Chapter One
March 1896
For the third time in as many weeks, Adrian Strathmore sat in the shadowy corner of his family’s private box at the St. James Theatre on Duke Street, gazing at the dazzling, raven-haired actress who took her bow on the stage below. Miss Vanessa Bourke had taken London by storm during the past few months, but Adrian doubted anyone had become quite as captivated by her as he.
Since the first time he’d seen her play Celia in As You Like It, she’d become the object of both his admiration and desire. She acted the part with a noble purity of spirit that called to something deep inside him. She haunted his dreams and provided brief respite from the carefully laid plans of destruction that filled his days.
Not that a woman like her could ever be his, of course. Even his family’s wealth and power were not enough to camouflage his many flaws, both the obvious physical scars and the ones deep inside him. Eyes tracked him in the dark; those who were far more interested in catching a glimpse of the Earl of Hawkesmere’s disfigured little brother than watching the play.
He sank deeper into his seat, despising their curiosity, wishing for anonymity. All he’d ever truly wanted was to be able to walk through a crowd without anyone staring.
In stark comparison, the rush lights lit Miss Bourke’s face with an ethereal glow, and her dark, gypsy eyes flashed with pleasure as another round of applause shook the building. She lived for this moment, relished the adoration of the crowd.
Overwhelmed by loneliness, he brought a single yellow rose to his lips, then tossed it far below him, upon the stage at Miss Bourke’s feet.
* * *
Vanessa Bourke reached down and picked up the yellow rose, blinking against the glare of the rush lights as she searched the private box to stage right. There. In the corner. A flicker of movement. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see her latest admirer’s face.
The box belonged to the Earl of Hawkesmere, but the theatre gossips said the man who occupied it tonight was the earl’s younger brother, a man who’d been horribly scarred by a fire when he was a child. She’d met the earl and a third brother—both of whom were charismatic and devastatingly handsome—and couldn’t help wondering about the one who’d been burned.
As the curtain came down, Marcus Colby, the leading man, gave her a sardonic smile. “Another rose, darling? It appears your beauty has snared the beast.”
“Jealousy doesn’t become you,” she retorted, hurrying toward her dressing room to remove her greasy makeup. Exhaustion pulled at her like a heavy weight, and she wanted nothing more than to return to her tiny apartment just a few blocks away and tumble into bed.
“He seems quite taken with you,” Marcus continued, trailing behind her with languid grace. “They say he’s rich as Croesus, but quite mad.”
Vanessa pulled open her dressing room door and gestured to the dozens of flower arrangements filling every available surface. “He’s hardly the only one to give me flowers.”
Marcus gave the display a dismissive glance. “He’s the only aristocrat.”
Vanessa glared at her friend. In a moment of wine and weakness, she’d told him of her goal to find a rich husband. He’d been playing matchmaker ever since.
“He’s hardly in a position to be particular,” Marcus continued, lowering his voice. “With his money, you could have the security you want. You could leave all this and start a family, though it still makes no sense to me why you’d want to shackle yourself down that way.”
The mention of a family sent the usual pang of longing skittering through her veins. She’d grown up in abject poverty, and when her mother had died, she’d been sent to live with her father, a drunken struggling actor she’d never met. She’d spent the rest of her childhood dragged from theatre to theatre, constantly moving, going from feast to famine and back again. Much as she loved the stage, she’d long dreamt of a stable life, one that didn’t depend on the fickle love of the crowd. She was nearly twenty-five. Soon her beauty would fade, and she’d have a hard time finding roles. If she didn’t find a man she could raise a family with soon, she feared she never would.
She strode to the mirror and began the arduous process of removing the makeup, hoping Marcus would take the hint and go away.
Marcus’ elegant hand curled around her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I just hate to see you so depressed, darling.”
“I know.” She squeezed her eyes shut against a sudden rush of tears. “I appreciate it, Marc. I really do. But no knight in shining armor is going to save me. I have to save myself.”
He brushed a swift kiss to her temple. “Get some sleep. It’s a good thing the theatre’s dark tomorrow. You’re looking a bit peaked.”
When she glared at him again, he laughed and threw his hands up in surrender. “Good night, ‘Nessa.”
