Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  Kendall. Even Kendall. Her voice was reverent when she spoke of the South. She might have been a passionate member of the convention who had so heatedly demanded secession . . . or she might be a talented liar.

  No. The story she had told him could not have been a lie. He had practically raped a virgin. No, he defended himself, he had not raped her. But he had been determined beyond all denial to have her, and he had seen it through. They both knew he would have brooked no protest.

  And all that he had dreamed of touching and feeling had been real. The deep, volatile passion he had sensed was real. She had screamed at the pain of his invasion, but she had been unable to resist the tide of her own sensuality, a tide that eased away hurts, and swelled high to burst upon the shore in a glorious shower of glittering pleasure . . .

  He swallowed another draft of bourbon, his muscles constricting as he thought of her. Jimmy Emathla was right. He would have to leave at dawn, and yet he was sitting alone in front of a fire with only a bottle of bourbon for company when she waited not a hundred feet away.

  But how did she await him? With loathing and anger? With a longing to experience again the passion she had so recently learned to release? Or was she desperately conniving, wondering if she had tricked him with her bitter story? Maybe the marriage was a fraud, a ruse trumped up by the men who had attacked his ship . . .

  He squinted until the fire became a shapeless yellow blur. The marriage was real. He had inquired in Charleston and had been told that Kendall Moore was the wife of John Moore, United States Navy.

  Brent looked at his bourbon bottle ruefully, then swallowed the remaining contents. He stood and dashed the empty bottle into the fire. Silently he trod across the camp and climbed the ladder to the cabin. His body was a mass of heat and tense knots. However it was that she awaited him, he couldn’t stay away from her.

  The cabin, with only its two small windows, was dark. He stood just within the doorway and allowed his eyes to adjust. There was no movement in the cabin. He at last saw that she lay in the far corner, swathed in her blanket.

  Brent shed his boots and quietly padded across the room. He knelt down beside her warily, wondering if she planned a trick, feigned sleep to take him unaware. But when he gently touched her shoulder, she rolled slightly toward him, and a shuddering sigh escaped her. The black fans of her lashes were closed in shadow over her cheeks. She had fallen into an exhausted sleep. The shuddering little sigh had been the aftermath of a storm of sobs.

  Brent stared thoughtfully at her face in repose. The fine, delicate beauty of her features was clear even in the pale moonlight, compelling, touching his soul. The purity of her flawless skin seemed as smooth and enticing as alabaster. He wanted to entangle his hands in the wild spray of glossy gold hair that curled and fanned about her in disarray.

  But he did not. He continued to stare at her, bathed as she was in the gentle moonlight. The blanket had slipped when she rolled toward him, and her shoulders and the tempting mounds of her breasts were exposed to his scrutiny. Again he felt the tense constriction of his muscles. The hollows of her slender shoulders, the soft rise of firm young breast, were shattering his control. Yet he was determined to be ruled by his head, not his loins.

  War raged within him.

  And as he stared at her in the moonlight, he at last realized with surprise that she had not put her dress on. She had not clothed herself in armament against him. Of course, she clutched the blanket like a shield. But in her sleep her grip was lax. Her tense fingers had uncurled. The blanket had slipped. Only her lovely features remained tense. Not even sleep could ease the pain and misery etched into her brow, or dry the tears on her cheeks. How old was she? Brent wondered. Eighteen? Twenty? Twenty-two at most. So very young to appear so anguished.

  Brent stood and stripped off his clothes, folding them neatly and meticulously. Desire coursed through him, but he dampened the heat that came unbidden.

  It was not determination to remain aloof that made him lie quietly beside her, gently pulling her form to his, not waking her. It was a startling feeling of tenderness.

  He lay on his side, his head on an outstretched arm. The other he laced around her, his hand resting lightly on the flatness of her belly. The long, sleek line of her back touched his chest; her flanks were nestled against his hips and thighs. The position elicited a torturous ache deep within him, but he ignored it.

