And One Wore Gray (8 page)

“Why did you lie for me?” he asked curiously, his voice almost soft. A voice that seemed to reach out and touch her, moving like a warm breath along her spine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You had a knife—”

“And you knew damned well that I’d never use it. I never even threatened you with it the last time.”

“What difference does it make?” Callie asked impatiently. “Can’t you just be grateful—and leave?”

He pulled the brim of his hat down very low, and it was a while before he answered her. “I’m starving. I haven’t eaten or slept in hours and hours. And your Yankee patrols are going to be all over the place tonight.”

Callie stood by the sink for a moment. She pursed her lips and reached over the sink for a match and lit a lamp to set on the table. She started down to the cellar, and he called her back sharply.

“Where are you going?”

“For food, Reb, if that’s what it will take to make you leave.”

She walked down the steps and found a large wedge of cheese and a smoked ham. She walked back up the steps and jumped when she discovered him waiting for her at the top.

“If I were going to turn you in,” she told him, “I would have done so when Captain Johnston was here, Colonel Cameron.”

One of his ink-dark brows shot up. “You know my name? Oh, of course! You discovered it when you were picking my pockets.”

“I wasn’t picking your pockets.”

“Oh?” His brows arched high. “What were you looking for?”

She flushed despite the fact that she had every right to be furious with him for invading her house. “I thought you were dead,” she said coolly. “I thought it might be provident to know your name.”

“Oh,” he murmured. He stepped aside, letting her pass. She set the cheese and ham on the table and was startled when he brushed past her. She didn’t have a chance to give him a plate, she didn’t even have a chance to cut him a piece of the cheese. He broke off a wedge of it, and wolfed it down.

“My, my, but they do teach good manners down in Virginia!” she said dryly. “He speaks with such eloquence and dines with such gentlemanly care!”

The gaze he cast her might have frozen fire. She determined to ignore it. She set a plate before him, and sliced the ham. “Colonel Cameron, I even have bread if you think you could wait—”

“No, I can’t wait, but I’ll have the bread too,” he told her.

The loaf was much more than a day old, but Cameron didn’t seem to notice as she set it on the table and he broke off a piece. An unlikely streak of pity swept through her. She had the feeling that the bread was probably amazingly fresh to this soldier, and that neither he nor his men had eaten much in a long, long time. He was right about one thing. So much of the war was taking place in the Shenandoah Valley and in the Virginia farmlands. It seemed that the North couldn’t come up with the generals to best those in the South, but in time, it seemed, the South would be starved out.

It was war, Callie reminded herself. And it was probably one of the reasons that Lee had determined to bring the battle north for a change.

But while Southern soldiers endured endless days on small rations, they still managed to tear apart Northern soldiers. She owed this man no pity.

“What can I get you to drink, Colonel?” she asked with an edge to her voice.

“Whiskey? And coffee. Both would be wonderful.”

“Of course.”

She went to the cupboard and set a bottle of whiskey before him. “I’m sure you don’t need a glass,” she said. She lit the stove and measured out the coffee. When she was done, she discovered him staring at her. She discovered, too, that the plate he had ignored had been filled with food. For her. He pushed it across the table to her.

“Sit down.” He thrust out a chair for her with his foot. “I’m sure you can’t have eaten much.”

She sat, staring at him. But she didn’t touch the food.

“What’s wrong? Can’t you eat with a Reb?”

She shook her head. “I just can’t eat yet,” she said softly. The sarcasm was gone. They were both thinking about the battle.

He shoved the whiskey bottle across the table to her. “Take a swig. It will help you to forget. It’s helped me a hell of a lot of times.”

She started to shake her head again, but he said, “Take a swallow. A long swallow.”

To her surprise, she did so. The whiskey burned. She choked, coughed, and swallowed again. The heat warmed her. And she did feel better.

She felt his eyes on her. They were fascinating eyes. They seemed as cold as ice, as hot as blue fire. They studied her as if they saw so very much of her.

“I think … I think the coffee is ready,” she murmured. She stood up, found cups, and poured them both coffee. She sat down and set the mugs down, too. He topped off both of the cups with a measure of the whiskey.

