Triumph (6 page)

“Who the hell are you and what is your game, sir? Though you are no ‘sir,’ no gentleman, ah! But then again, you’re a Yankee in a Southern state, are you not?”

“Who are
you
?” he repeated, snapping out the words.

Her name? Good God, she should die rather than give her name! What if he knew Ian? There were tens of thousands of troops, of course, but this fellow was cavalry, like her oldest brother. And he was in Florida, where Ian was sent often enough. And even if he didn’t know Ian, Lord! He could give out her name and ...

“Who do you think?” she spat out, bitter, furiously aware now that she
had
been caught—and far more than a little afraid, no matter how hard she fought to remain calm and seek any advantage for escape. “I’m Lady Godiva, of course.”

That, at least, seemed to amuse him a bit. The smallest hint of a smile teased his lips.

“Then what, my dear lady, is your game?”

Her game ...

She was pinned to the ground, stark naked, by a stranger. A young, powerful stranger with arms of steel and eyes that belonged to a cheetah. She was humiliatingly aware of the rough feel of his clothing against her bare flesh. Her hair ... yes, her hair was still her cloak, yet it left so very much to be desired. Indeed, what was her game?

“No game, sir. You scared me, I ran ... leaving my clothing, I’m afraid.”

“What a liar you are!” he said smoothly, the gold cheetah eyes seeming to burn into her.

“I beg your pardon, but I am telling you the truth! Your arrival on the south side of the river kept me from my clothing—”

“And you just happened to be way out here, a good Southern lass, stripped bare and bathing in a little tributary far, far from the nearest civilization?”

“I was simply out riding, sir.”

“From where?”

“From where? Well, from ... um, my home, of course.”

“And where is that?”

“Oh, well, I come from ...”

“Yes?”

“I won’t give away the location of my home to the enemy, sir. Suffice it to say that I live near, that I was out riding.”

“No, you weren’t.”

She was alarmed to see that no argument on her part would change him. Again, the seriousness and foolishness of her situation struck her, and she started to shake. He was all too aware of her distress as well, which naturally brought her temper rising again, even while her better senses warned her that she might well be in danger of both rape and murder, and there would be those wretches who might think she had brought about such a horror by her own wanton behavior.

“Sir, you are apparently an officer—”

“A Yankee, as you noted.”

“As an officer of the Federal army, I charge you, sir, to rise, and to cease bringing such discomfort to a lady.”

“A lady?”

“Yes! You must release me. Now!”

“Perhaps I’m not a Yankee officer.”

“What?”

“I could be a deserter, with a stolen frockcoat. A man on the run from both Federal and Confederate law, a desperado, glad of any treasure to be found in the way of money, cash, goods, clothing—or human flesh.”

She froze, staring at him, every inch of her flesh burning, terror seeming to wrap around her like the tentacles of an octopus. Somehow, she kept staring at him without blinking. And she told him, “Kill me then, and quickly, and steal what you will. My horse is all I have of value.”

“Now, Madam Godiva, what man would want to kill you quickly, without enjoying the good sport to be had first?”

The deep crawl of his voice had a very serious edge, and yet staring at him, reading the harsh lines and character in his still striking face, she didn’t believe that he was a deserter.

“Do what you will quickly, slowly, but threaten me no more!” she charged him, yet then she couldn’t help but cry out, “Just exactly what is it you want?”

“I want to know your plan, Miss ... er ... Godiva. I mean, most obviously, you were trying to lure me away from something. What?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! And if you’re an officer—”

“A might-be deserter,” he reminded her.

“You are no deserter, you are a Yankee officer, and you must follow some rudimentary code of conduct. Yankees
are
accredited with atrocious manners, but this ...”

“Bad manners? If I were to rape and murder you, madam, you would consider it nothing more than
bad manners
!”

“You are no cold-blooded murderer!” she cried. And perhaps, at last, something in her voice reached him. She heard the grating of his jaw, but something changed just slightly in his eyes, in the way he watched her. “If you would be a gentleman ...”

