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  “I’m telling you, I am not taking any opiates—”

  “Good. I need you in control of all your faculties.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Understand me. I’m not coming with you—”

  “You are.”

  “To assist in surgery on more Rebs—”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. One Reb in particular. A blockade runner. A man who has provided a desperate people with life-saving supplies.”

  “You’re the great physician. You save his life.”

  “I’m a physician—good enough to know that all my skill in surgery means little against a flaming infection.”

  “What makes you think I can make a difference?”

  “Rumor has it,” he said dryly. “I watched you with Paddy.”

  “I competently ripped his trousers.”

  “You know how to clean a wound, salve it, bandage it.”

  “So do many people.”

  “Not nearly so well.”

  “I’m not saving any more Rebs—” she began in a stubborn whisper.

  “You’re saving this one.”

  “Why? Because he bests his Northern enemies with such skill and talent?”

  She was startled when he stared down at her a long while before answering.

  “No,” he said after a moment. “Because he’s my flesh and blood. He’s my cousin.”

  She fell silent and after a moment he rose, reaching a hand down to her.

  She stared at his hand, and back to his eyes, shaking her head.

  “I—can’t come with you.”

  “I insist.”

  “And if I don’t ... ?”

  “I cart you off, screaming and hollering.”

  She smiled. “I’d be worthless—your superior officers would make you let me go.”

  He leaned down toward her. “Mrs. Tremaine, I very often am the superior officer in these parts. You should have gone with my brother, Ian. But you didn’t. So now, you can come with me.”

  “I was going to go with your brother. In fact, he’s coming back, and I have every intention—”

  “That lie will not serve you now.”

  “Will you listen to me! I’m telling you the truth. I really intended to go—in a few days’ time. I had some things here that I had to do—”

  “Cry a few more buckets over Richard’s grave.”

  Jumping up, she backed away from him. “How dare you! How dare you even speak his name! You didn’t know him, you didn’t know what he was like, the kind of courage he showed, the way he was willing to die for others—”

  “The way he would want you spending your life dying over his grave now?” he queried.

  “I was saying good-bye.”

  “Good, because I’m ready to go.”

  “Then go!”

  “You’re coming with me. And we’ve work to do before we leave.”

  She was poised to run away from him once again, certain he meant to reach out, grab her arm, and drag her along with him.

  But he walked on past her, and she realized that he was heading for the house, and that he meant to go through her store of supplies without her.

  “Wait!” she cried, coming after him. “You have your nerve! You told me that you didn’t rob, rape, pillage, or the like, and here you are, stealing—”

  “I’m not stealing anything. You’re giving me what I need. You’re supplying the sons of your state with the medicines they need to live.”

  He was walking very quickly, and she was surprised to find herself hurrying along beside him. “Oh, you are a wretched, sorry bastard, McKenzie. Doctor, indeed! You will twist anything, you are a manipulator, a—”

  She broke off, suddenly realizing that she was indeed being manipulated.

  She stood still, smiling. “Fine, sir, you want to pillage my garden and my supplies? You are carrying a gun—I’m not. I can’t stop you. So go ahead, help yourself.”

  She spun around, hurrying back toward the cemetery. A dense pine forest began just a few feet beyond the graveyard, and she could disappear within it and hide until he’d been forced to take his leave.

  She didn’t hear him—or sense him. He came up behind her so quickly that she let out a stunned gasp when he swept her into his arms, doing another about-face to return to the house.

  She slammed a fist against his chest. “Would you let me down?”

  “No.”

  “Damn you, let me go—”

  “I’ll be delighted to do so. Extremely delighted to do so. Just as soon as I can hog-tie you and find a muzzle,” he said.

  “Don’t you understand?” she demanded, struggling against his hold. “You’re a Reb. I despise you.”

  “Interesting. You didn’t despise me last night,” he remarked casually.

  She sucked in her breath, startled by his subtle attack. “I did, I do, I despise all Rebs, and I can’t bear you holding me, touching me.”

  “Again, you were not so delicate last night.”

  “I fought with you last night.”

  “And ripped off my towel.”

  She gasped and started pummeling him in fury once again. “I did not! I wouldn’t.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe not on purpose, but you did!” He was taunting her; there was a mocking light in his eyes as he stared down at her.

  “There was nothing!” she cried, her voice rising desperately. “Nothing happened last night.”

  He was silent, walking along with his long strides, heedless of her pummeling fists and struggles.

  He reached the rear entrance to the house and brought them through the back door. “Angus!” she cried in frustration.

  But there was no one in the main house. No one was there to answer her cries. Where they had gone she didn’t know, but she could feel the emptiness.

  Yet just when she thought that she would explode with the velocity of a cannon, he set her down in the center of the small rear hall, between the pantry and the kitchen.

  “Your potions, Mrs. Tremaine?”

  She glared at him, fists clenched as her sides. “When he comes back,” she said, “Angus will shoot you.”

  “Angus is saddling your horse, Mrs. Tremaine,” he told her.

