Her lips parted, and he drank of the taste of mint, plunging ever deeper into her mouth as his passion grew. Her response was hesitant, but it was sweetly there.
Then suddenly the fingertips that had pressed so teasingly against his chest were shoving, and she jerked her mouth away. In astonishment he saw that her eyes had gone wild; she glanced at him and spun toward the cabin door.
“Jesus Christ!” Brent swore, catching her in a step and securing her wrist. “Are you mad? You can’t go running out of here stark naked!” He swept her slender form into his arms. “And you’re not running out on me at this point, madam!”
He dropped her on the bunk with a lack of decorum born of anger. She stared at him again, the liquid blue of her eyes registering a return to sanity. He dropped his trousers.
One didn’t grow up on a plantation without knowing a fair amount about life. Still, Kendall wasn’t entirely prepared for Brent McClain. He was, as she had imagined, magnificent. Waist and hips were whipcord lean; shoulders and chest were rippled in firm musculature, bronze and satiny from exposure at sea.
But her eyes fell to his hips and the strong columns of his thighs and the desire that was hard and strong between them.
He is magnificent, she thought again, but with that thought came a terrible panic. She didn’t know what she was doing. How could she cope with such elemental command? Would she scream? Would she fail? Yet, in the black hell of her life, what mattered what happened here tonight? What humiliation or shame could matter, be worse than what life had tossed her thus far. Any price would be well paid.
His palms came down on either side of her head as he hovered over her, balancing himself above her. She started to quiver in earnest, but he suddenly smiled, and the smile was very gentle.
“Lady,” he murmured, “do we or do we not have a bargain?”
Her choice. Even now, it was her choice. She moistened her lips with her tongue at the passion and kindness in his eyes. Her voice was a whisper, but it didn’t falter. “We do have a bargain,” she murmured.
“Then, madam,” he whispered in a husky caress, “do not tremble so. I will love you very tenderly.”
She felt his weight and searing warmth as he lowered himself over her; the potency of his need brushed her thighs like a brand.
But he had promised her tenderness, and that he gave her generously. He gently held her head as he trailed light kisses over her face . . . her chin, her cheeks, her eyes, her temple, and finally his mouth came down on hers, sensuously parting her lips with his tongue, reaching deep, slowly probing . . .
His hand cupped her breast, fondling it, his thumb grazing the rose of her nipple, until his mouth moved over it. And then as his lips teased the sensitive spot where his hand had taunted, she felt that appendage move downward, sliding firmly over her belly and hips to her thighs, sinking between them. Kendall gasped aloud and dug her fingers into his hair, feeling as if his touch had turned her to liquid fire, robbed her of all cohesiveness . . .
His mouth roamed up to the hollow of her throat, over her collarbone, to her other breast, suckling the nipple until it was hardened and taut, until her breathing was as labored as his. Still he roamed her flesh with the moist warmth of his lips and tongue, pulling back now and then to watch the manifestations of passion on her body and letting the sight of her fire his own need. She was made to be loved, he thought. She responded to him with a natural beauty that was drugging.
To look at her was drugging . . . with the honey and fire fan of her hair spilled over the white of his pillow, her sea-blue eyes wide and misted, her lips parted and moist, her perfect form spread before him. He didn’t need to touch her to fill to bursting with desire. But he couldn’t stop touching her. He couldn’t stop tasting the sweetness of her flesh.
He ran the tip of his tongue down the cleft of her ribs and felt fever grip his loins at the sound of her whimpered moan. Thus driven he caressed her breast as he brought the hot demand of his lips lower and lower, holding her as she jumped as if to protest but writhed and arched uncontrollably. He murmured things against her flesh, teasing her, and then he demanded all of her with probing fingers, following his touch with his kiss, still watching the effects and thinking that every inch of her was incredibly beautiful, incredibly, sensuously, responsive . . .
