Love, Come to Me(3)

“Daniel. I want Daniel,” she said as icicle tears rolled down her face. She was forgetting that he didn’t know who Daniel was.

“Let me help you.” A huge, warm hand moved over her forehead, pushing the tangled hair away, sliding down to soothe her prickling cheeks with a gentle palm.

“My l-legs hurt. My knees are aching—”

“I know. I’ve been through the same thing before.”

“Not like th-this—”

“I sure as hell have.” He smiled down at her. “And lived to tell about it. So there’s hope for you yet.”

“When . . . ?”

“In sixty-four, during the siege on Richmond. I was ducking some sharpshooters and landed myself in an iced-over pond. Hell isn’t a hot place at all, honey. It’s very, very cold.”

“You fought against . . . us.”

As she lifted her eyelashes, she saw that he was staring at her intently, his startlingly blue eyes filled with pity and something that she didn’t understand. “Yes. I’m from Virginia.”

“Why are you . . . here?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked away from her and into the fire. His arms tightened around her quivering body, holding her still. Lucy thought that if her circumstances had been a little less dire, she would have died of shock. She had never been touched by a Southerner before, much less been wrapped in one’s arms. But no matter who or what he was, it felt good to be held so tightly, anchored, and protected from the cold.

“Better yet?” he asked eventually.

“No. I’m . . . frozen on the inside . . . in my bones.”

Heath shifted her slightly and reached inside his vest for a battered silver flask, which gleamed dully in the firelight. “Some of this will help.”

“What is it?”

He twisted the top off the flask, and instantly she could smell the pungent fumes of strong liquor. “Ever hear of forty rod?”

“I can’t!” Her eyes rounded with horror. She had been raised strictly on the doctrine that drinking was evil and led to all kinds of immoral behavior, especially in women. Her father and the reverend of the First Parish Church, Grindall Reynolds, had always said so.

“This is going to sink right down to your bones, Lucinda. Open your mouth.”

“No, don’t!” She would have struggled away from him had the quilts not been wrapped around her so well. Easily he wedged the neck of the flask between her lips and tilted it upwards, filling her mouth with a noxious flood of whiskey. She swallowed and choked, then swallowed again, until the pit of her stomach was burning with the fire of it. He took the flask away. Coughing, Lucy glared up at him and fought to catch her breath. As soon as she had recovered, she opened her mouth to say something and found the flask pushed between her lips again. This time the liquor went down easier, and she drank helplessly, her head caught in the hard crook of his arm. With a discomfited sound, she turned her face into his shoulder as soon as he took the flask away. No one had ever treated her so rudely before. She was going to tell her father about this, just as soon as she was able. Heath must have had a good idea of what her thoughts were, because he grinned suddenly. As he looked down at her cheek and saw the trace of whiskey on it, he removed the droplets with the tip of a long finger.

“For shame, sweet . . . turning your nose up at good Southern corn liquor. A sight better than what they drink up here—”

“Don’t,” she said, shrinking away from his touch. To her surprise, he was not put off or disconcerted by her rebuff. He only laughed softly.

“To ease your mind—no, I’m not going to take advantage of your helpless condition, despite the fact that you’re as cute as a bug’s ear.”

“I am not,” she contradicted groggily. “I look like something you . . . dragged up from the river . . . which is exactly . . . what I am.”

“You’re the most adorable thing I’ve ever held in my arms. I can see you don’t believe me. Can’t you bring yourself to trust me?”

“You’re a Southerner,” Lucy said thickly, her head spinning from the whiskey. Its warmth was burning deep inside her.

“Before the war started I was a Unionist,” he offered in a conciliatory manner. “I’m sure that makes me a little more appealing, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

He smiled at her tipsiness and at the returning color in her cheeks. “You are adorable,” he said huskily. “Poor little Yankee.”

She was both irritated and fascinated by the way he spoke to her in that soft drawl, as if she were someone to be coddled and cherished. She had never been babied so outrageously by a man, not even by Daniel. Closing her eyes against the dancing firelight that filled the room, she sighed tiredly into Heath’s neck. The dull ache was bearable now, and it was slipping away bit by bit.

“Take me home soon,” she whispered, slumping against him.

“Go to sleep, honey. I’ll take care of you.”

As Lucy fell into an exhausted slumber, she was confronted by confused images, and tumbled dreams: the memories of growing up with Daniel; their antagonism turning to friendship, their friendship turning into a far deeper affection; Daniel going off to war, sharp and neat in a uniform of red-trimmed indigo, his brown eyes twinkling and his face so attractively divided by a smooth crescent mustache. Daniel—her love, but not her lover.