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Long, Hard Ride
Copyright 2010 by Keta Diablo
ISBN: 978-1-936394-01-2
Cover art by Fiona Jayde
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Long, Hard Ride
by Keta Diablo
Elmira Prison Camp, New York
August 1864
It wasn't the first time he'd been summoned to Elmira Prison to minister to the sick and dying. With a bit of luck, perhaps soon it would be his last. Grayson glanced to the note in his hand from the Major in charge of the prison, Britton Darkmore. A raw-boned, soulless man, Darkmore's penchant for corporal punishment would lead to his violent, untimely death one day. The thought brought a smile to Grayson's lips. Foolish man, that. One third of the prisoners died from smallpox, rickets or malaria after drinking water from the frog-infested pond in camp. Without Darkmore's assistance. Rumored to be ten times worse than Andersonville, the guards at Hellmira starved and robbed the prisoners before dumping them into the ground sans pine boxes.
Grayson had scant information on the prisoner he'd visit soon, only what Darkmore had scribbled on the missive: Prisoner number 594, Marx Wellbourne. Report to barracks No. 3 on West Water Street. Grayson had been to the prison often enough to know solitary confinement held court in barracks No. 3, as did the filth-riddled infirmary.
With a gentle snap of his wrists, Ol' Masie picked up her gait along the narrow, gravel road and soon the prison's observation towers came into view. Grayson drew the carriage to a halt near the front gate and passed Darkmore's note to the sentry.
Moments later, the man shouted out a command. "Open the gate for Dr. Grayson Drake." The rigid-spined man turned to him. "To your left at the end of the row of barracks."
Grayson nodded, clucked to Ol' Masie and passed through the entry. By now, the old nag could find her way to the infirmary in the dark. Up ahead and resting on high ground between Foster's Pond and Water Street, thirty-five wooden buildings loomed. Grayson called forth an image of their interiors---a hundred feet long and sixteen feet wide with two rows of flea-infested cots lining the walls. Whether fighting for North or South, no human being should be forced to reside in such deplorable conditions. One man could only do so much. If he spent his days fretting over the inhumane treatment of the prisoners at Hellmira, he could end up a candidate for bedlam.
Colonel Darkmore stood on the rickety front porch of the building with cigar in hand, a wreath of gray smoke encircling his silver hair and stern features. "Ah, Dr. Drake, I see you received my missive."
Grayson took his time climbing from the transport before reaching for his medical bag under the seat. "I set out the moment I finished with my last patient this afternoon. Why?" he asked sardonically. "Should I have saved myself a trip?"
"No, no, good doctor, our patient is alive." Darkmore lifted his chin to an overcast sky and watched a hawk in flight. "Barely."
Grayson would never adjust to the brash change of seasons in New York. This past winter had tested his mettle, not to mention his sanity. He missed the sultry climate of home, longed to fill his senses with the sweet smell of rhododendron and myrtle. And the mountains. How he missed his beloved mountains.
Drawing his long scrutiny of the hawk to an end, Darkmore turned to him. "Come, Corporal Wellbourne occupies a cell in the infirmary."
So, the man was a Corporal in the Confederate States Army. His rank alone would be reason enough for Darkmore to loath him. "What is his condition and when do you expect to get a Surgeon in Chief at Elmira?"
"What ails all the varmints? Pneumonia, small pox; choose your poison, Doctor. Most stepped off the train with a ghost dogging their heels." He measured his next words. "As for the upper echelon assigning another surgeon, I don't believe they will. In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the midst of war and every available physician has been conscripted for service."
"His symptoms, if you'd be so kind to enlighten me before I see him."
"Fever and chills." Darkmore paused. "The man's condition has deteriorated after two days in the box."
Grayson swallowed his rage. "You must be mad. No man can survive the box while already suffering fever and chills."
The door to the infirmary rose before them. "As you'll soon discover, sir, Marx Wellbourne is no ordinary man. In fact, I'd venture to guess he was spawned from the loins of a wild beast." The Major inserted a key into the lock, pushed the door open, and with a flourish of his arm, directed Grayson into the room. "Lieutenant, escort Dr. Drake to Wellbourne's cell and remain with him until he's finished with his examination."
"One question, Major. What did he do to merit two days in the sweat box?"
"He's a rebel, sir, of the highest degree. Ten Confederate prisoners escaped from camp three days ago, tunneled their way to freedom. All ten belonged to Corporal Wellbourne's unit, and he'd have escaped with them had he been fit enough."
Grayson found it difficult to stifle the ripple of gratification washing over him. "Yes, well, you can't blame a man for wanting to escape from this. . .this prison, Darkmore."
The major's voice rose an octave. "I don't give a goddamn what their wants are. We've never had an escape under my watch, and I intend to see it never happens again." Softer now, he continued. "You'll see to it that Corporal Wellbourne survives this malady so he can return to the box posthaste."
"You wish me to save him only to have him die?"
"I don't care if he dies, Drake, as long as he does it after he tells me what I want to hear."
"Excuse my naïveté, Major, but if Wellbourne didn't provide you with information after what he went through, what makes you think he'll confess the second time around?"
The Major slammed his fist down on a nearby desk. "I'll flay his back until he begs to tell me what I wish to know!" His face the color of beets, he tugged on the hem of his jacket and struggled to regain his composure. "Lieutenant, I gave you an order."
"Yes, sir," the man said with a click of his heels. "Follow me if you will, please, Dr. Drake."
Grayson took a final look at the poor excuse of a man standing before him, turned on his heels and followed the Lieutenant down a dimly lit hallway. The sickening stench of human waste and pungent urine spiraled up his nose. "Good, God," he said to the floor.
The Lieutenant marched on, his eyes straight ahead, his features stoic. Placed in the same situation as the Confederate prisoners, Grayson would pray for a speedy death. No wonder ten had burrowed their way to freedom.
Moments later, the man stopped before a set of metal bars, inserted the key and pushed the heavy door open with the toe of his boot. "There he is, sir, Marx Wellbourne."
Sprawled on his back, his arms resting at his sides on a dingy cot, the man looked like a specter from a child's worst nightmare. Gray trousers clung to his flat abdomen and lean hips. The matching jacket, ragged and speckled with blood stains, lay open, exposing a well-muscled chest and broad shoulders. Long, tousled hair, darker than tar pitch, fell about his shoulders except for one thick strand that veiled a portion of his face. Despite the impediment and the fine sheen of sweat, the man's features were well-defined---prominent cheekbones, straight, narrow nose and a full generous mouth. His torso rose and fell with shallow breaths, punctuated by an occasional rasp that came from deep within his lungs.
"You may leave, Lieutenant, and I'll call for you when I'm finished here."
"Sir, I'm not sure that's a good---"
"Whatever the man has done in the past, he seems quite docile at the moment, incapable of doing me harm."
The Lieutenant pulled the door shut and locked it. "Very well, Doctor Drake. Rap three times on the bars when you're ready. I'll hear you."
Grayson advanced, lantern and medicine bag in hand. After setting the lamp down on the floor, he pulled a stool up to the cot and eased onto it. Studying him for a moment, he realized Wellbourne was much younger than what he'd expected, too young to die in this rat hole. He'd seen the man before but only from across a room or masked at the brothel they both frequented in Charleston.
When he pushed the lock of hair from Wellbourne's face, his hand came into contact with his feverish skin. Damn, perhaps he'd arrived too late. He should have asked Darkmore additional questions about the malaria diagnosis. Caught up in the sadistic Major's tale of tunneling, escapees, and the box, he'd become distracted. Pneumonia would have been Grayson's first choice after seeing his gray pallor and labored breathing, yet he could be suffering from pneumonia and malaria. Two days in the sweat box had greatly compromised his maladies.
Pulling the bottle of quinine from his bag, he poured a liberal amount into a tin cup, lifted the patient's head and placed it to his mouth. His lips parted and Grayson trickled the remedy down Wellbourne's throat amid his chortled cough. He waited a few moments and delivered the remainder of the quinine.
The man's arms flailed about and garbled words spewed forth. "No retreat! Charge!" He jackknifed up, the hard muscles of his torso tense. "Hold the line!"
"Whoa, easy now, son." Grayson stilled his arms and eased him back onto the mattress. "You're safe, take it easy."
"Hold the line...hold the line," he rasped and lapsed into a semiconsciousness state again.
Grayson reached for the opium in his bag and held the bottle to his lips. "Here, drink." Met without protest, he added, "That's it, a little at a time."
He could do nothing more for the Corporal now but hope the quinine would cut his fever and the opium ease his pain. Spying the bowl and pitcher at the head of the cot, Grayson rose, poured the tepid water into the bowl and swished the cotton rag through it once or twice. He wrung it out, returned to the stool, and mopped Wellbourne's brow.
The muscles in Grayson's abdomen clenched and a hiss stole his breath. Beneath the grime, Wellbourne's feverish skin was soft. Drawn by a strange sensation, he left the rag on his forehead and traced a deliberate path around his lips with his finger. His hand slid to the carved cheekbones and lingered. A fine bead of sweat broke out above Grayson's upper lip as he drank in every detail of that face. He imagined Wellbourne's eyes to be brown, like the color of acorns in the fall.
His fingers eased across that soft, taut flesh, and he felt a pang of sorrow. Stretched over his facial bones like a tanned hide on a stretcher, he knew starvation had been the cause. His eyes traveled to his naked chest where the skin served as a thin covering for his ribs.
He longed to know more about his background in the war. Where had he been captured and under what circumstances? Like him, did he miss the mountains? Grayson shook his head to clear his bedazzled senses and wondered what it was about Wellbourne that had drawn him from the moment he saw him four years ago.
He wrenched his gaze away, had no business thinking such thoughts about an unconscious patient. But good God, Welbourne lay before him, and the man's beauty up close astounded him. The interludes with nameless strangers at Madame Belle's paled next to his reckless, errant thoughts about Wellbourne. He'd never been able to erase the man's visage from memory and didn't have the courage to summon him to his room at the brothel. When the war came, he'd sworn off such wicked delights to serve his country, vowed to dispel thoughts of the blissful rapture while another man writhed beneath him.
Until his orders came though to rescue Corporal Wellbourne and bring him in alive at any cost. Irony had a strange way of kicking a man in the ass when he least expected it.
He risked another look at Wellbourne and shivered. With an exasperated sigh, he rose from the stool and with tin cup in hand, banged on the bars three times. The Lieutenant appeared a short time later, opened the door and locked it after Grayson passed through.
"Is he going to die?" the man asked.
"No way to tell at this point. He's burning with fever but should rest through the night after the opium I administered. Or die."
"Between you and me, Doc, it would be best if he did. Man don't stand much of a chance in Hellmira. That's what the prisoners call it...Hellmira."
"So I hear." An image of Marx Wellbourne rose behind his eyelids. "I'll be back tomorrow evening to check on him."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you happen to know if the Major has a file on the man, notes about where he was captured; anything at all?"
"On his desk, Doctor, but the Major has already left camp. The Confederacy would give their eyeteeth to exchange him, offered five prisoners in exchange for Corporal Marx Wellbourne."
"Hmm." At the end of the hallway, they turned right and Grayson followed the Lieutenant into a room that served as Darkmore's office. "Why is that, because he's a Corporal?"
"That's a conundrum that eats at the Major. Most of the time, the Rebs will offer to exchange Corporal for Corporal, but someone wants Wellbourne so bad, I believe he'd turn over his mama to get him." The Lieutenant picked up the file and passed it to him. "Can't let you take it with you, the Major would have my hide, but no harm in looking through it while you're here."
"Thank you."
Grayson plopped into the Major's chair and flipped through the file, storing as much information about the Corporal's recent past as possible. Long minutes later, he rose and bid good day to the Lieutenant, his thoughts on Wellbourne as he walked to Ol' Masie.
Most likely, the man would die; if not from the pneumonia or malaria then Darkmore's insistence on relegating him to the box again. He could do nothing at this point but nurse him back to health...and complete his mission.
The fate of his country depended on it.
Unable to dispel visions of Marx Wellbourne, Grayson tossed and turned in his bed. He'd read through the details in the man's file with the intent of finding out what he'd been up to in the last four years.
Entering the world on 5 February 1839 would place him at twenty-five years of age now. Yes, that was about right. Born in New Orleans, he'd resided in Charleston, SC at the time he enlisted. He already knew that much, yet one never knew where a man placed his loyalties in this godforsaken war. Brother fought against brother, cousin against cousin, and many who lived in the South were Northern sympathizers. And vice versa.
Physical description: dark hair, fair complexion, six feet tall and...Grayson paused. Blue eyes, not the dark brown he'd envisioned from across a crowded room. Wellbourne's hard, lean body rose before him and the knot of tension in his gut he'd been trying to dismiss clenched. How many nights had he longed to see those eyes glazed over with passion, hear his voice? Yes, the voice could be nothing less than a slow, sensual drawl like so many who hailed from the Carolinas.
Marx Wellbourne had enlisted for Confederate service in Captain Moses Humphrey's Company of Cadet Rangers in June of 1862. While a Cadet at the Citadel, he helped train the 14th SC Infantry. Grayson stopped the rumination of facts locked in his brain and mulled over the data. It didn't surprise him Wellbourne had excelled in his duties. The man carried himself with an air of superiority, if not mockery.
While at the Citadel, he'd transferred to the 5th South Carolina Cavalry and was sent to Richmond in February of 1864. Grayson rolled onto his left side, hoping to gain a modicum of comfort. And finally, Wellbourne and the 5th Cavalry joined the Army of Northern Virginia as part of Butler's Brigade, Hampton's Cavalry Division. Another credit to Grayson's advantage---the man was well versed in horses.
Captured in June of sixty-four near Louisa Court House, Virginia on the York River, the Corporal eventually found his way to Hellmira by the end of that month.
So the agency's suspicions had been right; Wellbourne hadn't been at the prison camp for long.
Grayson put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Within two months of confinement, Wellbourne had managed to help ten men escape from the hellhole and had served time in the box. Tenacious little bugger, if not foolishly courageous, but that didn't surprise him in the least.
Grayson gave his pillow several hard punches and vowed to put all thought of Marx Wellbourne from his mind. If he didn't get some rest, he'd be little good at saving the man's life and Wellbourne wouldn't be fit to travel for quite some time. That simply wouldn't do.
His final thought before drifting off concerned the file. Why and how had Darkmore collected so much information on the man? What did the shifty Major know, and how long before he would have killed Wellbourne?
\*
Grayson pulled the old nag up to the main building of barracks No. 3, retrieved his medicine bag, and walked toward the entrance. How would he feel if the Lieutenant told him the Corporal had passed during the night? He didn't want to think about it. More than his attraction to the man hung in the balance.
The Lieutenant greeted him with the hint of a smile. "The Corporal has been drifting in and out today, hard for me to tell if he's better or worse."
"Better, I hope. I don't like the thought of any man dying in a strange land without his family to comfort him."
"I believe you mean that, Doctor, no matter what side the man fights for."
"Yes, well, if you'll escort me and open the cell, I'll check on his condition."
"Follow me, sir."
Tonight, curled up on his side with his eyes closed, Wellbourne occupied the same cot. His eyelids fluttered open when Grayson entered the cell. Blue all right, bluer than sapphires. The man didn't twitch a muscle, but rather watched the Lieutenant lock the cell when he left.
"Evening. I'm Grayson Drake, the local physician from Elmira---the town, that is."
Still no reaction from the man who'd courted death in the last twenty-four hours.
"I examined you yesterday, administered quinine and opium---"
"I remember."
As he'd imagined, Wellbourne's resonant voice with the honey-liquid drawl of the South filled the empty space between them. Grayson sloughed the vague bliss washing over him, walked to the stool and opened his bag. "I brought you some nourishment. Do you think you can keep it down?" The man stared at the flaky biscuits lathered in thick apricot preserves in his outstretched hand. "Take them. I assure you, they're not tainted."
Wellbourne pushed up into a sitting position and, like a starved beast, took the biscuits and answered with his mouth full. "Nothing would surprise me when it comes to Darkmore." He devoured the first one and paused as if savoring the second. "Been a long time since I had homemade biscuits smothered in preserves."
"You don't have to convince me by the look of your rib cage." Grayson reached for a flask in his bag and passed it to him. "Tea with a shot of brandy."
"Jesus. Who sent you, Gabriel?"
"After I examine you, we'll talk."
Wellbourne looked at him over the rim of the flask and for a tenuous moment Grayson thought the man recognized him. "I knew this was too good to be true. What are you, the bearer of bad news bringing a dying man his last meal?"
