Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  Lolly and the baby arrived on a windy March day. Kendall learned that her mother had died at the end of January.

  She couldn’t really feel pain. She had been numb for so long. And perhaps it was for the best. Her mother would not have had the strength to see the South crumble about her.

  Amy Armstrong was delighted with the baby. She cared for little Eugenia often, which was good for Eugenia, because Lolly seemed to be as numb as Kendall. Harry helped her fix up an old deserted cabin to the rear of his property, and Lolly spent most of her time there, polite, but oblivious to all that went on around her. She kept almost completely to herself.

  Telegraph and railway ties were broken throughout the South. News came to them infrequently and sporadically. Yet the sense of doom was with them. When Charlie sailed out again at the end of March, Kendall wondered if she would ever see him again.

  Spring came. Yet despite its lush beauty, despite the blue clarity of the skies, the days passed in somber gray.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Spring, 1865

  Kendall spent as much time as she could at the cove.

  She knew as time passed that the others pitied her and thought that she was a fool to keep waiting.

  But life without hope would be too bleak to tolerate. As the months drifted by, she knew the chance Brent was alive grew slimmer and slimmer; in her heart, however, she still believed that he was indomitable—and alive.

  And that he would come back to her.

  She tried to behave rationally. She worked with Amy in the garden, and she sewed and mended and took over much of the housework. But she knew that Amy worried about her; as much as Amy had loved Brent, she believed that he was dead and that it wasn’t good for Kendall to live on hope and cling to the past. Lolly had little to say one way or another; she spent long hours cleaning the cabin Harry had given her and trying to make it pleasant for herself and her baby.

  Only Red Fox seemed to understand. Kendall knew that he came to the cove sometimes and just watched her before slipping silently away. She was touched by his concern—and grateful for his understanding. Sometimes he asked her to come into the Glades with him, and she always went along, glad that he offered no lectures or opinions on the solitude she so often sought. Red Fox had loved Brent as a blood brother; when she was with him, she felt close to Brent. Since that time aboard the Jenni-Lyn, they hadn’t touched each other, but their bond of friendship had been too strong to break.

  And no matter what anyone said, she would keep waiting.

  With her chin resting on her knuckles and her hands on her knees, she sat and stared broodingly out at the sea. April was a pretty month. A pleasant breeze drifted by her while a brilliant sun dazzled the water. The surf seemed to lull away the pain in her heart with its continual flow. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds around her, the continual surge and ebb of the water, the rustle of the palm leaves, an occasional flutter of birds’ wings.

  Then she sensed something. She didn’t actually hear it; she simply perceived a movement. And she smiled, opening her eyes and staring out to sea again. “Red Fox, you needn’t watch me. You know me well enough to realize that I’m not going to jump into the water and drown myself!”

  There was no reply, and she felt strange little prickles along her spine. Forewarned by her sixth sense, Kendall slowly turned her head, and her heart seemed to cease its beating, then began to pound furiously.

  She should have been stunned, but she wasn’t. She had always believed that he lived . . . and that he would come to her. Here. At the cove.

  And he was there, really there. In tattered gray with gold trim; alive; as tall and broad and handsomely bronzed as ever. His eyes were like smoke; he merely stared without speech. The naked pain and longing in the wistful gray of his eyes was far more eloquent than any words he might say.

  “Brent . . .” she whispered, and then she was on her feet, but still she had to stare at him, assure herself that he was there. And then she was running to him, flinging her arms about him, touching him, kissing him; and crying with joy at the sight of him.

  For a long while they held each other, and Kendall felt that life was incredibly good. He was solid substance, warm flesh and blood, all the strength in the world as he held her. She felt the gentle spring breeze rustle about them, she felt the heat of the sun, and, caressing them with sound, she heard the lulling song of the surf. For long, long moments they didn’t speak, but stood locked, savoring their embrace, the touch of tenderness and love.

