Glory (41 page)

While within it ...

She started toward it on rubbery legs.

There he lay. Face white in the moonlight, hair impossibly dark against it. Frayed cotton shirt, gray frock coat ...

“Julian!” she shrieked his name, racing toward him. “Julian!”

Her heart was in her throat. The wind seemed to rise and rush around her. She couldn’t bear it. She would tear him from the coffin, shake him, force him to live ...

Yet even as she raced forward, he began to rise, and she stopped, dead still.

Her voice.

He heard her voice from a tremendous distance. She was calling to him, and he had to answer. He opened his eyes. Had he been dead? Or dreaming. He blinked furiously, felt a searing pain at his temple, felt the weight of the man lying over him, the hardness of the wood beneath him. He strained and rose, sitting up, pushing the dead man from him.

He blinked again, because she was there before him. Rhiannon, with her ebony dark hair in curling disarray around her classically beautiful features, her eyes sizzling emerald in the moonlight, tall, elegant, an angel indeed, even in her endless black ...

“Rhiannon ...” he murmured her name, thinking it impossible that she could be there, and yet ...

Her eyes. By God, in her eyes, he thought that he saw things. Such fear, such anxiety, care, concern.

Love?

He gripped the edges of the coffin, pushing the dead man from him, rising. And then he saw that Ian stood behind his wife. “Sweet Jesus, you’re alive!” Ian breathed.

“Barely,” he acknowledged, smiling awkwardly at his brother. He stepped from the coffin, shaking his head.

“What the hell happened?” Ian demanded.

“Grave robbers, not waiting for the coffins to hit the dirt. They apparently made a living attacking wagons of dead going South—or North.”

Ian had stepped up, looking at Virgil, then at Billy. “Both dead.”

“I know.”

Ian touched his forehead, his concern in his eyes despite his words. “They nearly got you.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“A damned close scratch.”

“Well, the coffin wasn’t great to begin with, and then things got worse.” He was trying to speak lightly. He wanted to reach out for his wife, grab her, draw her to him, hold her. If he touched her now, though, he thought, she would self-combust, explode into a billion tiny pieces of pure fire around him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her sharply.

“I thought that you were dead!” she said angrily.

“Oh? Were you celebrating?”

Wrong thing to say, he thought, wincing. But he’d just wanted to touch her so damned badly. And she was still in black. She was carrying his child, but she was mourning her husband.

She walked over to him at last and took a swing at him. Hard. She caught him in the jaw. His head started ringing again.

He did catch her wrist, pulling her against him. “I told you to get off the battlefield! What are you doing out here? Why didn’t you come into Washington, go back to St. Augustine, go somewhere safe?”

“You let go of me, you son of a bitch. You scared us all to death!”

“Damn it, I asked you a question.”

“You have no right to ask questions.”

“I was a prisoner, thanks to you, I had every right to try to escape.”

“Horses!” Ian interrupted suddenly. “Listen, naturally, anyone who heard any of what went on here would have notified authorities.”

Julian pressed his wife behind him, pushing backward to the coffin to find the Colt he had used against Billy’s attack. Ian stayed by his side and when the horses burst into the copse, they were together, Rhiannon forced behind them.

Rebs or Yanks? In this territory they had no idea which.

It was Magee himself, followed by two cavalry officers who burst into the copse. He looked at the situation and quickly ascertained what had happened. “If a war isn’t enough,” he said with soft disgust, “you have to have vultures to go along with it! Hello, Dr. McKenzie. Glad to see you out of that coffin rather than in it.”

Julian felt Rhiannon’s nails digging against his back. He gritted his teeth. She was afraid, of course, that he was going to pull the Colt, fight Magee, demand his freedom.

“Sir, the coffin wasn’t particularly pleasant. It wasn’t exactly my choice of conveyance as a way south, but ...”

“We’ll have to get a burial detail up here, take care of these dead,” one of Magee’s men said.

“We’ll get the boys back in their boxes,” Magee said, “then move out. This is Rebel territory, and we’re too far from base camp.” He leaned lower on his horse’s saddle. “Longstreet’s got a few companies just down the road a spell, Dr. McKenzie. Apparently, you were due for an exchange when you decided to jump into that pine box.”

