And he certainly wasn’t hiding his identity as a Yank.
He was but one man. A lone rider. Tia felt a sense of relief, and even superiority—she knew this terrain as few men did. Her home was across the state, but she had learned her geography from her father and her uncle, whose Indian blood had led him in dozens of merry chases across the terrain throughout the long, treacherous, and deadly Seminole wars.
And yet ...
Who was he? What was he doing? Not exactly a spy, for he was in full uniform. A scout? Yes, searching for troop movements, perhaps even looking for her own little pathetic band of injured and raw men who were, in truth, little more than children playing at being soldiers.
Just what would she do if he were to note that they had followed the old Indian trail.
He was a lone man ...
But well armed. He had come with a sharpshooter’s rifle tied across his saddle, a Spencer repeating rifle in a case below it, and a pair of six-shooting Colts holstered in the gun belt that rode his hips. Mean weapons. And something about the easy, agile, and assured way that he moved seemed to testify to his ability to use them.
The boys had already ridden on. If he followed them, there was no question in her mind—at least half of them would be dead.
Coming into the copse, the Federal cavalry scout paused. Felt the air, listened, surveyed the landscape. Hoof prints, near the water. Broken and bent branches.
Yes ... someone was near.
By dusk, the slender offshoot of the St. Johns was an exquisite place to be. Pines rose in green splendor, shading the little tributary, while shimmering rays of the dying sun broke through here and there to cast diamond sparkles upon the darkening water. A lone wading bird stalked the far side of the water, long-legged and graceful.
A crane. Tall, snow white except for its legs, it was the focal point of the glorious picture there. The bird was so still that if it weren’t for the creature’s coloring, it would have blended with the scene. Like any predator, however, this creature of ethereal beauty was sleek, cunning, and careful. It waited; it watched. Its stillness was so complete that it might indeed have been a painted picture that Taylor Douglas stared upon, a picture of serenity and peace.
The woman was much the same.
Yes! The woman.
Was she alone? Perhaps now ...
But she hadn’t been before! And so ...
Though she was dead still, low and flattened against a pine, he saw her. Or part of her. She was well concealed by the foliage. Still, strangely, he sized her up within his mind.
Slim, graceful, striking, like the bird. Like the crane, she watched, and she waited.
And, he thought as well, like the crane, she was a predator. No one watched and waited and calculated in such a manner without intending to strike.
He dismounted from Friar, his bay horse, named for his deep brown color and long shaggy mane. He stretched in a leisurely manner, then hunkered down by the water, dousing his face, yet surreptitiously studying her there, across the water.
Yes, she watched.
She thought herself hidden, and indeed, he could see little of her, a long slender arm, a wealth of dark hair, a face as stunningly sculpted and delicate as that of the most elegant of belles. Her eyes were dark, large, hypnotic.
Pinned on him.
Ready for battle. To spring to pounce. She waited merely for the right moment ...
Was she unaware that he had seen her? Most probably. His eyesight was exceptional. It was one of the gifts that made him an incredible marksman, as well as a good scout. And he knew this area as few other men did, just as he knew, indeed, that the Southern forces of Captain Dickinson—little Dixie—were in the near vicinity. He knew he was close to an encampment, and that he would find his prey.
And yet ...
He had expected nothing like this. He couldn’t help feeling a certain sorrow. Had the Southern forces become so low, so pathetic, and so depleted that women were doing the work of the army? And so thinking, he couldn’t help remembering back to the beginning of the war, when the reckless bravado and confidence of the men who would be soldiers had brought about the pointless tragedy that would scar his own life.
No. This was different. This girl was here by no accident.
He threw more water on his face, adjusted his hat, and whistled for Friar to come to the water. Keeping low, his hat brim over his eyes, he surveyed the area around the little tributary. A number of roads here, different ways to go—different ways out. He rose slowly, seeing that beyond the obvious, there was a trail heading into what appeared to be thick foliage. It was as he stared at the trail that she suddenly made her presence known.
He’d thought himself a hardened soldier. But she stunned him, froze him in place.
She swept his breath away.
She was sheer audacity.
For suddenly, she stepped from her hideout among the pines in all her glory. Sheer, naked glory. A magnitude of splendor that wiped the mind clean, stealing into the senses, the fantasy of dreams. She was slim, compact, her form clad in nothing other than the superb blanket of her hair, falling down in rippling waves of pure ebony to cover her breasts, belly, and thighs in a manner that teased in the wickedest way ...
“Good day, Yankee.”
For a moment, he couldn’t answer. He saw her smile.
“Madam,” he said, his jaw tense but working.
“You’re in a Rebel state.”
“I am.”
“So ... I assume you’re looking for rebellion, soldier?” she called in a taunting voice. “If so, then come this way.”
To his amazement, she dashed off in a web of ebony grace, the stole of her hair flying about her in a cloud like a raven’s wing, only to resettle as she sped along the pines to a trail just southward of their position. Still paralyzed with simple shock, he watched her.
Then he swore, bursting back to life.
Hurtling himself into his saddle, he urged Friar to take a wild plunge into the river. At its greatest depth, the water was only four feet, but there it rose in mighty showers and rushed back upon him in shimmering cascades.
