Triumph

  “Did you know her?” Alaina asked. “Did you know her—personally?”

  He looked at Alaina. “Why would I know her?”

  “Sir, you’re from this state. Surely you attended some balls and barbecues, and would know if she was the daughter of a planter, a politician, or, say, a Florida botanist?” She stared hard at Ian, referring to her own father with the last.

  Taylor Douglas smiled. “The child of no botanist I knew as a child. The lady I came across was definitely not at all blond.”

  “But she could have disguised herself, and acquired a wig,” Ian suggested.

  “No,” Taylor said flatly. “I assure you, she was not blond. She did not wear a wig.”

  “How could you be so certain?” Alaina demanded, then her face flooded with crimson as she realized what his answer would have to be. “Oh!” she gasped in embarrassment.

  “Did you know her, sir?” Raymond demanded harshly.

  And again, Tia waited, her heart stopped, her lungs on fire. She couldn’t bear it any longer. If he didn’t answer, she’d scream and leap to her feet, and they’d all think she was crazy, and her father would know ...

  “I have been gone from the social arena of the state for quite some time. It is unlikely that I would have recognized the lady as the daughter of any one man,” he said at last.

  Tia felt as if she could pass out right into her plate. He wasn’t going to betray her.

  Not now anyway.

  “Cigars and brandy, gentlemen?” Jarrett said. “It’s such a balmy night, I thought we might enjoy our after-dinner drinks outside on the porch.”

  “As you wish, sir. Ladies ...” Taylor rose, bowing to the women at the table, and followed his host out of the house.

  “Ladies ...” Ian echoed, rising, bowing politely, and following suit. Raymond Weir did the same.

  “That went fairly well,” Tara murmured. “No swords were drawn.”

  Tia didn’t stay long in the salon with her mother and Alaina. Restless and needing to calm her nerves, she exited the house by the way of the back door and walked slowly around the verandah until she neared the front. She could hear the men speaking.

  Eavesdropping, her mother had always warned her, was rude—and it often exposed one to things one would rather not hear about. The men were discussing Godiva—a topic she definitely did not want to hear about—but from the subdued tone of their conversation, it was clear that Taylor had not betrayed her secret.

  Fortunately, their conversation did not last long. Tia heard Taylor thank her father for his hospitality, then she listened to footsteps entering the house, and muffled voices from within as the men met with her mother and thanked her as well for the evening.

  Then after a few moments, she heard nothing more. She walked around the verandah, and was startled to find that Raymond Weir was still there, standing on the porch and looking out into the night.

  “Tia,” he said softly. She smiled, approaching him, yet wishing she did not feel so uneasy.

  He inclined his head, his eyes pleasantly raking the length of her, his smile flatteringly appreciative.

  “It’s really good to have you here, Ray.”

  “If only this were a loyal household. How wonderful it would be, Tia, if your father would only realize that he must cast his fate with his state!”

  “He loves the state, Ray, adores it.”

  “You, Tia, are all that is good in our life, in our state, in our being!”

  She smiled. “Very poetic, for a solider, sir.”

  He reached out, taking her hands, drawing her to him. His hands covered hers. “Tia, marry me.”

  She didn’t answer. How strange. She had joked about there being no men left to marry. He was the perfect mate. A rebel soldier, a brave man who led well and fought hard. Smart, handsome, passionate ...

  A man who might want a woman such as Godiva, but never marry her!

  She was startled, but did not pull away, when he leaned down and pressed his mouth softly to hers. A kiss ... she waited. For passion, for feeling ...

  What was she expecting? It wasn’t as if she was experienced. And yet ...

  Yet she was. She’d felt a kiss before, filled with passion, boldness, a spark, a flame, a fire, a threat, a warning, and a promise ...

  Taylor. Taylor Douglas.

  She pulled away from Raymond.

  “I love you, Tia.”

  She shook her head. “Not ... not now, Ray. The ... the ... war. My father, my own—well, I have my own duty within it.”

  “I love you,” he repeated.

  “And I ...”

