Within the blink of an eye the door into her soul—the one that had taken so fearfully long to unlock—slammed shut. And he had no way of knowing how long it would take to crack open again.
“Victoria. I believe you owe Miss Evans an apology.”
It was too late. Andrea turned around and retreated into the house without a backward glance. One moment she was there, and the next she was gone, vanishing as swiftly and silently as a shadow when a cloud covers the sun. Her quick movement knocked the flower from her hair and it was soon trampled beneath Victoria’s foot.
“Miss Evans!’ His response was a resounding slamming of a door. Whatever intimacy had flowed between them was gone. Her emotions were mail-clad.
She was, yet again, unreachable.
Chapter 67
Love that well which thou must leave ere long.
– Sonnet 73, Shakespeare
Hunter sought Andrea in every room in the house once he had detached himself from Victoria. She was nowhere to be found.
Buttoning his coat against a cool, westerly wind that had risen, he headed toward the barn. He ran into Zach in the doorway, moving a horse from the paddock. “Have you seen Andrea?”
The servant stopped. “Well, yessuh, Massa. I seen her.” He turned to continue on his way.
“Where?” Hunter yelled a little louder than he intended. “Where did you see her?”
“Oh, well suh, I seen her take Molly and Lucy.” The slave nodded toward the paddock where the two draft horses usually stood.
“Take them where?” Hunter looked behind him and scanned the field, thinking she may have led them down to the next field for fresh grass.
“I’s not sure about dat.” The servant scratched his head. “She didn’t ’zactly say.”
Hunter continued to look around the barnyard and his confusion and anxiety increased. “Where’s the wagon?”
Zach turned and frowned. “Well, suh, ya see, it was hooked to Molly and Lucy.”
Hunter growled, more a sound of pain than anger, and headed at a brisk pace into the barn. She would not be running away. She could not be. Not now, Andrea. Please not now!
He glanced at the darkening sky and tried to think objectively. She would not try to leave until she was completely healed. She had surely learned her lesson and would not take a risk that would cause her to extend or prolong her stay.
Within mere minutes, Hunter had mounted and was spurring Dixie down the lane. Meanwhile the storm continued to descend, bringing with it a heavy cloak of black. A long rolling rumble to the west gave further indication of its nearness and severity.
Hunter followed the tracks easily down the lane and up the hill to the meadow. She was apparently following the same route they had taken to check the fence line some months ago. At last he spotted her, standing in the same place they had watched the sun setting, the wind whipping at her skirts. When he reined his horse in beside the wagon, she was staring absently at the sky as angry clouds advanced toward the sun like a hungry animal preparing to engulf its prey. Hunter tied his horse to the wagon and stepped carefully among the rocks in his path. If she knew he was there, she did not let on.
“We’d better go,” Hunter said gruffly, taking her hand. “This is going to be a bad storm.”
Not waiting for her to answer, he dragged Andrea over the rocks so fast her feet barely touched the ground. Despite his haste, the elements of nature finished lining up for battle before they’d reached the wagon and the major engagement commenced.
By the time Hunter had lifted Andrea into the seat, lightning flashed in the sky and the heavens thundered like great volleys of musketry. Hunter gripped the reins as rain pelted them in horizontal sheets, causing them both to duck their heads against flying leaves and branches. He knew they’d never make it all the way back to Hawthorne so he guided the horses as best he could. At last he found what he’d been searching for and jerked the horses to a stop.
“Get inside.” He pulled Andrea across the seat and lifted her down.
“Inside?” Andrea blinked her eyes against the rain.
Hunter pushed her forward and moved his hand across the solid wall in front of them. Finding the latch, he opened the door, shoved her through, and then fought against the brutal wind to secure it behind them. Once closed, they both stood breathing heavily, staring at each other in the dim light.
“You look like a half-drowned kitten.” Hunter stared at the dripping hair on her shoulders.
Andrea shivered. “Half-drowned?”
Hunter strode over to a large stone fireplace and, after getting a small flame started, turned back to Andrea. “Keep your eye on that. I’m going to put the horses in the barn.”
Andrea still stood dripping and shivering when Hunter pushed his way back into the one-room cabin. He closed and bolted the door against the wind, then proceeded back to the fire without saying a word.
“W-w-hat is this p-p-lace?”
Hunter continued to poke at the fire and then turned his head toward her. “It’s mine. I built it. Kind of a getaway you might say.”
He watched Andrea look around the room, her gaze taking in the bed to the right, then the stone fireplace and the large bearskin rug sprawled before it, and finally resting on the hand-hewn table and cupboards to his left. “I n-never heard anyone s-speak of it.”
“Nobody knows about it except me. And now you.”
He turned back to the fire and poked at it more forcefully than before, his resentment at the intrusion showing clearly. When it began to blaze, he leaned toward the bed. “Here.” He grabbed the patchwork quilt that covered it. “Take off those wet clothes.”
Andrea stood motionless, not blinking, not speaking.
“Come on, Miss Evans. This is no time for modesty. You need to get out of those clothes. I’ll not have you lying on your deathbed again and blaming me for prolonging your stay.”
