Triumph

by Heather Graham

  Ian leaned toward her. “Tia, England has officially refused to recognize the government of the Confederacy. No more ships will be outfitted there. The rest of the European powers have refused to recognize her as well—other than the Roman Pontiff. Don’t you see—it’s over, except for the additional deaths that will follow, on both sides.”

  “They’ll shoot any man—as a deserter?”

  “No government has ever had such a harsh law, Tia, and God knows if they can implement it or not. Communications are destroyed in many areas.”

  She thought he must have seen some deep unhappiness in her eyes then because he suddenly rose. “I pray it ends soon,” Ian said briefly, and walking around the table, he pulled her up to her feet, offering her a warm, brotherly hug at last and speaking to her with deep affection; “Enough sorrow for tonight! I wish you every happiness. I’m pleased to see you wed to so fine a man, though you disagree with his beliefs and loyalties. The rest of us have managed under the duress of supporting opposing sides; I imagine you two will do as well. I’ll leave you alone now, for I’m very aware of how precious time can be in the midst of war.”

  “No, no, Ian! You don’t need to leave!” Tia said in a panic. She suddenly realized that she was choking on unshed tears. She loved her brother so very much. And with him there, that night, she suddenly thought of the import of his words. She could remember, before the war began, when her brother had scandalously arrived at a party for their father with a new bride himself. And then the violence had broken out, and Alaina had been such a Rebel, and she had believed that her husband would resign from the Union army ...

  But he had not.

  “Stay, Ian,” she said softly.

  He smiled, lifting her chin. “I’ll be here in the morning, Tia, though I cannot stay long. We’ll be together again.”

  She desperately wanted to cling to him, and beg him not to leave her.

  She couldn’t do so. “I’ll walk you out, Ian,” Taylor said. He smiled at Tia—like an angry alligator might grin at a crane.

  “Good! There are matters we need to discuss.”

  She couldn’t let him go so quickly. She threw herself into her brother’s arms, holding him very tightly.

  He kissed her cheek, unwound her arms from around his neck. “Good night, little sister!” he said.

  He left the tent with Taylor. She paced. She gazed longingly at the canvas at the rear of the tent. The pines were just beyond. Hammocks, rivers, streams—trails that led south and west, back to Cimarron.

  “Mrs. Douglas!”

  Sergeant Henson was just outside. Calling. Calling her, she realized.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll just clean out the tent, ma’am,” he said, entering. “The dinner things.”

  “Oh, yes ... thank you,” she said.

  He smiled at her and went about his business, quickly and efficiently. “I’m sorry to be a bother,” she heard herself telling him.

  “No bother, ma’am. Sometimes, other officers have their wives along. Some of the men from St. Augustine are able to have their ladies ... Colonel Bryer is a New Yorker, but his wife is with him frequently. She defies all Rebel fire! Confidentially, they call her an old battle-ax, but she’s a great lady to have in a fray!”

  “Well, good for her!” Tia applauded.

  He grinned, and slipped out of the tent. Tia turned longingly to stare at the back canvas again. She was startled as she heard another voice in the night. “Colonel! Colonel Douglas!”

  A second later, a man was slipping through the tent. It was another man she had seen earlier; the tall, sad-looking captain from the river.

  He started, staring at her. “Excuse me, please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that the colonel had company. I was ordered to report to him this evening.”

  “He’s with Colonel McKenzie,” she advised. She bit her lip, wanting to blurt out the fact that his men were monsters.

  Yet, he was staring at her equally strangely.

  At that moment, Taylor returned to the tent. “Captain Ayers!”

  “Yessir,” the captain said, saluting. “I have a report for you, sir.” He was trying not to stare at Tia.

  “Captain Ayers, my wife. Tia, dear, Captain Kenneth Ayers.”

  “How do you do?” Tia murmured.

  “I do apologize for staring. It’s just that I’m sure we’ve met.”

  “Never, sir,” she said, afraid she would choke over the denial.

  “I didn’t know that your wife was in camp, Colonel Douglas.”

