Beaudry's Ghost Page 9

  “Shhh. The picket’s only a few yards away.” She eyed his smile with suspicion. “For someone in your position, you seem awfully happy about it. And ‘kind’ has nothing to do with it, Yank. You’re stomach’s been keeping me awake for over an hour.”

  Jared examined the bag with interest. In his cloudy memories of the last century, he remembered seeing picnicking families use such bags. He watched her open it, thinking to himself so that’s how it’s done, and she held it out toward him. He raised an eyebrow as she hesitated. There were only two ways to accomplish this task. Untie him, or feed him herself. The former would be dangerous for both of them; the latter, dangerous only to her, if her earlier reluctance to touch him held true. He waited for her to choose.

  She frowned. Chewed her lip. Reached out to pluck experimentally at the ropes on his wrists.

  “I promise I won’t run away, Private.”

  She scowled and dug her fingers into the bag. “Maybe not, but if Harris catches us, we’re dead.” She fell silent and concentrated on the food.

  He saw her hand tremble as she held a bit of it toward his mouth. He leaned toward her, physical hunger merging with a deeper hunger, a desire to watch her face and see how her expression changed as he drew nearer. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be leaning away, not—

  At the last possible second, she shoved the food into his mouth and snatched her hand away, barely touching his lips. He settled back and chewed, resolving on the next pass to make a dive for her fingers.

  Something about her touch took the tattered edges of his wandering soul, tucked them in and settled them down like leaves after a gust of high wind. Every time she came near him, he found himself wanting her to touch him again. Her reaction to his smile told him it wasn’t his appearance that made her afraid to come in contact with him. Something else held her back.

  Flavors exploded and blended in his mouth, and he forced himself to chew slowly, to not wolf down his first bite of food in over a century. It tasted like a mixture of raisins, peanuts and something else he’d tasted only a few other times in his life. Chocolate.

  “What’s in this?” Pleasure left him almost breathless as he swallowed.

  “It’s trail mix. My own recipe. Raisins, nuts and M&Ms,” she replied. “We’re supposed to keep to ‘traditional’ army food, but this is my private stash. Actually I’m surprised I still have it. You’d think certain ‘non-period’ items would disappear in a time bubble. Oh, M&Ms are candy. Chocolate candy. You probably wouldn’t know that, would you?”

  “This beats traditional army food all to hell. Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he added, accepting another bite. “I’d have traded a month of salt beef and beans for a bite of this anytime.” He sighed in pleasure, using the excuse to close his eyes and hide the slight wetness forming there. Weeping over the taste of food? Surely not. Must be the sand. “I wondered why these Greybacks looked so well-fed. For Rebs, that is.”

  Her mouth twitched and she obligingly held out another bite, glancing over her shoulder to check for approaching pickets. She wasn’t paying attention when his mouth closed over her fingertips.

  She gasped and tried to pull back. He knew he should let her go, but her touch fed him in more ways than the mere physical passing of food from her hand to his mouth. He set his teeth very gently on her skin, and kept her from pulling her hand away.

  He looked into her eyes and knew she could feel it. The calming within him. The peace descending upon him like a down counterpane. The hard marble of pain, anger and confusion softening, easing as he let his tongue touch her skin.

  He saw gentle surprise, saw the disturbance of her carefully walled-off soul.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Let me go.”

  After a long moment, he released her. He knew all he needed to know. Back in his own time, she would have been called a witch.

  She caught an errant peanut in her fingers and tucked it inside his lip, then quickly busied her hands with the bag.

  “My apologies, ma’am,” he said around the mouthful. “Seems my manners around the ladies are a little rusty.” He looked her up and down and raised an eyebrow. “Even the camp-following kind.”

  He looked for and got the reaction he wanted, grinning in amusement as she frowned at him. “Don’t let the uniform fool you, Bluebelly. I’m a lady in every sense of the word, and I’ll thank you not to forget it. These days, women do all kinds of things.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “If the increasingly undressed state of the women I’ve seen on this beach for the last hundred years is any indication,” he said, “I’ll have to concede that point.” Taylor looked sharply at him, and he allowed himself to enjoy teasing her, just for a moment.

