Triumph

  “Stop it! I’ll call my father, my brother, the whole Confederate army!”

  “Stop it? May I remind you, you came after me.”

  “I didn’t come after you.”

  “And make up your mind—are we calling your father, or the Rebel army? My defense will be based entirely on the identity of whom we summon.”

  “Listen to me, I wasn’t coming after you—”

  “You’re in my bed.”

  “Please—!”

  “So you were looking for good old gray-clad Colonel Weir,” he said. “Mistake, I might add.”

  “How dare you insult Colonel Weir! He’s loyal and fighting for his state, and he is determined, and a gentleman still, and—”

  “A good man. That I don’t doubt.”

  “Then—”

  “He is a fanatic. He has read too much Machiavelli. The end defends whatever means is required to reach it. He will destroy this state before he allows it to return to the Union.”

  “We haven’t lost the war!”

  “You will.”

  She stared up at him, the tawny eyes now on hers in the night, the very handsome, currently grave structure of his face. She felt almost compelled to reach out and trace the line of his cheekbone. Nor did it seem quite so terrible to lie there, being touched by him, and she suddenly thought of her brother’s closed door and all of the things she had missed by committing herself to the war. She gritted her teeth, furious with herself, wondering what was wrong with her that she could lie there with an avowed enemy who seemed to take the most perverse pleasure in taunting her and want to touch him. The warmth that spread through her seemed like a taste of evil, and yet—heaven help her—she desired it.

  “I didn’t come to talk about the war.”

  “Now I’m really flattered. You’ve come to seduce me?”

  “No!” she protested, then realized the volume of her voice and swore softly at him. His smile further infuriated her. “Damn you, stop it!”

  “I haven’t done a thing.”

  “Stop doing what you’re not doing!”

  He smiled again, shook his head, then sobered. “All right, Godiva, talk.”

  “You haven’t given me away as yet,” she breathed, looking into his eyes.

  “I have great respect for your father, brother, and mother,” he told her. “It would not benefit them to know of your evil deeds.”

  “What I did was not evil. It was accidental. You must understand. You were there.”

  “I was there once,” he said softly. “Godiva also led a company of men down a merry path when they had nearly taken Captain Dickinson and his troops. How many other times has she ridden since then?”

  “That’s the only time, I swear it. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You are quite frequently naked by sheer accident for a well-bred Southern girl, are you not?” he demanded.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘by accident’; it was spur of the moment, sheer desperation—”

  “I really should tell your father. Because you have to stop what you’re doing.”

  “You can’t tell him, please—”

  He leaned closer to her. “You will get yourself killed. And when your body is found, they will know, and their grief will be compounded again and again. And I will be guilty of a terrible crime against them, because I knew.”

  “Please ...”

  “Tell me that you’ll never do it again. No matter what the circumstances.”

  She caught her breath, staring up at him.

  “It’s the only way, Godiva.”

  “I won’t do it again. I didn’t mean to do it, as I said—”

  “No matter what the circumstances.”

  She gritted her teeth very hard. “No matter what the circumstances.”

  “Then your secret is safe with me.”

  Barely daring to breathe, she looked into his tawny eyes, praying he was telling the truth. Then she realized again her circumstances. She lay flat on his bed, his leg cast over her, his hand upon her waist.

  This time, he was naked.

  And she realized it in such a manner that her eyes widened in panic and her flesh burned with a flow of blood. “Well, then, I—I—”

  “Ah, you suddenly see the real danger in the enemy!” he taunted, leaning close again. “Good. But you needn’t try to run so suddenly in sheer panic, dear Miss McKenzie. What did you think, that I would suddenly lose control in your father’s house, rape his daughter in his own home?”

