Triumph (23 page)

“Everything about Abby brings perfection to mind, Miss McKenzie, her breasts included. Turn around. Get on your horse. Ride back to the property where those who love you can protect you.”

“You can’t tell me what to do. Go tend to your own perfect Abby!”

She spun around and walked away—just in time, perhaps. He was knotted with the anguish and fury she reawakened within him.

Let her go, let her walk away. You couldn’t change fate for a woman who loved you, who listened to you. Here you are the enemy, loathed and despised ...

He didn’t make a move to stop her. Staring into the water, he swore that he would ride away, and leave her to her own destiny.

When he awoke on Christmas day, Brent thought that he would turn and find her gone, or discover that the night had been a dream. But it was not. She lay beside him, curled into the covers, appearing as innocent and untouched as she had come to him, and yet forever changed.

He slid carefully from the bed, washed and dressed. Without awakening her, he left the house and walked the distance to the hospital. His aides greeted him with coffee. His patients, even those dying, seemed to awaken with a certain cheer for Christmas. Nurses and orderlies gave him home-cooked treasures, often small but given with love. He attended to his men, and the time passed far more quickly than he had known.

At last, he could return to the house, and again, he feared that she would be gone.

But there were delicious aromas arising from his house. When he entered, he found her in the kitchen. She offered him a beautiful smile. “No turkeys, I’m afraid. Nor could I get my hands on a ham. We’ve a rather sickly chicken, but there are two of us, so I think he will do.”

He followed her with his eyes, and then came to her, taking her into his arms when she turned toward the stove with knit wool potholders in her hands. “The chicken will be the best I have ever tasted, though I admit to my greatest hunger wandering in other directions.”

She flushed, telling him, “It will burn ...”

“Rescue the chicken.”

She did. She had sweet potatoes, turnips, and canned tomatoes as well. Canned peaches rounded out their feast. Conversation was polite; she asked about his current patients, and he told her what he could. They didn’t talk about the war, or the ravaged South, or the fact that they might well be losing, or that this time, Lee might fail and Grant might take Richmond.

When they were done eating, he helped her to pick up the dishes, but then, in the kitchen, he could wait no longer. He pulled her into his arms, kissed her. She fumbled with the buttons on his jacket. He nearly tied her into her apron for all time. And still, breathless, laughing, they shed their clothing on the way to the bedroom. They made love, and made love again, and sated for the time, Brent stoked the fire, and she had risen with him, so he wrapped her in the blanket and sat with her in the chair before the flames, watching them burn.

“Mary ... why did you really come here?”

“I told you—because I wanted to be with you.”

“But I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“I needed to be alone for a while. Because of my father. But I also needed to be with you. Because I can’t just be somewhere and pretend the war doesn’t exist. And because I can’t just be somewhere ... and forget that you exist.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure.”

“You have to marry me,” he said gravely.

She touched his face. “No, Brent. You don’t have to marry me because I came here, because I wanted to be with you. I knew what I was doing. You don’t owe me anything. I was afraid that raised as a gentleman, you would think you owed me for my innocence, but you will not marry me for that reason!”

He smiled. “What about the reason that I want to be with you?”

“Brent, there is a war, you were alone—”

“Alone all my life until I met you.”

“That is so kind.”

“It is also true. Marry me ... because I love you,” he said firmly.

“Oh, Brent ...”

“Well?”

“Well ...”

“Say it!”

She smiled. “Yes, I love you!”

“It wouldn’t be at all proper for a respected surgeon to live in sin!” he told her.

“Not at all!”

“And I simply won’t let you seduce me anymore if you don’t intend to do the right thing!” he teased.

She stared at him, and started to laugh.

And she kissed him, and they made love again, and it was the best Christmas he might have ever imagined.

T
IA RETURNED TO THE
house, riding hard. When she saw Billy, she realized that she had really frightened him.

She dismounted from Blaze, and set her hand on Billy’s upper arm. “I’m sorry. Honestly, Billy, I wouldn’t want you upset.”

