Beloved Enemy Read online

  How can I be falling in love with this man? I barely know him. I must remember he’s a Yankee!

  Rob took her hand in his. Julia inhaled sharply at the touch of his warm skin, but did not pull out of his grasp.

  “Ahh,” he murmured as he caressed the back of her hand. “I see that they are still cold. I will remedy the situation.”

  He gently released her, then he reached inside his coat and withdrew a small package.

  She quickly untied the ribbon and pulled away the paper. “Gloves!” she exclaimed, fondling the thick fleece-lined suede.

  “But these are quite expensive,” she whispered. “It would be wicked of me to accept them.”

  “It would be very wicked of you to reject them,” he murmured.

  His seductive voice sent a delicious chill down her spine.

  “True, Major,” she replied, pulling on the gloves with satisfaction. “I do try to avoid wickedness whenever possible.”

  Praise for Mary Schaller writing as Tori Phillips

  “Phillips is a new star on the historical romance horizon:

  she’s literate, witty and tells a good story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  The Dark Knight

  “Filled with the turbulent details of religious intolerance

  in England, this carefully crafted romance…proves that

  love is the most powerful emotion when it resides in the

  hearts of strong men and women.”

  —Romantic Times

  One Knight in Venice

  “Intense and soul searching, One Night in Venice swings

  from the dark side of human nature through the

  treacherous inquisition to the admirable characters

  willing to face suffering or even death to save others.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  Lady of the Knight

  “In this fun tale, Ms. Phillips weaves an

  adventurous story of chase and budding love

  and puts in some lessons along the way.”

  —Romantic Times

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

  TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

  #699 THE MARRIAGE AGREEMENT

  Carolyn Davidson

  #700 WAYWARD WIDOW

  Nicola Cornick

  #702 NOT QUITE A LADY

  Margo Maguire

  BELOVED ENEMY

  MARY SCHALLER

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and

  MARY SCHALLER

  Beloved Enemy #701

  And writing as Tori Phillips:

  Fool’s Paradise #307

  * Silent Knight #343

  * Midsummer’s Knight #415

  * Three Dog Knight #438

  * Lady of the Knight #476

  * Halloween Knight #527

  * One Knight in Venice #555

  The Dark Knight #612

  At my birth, the front of heaven was full of fiery shapes.

  —William Shakespeare

  King Henry IV, Part I

  This book is dedicated with lots of love to our first

  granddaughter, Shelby Washburne Williams, who was

  born on July 29, 2002—the hottest day of the year.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  Chapter One

  “My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee.”

  —Romeo and Juliet

  William Shakespeare

  Alexandria, Virginia

  December 1863

  “I do declare, Carolyn, this is your most harebrained scheme ever.”

  Looking up from the cream-colored invitation in her hand, Julia Chandler fixed a properly reproving glare on her younger sister. At least, Julia hoped her expression looked stern, though she had to admit she was secretly as excited as Carolyn. The last time Julia had held such a coveted invitation as this one was two years ago. “How did you get this?”

  Her sister fiddled with a broad band of green satin ribbon that circled the skirt of her day dress. Though she studied her fingers, the two bright patches of pink in Carolyn’s cheeks betrayed the girl’s feelings.

  Julia silently reread the words written in elegant copperplate script:

  The pleasure of your company is requested at a Masked Ball upon the evening of the thirty-first of December at nine o’clock, given at the home of Mr. George Winstead for the pleasure of his family and friends.

  She breathed deeply to calm the butterflies that skittered in her stomach.

  “I did not realize that we had resumed our friendship with the Winsteads,” she continued aloud in a feigned arch tone. “I am sure that it has not slipped Mrs. Winstead’s mind that our family is still very much in sympathy with the Confederate cause.”

  Shrugging her shoulders, Carolyn scraped her slipper over the polished floorboards of the girls’ upstairs bedroom. A sly smile crept across her lips. “Wouldn’t it just make that old Melinda Winstead itch if she knew we attended her grand party?”

  Julia could picture the pique of the disagreeable Winstead daughter. Such boldness on the Chandlers’ part would definitely twist the nose of that jumped-up Yankee chit. Melinda deserved a tweaking after all the hateful things she had said about the Chandlers, especially after Frank Shaffer’s death at Manassas. Clearing her throat, Julia fanned herself with the invitation to the premier social event of the Christmas season.

  “Tell me, Carolyn. How did you come by this? I don’t believe for a minute that it was delivered to our doorstep.”

  Carolyn’s grin broadened. “Found it,” she replied. Her hazel eyes sparkled with unsuppressed mischief.

  Julia sighed. Carolyn was notorious for “finding” all sorts of opportune items. “Where exactly?”

  Her sister smoothed the dress ribbon that she had worried into a wrinkle. “On the paving stones by Dr. Brown’s carriage step. A big ole envelope was just lying there in the mud. I had to save it, you know. It could have been something very important,” she added with the innocent air of a canary-fed cat.

