Following her nose, she let her hands trail along the tall grass, feeling for the flowering plant. The smell grew particularly strong and she stopped, concentrating on the area. At last, her fingers brushed across a head of flowers. Even in the dim light, she could tell the tiny flowers were those she needed. She picked several and tucked them into the pockets of her coat. Dried, they would have been much better in tea, but at least this way they’d be more potent. Just as she was about to rise from her crouch, footsteps rustled through the tall grass nearby. Hand going to the knife at her waist, she turned to look over her shoulder. A figure approached from not more than twenty feet away.
Dim light shone off the long barrel of a musket pointed in her direction. Halfway up from her crouch, she froze.
“Be you Reb or Yank?” called a gruff voice. The thick, Southern accent marked the man more clearly than a look at his uniform would.
Doing her best to deepen her voice, she answered, “Reb.”
The barrel of the gun lowered a bit but didn’t point away. “What are you doing out here, soldier?”
She had to bite back the temptation to ask him the same thing. Again she tried her best to sound like a man. “Doctor, not a soldier. Gathering herbs.” Deepening her voice and throwing a Southern drawl into it proved incredibly hard.
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
The rough knife handle dug into her hand as she gripped it tighter and stood. “Soldier with a fever.”
Head cocking to one side, the Reb moved closer. “No, that ain’t it.”
Fast as a snake, he lunged in and knocked the cap from her head. Her blond tresses tumbled free, falling down past her shoulders to shine like beacons that betrayed her. In her haste to leave, she hadn’t bound her hair up, just stuffed it under the cap. A rather feminine gasp slipped from her as her hand dashed out to catch her cap.
The soldier let out a whoop. “A woman! Well then, I think it’s time for some healing, little miss.”
She took another step back as he moved another closer. Thrusting her head up high, she poured on the Southern accent. “You would not dare violate the person who may one day save your life.” The ruse of being a man may no longer save her, but she hoped that of being a Reb nurse might.
Laughter hiccupped from the soldier. “Of course not, I’m no idiot. But yah see, your accent keeps slipping from Georgia to Virginia, putting me of a mind that maybe you ain’t Southern at all.”
Eyes scanning the darkness, she swallowed hard and looked for any avenue of escape. Would he use the musket on her? Doubtless. The real question was, would he use it before or after he raped her?
“That is ridiculous. I am from Georgia but have just been in Virginia long enough to pick up the accent,” she attempted.
He shook his head. “Naw, that ain’t it at all.”
Again and again he stepped forward, forcing her back farther and farther. Something soft brushed her arm. Her back struck the rough bark of a tree. Heart racing like a wild horse, she clutched her knife tighter, holding it to her side so he couldn’t see it. The last thing she wanted to do was use it on him. After all the death she had seen, the lives she struggled to save every day, it went against everything she stood for. The twisted grin on his bristly face revealed crooked teeth that he kept running his tongue over. His beady eyes crawled over her with a hunger that made her cringe.
“You do not want to do this,” she tried one last time.
The barrel of the musket finally lowered as he tucked it under his arm and reached for his belt. “Oh, I most certainly do. Ain’t never had me a Yankee woman. Reckon they’s a bit different.” Each word was rushed and a bit breathless, as if the idea of violating her had him worked into a frenzy. Her repulsion to use the knife on him began to fade.
His belt buckle jingled and she was suddenly quite glad for the darkness. She did not want to see what was coming at her.
“Now you be real nice and I won’t kill you,” he said.
Another step and his tobacco rank breath panted against her face. Hands grabbed for her, fists burying in her coat, yanking her from the tree. She slipped, stumbled, and fell sprawling on her back. Wet grass cooled her sweating palms.
The knife!
Oh God, where had it gone? Panic prickled through her like a porcupine’s quills. Fingers scrambling around in the grass, she began to turn. A rifle butt collided with her shoulder hard enough to throw her onto her back again. Pain exploded out from the point of impact. Her physician’s mind analyzed the injury on instinct. Nothing felt broken, but damn it hurt. The man was suddenly upon her, his knees forcing her legs apart.
Reaching up as high as she could, she wrapped her legs around his midsection, bowed her back, and thrust down and to the side with her hips. The soldier grunted as he slammed into the ground. For a blessed moment, she was free. Her left hand came across a cold, metal object. After a moment of fumbling with it, she found the hilt of the knife and grabbed it. The back of a hand slapped her hard across the face, leaving her right cheek stinging. Not caring about the small indignity, she slid the knife beneath the man’s beard and pressed ever so slightly against his throat. The man froze.
All that wrestling with her brothers when she was young suddenly didn’t seem like child’s play, and she was more than thankful that they hadn’t been easy on her.
“I will kill you if you do not get off me,” she said.
A low growl rumbled nearby, soft and threatening. In the darkness behind the soldier, a figure approached. So intent was the soldier on her that he didn’t even seem to hear the shuffling gait. A rifle rose behind him. Ashlinn moved the knife away from the soldier’s throat just before the butt of that rifle came slamming down on the back of her assailant’s head. The man collapsed onto her, going limp. His rancid breath brushed her cheek. With a mighty shove, she pushed him off her and scrambled up. Swaying on his feet, face pale as moonlight, stood Sean, the hulking shadow of Cliste at his side.
Shame burned through Ashlinn. Though she knew it was undeserved, she couldn’t banish it. She scrambled to her feet. Her head dropped and she fussed with her clothing, trying to straighten and smooth the material. Before she could finish drawing in a ragged breath, Cliste reached her side and began nudging her hand. Sean approached, moved past her toward the downed Rebel, and a moment later, she heard a blade enter flesh. She spun around to face him, all concern over herself banishing.
“Did you really have to kill him?”
Sean nodded as he stumbled back over to her side. “Aye. He would have searched for us, told others about us. And if he found us, I’m not sure I could protect you in my state. And o’ course there’s the fact that he would later kill my brothers-in-arms.”
It was such an impossible thing to argue with, but she found herself wanting to nonetheless. Her lips remained closed, though. She couldn’t fault a man who wanted to protect her and his fellow soldiers, not over this. Still, despite the fact that the man had attacked her, would have raped her, and that she had held a knife to his throat, she hadn’t wanted him dead. Bile tried to rise up her throat but she swallowed it down.
The heat of Sean’s fingers on her arm brought her back to the problem at hand. It was all she could do not to flinch away from his gentle fingers. Not because of what he had done so much, but because they burned like brands against her skin. “Are you all right?” he asked in a voice as soft as his touch.
She nodded. “Aye, I am well enough thanks to you. But you should not be up and about.”
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