13. Confessions

1863 DECEMBER 25, FRIDAY

13

Governor Smith's ballroom was alive with vibrant colors. Garlands and red ribbon hung along the wall and gathered at the center of the chandelier-lit ceiling. Women in silk and velvet gowns, from red to the palest blue, floated around the room. Men in fresh-pressed uniforms and suits conversed, drank, and danced with the lovely ladies of Franklin County. Music from the ten-piece orchestra filled the air, inspiring sprightly footwork and twirling skirts.

My eyes scanned the ballroom, seeking his figure. John had been avoiding me all day, and still he was nowhere to be seen. I had a few choice words for him.

Couples waltzed across the dance floor. He was not there. Food was piled high on tables lining the perimeter. Guests lingered, flirting and sipping punch in cut-crystal glasses. But John was gone. He had disappeared. I considered excusing myself, wanting to search the curtained alcoves, but then thought better of it. If his way of handling conflict was disappearing, then so be it. A little voice scoffed at me, knowing very well I yearned for our confrontation.

Mrs. Mathis insisted I sit beside her and the other matrons. Dressed in my own best dress—a black crinoline—it was better I blended in with the rest of the St. Albans' widows.

"Ella." The deep timber of his voice at my ear sent shivers down my spine.

"John." My face flushed, and all the words I had wanted to say to him evaporated.

He stepped from behind me, sidling up to my chair. He looked down at my feet. They peeked out from under my skirts, still tapping to the music. John gave me an amused smirk. My lips curled in an attempt not to grin and encourage him.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, holding out his hand, searching deep into my eyes. He stood composed, his back straight. His hair was slicked back, his beard clipped short, revealing a strong jawline, and he smelled rich of cologne and cigar smoke. My breath caught.

The matron chatter stilted, waiting to hear my reply. Mrs. Mathis was the only brave one to respond to John's outrageous gesture.

"John Mathis, Ella is in mourning," she chided, loud enough for the other ladies to hear. "Surely?—"

"And too young and beautiful to be doing so," John interrupted. "It is her decision …"

"Yes." The word tumbled from my mouth. He took my offered, gloved hand, and I did not divert my eyes from his as I stood. The heat of his hand in mine going straight to my cheeks.

"I declare!"

"The gall of your son, Mattie!"

"And the fastness …"

The ladies gasped and fluttered.

As soon as I was out of hearing distance, I would be the topic of discussion, but I did not care. Tonight, I would let John lead me with the music.

Eyes followed us to the dance floor as we took our place beside the others. I felt selfish, not caring about the gossip that would ensue or how my reputation would stand after tonight. All I wanted was to dance, to feel John's arms around me.

"I'm sorry for my behavior last night," John said, whirling us around the floor.

"It's Christmas, John. Could we just dance?"

We did not say a word, only feeling the thrum of the orchestra. His hand splayed across my lower back. The heat of it scorched through my gown's heavy fabric. He was not boastful when he said he had fine feet. His other hand gripped mine, his strong legs—legs spent years marching and riding—pushing into my space, leading us through the steps. My chest heaved. I did not know if it was the exertion of the dance or John's proximity, but I felt powerful with his hands on me in front of everyone.

Too soon, the song concluded. John bowed and I curtsied.

"Thank you, John." My voice strained as I caught my breath.

Another gentleman stepped toward us. "May I—" he began.

John's jaw ticked, his eyes flashed in warning, and he pulled me close.

"Another round?" he asked me, his eyes possessive.

A lively dance, a heel-toe polka, struck up. John took my hand again, his other firmly around my waist.

"Hold on." He grinned. With my free hand, I held up my gown. We left the other gentleman in our dust, soaring across the floor like two birds chasing each other to the sky.

Dance after dance, I reveled in the feel of his arms around me.

"This is scandalous, John," I murmured.

"Let them talk." His whisper was hot in my ear.

We glided along the floor, never tiring or stopping to catch our breath. The lively dancing slowed, and we paced ourselves as a plump woman stepped beside the musicians. The instruments still played while she introduced the song.

"This is a ballad that was suggested by a recent incident. On the battlefield of Gettysburg, among many of our wounded soldiers, was a young man, the only son of an aged mother. Hearing the surgeon tell his companions that he could not survive the ensuing night, the young man placed his hand upon his forehead"—the woman put her black-laced mitt to her forehead—"talking continually of his mother and sister, and said to his comrades assembled around him, ‘Break it gently to my mother.'"

Her address of the song came crashing around me. The strength I felt dancing in John's arms was dashed. She began with her soprano, her hand placed on her bosom.