“I wish I’d known,” Julian said, half smiling and shrugging to his brother. “Ian was kind of slow, you see.”

“They didn’t really want to let you go,” Magee told him.

“I didn’t know I was that dangerous.”

“Horses!” Ian said.

“What?” Rhiannon murmured.

Julian heard the fear in her voice, She started to rush by him; he caught her by the arm. Rebs. The Rebs were coming now.

And they were. Julian knew that his brother tensed, and that he had taken a fighting stand.

But the captain who burst into the clearing on a skinny gray nag quickly raised a hand. His party was small as well. Julian realized he knew the man: Trenton Maiden, out of Georgia.

He was among George Pickett’s few survivors. Maiden was young; not long ago, his shoulder-length curls had been gold. Now, already, they were touched with gray. He paused, his party of four behind him not drawing or seeking weapons as they surveyed the scene in the copse.

“Sir!” Maiden said, looking at Magee. “I cannot believe you’re responsible for this scene!”

“Of course not, Trent!” Magee replied impatiently. Seeing Julian staring at him, General Magee explained, “Trenton was in my service just before the war.”

“Trent!” Ian suddenly exclaimed.

The Confederate captain smiled. “Ian. Good to see you alive and well.”

“Same to you, Trent.”

“What the hell happened here?”

“Grave robbers,” Julian explained.

“These must be the fellows we were due to receive from Old Capitol?” Trent Maiden asked.

“Yes,” Julian said.

Trent arched a brow to him. “Dr. McKenzie, we all know that you do miracles, but have you managed to raise the dead?”

“Only myself.”

“Ah ...” Trenton murmured. He looked at Magee. “Well, sir, I surely don’t want to shoot you or Ian or your boys, and I hope you don’t want to shoot me. We should part ways.”

“That we should, Captain,” Magee agree. “If you need some help with the dead—”

“They’re our boys,” Maiden said sadly. “We’ll tend to them.”

“As you say. Ian, Rhiannon—”

No. Julian had a firm grip on Rhiannon. “No, sir, my wife comes with me.”

Magee hesitated, obviously in an awkward position. “But, sir, I have taken it upon myself to watch out for the lady—”

“Who is my wife, sir, through her own ...” he paused, a brow arched, studying Rhiannon’s eyes, alive with an angry wildfire as she found herself the one in a difficult position. “Through her own absolute determination.”

“But ... sir,” Magee protested. “Her leanings are Union!”

“But, sir, her living husband is Confederate, and she is coming with me,” he said firmly. “I will take my wife.”

“Julian—” Ian began.

“Ian!” Julian returned, staring at his brother.

There could be no bloodshed here, he thought. But neither could he let her return to a Northern camp.

“Rhiannon,” Magee said gently. “What would you have me do?”

And he saw it in her eyes.

She knew that life and death, and bloodshed, truly lay in her hands. She had no choice. She was a prisoner just as he had been.

“Apparently, I will go with ... my husband.”

“Are you certain?” Magee asked.

She hesitated, her lashes sweeping her cheeks. The tension in the copse could be felt on the air. Then she turned to Magee. “Of course, sir.”

“God go with you, child. Ian, we will retire from this Rebel territory.”

Julian felt his brother’s embrace. He returned it quickly, but tightly. God only knew when they would meet again.

“We’ll get you a horse, Dr. McKenzie,” Trenton Maiden began.

“Never mind. Mrs. McKenzie may take the animal she is riding. It is the least we can offer for her services,” Magee said. “Trenton, keep your head down!” he called. He turned and started from the copse. Julian nodded to Ian, who turned, mounted his horse, and followed Magee.

“A healthy animal!” Trenton said, pleased. “Welcome, Mrs. McKenzie, we’re delighted to have you.”

She ignored him and walked to the horse she had ridden from the Yankee front. Julian followed her. She wasn’t ready for him when he swung up behind her. When she would have spoken in protest, he slipped his arms tightly around her with a warning pressure, taking the reins.

“She’s delighted to be with us as well, absolutely delighted,” he said flatly.

And they rode to the Rebel front.

Rhiannon paced the tiny white tent where she had been given sleeping quarters.

Since her arrival at the Rebel camp, she hadn’t seen Julian.

