Epilogue
December 1865
The night was dark, the weather cold and damp. There was little holiday spirit about Charleston; the city was being hit hard by the laws of Reconstruction. It was here that the first state had seceded, here that the first shots of the war had been fired.
Painfully, men and women were beginning to put the war behind them. They defied the repercussions against the South, which had been doubled since the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Many of the stalwart men who had made up one of the finest and most tenacious fighting forces of all time were beginning to look to the business of living once more.
One of these men stood on the wall of the Battery, his rugged face turned seaward, his powerful work-roughened hands stuffed into the pockets of his frock coat. He was a southerner; he would always be a southerner. But he had risen above defeat; he was determined the South would build anew. It would be different. Nostalgia would often plague him. But he would work for the future, and he would form it with his own hands.
His steel-gray eyes were focused broodingly on the water as he thought of the years passed. The war had begun here. The loss had begun here . . . but so had all that was shimmeringly beautiful in his life. All that was good. All that was his future.
He smiled, wondering if she would ever fully understand that she was his strength. She thought him indomitable. He wasn’t. But when he had almost surrendered to despair, she had been there, giving him back beauty; giving him back the ideal of honor and pride with which to live.
It was cold on the Battery. Why he continued to stare seaward, facing the brisk breeze of winter, he didn’t know. He should be seeking shelter inside the comfortable master cabin aboard the Pride. A stiff shot of bourbon would warm him . . .
Something, some slight movement, attracted his attention northward along the Battery.
A woman stood there, a silhouette framed by the harbor light and the glow of the moon. She was too far away for him to have actually heard her; the movement alone must have caught his eye.
She stood perfectly still now, her eyes on the sea.
Smiling, he hurried toward her.
“Madam,” he began, and she spun to face him with a dazzling smile curving her full rose-colored lips. He slipped his arms around her, and thought for the thousandth time that she was incredibly beautiful. Stunning blue eyes as dark and turbulent as the night sea met his, eyes that hypnotized, framed by lashes of deepest midnight velvet.
“Why are you standing here?” he queried huskily, keeping his arm securely about her shoulder as he led her along the Battery toward the ship.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured, “just reflecting, I suppose. Oh, Brent! Charleston has changed so sadly!”
His arm tightened about her. “Gaping wounds take time to heal, Kendall.”
“I know. I just wish Lolly hadn’t been determined to return.”
“It’s her prerogative, Kendall. How is she?”
“She’s bitter. And mad as hell that she could keep her property only because of Travis. She’s my sister, Brent, and, I love her, but if I were Travis, I’d tell her to go to hell!”
“Kendall!”
“Well, it’s true. She’s as nasty as a cat to him.”
“Well, she is your sister.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, my love, nothing.” Brent laughed. “They’re both adults. They’ll have to solve their own problems.”
He paused a moment, taking both her hands in his as they reached the plank to their ship. “Haven’t you anything else to tell me?” he demanded, gray eyes shielded as he awaited her answer.
Her lashes fell mischievously over her eyes, and she purposely blinked them in a pretense of innocence. “About what?” she inquired sweetly.
“Kendall,” he warned, his grip tightening about her slender hands. “Don’t play the belle with me now, love. I want your answer.”
She laughed delightedly. “September.”
“September?”
“Yes. Dr. Lassiter says the baby will be born around the middle of Sept—”
She didn’t finish the word. He swept her off her feet and into his arms, hopping with a lithe and swift movement onto the plank and then to the deck of the Pride.
“Brent!” Kendall gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck breathlessly. “What is your hurry?”
“I’m going to be a father!” he replied, spinning around with her in his arms. “Of course, I knew it—but to have it confirmed by Dr. Lassiter—” He broke off as he swept her along to the master cabin and set her on the bed with a flourish. Then he turned and started out the door.
“Brent? Where are you going?” Kendall called after him, perplexity knitting her brow.
He grinned. “To give the order to sail. I want to make love to my definitely pregnant wife. God, I can’t wait to hold you!”
“But we don’t need to sail!”
“Ah, I seem to have acquired a superstition against making love in Charleston harbor.”
“Brent—” she protested. But he was gone before she could say more. Minutes later he was back. His coat was on the floor before he had closed the door, and in just seconds he stood naked before her, boldly pulling her to her feet and stripping her of her many layers of clothing.
“Brent!” She was half laughing, half protesting his urgency.
He silenced her with a swift kiss. “Darlin’, I haven’t a thing in the world against making love on the open sea.”
Kendall sighed and contentedly lifted her eyes to his. “Neither have I, Captain. Neither have I.”