  “She’s just been able to join me,” Taylor said smoothly.

  “Well, I’ve come to report—”

  “We’ll discuss the day’s business outside, shall we?” Taylor ordered.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Excuse us—my love?” Taylor said, staring at her again.

  He and Ayers departed. She paced again, sat on the bed. She stared at the rear of the tent, then jumped up with horror.

  Blaze!

  Was she still wandering within the pines? She had to find her horse. She would never let some wretched Yankee killer seize her horse!

  She stood, then paused. She’d be right back. She had to come back; surely Taylor would realize that. After all, her brother was in the camp. But she had to find her horse.

  She ducked low, plucked at the canvas, and exited the tent by the rear. The moon was half-full, the stars were out, and she had some vision. She slipped quickly into the pines and walked among them. “Blaze! Blaze!” she called. She whistled, dismayed when her horse didn’t come. She began running along another path, glad Taylor had provided her with her soft leather slippers along with the clothing.

  She came to a halt on the trail, listening. She thought she heard a movement among the trees, and she turned hopefully.

  No, Blaze hadn’t appeared.

  Taylor had.

  Arms crossed over his chest, his stance rigid, he watched her with his eyes like the rays of the sun, piercing and hot.

  “I told you not to run.”

  “What? Don’t be absurd! I was only—”

  She broke off. He was coming toward her. “No! God spare me another of your stories! You have a tale for every occasion; you lie with the same ease with which you breathe.”

  “I wasn’t about to lie to you!” she protested angrily.

  “Good,” he said. He was almost upon her. Heat seemed to bounce from him like the sun from the earth on a sweltering summer day. She could almost see it on the air. She unwittingly backed away from him. He caught hold of her arm, jerking her to him. “My God, but you have your nerve! You twist me into your wretched games, and then think to escape!”

  “No, I didn’t—” she tried to protest, struggling against his hold.

  “No game, Tia. You forced me to marry you—”

  “Forced! Did I hold a gun to your head?”

  “No,” he drawled sarcastically. “Your brother was about to draw a sword.”

  “Oh, but you would have killed him with your amazing prowess.”

  “To my great sorrow, yes, it might have happened.”

  “Or you might have lain dead.”

  “Either way, Godiva, you are not worth the bloodshed!”

  The words hurt as much as his hold upon her. “You don’t understand—” she began.

  “No, you don’t understand,” he assured her. “But you’re going to.”

  It was as if something within him had snapped. He ducked against her midriff even as she struggled, throwing her over his shoulder. A raw sense of panic seized her as she realized the full implications of what she had done. Her chin slammed against his back. She bit her tongue as it did so. Tears stung her eyes. How could things come out so badly when her efforts had all really been so noble?

  “Let me down, Taylor, please, now!”

  She might as well have not bothered to speak at all.

  “Please! I’ll cry out, I’ll let out a Rebel yell unlike any you have ever heard before.
I’ll create such a fuss! My brother—”

  “Your brother would not interfere between a husband and a wife, Tia. You changed the battlefield today, Godiva. Now I am responsible for you.”

  Again, he walked with such a fervor that her face slammed against his back. Her nose was crushed. Tears again formed in her eyes. She was unaware when they left the pines. He slipped beneath the back canvas of his tent swiftly and smoothly, as if she were not a burden at all.

  He set her down upon the camp bed none too gently, exhaling as he did so with a grunt. She scrambled to a sitting position. They stared at one another. The look in his eyes as they met hers was not at all reassuring. Gold, sharp, incensed, his eyes seemed to cut into her with the sharpness of a bayonet. The veins at his throat and temple pulsed with the depths of his anger. He stood before her, hands on his hips. She could hear his teeth grinding with his efforts to remain still, see the lock of tension that held his body dead stiff from head to toe.

  She braced herself for whatever he was about to say—or do. She prepared to fight—a war of words she must win quickly. She was good with words—even he said so. But she couldn’t come up with the right ones—despite her innocence at the moment.

