Triumph

by Heather Graham

  Ah, but the Yanks were learning the state. And there were, of course, more and more Unionists in the state daily. Those who tired of the war. Those who had voted against secession. Those who might have organized the territory this side of the state into East Florida—with a Unionist government to run it.

  She heard the men behind her.

  She cursed the camp.

  It would be her death! she thought.

  The soldiers behind her remained lost in the maze of trees, rivers, and ponds.

  But they wouldn’t stay lost for long.

  Dozens of Yanks lay before her.

  She hugged a pine, trying not to panic. She searched the camp, shivering. It was growing dark. A large tent, probably an officer’s quarters, held a prime position right by a little inlet of water pulsing from the stream. The pines encroached upon the very back of it. The positioning of the tent allowed for privacy within, and escape to the brook—should a man desire his own counsel under the stars.

  As she stared at the tent, her heart quickened. A man exited from the canvas flap—tall, dark, imposing. She saw nothing but his back. He wore no jacket, just a bleached muslin shirt and Union-issue cavalry trousers. He had to be an officer; she was certain by the assurance with which he moved. Command was visible in his carriage, in his manner.

  He paused by a young, sandy-haired, freckle-faced soldier at a cooking fire some distance from the tent. She didn’t hear what he said; he spoke with a deep, low voice and his back remained to her. She did hear the sandy-haired soldier’s reply since he was looking in her direction and his voice seemed to carry straight to her.

  “Yessir, I understand. You’re meeting with Colonel Bryer, and will be with him for some time. If the scouting party returns, I’ll tell Captain Ayers that you’re with Colonel Bryer, and he may find you there, or wait to speak with you here later, but you wish to see him tonight.”

  The officer moved on. Tia looked down the length of the pines. She could hear the soldiers coming closer. She ran along the pines, leading Blaze.

  Behind the officer’s tent, she gave Blaze a firm pat on the rump. “Go on now!”

  The horse trotted off as bidden. Tia watched her horse, fingers clenched into her palms. Blaze wouldn’t go too far—she hoped. Tia didn’t want her horse to give away her position. She hoped, as well, that Blaze would stay deep within the pines, and avoid the copse that was so heavily laden with men and tents.

  She didn’t want her well-loved mare stolen by the enemy.

  “Go on, girl, go on!” she whispered.

  Tia watched her go, glad that Blaze soon discovered a nice thicket of grass concealed by the pines.

  Sure that the mare had moved on far enough, she plunged quickly through the trees, and then, just as quickly, she drew back, hesitating.

  Carefully she viewed the area. She could make it into the tent without being seen, she was certain. She could bide her time, perhaps find more clothing, then slip back through the pines after the soldiers had given up searching for her.

  Yes, she could. Easily, if all went well.

  But what if the officer who lived within the tent came back before she dared slip back into the pines?

  He wouldn’t! He had just informed his sergeant that he would be gone for several hours.

  She sped the short distance to the tent, fell to her knees on the soft grassland crawled beneath the canvas wall of the tent.

  Within the enclosure she rose, shivering. The night was growing very cool. She was soaking wet. Her hair lay like a cold, damp cloak around her shoulders, trickling little droplets of ice down her spine. Her fear didn’t help. Her teeth were chattering. She needed a blanket. Searching for one, she surveyed the strange refuge she had so desperately chosen.

  The tent was large, a welcoming place. There was even a throw rug over the earthen floor. A large camp bed lay beside a camp desk. A map of the area was stretched out across the desk. An officer’s frockcoat was draped over the folding chair in front of the desk. There was a standing shaving mirror, a chest that housed eating utensils, and a small table that was piled high with books. She found herself looking at the titles. There were military manuals and medical periodicals. Books on engineering and books by Audubon. They were well-read books, and she was tempted to go and look through them. Her father’s library at Cimarron was extensive, and he had encouraged his children to read. Her mother loved books; she had told them often enough that books were like luxurious voyages—they could take you wherever you wanted to go from the comfort and warmth of an armchair. Books were teachers as well, opening up the world to those who cared to learn. They were friends with whom to curl up on a rainy day, company when you were lonely, cheer when you were feeling the weight of the world.

