Sneak Peek

Sweet Surrender
by Brandy Lee

Excerpt from 
Chapter One

April 4, 2003

      “Are you sure this goes on next?” Laura Linden held up a linen chemise trimmed at the neck with a small bit of lace. She already wore a pair of pantalettes from the 1860’s, and bulky cotton stockings secured at the knee with tied garters. “It seems that a corset would fit under this instead of on top.”

      “It’d bite into your skin too much. Here. You can wear these stays. They’ll be much more comfortable than a whalebone corset, and besides, your waist is already small. You won’t have to lace too tightly.” Sharon Smith held out a smaller undergarment, with light reinforced stays and long laces. Graying hair curled around her square face, and her smile was grateful. “It’s not often we get volunteer tour guides willing to go the extra mile like you.”

      Laura took the stays and looked at them doubtfully. “I’m just thrilled to be included. I’ve spent so much time studying this house and the Jackson letters, it seems like I belong here.”

      “Maybe you do.” Sharon shrugged slightly when Laura looked up. “It’s funny, but there are times I feel this old house has been just waiting to be reborn, that it’s welcomed me and wants me here. Oh, I know how silly that sounds, but this place is more than just wood and brick and paint. It’s a grand old lady. I’m delighted to find someone else who appreciates it as much as I do. My grandmother would be so happy to see it like this, repaired and painted and very much as it was in her grandmother’s day.”

      Laura glanced around the upstairs bedroom with appreciation. “It’s wonderful that it’s back in your family again. You and the historical society have done an excellent job in restoring it to its former grandeur.”

      “Oh, it was never really grand. Just— beautiful, like a spring flower.”

      Laura glanced out the bedroom window at the lawns newly sprouted with green grass. Flowers bordered the drive, still damp from a recent April shower. A cool breeze filtered in the open window, fluttering the period lace curtains. The two-story house had four white columns along the front porch, and a wide hallway called a dog trot down the center, with rooms on each side and a kitchen in the back. Bare wood floors gleamed after a recent repolishing and finishing, and the sloping original oak planks creaked slightly with each step.

      “This gown is lovely, white with green sprigs. It belonged to my great-great grandmother Lucy,” Sharon said, and held out the garment. “With your auburn hair, you’ll be so pretty in it.”

      Laura took the gown and held it up to her, fingering the fine cotton that was only a little frayed in places. “I can’t believe it’s in this good shape after a hundred and forty years.”

      “Everything we found in that trunk in the attic is in surprisingly good shape. That’s where the letters were found, you know.”

      “Yes. The Jackson letters. They’re so wonderful, and they paint a vivid picture of what war was like, how disruptive, how devastating. I wish we knew what finally happened to Captain Jackson. All we have is the claim by two Yankee scouts that they’d seen him flee the area.”

      “We’ve searched all the archives, prison records, military executions, but there’s no clue as to his fate. He was Lucy’s cousin, her mother’s sister’s son, and he was accused of deserting right before the battle at Shiloh .”

      “Unusual, that a celebrated Confederate captain would be charged with desertion, don’t you think?”

      Sharon smiled. “One legend says Logan Jackson posed as a Union officer in order to get information to pass on to the Confederates, but that’s unlikely. He most likely met with a fatal accident or perhaps was shot by the two Yankees on his way to Shiloh . What is known for certain is that his cousin and best friend said he stayed the night at Cedar Hill before vanishing. His body was never found, but that’s not so unusual in those days. Many men went to war and were never seen or heard from again.”

      Laura shivered. She’d never tell Sharon , but after reading his letters she’d found herself falling in love with Captain Logan Jackson, a man dead for over a hundred years. How was it possible? Maybe it was because the letters were so personal, his handwriting strong and bold, telling his cousin about her husband and his boyhood friend. It’d been so obvious that he was conflicted, torn between love for his country and his belief that the Confederacy was doomed, yet he’d done what he felt was right. She’d even dreamed of him at night, feeling as if she’d known him. Sometimes she’d wake in tears for the man she’d never met, mourning his loss. No, that was not something she intended to share with anyone else. She’d end up committed!        