  Stunned, she stared at him. “I don’t believe you. Angus is from Vermont. He’s a free man. A friend as well as a servant. He is appalled and sickened by slavery—”

  “I don’t own any slaves, Mrs. Tremaine. If you wish, you can go upstairs for more clothing and a few personal effects. I can see your jars and vials. I’ll take care of packing these things.”

  She stared at him. He was already assessing her stores of ointments, salves, poultices, and opiates. He knew exactly what he wanted, what he would take.

  She backed away, still disbelieving that he could so calmly demand that she accompany him, and sped up the stairs. She burst into Rachel’s room, seeking help, but there was no help to be found. The girl wasn’t there. Stunned and angry, she walked back into her own room.

  She began swearing softly, wanting to know where everyone had suddenly gone, and what in God’s name was happening.

  She realized, as she ranted, that she was packing a small canvas bag, as if she did, indeed, intend to be away several nights.

  If he was going to force her to come with him, she’d have some of her own things, at the very least.

  She opened the wardrobe, reaching for her cloak. It was summer and the heat could be intense, but rains came at night, and they could be cool.

  The wardrobe was filled with Richard’s civilian clothing.

  How could she have forgotten? For a moment, standing there, she was so struck with fresh pain that she couldn’t move. Then the numbness and reality began to set in. Richard was gone. And as horrible as it might be, the Reb doctor’s face was a far clearer picture in her mind right now.

  Far clearer than she wanted it to be. Haunting her, making her so afraid ...

  Don’t think. Don’t be afraid. Be down to earth, cold, simple, factual.r />
  Fact. The Reb doctor’s clothing was in sad repair. With shaking hands she took out a shirt and a pair of breeches. She gritted her teeth, feeling the onslaught of a headache and wishing she could take some laudanum.

  She spun around, feeling an uneasy sensation.

  He was there, standing in her doorway. Blue eyes sharp, hard, relentless as he watched her. Handsome face hard, mocking, as if he could too easily read her mind. “You’re ready?” he inquired.

  She didn’t answer him, but indicated the clothing she held in her hands. “Your things are badly frayed.”

  “And those are Richard’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She wanted to slap him. She was making a supreme sacrifice, offering him Richard’s clothing. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told him angrily. “Your clothing is worn, in danger of falling apart.”

  “I don’t want to remind you of Richard,” he said flatly. “I don’t want you to think of me as him, and I don’t want you calling me by his name.”

  She shook her head. “You’re nothing like Richard. He was kind and courteous.”

  “And a Yankee,” he said dryly. “Good St. Richard. I’m sure I’m nothing like him.”

  “You can take his clothing. I’d never mistake you for my husband.”

  “Oh?” He arched a brow, and she felt a flush of heat and apprehension as he walked across the room, taking the clothing from her.

  “So you’ve never mistaken me for Richard. Really?”

  He stood directly in front of her. She could see the pulse ticking at his throat, the strange look in his eyes. Her breath seemed to be ripped away, and she suddenly felt her heart slamming against her chest.

  “Colonel, sir, I pray that you cease being so rudely insinuative—”

  “I’m not being insinuative at all. I’m trying to establish facts.”

  “McKenzie, you bastard—”

  He turned away from her, walking over to her rosewood secretary and picking up one of her journals. “I’ve taken clippings, seeds, and some roots,” he said, thumbing through her inventory of plants. “You keep good records,” he told her, sliding one of her books on flowers and herbs and their properties from the secretary. He flipped through it. “This is better than a number of the medical journals I’ve read.”

  He sat down at the chair in front of the secretary, reading.

  “You can use Richard’s clothing,” she said stubbornly.

  “No, thank you.” He said politely, firmly. He didn’t look up.

  “Fine, then you can get out of my room.”

  At that, he looked up at her. She was uneasy again as his blue gaze slid slowly and curiously over the length of her. He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you recall at all that you weren’t so eager to be rid of me last night?”

  “You burst in here.”

  “Yes, I did. So you do remember that. What else?”

  “There was nothing else!” she insisted.

  He stared at her a moment longer, then looked back to the book he had been reading.

  She hurried over before him, planting her hands on the secretary to stare furiously into his eyes. “You stopped me from taking the opium. I do remember.”

  He looked up at her politely.

  “Don’t, don’t, please, don’t!” she whispered desperately.

  “I’m not doing anything,” he told her.

  “You are! You are implying—you are saying things—you are insinuating—”

  “What did happen last night, Rhiannon?” he asked her. “You tell me.”

  “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

  His blue gaze met hers for a long moment. He rose. “Whatever you say is what happened, Rhiannon. Whatever you say.”

  He reached out suddenly, capturing her hand despite the fact that she tried to snatch it away. His eyes remained locked with hers. “You’re shaking. Look at your hands! And you should see your eyes. You don’t remember the night, you refuse to remember the night. And you told me you weren’t addicted! Now here we are again! Last night was painless—until the doubts and fear set in, right? But tonight will not be so easy. It’s going to be a very long, hard night for you, Mrs. Tremaine. Very long. And be warned, there won’t be any giving in—I’ll fight you again.”

  He turned away from her and walked out of her room.

  Chapter 6

  THAT NIGHT, AS JULIAN had well imagined she would be, Rhiannon was sick.

