Surrender (17 page)

Jerome hesitated, shrugging. “Well, we started off with nothing, a brand-new country, new government—and new navy.”

“So fools like you gave over your own property,” Tia said.

Both men shot her fierce frowns.

Jerome said sternly, “Tia, the South has virtually no manufacturing. Yes, I offered my ship, and yes, we are often in desperate situations. If we can continue to win battles when we haven’t equal men or forces—eventually, politics will give us a victory.”

“If!” Tia murmured quietly. She rose and walked away.

They both looked after her.

“We lost a patient we shouldn’t have lost today,” Julian explained.

Jerome stood. “We lose a great deal that shouldn’t be lost,” he said softly. “Then again, so does our enemy. Shall I have Miss Magee brought to you here?”

Before Julian could answer, Digby entered again excitedly. “Sir!” he cried. “There’s a message from your uncle.” He turned about, realizing Julian’s uncle was Jerome’s father. “Your father, sir.”

“My father? What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing!” Digby said with a broad smile. “It’s just that we’re to have another visitor today. Mr. McKenzie has brought Miss Alaina just south of here.”

“That’s wonderful, Digby, thank you,” Julian said. Digby left, and he looked at Jerome. “Ian has sent her here?”

“Because there’s still a war going on, and I imagine he’s trusting you to send Alaina on to St. Augustine—Union held.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Risa will be glad to see her.”

“Risa—Miss Magee,” Julian murmured. “Jerome, I’ll have my men greet her farther downriver so she won’t know exactly where we are. She and Alaina, both here! Risa was the woman Ian was to marry once. She might have been a McKenzie now if … well, you know, if things had been different.”

“If things had been different,” Jerome murmured dryly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go make arrangements for the lady.”

* * *

Morning had come, but Risa still slept, and Jeremiah assured Jerome that she had been left undisturbed.

He stood in his cabin door for a long moment, watching her. She slept on her back, the covers to her waist, her hands delicately lain atop the sheet. Her dark hair streamed out all around her like a deep, fiery blanket, very long. It was a beautiful color, like sable. It contrasted so sharply with her eyes, and the marble of her flesh. Tendrils of hair just curled over her naked breasts, and her nipples, dusky rouge, were sensually half-hidden beneath those soft locks. Her lips were slightly parted, and he studied them. She had a beautiful mouth. Her lips were full, shapely. In repose, she was all but angelic. The length of her was beautiful. Her throat was long, her hands were elegant, her breasts were …

Tempting. Ripe …

And his prisoner no more. She was the Yank general’s daughter. He frowned, realizing that he’d deflowered his enemy’s child. Southerners claimed to have such a sense of honor! And surely, he did. If not the proper sense of Southern honor, he knew the difference between right and wrong, and taking the innocence of any man’s daughter…

She could have said no. He’d given her a chance to do so, hadn’t he?

His pulse throbbed, his fingers itched, his body burned.

Her eyes opened then, slowly—thick, dark lashes parting to reveal their aquamarine color, so like the sea. She blinked, then saw him, and frowned, realizing it was day.

“We’re here?” she inquired.

“Indeed, you’re very close to freedom,” he told her, coming to the bed, his eyes intently on her. He saw that a vein in her throat pulsed a rapid beat. Her eyes widened, and she shifted, drawing at the covers.

“You’re going to be modest now?” he inquired.

“It’s day. And we’ve arrived,” she murmured, lashes sweeping her cheeks once again. Cheeks now stained with color. He brushed her face with his knuckles, and she looked at him.

“Daylight,” he repeated, studying her eyes. “The surrender by night is gone.”

She smiled suddenly, shaking her head, and he thought there was a hint of tears shimmering in her eyes. “I never surrender to Rebs, Captain.”

“Mmm…” he murmured, watching her still. Then he asked, “So why did you allow it?”

“Why did you?”

“I don’t think that I actually allowed anything—”

“Why did you—make love to me?”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh? Good answer, sir,” she murmured.

“What about your father?” he demanded.

“I hadn’t intended on telling him.”

“No, of course not. You wouldn’t want to admit to surrendering to the enemy.”

“I’ve never surrendered to any Rebel cause,” she said.

“But you don’t want your father to know.”