“Good night.” She gave him a grudging smile. For all his teasing, he really did have her best interests at heart.
As soon as he left the room, she picked up the yellow rose she’d tossed aside and placed it carefully in a cut glass vase with the other two from her mysterious admirer.
* * *
Adrian leapt from the roof of Hawley’s Gentlemen’s Club, wincing as a hail of gunfire erupted from the street below. He landed hard on a sloping overhang of the building next door, scrambling to gain his footing without dropping the small boy in his arms.
He pressed his palm to the sharp prick of pain in his left thigh and felt the wetness of his own blood. The bastards had shot him!
Flames swept across the club’s facade, temporarily distracting the men who’d given chase. Adrian gazed at the brilliant, dangerous light, both fascinated and terrified, as always. His brothers did not understand his penchant for using fire to destroy these hell holes, but how could they? He didn’t understand it himself.
Satisfaction burned bright within him as he viewed the destruction he’d wrought. Since he’d set the fire in the attic, everyone had been able to get out safely, but for a few nights, at least, the scum who frequented the club would not be able to slake their lust on children.
Tightening his hold on the boy he’d rescued from that prison, he concentrated on his escape, more than a bit disturbed by the fact that his prey seemed to have been ready for him this time. He’d have to figure out how later. For now, the only thing that mattered was getting the boy to safety.
The child remained eerily quiet as Adrian leapt from roof to roof. Despite Adrian’s assurances, he doubted the boy realized he’d been rescued, enduring the situation with a blank-eyed acceptance that broke what remained of Adrian’s heart.
Adrian had managed to put no more than half a dozen blocks between himself and the club when the sounds of pursuit intensified. He paused for a moment in the shadow of a chimney, breathing heavily with pain and exhaustion as he weighed his options.
His leg ached unbearably, and dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. God knew how much blood he’d lost. He needed a place to lie low until his pursuers lost interest. As he took stock of his surroundings, a ludicrous idea took root in his mind.
Vanessa Bourke lived a few streets over, in a once-opulent mansion that had seen its better days and had been split into half a dozen flats. He’d made it his business to know, even though he’d assumed the information would prove useless.
What would she do if he were to show up uninvited, dressed as Prometheus? Would she turn him away, or would she take him in and bandage his wound? Could he use the child to gain her trust?
He would never make it all the way to Brookhaven Orphanage in his current condition. Telling himself he had no other choice, he headed toward Vanessa’s flat.
* * *
A clamor at the window woke Vanessa from a deep sleep. She sat straight up in bed, heart hammering in her chest as she peered through the darkness toward the source of the sound. She’d left her window cracked in an attempt to catch a cooling breeze, but now it was fully open, the curtains fluttering in the wind.
At the foot of her bed she sensed a presence, a dark shape melding with the shadows. “Is someone there?” Her voice trembled with fear, and she edged toward her nightstand, where she kept a small, loaded pistol.
The shadow moved, stepping forward into a faint patch of moonlight. “Shhh,” a deep male voice whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”
A sudden commotion sounded in the alley beneath the window as a group of men thundered through the usually quiet neighborhood. Dogs howled as sharp voices barked orders down below.
They’re looking for this man, who has taken refuge in my room.
A new rush of fear washed through her. What sort of criminal was he? And more importantly, what did he want with her?
Tension spiraled between them as the shouts continued, then slowly faded off into the distance. After what seemed an eternity, the stranger gave a weary-sounding sigh, then abruptly struck a match, casting a small puddle of light as he looked around.
“Thank you,” he murmured, as he flicked on the gas lights and put out the match. “If you would have screamed, they’d have caught us.”
Us? She gave another nervous glance around the room, but he appeared to be alone.
He turned toward her, and she got her first glimpse of the intruder. She drew in a sharp breath, because his features were hidden by a fanciful mask of crimson and gold, formed in a strange caricature of comedy and tragedy. The tall, broad-shouldered man wore a crimson cape, the deep color of blood.
She recognized the fearsome bandit dubbed Prometheus from the newspaper sketches. He’d burned down dozens of brothels, apparently rescuing children who’d been pressed to work in them against their will. Though the police wanted nothing more than to capture him, he’d become a hero to the people.
