Beloved Enemy Page 9

  Her warm smile would have melted a heart of stone. Rob’s human one thumped against his chest. Though scudding clouds covered the moon, light from a distant street lamp made Julia look even more beautiful than he had remembered. Her extraordinary green eyes glowed with a fire that made him forget the bitter coldness of the night. Her lush lips curved upward at their corners, tempting him to forgo his good intentions and taste their nectar. His gaze fell to the creamy line of her neck and lingered there. He longed to plant a row of kisses along the sweet route to her hidden breasts.

  Rob gave himself a mental shake. He had been out of women’s company for too long. His lustful thoughts did not honor the lady standing before him. He cleared his throat. “You surprised me. I had expected to see you at your window as a forlorn captive. Instead, you are down here like Queen Titania in her bower.”

  An unexpected emotion flared within Julia. At the sound of his voice, a warm flush washed her cheeks. It was so strange that this man—a Yankee—could affect her so much, when other men’s voices did nothing to shake her accustomed calm. Even Frank’s cheerful voice had sunk to a whisper with the passage of time. When Rob lifted his dark eyes to meet hers, Julia experienced a buoyancy to the depths of her soul. Last night, she had thought that she was ill, but now she realized that her flushed face and rapid pulse were symptoms of a sickness in her heart. Some of her novels likened love to a disease, but she had always presumed that the authors used their poetic license. Now, with her cheeks fevered, her blood pounding against her temples and her breath coming in short gasps, she believed that every word she had read on the subject didn’t half do justice to the real thing.

  How could she be falling in love with this man? She barely knew him. She had to remember he was a Yankee.

  Yet, she found that she could not flee from him any more than she could stop her blood from flowing. This near-stranger exuded a sexual magnetism that she had never before experienced—not even with Frank. She felt giddy as if she had taken a glass of champagne. Julia wet her dry lips. She must pull herself together before she lost complete control of her wits. Thank heavens Rob’s reference to Shakespeare’s fairy queen had given her the conversational opening that she desperately needed.

  “I pray thee, gentle mortal, speak again,” she replied, quoting from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “My ear is much enamored by thy note.”

  He chuckled. “Methinks I should have brushed up on the Bard, instead of reading dull reports this morning. But, since this is not a midsummer’s eve but the coldest night in January, I will come to the point—when we last met, I noticed that your hands were cold.”

  Before she could frame a reply, he took her hand in his. She inhaled sharply at the touch of his warm skin, but did not pull out of his grasp.

  “Ah,” he murmured, as he caressed the back of her hand. “I see that they are still cold. I will remedy this situation.”

  He gently released her, then reached inside his coat and withdrew a small package. “Please oblige me by accepting this small token of my…my concern for your health and well-being.”

  Julia looked from his face to the gift in his hand. His unexpected gesture flattered her, though she knew that she should not accept anything more from him. After all, they had never been properly introduced, nor did he pay his call in her family’s parlor under the stern gaze of her parents. She bit her lower lip.

  “You are most kind, and far too generous, Major Montgomery. You have already sent me the most wonderful caramels that I could ever eat. But I must—”

  A sudden fear flashed in his eyes. “Please don’t reject my poor offering, Miss Julia. Upon my word, I mean no offense.”

  Julia’s curiosity, as well as her desire to please him, rose at his imploring words. She accepted the tissue-wrapped package, allowing her trembling fingers to brush over his. Once again, excitement rippled through her veins at their touch. She quickly untied the ribbon and pulled away the paper.

  “Gloves!” she exclaimed, fondling the thick fleece-lined suede.

  He nodded. “A perfectly respectable gift to give to a lady, especially one with cold hands,” he added.

  “But these are quite expensive,” she whispered before she remembered that one never spoke of the cost of things, especially a gift. “It would be wicked of me to accept them.”

  “It would be very wicked of you to reject them,” he whispered.

