It was long moments later when the wild hammering of her heart stilled and her breath fell lightly, stirring the crisp hairs on his chest. There was a quiet peace born of their closeness now, born of the knowledge that each had reached the other in a simple, yet most powerful way. Yet, just before Ambrosia gave herself up to slumber, something deep in her heart warned her that nothing would ever be quite so simple and peaceful again.
Chapter 17
The morning dawned bright and clear, with rich yellow sunshine warming the chilled December air. Ambrosia squinted against the brightness which streamed through the nearby window, her eyelids blinking repeatedly as the lethargy of a deep sleep drifted stubbornly away. She frowned as she glanced anxiously about the strange room, then started as the man beside her stirred and tightened a long, muscular arm about her. He did not waken.
Ambrosia let out her breath and allowed her eyes to roam slowly over his broad shoulders; his thick, coalblack hair; the precise, angular features of his face. He seemed much younger now than she’d ever seen him look before, much less threatening than the gun-wielding Yankee soldier she feared and hated. His lashes were incongruously thick and dark as a child’s against his tanned cheek, his mouth smooth, his sleep heavy and content. Once, a long time ago, he had actually been in love, she thought suddenly. And he had loved so deeply and so totally that he had lost everything when he lost her. They were alike in that respect. The thought made her feel a strange kind of affection for him, perhaps only because he had shared his hurt with her the night before, when she had needed to be comforted. Remembering had not been easy for him, of that she was certain.
Ambrosia laid her head back on the pillow and sighed as she stared at the ceiling, her fingers nervously clutching at the comforter. She remembered all that had happened, remembered the pleasure, the triumphant surge of her physical being as she surrendered herself entirely to his strength. She no longer felt any semblance of triumph. Suddenly she was filled with shame and guilt over everything she had felt and was still feeling. Everything that had happened had been wrong, terribly wrong. Whatever else Drayton Rambert might be, he was a Yankee first-how could she have forgotten that? Had she really been so afraid, so weak that she had needed reassurance from him? She, Ambrosia Lanford, who prided herself on her courage, had shown herself a coward last night. She bit her lip hard, remembering that the one thing Ledger had admired in her from the first had been courage. A sharp pang of regret tore through her with the admission that she had betrayed all that she was and all that she felt for Ledger, in return for an empty moment of reassurance from her enemy.
As if feeling her gaze upon him, Drayton slowly opened his eyes, only to see her look away. He regarded her steadily for a long moment, seeing the same, distant sadness in her eyes that he had seen the night before, recognizing it all too easily now. He raised himself up on one arm, his other still encircling her possessively. “Good morning.”
His voice was soft and gentle, and Ambrosia felt a warmth flicker inside her at the mere sound of it, though she did not welcome the intrusion on her thoughts. She tossed him an impersonal glance and returned a terse good morning.
He smiled down at her. She colored and looked away. He raised a single annoyed brow, then scowled in frustration as he continued to look at her, as she continued to avoid his eyes. His patience waned. He bent suddenly to kiss her, smothering any and all protests with hard, bruising force that gentled only when she yielded to him. His hand moved instinctively to the softness of her breasts, his careful coaxing of them swiftly bringing the response he sought. Ambrosia’s breath caught sharply as she threaded her fingers shakily through the short thickness of his hair, her mouth moving slowly, yet hungrily beneath his. And at that instant, every thought in her head fled but one. The muted sounds of footsteps on the stairs and in the hall did not begin to disturb her newly aroused passion. The sudden opening of the door was quite another matter. She bolted to a sitting position, clutching a blanket to her breasts.
‘’Seven-thirty, sir. Have to hurry if you don’t want to be late for-”
Private Reynold’s thin, freckled face went white as a sheet as his eyes met Drayton’s furious scowl. Though his first impulse was to bolt and run, the private’s gaze slid curiously toward the lovely bare shoulders beside his superior officer. For an eternal moment he stood there frozen, holding tight to a breakfast tray, staring at the perfect curved outline of her body through the thin blanket which covered her. His eyes traveled slowly upward, until they locked with a pair of familiar green-gray eyes. He promptly dropped the tray. It was the girl from the emporium! The pretty, uppity one he and about a hundred other soldiers had tried so hard to be friendly with. She was in bed with Major Rambert!
The loud clattering of scattering cutlery and breaking glass seemed to jar the private from his daydream. His long legs and arms scrambled in every direction at once as he dove after the tray.
“Private Reynolds!”
The low, articulate command made Reynolds snap to his feet in perfect attention. His face was red as a beet, neck to brow, and his gaze could find no safe place to fall. “Yes, sir!”
Drayton’s eyes narrowed as he let out a breath through clenched teeth in a valiant attempt to control his temper. The attempt failed. “Get OUT!” His growl reverberated through the room
“Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” Reynolds gave a crisp, almost comical salute, then backed up a step at a time, mumbling phrases of explanation and apology as he moved to the door. He whirled on a heel, then turned just long enough to toss over his shoulder, “And don’t forget your meeting, sir.”
There was a loud clank as he opened the door and smashed it squarely into a saucer and various pieces of silverware. The private stared at it for a moment, then scampered from the room without a backward glance.
