Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  Could this be the same man? she wondered fleetingly. The tender lover of moments past; now the cold, condemning stranger . . . .

  She began to struggle again, whimpering slightly as she fought not to inflict pain but merely to put distance between them. He was more ruthless than ever, his mouth grim and barely moving as he spoke, his breath touching her lips as he spoke. “Since you married a Yankee, what were you doing in Charleston on the day the state seceded?”

  Kendall managed to press her hands against his chest, but it did little good. His hands slipped down to the small of her back, causing a more disturbing intimacy as he drew her against him, one long limb curved against his knee, the other stretching behind her. The blanket fell down around her hips, and she felt the familiar, frightening vulnerability.

  “Kendall!”

  He shook her slightly, and her head fell back. She stared up into his eyes, pushing wildly against him to no avail.

  She halted, defiance now thrusting her chin high as she met his stare in hostile rebellion.

  “I had come home, Captain McClain. Charleston was still my home. I knew South Carolina would secede if Lincoln was elected. I had to be there. With the help of a friend, I had convinced John that I needed to visit my mother, in case hostilities began after the election. I was determined to disappear. I had no idea that he’d followed me.”

  His brow arched; he smiled with bitter amusement.

  “And so you simply stumbled upon me. And elected to use me as an escape from the man you were rightfully married to?”

  “Yes! Yes!” Kendall cried out passionately, jerking far enough away in her fury to strike against his chest again, futile blows that he barely noticed as he tightened his hold. “It was no plot.”

  “You still used me.”

  “Yes!” she shrieked again. “And don’t you dare judge me! I would have used anyone—God Himself!—to escape. You don’t know what it was like. You don’t know what I went through, what . . . what . . .”

  Her voice faded, and suddenly her anger failed her. She grasped his shoulders and went limp against him, whispering bitterly against his shoulder, “You are indomitable, Captain McClain. You are raw and exclusive power, able to put others at your mercy. You don’t know what it is like to be hated and taunted and abused simply because you are young and healthy . . . and owned.”

  His hold about her tightened briefly, but Kendall hardly felt the almost imperceptible action. She shivered against him, only barely aware of the heat and security of his body, of the pleasant male scent of his shoulder, slick and bronze beneath her cheek. She shivered, trembled, but still would not allow herself to cry. Nor would she beg him to believe her, plead with him to understand and forgive.

  Suddenly she did become aware of him; acutely aware of his movement. One hand remained on the curve of her hip. The other . . . shifted. His fingertips lightly grazed up and down her spine. Slowly, gently, caressing her flesh, giving comfort. Kendall didn’t dare move. Her breath caught in her throat as he continued his idle motion. Lulling, hypnotizing. How dearly she wanted to wrap her arms around him, find in him the strength that had slipped away from her, find a harbor from the storms of time and the cruel trickery of fate.

  No! she cried in silent agony. She was married. Legally tied to a man who fought not a war but a blind battle against God and himself. And the arms that offered this brief comfort were those of a Rebel bent only on revenge. The man she had used had used her in return. Aloof and elusive, an independent power unto himself.

  The man who had found his just revenge. On whose behalf she had been kidnapped and dragged into a snake-infested swamp. The strong hand that massaged her now had been the instrument of the humiliating punishment inflicted on her earlier.

  She stiffened abruptly in protest to his touch. He had made her his lover, with no love. And she had given herself to him shamelessly. Responded to his demands with abandoned fever.

  Responded sweetly, passionately, hungrily, to a man who had humiliated and abused her! Her senses, dormant so long, had awakened to his touch, and betrayed her heart and mind and pride.

  “Please,” she murmured “I’ve told you everything. The truth. I did use you, but I didn’t intend that you should be harmed. Please let me go.”

  His motion ceased. His fingers threaded into her hair, but not to hurt or punish. He tugged the gold locks until she faced him again, and for a heartbeat of time that seemed eternal, he stared searchingly into her eyes. “The truth, Kendall?” he demanded rigidly.

