Cadence (Langston Brothers Series) Read online

  Cadence

  Melissa Lynne Blue

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cadence

  Copyright © 2012 by Melissa Lynne Blue

  Cover Design by Rae Monet

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  For more information: www.melissalynneblue.com

  Dedication

  For my sister Jo Anna…

  Prologue

  September 20th 1867

  Charleston, South Carolina

  Blood poured in hot red rivulets from her hands onto the pale blue fabric of her gown.

  How could this have happened?

  Cadence Jamison stared with a mixture of horror and disbelief from the crimson stains on her hands to the man lying dead in the darkened alleyway.

  “Papa, no,” she whimpered as salty tears and raindrops splattered onto the motionless form. Her thick skirts billowed in the blustery wind and raindrops stung her face as small rivers of rainwater mingled with the thick, dark blood pooling around her mud caked shoes. Sobs racked her body as she fell to her knees shaking the motionless figure of her father, willing him to rise, and for this all to have been a terrifying twist of the imagination.

  A clattering from the cobbled street adjacent to the alley alerted her to a carriage creaking and splashing ever closer. Panic welled in her breast as she stared at the condemning red stains marring her skirts and hands.

  “Richard!” a voice drifted through the storm. “Richard, look there!”

  The carriage stopped at the mouth of the alley and as the carriage door swung outward Cadence leapt to her feet. In a fleeting moment of indecision she wiped the wet tangle of curls from her eyes. A booted leg emerged from the carriage and panic boiled over as she turned to flee through the black rain slicked streets.

  “You there,” a man’s voice called. “Stop! Murderer!”

  One

  September 13th, 1867

  Charleston, SC (One week prior)

  The afternoon sun cast a pale glow through the rippling panes of glass and lent a rosy hue to the fabric being gently plied beneath expert fingers. The needle worked with expert swiftness through the exquisite muslin until at last the seamstress tied a secure knot and plucked the thread from the hem. Holding the red gown out by the shoulders Cadence narrowed pale eyes, shrewdly assessing the garment for any flaws that may have been overlooked during creation of the exquisite piece.

  “Perfect,” she murmured wistfully as she stood to hang the ball gown in the back of the room. “Absolutely perfect.”

  There was a time not so long ago when she’d been privileged to wear such beautiful clothing. With casual disregard she’d picked the most tasteful fabrics and worn the most fashionable styles, her every whim had become a reality. After the war her father’s business had fallen to ruin and he was now destitute. The family’s lack of funds gave Cadence a new sense of the responsibility, and she had learned to do without the expensive luxuries she’d known as a child. At the age of nineteen, she worked as a seamstress, doing much to support her family. Of late her father had become far more interested in securing funds to feed his desire for strong liquor and gambling tables than seeing to the needs of his family.

  Cadence sighed as the grandfather clock against the wall chimed the hour, six o’clock. She took a few minutes to tidy the sewing supplies and bid farewell to Mrs. Bridger before donning her coat and stepping into the October evening. The South Carolina air held a bite promising winter weather soon to come, and a multicolored array of leaves adorned the massive trees along the roadside. A gust of wind swept the street sending a montage of leaves swirling high above the streets and her spirits dared to soar with them. How nice it would be to dance upon the wind… holding out her arms Cadence longed to be blown far, far away. Turning her face to the harbor she brushed windblown curls from her face and on impulse strode toward the masts towering above the lower regions of the city. The desire to put off going home for just a while longer was overwhelming, and she’d always enjoyed the activity surrounding the ships in port.

  The air of the harbor was vibrantly alive with cargo being loaded and unloaded from the hulking wooden vessels and sailors swinging high in the rigging or scampering around the docks. The smell of the ocean was intoxicating and she delighted in the sights and sounds of the seaside port. She’d been enamored with the sea for as long as she could remember and had long craved a sailor’s adventure. Had she been born a boy she would have undoubtedly made her way as a daring sea captain. Cadence had even entertained fantasies about disguising her identity and stowing aboard a vessel so that she might see faraway, exotic lands.

