Renegade

Prologue

Off the coast of North Carolina, February 1865

The ultimate joke!

He knew the cannonball was going to hit his ship. It seemed to move uncommonly slowly, but very accurately, as it arched through a suddenly clear night. The fog that had shrouded the ship’s movements lifted, leaving only a few damp patches floating in the air like steam from a teapot.

And the Specter II, the ship he had so unwisely taken in a very bad bargain, lay off the Carolina waters like a crippled fox waiting to be torn to pieces by the hounds.

The first mate and pilot had taken charge of the ship. He, Rhys Redding, had just been along for the ride, to learn, to adventure, to try to forget the moment of weakness that made him lose what he’d always thought he wanted most.

The ship suddenly jerked as the first mate tried to avoid the incoming fire, and Rhys balanced himself against a keg of nails tied down to the deck. Coffin nails. He’d been told they were in great demand by the Confederacy. Bloody fitting, he thought irreverently.

His fabled luck had run out. He knew that, as the cannonball hit the stern of the ship, sending a hail of flaming wood splinters and metal raining down on the crew. He heard screams and felt the sting of pain in several places, and then the familiar sticky flow of blood.

He saw two crewmen try to hoist a white flag, but another shot sent both of them flying, and then there were more fireballs in the sky. He closed his eyes. He’d always heard a man saw his life pass before him when he died.

He wasn’t particularly eager to see his own.…

He kept hearing the hated word: bastard.

His mother’s words. The whore’s words. A mistake, she’d told him over and over again. She’d sneered, Ye be a lord’s bastard. Because of you, he threw me out. She’d tried to rid herself of him, she’d told him, but the usual means had not worked. She’d hated him for being too strong, for refusing to die even in the womb.

Another shot hit the ship, and it started to roll to the left, or leeward or whatever it was. He should know after his many months at sea, but everything was a bit fuzzy now. Even the years as they passed in his mind.

The stable. Lying bleeding from the whip of an impatient lord. After his prostitute mother died, he had taken refuge there, currying horses in exchange for shelter and bread. But one time he had not been fast enough, and he’d tasted the sting of a horsewhip. He’d been eight years old, but he could still feel the pain of that whip, the humiliation. He had vowed then that no one would touch him again. No one.

The streets of London. He’d survived there nearly seven years any way he could: picking pockets, shilling for crooked games. Anything for a pence. Anything at all to fill a hungry stomach.

And then Nathan Carruthers had come along, the black sheep son of an earl. Even now, Rhys remembered his grin, the grin that defied even death. Nathan had been a charmer. A thief. And a gambler. And he’d taught Rhys to excel at all three …

They had met in a London street when Rhys threw out a foot in front of a Bow Street Runner chasing Nathan, and Nathan had immediately seen a disciple in the young street tough. Nathan had to leave London, and Africa seemed a likely place in which to get lost—and make a great deal of money.

Africa … a sun-drenched dangerous land where Rhys had honed his natural abilities, where he had learned the ways of a chameleon, where he had learned to kill—

Abandon ship!

The shout could barely be heard as the ship groaned and creaked its last gasps for life. The deck slanted, and Rhys had to hold on to the rope that served as a railing. Goods, destined for the dying Confederacy, were sliding into the water. A fortune in goods. A fortune Rhys had paid for. Or traded for.

Because of a pair of hazel eyes …

Rhys had returned to London a rich man. And he’d come alone. Nathan lay in a grave back in Africa, thousands of miles from his home. His last legacy to Rhys had been a diamond, a perfect stone he’d found someplace. Nathan died of fever before he could tell Rhys where. He probably wouldn’t have, anyway. Nathan had never been a sharing man, unless he wanted something.

Rhys already had considerable savings of his own. He’d learned well from Nathan. So many things: reading and writing, manners, ways of the gentry. Gambling. Confidence games. Even safecracking, which had precipitated his partner’s flight from England.

