And One Wore Gray

by Heather Graham

  “WE CANNOT DO BATTLE.”

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Michaelson. I’m afraid that we must. You are one Yankee to best me beyond a doubt, for I could not leave this room were I threatened with Hell’s damnation itself!”

  Flashes of desire, like melting stars in the sky, caught fire and danced all through her.

  “Callie!”

  Her name on his lips was a caress. He stood above her once again, and still he had not touched her.

  “Think!” she charged herself to say once again. “I am the enemy! Vile, fearsome—”

  “Never, never vile!”

  She wanted him. Wanted him to come closer. And touch her.

  “Really. You have to go,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he said, and made no attempt to leave.

  Just when she thought she would scream with the waiting, with the anguish, with the denial, with the desire, she felt his lips at the back of her neck….

  AND ONE WORE GRAY

  CRITICAL RAVES FOR

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  ONE WORE BLUE

  “A stunning achievement … Heather Graham does for Harpers Ferry what Margaret Mitchell did for Atlanta. Without losing an ounce of sizzling sexual tension or intense emotions, or one moment of romance, this author brilliantly entwines historical details within the framework of a glorious love story.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Ms. Graham fills this book with deep emotions and excellent characters that bury themselves so deeply in our hearts we’ll remember them always.”

  —Rendezvous

  “Graham paints a vivid and detailed picture … she is an incredible storyteller, a weaver of words.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “A FIVE-STAR RATING! … A well-written plot, excellent characters and scenes … Graham creates a vivid tapestry with her words.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  THE VIKING’S WOMAN

  “Heather Graham is a writer of incredible talent. Once again, she brings to life a sometimes violent but always intriguing era of romance and adventure.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Passionate love scenes, action and intrigue combine to make a fast-paced, well-developed story which artfully blends historical fact with romantic fiction.”

  —Rendezvous

  SWEET SAVAGE EDEN

  “SWEET SAVAGE EDEN IS A KEEPER! An engrossing, highly sensual nonstop read. You’ll be captivated by the engaging characters and the fascinating portrait of early colonial life. Heather Graham never disappoints her readers. She delivers high quality historical romance with three-dimensional characters and a sizzling love story that touches the heart.”

  —Romantic Times

  A PIRATE’S PLEASURE

  “The sexual tension in A Pirate’s Pleasure sizzles like the hottest summer sun. Heather Graham’s sense of humor sparkles throughout this delightful and well-researched tale … just one more shining example of why Ms. Graham is a best-selling author. She continually gives us hours of reading pleasure.”

  —Romantic Times

  LOVE NOT A REBEL

  “A very, very hot, fast-paced, ‘battle of wills’ love story that is guaranteed to thrill Heather Graham’s legion of fans … enough historical details, colorful escapades, biting repartee, and steamy sexual tension to keep you glued to the pages.”

  —Romantic Times

  DEVIL’S MISTRESS

  “The familiar and charged role of the unwilling bride showcases Graham’s talents for characterization and romantic tension.”

  —Daily News (New York)

  “This book may become a minor classic.”

  —Romantic Times

  “One of the most exciting romances ever read.”

  —Romance Readers Quarterly

  Dell Books by Heather Graham

  SWEET SAVAGE EDEN

  A PIRATE’S PLEASURE

  LOVE NOT A REBEL

  DEVIL’S MISTRESS

  EVERY TIME I LOVE YOU

  GOLDEN SURRENDER

  THE VIKING’S WOMAN

  ONE WORE BLUE

  AND ONE WORE GRAY

  AND ONE RODE WEST

  LORD OF THE WOLVES

  SPIRIT OF THE SEASON

  RUNAWAY

  Dedication

  As this is a sequel, I would like to dedicate it to those same people who were so helpful and kind when I began my imaginings for One Wore Blue—Mr. and Mrs. Stan Haddan, Shirley Dougherty, Dixie, and the many wonderful people of Harpers Ferry and Bolivar, West Virginia. Also, the National Park Service guides who have been so helpful over the years, very especially those at Gettysburg, Harpers Ferry, and Sharpsburg.

