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  She sighed tremulously in her sleep. Her knuckles moved down his breast plate. He gritted his teeth, determined that he must move. Anything overt on his part would be taking advantage of her pain and drugged state.

  She moved even closer to him, as if she melted against him. Touching him. Sleeping. Resting so peacefully, so secure. She had been taking an opiate, he reminded himself. How much, of course, he didn’t know. A lot. She’d known what she’d been doing; she’d meant to do more. She’d meant to knock herself out.

  Maybe she was taking advantage of him.

  He started to ease away.

  Instinctively, she moved closer again.

  Where was the potency of that wine he had drunk? Shouldn’t that make him able to sleep as well? He was desperate for rest; tomorrow they had to ride again, and he didn’t know what Yankee patrols they might encounter.

  He couldn’t lie here awake all night. He eased his head down, thinking that he did have to move somehow.

  Somehow.

  Oh, God, he’d never sleep here as he was. He could feel her, breathe her, sense her ...

  It felt as if the length of him were on fire. Hot. Burning. A wickedly hard, fast pulse beat throughout his veins drummed through his limbs; he throbbed, ached, was constricted, tight, in agony ...

  He groaned aloud. She didn’t move.

  He tried to ease away. She moved closer. Reached out. Her hand lay upon his naked chest.

  Again, he tried to move.

  “No ... don’t leave me,” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes.

  Where is that sleep you promised me, Mammy Nor? he wondered. Had he lost the feeling of warmth and comfort from the wine, could he bring it back? Breathe deep, feel the heat in his veins, feel it ease the tightness in his limbs ...

  He needed to feel the breezes again, remember a time before the war, remember peace ...

  He prayed for sleep.

  Chapter 3

  SHE’D BEEN IN LOVE with Richard Tremaine as long as she could remember. He hailed from Virginia, very near Washington, D.C. She had been born and raised in north Florida. But their fathers had known one another forever—they had both come from a small town in Wales. Richard’s father had become involved in American journalism, and hers had found Florida, salt production and plantation life. But the men had remained friends, despite the changing climate of the country. It helped that Rhiannon’s father had remained an ardent Unionist, totally against secession, no matter what the outside pressure set against him. In 1860, while the threat of war had billowed around them, she had blissfully wed Richard in a small ceremony in Washington. The first night of their marriage, she had awakened screaming, the remnants of a terrible dream haunting her. She had seen a battlefield strewn with the dead, and all around them, men calling out with haunting taunts.

  We can whomp those Yanks in a matter of weeks ...

  Those Rebs will be sorry they started this after we give them one good lickin’...

  So many bodies, mangled, burned, bloodied, eyes opened, staring.

  She hadn’t wanted to tell Richard, but he knew about her dreams, and that she often simply knew things, and so he had listened to her, and he had soothed her. She had been afraid, and so he had told her that he could take her mind off of her nightmares, and he did, making love to her, sitting up with her, sharing wine, making her laugh, making love again ...

  But she had seen a glimpse of the war to come, and when Richard had received his commission, she’d had the dream again. She had begged him not to fight, but he had told her that he didn’t have a choice. And when Florida had rushed to secede from the Union, she had been numb.

  Dreams. She prayed that they would not haunt her so. Richard had always said that she had to think about the good, and forget, block out, what she found to be painful. What frightened her. Sometimes dreams were warnings, perhaps, of things she could stop from happening ...

  Richard.

  Beside her now.

  She knew, of course, that he couldn’t be beside her now. He had perished. She had seen it. In a dream. But dreams, perhaps, were deceiving, because she could touch him, feel flesh, feel heat, warmth, the wonderful, electric feel of life beside her in the shadows of the night ...

  Remember the good, he had always told her, and he had been the good. Dreams could bring happiness as well as pain, he had assured her. She’d dreamed about his death, but he was with her now, and so, perhaps, the dream had been a warning, and she could keep him now, stop him from going into battle, make him stay, with her ...

  She touched him, feeling the muscles ripple within his chest, the sleekness of his flesh. The quickening movements in him as the brush of her fingers teased and aroused his heated flesh ...

  She could keep him. Make him stay.

  She pressed her lips against his shoulder, his throat, lower, her fingers upon his flesh all the while, stroking, teasing, arousing ...

  He was so still. Still as death ...

  No ...

  He groaned, in the night, in the darkness, in the sweetness and life of the dream.

  And he touched her face, cupping her cheek with his palm, brushing her lips with his thumb. She felt an instant stirring deep within her, a hunger, an aching, deeper, more desperate, than she had ever known before. Perhaps, because it was a dream, each sensation intensified, the pad of his thumb upon her mouth, the fever heat of his body, brushing against hers, the extent of his arousal ...