  She what? She didn’t know what she felt. Attraction? Disappointment? “Ray, when the war is over ...”

  “I can’t wait for the war to be over.”

  “Maybe there will be another time.”

  “There will always be another time. I will take any time, Tia, that you give me. You, in any manner, in any way you wish.”

  He stepped back, bowed with a flourish, and headed back into the house. Tia walked out on the lawn. The fog had lifted. The night was beautiful. The curve of the moon was naked in the sky.

  “Good night ...” she murmured aloud.

  “Good night, Godiva!” a voice replied.

  She turned quickly, looking up—the voice had come from the upstairs balcony. There he was, Taylor Douglas. He had shed his frockcoat, and in the cool evening, he stood in only a white cotton shirt. It, and the dark tendrils of his hair, were being lifted slightly by the breeze.

  “Don’t say that!” she whispered furiously.

  “Good night!” he repeated, and smiling, he turned and disappeared.

  Cold.

  Christmas Eve, and it was so damned cold.

  Well, at the least, Brent McKenzie thought, hunkering down by the fire at the small house near the hospital he had taken for his quarters, his situation had changed somewhat.

  He’d been called back to work on soldiers coming in from the battlefront.

  There were so many of them.

  Tonight, he wondered why he had wanted to be a doctor. From surely the strangest duty in the war—trying to help soldiers with syphilis and educate what seemed like an entire army of camp followers on how not to spread venereal disease—he was back helping men whose bodies had been shot, stabbed, sliced, and bombed to bits. Either way, it seemed a bitter detail. Even on Christmas Eve, men were coming in, wounded in encounters beyond the city. Grant had been put in charge of the entire Union effort. He had made his own headquarters with the Army of the Potomac, and he’d ordered Meade to take Richmond. Lee’s weary soldiers did their best to clock the army movements made by a man whose motto was that war should be as terrible as possible—that way it would end.

  Brent was tired, he was worn out, and he was cold. He hadn’t even gotten used to Christmas away from home. Christmas usually meant a crisp, cool day—but with the sun shining, his home surrounded by the blue of the sky and the sea and the green of the grass and the foliage. And flowers. His mother loved plants, herbs, and flowers. Teela always had flowers for Christmas. A wealth of them.

  It was late. He’d been invited to dinner by a number of officers, but he’d had a boy come in with possible gangrene—and he’d refused to wait even a day to see the wounded young soldier, knowing how quickly infection could flourish. He’d taken the leg, something he had been very sorry to do. But while he was a good surgeon—a damned good surgeon who usually attempted every possible miracle to save a limb—he knew when to take a limb as well. The gangrene had been serious. He could only hope it hadn’t spread through the boy’s system.

  Last Christmas, he reflected, he’d been far from home. Sydney had been with him. And actually, Sydney had been to see him not so long ago, but he had known, what seemed like a very long time ago now, when he’d treated Jesse Halston after the Union cavalry man had taken five bullets, that his sister had been falling in love with him. Sydney had gone to Washington to arrange for prisoner exchanges, wound up h
elping their brother escape instead—and marrying Jesse Halston. He was glad. He liked Halston, and he’d been glad to save his life. Now Sydney was back in Washington, waiting. Hopefully, Jesse Halston had enough rank and power to make it home for Christmas.

  Hopefully, he wasn’t lying dead on some forlorn battlefield.

  Brent picked up the poker, stoked the fire, and reflected on the war. Strange. He’d hated being sent to deal with the prostitutes and the men with their sexual diseases. Giving lectures on the use of condoms. But after a while, he hadn’t hated the duty so much. The prostitutes had been people, many of them warm, sad, caring, funny, wild individuals.

  Face it, he told himself. He’d been forever changed by the experience. In many ways. He’d be forever haunted. Because of Mary.

  He’d treated her father until he died. And, Brent reflected dryly, he had thought that the colonel’s beautiful young daughter had been his mistress, and he’d made quite a fool out of himself, and an enemy out of her.

  He jabbed the fire with a vengeance, wondering where she was tonight.

