The Rebel's Secret (Ride Hard Book 3) Read online

  “You just violated the Uniform Code of Military Justice by drawing a weapon on a superior officer,” quipped Brice, his voice a low, dark threat.

  Michaela lowered her brow in confusion. “But… I’m not even in the army!”

  “That is a matter for the commanding officer to sort out. Till then, you’re my prisoner,” said Brice as he took one step forward. The barrel of her Colt pressed into the tight muscle of his stomach.

  “You’re the commanding officer!” accused an exasperated Michaela.

  “I know,” grinned Brice.

  Without thought, Michaela squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell with a hollow empty click.

  Brice wrapped one large hand around her slight wrist and snatched her close. “Dammit, woman,” he growled.

  Just because he had seen the glint of light through the empty bullet chamber didn’t mean he would excuse her trying to fill his gut with lead. If ever there was a woman who needed to be taken in hand, it was this little, feral spitfire.

  Tearing the gun from her grasp, he put a shoulder to Michaela’s middle and easily lifted her slight weight high. Ignoring her indignant screams and shouts, Brice walked with a determined step out of the saloon, tossing a final command to the corporal over his shoulder.

  “See that her horse and things are sent to the fort.”

  “Yes, sir. Where should I have them brought?” asked the somewhat stunned corporal.

  “My quarters,” answered Major Brice without hesitation as he carried an angry Michaela out into the night.

  CHAPTER 2

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA, FIVE YEARS EARLIER.

  “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on God’s green earth, Parcels Showalter,” declared Michaela Armistead haughtily from her perch on the veranda of her father’s house on Peachtree Street.

  Parcels Showalter stormed up the whitewashed steps to confront the petite beauty. He was prevented from creeping further by her wide hoop skirts. “You will change your tune when I talk to your mama,” he sneered.

  “Talk to Mama all you like. Papa would never allow it. Now, step back before I get Papa’s gun and show you how I treat unwanted vermin,” warned Michaela, her indigo blue eyes bright with warning.

  Parcels shoved his misshapen felt hat low over his sweat-streaked brow and backed away. The palm of his hand itched to slap the insolent smirk from her face. One day soon the uppity chit would pay for this insult. His upper lip curled at the thought of how she would squeal and scream as he shoved his cock into her pristine little pussy after beating her raw with his belt.

  One day soon.

  After watching the odious man disappear into the bustle of carriages, donkey carts and passersby on the street, Michaela left the stale warmth of the afternoon sun for the cool interior of the house. Smoothing the pink grenadine silk over her muslin chemisette bodice before straightening the large pink bow about her waist, Michaela crossed the polished hardwood floor of the entryway to enter the parlor. Mama was seated before an open window, perusing the latest Godey’s Lady’s Book, a silver tray with afternoon tea placed at her right.

  “Did your gentleman caller leave? You should have invited him in for tea or a sherry.”

  Michaela wasn’t fooled by her mother’s nonchalant demeanor.

  Beulah Armistead didn’t have a nonchalant button in her bustle. Everything she did, every turn of her head, every word from her lips had some motive… usually to forward her own gains. As the wife of Leopolt Armistead, she had everything a woman could want: wealth, position in society, a fine house, children… and yet, Beulah was never satisfied.

  Michaela felt sorry for her charming, unassuming father. He came from a long line of southern gentlemen. The type who worked hard, provided for their families and never complained. The family owned the Armistead Mercantile and Lumber Company. It provided them with a more than comfortable living. One day, her older brother, Brandon would take it over. Until then, her father, a creature of habit, woke at dawn every day, had two poached eggs with a warm biscuit for breakfast before he strolled the quite streets of Atlanta to the mercantile store to oversee the morning’s deliveries. There he would stay, going over the accounts, greeting long-time customers, rearranging the merchandise shelves until long into the evening. As the owner, he didn’t have to work so hard. Atlanta was filled with businesses owned by old families whose fathers and sons never darkened the doorway. Her father did so out of responsibility, and because he enjoyed the work. Michaela also suspected it was to get away from his scheming wife.

