Love and War: The Coltrane Saga, Book 1 (23 page)

Beautiful. God, she was beautiful. Even now he could feel the heat rising in his own body, the pressure of his swelling member as he thought of how it would be to lie down beside her, and hold her, and touch her, and enter the sweet, hungry flesh.

A smile tilted his lips to one side as he thought of the almost accusing way she had looked at him when he ordered her to move her bed closer to the fire so he could keep close watch on her. She had stood there, eyes blazing defiantly, lips set tightly, hands on her hips. “I suppose you plan to keep me for yourself the way Luke Tate did,” she had cried. “And if I refuse to submit to your animal passion, you’ll turn me over to your men to take their turns with me…”

He had laughed at her, He had thrown back his head and laughed at her, and the effect had been devastating. Before anyone could make a move, she had whirled about to grab the first thing her fingers could fasten about—a tin cup half-filled with scalding coffee—sending the hot liquid splattering into his taunting face.

Any other woman, trapped by the impulse of her own hasty action, might have wilted beneath the burning, angry gaze he silently gave her as the coffee dripped slowly down his face and onto his dark blue shirt. But not this one. She clenched her fists and stood her ground, ready to defend herself if need be.

Again he laughed, and she blinked, surprised. First he had reacted to the idea of having sex with her as though he found it quite amusing. And then, after having hot coffee thrown in his face, he could still look at her and react with good humor.

“You flatter yourself,” he said finally, lips smiling but eyes cold and hard. “You think I want to sow my seed in a Rebel garden? No, thanks, princess. I save myself for more valuable and choice property. You’ll be safer lying near to me, as my men might not be quite as particular.”

Gritting her teeth, she had flung herself upon her pallet. The hive would be warm, and the honey sweeter than the finest wine, but he had no intentions of getting stung by the angry queen bee. He knew his men raped whenever they had the chance, just as the Rebels ravished the Northern women. But he figured it only enhanced a woman’s conceit to turn into a fawning, grunting animal in order to enter their orifices. And handing out compliments to boost a female ego was something he prided himself in never doing.

He forced himself to think of other things, like the war that was about to strike with full fury. General Ulysses S. Grant, himself, had sent him and his band of men to the western mountains of Virginia to rout the murdering group of raiders that reportedly had no mercy for either side. The whole countryside had heard of their brutal killings and raids, and General Grant wanted them out of the region when he left Cairo, Illinois, with 15,000 men early in February to attack the center of the 600-mile line of Confederate soldiers that were stationed between the Appalachian Mountains westward to the Mississippi River. It was a matter of honor, he said, to destroy the Rebel traitors who donned Union clothes to plunder and rob and murder innocent families. For the glory of the Union, they had to be destroyed.

And Luke Tate had escaped. That was unfortunate, Travis conceded, but his men were dead. It would take quite a while for him to round up a new band, and with the area crawling with soldiers from both sides, he would have difficulty—unless he was able to somehow get together the deserters, who, he felt, were unscrupulous enough to be glad to join a no-good scoundrel like Tate.

He had slept for short periods of time during the long night, the chill creeping through the crudely constructed cabin walls to penetrate the very marrow of his bones. The first streaks of morning light began to filter through. Soon it would be time to rouse the men and start the journey to rejoin General Grant. He was anxious to be back in the thick of battle with the Cavalry, charging the Rebel lines and smashing down those who fought to destroy the Union. Those who knew him accused him of loving war passionately, and perhaps they were right. He did not mind killing and destroying to defend something he believed in so strongly.

The last word that they’d been able to hear about the progress of General Grant was that he had been victorious at Fort Henry. A newspaper account told about how the Confederates had constructed twin forts in Tennessee just south of the Kentucky border to protect two important rivers—the Tennessee and the Cumberland. Fort Henry guarded the Tennessee; Fort Donelson stood menacingly on the banks of the Cumberland. On February 6th, while he had been searching the snowbound mountains of Virginia for the band of Rebel murderers that had both sides aching to see them destroyed, Grant had, with the aid of a Federal river fleet, battered Fort Henry into submission. And about ten days later, the word was that Grant had surrounded Fort Donelson and its reported 12,000 defenders. Travis had laughed with approval when he read the reply General Grant had given when the Confederate commander requested surrender terms. He had replied, “No terms but unconditional surrender,” and now people were calling him “Unconditional Surrender” Grant.