  His seductive voice sent a delicious chill down her spine. In that instant, she realized that her feelings for him had nothing to do with reason. For the moment, she would hang up her common sense. Besides, his gift was greatly appreciated—and so was the giver.

  “True, Major,” she replied, pulling on the gloves with satisfaction. “I do try to avoid wickedness whenever possible.”

  When she looked at him again, she was startled to see that he had drawn closer to her so that their shoulders almost touched. The faint whiff of his bay rum cologne disturbed her—in the most pleasurable way. For a brief instant, she fantasized being held close in his embrace. His eyes gleamed at her. In her confusion, she glanced down and saw that his right hand was still deeply embedded in his coat pocket. Here was a subject that not only intrigued her, but would also distract them both from tripping further into the dangerous sensual quagmire that dawned before them.

  “I sincerely hope that your hands are not too cold.” She sounded stiff and unnatural.

  “I was injured,” he said with a steely edge in his voice.

  Instantly, Julia regretted her words. His pain was not only in his hand, but in his soul.

  “It tears my heart to think of it,” she whispered, not knowing what else to say. “I am so sorry.”

  “So am I,” he snapped, then coughed. “Forgive me, Miss Julia, I didn’t mean to be so sharp with you. My hand was shot up at Gettysburg, and I am not yet comfortable with the fact that I can never use it again.”

  Gettysburg! The name of the dreadful battle screamed in her memory. The South had lost so many of her sons during those three days of carnage. She studied the Yankee beside her in a new light. Naturally the major would have been on the other side—shooting at her friends. She gave him another sidelong glance. She sensed that he was not proud of the part he had played in that bloodbath. Her heart softened.

  “Is your wound so truly bad?”

  He looked away. “You may take my word for it. My hand isn’t fit to be seen by a lady.” The drooping line of his shoulders bespoke his shame.

  She touched his sleeve. “You have forgotten. I’m not a lady. I go where I am not invited,” she whispered, then added. “Misery weighs less when it is shared.”

  He said nothing but pulled his hand out of his pocket. Then he removed his glove. “It will disgust you.” Bitterness dripped with his warning. Pain carved merciless lines in his face.

  Steeling herself for a fearful sight, Julia stepped closer and took his hand in hers. The warmth of his skin surprised her. She had expected his hand to be like a dead, cold fish. She held her lantern closer.

  “Oh!” her breath caught in her throat at the sight.

  “I did warn you,” he said, almost angrily.

  His little finger was missing from the top of the first knuckle, and his ring finger lacked its tip. The hand itself had lost its proper shape, as if a gigantic hammer had flattened it. The skin on his palm had knitted badly, causing his fingers to curl inward a little. His wrist bore a huge white scar where a bullet had smashed through it. Yet she could feel solid bone under her fingers instead of fragments.

  Julia was tempted to kiss the scar as if that simple act could smooth away his festering hurt, but she decided against her impulse. The major might misconstrue her sympathy, and take more liberties with her than she was willing to give him—at least for now.

  Instead, she covered his hand with hers. “It is not as bad as you think, Major Montgomery. Perhaps time will surprise you.”

  “I doubt it,” he replied, but he did not snatch his hand away as Julia ha
d expected. In a gentler tone, he continued. “At least, you did not shriek at the sight. For that, I thank you.”

  By the thickness of his voice, Julia suspected that other people in his life had done exactly that when they were confronted with his injury. How cruel of them!

  Removing his hand, Rob quickly shoved it back in his pocket.

  “I wish that this horrible war was over.” Julia sighed. “Before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “Amen to that prayer.”

  She pursed her lips. “Do not misconstrue my sentiments, Major,” she said, hoping that she wouldn’t offend him. “I am a Confederate down to my bones. I can’t help feeling the way I do.”

  “Which is?” he asked, in a cold, exact manner. He withdrew his good hand and shoved it back in his glove.

  She looked across the dark garden. “The Confederacy has no wish to conquer the North. Whatever would we do with you people?” Turning toward him, she boldly looked into his eyes. “We only want to separate from the United States, to be free to pursue our own destiny. Why do you want to trample the South underfoot? Does your government love us Southerners so much that it is willing to send so many young men to die in order to keep us under their thumbs?”