  Sadly, she looked down at the sore on her finger where a wayward needle had pricked open the flesh earlier that day. She was getting too old for such romantic fantasies. As it presently stood her only hope for escaping the never ending trap of her life would be to find a husband. But she didn’t want a husband. She wanted a life of adventure and consequence. She longed to climb aboard one of the wooden vessels and to sail away without a backward glance.

  Lost in her own brooding emotions Cadence was unaware of passing time and the rapid darkening of the sky. As the purple hues of dusk seeped into the heavens, the riffraff that frequented the port came oozing from the shadows. Cadence glanced around in sudden apprehension as the harlots who worked the docks strutted up and down the harbor streets brazenly flaunting the wares of their trade. Drunken, slovenly men catcalled the women, and Cadence shuddered in wide-eyed disbelief at the offensive displays. Quickening her pace, she took long, unladylike strides in an attempt to hasten away from the despicable scene playing out before her.

  From the corner of her eye she noted an unkempt drunkard take a long pull of ale from his tankard before tossing it aside. Inwardly she groaned; she should have known better than to stroll unaccompanied through the shipping district this time of day, and turned abruptly away from the sailor’s suggestive leer. Kicking up the pace she trotted hastily across the docks.

  “Whoa!” her cry of alarm was squelched as the drunk clasped a heavy hand over her mouth and wrapped the other securely about her upper body.

  Cadence thrashed against the man who held her trapped in an unrelenting vice.

  Fighting the panic welling in her breast she desperately tried to wrench free of the fiend, but the man easily overpowered her and tossed her into a secluded crevice upon a pile of nets and canvas. Her eyes flew in desperate search of escape, but could find none. The brute had chosen well the location for his evil, and no one would venture behind the tall crates without cause. His flat calloused palm remained heavy upon her mouth making it difficult to breathe. His large body nearly suffocated her as he fumbled over her, groping roughly at her womanly curves. Tears coursed unchecked down her face as she futilely fought the man’s unwanted attempts on her innocence. Hot bile welled in her throat as his nauseating hands ventured where none had ever touched.

  A small avenue of hope came as the man eased the unrelenting flat of his palm away from her mouth in his lustful quest and she clamped her teeth mercilessly into the side of his hand. Shocked, the man pulled the wounded extremity away as her bloodcurdling shriek rent the night air. In moments the brigand’s hand curved cruelly around her throat, trying to choke the very life from her. A rough hand tore the front of her plum colored gown, reaching lower to grasp the poorly concealed flesh of her breasts, but
even as silent screams welled in her throat the strength to fight was sapped.

  Blackness roiled around the edges of her vision, closing slowly in as her lungs struggled to expand. Limp and utterly without the strength to fight she welcomed the blackness, thankful she would not have to be conscious, or perhaps even alive for the bitter ravishment. Just as the darkness plunged her senses into the blissful respite of obscurity, protecting her from this hell the dreamlike visage of a man came into view…

  Was this heaven?

  * * *

  Enraged, Curtis Langston stepped around the crate to see a filthy excuse for a drunkard attacking a young woman. A very pretty young woman he couldn’t help but note as he forcibly dragged the brigand from the pile of netting and threw him against the wooden planks of the dock.

  “What in the hell is going on here?” Kneeling, Curtis straddled the man and shook him forcibly by the collar of his grungy sweater.

  In a haze of confusion the man stared up into Cutis’s eyes. “I—uh—just samplin’ the lady’s goods, Cap’n. She’s nut’in’ but a whore anyways! I was goin’ ta pay fer it.”

  Curtis’s eyes bore dangerously into the brigand’s darker gaze. “I’ve never heard a whore scream like that, and she certainly doesn’t look like a harlot to me.” Giving the man one last shake for good measure, he snarled, “Now I suggest you disappear before I’m finished tending to the lady or I will see to it you’ll never enjoy the pleasure of a woman’s company again.”