  Her mother had all the wifely and motherly warmth of a snake in the shade.

  Michaela strolled further into the room. Running her fingers over the embroidered edge of the chaise, she observed her mother under lowered lashes. Her gown was a rather tawdry shade of puce with an unseemly amount of embellishment for a day dress. Michaela could detect just the slightest hint of a powdered cheek with a touch of rouge. Beulah’s hair was also a rather unnatural coal black. Michaela had seen her mother’s maid, Camilla, mixing up a hair dye tincture just the other day. Beulah Armistead despised the wretched march of time and was desperate to hold on to her youth and beauty by any means necessary, whether that be special tonics or tinctures, elaborate to the point of gaudy attire or even scandalous flirtations with younger men. Anything to make her feel young and desired.

  It was also why she hated, loathed and reviled her only daughter.

  At sixteen, Michaela Armistead was a beauty of the first water. Fresh and young with both charm and wit. Her thick, tawny locks were worn swept up to reveal a slender neck and pale, creamy shoulders. Her large, almond-shaped eyes were the color of jewels; a rich sapphire with just a hint of amethyst. Only the stubborn tilt of her slightly pointed chin hinted at her spirited nature. Despite her diminutive frame, no one failed to notice when Michaela Armistead entered a room. Her family’s pedigree and wealth also didn’t hurt. She was the perfect Southern belle, and her mother hated her for it.

  Michaela had been aware of her mother’s feelings since she’d turned twelve. It had hurt at first, but eventually, she adopted her father and brother’s attitude of avoidance… until now. As of late, Beulah had taken a sudden interest in her youngest born. Showering her with attention. Inquiring after her daily habits. Leaving small gifts of lace or perfume in her room. As much as the thought of having a mother who actually cared about her caused Michaela’s heart to ache, she refused to be taken in.

  Beulah Armistead was never kind without a reason.

  That reason had shown up on their doorstep a few months ago. Parcels Showalter.

  He was her mother’s second cousin from Virginia. Tall and lanky with a perpetual smirk, he had an oily, disagreeable appearance. At first, Beulah paid him a scandalous amount of attention, seeing to it he received an invitation to all the various parties and dances the Armisteads were to attend. The family suspected the worse. Michaela tried to speak to her father about it but to no avail. He was content to let his wife have her little affairs. It kept her content and, more importantly, occupied. Theirs was not a happy marriage, more of an arrangement than anything else, and the more his wife was occupied, the less time she had to harangue and harass him about wanting more money or jewels or gowns.

  Then a fortnight ago, everything changed.

  Beulah began to push Parcels on her daughter. She began referring to Parcels as Michaela’s ‘gentleman caller’ as if he would ever be considered an acceptable suitor for her. Even going so far as to hint that it had been Michaela who had requested Parcels be invited to all those dinners and dances these past months in order to allow him to court her! It was then her mother had begun to gift her with attention and little trinkets. It was all so absurd!

  “I don’t think we will be seeing much more of Mr. Showalter,” said Michaela, watching her mother carefully for a reaction.

  Beulah’s thin lips tightened. Placing her magazine on the edge of the tea tray, she made a great show of examining the shiny buff on her
nails before responding crisply. “Why would that be? He is such an amiable young gentleman. I thought a woman such as you would be grateful for his attentions.”

  Michaela hid a smile. Mama never missed an opportunity to get in a quick cut or slight. Despite being sought after by just about every eligible beau in the county, Mama liked to pretend Michaela was unwanted and unlikely to attract a husband. This was usually a thinly veiled slight against Michaela’s preference for horse riding and shooting to promenading and dancing. It was almost as if her mother hoped these pursuits would keep her from finding a suitable match.

  She strained to match her mother’s measured tone. “He seemed to take offense at my refusing his offer of marriage and threatening him with Papa’s gun.”

