Glory (37 page)

After a few minutes, she felt his knuckles brushing lightly over her cheek. “Well worth any risk,” he whispered. Then he shifted slightly, pulling the drapery behind the bed, looking out at the night, or the coming dawn—she didn’t know which, she had no idea of the time. Then she felt his eyes on her.

“Is the child mine?” he asked her.

“The child ...” she murmured. She didn’t know why his question put such unease into her. “I ... but I told you—”

“The child, Rhiannon. It must be mine.”

“Yes—” she began, and broke off. Of course. He had seen Ian. Ian had arranged her housing. Ian was outside somewhere now. They might be at war, but Julian was his brother.

“I didn’t think that your brother would see you again for some time,” she said tautly. She gazed back at him, her anger growing. “Worth any risk, sir? Is your brother waiting at the door?”

“He would never be so rude.”

“But he’s near?”

“Yes.”

She tried to twist away from him. “Julian, damn you—”

He straddled her, catching her wrists. “Ah, music to my ears! Say it again.”

“Damn you, Julian, let me up—”

“No.” His eyes seemed to invade her very soul again. “Not yet.”

“Julian ...”

This time his kiss was slow. As if he tasted every fragment of her being. And when he had finished with her lips, she was filled with slow, sweet-burning fire again, and with a hunger that grew more voracious again with each passing second. She needed to touch him, kiss him, feel him. Her lips found his shoulders, his chest. Her fingers caressed the muscle that jerked and trembled beneath them. She moved against him, the length of her hair winding around the sleek dampness of his flesh. She grew desperate, suddenly more aware than he that time was slipping away.

She touched him, caressed him, made love to him. Most intimately took him into her mouth. The world seemed to spin to an ever more blissful rhythm as his hoarse whispers filled her ears, as passion seized him and he swept her hard beneath him, into his heated embrace. They seemed to dance. She felt his every movement, the searing warmth of his sleek, damp body, the force of his rhythm ... and she felt she touched the sky, and she wished that she could stay in his arms.

She felt the massive tension in his body, the shuddering that swept him as he climaxed, and then the simple wonder of being in his arms as they drifted down.

Yet not sweet. For he was instantly up, and looking out the curtains once again.

She reached for the sheets, hugging them. “You’re—you’re not going to try to escape?” she asked.

He looked at her, shook his head as he stumbled into his clothing. “I gave my word,” he said simply. Then dressed, he came back to her side.

“You are going to have a child—and it is mine?” he asked, gently lifting her chin.

“Yes.”

“Take care of the babe, and yourself. Get off the battlefield.”

“But—”

“Work in Washington if you must. But get off the battlefield.”

“Julian—”

He kissed her lips lightly. “Until we meet again.”

“You’re a prisoner, Julian—”

“In more ways than you know, my love. But I will not remain so long. That I promise you.” His lips touched hers briefly once again. Then he was gone.

A
S THE NEWS CAME
in about the terrible clash of arms at Gettysburg, Brent couldn’t help but feel the weight of resentment. Men were dying. Men had been left behind. The injured died on the field for lack of help, they died in the ambulances on the march home, they suffered in anguish, and they died.

But here he was ... With the ladies.

He sat at his desk, late, reading the dispatches that had come in from the front. With every word, he felt more powerless, more pained. So many dead. But the war would go on. The Union general, Meade, had not pursued Lee. Lee was deeply distraught, ready to resign his position. He accepted the blame for what had happened, yet he had once again made good an escape with the bulk of his army. Lee was revered; he had held together an army and found victories where few men could. Brent was certain that they would not let Lee go until the bitter end.

“Doctor!”

He looked up. Letty Canby, a pretty young woman of about twenty, stood in the doorway. Letty had come here suffering from something as simple as crabs. She was round, cheerful, and big breasted. She was very popular with the men, even those who were already suffering from their affairs with the ladies of the night.

“Hello, Letty, what is it? It’s very late.”

“I know that, and I see you in here working, and so very sad!”

She walked into his hospital office and perched on the corner of his desk. She never bothered with a corset or petticoats, or any piece of feminine apparel that might detract from her natural assets. She had a tiny waist and flaring hips.

