Surrender (23 page)

“What? What are you talking about? I assure you, I’m not sleeping with Colonel McKenzie, although—”

Marny sighed with the greatest impatience, interrupting her. “I’d bet a year’s earnings from these two-bit soldiers that you’re going to have a baby, Miss Magee.”

She’d been just fine. The world had solidified beneath her feet.

No more. The earth seemed to roar. And she slipped back into the oblivion of darkness.

Angus Magee sat back in his camp chair, exhaling a long breath. Ride, retreat, ride retreat! That’s all that they were ever ordered to do! They had the power, they had the guns, they had the men. No matter how many times he tried to tell McClellan and the fools surrounding him to partake of his glory, that General Robert E. Lee often moved by the sheer force of willpower alone, the bastards didn’t get it. If they’d just make a stand!

He reached into his desk for a bottle of whiskey and glasses, and looked at his staff before him.

“As you know, gentlemen, Pope has been unable to defeat Stonewall Jackson in the Valley.” He distributed the whiskey, then drew out his battle map, displaying it on the desk. “Here, now, Pope is going to begin a movement toward Gordonville. We will leave Lee with his
forces—estimates ranging from eighty thousand to one hundred and fifty!—with our forces here, McClellan’s, facing him at Richmond. Pope has fifty thousand men in the Valley. We’re trying to force the Rebs out into a squeeze, gentlemen, and word will be coming shortly about reinforcements. Are we clear?”

“Yessir,” his staff agreed, one by one, the gentlemen all rising, aware that they were dismissed.

“Sir, if we would only move with force—” began Lieutenant Courtenay.

“Hopefully, one day, we will,” Angus said wearily.

Courtenay cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir.”

“Good night, then, gentlemen.”

His officers disbursed. Angus poured himself another whiskey, and walked out of his command tent, into the night.

They were on Southern ground. The abandoned plantation still served as their military hospital, and some of the officers had taken up quarters within it. He hadn’t. He had always loved Virginia. It hurt in his heart to destroy so much of the landscape with his own invading army. He’d made his quarters this tent, here, in a small copse of tall pine trees, just a stone’s throw from the plantation house. Risa’s tent was near, but closer to the ambling little stream that ran along the ridge of the mansion property. She could reach the house easily if necessary. And she was near to the water, which she adored.

He sighed, shaking his head, even as his heart swelled with pride. His daughter was beautiful, adored. And many a man here would gladly die for her. In fact, they were surrounded by thousands of men, and he never need fear for her chastity or safety. She showed no fear of battle zones, nor did she flinch at any injury. She never tired. She raised spirits with the musical sound of her laughter, and she sometimes sat at the campfires with the enlisted men, and sang songs they longed to hear, songs their sweethearts had last sung to them, before they’d marched off to war. If only…

His fists clenched at his sides. That son-of-a-bitch Rebel sea captain! He hoped she didn’t have to learn the hard way how she might have to pay for her reputation—deserved or not.

He sipped his whiskey, looking down the long slope to her tent. He shook his head. To make matters worse, she just loved to swim in that little stream. The soldiers had their own place farther downstream to bathe and play—no one could abide the horrible heat. Risa bathed with a guard, and she had told him once that the stream helped wash away the scent of blood.

He drained his whiskey. The breeze picked up, and he raised his head, looking around. A little shiver rippled down his spine. Odd, he felt as if he was being watched. He’d had the feeling since his men had arrived for their latest briefing.

He returned to his tent, set his whiskey glass down firmly, then strode out into the night again, his pistol in his hand. He crept into the pines, waited, listening. He searched again, then returned to his tent.

Foolish. The Union was holding this land securely. There couldn’t be a Reb for miles and miles around. He removed his boots and stretched out on his bunk.

Tonight he could rest at ease. All was well.

What in God’s name was she going to do?

The question assailed her relentlessly, when she talked with others, when she laughed with the soldiers, when she bandaged up their wounds. Why hadn’t she thought of this? How had she been so incredibly damned stupid that a camp follower had to be the one to make the obvious observation that she was expecting a child.

By nightfall she was in a fever. She’d risen quickly enough from her faint, and insisted she was fine. She had assured Marny that she was wrong. Naturally, Marny hadn’t believed her. Didn’t matter. She had to work, had to patch up soldiers, had to do something to keep her mind busy.

