They blessed Sydney as they came from the wagon, one of the men carrying the beaten, pregnant young girl whose story had inspired Sydney to risk her own life again and come south for the contrabands.
One of the women came around the front of the wagon, looking at Sydney with her huge dark eyes. She grabbed Sydney’s hand and tried to kiss it.
“Please!” Sydney whispered. “Go on now. Merry Christmas.”
“God bless you, ma’am!” said one of the men, a huge black field hand.
“And you,” she murmured. She was flushed; embarrassed. She shouldn’t be doing this. But when the message had reached the house about the dying girl, she’d been busy feeling sorry for herself, and angry with herself for not leaving Washington.
“I’ll go with them to the Reverend,” Sissy told Sydney. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
Sissy shook her head. “Maria isn’t even at the apartment. She went off to spend Christmas with old Mrs. Lafferty and the orphans.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m very tired.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning sometime.”
“We’ll find a good Christmas dinner somewhere,” Sydney agreed.
She left Sissy, and took the wagon back to the livery near the apartment. “It’s late for you to be heading home alone, Mrs. Halston,” the night man told her.
“I’ll be fine.”
It was past midnight, she realized, but not so strange, for in wartime, there always seemed to be someone out and about. She passed a group of officers sharing a flask over a street fire. They tipped their hats to her, watching her curiously. She nodded, and hurried into her apartment.
A fire burned in the cozy living room. There was a note left on the mantle from Maria:
Syd,
I’m off to play Santa the best I can to the little ones. Major Cantor brought a roast—it’s on the dining room table—and a delicious claret. (I know it’s delicious; I tried it.) Left you a steaming bath and my gift, lavender soap. It may not be steaming when you return. Left a kettle by the fire.
Love to you, Maria.
Sydney smiled. She might be far from home, but at least she had a few friends. She shed her cloak and her boots in the living room. She walked into the darkened bedroom, where even there, a fire had been left burning. It was the only light in the room, illuminating the tub. She touched the water. Still warm. The kettle rested by the fire. Taking a thick pot holder, she poured the steaming water into the bath and began to shed her clothing. As she stepped from her skirt, her travel papers fell from the pocket. Weary and anxious for the warm water, she left them where they lay, and sank into the tub.
She closed her eyes and leaned back.
After a moment, she felt a very strange, uneasy sensation.
She opened her eyes.
She froze.
Jesse was there. Across the room, seated in the one armchair in the far dark corner. Stripped down himself to uniform trousers, boots, and white cotton shirt, eyes grave, handsome features somewhat leaner than they had been when last she’d seen him. He watched her in silence.
“Jesse ...” she breathed, stunned.
He stood, walking toward the tub.
“Where have you been?”
“Been?” she echoed.
“It’s after midnight. Where have you been?”
She thought desperately for an answer. Her mind was blank. She shrank into the water, hugging her knees to her chest, greatly unnerved. “I ... I can’t discuss the situation right now, Jesse. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Obviously.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I haven’t heard from you in six months!” she snapped. “In fact, you told me to get an annulment.”
“But you didn’t. Where have you been?”
“Out!”
“Out where?”
“It’s really none of your business, and you have your nerve, interrogating me here, now, in the bathtub. If you’ll just get out of my room and let me finish and dress—”
“I married you, Sydney,” he said softly, leaning down, bracing his hands on the side of the tub. “Then I did the very gentlemanly thing—and rode off to war. Tonight I’m back. Where have you been?”
She met his eyes, sharp, hazel, and unrelenting. Six months. A long six months. He had changed. She lowered her head, remembering when he had been a Confederate prisoner and she had been his nurse. She remembered the way he had looked at her then, the charm in his voice, the sound of his laughter, the gentleness of his touch, the way she had longed to see him each day.
She looked up again. He wasn’t the same man.
“I was out—with friends.”
He turned away, picking up the papers that had fallen from her skirt. He read through them. They fell from his hands, drifting back to the floor. “Letters from dead Rebs, eh, brought south?” he asked.
Then suddenly he turned. And his hands were on her shoulders, and he was dragging her dripping and protesting from the tub. “My God, you promised, you swore!” he raged at her. “You swore there would be no more espionage, and I gave my word for you, that there would be no actions against the Union in which you were involved. My word! I gave my word for you!”
She had never, ever seen him like this. He was the one always in control, a man who did the right thing, thoughtful, considerate, courteous—if determined. When he had prevented her from leaving the city with Jerome, when he had arrested her—when he had married her—he had been in control. Even after the wedding. He had walked away. Not now.
She couldn’t even respond. She stood before him with soap and bath water sluicing from her form, and she couldn’t find the right words to defend herself. No! She hadn’t betrayed the Union, but she had ridden south ...
His arm suddenly jerked back and she braced herself, gritting her teeth, certain that he meant to hit her. Six months, six months between them, and this was how they met.
No blow landed upon her. But his hands were suddenly upon her again, and he was shaking her, and then he thrust her from him, and in the small space of the tiny bedroom, she fell back, tripping so that she fell into the tub again. Water spewed up and around her. Her fingers closed around the soap.