Grayson laughed. "If you'd have asked me last night, I would have been inclined to agree with that assessment, but you look much better this evening."
"Oh, yeah? Well two days ago when they pulled me out of the box and dumped me in this hellhole, I thought I'd be meeting my Maker soon."
"Can I take a listen to your lungs?"
Wellbourne sat up straight, pushed his arms out as his sides and gave a smirk. "Be my guest."
Grayson shuffled around him, listened to the front side of his chest and next the back. "You still have a touch of pneumonia but I suspect you'll live."
"Pity, that."
Grayson settled onto the stool. "Look, we don't have much time so let me get to the point."
The Corporal swished down another gulp of the tea concoction. "You said we'd talk about who sent you. Like the army mules, I'm all ears."
"I must get to Richmond and you need to get out of here."
Wellbourne eyed him warily. "Richmond...as in Virginia?"
"The same." Grayson thought about what this must sound like to the man and wondered if he might lose him if he didn't weigh his next words. "I can't reveal all the details, but I went through your file and believe you're quite familiar with the territories, North and South." The gorgeous man's body tensed, so subtly most wouldn't have noticed. Grayson had made it his life mission to watch nuances, however small, had studied a man's eyes until he knew what he'd do before he knew himself. His life depended on it. "Hear me out before you dismiss the notion." Reaching into his bag again, he pulled out a Bible. "Open it to page 320. You'll find a forged pass that will get you through the front gate."
With one eye on him, Wellbourne opened the book to page 320. "How apropos, Darkmore's signature." He looked up, drawing Grayson's full attention. "And what do you propose I wear when I sashay out of here? These rags?" He picked up the hem of his tattered jacket. "Or are you really a wizard who can transform me into a frog?" The sound of the Corporal's rich laughter sent a shudder through him. "I could leap my way to the gate I suppose."
Everything about the man was perfect, his voice, his laugh, and oh, God the eyes. Even dressed in tatters, Wellbourne still oozed sexuality. He wanted to touch him again, longed to lose himself in the fundamental joining of another man's flesh against his. Not just any man, but Marx Wellbourne.
Damnation, why didn't his mission involve someone other than the every fantasy of his dreams, some toothless, dreadfully revolting man from the foothills of Virginia? "Wear this---a Union uniform, forage hat and all."
"Shit, what else you got in that magical pouch, fried chicken, a cask of whiskey, a one-way rail ticket to Charleston?"
He hadn't asked if he could pull a woman out of the bag. Of course he wouldn't, but most men would after months of celibacy. "We won't be needing a train ticket."
The seconds droned on as Wellbourne studied him. After a lengthy time, he asked, "What must I do to regain my freedom?"
"Get me to Richmond, and we'll be traveling overland."
"On foot?"
Grayson shook his head and withdrew a map from the bag. He looked over his shoulder and then lowered his voice. "We'll make our way South via this route." He pointed to the town of Corning, and next Canton and Williamsport. "After Williamsport," his finger danced over the towns, "Harrisburg, York, Baltimore and finally Richmond."
"Are you daft? Union troops will be crawling all over the territory. We'll be taken for deserters and shot on the spot, or hung." A chortled rasp followed his laughter. "And it's near to four hundred miles to Richmond."
"Two sturdy mounts in excellent condition, without carrying a heavy load, can travel sixty miles a day. You don't look too heavy to me, Corporal."
Wellbourne looked at the ceiling and next the floor. "Depends on the terrain, but for a short period, say five, six days it's possible, providing a man stops for food, rest and water often." He looked up again. "Who are you? And why me?"
"It doesn't matter who I am, and I've already told you why I selected you. You know horses, the country, and you're a seasoned fighter."
"Look, I don't give a rat's hide what you were before the war, but I won't be a part of helping you infiltrate the South so you can report back with precious information to the likes of Darkmore."
"I assure you, Wellbourne, I'm not a Union spy."
"Marx. If we're going to be running for our lives in this illfated scheme of yours, don't you think we could call one another by our first names?"
Grayson nodded. "Gray, you can call me Gray, and if you agree to help me, no more questions about my motives. Understood?" Marx hesitated, and Gray quickly added, "You have my oath; I'm not a Northern mole."
"I get you to Richmond and then what?"
"You go your way, I go mine. No questions asked."
"If you want to get to Richmond, why don't you just hop that train in Elmira? It's a straight shot down."
"No, it won't do. Darkmore's been asking too many questions for my comfort, and his men would be all over that train like ticks on a coonhound. I won't make it to the next town."
"What kind of questions?"
Gray put his flask back in the bag, rose, and with tin cup in hand, walked toward the cell door.
"Wait...very well, no more questions. When should I make my way to the gate?"
"Darkmore returns in three days. Two evenings from now, you'll walk through that entrance and head west to the woods outside of town. You'll see my low-burning fire from the edge of the forest. The horses will be ready."
"Why two days?"
"You're still weak, wouldn't be fit to travel thirty miles a day, much less sixty, and we need to get a jump on them that first day." Gray released a sardonic chuckle. "Unfortunately, Darkmore is judicious, one of the shrewdest military men I've ever had the pleasure of meeting."
"He will come for me, you know."
"Oh, well I know, and me as well once he puts two and two together." Gray tossed him the flask across the room. "To bolster your courage. And stuff the uniform under your mattress. I'll tell the Lieutenant I left a Bible on your night table in case you don't make it."
"Two more questions before you call for the guard. Do you know how to shoot a gun? And how am I supposed to get out of this cell two nights from now?"
Gray rapped on the metal bars three times. "Well enough to bring home a meal when I have to. As for your second question, I leave that to you. Use your imagination. Just find me in the woods forty-eight hours from now, and be ready for a hard ride through the night."
"How do I know I can trust you?"
"That's your third question."
"And a damn good one."
"When is the next time you'll have an opportunity to get out of here, or are you looking forward to returning to the box?"
Marx twisted the lid of the flask and took a swallow. "I'll be there, but if you're not there with the horses, I'm a dead man."
"Then that makes two of us. Like I said, Darkmore has been snooping around, watching my every move. He doesn't know anything of value, but knows something is up. It's now or never, Corporal."
"I said I'd be there."
Grayson nodded and knocked on the bars. Moments later, the Lieutenant appeared to open the cell and glanced at the Bible. Marx had already stuffed the uniform and flask under the mattress and lay sprawled on his back, groaning. "I don't know, Lieutenant. He's much worse tonight. Darkmore sure will be disappointed when he comes back and discovers his favorite prisoner has passed on to Glory."
"You mean he's gonna die?"
"Don't rightly know. I filled him with quinine and opium. You ever had scarlet fever, Lieutenant?"
The Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his scrawny neck when he swallowed hard. "No, sir, can't say I have. Is it contagious?"
"Contagious? Hell, yes. I'll be lucky if after touching the varmint I don't come down with it. If I were you, I'd bring his meals, slip them in real quiet and leave as soon as possible. Don't touch him or anything around him."
The Lieutenant glanced to the bed again. "No, sir. I won't, you can be sure."
Grayson followed him down the hallway and let himself out. Then he prayed Marx would find a way to get those damn keys from the Lieutenant.
The Lieutenant stayed away from Marx's cell for the most part, except to open the heavy metal door like a skittish mare and shove the tray of food across the floor. If the man wouldn't enter the cell, how the hell would he get the keys out of his grasp?
As for the good Dr. Drake, the last thing Marx needed once he got out of purgatory was a moron clinging to him like a powder monkey. He didn't have a chance of making it to Richmond with the Union army scouring the country and Darkmore on his ass while mollycoddling a man who couldn't shoot a damn gun. Let Drake believe he wanted to return to Charleston where he enlisted. In fact, he'd tell the man he intended to re-enlist again and make up for lost time spent in this hellhole.
True, he owed the man his life, but he couldn't allow guilt to affect his mission. If he hadn't been captured at Louisa Court House, his generals would have the maps he'd memorized by now, would have been able to counter some of the North's strategic battle plans. What were they thinking, offering to exchange five men for his freedom? In essence, they'd signed his death warrant at the prison. He shuddered. Darkmore would figure out he wasn't just another ranking drudge in the Confederate Army, but a plant, commissioned by the Confederate army to spy on the North.
The box would seem like a picnic in July compared to what the Major would do to extract information from him.
He'd meet Grayson in the woods, all right. He needed a horse, but soon after, he'd give the man the slip and hightail it for Richmond. Unfortunately, the hapless Dr. Drake would have to fend for himself. To be fair, and to live with himself, he'd go along with the plan for a day, but then be forced to leave the man to his own means.
He thought about Grayson and his cock twitched. Without the spectacles and the closely cropped hair, the man would be considered handsome. Or maybe his dark hair hadn't been cut short, but merely slicked down. Hard to tell when you're sitting in a windowless cell at night. He didn't miss the man's eyes behind the thick lenses. Dark green like the needles of a jack pine, a sentient aura and keen awareness resided in their depths. Beneath the white apron, the muscles of his torso had tensed. He sensed it, felt it, and yet one would never know from the man's calm persona.
Had he dreamed the man touched his face last night? Had the fever stolen all rational thought, or had his large, calloused hand lingered on his cheek, traced his lips? He couldn't afford to go there. He'd sworn an oath, promised to stow his carnal preferences until he'd finished serving his country. He could return to Charleston when the blood-letting came to an end, pick up where he left off---decadent, debauched nights with any man of his choice at Madame Belle's brothel.
Damnation, the questions nagged him. Who was the man and what's the real reason he needed to get to Richmond? He didn't really give a fuck about that either, except if he found out he was aiding and abetting the enemy. If he discovered the man had used him for those means, he'd take personal delight in putting a hole between his lying eyes.
\*
Following the scent of smoke from a campfire, Marx walked into the clearing two nights later. A horned owl craned its neck and watched him pass. The mundane sound of night crickets drifted around him. No one had followed him...yet, but someone at the prison would soon discover the unfortunate Lieutenant trussed up like a turkey in his jail cell.
Grayson looked up from his perch beside the fire. Behind the man, tethered to the low branches of an oak, two horses chomped on sweet grass sprouting from the forest floor. "The ruse worked?"
"The hardest part wasn't taking the keys from him, but trying to convince him to hold my hand and read Psalms 23 before I died." He chuckled. "'Bout the time he got to, 'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,' the knife was at his throat and he handed them over real nice like."
"You found the knife?"
"Right where you left it; in the pocket of the Union jacket," he answered in a passive tone, not wishing to reveal his irritation that Grayson had neglected to tell him about the weapon. "So I sat there for two days, wondered why you didn't tell me you'd concealed a weapon in the clothing."
Grayson shrugged. "Wanted to see how resourceful you'd be in a pinch."
Marx studied him through the lengthening silence, his gaze following the ribbon of firelight dancing across his granite features and emerald eyes. The spectacles weren't resting on the bridge of his nose and his dark hair hung loose about his shoulders. He must have tied it back with a strip of leather when he visited him in the cell. In two days, the man had changed dramatically. By God, he looked strong and rugged, almost intimidating. Maybe the illness and the dim light had dulled his own senses, but the stunning man hunkered down by the fire looked nothing like the gimp-legged man that had appeared in his prison cell.
"You sure no one followed you?"
"Other than the Lieutenant, who the hell would follow me? I woke the sentry up to show him my pass. Ought to shoot the man for sleeping on duty."
"You fit to ride?"
"I walked here, didn't I?"
Grayson tossed the remainder of his coffee into the fire, rose and threw a saddle bag at his feet. "Clothing, but until we get out of northern territory, I want you to keep the uniform on. If they come across us by surprise, you can make like I'm a deserter and you're taking me in."
"Did you bring me a gun?"
He nodded toward the bag. "In there. You might want to strap it to your leg before we set out."
Marx allowed his gaze to wander down the man's long legs, particularly his right where a pistol was holstered. He'd already noticed the rifle sheathed in a scabbard on the roan. "You're packing a lot of metal for a man who can only shoot well enough."
Grayson turned to him with those luminous orbs. "I like to intimidate folks, that all right with you?"
"Hey, whatever catches your fancy."
"What about the men that escaped? Ten, Darkmore said, and they're on foot. Where they headed?"
"You said no questions. It works both ways."
"Quid pro quo, how's that? You answer one of mine; I'll answer one of yours."
"Fair enough. I go first." Marx walked toward the horses and looked them over. "You said you looked at Darkmore's file after you examined me. Same question I asked before---why the sudden interest in me?"
"After the prison camp opened, Washington hired a medical inspector to keep his eye on Hellmira. His last report indicated the facilities lacked for care of the sick, and your name was on the list."
"What list?"
"Sick, wounded or dying officers."
The infectious laugh he'd already come to recognize bounced off the trees. "What column was I under?"
"Dying. My turn. What route did your men take when they left Hellmira?"
"The same one we're on. They want to go home, Doctor."
He pointed to the horses. "The gray is yours."
"How is it you came across the list?"
"The inspector happens to be my associate in town."
Marx ran his hands down the horse's legs before hoisting himself into the saddle. "Don't tell me you're a southern sympathizer and you decided to save me because of it."
"I'm a physician, Wellbourne. I've taken the oath to save lives, all lives." Marx absorbed his words and watched him mount with the ease of a seasoned veteran. "Just so you know, when he returned Darkmore planned to find out what route your men took even if he had to beat it out of you. He figures they can't have gone far if they're on foot."
"My guess is he's already got a regiment out looking for them."
"And soon you, so let's ride. We have to make to make Corning by morning, twenty miles."
"Lead the way. I'm right behind you."
Halfway to Corning, Marx's horse veered off the narrow road, stumbled and jolted his rider awake. "Whoa, hold up," he called out to his new companion.
The doctor turned in the saddle, his face lit by streams of light from a full moon. "Your mount is limping."
"He ran into something, a pile of rocks he must not have seen."
"Probably nodded off like someone else I know."
Marx looked at the ground before dismounting and then picked his way back to the cluster of stones. "Can I get some light over here?"
"Hang on," Grayson said with an exasperated sigh before striking a match to the lantern hanging from his saddle horn. "What is it?"
"Not sure, ride over here with that light." Seconds later when Gray held the lantern low to the ground, Marx's heart fell to his feet. "Ah, shit."
"One of your men." Grayson looked at the crude marker with the man's name etched in wood with a knife.
"Graham...his name was Graham Kennedy, and yes, he's one of mine."
Grayson dismounted and held the lantern above the pile of rock. "I'm sorry."
"Son of a bitch! I told him to hang on, it wouldn't be long now and he'd be home with his wife and three kids. He caught malaria from that stinking pond and Darkmore wouldn't send for a doctor." Marx kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. "Not unless I told him about...about...."
"About what?"
Marx lifted his chin to find questioning green eyes staring into his. "You must think I'm a stupid fucker to tell you anything. If that's why you busted me out of prison, we might as well get something straight right now. You can beat me within an inch of my life with that fancy pistol and you won't get shit from me. Not now, not ever."
Silence loomed between them and the air hissed with tension and something Marx didn't want to admit. Desire, raw and primal. Something nagged at his brain, a familiarity, a longing he once hungered for. Too damn tired and weak to claim it, the thought flew from his mind like an elusive wind. Another time, another place, perhaps, but he'd be damned if he could remember where or when.
Long moments later, Grayson said, "Did you tell them?"
"I'd be dead by now if I had." He mounted again and blew a breath of air through his lips.
Grayson swayed the lantern over the dirt around the ground. "Don't you want to say a few words over him?"
"You're the one with all the compassion. I leave that up to you. And what the hell are you looking for?"
"Two nights ago, I'd say."
"Two nights ago what?"
"The night before last it rained and their footprints were washed away. The only ones here now are yours and mine."
It wasn't the first time the man had surprised Marx. A pistol and rifle had replaced the glasses, and right now Grayson looked like a tracker from the Indian nation. Damn, who was this man and why in the hell was he traveling with him through Union territory? The man knew something. Had he been sent to portray the savior only to drag the drawings from his head once he let his guard down? Shit, frogs would turn into blue elephants before he'd tell the man anything.
"Say your piece over Kennedy's grave if you want and let's get moving. Be dawn soon."
Grayson mounted again and headed west, calling out over his shoulder, "Corning is a mile up ahead. We'll rest in this hidden pine grove for a few hours, and then stick to the woods tomorrow."
Now how in the hell did he know about the pine grove? Marx dug his heels into the gray's side and stayed two steps behind him. The sooner he ditched the enigmatic Doctor Drake, the easier he'd breathe.