The unrelenting hunger in Rhys for security, for the means to make himself invulnerable to others, closeted what little conscience he had after surviving on the streets, and Nathan simply hadn’t had one. Rhys soon discovered Nathan had not paid his way to Africa out of gratitude, nor had the disgraced lord provided hours of impatient instruction out of the goodness of his heart. Nathan, instead, had apparently seen in Rhys’s unique ability with languages and dialects a needed partner in his various schemes. In the beginning, they had been soldiers of fortune, shepherding settlers across dangerous plains, winning their money during the long, lonely evenings. And then Nathan had schemes. He’d always had schemes.

When Nathan died, Rhys knew it was time to return to England. Although he had liked Africa, the vast plains and vivid colors, he’d never felt as if he really belonged there. He had a deep gnawing hunger for something else, something he didn’t entirely understand. His mother had once told him he was the son of nobility. Perhaps now it was time to take his place among those he’d always envied. With the diamond, he had enough financial resources to buy his way.

But he didn’t. His money bought him entrance into gambling dens, and his dark reputation in the boudoirs of the adventurous ladies of the town, but he soon found he could go no further, not even after winning one of the oldest estates in England.

And then he had met Lauren Bradley and Adrian Cabot, the brother of the man whose estate Rhys had won. For the first time in his life, he saw unselfishness and sacrifice as Lauren fought to regain the property for her beloved, even when she thought she’d lost him forever.

In a rare moment of weakness, in the only moment of weakness in his adult life, Rhys Redding did the unthinkable: He indulged in a spontaneous act of generosity—

Rhys heard the crackle of fire, then felt a tug at his arm. It was the ship’s pilot.

Mr. Redding, you have to jump now. For God’s sake, jump.

Bloody hell, it was February. Still, he was a survivor.

He jumped, his body coiling from the agonizing shock of icy water. He fought his way back to the surface, thinking his lungs might burst from lack of air if he didn’t freeze to death first. And he vowed that if he survived this, he would never do anything impulsive again, especially for anyone else. Never!

Chapter 1

Libby Prison, Richmond, Virginia, 1865

For a moment, Rhys Redding thought he must be in heaven and the woman an angel.

But his coldly analytical mind quickly disabused him of such a notion. He certainly had done nothing to qualify himself for such an exalted place. Just the opposite, in fact, and if he believed in hell he surely must be in one. This place had everything but brimstone, and that was being stoked within his body.

If there was an angel here, by God, it was certainly by some monumental joke.

He groaned involuntarily, his body on fire, the pain in his side almost unbearable. He tried to think back, but all that came to him were shouts and the flash of guns and the terrible ripping agony that continued for days as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He remembered snatches of being aboard a jolting wagon, of gray uniforms, of curses, of being half dragged, half carried into this place.

Most of all he remembered pain. He couldn’t think of when he was last free of it.

The angel moved closer to him, a bowl of water in her hands. Through glazed eyes, he watched as she dipped a cloth in it and wiped the sweat from his face with hands that were more tender, more gentle than he’d ever felt before.

She’d done it before, he now recalled. Her fragrance was familiar, light and flowery, and memorable among the other smells of dirt and blood and death.

He tried to move, but only a gasp of pain came. Bloody hell, but his whole body was afire. He’d had wounds before, but nothing like this, nothing like this terrible burning that was consuming his whole left side.

Water, he managed to croak through parched lips.

She nodded, and he had a glimpse of very dark hair under a bonnet, and vivid violet eyes. No, she wasn’t an angel; no one that beautiful could possibly be an angel, he assured himself cynically. His experience with women left no doubt about that.

He would take what was being offered, even if there might be a subsequent price. Then he found he didn’t even care about that possible price when she put a hand under his head and lifted it slightly so he could take in the water from the cup she held. He knew not to drink quickly; this was not the first time he had awakened to burning thirst, but it was difficult not to gulp greedily.

