Authors: Heather Graham
She didn’t dare look back. She fled, running up the steps one by one on bare feet. She burst into the room and turned to close the door.
But he was there. He had followed at her own speed, in silence. She tried to throw the door shut.
He caught the door as Callie tried to slam it against him. He slammed it back open with both palms. The door shuddered and reverberated and Callie wondered if the sound couldn’t be heard throughout the entire house.
“You’ve no right!” Callie hissed suddenly. “No right whatsoever in here—”
She broke off, crying out, spinning to leap away as he strode for her. His fingers knotted into the beautiful silk-and-lace nightgown that Christa had given her. He jerked her back around to face him.
His eyes touched hers, and to her deepest dismay, she felt the fire from that blue stare leap into her trembling frame. He held her shoulders, held them taut. And then he kissed her.
Deeply. With no desire to seek acquiescence, his mouth bore down on hers. He forced her lips to part. She felt the sure sweep of his tongue within her mouth,
and each liquid caress seemed to steal more resolve from her pride and soul.
She tried to wrench free, beating her hands against his chest. She turned, but a piece of the gown caught in his hands, and she heard a rip. Startled, she paused, and turned back. She met his gaze again.
This night, he had determined, was his.
And God help her, seeing him stand there, the hot blue resolution in his eyes, the granite determination in the contours of his face, she felt a burst of near desperate desire come sweeping through her once again.
“The gown is Christa’s!” she snapped at him. “You’ve no right to destroy it.”
“Then get it off.”
In a fit of fury she drew the exquisite piece of fluff and lace over her shoulders, tossing it on the floor. Naked, she lifted her chin.
“We haven’t begun to discuss this—”
“And we’re not going to discuss it!” he told her curtly.
She backed away with his first stride toward her. “Oh, yes, we are! Don’t you ever think that you can just burst into places and behave this way. At the very least, you could have pretended—”
“Pretended what?”
“You’re only here this one night! You could have pretended that we had a normal marriage. That if we weren’t madly in love, at the least we didn’t despise one another. That there was something we each wanted from one another. You know very well what I mean and you have no rights with me whatsoever and you will not—”
“Oh, but I will! Rebels do what they choose, Mrs. Cameron,” he assured her.
“No! I won’t be—”
“I keep forgetting! This play is to be reserved for those moments when they might suit you well—when
your fine noble Yanks are waiting in the closet. Should I look? Have I someone in my bedroom closet already?”
Callie stopped backing away. She struck him across the face instantly, just as hard as she could.
It was all that she could do to keep from crying out, for she was lifted up into his arms and thrown down upon the bed. Dazed, she lay still for a moment. He strode toward the bed. She thought that he was unbuckling his scabbard, but when she tried to rise from his bed she discovered the truth.
He had drawn his cavalry sword.
The point of it lay between her breasts, the steel cold against the bareness of her flesh.
“It’s a pity, Callie, that I can’t simply split you in two.” The steel lifted. Just a whisper above her flesh now, it moved. Along her ribs, low over her abdomen, lower. It rose again. “Tear away the flesh and the outer beauty, and see into the very depths of your heart. I would dearly love to see what lies there. Maybe I should try it. Sever you into two pieces …”
He let his words trail. She glared at him shivering.
What would you find, my love? That I want you now, that I love you, that I have so little to cling to when you fight a war against me more bitter than that you wage against the men of the North.
Damn him.
He would never really hurt her. Whether he hated her or no. She had learned that much about him.
She shoved the sword away from her face, and told him exactly that. Then she told him what she thought he ought to go do with himself.
His laughter rang out. His sword, his scabbard, and his clothing fell to the bedside.
“Don’t you dare think that you’re coming to this bed, Daniel Cameron! If you do—”
He did.
Naked, hot as fire himself, he came upon her with the grace of a great cat, covering her body with the length and breadth of his. She squirmed beneath him, feeling the flush, the fever, seize her. His chest pressed to her breasts, his thighs were hard upon hers.
And his sex, immensely hard and erect and insinuative, lay directly against the apex of her thighs.
