Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  And she wondered if she shouldn't pull from his touch, but she didn't. She just felt like leaning her head upon his shoulder and crying.

  "It will be all right; you've simply got to stay down. So far, this thing is a skirmish, and I don't think either side is really going to get anywhere."

  "I'm not afraid—of this," she told him, and she meant the words. Apparently, he believed her. He was still touching her, still holding her fingers laced with his own. He stared ahead at the stream. "Such a waste," he said angrily. "Such a damned waste."

  "The—the murders...?" she inquired hesitantly.

  "The war. Every damned day now is a waste. Of my men, of the Southern men. Petersburg will have to fall—"

  "It won't fall!"

  "It will fall!" he said angrily. "And you damned well know it!"

  "Then Lee will move on to Richmond—"

  "If he loses Petersburg, he won't be able to hold Richmond. The army will have to abandon them both."

  "Then Jefferson Davis will just move his capital elsewhere and…"

  "And he'll be captured, and his cabinet will be captured. It's over, it's all over—except the dying."

  He was right, she knew it in her heart, but like so many others, she denied it. Lee was invincible; he could not fall. The South could not lose; they had fought too hard, too long.

  And Virginia had been the place devastated by it all. Virginia had seen so many of the battles; Virginia had given too many men. She started to draw her fingers away. He held them tightly. There was passion in his eyes again when they met hers. "You know that I'm telling you the truth. You've seen the men come in. You're fighting with old men and little boys, and, God help them all, they are a brave and valiant crew. But it's over. Every damned death is a waste." He broke off bitterly, looking back to the stream. "And some even hideously more so than others!"

  The murders. He had to mean the murders.

  Now she did start to pull her fingers away. He held fast, and she tugged upon them. "I don't know what you're trying to accuse me of again—"

  "I don't remember accusing you of anything!"

  "The hell you didn't!"

  His brow shot up, and a sudden curl touched his lip. "The hell you say?"

  She tossed her head, her hair suddenly falling completely free of its pins and cascading down around her shoulders. "Your language, sir, has been atrocious!"

  "Ah, but I'm not a sweet, demure Southern belle," he teased. "But then again, I'm not so sure that I remember you as ever being demure to begin with..."

  "Go to hell, Colonel!" she said with dignity. "Hell. H-E-L-L."

  "We may all be going to hell!" he assured her, laughing softly.

  But then they heard the retort of a cannon. Not too far from them, a tree split. Branches seemed to explode and come hurtling through the air.

  His arms were suddenly around her, bringing her down, his body shielding hers. Despite herself, she started trembling. They held still for a long, long time.

  Finally, Nathaniel eased up, but he held her against him, against his chest, his arm still protectively around her. She bit her lip, then said softly, "Nathaniel, I never murdered anyone." She felt a choking sensation in her throat. "I can't believe that you could—believe such a thing of me!"

  His hold tightened. "The war twists things," he told her. "But I don't suppose I ever thought you could have murdered anyone. I thought that you might know, though, who was doing it, and, yes, I did think that someone might be running with you, to protect you."

  She shook her head vehemently, twisting around to stare into his eyes. "I don't know who it is, Nathaniel. I swear it. I would never..."

  "A good enemy is a dead enemy," he said softly.

  "I would never condone murder," she whispered.

  He nodded, setting his chin upon her head, his arms around her waist, the cold stone to his back. He was silent for a very long time. The sounds of the battle seemed to be fading away. She closed her eyes. She hadn't slept at all. It was absurd. She was in the arms of the enemy, in the midst of battle. She felt safe here, and warm. And for the first time in so very, very long... secure.

  She heard his whisper suddenly. "I love you, Lenore. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. Nothing has ever changed that."

  A molten lava seemed to sweep through her. She wanted to twist in his arms, crawl closer, be warmer. She wanted to feel his lips, wet and hot, closing over her own. She wanted to be held, loved, cherished. And by this man.