“Oh, dear, Miss Godiva, I’m so very sorry,” he said. He eased his hold on her wrists, then released them. Sitting back on his haunches without casting any great weight upon her, he crossed his arms over his chest. “If you think to shame me, you’ve come across the wrong man—at the wrong time. And in the wrong state of dress, I’m afraid. I do remember learning manners concerning the fairer sex, but in those classes, the ladies tended to have clothing on the bodies to whom one was to be so polite and correct.”

“Would you please stop speaking to me in such a sarcastic manner? This is wretched and cruel, and obviously a terrible discomfort to me.”

“Young woman!” he snapped, suddenly furious and leaning over her. “Have you lost your mind? Every day that the war lingers longer, there are more deserters roaming the woods and forests, more desperate men about, more men who wouldn’t give a damn for the value of your life much less your virtue! Now who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing out here?”

She gritted her teeth, aware that he was right in many ways. She was frightened, as she had seldom been frightened in all her life.

“Yes!” she admitted. “Yes! I was trying to distract you! But you needn’t fear—I kept you from no great troop movements, no desperately desired spy ... just a few wounded men, seeking solace and healing!”

He stared at her for a very long time, then at last, he rose, and for a moment, her distress was greater, for without his frame to conceal her, she was all the more unclad. Yet as she awkwardly tried to rise and sweep her hair around her nakedness, he slipped his frockcoat from his shoulders, reached impatiently down to help her rise, and encompassed her in his coat. Her teeth were suddenly chattering.

“It’s a Yankee garment!” she murmured, painfully aware that it was a laundered garment, with a hint of masculine aftershave about it, along with a faint scent of leather and tobacco, scents she associated with a time long ago, her father’s drawing room, her brother after a day’s hunt, so long ago.

“Do you want to give it back?” he asked, hands on hips.

Without his coat, he still cut a strong and imposing figure. His cotton shirt had somehow remained white, and the breadth of his shoulders seemed even more visible. His flesh was bronzed by the sun to a deep copper, and that, with the striking rise of his cheekbones, reminded her of someone she knew, but could not place.

She hugged the frockcoat to her. “No, I don’t want to give the garment back. I thank you for the courtesy. But ... now that you know I’m actually an innocent caught by circumstance, sir, you’ll forgive me if I wish to part ways—”

“An innocent?” he inquired with dark skepticism.

“Yes, really! And I’m about to be on my way—”

“What?” he lashed out succinctly.

“I’m going,” she said, then sighed with impatience. “I go my way, you go yours. You’re a Yankee, I’m a Rebel, but since there’s no one else here, just us, no real war about, it seems we should just go our separate ways.”

“Lady Godiva! Not on your life!” he informed her.

She stared back at him, growing uneasy again. She lifted her chin. “I’m leaving,” she informed him, turning about. But she didn’t manage to leave.

“Take one step toward your horse, madam, and I’ll drag you down to the dirt again, and this time, I promise, I will not let you up.”

He spoke quietly, with an almost pleasant warning, and yet, she was very afraid he meant exactly what he was saying.

She hesitated, spinning back to him.

“Then what is your intent?” she demanded.

“Well, first, we’ll go back for your clothes. After all, I wouldn’t want you thinking that Yankees can’t be gentlemen.”

“My clothing, good. That will be another honorable courtesy. And what then?”

“Then ...” he said, his voice trailing.

“Yes!” she hissed. “Then—what then?”

“Then ... we shall see,” he said simply.

She turned to head for Blaze again, but then started as she felt his hand fall on her shoulder. “Oh no, my dear Lady Godiva,” he told her.

She twisted around to meet his eyes, her own wide with innocence.

“You said that we were riding back. I was merely attempting to reach my horse—”

“You’ll ride with me,” he said, and turned her toward him, adjusting his way-too-big frockcoat over her shoulders. “I wouldn’t want you tempted to run naked into the woods again. Alone.”

“But—”

She never went further with her protest. His hands locked upon her waist and he set her upon his own mammoth gelding, slipped up behind her with the same uncanny agility she had seen before, and lifted the reins! She felt his chest at her back, his arms around her. Renewed anger and a wretched shaking seized hold of her at the same time. She didn’t want to fight at the moment—or move. Movement only made things worse. She’d shared a greater intimacy with a stranger in a matter of minutes than she had known with any man in her life—father, brothers, and patients included.

