance Communications that will soon be published by Leisure Books -- finds herself amazed that life can be this grand. Recently one of the six writer-celebrity emcees in the Mr. Romance Cover Model Pageant, sponsored by ROMANTIC TIMES Magazine aboard Carnival Cruise Line's m/s Celebration, as well as being the organizer of the RT Spice Girls, Martha enjoys a splendid personal life along with an amazing career...for, she says, "a fat girl." Martha's newest book addresses the issue of being fat and being satisfied with it. Terrific Tom, a Silhouette Special Edition available in mid June of this year, has received fantastic support for looking the issue of weight in the eye and saying, "So what?" Her books have been translated into an assortment of foreign languages, some of them very foreign--like Japanese, Mandarin, Greek, and Turkish. Her historicals, Destiny's Magic and Mail Order Man, were finalists in the HOLT Medallion competition, an award for literary excellence determined by readers across the nation. "The best 'literary excellence,'" Martha says, "comes from the wonderful letters I receive from readers." A Texas native and resident whose family has been in the Lone Star State since the 1840s, Martha says with her trademark grin, "I enjoy writing. I get to be in charge." She has a couple of daughters, a couple of grandkids, and a couple of pets, but only one husband. She says, "He's great. I don't know how he puts up with me, not to mention my moods and antics. But I'm glad he does." If Martha could have three wishes on a magic lamp? "Great health for my family. Great health for myself. And that chocolate eclairs weren't fattening. But since they are, so what?" On a trip to the Copper Canyon in Mexico, Martha and her traveling companion, Evelyn Rogers, put their Spanish to the test, asking everyone, "What famous person, living or dead, would you most like to meet?" We asked Martha the same question, and she replied, "Golda Mier. She was an American woman of simple origins, not beautiful, yet she rose to lead Israel. I'd love to ask what fired her soul, what made her happy and sad. Why Israel was important to her." Recently Martha became pals with multi-published author and cover model, the gorgeous and talented SUSAN PAUL. Martha and Susan have formed the Podners writing team to explore various forms of fiction.

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Jackson

Prologue

July 1860

Marseilles, France

It was cat against man.

Stop that. The provoked human’s voice roared through the carpet shop. I’m warning you—alight! Or else . . .

Bhang, the black feline, remained perched atop an uppermost rack of prayer rugs. Eyes as bright as a dish of emeralds were trained on his adversary, daring battle, asking for trouble. He refused to stop clawing and desecrating the sacred merchandise, would not jump down, and continued to test Hasan al-Nahar, an Arab immigrant to these shores who began to consider reprisal more brutal than death for Marid’s pet.

Hasan’s body shook. He hated cats. And he wasn’t too fond of Marid, either. His lazy assistant, a eunuch, did little to earn his keep. He spent his time bemoaning the loss of an heirloom lantern. And he’d recently brought this beast into the quayside shop. The dealer in goods exotic to France cursed both Marid and Bhang before concentrating on the current problem.

In the name of Allah—Hasan waved the stump of his right hand as if it were a fist—Bhang will pay for his villainy. I will divest him of those that every man treasures. His jewels!

The merchant’s remaining hand slipped into a casket of brass lanterns. The trove contained new lamps, previously beaten with a chain to give the illusion of antiquity. It also held a true relic: an ancient oil lamp swindled from an urchin only this morning.

Hasan glowered up at Bhang. "First, I must get you down, then . . . I’ll make you as manly as your master!"

A sleeve of his flowing robe snapping like a tent in a Saharan sandstorm, Hasan tossed the missile; the shop echoed with a clang when the lamp struck the contemptuous ball of fur. Bhang fell. Blood seeped from an ear.

The lamp rocked to rest at Hasan’s sandaled feet.

Just as the cat shook life sap from his head and began to wobble to the back of the shop, Hasan reached to grab him, but a tinkling of beaded curtains at the storefront, followed by female voices holding American accents, froze the merchant.

Dear me.

