Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  Yet, oddly, she felt secure for the moment. Maybe it was because Nathaniel was with her. Maybe it was because she didn't hear or feel...

  The whisper.

  No, it was gone. And for now, they were safe.

  He was back in just a few minutes then, tugging his gloves from his fingers, tossing them upon a nightstand. "Well, no one is going to sneak up on us." He shrugged. "If an entire company shows up and shoots the door down, we're in trouble. But we're not going to be surprised by anyone."

  Watching him, Lenore nodded. He tossed his canteen to her, and she caught it, then took a long grateful drink.

  "Picnic, madam?" he inquired, then elaborately ripped the cover from the bed, flipping it over to create a blanket on the bare planked floorboards. A soft scent of roses filled the room as he did so, and Lenore realized that the house's last Yankee lady had set flower petals into her sheets, beautifully embroidered sheets that now gleamed whitely on the bed.

  Nathaniel tossed his saddlebags down, sat Indian-legged upon the spread on the floor, and began to dig into the leather satchels. He produced bread wrapped in a towel and a hunk of cheese, one knife, and two apples. Lenore stared at him, and he quickly offered her an apple. "You must be starved," he told her.

  She shook her head. "I ate last night," she told him. "But you must be starved."

  "Well, I admit that I am," he said, picking up one of the apples. "But I can't imagine eating unless you accompany me every bite."

  Despite her fear, she found herself smiling. The fear began to fade. He was with her.

  And she bit into her apple, and Nathaniel did the same. And in a matter of moments, they were speedily setting into all the food, Lenore breaking the bread, Nathaniel cutting the block of cheese.

  The food was very quickly gone. Lenore savored a long last sip of water, then handed back his canteen. After a moment, he stood and strode to the window.

  He stood there, broad shoulders squared, arms crossed over his chest, looking out into the night.

  She longed to walk to him, longed to touch him.

  She shouldn't. She mustn’t. He had told her that he loved her. Foolish. But she believed him. She had felt the same draw from the very first, felt as if something bound them ever since he had come into her life again. She remembered his words that long-ago night, and she admired his wisdom now, just as she admired the deep emotions he felt for his men, his determination to lead them, to fight for them, to die for them.

  He shouldn't love her; they had nothing but pain ahead of them. He couldn't come with her.

  She could never leave with him.

  But suddenly, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that she did get to touch him once. Feel his arms around her. Feel his warmth, his passion, all that he had to give. The opportunity might never come again, and dreams might sustain her for the rest of her life.

  She couldn't let the night, with its shadows, with its golden glowing moon, slip by her...

  She stood and walked softly behind him, hesitating. But he had heard her quiet movement, and spun around. When she would have backed away then, he reached out.

  She was drawn into his arms, held there tightly. For a moment, she saw the blue-gem fire of his eyes, then she felt the pressure of his lips upon hers, felt the trembling within them both as he held her. Fiercely, his mouth formed over hers, his kiss one that both demanded and savored, a touch that spoke of a poignant hunger, so very long denied. Her fingers curled into his nape. She reveled in the thick, rich feel of his hair, in the touch of her fingers upon his neck. She hadn't known the extent of her own loneliness until this moment, nor had she ever realized just how deeply Nathaniel had touched her.

  She had loved her husband.

  Yet being held by this man had been a secretly burning desire since he had first walked into that room so very long ago. She had never, never seen it, recognized it, admitted it.

  Until now. Now, floodgates seemed to open...

  His mouth parted hers with a dizzying liquid heat. She felt the stroke of his tongue, hot, deep within her, sensually, excitingly suggestive. The warmth seemed to fill the length of her.

  His hand cupped her cheek as his lips continued to sear her own. She felt the gentle stroke of his fingers upon her throat, the strength of his arm around her. Felt the sweetly burning liquid fire of his tongue, probing, seductive, sweeping away what remained of reason and thought.

  Then, suddenly, the kiss was broken, and his eyes, cobalt in the candlelight, were hard upon hers. He stared at her, no words escaping his lips for long moments. Then he spoke harshly to her. "It's a dangerous game you're playing, Lenore."