      “So you found the trunk in that closet?” she asked, pointing to a closed door, but Sharon shook her head.

      “No, we never have been able to find the key to that cupboard. It’s probably very shallow, and we just haven’t gotten around to getting it open yet, with so much else to do. I think someone said it’s probably a false door anyway, as the house was remodeled some time in the early fifties. Eighteen-fifties, that is. They were taxed on each room in those days, and of course, that’d mean closets too, so armoires held clothes and cupboards were boarded up. One of these days we’ll get it open just to be sure there’s nothing stored in there, but we will probably have to tear up the door to do it.”

      Sharon glanced outside, pulling aside a lace curtain. “Ah. Here come some of the other volunteers. Just put on whatever you find, and if you need anything, I’ll be back up shortly.”

      Left alone, Laura moved back to the trunk and lifted the lid again. She’d seen some cloth shoes earlier, and they looked like they might fit. She’d save the dress for the tour. It was already warm and humid, and there was no point in risking stains.

      She knelt beside the trunk, shoved a hand through her hair, pushing dark auburn strands behind her ears. It was just long enough to wind into a braid atop her head for the tour, and she’d spotted some kind of hair ribbons in the trunk as well. Tonight she’d lay everything out so that when she got up in the morning, all she’d have to do is dress.

      The shoes lay on the very bottom of the trunk, with cloth uppers and thin leather soles. They were simply fashioned, stitching evident, a delicate design embroidered on the toes of the pumps, with ribbons to fasten them around her ankles. She marveled at their survival through the years. Perhaps dried mint branches liberally strewn in the old leather and wood trunk had kept moths and mice at bay. A very faint remnant of spicy mint clung to cotton and linen.

      Sitting on the floor, Laura slid one of the shoes on over the cotton stockings she wore. It fit perfectly, almost as if it’d been made for her. Delighted, she tied the ribbons around her ankle and reached for the other shoe. Apparently, nineteenth century shoes had neither a left nor right designation, but this shoe didn’t fit as well. Something hard kept her toes from going all the way in, and when she removed the shoe and reached inside, she was startled to find a small brass key.

      It must fit the trunk latch. She tried it, but the key was too large for the lock. It could fit anything, she mused. Looking up, her gaze fell on the locked cupboard. Could it be—? Probably not, but there was no harm in trying.

      Laura rose to her feet and crossed to the small door. It was probably only four feet high, and indentations in the wood floor in front of it marked a faint rectangle, as if something had once been placed in front of it. A table, perhaps, or washstand.

      To her amazement, the key fit perfectly. She turned it, but the lock didn’t budge. Maybe it wasn’t the right key for the door after all. Disappointed, she jiggled it, and after a moment, it turned with a grating, metallic rasp. Hinges groaned a rusty protest, and the door swung inward.

      Exhilarated, Laura didn’t hesitate. She stuck her head into the dark space. It was larger than she’d expected. This was no cupboard, but some kind of room. An attic space, perhaps. It smelled rusty, stale, the air of a hundred and forty-one years closing around her when she stepped just inside. She had to bend to get through the door, her five-foot-six frame much too tall for the four foot opening.

      Something sticky and flimsy drifted across her face when she straightened up; cobwebs. Shuddering, she hoped spidery occupants had long since abandoned the web. Dense shadows obliterated the far end of the room, but slanted light from the bedroom picked out a washstand and the iron footboard of a bed. This had been some kind of room at one time, perhaps a hiding place for family heirlooms. During the war years, people had often built false walls and dug holes to hide the family silver and expensive paintings. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she’d stumbled on just such a treasure trove of antiquities?

      Heart beating fast, she eased a few feet further into the room, peering into the darkness. It wasn’t unusual for her to crawl around old houses looking for family papers, peering into dusty cupboards, prying open lock boxes, sifting through moth-eaten newspapers looking for old letters and documents. She found it exciting to transcribe old letters and documents, like having an open window into the past.