Capture of the Henry and Donelson forts assured, Travis knew that the Union would have control of Kentucky and Tennessee and would open Mississippi and Alabama to Federal invasion. And, of course, the loss of the forts would be a severe blow to Southern morale. Now the Rebels knew that the Union army had the ability and the willingness to fight, by God

And then, they had received more jubilant news. There had been an important battle farther to the west for control of Arkansas and Missouri. During the first week in March, at a place called Pea Ridge in the state of Arkansas, a Confederate Army, said to be numbered around 16,000, attacked about 12,000 Federals fighting under the command of General Samuel R. Curtis. And what Travis and his men laughed about was the report that the Confederates were dressed in rags—few had on anything that even vaguely resembled a uniform. And they were armed with only shotguns and squirrel rifles. And they even had Indians fighting with them—about 3,500 or so, they’d heard—Indians that belonged to the Creek, Choctaw, Cherokee, Chickasaw, and Seminole tribes. And after only two days of heavy fighting, a counterattack by the Federals broke up the makeshift “army”—and with the defeat of Pea Ridge, the Confederates permanently lost Missouri and northern Arkansas.

Things were looking very good, and Travis wanted to get back to the war. He enjoyed raids and scouting, but after so many months of trekking through the all but impassable mountains his latest assignment, he was anxious to get back to civilization, even if it meant being in the middle of a boiling battle.

Now they had heard that Grant’s army was near the Mississippi border, and he wanted to move as quickly as possible to get there. He and his men were qualified “Sharpshooters” of the Cavalry. They had been issued the best equipment and the finest horses. Their breech-loading Spencer repeating carbines were deadly, and the Rebels knew it. The ones they captured could not be used, because they lacked the special cartridges and, as yet, did not have the facilities or ample supply of metal for their manufacture. Travis knew his troop of men were valuable, and he was proud of this fact.

He had succeeded in pushing the thoughts of the young woman from his mind. Now she stirred, moaning in her sleep, turning her face toward the soft glow of the fire. She was beautiful, and he bit back the gasp that moved up his throat as he caught sight of one firm, milk-white breast tumbling from the loose-fitting shirt. He stared at it, licking his lips hungrily. Even in sleep, the nipple was taut, almost angry…defiant that he should be staring. And it seemed to be staring back—like an accusing red-pupiled eye. He felt the tautness in his loins as his lips twitched in a sucking motion—how he longed to clamp down on that glaring eye and feel the emotion ripple through the lovely young thing’s body. But no, he checked himself. He had more self-control than that—even if it had been weeks since he had known the delight of emptying himself into a woman’s belly.

Her eyes opened, very slowly, and he met her gaze, and she caught it and held his eyes for a moment, letting the half-taunting, half-defiant challenge leap into the tenseness between them.

Quickly, with the self-control of which he was so proud, Travis forced the moment to pass. Kitty saw that the predatory light she’d seen there only a few seconds ago vanished, to be replaced by indifference.

His eyes flicked down to her exposed breast, and he gave her an amused, half-mocking smile as he said, “I believe you lost something, princess. As I said before, some of my men aren’t so particular about used goods, and they might see what you have to offer and take you up on it.”

“Ohhhh!” She followed his gaze, realized her breast was exposed, and pushed herself back into the shirt so roughly that she accidentally pinched herself. “How dare you think I want you to touch me, you arrogant bastard…”

He raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “The lady knows some dirty words. It seems your Rebel lover didn’t mind the kind of language he used around women, and I thought all you Southern belles were supposed to be so ladylike and refined. Tsk! Tsk!” He shook his head from side to side, taunting her.

She pulled herself up to a sitting position on the pallet, tossing back her golden hair. With eyes blazing and lips trembling, she stared at him in fury. “Just why do you find me so despicable, Captain Coltrane? I’ve told you the truth about my capture, but yet you seem to take some sort of depraved pleasure in trying to torment me and shame me. I’d like to know why.”

