Glory (31 page)

“What is it, Dabney?”

“A message from the Yankee lines, sir. I was approached by one of their riders.”

This war was a sad, strange jumble, of loyalties. By day, the battle raged in a deadly hail of cannon fire, bullets, and bloodied swords. But when the fighting fell silent, messages often passed between battle lines, and those who should have stopped them coming looked aside, aware that the day might come when their own kin tried to reach them.

“My brother—” Julian began, a terrible lump in his throat. Was Ian across those lines? He never knew where his brother was fighting.

“No, sir, there’s no bad news about your Yankee soldier kin. This has to do with a lady.”

“My sister, my cousin—”

“No, sir, a different lady. A Mrs. Tremaine. She’s serving with their medical corps, sir. The rider, a man I’ve met with now and then regarding other personal exchanges between troops, gave me an envelope, and I was to give it to you and no one else, and that I keep this all in strictest confidence. But I’m to summon you now, quick, before the day’s fighting can commence. She has to see you, sir, at the old Episcopal church down the pike.”

“She has to see me?” he inquired, his stomach tightening. She had some warning for him. Or some trick. He started to hand the envelope back, unopened.

“Tell her I can’t come.”

“She says the matter is urgent, you must come, sir.”

“Why would this lady think I would be willing to see her when I am so sorely needed elsewhere?”

“Sir, I can’t say. Perhaps you should open the envelope.”

He didn’t want to do so. His hands clenched as he looked down at the cream parchment. He couldn’t help himself. He opened the envelope, and read the words.

Colonel McKenzie, I know how unwilling you must be to answer any missive of mine, but I must see you. I am relying upon the fact that you were raised a gentlemen, and as such, with death on every horizon, you would not leave me to lead a life of shame, nor cast an innocent into the ignominy of a tainted future. Therefore, sir, I beg of you, meet me. There is a small Episcopal church down on the pike. I’ll not keep you from your war long.

Dabney Crane didn’t say anything. He studied Julian with intense curiosity.

Julian stared back at Dabney, determined to betray nothing but disinterest. Yet his heart was suddenly hammering with a fierce beat as he wondered just what was truth here. Had she finally ceased to deny—since truth had born fruit? He didn’t know what he felt. A strange stirring warmth and pleasure at what just might be the truth—despite her feelings toward him, and his turmoil that she could create such rage and anger within him ... and that he could want her still.

“Captain?” Dabney said anxiously.

“I can spare but a few minutes. Men are dying.”

Dabney shook his head sadly. “That they are, sir. But I do suggest, sir, that if you have a mind to see this lady at all, you take your few spare minutes now. Colonel Joe Clinton from Georgia had agreed to meet his nephew, Captain Zach Clinton of Maine, at the river last night. Captain Zach showed, but Colonel Joe had been killed.”

Every muscle in him seemed to tighten. What if he refused to meet her, and he died? And what if she was expecting his child? Would she raise it with another man’s heritage, another man’s name?

“Sir?”

“I need my horse—”

“Take old Ben, sir. He’s a healthy mount, and as fast as the wind. You must go now. Before the troops begin to waken.”

And before it’s determined I’m a deserter, he thought.

“Sir,” Dabney reminded him, “time is of the essence.”

Julian hesitated. He didn’t trust Rhiannon. With good cause. What if all that she had written was lies, meant to lure him to her and nothing more? It could all be a ruse.

Well, he determined, she would pay a price. She would get what she had asked for, one way or another.

“I’m going immediately. Go quickly now and waken Father Vickery. Send him behind me, quickly.”

“Yessir.” Dabney smiled, delighted that he had brought off what seemed like an intimate liaison.

Julian accepted Dabney Crane’s offer of the use of his horse, and leapt atop the messenger’s dappled gray gelding. Riding past Rebel pickets, he identified himself, and crossed the Rebel line into the no-man’s-land between the Rebs and the Yanks. Approaching the church, he slowed his mount and waited on a slight ridge where trees still stood, remnants of a copse all but destroyed by cannon fire. He watched, carefully surveying the area.

The church itself was on a spit of open ground with much of the foliage and many of the fields around it mown down by yesterday’s fighting. If there were Yanks surrounding the church, he would have seen them.