Sip by sip, he relieved some of his thirst, only slightly wondering at the patience of the woman. He could smell himself, and he winced. Why didn’t it seem to bother her?

The water was gone then, and he resented that, for he didn’t want her to leave him yet. With the greatest of effort, he raised his arm from under the stinking blanket that covered him, and noticed what was left of the blue uniform blouse he wore.

He sought to throw off the blanket, but the woman put her hand on his arm. You’ll get ill, she said. Her voice was soft and drawling.

Rhys thought that was an extraordinary thing for her to say. He couldn’t imagine feeling any worse than he did. But he made his body relax, and he tried to smile. Get ill?

A flash of humor illuminated her extraordinary eyes. More ill, then, she replied. You’re really much better than you were yesterday, and the day before.

Rhys tried to sit a little, to obtain a tiny bit of dignity, of independence, but he was weak as a mewing kitten. Where in the bloody hell …?

She tipped her head, an amazingly appealing gesture, he observed. At least he’d lost none of his famed lust, even in his abysmal condition.

You’re not Yankee-bred, she said, a question in her voice.

Rhys tried to move again, but new waves of pain rolled over him and he closed his eyes to contain it, to keep from moaning, from showing any weakness. He hated that, showing weakness. He’d always hated it. He’d learned a long time ago how to bottle pain and humiliation, and to paint the container with indifference. No, he finally managed.

English?

Welsh, he answered, trying to figure out where he was, and why. But then on the other hand, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. He had a very bad feeling about this.

Fighting for the Yanks?

Her voice was so soft that he had to strain to hear above the moaning and thrashing in this room.

He closed his eyes again, thinking of the past few weeks.

A good deed. That’s how it all happened. One good deed in a life totally designed to advance one Rhys Redding.

One good deed and look what happened!

Well, never again. Weakness bred disaster. He knew that. He had always known that. Damn his hide for violating his own principles.

But he still didn’t have the answer to his question. Where am I?

Libby Prison, the woman said.

What’s Libby Prison?

Her eyebrows, silky black fringes that shaded those glorious violet eyes, rose. A Confederate prison for Yank officers, Major. Surely you must be familiar with the name.

But I’m not …

Flashes came to him then. An escape. An escape in an officer’s uniform. He groaned with the irony of it. Christ, he’d been a prisoner of the Yanks. Now, apparently, he was a prisoner of the Confederates.

You’re not what?

Who in the hell would believe him? In the middle of a war, dressed as an enemy. His gaze dropped to the soiled blue shirt he wore. It was dark and stiff with caked blood. A major’s uniform, for God’s sake. He remembered the man now; but even to him, the explanations for his predicament were ridiculous.

His lips stiff with self-disgust, he turned his eyes back to the woman. Who are you?

Susannah Fallon, she said. She looked toward the cot next to his. Wesley is my brother. Colonel Wesley Carr.

So her brother was a prisoner too. But how did she get here? Why was she helping him? He knew she had. For days. He had images in his head, images of gentle hands, an insistent voice calling him when he wanted to surrender to the sweet darkness.

He heard moans, and he looked around him, as much as he could. Men moved restlessly on cots, some moaning, some very still. The room was filled, every cot occupied and more men lying on the floor. There was only one window, high and barred. The walls were dingy, and the terrible stench, a sickly sweet smell of disease and death, was breath-robbing.

He tried to concentrate on what she’d just said. The brother. How … is he?

He lost a leg. And … his will to live. Some of the light left those remarkable eyes.

Live. He remembered her saying that to him. Live. He remembered when the pain was so bad, he had wanted to sink into oblivion. But the woman wouldn’t let him.

A moan came from her brother, and the woman moved away, her attention now absorbed elsewhere. Rhys felt an inexplicable loss. Just her presence beside him had somehow cut the pain.

He heard her offering water in a barely audible voice. The words were soothing, encouraging. Like a sweet song or the comforting ripple of water in a slow-moving stream. Rhys closed his eyes and just listened, concentrating on her, using that concentration to dull the fire in his body.