Andrea opened her mouth to argue when another chill apparently ripped through her. She shivered, then turned and offered no resistance when he unhooked the back of her gown. Hunter quickly wrapped the blanket around her as she stepped out of the wet dress and underclothes.
By the time Andrea removed all her soaked undergarments and readjusted the quilt, Hunter had shed his shirt and was busy once again stirring the fire.
“Comfortable?” Hunter glanced over his shoulder after she sat on the rug. Andrea nodded with chattering teeth but kept her gaze averted.
“Here, get a little closer.” He pulled her and the rug nearer the fire, keenly aware now of the effort she made not to look at him. Deciding to ignore it, he stood and turned toward the cupboards. “I might have something to warm you up.”
After much banging and clattering, he returned to the fireplace carrying a bottle of whiskey and two tin cups. “It’s not much, but it will take off the chill.” He poured a small amount in a cup and handed it to her as if she were a guest at a tea party.
Andrea lifted the cup, and with shaking hands, and emptied its contents. Hunter waited for her to grimace or choke. But when she did neither, he poured another.
“You come here often?” She looked up at him through wet clumps of hair.
Hunter shrugged and turned back to the fire. “I used to come up a lot before the war. When I was married.”
“You needed a place to get away from your wife?”
Watching her empty the cup again, he sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“You didn’t love her?”
He threw another piece of wood on the fire, trying to decide whether to answer or not. “It was an arrangement of sorts. A match planned by my grandfather. I was young and naive and wanted to respect his wishes.”
“Even though you didn’t love her?”
He glanced back at Andrea, wondering if the whiskey impelled her to ask so many questions, or a longstanding curiosity. He turned back to the fire and stabbed at it a bit more violently. “I would have made it work, cou
ld have looked past all of her faults…save one.”
“She was unfaithful.” Andrea whispered the words as if it was an act impossible to comprehend.
Hunter sighed and stared into the flames. “John Paul to be exact.” He tried to sound indifferent, though it hurt to think about even now. “As it turned out, she was everything I despise in women.”
Andrea remained quiet as if pondering in her mind the type of woman that would choose John Paul over Hunter. “That makes it sound like you despise all women,” she finally said.
He did not bother to answer. Instead he jabbed again at the wood, sending a cascade of sparks up the chimney.
“U-m-m, the fire feels good.”
Appreciating her attempt to change the subject, Hunter turned around and gave her a smile. “Getting warm?”
“On the inshide and the outshide.”
“Looks like you’ve had enough to drink.”
Andrea returned his smile and stretched out on the rug, causing Hunter’s heart to involuntarily thump against his chest. Reaching toward the bed again, he threw a pillow in her direction.
“You comfortable?” He propped himself on one elbow beside her and concentrated on the fire flickering in front of him.
“I wish I could feel like this forever.” She lay on her back staring at the ceiling with the blanket wrapped tightly around her.
“Like what?”
“Warm. Safe. Secure.”
Hunter laughed and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling as well. “You’re the only woman I know that could feel safe and secure locked away in the middle of nowhere in a violent storm with the enemy.”
Andrea opened her eyes and turned her head toward him. “The enemy?”
“Last time I checked there was a war going on.” He lifted himself up on one arm and downed a cup of the amber liquid. “You’ve not been vague in telling me that I’m the—”
Andrea put her fingers to his lips. “Not here. Let’s not talk about war tonight.” Then she lay back and stared upward again.
“You can’t make it go away by ignoring it or wishing it away.” Hunter laughed. “I’m at a loss to know which is greater, your will or your imagination. At times you seem determined to not see the world as it really is.”
Andrea smiled. “You should try it, Colonel. Because imagination or not, it appears we are stuck here and as good as a million miles from the savage world of war. So what is the harm in pretending it does not exist?”
He gazed at her angelic face, contemplating her rationale.
“You see? Can you believe it, Colonel?”
Hunter quickly shifted his eyes to stare indifferently at the fire. “Believe what?”
“That we can have a civil conversation with one another. Talk without one or the other giving or taking offense.”
“Actually, it’s long been among my wishes,” he said wistfully, “but realistically not one of my expectations.”
“I know.” She sighed deeply. “I have earned your displeasure countless times.”
He smiled. “And I, yours.”
“Perhaps less often than you think, sir.”
“Well to tell you the truth, you are displeasing me right now.”
Andrea turned her head toward him. “I am?”
“Yes. If you insist there is no war, then I must ask that you call me by my given name. Which, in case you did not know, is not Colonel. Nor is it Commander. And it is not sir.”
Andrea looked at him questioningly and then smiled. “Fair enough…Alex. I will grant you that.”
Hunter swallowed hard in response to the surge of warmth his name on her lips produced. Was it the alcohol that caused this confusing sensation? Or had he seen a new spark in her eyes before she glanced away?
He turned his attention back to the fire as she lay with her eyes closed, a serene expression on her face. “And this does not frighten you?” he asked after a few minutes of silence. “Being alone with me?”
There was no pause before she answered. “Of course not. I trust you.”
