Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  Brent crawled down the ladder. As he approached the high cabin with the bolted door, his strides were long and determined. Tension knotted his muscles and he clenched his jaw tightly.

  * * *

  Kendall had paced the confines of her small cabin in an agitation so severe she was close to a hysterical frenzy.

  In the clearing she had been so soundly defeated. When they had taken her to the river she hadn’t cared; she had felt like an invalid, a person so long ill that every movement was an effort. Like a child she had needed assistance and guidance. She hadn’t had the strength to protest the vigorous washing of her hair and body, nor would it have made sense to do so. Had she escaped the industrious Seminole women, what could she have done? Run? She could have escaped . . . right into another quagmire.

  She hadn’t been docile so much as numb. Even when they had returned her to the cabin she had been numb. But she had been hungry, and once she had eaten the tasty venison, her strength had returned to her, and her body had rallied.

  But rallying had done her little good. She had never been spanked in her life, and although she had endured worse treatment, somehow being tossed over a man’s knee like a child was more humiliating than being struck in anger. She had never experienced anything like the smoldering rage she felt toward the man who had so abused her. She wanted to scratch his eyes out. But she was trapped, and she knew it. There was no way to escape, nowhere to go. All she could do was pace and worry, working herself into a fevered pitch, awaiting a man who believed she had seduced him into a setup for murder.

  Arrogant son of a bitch! she thought, viciously kicking the pine wall of her prison. How dare he assume his death would be worth such an elaborate scheme.

  A shudder jolted her slender frame even as she walked. He was going to kill her. He had been knocked unconscious and tossed into cold winter waters. He was definitely going to kill her.

  But he could have killed her already. Or merely stood by and watched as the muck did the deed for him. No, his wrath was too great for that. That was what he had said. He intended to finish things between them. Was his threat a statement of his intention to rape her? Rather foolish from a man who had already received more from her than any other. A hot flush rose from deep inside her to darken her cheeks, coloring them crimson. She wanted to gouge him to ribbons, but she could remember with disgustingly excellent precision how it had felt to be touched by him, how splendidly male he had appeared in bronze and muscled nudity, how the brush of his hot and pulsing masculinity had both frightened and excited her. He had taken such care with her, touching her with such sensual expertise that she had longed for fulfillment of the hunger created with wild abandon.

  But he hadn’t hated her then. And she hadn’t despised him.

  A wave of cold air like a wall of snow swept over her body. He wouldn’t take care with her now. He would think of her as rancid garbage to be quickly tossed away.

  He was capable of being cruel. Of being ruthless. Perhaps he wanted only to rip her nails from her fingers one by one, carve her features into a pulp, chop off her ears . . .

  Kendall paused in midstride and suddenly gripped her hands into fists and banged furiously against the pine. Damn him! Damn him a thousand times over! He was already creating the torture of revenge; he was leaving her to shake and quiver with dread and to worry herself sick!

  The bloody hell with him! Surely he couldn’t behave barbarically, so just what could he do to her? Beat her, humiliate her?

  Laughter that bordered on the hysterical hovered upon her lips. Nothing could be worse than what she had already endured. And she had always survived. No matter what John Moore had said or done to her, she had raised her chin and stared him coldly down, and she had survived.

  But this man wasn’t John Moore. He was young and virile and powerful, and the searing menace in his steel eyes warned that he was not a man who gave quarter when he discovered that he had been used. And he wanted to finish what she had begun.

  The tension that wound itself up in her abdomen knotted so acutely that the room swam like gray mist before her, and she had to reach out and hold the wall to keep from falling. No, he would not be an impassioned and tender lover when he came to her this time. His sole intent would be to extract a savage revenge.

  “I have to talk to him! I have to reason with him. I have to convince him that I never intended him harm,” she said aloud.

  It would be a difficult task. But she wasn’t going to keep pacing in an agony of anticipation. She was going to sit, and wait patiently. And she was going to remember that she could not be broken, that she was a survivor, and that although she could be abused, nothing could be done to her heart and soul and will that she did not allow.

