Authors: Heather Graham
It had been well into the day when she had known that she had succeeded, that he was going to live. He didn’t open his eyes, he didn’t speak—he gave her very little sign of life. But the awful heat began to cool, and his flesh was no longer so horribly dry to the touch. He breathed more easily. The fever was gone. He slept a sweeter sleep.
It was then that she dared to look at the man she had tended so long. From the handsome features that had so intrigued her from the beginning to the broad planes of his shoulders. His well-muscled torso and arms were taut and cleanly defined, making his skin smooth to her stroke now that the fever had broken. There was a wild profusion of dark hair upon his chest, hair as ebony as that upon his head, its course of growth just as defined as his muscle tone, swirling across his breast, than narrowing down to a fine little whorl at his navel. That fine lean line continued to his groin, where the wild nest of darkness flared deep again. Against it lay that part of him that brought a wildness to her heart, for even as he slept his maleness seemed to have a life of its own, veins pulsing vibrantly, his natural endowment both intimidating and tempting despite his restful state. She was absolutely shocked to find herself so fascinated to
touch him, and very glad then of his sleep, for she must have blushed a thousand shades of purple. Indeed, she had turned him over so as not to find such a fascination with his anatomy, but then she had discovered herself admiring his back and, worse, his buttocks. From head to toe he was excellently muscled, so taut, so trim, so sleek and beautiful, like an exceptionally fine wild animal.
He wasn’t a wild animal, she reminded herself. He was worse. He was a Rebel soldier.
But while he lay there unconscious, she needn’t think of what he was, she told herself, or why she had worked so strenuously to save him. The breeze shifted, fall had come. Though the day was gentle and cool enough, she was suddenly made aware of the scent of death that still hung heavy upon the air so near the battlefield.
She closed the window and pulled the sheets up to his waist. She closed her eyes, holding her breath while memories assailed her. Once upon a time, not so very long ago, she had been in love. And she had been loved in turn. They had both been so young, at first exchanging shy, hesitant kisses in the fields, then exploring those kisses more deeply in the dark of the barn. They’d been very proper, of course, never dreaming of discovering any more of one another until their wedding night, but then that night had come, and love itself had led the way. Their first night had been awkward, but their love had let them laugh, and in the days and nights that followed, they had learned that their laughter was but an added boon. Callie had learned to cherish her young husband’s kisses, to thrill to his touch, to awaken in his arms.
But Gregory Michaelson now lay out back, his young limbs decimated by war, his soul surely risen, but his body nothing more than food for the ever triumphant worms. When he had come home to her in a
military-issue coffin, she had been cold. Her heart had been colder than death itself, she was convinced. She would never love again, she swore it.
And she had never felt tempted to love again. No matter what soldiers came passing through, no matter what friend her brothers brought by so quickly on their few days of grace from the army, she had never known the slightest whisper of warmth to come to her heart.
Her heart had not warmed now, she assured herself.
But something else had.
Since she had first seen his face, she had found it attractive. From the first time his startling blue eyes had fallen upon hers, she had felt faint stirrings within herself. She had never felt fear that had been greater than her sense of excitement around him.
She had known, from somewhere deep within her soul, that she could not bear him to die. Not because she feared being bound to a dead man, but because it was him.
And now, in caring for him, she discovered herself ever more attracted to him. She wanted to forget the war. She wanted to go back and pretend that it had never come. She wanted him to be Gregory, and she wanted to lie down beside him and feel the warmth of his body stealing into hers, know the sweet rush of excitement that could sweep away all sense and reason.
Shivering, she stared into the pot of bubbling stew. The war had come. It was very real. The young blond Maryland farmer she had loved and married was buried in the yard, and she was a widow. A respectable, moral widow. She should be shamed by the very thoughts filling her head. Shamed by the beat of her heart. By the nervousness that shivered through her, by the recklessness that haunted all of her being.
He would leave tonight.
“That smells wonderful.”
She jumped, spinning around. He had followed her
down the stairs and stood lounging comfortably in the doorway.
