Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures

by Heather Graham

  And then Doctor Whaley was by her side, lifting her up. "Yes, he's better, Miss Hinton. And now you'd best get some rest before you fall apart on us!"

  He led her away, and when she slept that night, she slept soundly, a smile curing her lips for the first time since Steven had died. There was a God in heaven; Travis had lived.

  * * *

  He stayed in bed for a week before he summoned sufficient strength to stand. Isabelle kept her distance from him, not trusting herself with him anymore.

  She heard him, though, the day he first rose. He shouted now and then when one of his men seemed to think he needed more help getting around than he did. His soldiers walked around that day with pleased grins, ignoring his tone. They were just glad to have him up.

  Isabelle wanted to see him, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. She avoided the dining room; she avoided his office. She was afraid of getting too close to him.

  November faded away. December came, and Isabelle made her plans to leave for Christmas. She was packing when she realized that someone was watching her from the open doorway.

  That someone was Travis.

  He was completely healed now. He was still gaunt, but his features were so striking that his thinness only accentuated the clean lines of his face. His eyes followed her every step, and wherever they fell, she was touched with warmth, with fire. He was striking in blue wool breeches, his high boots and regulation cavalry shirt, his officer's insignia upon his shoulder. "What are you doing?" he asked her.

  "Packing."

  "Why?"

  "I'm leaving for Christmas."

  "Why?"

  "Because it is not a holiday to be spent with the enemy."

  "I am not your enemy, Isabelle."

  She shrugged and kept packing.

  He slammed the door shut and strode across the room, catching her by the shoulders, wrenching her from her task. His eyes bored into her like ebony daggers.

  "Let me go!" she cried.

  "Why, Isabelle?"

  "Because, because—"

  "No!" he cried, and he tossed her leather portmanteau to the floor, bearing her down upon the bed. His fingers curled around hers, holding her hands high over her head.

  "Travis, damn you!"

  "I need you, Isabelle. I need you!"

  She wanted to fight him. She wanted to deny everything that had happened, everything she felt, but then she thought that perhaps it had always been coming to this, from the very first, when they had fallen together to the snow. She opened her mouth to swear, to protest, but his whisper was already entering her mouth.

  "I need you, Isabelle, my God, I need you!"

  Then his lips were on hers, his kiss fervent, building a fire within her. He whispered against her mouth, and his lips burned a fiery trail across her cheeks, to her throat, against her earlobe, then back to her mouth again. His tongue teased her lips, then delved between them.

  She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers burrowing into his hair, and she came alive, rejoicing in the feel of his hair, in the ripple of the muscles in his shoulders and back. She wasn't sure when it happened, but it seemed that his shirt melted away, and she was torn between laughter and tears when her hands moved across his bare flesh, luxuriating in the warmth of him, in the feel of life. She touched the scars where war had torn his flesh, and she placed her lips against them as tenderly as possible. But after that few things were tender, as the tempest flared between them with a sudden swirling desperation. Her bodice had somehow come undone, and his face lay buried against the valley between her breasts. And then he was taking one into his mouth, his lips and teeth warm upon one pebbled, rosy peak, and the sensation was shattering, sending tremors of fire and yearning through her. She gasped, clinging to him, then she gasped again as she felt his hands upon her naked hips, then between her thighs. She moaned, closing her eyes, shuddering and breathing deeply against his neck as his touch became bold and intimate, stroking, delving, evoking need and searing heat and molten pleasure...

  His breeches were shed; her gown was a pile of tangled froth around them; his features were both hard and tender as he rose above her. He gently pulled and tugged away the tangle of her clothing until she lay naked and shivering beneath him. And yet she trusted him, the enemy; he saw it in her eyes. He laid his head against her breasts, then he shuddered with a frightening force. "My God, I've needed you, Isabelle. I may be your enemy, but no enemy will ever love you so tenderly. No friend could swear with greater fervor to be so gentle."

