And One Wore Gray

by Heather Graham

  Daniel stood up. “I don’t own any man, Ben.” Ben looked at him curiously.

  Daniel clamped him on the shoulder. “It’s a strange damned world, isn’t it, Ben?”

  “Yessir, Colonel. And getting stranger by the minute!”

  Callie stayed in the water quite some time. Nothing had ever felt so good.

  But as the water cooled, she felt the stirrings of hunger. The miraculous thing was that she could eat. Here, in this household, wonderful things like beds and baths and food seemed to be hers for the asking.

  She just needed to rouse herself.

  She opened her eyes and almost screamed. She wasn’t alone in the room anymore.

  Daniel had come in silently, as if it were his right. He stood there watching her, a large dressmaker’s box held idly in his arms. His sweeping hat was gone, but he still wore his tattered uniform. The fire that could make him so exciting burned in his eyes. He stood straight, shoulders squared, yet still casual. And still arrogant.

  She swallowed hard, narrowing her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “How very rude of you,” he replied.

  “Get out.”

  “Can’t, I’m afraid. It’s my room too.”

  “Your room—”

  “Well, you haven’t protested being called Mrs. Cameron. They’ve placed us here together—my love.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “Is it so disturbing?”

  “It’s hypocritical.”

  “Just practicing.”

  “For what?”

  He pulled out his pocket watch. “There’s an Episcopal priest coming in about twenty minutes now. If we’re lucky. I need the tub. Out.”

  “What?” Callie’s fingers gripped the rim of the tub,

  “He’s coming to marry us.”

  Her fingers curled more tightly. Someone was coming to marry them. Daniel was joking. He was speaking too blithely to be joking. And he seriously wanted her out of the tub.

  Her heart seemed to catch in her throat. Of course she wanted to marry him. The hope had always been there, she had just never let it rise from the depths of her heart, because she hadn’t begun to imagine that he would marry her, not even for Jared, not after what had happened when she had turned him over to Eric Dabney.

  She couldn’t breathe, because suddenly it all hurt very much. She wanted to marry him because she loved him. She should haved stopped loving him. She should have been able to make her anger into a real hatred and make that hatred stomp out the love.

  But she hadn’t managed to do so. AH that she had managed to do was play a part. What did she want then, she asked herself. Easy, she wanted him to love her.

  She bit into her lip, watching him as he stood there, the dressmaker’s box in his arms.

  She turned her gaze from him to the linen washcloth she had been given.

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t care to marry you.”

  The box went flying onto the bed. She shivered as he strode across the room to glare down at her. “What the hell do you mean, no?”

  “I mean ‘no.’ You haven’t even asked me. You’re rude and obnoxious. I hate you. You are truly—”

  “A Rebel rodent?”

  “Precisely,” she said pleasantly. “Why should I marry you?”

  “Because you have borne my son out of wedlock, madam, and because of him, I am willing to marry you.”

  “Well, I’m not willing to marry you.”

  She heard him sigh. “Well, I hope you’re willing to receive my hand across your posterior anatomy.”

  She glanced at him quickly, suddenly afraid of pushing him too far. She had come to know the tone of his voice very well, and he meant the threat.

  “Why are you marrying me? What will you tell your family? Am I a suitable wife for a Cameron?”

  To her surprise and alarm he knelt down by the side of the tub. She moistened her lips quickly and hugged her knees to her chest.

  “I’ll tell my family that you were buck naked and I was overcome,” he said flatly. “I fell down on my knees and asked you to marry me. It will be the truth.”

  “No—”

  “It will be the truth. You’re going to marry me, Callie.”

  “No! You haven’t asked me!” she cried. “You just keep telling me. And you still hate me, and I’m still a Yankee, and you condemn me for what wasn’t my fault—”

  “All right. Will you marry me?” he said impatiently.

  It certainly wasn’t what she had in mind for a proposal. She swallowed hard. “I—I can’t.”

