Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures

by Heather Graham

  She smiled serenely. "Stonewall Jackson rides these parts, sir. And Robert E. Lee. They'll come back, and they'll skewer you right through."

  He smiled in return. "You hold on to that thought, Miss Hinton. But for now... well, you can talk to Peter about something for dinner, or I can send my mess corporal down to raid your cellars. My men are good hunters. They can keep you and yours eating well. Just don't interfere."

  "Interfere—"

  "God in heaven, woman, it's cold out here!" He grasped her arm hard and jerked her along, opening the door to the house and thrusting her in before him.

  The servants she had spoken of stood along the elegant carved stairway that led from the marble-floored foyer to the second floor above. Doors lined a long, elegant hallway to the right and another to the left, but Travis was certain that she hadn't lied, that the servants were the sole occupants of the house. They were all staring at him now with eyes wide. That must be Peter, a tall, handsome man dressed in impeccable livery, and that would be Mary Louise at his side. The others were peeking out from behind them.

  "Hello." He doffed his hat to them, smiling, aware that Sergeant Sikes was coming up behind him with half the men. Peter nodded gravely, then looked at Miss Hinton.

  "Speak to them," Travis suggested.

  She moistened her lips. "Peter, this is, er, Captain Travis Aylwin." He thought she was about to spit on the floor, but the manners she had learned long ago on her mammy's lap kept her from doing so. "Oh, hell! The damn Yanks have come to take over the house."

  "They're not a-gonna burn us—" Peter began.

  "No!" she said quickly, then shot Travis a furious stare. "At least, the captain has promised they're not."

  "I don't remember promising anything," he said pleasantly. "But, Peter, it is not my intent to do so. Not unless your mistress is a spy. She isn't, is she?"

  Peter's eyes went even wider. "No, sir. Why, you can see how it is here, winter and all. You can hardly go house to house in these parts, much less find an army to spy for!"

  Travis laughed. He had to agree. They were just about snowbound for the moment, except that he was going to have to get word through to intelligence about his location and the situation here. "There are twenty of us here, Peter."

  "And we're colder than a witch's teat and hungry as a pack of bears!" Sergeant Sikes said.

  "Sergeant!" Travis barked.

  But Sikes already appeared horrified at his own words. He was staring at their unwilling hostess as if he were too mortified for words. Travis found himself grinning. "I'm certain Miss Hinton has heard such words before, even used a few herself, perhaps, but an apology is in order."

  She cast him a scathing glare, but her lips curled into a curious smile. "If I haven't used such language, Captain, I'm quite sure that I shall before I have seen the last of you."

  "Supper, Miss Hinton?" Peter asked.

  She lifted a hand. "Feed the rabble, since we must, Peter." She pulled away from Travis's side, letting his military cape fall to the floor. "Do excuse me, Captain, but I choose not to watch your ruffians eat me out of house and home."

  She started up the stairway. He watched her warily as she went, but he did not stop her. She might very well be going up to find a bowie knife or a pistol, but for the moment, he would just let her go. It was time to settle in.

  "Where is Miss Hinton's room, Peter?" he asked.

  "Second floor, second door to the left, sir," Peter said uneasily.

  Travis merely nodded and smiled. "Thank you, Peter. Sikes, you find a room in the house, and find one for me, too. As for the men—"

  "The barn has a full bunkhouse," Peter advised him. "Fireplace, wood-burning stove, all the amenities, sir. Sleeps thirty easily."

  "But that leaves Sergeant Sikes and me alone in the house, doesn't it, Peter? You wouldn't be planning something, would you?"

  Peter shook his head.

  "But your mistress might be."

  Peter lowered his head, but not before Travis saw acknowledgement in his eyes. She was dangerous, Miss Fairy-tale-princess Hinton. But he could handle the danger. "Fine, Peter, thank you. The men will take the bunkhouse. Sikes and I will find rooms here, and if you value your Miss Hinton's life, you'll take care to see that she behaves."

  Peter nodded, but Travis had the feeling that he wasn't at all sure he was up to the task.