  She cried out, finding his lips, drowning in his kiss. As they kissed, his hands traveled the length of her. He touched and stroked her endlessly, boldly, intimately.

  And gently, tenderly.

  Finally passion rose swiftly, wantonly, within her. Desire had bloomed so completely and surely in her that she knew nothing of distress or pain, and everything of the driving, blinding beauty of being taken by a man who gave her love. She knew the fury of his passion and the wealth of his rapture as he brought her to a peak of ecstasy so sweet that it was heaven on earth before he shuddered violently and fell beside her, the two of them covered in the fine sheen of their own sweat.

  They were silent for the longest time. Then he reached out and touched a curl against the dampness of her cheek. "I'm sorry, Isabelle, I had no right...."

  She caught his hand. "No! Shh. Please don't say such things, not now!"

  He rolled over, stroked her cheek and stared unabashedly at the rise and fall of her breasts. "I love you, you know."

  "No! Don't say that, either!"

  She tugged away from him, trembling as she reached for her clothing.

  "Isabelle," he said, rising, trying to stop her.

  She didn't know why she was so upset. She wanted him—she had wanted him desperately! And she loved him, too.

  But there was a war on.

  "Travis, leave me alone. Please."

  "Isabelle, I didn't—"

  "No, Travis, you didn't force me. You didn't do anything wrong. You were—you were the perfect gentleman! But please, leave me alone now. I have to be alone."

  He turned angrily and jerked on his shirt and breeches, then his boots. "I'll expect you at dinner tonight," he told her.

  She watched him leave, then she washed and dressed and finished her packing. She walked down the stairs and into his office.

  "I want to leave for Christmas, Captain," she told him.

  He stood up, staring at her across the desk. "Don't leave, Isabelle."

  "It's war, Captain."

  "Not between us."

  "I can't stay! Don't you understand? I can't spend Christmas with the enemy!"

  "Even if you sleep with him?"

  She slapped him. He didn't make a move, and she bit her lip, wishing she hadn't struck him. She didn't know what she was doing to either of them anyway. It was just that the sound of Christmas carols made her cry now. She wanted so badly to be home for Christmas, but she didn't know where home was anymore.

  "I'll write you a pass immediately," he said curtly. "Sergeant Sikes will see to you."

  "Thank you."

  He scratched out the pass and handed it to her, then looked at the work piled on his desk.

  Isabelle turned and headed for the door, then hesitated. She wanted to cry out to him; she wanted to run back.

  But she couldn't. Something deep inside her told her that it just wasn't right. She might be in love with the enemy, but it was still wrong to spend Christmas with him.

  Chapter 3

  Isabelle spent Christmas and New Year's Day with Katie Holloway. Katie's place was an old farmstead, and Katie was as solid and rugged as the terrain that surrounded her. She had watched the British siege of Fort McHenry during the War of 1812, and she had lived long enough to say and do and think what she wanted.

  "It's dying down now, mind you, Isabelle. This war, it's almost over."

  "That's not true! Our generals run circles around theirs. Time and time again we've won the d
ay with far less troops and—"

  Rocking in her chair, Katie clicked her knitting needles and exhaled slowly. "When our men die, there's none left to replace them. Aye, we fight fine battles! None will ever forget the likes of Stonewall Jackson. But he and many of his kind are gone now, cut down like flowers in the spring, and we cannot go on without them. Not even Lee can fight this war alone. It's over. All over except for the dying."

  Isabelle didn't feel like arguing with Katie; she just felt like crying. She didn't know how life would change when it was all over; she only knew that she had seen enough of it, and she was ready for it to end. She had buried one brother; she wanted the other to live.

  She wanted Travis to live.

  "I think I'm going to go home tomorrow," she told Katie. It was late January, the snow was piled high, and she wasn't supposed to go home alone. Sergeant Sikes or one of the men came by every couple of days to see if she was ready to leave. No one was due for a few days—she had been determined to say that she wasn't going back. Not until the snows melted. Not until the men went to war again.