She tightened slightly when he shifted to move between her legs, but he gently placed a hand on her thigh along with the firm wedge of his knee. Softly, sweetly, she opened to him. “Easy,” he murmured, “I know you want me. You are warm and damp and inviting . . .”
She did want him, dear Lord, she wanted him, she thought incredulously. Had she known when she saw him that it could be like this? The liquid fire was racing through her, making her moist and aching and burning because he touched her . . . and touched . . .
Now, she thought, with what remained of her reason . . . now!
But in his own fever, he tortured them both. She had become pliant beneath him, a writhing creature of exquisite, erotic beauty. He started kissing her again, moving her about so that he could explore every inch of giving flesh, easily parting her to him then, touching and touching and touching with passionate teeth and tongue and fingers until he heard her call his name. How sweet it sounded from her lips, how exotically sensual . . .
“Touch me,” he commanded her huskily.
She did, with trembling fingers. He was pulsing with life, and it was wonderful and frightening and she needed him so to still the need he had created in her . . .
Neither of them was aware of the soft padding of feet on deck. The sound of their whispers, of their heartbeats, had deafened them to all else.
Suddenly the cabin door burst open.
“It’s that damned Rebel McClain, all right!” someone shouted.
Brent started to turn, ready to fight the intruder. The muzzle of a gun was pressed hard against his cheek, and he gritted his teeth, holding still.
The voice continued, husky, grating. “Kendall, you ingenuous little vixen, you did find yourself just the right brand of southern bastard! You did damned well for yourself, eh, Kendall?”
Seconds . . . it all happened in just seconds. The door slamming open, the shouted words. Atop Kendall, Brent’s eyes met with hers in just those few seconds. Filled with his startled belief in her malicious betrayal, filled with loathing and steel-gray fury and condemnation and rage . . .
Then he didn’t give a damn. His fury was so great. He started to turn, swiftly, like a panther, to leap from her, to wrest the gun from the intruder or die in the attempt. Yet he moved too late. No matter what his speed and grace and ability, his attacker had come prepared, while he had let down all his guard in the arms of . . .
Kendall. Kendall Moore. With her wealth of honey-blond hair. With her mystery and intrigue and beauty and absolute gift of seduction.
He never even saw his attacker—or attackers. More than one, he was certain. He wasn’t shot, but he felt the tremendous pain, the explosion in his head, as the butt of the gun cracked down upon it.
As the world went black before him, he could think only one thing. Indeed, he had been a fool. Completely duped. She had set a trap for him; she had set him up to be taken. Naked and unarmed, he had been such a damned easy target. Someone had wanted him out of the way. A Yankee officer, a past associate, someone who knew that he would be a threat now that the war was imminent. She had been the tool, the perfect, seductive siren. She had taken him down, led these men right to him. Traitorous little witch! How she must have been hoping that her companions would come in time. They’d called her an ingenuous little vixen, perhaps just plying her trade in a different manner . . .
What had they done with his crew? Sweet Jesu, and what could he do? The world was all but faded out completely, and he was nearly gone from it. Consciousness faded to a void with just one last thought in his head.
If he lived, he would find the men who had done this.
And he would find her. She would regret what she had d
one to him, so help him, God. She would pay. Dearly.
No more thoughts plagued Brent when the intruder spoke sharply again; Brent McClain was out cold. The man was tall, dark-haired, with a dark mustache and trimmed beard, striking, handsome himself. Except for his eyes. They were a cold blue, harsh, almost like a void themselves within the cruel lines of his face. “You bitch!” he told Kendall softly. “Maybe I will just kill you.”
He grabbed the shoulders of the unconscious McClain and jerked his naked body to the floor. Then he wrenched Kendall up by the arm and brought his open palm across her face so hard that she cracked her head against the bulkhead of the cabin.
But not a word, or cry, or moan escaped her.
She lifted her bruised face to his. “I despise you, John,” she said coldly. “And one day I will escape you.”
He wrenched her from the bed and struck her again, this time sending her sprawling to the floor.
But before the man could strike her again, another stepped forward, touching his shoulder.
