Triumph (18 page)

Face it, he told himself. He’d been forever changed by the experience. In many ways. He’d be forever haunted. Because of Mary.

He’d treated her father until he died. And, Brent reflected dryly, he had thought that the colonel’s beautiful young daughter had been his mistress, and he’d made quite a fool out of himself, and an enemy out of her.

He jabbed the fire with a vengeance, wondering where she was tonight.

The flames flickered high and bright, blue and red. He set the poker down and warmed his hands before them. After a moment, he pulled off his military jacket, loosened his shirt, and walked over to the Queen Anne chair that sat on the hooked rug before the fire. An elegant cherry-wood occasional table by the chair carried a decanter of brandy. He poured himself a glass and spoke to the fire.

“Cheers, Doctor McKenzie. Merry Christmas.”

He nearly threw his glass up when he received an answer.

“Yes, cheers. Merry Christmas, Doctor McKenzie.”

The brandy sloshed as he leapt to his feet, spinning around to stare at the doorway to his bedroom. She was there. Mary. Either that, or the war had cost him his senses. His imagination had run riot. He was now stark, raving mad.

Her huge silver eyes were steady on his, her hair loosened around the snow-white robe that was all she wore.

“Mary!”

“Yes.”

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” he demanded, frowning fiercely.

She walked into the parlor before the fire. He thought that her hands were shaking but she reached down for the brandy decanter. “Do you mind? I thought I should help myself before you spilled it all.”

He lifted a hand. “Go ahead,” he murmured, still staring at her with astonishment. Yes, it was her; she was real. As stunning as a little snow queen in the white robe. She smelled of fresh soap and rose water; her hair, in the firelight, seemed as soft and sleek as sable. She seemed a pure assault on his senses. He had been exhausted; suddenly he was wide awake. He had been cold. Now his flesh seemed on fire, touched by lightning.
She isn’t wearing a thing beneath the robe
, he thought.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said, and his voice barked out far more harshly than he had intended. “What are you doing here? How did you get here ... in this house? How did you find me?”

“You were easy to find. I simply asked where you had been transferred. One of your orderlies pointed out your quarters in this house. It wasn’t locked, or guarded in any manner. I let myself in. You should be more careful. The city of Richmond is teeming with refugees, some of them desperate men. Some people are fleeing the city again, afraid of Grant, and stealing everything in sight on their way out. Amazing, isn’t it? Our countrymen aren’t all noble soldiers and physicians. Some are simply cowardly thieves.”

“Mary, why are you here?”

She tossed the brandy down and set the glass back in a deliberate gesture, her eyes downcast. Then they met his again.

“You said that I owed you; I always pay my debts,” she told him.

“What?”

“I’d heard that you were here. My father ... I owe you for all that you did for my father. I—I always pay my debts. It’s Christmas. It seemed like a good time.”

“So ... you’re here to ... pay a debt?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her eyes falling from his once again:

He couldn’t help it. He reached out, caught her hand, and pulled her to him. She wasn’t wearing a thing beneath the robe. He lowered his head, kissed her; Her lips trembled. God, they were sweet. His kiss deepened. Her lips parted. Her body, pressed to his, was warm and supple and perfect. He cupped her breast, marveling at the feel, shuddering as the sensation in his fingertips seemed to work into his groin.

He caught himself, pulled away from her. “Damn you, Mary!” he swore angrily. “You don’t owe me! I was angry when I told you that; you owe me nothing at all for your father. What the bloody hell do you think of me, that I wouldn’t help any man when he was dying?”

She stood just feet away from him, shaking, her eyes shimmering like sterling with a hint of tears.

“I do owe you for what you did for him.”

He took the single step back to her, taking her into his arms, lifting her chin, meeting her eyes. Her lips trembled. He felt himself shaking. “Mary, Mary! You little fool. I will not make love to you because you feel that you owe me any debt! I was angry, jealous, hurt—an idiot.”

She lowered her eyes, leaning her head against his chest.

“Would you ... would you make love to me ... if I told you that I simply wanted to be with you? That I’ve spent every day since you left trying to figure out how to come to you, how to tell you ...” Her voice trailed away in a whisper. He wasn’t even sure he had heard her correctly. His fingers shaking, his blood burning, he caught her chin, lifted her eyes to his once again.