  “The truth,” she whispered. “I swear it.”

  She didn’t know if he believed her or not. The steel gray of his eyes was like a twilight mist that would always hide the soul of the man. His determined jaw would never soften. The strength of his handsome features was equal to that of his tautly muscled form, raw and rugged and hewn with the force of his will and the rough determination of his mind.

  Kendall’s heart slammed relentlessly against her breast as she stared at him. They were still so ridiculously intimate, though they were hostile strangers. For breathless seconds she was certain that his lips would lower to hers again, that he would demand her with a brutal kiss. And she didn’t know what she wanted. To be left alone? To regain her dignity and pride?

  Or to experience again the wild beauty of becoming one with a man? The ragged storm of driving, aching need, the fulfillment of the ultimate intimacy.

  She closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember that he had taken her only out of his need for revenge. If any other feeling had guided his male demands, that feeling had been base lust. He had been able to hurt her. She had opened her soul and allowed him to do so. In a matter of moments, she would be pleading in a torrent of tears that he release her before she could stand no more of the pain and beauty and agonized confusion . . .

  He did not bend to kiss her, but eased her down until she lay on the floor again. Mechanically she grasped for the blanket, drawing it over her body like a shield. Only when he drew away did she open her eyes.

  He had donned his breeches and was now pulling on his boots. That done, he reached for his shirt and slipped it on, tucking it into the waistband of his breeches without bothering to secure the buttons.

  “Are . . . are you leaving?” Kendall heard herself query.

  “I’ll be back,” he said briefly, dipping to retrieve his coat.

  Kendall shivered convulsively. Was it the blunt conviction of his answer that made her feel both hot and anxious and frightened? Or had she been terrified that he meant to walk out the door and leave her behind—nothing more than a score that had been settled, a debt paid? She didn’t know for sure, and the pain of that confusion was horrible and debilitating. She moistened her lips and tried to keep the fright from her voice.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To check on my men. Some of them are new recruits. I don’t want any of the young fools to wake up sleeping with a rattler.”

  He turned his back on her and strode to the door. She wanted to let him go; she wanted to believe that his leaving didn’t matter. But she couldn’t stop herself from calling him back, nor could she keep her voice from trembling no matter how coldly and defiantly she spoke. “Captain McClain!”

  He paused, hand on the door, and turned to her, his gray eyes smoky slits as he waited expectantly.

  “What do you intend to . . . to do with me now?”

  He stared at her for several seconds, his features fathomless and as relentless as granite in the pale moonglow.

  At long last he spoke, and his reply was dry and curt—and cuttingly blunt. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided.”

  Kendall winced as the door shut with a decisive snap. And as she stared after him, she felt the heat of temper and rebellion rise within her.

  A second sharp scraping of wood sounded. He hadn’t decided what to do with her yet, but apparently he had decided one thing. He didn’t trust her. And he wasn’t ready to let her go—not yet. He had firmly thrown t
he bolt into place. As thoroughly as ever, she was his prisoner.

  She stared at the door for a long time. And then she stared down at her lap, at the blanket that shrouded her nakedness. And she stared at the rough plank floor where she had lost her virginity in a storm of rage and tenderness. She became aware of her own body as she hadn’t been when his was near, dominating her mind and senses with his raw and vital masculinity. Aware of the soreness within her. Of the stabbing feeling that had returned to remind her of the tumult. Of knowledge gained, of innocence and pride lost to the storm of desire and revenge.

  And she allowed herself the luxury of bursting into tears. She cried until her eyes were drained, and then dry sobs wracked her body. And the pity of it was she did not know exactly what it was she cried for . . .

  * * *

  There were still sounds in the camp as Brent sprang down the steps of the ladder and bent his knees to land silently on the earth. He paused for a moment, his state of dark turmoil somewhat eased as he glanced toward the center of the Indian encampment and saw a number of his men in earnest if somewhat confused conversation with a group of Seminole braves. They had carried some good Kentucky bourbon aboard the Jenni-Lyn, and carried it with them when they had left the ship under light guard near the broad mouth of the river. The Rebs and the Indians had obviously been doing some imbibing.