By the time he had crossed the river, she’d mounted a large handsome horse—a far finer animal than he had seen in most of the South. And there, on the trail, she sat, a naked beauty cloaked in nothing but the black sable of her hair, staring his way. Her limbs were long, ivory, striking against the darkness of the horse’s coat. Her face, though shadowed by that magnificent head of hair, again appeared young, striking ...
And cunning.
She might have been startled, just at first, that he had so quickly crossed the water and found her upon the trail. But she gave that little thought, kneed her horse, and tore down the pine-carpeted trail.
Deeper and deeper she rode into the green darkness of the trails. Pines, oaks, webbed with ferns and mosses, created a rich canopy above them. She knew the trail, he thought. No one who didn’t know the trail would ever dare ride its length so recklessly. Nor could they follow such a twisted course with such great speed for so long a time.
Only a fool would follow so recklessly! he thought.
And yet ...
He followed. She was leading him astray, he knew. Tempting him from all his intent. Only a fool would follow, yet he was certain that, just as she would lead him away—she would lead him back again.
After twenty minutes of a heavy gallop in her pursuit, he came to a small bubbling brook. He was amazed that she had a horse with the speed and stamina to elude him so long. The Southern states had begun the war with the best horses—life in the South had been far more based upon the farm and the hunt than that in the North, and the majority of the best breeding stables had been in the South. But war had taken its toll on horses just as it had on humans—far too many of the Southern horses were little but flesh and bones.
Not to mention the horses that had been casualties of war, rotten carcasses next to their masters upon the killing fields of the fight.
>
He was lucky to have an exceptional mount himself. Friar was from Kentucky, a horse bred from specially chosen stock for both strength and speed. He still thought that he might have overtaken the woman if the trail hadn’t been so narrow and treacherous. Perhaps it was best to wait. Give her time to knot her own noose ...
She had just crossed the brook when he reached it. Still, he reined in. It seemed a good time to hold off, back away. To wait. And to watch. She wasn’t without sense, or was she? She would surely know that she had to slow down her horse. To own such a creature, and to ride it so well, she must be aware that she would kill the animal if she raced it into the ground. But what did he know of her? Maybe she would consider the act of eluding him to be worth the life of the horse. Then what? They were deep in the midst of nowhere, far between the habited lands of either coast. She would have to care about the life of her horse.
Very soon, she would have to slow down, walk her mount, allow it water.
He dismounted from his horse, and hunkered down by the water. He drank, looked around. She had definitely crossed the brook. He would wait, let her move on without being chased. She would see that he had stopped, and perhaps believe that she had lost him, that his pursuit was finished.
Never.
He was determined.
Why? She was a wanton little fool. Good God, didn’t she see the risks?
He gave himself a shake, gritting his teeth, stiffening. He hadn’t felt this encompassing web of pain and bitterness enwrap him in a long time now. There had been a goal in his life, a quest, and he had pursued it. The past was over; he didn’t know why this incident was forcing him to recall events he had long since pressed to the back of his mind—and soul.
It was the war.
Damn her ...
He would pursue her because of the war.
Whatever she had led him away from, she would lead him back to.
Chapter 2
TIA RACED ON AFTER she was certain that her pursuer had given up the chase. But then she reined in, aware that she was riding Blaze into the ground. A cruel thing to do to such a fine, blessed animal! She patted the horse’s neck. “Good girl! You are worth your weight in gold, you know? You can outrun almost anything on four legs, eh?”
She fell silent. Dusk was coming, and here she was, alone on an old Indian trail—stark naked. She felt chilled and very uncomfortable.
And unnerved.
She had never felt so alone. And yet, of course, she wanted to be alone. She needed to be alone. Totally alone.
Far, far away from ... him.
Had she definitely lost her pursuer? She whirled around on her mount. He hadn’t followed. She had probably lost him at the brook. So ...
If she rode back on an even narrower, highly overgrown path, she could reach the brook by just moving a little to the south and west. If she had lost him at the water, she would emerge downstream of him, return to where she had been—and regain her clothing. Alone, she was moving so much more quickly than her party could possibly be going, she would have no problem catching up with them on the very path they had taken—once she was decent again.
“I know, you need water. So do I. Naturally, you need it more,” she acknowledged, patting Blaze’s neck again and urging her down the narrow path. She was careful all the while, feeling chilled and ridiculous. She was not accustomed to riding naked. The woods suddenly seemed to be filled with all manner of eyes.
She swore at herself, and gave her full attention to the trail. She looked up at the sky, hoping she had a few hours of light left. She couldn’t begin to imagine being stuck out here, riding alone, naked on her horse in the dark. “This has to be one of the insanest things I’ve done as yet, Blaze, though I admit, I had wanted adventures out of life. However, I had wanted to tour the pyramids of Egypt and the like, not the backwoods of my own home!”
As she had planned, she returned to the brook by way of the downstream trail. She dismounted quickly, drinking deeply from the fresh water, then leading the thirsting horse to drink as well. She looked around herself. Nothing ... or no one. Just a brisk forty-five-minute trot and she could be back to her clothing, pretending that this wretched episode had never occurred.