‘Dear me’ is right, Tessa. Let’s leave.

The Arab whirled around, ever eager for customers. A pair of tourists in middle years—one tall and thin, the other short, round, and lacy—stood flanked by carpets, the blue Mediterranean twinkling behind the beads.

Smelling a profitable sale, Hasan tucked his stubbed wrist into a burnoose fold. Why advertise bad business? The stump evinced his punishment for thievery, meted out in Mecca four decades ago. Welcome, mesdames, crooned he.

The red-haired taller woman, fetching as a beggar’s camel, tugged on the overfed one’s sleeve. Let’s go, sister. I refuse to do business with an abuser of cats.

Silver-shot ringlets bobbed. But, Phoebe—

No need to leave. I did not mean to hit Bhang. I aimed for a fly. Hasan stepped across the trail of blood, hiding it. The cat is not injured. His was mere indignation. He smiled obligingly at the cat lover. How may Hasan al-Nahar help you?

The feline fancier looked as if she might lop off his left hand for sport, which didn’t faze Hasan, since he received little respect in Marseilles, a French port city well known for its seamy side. His attention swerved to the more amenable of the pair.

Tessa eyed her sister. Aren’t these carpets lovely? I think I’ll buy one for each of the nephews, too.

And just what do you think they’d do with them? Connor in the Army, and with the youngest gone, no telling where—

Everything will work out. They’ll need them someday. Her blue eyes sparkling, Tessa turned to Hasan. We sisters have toured Europe, thanks to a dear nephew. It’s been a most exciting trip. Alas, we sail on the tide. I can’t leave without—

Tessa O’Brien, you needn’t tell our life stories.

Shush, Phoebe. Tessa stepped forward. I would like to purchase four Persian rugs. She fingered the edge of a selection; paved diamonds as brilliant as sunlight on a sultan’s treasury glinted from her wrist. I’ll start with this one.

Tessa—

How much do I owe you?

Hasan hid a snicker. The silly woman didn’t even know to haggle. Madame, a wise choice. But first, may I offer chairs?

He made short order of pulling two forward. Sweeping his hand, he took the lace-bedecked arm to help Tessa to a seat. The other sister, her lips thin as an ax blade, refused his offer, but she made no more attempts to get her sister to leave.

Hasan forthwith offered libations. To counter the damage that crone Phoebe might do to his sale, naturally. Furthermore, why shouldn’t Tessa O’Brien leave with a lamp in her possession?

The wine is not of a rare vintage, he explained while filling goblets. I spend my money on excellent items from the Oriental and Arabic lands. Of course, I do not pass these costs on. The Creator would frown on such profit-taking.

"But how will I get all four of these carpets to the Lady America? " Tessa inquired a few minutes into his campaign.

No problem. None in the least. This is Hasan al-Nahar’s problem, not the lady Tessa’s. Assured of a sale, Hasan felt no need to hide his missing hand. He began to roll rugs deftly. My helper—he used the term loosely—will return any moment. Marid will tote them to your ship. No problem.

How much do I owe you, Mr. al-Nahar?

He named an exorbitant figure, was met with approval from Tessa. Phoebe choked on her wine. Winded, she at last sat down.

Hasan reached for a round tin. May I offer sweets? These cookies are fresh from Morocco.

Tessa took a handful, her sister none. Careful. Phoebe sneered. "No telling how many flies have feasted on them. This hole in the wall doesn’t lack for them."

Oh, Phoebe, hush.

Hasan’s upper lip quivered. That redhead needed a good dose of something no eunuch could provide!

While Madame Pudgy delighted over a cookie’s almond taste, Hasan withdrew to the fallen lamp, his foot scooting over a trail of blood. The injured beast, he noticed, skulked behind the casket of brass wares. Soon you’ll provide no pussycat with manly goods, cat, I swear you won’t!

Hasan smiled greasily at Tessa. In appreciation for your patronage, I would be honored to share a very rare and valuable piece of merchandise with you.