  He liked being where he was. He liked the smooth softness of her flesh against his, warm and pliant. He liked the round curve of her buttocks nestled to the hardness of his hip. The instinctive swell of his sex held no danger for her now. It, too, seemed to accept the promise of the feminine comfort unknowingly given.

  It had been a long time since he had slept with a woman. A long time since he had rested with soft tendrils of long hair catching and curling about him, with a gentle fragrance wrapping him in comfort.

  And he had never slept with a woman who had affected him as this one did. Wracked his body and soul with anger . . . and yearning. Who could fray his temper until it snapped, and stir his passions until he lost all thought and reason . . .

  Brent closed his eyes and shifted slightly. She shifted instinctively with him, seeming to fit her body comfortably to his. Nestling more tightly to the natural male hold.

  He lightly raised his hand to the deep valley between her breasts. His fingers felt the soft beat of her heart and an aching shudder ran through him. He wanted her; he would have her.

  But he could wait. Ease the fever of body and mind with sleep. Hold her with temperance, and hope that the fresh air of night would also bring temperance to his mind and soul and help him discover if his beautiful hostage was part angel as well as vixen . . . or the most treacherous weapon the Union had ever cast down upon the South.

  Chapter Six

  She started to stir because she was cold. Little shivers plagued her body, drawing it from a cocoon of comfortable warmth.

  But she was still half asleep when a new sensation aroused her. A soft, stirring touch on her back, gliding lazily over her shoulders, down her spine, circling low and unhurriedly in the hollows just above the roundness of her derriere. Her shivers became little tremors. The gentle touch seemed to create little laps of fire that became an evocative trail of heat against the cold.

  The trail rose along her spine again, teased at the nape of her neck. Again moved downward . . . grazing her flesh and igniting flames deep within her that coiled into a low center, then fanned and lapped along her spine once more.

  She arched and moaned with the pleasant sensation, yet still basked in the luxury of a twilight sleep.

  A hoarse, demanding whisper brushed warmth against her ear. “Wake up, Kendall. It’s almost dawn. And I will have you again before I leave . . .”

  Instantly brought to full awareness by the sound of his voice, Kendall stiffened and her eyes flew open. She had been cold because the blanket had been drawn from her. And she had been filled with the beginnings of warmth because of the man behind her.

  The cabin was no longer illuminated by the silver of the moon; a hazy orange and crimson glow struggled for supremacy over the darkness. As his hand touched her shoulder and firmly drew her to her back, she could clearly see the face of the man, and the smolder in the deep gray eyes that mocked her rigid defiance. His desire was naked and unmasked; as was the determined demand about him that brooked no protest. Kendall closed her eyes against him and swallowed, aware that protest would be ridiculous anyway. She did want him. She had been seduced from sleep, and it was too late to attempt to hide the quivering of her body, the aching response she had already given. How she would have loved to deny him! To lie passive beneath his touch, scornful no matter what he did . . .

  But even the rough demand of him excited her. Made her crave again that indescribable sensation of quicksilver longing, reaching, spinning . . .

  He was leaving. He had just said that he had awakened her because he was leaving. And he hadn’t told her yet w
hat was going to happen to her. She had to remember that he had taken her only out of a desire for vengeance.

  She spoke without opening her eyes. “Revenge again, Captain?”

  He was silent so long that she opened her eyes to find his in a curious, brooding study of her. But when she looked at him, he smiled and dipped his head low over hers, whispering just above her lips. “No. Not revenge. Desire.”

  His lips caught hers firmly, persuasively. It was as if he sampled and tested, explored, played teasingly. His tongue rimmed her lips, his teeth caught and nibbled lightly. His mouth widened on hers, forcing admission, and yet when she gave way to the swift ravage of his tongue, he withdrew it and left her searching . . . returning the play, seeking to discover the intimacy of his mouth as he had hers. She was lost to the discovery, aware of his warmth, content and yet hungry for his naked touch, enjoying the strength of his arms about her, the feel of his chest crushed to her breasts.