Yet just as she was congratulating herself on being safe, she saw the huge brown horse with the long, thick mane—and the Yankee riding the animal. The rider had eschewed the trail all together—he came racing straight through the water, his speed uncanny, his body leaning low so that he was all but one with the animal.
She shrieked with surprise, tearing for Blaze, leaping up on her horse with a speed and agility born of sheer panic. She managed to seat herself on Blaze ...
But that was all.
The huge brown horse was upon her.
As was its rider.
The man made the leap from horse to horse with the sure certainty of a circus performer. She screamed wildly, twisting in a vehement denial of what had happened, only to find his arms around her, the horse rearing, and the two of them plummeting to the ground.
She struck hard, but he struck harder, having somehow come around her as they had sailed to the earth to take the brunt of the fall. For seconds, she couldn’t breathe, think, or shake herself from her state of pure surprise that she lived, yet lay on the ground. Then she realized the very serious—no, desperate!—nature of her predicament, and she tried to rise. His arm came around her. She jabbed an elbow into his rib, heard him grunt and groan. She tried again to jackknife to her feet, only to find him catching her, spinning her down again, and this time, straddling her, capturing her viciously flailing fists, and pinning them to her sides.
“All right, madam, who are you, and what is your game?” he demanded.
She drew in a ragged breath, staring up at the man, seeing him in truth for the first time. He was perhaps twenty-five to thirty years old, with striking hazel eyes that seemed to hold her with a greater force than the powerful hands that had pinned her wrists to the ground. His hair was dark, rich, and certainly askew at the moment, nearly as tangled as her own. His features were haunting ... handsome features, a face well defined with clean lines, broad cheekbones, squared jaw, ample brow, and a dead straight nose. Yet the years had woven a tension into those features, and he might have been younger than he appeared. Fine lines teased around his eyes, and his mouth; she had never felt such a sheer force of will in a man. He seemed furious, and exceptionally contemptuous, as if her behavior were a personal assault and not the result of her stupidity. His hardened, rough-edged anger—along with the fact that she was in an entirely untenable position—brought back her own bravado. When all was lost and panic threatened, there was nothing left to do but keep fighting.
“Who the hell are you and what is your game, sir? Though you are no ‘sir,’ no gentleman, ah! But then again, you’re a Yankee in a Southern state, are you not?”
“Who are you?” he repeated, snapping out the words.
Her name? Good God, she should die rather than give her name! What if he knew Ian? There were tens of thousands of troops, of course, but this fellow was cavalry, like her oldest brother. And he was in Florida, where Ian was sent often enough. And even if he didn’t know Ian, Lord! He could give out her name and ...
“Who do you think?” she spat out, bitter, furiously aware now that she had been caught—and far more than a little afraid, no matter how hard she fought to remain calm and seek any advantage for escape. “I’m Lady Godiva, of course.”
That, at least, seemed to amuse him a bit. The smallest hint of a smile teased his lips.
“Then what, my dear lady, is your game?”
Her game ...
She was pinned to the ground, stark naked, by a stranger. A young, powerful stranger with arms of steel and eyes that belonged to a cheetah. She was humiliatingly aware of the rough feel of his clothing against her bare flesh. Her hair ... yes, her hair was still her cloak, yet it left so very much to be desired. Indeed, what was her game?
“No game, sir. Y
ou scared me, I ran ... leaving my clothing, I’m afraid.”
“What a liar you are!” he said smoothly, the gold cheetah eyes seeming to burn into her.
“I beg your pardon, but I am telling you the truth! Your arrival on the south side of the river kept me from my clothing—”
“And you just happened to be way out here, a good Southern lass, stripped bare and bathing in a little tributary far, far from the nearest civilization?”
“I was simply out riding, sir.”
“From where?”
“From where? Well, from ... um, my home, of course.”
“And where is that?”
“Oh, well, I come from ...”
“Yes?”
“I won’t give away the location of my home to the enemy, sir. Suffice it to say that I live near, that I was out riding.”
“No, you weren’t.”
She was alarmed to see that no argument on her part would change him. Again, the seriousness and foolishness of her situation struck her, and she started to shake. He was all too aware of her distress as well, which naturally brought her temper rising again, even while her better senses warned her that she might well be in danger of both rape and murder, and there would be those wretches who might think she had brought about such a horror by her own wanton behavior.
“Sir, you are apparently an officer—”
“A Yankee, as you noted.”
“As an officer of the Federal army, I charge you, sir, to rise, and to cease bringing such discomfort to a lady.”
“A lady?”
“Yes! You must release me. Now!”
“Perhaps I’m not a Yankee officer.”
“What?”
“I could be a deserter, with a stolen frockcoat. A man on the run from both Federal and Confederate law, a desperado, glad of any treasure to be found in the way of money, cash, goods, clothing—or human flesh.”
She froze, staring at him, every inch of her flesh burning, terror seeming to wrap around her like the tentacles of an octopus. Somehow, she kept staring at him without blinking. And she told him, “Kill me then, and quickly, and steal what you will. My horse is all I have of value.”
Triumph Page 4