He had only until the fourteenth of February to meet up with other troops north of Richmond.
* * *
Isabelle came down later. She wore her reserve again, as another woman might wear a cloak. "You're leaving?" she asked coldly, sitting down across from him.
"Soon."
Her fingers curled around her chair, her lashes lowered. He rose and came to stand before her, then knelt down, taking her hands. "Marry me, Isabelle."
"Marry you!" Her eyes widened incredulously. Gray-green, brilliant against the soft beauty of her face, they were filled with disbelief.
"I love you. I would die for you. You know that."
She swallowed painfully, then shook her head. "It's not over yet. I can't marry you."
"Isabelle, you love me, too," he told her.
She shook her head again. "No. No, I don't." She paused for a second, and he sensed the tears behind her voice. "I cannot love a Yankee. Don't you understand?"
She leaped up and was gone. She didn't come down to dinner, and he wouldn't go to her. He ate alone, then drank a brandy, before he finally dashed the glass into the fire and took the stairs two at a time. He burst in upon her and found her clad in a soft white nightgown of silk and lace, a sheer gown, one that clung to the exquisite perfection of her form. She was pacing before the fire, but when she saw him, she paused. He strode over to her, wrenching her into his arms, shaking her slightly so that her hair fell in a cascade down her back, and her eyes rose challengingly to his. "If you can't marry me," he said bitterly, "and you can't love me, then come to bed with me and believe that I, at least, love you!"
At first he thought she would lash out at him in fury. He bent over, tossing her over his shoulder, and the two of them fell together onto the bed. Her eyes were flashing, but she only brushed his cheek gently with her palm.
"I cannot love you, Yank!" she whispered. But her lips teased his, her breath sweet with mint, and her body was a fire beneath him. Her mouth moved against his. "But I can need you, and I need you very much tonight!"
* * *
It remained like that between them for the days that remained. By day she kept her distance, the cool and dignified Miss Hinton, but by night she was his, creating dreams of paradise.
But neither paradise nor dreams could still the war, and in due course he rode out for his appointment with battle. She stood on the porch and watched him as he mounted his horse. And then, as he had before, he rode as close as he could to where she was standing on the porch.
"I love you," he reminded her gravely.
"Don't get yourself killed, Travis," she told him. He nodded and started away.
She called him back. "Travis!"
He turned. She hesitated, then whispered, "I'll pray for you."
He smiled and nodded again, then rode away. The war awaited him.
* * *
They said that the South had been losing the war since Gettysburg, but you couldn't tell it by the way they were fighting, Travis thought later.
At the end of February, when Travis was joining up with Sheridan's forces, General Kilpatrick staged an ill-conceived raid on Richmond. Papers found on the body of Colonel Dahlgreen indicated an intention to burn the city and assassinate President Jefferson Davis and his cabinet. Meade, questioned by Lee under a flag of truce, denied such intentions vigorously, and Lee accepted that the papers were forgeries. Travis was glad to hear that both sides could question something so heinous, and that even in the midst of warfare, some things could be discussed.
In May, Travis and his troops were engaged in the Battle of the Wilderness, which would stand out in his memory forever. Rebels and Yanks alike were caught, confused and horrified, in the depths of the forest. Soon the trees were ablaze, and more men died from the smoke and fire than from bullets.
From there the survivors moved to the Battle of Spotsylvania. Next Travis followed Sheridan into the Battle of Yellow Tavern, where the cavalry, ten thousand strong, met up with Stuart's southern troops on the outskirts of Richmond. Stuart brought over four thousand men, and the fighting was pitched and desperate, but Travis managed to survive. The great Confederate cavalryman Jeb Stuart was mortally wounded, however. He died in Richmond days later.
Late in June, Isabelle became aware of a man approaching the house on foot. She was upstairs in her room, and she watched from the window. She bit her lower lip, perplexed. He wore a gray uniform, but she couldn't trust Confederate soldiers anymore, not after what had occurred on her journey home from Katie's.