She crossed her arms over her chest, very aware of her state of undress. “They’re gone now.”
“I’ll leave as soon as it’s safe,” he assured her. “In the meantime, do you mind if I lay the child down?” He swept back his cloak, revealing a young boy asleep in his arms.
The child was as beautiful as an angel, with dark, curly hair. He couldn’t have been more than six or seven. Her stomach turned at the thought of what had been done to the poor boy. Giving a jerky nod, she scooted over to make room.
“Put him here,” she whispered.
Prometheus tenderly lowered the child to the bed, then returned his attention to Vanessa. “Do you have anything I can use for a bandage?”
“A bandage?” Some of her fear evaporated when he gestured to his left thigh and parted his crimson cape to reveal that the dark trousers beneath were soaked through with blood. “My god, have you been shot?”
He nodded briefly and sank into a chair.
She scrambled off the far side of the bed, reaching for the heavy satin robe that lay draped across her footboard. Wrapping it tightly around her, she bit her lip. “May I go to the bathroom and get some things to tend to you?”
He nodded abruptly, and she hurried down the hall. The thought of escape only crossed her mind briefly as she wet a washcloth and split an old white sheet to use as a bandage. She didn’t think he’d hurt her, and there was the child to consider.
“I’ll help you with your wound,” she whispered when she returned. “But then you really must go.”
“Thank you, Miss Bourke,” he said softly.
“You know my name?” Her fears returned full force. Had he picked her flat on purpose?
He bowed his head, ripping his trouser leg to reveal a deep bloody hole. “I recognize you,” he murmured. “I’ve seen you play Celia half a dozen times.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, along with a strange sort of pleasure. This man, who was making a difference, who put his life on the line for those less fortunate, had recently sat in the dark and watched her perform.
She crossed nervously to his side and handed him the wet cloth, along with the strips of sheet he could use as a bandage. “You should have that looked at as soon as possible. You mustn’t let it get infected.”
He took the wet cloth and swabbed at the blood, hissing a bit with the pain the pressure must have caused. “The bullet passed through. I’ll be all right. I just need to get home where I can clean it properly.”
She stared at the lower half of his face, the chiseled lips and strong chin revealed beneath the demi-mask. She’d lay odds he was devastatingly handsome. For the first time, she became very aware of him as a man.
When he made another soft sound of pain, she knelt beside him and took the cloth from his blood-streaked hands. “Here. Let me do it.”
He sank back against the chair, closing his eyes. “I hoped you’d be this way,” he whispered. “When I got hurt, I thought if I could just get here, to you, you would help me.”
She wanted to ask him why he’d thought that and how he’d known where to find her, but thought those questions better left unanswered. “I’ve read about you in the papers,” she said instead. “I think what you’re doing is very brave and needs to be done.”
His lips quirked in a brief smile. “Well, I wish my friends at Scotland Yard felt the same. Between them and the bastards who work at the brothel, they led me on a merry chase tonight.”
She bound his leg with the length of bandage, using a piece of red ribbon to bind it firmly in place.
“There. That should hold until you get home.” She glanced up and found him watching her, his face mere inches from her own.
“Thank you,” he told her, his gaze intent behind the mask. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but she thought they must be blue or green, because they caught the light. “There’s something else you can do for me, if you would.”
“Depends on what it is,” she answered cautiously, knowing she’d probably helped him far too much already.
“It will be all I can do to make it home tonight.” The deep, masculine rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “If I take the child all the way to the Brookhaven, I fear I’ll either collapse or be caught. Do you think you could take him there in the morning? It’s the orphanage on Field Street in Kensington. Just tell them Prometheus sent you. They won’t ask any questions.”
She bit her lip doubtfully. There seemed to be no harm in what he was asking. The theatre was dark tomorrow, so she had the day free. She could hire a post chaise to deliver the boy—a small price to pay to keep him safe from the lechers who’d had him before. Besides, she would hate to think of Prometheus getting caught.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”
He reached out and brushed his fingertips across her jaw. “Miss Bourke, you’ve been an angel.”
