And One Wore Gray (13 page)

But then the bedroom door, thrown against the wall, suddenly squeaked and started to swing. Callie leapt up to her knees, staring at the patch of wall now displayed.

There stood Daniel Cameron, grinning. “No, angel, not on your life.” He walked toward her, his eyes alive with wicked flames of amusement. “He’s going to love you until his dying day?”

“Oh, will you please shut up!” she snapped. “How incredibly rude. You were listening to every word.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he assured her. He stood over her, then reached down for both of her hands. He
pulled
her up so that she stood right before him. He stood so close their bodies touched.

“ ‘When this cruel war is over …”’ he murmured.

“I’m warning you, quit!” Callie threatened.

His smile broadened. The searing flames in his eyes seemed to catch hold of her heart. His face lowered, and the flames came closer.

And burned more hotly. All through her. Warming, searing her limbs. Sweeping along her breasts, her hips, invading her thighs. Taking root deep, deep within her.

“Don’t wait for him, angel. Not unless he can do better than that.”

“Better than that? Just what should he be doing, Colonel Cameron?” she demanded.

“I’ll show you,” Daniel whispered.

It seemed that the flames within her sizzled and soared, and then leaped to become an inferno.

His arms closed tightly around her, and his was a passion Callie couldn’t begin to deny.

Perhaps because he had taken her so very suddenly, Callie stiffened. And then, for the very same reason, she felt herself meld against him.

He knew, it seemed, just how to hold her. Just how to sweep the length of her against the length of him. He held her tightly, warmly, securely.

In his arms, she felt the quicksilver fanning of a heat that was deep and undeniable, seeping through her limbs, to her breasts, to her hips. She felt the thunder of her heart, nearly suffocating her, yet combining with the still stronger pulse of his.

There was the startling comfort of feeling that she belonged in his embrace. There was the strength of his arms when she had been alone for so very long.

She felt the touch of his eyes. So searing a blue. In that sweeping gaze, she felt anew the fire, the burning, the instantaneous warmth created by this man. All of this she experienced in seconds as he brought her against him, stared at her, touched her. He smiled slowly, lowered his head to hers, and kissed her.

Then came an entire new burst of sensation as she tasted his lips, felt the pressure of them against her own. He kissed her as if he had intended on kissing her for a long, long time. Kissed her as if he savored the
very breath that came from her lips, as if he had desired just that touch with every bit of longing within him. She could not deny him, not when he held her so tightly and securely in his arms. He demanded her acquiescence, but he knew how to kiss, how to take, how to give.

He flooded her senses as he molded his mouth to hers, slowly parting her lips with a sure thrust of his tongue that entered more and more deeply into her mouth. It was just a kiss. But perhaps that was its true magic. He made her think of so much more. Made her long for more. The sinuous, undeniable stroke of his tongue brought with it a sweet ravishment of the whole of her mouth.

His mouth lifted from hers, leaving a breath of air between them. She reached up to him, and he kissed her again, open-mouthed, hungry, drawing her more swiftly and more deeply into his intimate swirl of desire.

A trembling began within her as she felt his fingers, gentle and determined upon her cheek. She felt the length of him against her and knew the growing pulse of his desire.

He felt good, and he smelled wondrous. She’d never felt such a burst of passion within herself, not even with Gregory.

Gregory!

The memory of her husband burst into the bubble of longing and sensation that had seized such sure hold of her, eclipsing everything else. Gregory! She had never imagined wanting another man until this Rebel had happened upon her. Why, in Eric’s arms just moments ago she had felt nothing except for discomfort and the longing to escape.

She wanted this man, she cared for him. She loved the contours of his face and the light in his eyes and the sound of his voice. She had found him so very beautiful
naked, and when naked, a man wasn’t in blue, nor was he in gray or tattered Rebel butternut.

No! she told herself fiercely. This man wore gray, naked or clad. His cause was in his heart, and she could not strip it from him.

And she was a widow, betraying her own heart.

“No, please, no!”

