She couldn’t turn, couldn’t move, as she heard him discard his clothing behind her. She barely breathed as his hands spanned her waist. He held her tight as he discarded her shoes and threadbare pantalettes. Kendall leaned her head against his shoulder and shivered in the evening air as he lifted her in his arms and waded slowly into the clear water of the brook.
“It’s freezing!” she protested.
“No. The sun has warmed the water.”
A moment later he set her down. Twilight was upon them as she met the slow burning fire in the dark gray recesses of his eyes. It was cold in the water, yet where he touched her, her skin warmed. The sharp, pungent scent of the lye soap was between them, yet as his hands began to lave her shoulders, the cleanliness was as delicious as the callused brush of his fingertips. She could not draw her gaze from his. The water about her glittered with the final ripples of golden daylight, and was reflected in the hypnotic gray embers of his eyes.
Brent paused for a moment, holding the soap against her shoulder as he reached with his free thumb to follow the line of her cheekbone to her jaw. He brushed his fingers over her throat, and along her collarbone. She was still too thin, but none of her perfection of form had surrendered to the ravishes of hunger. It was as if the beautiful lines of her body had been sharply delineated by an artist’s brush. And he wanted to touch her, to kiss the hollow shadows and the feminine curves that had defied the destiny which had imprisoned a nation.
He began to wash her again, savoring the soft feel of her flesh. His hands cupped her breasts, his palms found her nipples. A slight sound escaped her, her lips parted as she drew her breath in sharply. But still her eyes were upon him, eternally blue, indigo with the coming of night. His palms slid down over her ribs, and he discovered that he could easily count them. Her waist had become minuscule, but beneath it her hips still flared invitingly under his touch.
He emitted a hoarse groan and crushed her against him, now feverishly exploring the supple length of her back, discovering the dip at its base and then the enticing swell of her buttocks. His desire was hard against her, throbbing with need and a raw male potency he couldn’t restrain. His body strained with the tension of longing . . . and loving.
“Can you remember now?” he hissed throatily, gripping her hair to arch her throat and bring her eyes once more to his. “Now . . . this. Do you remember, my love? The beauty, the longing, welling up inside you, begging to be stroked, caressed, nurtured, and then freed. Tell me, my love, do you remember?”
Remember? Yes . . . no . . . yes . . . but it wasn’t a memory, it was now. Heat and fusion . . . fire. Circling, spiraling, flickering through her. Rendering her weak, then giving her strength. Sweet fire, tearing through her veins, causing her to quiver at his touch, to arch nearer, to seek . . .
“Kendall!”
He shook her slightly, and she felt the raw pounding of his heart, the sinewed strength of his muscles, the wonderfully hot, naked male flesh brushing against her own. She felt his masculinity, pulsingly alive and vital, a brand of searing heat low against her abdomen. She moistened her lips . . . and touched him, feeling a new shudder of pleasure rip through her as he groaned and then carried her to the edge of the stream.
He made love to her with both their lengths half in and half out of the water. The tide that surged through him was a rage of hunger and passion too powerful for him to control. And yet as it thundered and stormed its course, he savored the shuddering pleasure of her fevered embrace. Her supple legs were wrapped around him; her feminine hips rose to fuse with his demanding thrusts.
Wild, erotic, beautiful. A sunburst in the deepening twilight . . .
There was no other woman like her. He could sail a thousand seas, search a million ports. But always he could come back to her.
He held her, shuddering with the aftermath of the ultimate eruption of their love and pleasure. And she lay beside him, softly sighing out, curling into him. They lay in contented silence, until he felt her shiver. “We’d better dress,” he said softly. She shook her head. “No, Brent I want to wash my hair. And then . . .”
“And then?”
“I want to make love again. We won’t have much time alone until we get home.”
He laughed softly and rose, helping her to her feet. “I hope I’ve completely restored your memory.”
“Oh, quite completely,” she murmured, midnight lashes sweeping her cheeks as she blushed. She hurried from him, trying to hurry back to the water. He caught her arm and stopped her. She kept her eyes lowered, her blush increasing as she knew he scrutinized her from head to toe.