  Kendall sank to the floor, gritting her teeth as her still raw posterior came in contact with hard wood. Tears rose to her eyes with the bite of pain and humiliation.

  I never intended you harm, Brent McClain, but from this day on, you’d best not turn your back on me!

  Crossing her legs carefully beneath her, Kendall stared at the door. Without thought she arranged her plain cotton skirt around her, as if she were bedecked in the most elegant of ball gowns and about to graciously welcome visitors to Cresthaven.

  This isn’t over, Captain McClain. You judged me without benefit of trial; you found me guilty. I will not shiver and plead at your feet. I will rationally try to explain.

  He was never going to believe her . . .

  She forced herself to compose her features. She calmly folded her hands on her lap.

  Still, when she heard the sound of booted feet on the ladder to the cabin, she couldn’t control the erratic pounding of her heart or her short and ragged gulps for breath.

  The cabin door did not bang inward. It drifted open slowly and smoothly. Brent McClain placed his boot on the landing and entered, staring at the woman who coolly awaited him. Irritation freshly flamed his temper. She looked as if she should be sitting before a silver tea cart, and assuredly, her first words would be, “One lump, or two, Captain?”

  He kept his eyes on her as he moved into the cabin. For several seconds he merely stared at her, then, with unhurried determination, he firmly closed the door in his wake. “Well, Mrs. Moore, your appearance is quite improved.”

  “If you didn’t care for my appearance, Captain McClain, it was your own fault.”

  “Was it?” A tawny brow rose. “I don’t recall pushing you into the mud.”

  Kendall’s determination to remain calm wavered as her temper rose. “I was running from you. If you hadn’t terrified me half to death—”

  “Terrified you? I hadn’t said a frightening word, Mrs. Moore. It was, in fact, a pleasant surprise to find you here,” he drawled softly.

  “Surprise?” she queried politely. “Hardly a surprise, Captain. Red Fox and his crew obviously attacked under your orders.”

  Brent chuckled, but the sound held little humor. It was as dry as a tinderbox and seemed almost as explosive in the tension that crackled in the humid air. “You are quite mistaken, Mrs. Moore. I would never presume to order Red Fox to do anything.”

  “You might have easily fooled me, Captain.”

  “Ah, but you did easily fool me, Mrs. Moore, didn’t you?” The quiet question was low and polite, so polite that it sent shivers racing along Kendall’s spine. He strode across the room and gazed out one of the narrow windows, his hands planted on his hips. “Are you married to John Moore in appearance only, Kendall?”

  Her mouth suddenly felt very dry. She couldn’t answer. He spun from the window, and his question was now a deathly thunder. “Well, Kendall?”

  Don’t let him intimidate you! she warned herself. Hold on . . . hold onto your dignity. “I am legally his wife,” she replied coolly. “But truly, Captain McClain, you don’t understand—”

  “Oh, Mrs. Moore, I’m just dying to understand,” he murmured sarcastically. “Pray, do expound upon the situation for me,”

  Sitting had
been a mistake, Kendall decided. He slowly sauntered behind her. She felt him as if he were a fire, scorching her back. Each of his quiet footfalls sent shivers down her spine, each spasm of shivers further undermined the control she had determined she must maintain. She did not want him to see her fear, yet the temptation to spin to face him was great. She couldn’t! She couldn’t allow herself to betray the effect he was having on her. Yet she had to swallow before she could speak; it was like trying not to run when a deadly water moccasin snake slithered up one’s back.

  “I’m waiting, Mrs. Moore.”

  The whisper touched her ear like a heated sizzle. Still she didn’t move.

  “It’s very simple, Captain. I was born outside of Charleston. I knew when South Carolina seceded that war was inevitable. I didn’t want to be taken back to the North when—”

  “Your husband just happened to be right behind you?” The scornful query was now closer to the rear of the cabin. “And he just happened to intervene at the . . . moment of truth, shall we call it?”

  Kendall stiffened her spine. “Yes.”

  “But you told me, madam, that you had no husband.”

  “I—I lied.”

  “That I do believe!”

