No Greater Glory Read online

  The low flames in the hearth threw warmth into the room. She gazed down at her bare breasts, expecting to see some change where the colonel’s hands had mapped her curves.

  Emaline toyed with the ivory buttons that secured the waistband of her pantalets. This was the last vestige of modesty left on her body.

  She stared at the door.

  If Reece returns…

  A shudder of excitement began in her ankles and inched upward to settle in the warm juncture between her thighs. Instantly, her nipples hardened. She cupped her small breasts in an attempt to relieve the sensation. The recollection of the colonel’s calloused hands touching her through the layers of cloth brought a soft moan from Emaline’s lips.

  Her head tipped back. Her hair brushed the curve of her lower back and sent another ripple dancing up her spine. Emaline’s gaze drifted again to the tub.

  The scented water beckoned with open arms. She sighed, straightened again, and slowly lowered her hands to the button on her pantalets, slipping the cloth over her hips. The chill in the room raised goose bumps on her naked flesh. She stepped out of each leg and then scooted the crumpled batiste linen over to join the pile. Lifting her foot over the metal side, she tested the water with her toe. Heat radiated up her leg and tightened her calf muscle.

  A soft gasp fell from her mouth.

  Yes. I want this.

  In a heartbeat, Emaline was up and over the side of the tub, her fingers gripping the warm metal. She eased herself into the enveloping cocoon. Leaning back, she allowed the glorious heat to penetrate every muscle. The smell of coffee brewing somewhere downstairs fused with the lavender steam and embraced her.

  Her eyes slipped closed. The image of Reece returned. Her skin prickled where the soft rasp of his beard had brushed her neck. Where he’d licked and nipped along her throat, the reminders of where his tongue laved still burned hot.

  “Reece,” she whispered. His very name stoked her memory. “Thank you so much for this.” Only the shadows heard her gratitude.

  Twenty minutes later, Emaline completed her bath and reluctantly stepped from the water. Her fingers closed around the soft towels.

  The colonel paid for two. So use them both.

  Her lips lifted into a soft grin. She wrapped one towel around her head and the other around her body. Padding to the straight-backed chair beside the hearth, Emaline settled onto the worn seat. Warmed by the fire, the wood radiated heat through her bare skin and penetrated into her relaxed muscles.

  Emaline blotted the excess moisture from her hair.

  With no brush at hand, she used her fingers to untangle the wet strands, combing through them to separate the damp curtain of curls. A light knock upon the door startled her and Emaline gasped, clutching the towel closer to her breasts. The door handle turned and seconds later, a white cap popped through the opening. A face sporting a beaming smile followed. “Well, dearie, are you all clean?”

  The thrilling sense of anticipation splintered into sorrow-filled shards. Not Reece. Emaline refused to allow the disappointment in her heart to reach her face when the rotund woman skimmed through the opening and closed the door behind her.

  “And look what I have here.” With a flourish, the maid swept a garment from her forearm and held it up for Emaline’s perusal. “We certainly can’t put those dirty things back on now can we?”

  Emaline stared at the nightgown. Amply cut and unadorned by even an embroidered hem, the sleeping garment fastened all the way up the front with a single row of ivory buttons. Long, full sleeves gathered at the wrist by delicate white ribbons. “’Tis a gift from your man, dearie,” the servant said, draping the nightgown on the bed. She turned and swept up the pile of discarded clothes. “I’ll just have these brought back to you in the morning clean as a new day.” She crossed to the door, opened it a slight crack, and tossed the clothes into the darkened hallway. She hustled over and clamped her hands around the metal tub. Shuffling backward, the maid pulled the container toward the door. “Sleep well, Mrs. Cutteridge.”

  The door closed behind her exit.

  Mrs. Cutteridge?

  The name settled into Emaline’s bones. Had Reece said that to avoid embarrassment for her? The nightgown replaced the towel and billowed around her naked body to bring warmth and comfort to her heart.