She managed to twist from his touch at last. He had not forced her. He had held her, so firmly. He had demanded from her, so sensually. But he had not forced her.

His mouth lifted from hers. His gaze met hers. His arms remained loosely around her, and he waited for her to speak.

She shook her head, horrified by the hot sheen of tears that glistened in her eyes. “No! Please, I can’t. I won’t. I …” Words eluded her. Explanations eluded her. “You have to leave!” she choked out.

Her lashes fell, hiding the anguish in her eyes. She pushed against the arms that held her. He tensed for one moment. “Callie …”

“Please!” She pushed harder against him. And then she was free.

She backed away from him. “You have to leave!”

She turned and fled from the room, racing out the door and down the stairs. But not even that distance took her far enough away from him. She burst out the front door, closed it behind her, and leaned against it, breathing deeply of the night air.

What was she thinking? Her father was dead, her best friend, husband, and lover was dead, and all at Rebel hands. So many dead, her own home made into a battlefield. And none of it mattered a single bit when this man touched her.

Bless the night! The darkness closed around her, and the coolness seemed to steal away some of the dreadful
heat that assailed her. He would leave tonight, and she would forget.

She closed her eyes. He was wounded. A horse soldier without a horse.

But his fever had broken, and the wound that had caused him the difficulty was an old one. Perhaps he was weak, but even weak, he was a formidable enemy. He was not far from Virginia. He would go now, she knew, because deny it or not, he was one of those southern cavaliers.

A sound in the night suddenly startled Callie. Her eyes flew open. She didn’t see anything to mar the stillness of the night. She closed her eyes again and listened. She could hear horses’ hooves. There were a number of them. She stiffened.

Slowly, she relaxed. The riders were not coming to the house. She heard someone call out an order. The words were clear, but distant.

“Captain! We’ll form an encampment next mile south, by the old orchard. There will be two sentries per company, sir!”

“As you say, sir!” came a brisk reply.

The slow hoofbeats of walking horses continued to sound. The troops were moving on.

Thank God. No one else was coming to her house.

But they would be close! There in the woods and the farmlands and fields. So very easy to stumble upon.

“No!” she whispered out
loud,
her hand flying to her mouth. Tears stung her eyes once again.

She swirled around, swinging open her door again and flying into the house.

He was in the parlor, buckling on his scabbard. As she entered the house, his sword came free of its protective sheath. Those startling blue eyes pierced into her, as sharp and vibrant as any blade.

She backed against the door, catching her breath, staring at the glistening silver of the sword.

“Jesu, Callie!” he muttered irritably, sheathing his sword once again with a practiced movement. Hands on his hips, he stared at her, slowly smiling. “Callie, I’ve been tempted to do a few things, but running you through with this sword has not been one of them,” he said more lightly. Still she didn’t speak, but remained with her back against the door.

“Callie, I’m leaving,” he said very softly.

She shook her head strenuously. “You—you can’t.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why can’t I?”

“Because there are Yankee camps all around us tonight.”

He shrugged. “I can move around the countryside very well,” he said quietly.

“No man can move well enough to escape the number of men out there now.”

He smiled slowly. “You don’t want me captured?”

“You’re still injured, you fool.”

His smile remained in place. “But I’m much, much better now.”

She stiffened. Damn him. She was worried for his life. She squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin imperceptibly.

“Had you allowed yourself to heal properly the first time, Colonel, it’s doubtful that wound at your side would have reopened and caused you that awful fever. If you’re all fired determined to go out there tonight, be my guest. It’s likely they’ll shoot you down in the darkness. If not, it’s likely they’ll take you prisoner.”

“And you know enough about Yankee prisons to assume that I’ll die there?” he inquired.

She stiffened. Both sides complained about prison conditions. They were bad in the North, she knew, from a number of articles and editorials she had read on the subject. Despite the war, and despite anything that Daniel might believe, there were those in the
North who were appalled by the way that prisoners of war were treated.