  Kendall cried out as his fingers raked into her hair, jerking her head back, twisting her neck into a painful arch. The muscle-hewn columns of his long legs were spread in a firm stance behind her; his thighs brushed her shoulders as he held her relentlessly. He towered over her, his eyes boring into her with a ruthless steel-gray fury. She did not try to twist from his grasp; she raised her chin of her own accord and returned the fury of his eyes with a volatile blue sizzle.

  “You egotistical ass! No one was after you!” Her words ended in a shriek as he knotted his fingers more tightly into her hair with a vicious tug, then threw her from him.

  “Then tell me, Mrs. Moore, how it happened that I was thrown overboard to die with less chance than a drowning rat! You think quicksand is bad, Mrs. Moore. Try being bound and naked in winter waters.”

  Kendall fell forward with the force of his push. She picked herself up and stood, whirling to face him. She had been a fool to keep her back to such a snake no matter what the circumstances. And his touch stripped her of calm. She had to hold her temper! Somehow, she had to reason with him—and keep both her fear and fury in check.

  She stood straight and stared at him, painfully aware that his wrath was like a tangible force in the air between them, but determined to best him. “Sir,” she said coolly, “you were pulled out of the water—by a Yankee, I might add. You are quite alive. Whether you choose to believe me or not is immaterial. The situation is long past, and I would think you would already have taken whatever petty revenge you desire. I have been abducted by savages, dragged into a swamp, frightened to near heart failure by quicksand, and . . . and beaten in a most humiliating fashion. If anyone is owed justice, Captain McClain, it is I. Now I am asking you, sir, as a Confederate, a captain in the service of the South, to desist with this boyish foolishness and make arrangements to have me taken to a southern port as soon as possible!”

  He stared at her incredulously for several seconds, and then laughed, tossing back his tawny head with the force of it. “Boyish foolishness, is it?”

  His tone was light. Kendall relaxed slightly. “Captain, I just know that an officer of the Confederate States Navy must in all justice show kindness to a wretched lady of that realm.”

  “Mrs. Moore, you are so right.” He took a casual step toward her, hands on his hips as he assessed her with a smile that brought a smoky hue to gray eyes that half closed in somnolence. “We of the CSN do try to show gallantry to the wretched ladies of our realm. I have found, however, that true ladies are harder to find than silk stockings in Jacksonville.”

  His tone was seductively rich and pleasant. Even here in the backwoods he smelled pleasantly of the sea. As he spoke he continued his slow saunter until he stood directly before her. Kendall stared up at him, mesmerized and lulled by the husky quality of his voice. He had suddenly changed so drastically. Of course! She had reminded him of the honor of the South. And he could be a gentleman when he chose. Broad-shouldered and sleek in the gold-trimmed uniform of a Confederate captain, rugged features made handsome with the rakish and slightly crooked grin . . .

  Kendall was taken completely by surprise when his powerful fingers bit into her shoulders and he shook her so that her hair spilled behind her to her buttocks and her eyes were forced to meet his. “The way I see it, madam, you acted toward me as nothing better than a conniving, tawdry little slut—”

  His words were cut off by a sharp, stinging slap as Kendall wrenched a shoulder free and raised her hand in a vicious fury against him, striking so quickly that he hadn’t a chance to avoid the frenzied blow. “Scurvy low-blood! Backwoods bastard!” she hissed, cursing to quell the terror that rose in her as she watched his jaw clamp tightly and his eyes narrow to steel slits that had lost their lazy nonchalance. The mark of her hand was imprinted in clear red against the bronze of his hard, chiseled features, but the line about his lips was growing taut and white as he returned her stare. His hand whipped out suddenly, clamping around her wrist like a coiled snake that had been waiting to strike. Kendall wrenched at it furiously, pure panic outweighing her determination to remain coldly calm.

  “Let me go!”

  She grasped at the hand restraining her with her free fingers, clawing at the flesh. She kicked out at him insanely, managing to draw grunts of pain as she caught his shins with a number of her wild strikes.