  As this April marks my tenth anniversary with Dell Publishing, I would also like to dedicate this book to some of the very wonderful people there—to my editor, Damans Rowland, who is simply wonderful in all things. To Carole Baron, for being both an incredible businesswoman and a more incredible human being. To Leslie, Tina, Jackie, and Monica, and to extraordinary art and marketing departments. To Barry Porter—who will always be “Mr. Romance.” To Michael Terry and Reid Boyd—for having been there the longest! To Sally and Marty, thank you—actually, Toto, that was Kansas!

  And very especially to Mr. Roy Carpenter, for being such a wonderful salesman, and fine gentleman.

  And last, but never, never least! To Kathryn Falk on the tenth anniversary of Romantic Times! Congratulations, and thank you, thank you, to Kathryn, Melinda, Kathe, Mark, Michael, Carol, and everyone at R.T.

  ———— Prologue ————

  CALLIE

  July 4, 1863

  Near Sharpsburg

  Maryland

  Beneath the light of a lowering sun, sometimes brilliant and sometimes soft, the woman at the well beside the whitewashed farm house seemed like a breath of beauty. Her hair, a deep rich auburn, caught the light. At times it shimmered a russet, and at times it was softer, deeper, like the warm sable coloring of a mink. It was long and free, and cascaded around her shoulders like a fall, framing a face of near perfect loveliness with its wide-set gray eyes, fine high cheekbones, and full, beautifully shaped mouth. A hint of sorrow touched the curve of her lip, and rose to haunt her eyes, but that very sorrow seemed to add to her beauty. Against the ending light of the day, she was a reminder of all things that had once been fine and beautiful, just like an angel, a small glimpse of heaven.

  She stood there clean and fragrant, and though simply dressed, she seemed an incongruous bit of elegance as she watched and waited while they came.

  And come, they did. Endlessly.

  Like a long slow, undulating snake, they came, hundreds of men, thousands of men, the butternut and gray of their tattered uniforms as dismal as the terrible miasma of defeat that seemed to hover about them. They came on horses, and they came on foot. They came with their endless wagon train that stretched, one weary soldier had told Callie, for nigh onto seventeen miles.

  They were the enemy.

  But that mattered little as she watched these men now, for she was surely in no danger from them.

  There was only one rebel who could frighten her, she thought fleetingly. Frighten her, excite her, and tear at her heart. That rebel would not be passing by. He could not be passing by now, for he had not fought in the battle. The war had ended for him. He awaited its conclusion behind the walls and bars of Old Capitol Prison.

  If he were free, she thought, she would not be standing here, by the well, watching this dreadful retreat. If there had been any chance of his being among these wretches, she would have run far away long before now. She would have never dared to stay here, offering cool sips of water to his defeated countrymen.

  He would no longer be the enemy just because he wore a
different color. He would be the enemy because he would seek her out with cold fury, with a vengeance that had had endless nights to simmer and brew in the depths of his heart.

  It was her fault that he lived within those walls and behind those bars and fences while his beloved South faced this defeat.

  If he were free, it would not matter if she tried to run or hide. He had told her he would come for her and that there would be nowhere for her to run.

  She shivered fiercely, her fingers tightening around the ladle she dipped into the deep bucket of sweet cool well water for each of the poor wretches who strayed from the great wagon train to come her way.

  He had sworn that he would come back for her. She could still hear his voice, hear the deep, shattering fury in what he thought had been her betrayal.

  Even if these men marching by were the enemy, they brought nothing but pity to her heart. Their faces, young and old, handsome and homely, grimed with sweat and mud and blood, bore signs of exhaustion that went far beyond anything physical. Their anguish and misery showed in their eyes, which were like the mirrors of their souls.

  They were retreating.