  "I'll sure try, Captain. I'll sure try," Peter told him.

  Travis started to walk along the hallway to find a room he could use as an office. He paused, turning back. "Why?" he asked Peter.

  Peter grinned, his white teeth flashing as he smiled. "I don't want to see her shot up by you Yanks, Captain, and that's a fact."

  Travis nodded, grinned and started down the hallway. He waved a hand. "See to the men, Sikes. And to yourself. Peter, when's dinner?"

  "I can fix you up in an hour, Captain."

  "An hour. Everyone in the house. It isn't quite Christmas Eve, but we'll pretend that it is. Everyone at the dining table except for a guard of two."

  "Only two, sir?" Sikes asked.

  "Only two. The enemy lurks within the house tonight," he warned, then wandered down the hallway.

  * * *

  Isabelle Hinton didn't appear for dinner. The men ate, warming their hands by the fire and gazing at the fine plates and silver and the crystal goblets as if they hadn't seen such luxury in years. It had been forever since they had sat down to this kind of meal. It seemed as if they had spent the entire year in battle. The worst of it had been at Sharpsburg, by Antietam Creek. Travis had never seen so many men die, never seen the bodies piled so high, never smelled so much blood. Great fields of corn had been mowed to the ground by gunfire. Yankees and Rebels had died alike, and that battle alone had taught them all that war was an evil thing.

  While the men were in the parlor playing the piano and singing Christmas carols, Travis retired to the den he had found to use as his office. He sipped from a snifter of brandy and rested his booted feet on the desk, staring at the flames that burned in the hearth. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he felt the sun again as he had that day at Sharpsburg. He remembered how eerie it had felt to lead a cavalry charge, then watch as the men were mown down around him. He had taken grapeshot in the shoulder himself and wondered if it wouldn't be easier just to die than to wait for infection to set in. But he hadn't lost the arm, and he hadn't died—he'd lived to fight again.

  The men were singing a rousing rendition of "Deck the Halls." The warmth of the fire enveloped Travis, and the pain of battle drifted slowly from his memory. He wondered what he would be doing if he was home. Well, he wouldn't be at his own house. Since his wife had succumbed to the smallpox, he had avoided his own house for the holidays, but never his family. He would have headed into town to his mother's house. There would be a huge turkey roasting, and the scent of honey-coated ham would fill the house. His sister Liz would be there with the kids, and Allen would be asking him all about West Point, while Eulalie would want a horsey ride on his knee. Jack, his brother-in-law, would talk about the law with his father, and all the voices would blend together, the chatter, the laughter, the love. They would go to church on Christmas Eve, and they would all remember, even in the depths of the deepest despair, that it was Christmas because a little child had been born to rid the world of death and suffering. And somehow, no matter how dark an hour they seemed to face, he would believe again in mankind. And even now, even here, far from home, he knew that Christmas would always convince him that there could be love again. He just wished that he were home.

  The men were no longer singing; the house had grown quiet. Travis set his brandy snifter on the desk, rose and stretched. He had a pile of maps on the desk, but he would get to them tomorrow. Right now, he wanted to get to bed.

  He found Peter in the hallway, returning the last of the crystal glasses to a carved wooden rack on the wall. "Upstairs, Captain. We done give you the master suite, third door to the right."

  "Tha
nk you, Peter. Sikes?"

  "He's gone up, sir. Third floor, first door to your left."

  "It's a big house, Peter."

  "Lordy, yes. Needed to be, before the war. There was parties galore then, cousins coming from all over the countryside to sleep for the whole weekend. Why, around now, at Christmas..."

  Peter's voice trailed away. Travis clapped an arm on the man's shoulder. "Christmas is kind of hard all around right now, Peter. Good night."

  Travis climbed the stairs and found the door to his room. The master suite. It was a huge room, with a four-poster bed against the far wall, two big armoires, a secretary facing a window and a cherry-wood table with a handsomely upholstered French chair beside it by the fire.