There were so many injured men! They were so sad as well, for the sheer volume of wounded men had overwhelmed the doctors and facilities of the South, and many who might have been helped were now dying. She knew that Julian was desperately needed, but she wished that she hadn’t been left alone. She might have helped him. Instead, she had been escorted here, and Julian had been taken to the makeshift hospital.

Hours had passed. She should have slept; she could not. She lay upon the cot thinking how grateful she was that he was alive—and how furious she was with the situation she had brought upon herself. He was still so angry with her! It was possible to remember the night they had shared, but then she would feel again the way that she had when his eyes had touched hers in the copse, when she had struck him ...

Perhaps not a loving and tender thing for a wife to do upon discovering that her husband was alive. But when she had first seen him, seen the blood, seen him lying there ...

She rose from the camp cot and moved around the tiny tent. An officer’s tent, with folding bed, chairs, desk, and shaving mirror. Amazing what they could do with so small a space! Outside, fires burned, the moon was high. Yet it was quiet at night. Pickets and sentries were up and about; soon it would be dawn, and the men would be about their war again. But now, right now, it was quiet.

Quiet ...

She didn’t hear him; she sensed him there, behind her. She spun around. He had bathed; he had been given new clothing, not much less tattered than that which he had worn before. He was shaven, lean, so taut, so hard, and so handsome. She lowered her eyes quickly, not wanting him to know that she had fallen in love with him.

“So things have changed!” she said softly. “You are free, and I am the prisoner.”

He lifted his hands. “You’re not a prisoner.”

“You insisted I come here. That’s the same, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, smiling slightly. “No, you’re my wife. My wife. Not Magee’s, not Ian’s. And Richard Tremaine is dead. You married me. Not your intent, I admit, but you did do the deed. Therefore, you are here.”

“A prisoner,” she repeated softly. “And if you touch me ...”

She broke off. What was she doing? Pride was one thing. Foolishness was another. She was in love with him; she was here now. And they were both alive and well.

But it was too late. At her words he had risen. “If I touch you?” he demanded coldly. “Well, you know what, my love? I think that I will do so. I think I will be a savage Southerner and tear the very clothes from your back!”

“Julian!” she cried, startled, wrenching back and away from him as he suddenly seized her, pulling her against him. “I have had it with this black!” he swore, and he did shred her clothing, tearing a sleeve from her gown, then the skirt.

“Julian, stop it, stop it, I’ll scream—”

“Fine! This is a Rebel camp, remember!”

“Yes! And the last of the cavaliers sleep here, isn’t that true?” she demanded.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want anything from you tonight, my beloved witch, except that you cease with this black!” he told her, his eyes still molten blue as they bore into hers, his touch still as hot and angry and hard as steel. She slammed her fists against his chest, then stopped, gasping in a breath.

He too went dead still. The look in his eyes changed instantly. “Rhiannon, what is it? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Rhiannon—”

“Julian ...”

“What?” He swept her from her feet, lifting her, carrying her to the cot.

“Julian ...”

Her fingers curled around his. She brought them down to her abdomen. “You can feel him. It’s so amazing, there’s so much death ...” She broke off, feeling a flush of color to her cheeks. “You’ve felt babies before,” she murmured.

His large hands with their long fingers were covering her belly. The babe continued to move, kicking with a positive strength that she was certain he could feel almost as clearly as she did herself. “Never my own!” he said softly. “Never my own.”

She lay back, glad of his touch, not willing to speak, to break the moment between them. His fingers moved in gentle patterns over her ... so gentle.

She closed her eyes. It was good, so good.

There was a war on. She lay in a Rebel camp. And still, the night was so sweet ...

And in time, she did sleep.

When she woke, Julian was gone. But a new gown, a simple cotton day dress in navy blue, lay at the foot of the bed. Maybe it was time she cast off the black.

She found that he had left her water with which to wash, and when she poked her head out of the tent, she found that a young drummer boy had been left to tend to her needs. The moment he saw her, he was at her side, offering her coffee.

“Where is my husband, do you know?”

“He’s ridden out, ma’am,” the boy said. He was perhaps twelve, with a thatch of straight wheat-colored hair, a quick smile, pert dimples. He was too skinny, but a precocious youth.