“Kendall,” he told her. “You are beautiful. Don’t try to hide from me. Give me what little we can have.”
She flung herself against him, encircling his chest with her arms, resting her cheek against his muscled and hair-roughened breast. “Oh, Brent, I love you so.” She held him tightly for a moment, then broke away and dashed back into the water.
Smiling, he followed her, helped her thoroughly wash her hair, and then demanded that she help him.
And then they made love again, slowly, luxuriously, exploring one another with heated kisses rediscovering all the pleasurable nuances and deep intimacies of unashamed and unrestrained love. The heat of their ardor kept them warm beneath the autumn moon; the fires of love burned brightly against the darkness of the night.
Brent was so content that he almost dozed. Then with a sigh he nudged her. “Come, my love. We really will get pneumonia soon if we don’t go back. I want to move the men into the protection of the forest.”
Lazily, Kendall stirred. She smiled with rueful regret, but rose with his assistance and indolently allowed him to help her dress. When she had buttoned his coat, she slipped her arm around his waist and leaned against him as he led her through the darkness.
An aura of contentment and understanding embraced them as they walked. A wonderful interlude of shared splendor and peace. Kendall knew that she could endure any hardship as long as Brent lived and breathed . . .
The wonder of the night was abruptly and completely shattered as an agonized cry reached them. “Oh, God! God in heaven, help!” And then footsteps sounded, thrashing, running crazily through the pines.
“Brent! Where are you? Come quickly. Oh, Jesus! Brent!”
“I’m coming!” Brent shouted. Kendall felt his body grow rigid with tension. His hand clutched hers, and they were running through the pines, fear flooding their veins.
Chapter Twenty
Jo Marshall nearly collided with them as they broke from the woods.
“It’s Tanner, Captain. Something’s real wrong. The major’s with him now. And some of the other boys are gettin’ sick.” Brent’s grip on Kendall’s hand tensed unintentionally as he dragged her past Marshall.
They returned to the farmhouse in time to see Tanner writhing on the steps. Brent released Kendall’s hand and knelt beside the convulsively twisting man. Another scream ripped from Tanner’s mouth, and he called out to God in a blood-chilling agony.
“Tanner,” Brent began, trying to still the contorting limbs of the suffering soldier. But Tanner suddenly screamed again, then went still. Dead still. Brent and Beau both stared at the dead man with disbelief. Then Beau closed the lids over glazed eyes that mirrored the final agony of life even as death ended all mortal pain.
“Sweet Jesus, what the hell—” Beau began, but was interrupted by new screams, coming from inside the house. Stunned, Kendall followed Brent, Beau, and Jo Marshall into the parlor.
Stirling McClain was trying to administer to both Hudson and Lowell, who were showing Tanner’s symptoms. “Lowell, try to speak to me! What is it? What hurts?”
“My insides, it’s like a shell burst—God in heaven! God—”
A scream cut off Lowell’s reply. He buckled to the floor, gripping his stomach. A trickle of blood escaped from his lips. Then suddenly he contorted again—and lay still.
Beau, Stirling, and Brent stared at one ano
ther, shocked, and seeking an explanation none could give. Suddenly Beau turned and raced back into the kitchen where the planked table still carried the remains of their meal. His two cavalrymen were still seated at the table, their heads lying on it. He touched his sergeant’s face and found the flesh cold. The man was stone dead.
Kendall raced to the doorway and stared at Beau. Brent and Stirling came in behind her. Brent brushed past her and walked to the table, his eyes as dark and hard as a steel blade as he rummaged through the remains of the food, touching the bread, smelling the meat.
“The pie,” Stirling said suddenly. “Brent, Beau, did you eat pie?”
“No,” they replied in unison.
“Kendall?”
“No.”
“Jo?”
“No, sir.”
Brent found a plate with some pie on it. He plunged his fingers into the blueberries and rubbed the substance between his fingers.
“Poison,” he said.
“Poison?” Kendall repeated stupidly.