  Despite the madness of this entire situation, a strange calmness claimed her world.

  Emaline lowered to the bed and bounced a couple of times to test the mattress. An errant giggle escaped when the quilt puffed around her. She snuggled into the feather mattress. The sheets smelled clean, the comforting essence of lye soap reminding her of home. Shapinsay lay only seven miles westward. Why didn’t she just begin walking home now that her brother was safe? Why had she allowed Reece to lead her up those narrow stairs and isolate her in this room? Why did he pay for the bath?

  More importantly, why was she staying put?

  Emaline tried to ignore the questions, tried to ignore her quickening pulse. The answer hovered on the edge of her mind.

  I’m waiting for him.

  Emaline rolled onto her side. The muted rumble of cannon limbers and wagons rolling past in the street below, the muffled drone of voices, everything blended together into a lulling melody. Less than an hour later, her eyes dropped closed and she finally drifted off to sleep.

  Reece opened the door and stepped into the room. He quietly crossed to the hearth and added more wood to the glowing embers inside the grate. Within seconds, flames sputtered to life when the residue from the logs met the blaze.

  He gazed at Emaline. She was soundly asleep. Last night’s activities had drained everyone. A smile creased his lips. He remembered pulling her up the stairs, her frustrations growing when he’d placed her in here. He knew she needed sleep and he’d paid good money for her to have that opportunity. His smile deepened at the memory of the irritation on the face of the young captain whom he’d ousted from the room. The prostitute clinging to the officer’s arm had demanded a hefty price for services despite not having fulfilled her mission.

  Reece crossed to the bed and reached for the extra blanket from the spindled foot rail. The gray wool floated over Emaline. She didn’t stir. He stared down at the coffee-colored hair that fanned the pillow. Each silken strand glinted at him, its richness highlighted by the fire’s glow.

  He swayed, and his hand braced against the headboard. Exhaustion seized him. After two days without sleep, his body demanded retribution. Reece lowered to the edge of the bed and then carefully stretched out beside Emaline.

  His arms tucked beneath his head. He listened to her breathing.

  Shallow.

  Sweet.

  He couldn’t help himself. He rolled onto his side and gazed at her. Her lashes lay like dark crescents against her face. Reece swallowed. How in God’s name could he keep from touching her?

  He’d waited for her to fall asleep so he could share the bed without compunction. What a goddamned stupid idea. Her soft breathing wrapped around him with silken tethers and the whiskey he’d drank weakened his firm resolve to avoid touching her.

  He reached out and picked up a dark strand of her hair, threading the softness through his fingers, accepting the ache that coursed through him. Reece took pride in being a man in control, yet his hand slipped across her waist with a will of its own. The whiskey did the talking now. He gently pulled her against him and buried his face in her hair, smelling the matchless scent of her.

  Lost in the throes of slumber, she didn’t stir.

  How could he wake her? I can’t.

  His eyes slipped closed. This was enough…for now. And in the precious moment just before sleep also claimed him, Reece finally realized he’d at last come home.

  Floating somewhere in the layers of sleep, Emaline felt wondrously warm and protected. She snuggled deeper into the heat, bringing the exquisite sensations closer. The weight of something…an arm, perhaps? The contour well defined and muscular slipped over her waist.


  The warmth enveloped everything and she slipped deeper, surrendering herself to the comfort and security that encased her. While the moon rode its silvery arc toward sunrise, Emaline reveled in the protective pressure of that magnificent arm.

  The next morning, a heavy knock persisted, driving away her glorious dream.

  Emaline sat straight up in bed. The door creaked open and a young girl appeared. She quietly entered the room and laid the now-cleaned clothes on the chair. Ten minutes later and fully dressed, Emaline stood at the window and stared down into the bustling crowd.

  Had Reece deposited her in this room and forgotten about her?

  She crossed her arms in front of her waist, her fingers gripping her elbows. Well, she’d accomplished exactly what needed doing. That was the end of it. He certainly didn’t owe her anything more. He told her as much with his absence.