  It was summer, and summer rain had come, turning the rich and fertile earth to mud. By afternoon, the summer heat had lessened, a gentle breeze was stirring, and it seemed absurd that these ragged and torn men, limping, clinging to one another, bandaged, bruised, bloody and broken, could walk over earth so beautiful and green and splendid in its cloak of summer.

  The great winding snakelike wagon train itself had not come close to Callie’s farmhouse. Stragglers wandered by. Infantry troops, mostly.

  It was the Fourth of July, and on this particular Fourth of July, the citizens of the North were at long last jubilant. Over the last few days, around a sleepy little Pennsylvania town called Gettysburg, the Union forces had finally managed to give the Confederates a fair licking. Indeed, the great and invincible General Robert E. Lee, the Southern commander who had earned a place in legend by running the Union troops into the ground in such cities as Chancellorsville and Fredericksburg and numerous others, had invaded the North.

  And he had been thrust back.

  “It were over shoes, mum,” a Tennessee fellow had told her, gratefully accepting the cool dipper of water. He was a man of medium height and medium weight with thick dark hair on his head and a full, overgrown beard and mustache. He wasn’t wearing much of a uniform, just worn mustard-colored trousers and a bleached cotton shirt. His bedroll and few belongings were tied around his chest, his worn hat sported several bullet holes. “We were on our way to attack Harrisburg, but we needed shoes. Someone said there were shoes aplenty in Gettysburg, and first thing you know, on the first of July, there’s a skirmish. Strange. Then all the southern forces were moving in from the North, and all the northern forces were moving in from the South. And by nightfall on the third of July …” His voice trailed away. “I ain’t never seen so many dead men. Never.” He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into the bottom of the ladle, and his gaze seemed hopeless.

  “Maybe it means that the war will be over soon,” Callie said softly.

  He looked up at her again. Reaching out suddenly, he touched a stray wisp of her hair. She jumped back and he quickly apologized. “Sorry, ma’am. You standing here being so kind and all, I don’t mean no disrespect. It’s just that you’re nigh onto one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and it’s just making me think awfully hard of home. Your hair’s just as soft as silk. Your face is an angel’s. And it’s just been so long … well, thank you, ma’am. I’ve got to keep on moving. Maybe I will get home soon enough.” He handed her the dipper and started walking again. He paused and looked back. “I don’t expect the war will be over any too soon. Your general in charge—Meade is his name these days, I think—he should have followed after us. He should have come now, while we’re hurt and wounded. Even an old wolf knows to go after a lame deer. But Meade ain’t following. Give our General Bobby Lee a chance, and he runs with it. No, the war ain’t going to end too soon. You take care, ma’am. You take great care.”

  “You too!” she called after him. He nodded, smiled sadly, and was gone.

  The next man who passed her by had a greater story of woe.

  “Ma’am, I am lucky, I am, to be alive. I was held back ‘cause of this lame foot of mine here, took a bullet the first day. Comes July third, and General Lee asks us can we break the Union line at the stone wall. General George Pickett is given the order. Ma’am, there ain’t another man in my company, hell, maybe in my whole brigade, left alive. Thousands died in minutes.” He shook his head, and seemed lost. “Thousands,” he repeated. He drank from the dipper, and his hands, covered in the tattered and dirty remnants of his gloves, shook. He handed her back the dipper. “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you most kindly, ma’am.”

  He, too, moved on.

  The day passed. The long, winding wagon train of Lee’s defeated troops continued to weave its way over the Maryland countryside. Even though Callie was appalled by the stories told her by each weary man, she still held her ground. She already knew something of the horror of the battlefield, for less than a year ago, the battle had come here. Men in blue and in butternut and gray had died upon this very earth.

  And he had come to her….

  She dared not think of him. Not today.

  She lingered by the well, but toward the late afternoon Jared began to cry, and she went into the house to tend to him.

  He slept again, and she returned to the well, entranced by the flow of time.