\*
"Lieutenant Glenn! Get your sorry ass in here!" Darkmore rushed through the door of the barracks, stripped off his gloves and slapped them against his thigh.
"Reporting, sir," the Lieutenant said with a click of his heels.
"Tell me my courier was mistaken when he delivered the message Wellbourne has escaped." Darkmore tossed his gloves onto the desk and paced the small area of his office.
"I'm afraid he escaped, sir. The man tricked me into believing he was about to breathe his last. The next thing I know the bastard had a knife at my throat and forced me to unlock his cell door."
"A knife? Jesus, where would Wellbourne get a knife, Lieutenant?"
"I swear on my sacred mother's grave---"
"Think, you moron. Wellbourne has been in solitary since my men pulled him from the box. Is he a magician, a wizard?"
"No, sir. Only one person could have brought him the knife." He hesitated. "And the Bible, the clothing---"
"Bible?" Darkmore's eyes narrowed. "Clothing?"
"Yes, sir. And a forged pass."
"I should put you in the box, Lieutenant. Sweat the stupidity out of your addled brain." An image rose of Dr. Drake standing before him. "Only one person visited him in my absence, isn't that right?"
His Lieutenant offered a feeble nod.
"Dr. Drake." He advanced on Glenn until they stood nose to nose. "And where is our good doctor now?"
"Missing as well, sir." Lieutenant Glenn cleared his throat. "The sentry said a man appeared at the gate with a pass signed by you. We believe now that man was Marx Wellbourne."
"Bloody hell." Darkmore leaned in. "You will find out who this Dr. Drake really is, do you hear me Lieutenant? I don't care if you have to tear apart the office he shares with Dr. Murdock. I want to know when he came to Elmira, through what means, and what Murdock knows about him."
"I questioned Dr. Murdock this morning. Drake came to Elmira about two months ago, shortly after Wellbourne arrived at the prison. Murdock knows little about his past, said he arrived with a letter of recommendation from a minister and the sheriff from an obscure town in Massachusetts."
"And Murdock took him on?"
"Yes, sir. Why wouldn't he, sir? Elmira was in dire need of another physician."
Rage beat through Darkmore's chest. Dr. Drake had duped them all, including him. What timing. The prison needed a physician to treat the flea-infested varmints that Washington ordered to Elmira, and Murdock needed an assistant.
His voice a snarled whisper, he looked into the Lieutenant's eyes. "You will see to it that my horse is fed, watered and groomed, and then you will assemble a column to hunt down the nefarious Dr. Drake and my prisoner. We leave at daybreak."
With another click of his heels and a salute, the Lieutenant replied, "Yes, sir. We will find them, sir. I'm sure of it."
"The only thing I'm sure of, Glenn, you'll be reduced to private if we don't, and I'll personally see to it that you're relegated to latrine duty from sunup to sundown." He turned from the man with clenched fists, headed out the door and called out over his shoulder. "Daybreak, Lieutenant, and you better hope we find them."
By the time Gray led them into the private grove, Marx had begun to nod off again. Tremors wracked his body and sweat streamed from his forehead. Lightheaded, he wobbled in the saddle and did his best to stay mounted. He heard his own groan when his shoulder hit the hard ground seconds later.
"Shit, why didn't you say something, Wellbourne?"
"Marx. First names, remember?" And when had he started thinking of him as Gray instead of his proper given name?
Strong arms plucked him from the ground and carried him to the copse of long needled pines several rods away. Gray laid him down under the branches and put a canteen to his lips. "How long since you took water?"
He shook his head. "Don't recall. Get me whiskey."
"Why didn't you tell me about the malaria?"
"You wouldn't have busted me out." His mind drifted and he struggled to keep the words on his tongue. "If I ramble, stuff a rag in my mouth."
"Don't worry; I'm not going to take advantage of you."
Too fucking bad, that. He wanted Gray to take advantage of him, had wanted it almost from the first moment the man walked into his cell, spectacles and all. The rugged, stunning creature called to him like wretched flies on cow dung. Oh, God, I'm thinking out of my head. Please don't let me spill my guts in my confusion. Marx curled into a fetal position, the spasm and chills unbearable.
"Hold on, I'll get the quinine and opium."
"Whiskey."
"No whiskey right now."
Footsteps drifted away from him and returned moments later. "So cold, so damn cold. Build a fire."
"I hate to keep saying no, but we can't have a fire. Soldiers will smell that a mile off." Gray put the bottle to his lips. "Quinine, drink. You should have told me you had malaria, could have saved us a lot of trouble."
Marx choked the quinine down and held his hand up with a dismissive wave. "No opium."
Another bottle came to his lips. "Just drink it. You need rest."
He shook his head. "You'd like that wouldn't you?"
"Oh, for Christ sakes, I'm not going to question you, promise."
"No opium," he repeated and pinched his lips.
Marx moaned, the alternating fever and chills rendering him defenseless. He couldn't remember when he'd been so cold and hot all at once. Maybe this time he'd die and wouldn't have to worry about the maps anymore.
Didn't those fools in Virginia know the South was doomed from the beginning? The Confederate Army couldn't compete with the Union's continual supply of weapons and ammo, the endless manufacturing of both. The one thing the South had in their favor---courage, valor beyond question, and if he told Gray what he wanted to hear....He didn't want to think about that, think about anything. So tired, weak and cold, he wanted to die.
Someone was removing his shirt. "Don't put me in the box again...don't. Won't do you any good. Just kill me."
"Be quiet. No one's putting you in the box. You need warmth."
"Need whiskey."
A warm body lay down beside him, skin on skin, naked chest to naked back. Snuggled against a muscular body, Marx thought his wishes about dying had come true. He imagined Gray's big hands running over his trembling flesh. No, he wasn't delirious. The man worked fast, rubbed his clammy flesh with long, hard strokes, fanning the faint embers of warmth to life.
He wanted more, longed to feel his strong body pounding into him. How he yearned to have the man's tongue licking every inch of his skin and that delectable mouth wrapped around his cock. A breath snagged in his throat, from the malaria or the thought of Gray touching him, he didn't know.
Would Gray be a demanding lover or languid and tender, driving him mad before he fucked him long and hard? Marx could be both, had done both, played the part of take-charge lover and a submissive partner. That's what he craved from the man named Grayson Drake, a long, hard ride. Oh, Christ, what was happening to him? If he didn't shut off his thoughts, he'd turn to him in a moment and beg.
"I want you." Had he really said the words, or thought them? "And you want me; I see it in your eyes, Gray. Don't you?"
"I told you to be quiet. The quinine will start to work soon, but you need sleep."
"I need to get to Richmond."
"Charleston, you mean?"
"I'm really fucked up right now. Am I talking out loud or thinking it?"
Gray's subtle laughter came to him from afar. "Thinking, now will you shut up?"
"Good, I thought I was rambling again."
"Is the malaria always this bad?"
Another chill rattled through him. "Comes and goes, worse since the box."
"Son of a bitch Darkmore."
Marx jackknifed up. "He's here? Oh, Christ, he's coming for me again."
"It's all right." Firm hands eased him down. "He's not here, and he won't take you again."
"Darkmore...sharpshooter in the army."
Gray's voice softened. "Is he now? Well in that case, I have a confession to make."
"I have one to make, too. It's about you."
Another chuckle. "I can shoot the wings off a beetle."
"My fucking Granny's nightgown." Marx conjured the image of the wingless insect struggling to launch his rusty body. Christ, the delirium messed him up. The vision fled, soon replaced by a bespectacled gent walking into his jail cell. "Who are you? Why do you have to get to Richmond?"
"If I tell you, will you take the opium?"
A nod of his befuddled head. The sweet odor of opium spiraled up his nose and then he tasted the bitter remedy trickling down his throat.
The sensual drawl again. "A physician that promised to bring something to Richmond, and don't say, my fucking Granny's nightgown. Now let it go. You have nothing to worry about. Darkmore will have to kill me to get to you."
"You'd do that? Fight Darkmore?"
"Yes." Gray pulled the opium away.
"So tired, gotta sleep. I can ride again after I sleep." His eyelids heavy, the last thing Marx remembered before drifting off was the blessed warmth from the secure arms holding him.
\*
An overhang of silver stars chasing a waning moon greeted Marx when he opened his eyes. The icy tremors had left his body, but so had the warmth.
A hand nudged his shoulder. "Can you ride? We need to move on."
"Darkmore is coming?"
A solemn nod. "If you're too weak to ride, I can tie you onto the mount."
Marx's ribs ached when he laughed, a residual of the chills from the malaria and the cough from the pneumonia. Not only did Darkmore want him dead, but someone upstairs must have joined the Major's ranks to curse him with both illnesses at once. "Faced with the alternative, I can ride."
"Good. I need a little direction."
"Eighty miles to Williamsburg. If you lose me, follow the Susquehanna into town. Daniel Hughes owns a barge on the Pennsylvania Canal and transports lumber from Williamsport to Havre de Grace, Maryland."
"And the reason I want to know this?"
"He'll help us. He transports runaway slaves in the hold of his barge on his return trip and provides them shelter on his property until they can make it to Canada."
"Confederate sympathizers come in all shapes and vocations, huh?"
Marx struggled to a sitting position and fixed his gaze on Gray. "Yep, Union sympathizers, too."
Gray held out a hand. "Up with you then. I'll help you mount."
A jolt of lightning coursed through him when their hands met. How was it possible the man looked even more virile, more handsome than he had yesterday? He'd intended to abandon Gray this morning, before the malaria struck, before the intense hunger for the man had overtaken his every waking moment.
Hell, who was he kidding? Last night the man had walked into his dreams, all sinewy muscle and hard lines. Their fierce, potent joining had rendered him boneless. Now, as the moon dropped from the sky and a bright orange sphere shadowed the man's face, he recalled every touch, every ragged moan and the ecstasy he found with Gray. A dream, true, but every sensation so vividly real, he knew it existed. He craved the man's love now as a gut-shot cowpoke craved water.
How had it happened so fast? Why did he feel like he'd known him in another time and place? So much had transpired in the last few years---the battles, the dying men, the covert missions of sneaking behind enemy lines to get his messages through to his superiors. Everything meshed together, the screams, the bloodless faces and the masks of defeat etched on his generals' weary faces.
Charleston and everything he once loved about the grand old city had faded from his memory like a fog rolling out to sea. While around Gray, a small part of the world he once knew crept back in to the cobwebs of his brain. Perhaps that's why he was drawn to the man, could no longer entertain the idea of leaving him behind, even if he was fit enough to make his way alone. Which he wasn't at the moment.
"Thanks," Marx said, the only word he seemed capable of right now.
Gray handed him a biscuit, a heavy canteen and cold coffee. "We'll have to eat in the saddle, and don't forget to drink the water today."
"I suppose I'll find quinine hiding in the coffee."
"A little, but I also added whiskey."
Marx slung the canteen over his shoulder, stuffed the biscuit into his mouth and walked to the horse. After transferring the canteen to the saddle horn, he downed a gulp of the coffee and released a long sigh. The worst of the malaria had passed again, thank God. And he could breathe better this morning.
They rode hard, slowing to a walk only to let their mounts take a breather. Marx couldn't have kept up this strenuous pace yesterday, and only barely clung to the saddle for the last thirty-five miles. By noon, a pitiless sun beat down on them, and Marx wondered if the man would ever stop to feed and water the horses.
No sooner had the thought left his mind for the twentieth time, when Gray pointed to a stand of oak. "Rest for a while. I'll take care of the mounts."
"You don't have to ask me twice." Marx slid from the saddle, shuffled his way to the trees, and collapsed onto the ground.
Lulled awake when Gray placed another biscuit in his hand, he rose up on an elbow. "How long have I been sleeping?"
"About an hour and we've got to move on again. I think Darkmore picked up our trail."
Marx scanned the perimeter of the clearing. "You saw him?"
"Not him, but a column of dust a few miles back. I climbed a ridge and spotted the lead man flying the colors of the Union through the long glass."
"Leave me; I'll just slow you down. I can tell you how to get from Williamsport to Harrisburg, eighty some miles. Just follow the Susquehanna..."
Steel resolve crossed Gray's eyes. "Not on your sweet ass. Now get on the horse or I'll tie you down."
"You don't need me. I'll draw you a detailed map and you can be on your way. Darkmore and his lynx-eyed guards won't find me if that's what you're feeling guilty about."
Gray covered the distance between them in two long strides and yanked him to his feet by the scruff of his neck. "I'm not leaving you behind, so make up your mind. You riding out of your own free will or must I shackle you to the horse?"
The air hissed with tension, and Gray's determination. The man smelled of horse, leather, and the musky scent of pure male. And, apparently, he wasn't waiting for an answer. Grim-lipped, he dragged him to his mount, his voice stern. "Choose. Which one?"
Marx sloughed off his grip and wondered if his legs would hold. He wasn't afraid of Gray's wrath, but of the overpowering lust and need crashing down on him. Gray wasn't immune to the whispers of arousal drifting around them. Marx saw it in his eyes just before he climbed into the saddle. He couldn't speak, not right now. Picking up the reins, Marx looked straight ahead and waited for Gray to mount.
Without another word, the horses sped off with Marx clinging to the saddle horn, wondering how in the hell he'd make another forty miles today. Shit, how would he make it another night sheltering with the sinfully beautiful Gray?
\*
The relentless afternoon sun drove Grayson toward the mouth of a cave ten miles outside of Williamsport. He couldn't risk losing his precious cargo now that they'd come this far. One look at Marx's blanched face and Grayson wondered if he'd made a grave mistake pushing him to the limit.
Dismounting in a rush, he caught Marx before he hit the ground. "Son of a bitch, when will you learn to speak up?"
"When will you learn to listen to me? I told you to leave me behind," he said, weak-voiced. "Take heart; I'm not feverish or chilled, just wrung out."
Grayson pointed to the abstruse entrance on a rock face that had withstood centuries of harsh elements. "Can you make it to that cavern?"
"Lead the way."
Clutching the reins of the mounts, he placed Marx's hand on one of the stirrups and threshed through the thick-trunked oak and dense bracken no man had roamed for decades.
Now and then Grayson glanced over his shoulder to make sure Wellbourne hadn't dropped from sight.
A curse fell from his lips, and why in hell had his palms broken out in a sweat? Somewhere between Elmira prison and Corning, delivering Marx to Richmond had plunged from the top of his priority list. As had the dire need to extract information about the maps from the man. Keeping him alive and satiating his unquenchable lust occupied his every thought. Hell, every breath he took.
The sound of distant thunder rolled across the darkened sky and large drops of rain fell from the angry clouds overhead. Clinging to the stirrup, Marx stumbled into the cave three feet behind Gray.
He watched through a numb haze as Gray lit the lone lantern, set it on the ground, and retrieved an armful of large branches and brush strewn about the cavern. Animals of some sort had left behind evidence of their prior occupancy. Knowing Gray, he'd leave nothing to chance; would survey the shelter top to bottom, end to end, once a fire blazed.
He looked at the man on his haunches near the fire, really looked at him. He hadn't noticed his attire today before now. A plain white shirt clung to his sinewy build like second skin and topped the worn buckskin breeches and calf-high, black boots. Like before, a Déjà vu skittered around his mind, but slipped away before he could pin it down. If he'd seen Gray before, it wasn't in buckskins.
But then he wouldn't be wearing faded gray army trousers right now either if the war hadn't come. For some insane reason, he'd abandoned his life of refinement and got it in his head to become a Cadet. Here he stood now, in a musty, dank cavern studying the most handsome man he'd ever laid eyes on.
Gray looked up with a half-hearted smile. "I'll check out the rest of the cave. Hear that water running? That means there must be a stream or maybe even a waterfall."
"A stream would be nice." Marx dragged his eyes from the man's sensual mouth. "So would a bath."
"My thoughts exactly. They won't find us here, so you can rest easy until I return."
"I'm hoping you come back dripping wet." And naked and harder than a marble statue, and so consumed with lust you're dying to fuck my brains out.
"I hope so, too, and then I'll show you the stream."
Marx could only manage a nod before he collapsed near the fire and wallowed in his misery. He had to get away from Gray. What a mess. At times weaker than a newborn calf and consumed with a need to stare at the man for hours, he'd all but forgotten his necessity to get to Richmond. Fine officer he'd turned into. The only man alive with the information the Confederacy desperately needed and all he could think about was Gray running that wicked tongue over every inch of his naked flesh.
His stomach rumbled. Perhaps while he cleaned up, Gray would hunt down dinner. Roasted quail, rabbit, or even boiled turtle. Hell, he must be better, hadn't thought about food in days.