  At last Kendall pulled away, wiping tears from her cheeks as she challenged him. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you write? I was half insane after the Wilderness Campaign—”

  “I did send you a message,” he told her, studying her features and touching the soft wings of hair that fell over her forehead. “But apparently, too many telegraph wires were down. Nothing got through.”

  “What happened? Where have you been?”

  He shrugged, enveloping her once more. “I was wounded and caught in the fire. I lay there for days, long enough to acquire a ghastly fever. But a woman found me and took me to her home. She told me later that I was delirious for a long time, and then too weak to do more than mutter incoherently. I wasn’t able to stand until August, and I didn’t get back to Richmond until November. The first thing I did was try to send you a message, but Charlie just told me that it never reached you.”

  Kendall buried her face against the warm flesh of his neck. “It doesn’t matter now . . . You’re here. And I always knew you would come, Brent . . .” Her voice trailed away as she felt him stiffen, and she pulled back to meet his eyes with fear and confusion. “What is it, Brent? What—”

  “Kendall, we’re still at war.”

  She stared at him for a moment incredulously, then broke from his hold, backing away. “No! You’re not leaving again! Brent, the war is over! We don’t get much news here, and what we do get is old. But, Brent, any fool can see that it is all over. Sherman has crushed Georgia! Atlanta was burned. Columbia was burned. It’s over! Lee’s army is all but wiped out.”

  “Don’t tell me about Lee’s army!” Brent exclaimed. “I just left them—and they’re still fighting. And Kirby-Smith is still fighting in the West! Kendall, it’s more important than ever that supplies get through to those men!”

  “No!” Kendall screamed, “I will not let you go again! And what do you think you’re going to sail in? Charlie has taken the Jenni-Lyn to the Bahamas.”

  “I came here in the Rebel’s Pride,” he said softly. Kendall stared at him in disbelief. The ship she had taken—her ship—was going to take him away.

  “No!” she shouted again, and suddenly she was racing back across the sand, hurling herself against him, beating her fists furiously against his broad chest. “No! The Confederacy has taken all that it is going to take from me! You are not leaving. You are not!”

  He caught her fists and secured them against the small of her back, crushing her feminine form to his, but not stilling her wild struggles. “Kendall, I came back to be with the woman I love, not to be ordered about by a shrill harpy!”

  “Why? You’ve been ordering me about for over four years!” Kendall raged, half insane as she fought him. This was the last straw. She had lost him one too many times. She could not bear to lose him again. She would shatter into a thousand pieces. “No, no, No!” she shrieked, and her fury was so great that she broke his hold on her and pummeled him with her fists once more.

  “Kendall! Stop it!” he demanded. He lunged for her, again securing her wrists and this time catching her ankle with his booted foot to send her thudding to the sand, breathless. Lithely he cast his own weight over her and used the pressure of his hips and the tangle of his thighs to subdue her writhing form as he stretched her arms high above her head.

  “Kendall, if I don’t follow orders, I’ll be guilty of desertion. And if we don’t win this war, there will be nothing left for us. As far as I know, John Moore is still
alive and well. If the Yankees win, it will be next to impossible to find a court that will give you a divorce. Kendall, listen to me—our fate is cast with the Confederacy.”

  “I don’t care if I ever get a divorce!” Kendall raged. “It will do me no good if you’re dead. Brent, please! We can sail away. We can find refuge in England or in the Bahamas.”

  “Kendall, neither of us can just sail away, and you know it!”

  “I know nothing of the kind!” Tears stung her eyes, and to hide them, she jerked furiously against his grasp, trying to throw him aside and elude him. All she managed to do was tear the top two buttons off her gown and expose the mounds of her breasts beneath. She felt his body quicken and stiffen, and she saw the smolder she knew so well in his eyes.

  Moments ago she had been deliriously happy to see him. She would gladly have torn off her clothing to welcome his touch. She had never forgotten the splendor of their passion. Time indeed played tricks on desire. All the cravings, all the hungers held dormant rushed to life at his mere presence, and even now she knew her body would betray all her determination to impose her will on him.