  Julian had been amazed at the help he’d received from both Angus and Mammy Nor in getting Rhiannon out of her house. She’d actually packed a few belongings, and though she’d been concerned when speaking with her two remaining servants, they had not been worried. “We aren’t really in any danger here, Miz Tremaine,” Angus had said, winking. “You were the Yankee living in the heart of Dixie. Why, with the trees so wild and all, we’ll probably go the rest of the war without a single body even passing by.”

  Rhiannon had run back upstairs to make sure that Rachel was nearly ready. Rachel was pleased to be leaving, even if it meant going to a Rebel camp. Angus and Mammy Nor had stood together, staring at Julian.

  “You two really going to be all right?” he’d asked.

  Angus had laughed. They’d be fine, he’d assured Julian. They would look after the place, they would make sure that it was kept up. And, they both swore, if troops came through from either the North or the South, they would take to the trees until the soldiers were gone.

  “We’ll be right as rain, young man,” Mammy Nor told him. “Miz Tremaine, she needed to be out of here, and if you ain’t exactly what we were counting on, I sure do know that the Lord works in a mysterious way. You see to Miz Tremaine, and you watch out for your own hide, Doctor. There are some gray clouds around you, and that’s a fact. You protect yourself.”

  They had left with Mammy Nor and Angus waving good-bye.

  Julian was even riding a new horse. A bay in far better health than the skinny but loyal old nag he’d left behind. Angus had promised to see to the horse and fatten her up.

  Julian used the moonlight to travel, moving quietly along dark, overgrown, lonely trails. At first the going was easy enough. He’d spent the majority of his life in the state, and he knew more of the old Indian trails than many an old Indian.

  As he rode, though, he grew bitter at the thought that he might soon be reassigned north. Half the time now he didn’t know what he thought about the war. He didn’t believe in slavery, but he didn’t believe in the Federal government’s right to dictate what his state should do. He’d heard from friends that General Robert E. Lee, head of the Confederate army, had devised a plan to free his own slaves before the war started. Lee had been adamantly against secession, but when Virginia had seceded, Lee had gone with his state. It was strange, he thought. Once the decision had been simple for him. Florida had seceded, Florida boys were hurt and dying, he was a doctor, he had to help his own. But all he could see now was the destruction of his state, of his family, his home, everything he loved.

  These thoughts burdened him, but sometime during the ride he realized that he had been preoccupied for a long time, and that his female companions had quietly ridden alongside.

  Julian probably would have pushed on farther, but he realized that it was around midnight. Looking back, he saw that Rachel could scarcely remain in her saddle. Rhiannon, at Rachel’s side, was keeping a keen eye on her young ward. She sat straight in her saddle, but no matter how she might be trying to hide it, she was in pain. The moonlight illumined the ashen color haunting her beautiful features. She was shaking and shivering as well, clenching her teeth hard to disguise her discomfort. Withdrawal, he realized.

  “We’ll stop just ahead,” Julian told the women. “There’s a stream up there and the remnants of an old Indian village.”

  Rhiannon arched a brow to him as they turned down a heavily overgrown trail. Yet he knew where he was going. Down the trail and just around a crooked little path, he
came to a small copse he knew well. His uncle had brought him here years before; it had been one of the camps used by the Seminoles just before General Jesup had tricked the famed Indian leader, Osceola, into capture. Though the copse hadn’t been used as a settlement in years, travelers who knew of its existence came through now and then, and the thatch roofs had been somewhat kept up and the platforms were cleared often enough to make them easily dusted now for sleeping quarters. A little stream, a tributary to the St. Johns, lay just ahead of the chickees, and Julian pointed the water out to the women after helping them from their horses. He tethered the animals, taking saddlebags and blankets from them and arranging sleeping quarters for Rhiannon and Rachel high on one of the chickees. Assuring himself that they were resting in relative safety—only the one, heavily foliaged trail led to the chickees by the stream—he walked to the water himself. They had both been drinking their fill, and Rachel seemed too weary to realize just how pale and quiet Rhiannon seemed to be.

  “Will we be all right, sleeping here?” Rachel asked him anxiously.

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “There are snakes, aren’t there?”

  “That’s why the Seminoles built their houses up on platforms, Rachel.”

  “Why didn’t they build walls?”

  “Because they had to run too often to stay away from the soldiers,” he told her. “Once they did build log homes. But the soldiers kept coming and burning them out. They learned how to build fast, serviceable dwellings that they could desert at will. So they built chickees. You may like it. It’s nice, sleeping like this. Up from the ground ... but still getting the night breeze.”

  “You’ve slept in these before?”

  “I have an uncle and cousins who are half Seminole, down by the deep swamp. I’ve slept in lots of chickees. You’ll be fine, honest. I’ll be watching over you. Your blanket is set up over there.”

  She smiled at last. Rhiannon stood by the water, still and silent—and very white. Rachel kissed her on the cheek, yawning. “Actually, I think I could almost sleep standing. Good night, I’m going to crawl into my blanket.”

  She left them there. Julian eyed Rhiannon, then knelt by the water. It was cool, clear, delicious. He slaked his thirst, then realized she was still standing there.