Read And One Wore Gray Online

Authors: Heather Graham

And One Wore Gray

“WE CANNOT DO BATTLE.”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Michaelson. I’m afraid that we must. You are one Yankee to best me beyond a doubt, for I could not leave this room were I threatened with Hell’s damnation itself!”

Flashes of desire, like melting stars in the sky, caught fire and danced all through her.

“Callie!”

Her name on his lips was a caress. He stood above her once again, and still he had not touched her.

“Think!” she charged herself to say once again. “I am the enemy! Vile, fearsome—”

“Never, never vile!”

She wanted him. Wanted him to come closer. And touch her.

“Really. You have to go,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, and made no attempt to leave.

Just when she thought she would scream with the waiting, with the anguish, with the denial, with the desire, she felt his lips at the back of her neck….

AND ONE WORE GRAY

CRITICAL RAVES FOR
HEATHER GRAHAM

ONE WORE BLUE

“A stunning achievement … Heather Graham does for Harpers Ferry what Margaret Mitchell did for Atlanta. Without losing an ounce of sizzling sexual tension or intense emotions, or one moment of romance, this author brilliantly entwines historical details within the framework of a glorious love story.”

—Romantic Times

“Ms. Graham fills this book with deep emotions and excellent characters that bury themselves so deeply in our hearts we’ll remember them always.”

—Rendezvous

“Graham paints a vivid and detailed picture … she is an incredible storyteller, a weaver of words.”

—Los Angeles Times

“A FIVE-STAR RATING! … A well-written plot, excellent characters and scenes … Graham creates a vivid tapestry with her words.”

—Affaire de Coeur

THE VIKING’S WOMAN

“Heather Graham is a writer of incredible talent. Once again, she brings to life a sometimes violent but always intriguing era of romance and adventure.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Passionate love scenes, action and intrigue combine to make a fast-paced, well-developed story which artfully blends historical fact with romantic fiction.”

—Rendezvous

SWEET SAVAGE EDEN

“SWEET SAVAGE EDEN
IS A KEEPER! An engrossing, highly sensual nonstop read. You’ll be captivated by the engaging characters and the fascinating portrait of early colonial life. Heather Graham never disappoints her readers. She delivers high quality historical romance with three-dimensional characters and a sizzling love story that touches the heart.”

—Romantic Times

A PIRATE’S PLEASURE

“The sexual tension in
A Pirate’s Pleasure
sizzles like the hottest summer sun. Heather Graham’s sense of humor sparkles throughout this delightful and well-researched tale … just one more shining example of why Ms. Graham is a best-selling author. She continually gives us hours of reading pleasure.”

—Romantic Times

LOVE NOT A REBEL

“A very, very hot, fast-paced, ‘battle of wills’ love story that is guaranteed to thrill Heather Graham’s legion of fans … enough historical details, colorful escapades, biting repartee, and steamy sexual tension to keep you glued to the pages.”


Romantic Times

DEVIL’S MISTRESS

“The familiar and charged role of the unwilling bride showcases Graham’s talents for characterization and romantic tension.”


Daily News
(New York)

“This book may become a minor classic.”

—Romantic Times

“One of the most exciting romances ever read.”

—Romance Readers Quarterly

Dell Books by Heather Graham

SWEET SAVAGE EDEN
A PIRATE’S PLEASURE
LOVE NOT A REBEL
DEVIL’S MISTRESS
EVERY TIME I LOVE YOU
GOLDEN SURRENDER
THE VIKING’S WOMAN
ONE WORE BLUE
AND ONE WORE GRAY
AND ONE RODE WEST
LORD OF THE WOLVES
SPIRIT OF THE SEASON
RUNAWAY

Dedication

As this is a sequel, I would like to dedicate it to those same people who were so helpful and kind when I began my imaginings for
One Wore Blue
—Mr. and Mrs. Stan Haddan, Shirley Dougherty, Dixie, and the many wonderful people of Harpers Ferry and Bolivar, West Virginia. Also, the National Park Service guides who have been so helpful over the years, very especially those at Gettysburg, Harpers Ferry, and Sharpsburg.

As this April marks my tenth anniversary with Dell Publishing, I would also like to dedicate this book to some of the very wonderful people there—to my editor, Damans Rowland, who is simply wonderful in all things. To Carole Baron, for being both an incredible businesswoman and a more incredible human being. To Leslie, Tina, Jackie, and Monica, and to extraordinary art and marketing departments. To Barry Porter—who will always be “Mr. Romance.” To Michael Terry and Reid Boyd—for having been there the longest! To Sally and Marty, thank you—actually, Toto, that was Kansas!

And very especially to Mr. Roy Carpenter, for being such a wonderful salesman, and fine gentleman.

And last, but never, never least! To Kathryn Falk on the tenth anniversary of
Romantic Times
! Congratulations, and thank you, thank you, to Kathryn, Melinda, Kathe, Mark, Michael, Carol, and everyone at R.T.