  The flames flickered high and bright, blue and red. He set the poker down and warmed his hands before them. After a moment, he pulled off his military jacket, loosened his shirt, and walked over to the Queen Anne chair that sat on the hooked rug before the fire. An elegant cherry-wood occasional table by the chair carried a decanter of brandy. He poured himself a glass and spoke to the fire.

  “Cheers, Doctor McKenzie. Merry Christmas.”

  He nearly threw his glass up when he received an answer.

  “Yes, cheers. Merry Christmas, Doctor McKenzie.”

  The brandy sloshed as he leapt to his feet, spinning around to stare at the doorway to his bedroom. She was there. Mary. Either that, or the war had cost him his senses. His imagination had run riot. He was now stark, raving mad.

  Her huge silver eyes were steady on his, her hair loosened around the snow-white robe that was all she wore.

  “Mary!”

  “Yes.”

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?” he demanded, frowning fiercely.

  She walked into the parlor before the fire. He thought that her hands were shaking but she reached down for the brandy decanter. “Do you mind? I thought I should help myself before you spilled it all.”

  He lifted a hand. “Go ahead,” he murmured, still staring at her with astonishment. Yes, it was her; she was real. As stunning as a little snow queen in the white robe. She smelled of fresh soap and rose water; her hair, in the firelight, seemed as soft and sleek as sable. She seemed a pure assault on his senses. He had been exhausted; suddenly he was wide awake. He had been cold. Now his flesh seemed on fire, touched by lightning. She isn’t wearing a thing beneath the robe, he thought.

  “I’ll ask you again,” he said, and his voice barked out far more harshly than he had intended. “What are you doing here? How did you get here ... in this house? How did you find me?”

  “You were easy to find. I simply asked where you had been transferred. One of your orderlies pointed out your quarters in this house. It wasn’t locked, or guarded in any manner. I let myself in. You should be more careful. The city of Richmond is teeming with refugees, some of them desperate men. Some people are fleeing the city again, afraid of Grant, and stealing everything in sight on their way out. Amazing, isn’t it? Our countrymen aren’t all noble soldiers and physicians. Some are simply cowardly thieves.”

  “Mary, why are you here?”

  She tossed the brandy down and set the glass back in a deliberate gesture, her eyes downcast. Then they met his again.

  “You said that I owed you; I always pay my debts,” she told him.

  “What?”

  “I’d heard that you were here. My father ... I owe you for all that you did for my father. I—I always pay my debts. It’s Christmas. It seemed like a good time.”

  “So ... you’re here to ... pay a debt?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly, her eyes falling from his once again:

  He couldn’t help it. He reached out, caught her hand, and pulled her to him. She wasn’t wearing a thing beneath the robe. He lowered his head, kissed her; Her lips trembled. God, they were sweet. His kiss deepened. Her lips parted. Her body, pressed to his, was warm and supple and perfect. He cupped her breast, marveling at the feel, shuddering as the sensation in his fingertips seemed to work into his groin.

  He caught himself, pulled away from her. “Damn you, Mary!” he swore angrily. “You don’t owe me! I was angry when I told you that; you owe me nothing at all for your father. What the bloody hell do you think of me, that I wouldn’t help any man when he was dying?”

  She stood just feet away from him, shaking, her eyes shimmering like sterling with a hint of tears.

  “I do owe you for what you did for him.”

  He took the single step back to her, taking her into his arms, lifting her chin, meeting her eyes. Her lips trembled. He felt himself shaking. “Mary, Mary! You little fool. I will not make love to you because you feel that you owe me any debt! I was angry, jealous, hurt—an idiot.”

  She lowered her eyes, leaning her head against his chest.

  “Would you ... would you make love to me ... if I told you that I simply wanted to be with you? That I’ve spent every day since you left trying to figure out how to come to you, how to tell you ...” Her voice trailed away in a whisper. He wasn’t even sure he had heard her correctly. His fingers shaking, his blood burning, he caught her chin, lifted her eyes to his once again.

  “What?”

  “I want to be with you. I need to be with you. I have nowhere else to go now.”

