In His Eyes(43)

His eyes clouded. “I should have expected such from one who is so in bed with the Southern cause that she named her child after The Marble Model.”

Confusion arrested her next words and cut furrows in her brow. “Who?”

He tapped a finger on the table. “The King of Spades.”

Ella clicked her tongue. “You speak madness.”

“For a woman so enamored with General Lee, one would think you would be aware of the things men dub him.”

Her mouth went dry. General Robert E. Lee? He thought she named her son for a man of war? She detested all things to do with war! She narrowed her eyes. So be it. Let him think she named the boy for the Rebel general. Better he thought that than know her wee sweet baby had been cursed with the cur’s own name.

“Better that than be named after a devil,” she said through clenched teeth.

His lip twitched. “A devil?”

Ella pulled Lee tighter against her, and he started to squirm. “What else would you call one who so loves the flames that he turns them on defenseless women and children? What other than a devil would wage war not against the enemy army, but instead sets its sights on devastating citizens? Leaving children to starve and women to fend for themselves!”

Anger burned within her and she stood so quickly from the table the chair toppled to the rug. “Aye, the devil, those Yanks.”

She no sooner gained her feet than he stood to his. A growl rumbled from within him. “What know you of war, woman?”

“What do I know?” She clenched her hand at her side. “I know plenty. I know that Yankee flames ate my home and my family. I know soldiers are naught but men devoid of morals that use war as an excuse to ravage and pillage like pirates. I know that while men are off to defend what is being invaded, they leave behind families ripe for slaughter at the hands of devils who would rather demoralize the innocent people than fight in civilized battle.” Her chest heaved. “That, sir, is what I know.”

He stared at her, the muscles in his jaw jumping under the skin. She knew she had roused this military man to the kind of anger that should have made him act out every atrocity his kind were known for, yet he remained frozen in place, the fury of his deep breathing belied by the questions raging in his eyes.

Knowing she had sealed her own fate, Ella swallowed hard. Oh, why had she let loose such things? While true, it did her no good to voice them! Now the tiny seed of hope that she might be allowed to remain had been ground beneath her inability to keep her thoughts and feelings under guard.

Knowing the recourse that would soon follow, she denied frustrated tears the opportunity to sting her eyes. Then she turned and walked calmly from the room, leaving the fuming Yankee devil to his demons.



Westley measured the pounding beats of his heart and then breathed slower, bringing his pulse down with concentrated effort. Furious, he watched her stalk out of the dining room. He gripped the edges of the table. She had no idea the things that needed to be done to win a war—no concept of the choices men must make in order to save the lives of many.

Memories of torches and flames seized him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. A tactic, he told himself. A simple method to bring the South to heel and all the sooner end the struggle. There had been times, yes, when the orders made him cringe, but he justified their actions and kept his mind from lingering too long on the effects of what they’d wrought. A harsh thing, perhaps, but necessary. Still, though Westley’s own men had burned barns as ordered, they had never set a torch to homes. The distinction would likely mean little to her, however.

The same thing he told himself over and again on the battlefield. The lie he used to scrub away the guilt as he lit fields on fire and watched them burn. But the depth of the anguish and fear in those green eyes clawed at him.

In a way, every word she hurled at him stank of truth. While the army tried to starve out an enemy, they damaged women and children. While men bent to the fever of battle, the innocent who’d had no say in the conflict suffered.

Westley rubbed the back of his neck. Perhaps not entirely innocent. Had he not seen women use their ample skirts and their wiles to smuggle supplies? Seen them spy and deceive? A war must be fought on all fronts. Such things could not be helped. Though a tragedy, some civilians got stuck in the crossfire. That was the way of war.

He dropped back into his chair and massaged his temples. Her words kept slithering back to him, slippery syllables that carried the weight of guilt like a millstone around the neck. And though he longed to deny it, he had to admit that he could not blame her. She had lived that pain, and he possessed no right to deny her the expression of it.

He rubbed a hand over his face and tried to dislodge the image of her that even now remained in front of him—how her eyes sparked when she threw her daggers at him. A dragon, that one. A tiny dragon, to be sure, but one with flames and claws to spare. And her voice….

Westley allowed himself a moment to let his anger fizzle beneath the intoxicating quality of her voice, even if what came from her lips aimed to wound. The more she raged, the more her Southern sounds sifted together with a melodious lilt as exotic as her sunset hair. Had she been reared among immigrants?

He shook his head. He should not try to unravel the mysterious woman whom he felt certain hid more layers than he had yet seen. That path only led to further trouble.

Curse it! Westley pushed to his feet and plucked the cane from where it rested upon the table and shifted it in his hand. He would do right by her, but only to honor his mother. His curiosity over her continued to make things worse. If he had sent her away yesterday, he wouldn’t be contemplating his own morality now.