No Greater Glory

by Cindy Nord

  Emaline seethed. So his foolish chatter about southwestern ranches and blazing sunsets was just a ruse. The beast was only watching.

  And waiting.

  She sniffed, longing for the comforting numbness of her life prior to Colonel Reece Cutteridge. The blast of wind across the open fields burned her cheeks, yet she stumbled alongside the now silent soldier, embracing the heat of her wrath to keep her warm. Their steady pace gobbled up the distance and thirty minutes later, the soldier marched her through the house and up the stairs to the library to complete his assignment.

  A small fire bathed the room in flickering shadows. Silence encapsulated the tall figure standing near the hearth. Like a dark avenger, he crossed the room and slammed the door shut behind her. When he turned, dwarfing her, Emaline’s chin rose. Her hand slipped out to brace against the desk when she met the spitting malice in his eyes.

  His words raked over her. “Had I known you were so damned eager to die for the cause, I’d have arranged a far easier method.” He stalked closer, a sable-haired heathen sheathed in shadows. “Have you no idea what might’ve happened had I not discovered your asinine plan?”

  Her mouth tensed at his vulgarity, anxiety coiling into a tight knot in her throat. “Did you honestly think I would stand by and do nothing while you murder women and children?”

  The tip of his boot bumped against hers and he leaned down, his nose scant inches from hers. “I’m not in the habit of murdering women and children.”

  “And you expect me to believe an attack on Fredericksburg would leave innocent people unharmed?”

  “Unfortunately, war sometimes causes a few civilian casualties.”

  “A few?” Her scathing laugh filled the room. “How comforting—merely a few blameless souls to ease your brutal conscience.” Her fingers worked the corded loops of her cloak to unfasten the garment. In a swirl of black wool, the cape landed across the chair back.

  Reece drew a ragged breath and raked his gaze down her form. “You’ve obviously never heard of Bull Run. When the Rebs pushed north, dozens of women and children were injured while picnicking on a hillside.” He placed space between them. “People get hurt, Emaline. It’s the ungodly way of war. But since I have it in my power to protect you, I’ll do exactly that…protect you even from your own self.”

  She infuriated him to a point past reasoning. He stalked to the side table and helped himself to another generous glass of her dead husband’s whiskey. Turning toward her, he downed the contents in one long pull. The liquid set his throat ablaze, but did little to burn away his conflicting emotions. He wanted to wring her neck.

  No…he wanted to pull her to him and bury himself inside her.

  Her erratic heartbeat fluttered in the hollow of her throat. He stared at the small indentation. The perfect spot for… His gaze shifted, then scoured the curves of her body. Her slender waist. The generous swells hidden beneath the swath of cotton.

  Sonofabitch. This was hell-bent agony, yet he could no longer squelch the returning rush of emotions too long suppressed. “I’ll not argue the finer points of this war’s morality with you,” he ground out. “The riverbank opposite the city is crawling with sharpshooters. Had you even made it that far, Burnside’s pickets would have made short work of you.”

  A sarcastic smirk broke her face. “At least that would put an end to my suffering.”

  Her words landed like a well-aimed blow in his gut and his voice spiraled downward into a harsh whisper. “Your suffering?” Four strides brought him before her again. “You’ve suffered little in your life, sweetheart.” She attempted to snap back, but he cut her off with a surge forward. His gaze bored into hers. “Five years ago, I returned from a horse drive to find my father murdered, staked out and tortured to death. A slow and suffering demise, you can be sure.” His voice dropped lower. “The Apache brutally beat my mother. Her suffering lasted days before she died in my arms. But Jenny? No, my Jenny wasn’t nearly as fortunate.” He paused only long enough to draw breath. “I spent two agonizing days tracking those bloody butchers and when I finally found my wife, the sonsofbitches had raped her, scalped her, and then staked her out for the coyotes and wild boars to enjoy. And you think you’ve suffered?” His guttural laugh ended in a painful growl. “You’re whining over pigs and corn and flattened flower beds and calling it agony. I’ve no patience left for your drivel.”

