Glory (13 page)

Far clearer than she wanted it to be. Haunting her, making her so afraid ...

Don’t think. Don’t be afraid. Be down to earth, cold, simple, factual.

Fact. The Reb doctor’s clothing was in sad repair. With shaking hands she took out a shirt and a pair of breeches. She gritted her teeth, feeling the onslaught of a headache and wishing she could take some laudanum.

She spun around, feeling an uneasy sensation.

He was there, standing in her doorway. Blue eyes sharp, hard, relentless as he watched her. Handsome face hard, mocking, as if he could too easily read her mind. “You’re ready?” he inquired.

She didn’t answer him, but indicated the clothing she held in her hands. “Your things are badly frayed.”

“And those are Richard’s?”

“Yes.”

“No, thanks.”

She wanted to slap him. She was making a supreme sacrifice, offering him Richard’s clothing. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told him angrily. “Your clothing is worn, in danger of falling apart.”

“I don’t want to remind you of Richard,” he said flatly. “I don’t want you to think of me as him, and I don’t want you calling me by his name.”

She shook her head. “You’re nothing like Richard. He was kind and courteous.”

“And a Yankee,” he said dryly. “Good St. Richard. I’m sure I’m nothing like him.”

“You can take his clothing. I’d never mistake you for my husband.”

“Oh?” He arched a brow, and she felt a flush of heat and apprehension as he walked across the room, taking the clothing from her.

“So you’ve never mistaken me for Richard. Really?”

He stood directly in front of her. She could see the pulse ticking at his throat, the strange look in his eyes. Her breath seemed to be ripped away, and she suddenly felt her heart slamming against her chest.

“Colonel, sir, I pray that you cease being so rudely insinuative—”

“I’m not being insinuative at all. I’m trying to establish facts.”

“McKenzie, you bastard—”

He turned away from her, walking over to her rosewood secretary and picking up one of her journals. “I’ve taken clippings, seeds, and some roots,” he said, thumbing through her inventory of plants. “You keep good records,” he told her, sliding one of her books on flowers and herbs and their properties from the secretary. He flipped through it. “This is better than a number of the medical journals I’ve read.”

He sat down at the chair in front of the secretary, reading.

“You can use Richard’s clothing,” she said stubbornly.

“No, thank you.” He said politely, firmly. He didn’t look up.

“Fine, then you can get out of my room.”

At that, he looked up at her. She was uneasy again as his blue gaze slid slowly and curiously over the length of her. He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you recall at all that you weren’t so eager to be rid of me last night?”

“You burst in here.”

“Yes, I did. So you do remember that. What else?”

“There was nothing else!” she insisted.

He stared at her a moment longer, then looked back to the book he had been reading.

She hurried over before him, planting her hands on the secretary to stare furiously into his eyes. “You stopped me from taking the opium. I do remember.”

He looked up at her politely.

“Don’t, don’t, please, don’t!” she whispered desperately.

“I’m not doing anything,” he told her.

“You are! You are implying—you are saying things—you are insinuating—”

“What did happen last night, Rhiannon?” he asked her. “You tell me.”

“Nothing. Nothing happened.”

His blue gaze met hers for a long moment. He rose. “Whatever you say is what happened, Rhiannon. Whatever you say.”

He reached out suddenly, capturing her hand despite the fact that she tried to snatch it away. His eyes remained locked with hers. “You’re shaking. Look at your hands! And you should see your eyes. You don’t remember the night, you
refuse
to remember the night. And you told me you weren’t addicted! Now here we are again! Last night was painless—until the doubts and fear set in, right? But tonight will not be so easy. It’s going to be a very long, hard night for you, Mrs. Tremaine. Very long. And be warned, there won’t be any giving in—I’ll fight you again.”

He turned away from her and walked out of her room.

T
HAT NIGHT, AS JULIAN
had well imagined she would be, Rhiannon was sick.

Julian had been amazed at the help he’d received from both Angus and Mammy Nor in getting Rhiannon out of her house. She’d actually packed a few belongings, and though she’d been concerned when speaking with her two remaining servants, they had not been worried. “We aren’t really in any danger here, Miz Tremaine,” Angus had said, winking. “You were the Yankee living in the heart of Dixie. Why, with the trees so wild and all, we’ll probably go the rest of the war without a single body even passing by.”