Drayton’s blue eyes continued to flash murderous sparks for several moments after Private Reynolds had gone. “Damn!” he muttered. “Of all the stupid, clumsy, inconsiderate, bumbling-”
His eyes caught sight of Ambrosia’s face and his anger fled. Her skin was pale, her cheeks flushed unnaturally, her eyes once again distant and brooding as they stared at the door. For a moment he considered skipping the meeting with General Saxton, claiming illness or-but he knew that he could not do that. His meeting was urgent and could not be postponed. Rumor had it that these were the general’s last few weeks in office, that his successor to the post of assistant commissioner of the Freedman’s Bureau had already been named and would be installed within the month. And General Sickles, who was in the process of assuming the role of military commander of the district, had insisted that his officers show total cooperation with the bureau. Besides, Private Reynolds was not exactly the soul of discretion. The real reason for Drayton’s absence would be all over Charleston if he missed that meeting, and he didn’t want Ambrosia to face that kind of scandal. He took gentle hold of her shoulders and guided her head to his chest with a sigh, deeply troubled by the depth of her aloofness. He had so little time now to break through it. He lifted her chin until her eyes met his. “I have a meeting I must attend this morning. It won’t take long.” He touched his lips lightly to hers. “I intend to make sure it doesn’t take long.” He ran a finger wistfully down her cheek and searched her face for a long moment. Nothing. No defiance, no anger, not a single spark of anything. She might have been a million miles away. “Ambrosia?”
A dim flicker of some emotion finally touched her eyes.
“I want you to stay with me,” he told her softly, taking hold of her hand. “You know that, don’t you?”
She averted her eyes and Drayton felt a cold knot of dread tightening in the pit of his stomach. She meant to leave him. To go on as if last night had never even happened. But he could never do that now. He could never let her leave like this, while her heart still ached with the pain of a love that couldn’t be. She didn’t know it, but she needed him every bit as m
uch as he needed her. He had to fight to keep his frustration from igniting his temper. Anger had never been effective in dealing with her. But perhaps, if he spoke to her as he had the night before, she would listen at least.
“You can’t run away from your heart, Ambrosia,” he began earnestly, ‘’no matter how hard you run. The hurt will always be there. You need to wait it out, to give it time to heal, to give yourself a chance to begin again....”
Her face was blank. He touched his lips to her hand and sought her eyes. “Stay with me,” he pleaded softly. “Please. Just for a little while.” He was afraid to ask for more, afraid to put aside any more of his pride to plead with her. If she cared at all for him it might have been different. But Ambrosia’s coming here in the first place had nothing to do with what he felt for her. She had come out of sheer desperation. And he would have to hope that she stayed for the same reason.
He sighed as he released her and left the bed to wander about the room, quickly gathering up the clothing he in tended to wear, hastily donning long, woolen undergarments and his blue uniform trousers before he went to the washstand and began to shave. Ambrosia watched him covertly, shivering as she huddled beneath the blanket in a futile attempt to retain the warmth of his body, berating herself for the yearnings that rose within her at the sight of him, at the graceful ripple of his muscles beneath his roughened bronze skin. She had never really noticed how devastatingly handsome he was before, how deep and blue were his eyes, how firm and square his jaw, how generous the chiseled curve to his mouth. There was something beyond the handsome line of his features now that was even more attractive to her, some unexplainable aura of manliness, of certainty, of command. It was something she felt more than saw, and it made her very aware of the knowledge he had of her body, of the ease with which he could arouse her. The simple meeting of their eyes had become a forceful, unwelcome reminder that she was a woman. A soiled woman now, she reminded herself with a surge of self-loathing. A Yankee officer’s plaything that he wanted to keep “just for a little while.” He knew her weakness much too well to want anything more than a few moments of pleasure with her. Indeed, what else did she have to offer him or any man? She was no different than the painted women who came to buy perfume at Maggie’s emporium.
She watched him pull on his white blouse and over that, his dark blue, brass-buttoned uniform, becoming the soldier she knew so well. She wondered vaguely if he would want to buy her horrible new clothing that would proclaim what she was to the world. Or if he would flaunt her before his friends as some of the Yankees did their mistresses, the way gentlemen flaunt their finest horses or expensive jewelry. She did not intend to stay with him long enough to find out. Everything inside her screamed she would sooner die than let anyone humiliate her like that. No one must ever know what she had done. She would go somewhere where no one knew her, where she could take up her life again without anyone guessing at the truth. She could not think about where that might be, or about what she might do to support herself. She had found a job in Charleston; she would do so elsewhere. But she would never, ever allow herself to succumb to weakness again.
When he finished dressing he stood looking down at her, his hand running pensively over the brim of his Hardee hat as he tried to read her expression. “You must be hungry. I’ll have Private Reynolds bring a breakfast tray up for you. He can leave it outside the door if you like.”
“Thank you.” She did not look up.
He stared away, his fingers circling the brim of his hat nervously. “I-I will leave some money on the bureau, in case you need anything. Anything at all-”
The sudden iciness in her eyes made his voice break off. She wanted nothing to do with his money. He ought to have remembered that.