She threw it. He saw the missile coming and ducked. Then he stared at her, and she knew she was in trouble.
He made a dive for her in the tub again. She struggled, trying to free her arms. She was dragged back out anyway and caught again before the fire, where she kicked and writhed to get free. “Let go of me, you oaf. You want an annulment, you’ll have an annulment so fast your head will spin, Colonel Halston!” she swore. It did her no good.
“Liar! I trusted you!” he hissed. “Like a fool, I thought your word meant something.” He didn’t begin to release his hold, but used his weight to press her toward the foot of the bed. This time, she fell backward on the mattress. He followed her down.
“Get away from me, get out of my apartment. My word does mean something, you horrible Unionist.”
“Rebel spy.”
“Yankee bastard.”
“Indian!” he shouted at her.
“And God help me, but I’d love to scalp you!” she taunted him in return.
“Where have you been?” he repeated.
“None of your business. Leave me alone!”
“Not this time. You’re going back to Old Capitol, my dear wife. This time, you will stay out of trouble.”
She sucked in her breath. “Fine! Send me back. There will be an annulment.”
“I will.”
But he hadn’t moved. He still lay atop her, his shirt as soaked as she was.
“Send me back!” she whispered. But she didn’t mean it. God, she didn’t mean it. She hated prison. And hated the fear that one of her brothers, her father, or her other kin would die to free her from such a place. And yet ...
“Do it! Send me back!” she repeated.
“Not yet.”
“Yes, now ...” The f
eel of his body was a fire against her. She’d been so afraid so many times that he didn’t come because he was dead. He wasn’t dead; he was alive and well—he had just stayed away from her. “Do it!” she cried, and she started slamming her hands against him. “Do it, do it, do it ...”
He caught her wrists, shook his head. “I came home to spend Christmas Eve with my wife. It is a long, hard, lonely war. I intend to spend it with her.”
His mouth found hers. Seared into it. She tried to close her lips, twist her head. Tears stung her eyes; her lips parted in a sob, and suddenly she was kissing him back. She’d fallen in love with him easily. Trying to hate him had been hard. Fearing for him daily had been torture. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting ...
And now this. His kiss, the touch of his hands. A feeling of hunger, of rage, of fear. His wet clothing was a tangle around him. She was chilled and hot at the same time. Aware of where they were going, and thinking that I should never have been miserable, praying that she would love him ...
Just his kiss, his touch. Heated, evocative. Awakening a hunger that left her clinging to him, and still afraid of the unknown. He was passionate, but impatient with his anger. She tasted his lips; her fingers curled into his hair. The kiss did things, and still ...
She screamed and choked, and wanted to die. Her nails dug into his shoulders. He went rigid, waited. His eyes met hers. Hers closed. And he began to move again, giving no quarter. She still thought that she would die. The pain remained ... but something grew out of it as well. She gritted her teeth, trying to push him away. She burrowed against his shoulder, his chest, suddenly wanting more, moving with him, wanting ... wanting ...
Sweet mercury filled her, as molten as a spill of steel, sweeping away strength and anger and every other thought except elation for the moments that lifted her to ecstasy. She clung to the magic, and to his arms, and then she was drifting down again, and she was cold and sore and caught in the tangle of the sheets and his clothing.
He lay beside her, no apology spoken. After a few moments, he rose, shedding his disheveled clothing. She shivered, watching his body in the moonlight. He was perfect—except for the scars. The bronze of his shoulder was marred by the white line where he had been injured at Gettysburg. He’d probably receive another promotion because of that scar—bravery under fire on the battlefield. And of course, so many officers had died. It was a time when replacements might readily be given credit.
She looked lower, swallowing. There had been that time when they had both been intrigued, when they had flirted, when they had fallen in love. A time when they had been friends. Then there had been their marriage ... and now, when nothing seemed right at all, there was this time of intimacy. God, how she had dreamed of being with him! Laughter, champagne perhaps, all the right tenderness, whispers in her ear. She hated him, hated him for condemning her. An echo of pain seemed to linger within her, and still ... she wanted him to lie down beside her.
He came back to the bed, wrenching the covers with her still upon them. “Get under the sheets and blanket,” he said brusquely. “You’re shaking.”
Ah, what gentle, endearing words on this occasion!
“I’m not cold. I’m angry. I want you away.”
“You’re freezing. Do as I say—for once.”
“Because this is Washington, and you think you have all the power?”
“Because it’s logical.”
She rolled away from him, trying to rise. She was drawn back; the covers brought over her. He lay down beside her. She stiffened. He didn’t allow her to do so. He drew her against the warmth of his own body, held her there. She closed her eyes. There were so many things to say. She didn’t say any of them.
Then she felt him.
His lips, a brand against her nape, her shoulder, her backbone. His hands, cupping her breasts, sliding down her ribs, her belly, to her groin. Fingers pressing, stroking ...