Be careful, Phoebe cautioned her sister. I bet marbles, money, or salt he says that to all his customers.

What makes you doubt a simple merchant such as I?

We’re engaged in commerce, too, answered Tessa. In Memphis, Tennessee. Father owns a factoring house.

But we’re honest business people. Phoebe looked down her long nose at the huckster.

Merchants untrained in haggling? How could they ever turn a profit? Well, why argue? Hasan picked up the battered lamp to hold it aloft, as if it were straight from Aladdin’s legend. This, Madame Tessa, begs to sail with you to the Americas.

I’d like to know how a lamp can ‘beg’ anything?

He pursed rubberlike lips, rising up on his toes for a moment. Ah, Madame Phoebe, mine was a figure of speech. Will you allow me to tell you about this ancient treasure?

At her reluctant consent, Hasan tucked the lamp in the pit of his arm. His gaze moving from one American to the other, he whispered, Have you heard of Aladdin and his magic lamp?

Both listeners nodded.

This lamp. He presented it. This very lantern was found in the Oriental city where Aladdin lived. Al-Kal’áas. It came into my possession during a pilgrimage to the East.

His yarn could have been recited while sleeping. He’d sold hundreds of lamps with this pitch. It was Marid, once a pirate, who’d planted the idea, after a clue brought him to Marseilles. He’d begged a job in order to search incoming merchandise for some particular lamp that had been missing since before the eunuch had lost his manly goods.

This lamp is worth King Chosroës’ ransom, Hasan boasted.

Like a Berber tribesman raring for battle, Phoebe hunched her bony shoulders. Why did you use a treasure against the ... fly? What makes you want to sell it?

You have found me at a vulnerable moment, mesdames. I must reduce my stock in order to pay my beloved mother’s physicians. Mother is quite ill.

How very sad, Tessa murmured and sighed.

Horse feathers. Forget the lantern. Tessa O’Brien, we sail in little more than an hour. Pay up. Let’s go.

Heavenly days, Phoebe. Will you please allow Mr. al-Nahar to finish his story?

You came for one rug. Now it’s four and a worthless trinket. I’ll not witness your squandering another cent. Phoebe stood, marched to the curtain. I’ll wait outside.

Please excuse her rudeness, Mr. al-Nahar. My sister has had trouble trusting people for quite some time. Ever since our departed brother married unwisely. You see, Georgia Morgan wreaked havoc on our family, nearly destroyed it before she died, taking our beloved brother with her. Three young sons were left to rear and educate. Phoebe and I, and our elderly father, stepped in, of course. My sister still blames Georgia for the boys’ unhappiness, and for Daniel’s untimely demise.

Hasan uttered compassion. It helped to act interested. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, he felt drawn to the plum-plump lady with soft, expressive eyes.

Taking the lantern in hand, Tessa examined it closely. Tell me more about this lovely antique. Is it Aladdin’s lamp?

I do not claim the lamp holds mystical powers. Its beauty and value lie in age and place of origin. As an Arab, though, I cannot swear that it doesn’t hold a jinn.

Marid claimed to have a genie’s powers, yet Hasan had never believed the eunuch, not for the space of a moment. Lamps were lamps, and Marid was a fool, at best. Aladdin? Khorafa, nothing more. An incredible tale with no more truth than Marid’s proclaimed powers.

You might find magic in this lovely brass piece. What would you wish for, madame, if you had three wishes for riches?

Never riches. We live a comfortable life already, the O’Briens. Her eyes now glittered with tears. My wishes would be for my nephews. Connor. Burke. And poor wayward Jon Marc.

Recalling a mention of discord, Hasan refilled her goblet. Tell me about these nephews.

Pride replaced her sad expression. Connor is twenty-six. An army man, a graduate of our military academy at West Point. Phoebe and Father hope he’ll soon get enough of soldiering and will return to Memphis to take over Fitz & Son, Factors.

And the other two?