“My horse—”

“She follows behind us,” he assured her.

“There is no need to do this,” she said, trying not to sound as if she pleaded too desperately. “I am no threat to you—”

“You are mistaken. You are a threat, to me—and to yourself. In fact, your intent is to be an incredible threat.”

“But—”

“You were moving with soldiers, madam, weren’t you? By your own admission,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but—”

“You are bold enough to entice a soldier into the woods with a display of the ... the barest beauty. Clever enough to try to lie your way out of any predicament. So I wonder, who are you? What other sacrifices do you make for your war department? Give me your name.”

“I think not.”

“I think so.”

“Do you plan a Yankee torture?”

“I plan to have the truth.”

“Then you explain yourself, and quit playing games. What do you intend to do once we have retrieved my clothing?”

“Why, remove you from the war. Take you into custody. Find out more about you. Perhaps in St. Augustine we’ll discover that dozens of men have been lured to their doom by the wiles of the Lady Godiva.”

“No!” she protested in horror. St. Augustine! She had kin throughout the city, some there permanently, some coming and going, her oldest brother being the worst of them. She would not, could not, be dragged to St. Augustine. Oh, God, Ian would ...

She didn’t even want to imagine what Ian would say and do. And her father would find out, and her mother ...

“You have to let me go.”

“No.”

“But—”

“You will remain in my custody until I can give you over to the proper authorities, and that is that. You should thank me, you little fool! Keep up a lifestyle like this and you are sure to be ravaged if not slain. It’s my fondest hope that your father is a good, stern Southern fellow who will quite simply find a good hickory stick and a wood shed and leave such an impression on your—dare we say bare?—flesh that you never think of such foolhardy behavior again.”

She lowered her head slightly. Her father had one hell of a temper, for sure, but he had never raised a hand against any of them in anger. What would he do now? It wasn’t his violence she feared. It was his disappointment. She adored him, had always adored him, as she did her mother. She’d been a normal child, she thought, angry and rebellious at times, but the last years had shown her time and time again that she’d been blessed, and she never, ever wanted to cause her parents harm. Or shame. They had all chosen their ways; they had even been encouraged to know their own hearts. Her father had never called anyone a traitor, though the name was thrown at him often enough because he refused to say that he had come to terms with secession.

“Don’t you think you’ve chastised me quite enough for any father?”

“Not in the least.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“And I’m doing what I have to do.”

“So I should be repentant—and grateful? Well, you bastard, I’m not sorry!” she proclaimed suddenly, tossing her hair back. “There were injured men who would not survive your dragging them to St. Augustine!”

“Oh, we’ll find them,” he assured her in such a way that she was chilled.

She shook her head again. This time, with her hair playing havoc beneath his nose, he sneezed.

“If you don’t mind ...” he began.

“I do mind! You must leave those men alone. They are just children, just boys, too young to be in the service, don’t you see? But the state is so desperate, so many men are dead, rotting in Southern states that are actually far north of us! There is no militia left—” She broke off, realizing that she was telling a Yankee in just what horrible a condition the state’s defenses were in. “Well, of course, troops will be sent back. There is an action that will surely go on to the north, there are so many troops, North and South accumulating ... in that arena, of course, we have thousands of men—”

“Madam, neither of us is a fool.”

“You must make no attempt on those boys! And you must leave me alone. I’ll escape, you know, and if I have to, I’ll kill you—”

“Thank you. I’ll be forewarned. I believe we have now come back to where we began. In fact, I think that pile there might be your clothing.”

Yes, they had come back to where they had begun. Where she had been such a fool, delighting in the feel of being really clean after so much blood and dirt ...

There lay her clothing. Dried out over the log where she had laid it.

He leapt down from the horse, reaching up to her. With little choice, she accepted his arms. Yet, before he would lift her down, he asked her, “What is your real name, Godiva?” he asked her.