He stretched a hand toward her cheek and ran his fingers regretfully over her smooth skin. “Ambrosia, I-” He stopped. Her cold, distant expression made him wary of saying anything more. He straightened and turned to leave, stepping over the ruined breakfast tray as he made his way to the door. He paused, his hand on the latch. “I won’t be very long. We’ll have plenty of time to talk when I get back.”
“Yes.” Her voice was hollow, without conviction. And he knew. She meant to leave the moment he was gone. Drayton let himself out and closed the door soundly behind. He heaved a long, weary sigh and leaned his back against the door for a long moment, thinking. He could not allow her to leave, not like this. He had to have time.
With a sudden thought, he hurried down the stairs to find Private Reynolds. He would have the private prepare the breakfast tray right away, and leave it at the door without disturbing her. But he would also put the private on guard. Under no circumstances was he to let the lady leave the house without an escort. And if she proved unmanageable and did leave the house alone, the private was to follow her. He was not to say a word to anyone about who she was or what she was doing here, and he was not to let her out of his sight.
Within moments of his departure, Ambrosia left the warmth of the bed and padded across the cold wooden floor to the chair where she had left her clothes. She was relieved to find them dry. She retrieved her chemise from the floor, squelching an odd feeling of light-headedness as she straightened to tug it over her head. She swayed. She caught herself on the bedpost and waited for the dizziness to subside before she hurriedly continued dressing. She was certain that the leaden discomfort in her limbs would go away in time. It was merely that she had not eaten since early yesterday morning, that she needed something to fill her stomach. But she could not eat here. She would not take anything from Drayton in return for what had happened last night. Not even a bite of his ruined breakfast. Her eyes flicked bitterly over the money he had left on the bureau, too obviously payment for services rendered. She would have none of it. She finished dressing and wound her hair in a hasty knot, which she quickly covered with her limp, water-stained bonnet. The cloak she flung about her shoulders provided her a welcome warmth, and she was at once grateful for it. For some reason she could not shake off the chill that seemed to have penetrated her bones with the rain the night be fore. She sidestepped the remains of the breakfast tray, a strong wave of nausea sweeping over her at the sight. She held her breath and looked away, struggling to keep from retching. She closed her eyes tightly and waited for the feeling to ease. The moment it did, she scooped up her small, still damp bundle of clothing which Drayton had dropped just inside the door. She pressed her ear to the door and listened for several moments. Nothing. Opening it a crack, she slipped silently from the room.
Ambrosia made her way stealthily toward the stairs, listening intently to several masculine voices that rose from the first floor. She tried not to think about what she would do if she ran into one or more of the soldiers. She stepped down one, two, three steps, then hesitated and peeked slowly over the curved banister. With a fist to her mouth to stifle a gasp, she whirled and hurried back up the stairs. Her eyes darted about for a place to hide. Panting hard, her heart pounding against her ribs, she flattened her back against the wall just inside the hallway. For the next few moments, she felt certain she would faint. She held her breath as Private Reynolds strode swiftly past her, bearing a tray nearly identical to the one which had spilled on the floor. Without waiting an instant longer, Ambrosia bolted from her hiding place and all but flew down the stairs, pausing only a halfsecond before she reached the landing to be certain no one was there to stop her. With a trembling hand, she eased open the front door and closed it slowly behind her, proceeding carefully until she had cleared the grounds, though her instincts screamed in protest at the precious waste of time. And then she was free. No one was even aware that she had gone.
Anxiety slowly loosened its grip as she hurried along the busy street, mingling with other nameless, faceless people. She wondered vaguely why her muscles were aching even worse now, why each and every movement seemed a test of will. She was only a few blocks from the house when she paused for a moment, ti
red and breathless. She leaned heavily against the side of a building she didn’t recognize and tried to think of where she was. She was not very well acquainted with the northern section of Charleston, since most loyal Southerners now lived south of Broad. She stared at the sun and tried to determine which way to go to reach the Cooper River. A cold blast of air whipped suddenly about her as she made up her mind and turned east. She shivered, feeling her body break into an icy sweat. A lethargic heaviness seemed to settle in her limbs. She stopped and put a hand to her brow to ease the dull throb that had begun there. It seemed to grow worse with every step. She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She had to go on, just a little further, just to-
Her vision blurred. She nearly fell as she groped for a wooden post and struggled to steady herself. But the fuzzy images of people and buildings that seemed to float in an eerie kind of circle refused to be righted. Ambrosia clenched her teeth and straightened her spine, aware of the people who brushed impatiently past her, knowing that she could not stop here. She did not even know where she was.
She forced her feet to take a few more steps. The sun had gotten so terribly bright that it hurt her eyes. She lifted an arm to shade her face from the painful light, feeling the heat of it in her head even as she shook with the cold. The perspiration beaded on her brow and upper lip, and sweat dripped down her back and between her breasts. Then abruptly, just as she stepped into the street, she felt her fingers loosen, felt her bundle fall from her hand. The light and the cold and all the blurred images were suddenly gone.
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