“My God, no! Not my father, not—”

“Not anyone.”

She lowered her lashes once again. “No, not anyone.” She paused. “You’re a Rebel, running the blockade. My father is a Union general. And as everyone keeps telling me, this is war. Father will certainly try to find a way to hunt you down as it is. You are the enemy.”

“Risa, I’m not afraid of your father.”

“You should be.”

“Perhaps your father should be afraid of me.”

“Thankfully, he fights on land, you fight on sea. But I’m sure he’s furious, he’ll have all his friends after you—”

“Then, I pity them, because many of them will die. I am good at what I do, and I’m sorry for any loss of life, but when ships clash at sea, there is bloodshed and death.”

“That, sir, is my point. You’re the enemy.”

He nodded, wondering why he was feeling such a brutal knotting sensation again. Every word she was saying was true. Naturally, she wouldn’t want any relationship between them known.

“You said you’re going to release me,” she reminded him quietly.

“Yes,” he told her, stroking her hair from her
forehead. “But I remain curious. I am the enemy. Point well established. So why did you allow what happened?”

“You—gave me no choice.”

“I think I did. Were you playing at what might have been?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said warily.

“Yes, you do. You were in love with Ian. You were in my arms before we even met, thinking that I was Ian. If only I
had
been Ian … it would be so different now, of course. You’d be seeking marriage instead of escape.”

He was angry, no more than she. Frustrated, desperate, hungry … tormented.

“Ian is married,” she snapped, eyes narrowing. “But he has the good sense to realize that you Rebels are trying to destroy what can be a great country. He isn’t the enemy.”

“Ian the valiant! Well, my good cousin has made his choices, as have I. It’s established that I am the wretched enemy. So be it. Therefore, I require—no, demand—surrender, before I allow you to escape.”

“I don’t know what you mean—”

“I think you do,” he said flatly. “Surrender,” he repeated very softly. “Let there be no question as to your absolute willingness.” He leaned toward her, eyes locked with hers. He felt his own pulse, pounding in his ears, against his temples, his throat.

She stared at him, shaking her head. “It isn’t surrender, never!” she protested, but her eyes glistened, and she cried out suddenly, throwing her arms around him, and trembling as he clasped her to him in return. He drew the covers down, laying himself over her. He captured her lips in a hungry kiss, thinking how desperate he was, and that so little time had passed since they had been together last. She returned his passion, her lips locked to his, tongue searching into his mouth …

How in God’s name was he ever going to let her go?

He knew that he wanted what he could not take. And he still had to have her. His lips trailed from hers. He tasted her breast with his tongue, suckling, caressing, teasing just slightly with his teeth, drawing upon the nipple again. Her breathing was ragged, her pulse raced. She tugged at his hair, grazed his shoulder with her
teeth, soothed the hurt with her tongue. He rose, covered her length with his kisses, his tongue delving into her navel, creating liquid swirls of heat upon her abdomen. Time was his enemy. He suddenly, firmly, drew her legs apart, and settled between them, stroking, kissing, teasing her thighs, between them. She cried out, tore into his hair, raked his back, pleaded, whimpered, and undulated against him. He ignored her protests until she trembled with a wild, shattering climax. He rose above her then at last, while she was still trembling. He pulled himself free from his trousers, and sank into her, feeling himself sheathed within her, and shaking with the violence of his own pleasure. He made love then with forceful passion, wanting all of her, drowning in her heat and beauty once again. His hands slid beneath her buttocks as climax at last threatened to burst and spill, and his thrusts became harder, fiercer. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, she arched against him, crying out. He inhaled the sweet feminine fragrance of her flesh, coupled with the musk of their lovemaking. He felt her breathing, felt the pounding of her heart. Everything inside him seemed to explode in reckless desperation. He shuddered into her. Again. Again. Clasping her to him, he moved until he could move no more. And still, she clung to him in turn. Then a sudden sob escaped her, and she slammed her fists against his shoulders and gasped, “You are the enemy, you are the enemy,
my
enemy!”

Despite her outburst, he held her gently for a long time, trembling with the aftermath of his climax. For these last few moments, she was still his.

