Hobbled ... imprisoned. Did he really intend to make her a prisoner of war? He had threatened it before. It didn’t seem to matter now. Too much had gone too far out of control.
“I—have seduced no one else. I ...” She was again amazed that tears threatened to choke off her speech. “I’m not a harlot, Taylor!” she managed to whisper. Her eyes met his.
Then she gasped, startled and afraid, for he suddenly reached out for her, drawing her into his arms. His lips were punishing as they crashed down upon hers, forcing her mouth apart, kissing her deeply, with passion, with anger ... regret, perhaps, a tumultuous series of emotions that left her shaking, bruised ... and longing for more. His fingers threaded into her hair, arching her neck. His palm cradled her cheek, fingertips stroked her throat and beyond, his touch then seeking more of her, tracing the form of her body beneath the thin cotton fabric of her bodice. She felt his fingers over her breast, his palm encompassing, thumb rubbing over her nipple, stroking, eliciting. A sweet weakness pervaded her. She wanted to fall against him, feel again a time she had known once at war ... and let it become peace. She would have gladly given herself into his arms. She wished, prayed, that his anger would cause him to sweep her up, carry her back up the stairs to the scene of her almost-sin, and there, assert his right to be with her, punish her with a wild ravishment, remind her that she had sworn to be his, enemy or no ...
Yet he pushed away from her. “Ah, Tia, what a pity! I’m not at all sure of your motives at the moment, but for once, when you are apparently ready to become a willing wife with no argument to give me, there remains too much at stake for me to take advantage of your remorse. There’s a battle still to be waged.”
She drew back, frowning. “A battle? But you’ve stopped Captain Weir from the War he would wage against my father.”
“Tia, you little fool! Weir was only a half of it! There’s a Major Hawkins with militia from the panhandle who will bear down upon Cimarron at any moment now. I don’t know if Ian ever received word of this, or if Julian knows somehow. You apparently learned about it. But I may be the only help your father will have.”
She stared at him, stunned. “Dear God! I’d forgotten there would be more troops. I’ve got to get home!” she cried, and she turned, running frantically down the remaining steps.
“No! Tia!”
She didn’t make it to burst out into the night. She was caught.
By the long ebony flow of her hair. How ironic.
She cried out, but found herself whirled back inexorably into his arms. Meeting his eyes. Again, they were fire. Fire, and fury. His fingers bit into her as he held her. “You’re going nowhere.”
“My father—my home—”
“Your enemy will save them for you,” he informed her bitterly.
“No, please, you have to let me ride with you. I beg of you, Taylor, in this, I swear, I—”
“Make me no more promises, Tia, for I am weary of you breaking them.”
“But I swear—”
“This fight will be deadly, and I’ll not have you seized by either side as a pawn in the battles to be waged.”
“Please!” she begged, but even as she desperately entreated him, the front door burst open. She didn’t turn. Her eyes locked with his. She heard soldiers, and knew his men had come—for her.
“Gentlemen, take my wife to the ship, please. They’ll not be surprised to find another McKenzie prisoner at Old Capitol.”
One of the soldiers cleared his throat politely. “Mrs. Douglas, if you will ...”
She lowered her head, stepping away from Taylor’s hold. He released her all too quickly.
She looked up at him again. “No!” she said softly. Then she cried out, “No!” and she turned, and did so with such speed and with so great an element of surprise that she was able to tear past the two Yankee soldiers who had come for her.
She raced down the steps. Those faded steps where ghostly couples had danced and laughed in days gone by.
She called out for her horse, and, thank God, Blaze, her blessed, wondrous mare, trotted in from the trees, just as Taylor burst out behind her.
She leapt upon her horse. Taylor wouldn’t shoot her down. And no one else could catch her. No one had such a mount. Except, of course ...
Taylor himself.
“Home, girl, home!” she told Blaze, nudging the animal.
She lowered herself to her horse’s haunches and sped into the night. She knew the trails. They were the paths of her youth.
Soon, the light of the house faded behind her. Only the bloodstained moon remained high above to illuminate the night.
The earth seemed to tremble; mud flew. She felt the great workings of the animal beneath her as they raced. And then she realized that she wasn’t alone in the night, that he had come in pursuit, that he was almost upon her, with his men following behind.
“Please, God!” she prayed to the night. She had to get home. She had to see her mother, her father, Cimarron. “Please, God ... !”
But God was not with her. Taylor was an expert horseman; he leapt from his own mount to hers, drawing in on the reins. She twisted on the mount, trying to fight him. Her efforts brought them both crashing down from the horse to the ground. She tried to rise, tried to fight again. He caught her flailing fists, pinned them to the ground, straddled her. Again she felt his eyes, and his fury, and still she gazed up at him desperately. “Please, Taylor, please, for the love of God ...”
He stared down at her, gold fire in his eyes, and she was suddenly reminded that this was the way that they had met, on a night when a legend was born.
“Please, please!” she whispered. “Bring me home! Let me be there. Bring me home tonight. I’ll stay by your side, obey your every command! I’ll surrender, I’ll cease to ride, I’ll turn myself in to Old Capitol, I’ll put a noose around my own neck, I swear it, Taylor, please, I’ll—”
“Love, honor, and obey?” he demanded harshly, a tremor of some dark emotion in his voice.