  He draped his sword and scabbard over a chair and unhooked the frogs of his jacket, then cast that, too, over the chair. His shirt followed. Then he sat to tug off his boots and socks before peeling away his breeches. He would have slept in his long underwear, but there was a big pitcher of water and a bowl on a small washstand by one of the armoires, so he stripped down to the flesh and found that the water was still a little bit warm. There was a bar of soap there, too, supplied by Peter, he was certain, and not his hostess. It didn't matter. He scrubbed himself the best he could, then dried himself, shivering, before the fire, before slipping into the bed. It wasn't quite home, but it was a good soft mattress and an even softer pillow, and it was, in fact, so comfortable that he wasn't sure he would be able to sleep.

  He closed his eyes, and he was just starting to doze when he heard the sound. He opened his eyes, then closed them again swiftly, before allowing them to part slightly. Firelight danced on the walls, and for a moment he didn't know what he had heard. The door to the hallway had not opened.

  But he wasn't alone. He knew it.

  He waited. Then he sensed the soft rose fragrance of her perfume, and he knew that she had invaded his bedroom, though for what purpose he didn't know. He could see her through the curtain of his lashes. All that lush blond hair of hers was free, flowing like a golden cascade over her shoulders and down her back. She was dressed in something soft and floor length and flannel, but the firelight ignored the chasteness of her apparel, playing through the material and outlining the alluring beauty of her form. Her breasts were high and firm, her waist slim and tempting, her hips and buttocks flaring provocatively beneath it. She carried something, he saw. A knife. And she was right beside the bed.

  He snaked out an arm, capturing her wrist, pulling her down hard on top of him. She gasped in surprise, but she didn't scream. Her gray-green eyes met his with a fear she tried desperately to camouflage, but with no remorse. He tightened his grip on her wrist, and the knife clattered to the floor.

  "What good would it have done to kill me?" he asked.

  She tried to shift away from him. He gave her no quarter; indeed, some malicious demon within him enjoyed her flushed features and the uncomfortable way she squirmed against him. He hadn't dragged her into his bedroom; she had come of her own accord.

  "I wasn't going to kill you!" she protested.

  He skimmed both hands down the length of her arms, then laced his fingers through hers and drew her to his side, leaning tautly over her. She swallowed and strained against him, but still she did not scream, and she tried very hard not to look his way. "I see," he said gravely. "You came to offer a guest a shave, is that it?"

  Her eyes fell to his bare chest. He could feel the rise of her breasts, the outline of her hips, the staggering heat coming from her skin. He knew that she was aware of the desire rising in him. She couldn't help but feel the strength of him hard against her.

  "I—I just..." Her voice trailed off.

  "You came here to murder me!" he snapped angrily.

  "No, I..."

  "Yes, damn it!"

  Suddenly her eyes met his. They flashed with fury, with awareness, then fear. Then something more. "All right!" she whispered. "I—I thought that I would kill you before you violated my home! But then..."

  "Then what?" he demanded.

  She moistened her lips. Her lashes fell, and she was so beautiful he could barely restrain himself. He wanted to live up to the reputation Yankee soldiers were given in the South; he wanted to wrap his arms around her, to have her, to make love to her at all costs. He would have traded every hope he had of heaven just to fill his hands with the weight of her breasts; he would have sold his very soul to the devil to feel himself within her.

  "I realized that you were a man, flesh and blood.... I..." Her words trailed away, and her eyes met his. She had never seen the deaths at Sharpsburg; she hadn't watched them fall at Manassas. But tonight she had played with death, and she had discovered that it was not glorious, not honorable.

  She had recognized him as a human being.

  "I still wish you were dead!" she snapped, surging against him suddenly as if she was horrified that she had forgotten their fight. "You're still a damn Yank and—" She broke off, breathing raggedly. He smiled, because they were both all too aware that he was human, and very much a man.

  "Please, Captain, if you would be so good as to let me up now...?"

  He started to chuckle softly. She could still be such an elegant, dignified belle, so regal despite their position.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "Sorry!" she gasped, realizing that he had no intention of letting her go. "But—but..."