But night came, and she felt as if she were burning up with tension. She was desperate for a way to keep moving. Easy enough. She asked Sergeant Wallings, who looked after her meager living quarters, to stand guard at the top of the trail to the stream, and she walked through the small copse of oaks and pines until she came to the water’s edge. She shed her shoes and stockings and pantalets and the simple cotton dress she wore for
work in the surgery. She had no need for a corset or petticoats in the hospital, so stripped down to her linen shift. She picked up her sliver of soap and plunged into the stream, walking until she reached the depths—which were unfortunately only about four and a half feet. Still, she loved the cool crystal water.

She remembered the baby.

Baby!

She could have screamed aloud. What was her father going to say? What was he going to do? Oh, God, he thought her reputation was bad now! Her father…

The baby’s father. Jerome.

Jerome might not even think that the child was his, after all, it had been quite some time since they’d met. Maligned by her father in the press, he’d become an even greater Southern hero. Fawned over by Southern womanhood. Other than surely longing to skewer her and her father, he’d probably given her little thought since they’d met.

He was a McKenzie. He might think himself honor-bound to marry her. A Yankee. No, no…he’d hate her. Loathe her, despise her. What had happened between them had been absurd, it had been the war, fantasy, a surge of desire when it seemed there might be no real world …

It would kill her father. Kill him. And then, there was herself. Lady Liberty. Heroine to the Union. How very amusing.

Oh, God! Worse! What if others—like Marny—assumed that the baby was Ian’s? That she had been having an affair with a married man? Jerome himself might believe it. And Alaina! And her father—oh, Lord! Naturally, Ian himself would know that it wasn’t true, but…

She came to a place in the stream—her place—where a flat boulder sat next to the fallen log of an old pine. Stripping off her wet shift, she secured it on the pine so that she might slip right back into it. Then she proceeded to soap and lather herself, shivering all the while, yet glad of the soap and the cold, because she needed it so badly after her time in surgery. She scrubbed with a vengeance. Washed her hair, rinsed it, washed again.

Her sliver of soap disappeared. She ducked into the water, rinsing back her hair.

She surfaced, eyes closed, hand reaching for the log as she blindly groped for her shift. She couldn’t find it. She swore eloquently, rubbing her eyes to free them from the last vestiges of soap. She reached out again, blinking.

She touched flesh. A scream rose in her chest.

She opened her eyes in raw panic. Her scream froze in her throat.

She was seeing things; surely, she was seeing things.

Jerome McKenzie was there. Casually stretched out on the fallen log, leaned upon an elbow as he watched her. Barefoot, bare-chested, breeches wet and hugging his thighs. Dark hair wet and ebony and longer than she had remembered. Eyes catching the moon’s reflection off the water, deep blue, menacing, deadly.

She blinked. He couldn’t be there. She was surrounded by thousands upon thousands of Yankee troops. She stared at him, aware of the fury in his eyes, of the menace in his very being. A pulse ticked at his throat. He seemed casual, yet ready to pounce at the least provocation. She moved her jaw, trying to speak. A sound emitted from her throat. No panic! She wouldn’t betray fear. She gasped, searching for words.

“You fool!” she managed at last. “What on earth are you doing here? You’re surrounded by the enemy—you’ll be hanged, you idiot!”

“I don’t think so. I have to be caught to be hanged,” he informed her arrogantly. His voice was rich, deep, damning.

“All I have to do is cry out—”

“You’ll never have the chance,” he informed her.

She swallowed hard and demanded again, “What are you doing here?”

He smiled, teeth flashing whitely in the moonlight against the bronzed darkness of his face. And despite herself, for the love of God, she felt something stirring within her. She was falling prey to his magnetism once again. She wanted to reach out and touch him. All he wanted to do was reach out and strangle her. He was furious. And he was her enemy. Avowed.

She was carrying his child…

He could never know.

“What are you doing here?” she cried again in a rising panic.

He swung around on the fallen tree, legs dangling into the water. She saw that her shift had been cast far aside. His toes brushed her thigh. He was close, far too close. “I have been maligned. One might call it libel. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Captain McKenzie, I never said—”

“There have been incredible lies about me in an awful lot of newspapers, Miss Magee.”

“I never—”

“Savage, barbarian, wild Indian, Rebel, ravisher, rapist, etcetera, etcetera.”

“You’re risking your life over words in a newspaper?” Risa asked contemptuously.

He shook his head, staring at her, and she felt the sheer sensual power of his dark blue eyes. They flicked briefly over her as she stood in the water. Her breasts felt warm. To her dismay, she felt her nipples hardening. The cold of the water, nothing more, she told herself.

Except that she was burning.

“You’re a fool. You’re supposed to be at sea!” she hissed. “And here you are, risking your life over mere words!”

