Authors: Heather Graham
One Wore Blue
“I’LL FIGHT YOU EVERY STEP OF THE WAY.
AND THE SOUTH WILL WIN!”
“Maybe the battles, but never the war,” he said quickly.
He realized that he wasn’t talking about the great conflict between the North and the South. He was talking about the two of them.
Suddenly, the tension was so great that it was nearly unbearable. He felt her heat, felt the raw desperation and fury and determination in her.
And he felt the fire that had always burned between them. Dear Lord, he wanted her. The memory of what had once been between them was suddenly naked in her eyes.
Damn, but I will have you again! he vowed in silence.
CRITICAL RAVES FOR
HEATHER GRAHAM
THE VIKING’S WOMAN
“Heather Graham is a writer of incredible talent. Once again, she brings to life a sometimes violent, but always intriguing era of romance and adventure.” —
Affaire de Coeur
“Passionate love scenes, action and intrigue combine to make a fast-paced, well-developed story which artfully blends historical fact with romantic fiction.” —
Rendezvous
SWEET, SAVAGE EDEN
“SWEET, SAVAGE EDEN IS A KEEPER!
An engrossing, highly sensual non-stop read. You’ll be captivated by the engaging characters and the fascinating portrait of early colonial life. Heather Graham never disappoints her readers. She delivers high quality historical romance with three-dimensional characters and a sizzling love story that touches the heart.” —
Romantic Times
A PIRATE’S PLEASURE
“The sexual tension in
A PIRATE’S PLEASURE
sizzles like the hottest summer sun. Heather Graham’s sense of humor sparkles throughout this delightful and well-researched tale … just one more shining example of why Ms. Graham is a bestselling author. She continually gives us hours of reading pleasure.”
—
Romantic Times
LOVE NOT A REBEL
“A very, very hot, fast-paced, ‘battle of wills’ love story that is guaranteed to thrill Heather Graham’s legion of fans … enough historical details, colorful escapades, biting repartee, and steamy sexual tension to keep you glued to the pages.”
—Romantic Times
DEVIL’S MISTRESS
“The familiar and charged role of the unwilling bride showcases Graham’s talents for characterization and romantic tension.”
—
The New York Daily News
“This book may become a minor classic.”
—Romantic Times
“One of the most exciting romances ever read.”
—Romance Readers Quarterly
Dell books by Heather Graham
SWEET SAVAGE EDEN
A PIRATE’S PLEASURE
LOVE NOT A REBEL
DEVIL’S MISTRESS
EVERY TIME I LOVE YOU
GOLDEN SURRENDER
THE VIKING’S WOMAN
ONE WORE BLUE
AND ONE WORE GRAY
AND ONE ROAD WEST
LORD OF THE WOLVES
SPIRIT OF THE SEASON
RUNAWAY
This book is dedicated with many, many thanks to some of the wonderful people we’ve come to know in Harpers Ferry and Bolivar, West Virginia.
To Mrs. Shirley Dougherty, who has bewitched, intrigued, entertained and taught us so many times with the “Harpers Ferry Myth and Legends” Tour (Ghost Tour!)
To Dixie, for being the gentleman that he is, but especially for his kindness that very first time we came.
To Mr. and Mrs. Stan Hadden for their hospitality and their charm, and for the wonderful Civil War flavor of Stan’s “Eagle.”
To many of the National Park Service guides for their own love of history, for their enthusiasm, for their patience.
And it is dedicated to Harpers Ferry itself, a town where the mists still hover over the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers, where the mountains rise into the distance, where the past and present seem to collide, and, as Jason says, where a haunting quality seems to settle over the streets by the darkness of the night, and a restless spirit still remains. Perhaps they still walk here, men in blue, and men in gray.
Lastly, but very especially, it is dedicated to my editor, Damaris Rowland, with tremendous gratitude for the enthusiasm and support she has unwaveringly given this project. Damaris, thank you.
John Brown’sBody
PrologueKIERNANKiernan’s world, it seemed, had split in two.
One side was blue, and one side was gray.
Ever since it began to come apart, everything had changed. All that had been beautiful in life had begun to fade. A way of life that had been full of charm and wit and easy grandeur had passed away. They were holding on to it tightly, but it was gone. The world was split apart, and families were split apart—like Camerons.
One wore blue, and one wore gray.
One had been her childhood friend back in Tidewater Virginia. He and Kiernan had tramped through fields together, they had been chastised together. They had told their dreams to each other during long lazy days when they had lain by pleasant, bubbling springs beneath powder-blue skies.
And the other Cameron brother had been her hero. As a child, she had adored him. As a woman, she had loved him. And when the world had changed, she had hated him—fiercely, desperately, as passionately as she had loved him. She had her beliefs, and she had her loyalties.
It was just that she had loved him so long.…
Even when she had stood before the altar with another man and promised to love and honor and cherish that man until death did them part, she had loved him.
Almost as much as she had hated him.
She had told him that she hated him the day that she walked away from him.
But he had been destined to ride back into her life that day, Kiernan would later realize.
Jesse. Jesse Cameron.
The one who wore blue.
It began very late in the afternoon of that autumn day in 1861, when the breeze was cool, when the mountains seemed the most gentle.
They came against the beautiful fall colors of the twilight. They were like a great wave, cresting and falling, rising again. Beneath the dying sun they seemed to weave and undulate. A piece of metal—a belt buckle, a sword—would catch a ray of the fading light, and it would flash and shimmer. They came onward still, visible almost like a writhing snake one moment, then disappearing into shadow the next. When they disappeared, the peace, the tranquillity of the coming night in the Blue Ridge Mountains, seemed to deny that they could exist. Here, where fall came so gently and so beautifully, where those last rays of sun and the coming shadow fell upon oaks and rolling fields of green and amber, here at Montemarte, they could not possibly exist.
But they did.
And still they came. Men marching, and more men on horseback. Rows and rows of soldiers.
Kiernan Miller could see them on the distant mount as she stood by the old oaks in the summer garden of Montemarte. In the dim light, it was difficult to see what color they wore. But even as she watched them, she felt panic and dismay rise within her. Her hand flew to her throat, as if she could swallow her despair.
The Confederates had pulled out of the nearby town of Harpers Ferry—she knew that. They had blown up the munitions there and pulled out. They were still near—she knew that too—but they had no large numbers, and so the horde slowly but surely rising toward her had to be Yanks.
As they came closer, she could see the blue uniforms—standard
Federal issue. Union Army. They weren’t deserters or guerrilla fighters.
There could be only one reason for them to be riding toward Montemarte.
To burn it to the ground.
She stood very still, only her bright, beautiful green eyes betraying the depths of her tension. The night breeze rippled through the gold and honey-rich fire of her hair. Her slim form was as straight as the old oaks. In better times, she might have been a picture of elegance, for the breeze also touched upon the fullness of her fine gown—white eyelet over a full silver-blue skirt and a low-cut bodice with French puff sleeves. It was a beautiful gown, right out of the pages of Lady Godey’s. She didn’t know why she bothered to dress for evenings anymore, except that she had found herself plunged into a new world, and she was fighting to hang on to the traditions she knew so well.
