wanted to lie down beside him and feel the warmth of his body stealing into hers, know the sweet rush of excitement that could sweep away all sense and reason.
Shivering, she stared into the pot of bubbling stew. The war had come. It was very real. The young blond Maryland farmer she had loved and married was buried in the yard, and she was a widow. A respectable, moral widow. She should be shamed by the very thoughts filling her head. Shamed by the beat of her heart. By the nervousness that shivered through her, by the recklessness that haunted all of her being.
He would leave tonight.
“That smells wonderful.”
She jumped, spinning around. He had followed herdown the stairs and stood lounging comfortably in the doorway.
He was wearing her sheet. It was stark white against the sleek bronze of his torso. His nakedness had been imposing enough while he slept. Now the taut ripples of muscle against his lean belly seemed downright decadent.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. She wanted to be righteously angry. Her voice was faltering.
He lifted his hands innocently. “What do you mean?”
“Colonel Cameron,” she said with soft dignity, her eyes narrowing warningly upon his, “you come from a good home. I do believe, sir, that you come from a landed home, that you probably went to the best schools, and that you were raised to be a gentleman. So what are you doing in my kitchen in a sheet?”
“Well now, Mrs. Michaelson,” he taunted, blue eyes flashing, “should I have dropped the sheet?”
“This from a man who lives and walks due to my mercy,” she retorted.
He shrugged, walking across the kitchen, coming uncomfortably close to stir the stew and inhale its sweet aroma. “Mrs. Michaelson, from your comments, I assumed that you found me no more threatening in any state of dress or undress than you would find a toddling lad of two. And besides, you’ve burned my uniform. A grave injustice, I daresay, but as you’ve just reminded me, I must be grateful for your mercy. So what would you have me wear?”
“I’d have you back in bed, resting, gathering your strength, so as to leave this evening,” she told him.
He smiled and went to sweep his hat from his head, then realized that he was no longer in dress of any kind. “Ah, well, the uniform can be replaced. I was quite fond of the hat. Was it necessary to burn it too?”
“Quite,” Callie said.
“A pity.”
“I think not. There are breeches and shirts in the wardrobe in my room. The fit may not be perfect, but I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Union uniforms?” he asked her.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth,” she said.
“I’m not escaping in a Union uniform, Mrs. Michaelson.”
“I’m sure that you wore blue at some point, Colonel. You mentioned that your brother was a Yankee surgeon, so I find it quite possible that you were both in the military before secession and this war of rebellion came about. It’ll not hurt you to wear blue once again.”
“I prefer the sheet, thank you.”
He stood by the pot on the stove, so intimately close to her that she felt the urge to scream. She fought for control, determined that he’d never best her. Perhaps that was part of the excitement. He made her determined to win. He challenged her on so many different levels.
She smiled sweetly, turning to stir the stew and managing to take a step farther away from him. “You plan to run through the Yankee lines in a sheet, Colonel?”
“Better a sheet than a Yankee uniform, Mrs. Michaelson.” He took the ladle from her fingers, dipped it into the stew, and tasted it. His eyes came instantly back to hers, and he arched a brow, a slow smile curling his lip. “It’s wonderful, Mrs. Michaelson. Really, Providence must have had mercy to have left me here, upon your doorstep.”
“Providence was just wonderful,” Callie muttered, snatching the ladle back from him. “Would you please go and put something
Shivering, she stared into the pot of bubbling stew. The war had come. It was very real. The young blond Maryland farmer she had loved and married was buried in the yard, and she was a widow. A respectable, moral widow. She should be shamed by the very thoughts filling her head. Shamed by the beat of her heart. By the nervousness that shivered through her, by the recklessness that haunted all of her being.
He would leave tonight.
“That smells wonderful.”
She jumped, spinning around. He had followed herdown the stairs and stood lounging comfortably in the doorway.
He was wearing her sheet. It was stark white against the sleek bronze of his torso. His nakedness had been imposing enough while he slept. Now the taut ripples of muscle against his lean belly seemed downright decadent.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. She wanted to be righteously angry. Her voice was faltering.
He lifted his hands innocently. “What do you mean?”
“Colonel Cameron,” she said with soft dignity, her eyes narrowing warningly upon his, “you come from a good home. I do believe, sir, that you come from a landed home, that you probably went to the best schools, and that you were raised to be a gentleman. So what are you doing in my kitchen in a sheet?”
“Well now, Mrs. Michaelson,” he taunted, blue eyes flashing, “should I have dropped the sheet?”
“This from a man who lives and walks due to my mercy,” she retorted.
He shrugged, walking across the kitchen, coming uncomfortably close to stir the stew and inhale its sweet aroma. “Mrs. Michaelson, from your comments, I assumed that you found me no more threatening in any state of dress or undress than you would find a toddling lad of two. And besides, you’ve burned my uniform. A grave injustice, I daresay, but as you’ve just reminded me, I must be grateful for your mercy. So what would you have me wear?”
“I’d have you back in bed, resting, gathering your strength, so as to leave this evening,” she told him.
He smiled and went to sweep his hat from his head, then realized that he was no longer in dress of any kind. “Ah, well, the uniform can be replaced. I was quite fond of the hat. Was it necessary to burn it too?”
“Quite,” Callie said.
“A pity.”
“I think not. There are breeches and shirts in the wardrobe in my room. The fit may not be perfect, but I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Union uniforms?” he asked her.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth,” she said.
“I’m not escaping in a Union uniform, Mrs. Michaelson.”
“I’m sure that you wore blue at some point, Colonel. You mentioned that your brother was a Yankee surgeon, so I find it quite possible that you were both in the military before secession and this war of rebellion came about. It’ll not hurt you to wear blue once again.”
“I prefer the sheet, thank you.”
He stood by the pot on the stove, so intimately close to her that she felt the urge to scream. She fought for control, determined that he’d never best her. Perhaps that was part of the excitement. He made her determined to win. He challenged her on so many different levels.
She smiled sweetly, turning to stir the stew and managing to take a step farther away from him. “You plan to run through the Yankee lines in a sheet, Colonel?”
“Better a sheet than a Yankee uniform, Mrs. Michaelson.” He took the ladle from her fingers, dipped it into the stew, and tasted it. His eyes came instantly back to hers, and he arched a brow, a slow smile curling his lip. “It’s wonderful, Mrs. Michaelson. Really, Providence must have had mercy to have left me here, upon your doorstep.”
“Providence was just wonderful,” Callie muttered, snatching the ladle back from him. “Would you please go and put something
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