He nodded. “Please, Miss Tia, become aware of what is going on around you.”

“Billy, I’ve been gone from home most of the war.”

“But the war changes every day.”

“I’ll be careful, Billy. I promise.”

“Your father came here, looking for you.”

“Thank you, Billy, I’ll find him.”

“I told him you were with Colonel Douglas.”

Billy said the words as if her being with Taylor had made everything all right. She tried to swallow down her feeling of hostility. She couldn’t. It galled her to remember the morning by the river, when she had set out to seduce him so that her green Rebel boys could take him down. She grew infuriated with herself when she thought of the things that had happened between them, the way that she had felt being with him, how quickly she had fallen to the force of his touch, how she had felt his kiss, his hands ...

And he was married.

She forced a smile for Billy and hurried back toward the house, clenching and unclenching her fists. She reached the house, ran up the porch steps and into the front hallway.

Her father’s office was to the right. She walked to it, tapped on the door. There was no response. She opened the door and stepped in. Her father wasn’t about.

With a sigh she went to the large plush leather chair his mother had ordered made for his last birthday. The leather was soft; the chair was deep and encompassing. She sat in it and leaned back, wondering why it should seem her soul was in such a tempest. She opened her eyes. A cut glass decanter of sherry sat on the occasional table across the room. She leapt up, and helped herself to a large glass of sherry.

Her father chose that minute to enter the room.

She was, as her mother had told her, her father’s daughter. She knew that her dark eyes were his, that she had inherited his rich ebony hair. But he was very tall, and though gaining more silver in his hair with every year, the expanse of his shoulders remained broad while his torso was as lean and hard as ever. He had been a wonderful parent, stern, a teacher. But she had always felt that she could run to him, and he could solve all problems. In many ways, she had certainly been a spoiled and privileged child. But he had expected manners, intelligence, ethics, and compassion from his children. They had all been taught courtesy, to give way to the elderly and injured, no matter their color or ethnic derivation. His employees worked hard for him, and they were rewarded for their labors. He was, however, a typical father in many ways. His sons had certainly enjoyed a few days of carousing. His daughter he had always protected and pampered—and he expected her to behave with modesty, even if he had encouraged her education and even her free speech in almost every conversation.

He arched a very dark brow at her, eyeing the sherry she’d poured.

“A bit early for you, isn’t it?” he said, moving on into the room, his hands folded at his back. He went to the window. His office looked down the river at the far slope of the land. His back remained to her.

“I’m sorry, Father!” she cried.

She wanted to go to him. His back seemed stern and aloof.

He turned around. She saw his eyes and knew that he loved her—but that he was baffled. She set the sherry glass down and ran to him, feeling his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head. “Whatever demon got into you today?” he asked her. He tilted her chin so that he could meet her eyes. “I was always grateful that Julian was a doctor, that he joined the militia as such. And though it tore at every paternal muscle in my body, I knew that you needed to go with him. But I have never lost sight of the fact that we were becoming a strong nation because we were so many states together, and though we went to war over states rights, the argument had always been over slavery—an institution that is obviously morally wrong, and should be legally wrong. And I can’t believe that you don’t agree with me.”

“I do agree with you!” she said. “I just don’t agree with ...”

“With what?” he asked.

At the moment, she couldn’t remember.

“Father, it’s our state I support. My God! Dozens of men were against secession, but when their states seceded—”

“Yes, yes, I know, even the great Robert E. Lee was against secession!”

“Well, yes, I wasn’t going to mention his name, but since you did ...”

“Men from both sides are guests in this house,” he told her. “We were to show no offense to either. Ian has managed to be very circumspect.”

“Ian is treading on dangerous territory!”

“Not in my house,” her father said firmly. “Then there is the matter of danger to you.”

“I’m in no danger here.”