  “Then it’s clear you still have your male priorities straight even after a hundred years,” she retorted. “Since you haven’t noticed the undressed state of the surfer boys in Speedos.”

  “In what?”

  She leaned closer. “A swimsuit. Only a lot smaller than you’re used to. Much. Much. Smaller.” She held up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

  He thought it best to let this one pass.

  “So, women no longer need to put on men’s clothing and sneak into the ranks?” He eyed her ill-fitting uniform.

  Taylor gave a long-suffering sigh. “Women have always had a place in war,” she said patiently. “In the Civil War—”

  “Oh, is that what they call it these days?”

  “—they mostly sewed uniforms and men back together,” she went on, ignoring him. “In our most recent, uh, ‘peacekeeping’ missions, some have even led men into battle.” She shoved another handful of trail mix into his mouth, then paused to eye him.

  He stopped chewing as memories flooded his mind’s eye.

  “What, nothing to say?” she goaded.

  Jared swallowed and glanced quickly at her before looking out to sea. “Just thinking of what my sister Sarah would say to that. Actually, she probably would have made a damned good general. And I…probably would have followed her.”

  Grief he hadn’t allowed himself time to feel burned his eyes as he remembered that in this time, his family was long dead. He had no one. Then he gathered himself and shoved his regrets aside.

  At a gesture of his chin, she took the cue and gave him another bite of trail mix. “So this is what you portray in your re-enactments? A woman posing as a man?”

  “No. This is…a special occasion. Normally I portray the traditional vivandiere’s role—laundress, seamstress, cook, musician. But, should the need arise,” she paused, apparently to make sure he was paying attention, “I can shoot as straight as any man here.” Then she aimed her first true smile at him.

  Jared choked on his trail mix, coughing and gasping as he tried to bring up the half-chewed peanuts in his windpipe.

  In spite of the unflattering uniform, the butchered hair and the obvious lack of sleep around her eyes, when Private Taylor smiled she was a beautiful woman. Even though the smile was a small one, weighed down by heavy sadness, it was a definite sight for century-old eyes.

  He wondered suddenly what he looked like to her, wondered if he had picked an ugly body or a handsome one. He hadn’t had a chance to take a good look at John’s body before making the leap.

  He wondered why it mattered to him.

  The next few minutes passed in silence as she quelled the newly awakened demons in his stomach, and he tried to quell the newly awakened demons in his groin.

  Finally, when he shook his head in refusal of another bite, she closed the bag and shoved it back inside her coat. Then she scooted closer, lowering her voice still more.

  “Okay, Mr. Ghost, I’m going to tell you a story…”

  “Oh, good. A story.” He pretended to settle into a listening posture, though he could move only his head.

  “Be serious. You’re going to tell how me much of it is true.”

  Jared sobered and nodded. He had a bad feeling he wasn’t going to like this much.
/>
  Taylor drew a shaky breath.

  “In 1862, around the time of the Battle of Roanoke Island, a party of Confederate soldiers scavenged for shipwrecked supplies along the northern Outer Banks, near where Corolla is now. They captured a lone Union scout named Jared Beaudry.”

  Jared nodded, keeping his face neutral, but indicating he listened.

  “The unit’s leader, nicknamed Bloody Zachariah Harris, was convinced a brigade of Yankee cavalry would descend upon the Rebel forts at Roanoke Island, and resolved to foil their plans by reaching Roanoke in time to warn General Wise. To taunt the Yankees into following, Harris cut off Beaudry’s hand and left it like a trail of breadcrumbs for the Yankees to follow into a trap. When they reached Roanoke, the battle was already in progress, and the Rebels were losing. Harris went into a rage and cut off Beaudry’s leg, then rode down the coast, leaving a trail of blood and burning lighthouses from Bodie to Hatteras.”

