Glory by Heather Graham Page B

her blows had no impetus. “Oh, do you think that you can hurt me?” he asked. “You’re drugged, weak, and pathetic.”
    “Pathetic! Oh! I will hurt you—” she cried, redoubling her efforts.
    He caught her wrists. She flung back her head, staring at him.
    “Fight me!” he taunted. “Go on, fight me. Try it.”
    She tried to wrench away, realized quickly that she could not.
    He jerked her back. Her eyes blazed upon his with loathing.
    “You don’t need it,” he told her. “You are going to listen to me. You can die abusing opium. You know that, don’t you? Are you trying to die? Are you really such a coward?”
    She inhaled sharply, and he knew that he had at last touched the core deep within her. “I’m not a coward.”
    “The worst kind,” he told her.
    “You really don’t understand. It hurts. I saw him. I saw him die. I heard him call my name. I saw the blood, I saw his eyes. I can’t forget. I can’t get it out of my mind. I lie alone at night, and I hear him call my name. Over and over and over again until I can’t bear it—”
    “You can’t hear him.”
    “I saw it!”
    “You weren’t on the battlefield.”
    She shook her head, eyes meeting his searchingly as if she sought some kind of understanding. She then lowered her head, as if she were too exhausted to fight him further.
    And he was sorry. He wanted very much to take her into his arms and hold her and comfort her.
    She didn’t want such comfort from a stranger. All he could do was try to make her realize what she was doing.
    “Don’t,” he told her softly. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
    “Just let me go!” she pleaded, her voice feminine, sweet, weary.
    “I won’t let you do this,” he said firmly.
    She wasn’t so exhausted. Her chin rose, her eyes touched his like daggers, and she went into a frenzy of struggling once again, trying to scratch, bite, hit, and kick. She knew where to aim her blows, and he realized he was struggling to keep her from hurting him. Her foot connected with his towel; it was suddenly disengaged. Swearing, trying to maintain the towel while keeping her from blackening his eye, he lifted her and carried her across the room, slamming her down on the bed and leaping down atop her, using his weight to pin her. For several seconds she continued to struggle against him—then she went dead still. She stared up at him, barely breathing, her fingers still wound around his upper arms. It was only then that he realized he’d lost the towel completely and her cotton nightgown was wound nearly to her waist.
    “You are hardly behaving as a Southern gentleman,” she told him, her face rigid as her green eyes met his.
    “I’m joining up with the Yanks, remember?”
    Her eyes closed momentarily, then met his, and she shook her head. “The accent, sir, is Southern. There are smart Florida boys with the Union. Southern men are bred to courtesy.”
    “Northerners aren’t?” he inquired.
    “Of course. But not with quite the same enthusiasm. Since your place of origin has been established, I think it would be in good keeping if you would behave with honor and chivalry and get up and leave me to my own choices.”
    He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
    “Damn you, where are your manners? What was your mama doing while you grew up?” she queried, determined to shame him.
    He eased back, grimly amused by her efforts. “Well, now, ma’am, my mother did teach me to be respectful to proper ladies. But I went to medical school. And there we were taught simply to take drug addicts into hand before they hurt themselves or someone else.”
    She flared. “I’m not a drug addict!”
    “I wish that were true.”
    “I’m not addicted. I just—” she broke off and closed her eyes, weary of the fight. “Would you just leave me be? What can this matter to you?”
    The fire had left her; the last was close to a desperate plea.
    He touched her cheek softly. Her