“Now, you’re almost smiling!” she told him happily.

“Letty, I have to admit, I was thinking that you’ve the perfect personality for your chosen profession.”

She pouted, looking at him. “What does that mean?”

He shook his head. “No insult intended, Letty. You’re a sweet girl, full of fun and life. I’m just sorry that your chosen vocation is eventually going to hurt you.”

Letty tossed her head. “Dr. McKenzie, I was making a fortune in this war. Working for the Union soldiers first.” She grinned. “They have this general, General Hooker. And he was so fond of procuring female entertainment for himself and his men that they began to call us ‘Hooker’s girls.’ He had good wine, champagne, silk stockings from Paris! I was doing well ...”

“And then?”

She frowned. “Well, I had this ridiculous rush of patriotism sweep through me! I had to come home.”

“Where was home?”

“Richmond. Before the war it was a decent place for a young woman to work. A good clientele, men into Virginia politics, you know. Rich fellows with big plantations, lots of slaves—and sometimes, fat, sassy wives who didn’t know how to lose their pantalettes! I do declare, the things they will teach women ... anyway, it makes for good business for an enterprising soul such as myself.”

Brent leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head, smiling. “So you decided to ply your trade patriotically.”

She nodded. “It was wonderful for a while. I have this special for Southern soldiers. I call it the Rebel Yell.”

“Clever.”

“Want to find out how clever?” she asked coyly.

“Thanks, Letty, but—”

“For free, of course, Dr. McKenzie. You’ve done so much for all of us here ... oh, and I admit, it’s not all that often we get a chance at a fellow like you these days ...”

“Thank you, Letty. That’s quite a compliment. But you’re my patient.”

“I can be much more.”

“Letty—”

She giggled. “You won’t catch anything. I’m clean now. And besides, you’ve taught us all about those little French hat things.” Letty made a face. “We can use a condom.”

“Letty, you’re my patient, I’m your doctor.”

“And you really want to go back to the war, right?” she asked sadly.

He nodded. “Yeah, I guess I do, Letty. So many men were wounded at Gettysburg.”

“Dr. McKenzie!”

As his name was called from the doorway, Brent looked up. Mary stood there. It amazed him that she could always appear so fresh, young, and both competent and innocent.

Since he had come, she had been his mainstay, more than the orderlies, more than any of the other religious and moralistic matrons who had come here to help these misbegotten creatures who were still God’s children. She was an excellent nurse, careful of her patients and herself. When he was working with patients, she followed him, anticipating his needs, keeping records for him, excellent records. “Oh, yes, some of us do read and write!” she had told him when she had first offered him her assistance. His temptation had been to turn her down. But she lived at the hospital because of Captain Henderson. She was there, she was convenient. And the more she worked with him, the more he came to depend on her. He was too harsh with her, he knew.

But he felt that she was throwing away her life, that she had already thrown away her life. And it was just such a terrible waste. She was so young, startlingly beautiful, intelligent, compassionate ... and of course, totally foolish.

“What is it, Mary?”

“If you could come with me ... I think it’s the end.”

He stood quickly. Her devotion to Captain Henderson had been perplexing, but he had grudgingly begun to understand it. Henderson had been a good man, a hero to his men. He had never asked a soldier to charge into battle before him; when danger threatened, he had been at the lead. He had known every man by name, written every widow personally, supplied every need he could from his personal fortune. Men had followed him out of respect, not out of fear. He had heard more and more about the fellow daily from others being treated here, but no one ever mentioned his relationship with Mary.

He rose. “Excuse me, Letty.”

“Sure. Mary, I’m so sorry,” Letty said. “Hey, Dr. McKenzie, you keep thinking about my offer.”

“All right, Letty.”

He felt Mary’s gray eyes touch on him briefly, and he thought he heard a little sniff of disdain. “Offer, sir?” she murmured as they walked along the hall.

He glanced at Mary, surprised at her interest. She had helped him, but she had kept a rigid distance from him. She had refused to become his patient, even when he had explained her chances of having contacted disease. “Letty can’t imagine that any red-blooded male could refuse her, no matter what the risks.”

