Glory

by Heather Graham

  “I’m not so sure any man holds his own fate in his hands anymore,” Julian said dryly.

  “You’re missing my point, a woman’s view,” Tia said with a sigh. She wagged a finger at him. “Be careful. Don’t trust her. If he is brought here, watch her carefully with our cousin. And watch yourself. And see that she doesn’t figure out how to escape the camp and reach the Yanks.”

  “Well, with your woman’s point of view, I swear, I stand forewarned.”

  She smiled. “Make light of my words! You will rue the day if you do so!” With a toss of her head, she left him there.

  Watching her go, he smiled as well. He was grateful that she had chosen to work with him. They’d been through a great deal together.

  His smile faded, and he wondered if she was right.

  Was he thinking with the wrong part of his anatomy?

  He shook his head, feeling the soft breeze around him, the gentle caress of the night. Such a peaceful place in the middle of such a tempest. He could hear the movement of the water. Tonight he could hear, feel, and see again, so clearly. Everything.

  No. He knew what he was doing. He knew she was the enemy. He was wary, as he had warned himself before. He had never doubted her determination to remain the enemy. His enemy.

  And still ...

  He had the strangest feeling right now. He had forced her along because he had been afraid. For her.

  Tia was right in a way. Rhiannon held a fascination for him. As if she had spun delicate threads and cast a strange web. No, she had simply needed help.

  But he suddenly felt that he needed her as well. Needed her here. He had seen her work with Paddy. Few men or women had such a natural touch, knew so much about injuries and medicines.

  Was she a witch? Now, listening to the movement of the water, feeling the lulling touch of the breeze, he felt almost as if this had somehow been destined ...

  He snorted in the darkness, mocking himself. With another shake of his head, he left the peace of the cove behind him. He needed some sleep. He was back, safe, at his own camp. He could rest here tonight.

  Or could he?

  He would never sleep, he thought. Unless he had seen to her first.

  It might well be a long night.

  Chapter 9

  DIGBY WAS A NICE young man. He was obviously smitten with Rachel, and Rachel was apparently smitten in turn. So much for Union loyalty.

  But they were here, in this camp. And at the moment they had little choice but to make the best of it.

  Rhiannon thought that there weren’t more than fifty men in the company here, some of them old as the hills, some of them still boys. Some of those who had been at her home had joined Digby in attempting to make the tent provided them into a home. Grizzled old Henry Lyle had brought her a bouquet of wildflowers; Thad and Benjamin Henly, the men from Tallahassee, had brought them a small table fashioned from palm fronds; and Kyle Waverly, the man who had once been a teacher, had brought them a watercolor of the harbor at St. Augustine, a work he had done himself. It was small, set in a pine frame, and it fit on the little table. She was surprised that these men should be so courteous, but they didn’t mention what she had done. It seemed that they respected her difference of opinion.

  She did find out, however, very late that night, when she had tried to wander out, that she was under guard. Old Corporal Lyle was on duty right outside her tent.

  “Evening, Mrs. Tremaine,” he told her politely, as if there were nothing unusual in her appearing long after midnight.

  “Evening, Corporal,” she returned.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I had just wanted some air.”

  “The rain is coming soon.”

  “I had thought it would have come by now.”

  “It’s going to be one whipping wind when it comes, wet as a witch’s tit—oh, ma’am, sorry, I haven’t been around many ladies in a long time.”

  She smiled, lowering her head, wondering if he was worried about his reference to a tit—or to a witch.

  “Well, since it hasn’t started yet, I thought I’d walk a bit—”

  “I’m afraid you can’t, Mrs. Tremaine.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You needn’t be. It’s war, isn’t it?”

  She slipped back into the tent. Rachel was sound asleep in her camp bed.

  Sitting upon her own bed, Rhiannon shivered. She was tired, so tired. The best rest that she’d had in a long time was on the horse coming here when she had drifted to sleep. She rose and tore through her belongings until she found a plain cotton nightgown. With some difficulty she stripped off her black mourning gown and undergarments and slipped into the nightgown. She was more comfortable; she could sleep, she told herself, lying down.