Marx stared at the flames licking the blackened logs a long time before he heard the shuffle of feet behind him. "You're in luck, a waterfall and a stream, warmer than the underbelly of a kitten."
"Good, I can hardly abide my own stink."
The infectious laugh rumbled around the stones walls. "Come on, I'll show you where you can get rid of that stink. There's a blanket in my saddle bag you can use to dry off---dark blue and not that scratchy wool."
Marx walked to Gray's mount and plucked the blanket from his bag, then followed him through the cave.
The waterfall and stream occupied a separate enclosure and looked like a serene locale straight from a volume of poems called Old Kalevala. Based on Finnish folklore, his mother often recited all thirty-two verses by heart.
"I leave you to your own means," Gray said, his voice tense and speaking volumes.
He does want me. He does.
"You can find your way back." It wasn't a question but rather a statement called out over his shoulder as he left the stone sanctuary.
"Yes, I can. I mean, thanks and I'll be along soon."
Refreshed after his full immersion into the stream, he noticed a sliver of soap sitting on a nearby rock and pushed through the waist-high water to retrieve it. Gray had obviously left it behind after his bath.
Lathering up his hands, he ran them over each arm and moved on to his torso. Christ, he felt every rib and the indentations between them. What man in his right mind would desire such a pathetic skeleton? With his thumb and index finger he rubbed his cheeks and again met prominent bones. His heart sank. Whatever he'd seen in Gray's eyes wasn't passion, but pity. What a dunce he'd been to think a man as beautiful as Grayson Drake would look his way.
With defeat clenching his gut, he finished his bath, stepped from the water and dried off. Tomorrow maybe he'd have time to rinse out his trousers and tattered shirt, but right now he needed food, and rest.
Gray entered the cave as Marx walked into the common area. "Covered our tracks just in case," he said. "The horses will have to share our quarters for the night."
"Better than fleas or wild beasts."
Gray's eyes traveled the length of his body, toes to head, and he walked toward him, panther-like, slow, vigilant, his head tilted an inch or so to the left. "I'll wring the blanket out and toss it over a branch outside."
Good God, how he envied that blanket.
He advanced, his arm stretched out, his expression unreadable. The air between them sizzled with restrained lust. He didn't want restraint; he wanted abandon, wild, reckless fervor, wanted Gray to assuage this hollow feeling of worthlessness and fuck him senseless.
The space between them disappeared and only the man stood before him. Without thought, Marx allowed the blanket to slither to the ground and wondered if his knees would follow it down of their own volition.
Gray's left hand went to the back of his head, the left to his groin. Through his trousers, Marx felt his cock harden. He looked up and his mouth went dry. The lust in Gray's smoky eyes could not be discarded.
The man's chest rose and fell in perfect sync with the strokes to his shaft. A strong hand nudged Marx's shoulder, pushing him back against the rock wall. This couldn't be happening, yet he'd never been more aware of the overpowering sensations, every ragged breath they shared.
Gray's broad shoulders shielded everything from view, but he heard the slow cadence of water trickling over stones, the hiss of flames lapping at the brush the man had tossed in the fire earlier.
Again, the scent of leather and horse washed over him, accompanied by the pleasing aromas of soap and pure man. The whisper of Gray's primal arousal---and his--- clung to them. God, for the first time in months he felt safe, sheltered from outside forces---the box, Darkmore, and every other nightmare that had haunted his sleep in prison.
With one hand on his cock, Gray moved his other hand to Marx's bare chest and pinched a nipple. A gasp fell from his throat and a rush of heat penetrated his skin and coursed through his veins. Pedaling down his spine, the uncontrollable shiver settled in his gut and spread downward to his rock-hard pole.
Marx bit back a moan. His balls ached and his cock leaked. He hadn't felt such desire since before the war, not since his days at the brothel in Charleston. A fleeting image of a man clouded his brain. Gray in a different locale and time? Or was he only imagining the man of his every fantasy in the brothel, staring at him from across the room? The low hum of voices from long ago enveloped him. With goblet in hand, he was leaning against a wall, scanning the crowd. One man stood a head above the others---all hard lines and sculpted muscle---God's perfect creation.
His eyes were green, he remembered that now. Greener than moss and topped by perfectly etched eyebrows.
Like the eyes that held his right now.
Gray's wide, sensual mouth rose slightly at the corners, a silent acknowledgment he could read his thoughts, knew an awakening had transpired.
Marx wanted to speak, longed to ask him how it could be, but by Christ, the man was stunning, so utterly enchanting, he couldn't force the words from his tongue. Marx shifted. He had to get away to think. Who was Gray and could he be trusted?
"No," he said, pinning him to the wall with his hands at the sides of his head. "Take off your trousers." His nostrils flared. "Do it now."
Marx's breath came out in a rush. "Who are---"
"You know who I am. Grayson Drake, from Charleston." The predatory intensity in his eyes sent a thrill through Marx. "From the same brothel you frequented. I wanted you then, as I do now. And you want me. Now undress."
How could he lie? He did want Gray, had wanted him for so long he could taste the man on his lips, feel Drake driving into him until nothing in the world existed but them. Christ, had he ever wanted any man in his life like this? Gray must be able to hear the blood pounding through his ears, sense the depth of his need.
Gray lowered his head, his mouth so close, Marx's knees went weak. "I'm not a patient man. I've waited for years, and I will have you. You will do what I say and love every depraved moment. Do I make myself clear?"
Torn between fear and a hunger so raw he couldn't speak, Marx nodded. With shaky fingers, he fumbled with the waist of his trousers until Gray took over. As cool as a summer night, he dropped a hand, loosened the belt, and rolled the pants down his hips. "Step out of them."
Marx obliged without taking his eyes off the man's face. God, what would he do next? The anticipation nearly crumbled him. Gray's mouth came down on his, firm and possessive, pitching him into an abyss of ecstasy. Without hesitation, Marx's lips parted and allowed Gray's tongue entrance. Gray sought out every crevice, and then ran that wicked tongue over his bottom lip, pausing only to nip at the corners before he took his mouth again, harder, deeper than before.
Christ, the man was a master at seduction. Marx's insides melted like candle wax and animal-like sounds came from the back of his throat. He wanted Gray inside him. Now. Yet something told him Gray would never succumb to wanton lust, would take him in the same methodical way he approached everything in life. Calmly, assuredly.
As if to read his thoughts, Gray said, "I could take you now without preamble. I want you that badly, but will not." He stepped back and perused Marx's naked body. "I knew you'd be exquisite." Gray urged him toward the blankets he'd laid out by the fire, and standing over him, eased him down to his knees. "Suck me; show me how much you want me to fuck you."
Eye level with Gray's groin, Marx freed the man's belt, shoved his trousers down and stared at his large cock. Saliva filled his mouth. Long and thick, blue bulging veins lined the underside. He reached out a hand and stroked. Soft, like velvet. The round mushroom-shaped cap oozed liquid, and Marx wanted to lap it up, longed to run his tongue over every inch of that glorious cock.
The thought of Gray's hard prick inside him sent a series of tremors rushing through him. He wanted to feel his ass stuffed to the hilt, imagined his walls clenching around that enormous pole, gripping him so hard Gray would be calling out his name while he fucked him. Marx moved in and took the crown into his mouth.
A muffled groan spilled from Gray's lips. "Swallow it, all of it. Suck me hard."
Marx set upon him like a starved beast, drowning in the texture and taste of the man. Relaxing his throat, he took in the full length, only to retreat and run his teeth over the sensitive head and slit. Gray's hips thrust forward and both hands went to the back of Marx's head. He set the rhythm, canted back and thrust forward, the low, deep moans from his throat sending jolts of pure pleasure through Marx. More than anything he wanted to please Gray; needed the man to hunger for his touch, his mouth, until he never thought about fucking another man again.
He knew now the man he'd spied across the crowded room had been Gray. Why he was here no longer mattered. He'd pull the answers from him later. He thought only of Gray possessing him, taking him hard, deep and fast.
"Enough," he rasped. "Get on your knees."
The low tenor of Gray's voice clenched every muscle in his groin. Marx swallowed the lump in his throat and gathered the strength to turn from him and drop to his hands and knees. Would his legs hold his weight? Weak from the malaria and the pneumonia, not to mention the anticipation riding the crest of his brain, he prayed he wouldn't collapse.
He recognized the sound of Gray easing down behind him. He reached his hand around and stroked Marx's engorged cock, taking particular time to gather the creamy liquid that had leaked from the slit. "No oil here, so this will have to do."
Gray's slick fingers found his hole and he slipped two inside. Marx thrust forward and sucked in a breath. "Oh, God."
"Open for me, pretty boy. Let me in."
The mesmerizing voice lulled him into obedience. The ring of muscle at his entrance relaxed as Gray pushed in deep. Marx ground out a moan. Christ, the sensation left him delirious, wallowing in bliss. Gray worked his insides like a seasoned lover, finding the sweet spot that pitched him into oblivion in a heartbeat. In the back of his mind, he felt him pull out and uttered a strangled protest.
"I have what you want, Marx. You want my cock inside you?"
He nodded feebly.
Gray reached around again and collected more liquid from his weeping cock and Marx assumed he applied it to his own. He felt Gray's erection nudge his entrance and he drew a deep breath. "Yes, oh, yes."
Gray buried only the head and paused. Leaning into him, his warm breath fanned his ear. "Is that what you want? Tell me when, and I'll possess you like no one has before."
He sucked in a series of short, deep breaths, savoring the blissful feeling. He could wait no longer. He felt so big, knew the act would leave him boneless. The need to feel Gray take him wholly, completely, drove him to the brink. He bit his lip, waiting, praying he'd push in deep. Christ, did the man want him to beg?
Gray's fingers ran up Marx's spine before clasping his hips, first one hand and then two. Goose flesh prickled every pore of his skin. God, he wanted this, only this. Marx clutched the blankets beneath him and he shivered again.
"Eagerness or anxiety?" Gray whispered from behind him.
"Both," he managed to eke out, his entire body trembling. He felt the muscles of Gray's thighs flex against his ass and then he drove in, deep and hard. The flames of the fire roared as did his hunger. "Ah, yes. Don't stop. I'll shoot you if you stop."
"This is what you really want." He deep-hilted his cock into his ass and pulled back, his enormous shaft repeating the act until Marx buckled under him.
"I have more for you." Gray leaned over and bit into his neck and fucked and fucked. Then fucked him some more.
When had he started calling out his name? He didn't know, didn't care. Serpents of desire coiled around them, above them, and under them. Never had it been like this, not through all the nameless, faceless strangers who'd shared his bed. Gray's chiseled features swam before him, the deep green of his eyes and the mocking smile. Christ, had he fallen in love with the man? Had he always loved him, not knowing who him really was?
In one soul-splitting thrust, Gray pinned his hips against his thighs, drove in deep and emptied his seed into his ass. With a strangled cry, a torrential load of cum spewed forth from his own cock. Marx wilted and this time Gray eased down with him. The blood pounded through Marx's ears and his heart raced out of control. Over and again residual jolts of pleasure whipped through him and he could not move, could barely breathe. Christ, had he died?
Long minutes later, Gray pulled out, rolled onto his side and pulled Marx against his sweat-soaked body. In the ensuing silence, Marx recalled every touch, every savage thrust and wondered how in the hell he could want him again already. But he did, and always would now. He couldn't name what had passed between them, but knew he would never find it with another.
In a fog, Gray's voice came to him. "One hour and then we must move on. Darkmore is closing in."
They sped around the outskirts of Williamsport in a blur. Forty miles later, midway to Harrisburg, shots whistled by their heads so close Marx felt their speed.
"Shit!" Gray brayed over his shoulder. "Darkmore drove his men all night, didn't stop to water the fucking mounts." Pointing to an outcrop of rock ahead, Gray hollered. "Take cover, we can't outrun them now."
"How many?"
"Maybe a dozen. Can you make it to the rock?"
Marx wheezed through a nod and kicked his horse into a run. Another volley of shots rang out, missing their fleeing mounts by inches. Gray jumped from the saddle with the horse on a dead run, caught the reins and brought the stallion to a halt. Waving Marx onward, he ran to a nearby boulder, his rifle aimed at the vacant air while waiting for Darkmore and his men to gallop in.
After securing the horses, Marx knelt beside him with pistol in hand. "I need a rifle, can't do much with this pea shooter."
"Don't falter on me now. You trained Cadets for the war, did you not?"
Marx looked at him askance for a moment and then remembered he'd read his file. "I did, but I wasn't suffering from malaria then."
"You've seen the worst of the pneumonia and the malaria is under control for the time being. If not, I wouldn't have...."
Their eyes locked. "Finish the sentence, or is that another way of saying you regret what happened?"
Gray didn't have time to answer but concentrated on picking off Darkmore's flag man. The Major hollered out a curse and brought his column under control by attempting to lead them into a crop of thick saplings and brush.
Marx steadied his hand and toppled a retreating soldier, then took a moment to savor the small victory. The man clutched his gut and crab-crawled through the dirt toward his panicked comrades.
Even from this distance, Marx saw the rage in Darkmore's eyes. The man's shrill voice rose above the chaos like a sharp blade. "On the count of three! One...two...three, Fire!"
A barrage of bullets whined through the air, and then silence. Marx fixed his sight on the shiny brass buttons of a blue coat's jacket, fired and smiled when he dropped to his knees clutching his chest. "I reckon this little shooter is doing just fine."
Sickening dread washed over him in the ensuing silence. He knew before he looked Gray had been hit. Still on his knees, but leaning into the boulder, a muffled groan escaped his lips and blood gushed from a wound in his chest. Marx eased him to the ground, took the rifle from his hand, and in a craze of fury let the bullets fly through the mass of uniforms.
Three dropped from their ranks and again he heard the Major bark out orders. "Get down you stupid jackasses! Take cover, for Christ's sake!"
Marx took the precious moment to check on Gray. Pulling the man's bandana from his neck, he stuffed it into the wound amid his agonized moan. "Get the horses," he rasped. "Darkmore will order them to rush us soon."
"I know that. I've done some fighting, you know." Marx low-crawled to the mounts and returned with them in tow seconds later. "Can you get up?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Don't think so. Things got real quiet out there all of a sudden. Here," Marx reached down and hoisted him to his feet. Gray gritted his teeth and half-crawled/half-lifted his body into the saddle.
As much as he hated to do it, Marx knew they had only one chance of escaping Darkmore and his men. He took down the first three army mounts in the space of a heartbeat, and two more before the soldiers led the rest to safety.
Then Marx clutched the stallion's reins in his hands, mounted his horse and the minute he saw Gray clutch the saddle horn, sped off like the Devil's wife was chasing them across the prairie.
Several miles later, Marx pulled up near a bend in the ground; a narrow trail, really, that led to the woods on their right. Christ, which route to take? The forest would be safer, but the open prairie faster. If he didn't get Gray to a doctor soon, he'd bleed to death. Marx had seen enough chest wounds to know he was in bad shape. If the bullet hadn't passed clear through, he'd have to dig it out. The thought made his stomach lurch. If the slug had cleared, he'd need stitches and something to stop infection from setting in.
God, forty miles to Harrisburg, forty long, fucking miles with the survivors from Darkmore's column hunting them down like blue tick hounds.
"The woods," Gray ground out, his pain-filled voice stabbing Marx like an axe pick. "Look for the smoke."
"Smoke? Are you delirious already? What fucking smoke?"
"Ol' Jake Cut Nose. Find him."
Marx narrowed his eyes and looked off toward the forest. "Ol' Jake Cut Nose? Now who the hell is that?" And how the fuck did Gray know about everything from Kingdom Come and back? Ol' Jake Cut Nose he could deal with, but who the hell was Gray?
With annoyance, he turned to ask and noticed Gray barely clinging to the saddle. "Shit, I should just leave you here for Darkmore. Let him sweat the lies out of you."
The words came out between short gusts of air. "Grayson Drake, not lying."
Marx dug his heel into his mount's side and headed for the woods. "Yeah, I know you're Grayson Drake, but just who or what the hell is Grayson Drake?"
\*
It didn't take long for Marx to pick up the sweet, pungent odor of smoke drifting through the woods. Hell, whoever Ol' Jake Cut Nose was he must burn peyote by the bushel.
The camp fire flared in the middle of a small clearing. Behind it stood a lean-to, the slanted mud and straw roof sagging like his Aunt Rosie's tits. To his right, a teepee reached for the sky with gray smoke from the center drifting above the treetops. Marx heard the click of a rifle across the flames and brought the mounts to a halt.