  He kissed her. Lips barely touching hers at first, then forming upon them, devouring them. She felt his tongue in her mouth, tasted him, wanted him. She returned the kiss with sweet, manic passion, wanting more and more. His hand moved from her cheek, molding over her breast, his palm erotic as he rotated it over the cotton of her gown. Desire—a white hot flash of sunlight—seared straight through her, and she ran her hand down the smooth, lean length of his body, finding the hard protrusion of his sex and stroking. The sharp intake of his breath against her lips assured her that she touched with magic—or witch’s spell—and she trembled with both need and pleasure when his hand slipped beneath her gown and slid between her thighs. How strange ... she’d been so uncertain on their wedding night, fearful of showing what she felt when he touched her, when they made love. But he’d taught her that love created its own boundaries, and he wanted all that she brought to his bed, witch, angel, enchantress ... laughter, passion, lust ... all belonged between them, and he wanted a wife who wanted him. She hadn’t known how much she missed this ... hadn’t thought ... hadn’t ... since ...

  Oh, God. He pressed within her ... touched, withdrew, rotated his thumb ... withdrew just slightly, creating a rhythm that increased in tempo, teased and beckoned, aroused until she was arching, writhing for more and more. His lips were against hers again, against her throat, her collarbone. Her gown was thrust up, and his mouth flowered over her breasts, her abdomen, lower, lathing, soaking, teasing, tormenting ...

  She was in a frenzy, digging into his shoulders, tearing into his hair. And he rose above her, liquid, lithe, powerful, in the moonlight, thrust himself within until she was filled and shuddering, writhing once again, eager, famished, dying. He moved fully in her slowly, again and again, and when she thought she would go mad, he suddenly increased his pulse, and he was with her like the wind, like thunder, a force of nature, thrusting so deeply, again and again, sweeping into her, and causing her to soar ... to fly against fear, and nightmares, and haunting visions of ...

  Battlefields.

  And death ...

  Blurred images started to form in her mind. She fought them. She felt him. His touch. His movement. His stroke within her ...

  So hard now, starved, passionate, demanding.

  So good.

  “Oh!” A cry left her lips. There was nothing but sensation, blinding sensation.

  No visions could touch her when she was held with such volatile passion within his arms. No pain ... just this sweet sublimity, breaking upon her, spilling like cascades of ho
neyed water, seeping between them ...

  He fell against her.

  “Richard,” she whispered.

  Blissfully weary and replete, she was unaware that he stiffened.

  And gave no reply.

  The fervent pounding on the guest room door, accompanied by an urgent “Colonel!” drew Julian from an embarrassingly deep sleep. The wine, he thought. Potent, indeed. He’d slept like the dead, dreamed ...

  “Colonel!”

  He tried to rouse quickly, but it was as if he were coming from a deep, entrenching fog, uncomfortably lost and disconcerted ...

  He usually awoke at the whisper of the wind.

  He bolted up and became aware he lay beside his hostess in a plantation house somewhere north and not far west of St. Augustine. The pounding began again.

  Dreams. Mammy Nor had warned him that his dreams would be sweet indeed. Yet ...

  He had to cast off the sluggish sensation that still seemed to grip him. He bolted to his feet, reaching for the towel he had worn to the room. He hurried the distance between the two rooms, closing the door with the broken bolt behind him.

  “Colonel!”

  No time with the call so urgent to reach for his breeches; he hurried to the door to his room and threw it open. Corporal Lyle was there, anxiously waiting for him. “Horses, sir, riders, about fifteen of them, coming down the eastern road.”

  “Yanks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Coming directly for the house?” he inquired sharply.

  “Yes, sir, I’m afraid they are.”

  She had known. Witch—or simply an intuitive woman—she had known that they were Rebs. Though, grudgingly, she had given them hospitality, in her manner, and perhaps had intended to make them think themselves safe.

  While she had reported them.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes, I reckon. Then them Yanks will be at the door.”

  “How’s our patient?” he asked, quickly regarding Paddy.

  “Doing fine, sir.”

  “I’ll see to him quickly.”

  He dropped the towel, reaching for his breeches, and stepped into them. Shoeless, shirtless, he sped down the stairs and into the room where he had treated Paddy.

  Paddy was up. He had been given a fresh white shirt and a torn pair of clean breeches to wear. Rachel was busy re-bandaging his thigh.

  “I’ll take a quick look,” he said gruffly.

  Rachel stepped back. The wound was clean, there was no bleeding. His stitches were small and tight. Paddy would do all right; he was going to have to.

  “I can ride like the wind, and you know that’s true, sir,” Paddy said.

  “You’ll have to take care—”

  “I will. And River can help patch me with his Seminole magic if there’s bleeding again.”

  “Get to camp, and for God’s sake, get to bed and stay there,” Julian ordered, working deftly to pack the wound so that the stitches wouldn’t split.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I’ll finish the bandaging, doctor, sir,” Rachel said. “He’s healing fine. You sew better than a seamstress.”

  “Thank you, Rachel,” Julian said. “This is very kind. You know that we’re—”

  “Rebs. Yes, sir. You’d best get moving.”

  Corporal Lyle was behind him. He turned, giving orders quickly. “Tell River, Thad, and Ben to get Paddy and move inland before heading south. River will know the old Seminole trails, and I’m willing to bet the Yanks coming after us are from Ohio or Michigan or some such place. The rest of us will take a southeastward trail, keep them following us, and give you a better chance to escape more slowly with Paddy.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Get moving, then.”