“No, not the words,” he told her, smiling grimly. “I suppose I’m risking my life over the Yankee shrew who apparently found lies far more useful than the truth.”

“I never lied to anyone—”

“Then, since I am justly condemned for the ravishment of such sweet innocence, I had best live up to my reputation.”

Her cheeks flooded with bloodred color. She couldn’t breathe or swallow; she could do nothing but stare. Then she shook her head, trying to back away.

He slipped into the water from the log with the easy grace of a gator. And then he was standing before her. “You are absolutely mad, you’ve lost your mind! Don’t you understand where you are? You musn’t—”

“Oh, Miss Magee. Surely, I must!”

He reached for her. She gasped, turning to escape.

She plunged beneath the water, but his hands were on her. Fingers brushing over her back, her bare buttocks, along her thighs. She escaped him, swimming hard.

She paused, rising, inhaling sharply. Her body seemed to burn against the cool air. Where was he?

“Ravished, eh? By a savage ‘blooded’ Rebel?”

He was directly behind her; his mocking whisper was low and husky against her ear. His breath was hot, touching her naked flesh so that she trembled as a new wave of warmth seared into her.

She stood straight and still, her back to him. “I don’t know how you got here, how you slipped past thousands of Yankees and my personal guard. But you’ve exactly ten seconds, sir, to disappear. Then I shall scream.”

“Will you?” he queried. His tone mocked, challenged. She spun around, ready to give him a second warning, but the glittering blue fury in his eyes gave her pause, and she sputtered out another threat. “I am giving you fair warning, Captain!”

He crossed his dripping arms over his bare chest. “Indeed?”

She let out an oath of impatience. In the distance she could see her shift, cast farther along the log. She pretended to ignore him entirely, plunging beneath the water again to swim and retrieve her garment. But when she reached the log, he was there, waiting. She let out a soft, involuntary cry, turning to elude him once again. But this time, his hands slid along her nakedness even as she swam. He let her escape him then, but when she would have kicked cleanly free, his fingers wound around her ankles, jerking her irrevocably to him. She had to grasp his shoulders to surface to breathe. Then she was caught in his arms. Held. Against him. Against the tense, sleekly muscled bareness of his chest. Against the hard rise that protruded from the cotton breeches plastered against his body. She stared into his eyes, telling herself that she needed to scream. No sound came to her lips. Then he was moving, and she had little choice but to cling to him as he walked through the water toward the soft spongy embankment. He fell to his knees with her, then laid her down, pressing her hard to the earth as he blanketed her body with his own.

His eyes met hers, still with the same searing blue fire. She didn’t scream. His fingers threaded into her hair, his hand cupped her nape, holding her to his pleasure, and she couldn’t have uttered a sound because his mouth was on hers, molded hard and forcefully, pressing her lips apart. His tongue filled her, plunged deeply, erotically, sweeping with hunger, fury, and passion. The weight of his hips wedged determinedly between her legs. She felt the pressure of his sex, freed from his trousers, against her inner thigh. A blaze seemed to ignite within her. She tried at first to writhe free from his kiss, but he was far too determined. She dug her nails into his shoulders. He caught her wrists, dragging her hands high above her head, pinning them there with the vise of his left fist.

His right hand was free. And as he kissed her, he touched her. His knuckles on her cheek, soft, brushing. Along the side of her body, teasing the circumference of her breast, sliding down her ribs, her hip. His fingers trailed upward again, he palmed her breast, rubbing the nipple, then teasing the nub with an intense pressure between his thumb and forefinger. She struggled to free her wrists. He released them. Her hands fell upon his shoulders again, and her fingers kneaded his flesh, her nails dug…but lightly. He lifted his mouth from hers, rising, just enough to meet her eyes. Her heart thundered. Her body trembled. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. His dark lashes fell over his eyes; a lock of damp hair dusted his forehead. He bent low against her, his lips bringing a fresh brush of fire to the pulse that raced at her throat. She didn’t think about the damp earth beneath her, or the warm, sultry Southern night, the balmy touch of the humid air…or the fact that thousands of Yankee soldiers slept nearby. She had wanted him before with an instinctive desire that had defied every convention she had learned in her life; it was no different now. His very touch awakened and aroused her, heart, soul, and senses. She thought fleetingly that he couldn’t really be there; that she was indulging in some strange, erotic hallucination. Yet his touch was so real. His fingers stroked a bold pattern down her
abdomen, into the triangle at her pubis, deeper. Deeper. Probing, seeking…finding.