  “Why not? You prefer being an unwed mother? On your own?”

  “I can make it on my own, Daniel.”

  “Out do you have the right to do it to Jared?”

  She looked ahead of her. Her lashes skimmed over her cheeks. She loved him. And she had to believe that underneath it all, he loved her. “I’ll marry you, Daniel. For Jared. But I …”

  “You what?”

  “I can’t … I mean … I don’t want—”

  “Spit it out, Callie. I haven’t seen you shy yet.”

  “I want you to leave me—alone.” He stiffened. His movement was barely perceptible. Had she hurt him?

  He started to laugh, and it was a very dry, hollow sound. “Madam, I want my son. Legally. And you might want to recall—I’ve never forced you into anything. At the moment, you’re welcome to any privacy you desire. I give no guarantees for the future—should we have one.”

  Her fingers moved idly over the water.

  “I don’t know,” she began.

  His startling blue eyes met hers. “Take a gamble. You should be pleased. I’ll be returning to the war almost immediately. I could very easily be shot or run through with a sword. You’d have all my money and my name and your freedom.”

  “Yes, that could happen,” she said coolly. God, but the water had gotten cold! She was starting to shiver. The cold she felt went beyond anything she had ever known.

  He stood up. “Your dress is on the bed. I’m afraid we haven’t time for any false modesty now. The priest will be here very soon, and even if this water is stone cold, I need a good dousing in it.” He stretched out the towel to Callie. She rose to take it.

  It dropped to her feet before she could grab it and wrap herself within it.

  “Sorry,” Daniel said idly.

  Like hell he was sorry.

  She swept the towel up from the floor. She started to walk away and nearly lost the towel again.

  “One more thing, Callie,” he called after her.

  He was stripping off his dirty frock coat, watching her.

  “What?”

  “I don’t call any man property—you know that we freed all of our slaves.”

  “Yes, you told me.”

  He smiled. “Well, I just want you to know that I do consider a wife a man’s property. You’ll be mine.”

  “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Callie said sweetly in reply.

  But as she turned to dress, she was still shaking.

  ———— Twenty-two ————

  The dress was beautiful. It was unlike anything she had ever owned before.

  It came with exquisite undergarments, made especially to enhance the gown. There was a huge hoop and a petticoat with row after row of bristling taffeta. There were fine white hose, shimmer-thin pantalets, a silky soft chemise, and an ivory corset, embroidered with the same tiny red flowers that patterned delicately over the dress itself.

  Despite the fact that she was clad in nothing but the giant bath sheet, Callie had to pause to stare at the gown before she could even think of putting it on. Her fingers trembled as she touched it.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked her from the tub.

  “No,” she said quickly. Her back to him—and trying to keep the bath sheet around her back—she began to dress. It was difficult. She managed everything but the corset. It was incredibly difficult to tr
y to tie it on by herself.

  She stiffened as she felt his hands on her. “Suck in,” he ordered, and she did so. “Oh!” she gasped. He had it pulled taut and looped and tied in a matter of seconds. His touch definitely spoke of experience.

  She pulled away from him, spinning around. She turned around quickly again because he was as naked as a tiger in a jungle and seemed just as dangerous.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You’re extremely competent with women’s—clothing,” she told him over her shoulder.

  “Am I?”

  She ignored him, reaching for the elegant dress. She slipped it over her shoulders. It fell about her softly, like angel’s wings. She struggled to adjust the back, to fluff the skirt out over her petticoat.

  Once again, she felt his touch, his fingers at her back. One by one, he did up the tiny hooks, then shook the skirt out over the taffeta petticoat. He stood back to study her.

  “Would you please put something on?” she hissed.

  That drew a smile. “You’ve seen me often enough. Now that we’re about to make this legal, you’re going to find offense?”

