Bride of the Night

Actually, he wasn’t sure he was glad for the wind; he was slowly drying, but the air was cold, and his flesh felt like ice. He’d had matches in his pocket, but they were quite worthless now.

He hunkered down to see the sand.

Footprints. The foot was fairly small, but the indentations were deep, and they almost dragged, as if the imprinter had carried a heavy load. There seemed to be drag marks in the sand, as well.

A seabird let out a raucous cry in the night, a sound so sudden and eerie in the darkness that even he tensed, spinning around. He stood quickly.

The last of the fires had burned out. There seemed to be nothing in the darkness.

He looked toward the center of the island where pines and palms had taken root, and where someone, evading capture, might well seek sanctuary.

TARA COULD SEE HIM coming.

The man was tall. The darkness wouldn’t allow much more information than that, but she had a sense about him. It was almost like she was being stalked by a jungle cat, one of the panthers that prowled the hammocks of the Everglades up on the mainland. He didn’t slouch. He didn’t creep along the beach. He just stood there, perhaps doing the same as she—trying to sense the very air around him.

He couldn’t possibly see her in the dark, and yet, she felt as if he was looking right through her.

He saw her!

Or he saw something. He started walking right toward her little palm-and-pine sanctuary, and in a minute, he’d discover where she’d hidden Richard.

Tara eased to her feet; as silently as she could, she made her way behind the stand of pines and crept back into the brush and palms … once there, she fled back toward the west, allowing the foliage to slap around her, giving a clear path to anyone who wanted to follow her.

She did well. Turning back, she saw the man was no longer on the beach. He had disappeared as if he’d been no more than a shadow in the night.

She weighed her situation. Looking up, she saw the outstretched branch of a sea grape tree. She measured the distance, lowered herself and bounded onto the high branch. Then she sat silent, waiting.

EVEN FOR FINN, PURSUIT in the dark was not easy, though it was usually more of a friend to him, and an enemy to those he sought.

He had followed the trail, and yet, it seemed amazing that, now, the same person who had made those footprints was bounding as light as a bird through the trees. He followed with all speed, running through brush, a copse of pines and through a thicket containing a dozen different trees. He followed the thrashing he had heard, the bracken breaking underfoot, and he burst through the trees onto a higher spit of ragged brush and poor sand.

Which was empty.

He held still, listening again.

He let go of the natural sounds of the island.

The now-slightly distant roll of the waves, the rustle of branches. He heard again a sound that was guttural, like a rooting sound, as if animals—wild pigs? boars?—sought deep in the ground for some kind of food. He heard the wings of a bird as it took flight from one of the tall trees.

He knew that the Spaniards had found native tribes living on most of the islands; fishermen and others had come and gone forever. Pirates had made use of the channels and the reefs to escape capture. They’d brought new species to the little islands, and there might well be anything—plant or animal—hunting in a semitropic climate here.

Pigs, birds, insects, crabs.

He kept listening, concentrating his extrasensory abilities.

Then he could hear it.

The beating of a heart.

The sound was fast, a strong rhythm.

And then Finn knew; he was being watched, just as he was watching.

He stood where he was for a long time, and then he started back to the beach. As he did so, he heard a wild flurry of activity behind him; he turned, and he saw the figure running back into the trees.

He raced after the fleeting form, but in the midst of trees again, the subject of his chase disappeared once again. He didn’t hesitate that time.

He stopped cold, and he listened.

And found that heartbeat again.

He waited a very long time, until he was certain, until the thump-thump-thump grew stronger and so familiar to him that it almost seemed a cacophony.

He took aim, and jumped, certainly taking his culprit by complete surprise.

Even though the thought had crossed his mind upon uncovering the petticoat, he had not fully accepted that he might actually find the woman he had lost in Gettysburg. The experience had been such a sword in his side; he had chafed at losing her, been haunted even by what had happened, and now …

She screamed, not so much with fear, but with complete surprise, as he made his way to the branch, capturing her in his arms and bringing them both slamming down to the ground below. He looked into her eyes, amazed that he remembered them so well, and as she stared up at him, he realized that she found instant recognition, as well.

She stared at him as if fighting for the right words of loathing to hurl his way. She was winded, he realized, even if he’d twisted himself to take the brunt of the fall. And so he spoke first.

“Why, miss. Fancy meeting you here, on such a dark and lonely night.”

She looked back at him, gasping for breath, and he eased his hold.

“Let me go—move. You’re an oaf. You’re a disgrace to your uniform,” she spat out.

“I don’t wear a uniform. But I am taking you in—”

“You have no power to take me anywhere.”

“You’re a blockade runner. And I believe your name is Gator, and that you’re plotting against the president of the United States of America. You will face a military tribunal, and you will hang, my dear,” he said most pleasantly.

Of course, it was doubtful that she would hang. Southern spies—women—had been incarcerated in D.C., but the judges and leaders seemed loath to take action against such a woman. Hanging one damsel—however clawed and vicious she might be—would just be another knife in the side of the Southern ethic.

And, of course, Finn thought, what a waste if she were to hang. Even now, in half-dry, tattered clothing, hair tangled in clumps around her features, she was stunning. The same uncanny beauty he’d reflected upon since Gettysburg. She had a perfect face, with large eyes that dominated the fine, slender structure of her cheeks and jawline. Her brows were clean and even and flyaway, and if she were to smile …

She didn’t smile. “You’re in a Southern state, you fool,” she told him.

“There’s a massive Union fort down at the tip, in case you hadn’t noticed. And let’s see, the Union has held St. Augustine since ‘62. Plus, there’s a host of Union sailors about to land on this little islet, while I’m not seeing any boys in butternut and gray marching along the sand to save you. Oh—and since we’re at war, I think I’m doing okay,” he told her pleasantly.

To his amazement, she smiled, giving no resistance.

And then she did.

He had eased his hold to something far too gentle; she was small, but apparently built of steel. She suddenly shoved him aside with exceptional strength, kicked out hard, catching him entirely by surprise and with a sound assault, and leaped to her feet.

“Ass!” she hissed.