“Relax, Miss … ?”

“What difference does my name make?”

“What difference does it make whether you tell me or not?” he countered.

“Callie. Callie Michaelson.”

“Relax, Miss Michaelson.”

“It’s Mrs. Michaelson. And it is rather difficult to relax with the enemy in one’s kitchen.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be leaving before dawn. But then, of course, we do have the evening before us. And I need to get some sleep. Tell me, where is Mr. Michaelson?”

“Out in the yard,” Callie said flatly. But if she expected to see some sign of fear or alarm in his eyes, she was disappointed.

“Dead and buried?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Where did he fall?”

“In a skirmish in Tennessee.”

“When?”

“A little over a year ago.”

“Well, Mrs. Michaelson, I was never in Tennessee, so I didn’t kill your husband.”

“I didn’t suspect that you had.”

“Ah. You simply hate all Rebel soldiers.”

Callie swallowed down a gulp of her coffee and leapt to her feet. “I don’t hate anyone. But you are the enemy. You just can’t stay here any longer.”

“I have to.”

She turned around and strode out to the parlor. She heard him drink the last of his coffee and set down the cup. Then he followed her out. “You weren’t thinking of leaving, were you, Miss Michaelson?”

“Frankly, yes. Since you’re not.”

“You can’t go.”

“Why?”

“I won’t let you.”

“But I haven’t turned you in—”

“And that doesn’t mean that you won’t. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. But I can’t let you go.”

She swore in exasperation. His dark brows shot up and he laughed. His face was really nice then. The enemy had charm.

But then he leaned against the wall by the broken Windows and the once elegant parlor drapes. “What language for such a refined and sophisticated northern lass! And a beautiful one. Even more beautiful when you’re swearing away in such a ladylike manner!”

There was a statuette on the table. A little statuette of Pan. Callie picked it up and hurled it at him.

It didn’t matter much. Everything else in the house was ruined.

Her enemy ducked and laughed again.

“You really will be gone in the morning, Reb,” she warned him. “Or I’ll shoot you myself!”

“Will you?” he murmured, appraising her with interest. “Actually, you won’t need to shoot me. If what you were out in the yard doing was helping me, you could just help me a little more, right into the grave. Would you really shoot me?”

“Yes! Oh, will you please leave then!”

“Oh, yes, I’ll be leaving in the morning. I promise. And you’ll be coming with me.”

“What?”

Blue eyes, razor sharp, commanded hers. “You’ll be coming with me, Mrs. Callie Michaelson. You’re going to get me through the lines, and back to Virginia.”

“You are insane! That is the last thing that I’m going to do! You had a nice meal, and you’ll get a good night’s sleep. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be here when you wake up—”

“And I’ll be damned if you’re not!” he replied. With a sudden swift jerk he brought down the golden tassel and pull for the drapes. Before she knew it, the
decorative rope was flung around her waist, and he was pulling her against him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Colonel?” Callie demanded, struggling fiercely.

It was all to no avail. She was swept up into his arms, and he was striding across the room to the stairway. “Going to bed. For that good night’s sleep. And like it or not, Mrs. Michaelson, you’ll be sleeping right beside me.” Those blue eyes met hers once again. “Right beside me. You do owe me, Mrs. Michaelson. That’s the way I see it, my angel.”

“No, damn you, you Rebel bastard!” Callie swore. She tried to strike him. He held her closer.

He carried her up the stairs, heedless of her flailing arms.

“Yankee,” he murmured softly to her, “it’s going to be one hell of a night.”

“Rebel bas—” Callie began.

But his arms slammed down hard on hers, and his eyes seemed to sear their blue fire into hers once more.

“One hell of a night!” he interrupted her. “I can promise you that!”

The darkness at the top of the stain seemed engulfing to Callie, but it didn’t daunt her wayward cavalier in the least. He paused on the top landing for a moment, then headed for the closest doorway. Callie, breathless, exhausted, feeling the scrape of the wool of his uniform against her cheek, wondered desperately where he was finding his strength as they burst through the doorway into one of the bedrooms.