  The man’s brown eyes widened at the imminent threat and he quickly stammered in accord. The moment Curtis released him from the steely grasp the drunkard scampered off, presumably to find a tavern, and mayhap a willing wench.

  Turning to the young woman still lying in the nest of canvas, Curtis knelt beside her trembling form and laid a gentle hand upon her arm. The girl gasped for air and flinched away from his touch as an onslaught of hysterical sobs racked her body.

  “Easy, easy,” Curtis soothed, reaching once again for the quacking young woman. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Swiftly he pulled the shredded flap of her bodice across the exposed, notably thin chemise, and she slowly turned her pale tear stained face to his.

  “Come here.” He gathered her gently within his arms, cradled her slight figure against his chest and carried her to the near deserted deck of his ship. The girl, limp and trembling in his arms, felt very small and fragile nestled against him and it brought about a surge of protectiveness he would just as soon keep buried inside him.

  Setting her upon a barrel, he knelt to look into her face. “I am Captain Curtis Langston and this is my ship the Heavenly Mistress.” Expectantly he gazed into her downturned face. Just as he’d begun to give up hope that his young charge would respond she sniffed and raised glistening pale eyes to his.

  “Cadence Jamison.” She sniffed looking shame-faced back down to her hands. “I am so sorry for causing you trouble, Captain. I was out walking because I like to look at the ships but it got late. I was just trying to get home.”

  A glassing of tears washed over her eyes, glittering in the orange glow of the lanterns. Even as she pressed the flat of her palms to her eyes an onslaught of tears trickled down her cheeks. His heart went out to the young girl he’d been acquainted with only in his school days. Her sister Kirsten Jamison—now Kirsten Rowe—had caused a fair amount of trouble for his brother Craig a few years back, but he harbored no misbegotten feelings for this girl. Well, he mused cocking his head to the side, she was hardly a girl anymore, and perched on the barrel before him she looked vulnerable… vulnerable and as precious as a fragile piece of porcelain. He didn’t like to see her so brittle. She used to be quite the little spitfire.

  With a gentle hand he squeezed her shoulder and gazed imploringly into the huge pools of her eyes. “Shh, Cadence, this is no fault of your own. You did nothing wrong.” He ran a calloused finger along her cheek tilting her chin up with care. “May I escort you home?”

  * * *

  Cadence nodded, flashing a watery attempt at a smile. She knew very well who Curtis Langston was but whether he remembered her was an entirely different story. The Langston family was very prominent in the Charleston community and Curtis was no exception to such affluence. Notorious for rakish good looks, most notably their intensely hued blue eyes, the Langstons were men one could not help but notice. Cadence glanced toward the large hand still resting protectively on her knee and marveled at the sudden quickening of her pulse and the lingering warmth of his strong chest. “You’re not going to dip my hair in ink are you?”

  The barest hint of a smile danced across the surface of his eyes. “You’re not still sore about that are you? It must have been ten years ago.”

  A weak smile tugged the corners of her mouth. So he did remember her. “More like eight,” she corrected.

  Curtis was a man Cadence had not spoken to in years. He’d joined the confederate army when she was just twelve years old and far too young to have any real interest in men. He’d been reported missing and presumed dead after the battle of Antietam in 1862 and it wasn’t until several months after the war’s end he’d come home.

  Upon his return the people of Charleston learned that after surviving a grievous wound he’d taken up the art of blockade running, and captained a rather infamous band of rebels, completing harrowing feats to bring the soldiers and citizens of the south much needed supplies. While the alias Curtis had operated under—Captain Rebellion—had become famed for selfless acts of heroism he’d also amassed a rather huge personal fortune—though none wanted to speculate how the hero may have acquired it—and turned his pursuits to more legal business after the war.

