Little Love Affair (Southern Romance 1)

It was the accent that gave him away. His voice was pleasing, smooth and low, but nothing could hide the slow drawl of his words: the softened sound as he tried to say pardon, mimicking northern speech.

Clara’s mouth fell open and she backed away, shaking her head. Southern. He was southern. And that was why his coat was missing, wasn’t it? Two Confederate soldiers, moving north and—

What? Hunting Yankee women, as the men in town claimed?

“You stay away,” Clara said fiercely. She backed away, shaking her head, eyes wide. “You stay away from my family.”

“Miss, please—” He took a step forward.

“I’ll scream,” Clara said desperately. “My sister knows I’m here, you know. She’ll be getting help.”

“The one with the brown hair,” he said. His eyes softened slightly. Regret, or desire?

“You stay away from her, too!” She would kill him if he went near Cecelia. How, she wasn’t exactly certain, as he seemed a good deal taller than she was, broad-shouldered and with strong arms. She’d manage somehow, she had to. She had promised Solomon.

Only she thought a bit desperately now that he really should have had Cecelia look out for her, instead of the other way around. Clara was the one who did foolish things like face men down when they came out of the forest. Cecelia had the good sense to run.

“Miss, I beg you.” He got down on his knees, hands still held up. She could see the hollows of his cheeks, and the light caught the outline of his torso, dangerously thin.

Of course, she could also see the shape of his ribs, the place where the muscles rippled as he breathed. Clara swallowed and looked away before remembering how ridiculous that was. This was not a dinner party, and he was not a man of good standing. He was a rebel soldier. He was trying to tear the Union apart, wasn’t he? He was a good-for-nothing and probably had no manners as well.

Only he did seem to have manners, and it would really help if he weren’t so handsome.

“What do you want?” Clara asked finally. Her voice sounded unsure to her own ears, terribly young. He would know she wasn’t going to kill him, wouldn’t he? He was going to see her weakness.

But he did not try to move towards her again, and a look over her shoulder confirmed that no one was sneaking up behind her either.

“I need food,” he said desperately. “And bandages. Clean bandages. We’ve used everything we have.”

“We?” Clara seized on the word.

“My...friend...and I. I beg you—” He broke off and looked away. “I’d never take charity for myself, miss. I’d not ask, but my friend’s wounded. He’ll never make it back to his family if I can’t bind his arm.”

Clara was shaking. “A lot of people aren’t going to make it back to their families.” She wanted her voice to be harsh, to remind him of everything his kind had done, but all she could think of was Solomon lying wounded and dying, and she knew she sounded lost.

“I know.” His eyes said that he did know. They spoke so much pain that she looked away from him. “But he still could make it back, don’t you see?” His voice was low, pleading. “I’ve no one to go back to, but he does: a sister, he said. Like you, miss. A sister who’s waiting for him to come home.”

“Stop,” Clara whispered, shaking her head. I can’t help you. Not you.

“Please,” he said again. Just one word, nothing more. His hands were still up, his eyes full of pain, and Clara could feel herself crumbling inside. God help her, she wanted to tell him that she would help. What was it about this man? Were all Confederate soldiers so charming?

“Clara?” A call echoed in the fields, and Clara looked over her shoulder desperately. Footsteps were approaching.

It was Cecelia that made up her mind: Cecelia, sixteen and perfectly pretty.

“Get off my property.” She made her voice as hard as she could.

“I promise, I won’t hurt—”

“Go!” Clara stepped forward, desperate to drive him away before he could see Cecelia again, before he could hurt one of them, or have a chance to steal her sister away from her. “Go, or I’ll call the constables! I’ll call them anyway! Go!”

“Miss, he’s going to die.” The man pressed his palms together, beseeching.

“And he should!” Clara yelled back at last. “He has a sister? Well, I had a brother, and you’re the reason my brother’s not coming home! You and your friend! Go! Go, or I’ll kill you myself! Just leave!” She could hardly see for the tears, but when she opened her eyes at last, he was gone and Cecelia’s arms were around her.

“Clara!”

“Child?” Their mother’s voice. Millicent, still in the same grey dress she had worn since her husband’s death, was holding Solomon’s rifle. Her eyes, the same blue as Clara’s, measured the girl’s tears.