Chapter Four

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?”

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. 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 or 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 his tongue licking every inch of his skin and his 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 he 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 called Gray, a long, hard ride. Oh, Christ, what was happening to him? If he didn't shut off his thoughts, he'd turn to Gray in a moment and beg.

“I want you.” Had he really spoken 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.”

“Darkmore is one mean son of a bitch.”

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 is a 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 from Gray. “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?”

He nodded 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 rolled over him again. “I am a physician who promised to bring something to Richmond, and don't say 'my fucking Granny's nightgown' again. 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?”

He pulled the opium away. “Yes.”

“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 coughing 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 intended to abandon Gray this morning, before the malaria struck, before the intense hunger for the doctor had consumed 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 vivid, so real, he knew it existed. He craved the man's love now as much 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. But 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 seemed like a fairytale at the moment.

The only word Marx seemed capable of right now, he whispered. “Thanks.”

Gray handed him a biscuit, a heavy canteen and a cup of coffee. “We'll have to eat in the saddle, and don't forget to drink 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. 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 and led them there. “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 shirt. “I'm not leaving you behind, so make up your mind. You riding out on 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. Apparently, he wasn't waiting for an answer. Grim-lipped, he dragged him to his mount, his voice stern. “Choose. Which one?”

Marx shagged away from 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. 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 Gray 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 Gray 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?” Weak-voiced, he added, “I told you to leave me behind.”

Gray 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 led the way, threshing through the thick-trunked oaks and dense bracken no man had roamed for decades. Now and then Gray 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 to somewhere in the middle. As had the dire need to extract information about maps from the man. Keeping him alive and satiating his unquenchable lust occupied his every thought.

Hell, every breath he took.