  She inhaled sharply. “Brent, don’t you dare—”

  He more than dared. His mouth claimed hers with a voracious hunger, masterfully stripping away her protests and denials. His force was that of a storm, tempestuous winds defying all obstacles. His tongue sought the nectar of her mouth, plundering and raking, brutally demanding a response.

  She held out against him as long as she could, until her breath was gone and her mind swept clear by the force of the raging storm. Her own desires were too strong to deny; the fires within her rose to clash and then meld with his, and she returned his kiss with an angry passion of her own, bitter with the knowledge that she could truly deny him nothing.

  She felt his hand delve into the split of her gown. His palm grazed her breast, cupping and cradling it, the skin of his hand feeling rough and provocative on her nipple. The liquid heat began a stormy surge through her, and she trembled, angry but responsive to his touch. She lowered her eyes as he lifted her to tear away the offending gown, his fingers rough and clumsy in their trembling. And then she felt the sand against her naked back as he pulled away her pantalettes. She heard his sharp intake of breath at the sight of her. Time and the bay had been good to her. Her breasts had regained their full, lush curves, as had her hips, while her waist still invited the span of a man’s broad hands.

  She opened her eyes to his as he began to strip away his own clothing. But when he at last stood naked over her, she closed them once more as a dizziness assailed her. He was as lean and superbly sinewed as a tiger, magnificently broad but trim, his sexuality alive and as hard as his relentless steel-gray eyes.

  She loved him, adored him, needed him—and wanted him . . . Forever. If he died, there would be no meaning to life. She had already discovered that during the long months of waiting.

  “No!” she yelled suddenly, and sprang to her feet.

  “What the damn hell—” he began, reaching for her, but she was too quick. She raced past him, naked, into the brush.

  “Kendall!” he shouted with incredulous anger.

  She raced through the tangle of sea grapes and palms. But he was too fleet for her. He caught hold of her long hair and jerked her to a halt, then spun her around and crushed her to his naked chest.

  “Kendall!”

  She kicked and lashed at him, driven by bitterness and frenzy. But his arms locked around her, and together they fell down on a fragrant pile of leaves. She tossed her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I will not let you die, I will not—”

  “Kendall, I will not die!”

  “Don’t. Please, Brent, don’t! I’ve been trying so hard to learn to live without you. Now you’re here, just to leave again. I lived on hope alone. Oh, God, I cannot bear to lose you again. I cannot!”

  But suddenly, she could protest no longer. Her arms locked around his neck, and she sought his lips with a fiery passion. Her fingers tangled tightly into his hair; she eluded his lips to press her mouth against his shoulder as she clung to him. She had lied to him; she had never, ever begun to learn to live without him, and she wanted him now, with the sun beating down on them and the leaves caressing their naked flesh. She wanted all of him whenever she could have him, and she would cling to him as long as she could.

  “Brent . . .”

  “Kendall, oh, sweet Lord, Kendall. I love you. I love you. I’ve dreamed of you night and day, lived to hold you again, touch you . . . love you.”

  She felt his knees part her thighs with a firm and agile movement, felt his hands on her as he lifted her to meet his probing thrust. And she cried out her need as the sun seemed to shatter and explode within her, lifting her to the tempest of the wind, the beauty of the storm. His name mingled with her bitter tears as the waves of passion engulfed them in wave after shuddering wave. She sensed everything, the spring air, the caress of the leaves beneath them, the heat of the sun bringing them to a flaring fire of brilliant gold. She knew the masculine scent of him, the wonderful brush of his hard flesh against hers, the muscles of his thighs, the rough hair of his beard, the coarse tendrils on his chest rubbing against her breasts, the sure and vitally strong life of him within her, taking her, filling her, threatening to tear her asunder, yet beautiful all the while. And then she felt that beauty within her soar and crest and fill her with a new liquid heat; one her body answered in rapturous response.

