Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  “I do love you, Kendall,” he said softly. “That’s why I’m always half crazy. Frightened silly of what might happen to you.”

  She leaned on an elbow and gazed at him, her eyes beautifully languorous and sultry, crystalline with the heady drug of his masterful seduction. “How long will we have?” she asked huskily.

  He winced. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night.”

  She leaned over him, and the golden satin tendrils of her hair teased his flesh. “Then let’s not waste time,” she murmured, and her lips fell to his chest, her kisses searing its expanse.

  His passion flared quickly as she showered him with her love. He gripped her shoulders and pressed her to the sand, almost angry with the intensity of ardor and emotion she could so easily evoke.

  “No—we’ll not waste time,” he responded heatedly.

  And again he loved her with a shattering passion.

  And again and again as the sun sank and the cove was filled with the golden glow of twilight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amy’s barbecue was a wonderful success. The settlers who lived on the high ground at the juncture of bay and river inlet gathered to greet their Confederate heroes. Fiddles and flutes provided a merry entertainment, and children played along the garden paths. The men discussed horses, crops, and the war; the women exchanged recipes and sighed over the pictures in a copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book, which Brent had thoughtfully confiscated from a Federal sloop in late December.

  The full moon was still out, riding high above the revelry. Like the boisterous musicians of the group, that silver orb seemed to illuminate the festivities defiantly. It was difficult to believe that the Yankees were very near, in control of the outdated Fort Dallas up the Miami River. But the men of the nearly defunct fort never bothered with the bay settlers; their numbers were insufficient, and they could never control what was still a winding wilderness on the borders of a savage swamp. They were oblivious to the fact that the seemingly worthless settlement provided a harbor for some of the greatest enemies to the Union cause.

  Kendall, too, was oblivious—to everything but the moment. She was very grateful to Amy and Harold Armstrong. They had accepted her without question; in turn, a very moral society had straightened its spine, cast its chin in the air, and decided that she would be accepted with dogged loyalty. She, poor creature, had been a victim of northern tyranny—just like the South. And it was so obvious that the dashing hero Captain McClain was in love with her. Kendall’s own love and devotion to her Reb gave her a certain respectability; it was innocently fierce and beautiful, and it gave her an aura of ethereal loveliness that no one could resist. By the time she and Brent had returned to the festivities surrounding the cabin in the woods and eaten and danced with the others for less than an hour, there wasn’t a woman left among the settlers who regarded her as anything other than the gentlest of well-born ladies.

  And Amy—blessed Amy! That staunchest of honorable and ethical ladies treated the situation with the smoothest of aplomb. When the partying had all died down and Brent’s sailors had all been invited to bed down in different homes, she had merely procured an extra pillow, stuffed it into Brent’s hands, then wished them both a pleasant night without a flicker of judgment in her rosy features.

  Harry, however, hadn’t been able to resist an amused wink.

  Kendall spent the night in the splendor of her lover’s arms. It was so good just to sleep beside him, to find sweet security and warmth in the strong shelter of his body. She slept well not only because he had exhausted her, but because her contentment was drugging and overwhelming.

  But when she awoke in the morning she was surprised and troubled to lift her head from his chest and discover that he was staring pensively at the ceiling. He knew she had awakened, yet he did not bring his gaze to meet hers.

  “I am taking you to London,” he stated firmly.

  “No!” Kendall protested, leaning her torso over his chest and placing her hands on either side of his face to bring his eyes to her. “No, Brent!” she pleaded. “That’s foolish. You say I’m in danger here, but what if the Jenni-Lyn is taken at sea? What a disaster that could prove to be! And you have to travel up the Gulf before you go to London; I know you’re not planning on taking me there. Please, Brent, don’t be foolish. You’d come back and take me over to Europe, and then I’ll never see you at all, because you’ll always be called back to fight! This is where you come, Brent. This is where I can believe that you will always return. Please, I beg of you . . .”

  “You have no protection here!” Brent declared heatedly. He stared into her eyes, as liquid and shimmeringly blue as all the vastness of ocean and sky. He felt her against him. The plush softness of her breast crushed against his chest with the passion of her plea. He threaded his fingers suddenly into her hair and pulled her against him, cradling the nape of her neck and tenderly massaging her hair and scalp. “If I take you to London,” he murmured, “we’ll be together for a long ocean voyage.”

  “And then I may never see you again,” she replied brokenly. “Brent, no one can come in and massacre a hundred white settlers. The Yanks don’t bother with anyone here. And if they did, Brent, I am becoming very self-sufficient. Red Fox—”

  “Red Fox will return to the swamp,” Brent interrupted sharply.

  “But I know how to find him!” Kendall exclaimed, tearing from his grasp to place her hands on his chest and hover over him, staring into his eyes once more. “Truly, Brent! He has taught me so much. I can probably follow the maze of rivers and canals better than most white men! And he will never be taken by surprise again, Brent. You know that as well as I do—oh, I know you do, Brent!”

  Brent frowned and a little nervous chill swept over his face like a cold wave as his smoky gray eyes narrowed to smoldering slits. “Tell me,” he murmured, his arms lacing tightly about the small of her back and jerking her abruptly closer, “do you insist on staying here because it is my place of safe harbor—or because Red Fox is close?”

