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  “Why?” he repeated, frowning. “I’d like to see what you’re growing, how you’re managing it. You said that you’re growing poppies, that you have laudanum—”

  “Ah, but, sir! To what use will any knowledge of my garden be to you? Will you be near enough to pillage my herbs?”

  “Pillage?”

  She hesitated. “North or South, sir, troops do nothing but steal from the civilians in the name of whatever cause they choose to honor.”

  “I don’t pillage, ma’am.” He walked to her, circling around her once again. “Rape, steal, rob, murder, plunder, or pillage.”

  “Then what do you do, Colonel?” she inquired, eyes glittering as she watched him.

  “Survive,” he said simply. And this time he was determined to have the last word.

  Only one way to do so. He turned and walked determinedly into the house once again.

  So much for Paddy’s angel.

  She was, he assured himself, as he’d heard, a witch.

  Strangely, a chill swept along his spine with that thought. He was just tired. Bone tired. The ride, the skirmish, carrying Paddy from the field of battle, riding hard with the weight of another man. He wanted rest, needed rest, and damn it, he was going to have some rest.

  And yet ...

  He could feel her eyes, see her in his mind’s eye.

  Rhiannon.

  A witch, a sea witch, with the power to heal?

  And very definitely, the power to haunt.

  Chapter 2

  RHIANNON TREMAINE WATCHED AS the man re-entered her house, oddly torn by the emotions that assailed her.

  He was a liar. She had known that from the start, and she wasn’t sure that it was anything special about her senses that assured her it was so or not. He was a soldier, certainly, but he was no Yankee. He was a tall man, handsome despite his unkempt, threadbare appearance. Powerful, strong, and probably far too capable, she thought, again, despite the fact that he appeared lean and lanky, given his height.

  Charming, wary, even as he lied.

  And he was definitely a liar. His gaunt cheeks gave him away. He moved about with an alarming, effortless, fluid speed, but he moved like a man accustomed to desperate measures, a man who moved with soldiers forced to strike and retreat quickly. He would always be watching.

  He’d been enduring hardships lately, and though the war itself was damned hard on everyone, she was certain he had to be a Reb. And his friend had been injured fighting Yanks. He’d shot himself, indeed! They might even be Rebs returned from the fighting to the North.

  She lowered her head, thinking that they would be an unlikely troop happening upon her house as they had if they’d been with the fighting in the North. Yet they were Rebs, and they had guessed that she was a Union sympathizer, so they had lied.

  She wondered if they were dangerous.

  Naturally, they were dangerous. All weary, war-torn, hurt, and starving men were dangerous. And despite the high-minded ideals of so many of the men on both sides, there were those who had lost all thought of morals or honor. She’d heard numerous horror stories about deserters breaking in on defenseless plantations, stealing, destroying property, and assaulting women. Even before Richard’s death, she’d allowed nature to take back the front lawn, and she’d done her best in every way to make the house look abandoned.

  She frowned. If someone were to come and put a bullet through her heart, she wasn’t terribly sure she’d care. She’d known for a fact long before the official letter had come from Richard’s colonel that her husband had been killed. And now she alternated between numbness and pain that cut like a knife. She didn’t want to be a coward, but sometimes the pain was so bad that she thought death might be a welcome relief. But she was responsible for Rachel, her husband’s cousin, and for Mammy Nor and Angus. Though many of her neighbors did consider her a witch, she was still fascinated enough by herbs and medicinal plants and the simple power of nature that it didn’t matter—they could call her witch. Most said the word with simple gratitude. She enjoyed healing those who were sick.

  In body, and soul, she told herself dryly. It didn’t hurt, she thought, that opium was one of those healing drugs with which she was quite adept at making.

  “Miz Rhiannon!”

  She spun around. Angus, her husband’s manservant, now her right-hand man in all things, had come around the back to speak with her.

  “Angus! I need to speak with you.”