Burke treated us to this Grand Tour, can you imagine? He operates steam freighters on the Mississippi River, and is quite successful. Especially for one only twenty-two.

She sighed. As for poor Jon Marc, we don’t know his whereabouts. He had a falling out with his grandfather.

Such a shame. What would you wish for these men?

Good wives who will make them happy forevermore.

Can they not find brides on their own? Are they unfortunate of face or figure?

Our boys are as handsome as the day is long! Tessa held up her goblet for yet another refill. We don’t want them to marry too young. Daniel, their father, married at twenty. Twenty! Such a mistake. Phoebe and Father both feel the boys shouldn’t marry before thirty, and I agree wholeheartedly. Father, you see, married our late mother at thirty, which we’ve decided is the best age for a man to settle down.

What could it hurt, should you buy the lamp, to make three wishes upon it? Hasan named another figure, this one including the treasure. Finding her likable would not stand in the way of lining his coffers.

The lamp placed on her lap, she dug into the well of her reticule to hand over francs. Will this settle my account?

A few more. He crooked each remaining finger in turn.

The price met, she stood and lifted the lantern to her bosom, her eyes closing. She licked her lips. Her pudgy fingers slid along the bowl as she whispered, Oh, lamp, bring magic.

No sooner had she finished before the shirtless, slick-pated Marid, a golden ring bobbing in an ear, took shape on this side of the beaded curtain. Marid, who claimed to be a jinn.

The eunuch deigned neither a glance at Hasan nor a care for his pet. Like Aladdin in thrall with Princess Badroulboudour, Marid ogled Tessa O’Brien. Lady, how may Eugene Jinnings be of service?

Eugene Jinnings? The aging pirate turned eunuch—thanks to an unfortunate incident in a sultan’s court—had been known by a host of aliases, but never a somewhat American one.

Warnings on his lips, Hasan said, Lady, beware—

Eyes as black as Bhang’s arse drilled into Hasan; Marid roared an interruption. Cease! He added a curse in Arabic. That Hasan would lose his voice.

Which made the merchant mad as a Turk. He tried waving his hand to catch Tessa’s attention, but it wasn’t to be gotten.

She clamped her naive gaze to Marid/Eugene. In a gentle yet insistent whisper, she said, Please give Connor a bride, come March of 1864. Bring Connor happiness ever after.

He bowed low. Your wish is my command.

How can I be certain of your powers?

I will stay at your side until your wishes are done.

Why, Marid intended to leave with her! Overcharging for goods was one thing, long-term cheating another. Hasan opened his mouth to give a chunk of his opinion. No words poured. Marid, son of a donkey! Take back your curse!

Eyes only for Marid, Tessa qualified her whim. Better we don’t let Connor know beforehand. If he finds out about my wish, he’ll fight us. He says he’s married to the Army.

Many men claim no wish for marriage, the eunuch cooed.

Whatever the case, we must be careful. Connor is quite keen-sighted, and has an uncanny ability to spot artifice.

Worry not, my lady. He will be overpowered by magic.

She linked arms with the ersatz magician; they turned, and she parted with: Be sure to have my rugs sent to the ship.

When Mohammed embraced Christianity.

If Marid would have the rich lady, Hasan would keep her money and his merchandise. Nevertheless, he leapt to make another stab at calling Marid down for the liar that he was, or if nothing else, to demand restitution for that desecrated prayer rug. Bhang lunged. Needlelike pain pierced Hasan’s ankle, exploded up his leg. Aaarghh!

Hasan shook the injured beast from his limb.

Allah, I curse this cat and his master! May they both know your wrath! Hasan, searching for voice, danced up and down on his good leg, then wheeled toward the back of his shop. He got an eyeful of the power of his own curse.

Bhang lay dead.

The tale of Aladdin might be khorafa, but curses were curses, and they carried plenty of power.

One

Rock Island, Illinois

March 14, 1864

A tea party for three was a helluva place for a West Point fighting man to spend his thirtieth birthday. The War of the Rebellion raged to the South, but not here, not in the center of Major Connor O’Brien’s discontent.

