Triumph

by Heather Graham

  And he caught her by the flying length of her hair ...

  Chapter 16

  SHE CRIED OUT. HE released the tangle of her hair caught in her hands, but his iron grip wound around her upper arm.

  He swung her around and she briefly felt the barely suppressed force of his anger. She cried out again to no avail; they crashed down into the shallows together. The pond erupted. The water cascaded around them. He lay atop her, half in the water, half out, and she shivered. She was soaked, and suddenly cold, as she hadn’t been before, as she hadn’t been when moving.

  He’s gone mad, she thought, totally insane, and she might die right there and then at his mercy. He seemed a misplaced Othello, his length atop her in the ever-darkening chill of the night. The sun hovered barely upon the horizon; the moon was rising. The glitter of his eyes seemed terrifying in the lengthening shadows.

  She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth, rigid, yet shaking, waiting. His voice was as tense as the whipcord length of his sinewed body, deep, harsh.

  “You can never run so far or so fast that I will not find you,” he warned her. “You should know that now. Wherever you go, I will know. Wherever you might be, I will come for you. You have cast us upon this trail; this is your lie come true. So this is your game, but now, there are new rules in the game, and you’ll abide by the rules, my love. Do you understand?”

  “Whose rules?”

  “My rules!”

  “And therein lies all my argument!”

  “You must understand—”

  “I understand that you will not be here, that you are going on a quest for the enemy—your enemy, not mine—and I am suddenly expected to live among the enemy—my enemy, not yours! The Rebel camp is very close. I can find it. I am almost as good as my brothers in the woods.”

  “You’ll go to St. Augustine!”

  She shook her head, feeling tears form in her eyes. “Why can’t you understand?” she asked him.

  “Why can’t you understand? You brought this about, but I have married you, Tia.”

  “A paper commitment which means nothing to you!” she reminded him.

  Something passed within his eyes; she didn’t know what. “My wife doesn’t spy on Union soldiers, strip naked, and lead them astray.”

  “But it’s all right for you to trap or kill Rebel soldiers. To spy on them, scout them out—”

  “I’m not off to murder any soldiers!” he interrupted harshly.

  “Oh? Are you planning on taking your wife with you?” she inquired.

  Again, a shadow over the angry gold of his eyes. And his face was suddenly nearer hers; his thumbs moved over her cheeks. “My love, I dare not!”

  “Then understand that I must return to Julian—”

  “No.”

  “I’m not asking your permission! I’m telling you what I must do.”

  “There are some cells available at Fort Marion,” he told her.

  “What?”

  “The castillo. That beautiful old Spanish fort in St. Augustine, now housing Union men! There are cells in it, I’m sure you know. James McKenzie was imprisoned there once with other savages—or half-savages.”

  He took her face between his hands. And he lowered his head even closer to hers. She felt the water wash up on the shore around her, shivered, and was then warmed. His lips came down upon hers, passionate and hard. Her face lay imprisoned within the walls of her hands. His very passion forced her lips to give way to his; the hot sweetness of his assault seemed to permeate swiftly within her. The depth of his tongue seemed to reach to unexplored places, newly discovered. The deep searing stroke of his kiss elicited fire; she had wanted to touch him—now she yearned, itched, ached to feel more.

  Pinned to the embankment, she felt a rush of cold, a rush of hot. The pond against the lightning texture of his body, the air against the inferno of his kiss. She briefly recalled that the blouse she wore was borrowed; then it didn’t matter because he was so determined to free her from it, and quickly. The thought touched her mind as well that this did not seem real, possible, to want someone so much, to feel such raging hunger, when she had so recently learned what such a hunger could be like to be appeased. She murmured just one protest. A sound in her throat against the force of his kiss. But he didn’t seem to hear. His mouth remained upon hers, lifted, returned, touched, drank, penetrated ... all while his fingers found buttons, ties, and ribbons. She shivered in the air, against the water, writhed when his fingers covered her breasts, when his mouth opened wetly over her nipple, that dampness so hot, so wickedly hot, where the other had been so cold ...