  “No, I—I—my God, it’s just that—”

  “Shush!” He suddenly brought a finger to his lips. She had heard nothing. Yet he quickly moved over her, leaving the bed, striding to the doors to the balcony. He held still there, and she bit her lip, trying not to watch his lithe, bronze form in the shadows. His broad shoulders and well-muscled arms seemed to ripple with each play of moonlight, and she couldn’t help but notice the way his torso narrowed to a lean waist, that his buttocks were as tightly muscled as the rest of him, that his legs were long and powerfully built.

  He moved like one who had grown up with danger—like her Uncle James and her cousins, who had known the suffering of the Seminoles. In silence, he watched at the latticed doors, and heard what she did not. He turned back into the room, finding his trousers and slipping into them.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Be quiet, and stay there,” he commanded.

  A second later, he was out on the balcony. And a moment after that, she heard him cheerfully hailing someone who was also out on the balcony.

  “Ah, Colonel Weir! Did you find you couldn’t sleep as well?”

  “Colonel Douglas,” Weir returned. He sounded awkward.

  “It’s a beautiful night.” Taylor said. “From here, this gracious house, with the sky so dark, the stars so bright, it is almost possible to forget the war.”

  “I never forget the war, sir.”

  “No, I imagine that you do not,” Taylor agreed, and Tia could hear a note of irony in his voice.

  What had Ray Weir been doing on the balcony. By her room?

  “I think, sir, that what we accomplished here tonight has been good work,” Taylor continued. “There is so much bloodshed; when lives are spared, it is a decent thing at last.”

  “But freedom, sir, has always come at a cost! Sometimes, lives must be the price paid for a nation to survive.”

  “True enough. That lessens the value of no one life.” Taylor said. “Well, sir, I didn’t mean to interrupt you if you desired a private vigil in the night. But then ... is that the door to your guest room? Were we given such close quarters? How interesting an arrangement by our gracious host.”

  “That ... no, that is not my room. I am around there to the river side of the house. I—I merely decided to walk around the house, admire the architecture.”

  “Ah, I see. Oh, of course, I believe that is one of the family rooms. Ian’s room—no, it is his sister’s room, I think.”

  “Perhaps,” Weir said stiffly.

  “Good God, I didn’t interrupt a secret tryst—” Taylor began with horror.

  “No, indeed, sir, that you should suggest such a thing against the daughter of the house!” Ray said angrily.

  “No offense intended, sir. It is simply that your admiration for her, and hers for you, is quite obvious.”

  “She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” Raymond said. “I have loved her forever.”

  “Curious that you never married. She was of age before the war, I believe?”

  “I should have pursued my suit, sir. The lady longed for travel and adventure. I thought that she should see the world she craved to see, before becoming a proper wife. Yet, I always believed that she loved me,”

  “Well, the war will end,” Taylor said.

  “One day, indeed, I believe she will be mine.”

  “Good luck to you, sir.”

  “Yes, good night,” Raymond told Taylor. “Were you returning to bed???
?

  “I thought that I’d enjoy the stars awhile longer. Don’t let me delay your stroll around the house any longer, sir.”

  “Yes, er, good night, then.”

  Tia waited, sitting up in Taylor’s bed. A minute later, he reentered the room and came to the bedside. Now, somewhat decently clad in his trousers at least, he sat at the side of the bed. She noticed for the first time that he wore a gold chain around his neck with a medallion; it rested against the bronze of his chest.

  She noticed, as well, that he wore a gold band around the ring finger of his left hand.

  “I believe your lover was looking for you—heading for your room. I would not deprive you two of a romantic encounter, but I didn’t think you’d want him discovering that you weren’t in your room—indeed, that you were visiting me: You might want to slip back into your own room before someone else comes looking. There probably will be bloodshed here this evening, should someone find you here.”

  “No one would think that I had come for an illicit affair with a Yankee,” she assured him.

  He smiled. “Then just how would you explain your appearance?”