  “Mary, you shouldn’t be here just because there is nowhere else—”

  “It’s not that, you fool man! I want to be with you. I admire you, I am intrigued ... I am curious—for the love of God, I am willing! Don’t tell me you can’t use me—”

  “Use you?” he interrupted, frowning.

  But her thoughts were elsewhere. “Here, at the hospital. You know that I’m more than competent, that I can anticipate your needs.”

  “Can you anticipate them all?” he murmured softly.

  “Brent, please. I know I’ve arrived quite strangely, out of the blue. But I had to come here, and I had hoped that at Christmas ... well, you would feel at least something for me.”

  “Mary, it wouldn’t be right. You are not that kind of woman.”

  “What kind? Sensual—seductive?”

  “Oh, my God! Mary, trust me ...” He paused, looking at her. Silver eyes glittering, hair streaming down her back, robe parting to provide just a peak at the roundness of her breast, the rouge of her nipple, the narrowness of her waist, curve of her hip ... “Trust me, you do know how to seduce!”

  “Brent ... please ...”

  “Mary, please ... what?”

  “Hold me tonight. Let me be with you. Make ...”

  “Make love to you?”

  “God, yes!”

  “But Mary, come the morning ...”

  “Brent! I planned this for a very long time. Yet in my dreams, you made it much easier for me. Brent—I am all but throwing myself at you. You must not be so cruel as to refuse me!”

  He was lost—or found. He was not sure which. “God forbid that I should be cruel,” he said.

  She smiled. He swept her up. Her arms curled around his neck.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said softly.

  Merry Christmas indeed. It was cold outside, but it was as if he had died and gone to heaven.

  Chapter 8

  HE HAD RUINED ALL hope of sleep. As Tia paced across the floor in her bedroom, she kept hearing his voice over and over again, mocking, taunting. Godiva. Had he been threatening her?

  Yes, of course, he was threatening her. Sometime, tomorrow, he would tell her father the truth. Tell him who she was, what she was doing.

  Her father would kill her.

  Worse. He would be disappointed. Shamed.

  She had to
see Taylor. Talk to him.

  What was she, mad? She couldn’t just go tapping on his door; she might wake up her parents, or her brother, or Alaina, Reeves, Lilly, someone else in the house.

  She opened her doors to the balcony. The night had grown cool, but not cold. She stepped out in her bare feet. She’d seen him just outside on the rear balcony, near his room. Without really planning out her intention, she suddenly sped around the balcony, came to the guest doors, and hesitated. No, don’t think, you won’t act! she warned herself. She opened the door, slipped inside.

  It was dark, but a whisper of moonlight filtered in. She could just make out the bed, and she tiptoed over to it.

  She saw his form, shoulders bronze, the muscles starkly defined against the white sheets. In the shadows, he seemed to be soundly sleeping. She hesitated, then sat at his side. “We need to talk. Please, listen—”

  She nearly cried out as he turned, arms sweeping around her, bearing her down into the bed. He whispered something. She couldn’t make it out. A name?

  She strained against his chest with her palms, her anxiety growing. “We need to talk, I need you to listen to me.”

  Beside her, one leg draped over her, his arm around her waist, she suddenly realized that he hadn’t been sleeping at all. He had probably seen her from the moment she’d reached his doors to the balcony.

  “Miss McKenzie! Just what game is it you’re playing now?”

  “Colonel Douglas—”

  “Yes, it is. Surprised?”

  “No, of course not, I—”

  “What the hell are you doing? Wrong room, Godiva? Were you looking for your gallant Southern lover? He who would accept anything from you, anything at all?”

  “You wretched eavesdropper! You are the rudest individual—”

  “Rude? For repeating the truth? I could be far worse.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “We? You and me? Oh, so you came in the dead of night—dressed, I’ll admit, but my Lord, Godiva, this is seductive material!—to talk. To me.”

  “I was not looking for Raymond!” she insisted.

  “As you say. How charming. You were looking for me in this lovely sheer gown. Coming purposely into my room. I’m deeply flattered, and not a little stirred, I must say.”