Glory

by Heather Graham

  He was right. As one of the few militia units left to attempt guarding the state, they had started off in Florida colors of their own making. Time had worn away any attempt at uniforms. Mostly in the heat of summer, they wore cotton shirts and breeches, threadbare at that, and whatever footwear they could get their hands on.

  “We’ll move in. I’ll talk when necessary,” Julian told them. He nudged his horse forward.

  They rode down the overgrown trail to the house. There, Julian dismounted, pulling the Colt he carried before hefting Paddy’s unconscious body from the haunches of his horse to his shoulder. He motioned for Jim, the Henlys, and the Andersons to circle around the back of the house and for the other men to follow him. Carefully, he walked up the steps to the broad porch. A swing sat upon it, caught by the breeze, and it was easy to imagine better times, when moonlight had played down upon the nearby magnolias, casting a glow upon the dripping moss while soft breezes whispered by. The swing still moved gently in the breeze, but the foliage was overgrown and the columns were linked by spiderwebs.

  He strode across the porch to the door, anxious to work on Paddy’s injured thigh. To his surprise, the double mahogany doors at the entrance were locked. He backed away, then threw his shoulder against the left door. The wood shuddered. He kicked the door, and the wood splintered at the lock. A second kick opened the door, and he stepped into the entry.

  To his astonishment, candles gleamed from polished tables in an elegant breezeway.

  Like many an old plantation home, the house was symmetrical, with wings expanding off a large central main hall. As Julian stepped in, his Colt at the ready, Paddy over his shoulder, he came to a dead halt, surveying the place warily. The hardwood floor gleamed. Richly upholstered chairs were angled against the wall, along with a hall tree and occasional tables and two tall cherrywood hutches, all polished to a fine gleam. An Oriental runner lay in the center of the breezeway flooring, the midnight blue within the design matched by the carpeting up the staircase that led to the second floor.

  A woman stood upon the stairway.

  She was dressed in black—mourning black. She stood so still, unruffled and elegant, that she might have been a witch, a very striking witch. She was tall, very straight, dignified—hauntingly beautiful. Despite the somber apparel her lithe—yet richly curved figure—seemed all the more enhanced. Her hair, wrapped in a chignon at her nape, was an even deeper shade than the ebony of her gown, shining almost blue-black in the glow of candlelight and kerosene lamps. Her complexion was pure ivory; her features were classic. She stared down at him with bright vivid green eyes.

  How long they stared he did not know. He forgot time and place, and even the two-hundred pound man he carried over his shoulder. When he spoke at last, he managed only an acknowledgment that she was there.

  “Madam.”

  “Sir,” she said, and her lip curled with cool contempt as she evenly suggested, “you might have knocked.”

  He had been raised in polite Southern society, and though he had spent several years under terrible circumstances, he felt his cheeks redden beneath her disdainful scrutiny.

  “Sir?”

  He heard Liam behind him, and he gave himself a mental shake, breaking the strange spell she had cast upon him. No spell, he told himself. He had simply been taken by surprise.

  “My apologies, madam. You will excuse us. My—my friend here needs care, and we thought your place empty.”

  She arched a brow, looking at the human burden he carried. For a moment some dark emotion touched her eyes and passed through her face, but it was a fleeting shadow and it was quickly gone.

  “My house is not empty, as you can see.”

  “Then, madam, we need your hospitality.”

  “For a drunkard?” she inquired quietly.

  Julian gritted his teeth together. “No, madam, he is injured.” He lost patience. “Ma’am, I’m afraid you can offer hospitality, or we simply must take it.”

  “And what else will you take?” she asked wryly. “The cattle are gone, as are the cotton and other livestock. And the silver.”

  “Ma’am!” Kyle Waverly stepped into the hallway to Julian’s side. “We’re on our way to join up at St. Augustine. Paddy here shot himself cleaning his rifle. Dumber than hell, but he’s a dear fellow, I swear it, and Julian—he’s a doctor—is just trying to save his life. Please.”