The hostess had excused herself to fetch a fashion periodical. North wind tapped at the windowpanes, snowflakes clotting the sashes, and the fireplace overheated this drawing room, where foodstuffs sat uneaten and a Persian house cat snoozed in his lap. Connor O’Brien envied the cat’s sleep.

Medal of Honor territory this was not.

He eyed the other guest, a past-the-bloom member of the United States Sanitary Commission. India Marshall had arrived this afternoon.

The aged lady smelled of lavender water. Salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a bun at her nape, with tight curls springing to her forehead, she wore a lace kerchief above a squarish face. A shawl draped her shoulders. Rocking a Boston rocker, humming the battle hymn of the Republic, she busied her fingers with knitting a glove. Conversation didn’t seem to interest her, since she hadn’t said two words to Connor. Neither did she glance his way.

He sought to bring her out. Ma’am, I understand you’ll be taking quarters with the Lawrences.

I will. She shoved spectacles up her nose. I’ve been told officials must stay with Colonel Lawrence and his wife.

Officials, and a reluctant major.

Wartime housing being scarce, the Commandant of Prisons had mandated the mansion built by long-dead pioneer, George Davenport, be used as seat for Rock Island Prison Camp’s warden and his family. With many surplus rooms available to the childless Lawrence couple, Connor, as second in command of the newly constructed prison, had been afforded the luxury of the lodging. Some luxury.

Opal Lawrence had done her best to make the dwelling commonly known as the Davenport mansion homey, livable, and had given the place a woman’s touch by placing this inherited piece of furniture with that bit of the same. But Connor would have been happier bunking inside the prison than to have taken quarters with the commander he both despised and scorned—and sarcastically thought of as Dimpled Darling—Roscoe Lawrence.

The colonel was anything but dimpled or darling. Ugly didn’t begin to describe him. Inside or out. Lawrence’s negatives were neither here nor there, though. He was Connor’s commander. So be it.

Furthermore, the Army being the Army, no one had asked Connor for either his opinion or approval. Thus, he did his best to stay as far from this residence as possible, but such as Opal’s modest tea party in honor of his birthday chained him to the place.

He studied the sanitarian’s profile. I’ve heard of the Sanitary Commission. Fine organization. They’ve sent nurses and doctors to staff military hospitals. But battlefield casualties are hundreds of miles away.

While he had no use for his commander, it was his duty to keep abreast of everything that affected the prison compound located due north of the Davenport mansion, and Miss Marshall’s presence couldn’t be by chance. What brings you to Rock Island?

The humming stopped, but it wasn’t for an answer.

He asked, Will you set up a collection stand in town for donations of cookies and mittens for troops in the fields?

She cackled, as if his had been the most absurd question in the world. Her voice sounding old—too old?—she never missed a beat, knitting. War’s work spreads near and far, Sonny.

Ma‘am, the name’s O’Brien. He scratched Amelia’s furred chin, receiving a thankful yet somnolent purr. Connor O’Brien.

Please excuse me. Age does peculiar things to a lady.

He noted something peculiar, all right. The up-in-years Miss Marshall had an odd facial pallor, as if she’d powdered her cheeks with ashes. Still and all, Connor figured the petite woman had been comely enough in earlier years. Awnings of dark lashes porched her bespectacled eyes, and hers were nice features. Unwrinkled features.

She inspected the half-finished glove. Mrs. Lawrence told me this camp is manned by decrepit veterans unfit for active duty. Grandfathers. What brought you to Rock Island Prison Camp?

Apparently Opal hadn’t added dregs of the Union Army to her details. Dregs fit Connor. As it did her husband.

Most of the officers, and some of the men, aren’t aged, Connor pointed out, not at all eager to touch on his reasons for being assigned to a lousy outfit.

All the better to keep the rowdies in line? she asked.

We do what has to be done.

