The Southern Devil

  “YOU’RE MINE NOW. I’VE SPENT YEARS STUDYING, PRACTICING WAYS TO DRIVE YOU INSANE WITH LUST.”

  Jessamyn closed her eyes, shaking, and strongly wished she knew someone else who could take her into those mountains.

  He touched his tongue to her lips, teased them open. Breathed lightly into her mouth until she sighed and relaxed slightly. Sucked gently on her lips until her whole mouth was open and yearning for him. Then his tongue entered her, swirling over her teeth, teasing her tongue, twining and dancing with it.

  She moaned softly and stretched up to meet his kiss, utterly absorbed. He kissed as if they had all the time in the world, as if days and weeks and months could go by while he learned the taste and shape and feel of her mouth.

  THE SOUTHERN DEVIL

  DIANE WHITESIDE

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  For Elaine, Julie, and Katherine—

  Thank you for your patience and wisdom.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Memphis, June 1872

  Jessamyn Tyler Evans stared out of the carriage windows eagerly, drinking in every precious sight of Somerset Hall, starting with the high turrets of the private racetrack her father had built as a wedding present for his wife, Sophia. The stream rippled past, marking Somerset Hall’s boundary. Then the tall oak tree appeared, whose branches she’d climbed so often to look for the Evans family, her parents’ best friends and her two childhood playmates, Morgan and Cyrus Evans. No matter what joys and pains were associated with those men as adults, including marriage and widowhood, her childhood memories were only of innocent fun.

  Jessamyn leaned out farther, almost rocking Richard Burke’s carriage in her eagerness. It was ten years since she’d lived here and nine years since her father had sold it, but it still looked much the same as she remembered.

  The great paddocks, the core of Somerset Hall’s fame, were green and lush and blessed with dozens of beautiful horses. Colts tossed up their heads as she drove past, then raced, showing they were faster than the sedate carriage. One fine yearling was a chestnut, running with the wind for pure joy. She craned her neck to see him as the road turned, then sat back, tears filling her eyes. He was the image of old Aldebaran, her father’s favorite stallion.

  Yellow roses still covered the small chapel. She’d woven a garland of them and cast them into the stream with a prayer for forgiveness, when she’d learned of her mother’s death.

  The large main house was built of red brick, with white columns and porticos, in a comfortable Palladian style. Shutters were open onto the east loggia, showing a glimpse of the library where Cyrus had studied for West Point, while a bronze statue of Hermes was still slightly askew amid a fountain. She and Morgan had knocked him sideways during a particularly lively game of bat and ball.

  Dear God, how happy they’d all been.

  The carriage drew up in front and Aristotle, her family’s old houseman, handed her down. Behind him, Richard Burke—Somerset Hall’s present owner—smiled warmly at her from the top of the stairs, where he stood next to his sister.

  The hair on the back of her neck promptly stood up. She’d thought Eliza Burke, Richard’s spinster sister, had invited her here for answers about Somerset Hall’s origins. Why the devil would Richard Burke, who had little use for women, be charming to her, a penniless widow?

  Setting aside her suspicions for the moment, she smiled at her old friend. “Thank you, Aristotle. How are you doing now?”

  His face split into a grin. “Very well, Miss Jessamyn. Very well indeed.” He patted her hand and rolled his eyes toward his current employer, silently warning her as he had so many times before.

  She squeezed his hand briefly in thanks and turned to her host and hostess, who’d come down the stairs to greet her.

  “Mrs. Evans, what a great honor to have you here,” Mr. Burke rumbled.

  “Please take a drink with us,” his sister added.

  “Thank you.” She curtsied slightly and followed them to the side porch, her father’s favorite place for entertaining in hot weather. The rose garden reached the house here, curved around a delicate fountain that her parents had brought back from Italy on their honeymoon. Her bedroom had overlooked this part of the garden, with its path to the family’s stables.

  Cassiopeia, Aristotle’s wife and her old family cook, brought out the serving tray, which offered lemonade and an array of treats that would have tempted even the Widow of Windsor. Jessamyn managed a private smile for Cassiopeia, with a silent promise of a later meeting as old friends. Cassiopeia silently retreated to a servant’s correct distance beside her husband and Jessamyn was left with the Burkes’ unfamiliar company.

  She sighed softly and sipped her lemonade. Richard Burke was talking about a rich miner from Colorado, a topic that interested Jessamyn very little. Was that Socrates, her old groom and Aristotle’s brother, coming down the path from the stables? His uncle had been Somerset Hall’s chief groom for decades and Father had brought Socrates here when she was six.

  Why was Socrates so concerned to see her now? Didn’t he realize she’d meet all of them later, as befitted their friendship?

  “So you see what a good deal it is,” Burke finished.

  She frowned internally and reviewed his last few sentences. Something about a land deal in Denver? “Excuse me, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

  “Charlie Jones…”

  Charlie Jones? Her cousin Charlie? Every nerve inside Jessamyn came screaming to life. If her Sharps carbine had been handy, she’d have loaded, cocked, and aimed it.

