Surrender to the Fury Read Free Page A

real bed beneath his aching bones. “How long has her husband been dead?”
    “Intelligence reports he was killed at Richmond back in sixty-two.”
    “Very well, Lieutenant,” Nick said dismissively, “Mrs. Trevor will just have to live with our presence whether she likes it or not. Warn the men that she’s likely to be bitter over the death of her husband, but that neither the widow, her son, nor any of her people are to be harmed. Is that clear?”
    “Yes, sir, I’ll see to it.” Dill wheeled his mount and rode back to convey Nick’s orders to the men.
    Younger than Nick, Lieutenant Clifton Dill was a handsome man with a wry sense of humor and boyish charm most women found irresistible. In contrast, Nick was a seasoned soldier who learned the hard way to protect his back, be wary of the obvious, and trust no one but himself. His philosophy had brought him through the war unscathed thus far, and he expected to outlast most of the young, inexperienced men under his command.
    The tough veneer Nick had assumed made him no less appealing to women. He was the kind of man women found challenging. The hard planes of his face were saved from austerity by the deepcleft in his square chin and by his devastating smile, when he chose to show it.
    The plantation house sat majestically at the end of the driveway nearly one half mile long. As Nick drew near he could see signs of ravage wrought by years of neglect. In his mind’s eye he could picture how the house must have looked at one time with slaves bustling about performing all the chores necessary to maintain such an imposing mansion. The entrance rose three stories high, supported by tall, stately columns. The paint was peeling now, the acres surrounding the house lay fallow, and the slave cabins out back sat rotting beneath the hot Georgia sun. Nick saw no signs of life as he rode into the yard at the head of his company.
    Had Widow Trevor and her son vacated the premises? he wondered curiously. As a precaution against an unwelcome reception lying in wait for them, his hand hovered inches from his gun. Nick dismounted. His men followed suit. “Spread out,” he snapped. “Sergeant Jones, take some men and search the slave quarters. Lieutenant Dill, follow me into the house. The rest of you set up camp beneath those trees yonder.”
    “The place looks deserted, Captain,” Dill observed. “It must have been difficult for a widow to survive out here on her own.”
    “More like hell,” Nick muttered. Food was so scarce, his men had to scrounge for enough to keep them alive between quartermaster deliveries. He could well imagine what it was like for a woman with a child and no means of support.
    They approached the door, and Nick used the butt of his gun to knock. The sound reverberatedhollowly inside the house. When no one answered, he tried the knob. It turned easily beneath his fingertips. The door was thick but somewhat battered, as if someone had tried at one time or another to hammer it down. Nick shoved it open with his foot.
    She stood facing him, an old, rusty pistol aimed at his midsection. Her face was set in grim lines, and Nick was assailed by a vague memory of having lived this same scenario one other time in his life. It was eerie, yet so vibrant that he had to squint his eyes in the dim recesses of the vast foyer in order to bring the woman’s features into sharp focus.
    Neither the purple shadows marring the delicate flesh surrounding her honey brown eyes nor the gaunt hollows beneath her cheekbones detracted from her beauty. The much patched and faded blue dress hung loosely on her spare frame. But Nick noted that she still had sufficient curves to identify her as a lovely young woman. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face in a taut bun, emphasizing fine bone structure beneath pale ivory skin.
    Nick’s heart beat a rapid tattoo as he gazed into those hate-filled eyes. He felt himself being swept five years into the past to a night of