  He stiffened as though she had struck him. “I fight to preserve this nation in its entirety, North and South. And to free the slaves, of course.”

  Julia bowed her head with resignation. There was no way she could explain to this man from New York the long, complex social history that bound the black and white Southerners to each other. He would never understand. In truth, Julia barely understood it herself. When her father had given Perkins and Hettie their freedom papers last January, her mother had predicted a slew of dreadful repercussions. To date, nothing had happened. Hettie and her husband continued to serve the Chandler family just as they had done before. Only now, Papa paid the Perkinses for their work.

  “I wish it were in my power to end this madness tomorrow,” she told him in honesty.

  “On that point, we both agree, Miss Julia,” he replied with quiet emphasis.

  “Then let us speak of other things, Major,” she said more brightly. Better to leave the war’s ugly reality outside her snow-frosted garden.

  His expression softened and a smile found its way to the corners of his mouth. “Very well, Miss Julia. To begin again, please call me Rob, not Major Montgomery. Let’s leave the army outside your gate.”

  Julia relaxed, cheered by his willingness to put aside their political differences and agree to disagree. It seemed a very intimate thing to call him by his Christian name. She was honored by his trust.

  Time and the sub-freezing temperature surrounded them unnoticed. For the next hour, Julia and Rob huddled on a garden bench under the magnolia and conversed on ordinary subjects: of childhoods filled with pranks and school-work, of the common foibles of maiden aunts, of favored pets, unruly siblings and of holiday merriment. At length, a stiff wind off the Potomac River blew through Alexandria’s streets and over the Chandlers’ back wall. Julia shivered in its icy breath. Putting his arm around her, Rob drew her close against his warm body. Julia shivered again when she felt the hard muscles of his chest, even under several layers of heavy wool. His thigh brushed against hers. She inhaled sharply at the contact, then coughed to cover her confusion.

  “You will catch your death of cold and it will be all my fault,” he murmured; his warm breath fanned her cheek.

  Julia’s heart raced like a bolting horse. She shivered all the more, though it had nothing to do with the biting wind. Laying her head against the cold buttons of his greatcoat, she thought she could detect the faint beat of his heart, and it thrilled her. What am I doing? In that moment, she knew that her hatred for all Yankees had shattered like broken glass.

  “You should go inside,” he murmured in an odd, husky voice.

  “You are right—I should,” she concurred, though she did not move. She was in paradise, albeit a cold one.

  “May I see you again tomorrow?” he asked, pressing his cheek against the top of her head.

  How comforting that felt! And how very right, as if she had been created for exactly this man. “I fear that I will still be housebound,” she replied.

  He chuckled. “As you are now?”

  She smiled into the folds of his greatcoat’s shoulder cape. “Exactly.”

  “Then may I come again to your garden, just as I did tonight?”

  She sighed with contentment. “Our garden attracts all sorts of birds, even blue ones.”

  He grinned. “I do not have a singing voice, but I will endeavor to keep you amused.”

  Julia quivered at the word amused. The way he said it made the promised entertainment sound very seductive. Her common sense suddenly reared its head. What was the matter with her? Resting shamelessly in the arms of a man, who was her enemy?

  Julia lifted her head to say good-night, and found, to her shock, that his lips hovered very near hers. His tongue flicked out between his teeth, then retreated. He tensed under his coat.

  Heavens above! He was going to kiss her!

  Her throat tightened. “This…this is too rash,” she stammered. “Much too sudden.”

  Raising his head, he released a long, slow breath. “Forgive me. I nearly forgot myself.” He stood up, taking his warmth from her.

  Julia experienced an odd twinge of disappointment. Rising from the bench, she attempted to ease the ticklish situation. “The hour has grown very late. I share a bed with Carolyn and I am afraid that she might notice my absence. I would not, for the world, wish any more harm fall on you from a Confederate gun. My father used to be an excellent shot.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “I appreciate your concern, Miss Julia. But tomorrow night? May I come again at ten?”