      She ran her fingers along the steeply sloped ceiling; it was only five feet high in one part of the room, but she sensed a higher pitch to the roof. This room must be disguised as part of the eaves. Dust hung thickly in the air and she sneezed several times. She needed a flashlight, and to tell Sharon about her discovery. Oh, this was so exciting!

      Laura turned back toward the door, stumbled slightly over something on the floor, and barely caught herself from falling by grabbing hold of a rafter. The shoe and key she’d still been holding went flying, and the open door swung suddenly shut, plunging the room into darkness.

      Oh great. Now she had to feel her way in the shadows. Gingerly, she made her way toward the door. There was no knob on this side, only the keyhole. How the devil did she find the key in the pitch blackness surrounding her? More irritated than frightened, she knelt to search for the key, her fingers sliding over rough wood floor boards in the dark, retracing her first steps. She found a shoe but not the key, her fingers encountering more cobwebs and dust.

      “I need a light,” she muttered, and to her shock a masculine voice said behind her, “I’ll find another lamp.”

      She froze. A scream locked in her throat. Her heart thudded, nerve-endings tingled, and she curbed the desire to claw her way out through the closed door. Crouched on the wooden floor, she huddled in the shadows and wondered how on earth someone else had gotten in here without her seeing them.

      Then a light flared, caught, and a small glow spread outward. In the shaky illumination, Laura saw a tall man standing in the very center of the room, his head bent to avoid the rafters. He stared at her, eyes slightly narrowed.

      His voice was low, husky, as he said, “No need to look so frightened. It’s only a broken lamp.”

      “Broken— who are you?”

      He moved toward a small table set under the slanting eaves on the outside wall and put down the lamp. He wore only a pair of gray trousers, the top two buttons unfastened. Light played across his bare chest, gleaming on ropes of muscle and smooth skin. Her gaze riveted on the broad expanse. Unexpected heat flashed through her, and her nipples tightened in response. He was quite possibly the most attractive man she’d ever seen. And somehow he seemed vaguely familiar . . . .

      A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth when he turned back to look at her. “Who am I? I ask myself that question too many times, and have yet to find a good answer.”

      “Suppose you try again,” she managed to say despite the nervous quiver that seemed to be hung up in her throat. “You must know the reason you’re here, at least.”

      He gave her a strange look. Strong brows dipped low over eyes that looked dark blue. A muscle flexed in his suddenly clenched jaw. “North. South. Loyalty and honor demand I follow my countrymen, logic and fatalism bid me realize the odds are too great to win. Not that any of my doubts matter. I’ll do what I must.”

      For some reason, his words sounded very familiar. She’d heard that very phrase used in similar context, and not so long ago. Oh wait. The letters. Yes, he must have read the Jackson letters. This man had to be a reenactor, another volunteer come to Cedar Hill to play the part of a Confederate soldier. She relaxed slightly. If he had studied the letters enough to quote from them, he was probably as caught up in the drama and history as she was.

      “How’d you find this room?” she asked after a moment. “ Sharon said it’s been locked for years.”

      “ Sharon ?” He shook his head. “I’ve not been introduced to her. The door is usually locked for obvious reasons.”

      “Well, sometimes the obvious isn’t.” When he just looked at her, she said irritably, “Why should it still be locked after all this time? Archivists, historians, even the Smiths haven’t been able to get in.”

      “Billy is the one who brought me here,” he said after a moment, “just as he brought you. I don’t think anyone else knows it’s here. Except now you do. Are you to be trusted?”

      Confused, she stood up, swinging the shoe she’d recovered by its ribbons. “Of course. I’m completely trustworthy. Sharon checked my university credentials thoroughly, just as she’s done yours, no doubt.”

      He stepped closer, bare feet padding across the floorboards. For a large man, he moved as silently as a cat, with a lithe stride and curiously graceful balance. It was slightly intimidating. It was— arousing.