“Ah, and yet ... you can refuse her?”

He glanced at her. “She’s my patient.”

“But I’m not. Could you refuse me?” she inquired.

Brent hesitated, staring at her, surprised at the way his body constricted, at the sudden thickness in his throat. “I intend to survive the war,” he told her.

She smiled. “Don’t worry. You won’t hurt my feelings. I wasn’t offering. I just wondered if you were really righteous enough to turn down all offers.”

He stopped dead in the hallway, spinning her around so that she was forced to face him. “I don’t understand you, Mary. You have everything. Beauty, youth, and intelligence. And you’ve thrown away your life. No, I wouldn’t accept your offer. Don’t you understand, unless you can change your way of life, there isn’t going to be a good offer out there. There won’t be marriage, there won’t be a family, a home—”

“I don’t think you understand,” Mary interrupted furiously. “There won’t be any of the usual things out there after this war! Haven’t you heard? The South is losing. Gettysburg was a disaster for us. Men are dead, and we can’t get them back. I’ve read the news accounts. There were fields of dead men. If some of those young fellows died after a taste of a whore like Letty, then by God, at least they got to live before they died! Who do you think you are? What right have you got to condemn others?”

He shook his head, startled, and somewhat shamed. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.

“Captain Henderson,” he said softly, for they had come to the door. “Captain Henderson. Look at him, and tell me that I don’t have a right to hate this disease.”

The wind seemed ripped from her sails. Her eyes were brilliant as silver stars as tears threatened to spill from them. They entered the room.

Henderson couldn’t breathe, he was gasping for every breath. Along with that, a low keening sound was coming from him, as if he were being pierced by thousands of knifes. He wasn’t really conscious, but tears appeared in his half-closed eyes and ran down his cheeks. The sound of his anguish was terrible. Brent walked to the bed and sat beside the man.

“Can you do anything?”

“I can give him more morphine.”

“Can you spare it?” she asked worriedly.

He spun on her suddenly. “No, we can never spare it,” he said bitterly. “But we will. God help us all, we’ll have to get more from somewhere.”

He rose to get the morphine. She touched his arm, looking up into his eyes. “For this I have to thank you ... I owe you.”

He gritted his teeth. “You owe me?”

She stepped back. “Yes, you self-righteous bastard, I do owe you.”

He didn’t know what demon seized him then, but he reached for her hand, drawing her close to him. “Fine, Miss Mary. You owe me. Maybe I am as red-blooded as every other damned male in this war. Ready to take a few chances with a French hat! You owe me, fine. I won’t expect anything right away. Because you know that we’re going to bury your captain after tonight. But after that, hell yes, lady, you can pay up. Is that a promise?”

Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes!” she hissed, amazed.

He strode out of the room to get the morphine.

At midnight that night, Captain Henderson died. Mary tenderly touched his ravaged face, then pulled the sheet over him.

Watching her, Brent couldn’t help but feel pain and empathy. “I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

She looked up at him, tears glazing her eyes, but a strange strength in them as well. “I’m grateful that his suffering is over.”

“There was nothing ...”

“I know.”

“I’ll leave you with him for a while.”

He exited the room, leaning back against the door as he closed it. Henderson had died an awful death. Life was fickle and could be cruel. Such a man had not deserved such a fate.

He listened to the woman inside as she sobbed, taut with empathy for the pain she was feeling. He wished that he could comfort her. He walked slowly down the hall, summoning an orderly and telling him that they would need a coffin for Captain Henderson.

He went back to his paperwork. The hospital was quiet. He finished a report, then rose again, returning to Henderson’s room. She still sat by his side, but her tears were over.

“I am sorry.”

“I’m glad that he’s passed on,” she said. She looked at him and managed a smile. “I’ve known it, he hasn’t been himself, he’s been dying ... it’s a relief. He suffered so horribly, and now the suffering is over. I will miss him. But I’m glad that he’s passed away, that it is over.”

He nodded, leaned against the door. She rose, coming toward the door. She arched a brow to him. “May I get by you, Dr. McKenzie?”