Travis had given her one of the new repeating rifles, and she hurried downstairs to the gun cabinet to get it. She loaded the gun and hurried to the window, but her worry fell away when she saw the man coming closer. With a glad cry she set the gun down and raced outside, flinging herself into the mart's arms. It was her brother, James.
"Oh, my God, you're home!" She kissed him, and he hugged her and swung her around, and she laughed, and then she cried. And then they were in the house, and Peter was there, and the other servants, too, all eager to welcome him home. He only had a few days' leave; he was a lieutenant in the artillery, and he had been lucky to receive even that much time.
Isabelle was determined to make his time at home perfect. She ordered him a steaming bath, dug out his clothes, supervised dinner, and when he was dressed and downstairs again, she was ready to sit with him for a meal of venison stew. He smiled at her, a very grave young man with her own curious colored eyes, slightly darker hair and, now, freshly shaven cheeks. He started to eat hungrily, as if he hadn't seen such a meal in years. Then he suddenly threw down his fork and stared at her, his eyes filled with naked fury.
"This is Yank stew!"
Isabelle bolted back in her chair, sitting very straight. She stared at her hands.
James stood, walking around the room behind her. "I just realized what this means. The house is standing, and there's food in it. What did you pay for those concessions, Isabelle?"
She gasped and leaped to her feet. "I didn't pay anything for concessions!" Guilt tore at her, but she had never paid for anything. She was protected, yes, but she had never paid for that protection. She had simply fallen in love. "They use the house as their headquarters—that's why it's still standing. And there's food in the larder because they bring it in, for their own use, and ours, too."
"And you stay here!" he accused, his hands on his hips.
"I stay here, you fool, for you and Steven! I stay so that they won't burn the house down around us. I've even taken the Yankee dollars Sergeant Sikes gives me as rent, and I've stowed them away to keep this place alive so that you and... and Steven would have a home to come back to!"
He strode from the dining room, down the hall and into the den. With a fury he pushed Travis's papers from their father's desk. Something fluttered to his feet, and he bent to pick it up. It was a record of her safe conduct form to the Holloway home for Christmas. He stared from the form to Isabelle. "What is this?"
"Safe conduct. I—I always leave for Christmas."
Suddenly he started to laugh, but she didn't like the sound of it. "Oh, this is rich! You play the whore all year, but then you leave for Christmas! Oh, Isabelle!"
She itched to slap his face, but he was too gaunt from all he'd been through, and besides, she felt the horrible truth of his words. She turned, a sob tearing from her, and raced up the stairs. She burst into her room, where she lay on her bed and sobbed. It was odd, she thought. It was Christmas she was suddenly crying for, and not the war, the death, the pain. It was the peace of the holiday that had been lost, the peace and the gentle dreams, and the belief that man could rise above his sins.
Her door opened. James came in and sat beside her on the bed, then scooped her into his arms. "I'm sorry, Isabelle. I'm so sorry. The war has warped me. I know you, Isabelle. You're the sister who bathed all my cuts and bruises when I thought I was too big for my friends to see me cry. The one who stood by our parents. The one, Peter tells me, who ran out in th
e midst of a barrage of bullets to reach Steven. Isabelle, I love you. If some Yank has kept you safe, then I'm glad. Can you forgive me?"
She hugged him tight, because no words were necessary between them. Then they went down to their cold dinner, and when they had eaten, Isabelle took him out to Steven's grave, and she told him how odd it had been to hear Yankee musicians playing "Dixie."
He slipped his arm around her, then gave a silent salute to Steven before they walked to the house together.
Over the next few days he drew her out. He listened to the accounts of his brother's death, and he listened when she haltingly told him about the deserter who had attacked her. He also listened to her talk about Travis. He gave her no advice, only warned her, "Isabelle, you're in love with him."
She shook her head, watching the fire. "Even now he could be dead. He's fighting somewhere south of here." She swallowed. It was the front that James would soon return to.
James leaned toward her. "You are in love with him. And it sounds like he loves you."