  “I’ve…known suffering,” she whispered. “It’s you—”

  He loomed closer. “I haven’t made you suffer one damn bit. Good God, woman, I’m trying to protect you! There’s nothing you can do to change the course of this war. Nothing. And trying to prevent the inevitable is not only dangerous, it’s ludicrous. I don’t want you hurt too.” He dragged in a deep breath, realizing he’d said too much, revealed too much about himself and his unbalanced concern for her safety. He must leave the room.

  Right now.

  He shoved himself back three steps, then snapped, “Do not attempt the river again, Emaline. I won’t be nearly as forgiving the next time.”

  He was gone before the heavy door hit the back wall.

  Emaline stared at the empty threshold. A strange sense of desolation engulfed her. He enraged her, yet at the same time, his scorn pierced her heart. Did he truly believe her to be such a shallow creature? Was she? Suffering took many forms, didn’t it? The raging beast had given her little opportunity to explain about the responsibilities she’d shouldered all alone or the anguish that consumed her at her obvious failure to maintain Benjamin’s home. Emaline fought back tears. She might even have wanted to share sympathy for his lost family. But he denied her that too.

  She sighed, weak with exhaustion.

  Then a frail voice inside reminded her he was her enemy. She owed him no such revelations. Why should she explain away her lifestyle to him? She hadn’t shaped the world she’d been born into. She hadn’t asked him to invade her home or force his way into her life, either. And she certainly didn’t want his opinion regarding her character. Inexplicably, however, the memory of his dark eyes searching hers earlier this evening on the veranda penetrated all her denials. She turned slowly and scanned the library, seeing the same desk, the same books, but everything now seemed different.

  Emaline resolved many things that night.

  In a hazy yellow wash, dawn filtered past the curtains in her bedroom. War made people behave differently than they would under other circumstances; the comparison between her brother and the colonel kept her tossing all night. Brennen would do exactly as ordered, regardless of the consequences, regardless of the situation.

  A sigh rolled from her lungs. All along, she’d placed the blame for everything squarely on the colonel’s broad shoulders. The realization he knew and accepted her censure, in fact, he even agreed to shoulder her animosity, forced her to see him in a new light. The day he rode onto her land, he promised no harm would come to her or her people. And so far, he’d kept his word.

  A new day broke, providing her renewed strength. And with it came her solid vow to be more reasonable with the man.

  Emaline returned her hairbrush to the glass-and-silver tray, taking comfort in the thought her personal items could be in order. She skimmed her hands over the sides of her head, smoothing down the errant wisps that refused the braid’s confinement. Yes. She’d be more pleasant and continue to assist the doctor with the wounded. She could not help the people of Fredericksburg, but at least she could help someone here.

  With her affirmation fixed into place, she finished her morning toilette and then donned a fresh camisole and corset. She pulled on a white flannel underslip, tied it securely at the waist, and slipped on a green work dress. After placing the china pitcher back inside its matching bowl on the side table, Emaline left the room, a frail smile fastened in place. Before she resumed her duties downstairs with the doctor, however, she needed to record more entries in her ledger. When she visited the quarters last night, Tacker informed her that the Yankees had vouchered mo
re chickens.

  Emaline crossed the hallway and pushed open the library door.

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  Reece Cutteridge sat at her desk, boldly examining the entries in her ledger.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, closing the door behind her with a firm shove. He glanced up as she strode across the rug, then continued his study of the tome. She reached across the desk and flipped the volume closed, her heartfelt resolution to be pleasant toward the man squashed beneath the intricately tooled cover. “I’ll ask you again, Colonel. What are you doing in here?”

  He leaned back and steepled his fingers. “I’m impressed with the horses in your stable and wanted to look over their bloodlines. They come from excellent stock.” A faint smile curved his lips. “The extent of your recordkeeping is remarkable.”

  His compliment disturbed her. In fact, everything about him this morning disturbed her.

  She straightened and locked her arms across her chest. “I’ve always kept excellent household records. I would’ve told you what you wanted to know without you snooping. In fact, I can reel off the pedigree of each animal as easily as a child can the ABCs.”