  She almost walked over to pick up a book. She stopped herself firmly.

  She wasn’t here to read! she warned herself. She had come to hide—and find clothing. She could not wear a book!

  And so, she kept looking around the tent. Another traveling chest was at the side of the first. There was a clean white cotton shirt folded atop it.

  Everything in the tent was neat, and yet, the space seemed to have the indelible imprint of a personality upon it. She was intrigued by who might be staying here. The tall, dark-haired officer she had seen leaving. A Yankee, the enemy. Yet the term “enemy” was best when it was a faceless term. Her brother was the “enemy,” and yet a cherished face within her life. More than ever, she despised the war.

  The second chest, she told herself firmly, probably held clothing. She could use the shirt folded atop it to begin with. There must be trousers within. Too big, certainly, but she could find something with which to tie them on. She hurried to the chest, still shivering. She opened it. Trousers. Nice, warm, navy wool trousers. She lifted them out, then laid them back on the trunk and looked nervously to the flap opening of the tent. She hurried to it, carefully moved the canvas aside, and peeked out. The soldier at the fire seemed to be keeping guard. The other men were busy about the camp. No one knew she was there.

  She dropped the canvas, and returned to the trunk where the dry shirt and trousers lay. Seriously cold now, and nervous that she might be interrupted, she quickly stripped off her corset and pantalettes. Her fingers were numb and she could barely untie the strings of her corset and pantalettes. At first, she freed herself from the sodden remnants of her clothing and bent over and reached for the shirt.

  As she did so, she froze, a feeling of fear sweeping over her. She was somehow aware that someone had come. No sound, but the air ... yes ... she felt a whisper of air from the flap of the tent. Someone had come in with an uncanny silence. Without the sound of a single footfall.

  Someone had come, yes, And her back was to him.

  She heard the click of a gun as the trigger was set.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing?”

  The voice was deep, commanding an immediate reply.

  She spun around, looked up. She saw the man holding the Colt six-shooter and gasped, horrified.

  She was staring at Taylor Douglas. Tall, dark, imposing—as she had noted before. Features betraying no emotion, no surprise, hard-set.

  And angry. Merciless.

  Yes, he was the officer she had seen leaving the tent. She should have known, she should have seen, she should have thrown herself in the river before coming here!

  But of course. Taylor was the Yankee officer who knew about this copse, who knew the area, the defensive possibilities of such a position.

  And yes ... the books ... the sense of clarity here, and of character as well.

  Oh, yes, it was his tent.

  And he had returned.

  Chapter 13

  INSTINCT. FOOLISH PERHAPS, ILLOGICAL, but there. Within her soul.

  She turned to run.

  She didn’t get anywhere. His arms were around her waist; he was lifting her from the ground, throwing her down.

  The camp bed was hard. It knocked the breath from her as she
landed on top of it. She instantly, instinctively, attempted to rise again. But he was there beside her, a booted foot on the edge of the bed as he leaned over her.

  “Godiva!” he declared.

  She gnawed her lower lip, staring at him.

  “Well, well. So we meet again.”

  She couldn’t speak. She just stared up into his hazel eyes. She crossed her arms over her breasts, feeling tremors snake along her spine and cause her to begin to shiver anew.

  “Cat got your tongue? I never imagined you being silent. But speak up. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he mocked.

  She gritted her teeth, swallowed hard, blinked—and then faced him with her own features hard set. “It was a nice night for a ride,” she said smoothly.

  “Ah, now, that’s a poor lie, Godiva, for you. No imagination to it whatsoever.”

  “This is a social call?” she suggested blithely.

  She was amazed that he smiled, yet the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “I warned you, remember, about riding out naked—”

  “I didn’t come naked!” she said, pointing to her clothes.

  He didn’t follow the direction of her finger. He arched a dark brow. “Ah, so you came with clothing. You stripped to wait for me? How decadent—and charming, of course.”