  He’d kept his promise, though. Her brother was free.

  Another knock upon the door forced her to turn back into the room. “Come in,” she whispered, her expectation soaring. The door eased open and a young soldier stepped into view.

  “Good morning, Mrs. McDaniels,” he said.

  He stood alone. A fresh wave of disappointment swamped Emaline.

  “Good morning.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Lucas Glave, ma’am, the colonel’s aide-de-camp. He’s asked me to escort you back home and make certain you arrive safely.”

  Emaline blinked. “I see.” Her tongue slipped out to moisten suddenly dry lips. “And Colonel Cutteridge? Will he be joining us as well?” Her mind spun around the warmth of her dreams last night. Reece, holding her tightly in his arms. Reece, caressing her and murmuring in her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

  Reece, keeping her safe from the madness that swirled beyond this room.

  The lad stood by the door, his hat held loosely in his hands. “No, ma’am, the colonel has business elsewhere this morning. If you’re ready, we should be going.”

  Her heart hammered in her chest, driving the pain of Reece’s evasion deeper into her stomach. Emaline nodded with difficulty. She drew her cape across her shoulders, fastened the corded loops, and anchored a smile into place. The soldier escorted her from the hotel and over to a horse near the railing that ran the length of the building. One and one-half hours later, with few words spoken between them, the young lieutenant completed his assignment. Emaline stood on Shapinsay’s front steps and watched him ride away.

  Tears scalded a path down her face.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wilderness Campaign

  Battle of the Wilderness

  May 4, 1864

  The clash between the Union and Confederates came at mid-day when the blazing sun reached its apex. The Federals crossed the Rapidan River and entered the forest from the Orange Plank Road, stumbling through the morass of woods.

  Reece coughed hard to push out the putrefying taste of smoke.

  The pitiful screams of the dying fused with the horrendous report of enemy fire and echoed around him. Sparked by gunpowder, eons of decayed leaves became ready tinder and fires sprang up in front of his regiment to illuminate the forest in a myriad of haunting effigies. The sweeping arms of battle ensnared them all. Artillery explosions rocked the ground and everywhere Reece turned, chaos rode the winds that fanned the noxious flames until his retreating troops could determine neither right nor left, north nor south. Wave after wave of cavalrymen threw themselves into the melee. Horses shrieked above the tumult. Within minutes, thousands of trampling hooves crushed the velvety softness of a late Virginian spring. Mortar shells screeched overhead, snapped off treetops, and ripped apart his command.

  More at home in this ruthless setting, the Army of Northern Virginia thwarted and repulsed his army at every turn, and the farther Reece pushed his troops into the raging inferno of tangled undergrowth, the more vulnerable and bogged down they became. The brambles of the forest seized them within a sinuous, slippery grip. Visibility dropped to less than twenty feet, leaving Reece no other option but to call a complete halt.

  All the while, the fires of hell crept closer.

  From under the mantle of smoke, at the point where the Plank and Brock Roads crossed, Reece and his entourage of couriers emerged onto the rutted turnpike. Three and a half years’ worth of campaigning reflected in the tight set of his battle-hardened muscles and the fires highlighted his uncompromising resilience. A crease of unease crimped his forehead, pulling hard at the hollow gauntness the war had etched into his face.

  His long hair lay plastered to his neck from the heat of the fires, and like many others in this god-forsaken war, he bore a permanent reminder of its stress. The horrors of Chancelorsville, Gettysburg, and Brandy Station all took their toll on him this past year and a whisper of silver now wove through his dark locks, a badge of honor he wore proudly. Tentacles of memories reached out to taunt him. Amid the chaos that encompassed his life, he only needed to close his eyes to lose himself again in the remembrance of Emaline, her sweet skin and the luscious, succulent taste of her. Nothing had changed inside him in that regard. His desire for her had never waned. And now, once again, he was so close to Shapinsay…and to her arms. Not a day went by that she wasn’t in his thoughts.