  “Will trade me a thousand acres of prime Colorado railroad right-of-way for Somerset Hall. He plans to remove the top two or three stallions, plus a handful of mares, before fever season starts and send the rest of the horses to the knackers.”

  Kill the horses? Kill her beloved horses, the fabled gold of Somerset Hall? Take just enough horses to be able to re-create Somerset Hall’s fabled stud farm and do it before yellow jack struck again at high summer, as it had for the past five years, turning Memphis into a panicked, dying city. That way, a few grooms could handle the horses and the knackers would take the risk of entering Memphis during a time of year when half of the population dropped dead of high fever, yellow skin, and screaming insanity.

  Damn Charlie to hell. The cheap bastard wanted Somerset Hall and its stud book enough that he’d actually made an excellent offer for it. Her father had done whatever it took during the War to keep the horses alive—smuggled feed in from St. Louis, hidden the horses, even paid bribes to both sides of the conflict. Jessamyn pressed her lips firmly together and waited for her host to finish speaking.

  “All you have to do is sign here. I’ll give you five hundred dollars for your right of first refusal.” He produced a traveling desk and opened the leather portfolio within, revealing a sheaf of papers.

  No wonder Burke hadn’t sold many of the horses since the War if this was how he conducted business. She’d also heard rumors that he’d overpriced them, even for
their legendary quality.

  Jessamyn’s decision had been made the instant she’d heard who wanted to buy the land. She would crawl through hell on broken glass before she let Cousin Charlie set foot on Somerset Hall. “No.”

  Burke straightened, papers in hand. His sister stared at Jessamyn from just behind him, with a bottle of ink in her hand. “What do you mean—no?”

  She folded her hands in her lap, lifted her chin, and straightened her spine even further. Her former governess, Miss Ramsay, the daughter of a British naval officer, would have been proud, especially since Jessamyn’s heart was leaping inside her chest like a rabbit trying to escape a fox. Aristotle, Cassiopeia, and Socrates were lined up on the brick walkway like an honor guard, hopeful and desperate.

  “According to the terms of sale when you bought Somerset Hall, I have six months to match the sum you paid my father. Until then, you cannot accept any other offer.”

  Burke’s jaw dropped and he slammed his fist down on the table, making it shake. “You’re only a penniless Army widow! Where the devil will you obtain enough money?”

  Jessamyn tilted her chin slightly higher, thinking of the lawyer’s letter inside her purse. “In Colorado, sir.”

  By way of Kansas City, if I can just find a husband first.

  And claim the gold in Colorado without seeing Morgan again…

  Chapter One

  Tennessee, December 1863

  Twenty-one-year-old Lieutenant Morgan Evans stepped inside the tiny, ice-cold room in the small farmhouse and waited, his weary eyes running affectionately over General Nathan Bedford Forrest. He’d just returned from a week in the river bottoms and knew he looked it; not that clothing mattered much when his weapons were ready to fight. By the other window, the few tattered, starving staff members worked hard at a dinner table. His old friend Rafe was sitting at a lady’s dressing table before a glass mirror, scratching diligently in a ledger.

  The scene was a very far cry from the comforts of a few months ago, when they’d been part of a major Confederate army. But the self-taught Forrest had whipped too many enemies too easily, then told the truth once too often about his superiors’ lack of fighting ability. He’d finally gained an independent command only by going to a place long overrun by the Federals, with only three hundred of his handpicked men and no supplies whatsoever, told to enlist whatever men he could find.

  Morgan tried to think up a joke to tell on Rafe about sitting at a lady’s dressing table. After two years with these men, there was very little they hadn’t shared and jokes they hadn’t played on each other.

  He’d followed Forrest for almost two years, ever since the icy night in February 1862 when only Forrest had the courage to find a way out of Fort Donelson before it surrendered to U. S. Grant. Forrest had been given permission to take command of every man willing to ride with him that night, no matter who their original units and commanders were.

  Morgan and his father, John, had simply glanced at each other, then gathered their horses when they heard the offer to follow Forrest. They hadn’t needed to talk to know that escape was more honorable—and more militarily useful—than surrender. Three years in the Arizona Territory, after Morgan’s mother and brothers had died of yellow jack, had stripped them of sentimentality about warfare, even as it had honed their skills as cavalrymen. Later the same night, they’d happily realized they followed a genius when Forrest forded a river running chest deep in ice, without disaster. Two months later, John Evans died at the Hornet’s Nest during the Battle of Shiloh, leaving Morgan an orphan. He’d had little time to mourn, since Forrest had a way of keeping his picked men more than busy.

  Morgan’s stomach rumbled and tried to glue itself to his backbone, an occurrence of such frequency over the past year that he ignored it. He’d eaten far better when he’d ridden with Cochise as a teenager.

  Forrest dismissed the fellow he’d been talking to and Morgan quickly snapped a salute. “Evans, sir, reporting as ordered.”

  “Evening, Evans. How many were you able to bring in?” At the moment, Forrest looked and acted like a mild-mannered country farmer. But in battle, he became an incendiary fiend, the image of how he fought.

