The lieutenant saluted.
Once again, Nathaniel turned his bay around. He nudged the animal, and they were moving swiftly through the night with a small guard at their heels.
They came to a Yankee cavalry encampment. He leaped to the ground behind her, then reached for her before she could attempt to elude him.
She touched the ground in his arms. She tried to break away but he had an iron grasp upon her arm.
He tossed his horse's reins to one of his men and, leaving the animal behind, he hurried her toward one of the larger tents among the field of canvas. She found herself thrust into what appeared to be his headquarters tent, large and oddly enough, homey.
He had obviously been settled in for the siege for some time. His bunk was covered with a quilt that could only have come from home. There were picture frames on the camp desk in the center of the tent. There were trunks of clothes and books. There were the remnants of a meal upon a polished wooden stand.
A meal...
Ah, yes. The Yanks were still eating these days.
He thrust her forward into the room, then came around her, picking up a glass decanter of brandy and pouring two glasses. He offered one to her, and she backed away.
"Take it. I doubt you've seen or tasted anything so sweet in some time."
"I don't care to now—"
"Ah, afraid to fraternize with the enemy! But you're not fraternizing, you know. You are a prisoner, Mrs. Latham. A prisoner of war."
She swallowed hard. There had always been the chance that she might be caught. She had thought about it often enough. Other women had been involved in the war effort. The Yanks had once threatened to kill Mrs. Rose Greenhow if she didn't divulge the names of some of her accomplices. But somehow, Mrs. Greenhow had escaped, only to die later when she drowned in her attempt to return to her beloved Confederacy with British gold sewn into her skirts...
What could he do to her?
Keep her here, so near to him. That, in a way, was a kind of hell all in itself...
She shivered. He came closer, pressing the brandy glass into her fingers.
"Who is murdering my men, Mrs. Latham?" he demanded.
"I don't know."
"You had to see it!"
"I didn't!"
He was closer still. So close she could see that his cheeks were just beginning to darken with an evening stubble, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath, feel his heat.
Feel her own heartbeat...
"Are you an accomplice?" he demanded softly.
"No!"
"Then what were you doing in the cemetery?"
"Bringing flowers—"
"Bull!" he roared so suddenly and so harshly that she paled, stepping back. But his hands were on her. She threw the brandy into his face, struggling, but his hands were ever more fiercely upon her.
"Let me—"
"What were you doing in the cemetery?"
She spun within his hold and tried to run. There was no escaping him, but things swiftly became worse. Her struggles brought them both crashing down upon his bunk with the fine handmade quilt.
He was over her, touching her, hard upon her. His eyes were blue steel, piercing into hers. His hands...
"What were you doing?" he demanded.
"Nothing—"
She gasped, nearly shrieking aloud. His hands were so intimately upon her, fingers inching up the length of her leg. "Bast—" she began, but her voice faded.
For he had found one of the vials tied to her petticoat. He held it before her eyes.
"Smuggler!" he said softly. "Are you protected? Does some soldier or civilian ride with you, savagely murdering men to protect you?"
"No!" she cried out.
"But you were smuggling—"
"Medicines!" she cried out. "Medicines! Nothing more, I swear it!"
He was silent, his leg half atop her, his arms leaned over her, imprisoning her. "Please!" she whispered suddenly. "I swear to you, I am carrying no weapons. I have medicines on me, and they are so desperately needed! Please..."
Her voice trailed away.
He stared at her. Then his hand came to her cheek. He touched it softly, so softly.
His face came closer to hers. So close...
She could almost feel his lips. She wanted to feel them. She wanted to forget the war, to forget the terror, to forget that he was the greatest enemy...
"Colonel!" came a sudden cry from outside.
"There's more of them, sir! More of them!"
More of what? she wondered, feeling his eyes, feeling his tension...
"Dead men!" came the cry. Then a choked sob. "More dead men!"
Chapter 2
Nathaniel stared into emerald-green depths of the woman's eyes beneath him, frozen for a moment.
Lenore...
Bruce Latham had been a friend of his, a good one. They had both known they would go different ways, but many friends were split, families were split, brothers were split. It was a damned sad state. Just because a man was your enemy, didn't mean that he wasn't your friend anymore.
But Lenore...
Perhaps, in that one aspect in his life, the war had been good. From the moment he had seen Lenore, he had been fascinated. He'd been compelled to touch her. She was an exquisite woman, small, slim, petite, with a headful of glorious sun-blond hair that had a wild and elusive way of curling about her beautifully defined features no matter what. She had startling gem-green eyes that seemed to give away her every emotion. She had been born to live life to its fullest, so it seemed to him from those very first glances. To love deeply, passionately. Fiercely. Life would not walk by her; rather, she would take it by the throat and force from it what she would have...
Perhaps. She had been younger then. They had all been younger then.
The war had cost them all...
Yet that night of the dance, when he had touched her, he had felt staggering emotions. It had been nearly impossible to return her to Latham's side. He had been shaken, wanting her more in those few minutes than he had ever wanted a woman in his life. Feeling something between them, some great energy like lightning, something that seemed to scream that they should have been together, lovers then and there...