  Her eyes widened incredulously, and then a subtle smile curved her lips. “Can you truly be jealous of a man who loves you as he does his own people? If so, my daring Rebel, you are a blind fool. I will freely tell you that I love him—as the brother he has been to me on your behalf.” Kendall dipped her face to his, whispering kisses against the taut corners of his mouth, teasing her own lips with the tawny brush of his mustache. Purposely she pressed herself against him, sensually brushing her breasts along his torso. She lifted herself once more, her palms firmly pressed against his shoulders as she shook him slightly. “I love you, Brent. Wherever I am, I am alone without you. Yet when I live with the belief that I will see you again, I can go through the days and months with a certain courage and contentment. Please don’t mistrust the love that is all I can give you—and don’t doubt a friendship that is both noble and pure.”

  Heavy lids with their thick golden lashes fell over his eyes, then rose once more. His eyes appeared charcoal as he searched out her features, then tenderly grazed her cheek with his knuckle. “You are beautiful, Kendall,” he murmured. He didn’t need to say more; his understanding was given her by the proud warmth in his eyes and in the reverence of his touch. Kendall fell against him, relishing his powerful embrace. Yet she felt she could not give enough. She nipped the tendons of his shoulder, then teased the light marks of her gentle bite with the tip of her tongue.

  “It is you,” she murmured, “that I love.” Shimmying down his length, she continued to bathe him with her kisses, her mutterings becoming incoherent as his body’s response to her touch grew heatedly evident and ignited a frenzied excitement within her.

  “It is you that I need . . . you that I want . . .”

  She was not afraid to touch him intimately, to glory in the sexual beauty of her love. Nor was she alarmed when he moved and his hands closed powerfully around her waist, lifting her and bringing her on top of him once more. Pride as pure as the light of the sun illuminated her ey
es to glistening pools of liquid enchantment as they met his. Her love made each subtle movement, every soft breath, an enticing enchantment.

  He would love her, Brent thought, far beyond the realm of death.

  He shuddered suddenly, thinking that their time together was brief, and so very precious. It must be cherished to the fullest extent.

  He smiled, his eyes growing deceptively slumberous.

  And then he brought them together with an explosive thrust of passion, bringing them both quickly to a heated crest of quivering pleasure. And when he held his well-bred tempest in his arms in the aftermath of that wild rage of pleasure, he could not help but touch her again, running his fingers leisurely along her back . . .

  Suddenly he stiffened rigidly and bolted up in the bed, twisting her to lie flat on her stomach so abruptly that she emitted a startled cry. Brent ignored her and ran a single finger over the faded welts on her back.

  The marks were already pale, the swelling barely perceptible when probed, he was amazed that it had taken him until now to see them. But he had been so fevered yesterday simply by seeing her, knowing she was safe, holding her in his arms . . .

  His desire had drugged his mind, but now that he had seen the telltale lines that marred the pure beauty of her flesh, he was livid with rage. He had never felt such an intense hatred in his life.

  “He did that to you?” Brent’s voice was so low and tense that Kendall started shivering.

  “It’s over, Brent,” she said softly

  But it wasn’t. She knew that as he continued to graze his fingers along her shoulderblades and spine.

  “I will never rest while that man is alive.”

  The raw conviction of the threat set her shivering again, but now Brent didn’t seem to notice.

  “Brent, please, don’t do anything rash.”

  “I never do anything rash,” he told her quietly. She was sure that he didn’t. She was equally sure that he would carefully plot and plan and that one day he would search out John Moore.

  But somehow the thought left a cold feeling within her heart. There was so much hatred in the low, heated tone of Brent’s voice, a passionate fury barely bridled. And she was frightened somehow of the extent of that hatred. She despised John Moore; hated him herself with a true intensity. But more than anything, she wanted to forget him. He had no place here. He was coming between her and Brent, and she couldn’t bear that. Hate could cloud and overwhelm the simple beauty of the love they had been granted just moments to share.

  “Brent?” she murmured.

  “What?” Even the question was harsh.

  “Please, Brent—please don’t let him come between us now. Please?”

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, lacing his fingers beneath his head,

  “Brent?” she pleaded.

  His eyes at last met hers. “I am going to find him, Kendall. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow. But someday. I will find him. And he will pay for Apolka and Emathla and Red Fox’s son and all the innocents who died because of his brutal cruelty. And he will pay for all that he has inflicted upon you.”

  Kendall buried her head against his shoulder, fighting tears. She could not deny that John deserved punishment. Yet for some strange reason, she didn’t want Brent to kill him.

  She knew that Brent killed men. A cannon went off—and men died. But that was warfare. The tragedy of battle could never be good, yet it existed because of men’s beliefs, and she was quite certain that few soldiers killed with either gladness or hatred in their hearts. Warfare could be so impersonal. Men marching from one line to kill the men who held another line. And the blood of the fallen was the unfortunate mark of victory.

  Yet if Brent were to find John Moore, death would not be impersonal. John’s death would be murder.

  And she wondered what it would do to the soul of the man she loved. A man raised to uphold a strict code of honor . . .

