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.