He was wearing her sheet. It was stark white against the sleek bronze of his torso. His nakedness had been imposing enough while he slept. Now the taut ripples of muscle against his lean belly seemed downright decadent.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. She wanted to be righteously angry. Her voice was faltering.
He lifted his hands innocently. “What do you mean?”
“Colonel Cameron,” she said with soft dignity, her eyes narrowing warningly upon his, “you come from a good home. I do believe, sir, that you come from a landed home, that you probably went to the best schools, and that you were raised to be a gentleman. So what are you doing in my kitchen in a sheet?”
“Well now, Mrs. Michaelson,” he taunted, blue eyes flashing, “should I have dropped the sheet?”
“This from a man who lives and walks due to my mercy,” she retorted.
He shrugged, walking across the kitchen, coming uncomfortably close to stir the stew and inhale its sweet aroma. “Mrs. Michaelson, from your comments, I assumed that you found me no more threatening in any state of dress or undress than you would find a toddling lad of two. And besides, you’ve burned my uniform. A grave injustice, I daresay, but as you’ve just reminded me, I must be grateful for your mercy. So what would you have me wear?”
“I’d have you back in bed, resting, gathering your strength, so as to leave this evening,” she told him.
He smiled and went to sweep his hat from his head, then realized that he was no longer in dress of any kind. “Ah, well, the uniform can be replaced. I was quite fond of the hat. Was it necessary to burn it too?”
“Quite,” Callie said.
“A pity.”
“I think not. There are breeches and shirts in the wardrobe in my room. The fit may not be perfect, but I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Union uniforms?” he asked her.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth,” she said.
“I’m not escaping in a Union uniform, Mrs. Michaelson.”
“I’m sure that you wore blue at some point, Colonel. You mentioned that your brother was a Yankee surgeon, so I find it quite possible that you were both in the military before secession and this war of rebellion came about. It’ll not hurt you to wear blue once again.”
“I prefer the sheet, thank you.”
He stood by the pot on the stove, so intimately close to her that she felt the urge to scream. She fought for control, determined that he’d never best her. Perhaps that was part of the excitement. He made her determined to win. He challenged her on so many different levels.
She smiled sweetly, turning to stir the stew and managing to take a step farther away from him. “You plan to run through the Yankee lines in a sheet, Colonel?”
“Better a sheet than a Yankee uniform, Mrs. Michaelson.” He took the ladle from her fingers, dipped it into the stew, and tasted it. His eyes came instantly back to hers, and he arched a brow, a slow smile curling his lip. “It’s wonderful, Mrs. Michaelson. Really, Providence must have had mercy to have left me here, upon your doorstep.”
“Providence was just wonderful,” Callie muttered, snatching the ladle back from him. “Would you please go and put something on?”
He was quiet, watching her. She could feel his eyes
just like she could feel the heat of a flame when a candle was too close.
“Truly, Callie, I cannot wear a Yankee uniform. I am not a spy, and would not be caught and hanged as one, unless I were, indeed, involved in some necessary subterfuge. I don’t relish the thought of dying in battle, but in the line of one’s duty, it is, at the least, an honorable way to perish. I’d not hang unless such a death could, in truth, do justice to my cause.”
“Oh!” Callie murmured. She hadn’t been thinking. It was true. If Yankee troops caught him in his own uniform, they would call him a prisoner of war. And he might waste away in a prison camp, but unless he came upon them with his sword swinging or his guns blazing, they’d not hang him. Spies were dealt with harshly in this war. Why, in Washington, they’d even imprisoned Mrs. Rose Greenhow, a lady who had once been considered a belle of the capital’s society. There were many suggestions that even she might be executed, although Callie tried to convince herself that the poor lady would not come to such an end.
“Callie, surely you did not offer me so much mercy so very tenderly, only that I should be well when I was hanged?”
“I was never tender,” she informed him.
“So, you did intend that I should be hanged.”