  His hand slid between her legs, pressing them apart. She felt his fingers there, probing. Felt a burst of sweetness erupt, a fire between her legs. Still he kissed her lips, then her breasts. His thumb moved deeply within her. She writhed, arched, longed to escape, longed for more. Even where the air touched her now, the sensation seemed erotic. He stroked mercilessly within her. Touched, stroked, excited. She had longed so for his touch. Her hands moved wildly over his shoulders. Down along his spine.

  He shifted, tore at his trousers. Pressed her deeper and deeper into the embankment, then he was within her, hot, slick, vital, moving like a thunder in the earth, drawing her into the fever of his tempest. They seemed to burn at a million degrees, move more swiftly than the winds of a storm, fly higher than the sky. It was a fever seized and ignited, then burned with an energy of passion born of fury. She lost all thought of past and future, even of the present, for the damp ground did not matter, the pond did not matter, nor the onslaught of night, the concept of intrusion. She simply wanted him, wanted to feel every sensation of him within her, every pulse, every thrust, and each escalating her higher, steering her toward the ecstasy that, once tasted, became ever sweeter. Elusive, so barely known, yet awakened with the scent of his flesh, the feel of his kiss, a brush of her fingertips against the sleek bronze texture of his skin. And culminated with this so very intimate feel of him inside her, the length of him flush against her, lips, hands, sex ...

  She felt the jack-knifing of his body as he climaxed. The warmth filled her, permeating her, erotic and sweet, creating the same sweet lightning within her. Bursting sweet, erasing the world, the war, the embankment, the night ...

  So wonderful, so good. Almost a taste of death, and surely, almost a glimpse of heaven. With her eyes closed, she could see the velvet of the night, the bursting of the stars. There was a plain upon which she drifted, and she stayed there ... stayed, not wanting to come down. And yet, at first, when she did, she did not mind so much, for she still felt him with her, in her, reposed, not yet withdrawing. She loved the feel of his body still pressed to hers, the intimacy of his arms around her, the scent of him, the way his arms remained around her ...

  Then she felt the water. Cold now. Each little lap of it against her seemed to chill her more. A night wind was coming indeed; the breeze picked up with every passing second. He seemed not to notice the cold until she began to shiver. He withdrew at last, rising, while she drew into herself. He adjusted his trousers and collected the damp clothing he had strewn about, then he came to her, reaching down a hand to her. She didn’t accept it at first, but she took her wet pantalettes from him. Shivering violently now, she stepped into them, then he helped her into the corset, his fingers working the ties where hers most certainly could not, and then buttons of her blouse as she donned that wet piece of attire as well. Yet, when she was dressed in her sodden clothing, she found out that she could soon get wetter.

  “It’s shortest and safest to return the way we came.”

  “Safest?”

  “There may be pickets around the opposite shore, but your skirt and my frockcoat are there. We need to swim back.”

  She nodded, starting out. She was still shivering. She felt him at her side and she knew that she would never escape him on land—or water.

  He didn’t know that she really had no desire to escape him, but it was best that he not learn such deta
ils.

  She reached the shore from where she had begun her reckless plunge, yet as she hovered in the water, too cold now to exit, she wondered if he had not purposely baited her. Perhaps neither of them had known it; they had achieved the outcome they’d desired.

  “You’re not going to get any warmer remaining in the water,” he told her, taking her hand, helping her to her feet. She stumbled, having to cling to him as she rose.

  He had her skirt. It was thoroughly soaked, yet she put it back on—the easiest way to return to camp. Which was what she wanted to do quickly now. She was numb with cold, her borrowed clothing as drenched and heavy as the midnight mass of hair spilling down the length of her back.

  His frockcoat was dry; he slipped it over her shoulders, then collected her shoes and his boots and shirt. With an arm around her, he started leading her through the trees.

  “There is a faster way,” she told him.

  “Oh?”