  She was determined to ignore him. She snatched the skirt from the adjusting touch of his fingers and strode to the long swivel mirror near the door. Her breath caught at the sight of the gown. It had been made for her. It was exquisite. The bodice hugged her breasts. It was not at all decadently low, but it left bare her collarbone and the first hint of the rise of her breasts. The puff sleeves also bared her shoulders. It was cool and sweeping, a perfect dress for the heat of summer. Her hair was nearly copper against the white, damp as it still was.

  Her eyes were very wide and her cheeks were flushed. She actually felt beautiful, dressed in the gown.

  There was a sharp rap on the door. She jumped as Daniel strode across the room to open it. He had wrapped her discarded bath sheet around his hips. Ben was there with an outfit for Daniel. There were charcoal-gray pinstripe trousers, a red vest, a gray suit coat with elongated tails. There was a frilled white shirt, a cravat, and even a pair of shining black shoes.

  “These should be all right, Colonel Cameron,” Ben told him. “They come from Miz Letty’s oldest boy, Andrew, and he grew to be right near as tall a man as you, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, Ben. I’ll see that they’re returned in as good a condition as you’ve given them to me.”

  “Colonel Cameron, sir, that won’t matter none. He was killed back at Sharpsburg. His folks would be right proud to hear his clothes were of use to you.”

  “Thank you, then,” Daniel said softly.

  “Oh!” Ben said, a grin splitting his face once again. “Why, Father Flannery is downstairs. I showed him into the den, and he’s having himself a brandy now. His niece is with him, to witness the ceremony.”

  “We’ll be along immediately,” Daniel promised.

  He closed the door.

  Callie realized that she was really going to get married. She looked at her fingers. They were shaking.

  Daniel was already halfway dressed. He needed no help. In seconds he had his cravat tied, his vest buttoned, every piece of his outfit perfectly adjusted. He winced as he slipped on the shoes. “A little small,” he murmured. “But then …”

  He stared at Callie. She had been watching him in the mirror.

  “Callie,” he nearly growled, “we need to get down there.”

  She glanced at her own reflection in the mirror again. Her hair was still damp against her head. She couldn’t possibly dry it in time, but she could at least brush it.

  She turned quickly to find her shoes, but when she did so, she paused, biting her lip. They had been good shoes, serviceable shoes. But now they appeared as rough and worn as burned lumber. They seemed a travesty against the beauty of her dress and the white silk stockings.

  “Shoes!” Daniel moaned. “I forgot all about shoes.” He shrugged. “Forget them for now. No one will see your feet.” He strode quickly across the room, plucking a brush from a dressing table. Before Callie could move he was behind her again, pulling the brush through her hair.

  “I can do it myself!” she protested, and he gave her the brush. She could still see him in the mirror. Maybe she couldn’t do it herself. Her fingers were still trembling. He was dashing in the civilian dress clothing, so lean, so dark, so fluid still in his movement. The gray, black, and red enhanced his dark good looks. The outfit might have been tailored specifically for him.

  “Give it to me!” he commanded, taking the brush back from her fingers, and making quick work with the length of her hair.

  “You’re awfully good with hair too,” Callie commented.

  “Experience,” he said briefly.

  She inhaled swiftly, nervously longing to slap him. His eyes were sharp when they met hers in the mirror. He tossed the brush back to the dresser and took her elbow. “Let’s go. We can’t keep Flannery waiting.”

  He was walking so swiftly it seemed that he dragged her along. “Slow down!” she commanded.

  “Move faster,” he replied.

  She stubbed her shoeless toe on the first step. She wasn’t accustomed to the huge hoop, and she had difficulty just managing to stay on the stairway with him.

  But Father Flannery, white haired and very grave, was awaiting them now at the foot of the stairs, a young, brown-haired girl at his side. Callie refrained from making any comments to Daniel.

  “Father, thank you for coming,” Daniel told him.

  “Weil, Colonel, I must tell you, I disapprove of this haste. I understand, however, sir, that you have been delayed by battle after battle, and so here I am. Sir, you are, I fear, at least better late than never.”

