"You said that I could go where I chose, Captain."
His heart hammered and leaped as he looked up from his work. It would be best if she left. He would cease to dream and wonder; he would be able to concentrate more fully on the war.
He didn't want her to go. He would never know when she intended to pull a knife again, but he was willing to deal with the danger just to enjoy the battle.
"Yes," he told her.
"I wish to go to a neighbor's."
"Oh? You're not going to stay to protect your property?" he said, trying to provoke her. His eyes never left hers. Her lashes fell, and she reddened very prettily. She was remembering that morning, he thought, and he was glad of the flush that touched her cheeks, just as he was glad of the totally improper moments they had shared.
Her eyes met his again. "Don't worry, Captain. I'll be back. I just don't care to spend Christmas with the enemy."
He looked down quickly. She was going to come back. He opened his drawer, found a form and began writing on it. He looked up. "I don't know your given name."
"Isabelle," she told him.
He stared at her. "Isabelle," he murmured, a curious, wistful note in his voice. In annoyance, he scribbled hard. "Isabelle. Isabelle Hinton. Well, Miss Hinton, where is this neighbor?"
"Not a mile on the opposite side of town."
He nodded. "Sergeant Sikes and one other soldier will serve as an escort for you. How long do you plan to stay?"
She hesitated. "Until two days after Christmas."
"Sergeant Sikes will return for you."
"I hardly see why that will be necessary."
"I see it as very necessary. Good day, Miss Hinton."
She turned and left him.
* * *
Christmas dawned gray and cold. Restless, Travis went out into the snow with a shotgun. He brought down a huge buck and was glad, because it would mean meat for many nights to come.
At the house, Peter and the servants were almost friendly. There was a long and solemn prayer before they started eating the Christmas feast, and there was general good humor as the meal was downed. Travis tried to join in, but when he realized that his mood was solemn, he escaped the company of his soldiers and returned to the den. He did not know when Christmas had become so bleak. Yes, he did. It had become gray and empty when Isabelle Hinton left.
* * *
He didn't hear her return. He had spent the day poring over charts of the valleys and mountains, pinpointing the regions where Stonewall Jackson had been playing havoc with the Union Army. A messenger had arrived from Washington with orders and all kinds of information gleaned from spies, but Travis tended to doubt many of the things he heard.
By nightfall he was weary from men coming and going, as well as from the news of the war. Peter had brought him a bowl of venison stew and a cup of coffee, and that had been his nourishment for the day. Exhausted, he climbed the steps to his room, stripped off his cavalry frock coat and scrubbed his face. Then it seemed that he heard furtive movements in the next room.
His heart quickened, but then his eyes narrowed with wariness. He hadn't forgotten how she had come upon him that first night, even if she had stopped short of slitting his throat. Silently he moved across the room, wondering what she was up to. He found the catch of the secret door and slowly pressed it. The door opened, and he entered her domain.
A smile touched his features, and he leaned casually against the door, watching her, enjoying the view. Miss Isabelle Hinton was awash in bubbles, submerged to her elegant chin, one long and shapely leg raised above the wooden hip bath as she soaped it with abandon. Steam rose from the tub, whispering around her golden curls, leaving them clinging to her flesh. From his vantage point, he could just make out the rise of her breasts, just see the slender column of her throat and the artistic lines of her profile.
Then she turned, sensing him there.
Her leg splashed into the water, and she started to sit up straighter, but then she sank back, aware what she was displaying by rising. She lifted her chin, realizing that she was caught, and from his casual stance against the door, she knew he wasn't about to turn politely and leave.
"Welcome home," he told her.
She flushed furiously. "What are you doing in my room, Captain?"
"Seeking a bit of southern hospitality?"
She threw the soap at him. He laughed, ducking.
"No gentleman would enter a lady's bedroom!" she snapped angrily.
"Ah, but no lady would venture into a man's bedroom, Isabelle, and it seems that you did just that to me. Admittedly, you came to do me in, but you barged in upon my, er, privacy nonetheless."
Ignoring him, she demanded, "Get out, or you shall be gravely sorry."
"Shall I?"
So challenged, he strode across the room toward the tub. Her eyes widened, and she wrapped her arms around her chest, sinking as low as she could into her wealth of bubbles. He smiled, crouching beside the tub. She stared at him in silence for a moment, then called him every despicable name he had ever heard. He laughed, and she doused him with a handful of water, but he didn't mind a bit, since her movement displayed quite a bit of her.
"I'll strangle you!" she promised. But he caught her wrists when her fingers would have closed around his throat, and then, even as she struggled, he kissed both her palms. Then he stood, releasing her and stepping back.
"Damn, I forgot to be a gentleman again," he apologized. "But I was just wondering whether you had a knife hidden under that water or not. Do you?"
She inhaled sharply. "No!"
"I could check, you know," he warned.
Her look of outrage made him laugh. He gave her his very best bow, then returned to the door that separated their rooms.
"I'm changing rooms!" she called to him.
He paused in the doorway, looking at her. "No, you're not. You chose it this way the night you planned my early demise. So now it will stay."
"I'll move if I choose."