  “Oh, you should truly rot in hell, Taylor Douglas. You’re supposed to be having dinner with Colonel Bryer!” she informed him. “You’re supposed to be gone for hours.”

  “Yes, well, forgive my bad manners. I came for some despatches. How rude of me to unexpectedly return while you were stripping—and stealing my clothing, so it appears.”

  “Borrowing,” she murmured.

  “You were going to return them?”

  “Of course I—” she began, but she broke off, hearing footsteps approach the tent. She paled. If someone entered the tent ...

  “Get under the covers,” he told her.

  “What?”

  “The covers!”

  She jumped up, shivering. He pulled up the sheet and blanket, and she crawled beneath them. He tossed both back on her—covering even her head.

  “Sir!” a soldier called.

  She heard Taylor lift the canvas flap.

  “Colonel Bryer was called to the infirmary tent. Colonel McKenzie is on his way here now. He’ll take the despatches and join you for dinner in your quarters.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Henson.”

  She heard the footsteps retreating. She didn’t move the blanket or sheet that covered her face. A second later, they were ripped away.

  “You’ll suffocate, you little fool,” he told her. She didn’t even look at him. A tempest seared through her heart. Ian. She would be grateful to see her brother. She had learned that she must always be grateful to see him alive.

  But ...

  “Ian!” she whispered miserably. “My brother is here—now?”

  “Your brother arrived yesterday. Thank God. I’ll turn you right over to him. I imagine facing Ian will be worse for you than the prospect of incarceration at unknown Yankee hands. Perhaps he can trim your feathers.”

  “No, please, Taylor, you can’t!”

  She didn’t look at him. She was dazed. She stared at the canvas roof of the tent. Death, she thought, had to be so much easier than this.

  He sat on the edge of the camp bed, caught her chin with his thumb and forefinger, and forced her to look at him. His features were hard and set, eyes damning. “I warned you. You broke your word.”

  She shook her head, twisting from his touch. “I did not! I swear to you, I never intended to do so. I was covered in blood; I was bathing. I heard the Yanks—”

  “You heard men from this camp. You didn’t need to lead them on any wild chase. They were looking for injured men.”

  “If they found Rebel injured, they were going to kill them.”

  He let out an impatient sound. “Captain Ayers is a good officer and an ethical man. He wouldn’t murder injured men, not even enemy soldiers—”

  “Maybe Ayers wouldn’t—but the men with him would!” she insisted.

  “I don’t remember allowing you any extenuating circumstances when I asked for your word. You swore you wouldn’t do it. You broke your word; you decided to play Godiva.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t. I had just taken off my shirt and skirt to soak the blood from them. You really can’t imagine what it’s like, all that blood.”

  “I believe I could,” he murmured darkly.

  “The scent of it was ... never mind. And it all happened so quickly. We were by the river, fixing Gilly’s bandages—”

  “Gilly?” he said, and she was startled to realize he remembered the young soldier he had met.

  “He was horribly burned, and lost a foot at Olustee. Your troops happened upon the exact spot at an importune time.”

  “And you were convinced they were going to murder your injured?”

  His disbelief was evident in his tone, in the sharp narrowing of his eyes.

  “I’m telling you the truth!”

  “With no faith that the men would have a leader who would prevent such butchery?”

  “How dare you disbelieve me! You! My mother told me that Federal soldiers—the same army as yours—butchered Seminole women and children during the Seminole Wars. What makes you think that certain men wouldn’t consider Rebs as much vermin as they considered the Indians?”

  Her angry appeal just seemed to irritate him.

  “The same men who were in that army are many of the same men who are in the Confederacy now, and you know it damned well. There were no conditions, Tia. My men just happened upon you. Well, your brother just happens to be here. By God, I warned you that I’d turn you over to him!”

  “It was all an accident,” she insisted, trying to pull the covers to her breast and rise, and gain some distance from him.