There could be no mistake he'd found Jake Cut Nose. The red man's left nostril had been carved from his face and if the ragged scars were any indication, most likely with a dull knife.
Marx nodded toward Gray. "You know him?"
With one eye still on Marx, Jake Cut Nose took his time staring at the man slumped over the saddle. An interminable amount of time passed before Jake lowered the rifle. "Bring Gray into lodge."
With a sigh of relief, Marx slid from his mount. So his real name was Gray. Amid a string of pained groans, Marx slipped his hands under Gray's armpits and eased him from the mount, then grabbed the lantern. With Jake's help, they carried him through the flap and laid him down on a bed of fresh pine boughs. Now what, Marx wondered, and looked at his crimson shirt. The blood no longer gushed but rather oozed from the wound like a leaky sieve.
On bended knee, Jake removed Gray's shirt and rolled him onto his side. "No bullet in chest."
"You sure?" Marx wished he could have retracted the words the moment the red man's bushy, silver brows rose.
"You build bigger fire here." He pointed to the shallow pit dug out of the ground. "Keep Gray warm. I come back."
"Where are you going? He needs help, now."
"If soldier come, no one need help anymore."
"Oh, good idea. You're going to see if they followed us."
Jake nodded his gray head and followed it up with a grunt. "Make water, too."
Marx spotted an old cast iron kettle near the pit and the water inside glistening beside the flames. "Hot water, yes, I'll do that."
He didn't know what he'd do if Darkmore and his men had tracked them into the old Indian's camp. Without Gray, he and Jake had little chance of coming out on the winning end.
A rush of adrenaline coursed through him, and then he remembered he hadn't felt sick for hours. Gray had said the worst of the pneumonia had passed and the malaria had taken a hiatus. So he was a physician---a real bona fide physician from Charleston that haunted the same brothel as him before the war. But what was he now, and how did he end up in the town of Elmira?
Marx didn't have much time to ponder those questions for long. Between worrying about Gray bleeding to death or coming down with an infection and setting the water to boil, his clogged brain couldn't begin to sort things out right now. If, and right now it was a big if, Gray pulled through he wouldn't ride another mile with the man until he knew what in the hell he was about. One way or the other, he'd pull the answer from him even if he had to shoot the damn fool again.
A commotion near the flap drew his attention. "No soldier. Move on to big town."
"Harrisburg? They rode straight through? That's a relief."
Jake walked toward the pot and tossed a handful of twigs and leaves into the boiling water. Before long, a foul stench permeated the lodge. "Jesus, if the wound doesn't kill him that shit will."
"Here," Jake said, tossing him a rag he'd sloshed through the water. "Clean wound."
Marx wiped the blood from the hole in his chest and then watched Jake stir the pot a few times before skimming the twigs and leaves from the water. The old Indian spooned the steaming mixture onto another rag. Kneeling beside Gray again, Jake plopped the poultice over the wound, wrapped it with a long cotton strip, and then sat back on his haunches and croaked forth a chant.
"We wait now," he said. "Maybe spirits help him."
Expecting to see a specter or two saunter forth, Marx glanced around the lodge and shivered. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, exhaustion overtook him. He lay down on the hard ground beside Gray. Lulled by the deep, resonant chants of the strange creature with half a nose, he closed his eyes and sought the blessed land of forgetfulness.
\*
Marx bolted upright to a deadly silence. A low fire still burned, but through the opening above, the stars had disappeared and ribbons of sunlight filtered down. He looked at Gray's torso and breathed a long sigh. The man's chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, but at least he still lived.
Ol' Jake entered the teepee with two bowls of meat and tin cups filled to the brim with freshly brewed coffee, the latter the last thing he expected from the old man. "Thanks," he said, taking the food and cup from his weathered hand. He took a long swallow and nodded toward Gray. "What do you think, is he going to make it?"
"He live through night. Good sign."
"He told me I'd find you in the woods." The seconds passed in amicable silence. "So how do you know Gray?"
"Old friend. Help people with strong medicine."
"People? What people?"
"All gone now. Pox, and what white man call black plague."
"Your people all died?"
"Some leave, go to white man reservation. Not Jake."
"No, I don't imagine you'd take a liking to such a place." Marx waited until the man finished chewing a mouthful of meat and then asked, "How did you know soldiers were tracking us?"
"Have many eyes. Here," he pointed to his sockets. "And here." His fingers moved to the back of his head. "Everywhere. Here too," he said placing his hands at his temples. "Like turtle."
What a relief. I thought you were about to rotate your head in all directions like a fucking owl.
"I go hunting now. Need more meat. You stay by Gray and I come back." He held up two fingers.
"Two days? You're not coming back for two days? But what about his wound?"
"Make more hot water. New cloth on wound. All you can do now."
"When will he wake up?"
"When sun come up next. He be hungry."
"Hungry, yes." Marx looked around the lodge again and wondered what he'd eat for two days, and what would he feed Gray when he woke up. Then he remembered the stale biscuits and jerky Gray kept in his saddle bag.
"In tall branch next to lean-to, I leave meat. Water that way." He pointed out the flap and to the right. Big river, you find."
"The meat's hanging in a tree?"
"You want to share with bear?"
"Bear? No, I don't." He paused and looked into the rheumy eyes. "Thank you, Jake for helping us."
"Help Gray. You friend of Gray, help you."
Marx changed the rag around the wound soon after the old man left, and with rifle tucked under his arm, walked to the river for fresh water. When he returned to the lodge, Gray was still sleeping peacefully.
Marx wandered toward the lean-to where Jake had left their mounts and rifled through Gray's saddle bag for the whiskey. Tonight, he'd celebrate, albeit alone, the fact they were both still alive. And then he'd come up with a plan to wrench the truth from Gray.
Gray lingered between darkness and light it seemed for eons. He likened his re-emergence to that of a drowning man who'd thrashed and clobbered his way through the claws of a cloven-hoofed demon.
A familiar voice filtered into his dull brain. "Welcome back."
Visions of brass buttons glinting beneath a pitiful sun flashed behind his arid eyelids. "Soldiers. Darkmore." He licked his dry lips and wondered if he'd swallowed a bucket of sand during his stay in hell.
Marx's tucked his hand behind Gray's head and lifted him to the bladder pouch at his mouth. "Go slow until we know you can keep it down."
Ah, cool, wet water.
"Ol' Jake said Darkmore and his men moved on to Harrisburg."
Too dizzy yet to lift his head, he scanned the teepee from his prone position. "Where is the old coot?"
"Hunting for fresh meat; he'll be back tomorrow. Can you eat? I'm not much of a cook, but there's some possum stew in the pot."
"Maybe later. Right now I need to get my bearings." Gray rose up on an elbow and winced from the pain spreading outward to his arm. "Who took the bullet out?"
"Passed clean through." Marx emitted a short chuckle. "Jake slapped a mustard poultice down and then jigged around your head to chase away the bad spirits."
"Great healer of the Iroquois nation at one time." Marx watched his face as if drumming up the nerve to ask a question. "Go ahead, what's on your mind?"
"How do you know Jake?"
"You still don't trust me, do you?"
The flicker of doubt in Marx's eyes before he looked away said it all.
"No, you don't, and can't say I blame you." The quiet stretched between them. "How about you help me to the river so I can scrub the reek from my body."
Marx's eyes met his again. "Do you think that's a good idea so soon? I mean---"
"Time is our enemy now. Darkmore's not stupid."
"What are you thinking?"
Gray rotated his arm in a circle and realized most of the pain stemmed from stiffness. "Our wily major has two choices, double back and look for us or wait until we ride into Harrisburg. But," he said quietly, "we can't stay here, have to move on."
Marx stretched out his hand. "Come on, I'll help you to the river."
Gray had never seen a more beautiful day. The river was calm, a long stretch of blue along miles of sandy banks. Overhead, a bright yellow sun chased white clouds through the sky, spreading warmth to every part of the blessed earth it touched.
He wasn't in as bad shape as he thought after first waking up. Sore and dogmatically stiff, but nothing a dip in the river and a hot meal wouldn't rectify. He'd been shot before, but never so close to his heart. He couldn't help but think Ol' Jake's remedies had done wonders to stop the bleeding and hasten his healing.
Marx sat on shore and watched him, his thoughts and expression unreadable. The situation had become damn complicated. He should have declined the mission, told his superior, the droopy-jowled, ruddy-faced Grimm, he'd rather pick lice from a monkey's ass than bust Marx Wellbourne out of prison and bring him back to Richmond.
Looking back, he thought Marx would die before he accomplished the first part, but the stubborn fool had the grit of a badger. Here they were, stuck between Richmond and Darkmore, his gun arm unpredictable and Marx's bouts with malaria tenuous. He'd checked the bottle of quinine before their trek to the river only to find it empty. Another conundrum.
His promise to Grimm surfaced and his stomach churned. 'Yes, sir, one way or the other I'll get the battle plans from Wellbourne in case he dies before I break him out.' He hadn't died, but could if another bout of malaria set in or should Darkmore catch up with them before they made Richmond. One of them had to live; get the map information to Grimm, or the South was doomed. Fuck, the South was doomed already, but he had to try.
'No, sir,' he'd said to Grimm. 'No matter what happens I won't reveal my mission to him. You should know that, sir.'
'Good,' Grimm had said. 'I remind you only because I understand there's a possibility you might know Wellbourne. You have frequented the same establishments in the past, and....'
Gray's head had come up quickly.
'And you are, after all, both from Charleston.'
'I don't know Marx Wellbourne personally, sir.' He'd cleared his throat. 'Christ, is there nothing your agency doesn't know?'
Grimm's hawk-like eyes had narrowed. 'Nothing, Drake, so don't ever bullshit me.'
Bloody Christ! What a fucking mess. He had no choice, he'd have to tell Marx he knew about the maps, convince him to sketch them out on paper in case he...Christ, he didn't want to think about it. Marx's blue eyes closed forever? His intestines twisted into reef knots. The time was at hand. He couldn't take further risks. The odds were in their favor one of them would make it through, and the crazy, wild passion between them was secondary. Hell, who was he trying to convince? He felt much more for Marx Wellbourne than lust, had long before he took him like an animal in the cave.
He couldn't think about that now, the hot flames scorching his body and soul while Marx writhed and moaned beneath him. He couldn't think about the hoarse cries of his name on the man's lips or the endless jolts of pleasure ripping through him while he drove into him.
Gray glanced at Marx again and wondered what he was thinking right now. Then he looked at the sky and drew a deep breath. Somehow he had to convince the man he could trust him enough to turn over the information.
Tonight.
\*
They returned to Jake's lodge and ate their stew in silence. With every passing hour, Gray felt his strength return. It was difficult to look at Marx across the fire and dispel the lust clawing at his gut. Courting death sweetened life, made a man think about base things he often took for granted---a bluebird's sweet trill, a belly full of food, and...fucking. He desperately wanted to fuck Marx again, more than he had that night in the cave.
Gray rose from his perch on the ground, walked to his bed of pine boughs and lowered himself to the ground. He heard the tread of soft footsteps moments later when Marx joined him with two cups and the bottle of whiskey.
Gray spoke above the undercurrents in the air. "Today, while at the river, I thought about the whiskey, wondered if it had survived the attack."
Marx held the bottle at an angle, allowing the contents to slide to one side before he filled Gray's cup and then his. "Oh, it made it through the gun fire, but succumbed to my parched throat last night."
"I would have done the same under the circumstances."
The uncomfortable silence droned on with only the night crickets and katydids causing a ruckus through the thin walls of the lodge. Marx's sensual mouth was poised for a question and Gray could think of no reason to change the subject.
The question came seconds later, his voice as soft as rain. "Why did you bust me out of prison, Gray?"
He paused. Why, he didn't know. Possibly because he knew the outcome would change things between them. "It's complicated."
"Or arranged."
"No, it wasn't like that if that's what you think, a setup against you."
Gray's body tensed, whether from the strain of conversation or the recurrent pull of longing between them he didn't know. Eyes sparking with desire, Marx scooted closer to the cradle of fragrant branches beneath him. His knee met Gray's thigh and he couldn't conceal his quick intake of air. Every tendon stretched tight, Gray's very bones ached for the man.
Marx had only to look at him, touch him, and his cock responded like a fucking circus dog waiting for his reward. What occurred next cut through his last ounce of resolve. Marx's hand came out and rubbed his engorged shaft through his trousers, the smoke-blue orbs still locked with his.
"I know how to wrest answers from you." He straddled his hips, his knees digging into the sides of his legs.
On the heels of another gasp Gray muttered, "Do you now?"
His confident nod and low voice sent a shiver through Gray. "Stop me now if you don't want this. And I do mean now. In another minute I won't be able to restrain myself."
Gray's flippant response was purely superficial. "Be my guest."
Marx unbuttoned his trousers and grasped his cock, the strokes long and purposeful. "Who sent you to break me out of prison?"
Gray moaned. "You think me daft? I can see no reason to confess at this juncture."
"All right, then. Perhaps this will induce you to tell me."
Marx slid down his body, rolling the pants over his hips with the patience of a skillful lover. A brush of cool air fanned Gray's aching erection and his balls drew up tight. Good God, no telling what he'd admit to once he took his cock into his mouth. He had no delusions about Marx's ability to suck a man off until he was willing to admit he'd killed his own mother. A master with his tongue and lips, Gray nearly begged him to get on with it. No such luck. Marx licked his shaft up and down and then sucked his balls until his hips thrust forward and his bestial groan filled the lodge. His cock twitched for attention and liquid leaked from the tip, a fact that hadn't gone unnoticed by his tormentor.
His warm breath whispered over the crown. "Who do you work for, Doctor Drake, and why were you in Elmira?"
"Bastard. Stop this fucking game and do it."
"Tell me and I'll send you to heaven, Gray."
"I-I came to Elmira to minister to the sick prisoners."
"Who sent you?" With inverted cheeks, he swallowed the head and sucked.
"Oh, God, don't stop. Don't stop."
Marx pulled his head back and looked into his eyes. "Who? Tell me what you're about and I'll deliver in spades."
"A man."
"A name, Gray."
"Ah, shit. Grimm. His name is Grimm."
Marx's eyes flashed recognition. "Gaston Grimm?"
Every muscle in his body drawn tighter than fiddle strings, he hissed the words, "The same." Gray held his breath and prayed Marx wouldn't bolt. But then he realized, like him, he'd been so caught up in the passion even if he wanted to he couldn't.
Frozen like a piece of granite, Marx hovered above his cock, his glazed eyes darting to the right.
"The sport is over," Gray said, grabbing a lock of his long hair and pulling him forward until he sat on his pelvis again. "Remove your trousers and toss them aside."
"No."
"No?"
He shook his head.
"You want me as much as I want you. I saw it in your eyes, smelled your arousal from the moment you walked over with the whiskey." He yanked on the hair in his hand until Marx's eyes welled. "Take them off, or by God, I'll do it, one arm or not."
Marx lifted his bottom from Gray's hips and shoved his trousers down, and then wiggled out of them, one awkward shimmy at a time. Gray released the hold on his head and clasped his hips on both sides.
"Now, if you want me to stop, tell me now." He drew out the words, pausing between each. "And I do mean now. In another minute I won't be able to restrain myself."
"Oh, God." Marx moaned and dropped his palms to Gray's chest, mindful of his injury.
"Save it, handsome boy. I haven't even started yet." He positioned his cock at Marx's entrance and pushed in an inch. For a moment Gray's world spun, more so when he looked at the unearthly beautiful man panting above him. Christ, so hot, so tight, he couldn't catch his breath. "You do it. Show me how much you want my cock inside you."
Marx stiffened his arms and pushed down, taking Gray in to the hilt. A plaintive moan escaped his lover's lips, a lament so utterly sensual, Gray almost shot his load right there. Time and again Marx canted up and bore down, driving them both beyond the point of sanity.
Gray shuddered. "It's always been you...from the moment I saw you at Belle's."
Marx didn't seem to hear him, but gripped the bones of Gray's hips and rode him savagely, his eyes shut, his neck arched back, his breaths ragged.
"I can't hold back," Gray said, and cursed his lust for the man. With Marx, Gray lost the ability to remain indifferent. Wellbourne had a way of laying his soul bare, wringing every emotion from his heart.
In a final thrust upward, amid a flash of white exploding lights, Gray emptied his load into Marx's ass. On and on it went, so powerful he thought he might faint. Jesus, what a milksop he'd become.