  An artillery shell shrieked overhead and exploded in a nearby tree. His thoughts raked back into control. He swiveled in his saddle and stared across the clearing. Easing back on Saguaro’s bit, Reece searched for a way through the bedlam.

  This is asinine. Why would General Hancock demand a council of officers now?

  “We’re too far down,” he bellowed above the din. Sweat poured in rivulets down his face. The swirling smoke stung his eyes. Finally, he spotted a rutted path coiling eastward off the lane. “There’s the way to the Wilderness Tavern. Come on.” He spurred Saguaro into action. “Hancock’s waiting for us—”

  Before he finished the statement, another round of artillery screamed through the thick blanket of smoke. A split second later, the twelve-pounder shell exploded less than ten feet from where Reece and his couriers clustered.

  Shrapnel flew in all directions.

  The Gray Ghosts were good at their jobs and as their honored name implied, they seemed to hover in the haze above their enemy. Surrounded by the acrid cloud, they picked their way through the tangled vines.

  Brennen led his small platoon into a clearing near Brock Road.

  “Hey, Cap’n,” a soldier yelled above the uproar. “There’s a fine lookin’ animal.” He pointed to a buckskin near the clearing’s edge. The horse, nearly sixteen hands high, stood among a cluster of dead mounts.

  The soldier guided his Morgan toward it, carefully stepping over a scattering of dead Yanks in the road.

  “Grab him, before he gallops off,” another said.

  “He ain’t going nowhere. There’s a foot caught in the stirrup.” The man sidled up next to the horse and aimed a kick at the boot to free the beast. As the leg dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, a moan issued from the man sprawled face down beneath the animal.

  “Damn, this’n’s still alive, Cap’n!”

  “And he’s a colonel too,” another added, pointing to the wounded man’s shoulder straps. The group formed a circle around the big Yank and Brennen swung from the saddle.

  A colonel?

  Capturing one of those didn’t happen often. Something pulled at his memory. He knew only one Yankee colonel… What were the odds? He tugged on the officer’s shoulder and rolled the man onto his back.

  Blood saturated the white shirt beneath an open frockcoat.

  “Shrapnel’s got him in the chest, Cap’n,” a comrade said.

  “He’s a dead man,” another added. “He just don’t know it yet.”

  Brennen’s gaze slid upward and settled on the face just to be sure. Dark hair framed the unmistakable features of Reece Cutteridge.

  “Shit,” he whispered—the oath a sad sigh. He’d know this man anywhere. Brennen leaned over the colonel and
checked the extent of his injuries.

  The closest soldier dismounted. “What’s wrong, Cap’n?”

  “It’s him.”

  “Who’s him?” a second man asked, dropping from his saddle to join them.

  “The Yank who broke me out of prison last year. You remember, I told you about him.”

  “Well, your friend ain’t long for this world.”

  Brennen agreed, but he couldn’t just leave him out here on the road like this. He glanced across the clearing and calculated their position. Chancellorsville lay a handful of miles to the west.

  The Orange Plank should be little more than a mile away.

  That meant his sister, if she hadn’t been forced from the plantation by now, was less than ten miles away. Regardless, they could make it to Shapinsay and back by morning if they rode like hell. If Emaline still lived there and if she still cared enough to want to help the colonel, she was the only chance this man would have to survive. That is, if he lived long enough to get there. Many ifs stalked Brennen’s decision, but he owed the big Yank and that made his choice easier. “Help me get him onto his horse.”

  Emaline raised her head from the library desk, unsure exactly when she’d dozed off. Working in the garden all day, coupled with the unusually hot spring, had tapped her strength.

  Darkness entombed her.

  What time was it?

  She stretched the tightness from her muscles. The sudden soft chiming of the mantle clock told her midnight had arrived. Apprehension controlled her world and she cocked her ear to listen to the murmur of night wafting in through the open upstairs window.

  Had something awakened her?