Snatches of words, of phrases. Wes … think of the ranch, of Erin.

And the agonized reply. Broken. Defeated. I am, dammit. I’m not any … good for either now.

"And me? I need you. You’re all I have left." There was incredible sadness in her voice, and Rhys wanted to do something violent to the man causing it.

Strange. He’d never felt protective before, except … maybe … but that wasn’t protection. That was for his own amusement, he assured himself.

You have Mark. Rhys heard both bitterness and resignation in the almost snarled words.

A long silence followed. I don’t know … I haven’t heard anything.…

Rhys opened his eyes and looked over at the woman. Her shoulders sagged slightly, conveying weariness and grief, but still he sensed something strong, a will akin to his own. And he had another flash of her pulling him back from an abyss of some kind.

That sudden image dismayed him. He didn’t like debts. He didn’t want to owe anyone. Well, bloody hell, he hadn’t asked her for anything; therefore, he didn’t owe a bloody thing.

He clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the conversation next to him, but he couldn’t turn off his ears or his eyes or his mind. And he found he didn’t want to, even as warning flares went off in his head. He reminded himself of the last time he’d gone soft over a woman.

Bloody hell, he didn’t even want to think about it, about the trail of mishaps that led him here. He turned his attention once more to the man and woman beside him.

Go away, Susannah. Leave me alone.

I can’t.

Your loyalty belongs to the other side.

Damn you, Wes. It was incongruous, that curse coming from her, like thunder in a clear sky. Steel underlaced the silk.

So he had been right, Rhys thought, wishing like hell it didn’t make her even more appealing.

A new sound came to him then, the rasp of a key unlocking a nearby door and the creaking sound of a door opening. The harsh sound of boots crunching against a stone floor echoed in the cavernous room. He turned to look, and it felt as if all the devils in hell were sticking him with pitchforks!

Mrs. Fallon, you have to leave now. The voice was rough, and came from a man in a tattered butternut wool uniform.

Thank you for so much time, Sergeant, the woman said, standing up. I’ll be back tomorrow.

Yes, ma’am, he said.

And can you ask the doctor to look at this man? She turned toward Rhys. He’s still very feverish.

You know we ain’t got no medicines.

But you do have water, she challenged, with that surprising undertone of confidence.

I’ll mention it, the sergeant mumbled.

Her voice changed, became all sweetness, like pure molasses. Thank you, she said. You’ve been very kind, Sergeant.

Everything in Rhys tensed, and he wondered whether it was because of the obvious lust in the sergeant’s eyes. Forget it, Redding, he told himself. Susannah Fallon and her brother had talked about a man named Mark. The guard had called her Mrs. She’s trouble. He’d figured that out during the past few minutes; he had always been good at sizing up people.

She had the same combination of softness and strength that had led him astray before. He wondered if those traits were peculiar to American women. Whatever, he wasn’t going to get trapped by them again.

But, despite his resolutions, his eyes didn’t leave her as she pulled on a pair of gloves. She returned his gaze, a wistful smile on her face, before she followed the guard out the door. Rhys heard the grate of the lock, and all the light left the dark, airless room.

He tried to move again, now that she wasn’t here to see his weakness. He felt sweat running down his face as the pain stabbed his side with renewed fury. Nonetheless, he managed to lean on his hand and look about him.

The brother, Wes, was lying still now, but his eyes were open, staring listlessly at the filthy ceiling above. Almost as if sensing Rhys’s attention, he turned his face toward him. It was pale and thin; dark brown hair, lank and dirty, fell over his forehead.

Welcome back to hell, Wes said, his mouth twisting in a grimace. You were better off unconscious.

Rhys’s stomach rumbled. He wasn’t sure he could eat, but he also knew he wouldn’t get better if he didn’t. Do they feed us?

Wes laughed mirthlessly. Damned little. Until my sister found me here, there was even less. Not that I care much.