  He drew away from her, and she met his eyes, her own wide with an unbidden query. He shifted and touched her lip with the tip of his finger. “Last night was good, but for you it combined pleasure and pain. This morning will be for the pleasure.”

  Kendall couldn’t draw her eyes from his. The true facts of her situation kept fading from her mind. But those facts were painful, and she vaguely knew that she should fight him still.

  Her fight was a soft query. “Why?”

  He didn’t reply. He brought a knuckle to her cheek and smoothed away a straying lock of hair. His weight settled over hers, yet he did not rush. He made the contact slow, almost lazy. There was time . . . time to savor each subtle touch. Kendall felt him with her whole body, his hair-roughened legs tangled with the softness of hers, his dark, muscled arms about her, strong but giving. His face with its rough, tawny shadow brushed her flesh as his lips sought her forehead, her cheeks, the length of her throat, her breasts.

  And she keenly felt his fully aroused desire. A branding pulse against her thighs, threatening, teasing, touching her like a blade of mercury, and bringing new life to the fire that burned low within her. Brief experience had taught her anticipation. And anticipation made her tremble for him. There could be no denial. She wanted him now, wanted him to fill her with the volatile, demanding life that spilt and claimed her and made her totally whole.

  She gasped softly as he caught her breast in his mouth and held it, teasing the taut nipple with his tongue. Achingly, slowly. She arched convulsively and dug her fingers into his hair.

  He was in no hurry . . . The subtle torture continued, yet the assault on her senses increased. He moved a hand freely along her side, caressing her hips, enjoying the length of her thigh. She was barely aware when he shifted his weight, allowing his masterful touch a greater range. His lips returned to hers, and his palm, rough and callused but light and thrilling, coursed over her belly, circling lower, grazing, drawing patterns down her inner thigh. Kendall shuddered with the sweet impact of soaring sensation. She twisted against him, trying to elude the hand and touch that drained her of all thought, left her a writhing, moaning creature entirely submissive to his will.

  She tried to hide her feelings, burying her head against his chest. He would not allow her that concession. He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and found her eyes. Then he released her and placed his hand between her breasts. Her heart was thundering. They could both feel it. Her breathing was quick and ragged.

  She was trembling from head to toe, wanting him, attuned to him.

  “You asked me why,” he told her softly. “This . . . this”—his hand firmly molded her shoulder and stroked quickly to her hips and thighs—“is why.”

  She wanted to speak. Sound refused to form.

  He wrapped his arms around her, his eyes closing. “Hold me, Kendall. Touch me. Love me.”

  Obediently she wrapped her arms around him. Again he carefully balanced himself over her. He shifted, wedged his powerful legs between hers and found no resistance. Her eyes were wide upon his, denying nothing. He watched her as he fluidly brought himself within her, and the tiny sound that escaped her moist and parted lips doubled the erotic pleasure of feminine embrace. Fever raced out of control; restrained passion came unleashed, and he moved inside her with driven need raging a wild, consuming tempo. Again Kendall gasped, her teeth nipped at the muscle of his shoulder, and her fingers moved erratically down his back, clutching, releasing, digging caressing.

  “Hold me,” he whispered, “with all of you.”

  Blindly she obeyed, embracing him with the length of her legs, crying out softly again as the motion brought him even deeper, made him more a part of her. She heard his whisper again, telling her soft things about the way she aroused him. About how very good she made him feel . . .

  His face rose above hers, tense with the strain of reaching desire.

  “Talk to me, Kendall; tell me what you feel.”

  She closed her eyes, aware that she arched and writhed to meet each of his powerful thrusts, thrilling again and again as the pleasure soared to unbearable heights. But she couldn’t find words. Even in the most intimate lock of their abandoned and beautiful coupling, she still could not speak. Color caressed her cheeks, and she wanted only to hide as she shamelessly, ravenously accepted him.

  “Kendall . . .”

  “I . . . I can’t . . .”

  Husky laughter touched the air, a male sound of delighted triumph. “You will, darlin’ , in time you will.”