“What would your General Lee have to say?” she taunted. Lee might have been a Rebel commander, but he was equally famous in the North. He had been with the Union army when there had been no Confederacy, and Lincoln had once asked him to lead the Federal troops. But Lee’s loyalties had been to his state, and when Virginia had seceded from the Union, Robert E. Lee had gone along with her. He was a man still known for his gallantry, for his ethics, and for his code of honor. Taunting this man about him was surely as damaging a blow as any she might throw with her fist.

“You just might have the opportunity to ask him, Mrs. Michaelson,” Daniel Cameron replied, his deep drawl strangely intimate in the darkness.

A ripple of unease went sweeping through her. She should have been more frightened, she told herself. An
enemy soldier was bearing her into a bedroom. It was darkly disturbing to realize that what swept through her was just as much a sense of excitement as it was fear. She wanted to do battle with this man. She didn’t know if she wanted him to suffer for all that he was causing her, or if she had lived alone for so long that she was thrilled at the very thought of battle.

“Is this one your bedroom?” he asked suddenly.

She tensed. “What difference does it make?”

“None. I just want you to be comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” Callie demanded. “How comfortable can I be, Colonel, caught in this vise against my will? And sure to suffer worse!”

His laughter suddenly rang out in the darkness, and she wondered if she had spoken too dramatically. In a second she was no longer held in any vise, he had set her down upon the bed. He may not have done so tenderly, but neither was he careless in his handling of her. He must have carried a matchbox, for in a moment there was a flare of light, and he saw the lamp upon her dresser and lit it. Hoisted quickly up on her elbows, Callie stared at him as he surveyed the room. He took in the fine white eyelet draperies on the windows, the braid rug on the hardwood floors, the polished mahogany dresser and wardrobe and washstand, and finally, the bed, with its beautifully carved headboard and footboard and white knit spread. It was her room, a warm, welcoming room, with imported tiles surrounding the hearth, and warm woolen blankets laid over the two rockers that sat right before the fireplace. Curiously, no bullets had strayed here. The soft eyelet drapes wafted lightly in the night breeze, untouched. She wondered if the Reb colonel thought about that fact as he surveyed the room, but his sharp blue eyes gave away none of his thoughts.

With the lamp lit, Callie could see the pallor in his handsome features. How was he still standing?

He started to unbuckle his scabbard, still surveying the room. Again, unease came sweeping through her system. What did he intend? She swallowed hard, and determined that she would fight to her very last breath for her honor.

He cast his scabbard and sword onto the side chair and sat for a moment. Then his gaze came down hard on her once again.

She gritted her teeth. Well, he was welcome to stay here. She would not do so.

She leapt up, praying that she might be granted speed and endurance while the weight of his injuries fell upon him at last.

But even as she sprinted for the door, he was up, and she went flying straight into his arms.

She cast back her head, and their eyes met. There was a certain amount of humor in his.

“You’re not going anywhere, Yank. Sorry,” he told her.

“Let me go. You’ve no right to hold me here at all.”

“I have to hold you here.”

“You’re supposed to be gallant and fighting for the honor of the South! It’s your duty—”

“I consider living through this one of my duties, too, Mrs. Michaelson. So you just might—”

“You can’t stay here. In my room! With—me!”

His brows shot up suddenly. His hands on her shoulders were warm and firm. She felt his nearness with the length of her body. He smiled. Slowly. A handsome, lazy, compelling smile. Long ago, at some distant ball, while the whippoorwills trilled and the moss hung low over old trees, that smile must have melted many a heart.

Now it also held a little bit of bitterness, and even, perhaps, a shade of wistfulness. Here was a hardened soldier, an enemy long in the field, probably a veteran of nearly every battle in the eastern theater of this war.

He was amused. “Why, Mrs. Michaelson, just what are you afraid of? Me?”

“Certainly not. You are merely a very rude—and I might add muddy—Rebel soldier. I’m not afraid of you a single bit.”

“Why not? Is there a Yankee in the wardrobe, waiting to protect you?”

She didn’t know if he was taunting her, or if he was really suspicious of her.

“Perhaps there is a Yankee in the wardrobe,” she returned swiftly. “Perhaps you should leave me be and run as swiftly as you can!”