Through my lashes, John peered at me with concern. Was he haunted by the same thoughts and memories? Winded, I now felt how my toes pinched in my shoes.

"Thank you for the dances, John. It's nearing ten. It may be best for me to take my leave. Katie will be waiting up for me." I stepped out of John's reach.

He did not stop me from leaving him on the dance floor.

Finding Nora and Renny, they both knew it was time to leave. Mrs. Mathis, her face crimson, was more than happy to depart the matrons' tittle-tattle. I cast a glance over my shoulder. Our eyes connected over the glass rim of his drink. A fire bloomed in my belly, and I no longer cared what they thought.

Unable to sleep, I wrapped my dressing robe around my nightgown and pulled my hair into a loose plait. Katie was asleep when I returned, but I could not rest without peeking in on her to ensure she was safe and well.

My mind reeled with the words John and I exchanged yesterday and the feel of his arms around me as we waltzed. Closing Katie's door, I listened to the sleeping house. Soft snores drifted from bedrooms. Shuffling and crackling sounded downstairs. Like a moth to the flame, I was drawn to the stoking of the hearthfire.

John's eyebrow raised when I entered the parlor. "Still up?"

His heated inspection of my night clothes made me feel naked, yet brazen.

"We created quite the scene this evening." I smirked.

His dimples popped. "Another reason I shouldn't come home. I always find some way to embarrass my mother."

I cringed with guilt. "We shouldn't have done that. Your mother has been immeasurably generous, allowing Katie and I to stay here—we're strangers—and not once has she made me feel unwelcome. But I'm afraid we're a burden. It was selfish. We'll only bring unwanted attention, dangerous attention, to you and your family."

The bell chimed on the grandfather clock. The dongs echoed throughout the quiet house. It was no longer Christmas.

John gave a loud sigh, placing the poker back with the fireplace tools. He picked up a glass of amber liquid from the mantel, downing the last drops before setting it down again. His eyes pierced mine, searching for something.

"I'm sorry about what I said yesterday. I was not myself and I didn't mean?—"

I held up my hand to stop him. "You did mean it. No one can be anything but honest when in their cups."

He shook his head. "I hurt you. It pains me to know I hurt you. I know none of this can be easy for you—away from your home, hiding from Ethan, responsible for Katie, and among strangers."

"It hasn't been easy, but you know that. I shouldn't be wearing mourning. I should be dancing with all the other young ladies like I did tonight. Instead, I'm hiding, surviving, doing what I can to get through this, just so I can go home."

"Still, it wasn't right?—"

"I know you didn't mean to hurt me."

John looked away, running his hand down his face. "I don't like who I was before this fu—before this war. Apparently, being home summons demons I've tried very hard to shed."

"You're forgiven. I know this can't be easy for you either."

We stood in silence, listening to the crackling fire.

"I don't have much time before I leave in the morning. I hope we can just enjoy these last moments of Christmas. But there is something I must say …"

His eyes found mine, urging me to speak, pleading with me to ease his own discomfort.

"Then tell me," I encouraged.

His deep-brown eyes softened.

The air between us sparked and popped like the flames in the hearth. He took a step toward me.

"The first day I laid eyes on you—the day I came to your home with the news of Robert—I was caught off guard. There I was, delivering his message, and all I could do was stare at you. You demanded to come with me. And I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I was jealous of Robert, seeing you determined to go to him, to cry and mourn for him. He was my friend. You and I both lost him. Yet selfishly, I wanted you for myself."

My breath caught and he stepped closer. I took a step back.

"You were so brave in Gettysburg. Brave even still, leaving your home, taking charge of Katie, while you're doing everything in your power to protect everyone. Selflessly thinking of me and my family by wearing black. And still you seem to grow impossibly beautiful."

"John." His name came out a breathy whisper.

"Ella," he growled.

He kept charging forward, my feet carrying me back until I collided with the wall beside the hearth. He braced his hands against the wall, caging me in, as if to keep his fingers from wandering. Blood pounded in my ears.

"With every word you wrote me, I found myself falling, tumbling. Consumed with the need to be yours and you to be mine. I've fallen in love with you. I didn't know it could feel this way, but …" His brows pinched. "I love you so much, it hurts. It's a fire that will consume me if I can't touch you."

I gaped, taken aback by his words, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. My body felt hot, too hot. My heart felt like it would burst from my chest.

From stomach to knees, his body pressed against me. I felt him. Hard, muscled, and burning. My body hummed but I stood rigid, too reluctant to reflect on my own emotions. Too afraid to be hurt, to surrender completely, to lose anyone I cared for—to love—again. All I could do was absorb the desire coiling between us, readying to strike.