      Laura’s throat tightened when he stood within arm’s reach of her. She was fully aware of him, felt the strong attraction despite the strange situation. Probably just her long abstinence. Not since her ex had she allowed herself too close to a man, keeping them all at arm’s length. Jerry had been bad enough, had left her spiritually and emotionally drained. She had no desire to risk another failed love affair, much less another marriage. Intimacy of any kind was avoided like the plague. At the ripe old age of twenty-six, she’d opted for celibacy.

      Yet there was something about this man that made her heart beat a little faster and the blood rush through her veins, made her vividly aware of him as a man. It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though that was certainly true. He had the dark good looks of an actor, with black hair and electric blue eyes, tanned skin and a body that had to be the result of hours working out in a gym. No, there was something else that drew her, a heady, mysterious force that left her giddy.

      Feeling slightly foolish, she took a step back and bumped her head against a low rafter. He put out a hand, ran his fingers into her loose hair, rubbed the spot gently. Just his touch sent shivers down her spine, made her skin tingle, left her weak-kneed and trembling.

      This was crazy. He was going to kiss her. She saw it in his eyes, the sudden dark intent, the way his lashes lowered, the way he moved in on her. Invading her space.

      “Mary,” he muttered thickly, “I’ve not much time left. Let’s not waste it with talk.”

      Focused on the heat he sparked by dragging his fingertips along the line of her jaw and down her throat, it took her a moment to realize he’d called her by another woman’s name. She opened her mouth to say something but he took immediate advantage and covered her lips with his, a hot, fierce kiss that went all the way to her toes. Jesus! This man was potent.

      As if he sensed her sudden weakness, he slid his hands from her collarbone to the lace on the edge of the old chemise, then lower, dragging the linen down to bare her breasts. Cool air made her nipples knot into hard buds. He cupped her breasts in his palms, fingers and thumbs on her nipples, tugging with exquisite torment. Laura wanted to tell him to stop, put her palms out to shove him away but found herself clinging to him instead, fingers digging into smooth flesh and hard muscle. Insanity prevailed. She arched her back, closed her eyes and shuddered when he bent to take a nipple into his mouth, tongue lashing it with erotic sensations. God, it’d been far too long. This felt . . . so delicious. So . . . right, somehow.

      A pulse throbbed between her thighs, insistent and spreading. With unerring instinct, he slid a hand down to touch her through the linen pantalettes, rubbing her, sending electric sparks spiraling to every nerve ending in her entire body. She moaned.

      “Oh . . . God . . . .”

      After a moment he lifted his head, looked down at her, his eyes as glazed as hers must be. Passion drew his features tight, skin taut across high cheekbones, his mouth a harsh slash.

      “We have until just before dawn,” he said huskily. “So I’m glad you’re not wearing stays that would only delay our pleasure.”

      All night? Stays? Was this guy kidding?

      She locked her arms when he tried to pull her closer, found a thread of sanity somewhere in the muddled haze of need. Her voice came out a shaky squeak, but she held him at bay.

      “Stop right there, buddy. Enough.” She drew in a steadying breath, far too aware that she stood there with bare breasts and no sign of resistance. Collecting her dignity as best she could, she pulled the edges of the chemise back up to cover herself, saw his eyes narrow even though he didn’t speak. “Look,” she said after a moment, “just who are you? I mean really? What’s your name, your hometown, why are you here— not that any of that’s important. But I don’t usually let strange men paw me. This is just— an odd situation. We’re both going to be embarrassed as hell when we meet again in the morning out on the front lawn, I’m sure. And don’t think I’m not aware that I’m just as responsible. Apparently, I gave signals that I wanted you to kiss me. But a little kissing and petting is as far as this goes, buddy.”

      “My name’s Logan ,” he said shortly. “Not Buddy.”

      Logan ? She blinked. That was a little too— eerie. Too convenient. Too— suspicious.

      “ Logan . Right. Sure. I believe you. Look, isn’t this awkward enough? Do you have to make it worse?”