That’s war for you. The Rebels are so desperate they’re sending lads barely weaned from Mother’s milk into battle.

President Davis ought to order surrender.

The war does drag on. Beyond decency. She bent her neck to finish off a finger. In a sorrowful yet caustic voice, she muttered, Shouldn’t have started.

It did. Connor rested his wrist against the hilt of his saber. The Union won’t back down.

’Tis a pity. Knitting needles clacked. So many young men like yourself, dying, dying, dying.

Older women did tend toward the maudlin, and since he had a high regard for such women—he had two splendid aunts in their fifties—Connor settled on the benign. You’re doing a fine job on those gloves.

Thank you. She held them up, proud. I’d be honored if you’d take them, once they’re finished. Well, maybe not. Her gaze took a fleeting shift in his direction, and he got a brief glimpse of dark blue eyes. Her tongue clicked. You may have the next pair. I believe these’ll be way too small for your big hands. You have nice hands. Broad, sturdy, strong.

Again, she looked his way. Her lashes batted behind silver spectacles, flirting? He got uncomfortable. Connor liked women, but preferred them more his age.

Yes, those hands are nice, she gushed. All the better to hold big ol’ rifles or heavy swords. That’s sure a nice sword you’re toting. India Marshall lifted and wiggled a finger way too youthful for her overall appearance. Naughty boy, have you been using that shiny saber to keep your prisoners in line?

He scowled. What was it about her that didn’t ring true, over and above a questionable style in word choices? Connor stroked Amelia’s feline ear and sized up the sanitarian. Her hands grasped his attention. Tawny in hue, they were neither weathered nor overused, nor did they have a single liver spot.

Her shape didn’t resemble an older woman. There appeared to be muscle, and a pert bosom, beneath that crocheted shawl and ghastly gray frock. She called to mind a half-grown gray cat he’d found as a lad. Feisty, lynx-sly. No way was she akin to the fat lazy cat asleep in his lap.

Sonny Boy, shame on you, staring at wizened old me, India Marshall admonished, akin to a Sunday school teacher. Why haven’t you answered my question? Are you cruel to prisoners?

Cruel? The off-to-Washington commander of this post had enough cruelty to go around. Roscoe Lawrence had taken the eastbound train from Rock Island this morning, had left not two hours before India Marshall arrived. His absence being the sole reprieve in the six months he’d had the ill fortune to be assigned to Rock Island Prison Camp, Connor got the sneaking suspicion he’d come up against a whole new set of problems.

Well, Major O’Brien? Are you cruel?

I do what I have to do.

That’s the coward’s way.

Those Rebels deserve what they get.

The fingers of one hand covered her lips, a gesture of shocked disapproval. What would your dear mama back home think, were she to know her sonny boy is mistreating penned prisoners.

‘Dear mama’ doesn’t think anything, she’s dead, he replied, boiling hot. Why are you goading me, Miss Marshall?

War’s purpose is to kill and maim. My purpose is to clean up the mess. You and I couldn’t be further apart in outlook.

Outlook you won’t get an argument on. My job is to fight. I am a West Pointer. We live for combat.

Pity.

What is that supposed to mean? Ma’am.

’Tis a pity you must battle fenced-in men. I should suspect a big strapping lad such as yourself would much prefer to lock horns with the likes of that Rebel, Robert E. Lee.

His exact preference. Connor should have been on a battlefield, fighting the misguided Confederates, but he wasn’t, and if Stew Lewis didn’t come through for him, no telling how many more birthdays he’d spend in the harvest of disgrace.

With a war of sorts going on in this drawing room, he got back to it. "Better you should lock horns with General Lee. I get the impression you’re rarin’ for a fight."

My gracious, you are a sensitive whippersnapper. Why, I bet you’ve grown tired of being cooped up on this island, with little more freedom than your own charges. Are you hoping for magic to spring you from here?

A miracle was exactly what it would take to spring him from the trap of bad judgment. His actions at the battle of Gettysburg got him transferred here, and Connor supposed he ought to be thankful for not getting a court-martial over it, but how could he look on the bright side while under the command of Colonel Roscoe Lawrence?