  “That’s what I thought, Miz Rhiannon. Now Miss Rachel has gone around giving all those soldiers places to sleep—she’s got that colonel upstairs in the guest room. Mammy Nor done seen to it that plenty of food is been set out for the soldiers. I think they’re well, fine, and proper cared for, I do.”

  She nodded. “Good. Now we have to report them.”

  “What?” Angus was a big man, tall and built like a bull. Startled, hands on his hips, he looked ferocious. She smiled. She liked ferocious very much—when ferocious was on her side.

  “Angus, these fellows are liars. Rebs. When the colonel has gone to bed, I want you to set out for St. Augustine. Find a Captain Cline. He’s an old friend. Tell him I think that I might have some notorious Rebs here.”

  Angus widened his eyes. “Rebs! Here, in this house! Why, those boys has been polite, courteous, downright decent.”

  “Angus, you don’t have to be rude to be a Rebel. Trust me, I know what these men are.”

  “I trust you. I knows enough to trust you! But are you sure you want me to report them?”

  Rhiannon hesitated, startled by the thought that she didn’t particularly want her guests to come to harm. But she was pretty sure that she was harboring men who continually harassed the troops around St. Augustine, men taking a toll on Union lives.

  “Miss Rachel said the colonel was a fine doctor ...” Angus began, shaking his head.

  “A fine doctor, but he carries a Colt repeater as well, Angus.” She bit her lower lip, disturbed to realize she was uncertain. She was someone with what they called “second sight,” but it felt as if the colonel saw far too much when he looked at her. Maybe it was just that he made her feel ... something. Conflict, maybe. She hadn’t felt much of anything in so long that ...

  She swallowed hard, lowering her head for a moment. She was filled with turmoil. She found him to be a very disturbing man. Naturally, she told herself. She was playing a game of wits with him because he was a lying Reb. But there was something in his voice, in the eyes, in the way he looked at her ... He made her feel tremors of unease deep within herself.

  He needed to be in a prison camp, she assured herself. She didn’t want him dead. She wanted him captured because of the harm his troops caused. For his own safety, and certainly that of others.

  She felt dizzy suddenly. She closed her eyes, bracing herself. The image came anyway. She could see Richard again, see him as the bullet impacted, see his eyes, hear him call her name ...

  Then Richard was gone, and she saw the Rebel colonel. Saw him calling out an order, staggering as he ran to his horse with his wounded friend over his shoulder. Saw him aiming his Colt as Union troops came in pursuit ...

  Her eyes flew open.

  She looked at Angus.

  “They have to be reported.”

  The colonel taunting her now was a Rebel, plain and simple. “Angus, it’s important that you go to Captain Cline. He’s a good friend, and he’ll be careful. I don’t want men killed in my house or because of any action of mine. The Rebs have to be taken as prisoners.”

  Angus scratched his head. “Miz Rhiannon, we’re still living in a Southern state—”

  “This was my father’s house, Angus. He built it. He left it to me. And it’s my state, just the same as it’s their state. I happen to think that the state should return to the Union, and they want it to be part of their Confederacy.”

  “Still, the state did leave the Union!” Angus persisted in warning.

  Angus had never been a slave. Born in Vermont like
Richard, he’d had several years of schooling, and Richard had liked to argue issues with him to see matters from a different perspective.

  Richard was gone, but Angus still liked to argue.

  “Angus, please. I’ve heard that most of the people in St. Augustine opened their arms willingly to Union troops—they couldn’t live without Yankee dollars. There are many other Unionists in Florida, I assure you. Now, please! You will see to the welfare of our guests, and then you will ride out to inform Captain Cline that they are here.”

  “It don’t feel right,” Angus said.

  She hesitated. It didn’t feel right. She waited, hoping some thought or insight would come to her. But she felt the night’s breeze and nothing more.

  “Angus—”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is your home,” Angus said, “I just hope they don’t burn it!” he told her firmly.

  “They—they won’t burn my home.”

  “Other Unionists have been dragged out of their houses and forced to watch as they burned.”

  “Those incidents are rare, Angus.”