Conditions in the South were far worse. Callie was convinced it was not done on purpose. Half of the southern fighting men were shoeless. Their uniforms were tattered, nearly threadbare. They fought on meager rations. They were half-starved themselves. Under those conditions, what could they spare for their imprisoned enemies?

Abraham Lincoln had been dealt many a defeat at the hands of the talented southern generals, but he understood his war. He had superior numbers. When his men died, they could be replaced. And they could be fed. The northern blockade was slowly but surely taking its toll upon the South. The war that tore up the farmlands was taking its toll upon the South. If they couldn’t feed their own, how could they be expected to feed others?

But horror stories of the way that Union men starved in the South reached the North. And for every humanitarian who worked for better conditions, there was a bitter person who demanded that southern prisoners should not be coddled. There were widows and orphans who hated any man in gray. And for every respectable and decent jailor, there might also be a warped and angry commander, grown cold and heedless of human life. No one, northerner or southerner, wanted to face a prison camp.

Callie clenched her teeth. What should it matter to her what happened to this damned Reb.

She stepped coolly away from the door.

“You may stay, Colonel, if you so desire. And sir, you may leave, if you so desire.”

She was alarmed by the rueful curve that came slowly, wistfully, to his lip. She was further dismayed by the quickening beat of her heart.

There was nowhere to go when he walked slowly
toward her, then stopped just before her. He touched her chin briefly with the back of his knuckle.

“I can’t stay, Callie. Because if I do, I can’t give you any guarantees or promises.”

Pursing her lips, she determined not to wrench away from him. “You may stay, Colonel. Because I am the one who can give the guarantees.”

He arched a brow, and she thought that the curve of his smile was definitely wicked now. “Callie—”

She pushed his hand aside and walked past him. He turned to lean against the door, watching her wander over by the hearth as she spoke. “You have recovered very nicely, Colonel. Many men—most men—would surely have died from the type of wound you suffered. And if not then, they’d have surely died from the fever. You have done miraculously well. But how far would you test fate, sir?” she demanded, swirling around to face him again.

“I keep going, Mrs. Michaelson, because I must,” he told her.

“What you need to do, Colonel, is go home. Rest. Heal properly.”

“I cannot do that.”

“And why not?”

“Because,” he said simply, “I am irreplaceable.”

“Sir—”

“We haven’t the manpower,” he said, and to Callie, he at last sounded weary of the war. “I must always go back. I should be back now.”

“You are weak. And if you die you’ll not go back,” she stated flatly.

“True,” he agreed.

Callie’s eyes suddenly came alight. “Your brother!”

“What?” he demanded darkly, a frown quickly descending upon his face.

“I can go out! I can see what I can do about finding your brother. Perhaps—”

“No!”

“But if he’s a Union surgeon—”

“No, damn you! I am well and fine enough. Jesu, I’ll not have Jesse risking anything again! Do you understand me?”

She had seldom seem him so furious, even with all that raged between them. Irrationally, she felt the heat of tears burning at the back of her eyes again. She was doing her best to help the enemy, and the damned enemy wasn’t cooperating in the least.

Let him go! she told herself. Let him go out, let the Union take him!

She turned away from him, determined that he would not see the emotion in her eyes. “Do whatever you choose to do, Colonel. I cannot be bothered with it any longer.”

“Ah. You’ve ceased to care whether I am caught or not!”

She spun around once again. “At this moment, Colonel, I’d set the shackles around your wrists myself!”

He smiled. A cold, set smile. “Madam, that is something that you could never manage to do. I think you know damned well that—weak as I may be—I’m still far more than a match for one or two or maybe even three of your Yankees. And I think, Mrs. Michaelson, that one of the reasons you were so careful to rid this house of your dashing Yankee captain—the one who is going to love you until he dies”—The last was added in a curious tone, and Callie wasn’t sure if it was a bitter one or one of amusement. But then his voice hardened as he continued—“is because you knew damned well that he might not be any match for me.”

“You are extremely arrogant,” Callie informed him. “You should just be grateful that I didn’t call the whole Union army down upon you.”