  “Rhiannon! It’s all right—they are Yanks!” someone whispered.

  Julian looked upward along the stairway. At the second-floor landing stood a second woman, this one a few years younger than their elegant hostess, perhaps sixteen or so to Rhiannon’s twenty ... plus? Yes, he judged, their unwilling hostess had to be in her early twenties. She was composed, regal, and serene.

  Rhiannon. Something stirred in Julian’s memory from ancient tales of Britain. Rhiannon ... it was Welsh in origin, a masculine name when given to several princes of the old realm, feminine when it was given to a beautiful sea witch from folklore. It somehow seemed fitting for their unwilling hostess.

  “My friend is bleeding on your very handsome runner, ma’am,” he said pointedly. “I need somewhere to tend to him.”

  “There’s a downstairs bedroom; you needn’t bring him up,” the woman, Rhiannon, said, and at last she moved, gliding down the steps with smooth elegance.

  She noted Kyle, River Montdale, and Liam all standing behind Julian and his burden and nodded to them in acknowledgment. Then she swept by Julian, heading down the hallway and leaving behind a soft, subtle scent of roses. He followed her, glancing back to see that the girl who had stood on the second floor was hurrying along behind them as well. “Thank God you’re Yanks!” she said anxiously. “My Lord, I’ve been so frightened. There are so many desperate folk here, you know. People who think Richard deserved to die, fighting for the North, when he was just doing what he saw as right. And have you heard what some of the Reb soldiers do to Yank women when they find them alone? Why, sirs, it’s just terrifying!”

  “Rachel!” the older woman snapped. She spun around and stared at the young girl, her eyes as sharp as saber points.

  “But, Rhiannon—”

  “Rachel, go to the kitchen and start some water boiling,” Rhiannon said firmly. She met Julian’s eyes, aware that he was watching her.

  “I’ll get the water. And don’t worry, Rhiannon knows more about medicine than most doctors. Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to offend you, sir; I’m certain you’re a very good doctor, but—”

  She broke off. Rhiannon was staring at her again, and she exhaled guiltily. “I’ll get the water.”

  Rhiannon took a lamp from a table and opened the last door on the right side of the great hallway. They entered a sparsely furnished but impeccably clean bedroom. The bed was covered with a quilt, which she quickly stripped away, baring clean white sheets.

  Julian slid Paddy from his shoulder to the bed and tossed off his plumed hat. Paddy remained unconscious, and Julian quickly assured himself that his friend retained breath and a pulse.

  “Liam, my bag,” he called. “And quickly, scissors, we’ve got to get—”

  He started to turn, ready for one of the men to assist. But she was there, scissors in her hand, ready to cut away the makeshift bandaging Julian had managed before they had been forced to flee.

  He didn’t know what her training was or where her knowledge and experience came from, but the younger girl, Rachel, was right—she was certainly competent, more so than some doctors Julian had had the ill fortune to work with. She didn’t blink or blanch at the horrible sight of poor Paddy’s ravaged leg; she quickly cut away the bandaging and the remnants of Paddy’s pants. Before she was done, Rachel returned with steaming water, excusing herself as she made her way through the rest of the men who milled awkwardly in the doorway.

  “Men, see to the horses and our situation here,” Julian said, watching the top of Rhiannon’s dark head as she finished her task. “How many others are in the house—or on the propert
y?” he asked her.

  She looked up at him, her green eyes unfathomable. “Mammy Nor and Angus, that’s all,” she said.

  “And they are ... ?”

  “Our servants,” she said simply, looking back to Paddy.

  Servants, Julian thought. She didn’t say darkees, Negroes, or slaves. Servants. It was definitely a Yank household. He should know. Florida was a sadly split state. The third to secede from the Union, she was still peopled by many who were loyal to the old government. His father was one; his brother was another. They had many Negroes working at Cimarron, his family’s plantation outside Tampa. But they weren’t slaves; they too were servants. Free men and women, paid for their labor. His father had always been adamantly antislavery. Julian didn’t believe in the institution of slavery himself—it didn’t seem possible that a human being, with a soul, could belong to another—but he was also aware that an entire economy was based upon slave labor. Of course, the matter of economy didn’t make the institution of slavery right, but suddenly freeing men and women to starve didn’t seem the right answer either.

