Glory (9 page)

This was all his fault. The Reb’s fault.

No, not really. She’d taken laudanum before—and pure opium. In fact, she was aware that she’d gotten into taking it far too often. Just a touch, she’d told herself over and over again, but it had gotten to where she’d had that “touch” on a daily basis.

She’d known better.

And last night ...

She’d taken too much. When she shouldn’t have touched anything, when she should have been careful, awake, aware. What if the Yanks had come earlier? What if there had been shooting? She’d thought that she would be in her room, locked away, safe, but what about Rachel? Oh, God, how could she have been so careless, so irresponsible?

It was him; he had somehow made her feel more afraid, more alone, more lost ... she had thought that her little “touch” of the drug would calm her, but then she’d taken more than a touch.

Then?

She couldn’t remember, didn’t know. She was so very afraid that ...

Her dreams had been sweet. Time had swept away. And she’d been with Richard again.

But Richard was dead.

And this had been so real ...

Mammy Nor’s wine. Of course, Mammy Nor’s wine. Added to fantasy and relief gained from her field of poppies ...

She spun around and looked at her bed. The pillows were bunched, the sheets were in disarray, but then, she did have a tendency to twist and turn at night. She hugged her arms around herself, shaking. She still wore her gown, yet the very air around her seemed to carry a hint of ...

His scent. The Reb’s scent.

A masculine scent, so subtle, maybe not even real, and yet it made it seem that his presence remained, touched her, permeated her ...

She groaned aloud just as Rachel banged on the door and called out her name.

“Rhiannon!”

“I’m coming.”

“The Yanks are here,” Rachel said reproachfully. Rachel knew that she had sent for the Yank scouting party—to capture the Rebs. She also knew their guests of the night before hadn’t been Unionists. She simply didn’t care.

“I’ll be right there.”

Rachel went away. Rhiannon stripped off her gown and took a hasty sponge bath. Her flesh seemed tender. Her imagination, surely. Oh, God, the night seemed a total haze, like a dream in a field of clouds, and yet there were moments she recalled so vividly, as if Richard had returned, as if he had been with her ...

She dressed hastily, wishing that there weren’t quite so many tiny buttons in her black bodice. Every move she made seemed difficult, as if she had lost all sense of coordination. She could see, yes, she could see all manner of things she didn’t want to see: it was true, it was horrible, and yet it seemed that now she had been blinded ...

Don’t think about it!
she commanded herself.

The Yankee patrol she had sent for was downstairs. It had taken them long enough, certainly, and she wasn’t at all sure why they weren’t in pursuit of the Rebels. They couldn’t be far.

She started from the room, then paused, seeing again the small vial of opium he had kept her from taking. A strange tremor shot through her veins. Just how much had she taken last night along with the wine? How much more might have killed her, eased away all pain? Permanently. Shaking, she suddenly realized that she didn’t want to die. She hated it that Richard was dead, but she didn’t want to die.

Nor did she ever,
ever
want to face another morning like this one, wondering what had been fact and what had been fantasy. Surely ...

“Never again!” she vowed silently. She picked up the vial of opium. “Never again, I swear it.”

She was about to toss the vial into the fireplace when she remembered how desperately medicines were needed throughout the South. She might want the Union to win the war, and she might even be bitter. But she’d seen enough to know that she didn’t want any shattered man to lie in agony beneath a surgeon’s knife when this much of an opiate could ease his pain.

She set the vial down. She would touch no more of her own medications. Nor would she destroy what others might desperately need.

She started from the room once again. She was dizzy and miserable. Rachel was waiting for her on the landing. Rachel had never seen her like this. She tried to smile, although she was aware that Rachel was angry with her, though God alone knew why. Rachel had been born and bred in the North. The Rebs had lied to her as well. Rachel had adored her cousin Richard. But she was angry about the Rebs, nonetheless.

“Rachel, you might have seen to the Union men, helped Angus and Mammy Nor see to their thirst.”

“Oh, I’ve greeted the Union men,” Rachel told her solemnly. “I was just curious ...”

“About?”

Rachel smiled innocently. “Your reaction to them.”