  "Game?" she said softly. Then she thought that he meant the smuggling, but he continued swiftly.

  "No half steps, Mrs. Latham. If you're seeking nothing more than comfort from the night, you had best do it from a distance. If I touch you again, there will be no turning back."

  She blinked, realizing his warning. Her lashes fell. Yet once again, things of the past made so little sense now. Ah, yes, once upon a time, she had been the proper lady. She had never thought to share more than a kiss before marriage; she would have died rather than take a Yankee for a lover.

  Once upon a time...

  Her lashes raised. She met his eyes. "I'm afraid of the night, yes. Yet I'm more afraid that we'll part ways here tonight, and I'll never know what it would be to... have you."

  He inhaled sharply. His hands were suddenly upon her shoulders, spinning her around. His fingers, trembling but seeming certainly well-practiced and sure, worked upon the length of tiny buttons that ran down the back of her black gown. He pressed the fabric from her shoulders. His lips touched down upon her bare flesh, and from that simple touch, fire seemed to radiate throughout her. He spun her again, and this time his fingers swiftly sought the tie to her chemise, tugged the satin ribbon, and bared her breasts. The sweep of his hands upon her, palms rubbing her nipples, fingers caressing the fullness around them, brought a soft moan to her lips. She closed her eyes, but his hand stroked up her throat to her cheek again, fingers threading into her hair, arid she was compelled to meet his gaze once again.

  "I do love you!" he told her very, very softly.

  But she couldn't repeat the words, no matter what lay in her heart. There was tonight, but there could be nothing more.

  Did disappointment flicker in his gaze? She wasn't sure. "At least, Mrs. Latham," he murmured, and there was a note of bitterness there, "be bold enough to keep your gaze upon the man you're bedding! My skin isn't blue, Lenore. It's just the color of the uniform."

  Tears suddenly stung her eyes. She shook her head. "No," she said softly. "The color is the man. But you wear blue very well!"

  His lip curled slightly. In a second, he had swept her into his arms and strode the few feet to the bed, where, so sweetly in this strange sanctuary, the scent of rose petals teased the air. Yet as he laid her down and came beside her, they both paused as her skirt and petticoat were crushed between them, and the lightest little clinking sound could be heard. The magic was brought to pause for a moment as once again those blue eyes stared down into hers. Then he arose, helped her to her feet, swore softly, and pulled her cumbersome black gown over her head and shoulders, then spun her firmly around as she stood in her wide-belled bone petticoat, all the numerous vials of medicine so very carefully tied to the horizontal strips of bone.

  He turned her around again, found the tie on the petticoat, and freed it. She held her breath, but merely heard the grating of his teeth as he carefully lowered the garment so that she could step from it.

  He gazed at the petticoat. For a moment, she felt a terrible shiver standing there in nothing now but her worn black shoes, darned hose, threadbare pantalettes, and spilled-open chemise. She felt the cold as she wondered what went on in his mind, but his gaze fell back to her suddenly and fiercely, and she was just as swiftly within his arms once again. "Nothing but medicines," he murmured quietly. "Mrs. Latham, you wear gray well yoursel
f!"

  "I might have carried arms, had I been asked!" she tried to warn him.

  But he had set her down again, and his hands closed over her worn shoes, and tossed them aside. His fingers slid sensually along the length of her calf and thigh as he sought the garter for her darned hose. Then she felt his touch against her naked flesh as he peeled away the hose, and the room itself seemed to spin, the moon to glow within it more brightly.

  His eyes met hers. His voice was husky.

  "Lenore, at this moment, I might not care if you were smuggling a dozen long-range cannons!"