“I’ve held on to this plantation, Tia, because I’ve held on with an iron fist. Everyone knows that my employees include Seminoles who are familiar with war—they fought the government long enough to become excellent soldiers. My men also include immigrants I supported from their first step on this soil, ex-gunfighters, Highlanders, fighting Irish, and more. But my scope extends only so far. The war has grown bitter. Bad things happen, Tia. Rapes, burnings, murders. Bodies are never found; criminals don’t find justice, but blame the war for every deprivation. God knows, a disgruntled commander could come after this house one day—he would simply need a small army to take it. But outside the boundaries of the house ... Tia, you
are
in danger.”

“Father—you know that I intend to return to Julian’s field hospital.”

“Yes, with Julian or his very loyal men accompanying you at all times.”

She didn’t protest that statement. Let her father think that she was always under heavy guard.

“I won’t ride into the woods again,” she promised.

“Go and get your sherry,” her father told her. “I’ll take a brandy, I think.”

“Yes, sir.”

She walked to the table to pour him a drink.

“Taylor came after you?” her father asked.

“Yes,” she said, turning back to Jarrett as she poured the liquor.

“You apologized to him, I hope.”

“Apologized?” She almost spilled the brandy.

“You baited him with that song, Tia.”

“Oh ... I, yes, of course, I apologized.”

She suddenly felt as if they were not alone. She turned to the doorway. Ian and Taylor were just entering the office. Had they heard her words? She damned herself for flushing so easily. She tried not to betray her feelings.

“Ian ... Colonel Douglas. May I pour you a drink?”

“What are you having, Father?” Ian asked, doffing his plumed hat on his father’s desk and taking a seat in the leather chair. “This is a magnificently comfortable piece of furniture!” he applauded.

“Yes, it is,” Jarrett agreed. “I’m having brandy. Your sister has acquired a taste for sherry.”

“We seldom drink in the surgery, and nothing so refined as this,” she told her father.

“I’ll have a brandy with you, Father.”

“Taylor, what can my daughter get for you?” Jarrett asked.

“I’ll join you gentlemen for a brandy, sir. Then I’ll be on my way,” Taylor said.

Tia poured the brandies, keeping her eyes downcast as she delivered the drinks to her father, brother, and Taylor. Her fingers brushed his as he took the glass. Even that brief contact seemed to cause a rush of blood to her veins. She wanted to throw something at him—or quite simply, tie him up and beat him to a pulp.

“Which way are you going, Taylor? How are you headed out?”

He was silent for a minute, taking the wingback chair opposite Jarrett, too near the occasional table where Tia stood again.

Then she realized that he was looking at her. “I’d rather not say, sir.”

“My daughter is not a combatant, Taylor,” Jarrett said.

Taylor’s eyes were riveted on her father’s. “No, sir. But she is friends with many.”

“Well, there’s an exit line if I’ve ever heard one!” Tia said with false cheer. “You Yankees just discuss away. I’ll remove myself.”

“Tia ...” Jarrett said, frowning.

“It’s quite all right, Father!” She returned to him, kissed his cheek, and fled, closing the office door behind her.

She wondered where her mother, sister-in-law, and the children had gotten to. The house itself seemed quiet. Pushing away from the office door, she exited the house by the river side again, thinking they might have gone out on the lawn. She didn’t see the children.

She walked down to the docks. Rutger, in charge of the docks and much more in her father’s life, waved a hand to her from the bow of one of her father’s ships. She waved in turn, and then watched as the men worked along the dock, loading the ship with beef, the Florida beef they raised, that fed so much of the Confederacy. She sat on the dock, watching for a while. It seemed that life went on here as it always had. Men worked the fields. Horses ran free in the paddocks. Crops grew. It was a good life, a sweet life, and it might have been the same as ever except that she could see armed men at the storehouse windows.

And her father, brother, and Taylor Douglas were discussing Yankee plans in her father’s den. Or were they still? She had left sometime ago. Christmas day was fading to dusk.

She rose suddenly, thinking that her mother or Alaina might be around the side of the property. As she walked across the expanse of the lawn, she suddenly found herself drawn to the fence that enclosed the family cemetery. She reached the gate. Strange, it was open. She slipped into the little private plot and thought that, in the dying light, the graves were somehow beautiful.