“No, sir, I did not,” she said irritably. She waved the ladle at him, taking a step forward, determined that he should retreat. “Colonel—”
He took the ladle back from her. “Really, Mrs. Michaelson, I have been attacked by swords and cannons and guns, but I am weary still, and haven’t the heart to defend myself from a soup ladle!”
In exasperation she grated out a soft oath. “Colonel, surely your mama would be quite horrified to see her son in a young woman’s kitchen garbed in nothing but her sheet!”
“My mother, ma’am, was a sage and careful lady and would surely have been as matter-of-fact as you yourself have been. She would be grateful that you had saved my life, however, and I’m quite convinced that she wouldn’t even ask why I found it necessary to be clad in nothing but a sheet.”
“Colonel, I am about to throw you out in that sheet!” she warned him.
“Cast me naked to the wolves, eh?”
“You forget, I am a Yankee. Those are but the wolves I run with myself.”
“No,” he said softly, “I do not forget.”
A curious shiver swept through her as he said the words and as his gaze met hers with a startling blue sizzle. Since she was hardly a danger to him at the moment, she didn’t understand the strange dread that filled her, almost like a premonition.
She took another step away from him. “Well,” she murmured, “I cannot bring back your uniform. I did burn it. You’ll have to find something. There should be enough civilian clothing to choose from.” She stared him up and down. “My husband was not, perhaps, so tall, but …” She paused, then shrugged. “My father’s breeches might well fit you. And my brother’s shirts are in a trunk just down the hallway.”
“I take it that I am not invited to dinner unless I am decently clad?” he said. His voice was light, a tone that teased. Were he not naked, he might easily have had the manner of the Virginia gentleman he surely once had been. The effect upon her was both sweeping and alarming, for she smiled quickly, wishing he were not capable of being quite so charming.
“You most certainly are not,” she assured him.
He bowed to her in a courtly gesture. “Then I will return as decently clad as I can manage.”
He turned with his sheet trailing. She watched him
for a
moment,
then sank her teeth into her lower lip, fighting the sudden temptation to cry.
War had changed everything. It had stolen everything from her. And now it had brought the enemy to her doorstep, and even robbed her of the luxury of hating him.
She turned back to the stew, impatient with herself. While he was gone, she set the table. She had had precious little time to do much about the house while she had tended him over the last hours, but she had managed to pick up the kitchen and sweep up all the glass that had littered the living room. She wondered if she hadn’t become obsessive, or partly crazed, for it seemed to her now that it was almost ridiculously important to behave as if life and the passing days were just as normal as any others.
Of course, the days weren’t normal at all. Union soldiers had passed by this afternoon, still trying to collect all of the dead from the battlefield. A sergeant to whom she had nervously offered a dipper of cold water that afternoon had been near parchment-white when he had stumbled onto the porch. Before realizing that he was speaking to a young lady—and that manners dictated he take grave care to make his words delicate—he had told her about a trench the Rebels had been holding, and how, at the end, a New York regiment had broken their hold on it, and shot down the Rebs until they were piled two and three deep in death.
The gulley was now called “Blood Alley.”
Fifty thousand men had perished in the one battle. More blood had been spilled here in one day than in any other battle of the war thus far.
No, life was not normal today. Not while soldiers still prowled fields where the corn had been mown down to the ground by bullets, and the blood of two great armies was still damp upon the ground.
Not normal at all. Out of twenty chickens, three remained
out by the barn. Two of her goats were dead, three had just disappeared. For some miraculous reason, her horse had been spared both injury and theft, but her milk cow was long, long gone, along with numerous sacks of wheat. The garden had been trampled down to nearly nothing. Indeed, war had changed everything.
But there were certain things that she could do, she determined, and so she set the table as if she were sitting down to any meal with her family. She lit candles on the table and used the good English dishes and her mother’s fine silver, and the Irish white linen tablecloth and napkins. She dug deep into the cellar to find a bottle of vintage wine, and she was just pouring it into her best crystal wine glasses when Colonel Daniel Cameron, C.S.A., made his appearance downstairs once again.