Siege of the Heart (Southern Romance 2)

Of all the men he had fought with, Knox was the one Solomon had least hoped to meet here, and from the look in Knox’s eyes, pure fury would spur him to understanding soon enough. How long until he recognized the resemblance between Cecelia and Solomon? Not long enough, Solomon would wager.

Jasper too was fighting—but towards Cecelia, as if he might knock her from the horse.

Don’t do anything stupid, Perry. But Solomon understood, with a lump growing in his throat, exactly what was happening here. Jasper did not believe there was any way out of this for him, and he was salvaging all he could.

The idea of rescue had seemed simpler before Solomon realized his brother-to-be also had a death wish. If he’d been smarter, he would have seen it in the way Jasper had been wandering out into the fields recently when he thought no one was looking.

Solomon ran, breath bursting in his lungs, and he only vaguely registered a man raising a gun in the corner of his vision. When a figure slammed into him from the side, Solomon swung a punch, almost too tired to do anything else, but the figure covering his was Ambrose’s, the pistol firing once, twice, three times, and leaving the camp empty as the men fled, following Knox.

Solomon, his cry of anguish dying in his throat, only then realized something odd. For the form on top of him was not so much lanky as lithe, not so much fragile as...oddly rounded. Solomon felt his fingers drift, hardly understanding what he did, feeling the narrowness of a waist, obscured by the loose-cut vest, and the slight curve of hips. His hands drifted up then, and he could make out the faintest hint of softness, tiny breasts nonetheless welcoming against his hands.

In Ambrose’s face, so close to his, Solomon finally understood the delicacy he had seen from the start. How had he ever mistaken such a pointed chin for a man’s? The fingers were slim, the nose pert, the lips...

...eminently kissable. And those eyes. Solomon could have drowned in them, and he found himself enjoyed, if a bit too much, the heaving of Ambrose’s breathe.

“Who are you?” he whispered, and he could tell that his breath was liquid, low. Did he feel Ambrose shiver against him, or was that only his own desire?

Tiny white teeth nipped against a lip, and finally the name came with a sweet exhale that was almost too much to resist:

“I’m Violet.”

Chapter 9

“Jasper! Cecelia!”

It was him. It was Solomon. Jasper’s heart leapt and he was screaming Solomon’s name when Robert hauled him toward one of the horses. Cecelia was screaming bloody murder, having realized that none of the men were quite ready to hurt her, and they had not the slightest idea what to do with a tiny beauty shrieking to high heaven and bludgeoning them with her bound fists.

However, not wanting to harm her did not preclude them continuing to keep her hidden. Knox saw to it that she was thrown over the back of a horse, and he mounted up himself, spurring the horses into the night even as Jasper kicked desperately, trying to push Cecelia free.

“Ride!” Knox’s roar spurred the few men onward, and they pounded into the woods.

Solomon! But the name was frozen on his tongue. He could not shape his mouth to the words, or he could easily destroy what chance Solomon had of escape. Had anyone noticed him? Jasper’s heart was pounding. He should not look, he should not let Knox’s memory fix on the sound of the voice screaming for Cecelia.

It was all confusion and terror, men battling in the darkness and the flashes of gunfire. They did not know how many they were beset by; they were back in the field, transfixed in the face of Union troops, wondering if their death had come with blue coats. What could one do against such overwhelming force? There was only one with the presence of mind to do what must be done—and what Jasper could not allow. The man leveled his rifle, point blank, at Solomon.

“No!” The scream was ripped from Jasper’s throat, and then the horses went over a rise and he could see nothing. He was struggling like a madman, trying to throw himself from the horse. He must get back, he must know—

The blow to the back of his head was harsh enough that his teeth slammed together and the horse whinnied in distress. Blinding pain seized him, and he felt the hot trickle of blood in its wake. Don’t stop said a distant voice, and the jostling of the horse continued, but more distantly now. A woman was crying. Was it Clara? Jasper did not know. He arched his back, trying to escape the hell of jostling and bruised ribs, and the strike came again.

This time, the world went dark.

When he woke, he was vomiting onto the forest floor, and Cecelia’s bound hands were trying to keep his hair back from his brow. Jasper, please. Her voice echoed in his head like a roll of thunder, bringing another round of vomiting, and she cried out when she saw him convulse. Please, please be all right. Please be all right. Please.

His little sister. His heart warmed to the thought, twinned with grief. She was going to watch him die. Solomon had failed, and they would be brought to the trial. Cecelia would see it, she would see the accusations and they would make her watch as they brought Jasper to the gallows. What would happen to her then?

“I’m all right,” he gasped out, a reassurance that would have worked better if he did not need to spit bile onto the ground. He was shaking, shivering with sweat drying on his skin, and he half fell as she pulled him over, resting his head in her lap. Her eyes swam into view. Solomon’s eyes, but brown. Worried.

“Did they poison you?”

“It’s the head wound,” he managed. He had seen enough men taken like this, to know what it was. It was a miracle he had awoken at all. “Cecelia. Listen to me. Robert Knox, you know which one he is?” He waited for her to nod. “He’s promised me he’ll get you home when this is over.”

“You’ll get me home,” she said at once, and Jasper squeezed his eyes shut.

Solomon failed.

“That’s not going to happen, Cee. We both know it.”

“It is,” she said softly, urgently. “There are only six of them now. The others are still making their way to the camp. They’re hurt, and they’re trying to make a new plan. Knox is even writing a letter, and one of them will take it. Then there will only be five.”