She caught her breath, trying to see behind the mask to discern the color of his eyes more clearly. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest.
Then he bent forward and kissed her. At first, his lips pressed sweetly, chastely against hers, giving her plenty of time to pull away. When she foolishly did not, he leaned closer, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and pulling her against him, deepening the kiss with a groan.
Nothing this exciting had ever happened to her. Kissing a masked stranger in her room in the middle of the night seemed surreal, impossible to believe.
After a few blissful minutes, he pulled away. She lifted one hand to her lips, stunned. She’d never felt such an overwhelming attraction to a man, yet she hadn’t even seen his face.
“So sweet,” he whispered, his voice a bit unsteady. “I’ll never forget you, Miss Bourke.”
Before she could respond, he turned and left her flat the way he’d come, through the window.
Chapter One – Once A Pirate
London—1810
“You’ve got a visitor, Montgomery.”
Deep in the bowels of Newgate Prison, Talon Montgomery looked up from the corner of his dank, windowless cell. “A visitor?” His words were little more than a hoarse rasp. He hadn’t spoken in months, not since he’d realized nothing he said would entice the guards to release him.
He shielded his eyes from the glare of the guard’s lantern with a grimy hand, blinking and uncertain. A visitor? He’d been trapped down here for what seemed an eternity, accused of treason and branded a pirate. They claimed he’d been spying for the Americans, looting English ships for military secrets and wealth.
He accepted the charge of piracy, even though he was technically a privateer, but he hotly denied the treason. He was an American, by choice, if not by birth. Unfortunately, his letter of marque from the American government had been ignored, and he’d been thrown in this cell to rot. He’d been sentenced to death, and he couldn’t imagine why they were dragging it out.
The hulking guard withdrew a key and unlocked his cell for the first time since his mockery of a trial. The grinding rasp of the key brought long dead reflexes to life.
Was he hallucinating? He had to be, because freedom lay just beyond that open door. All he had to do was get rid of the guard…
“You wouldn’t make it two feet,” the man warned, hauling Talon off the floor with one beefy arm.
Talon fought a wave of nausea and humiliation. The good health he’d taken for granted all his life had deserted him. He battled to find the strength to remain standing instead of wilting at the man’s feet in an ignoble heap.
The guard grinned. “Not so high and mighty now, are we, Lord Pirate?”
Talon shook off the man’s hands, bracing his own against the iron bars for support. “Where are you taking me?”
“There’s a fancy gentleman waitin’ to have a word with you in the warden’s office.” Still chuckling, the guard shoved Talon toward his cell door. “I don’t imagine the bloke wants to be kept twiddlin’ his thumbs by the likes o’ you.”
Talon let the guard prod him down the narrow corridor, unable to accept the fact that he had a visitor. Who could it be? His valiant crew had been dead these many months, and he had no one else.
He wondered if this was a ruse, some strange new form of torture to make him confess. If so, perhaps this time they’d succeed. He could bear anything but false hope.
Halfway to the warden’s office, the cobwebs cleared and he realized there was someone in his life with the power to arrange such a visit. Sudden fury sparked within him, burning away months of apathy and despair.
Sutcliffe! Had he come to gloat? To see Talon broken and humbled once and for all? His anger gave him the strength to climb the endless flight of stairs.
At last the guard shoved him into a warm, brightly lit room. “Here he is, sir. Let us know when you’re done with him.”
Talon stood in the doorway, blinking against the light, tension coursing through him as he struggled to get a clear look at the two men who waited inside. One was a giant of a man, dressed in silver and blue livery that bore the Sutcliffe crest. Hired muscle, Talon thought in disgust, dismissing him.
The other man stood in front of the crackling fire, warming his gloved hands. He didn’t turn around when Talon entered the room, which wasn’t surprising.
James Sinclair, the Sixth Earl of Sutcliffe, had first turned his back on his bastard son twenty‐nine years ago, the day he’d discovered Talon’s mother carried him in her womb.
Talon slumped against the wall, glaring. He’d swallowed his pride and sent his father an impassioned plea for help after his arrest, only to be completely ignored. If there’d been anything left in him of the boy who’d once yearned for his father’s love, Sutcliffe had killed it then.