  Julia narrowed her green eyes at her little sister. “And how is it that you happened to be walking past the Browns’ when their home isn’t anywhere near Market Square, where you were supposed to be shopping?”

  Licking her lower lip, Carolyn finally looked directly at Julia. “’Cause I saw the Winsteads’ butler drive by in the family carriage holding a basketful of these envelopes.”

  “And you followed him like a common beggar,” Julia concluded, picturing the shameless scene in her mind.

  Carolyn nodded without an ounce of regret. “It didn’t take the brain of a jaybird to know what he had under his arm. He sat on that carriage box with such an important look on his face. Lordy, Julia, no one in Alexandria can think of anything else except that party.”

  Julia hated to agree. Northern-born George Winstead, part owner of the new railroad line into the Federal City, had become very rich during the pas
t two years. He demonstrated his Yankee-bred manners in the lavish way he spent his war-fed wealth. His New Year’s Ball had been the talk of the town both in the streets and behind fans at Sunday church services, even among the most secessionist of families like the Chandlers. Julia admitted to herself that she would love to attend, but since the Winsteads were firmly Yankees, her parents had not spoken to them since April 1861. She looked down at the card again.

  “You know we can’t possibly go.” Julia sighed with honest regret. After mourning for her sweetheart for the past two years, she was ready to wear a pretty silken gown again and to dance until dawn as she had done briefly in those far-off days before the wretched war had ended all gaiety and laughter—at least in the Chandler household.

  Carolyn pursed her lips. “Speak for yourself, Julia. You can stay at home and think of Frank Shaffer, but I do not intend to miss this chance—not when I have an invitation in my hand. I’ve never been to a ball like you have. And the way that horrid Mr. Lincoln is going on and on with this war, I highly doubt that I shall ever go to a party before I am old and gray. Sit by the fire, if you want, but I intend to waltz till I die.” She stuck out her chin.

  Julia lifted one of her auburn brows. “You know there will be nothing but Unionists at the Winsteads’ party. I thought you would sooner die than be caught near a Yankee.”

  Yankees! The very word was bitter on Julia’s tongue. She couldn’t imagine herself dancing with one of those people who had killed so many fine young Southern boys—like Frank, who had kissed Julia once on the cheek and quickened her heart to love.

  Carolyn wiggled her nose. “I don’t intend to talk with them—just dance with them.” She giggled. “And I do intend to stuff myself silly with sweets. See if I don’t. Mmm! Think of it! The Winsteads are bound to serve jelly cake and macaroons from Shuman’s Bakery. And there will be nougats, frozen charlottes, gingerbread—and caramels.” She rolled the delicious word around in her mouth. “Don’t you miss eating caramels?”

  Julia’s mouth watered. Caramels were her special downfall. Ever since the Federal Army had marched into Alexandria in 1861, Mother refused to allow her daughters to patronize Randolph’s Confectionery Shop just because of a political disagreement with the owner. As if eating a simple caramel was a treasonous act against the Confederacy!

  Julia gave herself a shake. She must remain firm on the side of propriety for Carolyn’s sake, as well as loyal to Frank’s hallowed memory. “You’ll be caught before you’ve put both feet inside the Winsteads’ door. Think of the scandal,” she added, though she knew that her sister didn’t give a fig for any commotion she might stir up.

  “Pooh!” Carolyn blew a blond wisp of a curl out of her face. “Has your eyesight grown so dim?” She pointed to the invitation. “It says it’s a masked ball. We could go in disguise. We’ll wear hoods and look divinely mysterious. No one will recognize us, and all the handsomest boys will want to dance with us. They won’t resist!” She hugged herself at the prospect.

  The more Carolyn talked, the more Julia’s resolve weakened. The lively music of a Virginia reel played in her mind. Her toes tapped inside her slippers. She could almost taste those caramels. And laughter! When was the last time she had really laughed out loud? Not for two years, since she received word that Frank had died in a Virginia farmer’s field.

  “You’ve read too many of Mr. Dickens’s novels, Carolyn. Your logic is chopped like turnips.”

  Instead of being repentant for her flighty taste in literature, Carolyn slid off her footstool and knelt at Julia’s feet. She gave her sister a triumphant smile. “You know you want to go, too. I can see it in your eyes, Julia. Don’t you want to have at least one adventure in your life, instead of just reading about them? No one will ever know.”

  Julia fired her last desperate argument for common sense. “That’s where you are wrong. We’ll have to tell Perkins,” she said, referring to the Chandlers’ serving man, who acted as the family’s butler, coachman and occasional gardener. “We cannot possibly go gallivanting around Alexandria in the dark without an escort. The streets aren’t safe, even with the provost guards out. Perkins won’t approve at all, and he’ll tell Papa, sure as you’re born.”