       “You came here willingly. Didn’t Billy tell you what’s expected? If you’ve changed your mind, you should give back his money.”

      “What are you talking about? Who’s Billy? And stop playing a damn game. It’s obvious you’ve read all the Jackson letters, but that still won’t get you into my panties. You’re taking this reenactment stuff way too seriously.”

      “If by panties you mean these,” he said, and reached out to jerk the waist string of the white pantalettes, “you sold the right to refuse when you took money for your favors. Not that I have any intention of forcing you. Repay the money, and after I’m gone in the morning, you’re free to leave as well.”

      “No, I’m leaving right now. Don’t even think about trying to stop me.”

      He caught her arm, held fast, fingers like iron digging into her wrist. She looked up at him with real alarm. Determination stared back at her. His voice was rough.

      “Are you a spy? Because if you are, you’re in the wrong company. There are two Yankee scouts sleeping downstairs, and when they leave in the morning, I’m leaving right behind them. I have no intention of allowing you to give warning.”

      “A . . . spy? I’m not a spy. No. Look— are you all right? I mean, you seem so serious, but you do know this is just a game, right?”

      “War is never a game, despite what men in government may think.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “It seems that by coming here, you chose unwisely, Mistress Mary.”

      “Laura. My name is Laura Linden. I live in Memphis , Tennessee on Poplar Pike and I only came to Cedar Hill to help Sharon Smith reopen the house. Now. Who are you?”

      He drew the back of his free hand along her cheek, then deliberately lower to tease her  bare skin above the lacy chemise. She shivered. There was something so intense about him, so . . .  dangerous. The warmth of his hand over her skin made her shiver again. He smiled.

      “Mistress Laura, it seems that we are both in an awkward situation. You cannot leave, and neither can I. The door is locked. We’re both stuck in this room until near morning.”

      She stared at him. He sounded so certain. After a moment she whispered, “I have a key.”

      “But I won’t let you use it. There’s another way out, a hidden passage. One that won’t draw the scouts’ attention. One we’ll use just before first light.”

      Something wasn’t quite right. She glanced around the attic room and was struck by the absence of spider webs and dust. It’d been so thick when she first entered. But maybe that was just the area by the door. She hadn’t seen this far into the chamber until he’d lit the lamp.

      Her gaze fell on broken glass scattered near the sloped wall by the washstand. The shattered lamp. A small puddle of oil held shards of glass and a cotton wick. This was all so very strange. She felt odd. Out of place. Out of time . . . .

      “When the lamp is shattered,” she murmured, quoting Shelley, “The light in the dust lies dead—”

      “When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow’s glory is shed,” he replied softly, quoting the following line of the poem, and Laura looked up into his eyes.

      Her breath caught. Pain lurked in the depths of his gaze, something fleeting but sharp, an emotion quickly masked. He caressed her skin, a slow sweep of his hand that made her tingle, a deliberate distraction. She caught his hand, held it against her breast, snared by some emotion she didn’t understand.

      “When the lute is broken,” she murmured, quoting the poem’s next stanza, “Sweet notes are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.”

      He closed his eyes. “As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart’s echoes render No song when the spirit is mute . . . .”

      His voice faded into a husky whisper, and prompted by something beyond comprehension and sanity, she lifted to her toes to kiss him. He reacted instantly.

      It was crazy, and the rational part of her brain recognized that even as she gave herself to the kiss and the moment. But how could she not respond to a man who quoted Shelley? There was only this night. Tomorrow they’d go back to being who they were, her a staid archivist usually hidden in some dusty back room transcribing old letters, and he probably a computer technician or history professor in some obscure junior college.

      But tonight— right now— they were lovers from a former time, yielding to desire and echoes from a day long past.

      “Yes,” she whispered when he pulled down the chemise again, hands cupping her breasts and sending heated shivers through her, “oh . . . yes . . .”

Text Copyright Brandy Lee 2004
Website Copyright ImaJinn Books 2007