“Damn you,” Talon muttered. “Damn you to hell.”
Sutcliffe laughed and turned to look at the son he’d never wanted.
Talon drew in a sharp breath, startled. He hadn’t been face to face with the man who’d sired him since he was a lad of twelve. He’d forgotten how much he resembled the man.
They shared the same unusual coloring — inky black hair and icy blue eyes. Sutcliffe’s harsh, uncompromising features were more deeply lined and his ebony hair had turned gray at the temples, but there was no denying they were father and son.
The earl assessed him with a critical gaze. “I’m glad to see five months in prison hasn’t broken your spirit.”
Five months. Five months since he’d taken a breath of air that wasn’t fouled by the odors of death and decay. Five months since he’d felt the sun and wind on his skin or eaten a decent meal.
It had seemed far longer.
Talon’s fury burst through the dam that had held it, a torrent of all the injustices he’d suffered since his arrest. He pushed off the wall, hell bent on murder.
Sutcliffe’s footman stepped forward, but Sutcliffe stayed him with an arrogant wave of his gloved hand. “Leave us, Lionel. He’s far too weak to do me any harm.”
Lionel pinned Talon with an intimidating glance then shrugged and left the room.
Talon burned with mortification. He hated his obvious weakness, hated that his father was right. He was in no shape to strike fear into anyone. “What are you doing here?”
Sutcliffe gave him an arrogant smile. “Arranging your pardon, of course. You’re a free man, Montgomery. All you need to do is walk out that door.”
Despite his hatred, Talon couldn’t contain the dizzying sense of hope his father’s words provoked. He wanted out of this place. He wanted to lift his face to the sun just one more time...
It would be worth any price he had to pay. And the watchful look on Sutcliffe’s haughty face assured him there would be a price.
The truth of it hit him like a fist in the gut. Sutcliffe had left him to rot for a reason. He’d wanted to make certain Talon was desperate enough to agree to whatever he was about to demand.
“What do you want from me? You wouldn’t help me when I needed it. Why bother now?”
Sutcliffe smiled again, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been busy. I attended to this as soon as I was able.”
With those few careless words, Sutcliffe managed to express how utterly unimportant he found the life of his bastard son.
“I didn’t ask you to help with my release. I needed you to use your influence to intervene on behalf of my crew. It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked of you, and now seventy good men are dead.”
“Don’t work yourself into a state,” Sutcliffe said. “Your disreputable crew is safe and sound, sailing one of my ships to Barbados as we speak.”
Relief washed over Talon with the force of a hurricane. He’d been haunted with guilt, knowing his men had died while he still lived. Now he swayed dizzily with the knowledge that Sutcliffe had saved his crew from the gallows.
Sutcliffe frowned and shoved a chair in Talon’s direction. “Here, boy. Sit down before you fall.”
The last ounce of Talon’s strength deserted him. He had no choice but to take the offered chair. Sutcliffe ensured his capitulation by handing him a tray loaded with fresh bread, cheese, and wine.
Talon’s stomach growled, brought to life by the sharp, wonderful scents. He lifted a piece of crumbling bread to his lips with a trembling hand, eyeing Sutcliffe warily lest he try to snatch it away.
“You’re far too thin and filthy as hell, but that can be remedied,” Sutcliffe mused while Talon devoured the food he’d provided.
Talon paused long enough to raise a sarcastic brow. “If you needed me fat and clean, you should have arranged for my release months ago.”
Sutcliffe threw back his head and laughed. “By God, boy. There’s more of me in you than I’d imagined, but I’m glad to see it. You’re perfect for what I have in mind. Absolutely perfect.”
Sutcliffe’s words should have alarmed him, but the warmth of the room, coupled with the solid feel of good food in his stomach, stole over him, filling him with lethargy. Sutcliffe had spared his men. He was willing to listen.
“What am I perfect for?” He was curious despite himself. Why would a man like Sutcliffe go to so much trouble to ensure the cooperation of an American privateer? It made no sense.
“I need an heir.”
Talon straightened, unamused. “You have an heir.”