“What?”

“I want to be with you. I need to be with you. I have nowhere else to go now.”

“Mary, you shouldn’t be here just because there is nowhere else—”

“It’s not that, you fool man! I want to be with you. I admire you, I am intrigued ... I am curious—for the love of God, I am willing! Don’t tell me you can’t use me—”

“Use you?” he interrupted, frowning.

But her thoughts were elsewhere. “Here, at the hospital. You know that I’m more than competent, that I can anticipate your needs.”

“Can you anticipate them all?” he murmured softly.

“Brent, please. I know I’ve arrived quite strangely, out of the blue. But I had to come here, and I had hoped that at Christmas ... well, you would feel at least something for me.”

“Mary, it wouldn’t be right. You are not that kind of woman.”

“What kind? Sensual—seductive?”

“Oh, my God! Mary, trust me ...” He paused, looking at her. Silver eyes glittering, hair streaming down her back, robe parting to provide just a peak at the roundness of her breast, the rouge of her nipple, the narrowness of her waist, curve of her hip ... “Trust me, you do know how to seduce!”

“Brent ... please ...”

“Mary, please ... what?”

“Hold me tonight. Let me be with you. Make ...”

“Make love to you?”

“God, yes!”

“But Mary, come the morning ...”

“Brent! I planned this for a very long time. Yet in my dreams, you made it much easier for me. Brent—I am all but throwing myself at you. You must not be so cruel as to refuse me!”

He was lost—or found. He was not sure which. “God forbid that I should be cruel,” he said.

She smiled. He swept her up. Her arms curled around his neck.

“Merry Christmas,” she said softly.

Merry Christmas indeed. It was cold outside, but it was as if he had died and gone to heaven.

H
E HAD RUINED ALL
hope of sleep. As Tia paced across the floor in her bedroom, she kept hearing his voice over and over again, mocking, taunting.
Godiva
. Had he been threatening her?

Yes, of course, he was threatening her. Sometime, tomorrow, he would tell her father the truth. Tell him who she was, what she was doing.

Her father would kill her.

Worse. He would be disappointed. Shamed.

She had to see Taylor. Talk to him.

What was she, mad? She couldn’t just go tapping on his door; she might wake up her parents, or her brother, or Alaina, Reeves, Lilly, someone else in the house.

She opened her doors to the balcony. The night had grown cool, but not cold. She stepped out in her bare feet. She’d seen him just outside on the rear balcony, near his room. Without really planning out her intention, she suddenly sped around the balcony, came to the guest doors, and hesitated. No, don’t think, you won’t act! she warned herself. She opened the door, slipped inside.

It was dark, but a whisper of moonlight filtered in. She could just make out the bed, and she tiptoed over to it.

She saw his form, shoulders bronze, the muscles starkly defined against the white sheets. In the shadows, he seemed to be soundly sleeping. She hesitated, then sat at his side. “We need to talk. Please, listen—”

She nearly cried out as he turned, arms sweeping around her, bearing her down into the bed. He whispered something. She couldn’t make it out. A name?

She strained against his chest with her palms, her anxiety growing. “We need to talk, I need you to listen to me.”

Beside her, one leg draped over her, his arm around her waist, she suddenly realized that he hadn’t been sleeping at all. He had probably seen her from the moment she’d reached his doors to the balcony.

“Miss McKenzie! Just what game is it you’re playing now?”

“Colonel Douglas—”

“Yes, it is. Surprised?”

“No, of course not, I—”

“What the hell are you doing? Wrong room, Godiva? Were you looking for your gallant Southern lover? He who would accept anything from you, anything at all?”

“You wretched eavesdropper! You are the rudest individual—”

“Rude? For repeating the truth? I could be far worse.”

“We need to talk.”

“We? You and me? Oh, so you came in the dead of night—dressed, I’ll admit, but my Lord, Godiva, this is seductive material!—to talk. To me.”

“I was not looking for Raymond!” she insisted.

“As you say. How charming. You were looking for me in this lovely sheer gown. Coming purposely into my room. I’m deeply flattered, and not a little stirred, I must say.”