  She didn’t need to speak. He did so.

  “All right, Godiva. Here we are.”

  “Here we are,” she repeated. “Look, I tried to tell you—”

  “I don’t want you telling me anything anymore. Every word out of your lips tends to be sheer fabrication.”

  “I want my horse—”

  “So you said. Well, she is safe, and will be taking you nowhere tonight.”

  “I didn’t mean to run from you—”

  “Good. Because you have not managed to do so.”

  “So ...” she murmured carefully, very aware that he still stood less than a foot from her, his temper dangerously explosive.

  “So. Well. Get on with it,” he said curtly.

  Not what she had expected. He suddenly seemed cold and distant, and calculating. Brief in the extreme.

  “Get on with what?” she whispered warily.

  “My love!” The term was spoken in a voice that was deep, husky, masculine—and so mocking! “You are always so eager to shed your clothing. And I admit,” he said wryly, “to have chastised you in the past for your tendency to lose them, but ... here and now would be the proper time. You married me today, Godiva. So here and now, you have your chance. My love, my dearest wife—your constant penchant for carelessly casting your clothing aside is what has brought us here to this—this all-decisive moment in life. So ... Tia, get on with it. Now.”

  Chapter 14

  JUST WHAT THE HELL am I doing? Taylor wondered. By God, since he’d come back tonight and found her in his tent, he hadn’t really known a thing he was doing—until he’d done it.

  Actually, his own emotional state didn’t matter, he told himself, except that he was angry. He really wanted her to suffer—something like the pain of the damned, which he felt he was enduring now, though he wasn’t at all sure why.

  “Need help?” he queried, his tone polite. Talk, he told himself, talk. It will keep you from thinking.

  “I’m more than willing to assist you, my love, though one would think you’d have removal of your garments down pat by now, since you so frequently shed them,” he told her, and he heard the sarcasm in his voice, knew what he was doing to her, and yet, he couldn’t stop himself.

  She had brought them to this.

  He saw the change in her as her temper flared. Burned.

  She jumped up, careful that she did so across the camp bed from him, staring at him, hands on her hips, seething. “Say what you will. It’s cruel and untrue—”

  “Untrue!”

  “Yes, untrue. Everything is greatly exaggerated. What you’ve heard is all lies.”

  “Tia, I found you tonight,” he reminded her. He lifted his hand in a pretense of realization. “We should have consummated the marriage first—done the legal deed later. What a fool I was!”

  She shook her head passionately. “I told you what happened tonight. And every word was the truth. You have men who mean to murder injured Rebels if they come upon them. If you weren’t such a self-righteous fool, you might at least take the time to wonder if such monsters do exist beneath your nose!”

  “I still found you here—”

  “Excuse me, sir, but if they had murdered injured Rebels in cold blood and I watched, do you think they would have left me alive?”

  “Tia, it is farfetched, and you have lied a dozen times before—”

  “It’s—”

  “Just as you lied to Ian tonight. Well, it was a lie neither of us could live with. A lie which has now become the truth. That being the case, I do intend to reap the benefits.”

  She didn’t intend to respond to that.

  She started walking around the camp bed and he realized that she was leaving again—this time, via the tent flap. He caught her arm, swinging her back around to face him. She stiffened, teeth gritting so that they crunched, trying to free herself from him. Flashing dark eyes met his.

  “Where do you think you’re going now?” he demanded, as angry as she.

  “To Ian! I’ll tell him we’ve had a lover’s quarrel.”

  “The hell you will!” he retorted.

  He could feel the defiance in every inch of her body, but he had no intention of letting her go. He drew her tightly against himself, one arm pinning her against his length, the other catching her chin.

  She meant to protest—wildly. But he didn’t allow her to. His mouth crushed down upon hers and he gave her no mercy. She tasted blood where their lips met. His fingers tangled into her hair, holding her, and his tongue pressed past her lips, deep into the crevices of her mouth. He felt her breasts against his chest with her every breath, felt the heat within, the pulsing of her heart, the shivering that had seized her. And he allowed no quarter, could give no quarter, for it was suddenly a battle he meant to win. She tasted sweetly of the evening’s wine, of warmth, of slow-building fire, and it seemed, in a matter of seconds, that her lips were molding to his, that they had parted of their accord, that he no longer battled the wall of her teeth for the depths of his kiss.