  The wind continued to whip beyond the tent. Then, she drifted.

  She awoke, feeling as if an awful darkness surrounded her. She was shaking, trembling. Nausea gripped her. It was coming again ...

  No, she told herself.

  She lay back on her camp bed, but in a matter of seconds she felt her stomach cramping. She curled into herself, feeling wave after wave of tremors envelop her. She sat up again, clammy with sweat, despite the breeze that stirred. She sat there, gritting her teeth, wishing that she could die.

  The lights that had burned around her were gone. The rain had come, she realized, dousing the few fires that had burned. Clouds obscured the moon. The breeze continued to moan softly, like something ... someone ... just clinging to life.

  No, no, no ...

  “Rhiannon ...”

  Had she moaned aloud herself? She wondered if she imagined his voice in the darkness. No. He was there. He sat at her bedside, drawing her up and into his arms.

  “It’s all right.”

  “No!” She spoke aloud, and in the darkness she wondered if she had created him within her mind, summoning him to be with her because she hadn’t the courage to face the night alone. No ... she wasn’t dreaming anything. He had come. After the rain he had come, suspecting that she might be lying awake. In pain.

  “It’s going to be all right.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “It’s supposed to be better. You said—”

  “It is better. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “It’s so dark.”

  “It’s a dark night.”

  “Rachel—”

  “Rachel is fine. Sleeping.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “You can, you will, it is better ...”

  He held her, rocked with her. He eased her back to the bed.

  “My stomach. I’m ... going to be sick.”

  “Maybe. Try breathing deeply. Very deeply.”

  She wasn’t sick. Slowly, the churning began to settle. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. Night settled around her; the darkness became a gentle blanket; the breeze was sweet, cooling her. She closed her eyes, started to drift.

  She felt him moving. She was holding his arms, she realized. She tightened her grip. “Don’t leave me!”

  She didn’t know if she spoke the words or imagined them. He was stiff for a moment, then eased down at her side, pulling her against him. She felt the cotton of his shirt as his arms came around her. Felt his warmth, a wonderful, vital heat.

  A shiver seized her. He tightened his hold. She eased against him.

  “Remember this, Yank, come morning, when you’re eager to kick me in the head again.”

  “You just said it,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Yank. I’m a Yank, sir. And come morning, you are the enemy.

  “But it’s night now, and all cats are alike in the dark?” he murmured.

  “Am I the cat or are you?” she whispered.

  “Hard to tell at times, isn’t it?” he murmured in reply.

  She bit her lower lip. It wasn’t hard to tell at all. She was coming to know him far too well. She was coming to need him, to long to hear his voice ... />
  “There is nothing but the dark,” she said. Yet she wanted him there. And she was so afraid that he’d leave. He was her strength in the darkness, all that she had. Her fingers fell over his, and she pressed against them, as if she had the power to keep them there if he chose to leave.

  Had her guard left her? she wondered. What had Corporal Lyle thought when McKenzie had slipped into the tent, when he remained ...

  It didn’t matter. With him there she could close her eyes. It was better, as he had said. There had been those moments, really bad moments ...

  But they had come and gone. And she was closing her eyes, and drifting again, sleeping ...

  Dreaming.

  There was a ship. Tossed on the seas, swept by the rains. The river had offered a certain shelter, but even there, the spring storm had buffeted the proud vessel. She saw a face, dark against the whiteness of sheets, sleek with sweat, dark-haired, head tossing, his face, Julian’s face ...

  No, not Julian’s ...

  Lightning slashed the sky. She could see the room, a ship’s cabin. The man tried to rise from his bed; he was pressed back by the man who was tending him. His head tossed on the pillow. She saw the bandaging around his arm and saw that as he tossed, the bandage became more and more stained with the red of his blood ...

  The ship was sailing through the night.

  Coming closer, and closer.

  The man’s eyes opened; she felt as if he could see her, see her, watching him ...

  It was all just a dream.

  And the dream faded ...

  And she slept. Deeply.

  She awoke slowly to the sounds of birds chirping. Sunlight danced on motes of dust before her eyes. Warmth was pervading the tent.