  “Sir!” Liam said, returning, setting Julian’s surgical bag on the bedside table.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, opening his bag, then turning to tend to the washing of Paddy’s wound.

  But Rhiannon was busy already. “Soldier,” she told Liam, “take his shoes and hose. I’ll tend to the cleaning.”

  Liam did as told, and with the younger girl at her side, Rhiannon began cleaning the wound. Julian hadn’t managed to get the bullet as yet; he hadn’t dared withdraw the Minié ball without first being certain he wouldn’t start a hemorrhage. Better to leave it than cause Paddy to bleed to death as they escaped.

  But now ...

  He turned with his forceps to see that she had bathed the wound and doused it liberally with the contents of a bottle of whiskey. He stared at her, arching a brow. “Keeps infections at bay,” she said.

  “I know,” he murmured wryly.

  She was staring at his medical bag, seeing how devoid it was of critical supplies.

  But he had sutures—made of horse hair these days but very serviceable nonetheless. And his bullet extractors were fine—a gift from his father when he had graduated from medical school. He found his best position and carefully felt the wound with his fingers, seeking the blood vessels to assure himself that removing the bullet wouldn’t cause greater harm. He found where the bullet lay.

  She was at his side, soaking up blood the moment it obscured his field of vision.

  He found the bullet. Within a matter of minutes he had it removed, thankfully without damaging any major blood vessels. Paddy was a fierce old coot of an Irishman—he’d not want to lose a leg.

  Julian threaded his surgical needle, noting while he did so that she was using her whiskey to cleanse the wound once again. He set to his task of sewing torn flesh. As he did so, Paddy began to come to, swearing and moaning, even those sounds accented by his native land. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, Colonel, but it hurts like all that’s blessed—”

  “Sip some of this,” Rhiannon said, bringing the whiskey bottle around to Paddy’s head. “It won’t hurt so bad.”

  “Ah, but you’re an angel, lass, a true angel,” Paddy said. He gulped down the whiskey, staring at her. “Not that I know who in the world ye are ... Lord! Colonel!” he shrieked, swigging hard from the bottle once again. “Will I lose me leg, Colonel?” Paddy demanded.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Julian said.

  “Bless you.”

  “But I can make no guarantees,” he warned quietly. Wounds like this were never good. When infection set in, it was usually lose the limb or lose the life.

  And sometimes it was both.

  “Bless you, but it hurts ...” Paddy said.

  “Drink more,” Rhiannon said, watching Paddy. She was almost smiling, and with the softness touching her features, she was even more stunning. “Later, I’ve laudanum—”

  “Laudanum?” Julian said, staring at her. It was a supply he was sadly lacking.

  “I grow poppies,” she said.

  “Who is this angel, Colonel?” Paddy demanded.

  “A kindly Yankee widow who has taken pity on our small band of recruits,” Julian said firmly, wishing Paddy had remained unconscious.

  But Paddy was no fool. “Ah, and grateful we are, ma’am,” he said passionately. “Still, have you a name, angel?”

  “Rhiannon,” Julian said, snapping his suture with his teeth, and staring across the bed at her.

  “Angel!” Rachel suddenly piped in from behind her. “That’s nice. They’ve been prone to call her a witch hereabouts!”

  “Rachel,” Rhiannon murmured.

  “Witch?” Julian inquired politely, hiding a smile.

  She shrugged. “I told you, I grow poppies and other medicinal plants. To some that makes me a witch.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  “Angel,” Paddy protested.

  “It’s all in the eyes of the beholder, isn’t it?” Julian queried lightly.

  She didn’t reply. She smoothed Paddy’s forehead, then took the basin of bloodied water and left the room, Rachel at her heels.

  “You’re sewn, Paddy, but you lost a lot of blood, and you’re very weak.”