Rhiannon had run back upstairs to make sure that Rachel was nearly ready. Rachel was pleased to be leaving, even if it meant going to a Rebel camp. Angus and Mammy Nor had stood together, staring at Julian.

“You two really going to be all right?” he’d asked.

Angus had laughed. They’d be fine, he’d assured Julian. They would look after the place, they would make sure that it was kept up. And, they both swore, if troops came through from either the North or the South, they would take to the trees until the soldiers were gone.

“We’ll be right as rain, young man,” Mammy Nor told him. “Miz Tremaine, she needed to be out of here, and if you ain’t exactly what we were counting on, I sure do know that the Lord works in a mysterious way. You see to Miz Tremaine, and you watch out for your own hide, Doctor. There are some gray clouds around you, and that’s a fact. You protect yourself.”

They had left with Mammy Nor and Angus waving good-bye.

Julian was even riding a new horse. A bay in far better health than the skinny but loyal old nag he’d left behind. Angus had promised to see to the horse and fatten her up.

Julian used the moonlight to travel, moving quietly along dark, overgrown, lonely trails. At first the going was easy enough. He’d spent the majority of his life in the state, and he knew more of the old Indian trails than many an old Indian.

As he rode, though, he grew bitter at the thought that he might soon be reassigned north. Half the time now he didn’t know what he thought about the war. He didn’t believe in slavery, but he didn’t believe in the Federal government’s right to dictate what his state should do. He’d heard from friends that General Robert E. Lee, head of the Confederate army, had devised a plan to free his own slaves before the war started. Lee had been adamantly against secession, but when Virginia had seceded, Lee had gone with his state. It was strange, he thought. Once the decision had been simple for him. Florida had seceded, Florida boys were hurt and dying, he was a doctor, he had to help his own. But all he could see now was the destruction of his state, of his family, his home, everything he loved.

These thoughts burdened him, but sometime during the ride he realized that he had been preoccupied for a long time, and that his female companions had quietly ridden alongside.

Julian probably would have pushed on farther, but he realized that it was around midnight. Looking back, he saw that Rachel could scarcely remain in her saddle. Rhiannon, at Rachel’s side, was keeping a keen eye on her young ward. She sat straight in her saddle, but no matter how she might be trying to hide it, she was in pain. The moonlight illumined the ashen color haunting her beautiful features. She was shaking and shivering as well, clenching her teeth hard to disguise her discomfort. Withdrawal, he realized.

“We’ll stop just ahead,” Julian told the women. “There’s a stream up there and the remnants of an old Indian village.”

Rhiannon arched a brow to him as they turned down a heavily overgrown trail. Yet he knew where he was going. Down the trail and just around a crooked little path, he came to a small copse he knew well. His uncle had brought him here years before; it had been one of the camps used by the Seminoles just before General Jesup had tricked the famed Indian leader, Osceola, into capture. Though the copse hadn’t been used as a settlement in years, travelers who knew of its existence came through now and then, and the thatch roofs had been somewhat kept up and the platforms were cleared often enough to make them easily dusted now for sleeping quarters. A little stream, a tributary to the St. Johns, lay just ahead of the chickees, and Julian pointed the water out to the women after helping them from their horses. He tethered the animals, taking saddlebags and blankets from them and arranging sleeping quarters for Rhiannon and Rachel high on one of the chickees. Assuring himself that they were resting in relative safety—only the one, heavily foliaged trail led to the chickees by the stream—he walked to the water himself. They had both been drinking their fill, and Rachel seemed too weary to realize just how pale and quiet Rhiannon seemed to be.

“Will we be all right, sleeping here?” Rachel asked him anxiously.

“We’ll be fine.”

“There are snakes, aren’t there?”

“That’s why the Seminoles built their houses up on platforms, Rachel.”

“Why didn’t they build walls?”