  She was no longer straining against him. Her hands lay upon his chest, but not with struggle or resistance, and when he lifted his mouth from hers at last, her eyes were closed, dark lashes sweeping her cheeks.

  “Tia.”

  She didn’t open her eyes. She had decided to play the martyr, he realized, and he couldn’t help smiling, because he could see the erratic pulse point beating a mile a minute at her throat. “I have married you, Taylor, and therefore will pay my debts.”

  His smile deepened. “That you will, Mrs. Douglas!”

  He lifted her, swinging her into his arms. With a little gasp, she clasped him around the neck, afraid she would fall. He took the few steps that led to the camp bed and lay down with her, not about to give her another chance to rise. She let out an indignant and garbled protest when he rolled her over to find the buttons at the back of her blouse. “Want to destroy the garment?” he demanded. “I don’t know just how many outfits I’ll be able to find out here in the midst of nearly nowhere in the middle of the war!” he warned her.

  She went still for a moment; he undid the last of the buttons. He could still taste her lips, feel her ...

  He eased the blouse from her. Still at her back, he slipped his arms around her, his hands cupping her breasts. His palms slid over the hard peaks of her nipples, and he feathered the aureoles with the tip of his fingers, stroked them softly, cradled the fullness of her breasts. He pressed his lips to her throat, to the pulse there, and felt the thundering fever of his own arousal begin to pound within him. He stroked the length of her spine slowly with his tongue, and found the buttons to her skirt, opened them, rose enough to drag the garment away. He sat up, drawing his shirt over his head, and cradling her into his arms once again, turning her, so that th
e stream of her black hair fell away and her breasts teased the flesh of his chest. Her eyes were closed again. He allowed her that, kissing her eyelids, finding her mouth again. Her lips gave way easily to his; he felt her hand upon his shoulder, upon his cheek, touching him, and this time, he felt that her lips melded naturally to his, that she sought as much as she gave, quested, searched.

  The length of her shaped itself naturally against him. Their flesh melted together in a sweet inferno. He slid down her body, bathing the tips of her breasts with his tongue, taking the nipples into his mouth, teasing, stroking, sucking, drawing from her lips an exhaled gasp. Her fingers dug into his shoulder. He continued to move against her, nuzzling the satin of her belly, drawing lower, feeling the shaking in the length of her, finding the center of her sex, touching it with his tongue, breathing in the musky scent of sex, tasting the woman, rising to an anguish of desire. His sex throbbed against his trousers. He jerked them open to free himself, shimmying from the length of them, kicking them to the floor. She barely moved, barely breathed, then he touched her, and touched her again, and suddenly she was shaking, and writhing against his wet caress, and murmuring, protesting ... arching against him. He rose, and hovered over her.

  Her eyes were closed.

  No mercy ... and yet, he would allow her that.

  He sank slowly into her, and began shaking with the depths of desire she had awakened within him. She went rigid; her nails scraped his chest and she gasped, twisting her head. He saw that she bit into her lower lip to keep from crying out, and for a moment he was shamed, remembering. She had dared the world, risked life and limb—she knew so much about men and war, and yet she was so innocent. He closed his own eyes, feeling the force of his desire trembling like a drumbeat through him. He fought for control, moved slowly, slowly, sheathed in warmth and fever, wanting her ... every muscle in his body tortured and rigid. Slowly, slowly, deeper, withdrawing, deeper ...

  Her fingers tightened upon him. Breath escaped her lips. His rhythm increased, and the fierce anguish in his limbs burned with a greater fever as he sank again, and again, and felt the subtle change in the woman beneath him, the hunger awakened in her, the way she began to move, arching to his stroke, accepting, taking ...