  The men did not hear his approach until he was upon them—a very unusual occurrence among the Seminoles and his well-trained sailors. Brent scowled to cover his amusement, and barked out a command that quickly silenced all conversation and brought guilty faces quickly around to his.

  “What is this, men? A blindfolded Yank could have made mincemeat out of you!”

  The southerners scrambled hastily to their feet, offering wavering salutes. Perplexed, the Seminoles also saluted. Brent had to laugh.

  “At ease, men, but let’s call it a night, shall we? At dawn the braves come with us to the ship to carry the ammunition to the militia by the bay. And we head out for the Gulf Coast. Trouble is brewing at Fort Pickens, and we’ve been asked to reinforce the marines. It’s going to be hard sailing, and hard fighting.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain,” the men replied sheepishly and in unison. But other than to regretfully hand half-empty bottles to their Indian cronies, his men didn’t move. They stared at him as if they expected something more. Blurry eyes held curiosity, a little triumph, and envy.

  “Well?” he snapped

  Charlie McPherson stepped forward. “We were wondering about the Yankee spy, Captain. Bet she won’t be pulling no more tricks on unsuspecting men, eh, sir?”

  Brent’s lashes lowered briefly over his eyes. The question could hardly be called out of line or insubordinate. Charlie, Lloyd, Chris Jenkins, and Andrew Scott had all been on deck that night in Charleston. Chris had suffered a concussion from a Yankee gun butt; Andrew, a broken arm. Charlie had seen spots for days, and Lloyd had barely survived a saber wound through the gut.

  His men were a close-knit group. They were ardent Confederates, but most had been his crewmen before following him into the makeshift navy. They were a small but powerful dare-devil force, often managing to wreak a havoc with their smooth guerrilla tactics that an army of a thousand men could not.

  He owed them an explanation, but he paused a moment, forced to make an instant decision when his soul was still clouded with a brooding uncertainty.

  “Men, I think we misjudged the lady.”

  Brent allowed the words to settle, his eyes narrowing as he scanned their faces. The expressions were all alike—surly. Annoyance slipped into his features; he knew what they were thinking. They had all seen Kendall Moore. And they all bore that slightly pitying look that spoke more clearly than words. She was a stunning woman. Lovely enough to charm her way clear of anything, pretty enough to convince God that the devil was nothing more than a naughty boy.

  Someone snickered in the silence of the firelit night. Brent stiffened, but before he could speak, Andrew Scott did so. The young gunner stepped forward.

  “I’m ready to listen to your reasons for believing we’ve misjudged her, Captain.” He turned to the men with a laugh. “When have any of you ever seen Captain McClain taken in by the wiles of a woman? The ladies have always flocked to him like flies, but he ain’t been taken in by a single one yet!”

  A brief silence followed. Surly faces became more curious—and more envious.

  “What’s the story, Captain?” McPherson demanded.

  “It’s a simple one, men. Our little lady is a true southerner, born on the outskirts of Charleston. She was forced into a marriage that took her north, and she was desperate to return home. She used us, yes. But not maliciously.”

  Silence reigned again, feet shuffled.

  Robert Cutty spoke up next. He was a planter from south Georgia who hadn’t signed up with Brent until after President Davis pressed the Jenni-Lyn into service. “So what’s to be done with her, Captain?” Robert was a gentleman to the core; he considered the fair women of the South one of the Confederacy’s most valuable assets. “Can’t return no Charleston lady to a black-hearted Yank.”

  “But if we’re judging wrong,” Charlie said quietly, “we can’t let no Yank spy loose in any southern city. No telling what a woman like that could do. Wrap a general around her little finger and wind up with him telling her the plans of an entire regiment.”

