Glory (18 page)

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, she 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 ...

And no longer forced. He neither held her chin, nor her back. His lips touched hers, he cupped her breast. The knuckles of his other hand moved lightly along her body, touching low against her abdomen, her waist ...

“Bastard!” she cried, wrenching free from him, stumbling back in the water. “What are you doing? Why? How could you, when you ... when you know ...”

He stood still, narrowed eyes dispassionate, arms crossed over his chest as he studied her.

“When I know what?”

She wiped his kiss, his touch, from her lips, staring at him, shaking. She was so unnerved. So frightened. Now it wasn’t so much a matter of
what had she done!
It was a matter of
just what was she doing, oh, God!

“When you know how I feel. He is dead, dead, don’t you understand?”

“He may be dead, but you are very much alive,” he said. He took a step toward her in the water. “Whether you want to be or not. But then, just what is it? Do you somehow think that you’re supposed to want to be dead as well?”

“I am supposed to grieve. We’re all supposed to grieve!”

He nodded. “Grieve, yes. Throw ourselves on funeral pyres, no.”

“I’ve not done anything like that.”

“No, you just deny every living instinct you have.”

“I don’t. Just because I deny you—”

“It’s not a matter of denying me. But you think that you can pretend that things you’ve done aren’t real—what happens if there are consequences?”

“God damn you, nothing happened, there are no consequences!” she cried furiously. “And what are you doing here, torturing me in the water? Don’t you have wounded men to tend to somewhere?

She paused suddenly, remembering her dream of the night before. In a halting, distant voice she said, “Your cousin is coming.”

“What?” he asked, startled.

“His ship is nearly here.”

He stared at her, eyes narrowed. “How do you know? How do you even know he’s on a ship?”

“I saw it.”

“When?”

She shook her head impatiently. “In my dream. I’m telling you, your cousin is coming, and he ...”

“He what?”

“He needs help badly.”

He paused only a second longer and then moved past her. He started swimming. His strokes were hard and sure. He was an excellent swimmer. Naturally. She should have expected as much, she thought. He was like an extension of this land he loved so much. Like her, he’d grown up where the days were often long and unbearably hot, and where water could be found at ever turn.

She followed along more slowly, keenly aware of her lack of dress, of the way her cotton undergarment clung to her wet skin when she rose from the water. But he was paying her no heed. He had risen, water sluicing from him, and she found to her distress that she was watching the way his cotton long johns clung to his muscles, his thighs, and his buttocks.

They were worn long johns. Threadbare in places.

She didn’t have much time to watch. As quickly as he was out of the water, he was stepping into his trousers, slipping his shirt over his shoulders. Still barefoot, he turned back at last, reaching a hand to her to help her from the water. “I’m all right,” she protested, arms hugging her chest, but he emitted a sound of impatience and she knew that he wasn’t looking at her at all.

“I can manage—”

“Get out. You haven’t a thing to hide with which I’m not familiar.”

“You’re not at all a Southern gentleman—”

“Want to see me get worse?”

Gritting her teeth, she accepted his hand, and he drew her from the water to the shore. He plucked her black mourning gown from the ground and handed it to her. She shivered, dressing with her undergarment soaking still, then trying to draw her hose and shoes over her wet feet and legs. A soft, clean towel would have been a sweet luxury, she thought. But it wasn’t to be.

“Let’s go,” he said impatiently.

“Go where? Aren’t we at the river—”

Yes, they were, but apparently, not exactly where she had thought they were. He didn’t like giving her any more information than he had to, but since he was so anxious, he decided to explain their position. “The brook curls around this little spit of peninsular hammock. The deep water comes in around the other way.”

He caught her hand and drew her along purposefully. They came back to the area where the camp tents were pitched and passed it by. As they followed another trail, she could see sails rising high out of the water. In another few steps she saw that a ship was anchored in the river, and small boats were coming into the shore.

Julian turned to her. “You were right. He
is
here.”

Tia McKenzie stood anxiously by the water, waiting, surrounded by a number of the Florida militia men.

“You should go on alone. Your sister won’t want me assisting when you tend to your own flesh and blood,” Rhiannon protested.