Dismounting by the trees, he nonetheless watched cautiously a moment longer, then hunched low to the ground, inching his way across the open expanse before the small church. Reaching the doorway, he pressed it partially open, and entered low against the ground as well, waiting still.

She was there.

She stood before the altar, her back to him, her head bowed. She still wore black. Black was the color typically worn for a full year of mourning—and God knew, she mourned her Richard!—but for her wedding to another man? he mused. Yet even if she was sincere in this endeavor, it still meant nothing more than words—and respectability. She wore black inside, around her heart, and he hadn’t the power to lighten that shade.

Still, it appeared that she had come alone, and he felt his heart quicken. He again took his time, rising from his wary crouch in silence. Wanting to appear casual, he leaned back comfortably against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“You summoned me?” he said at last, and she spun around, startled, her hand flying to her throat.

For a moment, in the soft, flickering candlelight of the small church, he thought he saw a flash of emotion in the depths of her bewitching green eyes. Then she regained control, hiding whatever feelings had plagued her.

“You’ve come!” she said.

He shrugged, keeping his distance from her. It was amazing, but nothing seemed to mar her. Her mourning clothing was simple, as befitted her work in the Union field hospitals. She was slim, worn, weary, and still regal, stately, and very beautiful. Her hair was neatly pulled back, netted into a bun at her nape, yet its dark richness seemed to shimmer blue-black with the slightest touch of the candlelight. Her throat was long and elegant; her fingers cast against it were the same.

“I repeat, you’ve summoned me.”

She nodded, looking down then. “I didn’t hear you come,” she murmured. “Have you been there long?”

“Long enough. Are you communing with God? Or with Richard?”

She raised her head; her eyes caught his. There was fire in them at his caustic tone.

“This is extremely awkward for me,” she told him, her voice pained.

“I can imagine. You have gone from thinking you could convince me that nothing had happened to demanding that I do the gentlemanly thing.”

“I believe ... that it’s necessary!” she whispered.

“And Richard has been dead just a little too long?”

“How dare you mock him!”

“I’m not mocking the dead, Rhiannon, just calculating the facts.”

“How rude!”

“This is war, Rhiannon. I’m afraid some of the niceties of life have slipped away. You summoned me because you want something out of me. So please, talk to me.”

“What do you want out of me?” she demanded fiercely.

“Well, an admission that something happened.”

She appeared as white as parchment, and for a moment her eyes touching his appeared to carry an honest glitter. “Oh, my God, don’t you understand? I didn’t want anything to happen, I still can’t believe that I ... that I ...”

“Mistook a flesh-and-blood man for Richard’s ghost.”

They still stood the length of the aisle apart. He thought that she would have slapped him had they not. Perhaps he deserved it. Maybe he was being cutting and cruel. It was simply hard to have been used as a substitute, then summoned as a social convenience.

But if there was a child ...

He waved a hand in the air. “Never mind. As you pointed out in your letter, it’s a deadly war. I want my child born with my name—it is my child, right?”

She stared at him with regal disdain, fury evident in her every breath. Then she started down the aisle, determined to walk out. “Never you mind,” she said heatedly.

He didn’t allow her past him. He caught her arm and forced her eyes to his.

“Where’s the priest, Rhiannon?”

“What?”

“You summoned me to marry you. Where’s the priest?”

Her eyes widened. “He’s—he’s on his way. I—I needed time to talk with you, to ask you first, naturally, to—”

“To set me up?” he accused softly.

“No! I—I—” she stuttered. Her lashes fell again. “Damn you! I need you to marry me.” She stared at him again, fire in her gaze once again. “Do you wish to do it or not?”

He hesitated, smiling slowly.

“If you’ve just come to torment me, let go—”

“Marry you? Of course, with the greatest pleasure. How could I possibly refuse such a heartfelt request?”

A sound at the door sent him spinning around. Damn her! She so easily taunted him from the care he usually took with every move. But it was Father Vickery who had come, a young Georgian Episcopal priest.

“I’m sorry I’ve taken so long,” he apologized, nervously stroking back his long straw-colored hair as he hurried in. “I wanted to make sure that I properly record the marriage, assure that it’s legal.”