  She felt a smile curve her lip, and the cold was gone, all gone. And it was very easy to meet his eyes when he rose, casting aside the blue he wore so swiftly, boots tossed, jacket thrown to the shadows, shirt wrenched over his head, Yankee trousers quickly discarded. Then she tried very valiantly to keep her eyes pinned upon his, but they fell, of course, and once again, she felt the shimmering heat take root inside her, and the moonglow was enchanting, almost surreal. It gleamed upon his bronzed, broad shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the flurry of dark hair upon a very finely honed and muscled structure. Whorls of hair tapered in a tiny cyclone to his waist and below, and despite herself, her eyes followed that fascinating trail, and once again the hair thickened, surrounding the length of his sex, creating a dark backdrop that seemed to enhance even further the sight of his arousal. She swallowed quickly, feeling a curious weakness, a shivering, and then the fiercest explosion of heat and excitement. She forced her eyes back to his, only to discover him quickly crawling over her. She reached for him instinctively, but he forced her gently back to the pillows. His lips found hers again, tarried there, then moved.

  He kissed her throat, and her breasts. His tongue played upon them until she could feel each wet touch into the very depths of her. Her chemise fell upon his blue jacket. His fingers stroked down the length of a rib gently, brushed over her upper abdomen, and found the tie to her pantalettes. He slowly pulled the bow, and began to ease the last of her garments from her body. And as he slid the fabric away, his lips fell upon the flesh so suddenly chilled by the night air, and warmed it. In seconds, the pantalettes were cast away, and she felt his stroke upon her upper thigh. His lips brushed there again, then her lower abdomen, her thigh, the bared flesh everywhere except that very center of desire until...

  Until she ached to feel him even there so intimately, and when she thought she would die already, he touched her there with his liquid caress, and she felt as if she exploded with the very stars themselves.

  She still seemed to streak across the night as he came upward against her, taking her into his arms, finding her mouth once again with his own, finding her eyes. No words passed between them as he eased himself very slowly and surely within her, yet when she was filled, a cry escaped her lips, and she wound her arms around him, pulling him close, the thunder of her heart seeming to race with the rhythm of his. She felt his tension, his heat, the unleashed energy. Felt the night, the stars, the world begin to spin again, and all encased in moonglow as his hunger brought her crashing toward a wild, abandoned ecstasy once again. Her fingers dug into the smooth expanse of his back, needing him closer still, savoring each excruciating moment as they catapulted toward a climax. She thought very briefly that she should have felt some shame. She did not. She felt as if she had been born to lie within his arms, as if she had not lived in truth until now. Nothing had ever felt so right, so natural.

  Or so explosively good...

  He tensed, so rigidly above her. His muscles tightened to a glistening gold in the moonlight as he plunged deeply, deeply within her. The lava heat of his body flowed into hers, and she soared again to a new level, closing her eyes, seeing gold replaced by blackness for long seconds, then seeing the stars burst into the heavens all over again. Yet even with it over, she lay against him trembling, loath to move, afraid to speak.

  "There are no colors in the darkness, Lenore," he said very softly at last, cradling her head against him, threading his fingers through the wild length of her hair. "No colors at all in the darkness and the shadows."

  She lay silent.

  "I love you," he said again.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she remained silent, trying to bury her head against his strength.

  But he would not allow her to do so. He gently tugged her hair back until his eyes met hers, cobalt, fierce.

  "At least tell me that you love being here with me. Tell me that you love to have me make love to you."

  That was easy enough.

  "I love... for you to make love to me," she whispered.

  "Thank God for that!" he muttered fiercely. "And for the night," he added more softly. "I pray the morning comes slowly, for I swear, I will make good use of the night, and make love to you throughout it."

  She tasted his kiss again. Hard, demanding. And she rolled within his arms, eager to touch him now, and eager to be touched again.

  And she, too, prayed that the morning would come slowly.

  And she didn't even realize that in his arms, she had forgotten the strange whispering she had heard earlier.

  She had forgotten the fear.

  And the sense of...

  Evil.

  Chapter 5

  Lenore winced as old Dr. Tempe drew back the flap of the trouser leg he had just slit on the young Georgia private's leg. She had helped out enough in surgery to know what Doc Tempe knew—the boy, barely able to shave, was going to lose the leg.

  Then he would have a fifty-fifty chance at life.