“John, I helped you find Kendall, but I can’t stand by while you beat her senseless. Let’s get out of here.”
“Not until I cast this Rebel bastard overboard, Travis!” John stated, his lips forming into a sneer as he kicked Brent’s body with a booted toe.
Travis Deland stepped past his childhood friend with a shiver and offered a blanket to Kendall. She murmured a thank-you and then rose painfully to her feet. But her chin rose high as she faced John, and she stood with the blanket around her. “If you kill this man, John, I’ll find a way to bring you to trial for murder. And I’ll see you hang.”
“John,” Travis said quietly, “it would be murder.”
“The bastard’s a Rebel!” John bellowed.
“We’re not at war,” Travis protested.
“We will be!” John exploded. “And this bastard will be at the head of the fleet if the southern traitors muster up a navy.” His eyes fell on Kendall with a lethal gaze. “Besides which, Miss Southern Belle, when I finish with you, you’ll be as good as dead. Might as well hang for two murders as one.”
“John—”
“Oh, I won’t kill her. She’s still in one piece. If she’d spent another few minutes with him, I might have had to stab them both. As it is—”
Kendall suddenly spun on Travis, her eyes wide and pleading. “Travis! How could you have been a part of this! How can you make me go back with him?”
Travis felt as if a heavy hand were squeezing his heart. He glanced at John, at the murder in the man’s eyes. And he glanced at Kendall, at the misery and fear concealed behind a blue wall of pride. And suddenly it was so sad he could hardly bear it. He wanted to tell Kendall that there had been a time when John Moore had been a kind man, a good man. A time when John had laughed, a time when he could have loved her with the tenderness and caring that she deserved . . .
And he wanted to rail against God. He wanted to know what kind of justice it was for a man like John to be so riddled with disease that the unbearable consequences to his manhood had poisoned his mind. Made him into this beast.
Poor Kendall. All she had ever known from the man she had been sold to for money was brutality. He couldn’t blame her for trying to run away. But Travis had known John all his life; he kept praying things would get better. But they didn’t. And he’d never seen John strike her before. He’d never realized just how bad it was. They had found her with another man and she was John’s wife . . .
He looked at Kendall and shook his head sadly. “He’s your husband, Kendall. You . . . you have to go with him.”
John picked up Kendall’s clothing and threw the various garments of silk and lace at her. “Get dressed. Quickly. Before I change my mind and stab you and your southern lover in the heart.”
Shaking, Kendall walked into the corner and began to dress, glancing surreptitiously at the southern captain to assure herself that the blow to his head hadn’t been fatal.
Forgive me for involving you! she prayed silently. Forgive me, for I will never forget you. You are the only beauty I’ve ever experienced, and it will all be so much harder now.
She flinched as she heard John stoop over and then grunt under the solid, muscular weight of the man as he hefted the Rebel captain over his shoulder.
“Don’t let her move, Travis. I’ll be right back.”
John left the cabin. Kendall hurled herself across the space into Travis’s arms, panic rising to her eyes. “Travis! Stop him! Maybe I deserve whatever happens, but that man doesn’t.”
“Hush, Kendall,” Travis soothed her. “As soon as he gets back, go with him meekly. It will . . . it will go better for you if you do, and I can circle back and check on the Reb. John has another five men on deck. He took the crew by surprise.”
The cabin door burst open. John returned. He jerked Kendall’s arm viciously, his eyes narrowing as she held back a cry. “Come with me, Mrs. Moore.” He laughed bitterly. “My wife. The great southern belle. The great southern—whore!”
Kendall lowered her head and squeezed her eyes tightly closed. Dear God, how I hate this man, she thought. But she was worried about Brent McClain, so she readily followed her husband’s cruel lead.
“Brent McClain,” John said mockingly. “She knows how to choose, eh, Travis? Maybe she’s just done the Union a hell of a favor.”
“Sure, John,” Travis muttered.