Marx groaned; his warm cum now a thick spread of liquid across Gray's belly. With a final grunt he collapsed on top of him, his name falling from his lips. "Gray, Gray."
For the first time in his life, he felt like a snake-tongued, duplicitous traitor. Caught between heaven and hell, truth and lies, only half the facts to the whole sordid mess had come out.
And, God, how he dreaded what came next.
Gray rolled Marx gently from his body with his good arm and waited through a chain of arduous breaths from both. "We must talk," he finally said.
Marx draped an arm across his forehead. "Truth time, is that it?"
"Yes."
"I've been trying to get at that since the day you walked into my cell looking like Willy Pegram."
"General Pegram's younger brother?"
Marx emitted a short grunt.
"Oh, the spectacles?"
"Yes. He's also nearsighted, but there is one difference; he needs the glasses, blind as a moose without them."
Gray laughed even though the conversation bore solemnity. "Was that a test?"
"You might call it that."
"All right, and I passed. I know who General Pegram is, and his younger brother. Satisfied?"
"It's a beginning."
His voice low, his eyes averted, Gray said, "I'm not good at this."
Marx's turn to chuckle. "All right, let me start. You work for Gaston Grimm, and what I know about the man you could put in a thimble."
"You know nothing else? The name of the agency, what they do or whom they employ?"
"Nope." Marx lifted his body into a sitting position. "His name came up occasionally among my superiors, the field Generals. I was told if all else failed seek help from Gaston Grimm in Richmond."
"The name of the agency is Flintlock. They employ agents to thwart the Union, intercept couriers, purloin orders, and alter history if the opportunity presents itself."
"Well I hate to disappoint you, but I carry no orders. You would have uncovered them by now."
"Unless they were in your head."
Marx's eyes narrowed. "What are you about now?"
"You know exactly what I'm inferring."
"Go to hell." Marx rose from the ground and headed for the flap of the teepee.
"Stop right there, Wellbourne." Gray pointed the pistol at his chest. "I need that map information."
Marx pivoted slowly and turned to face him. "You're a piece of work, you know that? Is that what it was all about from the beginning? What about it's always been you, huh Gray? Barren words, all part of the grand plan?"
He pulled the hammer back, the sound cutting through the thick air like a clap of thunder. "No, it wasn't part of the plan, but that's not important now. You draw the maps out for me and you can walk from here without looking back." Gray pulled his pants up, wobbled to his feet and walked toward him until they stood a foot apart. "What do you say?"
"And if I do have what you want, then what, you going to shoot the dog who's supposed to bring home the bone?"
Gray pulled a leather thong from the loop in his belt. "No, I'm going to hogtie you to the horse so you don't get the idea in your head to run. Then on to Richmond."
"Don't touch me!"
"You didn't seem to mind me touching you when I had my tongue down your throat."
Gray leaned in, their noses almost touching. What a mistake. An overpowering urge to toss the gun at his feet and devour that beautiful mouth came over him. He couldn't cave in now, had to fulfill his promise to that pot-bellied Grimm.
Marx's sweet breath fanned his cheek. "I don't believe you. You could have picked up Grimm's name from anyone. Perhaps even Darkmore."
"My name is Grayson Drake and I work for Flintlock. My assignment was to break you out of Elmira and...."
"Enlighten me. And?"
"Try to keep you alive until you made Richmond." The words came out in a rush. "Or convince you to turn over the map information before-before---"
"I died."
Gray gave a somber nod. "You choose. What do you say?"
The blue eyes searched his and Gray couldn't begin to interpret his thoughts right now. Finally, he spoke. "Fuck you."
A rush of anger exploded in his chest. "I believe you already have. Now turn around before my finger starts twitching."
Marx turned and clasped his hands behind his back. "You should know, the first chance I get, I'll run. You won't get a wink of sleep between here and Richmond."
"Been there before. Now shut up before I gag you, too." Gray pushed him toward the flap. "Walk toward the lean-to and don't get any stupid notions in your head. Just so you know, I won't hesitate to pull the trigger."
Marx led the way to the horses and slumped against one of the poles holding the ramshackle dwelling together. Gray loosened the thong, secured one of his hands to the post and saddled the mounts.
Then he turned to him. "Get up on your horse." Marx looked at the leather around his wrist and rolled his eyes, which made Gray wonder if looked as stupid as he felt.
With a curse on his lips, Gray untied the knot and pushed him toward the horse. "Mount."
Reaching across his thighs, Gray fastened his bound hands to the saddle horn and then checked the reins to make sure they were still secured to the railing in the lean-to. "I'm going back for our clothing, the rifle and food. With one eye on you, of course."
Marx offered him a smirk before turning from him to stare straight out into the dark of night. With long strides, Gray headed for the lodge, acutely aware of ache in his arm.
And the traitorous pain in his heart.
\*
A pale gray rider against an ocher sky drove the horse hard in front of Marx. He lost track long ago of how many hours they'd been in the saddle, and tried his best to look away from the mass of steel muscle hunched over the stallion ahead of him. Even now, he couldn't look at the man without shuddering. Tormented by images of what happened in the cave and now Ol' Jake's lodge, he wished he'd have died in Elmira.
But then he'd never have known true bliss or stood at the crossroads between heaven and hell while the world turned on its axis. Christ, if he got a hold of a gun, he should shoot himself. Even if he escaped from the man physically, he'd never be free of this magnetic draw to Grayson Drake. Doomed, damned and cursed forever.
The road to Harrisburg loomed ahead, but Gray veered off into the woods. Apparently he intended to bypass the town and keep going. Baltimore's residents were torn between the North and the South, half in favor of casting their lot with the Union, the other half swearing fealty to the Confederacy until the last Reb dropped on the battlefield.
If Gray was undercover for the North, he'd find friends in Baltimore, and if he truly worked for Grimm, he'd seek shelter among Southern sympathizers. Marx smiled to himself. Truth time. Doctor Drake's true colors would soon materialize. Would they be gray or blue?
The lead horse swerved to the left toward a copse of hickory. Gray brought the mounts to a halt, swung from the saddle and untied Marx's hands. With the gun pointed at him he stepped back. "Get down. We rest here for three hours and head for Baltimore."
Like before, Gray tied him to a thick-trunked sapling and double-checked the knots before he walked off to gather branches and kindling for a fire. Marx slumped to the ground with the thought at least they'd be warm. Next Gray fed and watered the horses, tied them to another branch a short distance away, and pulled the bedrolls from their backs. After tossing one at Marx's feet, he turned his back to him and spread his out.
The food pouch sailed through the air and next a canteen, landing near the bedroll at Marx's knees. "Jerky and stale corn dodgers, that's it until we reach Baltimore."
"Not hungry," he said low-voiced, and looked away.
"Suit yourself." Gray slumped to ground facing him, the gun in his hand at the ready.
Didn't the man eat, take water? His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn't eaten all day. With his free hand, he dug through the pouch, pulled a strip of jerky out and snapped off a bite. Light snores drifted toward him. Gray had barely hit the ground before lapsing into dreamland. That didn't mean he didn't keep one eye on him while he slept. The man was like a well-oiled piece of machinery, in more ways than one. He studied him while the flames of the fire reached skyward. Even in slumber, Gray was a thing of beauty. Long, thick lashes brushed his cheeks and his mouth, slack now, still held the tantalizing draw it did before claiming his.
Sick. Sick. Sick. None to gently he grabbed the corner of the bedroll and did his best to spread it out on the ground beneath him. He eased down to his side and allowed his eyelids to flutter shut; his last thoughts were of Gray fucking him senseless.
\*
Major Britton Darkmore brought his dust-smothered column of men to a halt on the main street of Harrisburg. They hadn't encountered a soul on the trail, not one civilian, no deserters from either side, and most certainly not Corporal Marx Wellbourne and the wily Dr. Drake.
Frustrated and exhausted he climbed from the saddle, stretched his aching limbs and scanned the crowded streets and boardwalks in all directions. For the first time in a week he'd be sleeping on a feather tick with a roof over his head.
Struck by a brief moment of giddiness over the prospect, he turned to Private Carlisle. "I shall book a room here for the night. I'm certain the men will find suitable encampment on the outskirts of town."
Carlisle offered a stiff salute from the saddle. "Yes sir. Will that be all, sir?"
"No, before you leave, round up the Lieutenant. Hopefully, he'll have good news to impart."
"Where should I look for him, sir?"
Again Darkmore looked down the street, first left and then right. "I'd start with the saloons, Private. Once you find him, tell him I'll be waiting in my room for a full report."
Carlisle turned his mount north, the remainder of the soldiers in close pursuit. With a shake of his head, Darkmore walked through the doors of the hotel, booked a room and ordered a bath.
The Lieutenant found him thirty minutes later immersed in a copper tub, cigar in mouth, head resting on the rim. "Sir, you wanted to see me."
Without lifting his head, Darkmore replied, "I'm certain you'd have been waiting for me, red bandana waving, had you found our prisoner and his cohort in crime."
"They aren't in Harrisburg, never set one foot in the town."
"And you arrived at this conclusion how, Lieutenant?"
"Private Johnson and I searched through every building, spoke to every northern turncoat that would know if one of their own was in town. Trust me, sir; unless Drake and Wellbourne are now flies on the wall, they aren't here."
"You forget, I trusted you once before and that is precisely why my ass is blistered and every ligament in my body screams out in protest right now."
"Yes, sir," he said meekly.
"So that means they circumvented Harrisburg and headed directly for Baltimore."
"Sir, don't tell me we're chasing them all the way to Baltimore?"
"You addle-brained numbskull, I'll chase him all the way to Richmond if I must. Wellbourne helped ten men escape from my prison, and I know as sure as God has toenails the man withheld classified information from me. I was this close." Darkmore opened his eyes and held up his thumb and index finger, leaving a one inch gap between them. "Damn his wretched soul." He rose from the tub, grabbed a cotton towel draped over the rim and fastened it around his waist while the Lieutenant glanced at the floor. "As it is, we've come this far and will continue our journey in the morning."
"Sir, the men are exhausted, as are the mounts. We've ridden hard since the day we left Hellmira."
Darkmore shot him the frostiest look he could conjure. "What did you call it?"
"Sorry, sir, I'm tired like the others and wasn't thinking."
"Tired. Are you now? Yes, well, if you'd have done your duty Wellbourne wouldn't have escaped through the gate dressed like a goddamned Union officer. I have little pity for your exhaustion. In fact, you'll rest for two hours and head to Baltimore with Private Carlisle. Ride straight through, Lieutenant. You'll then report to the Union troops stationed there and wait for Wellbourne to arrive. Sentries at every entry and exit in and out of town, do you understand?"
The Lieutenant gave him a salute.
"I've sent the men to the outskirts of town to camp, and I must rest for a night. I'll catch up with you in Baltimore." Darkmore paced the room while running his hands through his wet hair. "Double-crossing sidewinder Drake."
"What if they've already arrived in Baltimore before us?"
"Search every warehouse, saloon and bawdy house, look under every fucking rock until you find them. They must stop somewhere for rest. If not them, their mounts."
"I'll have them locked up, sir, should we find."
"Yes, do that." Darkmore looked directly at him. "Send a courier to notify me at once. I want to prepare for my victory." His voice stern, he added, "Do not, under any circumstances, allow anything to happen to Wellbourne. I want him alive."
"Yes, sir."
The Major watched his Lieutenant exit the room before pulling a nightshirt over his head and climbing beneath the covers. With an exasperated sigh, he placed his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling. Ninety hard-ridden miles before they reached Baltimore and another hundred and forty from Baltimore to Richmond. He'd grown soft since he took the job of overseeing the prison, was no longer used to the hard rigors of the trail.
And any number of problems awaited the Lieutenant when he reached Baltimore. Local citizens were torn about the war, but local businessmen thought it safer to side with the Union. Damnation. Too many southern sympathizers for Darkmore's comfort.
One thing in his favor, the Union's Eighth Army Corps was now stationed in Baltimore and a number of northern military camps encircled the city. It would be damn near impossible for Wellbourne and Drake to slip in unnoticed.
How he prayed they'd be apprehended soon. Just the thought of his troops getting too close to Richmond pitched him into a fever-pitch of misery.
Darkmore felt his heavy eyes close. He fell asleep with visions of strapping Wellbourne to a post in the common grounds and flaying his back until he capitulated, told him everything he wanted to know.
And beg him for mercy.
A hand nudged Marx's shoulder, and somewhere in the distance a cock crowed. "Get up. Time to move on," Gray said.
Marx rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced at the tumultuous clouds overhead. Dawn breached the horizon in shades of pale smoke, which meant they'd ride for miles in a downpour. Fuck, couldn't one thing go their way?
"We need to make Baltimore tonight."
Marx looked at Gray as if he'd lost his mind. "Of all the idiotic things. The horses can't take a ninety mile stretch after the last few days."
"They don't have a choice, neither do we. Darkmore is hot on our ass, no doubt made Harrisburg by now."
Marx pierced him with a look of scorn. "As soon as you untie me, I'll do your bidding. Asshole," he added under his breath.
Gray came to him and loosened the thong. Marx wondered who in hell had called forth the thunder when they touched and yet not a drop had fallen from the sky yet. Would it always be like this, senses shaken, cock responding whenever Gray so much as looked at him?
He had little chance of escaping from the man, but he'd be damned if he'd succumb to his charms or give him the information he coveted. Gray could go to hell. Another could physically force you to obey, steal your heart, even your soul, but could never penetrate your moral code unless you allowed them to. Under the worst circumstances, Darkmore hadn't been able to break him. Neither would Gray.
Gray led him to the horse by the leather strap around his wrist. "Mount."
Marx fell asleep once or twice in the saddle, only to awaken when the brutal wind whipped the poncho from his head, exposing his face to a torrential downpour. And still Gray wouldn't stop. Christ, the man was hard as nails and more stubborn than a jackass. And yet he rode in the direction of Richmond. Would it all unravel in Baltimore? Would that be the last leg of their journey and there Gray would use every wile in his power to extract the information from him?
Marx almost sent a prayer skyward when the bastard finally stopped the mounts near a stream and dismounted. Moments later, Gray loosened the thong and Marx slid from the saddle, barely aware of the sun overhead. Every bone in his body hurt, particularly his ribs, and chills had taken up residence again. Good, he hoped he died and Gray would never get the precious information he needed.
A mixed look of concern and anger crossed Gray's features. "You're as gray as ash and pouring sweat."
He reached out a hand to touch his forehead but Marx winced back.
"Shit! Shit! Shit!" He hustled to his horse and rifled through his bag for clothing and a blanket. "I'll build a fire and we'll rest here for a bit." Tossing him the clothing, he said, "Get those wet clothes off and put these on." A long pause ensued. "Well, what are you waiting for? Do you want me to undress you?"
"Turn around."
"Oh, for Christ's sake. Now is hardly the time for modesty."
"Don't care. I don't want you ogling me."
"Don't get your hopes up, handsome boy. If I wanted you, I'd do a lot more than ogle."
Anger bubbled up Marx's chest. He yanked his clothes off, beginning with his shirt and moved on to his trousers in short order. Naked, he leaned down and plucked the dry clothing from the ground. When he lifted his head, unmistakable lust marked the green eyes. His pulse raced and his heart beat with the tattoo of victory. Gray wanted him all right, so much the man stood on the brink of reaching out for him.
The sky spun and Marx opened his mouth to speak, but the last thing he remembered was the earth rising up to meet him.
Marx didn't know how long he'd been out. The steady gait of the horse beneath him and the strong arms holding him lulled him into a semiconscious trance. Dusk had come to the land yet onward the man of incredible fortitude rode...into the dark, into a world Marx no longer recognized...or cared about. Time lost all meaning and alternating chills and fever racked his bones.
"Hang on," Gray-of-his-every-fantasy said. "We're almost to Baltimore."
\*
The sound of distant laughter and loud voices in the distance wafted around Marx. Linen sheets beneath him met his skin, cool, and smelling of lye soap. He opened his eyes to a shadow sitting in a chair beside the bed.
"Almost lost you that time," Gray said.
"Too bad, that."
"Don't go all maudlin on me." Gray reached across the bed and brought a bottle to his lips. "A doctor dropped by and pulled you from the brink."
"Remind me to thank him." When the smell of quinine spiraled up his nose, he pushed the bottle away. "Not that again, and I thought you were a doctor?"
"I am, but I needed the quinine. You don't remember choking it down while you were in and out?"
He shook his head. "Don't remember nothing except the godforsaken rain and some maniac bent on riding under it for hours."
Gray smothered the smile curling the corners of his lips. "A gulp of quinine for a shot of whiskey?"