And she realized that he, too, was thinking that this night was ironically similar to the one in which they had met. Was he wishing that he had never come across her in the woods?
He was suddenly on his feet, drawing her up. “You’ll ride with me!” he told her harshly. “And go where I command, stay away from all fire! Blaze can follow on her own—she knows the way.”
“Yes!” she promised, and she was amazed at first that he would show her this much mercy after what she had done, but realized then that if they didn’t ride now, ride straight, ride hard, they would not reach her father’s property in time.
As it was, they raced the horses almost to death. She rode before him, and yet twisted enough to estimate the strength of the troops following behind them. Sixty to eighty men. How many had come against Cimarron? Would Ian make it home? Would there be other help?
The night sky remained bathed in blood. Indeed, when they neared Cimarron, coming from the south below the river that would be one line of defense, the white plantation house itself was steeped in the blood.
And ahead! Far ahead, defenses had been erected against the river and men were already busy at the work of battle, shouting, taking places behind newly erected earthworks. She could hear her father shouting orders; she could see men running to obey. His workmen, and men in blue and ...
Men in gray. Both of her brothers had made it here, she saw. Her heart was suddenly warmed. Even in this horror, blood was thicker than water, friendship mattered, and a good man was a good man!
Then she froze.
Tia saw her mother, her beautiful mother, still lithe and slim and golden blond, racing hard across the lawn with some all-important missive for her father. A foreboding filled her.
Someone, a defender at the rear of her father’s house, called out, accosting Taylor’s party as they approached the yard. “Halt, or be shot!”
“It’s Colonel Douglas, here to defend with the McKenzies!” Taylor shouted, sliding down from his mount.
>
Beneath the bloodred sky, Tia could see soldiers loading a half-score of Enfield rifles onto a gunboat positioned on the river. Most of the men at Cimarron were behind the earthworks. Her mother was not. Tia jumped from Friar before Taylor realized her intent.
“Mother!” she shrieked, racing across the lawn.
“Tia!” she heard Taylor shout, his voice harsh with a desperate warning. “Tia!” she heard him shout again, and she knew he ran after her in pursuit. But she couldn’t stop. Her mother was in danger. She had nearly reached Tara, who was still unaware of the soldiers taking aim at the earthworks.
Again, she saw the soldiers, heard the chain of command to fire ...
She reached Tara, threw herself before her, trying to bring them both down.
“Tia!” her mother exclaimed, just before she heard the roar of the guns.
Fire tore into her.
In a field of crimson, she clung to her mother.
Then they were falling, falling ... crashing to the earth together.
Dimly, she heard the cry that tore from Taylor’s lips. She heard his shouts, the fire that emitted from his Colts in rapid succession. Then, he was beside her, on his knees, and she was staring into his eyes. Fire eyes, as gold as a blaze, eyes that had condemned her, held her, imprisoned her, and now ...
She reached up to touch his cheek. His striking, powerful, ruggedly beautiful face was blurring before her. It seemed that her whole life began to flash before her eyes ... no, not her life but the life that he had given her, filled with tempest, trouble, passion, fury ... oh, yes, fury, but still life with a soul, with spirit, with love—
Their life ...
Before the war had come here tonight, to Cimarron.
Chapter 1
A House Divided
Winter, 1863
Eleven Months Earlier
“TIA! TIA! MISS TIA! There’s someone coming!”
Tia McKenzie froze at the sound of alarm in Private Jemmy Johnson’s voice as it filtered to her through the trees.
“Ma’am!” he whispered desperately. She heard him clear his throat. “I don’t mean to interrupt your privacy, but ...”
Here she was, totally vulnerable in a manner in which she had seldom been since the war had begun, and someone was coming.
“Miss Tia, I know you’re ... in an awkward state, but ...”
Awkward? To say the least.
Ah, yes, “buck” naked, as the boys called such a state of complete undress. She had thought that they were deep enough inland to avoid the contact of any troops, indeed, any human inhabitants of the state, much less the movement of enemy troops.
These days, it was apparently no longer possible. New strategies were afoot. Right when they were most beleaguered by illness, malnutrition, and a lack of medical supplies, the enemy had chosen to make a new assault, hoping to cripple the most important war effort of the state—feeding an army.
She traveled with a pathetic, ragtag group herself. Three privates so green they were barely old enough to shave, and two sadly injured men, the latter being the cause of her sudden determination that she had to strip down to the buff to bathe away the encrusted dirt and blood that had seemed to cling to her body with greater vigor since they’d begun this hasty journey. The last action by the old camp along the river had left two youngsters—and they were no more than that, truly—with minie ball injuries that were far too often fatal. Her brother, Colonel Julian McKenzie, had performed the surgery which had thus far saved their lives, but soon after, they had broken camp. The fellows who could do so pulled somewhat to the north while she and Julian had determined to take these fellows on a southwestwardly trail which would bring them to an old Creek camp, where they could seek shelter until the fellows healed enough to return to the front. She’d been down to one change of clothing—a sad state of affairs if she were to look back—but now seemed the time for that change. Indeed, she would be close to home once they reached the Creek camp, and there might even be time for the indulgence of returning to Cimarron, and throwing herself into the gentle care of her mother, father, and other loved ones there—until she returned to the field to resume assisting her brother.