  "I can't take the chance that you might decide you're capable of killing me after all," he said, rolling over and dragging her with him. He had to forget modesty to bring her along with him so he could find a scarf. She tried to fight him, to look anywhere but at him, but he was ruthless as he pulled her along in his footsteps until he found a scarf, then brought her back to the bed, where he tied her wrists together, then laid her down with her back against him.

  She swore and she kicked and she protested, and she wriggled and fought until his laughter warned her that her movements were pulling her gown precariously high on her hips.

  Then she merely swore. Like a mule driver. Sergeant Sikes could have learned a thing or two.

  "Go to sleep!" he warned her at last. "Aren't you afraid I'll remember that I'm a raiding, pillaging, murderous—raping—Yankee?"

  He heard her exhale raggedly. She didn't know how close she had come to forcing him to discover that a desperate monster lived in every man.

  But in time she slept, and so did he, and when he awoke, his arm was around her, his hand resting just below the fullness of her breast. His naked leg lay entwined with hers, while the golden silk of her hair teased his nose and chin. It felt so good to hold her. To want her, to long for her. Even to ache. Just seeing her, just touching her, evoked dreams. Dreams of a distant time, dreams of a peaceful future. In those first seconds of dawn, she seemed to be the most wondrous present he had ever received.

  She twisted in his arms, instinctively seeking warmth. She cuddled against his chest, her fingers moving lightly across his skin, her lips brushing his flesh. He pulled her against him. As the morning light fell into the room, her lips were slightly parted, slightly damp, as red as wine.

  Carefully he untied her wrists, freeing her hands.

  Then he kissed her. He touched his lips to hers, and he kissed her. A soft sound rumbled within her throat, but she didn't awaken right away. Her lips parted farther, and his tongue swiftly danced between them, and he tasted, fully and hungrily, everything that her mouth had to offer. Heat rose within him, swift and combustible, swamping him, hurting him, making him ache and yearn for more. His fingers curled over her breast, and he found it as full and fascinating as he had imagined. He touched her nipples beneath the flannel that still guarded them and he felt her stir beneath him as he drew his lips from hers.

  Her eyes opened slowly, and he realized that she had been lost in her own dreams. Their gazes met, then a horrified whisper left her lips. She suddenly seemed to realize what the situation was, and she twisted violently away from him.

  And he le
t her go. She leaped away from the bed, her fingers trembling as they touched her lips, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She stared at him in fury. "You... you Yank! How could you, how dare you, how—"

  "You tried to murder me, madam, remember?"

  "But you tried to—" She broke off. He hadn't really used any force against her. "You know what you did! You are no gentleman!"

  "I never make any pretense of being a gentleman when I'm in the midst of trying to stay alive!" he told her angrily.

  "A Virginian, sir, would have been a gentleman to the very end. A Virginian—"

  She broke off as her gaze fell over him, over his nakedness, and she turned to run.

  He caught her arm and pulled her hard against him. His eyes burned into hers. "I am a Virginian, Miss Hinton. And trust me, ma'am, nothing has hurt so bad as this war. I have cousins in blue, and cousins in gray, and do you know something, Miss Hinton? Every single one of them is a gentleman, a good, decent man. And sometimes I wake up so scared that I can't stand it because I just might find myself shooting one of my very decent cousins someday. My gentlemanly cousins. Most of the time I wake to my nightmares. This morning I woke to see you. It was like a glimpse of paradise."

  The blood had drained from her face, and when her eyes met his they were filled with a tempest of emotion, but she did not try to pull away. For the longest time they just stood there, then he lightly touched her cheek. "Thank you. It was just like a Christmas present."

  She didn't move even at that. Her hand rose, and she touched his cheek in turn. She felt the texture of his skin, rough from lack of shaving.

  Then suddenly it was gone, that curious moment when they were not enemies. Her hand fell away, and she seemed to remember that she was flush against a naked Yankee. With a soft cry she whirled and headed across the room, and he discovered that there was a door in the wall, very craftily concealed by the paneling.

  She disappeared through it without a word.

  * * *

  Later that day she found him in her den, which he had taken over as his office. She wore a bonnet and cloak, and her hands were warmed by an elegant fur muff.