"If you move, I'll drag you back. Depend on it. If you stay, I promise that we're even. I won't pass through the doorway unless I'm invited. A threat, and a promise, and I will carry out both, Miss Hinton."
Thick honeyed lashes fell over her eyes. She was so lovely that he ached from head to toe watching her. "You will never be invited in, Captain," she said.
"Alas, you have a standing invitation to enter my room, Miss Hinton. Of course, I do ask that you leave your weapons behind."
Her eyes flew to his. He offered her a curiously tender smile, and she did not look away, but watched him. She was as still and perfect as an alabaster bust. Her throat was long and glistened from the water. Her golden curls clung tightly to her flesh, and if she were to move, he knew she would be fluid, graceful, a liquid swirl of passion and energy.
I'm falling in love, he thought. "I missed you on Christmas, Isabelle," he told her. She did not answer, and he slipped through the door, closing it behind him.
Chapter 2
Isabelle Hinton had never wanted to like the Yankee commander who had come to take over her home. She spent hours reminding herself that the boys in blue were causing the war, that the South had just wanted to walk away in peace. She reminded herself of all the atrocities taking place; again and again she remembered that her brothers were out there, facing Yankee bullets daily, but nothing that she could tell herself seemed to help very much. He'd never claimed to be a gentleman, and indeed, his behavior had been absolutely outrageous at times. But still, as the days went by, he proved himself to be a true cavalier underneath it all.
She tried to ignore all of them at first. But one evening, when she knew that he was dining alone, her curiosity brought her to the table. Though she tried to bait him, he was calm and quiet during the meal, the flash in his dark eyes the only indication that she touched his temper at all. He was a good-looking man—she had admitted that from the start. His eyes were so dark a mahogany as to be almost coal black; his hair, too, was dark, neat
ly clipped at the collar line. He was the perfect picture of an officer when he set out to ride, his cape falling over his shoulders, his plumed hat pulled low over his forehead, shading those dancing eyes. Beneath the beard, his features were clean and sharp, his cheekbones high, his chin firm, his lips full and quick to curl with a sensuality that often left her breathless, despise the condition though she might. Even his tone of voice fascinated her; his words were clear and well enunciated, but there was something husky about them, too, just the trace of a slow Virginia drawl. And, of course, she was very much aware of the rest of him; even if she didn't see much daily, the picture lived on vividly in her memory.
She hadn't had a great deal of experience with men's bodies, but she did have two older brothers, and after a few battles she had gone to the makeshift hospitals to help with the wounded. She had gone from ladies' circles, where she and others had rolled bandages, to being thrust right into a surgeon's field tent, and she had learned firsthand a great deal of the horror of war. She had cleaned and soothed and bandaged many a male chest, but none of them had compared to the very handsome chest that belonged to Captain Travis Aylwin. His shoulders were broad and taut with muscle and sinew, and the same handsome ripple of power was evident in his torso and arms. His waist was trim, and dusky dark hair created a handsome pattern across his chest, then narrowed to a thin line before flaring again to... well, she wouldn't think about that. She had been raised quite properly, she reminded herself over and over again, but that didn't keep her from remembering him, all of him, time and time again. She couldn't cease her wondering about him, nor could she keep him from intruding upon her dreams.
She always awakened before anything could happen, though her cheeks would be dark with a bright red blush, and there was a burning behind her eyes as she longed to crawl beneath the floor in humiliation.
She tried hard to stay away from him. He respected the distance, as he had promised when he had left her room after Christmas, but she always knew he was there at night, just beyond her door. His men were perfectly courteous and polite, and they were good hunters; there was always plenty to eat. So much so, she knew, that when she mentioned that some of her neighbors were facing hard times, the Union officers were quick to leave a side of venison before a door, or a half dozen rabbits, or whatever bird had ventured too close to the hunters. It was Travis's leadership that led to their generosity and care, she knew. Travis did not relish war.
She began seeing him and his troops not as faceless enemies but as men, just like the friends who had come to her parties, just like the young Southerners who had come to her home to laugh and dream, to fall in love and plan a future. She had to tell herself that they were the enemy, and that she did not want her enemy to be flesh and blood.
It was late January when she came down to dinner with him again. He had been reading some papers, but once he masked his astonishment at her appearance, he quickly set them aside, rose and held out her chair. She sat, quickly picking up the glass of wine that had just been poured for him and swallowing deeply. He sat down again, a touch of amusement in his eyes. He must have been a true lady-killer back home, she thought. He was full of warmth and laughter, a quiet strength and a subtle but overwhelming masculinity. His eyes held so much, and his lips were so quick to curve into a smile. But he could be ruthless, too, she knew. She had learned that the first night, when he had held her beside him until dawn.
"To what do I owe this honor?" he asked her softly. He barely needed to lift his hand. Peter was there with a second setting almost immediately. More wine was poured for him. Peter glanced her way worriedly. She winked, trying to assure her servant that she was, as always, in charge.
"The honor, sir? Well, actually, I was hoping that the snow would be melting, that you might be marching out to do battle again soon."
He sat back, watching her. "Perhaps we will be. Will that really give you such great pleasure?"