Sutcliffe waved his hand dismissively. “Lansdowne is an embarrassment to me. I procured him the loveliest bride in the land, hoping to dissuade him from his perverted ways, but I don’t think he’s so much as touched her hand in passing during the two years they’ve been married.”
Nausea twisted in Talon’s gut. He had an inkling of where this was leading, and he didn’t like it, not one bit. He knew of Viscount Lansdowne’s preference for men. He’d once stalked his half‐brother, Daniel, through the streets of London, curious to see what his life might have been like if his mother had been the earl’s wife instead of his mistress. He’d seen far more than he’d wanted to. “What does this have to do with me?”
“I want you to escort Lansdowne and his young wife to my plantation in the Carolinas. He’s become a liability. I don’t want him to return until Lady Kathryn manages to conceive a child.”
The utter ruthlessness in Sutcliffe’s eyes when he spoke of banishing his only legitimate son sent a shiver up Talon’s spine. Perhaps he was the lucky one after all.
“I doubt he’s capable of siring a child,” Talon muttered, disgusted with the entire subject.
“I’m counting on you.” Sutcliffe leaned forward with sudden intensity. “You’re my son, more like me than Daniel could ever hope to be. If you father Lady Kathryn’s child, I’ll have a grandson worthy of my title.”
The earl’s outrageous suggestion hung heavy in the air. “You want me to seduce Daniel’s wife?” Talon shook his head in stunned disbelief. “What makes you think I’d do something like that?”
Sutcliffe sat down behind the warden’s desk and steepled his fingertips. “I’ve asked myself the same question time and again. What would it take to bend a man like you to my will?”
In answer to his own question, Sutcliffe lifted one broad shoulder in a careless shrug. “I’d thought a few months of deprivation would make you more open to suggestion. But then I had a chance to visit with some of your men, and I think I discovered what it is you’d sell your soul for.”
“Go to hell,” Talon snarled. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You want land. Land in that heathen country you call home.” Sutcliffe smiled benignly. “I can give it to you. In fact, I’m prepared to deed you the title to my newly acquired holdings in Carolina. It’s a lovely place, I’ve been told. Two thousand acres west of Charleston. A plantation called Holyoke. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“You know I have.” Talon felt stripped, his most secret dream laid bare beneath his father’s steady gaze. He’d meant to buy Holyoke one day, leave the sea and settle down in a place where titles meant nothing.
“It’s yours. I’ll have you on a ship to the Carolinas as soon as I can arrange it. All you have to do is seduce a lovely young woman. Then you can walk away and never look back.”
“I’m not like you.” Talon stared down at his empty plate, the food he’d eaten churning in his stomach. “I won’t do it.”
Sutcliffe sighed and got to his feet. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m very sorry indeed.”
He strode to the door and rapped twice. The burly guard appeared immediately. “I’m finished with him. He refuses to listen to reason. You may escort him back to his cell.”
Talon knew the earl expected him to change his mind. He watched the guard approach, his heart pounding in his chest. He tried to work up the courage to defy Sutcliffe, to go back to his cell and die rather than give his father the satisfaction of breaking him.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go back down into that cold, dark hell. He wanted to live, damn it. He wanted the chance to make the son of a bitch pay for asking this of him.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
BUY NOW!!!!
Prologue – Once A Gunslinger
May 6, 1864
Tristan Kane sprawled flat on his back in a bed of pine needles and dirt, staring numbly at the inferno blazing all around him. The trees to his right looked like giant demons, swaying in some macabre dance, while their fiery dirge roared relentlessly in his ears.
Lifting a hand to his throbbing temple, he probed the painful gash that seemed to be the source of his confusion. Blood stained his fingertips when he pulled them away. For a moment, he merely stared in fascination. Nearly four years of war, and this was the first time he’d been wounded.
Fighting a wave of nausea, he struggled to sit up, only to find he’d lain among a sea of corpses, both friend and foe. The blue and gray uniforms were impossible to distinguish, covered as they were by filth and blood.
Beside him lay Tom Skinner, a private who’d not yet seen his eighteenth birthday. Tristan turned his face away from the boy’s sightless blue eyes and bowed his head, overwhelmed with grief and exhaustion.