  “I’ll make it, Colonel. You got me here, you patched me up. I’ll make it,” Paddy said cheerfully. Then he winced and sucked on the whiskey bottle once again. “An angel. Must be an Irish angel—she’s an angel with whiskey!”

  “Get some rest,” Julian said, patting his shoulder. “We’ll stay until daybreak. Then, I’m afraid, we’ll have to get on the road again. There’s no help for it, Paddy. We’re cut off from the rest of our own troops.”

  “The lady thinks we’re Yanks?”

  “An expedient lie Kyle told,” Julian said briefly.

  “Ah, then. I’ll get some rest and not be such a burden when we ride come the daylight,” Paddy said.

  Julian patted his shoulder.

  “I’ll stay with him,” Liam offered.

  Julian nodded, retrieved his hat, and exited the room. He could hear conversation and followed the sound of it. Corporal Lyle and Keith and Daniel Anderson were seated at the dining room table, eating bread, cheese, and cold meat. Lyle saw him and quickly stood. “Sir! Jim, Kyle, Thad, River, and Ben are on guard. They’ve eaten, so now these boys and I are—”

  “Having some supper, of course,” Julian said. The meat was cold, but the smell of it was still tantalizing. He sliced a piece; it was smoked beef. Delicious. He sliced another, wolfing it down. He looked up.

  Rhiannon stood in the hallway, looking in. He felt the atrociousness of his manners, then felt anger, because she couldn’t possibly understand what it was to fight and never having enough to eat.

  He cut off another piece of meat, knowing she was watching him. He wolfed it down as well. “Ma’am,” he said, “we do thank you for your hospitality.”

  She turned away, starting down the hall. He got up and followed her, but she had disappeared. He walked along the great hall and discovered that she had stepped out the breezeway door to the porch beyond. She stood with her back to him, beneath the moonlight, and he was taken again with her grace, her serenity—and her chilly disdain for her uninvited company.

  She didn’t turn around.

  “What is it—Colonel?” she demanded, her back to him.

  “We do thank you for your hospitality.”

  She still didn’t turn, and so he walked around her until he faced her.

  She stared at him, rebellion flaring in her eyes. Then she smiled coolly. “Colonel, sir,” she said, and the words had never sounded so mocking, “don’t you recall informing me that if I didn’t offer my hospitality, you would simply take it?”

  “All for the war effort,” he replied smoothly.

  She studied him, her mocking smile deepening. “Ah! Yes, all for the war effort.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m assuming you lost your—father? Husb
and?” he said, indicating her attire.

  “Husband.”

  “Where?”

  “Antietam.”

  “Last year ... I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, so am I.”

  “Were you ...” he began, then paused, wondering why he was questioning her. “War is brutal on us all. Were you able to see him before he died?”

  “No, I—” she hesitated, biting her lower lip, obviously in pain. Then she shook her head, and her guard slipped just a little. “No, I hadn’t seen him in months. Not until ...”

  “Until?”

  “Until he died.” She said it strangely. As if she had seen him slaughtered on the battlefield.

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “Yes, you’ve said so, I’m sure you are. Now, is there anything else you want to know, Colonel?” she demanded.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, irritated that she was so impatient to dismiss him. He was suddenly very aware that he was unshaven and covered in dust and blood and mud. He was a tall man, broad shouldered and powerfully built, if a little underfed.

  Well, it was war, not a social, and she was a widow. A Yankee widow who he was certain would happily slice his throat if she knew he was a Reb. Yet she was very beautiful. And her scent was sweet. For the life of him, he could not help but be attracted and aroused.

  Then he recalled, once upon a time, he had received a proper Southern upbringing.

  He bowed deeply to her. “No, ma’am, I did not intend to waylay you.”

  “Then,” she said politely, “I will not allow you to do so.”

  She stepped by him, and as she did so, he turned, his eyes following her. “Actually,” he said firmly, “I would like to know about your garden.”

  She paused, shoulders squaring. For a moment she refused to face him again. Then she turned and asked pleasantly, “And why is that?”