The declaration was said as a matter of fact, without self-pity, and Rhys suddenly understood what the woman had said about losing will. He wondered how he would feel if he had lost a leg. He couldn’t imagine it.

He asked a question instead. How did your sister get in here?

She’s married to a Reb hero. The bitterness in his voice was back. She’s tolerated.

So she was married. To a Reb. And her brother was a Yank. That was … intriguing. And so was she, she and those depthless violet eyes that seemed to penetrate inside him. He cursed under his breath. It didn’t matter anyway. He’d find someone in charge, explain what had happened, and be gone from here soon enough.

He lowered himself back onto the cot, feeling the pain flood his body, running like rivers of fire through his side. He closed his eyes against it and saw her again. Leaning over him. Washing his face. Touching with a tenderness he’d never known before.

A tenderness that hurt because it was so new. So unexpected. So totally inexplicable.

He tried to tell himself it was because she wanted something from him. But what? What did he have?

He turned over on the side that was still whole and blanked out his mind, as he’d learned to do so long ago.

Susannah managed to reach the outer gate of the prison before the tears came.

She tried to blink them back. She had to be strong for Wes. For herself.

They were the only two left. The war had taken almost everything.

She stumbled slightly as emotions threatened to overwhelm the control she’d tried so hard to maintain. Her husband, Mark, had died in a Yankee prison hospital months ago but, for some reason, the information didn’t reach Richmond until the previous week. She had suspected it, of course. His men, who escaped a Yank ambush in northern Virginia, had seen him go down, had known he had been shot several times. They had not been able to go back after him, not with a passel of Yanks on their tail.

Before she had learned all this in a letter, she had made several queries, all of which had come to naught. So, hoping against hope, she had traveled from Texas to Richmond, via ship from Galveston to the Bahamas and then aboard one of the last blockade runners into Charleston, and finally by train to Richmond. She had to know. She had to try to help him if there was the slightest chance of his being alive. She had owed him that. And so much more.

She hadn’t found him, but she had found a desperately ill Wes.

She angrily wiped the tears away. She hadn’t been able to tell Wes yet. He and Mark had been like brothers since they were crawling. Only in this war had they separated, each going the way of their conscience. But before he had gone off to serve as a scout for General Lee, Mark had done everything he could to help Wes and herself, even marrying her when he knew he didn’t have her whole heart. He gave her his protection as a Confederate officer in a county that reviled her family for its northern loyalties.

He’d wanted her to have his ranch, to have his name. Almost as if he knew he wouldn’t be coming back, he’d told her he wanted his land left in the hands of one who loved it. He knew how much she cared for the land, the ranch, the horses. His older brother had already died in the war, and there were no other other Fallons left. Although Mark had never tried to push her, she knew he had loved her with all his heart, and she lived with a terrible guilt now that she had not loved him in the same way.

She had wanted to, because he was everything good and fine, but he’d been too much like a brother to her. There had been no excitement, no passion in her for him, and she’d known he hurt because of that. But she had married him because he had wanted it badly, had trusted her with his land and his life. Perhaps, she’d thought, friendship would grow into the kind of love he wanted. Everyone said it would.

Now, there would never be that chance.

She didn’t even know where his body was. The thought was a constant ache in her heart. She couldn’t even take him back to Land’s End, the ranch he’d loved so much. And she couldn’t let Wes know, not when he was so weak and discouraged. He couldn’t take another blow. So she bore her grief alone, just as she had the death of her father three years ago.

Susannah walked slowly back to the boarding-house where she was staying. The bottom floor, like those of so many other homes, had been turned into a hospital, and she helped whenever she could. With a husband on one side, and a brother on the other, her loyalties had been so torn that she saw every man now as just that: a man, a person. Not a Yank, not a Confederate.

Her stomach growled, but she had no appetite. Libby Prison always robbed her of that. She ate only what she could afford—food was enormously expensive now that Richmond was encircled on three sides—and still her money was almost gone and she had yet to get herself and Wes home.