  She swallowed hard, stiffening, yet not pulling away. Her voice was harsh when she spoke. "Don't love me, Nathaniel. Nothing has changed, nothing has changed at all. You're my enemy."

  "You're mine. It doesn't change how I feel."

  "You're not allowed to feel, because you're my enemy!" she told him urgently.

  "Would God that that were true!" he said vehemently.

  She started to pull from him.

  "Sit still!" he commanded, and now she felt the warmth of his whisper at her ear, stroking her cheek. "Sit still. Whether you loathe me or love me, my sweet belle, I'll not let you kill yourself! Relax. You're not going anywhere."

  "Then you must stop saying these outrageous things," she told him very properly.

  He laughed softly. "Not so outrageous as you want to think, Mrs. Latham," he assured her. When she tried to move, he held her fast. She let out an aggravated sigh, but she didn't try very hard to move again. She closed her eyes. She listened to his heartbeat.

  She eased back against him, encompassed by his warmth and strength. Amazingly, she began to feel as if the world itself was fading behind her. She was so tired, and so comfortable here in his arms.

  The battle continued in the distance. Lenore felt it all slip away. Incredibly, she slept.

  * * *

  She awoke later to the gentle sound of his whisper. "Lenore. It's over; it's nearly night."

  "Oh!" She started, and drew swiftly from his hold, leaping to her feet, nearly falling again. But he was there to steady her.

  "Listen, you've got to stay here for a moment, and I'll be right back. I've got to see if anyone is still out collecting the de—the wounded. I'll be right back. Lenore, no matter what your feelings for me, don't leave! I'm bringing you home; I just want to see that you get there safely."

  His steady gaze was her last warning. He started to walk away. She felt a sudden chill breeze, saw that twilight was indeed coming quickly. "Wait!" she cried to him, rushing to him.

  "Lenore, I'll be right back!" he assured her. "Stay here!"

  He turned from her abruptly. He whistled, and in the twilight, she saw his horse trot forward. He leaped up on the animal, then looked down at her. "Stay below the rocks!" he warned her fiercely. "No one can see you there. You'll be safe until I return."

  He was right, of course. She had been kept safe from an entire battle there. Nathaniel, no matter what his uniform, had his own code of honor. If there was danger out there, he would meet it first.

  She swallowed hard. "Hurry," she told him, stepping back.

  He nodded, turned, and, way too swiftly, disappeared into the growing shadows. She turned and gazed at the water. Her stomach was growling again, but the water looked very inviting to her parched throat. She hurried to it, sank to her knees, dipped her hands in, and began to drink, shivering as the cold touched her lips and flesh. Still, it was good. She strenuously washed her face and throat, then shivered again, rose, and came back to the rocks. Darkness seemed to be falling with incredible swiftness.

  How many nights had she come through this terrain and not cared in the least if the sky was pitch-black?

  Why this sudden new fear?

  "Lenore...!"

  Her name! Whispered on the air. She felt as if the cold of the night was descending upon her, enwrapping her. It entered into her, rose to her throat, started to choke her.

  She spun around. She had imagined it; please God, she had merely imagined it...

  There was nothing there. No one.


  But it came again.

  "Lenore... Lenore..." It was a hissing sound, it wasn't real, it was all too real. It was a rasp, it was terrible, it was drawn from lungs that could not be accustomed to breath.

  "Lenore, I would never hurt... you. Lenore, Lenore, Lenore, Lenore, come to me, touch me, Lenore..."

  Nothing! There was nothing there, just the sound, echoing in her mind, reaching out, nearly touching her.

  She screamed and spun, running blindly, desperately into bushes. She heard a thrashing behind her, and she ran harder, shrieking.

  "Lenore!"

  It was her name, called again. Not on the wind, but in a husky, male voice. A voice that commanded, that compelled. A voice that was...

  Human?

  The earth pounded behind her. Horse's hooves. Then, suddenly, he was upon her, leaping down, catching her shoulders. They fell to the earth and rolled together, and when he held her still, straddling over her, she met Nathaniel's worried blue gaze with her own eyes insanely wild. "Nathaniel, we've got to move; it's here, it's here!"