  “Right,” Daniel said briefly. “Shall we get started.” He looked at Callie. “My love?”

  “Of course. If both parties are of age and entering into this sacrament willingly?”

  Callie suddenly couldn’t speak. Daniel squeezed her fingers so hard she nearly yelped. “Yes. My love,” she squeezed out. Father Flannery turned to give them all room at the foot of the stairs. Callie stared at Daniel. “Bastard!” she hissed.

  He smiled serenely. His grip was still upon her and he pulled her close, whispering. “The bastard you are about to promise to love, honor, and obey.”

  “I don’t love you.”

  “I’m merely shooting for two out of three, and the last two will do nicely.”

  “Is there a problem?” Father Flannery demanded, turning back to them.

  “Not at all,” Daniel said. “Would you like to begin?”

  Flannery gazed at them both sternly, then sighed. “All right, then. Your name, young woman.”

  “Calliope McCauley Michaelson.”

  Daniel swung around and stared at her. Flannery began flipping the pages in his book.

  “Calliope?” Daniel whispered.

  She shrugged. “My father was very fond of the circus.”

  He was smirking. She was about to get married, and the groom was smirking.

  Flannery settled on a page in his prayer book and began to read from it. She heard the words—they seemed to drone on and on. It was a good thing that Father Flannery had never desired to make his life’s vocation drama, she determined, for she had never imagined anyone could make a wedding service more dull or dry.

  Perhaps it was her. Her fingers were ice cold. She felt numb from head to toe.

  She wasn’t sure that they could really be doing this. It was a wedding. When it was over, she would really be Daniel’s wife.

  Even so, she would know how he felt. Property. A wife was property. He would do whatever he chose. And she would, indeed, be trapped in a southern prison.

  “Callie!”

  They were all staring at her, waiting. She was supposed to speak. To give her vow. She couldn’t do it. She loved him.

  He nearly broke the bones in her fingers once again. She must have shrieked out something that sounded like “I do!,” because Flannery was droning on and on aga
in.

  Then Daniel was slipping his pinkie signet ring over her middle finger, and Flannery was pronouncing them man and wife.

  It was done. There was a flicker of fire in his eyes, and she realized that the bars had, indeed, just closed upon her own private hell.

  His lips touched hers. Briefly. He turned from her and thanked Flannery and promised that he would send support to the church as soon as he reached home. Ben managed to produce champagne, and Flannery seemed willing enough to share a glass with them. He allowed his young niece a glass, too, and then announced that the papers had to be signed. Callie found herself writing out her name, and then realized that it was different again.

  She was a Cameron.

  And theirs was, indeed, a house divided.

  She managed to write out her name. Just as she finished doing so, she heard a wailing and swung around, feeling a tingling in her breasts. Jared! Ben was bringing the baby forward. He’d been bathed and dressed in a fine bleached white cotton shirt.

  For the first time in his short little life, she had forgotten her son.

  Forgotten him for the wedding that was taking place because of him.

  “Thank you, Father Flannery,” she said hastily. Ignoring her husband of a matter of seconds, she took Jared gratefully from Ben, and ran up the stairs with him to the bedroom that had been given them.

  She closed the door and sat at the foot of the bed with the baby, struggling with the tight gown to free her breast. Once the baby was situated, she began to tremble again, thinking about what she had done.

  She had married Daniel. She was committed to him now. No, she had been committed to him since she had decided to follow him home. No, that had been a commitment to Jared.

  He had made her no promises. What would their marriage be? She had asked to be left alone. He would never leave her alone. She was property; he had said so.

  She shivered and realized she shivered because she did not know what she wanted from him. Yes, she wanted him to demand everything from her.

  But she wanted something too. His love, unconditional. The kind that would allow him to trust her.

  There was a tapping on the door. She jumped, staring at it. Daniel? Would he knock? Or would he merely burst in?