  “You suggested that I come here, because ... because I might know who Godiva is! Because I must warn her ... that the Yanks may know who she is, that—”

  She broke off. He was laughing softly. “And you think that your parents would believe that I enticed you into my bedroom to talk about the welfare of a strange woman?”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, come, Tia, you’re not a fool. You know that poor Colonel Weir lusts for you, in agony, so it seems. You teased an army with your perfection—and they followed you blindly. No, either your father or brother—or Weir—would want to kill me. There would be duels, and three people would die.”

  “And those people would be?”

  “I would not be among them.”

  “My brother is one of the best swordsmen—”

  “I am better.”

  “Your arrogance knows no bounds.”

  “Godiva, go back to your own bed, and leave me be.”

  “There would be no contest, sir!” she said, angrily rising. “I would simply tell my father that it was the truth, that you dislike me, have no desire for me—”

  “Godiva, I never said that I had no desire for you!” His voice was deep, husky, and yet, for once, it seemed to hold no amusement. He stood before her, and though she was angry enough to strike him, she found herself not doing so, but standing very still as he reached out, his fingers touching her face. His head lowered to hers. She remembered the feel of his kiss. His lips were so close. They nearly touched hers. And still, she didn’t move. His body was close as well. She could almost feel the hard-muscled structure of his torso against her breasts. “But,” he murmured, “thank God, I would never be like that poor besotted Colonel Weir, never fool enough to love you, Godiva.”

  He was no longer touching her. Nowhere near so close. She felt a rush of cold air, as if wind swept in around her.

  Fury filled her.

  And she lashed out, her palm a blur, ready to hit him hard.

  She never touched him. Her arm was captured, she was spun around, and she found herself enwrapped hard against him, her back to his chest, his arms around her tightly, fingers lacing just below her breasts. And his whispered warning touched her ear where he spoke softly against her. “You need to take care with that temper, Godiva. And with your welfare. Behave, I warn you. Keep your promise, keep yourself safe.”

  “What do you care?” she choked out furiously, her fingers working at his to earn her release.

  “Your brother is my friend, your cousins are my kin, and your father is a truly great man.”

  “They are not your concern.”

  “Then perhaps I should simply tell them the truth.”

  “No!” she said, and went very still. “No.”

  “All right, then. I’ll be careful not to mention you at all, should I be speaking with any of your kin. You take care not to talk about me as well.”

  “I wouldn’t be talking about you.”

  “I could come up in conversation. And I wouldn’t want you discussing various aspects of my person with which you shouldn’t be familiar—after all, we have now both seen one another in the all-together.”

  He was taunting her now, he knew, and ready for the explosion of anger that ripped through her. Chuckling softly, he held her tightly until the fullness of her fury had abated. Then his amusement seemed to fade, and a somber quality fell over him. “Go to your own bed, Godiva. But heed my every warning, because I will tell the truth of the matter if I see no other way.”

  She stood some distance from him, still so livid she couldn’t find the right words to say.

  “I might be reprieved,” she managed at last.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s a war, sir. You could be killed.”

  “And you could be killed, you little fool, and that’s the point of this.”

  “Good night, Colonel. With luck, we’ll never meet again.”

  She turned to flee with dignity.

  He caught her arm. She wrenched at it. “Wait!” he grated. “Don’t you want to see if the coast is clear?”

  She bit her lower lip, drawing blood, lowering her head. He stepped past her.

  A silent tread.

  “Go,” he said softly.

  And she did.

  Christmas Eve.

  There was no reason why Sydney couldn’t have gone home to Florida. Her husband lived in Washington, so it was where his wife should be, but since she hadn’t seen her husband since their impromptu marriage in prison, she should have gone home. She didn’t even live in his apartment. She still shared with Sissy and with Maria, an Irish friend, widowed in the war, who had helped in her old spying days. Her borrowed space, her only privacy, here in Washington was a tiny ten-by-ten room in the apartment the three women shared near the White House.