  Dusk came. And still the men continued to trickle by. She heard about strange places where battle had raged. Little Roundtop, Big Roundtop, Devil’s Den. All places where men had fought valiantly.

  Darkness fell. Since all who had passed her way had been on foot, Callie was surprised to hear the sound of horses’ hooves. A curious spiraling of unease swept down her spine, then she breathed more lightly as she saw a young blond horseman approach. He dismounted from his skinny roan horse and walked her way, thanking her even before he accepted the dipper she offered out to him.

  “There is a God in heaven! After all that I have seen, still I have here to greet me the beauty of the very angels! Thank you, ma’am,” he told her, and she smiled even as she trembled, for in his way, he reminded her of another horseman.

  “I can offer you nothing but water,” she said. “Both armies have been through here, confiscating almost everything that resembles food.”

  “I gratefully accept your water,” he told her. He took a sip and pushed back his hat. It was a gray felt cavalry hat, rolled up at the brim.

  It, too, brought back memories. “Are you a southern sympathizer, ma’am?”

  Callie shook her head, meeting his warm brown eyes levelly. “No, sir. I believe in the sanctity of the Union. But more than anything these days, I just wish that the war would be over.”

  “Amen!” the cavalryman muttered. He leaned against the well. “With many more battles like this one …” He shrugged. “Ma’am, it was horror. A pure horror. Master Lee was fighting a major one for the first time without Stonewall Jackson at his side. And for once, Jeb Stuart had us cavalry just too far in advance to be giving Lee the communication he needed.” He sighed and dusted off his hat. “We wound up engaged in a match with a Union General, George Custer. Can you beat that? Heck, my brother knew Custer at West Point. He came in just about last in his class, but he managed to hold us up when he needed to. ‘Course, he didn’t stop us. Not my company. I’ve been with Colonel Cameron since the beginning, and nothing stops him. Not even death I daresay, because Cameron just plain refuses to die. Still—”

  “Cameron?” Callie breathed, interrupting him.

  The cavalryman started, arching a brow at her. “You know the colonel, ma’am?”

  “We’ve—met,” Callie breathed.

  “Ah, then you do know him! Colonel Daniel Derue Cameron, he’s my man. Never seen a fiercer man on horseback. I hear he le
arned a lot from the Indians. He’s not one of the officers who sits back and lets his men do the fighting. He’s always in the thick of it.”

  Callie shook her head. “But—but he’s in prison!” she protested.

  The cavalryman chuckled. “No, ma’am, no way. They tried to hold him in Washington, but they didn’t keep him two full weeks. He was wounded at the Sharpsburg battle here, but he healed up and come right out, escaped under those Yankee guards’ noses. Hell, no, ma’am—pardon my language, it’s been a while since I’ve been with such gentle company. Colonel Cameron has been back since last fall. He has led us into every major battle. Brandy Station, Chancellorsville, Fredericksburg. He’s been there. He’ll be along here soon enough.”

  She felt as if the night had gone from balmy warmth to a searing, piercing cold. She wanted to speak, but she felt as if her jaw had frozen. She wanted desperately to push away from the well, and to start to run. But suddenly, she could not move.

  The cavalryman didn’t seem to notice that anything was amiss. He didn’t realize that her heart had ceased to beat—then picked up a pulse that thundered at a frantic pace. He didn’t seem to realize that she had ceased to breathe and then begun to gulp in air, as if she would never have enough of it again.

  Daniel was free. He had been free for a long, long time. He had been in the South. He had been fighting the war, just as a soldier should be fighting the war.

  Perhaps he had forgotten. Perhaps he had forgiven.

  No. Never.

  “I’ve got to move on,” the cavalryman told her. “I thank you, ma’am. You’ve been an angel of mercy within a sea of pain. I thank you.”

  He set the dipper on the well. Bowed down and weary, he walked on, leading his horse.

  Callie felt the night air on her face, felt the breeze caress her cheeks.

  And then she heard his voice. Deep, low, rich. And taunting in both timbre and words.