Rhiannon sighed. “Rachel, I knew the men last night were the enemy, and yes, I sent for this patrol. Are you forgetting that Richard died fighting for the North? Rebels killed him, Rachel.”

“The war killed him. He was probably shot by some poor fool just trying to survive the same,” Rachel said.

“But Rachel, don’t be mad at me because I sent for a Yankee patrol.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Then—?”

Rachel shrugged. “Come meet the soldiers. You’ll see.”

Rhiannon sighed and lifted her hands. Even that seemed an effort. She was so shaky. Her head continued to pound. The world waved in front of her, as if the air were like the ocean, and undulated with an unseen current.

“Are you all right, Rhiannon? You look ghastly,” Rachel told her.

“Thank you.”

“You’re entirely white,” Rachel said, studying her with real concern

“I’m tired. It was a bad night.”

She felt sick. She hoped that she was walking down the stairs in a normal manner.

Yet as she neared the ground floor, her heart began to hammer in an alarming manner. A wave of eerie fear swept over her. There was only one soldier in the hallway.

Him.

He had returned.

Tall, dark-haired, with his piercing blue eyes, he stood in her hallway now in a crisp, clean Yankee cavalry uniform. He awaited her, his plumed hat in his hand, his eyes searching as he stared up at her, waiting.

She was seeing things.

No, he was back.

He was everywhere. He had come to haunt her life, to taunt her forever, to make her feel again, when she had learned that she could find oblivion ...

She looked at him, feeling the world begin to spin around her in a most disturbing manner. She tried to open her mouth. She wanted to speak.

“Ah, Mrs. Tremaine, I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I needed to ask you questions about your recently departed guests, if you’d seen—”

The ground was swept from beneath her feet. She didn’t have vapors—not even little ladylike flutters—and she’d never fainted in her life.

But suddenly the world was cold and dark, and she was slipping to the floor.

“My brother, Mrs. Tremaine.”

Rhiannon was dimly aware of the Yankee colonel’s words, but they came too late.

She continued her slide into darkness.

“M
RS. TREMAINE.”

She opened her eyes. She was lying on the sofa in her parlor. He was still there. Sitting by her side, studying her with concern. He was the spitting image of the Rebel doctor who had stormed into her life.

“Brother,” she croaked.

He smiled, nodding. “Are you all right, then? I’m Colonel Ian McKenzie, U.S. Cavalry, and I’m terribly sorry to have startled you so. When your man arrived in St. Augustine, I was anxious to ride with the troops—I had planned on coming out here during my visit before your messenger arrived.”

She tried to sit up, pressing her temples.

“Mrs. Tremaine?”

His voice was even like the doctor’s, with a deep timbre and soft hint of the South.

“I’m all right,” she said quickly. “Twins?”

“No, not twins, though I have been told we look quite a bit alike,” he added politely, watching her face. “I admit, I’ve never had quite such a reaction from an acquaintance of Julian’s, but ...”

“You look just like him,” she murmured. “Same eyes, hair, the shape of your face—”

“No,” Ian McKenzie interrupted with a subtle smile. “He looks just like me. I’m older. By a year.”

“And of course ... you’re in a legitimate uniform, and not nearly as gaunt—”

“I’m on the side that eats more frequently,” Ian McKenzie said dryly. “And don’t worry about Julian—nor should he be underestimated. He may be lean, ma’am. But he’s lean muscle, and knows enough to look after himself.”

“I wasn’t worrying about him,” she murmured.

“Yes, of course not, he’s a Rebel, the enemy,” Ian McKenzie said, yet she thought that he looked at her strangely, and she felt her cheeks redden; what was he seeing in her?

“McKenzie ...” she said, then shook her head. “Oh, my God, yes, my father used to speak about your family! You have a home near Tampa Bay. Your father settled there even before my father came here.”

“We’re indeed long time residents. And you were invited to Cimarron many times, Mrs. Tremaine, but you and your father had a tendency to be North on business.”

“Yes, I suppose we traveled frequently,” she said, suddenly feeling like a fool. She’d seen him and passed out. She smoothed back her hair. “So ... sir, you and your men missed the Rebel troops?”