"He is still the enemy."
"Will he marry you?"
"James, I cannot marry the enemy!"
"The war can't go on forever, even if it seems so. But it has taught me that life and love are sweet, and too easily stolen from us before we can touch them."
James left the next day. She forced herself to smile as she buttoned his coat and set his hat on his head. "You'll be home soon for good!" she told him.
He smiled. "Yes, I promise. I promise I'll come home for good." He kissed her cheek, and she walked him as far as the porch. He had to go a few miles on foot, since he was in Yankee territory. Somewhere to the south he would be picked up by a transport wagon. Horses were rare now, and he refused to take her mare. "They'll just kill her down there, Isabelle. Let her survive this thing. I may need her when I come back!"
She hugged him one last time, fiercely, and then he started out. She watched him from the porch, and he suddenly turned around. "Isabelle, don't marry him, if you feel you can't. But give him Christmas. He deserves Christmas."
Then he walked away, and she prayed that the war would soon be over. She assured God that she really didn't care in the least if the Yankees won, just so long as someone ended the damn thing.
* * *
The battles were fought fast and furiously on the eastern front as summer progressed. Women were desperately needed to nurse the wounded, and Isabelle found transport south to the outskirts of Cedar Creek, where an old church was being used as a field hospital. A horrible battle had been fought on October nineteenth. The South had nearly taken the day, but in the end the Union had prevailed.
Rebels and Yankees both were being brought in, and Isabelle was grateful to see that no injured man was being left on the field. Still, each time she saw a blue coat with a cavalry-red stripe on it, her heart sank. Travis had ridden away to join Sheridan, and Sheridan's men had won this battle. Had Travis, too, ridden victoriously away?
At last she discovered that he had not, for she turned to a sheeted form one afternoon to discover it was Travis.
His face was as white as death, and he was barely breathing. She ripped open his uniform to discover that a saber had savagely slashed his side.
Isabelle turned to search out one of the surgeons. She wanted Dr. Hardy, a man with a keen belief in hygiene. If the wound didn't kill Travis, infection might.
"His pulse is good, his breathing is steady and, so far, no fever," Dr. Hardy told her a little while later. "Keep his wound clean, and he should make it."
She did as he'd said. She was careful to tend to all the men, but she reserved time daily to wash and rebandage Travis's wound.
On the third day he opened his eyes. He stared at her incredulously; then his eyes fell shut again. The effort to hold them open was too much. "Water," he croaked.
She dampened his parched lips, warning him not to drink too quickly. He managed to open his eyes again, and she tried not to smile. Despite his long hair, he was still so handsome. His dark eyes filled with dismay when he realized that he was in a Confederate hospital.
"You might as well let me die," he told her.
"Don't talk like that."
"Andersonville is death," he reminded her sharply, and a cold dread filled her heart, because rumor said it was true, that Union soldiers died like flies in the Confederate prison camp.
"You're far too ill to be sent to Andersonville now," she told him, then moved away.
The next morning she was dismayed to find that Travis had stirred an interest among the Southern women helping out as nurses. She was unable to find him alone. If he was going to get that much care, she decided, she was going to keep her distance.
He healed more quickly than anyone had expected. Two weeks after his arrival, she was making the bed beside his when his fingers suddenly clamped around her wrist, and he pulled her to face him.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded sharply of her.
Her brows arched. "Helping!" she snapped.
He shook his head. "You should be home. Oh... I see. You want to find your brother."
"My brother is well, thank you very much. He was home on leave during the summer." She pulled away. "Perhaps I was looking for you, Captain," she told him quietly. Then she left him. It was becoming altogether too disturbing to cope with him.
She didn't have to cope with him much longer. Three days later, when she came in, he was gone. Trembling with raw panic, she asked Dr. Hardy what had happened to him.
"The Yank? Oh, he's gone."
"Andersonville?" she whispered in horror.
Hardy shook his head, watching her closely. "He escaped. Not that we have many men to watch the prisoners around here. He just slipped away in the night."