Hunter watched her eyes fly open the instant the words left her mouth, seeming to be as startled to have said them aloud as he was to hear them.
“You trust me?” He leaned toward her, probing her green eyes for answers.
Andrea remained silent a moment as her eyes flicked across his face, obviously searching for the right words. “The only fault I can find is the color of your uniform…but you wear it with honor.” She paused and swallowed hard as if admitting this fact to herself for the first time. “I have no reason to distrust an honorable man.”
Hunter’s chest rose with a deep, shaky breath, his face just inches from hers. “Your trust may be ill advised. An honorable man would not be thinking what I am thinking.”
He meant the statement to diffuse a precarious situation, but it did not work. Instead, he found it necessary to avert his gaze from Andrea, and return his attention to the fire. He watched the flickering flames rising higher as they devoured the wood, trying to erase from his memory those two green eyes that suddenly held so much promise—and acceptance.
“We are from two different worlds,” he finally said, reminding himself of their loyalties and obligations. He swallowed hard again, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. From the very core of his soul, he strove to resist the temptation to touch her, or even look at her again—afraid if he did, sparks would fly.
“You speak as Hunter the soldier,” Andrea said, her voice strangely soft. “Not as Hunter the man.” She lifted her hand to his face, touched the rough stubble on his chin with her fingertips, then moved her hand to his hair, as if it was something she had long desired to feel.
Hunter blinked at the contact and gave an involuntary shudder. His breathing came faster now, his chest rising and falling with the effort. He grabbed her wrist to stop her. “Andrea, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Their eyes locked. “Teach me.”
A flash of lightning lit up the room at that moment, and for an instant Hunter saw her face clearly in the brilliant light. Her eyes were no longer big and innocent. They were seductive…enchanting…intoxicating. Made even more so under the influence of the fire’s soft glow.
“We are at peace?” Hunter’s pulse throbbed as he waited for an answer. Blood tingled and burned in every vein. He struggled to breathe without gasping.
Andrea did not bother to answer with words. She placed her trembling fingers upon his shoulders, touching the soft skin stretched taut across hard muscles. Hunter flinched and moaned softly, the contact almost more than he could endure. With a reverent movement of his hand, the quilt fell away, and there was suddenly flesh on flesh, pounding heart upon pounding heart. With the barrier of war lifted, the long-restrained powder keg ignited into flame.
Chapter 68
A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannot live without love.
– Max Muller
Hunter awoke to a sense of deep, inexplicable peace that felt foreign and yet perfectly natural. Lying in silent contemplation, he stared at the flickering glow of the dying fire, intensely aware of the beat of another heart against his own.
A smile crossed his lips when his groggy mind considered the possibility of waking to this feeling each morning, and feeling this sense of contentment each day. The more he thought about it the more he looked forward to pouring out his feelings and letting his affection be known.
But those enchanting and pleasant thoughts slipped away as reality set in, causing his heart to bound at a frantic pace.
He could accept having fallen in love with the enemy—but could she?
There may have been no North and South last night, but there would be today. He knew well the effects of whiskey on an empty stomach and tired mind, and he feared that without its intoxicating influence, he would once again be a foe—one that had taken advantage of her youth and innocence.
Yes, she would be angry.
He was sure of it. Mother Nature may have kept the world at bay last night, but it was morning now. Andrea would never forgive him for making her feel she had to make a choice between her beloved Union and him.
What have I done?
In that moment of uncertainty, Hunter decided that rather than admit something had happened between them, it would be better to pretend nothing had happened at all. But before he slipped out from under her, he did as she had done on the balcony that warm, summer night. He closed his eyes, opened his hand and brought it back to his heart to effectively store the passion and emotions there, forming a memory that would be vivid and real to him to his last breath.
* * *
Andrea awoke to morning light streaming in through the window and a fire that was only a bed of hot ashes. Before she had time to wonder where Hunter had gone, the door opened and he appeared, wearing his coat, but no shirt beneath it.
She looked down through her tousled hair and realized she now wore the large garment that hung to her knees. Hunter did not notice. He walked by with nothing but a remote, detached look in his eye—the same look that had infuriated her on so many previous occasions.
“The horses are ready,” he said with callous indifference. “We’d better get a move on. They’ll be worried.”
Andrea was stunned, then incensed, unable to believe his conduct could be so uncaring and cold after his passionate display just a few hours previous. Then again, why should she be surprised? He was after all a man—and a rebel at that!
Removing the shirt in one swoop, she aimed for the back of his head. “You mean Victoria will be worried!”
By the time Hunter unwrapped the cloth from around his neck, Andrea had pulled on her dress and was limping unceremoniously to the door, picking up her undergarments as she walked.
“Andrea, wait—” She slammed the door shut before he could finish.
Chapter 69
Look what fools these mortals be.
– A Midsummer Night’s Dream, William Shakespeare
Andrea successfully avoided conversation both on the wagon ride home and the rest of the day. But her attempts to avoid her own memories that night failed miserably. Although she searched her mind, she recollected no words of devotion spoken. Hunter’s actions may have implied, but never really confirmed, any new admiration for her.
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