  Julia was afraid to voice her consent. Instead, she merely nodded.

  He touched the brim of his hat. “Then, a thousand times good night until tomorrow’s night comes again.”

  Before she could whisper, “Good night, Rob,” he strode out of the garden, just as if she had sent him on his way with a flea in his ear. He did not look back when he lifted the gate latch, nor did he wave from the alleyway. In less than two minutes, he was gone from sight. Julia touched her bare lips that had no sweet kiss lingering on them.

  Chapter Ten

  All the way back to his rooms at Ebbitt’s Hotel, and throughout the rest of that dark night, Rob could not get Julia Chandler out of his head. The analytical part of his brain told him that she was of no interest to him. Julia was a Southerner—a breed apart, as his mother would have said. Rob had been raised to believe that all Southerners were a lazy, shiftless people, who now fought to keep their slaves to do their work and wait upon them. Yet, Rob had difficulty fitting Julia into that description. He found her to be a highly intelligent woman, though extremely sheltered. Considering her desire to teach school, she did not strike him as shiftless. Then again, he had only met her three times, and always under unusual circumstances, to put it mildly. His mother and assorted aunts would have been scandalized if they knew he was wooing a Confederate lady.

  Rob bolted upright in his narrow bed. Was he really wooing Miss Julia? Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, despite the fact that his bedroom was chilly. Mr. William Ebbitt practiced the utmost thrift when it came to heating his establishment at night. Rob returned his head to his pillow and pulled the thick woolen blanket high under his chin.

  Of course he wasn’t wooing Julia, or any other woman. After his nasty experience with Lucy Van Tassel, he had sworn off matrimony for good. Lucy’s emphatic rejection forced Rob to realize that he would remain a bachelor all his life. His nephews and nieces would have to fulfill his desire for children.

  So, his nagging conscience asked, if he wasn’t wooing Julia in her father’s garden, what was he doing there? Making small talk while they froze to death? Thanking Julia for the pleasant time he had enjoyed at the Winsteads’ ball—three times over? What about the carame
ls? A mere courtesy gift. And the gloves? Her hands were cold. And the promise to return tomorrow night?

  Rob had no answer to that question—at least none that he cared to examine closely. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed his mind to think of something relaxing like drifting clouds and fields of waving grain. The last thing he remembered before sleep finally claimed him was the way Julia had looked at him when he had shown her his hand. A gentle kindness had shone in her face. Warm gratitude filled his heart.

  In the cold light of dawn, his memories of the Chandlers’ garden refused to go away. While buttoning his shirt with his left hand, he paused to study his right. In the dark last night, Julia could not have fully seen the damage that one of her countrymen had done to him. Perhaps she did not comprehend the extent of the scarring, nor realize that some of his fingers were virtually frozen into their half-curled position. It had ceased to look like a hand to Rob. In his own mind, he called it a claw.

  Julia was only being kind. Her gentle heart didn’t allow her to see him as he really was. She pitied him, that was all. With that distasteful thought, he struggled into his uniform frock coat. In the mirror, a grim-faced major of the United States Army looked back at him.

  That was who he was—her enemy. He had no business pursuing this…relationship with such a gentle lady. They were too divided by their backgrounds and beliefs. This friendship could only lead to tears or trouble. Best to end it now and save both of them from grief. He would not accept pity, even if it was wrapped in kindness.

  Rob clamped his jaws together so tightly that a small nerve in his cheek throbbed. He had made his apologies to Julia for his lack of courtesy at the ball. He had sweetened his shortcomings with caramels. He had, for a brief moment in time, allowed himself to live again as the man he had once been, before that blistering day at Gettysburg changed him forever. As it was, he had pushed his advantage almost too far with that innocent lady. His gift of the gloves was enough—in fact, they had been far too much for propriety, but that was now over.