She rose, not believing that he could make her feel ashamed for wanting the enemy to fall in battle. She walked around the room, pausing before the picture of her family taken by Mr. Brady just before the war. Her brothers stood on either side of her, and her parents sat before them. But already the boys were dressed in their uniforms, and every day she prayed that they would return. If they sat in some northern house, would a girl there wish them into the field of battle, to bleed, to die?
"I just want you out of my house," she told him, turning back.
He had risen and was staring at the picture, too. He walked around to it. "Handsome family," he told her. "Your parents?"
"They died in 1859, a few days apart. They caught smallpox. My brothers and I were safe, I think, because we had very mild cases as children. Neither Mother nor Father caught it then, but one of the neighboring babies came down with it and then..." She left off, shrugging.
"I'm very sorry."
"It's a horrible death," she murmured.
"I know," he said, turning from her. He stood behind his chair. "Shall we have dinner?"
She sat. Peter served them smoke-cured ham from the cellars, apricot preserves and tiny pickled carrots and beets.
"Where is home, Captain?" she asked him.
"Alexandria."
Alexandria. The beautiful old city had been held since the beginning of the war because of its proximity to Washington, D.C., but many of its citizens were Unionists. It was a curious war. Already the counties in the west had broken away and a new state had been born, West Virginia.
"You're going to get your home back, you know, Miss Hinton," he told her.
"Am I?"
"Of course."
She set her fork down. "How do I know you won't decide to burn the house down when you leave?"
He set his fork down, too. "Do you really believe I intend to do that?" he asked her.
She watched him for several long moments. He buttered one of Peter's special biscuits, then offered it to her.
"General Lee lost Arlington House," she said. "And, I admit, I'm quite surprised that you Yanks haven't burned it to the ground."
He set the biscuit down and sipped his wine. "It's a beautiful house," he said softly. "And it overlooks the Capitol. General Lee knew the moment he chose to fight for the South that he would have to leave his home. His wife knew, his family knew, and still he made his decision. Some people were bitter. Some of the men who had fought with him or learned from him before the war wanted to burn the place down. It is Mrs. Lee I pity—she grew up there. And as George Washington's step-granddaughter, she has always had a great sense of history. She's a magnificent lady." He paused, as if he had said too much. Then he shrugged, setting down his wineglass. "They're not going to burn the house down. They've been burying Union soldiers there since the beginning of the war. The land will become a national cemetery."
"And Lee will forever lose his home."
"The South could still win the war," he told her.
Startled, she stared at him. She hadn't realized that she had displayed such a defeated attitude. "The South will win the war!" she assured him, but then she frowned. "You sound as if you're quite taken with the Lees."
He pushed back his chair. "The general is my godfather, Miss Hinton. We all lose in this war. He made his choices, and so did I. A man must do what he feels is right. And yet I tell you, Miss Hinton, that this fratricide must and will end, and when it does, if we are blessed to live, then he will be my friend and mentor again, and I will be his most willing servant."
She jumped up, wrapping her fingers around the back of her chair, staring at him in fury. It was almost blasphemy to speak so of General Robert E. Lee; he was adored by his troops, by the South as a whole.
He was a magnificent general and a soft-spoken gentleman.
"How dare you!" she spat out, trembling.
He took a step toward her, grabbing her wrist, holding her tight when she would have fled his presence. "Would you make monsters of us all?"
"I've read about the things that have happ
ened. I know what Yankees do."
"Yes, yes, and we've all read Uncle Tom's Cabin, but I've yet to see you whip or chain or harness your slaves. By God, yes, there is injustice, and some horror is always true, but must we create more of it ourselves?"
"I'm not creating anything." She jerked free of him and spun around, hurrying from the room, but he called her back.
"Isabelle!"
She turned. He stood tall and striking in his dress frock coat and high cavalry boots, his saber hanging from the scabbard strapped around his waist. His eyes touched her, heated and dark.
"I am not a monster," he told her.
"Does it matter what I think?" she demanded.
A rueful smile touched his lips. "Well, yes, to me it does. You see, I... care."
She gasped in dismay, "Well, don't, Yankee, don't! Don't you dare care about me!"
She fled and raced up the stairs.
* * *
That night and every night after that she lay awake and listened to his movements, but he never touched her door, and he never mentioned anything about his feelings again. He was always unerringly polite to her, and though she felt that she should keep her distance from him, she couldn't. She came down to a meal occasionally, usually when Sergeant Sikes or one of the other men was joining him.
Sometimes he disappeared for days at a time, and she suspected that he had ridden away to supply information about troop movements, or to receive it.
At the beginning of April, Isabelle awoke to find that the house was filled with activity. The way the men were bustling around, coming and going from the office, she knew that something was going on.
She came down the stairs and presented herself in the den. Travis's dark head was bent over a map in serious study. He sensed her presence and looked up quickly.
"What's happening?" she asked without preamble.
He straightened and studied her as thoroughly as he had the map, a curious shadow hiding any emotion in his eyes. "We're pulling out. There's a company of Rebels headed this way."
"You're going into battle?" she asked him.
Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures Page 20