But, of course, she had been Latham's fiancée. And as the nation careened toward war, and men lined up on the proper sides, he had heard that they had married.
He had sent them a gift. A green crystal candy dish. He had done the shopping himself, having discovered that the emerald color of the crystal was so very like her eyes.
Later he had heard that Bruce Latham had been killed on the battlefield. He had sent his condolences, but whether his letter had gotten through—or whether she had bothered to open it—he did not know.
He had known, of course, that she lived in Petersburg. He had thought of it every horrible day since the siege had begun.
But he had never expected to come upon her in the dead of night, right outside the cemetery, smuggling, while...
While so nearby, his men were being slaughtered one by one by some murderer with ungodly strength and speed.
What did she have to do with it? What did she know about it?
If only he could believe the light in her eyes! They were upon him now, wide with horror.
She had seen the men left dead by this murderer...
And now there were more...
More of them, dead. Not in battle, just dead, slain and bleeding in the midst of their dreams of peace.
He stared at her, gritting his teeth tightly together. He leaped to his feet then and hurried outside, for one moment actually forgetting that after all this time, he really held Lenore Latham within his grasp.
Several of his men were waiting for him outside. Lieutenant Andy Green had come forward and stood right before his tent. Andy's young face was torn with anguish and fear, but a fear he would fight in order to find out who was so brutally destroying their companies.
Just beyond Andy was a sorrel mare.
Nathaniel gazed from Andy to the mare, and walked over to the horse. Two of his men lay draped across the haunches of the animal. They looked as if they had been savaged by beasts. Young Tim O'Connell, twenty years away from County Cork, his red hair matted with blood, his merry green eyes never to see again. Oh, God! Nathaniel thought. He wanted to whisper a prayer, but those were the only words that came to him. Oh, God. Maybe it was prayer enough, because God Himself had to know that something wasn't right here.
The other man was Curtis Trent. A crusty old sergeant. One of the best men to be had anywhere, any time.
"Eight tonight," he said bitterly.
He felt a presence behind him. Lenore. She was staring at the bodies with horror, shivering.
What could she know? he wondered. She couldn't possibly have anything to do with this. The war was doing horrible things to men; desperate times called for desperate measures.
The situation in Kansas and Missouri had been beyond horrible for years, men killing men in coldblooded murder, but they weren't behaving like that here in the East. No matter what, they weren't committing cold-blooded murders. There were codes of honor and behavior here, and they had all been raised with them. Flags of truce were recognized, battle lines were recognized...
Someone was murdering his men. Desperate times...
He spun around and looked at Lenore again. She had already seen the men killed earlier. But she was looking at Timothy O'Connell with tears burning her eyes.
Yes, there were horrible things in the war... but sometimes, people remained human, empathy survived. Lenore was as horrified at the sight of Timothy as any of them might be.
And he was heartily glad, and heartily sorry, both at the same time. Maybe he had wanted to believe the worst of her. Maybe he had needed a reason... not to want her so badly now. In the middle of duty, in the middle of this.
Lenore's eyes, shimmering with their emerald beauty, remained locked upon Timothy. She was dressed in black—a mourning gown, or a shade in which to slip through the night?—and her hair was escaping the neat knot that had been twisted at her nape when she had begun her foray. Now it spilled about her in shades of gold like sunrays against the darkness. Her beautiful features were thin and drawn, and she was definitely slim—everyone residing within the city of Petersburg was slim these days.
Ruffled, thin, exhausted, disheveled, worn—she was still the most elegant, beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He tore his eyes from her for a moment, remembering his rank, remembering the war and the situation that had so completely filled his mind and his life—until she had walked back into it.
He remembered his men—staring at him for help, looking to him for salvation.
"Gentlemen, we're in for some rough times ahead. Many of you have been with me for a long time now, and we've survived rough times before, bitter, hard times when the enemy walked all over us. We dug in then, and we're going to have to dig in now. We're going to have to forget about normal night and guard duty schedules. We'll divide the companies under my command evenly. Lieutenant Green, you'll see to the divisions. Four hours sleep, then up, and the next group down, and no one to be alone at all. See to it that all the men remain in their companies, and no matter what our losses, see that there are not fewer than twenty men to a company."
"Aye, sir!" Lieutenant Green agreed, saluting sharply. Then, looking past Nathaniel, he seemed upset. "Colonel, what about the lady you've, er—encountered?"
Indeed, what about the lady? He was a colonel in the Army of the United States of America. Did he denounce her as a smuggler, perhaps as a spy? See to it that she was turned over to the proper authorities, taken to Washington, perhaps?
At least, he thought fleetingly, she'd be safe, she'd be far away from this horror...
Yet he wondered if she was actually in any danger herself. She hadn't been a hundred yards away tonight when so many of his men had been slaughtered.
Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe he just wasn't ready to give her up quite yet, and maybe, despite the damned war, he was ready to risk his own life to see her back to her own kind of safety.
"Mrs. Latham will have the use of my quarters this evening," he said smoothly. "God knows, I shall not be sleeping. In the morning, I shall see to her."