"I'll think about it. How long have I been out?"
"Two nights, now how about the quinine and whiskey?"
"What's the matter, Gray? You worried if I die you went through all this for nothing?"
"Listen carefully. No matter what you think, I'm on your side. I only want you tell me in case..."
"I die, and now you think I might."
"No, I don't, but we're not to Richmond yet. If something happens to you and they don't get the pending battle plans, the South---"
"Call me a dunder-pate but I always thought a man's word meant something. If I didn't spill my guts in the box, why would I now?"
"Goddamn it, because I'm not Darkmore, that's why."
Marx pinned him with his fiercest glare. "No."
And Gray pinned him one back. In fact, he gave him a look that, had it been a dagger, would have severed his jugular vein. "If you weren't sick, I'd beat it out of you right now."
Their eyes locked across a blue haze of desire and the caustic comment on Marx's tongue died. Only Gray existed and the musty air that hung thick with hunger---his and Gray's.
Gray bounded from the chair and crossed the room in three strides, slamming the door behind him.
Marx expelled the breath he'd been holding and sent the bottle of quinine flying with a swipe from his arm. Damn, even while unconscious, Gray had tethered him to the head rail. He hoped the bottle of medicine had shattered into a million pieces. Then his heart and the stinking quinine would be on equal par.
\*
Gray leaned against the mahogany bar at a place called Sagebrush and ordered two shots of whiskey. Crowded with a mix of Union soldiers, cowpokes, whores and toothless geezers, he tried to blend in with the throng by heading for a table in the back of the room.
Here the low conversation flowed---from a group of five men on his right that looked so unremarkable they could have been from anywhere, and two Union soldiers at a table next to them, so far into their cups they couldn't see the front door.
He took on the first shot of whiskey with a guzzle and was about to embark on the second when a name flowed through the crowd. Wellbourne. Marx Wellbourne. He glanced toward the nearby tables and knew by instinct it had come from the soldiers.
Curiously, he wasn't the only one that seemed to be hanging on their every word. Fleeting looks of panic crossed the faces of the men next to them. The scrape of a chair near the bar followed by a woman laughing muffled the next words, but there could be no doubt; the blue coats were discussing Wellbourne's whereabouts and their neighbors were all ears.
Gray picked up the second shot glass, brought it to his lips and met a pair of familiar eyes over the rim. Where in hell had he seen the man before? Not one of his four comrades looked familiar. The memory of the smell of sickness and human waste slapped him in the face. Hellmira. He'd visited the man in prison at Darkmore's beckoning. And the man recognized him, too; he saw it in his eyes. Which meant he must be one of Wellbourne's men that had escaped.
"I'll find that son of a bitch if I have to burn everything down in this town."
"Brave talk from a drunken soldier," Gray said under his breath and looked into his shot glass again.
He had to get back to Marx and they had to move out. By morning the soldiers would be searching every building and lookouts would be posted at every turn. He'd never get Wellbourne out of Baltimore unless they left tonight.
Gray gulped down the second shot and rose from the table, aware of Marx's man watching him like a hawk. Damn, he'd risen too, and as nonchalantly as possible had followed Gray out the door of the saloon. Now what? He couldn't kill one of Wellbourne's men.
"Hey you, stop right there." The menacing voice came from behind Gray.
Gray turned, but kept one hand on the derringer under his jacket. "You talking to me?"
"Yeah," the man said with a smug smile. "You were in a big hurry all of a sudden to leave the saloon."
Gray watched his face by the light of the lanterns on the boardwalk. A man's eyes always foretold his next move. "No reason to stay. Besides, I didn't cotton to the crowd."
"I know you." He put a finger to his temple. "Help me out. Aren't you Doctor Drake?"
He'd made him, all right. "If I am, wouldn't that make you an escapee...and wanted by those Union soldiers back there?"
His face turned red. "I'm asking the questions here."
"Then ask the right ones."
"All right. Before you set yourself down at the table, that Lieutenant was talking about Wellbourne's escape from Hellmira. He claims a Doctor Drake helped him, and the next thing I know I'm looking at that very man across from me."
"You are indeed." Gray relaxed his hand when he realized the man wasn't about to draw on him. "So what can I do for you?"
"Tell me where Corporal Wellbourne is. If you helped him escape, there must have been a reason."
"And you are...?"
"John Cassidy," he whispered, and looked around. "Private John Cassidy, Confederate Army."
"I see. Tell me this, Private. What is the name of the man who died before you reached Corning?"
"Graham Kennedy." Cassidy rubbed his chin. "Does that name suit you?"
"It does." Gray looked over the man's shoulder toward the saloon. "If you can convince your men to leave the saloon and come with me, I'll take you to Wellbourne." Cassidy pivoted, but Gray stopped him before he could take another step. "Hear me out first. If anyone tries to help Wellbourne escape, I'll kill him."
Cassidy spun around, his eyes wide. "He's your prisoner?"
"Not exactly, but I must get him to Richmond, won't allow anyone to interfere. If you give me your word, I'll take you to him."
"Do I have a choice?"
Gray shook his head. "No. If you don't swear an oath, you don't see your beloved Corporal. It's that simple."
"I have to know he's alive, see him for myself."
"Your word."
"Let me ask you this. Why are you taking him to Richmond?"
"Military matter, but I assure you he'll come to no harm unless someone tries to take him from me."
"Does Corporal Wellbourne want to get to Richmond?"
Gray let loose a laugh. "Yes, he does. Just not with me. One more thing; Major Darkmore is about two steps behind us."
He nodded toward the saloon. "Those his men in there?"
"I assume if they are talking about Wellbourne's escape, Darkmore has sent them."
"Take us to the Corporal and maybe we can come up with a plan to help you."
Gray inclined his head toward Cassidy. "I'll wait here, but time is of the essence now."
\*
Gray had to admit, the reunion between Marx and his men moved him. They shared a comradeship that only men who'd fought and died together did. While Gray hadn't set foot on the battlefield, he'd fought for the homeland he loved in the only way he knew---with steadfast cunning and unfaltering loyalty. Too bad he and Marx had come this far and Wellbourne still didn't trust him.
He watched him slap his men on the shoulder and frown through their harrowing story of their journey to Baltimore.
When the brouhaha abated, Marx looked at Gray. "My men will see me to Richmond now. You're relieved of your burden."
Cassidy tossed a nervous glance Gray's way.
"My assignment was to bring you to Richmond." Although tired and ornery to boot, Gray smiled through his words. "And I never take a mission I can't complete."
Marx's temper flared. "I release you!"
"You might be their Corporal but you're not mine, Wellbourne. One way or the other, you ride into Richmond with me."
"Oh, yeah?" He looked at his men individually and then to Gray again. "You plan to shoot them all?"
"If I must." Watching Cassidy out of the corner of one eye, he kept his gaze locked on Marx's. "I don't think you want me to do that, do you?"
"Son of a bitch, if you think my men will stand by while---"
"I gave my word we wouldn't interfere if he brought us to you." Cassidy offered a meek smile and a shrug. "Corporal, sir, we already decided to ride out of town with you and lay up somewhere until Major Darkmore shows his face."
"No! We stay together now. I insist."
"Corporal, we'll be along, catch up with you in Richmond as soon as we make sure Darkmore can't follow you." He stole a quick glance at Gray. "While you're saddling up, we have a rendezvous with a certain gun merchant Gray knows, and then we'll meet up with you."
Gray all but saw the steam rolling from Marx's ears. Much to his credit, and knowing he fought a losing battle, he suffocated his wrath and replied civilly. "I forget how shrewd my traveling companion can be when called for. Very well, but I want your word I'll see you all again in Richmond."
Cassidy blushed through the awkwardness. "Yes, sir, you can count on it."
After another round of handshakes, Marx's men shuffled from the room and Marx turned to Gray. "You really are a bastard, a lowdown bottom-feeder of the highest kind. Is there nothing you won't stoop to?"
Gray skewered him with the coldest look he could summon. "Not when it comes to duty. Is that clear enough for you?"
"Clear as glass." Marx spat the words and pulled on his restraint. "Untie me, you whoreson. The sooner we reach Richmond, the sooner you'll be out of my sight."
Gray came to him in one long stride and cut the thong from his wrist. "Won't be soon enough for me, you miserable, ungrateful pain-in-the-ass."
Undercurrents snaked around them, the heat of passion so overwhelming, waves of dizziness consumed Gray. The battle of who could tear their eyes away first was on, and somehow he knew he'd already lost.
Gray watched Marx scramble to his feet, toss on his boots, and after gathering his few belongings, stuff them into the saddle bag Gray had given him. Still standing by the bed, attempting to control his raging emotions, Marx's voice came to him through a tunnel. "Let's get this over with."
"Gladly," Gray said, and collected his possessions.
In silence they walked to the mounts behind the hotel, and Gray looked down the street. There, under the cover of darkness, Marx's men sat atop their horses at the specified meeting place.
Gray mounted and heard Marx do the same. Then they headed out on the last leg of their journey.
Marx had forgotten about the hallowed sights and sounds of his sacred country until they rode into Richmond. He could only attribute his lapse in memory to the trauma of battle and the horror of imprisonment.
When they entered the city, the first thing that came into Marx's view was Tredegar Iron Works sprawled along the banks of James River. A manufacturer of steam locomotives, they also produced artillery pieces and armor plating for the South. An ironic smile found him. Tredegar's valiant efforts didn't compare to the endless production of ammo and shells assembled for the Union.
He wouldn't think about the war, not now when his own future rose before him in a veiled mist of uncertainty. Not now when the willows and poplars were in bloom, the scent of their aromatic blossoms transporting him back to his childhood. Life then consisted of lazy afternoons at the pond chasing fat-bellied bull frogs and hooking brook trout too eager for an easy meal.
How he longed for Charleston and specifically Fawnwood, the estate his parents had bequeathed him. When he finished his business with Grimm, he'd rest for the night, and at daybreak head for home.
Gray stopped the horses near a brown, stone building, its facade in bad need of brick repair. "Took a few shell hits when McClellan attempted to take Richmond in sixty-two."
Marx snapped his head toward the man who hadn't uttered a word in two days. "Yeah, heard about that. Confederate defenses blocked them at Drewry's Bluff, didn't they?"
"They did," Gray said. "But you and I know they'll be back. They must overrun Richmond if they want to declare victory." He dismounted and nodded toward the building. "We're here. I'll escort you in."
Marx's knees wobbled and not because of his meeting with Grimm. Within minutes he'd be looking at Gray for the last time. The inevitability crushed him. Even Gray had admitted this thing between them was complicated, had been from the moment fate brought them together.
The verandah steps groaned beneath their weight before Gray pushed the door open and led him into a separate room. The man behind the desk had dark brown hair, a high forehead, a ruddy face, and the flabby jowls of a turkey. He rose and Marx measured his build---tall, at least six feet and of medium stature with a belly big as Texas, but nothing that marked him as head of a covert agency. Not a fixture or sign in the room, or on the building now that he thought about it, indicated the name of Flintlock.
Gray addressed the man. "This is Marx Wellbourne," and then he turned to him. "Gaston Grimm."
Grimm reached across his worn desk. "I trust your journey to Richmond was more pleasant than your stay in Elmira?"
And then some, he had the urge to blubber. Taking the hand, he shook it. "Anything would be better than Hellmira, sir."
"Call me Grimm. Most do, and others, I'm sure, call me much worse."
Beside him, Gray cleared his throat. "Ready the paperwork, Grimm, and I'll return to sign it later. I have other matters to attend to."
Marx didn't look at him, but felt his warmth leave his side.
"As always, thank you, Drake. I'm pleased to see the Corporal safe and sound."
"Likewise."
Marx heard the door behind him draw to a close and looked up to see Grimm studying him. "Have a seat," he said.
He slithered into the nearest chair, he could think of no other word for it. "If you'll show me your identification, sir, and retrieve a sheet of paper, I'm prepared to pass on the information."
"Of course." Grimm reached into a drawer and slipped a document across the desk. "I see you choose your words carefully, Corporal, offer enough to let me know you have the map data without disclosing the exact contents of what's locked in your brain."
Marx studied the record and passed it back to him. "I hope I'm not too late. You understand the battle plans are months old now."
"Son, whatever you're about to draw out on this piece of paper is more than what I have now." Grimm handed him the quill and inkwell. "Take your time. I realize this is all from memory, but if it saves one southern life, you've served your country well."
Picking up the quill, he dipped it into the well and began. Amazingly, the roads, artillery, units of cavalry, even the number of brigades rushed to the forefront of his mind. He finished the first map and asked for another piece of parchment, sketching out the battle with perfect recollection.
Grimm leaned forward, studying as he drew. "The names of the roads will be of immense assistance."
"Yes, sir."
Marx drew every mock cannon, endless units of footmen and mounted horsemen, paying particular attention to their positions, yet his thoughts remained on Gray. An hour later, his task complete he set the quill down and blew a long breath.
"Relieved?"
"Tired, sir."
"Grimm, remember."
Marx smiled and came to his feet. "If we're done, I'd like to be excused."
"Yes, of course." Grimm offered his hand again. "Where will you go now, Corporal?"
"Back to Charleston until I can figure out where I belong now."
"I'll see to your discharge, and son, be assured the Confederate Army thanks you for your service. It's a miserable war they fight."
"More like a lost cause," Marx whispered, and turned to leave.
"Good luck, Corporal," Grimm called out before the door closed behind Marx.
\*
Although Gray had disappeared faster than smoke up a chimney, the trusty mount Marx had ridden on the arduous journey from Elmira to Richmond was still tethered to the railing when he exited Grimm's building. With tongue in cheek he murmured, "That's my Gray, never one to misstep or leave a stone unturned."
Marx untied the horse, mounted and headed toward John's Island. Roughly one-third of the island sat within the city proper of Charleston. Marx closed his eyes for a moment and pictured in his mind the pristine beaches, meandering creeks and wooded trails surrounding Indigo Bay, his childhood home.
What did it look like now? Had the Battle of Bloody Bridge several months ago decimated the scenic landscape, marred his great-great-great grandfather's stately manor? His manor now that his parents had died from typhoid shortly before war broke out.
He sent a silent prayer toward heaven, couldn't imagine the sixty-five acres of landscaped terraces, shaded walkways, and ornamental ponds in ruins. An image of the main house rose---ten rooms, furnished with all the elegance and hospitality the South was renowned for.
What about the people he'd said goodbye to before his grandiose dreams of becoming a Cadet had taken over his life---the cooper, blacksmith, weaver and potter that had been in his family's employ for eons? It stood to reason the slaves had run off by now except for maybe a handful that held some sick sense of loyalty to his folks. Marx should have freed them when his parents died, didn't believe one man should own another. But try telling that to the enemy.
The war, and his participation in it, wasn't about slavery but about preserving a way of life that northerners couldn't begin to understand. Prior to secession and the godforsaken ensuing battles, the economy and much of Southern life revolved around plantations and agriculture. Without either one or both, southern states were doomed to fail.
Alleyways of live oaks, magnificent estate houses, and old-world gardens would fall to wrack and ruin, become the quintessential mockery of manufacturing and industrialization, everything the North espoused. Like most southerners, Marx couldn't bear to see it happen.
Remnants of battle came within his line of vision, a spent artillery shell, a discarded bugle and craters dug out of the earth bigger than boulders. He'd only heard about the Battle of Bloody Bridge, rumors whispered through the ranks of his fellow prisoners at Hellmira. And he'd never asked Gray about the details. Why would he when he wasn't certain from where the man hailed or where his loyalties lay?
Supposedly the battle lasted three days. The Confederates still held control of Charleston and St. John's, but Union forces had taken over the barrier islands of Folly and Morris. Lincoln's blue coats wrongly concluded that, since they outnumbered the Rebs, a launched attack from five directions would guarantee control of John's Island, and thus Charleston. They hadn't counted on his brethren's momentum and determination to defend their beloved homeland, and in the end the steadfast Confederates won the day.
Pride for his countrymen and dread for a life that had been lost forever mingled in his gut, but then the deep green foliage of the indigo fields rose before him. Memories from years gone by rushed forth when a rich aroma similar to earthy tobacco spiraled up his nose. Ah, indigo.
"In sixteen sixty-three King Charles of England was in desperate need of money," Marx's father had said. "To settle a debt, the King granted colonial land to eight of his friends. These Lords of Proprietors settled the land the King named Carolina, and your ancestor, Marx, was one of them."
"Is that where all the money came from," he'd asked on that day so long ago. "From the King?"