Then at last he rose from her, turned his back, thrusting his shirttails into his trousers and readjusting them. He stood very still, then said, “As you wish, Miss Magee. I’m still the enemy. And you don’t surrender to Rebs.”

He didn’t look back, but spoke to her over his shoulder.

“Jeremiah will see you to shore. You’re free.” He walked out of the cabin.

And out of her life.

R
isa lay in the cabin for a long time after, dismayed by the anguish that embraced her so fiercely.

She had wanted her freedom from Jerome McKenzie’s Rebel hands. She was a Unionist—a passionate one. And yet …

When he left, she knew he did not intend to see her again. Ever. She would never forget the cool contempt in his voice when he mocked her.
And you never surrender!

Yet something of him would never leave her. She’d known him so briefly yet so well. She could conjure his face with her eyes open or closed, she could feel him, see him, breathe him, in her memory, and from the moment he left, she was afraid that the memories would haunt her into eternity.

But, as they both said time and time again, it was war. She wasn’t in love, couldn’t be in love, and yet she was entangled in a spell of emotion she knew she must deny, must forget, no matter how he had touched her, and left that touch emblazoned deep within her soul.

It was over, best forgotten.

She remained undisturbed in the captain’s cabin for some time, shivering, her heart heavy, though she knew she should be celebrating her nearness to freedom. As the day waned, Jeremiah brought her fresh water, and told her he’d bring her ashore before dusk.

As she had expected, she didn’t see Jerome again.

He’d imprisoned her, and he was her enemy. She had to remember that.

When Jeremiah escorted her from the ship, she was touched to see that many of the crew members of the
Lady Varina
had assembled to salute her as she left their deck. In her honor, Michael O’Hara and Matt Conor
played a poignantly beautiful rendition of “Loralee” on fife and drum. She thanked all the men for their courtesy to her, but she was shaking beneath her facade.

On shore, she was greeted by eight Southern horsemen, and she was startled to find that she knew one of them. He was Grant Jennar, a fine old gentleman with a head full of beautiful silver hair, a full silver beard, and a twirling silver mustache. He was a slim man, ramrod straight, a retired U.S. cavalry officer of the finest sort. He had left her father’s company at least four years ago after serving as his aide. She hadn’t heard that he’d joined the army of the Confederate states.

“Miss Magee!” Greeting her, he dismounted from his horse.

Risa forgot protocol, and hurried to him, offering him a warm hug. “Sir! How wonderful to see you! I’m so glad—”

“Ah, Risa, now, don’t be quite so glad, miss!” he said, warm brown eyes sorrowful as he held her shoulders gently. “I am on the other side; however, I will see to it that you are safely returned to St. Augustine.”

“But are you—”

“A captain, my dear, of a newly formed militia unit. A Florida unit.” He sighed. “An old enough captain, I pray, that they’ll not try moving me and my men northward! Indeed, I mustn’t go on, you’re a clever young lady and you’ll repeat my every word to your father— who is creating quite a stir regarding this incident, I must say—especially for such an old warhorse as himself!”

“I’ll see my father soon, I imagine,” Risa said politely.

“For now, come with me to our officers’ field quarters for a meal. As soon as darkness falls, we’ll begin your exchange.”

“Exchange?”

“Indeed, my dear, it all worked out quite nicely. We lost a drummer boy to the Yanks last week. Poor lad. I think he was quite terrified. He’d been taught by some fool that Yanks ate drummer boys for supper. Anyway, you’ll both be back where you belong come the dawn. We’ve a horse for you. If you’ll mount up, we’ll try to maintain some form of Southern hospitality—even if you’re not quite a willing guest.”

He winked. Another of his men had dismounted, and waited by a sorrel gelding to assist her up. Risa nodded, and accepted the Rebel’s assistance. This fellow, though hard and lean and handsome, was aging as well, she thought, and she mused that it was true—the Southern men who were in their prime years were all being sent north to meet the large Union armies bearing down on the South. On the fringes of the war, only old men and boys were being left behind to put up a defense.

She rode alongside Captain Grant Jennar through trails of pines. Eventually, they came to a copse with a number of canvas tents. They dismounted in front of one of the larger tents, and as she did so, Risa nearly fell from the horse—she was so startled by the appearance of a man who emerged from the tent.