  He set his hands on her bare shoulders, pushing her back down, leaning closer. “I take back any insult to your ability to weave a story. You are the most imaginative actress I have met in quite some time, Tia.”

  “Taylor!” came a call from just outside the tent.

  Tia went completely rigid. Ian!

  Then she felt hysterical laughter rising in her throat. Ian was right outside—no, Ian was coming through the flap. Maybe Taylor would get a chance to tell Ian what had happened. Maybe Ian would kill Taylor.

  Maybe Taylor would kill Ian.

  “Taylor, I sent word that Bryer was called back to a wounded man—”

  Ian was in the tent.

  She was in the bed. Naked. Taylor was leaning over her.

  “Tia?”

  Her brother’s shock was evident in his voice: the depth of his indignation and absolute fury became evident in his eyes. He looked from her to Taylor. “Douglas, by God, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I will know and—”

  Ian’s hand was on his sword hilt.

  “Ian!” Tia cried. Taylor stood, facing down Ian. He had instinctively set his own hand on his sword hilt.

  Tia grabbed the covers to her chest and leaped from the bed. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she rushed to Taylor’s side, putting an arm around him, preventing him from drawing his sword.

  “Ian, thank God! At Olustee, with all the Union dead and wounded, we were so afraid! I’m so glad to see you. I was told you were out of the state, sent back to Virginia. We were so relieved to hear that ... there were just so many dead. So many, many men dead.” She was babbling, not getting anywhere. She lowered her voice, filling it with feigned emotion. “In fact ... I had to see Taylor. I was told that he had been part of the battle, and so ... well, I had to find him. To make sure that he was all right.”

  Ian’s jaw was locked in a way she knew too well. “You had to see Taylor?” he queried, his teeth on edge.

  “Of course ...” Tia said, letting her voice trail off suggestively. “Oh, Ian, of course, I thought you’d realized that we’d met before.”

  “Tia,
when we were last home, I warned you that you couldn’t play games! By God, you are my sister and I will defend you at any cost, but—”

  “Ian, I swear, I didn’t cause the trouble at Christmas. But neither is there trouble here. Oh, God, I have to make you understand. I did know Taylor before Christmas. You see ... we had become—well, more than acquaintances.”

  Her brother’s scowl at last showed a hint of confusion. “Taylor, what is she talking about?”

  “Your sister—”

  “He was scouting to the south,” Tia interrupted quickly. “We ran into one another. I couldn’t say anything at the house during Christmas time. It’s all been so very hard for me. You must understand—after all, Alaina was passionately involved with the South when you first met. I was angry, confused. I’d come to know Taylor, and ...” Again, she didn’t exactly lie; she just let her voice trail off. “We were so involved, but he was the enemy. Is the enemy. But ... Ian ...”

  It wasn’t enough. Her brother was still as rigid as a steel pike. He was still going to kill her. Or try to kill Taylor. There would be an awful, explosive fight any second. Taylor wouldn’t just let Ian kill him because she had decided to take refuge in his tent. She had to say something else, do something ...

  “Ian, we’re married,” she lied swiftly.

  “What?” he said incredulously. “I don’t believe you! If so, Tia, someone should take a switch to you, after the way you played with Weir at the house during Christmas. Taylor, good God, explain this!”

  Tia held her breath. She stared at Taylor. He stared at her.

  Time seemed to go by. An eternity.

  Taylor didn’t deny her.

  Nor was he going to help her. “I’m sure she’ll explain,” he drawled softly. “Tia is just so—enthusiastic. I’m dying to hear her description of what has occurred myself.”

  “Tia?” Ian questioned. “Start talking. I really don’t understand. Father was upset with your lack of manners to a guest. You were rude and hateful at the house—”

  “Oh, Ian! That’s what I’m trying to explain. This is so hard for me! I couldn’t admit what I was feeling at first. I mean, he is in a Union uniform. Like you. Only you’re my brother, and we’ve managed, except for the awful fear when there’s a battle. I didn’t want to come here!” It was the first truthful thing she had said. “Though, now, of course, that I see you ...”