“If I do, you’ll what?” he demanded, his lips directly above hers, his fingers moving into the wings of her hair at the sides of her head.
“I’ll scream.”
“Scream.”
“I think that I really hate you, Daniel!”
His reply was bitter, but the words startled her. “I wish that I really hated you, Callie.” Still, his lips were just above hers in the near darkness. The whisper of his words caressed her mouth. The pulse of his desire lay very naked against her, and she had never wanted him more.
“Well, will you scream?” he murmured.
“Bastard!” she whispered in return.
His mouth touched hers again. This time she did not fight him. She molded her mouth to his; she arched against the imprint of his body, feeling a liquid like lava sweep through her, creating an arousal and a passion both beautiful and painful.
His mouth caressed hers. Savored, touched, licked. The touch came sensually over her shoulders, her collarbones, her breasts.
He moved, still agile, quick, flipping her over in the bed. She felt his lips against the line of her spine and still close to her ear.
“You wanted to pretend. Let’s pretend. Let’s pretend that you love me. That your heart aches to see me leave. Let’s pretend …”
Dear Lord, but he knew how to kiss and caress. Straddled easily over her, his hands swept her shoulders
and her back, his fingers caressed the sensitive sides of her breasts.
His lips continued their sweet assault upon her senses as he spoke, whispering against her flesh, following the trail of her spine.
“Let’s pretend that I am a soldier, going off to your own cause. That you will pine away the hours that I am gone. That you will love me now with all your heart and soul, touch me to remember me, in all the long days that will come to pass.”
His kiss fell very low against her buttocks. His fingers swept her flesh. She shivered, alive, quaking with the desire he had so deftly lit and stoked.
He flipped her over again, and his gaze met hers.
“We needn’t pretend on one thing, my love. For I do want you. God, yes, Callie, I want you.”
His dark head buried itself against her breasts. Against her belly, against the juncture of her thighs. She cried out softly, trying to rise against him, tugging at his dark hair. She brought his lips to hers, and she kissed them in turn, kissed and savored his lips and his mouth.
She rose against him, her fingers tracing patterns over his shoulders, her lips against the muscles of his chest, her teeth nipping at them, her tongue running elusively over every tiny touch. She stroked his body and knelt before him, then dared to let her hands fall. Her fingers curled around the hard, pulsing rod of his sex. His body nearly jackknifed. She grew bolder and bolder, stroking, touching.
His arms were suddenly around her and they fell into the depths of the bed together. Soft, clean, fragrant sheets seemed to reach up and take her in, a contrast to the blinding heat and demand of his body, now part of hers. She bit into his shoulder as he thrust deep inside of her. Deeper. His body moving. A startling, soaring rhythm.
Stars burst, the darkness was broken, and then it fell again. She felt the sweat-slickened weight of his body hard against hers, and lay there in silence, still touching him, feeling his touch. It was good to lie here so, sated, entwined, as if they loved one another.
Moments later, she gave in to temptation. She crawled atop him, legs straddled over his hips. She leaned low against him, her hair teasing his flesh, trailing against it.
“Let’s pretend,” she whispered softly. “Let’s pretend that you love me. That you crave this night before you ride away to war. That you will hold me into the darkness, and into the light. That my name will be upon your lips when you fight a thousand battles. Daniel, let’s pretend …”
She paused, her eyes meeting his in the near darkness.
“Pretend, my love,” he whispered in return.
His arms wrapped around her. He swept her beneath him, and she cried out softly again with the volatility of his assault upon her senses, his kisses roaming where they would, his touch demanding every intimacy.
He was part of her again, one with her. No darkness of war could enter then within them, for they soared above any matters of the earth. This time she reached a pinnacle so high it seemed she lost touch with even the pale moonlight, and then she was gently, gently falling again.
She wanted to speak, but her eyes were so heavy. She wanted to say things, but she didn’t want to break the spell. She lay upon his chest, touching him still, her fingers lying easily upon muscle and the crisp dark hair that grew there.
And he held her tight.
Her eyes were so heavy. She closed them.
