She also knew that he had not been speaking of Jasper.
Chapter 11
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sp; He was going mad. Solomon sank down beside the campfire and tried not to groan aloud. It would not do for anyone to find out he was insane—for this particular madness could not explain his defection, and that was only one of the reasons he could not let Violet know.
She did not like him to call her Violet. She blushed when he did, as if the sound of her name on his lips carried every lustful thought like a promise. She could hear, in that single word, how he wanted to kiss along the tiny portion of her collarbone he could see, following it to her shoulder, running his fingers up from the delicate wrist, over the tender skin of her arms. She seemed to see, for she shivered when his gaze fell on her as he spoke, that he wanted nothing more than to run his hands through her hair and watch her eyes drift closed; he wanted to feel the weight of her in his arms. He wanted her arching against him with pleasure, lost in it. ‘Ambrose’ was her armor. ‘Ambrose’ did not make her blush, and Solomon break out in a hot sweat.
It was better to think of her as Ambrose, for Ambrose was the spy the Union had sent. The man had one purpose: tracking down traitors and bringing them to justice. To call his captor Violet was to pretend that she was not going to walk him to the gallows. The more he thought on it, the more he understood how dangerous she was.
She was, in truth, the perfect spy. Hiding her woman’s voice, she spoke little enough. Instead, she left others to fill the silences, and Solomon wondered how many of her captives had spilled their confessions out for just that reason; he nearly had a dozen times. When she did speak, it was misdirection and wit cloaked in a disarming candor, as if the deception of her clothing left her no other lies to tell, and she had a way about her, as Jasper did, of showing the world by the set of her shoulders and the worry in her eyes that she was honorable to a fault.
Of course, also like Jasper, to a fault was the wild unpredictability of where the honor would strike. Jasper, Solomon knew now, would sacrifice himself for Cecelia if the need arose. And Ambrose, well... The honor in those eyes was quiet, compassionate. Conviction inspired mimicry, and men would tell her their confessions, only to find that the honor they found was altogether a fierier thing than they had guessed.
The thought that consumed him these past two days, was that she did not mean to be dangerous, not in these ways. She was good at her job, quick to discern the truth that no one in Knox had seen, even when she coaxed it from their own lips. She had bested him in stealth, and if she was not so good a brawler as Robert Knox, well...neither was Solomon. She did not use her gender as false armor, tempting him to indiscretion with ruby lips and murmured endearments. In fact, Solomon would have bet money that if she had brought him back to stand trial at once, he would never have learned the truth about her.
He could not imagine that now, any more than he could free himself from the wonder of what she was. Every dangerous facet made him want to laugh aloud in amazement. The way she kept her weapons clean, fingers graceful and precise, the careful way she moved so that her clothing never hugged her slender form, the way she spoke, taming her natural inflections with careful pauses. All of it was born of deception, and none of it was the deception men feared in a woman.
It made her, unfortunately, all the more desirable. When he was awake, Solomon looked away so she would not be disquieted by his staring, and yet images of her flashed through his mind, beyond his power to control. He imagined her body, pale and slim and perfect under his hands; he had always been one for buxom women until now, and yet he was captivated. But, those images, the images he had become used to pushing away as a gentleman, were nothing compared to the strange twist in his chest when he thought of her smile, or the way he sometimes saw her brush a lock of hair away from her eyes...
“You’re staring off into nothing again,” her voice said now, and Solomon felt it like a shiver all over his skin. He wanted to be close enough to feel her breath as she spoke. He wanted...
Well, never mind what he wanted.
“It has been a...difficult...few days,” he said simply. If she could lie without lying, then so could he.
She laughed, not so much with mirth as with commiseration. “I suppose it has.”
“Why are you still here?” Solomon asked her, knowing he was jumping over the sort of conversation they had cultivated, and not caring. “Why are we still here?”
“To save your family,” Violet said, as if she did not quite understand the question. “I made you a promise.”
“To a plan you told me was nearly suicidal! And it was a plan that failed. Why have you not hauled me back?”
“Because I promised.” Her voice was strident. “And I didn’t promise to try to rescue them, I promised to do it.” This time, there was humor in her smile. “Foolish of me.”
“You’re not foolish.”
“That’s... Well, that’s just wrong.”
“Violet...”
“Ambrose.” Her voice was tight with anger.
“We’re alone.”
“Sometime soon, we won’t be. I’m not Violet. Not anymore.”
“Do your parents know where you are?” he asked her quietly, and when she flared up, he held out his hands to calm her. “Not...like that. Violet—Ambrose—my mother has never said it, not once, but it nearly killed her not to know if I lived or died. I was gone for a year, missing, and she had to wonder.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said softly. “They aren’t worried, though. My mother passed away when I was small. Along with my younger sister. My father thinks I’ve gone north to work at the mills.”
“It was good of you to give him something to believe,” Solomon said, and she smiled.
“I gave him my real address. He sends letters. I write. I don’t...I don’t tell him much about what I do. I miss him, though.” She looked down at her hands. “You like to talk about things that aren’t rescuing your sister, you know.”
“It feels hopeless,” he admitted, and her chin came up at once, her eyes grave.