  Jared barely noticed when she paused, lost in the images replaying in his mind. Realizing she’d stopped talking, he roused himself and jerked his chin, a silent invitation to continue.

  “When Harris and the remnants of his unit reached Cape Hatteras, he burned the lighthouse even as Union forces closed in. As his final act of defiance, he shot Beaudry in the back and cut his throat for good measure. Ever since then,” Taylor paused to steady her voice. “Ever since then, the ghost of Jared Beaudry has roamed the Outer Banks, looking for his lost parts and for revenge on the evil Lt. Harris. Or maybe his descendants.”

  Taylor waited. Jared knew she must be waiting for some reaction from him, but only a resounding emptiness echoed where emotion should have boiled.

  “Mmm. And they never found the body, I take it?”

  “The legend doesn’t say anything about that.”

  Ah. Just as well. At least his family had been spared the shame of receiving a corpse with a damning bullet hole in the back.

  Presently he cleared his throat and nodded. “A few missing details, but that’s close. Very close,” he said.

  Taylor drew the collar of her coat up and held it closed with tense fingers. “Which details are missing?”

  Jared swallowed audibly. “Do you have any water?”

  Taylor uncapped her canteen and held it to his mouth, freezing for a few seconds when a picket passed nearby, paused, and moved on. Jared took a few deep swallows and breathed his thanks.

  “All right, Private Taylor, my turn for a story.”

  She grimaced. “Just make it quick. And spare me the gory details, okay?”

  “No stomach for blood?” Jared cocked his head at her.

  “No, nothing like that. I’ve just never liked ghost stories. They kind of…stick with me.”

  Jared couldn’t help but smile. Private Taylor, who’d stood unflinching between him and the business end of a sword only hours ago, was afraid of ghosts. Well, this ghost story had certainly stuck with a vengeance, hadn’t it?

  His hunger appeased, a more pressing need suddenly made itself known. If he could have moved, he would have squirmed. Sooner or later something was going to give, and he’d rather it not be in front of a woman. “This is a long story. We’d better find a more private place to tell it, Private.”

  “How can we do that? I can’t just untie you and let you walk out of camp.”

  Jared glared at her impatiently. Obviously, what properly raised folk did and did not discuss was lost on these modern women.

  “Get your musket,” he said, then frowned. “Why don’t you have it with you? You should always carry it, especially with enemies in your camp.”

  “You sound just like my brother,” she muttered, rising to a crouch.

  “Were I your brother, I’d spank your little backside and send you home to Mama,” he retorted.

  Taylor looked like she’d love to argue that point, but thought better of it. For now. “The musket won’t do any good anyway,” she said. “It’s loaded with blanks.”

  “Of course,” said Jared, realizing it for the first time. “No one would have real cartridges in a re-enactment.”

  “We have them, but we don’t load them except for target practice,” Taylor informed him.

  Jared nodded. “Load one now. We may need it.”

  “I will not!” she whispered fiercely. “Do you think I’m going to shoot one of my own friends?”

  “These aren’t your friends anymore,” he said, his patience stretched to the breaking point.

  “Yes, they are! They’re just…occupied territory right now. I’m not shooting at them! For any reason! Besides, if there are any live rounds, they’d be locked in the wagon box, so no one accidentally loads one during a skirmish.”

  Jared gave a weary sigh. She was right. He had to remind himself that these soldiers, this war, wasn’t real in this time. “All right. Just get the gun. Then come back and untie me.”

  Taylor scurried away, but paused to turn around. He didn’t need to see her scowl; her posture said it all. Jared grinned. She’d caught herself following his orders as naturally as if he were her superior officer, and she didn’t like it.

  Presently she returned and loosened his ropes just enough to slide the pole from under his knees. She had to do a lot of tactile gymnastics to keep from coming in contact with him, but he said nothing. Something happened to her when they touched. What they were doing was dangerous, and she needed no distractions now.

  Jared’s sigh of relief turned into a groan when he tried to straighten up. Taylor shoved her shoulder under his arm to help him.