  “The way I came yesterday.”

  “Lead on.”

  “You know where it is—you followed me last night.”

  “Um, I had forgotten.” He turned, leading her along the twisting, slender trail through the pines that was to scarcely a trail at all. They emerged from the trees at the rear of his tent, hurried across the few feet from the edge of the pines to the tent, and crawled beneath the canvas. A kerosene lamp had been set on his desk and lit, filling the tent with a shadowy yellow light.

  He dropped their footwear and his shirt by the trunk, then turned to her.

  She was still shaking. He took his frockcoat from her shoulders and ordered, “Get out of those things now.”

  She felt too cold to move. She wanted to protest, just for the sake of argument. She didn’t. She just stood there, and he returned to her, spinning her around to work at the tiny wet buttons and ties. When her clothing fell to her feet, he cast a blanket around her, collected the wet things, and started out of the tent.

  “Taylor!” she murmured, pulling the blanket tightly around her.

  “What?”

  “What—what will you say?”

  “That your clothing is wet.”

  Her cheeks burned. “But—”

  “No one will ask questions,” he said, then left the tent.

  She hugged the blanket tighter, sitting on the cot, trying to get warm. He returned within minutes, bringing with him a small soldier’s-issue pot filled with something that smelled delicious and steamed invitingly. “Henson’s famous chicken soup,” he said, offering her the pot.

  She accepted it, glad of the warmth that thawed her fingers first, then filled her inside as she swallowed down some of the contents. It was freshly made.

  “Henson’s been stealing Southern chickens again, so it seems!” he said with mock concern.

  She ignored the bait of his comment and asked, “What about you?”

  “I ate earlier with the men.”

  She didn’t argue. She was starving, and Henson’s stew—be it made with stolen chickens or not—was delicious.

  He watched her for a moment, then turned away, left the tent, and returned with two cups of coffee. She had finished the soup; he took the pot from her, exchanged it for the coffee.

  She drank the coffee as well. She almost felt warm.

  He took the cup from her, but she stood, holding the blanket around her, moving away from the bed. She heard him peel away his damp trousers, then lift the glass and blow out the lamp.

  She kept her distance from him, standing in the darkness.

  She heard him crawl into the camp bed, and then a moment later, sigh.

  “Come to bed; Tia.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Soon.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Then come for the warmth.”

  “I’m no longer cold.”

  “Get in here then, to be eased.”

  “I’m not in any pain.”

  “You will be—damn it! I don’t have much time; I refuse to spend it alone. Come to bed.”

  She walked slowly toward the camp bed. With his hawklike vision, he saw clearly while she was blinded by the darkness. He was up when she came, drawing her down beside him, keeping the blanket around her, drawing her close to warm her. She felt his hands, his touch, the length of him, something wonderful about being with him. She wanted to sleep beside him, awake beside him.

  But he did not intend to be there long.

  Yet she was surprised to hear him whisper, “Tia, do you think I want to go?”

  She turned against him, burrowing her face against his chest, breathing in the memory of him. His hand smoothed her hair; she inched closer. And then, in a few minutes, she heard his breath quicken, and she knew that she had been seducing him, her knuckles running against his chest, then the hardness of his belly, grazing her sex ... just barely, again and again. A hint, a tease ...

  Soon, she was in his arms again, and he made love very slowly then, so, so slowly, and she didn’t even know just how thoroughly she had been seduced in return until she found him kissing her suddenly to silence the cry that was escaping her ...

  Then the reality of night was with her again. The night, the darkness, the camp beyond the intimacy of the Yankee tent. And again he repeated to her, “There is nothing I want less than to go.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  “I must.”

  “You are ordered.”

  “Because I believe in what I’m doing.”

  “And so do I,” she whispered passionately. “So do I!”

  Then she wished that she had not said the words, for she realized that though he didn’t answer her, and though he held her, he lay there awake. Thinking that she did believe in what she was doing. And that made her dangerous.