  Carolyn twirled one of her side curls around her fore-finger. “Leave Perkins to me. I’ll promise him a bagful of macaroons, or something just as nice. And we’ll leave the ball before midnight. Please, Julia. Say you’ll go with me. There won’t be another party like this one in a year of Sundays. Don’t let those horrid Yankees steal away our gaiety. Kick up your heels—just once. I dare you.”

  Carolyn’s challenge struck home. Julia was tired of living behind curtains drawn against the prying eyes of the insolent Yankee soldiers who daily sauntered past the Chandlers’ house on Prince Street. She was tired of the plain fare that nightly graced the family’s supper table because Mother refused to patronize vendors who courted the Yankee trade—and most of Alexandria’s merchants did.

  Julia was sick of wearing dark clothes in perpetual mourning for distant relatives who had been killed at Fredericksburg, Winchester and Gettysburg. She touched the locket that hung from a black ribbon around her neck. Most of all, she wanted to heal the wound in her heart left by Frank’s death. The curl of his brown hair inside the silver heart was all that remained of the charming boy with poetry on his lips and a song in his heart. Frank had taught her how to polka and encouraged her dreams of becoming a teacher.

  But that was back in 1861. A lifetime ago. The guilty truth was that Julia could barely recall what Frank Shaffer looked like, even though she had promised to be his sweetheart when he marched off to join the 17th Virginia Infantry. Carolyn was right. Julia had allowed the Yankees to steal the joy of living from her soul. Enough was enough!

  She looked down at the sixteen-year-old’s upturned face and smiled. “All right, lady-bird, you have won me over with your Jezebel tongue. I’ll go to this ball, but only to keep you out of trouble. I have no intention to touch a Yankee, much less dance with one.”

  Leaping to her feet with a flurry of petticoats, Carolyn gave her sister a loud, wet kiss on the cheek. “Pooh! You’re going for the music and the caramels; I knew they would turn your head. I can read you like a book.”

  She certainly hoped not, Julia thought with an inward sigh. Carolyn would be shocked if she knew of the passionate dreams that Julia locked within her imagination.

  “Begging the major’s pardon, but may I take the liberty of asking what are the major’s plans for celebrating the turning of the year?” Behind his clipped brown mustache, Lieutenant Benjamin Johnson grinned down at his somber first cousin.

  Robert Montgomery, condemned to a desk job in the Office of Military Intelligence since his return from medical leave, looked up from the sheaf of field reports that he held. His irrepressible relative snapped a salute. Rob was not amused.

  “You take too many liberties, Lieutenant,” Rob muttered, hoping this mild reprimand would send the youngster scurrying back to his own paper-littered desktop. Ben exercised far too much familiarity during working hours.

  His cousin only grinned wider. “Indeed, so I was often told when we attended dear old Yale. But the question still remains. Are you planning to visit the family or stay in Washington to ring in the New Year?”

  Rob shuddered inside his blue uniform frock coat. His last trip home to Rhinebeck, New York, following his release from the hospital, had been an unmitigated disaster. Mama had done nothing but stare with open pity at his smashed right hand, while sighing with melodramatic fervor and moaning over her “poor baby boy.” Meanwhile his father had used Rob’s every waking moment to harangue his recuperating son into switching from the army to politics. “There’s a new wind blowing through this great land,” Jubel Montgomery had reiterated ad nauseam. “And the Republican Party will lead the way.”

  “No,” Rob snapped at Ben. “I shall remain in Washington.” Where it would be peaceful. He pretended to return to his papers.r />
  Instead of retreating, Ben leaned closer. “As I thought. Therefore, would the major care to join a company of bright young bloods on December the thirty-first?” He patted his breast pocket with satisfaction. “In here, I hold the key to a night of music and frivolity among the prettiest flowers that grow in Alexandria. That’s Virginia, sir. Virginia, where the girls are sweet as cream—and…and as pure as wholesome milk,” he added swiftly when Rob glared at him.

  Rob narrowed his brown eyes. “Need I remind you that we are, at this precise moment, on the soil of Virginia, fighting those damned Virginians? Are you suggesting that we feast with our enemies? I find that idea a highly—” he groped for the right word “—treasonable notion. We are speaking of Southerners, Lieutenant, a breed of pig-headed, uncouth Rebels. I detest them all.”

  Ben’s maddening good humor only increased. “You speak the truth in general, but these particular Virginian posies are fine, true and loyal to the Union. They are the delightful daughters and sisters of many of our fellow soldiers. They come from families who had the good sense to ignore the rabble cry of states’ rights—whatever that notion may be. Now they give aid and succor to us poor, homesick fellows.” His brown eyes twinkled. “Lord knows, we do need aid and succor from these most delightful ladies.”

  “Join their company then, and may they give you—” Rob paused, banished the lusty thought that rose unbidden in his love-starved brain, then continued “—some of what you desire. I intend to stay in my rooms at Ebbitt’s and read something edifying. I am no fit company for ladies.” He covered over his paralyzed hand with his good one, then turned back to decipher the hen-scratching written by a female undercover agent operating in St. Louis.