  Dropping all pretense, Beulah rose so sharply she tipped over the tea tray. The delicate porcelain pot shattered, spilling its dark contents on the thin, woven carpet. “Why you ungrateful chit! I ought to lock you in your room for such insolence.”

  Michaela placed her hands on her hips, laughing defiantly. “And why is that, dear mother? I’ve refused suitors before. What is so special about Parcels Showalter?”

  She watched as Beulah rolled back her shoulders, physically restraining herself. Casting a final, venom-filled look at her daughter, she stormed out of the room.

  Michaela rang for a housemaid before bending to carefully pick up the large shards of wet porcelain. She was no wiser after her altercation with her mother. She still didn’t understand why her mother would be pushing Parcels Showalter, such an eminently unsuitable man, on her as a possible husband. He was from the lower branches of her family. Had no real money as far as Michaela could tell. No connections. In short, none of the things Beulah usually valued. So why was she so set on him marrying her daughter?

  “YOU ARE OVER-THINKING THIS, MIKEY,” observed Brandon as he rooted through a large wooden chest at the foot of his bed.

  “Brandon, I’m telling you she is up to something,” responded a frustrated Michaela as she paced the confines of his room.

  “Papa would never force you to marry a man you didn’t love, so what does it matter?”

  Brandon moved around her to retrieve his clay pipe and loose tobacco from the bedside table. Rolling both items into a linen shirt, he shoved them deep into a canvas bag.

  “I cannot explain it. I just have a feeling this is beyond her usual machinations. It just feels different. More sinister. You have to help me talk to Papa after dinner tonight. We have to convince him to force Mama to send Showalter away.”

  “The trouble is, Mikey, I’m afraid I won’t be around for dinner tonight,” said Brandon with a hesitant smile.

  Michaela stopped her pacing and observed him for the first time since entering his room in a snit a few moments ago. Several drawers had been emptied, and a large traveling bag laid half-full on the coverlet.

  “Oh, Brandon. No!” groaned Michaela.

  “I have to,” he stubbornly replied.

  “As a matter of fact, you don’t.”

  “It is my duty as a gentleman.” Brandon’s brow lowered as he placed his fists on his hips.

  “Your duty is to your family, not to some silly political disagreement with some stuffy old Yankees!” huffed Michaela as she tried to unpack his belongings.

  Grabbing her wrists, he replaced the shirts she had pulled free. “It is far beyond a silly political disagreement, Michaela. There is talk of secession.”

  “Posh. Besides, we don’t even own slaves. You said yourself it was a dreadful institution and an impediment to progress. I’ve heard you and Papa talk about it countless times. That the South would be better off if it didn’t rely so much on human labor, but rather on industry like the North. So how could this possibly be your fight?”

  Giving her a disgruntled look before securing his bag closed, Brandon responded, “You are far too smart for your own good for starters. It’s the principle of the matter. We cannot stand idly by and let those Yanks dictate to us how we should conduct business. If the South is to do away with slavery, it should be on her terms, not because some Northerner ordered it so.”

  Michaela crossed her arms as she chewed her lower lip. It was a difficult argument to refute. Southern pride ran deep. She had a large streak of it herself. The North had angered the South with its high-handed, arrogant manner. The gauntlet had been thrown.

  In a final attempt to get him to stay, she asked, “What do you know of war and fighting?”

  Brandon laughed as he pulled on one of her ringlet curls. “Oh, little Mikey. There won’t be any war! Why as soon as those Yanks get a look at the power of the Southern army, they will turn tail and run back to the safety of their mothers’ bosoms. Trust me. I will be home within a fortnight. This will all amount to nothing.”

  Michaela wasn’t so sure. It seemed to her when men’s egos were involved, things were far from simple and rarely amounted to nothing.

  “With you gone, whom am I to go riding with? You promised to take me over to the Thompsons’ plantation for some shooting at the end of the week. Did you forget?”