  "What's here?" he roared.

  "Get off me! We've got to go! It's here!"

  "What's here?" he demanded fiercely again.

  "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know! But please, God, oh, Nathaniel, I beg of you..."

  He was still frustrated, but the terror in her tone had reached something within him and he was quickly up, sweeping her from the ground, depositing her upon his own horse. She didn't know where her mount had gone, and she didn't care. He swung up beside her, and she was glad to ride with him, she was desperate to touch him, desperate to feel his touch.

  "Ride, Nathaniel, ride! Please!" she cried to him.

  He obliged her, sending his horse hurtling forward in the shadows.

  The moon was just rising, she saw as they exited through the trees.

  A moon still huge and full...

  It caused her to shiver, and yet, even as she felt the cold engulfing her, she saw the Lawry house in the beam of light. Stripped and abandoned, it was of no interest to anyone. The smugglers used it sometimes to hide weapons by night that were picked up the following day. There might be ammunition there, guns, swords.

  There were sturdy bolts upon the doors...

  "There, Nathaniel, there!" She pointed out the house beneath the golden glow. "There, please, take me there!"

  "If you are that afraid—"

  "Oh, God, Nathaniel—" She began to cry.

  "I will take you anywhere you want to go," he promised softly. "To hell and back, lady, if need be!"

  She leaned against him, closing her eyes. And she realized suddenly that she was not just afraid.

  She was more terrified than she had ever been in all her life.

  For him, as well as for herself...

  Chapter 4

  The old farmhouse had seen better days before the war. Then the white paint had most certainly been bright instead of dingy gray; the railings on the broad porch would not have been so sadly weather-beaten. But no matter what the place looked like tonight, Lenore didn't care. It seemed a haven from the thing out in the darkness and the shadows.

  Lenore ran in the moment they dismounted after reaching the place, turning to implore Nathaniel to join her swiftly. He followed closely behind her, barely taking time to tether his bay to one of the broken porch railings.

  Inside, she paused in the hallway, then hurried to the left where the parlor stood. The house itself appeared haunted—the draperies ripped from their cords, the once beautiful brocade loveseats and chairs now coated with a fine layer of dust. No one had tenderly covered the furniture before leaving, as a family would before a trip. This place had been abandoned. Lenore had heard that the owner had been killed at Manassas, and his wife, a Northern girl with no local kin, had simply left everything behind, brokenhearted, and with nothing to return for.

  Lenore had been in the house at least three times before. It had already been looted of any decent tableware or silver. It was abandoned, pillaged, yet it still seemed to be a miraculous place of sanctuary.

  She stood in front of the fireplace, stretching her hands out as if a blaze burned within it. She felt Nathaniel behind her, watching her.

  "I can't start a fire, you know," he told her softly. "Every sentry on both sides would be reporting the smoke."

  "I know," she told him, turning around at last. He was staring at her, just as she had felt he was, his hands on his hips, his head slightly cocked at an angle. Despite the fact that there was no heat, she felt a shade warmer. He created a dashing figure with his encompassing blue Union cloak cast over his shoulders, his dark uniform jacket beneath, his hat brim pulled low over his forehead, and at a rakish angle with the tilt of his head.

  He must have thought that she had lost her mind, behaving with such a desperate degree of panic. But even now, she fought to control the shivering that awful voice had caused in her.

  She thought of the dead men suddenly, and she felt as if she wouldn't be able to endure it if such a thing were to happen to Nathaniel.

  Especially if it were to happen because of her.

  "You should go back, now!" she whispered fiercely.

  "I won't leave you here—"

  "I've been in this house before."

  "—in the darkness," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. Then he was suddenly crossing the room, sweeping away the distance between them. He caught her hands, stared down at them, felt the ice within them.

  "What happened?" he demanded, looking from her chilled fingers to her eyes.

  She felt the blood drain from her face. "It called me!" she whispered.