“Haven’t you heard?” he chuckled. “We’re at war, princess, and you happen to be the enemy.”

“The enemy? I’m not at war with you, sir. I’ve been held prisoner and raped for over six months, and I’m anxious to go home and work to help the sick and wounded. Now why does that make me your enemy? Do I get a trial before you sentence me to be hanged?”

Now Travis saw the mocking light in her eyes, and instead of angry tantrums, she was giving him insolence and scorn. A nerve along his jawline tensed. “Why should I turn you loose to go home and help the ones who want to kill me and my kind? Oh, no, you’re going to come with us and work with
our
sick and wounded. I’d be a fool to send you back to your people, and I don’t like to be taken for a fool—especially by a
Southern
woman.” His eyes twinkled, and he grinned as he saw that his remark had struck home, and she was again angry.

“You
are
a bastard! I’ll not lift a finger to help a murdering Yankee. I hope all of you die and rot in hell—except for my father, who so foolishly went to fight with you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your father joined the Union army?”

“His mind was never right after the Vigilantes nearly killed him when they caught him helping runaway slaves to the underground. He can’t be blamed for his feelings. I just pray that he’ll come to his senses and go back where he belongs.”

“This war has turned brother against brother, Miss Wright, and father against son. And why? Because the South insists on making slaves out of human beings just because their skin happens to be black.”

“I’ve never been in favor of forced slavery,” she said, defending herself. “But I do uphold states rights. You and I will never agree, and I will never lift so much as a finger to help a dying Yankee. You understand
that
before you take me away from here. I’ll
die
first!”

Her eyes had narrowed catlike, and she had spoken in a hissing sound, her whole body quivering with her wrath. It would take time to break her spirit, but Travis knew it would have to be done. Few women could withstand the horrors of wars. Most fainted at the sight of blood or the sound of a man screaming as his bones were hacked from his body. But not this one. No, she had courage, fortitude, and her services would be invaluable to the Union army. He had no intention of letting her go, nor would he turn such ripe, sweet flesh over to the lusts of his men if she refused to obey. No, there had to be another way, and he would find it. She would bend to his will. He made himself a promise to that effect—and he always kept his promises.

He got to his feet slowly. “I want you to fix some coffee and food for my men, and then we’ll be on our way. You do as you’re told, and you’ll be safe as long as I’m alive. If anything happens to me, you’ll be on your own, because these men seldom know their pleasure, and it’s going to take some doing to keep them off of you as it is…”

“Oh, how gallant!” she mocked him. “How wonderful you are. The brave Union Captain Travis Coltrane…ready to defend the honor of the flower of womanhood. I’m touched. Really I am.” She scrambled to her feet to glare at him, lips curling back as though ready to strike and kill.

He stepped closer, and she moved backward with him walking slowly toward. her, until there was no place to run. Her back was against the wall, and she continued to look at him with defiance, even though her body was shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly he reached out and grabbed her into his arms. It was a pure instinctive action—something he could no longer help. “I never said you were the flower of womanhood, princess, but let’s find out…”

He could smell the fragrance of the pine needles that clung to her hair, feel the teasing suppleness of her body. Anger, mixed with frustration, made him suddenly cruel. Wrapping his fingers in her hair to pull her head back, he covered her mouth with his hungrily. For a moment, she was rigid, not fighting back, but then her teeth clamped down viciously on his tongue, which he had forced between her lips.

“You bitch!” He jerked back, tasting blood, and he brought his hand up to strike her, but the look she was giving him—the way she all but turned her cheek up to receive his blow, made him regain his control. She wanted him to hit her—wanted to put him on the same level as that murdering Luke Tate. Hell, she probably wanted him to rape her. She probably wanted it as much as he did—only she wanted to protect her so-called virtue and say she had been forced. Well, he had known plenty of women, and to his credit, not one of them had ever made him resort to taking what he wanted by force. Oh, no, he knew how to make a woman writhe and moan in his arms, begging him to take her over and over again. His back had been bloodied by frenzied, raking nails too many times by the throes of the ecstasy he produced in his women, for him to ever stoop to force.