Three days later Dr. Hardy called her, and when she turned, he took her by her arm and led her outside. She held her breath, terrified that he was going to tell her that Travis had been shot during his attempt to escape.
But Hardy hadn't called her about Travis. He cleared his throat and squeezed her hand as they walked along the barren meadow. "Isabelle, Lieutenant James Hinton is on our list as a prisoner of war. He was taken at Petersburg."
"No!" She screamed the word, then sank to the ground, denying Hardy's news with everything in her. She wanted to scream, to keep screaming, to make the words go away.
Hardy knelt beside her. "Isabelle, listen—"
She didn't listen. She grabbed his arm. "Was he injured? Are they taking him west? Do you—"
"He wasn't injured, he was just forced by overwhelming odds to surrender. And he's being taken to Washington. Isabelle, he's alive! And well. He'll probably even be able to write to you. Isabelle, many men died at Petersburg! Be grateful that he's alive. He might be better off in that Yankee prison. He might have Christmas dinner."
She tried to smile, tried to believe Hardy.
Two weeks later, December was upon them and the place was just about cleared out. The injured men had been sent home to recuperate, or back to the battlefield, or they had died.
Hardy called Isabelle into his makeshift office and handed her a sealed document. She looked at him. "You're going home, Isabelle. Confederate soldiers will escort you to the Union line. That letter should give you safe conduct. You need to go home. The war is digging in for winter. I'm moving on to Petersburg."
He stood and kissed both her cheeks. "Merry Christmas, Isabelle."
She kissed him in return. "Merry Christmas."
He smiled and slipped something from his pocket, then handed it to her. "I was afraid you wouldn't think it was a very merry Christmas. I just received that letter two hours ago. It's for you. From your brother, James. He'd heard that the Yanks were in and out of the house, so he wrote through me."
She stared at him, then ripped open the letter, tears stinging her eyes. He was alive; he was eating; he was lucky, considering what could have happened to him.
He ended his letter with a command: "Merry Christmas, Sister! Have
faith in the Father, and who knows, perhaps next Christmas will bring us all together again."
She kissed Dr. Hardy again, then she ran out, pressing the letter to her heart.
* * *
As Dr. Hardy had promised, she was escorted to the Yankee line by two cavalry soldiers; then her papers were handed over, and she was given an escort through the lines to her doorstep. She had worried the whole way about Travis. He must have been weak after his ordeal; he hadn't been strong enough to return to battle. She hoped fervently that he would be there when she reached home.
He was.
Travis was waiting for her on the porch. The Yankee sergeant with her papers saluted him sharply and respectfully, and said that he had brought Miss Hinton home at the Union's command, and that he needed permission to return to his own unit. Travis quickly granted him permission, saluting in return. He stood tall and straight as he watched Isabelle dismount, then ordered one of his men to take her horse. When she walked up the steps, she saw that his eyes were alight with a pleasure that belied his solemn features.
She walked past him and entered the parlor, shedding her worn travel cloak and hat and tossing them on a chair. Seconds later Travis was behind her, pulling her against him, pressing his lips to her throat, whispering things that were entirely incoherent.
She turned, ready to protest, ready to reproach him, but no words would come. She didn't give a damn who was in the house, who saw what, or what they might think. Not at that moment. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he swept her into his arms, then carried her into the huge master suite that he'd claimed as his own. A fire was burning in the hearth, hot and blazing. Darkness was falling, but the fire filled the room with a spellbinding glow. Travis laid her down on the bed, his fingers shaking as he removed her clothing. Then he shed his own and straddled her, and the loving began.
The fire cast its glow over them as the night passed. In that curious light he was sleek and coppery, and she couldn't keep her lips from his skin or her fingers from dancing over his rippling muscles. More scars were etched now across his flesh, and she touched them gently, kissed them with tenderness. She had wanted him so badly, and now he was hers. Right or wrong, she loved the enemy.
Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures Page 23