  “I’m all right,” he said, shrugging her off. “It’s nothing. Don’t untie anything else.” Jared still bound hand and foot, shuffled away from the sleeping men and toward the dunes, Taylor on his heels. They had to make sure this looked convincing.

  Only a few yards clear of the camp, the sharp click brought them to a halt.

  “Halt. Who approaches?” A thin, stooped shadow aimed a cocked musket at Jared’s heart.

  Taylor took a steadying breath. “A friend, sir.”

  “Come forward and be recognized, sir, and give the countersign.”

  When Taylor didn’t answer, Jared looked her way and tried to make out her expression. Her tense body told him all he needed to know.

  “Just let him see who you are,” Jared muttered out the side of his mouth. “And give him the countersign.”

  “I know how it’s done,” she hissed. “I just don’t know the countersign.”

  “Don’t know…” Jared gave another weary sigh.

  “Well, I’m sure it isn’t our regular one,” she said defensively.

  He thought fast. “Got any whiskey on you? That always worked for me in the absence of a countersign.”

  “Sorry, I’m fresh out,” came her dour reply.

  “Then,” said Jared, “we’re in trouble.”

  The picket approached, musket swinging from Jared’s chest to Taylor’s, and back.

  “That’s a friend of mine,” Taylor whispered. “At least he was a few hours ago. Do you recognize him?”

  “I didn’t manage to get on a first name basis with everyone while they were parceling me out.”

  “He just graduated from high school this year. He re-enacts with his dad.” Her voice dropped still more as the young man came nearer. “God only knows who he is now.”

  Chapter Five

  “Ah, it’s just you.”

  Stan, unable by strict code of conduct to let his musket touch the ground, swayed where he stood, trembling visibly. Jared recognized the symptoms. Until Troy had relieved him of the extra spirit inhabiting this body, Jared had felt much the same—weak and shaking, stomach rolling.

  Taylor left his side and hesitantly touched Stan’s arm, her reluctance evident. She studied the boy’s face, his gentle blue eyes anxious and unnaturally bright in the darkness.

  “You’re burning up, S…um, buddy,” said Taylor. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Orders,” Stan spoke with an e
ffort. “You know how the good Lieutenant is about orders.” He gestured toward Jared. “And after what Harris almost did to him? The last thing any of us wants is to be caught slackin’ off.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re almost dead on your feet. Let me…”

  Stan waved her off. “No, I’ll be all right. It’s probably just those berries I ate a ways back. They sure looked like the blackberries we had back home but…” he laughed at himself. “If I can just make it back to Roanoke and a few days rest, I’ll be set right.”

  Taylor set her shoulders in a way that told Jared she was angry again. “Why do you put up with Harris, anyway? There has to be something you can do as a unit to get shut of him. Some…chain of command you can go through.”

  Stan laughed again, a wheezy sound. “Hell, he ain’t the easiest officer to get along with. Here lately he’s been downright…” Stan glanced around and lowered his voice. “Well, anyway, I ain’t never seen a better man in a fight. He won’t back down from nobody. That’s how we got sent to this Godforsaken sandspit, ye know. Up at Manassas he was ordered to fall back and regroup with another regiment, and he ignored it.” He gestured toward the Yankee. “Where’re you takin’ this Bluebelly, anyway?”

  “Oh…” Taylor glanced at Jared, as if for prompting. She was doing just fine, so he shrugged to indicate she was on her own, and suppressed a grin when she scowled at him. “…just taking him out to set a spell.” She cleared her throat, and Jared failed in the grin-suppressing department.

  Damn, he was beginning to like needling this woman.

  Stan snorted and waved them on. “Git on with it, then. Don’t be too long. Some of these other fellers has itchy trigger fingers. They see a blue coat out in this here dark, no tellin’ what they’ll do.” He saluted to indicate they were dismissed, then walked on, his steps slow and hesitant.

  Taylor returned the salute, and prodded Jared to move on until they reached the far side of a dune, out of the camp’s line of sight. Once there, Jared stopped and gave her a hard look.