“Stop it! I’ll call my father, my brother, the whole Confederate army!”

“Stop it? May I remind you, you came after me.”

“I didn’t come
after
you.”

“And make up your mind—are we calling your father, or the Rebel army? My defense will be based entirely on the identity of whom we summon.”

“Listen to me, I wasn’t coming after you—”

“You’re in my bed.”

“Please—!”

“So you
were
looking for good old gray-clad Colonel Weir,” he said. “Mistake, I might add.”

“How dare you insult Colonel Weir! He’s loyal and fighting for his state, and he is determined, and a gentleman still, and—”

“A good man. That I don’t doubt.”

“Then—”

“He is a fanatic. He has read too much Machiavelli. The end defends whatever means is required to reach it. He will destroy this state before he allows it to return to the Union.”

“We haven’t lost the war!”

“You will.”

She stared up at him, the tawny eyes now on hers in the night, the very handsome, currently grave structure of his face. She felt almost compelled to reach out and trace the line of his cheekbone. Nor did it seem quite so terrible to lie there, being touched by him, and she suddenly thought of her brother’s closed door and all of the things she had missed by committing herself to the war. She gritted her teeth, furious with herself, wondering what was wrong with her that she could lie there with an avowed enemy who seemed to take the most perverse pleasure in taunting her and want to touch him. The warmth that spread through her seemed like a taste of evil, and yet—heaven help her—she desired it.

“I didn’t come to talk about the war.”

“Now I’m really flattered. You’ve come to seduce me?”

“No!” she protested, then realized the volume of her voice and swore softly at him. His smile further infuriated her. “Damn you, stop it!”

“I haven’t done a thing.”

“Stop doing what you’re not doing!”

He smiled again, shook his head, then sobered. “All right, Godiva, talk.”

“You haven’t given me away as yet,” she breathed, looking into his eyes.

“I have great respect for your father, brother, and mother,” he told her. “It would not benefit them to know of your evil deeds.”

“What I did was not evil. It was accidental. You must understand. You were there.”

“I was there once,” he said softly. “Godiva also led a company of men down a merry path when they had nearly taken Captain Dickinson and his troops. How many other times has she ridden since then?”

“That’s the only time, I swear it. I didn’t mean to—”

“You are quite frequently naked by sheer accident for a well-bred Southern girl, are you not?” he demanded.

“I wouldn’t say ‘by accident’; it was spur of the moment, sheer desperation—”

“I really should tell your father. Because you have to stop what you’re doing.”

“You can’t tell him, please—”

He leaned closer to her. “You will get yourself killed. And when your body is found, they will know, and their grief will be compounded again and again. And I will be guilty of a terrible crime against them, because I knew.”

“Please ...”

“Tell me that you’ll never do it again. No matter what the circumstances.”

She caught her breath, staring up at him.

“It’s the only way, Godiva.”

“I won’t do it again. I didn’t mean to do it, as I said—”

“No matter what the circumstances.”

She gritted her teeth very hard. “No matter what the circumstances.”

“Then your secret is safe with me.”

Barely daring to breathe, she looked into his tawny eyes, praying he was telling the truth. Then she realized again her circumstances. She lay flat on his bed, his leg cast over her, his hand upon her waist.

This time,
he
was naked.

And she realized it in such a manner that her eyes widened in panic and her flesh burned with a flow of blood. “Well, then, I—I—”

“Ah, you suddenly see the real danger in the enemy!” he taunted, leaning close again. “Good. But you needn’t try to run so suddenly in sheer panic, dear Miss McKenzie. What did you think, that I would suddenly lose control in your father’s house, rape his daughter in his own home?”

“No, I—I—my God, it’s just that—”

“Shush!” He suddenly brought a finger to his lips. She had heard nothing. Yet he quickly moved over her, leaving the bed, striding to the doors to the balcony. He held still there, and she bit her lip, trying not to watch his lithe, bronze form in the shadows. His broad shoulders and well-muscled arms seemed to ripple with each play of moonlight, and she couldn’t help but notice the way his torso narrowed to a lean waist, that his buttocks were as tightly muscled as the rest of him, that his legs were long and powerfully built.