  Washington was cold. Wretched. Patches of ice, a vicious wind. Home meant the sun, and during those very few times when the temperature dipped into the thirties, there was still warmth from the sun. Home meant her mother, her father, her new baby sister. Perhaps Jerome would even be there; God knew, her oldest brother could move with unbelievable speed when he chose. And even if she hadn’t made it home—Brent was less than a hundred miles south of here. She could have, perhaps, reached her sister-in-law in St. Augustine, or cut across the state and spent the holiday at Cimarron with her aunt and uncle.

  She had to quit thinking that way. There were a dozen other things she might have been doing rather than what she was ...

  Risking her life again like an idiot!

  Driving her wagon, Sissy at her side, she neared the Southern picket line.

  “Ho, there!”

  Today, the officer in charge appeared to be about twenty-five, lean, sad looking, and very cold. He wore a lieutenant’s insignia. A worn scarf was wrapped around his neck. He shuffled back and forth on his feet, his rifle held easily in his hands. She drew in on the reins, ready for his questions. He smiled at her, bringing his hands to his face. Blowing on them. He wore gloves, but they were riddled with holes.

  “Good evening, ma’am. May I have your papers? State your business.”

  She handed him her traveling papers. “I came south with letters from the fellows at Old Capitol, with proper permission from the Yankee authorities to do so. There, Colonel Meek, whose troops have headed on back toward Harper’s Ferry, received the letters, and signed for my return to Washington.”

  The officer stared up at her. “Mrs. Sydney ... McKenzie Halston?”

  She nodded.

  He smiled suddenly. “If you see your husband or your cousin Ian, tell them Rafe Johnston sends his best.”

  “You rode with my cousin Ian?”

  “And your husband. With Magee. I heard your brother married Magee’s daughter. Always thought it would be Ian.”

  “They’re all doing very wel
l,” Sydney said. “I ...” she began. But then she froze. The sound of a sneeze came from the back of the wagon.

  Johnston stared at her. She stared back. She felt the blood drain from her face. Even as he looked at her, she saw the future flash before her eyes. He would arrest her. She was an avowed Southerner-heading north with runaway slaves. There could be a trial. There might not. They might hang her tonight, make an example out of her, prove that the South could not tolerate spies and traitors, even among their womenfolk.

  She saw Johnston lower his eyes, and then he looked at her again. And he knew exactly what she was doing.

  But he handed her back her papers. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Halston. It’s a good time to pray for peace.”

  She exhaled on a soft sob. “Merry Christmas, Lieutenant ...” She lifted the reins. Her fingers were numb. She couldn’t hold them. She inhaled again, remembered the embroidered bag she carried at her side—and the gift she had carried in case she had managed to see her brother.

  Gloves. Good, calfskin gloves, both soft and resilient. “Lieutenant ... these were for my brother Brent. I was never able to see him. Please ...”

  “No, ma’am, I can’t take those.” His eyes told her that they might be considered a bribe.

  She shook her head. “Please, I wanted so badly to give them to someone to whom they might mean something. Please ...”

  He looked at the gloves in her hands, looked at her, into her eyes. He took the gloves. “Thank you. Hurry on now.”

  She grasped the reins, cracked them, calling out to the mules. They rode on.

  “God bless us!” Sissy breathed.

  “We’re still in Rebel territory. And we’ve the Yanks to get through. If we encounter a wretched son of a gun the way we did last time ...”

  “We won’t,” Sissy said with assurance.

  Sissy was right. It was Christmas Eve. The Yankee pickets, like their Southern counterparts, were melancholy. They wanted the war to be over. They wanted to be home. All along the lines, they sang Christmas carols.

  The officer who stopped her on the road barely looked at her papers.

  No one sneezed.

  They passed on through to the city, and arrived at last in a dark alley off South Capitol Street, near the African Methodist Episcopal ministry of Reverend Henry Turner. Washington might mean freedom for the slaves, but it did not assure them a good life, or even a decent meal. Reverend Turner had always been a passionate man about helping his fellows, so tonight, Sydney drove Sissy and the two men and three women they had met just below the lines to the alley where Turner would meet them, and find them a place to stay.