Her thoughts turned to the enigmatic man on the cot next to Wesley’s. He had been so badly wounded she thought he would die. But there had been something about him, something compelling even during the first days when he was unconscious. When he had been carried in, he had looked like a hawk she’d once found near death. Dark and predatory, yet touchingly vulnerable in its unfamiliar weakness. She had tried to nurse the young bird, but it had died. Yet deep in the dark eyes of the stranger was a flame she sensed was even stronger than the hawk’s.

In the past months she had learned a little medicine and she had made her own poultices for the prisoner’s wound. Infection had ravaged his body; his wound didn’t heal. But then he had rallied, his spirit refusing to give up. If only he could give some of that invincible spirit to Wes.

She had found herself washing the sweat from the stranger’s face, urging him to fight even harder, as if she could, in some way, give him what Wes refused to accept. She didn’t really understand why she started to care so much about the Yank officer, why something about him, about those dark unfathomable eyes, stirred odd, indefinable feelings deep inside her. Why was she so attracted by the dark, harsh face, made even more dangerous looking by the dark bristle that covered part of it? She wondered how she could think of someone being dangerous when he was so ill. Yet she instinctively knew he was. She felt it deep in her bones, and she was dismayed to realize he intrigued her so, more deeply than she wanted to admit, because that deepened her guilt over Mark. She had been rewarded today. Her … nighthawk would live.

If only Wes would accept what had happened to his body and regain that wonderful zest for life he once had. Perhaps the major could help, could give her brother some of his own tenacity for life.

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t think of that now. She wouldn’t think of a future that seemed increasingly bleak.

She turned up the walk to her rooming house. There were others who needed her at the moment.

Chapter 2

It was a beautiful morning, dimmed only by the sound of cannon in the distance. The bitterly cold winter rains were gone, and the late March sun was gentle, the clouds lacy and playful like those on a bright spring Texas morning. Susannah could almost see the bluebells and the goldenrod spreading out over the fields back home, the place she loved with her heart and soul. The place she knew would heal Wes.

If only she could get him there. While they still had land left.

Susannah allowed herself a kernel of optimism. The major with the attractive Welsh accent had been so much better yesterday, the second day since he had regained consciousness. Though it was obvious he was still in much pain, he was rapidly gaining strength, the deep flame in those dark eyes growing more intense.

There was more about him than a tenacity to survive. She had tried to cipher it: a strangely detached interest in the world, and in his own dilemma as a wounded prisoner far from home. He seemed to observe everything with a dispassionate, even slightly amused, acceptance, as if life were some kind of secret joke.

He held no bitterness, which so many of the other prisoners had, about his treatment. Only a guarded attention. But then, when he wasn’t aware of being watched, she would see that his eyes, like the hawk she’d nursed, were alert, glittering, awaiting opportunity. Even in his weakened condition, that quality was obvious.

That budding kernel of optimism sprouted as an idea grew. A wild idea, perhaps, but still … possible. It filled her with the same hope that had sped her journey across the country to this war-torn corner—and that, she prayed, would speed her and Wes back to the land they both loved. Land that was endangered, coveted by men who would do anything to take it from them, and who were close to success.

It was land her family had defended through three wars, had died and been born on. It was her roots, her soul. And Wes’s. All he’d ever wanted was that land.

She had to keep their heritage, hers and Mark’s and Wes’s. She had to get Wes home to it. And perhaps now she had the means to do it.

The shroud that had dampened her natural belief that good eventually triumphed over evil lifted as a stream of light, illuminated by the dark visage of a stranger, filtered through her.

Rhys Redding. Major Rhys Redding. The name itself seemed to have a strength of its own, and perhaps, since he had come all this way to fight in a war that wasn’t his, he had honor to boot. He had said nothing about family, had mentioned no names in his illness, had indicated no attachments. Perhaps he didn’t have a home to return to, perhaps …

She needed the physical strength she knew he would soon have again. She needed the will she saw in him. She needed them for Wes.