Travis hung back as John Moore led his wife off the ship. Frantically, he searched the deck. He began to breathe more easily. A few crew members were strewn about, but they were all breathing. But where was McClain? Overboard. Oh, hell—overboard!
Travis rushed to the port side. He could see the man, naked in the freezing water, struggling with the rope tied about his wrists. Doffing only his boots, Travis quickly jumped into the water, almost losing consciousness himself at the shock of contact with the freezing water. He reached the captain and dragged him to the dock.
“Vixen,” the Rebel muttered. “Damned beautiful vixen. Seduced me into a trap. I’ll find her.”
Brent McClain opened his eyes briefly. He stared at the stranger who had pulled him from the water. “Thank you.”
Don’t thank me, Travis thought. I was a part of this, and it’s all so sad and ugly. And don’t blame Kendall. You don’t understand. Travis smiled ruefully. “Just remember one day that all damned Yankees aren’t all bad,” he said out loud.
“Shades of gray,” the Rebel captain muttered.
Travis heard a commotion coming from the ship. The crewmen were rousing; they would find their captain on the dock. And Travis was freezing to death himself. He stood, glanced at the Rebel one last time, and broke into a run down the Battery.
Shades of gray . . . he thought, pondering the strange words.
Yes, it was coming to shades of gray. Life would never be a simple matter of black and white.
Chapter One
November 1861
The water was beautiful. In some spots it was aqua, shimmering beneath the sun with a gemlike dazzle. And as it stretched out across the Straits, it became a blue as deep and mysterious as night. Challenging. Compelling. Up close, it was crystal clear. Tiny, brilliant little fish could be seen within its translucent depths. If Kendall narrowed her eyes and allowed them to mist, the fish appeared as colorful and magical as a rainbow, as a distant burst of mystical promise.
She sighed and opened her eyes fully. There was no promise in the water, or in the hypnotizing beauty of the reef fishes. The heat might be shimmering about her with a fury in the middle of winter miles and miles south of the Mason-Dixon Line, but she was still on Union soil. She stood within the boundaries of the third state to secede from the Union, but although the state belonged to the Confederacy, Fort Taylor and therefore the whole island of Key West were a part of the Union.
Although the citizens of tiny Key West could do little to combat the Union troops, Kendall knew that the majority of them considered themselves Confederates. It was comfortin
g to know, even though she was never allowed beyond the boundaries of Fort Taylor by herself. She could still dream. One day a soldier would let down his guard and she would escape, and kindly Confederates, knowing she hailed from South Carolina and longed to escape the Union hold, would help her. She would tell them how she had been forced into marriage.
Tears blurred her eyes, and she impatiently wiped them away with the back of her hand. After all this time, it was ridiculous to cry. And after the outrageous stunt she had tried last Christmas season and failed, she was probably lucky she was still able to walk.
She turned back to the sea, her eyes misting again and creating a crystal rainbow dazzle of the water. Life might have been more pleasant—no, never pleasant, but perhaps bearable—if John hadn’t always hated her so. Why had John Moore wanted her so badly when he had so thoroughly despised her from the beginning?
Travis kept telling her that John loved her. That he prayed nightly that his illness would ease and that he longed to love her as a husband should. But Kendall didn’t believe that. John kept her just as he kept his Union blue uniform, his swords, and his rifles. She was a symbol to him; John Moore is a man, her presence told the world, a man, a man . . .
If he had ever been kind, ever, she would have tried to understand. She would have willingly proclaimed anything he desired with a voice that challenged any dispute.
Maybe she had created the loathing herself, she thought dryly. But who would have ever guessed . . . ?
She closed her eyes again, remembering the day at Cresthaven those three long years ago when she had first set eyes on John Moore.
Cresthaven . . .
Rightfully, it should have been hers. Her father had built the plantation from the ground up. And when she and then Lolly had been toddlers, William Tarton had carried them about the estate on his huge shoulders from sunup to sundown. She could still recall his words.
Tomorrow the Glory Page 3