  But now, suddenly, she didn't want them to go to war. She didn't want Travis to go to war.

  She hopped up and kissed Katie's weathered cheek, then she hurried into the bedroom to do her packing.

  It was the end of January, and not even high noon brought much warmth. Despite Katie's protests that she shouldn't travel alone, Isabelle was going to ride home.

  "You should wait for an escort! Captain Aylwin is not going to be pleased."

  "Well, Katie, they haven't won the war yet. I can still do as I please," she assured her friend.

  She mounted her bay mare and drew her cloak warmly around her. She determined not to go through town—there were too many Yankee soldiers she didn't know there. So she headed east, past small farms and decaying mansions. Everything was winter bleak, and her mare snorted against the cold, filling the air with the mist of her breath. Trees were bare, and the landscape was barren. It was always like this during winter, she told herself. But it wasn't. It was this barren because of the war.

  She had ridden for an hour when she came upon the deserted Winslow farm. Thirsty and worried about her mare, she decided to stop to see if the trough had frozen over. She dismounted into the high drifts and led the mare toward the trough. She sighed with relief, because the water had only a thin layer of ice over it. She broke through with the heel of her boot, then patted the mare as she dipped her head to drink. Then she heard a noise behind her and turned around.

  A soldier had come out to the porch. He was dressed in ragged gray and butternut, his beard was overgrown, and his eyes were hard and hostile and bleary. At first her heart had soared—one of her own. But as the man leered at her the sensation of elation turned to one of dread. She knew instantly that he was a deserter, and he was here hiding from the Confederates and the Yanks.

  She pulled the reins around swiftly, ready to mount, but to no avail. The man threw himself against her, dragging her down into the snow. She pounded her fists against him desperately, and her screams tore the air, but neither had any effect on him. His breath was horrible and rancid, he was filthier than she had ever imagined a man could be, and the scent of him terrified her beyond measure. She knew what he intended, and she thought wildly that she really might rather die than let him touch her. But she was unarmed; she'd had no reason to travel with a weapon—Travis had always seen to her safety.

  And now she was alone.

  "Hey, ma'am, I'm just looking for some good old southern hospitality!" he taunted.

  She freed a hand and smashed at his face. A hard noise assured her that she had hurt him. She took the advantage and kneed him in the groin with all her strength. He screamed with the pain, but took hold of her hair and wrenched her to her feet, then dragged her toward the house. She started screaming again, but it didn't matter; he dragged her up the stairs and through the doorway. A fire was burning in the open hearth, and he tossed her down before it. She tried to scramble up, but he pounced on her. She twisted her face, frantic with fear, when he tried to kiss her.

  Then, suddenly, the man was wrenched away from her and tossed hard across the room. Travis was there. Travis, in his winter cape, his dark eyes burning with an ebony fury. As Isabelle scrambled away, she saw the Rebel deserter draw his pistol. "Travis!" she shrieked in warning. She heard an explosion of fire, but Travis did not fall. A crimson stain spread across her attacker's shirt, and she realized that Travis, too, had pulled a pistol. He wasted little time on pity for the Reb but strode quickly to Isabelle, jerking her to her feet.

  "What were you doing out alone?" he demanded.

  "I was coming home."

  His hands were on her. He was shaking; he was shaking her. "Fool!" he exploded, and he wrenched his hands away from her, turning his back on her. She wanted to thank him; she wanted to tell him that she was grateful he had come. She even wanted to cry out that she loved him, but she couldn't. He was the enemy.

  "Thank God I decided to come for you myself this morning! Damn it, Isabelle, don't you know what could have happened? He could have raped you and slit your throat and left you in the snow, and we wouldn't even have known it!"