In a way, her needing him galled her. For the last four years, she had taken over control of two ranches: Mark’s, which was now hers, and the Carr homestead, which had been left to Wes. She had donned pants and ridden like a man; she had defied the Martin brothers who had tried over and over again to get her to sell; she had grown in ways she’d never thought possible five years earlier. She had confidence in her abilities, but she simply didn’t have the physical strength to get Wes home, not in his present condition.

Rhys Redding would have that strength in another week or so. She had never seen anyone improve so rapidly. Perhaps he would agree to help her and Wes.

But why should he? she argued with herself. Why? Her whole idea was ridiculous, yet she couldn’t let go of it. She, too, could be very tenacious. And she had helped him. Perhaps he would feel the smallest bit obligated. She wasn’t above using that when Wes was involved. And her land. She would use anything.

Anything at all.

She started planning a strategy that would honor a general.

Rhys woke from a restless sleep. It was dark. Cold. Disoriented, he tried to remember what had happened, tried to bring all the blurry images into focus.

Hands grabbed him. Rough hands.

Move along, you damn Limey. Rage started to build in Rhys as he was manhandled by the blue-clad officer. No one touched Rhys. Not anymore.

He tried to shrug off the hands, but his own wrists were bound by handcuffs in front of him, and he felt as he had years ago when as a young boy he’d been felled by the whip of an impatient lord.

Rhys had sworn then no one would touch him that way again. And no one had. Not and lived to tell about it.

He turned his head to look at his captor. The Union major was glaring at him, as he had during the long ride to Washington. Rhys would not have been surprised at any time to feel a bullet in his back.

They couldn’t hold him, not for long. That’s what he’d been told. He was British, a neutral, even if he was carrying goods through the Union blockade to the Confederacy. But his ship had been chased and blown out of the water off the southeastern coast of the United States, and after swimming for shore he found himself in the hands of Union sailors, who delivered him to federal troops before returning to blockade duty. He didn’t know what had happened to the rest of the crew of the Specter.

His escort to Washington included the major, who apparently was being disciplined for some reason, and two troopers. It had been a day and night already, and this morning he’d been given a hard biscuit and told to mount the fleabag horse they’d provided for him.

I told you to move, the major said, and Rhys felt a sharp pain as the officer used his gun to hit him in the small of the back.

Rhys’s reaction was immediate. No one hit Rhys Redding without paying for it. Paying triple. He had survived seven years in the London streets and ten years in Africa as a mercenary, and he knew every trick there was. He whirled suddenly; his bound hands went up and around the major’s neck and with one movement broke it. Immediately, he reached down and picked up the major’s fallen gun, pointing it at the two startled troopers who were saddling their horses.

Drop your sidearms.

"The major—" one of the men began to say as they obeyed the order.

Keys, he interrupted, holding up his handcuffed wrists.

One trooper approached very carefully, his eyes never leaving the gun.

Quickly, Rhys said with quiet menace.

The trooper took one look at those obsidian eyes and reached down into the major’s pocket, coming up with a key. He’s … dead.

Of course, Rhys said in a voice that chilled both men. You will be, too, if you don’t do exactly as I say.

They did, unlocking his handcuffs, locking their own wrists together. Rhys then backed them up to a tree and tied their free hands so they encircled the tree. They were close enough to a trail, he figured, to be able to attract attention before too much time went by. He changed into the major’s uniform, then unsaddled his own horse and those of the two troopers and slapped their rumps, sending them running through the woods. He swung up on the major’s horse, the best of the lot.

He grinned at the two troopers, then kicked his horse into a gallop.

Two hours later he rode right into the middle of a Confederate troop that wasn’t supposed to be there. Before he could speak, a bullet ripped through his side, and a red haze filled his eyes as he fell from his horse.