  At present Rebellion Shipping was one of the fastest growing shipping companies in the Americas and Europe. Not only was Curtis Langston sole owner of the company, but he captained the very successful and much famed merchant vessel the Heavenly Mistress. Rumor—or perhaps it was legend now—had it that Curtis’s flag ship was none other than the former USS George Washington, a Union blockade vessel he’d commandeered off the coast of Wilmington in 1864. Embellished or not the astounding tales of his heroism spiced the fantasies of nearly every woman in Charleston, if not the entire South.

  As the man escorted her from the deck of the Heavenly Mistress Cadence threw a long glance back to the tall mast of the ship. Wistfully she sighed. Curtis Langston led a life of adventure. The life of adventure she longed for.

  “And for the record,” Curtis said unexpectedly, “I was only helping my brother.”

  With a quizzical brow she turned, pulled from the depth of her thoughts. “I’m sorry. What were you helping your brother with?”

  “With your hair.” He stuffed a hand in trouser pocket and raised his shoulders casually. “I was helping my younger brother when we, uh, dipped your hair in the ink.”

  “Is that supposed to be an apology, Captain?”

  “Yes.” He almost smiled but at that moment another drunk stumbled across their path and Curtis quickly slipped an arm around her waist to pull her out of harm’s way. He held her against him for perhaps only a moment longer than he ought, but it was long enough to send her senses reeling. “I’m not very good at apologizing.”

  He still hadn’t released her.

  “Apology accepted,” she murmured a bit breathlessly. With his strong fingers pressed against her side she felt more than a little flustered, almost light-headed. “Although I had always suspected you did it to get a rise out of Miss Watson.” For all of his notorious good looks Curtis had also been notoriously mischievous and notoriously stubborn in his younger years.

  He let her go then, flashing the sheepish grin known to have bailed him out of more than a few messy scrapes. Her heart tripped over at least one critical beat as their eyes locked. Oh, God! When he looked at her like that… How could she help but smile back?

  Mentally she ticked off all the reasons women sighed breathlessly over the name Curtis Andrew Langston. He was terribly handsome. A pirate
. A soldier wounded in battle. A pirate! Had the body of a Greek god, and, oh yes, had she mentioned otherworldly, devilishly handsome? All of these things were true, he—as her mother and the other gossiping biddies would say—is the stuff guilty dreams are made of, but Cadence found all of these attributes unimportant in the face of his irresistible mischievous charm.

  “Well, maybe that too, although if I remember correctly you gave me one hell of a black eye for it.”

  Her cheeks flushed hot. “You deserved it.”

  “Probably.” He winked back at her. “Miss Watson still there?”

  “No.” Cadence smiled trying to regain her composure. “She got married a couple of years ago.”

  “Poor bast— er, uh, man… I mean—” He stopped. “Sorry.”

  Cadence smiled, and waved her hand when he opened his mouth to continue apologizing.

  She had not known Curtis well during the years their schooling had overlapped but he’d quite frankly been the bane of the schoolhouse—most notably Miss Watson. He’d been downright obstinate when it came to taking orders of any kind and Cadence had wondered if he was a born rabble-rouser, a poor student, or a bit of both. The dreaded Miss Watson, dubbed the school witch by her students, had labeled him a troublemaker—in all truth with good cause—and made an example of him at every opportunity.

  It had been absolute war between teacher and pupil.

  The battles had reached legendary proportions throughout the city. Parents and students alike pondered who really held control in the classroom, and Curtis had become something of an unsung hero amongst the pupils. No matter how much punishment Miss Watson heaped upon him Curtis planned tenfold retaliation in clever mischief that bordered the realm of genius.

  As was natural for a young lad of such bent his troublesome antics were not well confined by the walls of home or the schoolhouse and by the age of sixteen Curtis had grown into a full blown hell raiser. When hostilities between states reached the boiling point the army lent the perfect outlet for his youthful exuberance and more importantly an escape from an overbearing father. Curtis Langston had returned home a much reformed young man and at present his name, once synonymous with trouble, was now synonymous with hero and legend.