  “You are getting far too old for our childish antics. It’s time you burned those short pants and started looking about for a husband. Not our mother’s choice, of course, but you need a man, Michaela.”

  Michaela sulked at his soft rebuke. Ever since they’d been children, he had spirited her away from the house dressed in an old pair of his trousers so that she might learn to ride astride. It was also Brandon who’d taught her how to shoot better than most men. On a few occasions, they had even managed to stay out all night, sleeping under the stars, learning together how to cook over a campfire whatever they had managed to shoot earlier that day. Michaela treasured those memories, but now, everything was changing. Brandon was going off to war… or to fight… or to engage in a principled debate with some Yankees. However he termed it, he was leaving. Even if he did return within a few weeks, it was only a matter of time before he was expected to take over the family business, and before she was expected to marry. Their time riding over the hills of the Thompsons’ plantation and sleeping under the stars was over.

  “I don’t need a man. I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

  “You don’t just need a man. You need someone strong and smart who can stand up to your stubborn sassy ways,” rebuked Brandon. “Lord knows if you marry some milksop you’ve got wrapped around your finger, you will be scandalizing the whole county by riding astride down Main Street before the honeymoon is over.”

  Michaela smiled at the image. She would wear her favorite cobalt blue jacket. The one that brought out the honey gold highlights in her hair. She laughed, knowing she would never truly do anything so scandalous. It was all right wearing trousers with her brother at dusk in the deep woods where no one was about, but it was quite another to actually walk about in society dressed as a man! She couldn’t imagine anything so silly. Besides, she would die before giving up her silk gowns, ribbons and lace!

  “Papa is going to be furious with you. You know he doesn’t approve of Armisteads getting involved in politics. He says that is how the family has survived so long,” warned Michaela.

  “And that is why you are going to be the one to tell him, dear sister.” Brandon flashed her a charming smile as he kissed her on the forehead.

  “Oh no! Not me!”

  “You must! I’m headed for the train station now. It leaves for Savannah within the hour. Then I’m off to Fort Pulaski to meet up with some school chums who are joining the cause. Papa won’t be home for hours.”

  “You mean you’re not going to the mercantile to tell him good-bye yourself?” asked an astounded Michaela.

  “He would only fuss and argue. It’s better this way. Besides, this will all be over in a few weeks. I will be back before you even have a chance to miss me.”

  “What about Mama?”

  “You can tell her too.” Brandon knew as well as Michaela their mother would barely notice his absence.


  “No. I mean what am I to do about her and Showalter? They are planning something, Brandon. I just know it.”

  Brandon grabbed his travel bag and his Spencer sporting rifle as he headed toward the bedroom door. “Just stay out of her way, and we will discuss it when I return.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  BRANDON HAD BEEN GONE for three days. As Michaela had predicted, Papa had been less than pleased when he learned the news of his departure. It was she who had to sit through the lecture of how Armisteads did not get involved in politics. How Armisteads needed to be above such things. Also as predicted, Mama barely summoned enough emotion to notice. She did, however, continue to plague Michaela with veiled threats of a forced marriage to Showalter, always out of the hearing of Papa, of course.

  Michaela awoke before dawn. The air was close and still. For the last several days, there had been the threat of a thunderstorm. The atmosphere felt charged with hot, suppressed energy. All was inert in anticipation of the cool, cleansing rain to come.

  Knowing Papa would be leaving for the mercantile soon, she arose and reached for her dressing gown. Wrapping the emerald green taffeta around her body as she secured the gold silk sash, she left her bedroom and crossed the quiet, upper landing. Her foot had just touched the first step when she heard hushed, harried voices below in the hall.

  “It’s done, but the bastard got blood on my favorite waistcoat.”

  “Never mind that. With his money, I can buy you a thousand more. Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Of course. I slit his throat. He bled like a stuck pig.”

  “You imbecile! Now we will have to get rid of the carpet too. You were supposed to hit him over the head then drag his body outside so it looked like a footpad accosted him for his purse.”