  Suddenly everyone was arguing. Brent lifted his hand. “Come to order!”

  When silence followed instantly, he stared them down. “We leave her here. If she is a spy, she can’t cause any trouble. And if she isn’t . . . well, at least she’ll be spared the company of Union troops for the duration of the war. Red Fox has given me his word he will look out for her. And there is no finer guarantee than his word. Now disband, and get some sleep. And for Christ’s sake, sleep up on the chickee platforms. I can’t afford to lose any of you to a rattler.”

  Brent watched with his hands on his hips as his men dispersed, seeking the hospitality of the Indians. He heard the soft padding of footsteps on the earth behind him and quickly turned around.

  Jimmy Emathla, his dark eyes slightly hazed, as he was unaccustomed to liquor, addressed him.

  “What is it, Jimmy Emathla?” Brent asked, switching to the Muskogee tongue. The brave was acquiring a commendable knowledge of English, but out of respect Brent spoke in the Indian’s native language.

  “We take ten braves to carry the supplies. I lead. Ten men, and five dugouts. Will that do?”

  Brent smiled at the solemn Indian, proud in his beads and loose-fitting, multicolored cotton shirt. “That will do fine, Jimmy Emathla. We thank you. The man you will meet at the bay is Harold Armstrong. He wears no uniform. I have told him to make himself visible just as dusk comes. Do not show yourselves until you see him, until you hear the call of a mockingbird. Then you will know that all is clear.”

  Jimmy Emathla nodded his understanding, then grinned. He raised a half bottle of the bourbon high in his arm and shook it, staring at the amber liquid, fascinated. “This is potent firewater, Night Hawk. We thank you for the gifts you have always brought in friendship to our chief.”

  Brent smiled, then hesitated, wondering at the shiver of apprehension that gripped him. He accepted the bourbon bottle when Jimmy Emathla pressed it into his hands, and took a long swig, wincing somewhat at the burning sensation that heated his throat and warmed his body abruptly. He gazed at Jimmy Emathla, surprised at the words that suddenly came from his own mouth.

  “Jimmy, I am leaving the white woman with your chief. I want to ask a favor of you. Red Fox has many concerns. I would like you to watch out for her, too.”

  The Indian’s teeth flashed a white streak in the shadowed night as he smiled broadly. “I will protect your woman, Night Hawk. No man will touch her.”

  Brent inclined his head in a silent thank-you.

  The Indian suddenly laughed. “The night wanes, my white friend. You leave with the dawn. I will ke
ep you no longer, so that you may enjoy the woman while you can.”

  Brent shrugged, and raised the bourbon bottle. “I think I’ll enjoy a little firewater alone, first.” He nodded again to Jimmy Emathla, then turned to gaze into the fire. He sensed the silent padding of the Seminole brave’s feet; Indians seemed to respect a man’s need for privacy. Alone at last to sort through the tumult of his thoughts, Brent sat before the fire and stared into its warming gold and orange flames.

  He should be worrying about the war. Confederate troops were doing well in parts of the Deep South, but it was becoming more and more apparent that Florida was in trouble. The state had seized a number of forts at the onset of the war, but the Union still held the majority of key fortifications. And Union forces invaded the coastline at will. They hadn’t yet attempted any successful inland invasions, but it seemed that, as the war progressed, more Florida troops were being called to fight farther to the north. And although the Union Army generals acted like frightened old women in their campaign strategies, the United States Navy had a surprisingly competent man in the main post—Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles. He acted swiftly and intelligently. So far Brent was managing to run circles around the Union blockades. But how long would the situation last?

  He gnawed his inner lip broodingly as he stared at the fire. Jacksonville was so vulnerable to Union attack—and so close to St. Augustine and his home. Florida had relied on the support of the Confederate government in Richmond; instead, the men of Florida were fighting for southern ideals in faraway places.

  “What is it with us gallant Rebels?” he demanded softly to the flame. “We are gallant fools. We cannot even touch the ideal that we are fighting to preserve.”