"You're so damn beautiful. Those emerald eyes arrest me."

He leaned toward me, resting his forehead on mine. Closing our eyes. Steadying my heart.

His breath skated across my parted lips.

I willed him to kiss me, pressing myself more firmly against him.

He cursed under his breath before his lips crushed mine, our teeth clashing. The kiss was demanding, the whiskers of his beard rasping against my skin. His tongue flicked across my lips, and I wanted to taste him. I opened for him. Our tongues caressed, explored, tasted. He was a robust flavor of tobacco and whiskey. A smoky sweetness I wanted to devour, to drink until I was satiated.

He leaned into me. I could feel our willpower crumbling. I had never felt anything like this before, not even with Robert. This all-consuming need to feel someone, to let someone know all of me.

John's hands scraped down the wall. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted to touch him. My back nearly arched off the wall, begging for him. His lips never left mine.

His hand cradled my neck, his fingers tangling in the loose braid at my nape, his thumb stroking my cheek. A tingle ran through me.

"John," I breathed, pleading. Needing more. I reached for him, running my hands down his chest, feeling the muscles tense beneath my fingers.

His lips scorched a trail down my jaw, down my neck. The rough scrape of his beard exfoliating. His other hand gripped my waist, pressing me into him. No petticoats or hoop skirts separated us, only our thin layers. Heat from our bodies and the fire engulfed us. I felt his growing arousal against my stomach, but I was not mortified. Pride warmed my chest. I did this to him. His hand roamed the curve of my waist until his fingers wrapped around my breast. My breath hitched and I felt like liquid, my center pulsing with each gentle squeeze of his hand.

My fingers did their own exploring, threading through his hair, holding him there as his lips continued their journey across my collarbone, leaving a moist trail toward my breasts.

The parlor filled with our panting, the flickering shadows dancing across the walls. My frustrating mind hooked on to the fact that we were doing this in his mother's parlor, under her roof, in the dark while everyone slept.

I shouldn't let this continue. I'd be taking advantage of the situation, of his mother's kindness. I couldn't let John do this—not when I did not know what tomorrow would bring, what could happen with Ethan, what could happen once John returned to Virginia. This was never a permanent solution. I would return home eventually.

John just confessed his love for me and here I was, giving him hope, when I didn't even know I had the right to give it to him. My body screamed with desire, the need to consume, while my heart cracked.

"John." I pressed him back. "We shouldn't."

John froze, straightening to look down at me, his chest heaving.

He took my face in his hands. "I know you must be surprised. I've never felt this way about anyone either. But after all our letters, the dances we shared tonight, I just thought …"

He didn't understand my hesitancy. "It's not that. With everything, I just don't know if we should …" I was struggling to find the words. "Your mother?—"

"What about my mother?" There was an edge to his tone.

I averted my eyes, not wanting to see the naked hurt in his, and not wanting him to see the disquiet in mine. He had made himself vulnerable, and now rejection was his unwarranted payment. A rejection I didn't want to give him. It was safer this way, though.

"Is it Robert?" he asked. "You told me you still love him." John released me, running his hand through his hair. Frustrated, his voice rose. "I'm competing for your love with a damn ghost!"

I flinched as though he struck me, hurt coursing through my body. I backed away from John, moving toward the parlor door. His expression fell as he realized what he had said.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Ella. I meant?—"

"Don't. You keep saying things you don't mean." I snapped. He knew my secrets, he knew the threat I was hiding from. He just apologized, yet he still did not bite his tongue. "And what of your love for Clara? Do you still love her?"

"Of course I don't love her. I know that now. I've never felt this way toward anyone. You're the one I want."

"You can't confess your love for me and then curse me and your dead friend in the same breath!"

He winced, his eyes becoming flint.

"Perhaps I've imbibed too much again," he said stonily.

I shook my head, disappointed. "You're more sober than drunk, John."

I turned on my heels, not wanting to see the broken look on his face, leaving him in the parlor. I had to give us distance because if I stayed a moment longer, my resolve would fail and I would surrender myself wholly to him.

Collapsing on my bed, I willed my heart to slow. My body ached with the unsatiated need. A need he coaxed from me. Skin tingled where his beard branded my skin. My lips were still warm and swollen from his kisses. I wanted him so badly, it was excruciating. He infuriated me, he tested me, yet he made me feel beautiful, wanted, and powerful. Like I was strong, like I could get through this crisis. I was falling for him, and I knew that would only bring sorrow. War, death, and threats were still very much our reality. Were we all bound to lose? I did not think I could survive another loss. And this time, his claws were embedded in me. It would rip me apart.