  The chair moved backward. He stood and rounded the desk, then came to a stop directly in front of her. Beneath his unbuttoned frockcoat, his white shirt lay open at his throat and a hint of dark hair teased her from the vee-shaped opening.

  Emaline swallowed, squelching the preposterous urge to touch that sun-darkened spot.

  Heat prickled down her spine. She averted her gaze and settled on the taut set of his shoulders. The rush of warmth spread across her belly and down her legs. She attributed the sensation to emotional and physical exhaustion.

  She refused to attribute it to need.

  “Men aren’t the only casualties of war,” he said, his silky smooth words drifting over her. “We lose good mounts in battle, too.” She looked back and nearly shuddered at the coldness reflected in his eyes. “When we leave, we’ll be taking your horses with us.”

  “W-what?” she stammered. “You can’t take them. It took years for Benjamin to achieve that bloodline.”

  “I didn’t ask for your permission.”

  White-hot fury poured through Emaline. All her good intentions, all her attempts to understand this man, died in the wake of his words. She didn’t grieve the horses; they were another casualty of war.

  What hurt most was how much he enjoyed this.

  “No, Colonel, you never did ask, did you? You pilfered my supplies, mocked my character and lifestyle, filled my home with your dying, and had the audacity to lure me in with your heartbreaking loss. Then when you had me falling under your wretched spell, you boldly proclaim you’re here to also steal my family’s heritage.” Her words tumbled out in a maddening rush. “Tell me, you…despicable heathen, do you plan on leaving me anything when you leave?”

  He smiled flatly. “Vouchers.”

  Vouchers!

  Emaline nearly buckled. “I live for the day you ride into battle and are blown straight back to hell, for that is surely where you’ve spawned.”

  “And that may well happen, Mrs. McDaniels, but when it does we’ll be riding your horses.”

  With lightning speed, Emaline’s palm connected with his jaw. The blow rocked his head to the side. The echo hardly faded before he reached out to band her waist. With a strong jerk, he brought her up against him. His belt buckle pressed into the softness of her belly. He leaned forward, dark eyes narrowing as he growled, “You will be paying me for that one.”

  His hold tightened and he bent her backward. His other hand slipped up to bury fingers in the base of her braid. The lower he bent, the closer he loomed. Until, in a fierce possession, he finally covered her mouth with his. Hard and demanding, he deepened the kiss. His hand freed her plait, moving down the arch in her back, then farther down over the curve of her buttocks.

  With an easy sweep, he lifted her and nestled her against him.

  Emaline pummeled his shoulders.

  He only tightened his hold.

  An incomprehensible pressure gathered deep inside her. The longer he branded her and the harder she fought, the more mesmerizing the sensations spiraled.

  Unabated. Unrestrained.

  Until finally her entire world tipped out of control.

  Her flailing ceased. Her hands dropped back to his shoulders. She no longer could fight against his intoxicating onslaught or staunch the flow of emotions cresting over her. In fact, she could no longer remember why she needed to fight this man at all. An incredulous yearning ignited somewhere deep inside and she issued a husky, guttural groan, her lips softening beneath his just one small fraction.

  An acquiescing moan followed. Abruptly, he straightened her and when his pressure lifted from her lips, Emaline’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyelids shuttered open and through a shimmering veil, she watched his mouth shift sideways into a smirk. The sight slammed hard against her ragged nerves. The fragile flame of desire, so precious and new, sputtered and then flickered out.

  Unable to force words past her tingling lips, she simply stared up at him. Deep inside, however, she found her fury. Like a soothing balm, she smeared it across her heart, praying all the while for God’s flaming hand to strike him dead on the very spot he stood. With their gazes still locked, he reached sideways and retrieved his hat from the desk, then settled it upon his head. A heartbeat later, both he and her leather-bound ledger were gone.

  Chapter Four

  The woman struggled to remain upright, but cloying emptiness beckoned. Mud seeped between bare fingers and toes. Her body ached. Still, she pushed onward, shuffling footsteps taking her to the summit.