  The laughter and his words abruptly ended as she groaned, and clutched him fervently. She did talk, then. She cried out his name as the sweetness of pure pleasure riddled through her body, grasping her slender form in shudder after delicious shudder.

  “Oh, Brent . . . Brent . . .”

  He thrust within her once again, hard and rigid; his body stiffened and shuddered and relaxed, and an intoxicating wonder filled her along with the flood of his release, as sweet as the pinnacle of pleasure. There was an awesome power in the loving he had taught her; she seemed to surrender to his will, and yet she triumphed and relished the awareness that she, too, elicited a surrender from him.

  His weight shifted, but he did not pull away from her as he had before. His knee remained crooked over her legs; he leaned on one elbow, but a possessive hand rested on her waist. Kendall gazed at him as she struggled to control her breathing, praying that the drugging and heady pleasure and satiation would remain with her. But as sensation ebbed, she was awkwardly aware of circumstances once again. He didn’t speak, but just gazed at her, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his lip, his eyes still a smolder of gray.

  He moved his hand, idly running his knuckles over her ribs, smoothing a tangle of hair from her shoulder, fitting his long fingers securely over her waist once again.

  “And I have to go off to war,” he murmured, shaking his head with grave regret, as if it were an astonishing injustice.

  Kendall stiffened and lowered her lashes swiftly, then raised her eyes with a defiance that was a desperate bid to hide the fear within her heart.

  “At least you know where you’re going, Captain McClain.”

  He arched a single brow, and the rakish line of his grin deepened. “Quite formal, suddenly, aren’t we, Mrs. Moore? Although I must admit, since you only deem it proper to use my given name upon occasion, you do choose the right moment. Whispering ‘Captain McClain’ would do little to increase the delightful rise of passion.”

  Kendall’s eyes flashed dangerously; he saw the tightening of her lips and the clench of her jaw and instinctively shot out his hand to grip her wrist before her palm could connect with his cheek. Fuming fury remained in her eyes even as she knew she was trapped, and he laughed with wry amusement as he pinioned her wrists on either side of her head and bent to brush a brief kiss against her tightly clamped mouth.

  “You tell me, Kendall, what should I do with you?”

  “You should take me with you,” she snapped. “Surely you’ll be passing an open Con
federate port.”

  “Surely I will,” he agreed pleasantly, smiling at her intermittent attempts to release herself from his hold.

  “Then—”

  “I can’t take you with me, Kendall. I’m headed up the Gulf Coast where they’re expecting heavy naval action. It wouldn’t be safe.”

  “But you could drop me somewhere first. Tampa! And then I could arrange transport to Jacksonville or Fernandina—”

  The grin of amusement at last left his features, and he spoke with harsh bitterness. “No coastal cities are safe. Jacksonville least of all.”

  He was surprised to see the color fade entirely from her cheeks, leaving them suddenly ashen. “You . . . you won’t send me back to Fort Taylor, will you?”

  Brent frowned. “No.”

  “Oh.”

  It was emitted as a sigh of relief, but she quickly lowered her lashes away from him. Still he sensed her shudder, and his heartbeat quickened. She did despise the Yankee she was married to, and more than that, she staunchly hid a terror of him.

  “Rest easy, Kendall. I would not send you back.”

  She bit her lower lip, her lashes still downcast, then raised them to stare at him with indigo eyes once more. “Then . . . then, what will you do?”

  He chuckled softly, amazed at her perplexity. “You can stay right here,” he told her, his grin returning. “Red Fox offered to keep you for me.”

  “Keep me . . . for you! I’m not a damned ship, Brent McClain! And I don’t want to stay here! I implore you as a gentleman—”

  “Kendall, I distinctly remember telling you the night we met in Charleston that you shouldn’t count on my being a gentleman.”

  Again he saw the flash of anger in her eyes, the tightening of her jaw and stubborn pursing of her lips. Then her lashes fluttered, and she stared at him with sweet innocence. “Captain. . . Brent, don’t you understand? There’s a war going on! I want to be where I know what’s happening—”

  “Kendall—” he tried to interrupt.