He was so sick of this damnable war.
What had happened? He recalled being sent to the center of the line to help Longstreet hold back Wadsworth’s Union troops, but everything after that was a blur. He’d been riding in front of his men, trying to guide them through the chaos and smoke, afraid he was leading them in circles…
Oh, God. His gaze swept over the carnage surrounding him until it settled on the dull black coat of a dead horse. “Calypso?”
He surged to his feet and stumbled toward the animal that had faithfully carried him through hell and back these last four years. Her sleek, ebony neck had been torn apart by shrapnel.
“No,” he whispered, dropping to his knees. He pressed futilely at the wound, as if he could somehow save her.
“No,” he moaned again, closing her sightless brown eyes with a trembling hand. He couldn’t bear to lose her. She was all he had left of home, his only link to the thoroughbred horses that had once been his heritage, until he’d turned traitor in the eyes of his family and friends.
The flames crept closer, but he no longer cared. Calypso was gone—perhaps he should join her. There was a bit of honor in that, wasn’t there? Rather like a captain who refuses to leave his sinking ship.
He closed his eyes, wondering if a bullet had grazed him or if he’d hit his head when Calypso buckled beneath him. Why did he continue to survive while everything he loved died?
Almost everything. Memories of a beautiful girl with auburn hair and deep blue eyes overwhelmed him, reminding him he still had something to live for. He’d broken Savannah McKenzie’s heart when he left her, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving things unresolved between them.
An unearthly scream of pain rent the air, interrupting his thoughts and drowning out the steady staccato of distant battle and the roar of the fire. The unrelenting heat consumed everything in its path, swallowing the wounded alive.
The acrid smell of burning flesh wrenched him from his despair. He wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.
He unfastened Calypso’s cinch, falling backward as the saddle came free. For a moment, the heavy weight defeated him, but leaving it behind wasn’t an option. Supplies had become nonexistent in the Confederacy.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he clutched the familiar leather bulk to his chest and stumbled to his feet.
Like so many before, the day became something to survive. Every step he took through the smoldering underbrush was a victory, something the Yankees couldn’t take from him. At last, he made his way to a small, winding creek the fire hadn’t yet reached. He stumbled down the bank, coughing and choking.
Dropping the heavy saddle, he sank to his knees and crawled to the edge, desperate for a drink. The water ran red with the blood of men who’d died farther upstream, but he hesitated only a moment before dunking his entire head into its lukewarm depths, then swallowing greedily from his cupped hands.
Shaking the excess water from his hair, he leaned back against the muddy bank, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t know how far he’d come, but he was past the point of exhaustion. Maybe it would be all right if he closed his eyes for a few seconds. God, how he needed some sleep...
A sound in the trees across the bank roused him. Earlier, he’d been oblivious to his surroundings, but now he saw he wasn’t the only one who’d taken refuge at the creek. Dozens of wounded men lined the water’s edge. Most looked beyond hope, waiting for death, but someone moved among them, tall and unharmed. The stranger stooped periodically beside each dying man, as though looking for something.
A gust of hot wind cleared the smoky haze that hung over the water, revealing a glimpse of Yankee blue. Tristan’s tenuous thread of control snapped in an explosion of rage. The son of a bitch was looting, searching through the pockets of men who weren’t even dead yet.
He reached for his gun and leveled it, blinking back a trickle of sweat and blood. Determined to rid the world of at least one more Yankee before he met his own fate, he pulled the trigger.
The enemy went down, but at the same moment a wave of excruciating pain swept through Tristan’s left leg. He glanced down in confusion, fearing his gun had misfired.
“Damn it, Tristan.” The familiar voice jolted Tristan out of his confusion, drawing his gaze back across the creek. His victim laughed and sank to the ground, pressing a hand over the ragged wound in his left thigh. “I knew you were pissed, but I sure as hell didn’t think you’d shoot me.”
Tristan’s gaze was riveted on the face of the man he’d just shot, a face identical to his own. “Michael,” he whispered, fear and guilt slamming into his gut.
Dear God. He’d just shot his twin brother.