  But just as he had captured her wrist, he reached for a flying foot—and where she had been standing one second, she seemed to be flying the next, jerked cleanly off her feet. The flying sensation was only to last the briefest second—to be replaced with a hard and jarring thud as she hit the floor, stunned, on her backside.

  Before she could rally her bruised body, she was gasping out a curse of protest as his weight landed on her, legs straddling her waist in a clasp from which there was no escape. She stared into the hard and merciless steel of his eyes, and primal fear more than courage drove her to fight again, lashing out at him with flailing fists, writhing, trying desperately to elude the iron clamp of his legs. He cursed softly at her wild strength, but still subdued her, drawing her wrists high over her head and securing them with a single hand in a humiliatingly brief span of time. Panting and praying that she wouldn’t burst into tears of hopelessness, Kendall again met his eyes, close . . . so close to hers. “Madam, you were intent upon offering me something last December, but you never did give it to me. Well, darlin’ , you are in a different port now. With the gentleman you decided to use well.”

  She lay quiet, but he could still sense the fight within her, her breasts heaving provocatively, her hips pressed taut against his upper thighs. Just as she had that night long ago, she elicited a raw desire in him that overwhelmed all thought and clouded his mind. She was beautiful. Even as she stared at him, loathing giving the crystal blue of her eyes a gemstone quality, he could think of nothing but the way her lips had given in to his in hesitant but thirsting pleasure, the way her body had come alive under his hands, her full firm breasts thrusting to his chest . . .

  She had almost killed him, he reminded himself. Brought him to that stage of total beguilement and animal passion only to witness his complete, unguarded downfall. “Truly, Mrs. Moore, I don’t see why you are so resistant tonight. The last time we met, you were more than willing to welcome my embrace. What? Are there no Yankees nearby this evening to grasp you from the hands of fate?”

  She went rigid beneath him, her stunning eyes still staring challengingly into his. A brittle laugh escaped her. “Captain McClain, you may believe this or not, but I find the Yankees almost as loathsome as I do you. So you just do whatever you want. I can’t beat you. I won’t even fight you.”

  Kendall continued to stare at him, praying she had shamed him into searching his conscience. He paused above
her, watching her with an enigmatic glare that told her nothing. Not a flicker of expression touched the strong square jaw, or the grim line of his full and mobile mouth. One brow was slightly arched, as if in mocking query. “You won’t fight me?” he asked softly.

  Kendall felt heat flush her face again. The memories of that night in Charleston came back to her vividly as they engaged in their duel of wills; she felt the strength of his thighs and the power of his hands as they held her an intimate prisoner. She felt the heat of him as she had that night, the aura that was dominatingly male. A pulse ticked within the corded column of his neck, and in it she could see the tension and fever of his emotion. Through the thin cloth of her dress and the strong material of his breeches she had even become aware of the rising beat and growth of his male sex.

  Kendall swallowed; they were both aware as they stared at one another.

  He smiled slowly, a subtle movement that twisted his lips but had no impact on the hard steel in his eyes. He released her wrists suddenly and placed one palm beside her head, trapping her hair within his fingers. His left palm he placed on her breast, cupping it, and grazing his thumb over the nipple. The material of her dress provided him little obstacle. He felt the seductive fullness and warmth, the erotic hardening to his touch. And the rampaging pulse of her heart. She did not strike out at him, but remained still, her eyes mirroring a subtle change . . . she was defiant still, but frightened. . . ?

  Of him, he wondered, or of herself?

  Suddenly he wanted to stroke her cheek. To whisper to her softly words that told of the web of intoxication she spun, of the allure and fascination of her sleek and fluid beauty.

  He bit down on his lip savagely, drawing blood. She was the woman who had cunningly used him. And she was practicing a calculated seduction on his soul once again. He leaned closer to her, his mouth not an inch from hers. “Do what I wish, Kendall?”

  “I can’t stop you,” she whispered.

  “A repeat of Charleston?” he murmured.

  She didn’t seem to be able to make her mouth work. Her lips barely formed words. “I can’t stop you,” she repeated.