“Because they had to run too often to stay away from the soldiers,” he told her. “Once they did build log homes. But the soldiers kept coming and burning them out. They learned how to build fast, serviceable dwellings that they could desert at will. So they built chickees. You may like it. It’s nice, sleeping like this. Up from the ground ... but still getting the night breeze.”

“You’ve slept in these before?”

“I have an uncle and cousins who are half Seminole, down by the deep swamp. I’ve slept in lots of chickees. You’ll be fine, honest. I’ll be watching over you. Your blanket is set up over there.”

She smiled at last. Rhiannon stood by the water, still and silent—and very white. Rachel kissed her on the cheek, yawning. “Actually, I think I could almost sleep standing. Good night, I’m going to crawl into my blanket.”

She left them there. Julian eyed Rhiannon, then knelt by the water. It was cool, clear, delicious. He slaked his thirst, then realized she was still standing there.

He rose. “You’re all set up to get some sleep next to Rachel.”

She nodded, but then suddenly lurched away from him, stumbling against a tree. She reached out a hand, steadying herself; she leaned over and was sick.

“Rhiannon—”

“Stay away from me,” she cried, trying to move more deeply into the foliage.

“Rhiannon, let me help you—”

“No!”

But he followed her, and when she doubled over again, retching in dry heaves, he put an arm around her for support. She pulled away and stumbled back toward the water. She fell to her knees and drenched her face, throat, and hands. She remained on her knees, not moving but shaking violently.

“I’ll be right back,” he told her hoarsely.

He strode to the chickee where he’d lain their blankets, hiked himself up. Rachel was asleep already. He took Rhiannon’s blanket and strode back to the water. He swept it around her and lifted her up and into his arms. She didn’t have the strength to stop him. He had carried her a few feet from the stream, toward the chickee, when her hand fell against his chest.

“No!”

“I’m just taking you to the chickee—”

“No, please, don’t go near Rachel.”

He paused, standing very still. She didn’t want Rachel to see the seriousness of her addiction. He turned and walked back toward a clearing blanketed with pine needles that was but a few feet from the stream. Using a tree for leverage, he sank down with her in his arms, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around her. It was a beautiful night, warm, not hot, the air touched with a pleasant, caressing breeze.

Her teeth were chattering, but she looked up at him, making a feeble effort to free herself from the bonds of his arms. “You need to ... let me go,” she whispered miserably.

“I’m trying to warm you.”

“I’m ... all right.”

“The hell you are.”

“I may be sick again.”

“You may.”

“I don’t want you to see me ... like this.”

“I’m a doctor; your condition isn’t something I haven’t seen before.”

“My condition—”

“Withdrawal, Rhiannon. From your opiates.”

“I’m not withdrawing from anything—”

“You are. And you know it.”

“Then ...” she began, then hesitated, clenching her teeth for a moment. “Let me have something, please, just a touch of laudanum.”

“No.”

“I can’t stand this.”

“You’re going to have to.”

“My stomach keeps knotting. You don’t have to feel responsible for me. I knew ... I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, yeah, you know.”

“Please ... I’ll wind up throwing up all over you.”

“It’s happened to me before.”

She shivered violently. “This is awful—”

“Yes, it is. And you’re going to suffer tonight. I warned you that you would. But I told you as well, I’ve been through it.”

“Not with me!” she whispered. Her eyes touched his desperately. Such startlingly beautiful eyes. So brilliant, so vividly colored, against her ghostly pale features. She wanted so badly to escape him, but hadn’t the strength of a kitten at the moment. She closed her eyes again, and he tightened his hold on her, cradling her shaking body against his.

“I can’t bear this!” she whispered.

“You can.”

“I’m so cold.”

“I’ll keep you warm.”

“No, you’re the enemy, please ...”

“You’re damned right. What an enemy! I’m—”

“Something, give me something, let me withdraw slowly, surely—”

“Rhiannon, one night will be bad. You’ll have bad times after as well, but this will be the worst of it. I can get you through this.”

Her eyes closed. “I’m going to die.”

“No, you’re not. I won’t let you.”

“Please ...”

He wasn’t quite sure as to what her
please
referred to—if she wanted to die, or if she wanted him to stop the pain. He couldn’t do that; he could only do his best to help her make it through the night.