  She tensed, sitting up with a start, looking to her side. She was alone in the camp bed. She looked across the tent. Rachel was gone. She was alone.

  She arose, thinking that she’d barely be able to stand. To her amazement, she felt rested, amazingly bright and well. Anxious, feeling somewhat vulnerable in the tent, she dressed quickly. Eschewing corset and pantalettes in the promised heat, she slipped into a light cotton shift and black gown, and stepped outside.

  A new man stood on guard duty, leaning on his rifle, sipping coffee. She recognized the man as one of those who had come to her house.

  “Daniel Anderson, from Jacksonville?” she asked him.

  He nodded, pleased. He lifted his cup to her. “Much obliged for the coffee, ma’am.”

  Much obliged ...

  She should have told him that Rachel and Mammy Nor were responsible for the coffee, not her. But she realized that she didn’t begrudge the man the coffee. He was enjoying it far too much.

  “Is there any more?” she inquired, looking around. The copse seemed very quiet.

  “Of course, I’ll get you some.”

  He strode just a few feet away to where a small cooking fire was dying out. He poured her a cup of coffee from the battered pot there and brought it to her. She thanked him. “Where is everyone?”

  “Why, up and about, Mrs. Tremaine, up and about.”

  “My ward, Rachel?”

  “I’m not sure, Mrs. Tremaine. She woke early and went on over to the brook. Then I think she went to sort out some things you brought in your saddlebags.”

  “Ah ... but there is a brook, you say?”

  “That way, Mrs. Tremaine.”

  She arched a brow. “Am I allowed to go that way?”

  “Why, of course, ma’am.” He hesitated, clearing his throat. “You can have it all to yourself at this time of day. It’s a nice place. The soldiers love it. Lots of trees, cool water. Soothes away a lot of the heat of war, helps a man forget that he’s fighting all the time. Mighty nice place. Too bad we can’t meet the Yanks there. Might cool everybody’s temper. Might even end the fighting for a spell.”

  “It’s that nice, is it?” she asked, finding that she had to smile. He was simply so sincere.

  “It is. And it’s all yours, ma’am. I’ll see to it.”

  “And it’s really all right that I’m entirely alone?”

  “Of course.”

  She must have looked skeptical.

  He grinned. “Unless you’re real familiar with the surroundings, ma’am, there’s that trail before us to the brook and back. On the other side, there’s nothing but pine forest, thick and dense as the night.”

  “Fine, thank you, you’ve convinced me. I’ll make my way to the brook and then, Mr. Anderson, if you will, I’ll thank you to help me find Dr. McKenzie.”

  “As you wish, ma’am.”

  She followed the trail to the brook, expecting a little sliver of water despite Anderson’s enthusiastic description. But Anderson had not exaggerated—the brook was wide, with water splashing over rocks, deep, delicious looking water. She lowered herself to the ground at the embankment, drinking, splashing her face. It was delicious, cool and crisp. It felt wonderful against her flesh.

  She hesitated. Anderson had promised that she could have the place to herself.

  The water was inviting. Crisp enough to cool tempers, so Anderson had told her.

  She unbuttoned her bodice, splashing the water against her throat. Then she grew impatient, looked around, and undid the rest of the tiny buttons. She pulled the gown over her head and stepped into the water wearing only her thin shift. She lay back, soaking herself, moving into the deeper section of the brook. She moved carefully, sidestepping rocks, then twisted, floating. She could feel the water sweep around her. It was cool, shaded by oaks that wept moss above it, creating patterns of shadow and light.

  It was wonderful. It seemed to clear her head, to wash away the trail dust that had clung to her, the clamminess that had chilled her in the night ...

  The brook leapt over rocks here and there, but appeared to be several feet deep in places. There was a stretch that seemed very deep, where she could actually swim, and that seemed to lead to a fork in the water, and onward to even deeper water. The brook, she realized, fed a river. If she kept swimming against the current, she’d reach the river. The water would indeed get deeper and deeper ...

  She lay on her back, drifting, then turned to dive deeply into the water.