  "Thank the good Lord for that morphine you brought in on your last trip!" Doc Tempe murmured softly to her. The boy wouldn't have heard him, no matter how loudly he had spoken—he had passed out from the pain long ago. But the hospital quarters where she helped out were really nothing more than the center of the church, and beds lined the place one after another. Doc Tempe spoke softly so that none of his patients would hear his words—every man there dreaded losing a limb. Some were certain that death was preferable, and Lenore thought that maybe they were right, because so often, limbs were amputated, and then the men died anyway. They just went piece by piece instead of all at once, one old soldier had told her.

  Doc Tempe set the scissors he had cut the fabric with back on the tray she carried. "Orderly!" he called out to one of the heavyset men assisting them. He inclined his head, indicating that this soldier was going to have to be moved out back where once, not long ago and yet in a distant world, the choir had practiced hymns.

  "Are you assisting me?" he asked her.

  Lenore bit into her lower lip and nodded. There was nothing she would rather do less. Watch the surgeon with his kit, sawing first the flesh, tourniqueting the stump to stop the endless flow of life from the blood vessels, then finding his bone saw next, and finishing off the grisly task. The orderlies would hold down the poor man and she would jump about as quickly as possible, having what Doc Tempe wanted when and where he wanted it.

  Admittedly, she'd passed out cold herself the first time she had tried to assist in surgery. But that, too, had happened in a different, far distant time. Dr. Claiborne, the head of the Confederate medical team here, was a near neighbor, and long before the siege had begun, she had found herself helping out at his side. There weren't enough surgeons in Petersburg to handle the flow of wounded who constantly poured in now. But Doc Tempe was among the best of the men they had; old, grizzled, and white-haired, he was witty and bright, and ever willing to learn from the men. Most of his patients did live. He had told Lenore that the secret was in using sponges. The Yanks liked to sop up blood from wounds with linen bandages and use them over and over again. Some young surgeon had told Doc Tempe that using a fresh sponge with each surgery helped the boys live. "Be damned if I know why!" he told her. "But the boys are living, and that's that!" So, even in the worst of times, Lenore did her best to find fresh sponges all the time. If Doc Tempe even thought that they might help, then it was worth the effort.

  A
shell suddenly exploded close by. So close that the windows in the church rattled in their panes, and the structure seemed to waver on its foundations.

  Doc Tempe shook his head, looking around his ward. "Damned Yanks are mighty close in today. Mighty close in." His eyes narrowed on her. "But then, you know that, don't you, Lenore?"

  She shrugged, lowering her eyes. It had been just about a month since she had taken her last foray out to smuggle in medicine. There was darned little of it left, and the doctors were only using what remained of the morphine and ether when a man's pain seemed to be excruciating. Dr. Claiborne had been sending out messages to beg, barter, and steal whatever could be gotten, but when she had told him she was ready to venture out again at any time, he had merely looked at her worriedly and said no more.

  That was because Nathaniel hadn't left her after her last foray until he had brought her right across the river from one of the defending encampments. And she had been seen there with a Union soldier, and even when she had tried to explain to Dr. Claiborne that it was all right, the Yank had been a friend of Bruce's before the war, Dr. Claiborne had been very worried.

  "And what if he hadn't been a friend?" he had demanded, sighing. "What then? You might have wound up in Washington in prison!"

  "The Yanks haven't done anything terrible to a female prisoner yet—" she began, but he had waved that comment aside.

  "They did threaten to execute a few!" he warned her sternly. "I don't know, Lenore. I just don't know if you should be out there anymore. And it's not just the Yanks. It's the—" and he had broken off flatly, staring at her.

  "The what?" she had demanded.

  "The murders," he had told her softly. And she had known then that the Rebs were every bit as aware as the Yanks that some of the invading enemy were being slashed down before they could come to the battlefield. "I had some Yank friends before the war, too. And the letters have been flying back and forth from side to side on this thing. Something's not right out there, Lenore. Something's not right at all, and you shouldn't be out there!"