“By a matter of minutes, I’m afraid,” he told her. “Are you sure you’re all right? You still look quite pale.”

“She had a difficult night.”

The words, which seemed to carry the hint of a taunt, came from Rachel, and Rhiannon realized that her young ward had been there, standing behind the Yankee colonel all the time.

“I sent Angus to Captain Cline. Was the captain unavailable?”

“The captain was wounded in a skirmish.”

“My God, is he—”

“No, not dead. Healing nicely.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes. I came in his stead. And we were late. My apologies. We rode as quickly as we could once word had reached us. Again, I apologize for causing such distress. Perhaps I should get you some brandy, a glass of wine—” Ian suggested.

“No!” she protested sharply, then realized how rude she sounded. “I—I would love some water, please.” Rachel was staring at her as if she deserved to be wretchedly sick.

Ian McKenzie brought her a glass of water from the sideboard. She pushed herself up and accepted the water, drinking it in a single long swallow. She did feel somewhat better. She managed to sit with some dignity.

“Rachel, will you ask Mammy Nor if we might have coffee served here?”

“Certainly,” Rachel said.

Rhiannon smoothed her skirts, trying to control her trembling, her eyes downcast as Rachel left the room. The colonel continued to stand near her, watching her.

“Are your men out giving chase?” she asked him.

“No.”

She looked up at him, startled. “But—”

“They could run in circles for hours. They could be ambushed. Slaughtered. It would be futile.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because I know my brother. He knows the landscape, the roads, the pine forests, the rivers. His men are Florida boys. They’re gone, and we’d need more than a few green fellows out of Michigan to find them.”

She stared straight at him. “In all honesty, since it just happens that you were at the base in St. Augustine, and happened to lead these troops, did you try to miss your brother, Colonel McKenzie?”

He shook his head. “No, Mrs. Tremaine, I did not.”

She frowned, remembering that he had said he had intended to come to see her before.

“Colonel McKenzie, you said that you already were coming to see me. Why?”

He hesitated a moment, then reached into the pocket of his uniform jacket, handing her a letter. “This has taken some time getting here, since your husband’s commanding officer was determined to give it only to someone who could hand it to you directly.”

She stared at the envelope in his hand, feeling a wave of pain sweep over her, like the tide upon the beach.

“I don’t understand. Richard’s body was returned to me by rail almost immediately after the battle. I was told that I was very lucky ... that not many bodies were actually returned to their loved ones,” she said.

“The army tries, Mrs. Tremaine—”

“It’s just that there are so many corpses, right?” she inquired on a whisper.

“Your husband’s body was identified and sent home right after the battle, ma’am. This letter was found in his personal effects after. He was highly respected, Mrs. Tremaine, and as I said, his commanding officer was anxious that this letter, addressed to you in his own hand, reach you.”

“And since your home was Florida ...”

“It is still my home, Mrs. Tremaine. My home is a beautiful place just outside Tampa, my folks are there, my brother and sister remain in the state—very near here. It’s my ardent belief that the country will one day be reunited, and I will live here again. I maintain my ties here. My wife, children, and a cousin-in-law and her baby reside in St. Augustine.”

“I see,” she said.

She moistened her lips. She wanted to wrench the envelope out of his hands, and then again, she didn’t want it at all—she was afraid of it. She looked up at him again. “So your wife is here, your family, your extended family.”

“Yes.”

He had just said that, she realized. But she couldn’t seem to stop. “Your children. Nephews and nieces?”

“Not yet. Neither my brother nor my sister has children as yet.”

“Soon enough, I imagine.”

She was talking away idly. Repeating herself, making little sense. Prying. Anything to keep from taking the envelope that she wanted so much.

“Well, I believe one of them will want to marry first,” he murmured.

“Not married,” she said.

He walked over to her and came down on a knee, offering her the envelope. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain. I thought you would want this,” he told her. He was strikingly handsome, charming, kind. The empathy in his eyes was almost more than she could bear.

“I do want it,” she whispered. “Desperately.” Already, tears were stinging her eyes. She blinked them back furiously and reached out with shaking hands to take the letter.