He had, nonetheless, written to a West Point classmate, petitioning Stewart Lewis to call him back to the fields. Lewis hadn’t replied. Alas, the appeal hadn’t escaped Dimpled Darling Lawrence’s notice. The camp commander, an ass of the first order, had objected. Loudly and profanely.

Connor slanted his gaze at the sanitarian. There’s no such thing as magic. If it existed, why are these United States falling to wrack and ruin from within?

It’s never too late for miracles.

Right. He gazed into hearth flames, rankled. You’re trying to pull something out of me, Miss Marshall. He extended a long leg, and at the same moment he intended to ask, What is it? Amelia refitted herself on his lap, and parked her chin on the hillock of his uniform-covered privates.

Purrs loud and noticeable drew the sanitarian’s eyes to the source. Miss Marshall’s lips curved in amusement. The tables had turned. It was her turn to stare at him, but he didn’t like the target of her line of sight.

My gracious, Major, you do seem to be popular with the ladies. Her comment obviously having little to do with the Persian, she added, The young ones do like the conquering hero in a man, I reckon.

Connor put Amelia to her paws. Quickly.

Look, lady. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but I don’t appreciate it. Seven thousand men are here because they made war against the legal government of these United States. If you’re wanting to knit gloves and collect cookies for Union men, fine. If you’ve got something else in mind, like stirring sympathies against the war, move on.

Her hands went still around the knitting needles. I’ve offended you. I did so hope we could become allies. She ducked her chin. Forgive me, Major O’Brien?

Allies? She’d taken a curious avenue to it. Why fight her, though? He’d been reared to show respect, not temper to his elders. Not doing so shamed him, brought him to his senses. Making war on little old ladies—and penned warriors, truth be told—as much appeal as quitting the Army to take over at Fitz & Son, Factors.

No hard feelings, he allowed.

Thank you kindly, sir. She gathered her knitting. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go upstairs and unpack.

And so it was that on the blustery afternoon of his thirtieth birthday, Connor O’Brien rose by custom from the upholstered love seat in an overheated salon to allow a bothersome old lady her leave, and wished he could be anywhere else.

India rounded the wall leading from the drawing room into the foyer, and wished she’d used a different tack in finding out how the inmates were treated. The wall as support, she shivered, her nerves haywire. Usually, India could be described as bold as full rigging, but home lay a long way south of here, and survival rode on the success of her mission.

You played it all wrong, Indy. She’d tried to ape her grandmother, had mixed in her beguiling little sister, and what had been the outcome? Pure India Marshall.

She’d alienated that good-looking major.

Furthermore, Connor O’Brien had taken a too-close look at the young woman behind the get-up sewn by her nimble-fingered sister-in-law. The major’s suspicion had been as evident as that manly bulge in those dratted blue uniform britches.

Gracious, he did do justice to his vestments! Have you gone mad? Conquering heroes had never appealed to her. Her taste ran toward poetry readers.

Taste was not the issue, nor was this a good time for wilting. Or for unpacking.

India squared her shoulders, dragging in a breath of restorative air. Better. Maybe all wasn’t lost. After all, she’d apologized to Connor O’Brien, and he had been a gentleman about it. He might permit her inside the gates.

Permission or no permission, she must breach those walls.

It would be best if she cased the fence’s perimeter to find its weakest point. Yet breaking into a penal colony had about as much appeal to India as swimming or snakes. Her weakest points.

Stop dawdling, Indy. She thought of Tennyson’s poem. Yours is but to do and die.

She took a step. Her gaze caught on a tintype hanging on the wall. She eyed the opposite to the major’s attractiveness. This soldier’s image would knock the wind out of any sail.

Stringy hair, thinned by age, did nothing to enhance a frocked hog giving unpleasant decoration to the foyer. His upturned snout gave the onlooker a look at the cavities