And One Wore Gray by Heather Graham Page A

the touch. He breathed more easily. The fever was gone. He slept a sweeter sleep.
    It was then that she dared to look at the man she had tended so long. From the handsome features that had so intrigued her from the beginning to the broad planes of his shoulders. His well-muscled torso and arms were taut and cleanly defined, making his skin smooth to her stroke now that the fever had broken. There was a wild profusion of dark hair upon his chest, hair as ebony as that upon his head, its course of growth just as defined as his muscle tone, swirling across his breast, than narrowing down to a fine little whorl at his navel. That fine lean line continued to his groin, where the wild nest of darkness flared deep again. Against it lay that part of him that brought a wildness to her heart, for even as he slept his maleness seemed to have a life of its own, veins pulsing vibrantly, his natural endowment both intimidating and tempting despite his restful state. She was absolutely shocked to find herself so fascinated totouch him, and very glad then of his sleep, for she must have blushed a thousand shades of purple. Indeed, she had turned him over so as not to find such a fascination with his anatomy, but then she had discovered herself admiring his back and, worse, his buttocks. From head to toe he was excellently muscled, so taut, so trim, so sleek and beautiful, like an exceptionally fine wild animal.
    He wasn’t a wild animal, she reminded herself. He was worse. He was a Rebel soldier.
    But while he lay there unconscious, she needn’t think of what he was, she told herself, or why she had worked so strenuously to save him. The breeze shifted, fall had come. Though the day was gentle and cool enough, she was suddenly made aware of the scent of death that still hung heavy upon the air so near the battlefield.
    She closed the window and pulled the sheets up to his waist. She closed her eyes, holding her breath while memories assailed her. Once upon a time, not so very long ago, she had been in love. And she had been loved in turn. They had both been so young, at first exchanging shy, hesitant kisses in the fields, then exploring those kisses more deeply in the dark of the barn. They’d been very proper, of course, never dreaming of discovering any more of one another until their wedding night, but then that night had come, and love itself had led the way. Their first night had been awkward, but their love had let them laugh, and in the days and nights that followed, they had learned that their laughter was but an added boon. Callie had learned to cherish her young husband’s kisses, to thrill to his touch, to awaken in his arms.
    But Gregory Michaelson now lay out back, his young limbs decimated by war, his soul surely risen, but his body nothing more than food for the ever triumphant worms. When he had come home to her in amilitary-issue coffin, she had been cold. Her heart had been colder than death itself, she was convinced. She would never love again, she swore it.
    And she had never felt tempted to love again. No matter what soldiers came passing through, no matter what friend her brothers brought by so quickly on their few days of grace from the army, she had never known the slightest whisper of warmth to come to her heart.
    Her heart had not warmed now, she assured herself.
    But something else had.
    Since she had first seen his face, she had found it attractive. From the first time his startling blue eyes had fallen upon hers, she had felt faint stirrings within herself. She had never felt fear that had been greater than her sense of excitement around him.
    She had known, from somewhere deep within her soul, that she could not bear him to die. Not because she feared being bound to a dead man, but because it was him.
    And now, in caring for him, she discovered herself ever more attracted to him. She wanted to forget the war. She wanted to go back and pretend that it had never come. She wanted him to be Gregory, and she