  “Brent,” she whispered, “please, please, come back to me. Don’t let him win, don’t let him create this barrier between us now. It is taking you away from me and it is too soon that you will truly have to leave me.”

  He watched her, and the glitter of murderous revenge at last left his eyes. “Come here, darlin’,” he murmured, ruffling her hair and drawing her close. He squeezed her tightly to him for a moment, and she felt the tension slowly ebb from his muscles. It was still there, she was certain, locked deep within him. But he did not intend to allow it to intrude upon the time that was theirs.

  “I already wasted half an afternoon being jealous of a redskinned ‘savage’ who is truly one of my best friends. Foolish, huh?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then what about Deland?” he demanded with feigned aggravation.

  “Travis?” she inquired innocently.

  “Travis—with his message of love.”

  She grew suddenly serious. “I love Travis, too. As a very dear friend. He is a good man, Brent. He is made of heart and soul, and many times his kindness made my life bearable.”

  He did not taunt her again, but watched her instead with gentle amusement. He kissed her forehead.

  “It’s a pity the man is dressed in blue. He would have made a fine Rebel! Seriously, my love, I would not want you to deny the devotion you give Red Fox or Deland. Your passion and loyalty are part of the lovely web that has entirely entranced me. I will just have to adapt to the fact that the woman I love draws adoration just as flowers draw bees. I suppose I shall manage.” Grinning ruefully, he kissed the tip of her nose.

  It would not be possible, Kendall was certain, to know greater joy or happiness than she did at that moment in his arms.

  * * *

  They spent the day together, taking the Armstrongs’ Arabian fillies for windswept races along the beach. Brent taught her the trails through the pines and foliage. He showed her secluded beaches, and he teased her until she stripped and bolted into the warm spring water along with him, enjoying the surf and sand and golden sun. Paradise surrounded them, and paradise was within them. But as the glory of the sun’s gold extended to crimson then faded to mauve, they grew quiet and solemn. Time was their enemy, slipping away too quickly. Only the night hours remained for them. And only gnawing hunger and the promise of those last hours together sent them back to the Armstrongs’ cabin.

  They were startled to find another party in progress. An amused Harry informed them that they had just missed a wedding.

  Lloyd had decided to marry up with the preacher’s girl—and the preacher had given in to Lloyd’s determination. Where he had first scoffed at a sailor for a son-in-law, he had come around to decide that an officer aboard the famous Jenni-Lyn was quite a catch. Lloyd had promised that after the war was over he would put his energies into making a port of the harbor in the bay.

  Brent watched Kendall as she received the news. He watched her as she offered joyous and enthusiastic congratulations to the newly married pair. Even as he met and congratulated his sailor himself, he watched her from the corner of his eye, a worried frown at last furrowing his brow.

  Kendall had eaten; she had insisted on helping Amy clean up along with the other women. And then she had quietly and discreetly disappeared into the cabin.

  Excusing himself from his celebrating crew, Brent strode after her. The cabin’s parlor was empty; he stalked toward the small bedroom Kendall had been given and pushed open the door without knocking.

  She lay on her back, staring blankly upward with her hair a curling web of disarray that aureoled her fair features. Her hands were folded over her waist; her skirts fell gracefully about her.

  Silent tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Kendall!”

  He approached her quickly and sat at her side, scooping her into his embrace. She didn’t resist him, but locked her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder.

  “What is it, my love?” he demanded gently.

  “Oh, Brent! I’m so happy for them. Truly
I am.”

  “You don’t sound very happy,” he remarked dryly, trying to draw a chuckle from her. She cried harder.

  “Kendall, please, sweetheart, what is it?”

  “Oh, Brent! I can never marry you! We can never be together as we should be. A couple before God and man. And it didn’t hurt so badly when I could ignore it, but now—”

  “Kendall! Ssshh. Darlin’, don’t cry like this, please.” It didn’t occur to him that he hadn’t ever mentioned marriage; what lay between them had become so deep that such a commitment would have been assumed under normal circumstances.

  He opened his mouth to tell her that he didn’t intend for John Moore to still be breathing when the war was over. Then he closed it abruptly. He knew that she worried feverishly on that score. And he didn’t believe it was because she feared John might be the victor in a hand-to-hand combat—or because she could possibly mourn her husband for a moment.

  It was something far more serious than that. Something that he didn’t quite understand, but intended to respect—verbally, at least.

  “Kendall . . .” He smoothed back her hair with all the love and tenderness in him. “Kendall, the war will end. And you will be able to get a divorce.”

  She stiffened suddenly in his arms, and her words were a whisper. “What . . . what if the Yankees should win?”

  It was a question that most southerners wouldn’t think of breathing in the spring of 1862. Only a few military men and civilians with foresight—men well aware that the blockade would grow tighter and tighter and that the South couldn’t produce the arms it would need to fight—even gave such a supposition any grave thought.

  Brent wanted to shout that the Confederates couldn’t possibly lose the war. Day after day he waged battle, watched men die, heard the statistics as the death toll rose.

  Until this moment, he hadn’t realized that he couldn’t accept the fact that it might all be for nothing.