  “Rare, perhaps, but passions do run high when it comes to this war, Miz Rhiannon.”

  “They won’t burn me out, Angus,” she murmured with a dry assurance. “Too many people think I’m a witch.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll have these fellows in your house, and it will take me so long to get Captain Cline in St. Augustine, and so long for soldiers to get back.”

  “We’ll treat these soldiers decently, Angus. They’ll never know what we’re up to until it’s come about.”

  “It could be morning before the Union soldiers arrive.”

  She swallowed hard.

  She was suddenly ... afraid. The feeling was strange. She hadn’t cared about her own welfare in a very long time. ...

  “Do it, Angus, please,” she said firmly.

  He nodded and left her.

  She watched him go. After a moment she looked down and saw that her hands were clenched. She stretched them before her. They were shaking.

  She needed a drink. Not a ladylike concept at all, but she needed a drink. Badly.

  No, she needed more. Much more. She needed to slip away to her room, away from these soldiers. She didn’t want to see them. Angus would go for help; she just needed to lock herself in ...

  And escape. These men, the war, the past. Her own way.

  Julian had thought that his unwilling hostess might have followed him—just to argue with him. But she hadn’t.

  He returned to the dining room, where River Montdale and Thad and Ben Henly were hungrily consuming their suppers. He joined them, this time helping himself to the bread and cheese and some homemade wine.

  “You looked around out back, boys?” he asked the men.

  Before the war the Henlys had made their living off the land, trapping and fishing. If he would trust anyone to know the woods, it was the two of them.

  Ben, a cocky and handsome dark-haired youth with dimples, grinned.

  “Colonel, this place is about as remote as you can get.”

  His cousin Thad, a little older, agreed. “We searched the barn, the stables, the smokehouse, servants’ quarters, everywhere. If this is a trap, it’s a damned good one.”

  “Still, we’ll keep guard—”

  “Keith, Daniel, and Corporal Lyle are patrolling the grounds. We’d figured we should spell each other in groups of three every two hours until morning, sir,” River Montdale told him. Montdale, twenty-three years old with dark eyes and long dark hair, was part Seminole, as good a man in the wild as the Henlys.

  “Sounds a good plan to me. I’ll take a turn at guard duty before dawn—”

  “Sir, the way I see it,” River protested, “we’ve got it covered. Liam keeps an eye on Paddy, and you get some sleep, because you’ve stayed awake too damned long and ridden too hard while trying to keep Paddy alive. And,” he said with a smile and a shrug, “you’re the ranking officer.”

  Julian grinned in return. “I am damned tired.”

  “And Paddy may need you in the night,” Ben said.

  “True,” Julian said. “But I doubt it. He’ll sleep well.”

  “Sir, if you’ll excuse us ...” Thad said.

  “Get some rest,” he told them.

  The three left him. When they were gone, a regally tall, slim black woman came into the room bearing a silver carafe and a wine glass. She appeared ageless, a handsome woman with deep, dark eyes, almond skin, and a mysterious smile.

  “You’re the colonel?” she said.

  He nodded, watching her. She was lithe, sinuous, completely at ease. Her face was a fascinating one, unlined yet filled with a character that usually came with age. She was very proud, and afraid of no man, he thought.

  “You’re Mammy Nor?”

  “I am, sir. Angus runs the grounds for Miz Rhiannon; I run the house. This is my special berry wine. I brought it out only for you. It’s potent, sir. Rich and potent. It will warm your blood. If you want your blood warmed.”

  “Well, you know, my blood has run very cold lately. I think I’d like your wine very much.”

  “Can you handle it, sir? You know, there are those who claim the mistress to be a witch.”

  “Is she an evil witch?

  “Not evil.”

  “But a witch?”

  “Who’s to say? My folks hailed from down N’awleans way. They tell stories about voodoo priests and priestesses, good magic, bad magic. Then there’s the old way, the ancient white way, the folk who studied Wicca and the like. Earth people. The real magic is in the earth, you know, sir. The Indians know this, the African people have always known it. Mostly, these days the white men have lost all memory of everything that the earth can give. You’re a doctor. You should know. You don’t need to be a witch to make magic. The mistress can create magic.”