“Miss Tia!”
Jemmy’s voice came to her again. Ever more desperate.
She had to think, to unfreeze.
Her horse stood by her side, but her clothing lay on the opposite bank. She was soaking from head to toe, though she hadn’t yet had a chance to wash her hair, which waved down her back and shoulders like a sweeping black cape.
The soldier would be in front of her any second.
“Stop where you are. Get the men, and—go!” she ordered, her voice full of sudden authority.
“Go?”
“Yes, go! Get away quick. I’ll follow.”
“We can’t leave you!” Jemmy said frantically.
She heard him moving along the pine-carpeted path toward her. “Don’t you dare come closer, young man! Take our injured and move along. I know these trails better than any one of you, so get moving. I’ll see who comes, and circle around to join you on the trail.”
“But Miss Tia—”
“Damn you, listen to me. I gave you an order. Go!”
She had no rank, of course. She wasn’t even in the militia. But if truth be told, she possessed the simple authority of all she had learned in years of helping to patch wounded men back together again, of learning when to strike and when to run. She’d been a very properly brought-up young woman when it all began, but though privileged, she’d been the child of what she considered to be enlightened parents. Her education had been thorough. She’d longed for more, for travel to far distant lands, a chance to view the great pyramids of Egypt, the castles in England, the palaces in France. Instead of those dreams, she’d spent years with men. Young men, old men, handsome, gallant, rude, charming, educated. And when the war came, she’d met them from every backwoods hole in the state. Rebs and Yankees. She’d seen them survive, and she’d seen them die. She’d sewn them up, and she’d bathed them down. She was far more familiar with male body parts than she’d ever imagined ...
So in truth, she reasoned suddenly, slightly amused with the realization, she had some authority, much experience, but little modesty left.
“Miss Tia, someone is coming quickly now.” Jemmy was standing there. So much for the question of modesty.
“Yes, I know, Jemmy. If you please ... oh, never mind.”
She rose, still indecisive. It wasn’t Jemmy’s fault. He was a boy, one who had lied regarding a few months to a year to get himself into the service—he wasn’t yet eighteen, she was certain. Not that she was so ancient herself, but as far as the war went, she was old, very old.
Now, of course, he was staring at her, stunned. Of course. She was “buck” naked. But not really. She had very long hair, ebony in color, thick and lustrous. It fell over her shoulders, down her back—and her front—and blanketed the most strategic points of her form, she assured herself.
And so she stood on the trail, thus enwrapped, and stared at the now frozen, gaping Jemmy. “First, snap your jaw shut, soldier, this is war. As you said, someone is coming fast. It is likely to be the enemy. And we have injured. So go now—and I mean it! You get our men to safety, and Blaze and I will be right behind you, once we see the enemy, and what he is after—and draw him away from you, if need be.”
Jemmy suddenly seemed to find his mind and senses. “No! You’re a woman. We can’t leave you. We can take on the enemy—”
“The hell you can!” she swore flatly. “My sex doesn’t matter—can’t matter!—now. I’ve been in this too long for such consideration. Longer than you, far longer than you. Listen to me! Would you kill our injured? Go.”
“But—”
“Go! And don’t you mention a word of this to anyone, Jemmy Johnson, or I’ll shoot you down myself, do you hear? Take our injured down the Seminole trail. Move fast. I’ll take Blaze along the eastern route, hopefully drawing any rider
who would follow, and after I assess the enemy strength, I’ll change course and meet up with you by nightfall.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
To her relief and amusement, he saluted. She saluted back, then regretted the action—wondering just how much of her long, concealing hair she had readjusted so that it didn’t quite conceal anymore. He tried to look into her eyes, but his gaze kept slipping. Then, as she had ordered, he turned and fled. She saw him and their little party of injured hurry along the trail, disappearing around the bend and slinking into the old Indian trail, just as she had ordered.
As soon as they were swallowed by the foliage, she started across the little tributary, thinking that she would regain her clothing, but she had barely taken a step when she realized that she could just hear the sound of hoofbeats against the soft earth and that someone was coming closer and closer. Blaze was on this side of the trickling little tributary of the river.
She would never manage to have both her horse and her clothing. The situation was desperate. Seconds were ticking away. She had to do something, make a decision.
Clothing ... horse?
Clothing!
No! She had to make the right decision to protect the injured men who were in her care. What was a little bareness when death might be the alternative?
What in God’s name had made her decide that today, of all days, she just really had to give herself a complete and thorough scrubbing?
Maybe the enemy would pause for water, and just go away.
Maybe he wouldn’t be the enemy.
Just as that thought filled her mind, a rider came into view, a tall man on a tall horse. His face was hidden beneath the slant of his plumed, wide-brimmed hat, and his shoulders were encased in a Union-issue, cavalry frockcoat.
He was definitely the enemy, she thought, her heart sinking.