His father had offered an indulgent smile. "Not exactly. At the time, indigo was so valuable that King Charles offered a bounty to planters who successfully yielded indigo crops. And your great-grandfather several times removed took the King up on his generous offer." Marx's father had stooped over, pulled a leaf from a plant and held it below his son's nose. "This is the stuff dreams are made of, son. Indigo. And don't ever forget it."
If only the wealthy plantation owners had learned how to cultivate and produce the dye more precious than gold without the use of slaves. If only...how many thousands of lives could have been saved?
The moss-draped oaks of Indigo Bay leading to the main house greeted Marx---another compliment of his ancestor. The man had had planted two parallel avenues of oaks, arranged the trees in two evenly spaced rows along the long road leading to the main house. To him and many of his descendants the thick-trunked oaks and canopy of Irish moss became a symbol of elegant southern hospitality.
Marx dismounted and scanned the property, for the most part untouched by battle. From the barn he heard the familiar sounds of the blacksmith hard at work, and several field hands waved to him from afar.
So, not all had run off.
"Mastah Marx, as the day is long, that be you?"
A smile stretched Marx's lips. "It is, Dessie." He looked up toward the tall columns spanning the front of the verandah. "I'm relieved to see the old manor in one piece."
She nodded and looked over his shoulder, far beyond the outbuildings and green fields. "They was fighting for days over by the bridge. Like to make me deaf after the cannons was done." Dessie stretched her open arms toward him, her white teeth in sharp contrast to the coffee-shaded skin. "Never no mind 'bout that now. Come in to the house; we have visitors."
"Visitors?"
The pulse in Marx's neck thrummed and he looked toward the barn. Not a horse in sight, and Dessie had said visitors, not visitor. He had to abandon his shameless thoughts about Gray---the visions and every word spoken between them.
The man who haunted his dreams and stole his every thought wouldn't be sauntering into his life any time soon. He corrected his thoughts. Or ever. Their last conversation had been rife with anger, and heated words had been hurled like weapons, crippling him. Marx was certain one or two had struck his heart, rendering him to a permanent state of infirmity. Dessie could fix a broken arm, had once when he fell from the giant hickory outside his bedchamber window, but the faithful, old black woman could do nothing about the debilitating wound to his soul.
"Come on now, Mastah Marx. I think seeing your friends again will do you a passel of good."
"My friends?"
She nodded again, the short, ebony curls glinting off ribbons of sunlight streaming onto the porch. "Yes, sir, they done arrived one day afore you. Come, they sipping some cool lemon water in the parlor."
When Cassidy came to his feet, Marx walked toward the man and embraced him. "Didn't know if I'd ever see you again, John."
"Oh now, Corporal, you can't get rid of me that easily."
Marx looked at his men as they hastened to rise from the half-dozen wing backs scattered about the room. "At ease. I insist," he said his tone relaxed.
"Darkmore?" Marx looked at Cassidy, his curiosity about the man's fate overpowering.
"Last time we saw him, the Major was looking a little peeked. A bullet in his thigh, one in his upper shoulder and cursing your name with every breath."
"You left him in that condition; allowed him to live?"
"Yes, sir, we did. I leave his destiny up to the Almighty. He won't be a bother to you for some time, I suspect."
A round of guffaws from the men resounded in the room. One spoke up. "Two besides Darkmore had to share one mount for twenty miles."
Marx couldn't help his smile. "You left them twenty miles from Baltimore?"
"Yep," Cassidy answered. "That had to be one long, weary, painful journey, one he should be stewing about for years to come. 'Sides, even Darkmore wouldn't be stupid enough to hound you all the way to Charleston."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Marx said with a shake of his head. "No telling what revenge will do to a man. I bet it nearly killed the Major to see the only escapees from his prison walk away."
Cassidy snorted. "I hope he thinks about that for years to come, too."
"It's good to see you," Marx said, and looked around the room again. "Every one of you." Turning back to Cassidy with a frown, he put a hand on his shoulder. "What now? I can offer you safe harbor for as long as you like."
"Oh, no, Corporal. We've already talked it over and we'll be homeward bound in a day or two. The men are anxious to see their women." He gave Marx a light elbow to the ribs. "Been a long time for them, know what I mean, sir?"
"I do," Marx replied as images of him and Gray in the cave nearly brought him to his knees. "At least stay for a day or two, rest up. I've no idea how Indigo Bay sits for food and stores, but if I know Dessie, she'll come up some home-cooked meals none can compare to."
Passing by the door to the parlor, Dessie poked her head into the room. "I already done take care of that, Mastah Marx. It's roasted pig, sourdough biscuits, and fresh black-eyed peas I be serving in about two hours."
"Stay, at least for the night."
Cassidy spoke for all of the men. "We wouldn't pass it up, sir, and we have lots of news to catch up on. For instance, whatever happened to that surly-looking bastard you rode out with...if you don't mind me calling him that, sir."
Marx laughed. "No, I don't mind. In fact, I think your choice of words suit Gray-Grayson Drake well."
"He ain't dead, is he, Corporal?"
"Dead? Oh, hell no, he's too ornery to die." Gray's emerald eyes danced behind the veil shielding his true feelings. "He remained in Richmond, I believe. Probably took off already for his next mission."
"Mission, sir?"
"It's a long story. We'll talk about it over that roasted pig. For now, I need a hot bath and a change of clothing before we dine."
Cassidy offered a salute. "Of course, sir. Don't mind us now. You just go about your business like you would if we weren't here."
"I'm happy you are Cassidy." He smiled again. "I can't tell you how happy I am to see you all alive and well. And thank you." He looked at his men individually. "For risking your lives to see me safely to Richmond."
Marx excused himself and walked from the room with a promise to see them in several hours when Dessie summoned everyone to the table.
\*
The following morning, Marx watched his men ride from Indigo Bay with an odd pang of isolation clenching his heart. He still had Dessie, several of the house servants, the potter and blacksmith in his life, but nothing remained the same as before.
In the following days, a restless, lonely feeling consumed Marx's waking hours, and his nights droned on like a parlors flies hypnotized by the midday sun. What little sleep he'd had in the last week had been fraught with tormenting dreams of Gray until he was forced to rise from bed and wander the shadowy corridors of Indigo Bay.
After many sleepless nights and hours of searching his soul, he'd come to a decision. The Confederacy needed him now more than ever. Surely the South would fall, but he'd fall with them. He'd re-enlist and the Confederate Army would be happy to have him. Hell, at this point, they'd take any man who could carry a rifle and wasn't below the age of ten or over the age of ninety.
A sick sense of relief settled in as he meandered along a woodland trail this afternoon a mile south of the main house. Every man needed purpose in his life and serving his country again seemed the perfect solution. Dessie would scream like a disgruntled badger when he told her he'd come to a conclusion, but he knew she'd be waiting for him, come what may. In any event, he couldn't remain at Indigo Bay and become a wastrel while his country fell apart at the seams.
And if he died holding the last line of defense, so be it. The anguish over Gray would be over. That's what it had come down to. He'd have to go to his grave to end this perpetual state of misery. What a pathetic man he'd become, pining over someone who never sent a thought his way.
The crunch of a boot snapping a twig in two echoed in the woods behind him. Deserters? Malingerers from the Confederate Army? Shit, and he'd left the pistol at home in his bedchamber bureau.
Prepared to defend himself with his fists, Marx spun around and felt his jaw drop. "Gray?" Had he thought the name in his head or whispered it?
"You look well." The lazy, southern drawl drifted across the short distance separating them.
"How-how did you find me...what are you doing here?"
"I followed your tracks from the house; and to answer your second question, I convinced Grimm to tell me where you went under threat of resignation."
"You did?"
Gray nodded and Marx wondered if the world had stopped.
"I didn't have to resign. The man seemed eager to tell me." He advanced. "Why do you think that is, Marx?"
He put his arm out. "I have no idea...stay back, please. I-I don't want you to come any closer. I-I made a decision and I don't want...
Gray stalked forth, the mutual passion crackling the air. "So have I, and you want me to come closer, all right. I see it in your eyes, smell your desire."
"You're mistaken, Gray. I no longer want this, want you. I can't afford...."
Before he could finish his sentence, Gray was upon him like a predator devouring his prey. He grabbed his wrist, yanked him to his chest, and claimed his mouth. The ground swayed beneath Marx's feet and a wave of dizziness washed over him. This couldn't be happening, not here in his woods in the middle of the afternoon. And yet it smelled like Gray, tasked like him. Drowning, going down for the third time and he couldn't summon the will to fight his way to the surface.
Gray broke from the kiss. "God, I've missed you, tried so hard to dispel you from my life and I can't." His hot breath fanned Marx's ear. "I can't."
Gray's hand enveloped his engorged cock and heat rushed to the head. "Ah... hell." Marx gasped and closed his eyes against the exquisite pleasure.
Before he realized it, Gray had walked him backward to the trunk of a tree and again lowered his head. "If you no longer want me, tell me and I'll cease, right here."
With the sharp sting of lust swirling around them, Marx could not bring himself to say the word 'cease'.
Raw, naked aggression had taken over Gray. A man bent on a mission of a different sort now, he grabbed Marx by the shoulders and turned him around until his back rested against the man's chest. A chest made of iron.
An overpowering surge of expectation rushed to the surface. Marx had no idea what Gray would do next, but knew he wanted him; more than anything he'd wanted in his life.
"Take your clothes off," the gravelly voice behind him said on a heavy breath. "Do it now."
Gray didn't have to ask him twice. In short order, he stripped the shirt from his torso and flung it aside and next shoved his trousers down and stepped out of them. A thrilling rush of excitement coursed through his blood.
Again, Gray's came to him, hot, hungry and urgent. "Place your hands on both sides of the trunk and push your hips back."
A pleasing aroma of scented oil wafted around Marx's senses. He couldn't see Gray but imagined him slicking down his enormous cock.
A series of panting breaths whispered over his nape as Gray clasped his hips firmly. "God, you're magnificent. I've thought of nothing but fucking you again from the moment I walked out of Grimm's office."
A groan left Marx's lips even though he tried to stifle it. "Please, now. Fuck me now, Gray." He felt the head of Gray's cock nudge his hole and he braced for the intrusion. Soon, soon the exquisite man would be inside him.
Gray pushed in an inch and Marx's breath hitched. He felt a pressing need to thrust his hips back, impale himself until he was boneless, but Gray held him still. "No, I want to take my time, fuck you until you can no longer think. So tight, so damn tight and hot."
I can't think now, you fool.
When Gray buried his shaft another inch or two, Marx moaned, deep and low. His own prick throbbed with the need for release, more so when Gray reached around his pelvis and fisted his cock. "Oh...God." Marx's words came out in a rush.
"Ask me again. Tell me how much you want this."
"More than anything."
"Ask me, Marx. Ask me to fuck you."
"I'm begging you, please fuck me. Don't tease me now. I've waited-waited...." Before he could finish, Gray deep-hilted his cock into Marx's ass. He gripped the tree, felt the rough bark against his hands and whimpered. Could anything in the world be so bone-numbingly blissful? What made him think he could live without this man in his life? With Gray inside him, the possibility seemed so remotely idiotic, he almost laughed aloud.
Like a man possessed, Gray set upon him with frenzied thrusts. Marx's orgasm raced through him and a wave of lightheadedness overtook him. Christ, don't let me faint. Not now. "Can't hold back, going to come." Cocooned in a web of rapture, his own voice sounded foreign to him.
Gray applied pressure to Marx's leaking shaft with his hand and pushed deep into his ass, only to pull back and drive in again. "Come for me, handsome boy, give me all you got."
Beyond comprehension, Marx strained and writhed against the tormenting assault and cried out when hot, thick cum shot from his cock. On and on his release went; so powerful, white lights danced behind his eyes. His legs trembled and he thought he'd crumble to the ground, but Gray held him tight and fucked through his ensuing ecstasy.
Shivers wracked his body and still Gray didn't relent. Let me die now if this is only a figment of my sick imagination. He clenched his teeth against the hoarse moans spewing from his throat.
With a final thrust, Gray released the hold on his hips and pinned him against the tree. Marx's legs buckled, yet he clung to the trunk. A deep growl came from Gray and Marx felt the man's hot seed fill his insides.
Gray collapsed against him, his ragged breaths coming hard and fast. "Christ, fucking magnificent."
Marx slithered to the ground and Gray followed him down. They lay in the soft grass surrounding the trunk, neither of them capable of speech.
Long minutes later, Marx turned his head toward him. "I asked you this once before, and I'll never ask again, but I must know. What now?"
"I think what just passed between us again says it all. I tried to dispel you from my mind, and it only made matters worse."
"I'm happy to hear that."
"Yeah, well don't let it go to your head. I'm not used to saying such things or...."
"Committing, is that the word you're looking for?"
"That word will do."
His voice whisper soft, Marx said, "I'm not asking for a life-long commitment, but I am seeking honesty and---"
"And what?"
"Loyalty. I remembered back there in that cave who you were. We knew of one another before didn't we?"
Gray nodded and stared at the sky. "I saw you once or twice at the brothel, and ..."
"Finish your sentence, please. I must know what you felt, what you thought then."
"The same as I feel now. I wanted you, have wanted you for a long time. I knew who you were by the time I helped you escape from Hellmira. I shouldn't have taken the mission, figured it could only lead to trouble."
"Trouble, am I?"
Gray finally looked at him. "For me, I think you're a whole passel of trouble. I don't like these feelings. Let me correct that. I'm not used to having such strong feelings for another man. Before it was a face in the night, a nameless person---"
"Stop. I don't want to talk about what happened before." Marx thrust out his chin. "Unless you want to hear about my past discretions, too."
"I'd advise against that, were I you. I'm not the sharing type. What came before me I can abide, but I most certainly don't want to hear about your prior escapades."
"That makes two of us. Are we agreed on that at least?"
Gray nodded, rose from the ground and pulled his trousers over his hips. Then he walked to where he'd tossed his shirt into the grass and dug through the pocket. "This isn't why I came." He leaned over Marx and handed him a letter. "I would have come no matter what, but Grimm asked me to deliver this to you just in case we crossed paths again." A smirk curled Gray's lips. "Grimm knows too much for his own damn good. Don't like that either, but there's no stopping the man from digging into everyone's past and future. Goes with his job, I guess."
Marx looked at the envelope. "What's in here?"
"I haven't opened it obviously, but Grimm was quite taken with your memory, your ability to recall the maps with precise recollection. My guess...he'd like to employ you, put you to work for the agency."
"What?"
"Open the envelope and see if I'm correct."
Marx tore it open, pulled out the letter and looked at Gray. "How do you feel about that?"
"Dangerous days ahead. The South will fall, yet they'll need assistance now more than ever. A new breed of man will enter our homeland, crass despots bent on changing everything we know and love about our way of living. And there will be good men too, but someone must decide who's who. And the South will need to rebuild. More importantly, they must know who their real enemies are in the future."
Marx scanned the letter. "You are correct in your assumption. Grimm wants me to join Flintlock."
"And?"
"I planned to re-enlist anyway, wanted to do whatever I could to assist."
"Hmm," Gray said. "Hard choice. A man can get his brains blown out on the battlefield as well as working for Grimm." He paused and looked into his eyes. "What do you think?"
"If you're telling me we have a future, it's not that hard of a choice. I want to be with you, where you are, living or dying."
Gray smiled. "Looks like you've made up your mind then." He extended his hand. "Get dressed. Let's ride into Richmond and deliver the good news to Grimm. The man should be ecstatic."
"And you, Gray?"
"I could show you again how ecstatic I am about having you in my life."
Marx shook his head. "No, not right now. I don't think my heart can take it."
"Let's be on our way." Gray clasped his hand and dragged him to his feet. "Before I change my mind and make Grimm sweat for a while."
Marx smiled and dressed in a rush, not entirely sure Gray wouldn't change his mind. His legs still shaky, he turned to him when he'd finished dressing. "Before we meet with Grimm, let me show you Indigo Bay. I have a feeling you'll love it here."
"If you're here, Marx, I'll know I'll love it. Lead the way."
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Keta Diablo lives in the Midwest portion of the country on six acres of beautiful woodland. Here, she communes with nature; eagles, owls and loons (the winged version). There's a lovely environmental lake on her property named after a famous Native American chief, and the locals insist burial grounds from 150 years ago exist in her woods. Hmmm. Maybe it's not always the wind she hears howling at night.
Visit Keta at:
http://www.ketadiablo.com
http://ketaskeep.blogspot.com
and on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/ketadiablo
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