This time, something suddenly caught within her. Wildfire. She turned to him, guided by instinct, touching, tasting, kissing, in a frenzy. Desire spit, rose, spiraled, teased, and taunted. His mouth was everywhere on her. Each touch elicited a burst of fire. She twisted, writhed, and trembled, and when he was within her again, she arched to his every thrust, feeling impassioned, fevered, hungry ...
The world seemed to explode. The war was over; life had ended. Diamond glimmers of bursting light broke a black satin heaven, then there was nothing more. And it seemed to take forever and ever to drift down and realize that he was with her, shuddering as well in the aftermath of climax.
It was wonder, pure wonder. And she was in love again, ready to admit to him what had happened, how she had become involved, how it was actually the South, her own heritage, and everything she stood for that she had betrayed. She’d never do it again. If it hadn’t been for the kindness and justice of Lieutenant Johnston, she might have been caught, but ...
He stroked her hair. “There will be no question of an annulment now,” he said.
“No,” she whispered, turning into him, her face against his chest. He smelled delicious. Muscle rippled beneath her touch. His warmth was encompassing.
“My God, I shall be sorry to see you back in prison.”
She stiffened. Drew away. “In prison?”
His eyes touched hers. Deep hazel, grave. “Did you think that I was so desperate for your love that I would be seduced and demented—and forget that you lied—that you made a liar and a fool out of me?”
She jerked away from him. He reached out, preventing her from fleeing when she would have left the bed.
“Get away from me! Get your hands off me! Call your guards and have me arrested tonight, though on what charges, I do not know! Call them now! Old Capitol seems a wonderful place to sleep, as long as you do not sleep there as well! You’re right, I’ll be among my own people, my own kind, sleeping with Rebels rather than snakes!”
“Get back in here.”
“No!”
“Sydney—”
“You intend to arrest me again; do it.”
“Not tonight.”
“Why not tonight?”
“There’s time.”
“No, there’s not! I could cause an entire uprising; force the South to win the war while you sleep!”
Aggravated, he caught her around the middle and pressed her back down. She couldn’t believe the pain she was feeling.
“I hate you!”
“Sorry. It’s a war.”
“Yes, it is. So arrest me this minute—or let me go.”
“No.”
And he didn’t let her go. He lay down beside her, keeping a firm hand upon her. She twisted, turning her back to him, but aware of his arm around her.
Christmas Eve ...
A time of peace.
She had never felt more at war.
Chapter 9
DAWN.
The sun was rising; the sky was clear; the day was beautiful. And far in the south of the Florida peninsula, it was warm.
James McKenzie stood by the little inlet of salt water that created a lagoon on his property and looked out far past it—far to the sea beyond. He stood shirtless, his bronze chest muscled and honed, and barefoot, the warmth of the salt water running over his feet. He loved the water; he loved the sea and the warmth. His attire might not be exactly proper, but then, they were far to the south of real civilization, and he’d been called a savage often enough in his life. Down here, on his own property, his attire was his own concern. He gave it little thought as he continued to stare at the sea.
His son was out there. Somewhere. His oldest son, Jerome, trying to find new ways to slip the Union blockade and bring supplies to the state and the Confederacy. He had watched the water through the night and into the morning, hoping against hope that Jerome might make it home for the holiday.
There was no sign of a ship. He didn’t despair. He had to believe in the ability of both his sons—and his daughters!—to survive the war. At the moment, however, he wasn�
�t particularly worried about the girls. Jennifer, his child by Naomi, his first wife, was home with him. She and her son, Anthony—now a handsome, precocious young boy of six—had been with him since Jarrett had brought her home after her husband’s death. Disguised as a man, she had begun some very dangerous spying activities, been caught and nearly hanged. His nephew, Ian, had managed to save her, and since then, she had tried to exist without thinking about the war—despite the fact that the state remained Rebel, and Union navy ships out of Union-held Key West far too often came near their shore.
Then there was his daughter Mary—born just last year and quite a surprise to both him and his wife, Teela. She had given him tremendous fear at the time of her birth, fear that she would die in childbirth, but she and the baby were well now, saucy, sweet, toddling around, allowing them to smile in the midst of their worry for their other children. James had lost a wife and child to fever during the Seminole War; he knew the anguish of it, and often prayed that, were he to be given one gift from God, it would be to not outlive any more of his children. Brent, he thought, might be safer than Jerome; Jerome was brash and reckless, and renowned for his daring escapades against the Yanks. Brent was a doctor, a surgeon, dedicated to life. James liked to believe that he would have the sense to take care for his own.
But then there was Sydney ...
Reckless, passionate, as any warrior of old. She had been with Brent in Charleston when South Carolina had seceded. She had become a nurse in Richmond. She had gone to try to exchange a Yank for her brother when Jerome had been captured.
Then, recently, she had married the Yank.
A damned fine fellow, he had been assured.
But Sydney had been living in Washington ever since, and he longed to have her home. Staring out at the water, he wondered about heading north to suggest to her new husband that Sydney might fare better back in her own home while the war raged.
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