  "What?"

  She jerked her fingers free. "When you left, it called me. By name."

  He shook his head, frowning. "Lenore, this it you're talking about has to be a man—"

  "What man can kill so many so swiftly?" she charged him.

  "Did you see anything?"

  "No," she admitted.

  "Then you felt the breeze. It was a long, horrible day with the battle raging all around you. You—"

  "I heard my damned name whispered!" she cried out furiously, backing away from him. "And if you don't want to believe me, then don't! Go home, go back to your Yankee camp! This is really more our territory than yours at the moment. I'm safe, just go—"

  She broke off because he was going. He had turned his back and was starting for the door.

  And she didn't want him out there. She didn't want to be left alone, but more than that, she didn't want Nathaniel out in the darkness of the night.

  "Nathaniel!"

  She cried out his name and went flying after him, throwing her arms around him, forcing him to turn around. "You can't go out there. You can't go out there tonight!"

  She didn't know herself just how terrified her words sounded, or how large her eyes glowed, how pale her cheeks seemed. Looking down at her, Nathaniel felt his heart begin to thunder. How incredible to like every little nuance about a woman. He was in love with the delicacy of her face, the green fire in her eyes, the little point in her chin, the one tiny dimple in her left cheek.

  He set his hands upon her shoulders. "I was just going out for my saddlebags, Lenore. I've some real food in them, some not too terribly old bread, even a square of cheese. No wine, I'm afraid, but I do have a canteen of fresh, clean water."

  Her fingers, entwined in his coat, began to fall. "You're not leaving?"

  "No. I would never leave you in the night."

  She lowered her head, and he set her to the side, stepping past her. He was going back outside. She listened to the door open, then she swirled around and followed him swiftly, watching the darkness, the foliage, the shadows, while he unsaddled his horse and gave it a freer rein to sample the overgrown grasses at the place, then looked back to her.

  She had remained on the porch. She didn't see anything in the shadows...

  And a breeze had picked up again. She closed her eyes, but there were no whispe
rs within it.

  "Let's go in," he told her. He had his saddlebags and his cavalry sword, and what looked like a Spencer repeating rifle. She knew the gun—her grandfather had taken one off a dead Yank and had sworn that afterward it had saved his life more than once.

  It was a good weapon...

  But was any weapon enough?

  She shivered, turned, and hurried into the house. He came in behind her, but didn't follow her into the parlor. She heard him on the stairs, hesitated a moment, then came back and followed him up. "Nathaniel?" she called softly. Up here, not even the full golden moon gave her much light.

  She heard the striking of a match, and he returned her call. "In here, Lenore." She hesitated, biting her lip, then hurried down the hallway to the end room. A soft amber glow from the candle he had lighted gave the room an air of comfort, the candle glow shining warm against the shadows. He was there, seated on the windowsill, looking out. She saw why he had come. From his vantage point, beneath the glimmer of the moon, he could see a great deal of the land surrounding him.

  "Come closer!" he told her in a low voice.

  She did so, moving on her toes, softly, though there was no one to hear. They were certainly alone in the abandoned house.

  She stood by him, and he set a hand upon her shoulder and pointed eastward. "Yankee encampments," he said quietly, and she saw the multitude of small star like blazes that were the men's cooking fires. "And there," he murmured, and when he pointed again, she could see the outskirts of the city of Petersburg, and likewise many small fires that blazed into the darkness. No sounds of gunfire or chaos filled the night. The troops were settled in their tents and trenches.

  He handed her his rifle suddenly. "Take this. I'm going to make certain the downstairs is secure."

  She accepted the rifle he thrust into her hands. He swept his heavy cloak from his shoulders and set it around hers, then he strode from the room, leaving her in the light, walking out into the shadows.

  "Nathaniel!" she cried softly, but he didn't hear her, and he didn't return. In a few moments, though, she heard the sound of the front door being bolted. Minutes later, she heard locks snapping on the windows, and she closed her eyes—praying it would be enough.