  “With her potions?” he inquired.

  “Lord, what the earth does give!” Mammy Nor exclaimed.

  “Good and bad. Did you poison the wine?” Julian inquired politely.

  She cast back her head and laughed. “Lord, no! Why, Colonel, if I was to kill a man, I’d put a bullet between his eyes.”

  “Indeed,” he said, smiling, certain that Mammy Nor would do so. “I believe you would.”

  “You know that the wine is not poisoned because I have said so?”

  “Yes,” he told her.

  “I like you,” Mammy Nor said, studying him seriously. “But so, since I like you, I warn you, you’ll sleep well. Or ... you won’t sleep. The wine is warm, it’s good. It eases the little pains in the body, and plays with the mind, perhaps just a little bit. Maybe you’ll sleep and it will give you dreams. But these days, eh, sir, the dreams are better than the truth in daylight. So, you sleep well, you dream sweet dreams. The wine’s potent, that’s all I say. Take a sip.”

  He did so. It was an excellent full-bodied wine, almost a port. It was dry without being bitter, fruity without being too sweet.

  “Well, Colonel?”

  “You make wonderful wine, Mammy Nor.”

  “You don’t know just how wonderful yet, Colonel!”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Have a good night, sir. Sleep well. Dream sweetly.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a knowing wink and a slow turn, she left him alone.

  He couldn’t help thinking that it was a strange household.

  The wine was good. It seemed to flow through his limbs, and, as she had said, it eased all the little aches and pains. Though he was certain it wasn’t poisoned, he still sipped it carefully. The earth witch who owned the place was a Yankee, which meant he had to be careful. But the lulling heat that filled his veins was addictive. A second glass seemed in order. God, yes, it was potent, and very good. Besides, he’d always been able to drink his share of bourbon. He could surely handle a couple glasses of wine.

  As he sat there, just finishing it, Rachel came in to the room.

  “Oh, sir, the
re you are!” she said happily.

  “Hello, Rachel.”

  “Have you eaten?” she asked him.

  She was young, charming, effusive, and sincere. He smiled in return, suddenly wishing he weren’t living out a lie for the evening, since she was so pleased to have them.

  “Yes, I’ve eaten.”

  “Good. Then come on up.”

  “Up? Where?”

  “I’ve made arrangements for everyone, sir, but since you’re the ranking man—” She broke off suddenly, frowning. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “Uh—yes, at the moment.”

  “You’ve a private room, upstairs. The other fellows will share, though they say they have to take turns on guard. Is that right?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Ah, well, follow me.”

  “All right. Just let me look in on my patient.”

  He did so. Paddy was sleeping peacefully. So peacefully that he paused, listening for Paddy’s heartbeat and his slow, deep breathing.

  “Don’t worry,” Rachel said, tugging on his arm. “Rhiannon gave him some laudanum. He’ll sleep like a baby. That wound must have hurt blue blazes.”

  He didn’t object to an injured man being given a pain-killing drug—just to the fact that Rhiannon had chosen to do so without asking him. But then again, it was the common household cure for every little ache and pain, quite popular among the ladies—young and old, North and South.

  “Perhaps I should speak with Rhiannon,” he said.

  “She’s gone to bed for the night,” Rachel told him. “You’ll have to speak with her in the morning. Don’t yell at her.”

  “I can hardly yell at our hostess.”

  “She meant well.”

  “Did she?”

  “Of course. She wouldn’t do anything bad to anyone. I told you—she’s better than most doctors. She was in Washington for a while, petitioning to follow Richard’s regiment as a medic, but she couldn’t get permission, so she worked in a hospital there. She’s magic.”

  Magic again. “Is she?” he inquired skeptically.

  “Honestly. And she sees, you know.”

  “Sees what?”

  “More than most.”