* * *
He awoke with the first pink streaks of dawn. For a moment, he started, and then he felt her against him. He held his breath and studied her.
The auburn hair, more than a match for those radiant streaks of dawn. Her face, now surely that of an angel, so delicate, so beautiful, half hidden by the profusion of her hair.
The length of her. Ivory beauty as she lay curled against the sheets—and him. Each supple curve seemed both innocent and evocative this morning. Angel.
She slept so peacefully.
He rose, careful not to waken her.
In his wardrobe, he found the clean uniform that Christa had seen to for him.
He would be very well clad and well shod, compared to the rest of his troops.
He buckled his scabbard around his waist, and stood at the foot of the bed. He wondered if he should wake her and apologize for being a horse’s ass.
Sorry, Mrs. Cameron, but maybe we southern gentlemen do overindulge upon occassion.
No.
He wouldn’t awaken her. Their world of pretend was far too sweet.
He hurried downstairs and into the den, finding the box with her dress. He came back up and hesitated. No, he could not wake her.
He had to touch her, though. He bent, smoothed her hair away, and kissed her forehead. Still, she didn’t rise.
And so, regretfully, he left her.
Down the hall, he entered the nursery. He was tempted to sweep his tiny son into his arms, but he refrained from doing so.
Like his mother, Jared slept peacefully.
Janey came in to tell him that she had food ready. He nodded absently and said that he would be along.
The sun rose higher.
It was time to go.
It was several hours later when Callie awoke.
She did so abruptly, with a jerk, instinctively reaching out for Daniel.
He was gone.
The white dress with embroidered red flowers lay spread across the foot of the bed.
During the fall of 1863, Daniel felt as if they played a game of cat and mouse with the Yankees, covering a great deal of Virginia, pushing forward, being pushed back, skirmishing.
Both sides were becoming quiet once again.
As always, silence was ominous.
Daniel hadn’t been back long with his regiment when a lull in the fighting brought him a visit from a tall cavalry captain with the Virginia militia. Daniel was busy with a group of maps when the man stepped into his tent and saluted sharply. Daniel gazed at him, thinking that he somewhat resembled George Custer, for he had long blond hair, a curling mustache, and a neatly clipped beard. He was young, in his early twenties, and for a moment Daniel stared at him blankly, wondering just who he was and why he was disturbing Daniel when he was so engrossed in the geography of the area they were trying to hold.
“Colonel Cameron!”
“Yes?”
The man was stiff and straight, and seemed somewhat nervous. Odd, for he looked like a strong fellow, one quite confident in himself. Daniel gave him his full attention, noting that he would probably be considered
a very handsome lad by the ladies, and that he also seemed determined.
Daniel sat down behind his field desk. “Yes, Captain. Just what is it that I can do for you?”
“My name is Liam McCloskey, sir. I have been trying to find you for quite some time. I …” He took a deep breath, then spoke in a rush. “I wish to ask for your sister’s hand in marriage, sir. I understand that you are not the eldest male member of the family, but since that man is a member of the enemy’s army, I have come to you.”
Funny, he didn’t like to hear Jesse called an enemy. Even if it was true. But the look on the young man’s face was so earnest that Daniel bit back a retort.
“Ah, Liam McCloskey.” He rose and came around his desk, offering the man his hand. He studied him carefully once again. The earnestness remained.
“I meant no offense, sir. Christa has made it quite plain to me that she loves her family intensely, and I have assured her that whatever my mind concerning the North, my thoughts will be kept to myself should the Yank Colonel Cameron and I manage to meet. Truly, Colonel, I mean no offense.”
“None taken.” Obviously, there were no split loyalties within McCloskey’s family. He was suddenly reminded of what Jeb Stuart had told him he’d written to a family member when he heard his father-in-law was determined to stay with the Union. “He will regret it but once, and that will be continuously.”
But Jeb had also said upon a number of occasions that he would rather die than lose the war.
He had been so furious with his father-in-law that he had renamed his son, since the boy had been named after his grandfather. Philip St. George Cooke Stuart became James Ewell Brown Stuart II.