  The world slowly ceased to spin. Again she was aware of the sky, the earth, the leaves that were their bed. He shifted his weight, and his fingers tenderly grazed her cheek, but she brushed them away. She had needed him so desperately. But he was going to leave again.

  “Leave me,” she whispered, shielding her eyes with her arm.

  “Kendall, please be sensible.”

  “I am being sensible!” Again she sprang to her feet—and again he was right behind her. But when he would have touched her, she shook away his hand. “I’m not going to run anywhere naked; I’m going to get my clothing. And be sensible.”

  “Damn you, Kendall! Go! But I’m not leaving right away! I’ve got three days.”

  “I don’t care if you’ve got four weeks!”

  “You should take a long, cooling swim!” he shouted after her. “And don’t think you can run away. We’re going to have this out tonight!”

  Kendall found her clothes and donned them quickly. She glanced at the gray trousers, and the gray frock coat. At the tall black boots.

  Furiously she grabbed the frock coat and flung it out to sea. The tide brought it back, and she burst into tears. Then she turned away and crept through the brush to avoid the trail—and Brent. She didn’t return to Amy’s, but walked aimlessly for hours. She wanted to think, but she felt so numb. When she did begin to think, her head started to pound with a vengeance.

  She had to prevent him from leaving.

  The sentence repeated itself in her mind time and time again as she walked. When she found herself at the mouth of the river, she sat on the sand and mud bank and stared listlessly at the water. The Rebel’s Pride lay in the river’s mouth, and she wondered if she could find a way to scuttle the ship. She narrowed her eyes and stared at it, then stared idly out at the bay beyond the mouth of the river.

  Suddenly her heart pounded viciously within her chest. There was another ship on the horizon, bearing quickly down on them. And it was flying the Stars and Stripes.

  She leapt to her feet, blinking furiously. The ship remained on the horizon. Dumbly she stared at it a moment longer. Then she turned to flee, racing as fast as she could, panting in her hurry to reach Amy’s.

  Amy was calmly working in the garden. She looked up as Kendall approached, dazzling happiness in her eyes. “Kendall, isn’t it wonderful? You were right all along about Brent! But where is he?”

  Kendall stopped short. “He isn’t here?”

  “No, he went to look for you.”

  “Oh, God, Amy! T
here’s a Federal ship heading right for us!”

  Amy dropped a handful of flowers. “Oh, Lord! Kendall, Take the rowboat up the river and into the swamp. You must hide!”

  “I can’t—not unless I know where Brent is.”

  “Brent will be fine—unless he has to worry about you. We didn’t want to tell you before, but Harry heard that your husband was back at Fort Taylor. He could be looking for you. You have to get out of here, quickly!”

  Kendall felt the world spin about her; the daylight seemed to go black. “John . . .”

  Amy gave her a push. “Go, Kendall!”

  “Wait! I have to get Lolly and the baby. God only knows what he would do to them to spite me.”

  “Get to the boat, Kendall. I’ll get Lolly and the baby. Find a place to hide, Kendall. You know the swamp. And don’t come out until one of us comes for you.”

  “But the Yankees—”

  “Won’t hurt us, dear. We’ve nothing they could possibly want. Hurry into the house and get provisions. Then run for that boat. I’ll get your sister.”

  Kendall sank her teeth into her lower lip, drawing blood. She didn’t want to go without Brent, but Amy was right. If he believed her safe, he would be far less likely to jeopardize his own life. Amy was already running to warn Lolly. Kendall raced into the cabin, hurriedly filled a tin with fresh water, and stuffed bread and fruit and smoked meat into a satchel she fashioned from a dish towel. All the while she prayed that Brent would appear, but when he didn’t, she knew she was out of time.

  She raced back to the river and dropped her satchel into the rowboat. A second later, she saw her sister’s blond head approaching her through the trees. Then Lolly was hopping into the rowboat, her baby Eugenia howling at her mother’s rough treatment. Lolly’s eyes met Kendall’s without reproach, and Kendall strenuously began to row toward the swamp.