He spun around and looked at Lenore. She was returning his stare, her chin high. She was trying very hard not to look at the horse that carried the bodies of the dead men.
Yet beneath her calm composure...
Her lip was trembling. Her lower lip. Just slightly. He wanted to take her in his arms, swear that it would be all right.
Except that she wouldn't want his comfort.
And the words would not be true...
He bowed swiftly to her, with all the courtly manner he could remember from a thousand years ago—before the war. "Mrs. Latham, as you can well see, this has been a distressing evening. You'll excuse me if I'm occupied. The young fellow there,"—he paused, pointing to one of his aides—"is Sergeant Jenner. He will be just beyond the tent flap throughout the evening, ready to bring you anything within his power, should you find yourself in need."
He turned and quickly left her with Lieutenant Green on his heels. He had to order one company of the men on to make contact with his superiors, to report the strange and horrible murders. He had to pray that someone would send back an answer.
He wanted to look back.
He wouldn't allow himself to do so. Not until morning's light.
They had lost men before. But never by daylight. As soon as the sun was shining...
He would see to her fate himself.
* * *
Lenore watched him go, her heart, her mind, her emotions all in a tempest. She'd been caught. He had stripped contraband right from her petticoats.
At least she hadn't been taken with weapons or documents! she thought swiftly. Perhaps when he realized that she had carried nothing but medications, he would let her go.
Perhaps.
Perhaps he would turn her over to the Union government, which would send her to a Northern prison, try her for God knew exactly what, hang her by the neck until dead...
No. She clenched her teeth together hard. Nathaniel would never do such a thing; surely, he would not...
He had left her because of what had happened.
She didn't realize that she was standing there, shivering, until the sergeant entrusted with her care stepped forward. "If you'd like to make yourself comfortable within the colonel's tent, ma'am... Perhaps I could bring you some hot coffee?"
She found herself nodding numbly, and she swirled quickly to reenter Nathaniel's tent. She walked straight to the bed and sat at the foot of it, still shivering. She realized that Sergeant Jenner had been commanded to see to her comfort. He had also been commanded—silently, of course—to see to it that she didn't exit the tent until Nathaniel returned.
Did she intend to leave? she wondered wildly. Escape, run, try to reach home?
With that murderer out there?
Ah, but a murderer who sought to slay Yankees, not Southern women.
How could she know that? she wondered in anguish. And, after all that she had seen tonight, did she have the heart, the strength, to run again?
She was still sitting there in near darkness when Sergeant Jenner returned. He brought her hot coffee, and much more. He carried a cup of something steaming—chicken stew, so the aroma promised—and a basket of biscuits. He set the tray on Nathaniel's desk and turned up the glow in the gas lamp there, offering her ample light, and, it seemed, more warmth. Badly needed warmth.
"You didn't say as how you might be hungry, ma'am. But if you've been—" He cut off, not saying that she had been in the siege city itself. "If you've been around in these parts, you probably are mighty hungry."
She moistened her lips. She was starving. She shouldn't be able to eat a thing, not after what she had seen, but she had lived hungry so very long now.
She stood and walked toward the desk. She
should refuse the food, show some pride.
Pride?
This man was a Yankee, her enemy, her jailer.
But there was something about his face that was so appealing, something that seemed to speak of his own weariness, and his longing for it all to be over.
She smiled hesitantly at him. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I am very hungry indeed."
He tipped his cap to her. "Then I shall leave you to enjoy your meal," he said politely, and he departed. A moment later, when she had devoured the hot stew, she realized that he had left quickly to allow her to consume the food with all reckless speed—and in something far less than a ladylike manner.
It was good; it was delicious. And the coffee that he had brought her was strong and sweetened with a touch of sugar. She managed to drink it slowly, savoring every small sip. A certain amount of guilt assailed her that she should be enjoying such a meal when others she loved still went so pitiably hungry. Yet even as her thoughts sent her flying into an emotional war, she heard a sudden commotion outside the tent, and she leaped to her feet, her heart slamming hard against her chest. She shouldn't have cared so much, she should have thought in a philosophical manner that any dead Yank was one less man to shoot against her own kind.
But as she rushed to the entrance, lifting the canvas, those were not her thoughts. She was praying.
Please, God, no more dead men. Please God, let there be no more!
As she looked out into the night, dimly lit by the small campfires of the men, she saw, across the field where Nathaniel's brigade was encamped, a number of prisoners being brought forward by a guard of Yankee soldiers.
She jumped when she heard Sergeant Jenner suddenly at her side.
"It's all right, ma'am. They weren't just taken; they've been transferred over so that they can be brought north tomorrow morning by wagon from here. No one's going to be hurt, ma'am. And no one else..."
"Has been killed?" she inquired softly.
He nodded.
She bit her lip, looking at those men clad in gray. She would recognize some of them, perhaps. The Army of Northern Virginia was protecting Petersburg during the siege, but any able-bodied man left in the city had been sent out to fight. A few who weren't so able-bodied had been sent out, too.
Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures Page 11