  “Taylor, if I swear to you—”

  “You’ve lied too many times!”

  “But—”

  “You’ll go to St. Augustine. And you’ll be there when I come for you.”

  “Good morning.”

  One very strange fact of marriage seemed to be that she awoke far more tired than she had been when she went to bed. Yet, this morning, the voice that greeted Tia was a startling one. She had barely opened her eyes, but at the sound of these words, they flew open. Gathering her covers around her, she twisted, and to her amazement she saw Risa, her cousin Jerome’s wife, seated comfortably in Taylor’s camp chair before his folding desk. She looked wonderful—fresh, beautiful, relaxed, out of place and time in the camp, elegant and composed. Her auburn hair was neatly bound at her nape; her eyes, green as the pine forests, were bright and amused. Risa was the daughter of Union General Magee; once, before the war, she had very nearly married Ian. The war made for strange bedfellows, most certainly, because Ian had married Alaina, an absolute paragon of the virtues of the old South, and Risa, who was very nearly a walking, breathing image of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” had married Jerome—a blockade runner still doing just that, running circles around the Union navy.

  “Risa!”

  “Tia McKenzie—excuse me, Douglas. My, my, what will this war come to next!” Risa teased.

  Tia longed to hop up and hug her cousin-in-law; but in her state of undress, she did not. Risa looked at the book she had been reading. “I admit, I should have been reading Shoals and Sandbars off the Florida Coast! she told Tia. “But your husband does have some wonderful literature here, beautifully bound Shakespeare, Bacon, Defoe ... I wonder if he ever has the time to read for pleasure, though I’ve heard that many of the men most responsible for the war do find that reading is what allows them to keep their sanity.”

  “Risa, I’m so pleased to see you ... but what ...” Tia began, and then her voice trailed away. She drew the covers to her chest and sat up. “I was about to ask you what you’re doing here, but I think I know. Either my brother or my husband sent for you—to keep me under control.”

  Risa smiled. “Something like that. An escort party arrived for me yesterday. I felt a
wee bit guilty myself, leaving a new doctor in St. Augustine with many wounded coming in. But there are a number of male military nurses there to help him at the moment, what with the situation at Olustee Station being recent and so many men from the army still in the state ...” She broke off, shrugging. “Were you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Who sent for you, Taylor or Ian?” Tia asked, rather than reply to the question.

  Risa hesitated, but then apparently decided to tell her the truth. “Taylor sent for me. Ian knew about it, but I don’t think he was overly concerned. He still sees you as his little sister, and despite your wrong-headed opinions, he assumes you will listen to him. He can’t begin to imagine that you would disobey him or your new husband if what they asked was surely for your own safety.”

  Tia looked away for a moment. “Then, I’m sorry to say it, but my brother is a fool, and he should have learned better dealing with his own wife!”

  “But his wife didn’t love him at first, did she?” Risa reminded her. “While now ... they share everything. And he assumes, of course, that you love him.”

  “I love both my brothers, and they know it. I’ve been with Julian through the majority of the war and Ian has known it.”

  “But that was before you married a Federal officer, wasn’t it? And then again, Ian has no idea what else you may be doing.”

  Tia stared at Risa again. “Are you implying—”

  Risa leaned toward her. “Yes. I’ll tell you exactly what I’m implying. There’s a rumor out about a new Southern spy, the likes of whom rival Belle Boyd and Rose Greenhow.”

  “Oh, that’s preposterous.”

  “If you know nothing about it, how can you deny the rumors so quickly?”

  “What did Taylor tell you?”

  “Taylor told me nothing. I simply know the war rather well—and I know you.”

  “I never spied on anyone,” Tia said angrily.

  “Rumor does have a tendency to become exaggerated,” Risa agreed. “You don’t have to answer me, but I’ll tell you exactly why I’m here. I think that you are this ‘Godiva’ they talk about—I admit, I’ve never met anyone else with the hair to create such a disguise, and I’m amazed more people haven’t figured it out.”