Now he felt that pain again as he moved. He heard himself groan, felt the waves of agony crash through his body. His entire memory was back; he wished it wasn’t. He didn’t like anything about his immediate prospects. But he had confidence in himself. He had always managed to wriggle out of tight spots. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, his gaze moved around the room, studying the sturdy brick walls and barred windows. Low moans filtered through the thick gloom. Then he decided such intent investigation was an exercise in futility. He couldn’t even crawl across the room. Depression settled over him.

And then the specter of a face floated over him. He felt cool sweet breath and smelled the slightest scent of roses, saw the lovely violet eyes. The pain started to drain away.

Until he realized it was all in his mind.

He cursed himself. He didn’t need this kind of distraction. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anyone. Only the weak needed people.

And he’d never been weak.

Except once. And he regretted that. Bloody hell, he really regretted it now.

She came again that afternoon, bringing sunshine into the gloom. He hadn’t known it was possible that a person could bring her own light with her. But she did; and despite his vow of the night before, he felt a peculiar warmth inside, a fierce, yet poignant, hunger not only for a female body but simply for the touch of those hands. The thought would have amused him greatly if he hadn’t been so bloody concerned about it. He neither needed nor wanted those capricious, unproductive emotions.

She smiled at him approvingly, and he could only guess it was because he was sitting up. A rush of pleasure teased him, and he chided himself and fought not to return the smile, to keep it to himself, as he kept most things. Smiles were meant as masks, not revelations. Remember, he told himself, she had to want something from him, a thought that he grew more certain of as he noticed an almost speculative look in her eyes.

She was carrying a pair of obviously handmade crutches, as well as a basket. A Confederate guard was trailing behind with a bowl of water. It was amazing the way she seemed to tame the usually rough guards.

Now that she had greeted Rhys with a smile, she turned all her attention to her brother. She seemed tired and worried, sad even, but there was also determination in her actions.

Wes regarded the crutches with disinterest.

Susannah—that was the way he thought of her now—sat on the end of his cot. Will you try them, Wes?

No.

Please. There was anguish in her voice, even urgency.

Rhys tried to block out the conversation, but couldn’t. He found himself listening avidly instead.

Dammit, I’m not ready to start depending on a pair of sticks.

Do you plan to stay here forever, then?

Leave me alone, Sue. Goddammit, just leave me alone.

Susannah turned around, her eyes glazed with a film of tears that nearly blinded her, and she saw Rhys’s saturnine face. Their gazes caught for one seemingly endless moment, and Rhys felt as if the bottom had suddenly fallen from his existence. Jolts of awareness radiated between them, and even in his weakened condition, he felt the sensitive parts of his body glow with a shimmering heat that had nothing to do with pain.

He had the oddest sense of recognition, of something very strong binding them, like an invisible chain. Destiny? He didn’t believe in destiny. One decided his own future by whatever means were available. Still, strange, unfamiliar feelings washed over him, making him feel awkward and unsure, two characteristics he despised. He unaccountably wanted to take her, to hold her, to protect her in a way he’d never protected before. He wanted to wipe away that grief shadowing such remarkably expressive eyes. Before he could help himself, his hand started to reach for her, to comfort. She stared at it before looking at his face with astonishment, then with the same kind of recognition he had felt.

She held out her hand, and their fingers met, burned. The spark deep in his groin glowed brightly, seeming to encompass both of them in one incandescent cloak, like a halo of emotional intensity and brilliance. His hand jerked away. He had known fierce hate, fierce ambition, but nothing like this wild assault of emotions, as if a cannonball had hit and blew to pieces his protective walls. He hastily tried to reassemble them, reining in feelings that were so new and unexpected he didn’t know how to halter them.

Lust, he explained to himself again. Simple lust. Well, maybe not so simple. But lust just the same. He didn’t know anything else, didn’t believe in anything more.

Her gaze was filled with wonder and disbelief as she stood there unmoving, her hand still outstretched. Then her eyes widened and her hand