  She moistened her lips. She couldn't tell him that she had been anxious to come home because she had been anxious to see him. He caught her arm and pulled her along with him—until they got outside. Then he lifted her up on her mare before mounting his own horse, and they started off in silence. The silence held until they reached the house, where he dismounted and came over to her before she could get down herself. He lifted her down, his hands fevered and strong. Her hair tumbled in reckless curls around her face, golden beneath the sun. "What?" he asked suddenly, angry. "Are you upset that I killed the Reb? He was one of your own, right? A good old Southern boy!"

  "Of course not!"

  "Friend or enemy, is that it, Isabelle? And am I forever damned as the enemy?" His eyes were alive with fire, and his fingers were biting into her upper arms.

  "What do you want from me?" she cried.

  His grip relaxed slightly, and a slow, bitter smile just curved the corners of his lips. "Christmas," he told her quietly. "I want Christmas."

  And suddenly Christmas was everything—everything he wanted and everything she could not give. She pulled herself from his arms and ran into the house.

  * * *

  Travis damned himself a thousand times for the way he had handled things. But finding her in the arms of that deserter had scared him to the bone, and he trembled to think that he would not have been there if he hadn't determined that morning to go to Mrs. Holloway's himself and bring her back.

  And he had done that only because his orders had come. They were pulling out again. He was to lead his men to ride with Sheridan. Grant was in charge on the Eastern front now, determined to cage the wily Lee, whatever the cost. Grant knew that the other Union generals had been overmatched by Lee's abilities—and overawed by his reputation.

  He had only a few days remaining to him here. Right or wrong, he was in love with her, and after the endless months of torture, he had found that she was not all ice and reserve, but that she could be fire and passion as well. He wanted a taste of that fire upon his lips when he rode away again.

  But it was lost now, he thought.

  He sat in the dining room alone, waiting for Peter to serve him. But then he grew impatient with himself, with her. He slid from the table and strode up the stairs to his room, and, once there, he burst through the connecting doorway.

  He paused sharply, for he had found her this way once before. She was cocooned in a froth of bubbles, one slender leg protruding from the water as she furiously soaped it. Her eyes met his as he entered the room, and a crimson flush rose to her cheeks. But she didn't deny his presence, and she even smiled softly. "I was coming to dinner," she said quietly. She bit her lower lip. "It's just that I felt so... dirty after today."

  Golden-blond ringlets were piled on top of her head, some e
scaping to dangle softly against her cheeks and the long column of her neck. He had no answer for her other than a hoarse cry and the long strides that brought him to her. He didn't reach for her lips, but paused at the base of the bath, smiling ruefully as he dropped to his knees, then caught the small foot that thrust from the bubbles, and kissed the arch, teasing the sweet, clean flesh with the touch of his tongue. His eyes met hers, which were shimmering with mist and beauty, and he heard the sharp intake of her breath. Her lashes half fell, sensual, inviting. Her lips parted, and still her gaze remained upon him. He stroked his fingers along her calf, soaking his shirt as he leaned into the water, but he didn't care. Brazenly he swept his hand along her thigh. Then he lifted her, dripping and soap-sleek, from the tub. He held her in front of the fire, kissing her, before he walked with her to the bed, cast aside his sodden shirt and breeches and leaned down over her.

  No woman had ever smelled so sweet; no skin had ever felt so much like pure silk. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever imagined, with her high firm breasts, slender waist, undulating hips. He kissed her everywhere, ignoring her cries, drinking in the sight and taste and sound of her, needing more and more of her.

  That night she dared to love him in return, stroking her nails down his chest, dazzling him with her fingertips. Dinner was forgotten. The night lingered forever. He didn't leave her, didn't even think to rise until the sun came in full upon them and he heard a knocking at his own door.

  He kissed her sweetly parted lips and rose. Scrambling into his breeches and boots, he hurried to his own room and opened his door.

  There was a messenger there from Sheridan, Sikes told him. He was needed downstairs right away.

  He found a clean shirt and hurried down the stairs, where he closeted himself with the cavalry scout and received the latest news.