————  
Prologue
  ————

CALLIE

July 4, 1863
Near Sharpsburg
Maryland

Beneath the light of a lowering sun, sometimes brilliant and sometimes soft, the woman at the well beside the whitewashed farm house seemed like a breath of beauty. Her hair, a deep rich auburn, caught the light. At times it shimmered a russet, and at times it was softer, deeper, like the warm sable coloring of a mink. It was long and free, and cascaded around her shoulders like a fall, framing a face of near perfect loveliness with its wide-set gray eyes, fine high cheekbones, and full, beautifully shaped mouth. A hint of sorrow touched the curve of her lip, and rose to haunt her eyes, but that very sorrow seemed to add to her beauty. Against the ending light of the day, she was a reminder of all things that had once been fine and beautiful, just like an angel, a small glimpse of heaven.

She stood there clean and fragrant, and though simply dressed, she seemed an incongruous bit of elegance as she watched and waited while they came.

And come, they did. Endlessly.

Like a long slow, undulating snake, they came,
hundreds of men, thousands of men, the butternut and gray of their tattered uniforms as dismal as the terrible miasma of defeat that seemed to hover about them. They came on horses, and they came on foot. They came with their endless wagon train that stretched, one weary soldier had told Callie, for nigh onto seventeen miles.

They were the enemy.

But that mattered little as she watched these men now, for she was surely in no danger from them.

There was only one rebel who could frighten her, she thought fleetingly. Frighten her, excite her, and tear at her heart. That rebel would not be passing by. He could not be passing by now, for he had not fought in the battle. The war had ended for him. He awaited its conclusion behind the walls and bars of Old Capitol Prison.

If he were free, she thought, she would not be standing here, by the well, watching this dreadful retreat. If there had been any chance of his being among these wretches, she would have run far away long before now. She would have never dared to stay here, offering cool sips of water to his defeated countrymen.

He would no longer be the enemy just because he wore a different color. He would be the enemy because he would seek her out with cold fury, with a vengeance that had had endless nights to simmer and brew in the depths of his heart.

It was her fault that he lived within those walls and behind those bars and fences while his beloved South faced this defeat.

If he were free, it would not matter if she tried to run or hide. He had told her he would come for her and that there would be nowhere for her to run.

She shivered fiercely, her fingers tightening around the ladle she dipped into the deep bucket of sweet cool
well water for each of the poor wretches who strayed from the great wagon train to come her way.

He had sworn that he would come back for her. She could still hear his voice, hear the deep, shattering fury in what he thought had been her betrayal.

Even if these men marching by were the enemy, they brought nothing but pity to her heart. Their faces, young and old, handsome and homely, grimed with sweat and mud and blood, bore signs of exhaustion that went far beyond anything physical. Their anguish and misery showed in their eyes, which were like the mirrors of their souls.

They were retreating.

It was summer, and summer rain had come, turning the rich and fertile earth to mud. By afternoon, the summer heat had lessened, a gentle breeze was stirring, and it seemed absurd that these ragged and torn men, limping, clinging to one another, bandaged, bruised, bloody and broken, could walk over earth so beautiful and green and splendid in its cloak of summer.

The great winding snakelike wagon train itself had not come close to Callie’s farmhouse. Stragglers wandered by. Infantry troops, mostly.

It was the Fourth of July, and on this particular Fourth of July, the citizens of the North were at long last jubilant. Over the last few days, around a sleepy little Pennsylvania town called Gettysburg, the Union forces had finally managed to give the Confederates a fair licking. Indeed, the great and invincible General Robert E. Lee, the Southern commander who had earned a place in legend by running the Union troops into the ground in such cities as Chancellorsville and Fredericksburg and numerous others, had invaded the North.

And he had been thrust back.

“It were over shoes, mum,” a Tennessee fellow had told her, gratefully accepting the cool dipper of water.
He was a man of medium height and medium weight with thick dark hair on his head and a full, overgrown beard and mustache. He wasn’t wearing much of a uniform, just worn mustard-colored trousers and a bleached cotton shirt. His bedroll and few belongings were tied around his chest, his worn hat sported several bullet holes. “We were on our way to attack Harrisburg, but we needed shoes. Someone said there were shoes aplenty in Gettysburg, and first thing you know, on the first of July, there’s a skirmish. Strange. Then all the southern forces were moving in from the North, and all the northern forces were moving in from the South. And by nightfall on the third of July …” His voice trailed away. “I ain’t never seen so many dead men. Never.” He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into the bottom of the ladle, and his gaze seemed hopeless.

“Maybe it means that the war will be over soon,” Callie said softly.

He looked up at her again. Reaching out suddenly, he touched a stray wisp of her hair. She jumped back and he quickly apologized. “Sorry, ma’am. You standing here being so kind and all, I don’t mean no disrespect. It’s just that you’re nigh onto one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and it’s just making me think awfully hard of home. Your hair’s just as soft as silk. Your face is an angel’s. And it’s just been so long … well, thank you, ma’am. I’ve got to keep on moving. Maybe I will get home soon enough.” He handed her the dipper and started walking again. He paused and looked back. “I don’t expect the war will be over any too soon. Your general in charge—Meade is his name these days, I think—he should have followed after us. He should have come now, while we’re hurt and wounded. Even an old wolf knows to go after a lame deer. But Meade ain’t following. Give our General Bobby Lee a chance, and he runs with it. No, the
war ain’t going to end too soon. You take care, ma’am. You take great care.”

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