“That woman put poison berries in the pie.” He halted for a moment, then stared at Beau. “Where the hell is she?”
“I . . . I don’t know. She made coffee. I was dozing in the parlor when Tanner started to scream.”
“Stirling?” Brent queried tensely.
“I was with Beau, but I heard a door swing and slam in the back.”
“She’s probably heading out to find some Union soldiers. Let’s go.”
They brushed past Kendall, leaving her alone with the dead men who had been her family for months.
“Wait!” she screamed suddenly. She had been chilled at the expressions on their faces—Beau, Stirling, Jo Marshall, and especially Brent. They were going to kill the old woman.
She spun about and chased after them, tripping and falling in her haste over Tanner’s body. She recoiled from the dead man, her heart and mind a tumult of confusion. Five men had died in unspeakable agony, but she couldn’t allow Brent and the others to retaliate in the heat of sick fury. She wasn’t sure why, she didn’t entirely understand herself, but if they savagely murdered an old woman . . .
“Wait!” she shrieked again, stumbling to her feet and racing after them. “Wait!”
She saw them across the cornfield—the old woman riding a broken-down gray mare, Brent, his brother, Beau, and Jo Marshall trying to corner her and cut her off. Kendall started running through the stalks of corn, stumbling and falling often in the darkness of the night, so dimly illuminated by the moon.
She reached them in time to hear Hannah Hunt shouting viciously, “You all deserve to die. You caused this war! You and your slavery!”
Jo Marshall shouted in return, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Bill Tanner never owned a slave in his life. God! How could you listen to those screams?”
Jo lunged toward Hannah, pulling at her scrawny leg where it hung over the mare’s side. Kendall glanced from Beau to Stirling to Brent. All three had set faces and eyes that glittered like ice on the moon’s glow.
“No!” Kendall shrieked. She threw herself on Jo Marshall’s back. The impetus of her action sent them both crashing to the ground. As she rolled, stunned, Kendall heard Brent issue a loud curse as muffled hoofbeats sounded on the earth. She dimly realized that Hannah Hunt had escaped.
“Get her!” Stirling shouted.
“Kendall Moore, what the hell is wrong with you?” Jo raged furiously, disentangling himself and staring down at her. Before she could reply, Brent rudely hauled her to her feet. He was staring at her with an icy rage in his eyes.
“What were you doing?” he shouted, shaking her with little control over his temper.
Kendall fell limp beneath the overwhelming power of his red-hot anger. Her teeth chattered, and she shivered. His rage could be as stormy and passionate as his love.
“It would have been murder,” she ground out tonelessly.
“Murder! Justice! Are you blind? Didn’t you watch those men die? Now she’s going to report the rest of us to the Yanks. You idiot! You should have been chained in a cage when this war broke out! What do you think the Yankees would have done if they had caught you blowing their friends into bits and pieces? And this was worse—cold, calculated, cruel, and bloody murder. I’d like to—”
“Beat me?” Kendall interrupted, her own temper rising beneath his brutal grip and tongue lashing. “Then do it—but spare me your lectures! You were acting like a mob! You can’t take the law into your own hands!”
“And what would you suggest? Should we call in the Yankee judges? Kendall, you were in prison with those men! They’ve been your friends, closer than blood, for months!”
“Brent, I don’t need to be reminded of how horrible—”
“We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Beau suddenly interrupted, rushing toward them in the darkness. “She got away. We could have a whole regiment after us in a matter of minutes!”
Brent shoved Kendall away from him with such force that she collided with Stirling. He clutched her shoulders to steady her, but his touch was as cold and harsh as his brother’s. Brent swore viciously beneath his breath. “You’re right, Beau. Let’s move.”
“We’ve got to bury Tanner and the others,” Jo Marshall insisted, not ashamed of the tears that coursed down his young face.
Brent clamped a hand over his shoulder. “We haven’t time, Marshall. Tanner was a good soldier. He would have understood.”