  He left the room, hurrying back upstairs and looking out the large bay window above the breezeway hall to ascertain the position of the Yankees. They had ten minutes at best. He hurried on to the bedroom to finish dressing. Once there, he snatched up the rest of his clothing. As he slipped into his shirt, he stared at the doorway between the two rooms. His Colt remained in her room, dropped at the foot of her bed where he had left it last night. He stumbled into his boots then strode quickly to the door. With the bolt gone, a touch of his palm threw the door quietly open. Maybe he wouldn’t even awaken her, and then he wouldn’t be so tempted to throttle her.

  But she wasn’t sleeping. She had just risen, awakened, perhaps, by the sound of the riders. Tall, lithe, her hair a wild, tousled ebony cloak, she appeared ethereal, and still so breathtakingly beautiful that he paused. She stood near the bed, ashen, confused, far more disoriented than he, he realized—yet staring down at his Colt where he had cast it the night before and trying to determine her chances of reaching it.

  And using it?

  It suddenly infuriated him anew that she should be so careless with her life. She’d reported them—casting herself into danger should battle erupt in her house, and yet she had been so certain that they would be easily swept away that she had dared douse herself with drugs and wine.

  And now, it seemed she was so determined on their capture that she would draw his own gun against him. He had no desire to discover just how ardent a Yank she was. He walked quickly across the room. She saw him, saw his face, and suddenly made a dive for his weapon. She reached out, fingers grasping, but he was there too quickly, catching her by the length of her hair. She cried out, jerked back, but he loosed her instantly. He reached for his Colt, sliding it into his holster.

  “A Colt-carrying doctor!” she exclaimed. “What a wondrous physician, so concerned with life!”

  “I am concerned with life. At the moment I’m concerned with my own.”

  “No one intends to kill you—”

  “Then what did you intend with my Colt?”

  “To—waylay you.”

  “Why? Because troops are on the way to capture us?”

  She was motionless for a moment, very straight, as she tried to regain her dignity. She was still wearing her cotton nightgown, her long dark hair was free and streaming down her back in wild disarray, and she seemed completely distressed and unnerved, as if the past hours were a complete blur to her.

  Did she remember what happened? he wondered.

  Her vivid green eyes touched his. “If you were a good Yank, sir, as you proclaimed, it would be your countrymen coming to your aid.”

  “I never actually proclaimed myself a Yank, ma’am,” he said politely. “Naturally, whatever I am, I do thank you for your hospitality. However, we will be taking our leave.”

  She stared at him, lifting her chin. “They’ll catch you, you know.”

  “Well, that was your intent. But I doubt it. I’m from here—they’re not. I know where I’m going, they don’t. But I thank you for your concern.”

  Her eyes flickered downward. He turned, striding for the hallway door, and was startled when she called him back.

  “Colonel?”

  He stopped, turning to look at her. God, how she wanted to be cool and aloof and watch him walk away without a further word! But she didn’t seem to be able to do so. “You did sleep in your own room?” she inquired. It was a whisper so soft that he could barely make out the words.

  He hesitated, watching her. The wine had been potent. He had been exhausted. Had he dreamed ... awakened within a dream only to continue in a deeper sleep? The night seemed so fleeting. He could be the perfect gentleman, tell her what she wanted to hear.

  He could, but ...

  Why on earth would he want to?

  “My own room? Ma’am, my own room is far away, south and across the breadth of the state.”

  She was very pale. “I don’t ... I don’t remember much. I mean ... I remember you coming in here, taking the—the opium from me ... and nothing more.”

  “Nothing more? Well, you didn’t need the opium. Another dose and you might not have awakened.”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to sleep.”

 
; “Ma’am, that is definitely the coward’s way. You don’t need opium. Thousands of dying soldiers out there do.”

  “Colonel, why can’t you understand, my life is none of your concern.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “But I—I need you to tell me. I mean, I don’t know ... I’m afraid I was very lost ...”

  “Fine. Be specific. Just exactly what is it you want to know?” He wasn’t going to give her anything. Even as he stood there, knowing full well he needed to run, he wanted to stay.

  No, he couldn’t abide a wasted life.

  Certainly not hers! He needed to stay, to be with her, to make her see the addiction ...

  He couldn’t; nor could he stand guard over her and keep her from the dangers she presented to herself. He had to be harsh, cruel. And perhaps she would learn a bitter lesson. He smiled politely. “Are you still trying to delay me from leaving, ma’am, in the hopes that your Yankee friends will catch me?”

  “No ... yes ... no, I—”

  “You didn’t send for them?”

  “Yes, of course—”

  “Because you knew we were Rebs.”

  “Yes.”

  His smile broadened. “But you don’t know what did—or didn’t—happen last night?” he inquired politely.

  Her color went from ashen to crimson. “Nothing happened last night, Colonel—”

  “As you say. Good day, ma’am.” He swept his hat from his head, bowed, and determinedly left her bedroom.

  Rachel was standing in the breezeway as he hurried down the stairs. He looked at her and apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m honestly sorry that we’re not who you’d like us to be.”

  “Paddy has already gone with the men as you ordered. The others are waiting for you just outside. The Yanks are nearly at the house.”

  “Thank you,” he told her gruffly.

  He strode for the door.