“Of course!” Rhiannon said softly. “You were sent here, to help us, of course?” she queried.

Julian watched her. Had she been expecting a priest? Or was she assuming Vickery had been sent by her Yankee cohorts?

Vickery cleared his throat. “We needed witnesses as well,” he said, opening the door a few inches farther. “I really moved as quickly as I could, recruiting these ladies!” Two young women had accompanied them. They both smiled.

“This is so romantic!” said the rounder of the pair. “I’m Emma Darrow, this is my sister, Lucy.”

“Lovely, just lovely!” Lucy agreed.

“Thank you,” Rhiannon murmured.

“Charmed!” Emma supplied, and giggled.

“So lovely!” Lucy said again.

“We must hurry and get back. The dawn is beginning to break in earnest,” Father Vickery said. He caught Rhiannon’s hand, hurrying down the aisle with her. “You stand there. I’ll give you into marriage myself—you are the lady in question, right?”

“Yes, she is, Father,” Julian supplied dryly, since she was the only other female present. If the whole thing wasn’t so sad, it would be amusing.

But Father Vickery, though nervous, suddenly seemed to gather his wits about him. He began the rite of marriage, speaking very quickly. When it came time for Rhiannon to give her vows, she stared at Julian in silence.

Of course. She had done this before. The memory must be quite painful at this time. And it seemed possible she hadn’t really intended on doing it again.

He squeezed her hand so tightly she cried out, but then, choking over the words, she spoke them. Clearly. Loudly.

Keeping her hand tightly in his, Julian gave his promise to love, honor, and cherish her, as long as they both should live, with grave solemnity. Julian used his family signet ring for a wedding band.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. Kiss your bride,” Father Vickery said.

He hurriedly started down the aisle to exit the church, anxious to be on his way. “Emma, Lucy, come along, come along. Julian, you must hurry! Kiss the lady, be done with it!” It was a final warning. Father Vickery fled on out of the church.

Julian didn’t touch his bride. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asked. She looked as if she were about to expire.

“Well, one way or the other, it is done,” he said briefly. “But you’ll forgive me; I really can’t linger. Yet, I warn you. I pray to God you’ll have the sense to keep safe.”

He turned away from her. “Wait!” she cried.

He turned back.

“Stay, just a minute ...” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I can’t stay.”

Suddenly, she threw herself at him. She came into his arms, smelling subtly, seductively like roses. Her fingers twined into the hair at his nape, she came upon her toes, and found his lips. She pressed her lips to his. Her tongue teased for entry. Stunned, he found himself enfolding her to him, weeks of abstinence suddenly tearing at him, giving him a hunger for her that stole away his heart and mind. He kissed her passionately in return, holding her close, tasting, savoring, lips crushing, tongue sweeping, hands upon her, memorizing ... remembering that one shining time denied until this night ...

Vaguely, he became aware of the sounds beyond the church. She broke away from him at last.

Her words were whispered with lips not an inch from his own, still damp from the passion of their kiss.

“I’m sorry, Julian. But, you see, you would have died.”

Passion?

Or trickery.

He’d been right all along. He’d been the biggest fool in the world.

She had lured him here, careful of the timing, keeping the Yankees away at first, knowing full well he would be watching for a trap. But now they had arrived. They were outside the church, ready to break in, to seize him.

He wore a Colt in a holster at his side, and at times he wore a utilitarian dress sword as well. Not this morning, and not that it mattered. He was a surgeon, a medical man, not a soldier, not the usual Yankee prey.

Bitterness swept through him. He wasn’t going to pull the Colt, kill the men sent to seize him, and go down in a blaze of glory himself.

He intended to live. The child was his too.

He pulled away from her, staring into her eyes. The truth was there. Every bit of it. She had planned this so that he might be captured. She had embraced him so that he would not leave too quickly.

“You bitch!” he accused her.

“I had a dream. You died in it!”

He caught her about the waist once again, jaw taut, ice seeming to fill his veins. He held her with such force that she was crushed against him, her back arched, her chin high. “Dear wife,” he promised her, “trust me, I will see to it that you are very, very sorry, indeed.”