Brent reached for Kendall’s hand, jerking her away from Stirling. “I hope your energy is at a high level, Mrs. Moore. Thanks to you, we’re going to have to run like the wind all night.”
Kendall swallowed a reply, glancing covertly from Brent to Jo Marshall to Stirling to Beau.
They all looked as if they would readily murder her instead of the old woman who had escaped them. Not even Beau’s eyes offered her the briefest flicker of understanding.
When Brent called her by her married title, she knew his rage went far deeper than the surface. Had she truly betrayed them all? No, she was right. If she had to do it all over again, she would have done the same. She couldn’t allow them to become savages.
A time would come to live again, and when that time came, humanity would return. But there could only be a future if there were men like Beau and Brent—and Travis Deland. Like Abe Lincoln, the Union President who died a little bit with each of his men on the battlefield and objected to a woman’s being kept in a prison camp.
Kendall cried out softly as Brent wrenched her arm and dragged her back through the cornfield. He didn’t understand her. Perhaps he never would. But surely he hadn’t ceased loving her . . . or had he?
It seemed that she hadn’t a friend in the world.
Stirling ran abreast of his brother. “We’ve got to stop at the house quickly. Tanner was carrying a Colt pistol, and Lowell had a carbine rifle. We might need them.”
“Right,” Brent puffed out. “We’d best get into those trees—and cross through the brook just in case they bring dogs out after us. We need to get across into Tennessee—and pray to God that we can hook up with a Rebel regiment.”
Stirling nodded and turned back to Beau and Jo, running close on their heels. “Come on, y’all. We’ll make a quick stop, then run like hell.”
They left Kendall on the steps while they procured weapons. Moments later they were running back through the trees, then splashing across the brook. She closed her eyes as Brent pulled her along behind him. She couldn’t believe he could be so cold and cruel when less than an hour ago he had loved her tenderly and intimately in the very spot they now left behind at a breathless pace.
Their group of five barely spoke through the long night. When day at last broke, they found shelter in a cave along a stretch of mountains. They sank down to the cool floor in exhaustion.
Kendall slept alone. Brent was far from her.
* * *
In the days and nights that followed, Stirling, Beau, and even Jo Marshall gradually seemed to forgive he
r. At least they behaved courteously toward her and asked after her concerns. The first winter snowfall came on the night they walked into Tennessee, and Beau put his arm around her to offer her warmth.
But Brent remained as cold as the winter snow.
They were in a harsh region, and the severe weather slowed down their progress. Food became more and more scarce. Yet none of the hardships tore Kendall apart as did the constant pain within her.
She might have apologized. She might have gone to Brent’s side and begged his forgiveness, begging him to understand that she was just a woman, with a woman’s heart.
But she couldn’t do that. She had been right. And the months that they had been together had taught her a lesson about love. A lasting relationship could not develop only from nights of sweet, delirious passion. It had to go much deeper. And as much as she loved him, as much as she suffered from the cold, silent war they fought, she staunchly believed that he owed her an apology.
Beau and Brent were wary of farmhouses, even after they had crossed the border, and so they kept plodding along through the mountains and valleys, determined not to stop until they reached a sizable town. They did come upon one deserted old shack that Brent and Stirling investigated with an Indian’s stealth. The find provided them with two pair of fairly new boots, some flour, and a precious casket full of needles. Kendall was able to fashion them some warm cloaks from curtains and bedspreads taken from the shack, and to trim them with rabbit pelts. Still, as they moved by night, winter seemed bitter cold.
On Christmas day, as she lay down wearily to sleep, Brent came to her at last. She started when his hand touched her shoulder; her back instinctively stiffened as she spun about to face him, her eyes narrow and sparkling dangerously.
He brought a finger to his lips and whispered a “shhh,” indicating the sleeping men behind him, curled beside a low-burning fire. Then he reached out a hand and drew her to her feet, leading her more deeply into the cave where a rock formation provided a secluded chamber.
Kendall opened her mouth to speak, but she was able to whisper no more than his name before his lips touched hers and his arms melded her form tightly to his.
Tomorrow the Glory Page 35