  At the top, caustic haze engulfed her. She fought back a wracking cough, her arms lifting. With frantic waves, she worked to disperse the smoke. By slow degrees, the miasma dissipated and the valley below shimmered into view.

  Desolation spanned out before her. Acres of ripe tobacco and grain were gone, replaced with row after row of weathered canvas. Lush, summertime grass, usually clipped short by meandering goats and sheep, now smoldered in a morass of destruction and rotting carcasses. Death’s mordant stench nipped at her nostrils while scores of horse-drawn artillery and ambulance wagons rumbled over once-exquisite gardens of roses, sculpted elderberry and boxwood.

  She dropped to her knees, her arms thrusting skyward. A groan rose deep in her throat and escalated until a heart-wrenching wail poured out. The belching rumble of cannon-fire rocked the valley, masking her lamentations. Explosions ripped apart the night as uncontrolled fires raged across the battlefield. Caught by the treacherous wind, flames swept up the hill toward her, carried faster and faster upon the consuming tongues of hell.

  Too weary to move, she resigned herself to her inevitable death.

  Then something alerted her senses. A horse! Indeed, the miraculous, unmistakable consonance drew nearer, approaching fast. A strong arm, honed to muscled perfection, swept out, then banded her waist.

  Higher and higher, she rose until she landed face down across the beast. The impact stole her breath and the swell of saddle bored into her belly. In a frantic attempt to breathe, she jerked her face sideways, scraping her cheek across coarsely textured blue wool. Looking upward, she faced the handsome countenance of Colonel Reece Cutteridge.

  Another barrage of artillery blasted across the sky and the spirited stallion beneath them reared upward, front legs slashing the air in powerful defiance. Terrified beyond reasoning, she slipped into the ebony realms of unconsciousness.

  The loud crack of thunder awakened Emaline.

  Another rumble brought her bolt upright in bed, an erratic heartbeat echoing in her ears. She leaned forward, gasping for breath. Lightning ripped a jagged scar across the sky and illuminated her bedroom in momentary brightness. Heavy raindrops pelted the windowpanes and the staccato tapping slammed against an unraveling panic. Her nightgown had twisted around her legs, trapping her, and she gripped the cover
let with such intensity her hands cramped in pain.

  Glancing around the room, she recognized the heavy wardrobe, the matching dressing table and the chair near the inlaid-tile hearth where the red-hued shimmer of coals professed dying testimony to an earlier blaze. She lifted her head. Sheer curtains draped the top of her poster bed and continued down all four sides in a ghostly, gossamer sweep of cream and tan.

  I’m home.

  And safe.

  Her hands rose in front of her face. No mud. Not even a trace. ’Twas another nightmare. And this time, enhanced by the thunderstorm that ravaged the night. She worked to calm her pulse. Inhale. Exhale. Finally, she slumped back against the pillows and with a determined jerk, pulled the eiderdown quilt up to her chin. Her fingers tapped out an exasperated beat. That blasted man dominated even her sleep now.

  Unbidden, his powerful image nonetheless returned.

  She struggled to breathe through the tightness in her chest, her body tingling from the remembered strength of his embrace. She slipped her tongue out to moisten dry lips, but only drew back the warm and wicked taste of him. In one fluid movement, Emaline kicked off the blanket and left her bed.

  How dare he kiss me. How dare he!

  With each agitated footfall, her nightgown swept the floor in a whisper of rage.

  Is that music?

  Emaline wiped her hands across the bibbed front of her apron and scrambled to her feet. The scrub brush dropped into the bucket with a loud plop, sending dirty water over the side of the pail.

  Yes. It was definitely music.

  The reedy notes of a harmonica filtered through the house.

  Like a rat behind the Pied Piper, Emaline followed the tune through the sitting room and across the large entry hall. She came to a stop at the doorway leading into the dining room. Several convalescing soldiers had clustered near the wooden storage boxes, and two of them were engaged in an awkward, shuffling dance.