  She crashed headfirst into something hard.

  A body.

  Nearly shrieking with panic, she surfaced. She faced fierce blue eyes.

  Julian.

  His hands were on her, fingers biting into her arms.

  Ah! So much for Corporal Anderson’s promise that she could have the brook to herself.

  “Just what were you doing, Mrs. Tremaine? Swimming to St. Augustine to alert the enemy to our presence here?”

  The water was about three feet deep. She could stand. The muddy bottom oozed through her toes. The meager cotton of her shift clung to her breasts. Exposed to the air, her nipples hardened. She felt as if she were naked, as if the sun were ripping right into her ...

  “Don’t be absurd!” she protested angrily, trying to wrench away. “I spent a day on the trail. I felt muddy and hot, and the water was so inviting—”

  “That you swam away from the shore. Deserting Rachel, were you? Well, that wouldn’t have mattered now, would it? You do know that she’d come to no harm here.”

  Could he be the same man who had come to her in the darkness and held her through the agonies of hell? His jaw was set in a rigid line; a pulse was ticking furiously at his throat. His eyes were colder than a winter’s frost, and his voice had a deep bite. “You can’t be serious—”

  “Dead serious. Note your position.”

  She turned. She had come far from the shore, toward a twist in the water. She was indeed heading straight into the river.

  “You must think I’m a very strong swimmer.”

  “I’d never imagined you could come so far. Then again, I should know never to underestimate you.”

  She moistened her lips, suddenly wondering if he was naked. His chest was bare. He wasn’t as gaunt as she had thought, sh
e realized. Taut muscle seemed to ripple from the surface of the water and beyond ...

  No. He was in long johns, she saw. She hadn’t been breathing. She inhaled. Exhaled. Met his eyes again.

  “You couldn’t really think that I was trying to swim to St. Augustine.”

  “God knows what you might try. But you didn’t need to swim all the way; you merely needed to reach the opposite shore.”

  “If you’re so worried about what I might try to do, why have you tried so hard to ...”

  “To what?” he inquired sharply as her voice trailed off.

  She lifted her chin. “To keep me alive.”

  He took his time answering her. She felt his eyes keenly. “I’ve seen enough shattered lives. Bullets tear holes in the flesh. Deaths tear holes in the lives of those left behind. All loss of life is a sin.”

  She forced a skeptical smile to her lips. “Ah, Colonel, how valiant! Do you use such words with all the women you meet in the course of your practice?”

  “No. Do you use a drug-induced amnesia to seduce all the men in yours?”

  Fury swept her. She stepped forward to slap him, but he had anticipated her response, and he reached for her arm, capturing her, drawing her against him hard before she could land a blow. They were both soaking wet. His chest was bare and hers was scantily covered, and as she came against him, she became very much aware of his vitality. His warmth and strength seemed to sear her. She felt his breath, his movement; she longed to stroke the flesh on his shoulders and chest.

  Richard. Except for the image of him dying, she hadn’t seen him in so long. So very long. Hadn’t touched him, been touched, felt his caress, the excitement, the love ...

  He held her harshly, impatiently. His eyes bore down into hers, a strange cobalt reflection of the water. Then his fingers were suddenly on her chin, lifting it. She felt his eyes burning into hers, coming closer and closer. She moistened her lips, anxious to twist her head, to move away. She wanted to cry out, because she knew what he was going to do.

  She didn’t twist away. He held her too tightly, she tried to tell herself.

  Not a word left her lips.

  His mouth formed over hers, hard, forceful. His tongue pressed entry between her lips, swept, tasted, ravaged with a sudden fierce hunger. His right hand was at the small of her back; she was pinned against him. His left fingers stroked her cheek, her throat, closed over her breast. His thumb rubbed her nipple over the all but sheer cotton, and the sudden streak of searing sensation that swept through her was staggering. It seemed to streak through her limbs, tear into her flesh, flood her veins, soar into an intimate center somewhere between her thighs while his mouth ... his mouth continued to move over hers, ravaging, passionate, sweeping away thought and day and sunlight. The touch was evocative, exciting ...