  “Forty-eight, sir. Three of them had rifles, one with some ammunition.” He’d spent a week gathering those recruits at various hidden rendezvous, all in dense thickets along river bottoms during the cold, wet December. Still, it was easier work than hunting with the Apaches.

  “Very good.” Forrest considered him, and Morgan straightened further, frowning slightly. He could do nothing about his muddy, threadbare, much-darned clothing. But he could keep his carriage erect, as befitted an Evans of Longacres, as his father had taught him.

  “I understand you have some connections in Memphis, Evans,” Forrest observed.

  Inside, Morgan came on alert. Forrest had made a fortune in Memphis and his family lived there. Why was he asking Morgan, whose ties were much thinner? “Heyward Tyler, my father’s Harvard roommate, lives there with his family. Our families visited regularly throughout my childhood. Also, my father and I visited him for a few days in ’61 during our return from Arizona, before we enlisted.”

  “Would he welcome you again?”

  “I’m sure he would, sir.” Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he watched the general. “He served on General Albert Sidney Johnston’s staff but was invalided out just before Shiloh.”

  “Ah!” Forrest pounced on the tidbit. “So if you arrived on his doorstep, he would shelter you.”

  What the hell? If Uncle Heyward sheltered a spy and the Federals caught him, he’d be sent to prison, which would be very dangerous to his health. But Uncle Heyward was a patriot so he should still be willing to serve the Confederacy, no matter what the risks.

  “Why, sir?” He’d have to take Uncle Heyward into his confidence and negotiating Jessamyn’s high standards of honor could be tricky. He had no notion of how she’d regard spying, even though she must support the Confederacy as her father’s daughter.

  “You’re no doubt aware that the Federals are hunting us.”

  Morgan snorted and answered just as laconically. “Occasionally, sir.” Their eyes met—half-smiling, half-weary, a look born of too many years spent riding into battle together.

  Then Forrest bent over a map and beckoned Morgan to join him. “They’ve sent many hounds after us.” His finger stabbed at far too many roads. “But the most important is Grierson.”

  Grierson, the bastard who diverted us from relieving Vicksburg? He’d be the devil to fool and he’s a veritable bulldog in a fight. With only three hundred trained men and no real weaponry to protect two thousand raw recruits, Forrest’s new command could be trampled by Grierson in an afternoon.

  Faces flashed before Morgan’s eyes, of the men and boys he’d just brought in, who’d come to protect their homes from the Federals, who trusted what he’d told them of Forrest. Faces of the men he’d fought beside for almost two years, the few remaining of those who’d slipped past Federals and swum icy rivers to escape Fort Donelson. His hands clenched and unclenched.

  Forrest nodded, watching Morgan. “Lucky for us, they’re keeping him close to Memphis. I need someone who isn’t known as mine, but can find out where and when Grierson will move. As soon as you learn, bring me word.”

  Morgan snapped to attention. He’d do his damnedest to keep his friends alive. “Yes, sir!”

  “Good.” Forrest continued more slowly. “There’s a paid informant in Memphis, whom Richmond is mighty fond of. But most of his material tastes more like sugar water to me than military information. If you think his findings are useful, then they may be worth listening to.”

  The younger man nodded, smiling grimly. A double agent? Or someone selling worthless information for as much gold as he could find? In either case, better men had died because of such Judases. His lip curled.

  “If you think he’s trying to set traps for better men, then kill the rat.”

  Morgan smiled unpleasantly,
remembering the lessons he’d learned from the Apaches. Some of those tricks would be a fitting punishment for such a traitor. “It would be a pleasure, sir.”

  He saluted and was excused, plans churning in his head. Most of them centered on talking to Heyward and Jessamyn as quickly as possible, especially his old friend. Jessamyn would know exactly how to discover the information he needed. She’d always been the thinker in the trio of friends he’d grown up with: Jessamyn Tyler, his cousin Cyrus Evans, and himself. He’d had the inspirations and Cyrus had been the rock, who’d planned and carried things through.

  But he had to be careful of Jessamyn’s sense of honor and trust, which her damn mother had ripped apart ten years ago. The old growl boiled up in his chest, as it always did when he remembered those two days.

  He’d been eleven years old and Cyrus was sixteen, but Jessamyn was only seven when they sailed north from New Orleans on that fancy riverboat in 1853. Everyone aboard was listening to Matthias Forsythe, a California millionaire, talk about how he’d made his fortune. Heyward and Sophia Tyler, John and Rosalie Evans, and all the other first-class passengers had been transfixed by the bastard’s stories. But as befitted children, Morgan, Cyrus, and Jessamyn sat in chairs against the walls and simply watched the grown-ups.

  “You see, gentlemen, it was easy. I picked up that miner’s claim as payment for an unpaid bill at my general store. They struck gold there a week later and matters have gone very well since!” He had laughed and held up his hands, covered with flashing rings. “I have an instinct for succeeding in get-rich-quick schemes!”

  “What’s Aunt Sophia looking at?” Morgan had whispered, referring to Jessamyn’s mother. Both families considered each other kissing kin: not blood relatives, but dear enough to be kissed on both cheeks and treated in all ways like blood kin. “He’s not talking about any fun stuff, like fighting Indians.”