David settled himself on a fallen log and drew a satisfyingly deep breath of the pine scented air. He was back in Virginia, where he belonged--although there were those who would contest that fact. His decision to serve the Union had made him a veritable traitor in the eyes of most who resided here. Yet he was still proud to call himself a Virginian, proud, too, to be a Unionist, and determined to see his country survive--whole.

He took one more look around the small copse. The trees cordoned this small clearing from the rest of the shattered world and he was able to have some seclusion at last, a luxury camp life little afforded. Yet he needn’t fear for his safety. This area was too destitute to support any enemy troops. They were away to the south or the north, so he had no cause to be overly concerned. Besides, his own men were less than two hundred yards away on the other side of the trees, and the perimeter was well picketed.

But more importantly to him at the moment, he was away from the prying eyes of his own kind. The fact that he’d been assigned commander of this company of men, relieving the officer in charge, did not make him a particularly popular fellow with many of the officers. Even less would they respect him if they knew his true assignment--investigating one of their own.

Sometimes he found himself disillusioned with the nature of his work, but more often he was disgusted with those he pursued--those who betrayed his country. He had more respect for the enemy soldiers. At least the men who fought for the Confederacy did so with conviction and a loyalty to their cause--even if their cause was wrong.

Pulling a letter from inside his tunic, he turned the envelope over while absentmindedly refastening the garment. It was from his older brother, Malcolm. He smiled sadly, a pang of regret passing through him. He had not seen his brother since their respective units had gone separate ways. Malcolm had tried to have him reassigned so that they could remain together. David himself had arranged to have the appointment blocked, but then, his brother had no idea that his captaincy in the Fifth Artillery was just a cover. Just a sham. Malcolm didn’t know that he was, in fact, a spy. And he never would, if David could help it. Malcolm had had first hand experience with those dealing in espionage, and he despised the lot of them.

Carefully preserving the envelope as he tore it open, David extracted the letter and hungrily read the contents.

David again glanced at the top of the letter. March third. Five months ago.

He sighed and closed his eyes, calling up the vivid angelic vision he carried in his heart. Abigail. He still envied his brother for having married her. Her laugh floated into his mind, and again came the empty ache. She was everything he had wanted in a woman, but she had made her choice between them, and now she was his brother’s wife.

Forcing his eyes open again, he devoured the rest of the letter--more news of home, his mother and sister, and details of his brother’s latest campaign. When he came to the closing, he refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, then stashed it in his tunic for another reading at another time. He would have to write to Malcolm and let him know he was well. He should write his mother and his sister, too, but even more he wanted to write to Abigail and say… What? What did one say to a married woman who haunted your dreams? And if he could say what was truly in his heart, his brother would want to see him drawn and quartered.

David stared off toward the distant woods, surprised at the strength of his feelings. It made no sense. She was married, completely lost to him, but his heart refused to accept it. He had never realized just how deeply he cared for her until the day of her wedding. Then the finality of it all had struck him, but by then it was too late to try to change her mind. Not that she would have ever considered him. She had loved Malcolm from the start, and he knew it. But knowing that fact did not soothe his longing.

He shook his head, encouraging a bout of self loathing. Abigail was his brother’s wife. It was time for him to fully accept it and forget her. Nothing would ever change that fact.

Besides, he did love his brother, dearly, and he missed him. It would be good to see him again when he reached Washington. Malcolm would be there by the time he arrived and they would have a chance to visit before they were forced back to the war.

Since their separation he had heard that his brother had been in the action that had taken place in Pennsylvania, near a little town called Gettysburg. A terrible battle, but a hard won victory for the North. He himself had been with Grant at Vicksburg. But even under the guise of an artillery officer, he had been hard at work on his investigation.

He sighed and wearily rubbed his eyes. He would be glad to see his brother again, but he just wished that Abigail…

He shook his head, hard. "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride," he muttered aloud. Glancing up at the tops of the tall pines, he blew out a long breath. "At least I’ll be home soon."

Home. Rose Hill. His unit would march very near there so he would have a chance to see his mother and sister before leaving Virginia.

Lowering his gaze back to the woods surrounding him, he reached up to rub his face. He was tired, so very tired. The war was wearing on him and he had long since decided this was not the life he cared to lead. His brother was a cavalry officer, a soldier suited to this existence. But he was not. He wanted only to find peace and a place where he might forget the horrors he had seen. He wanted only for the war to end so that he could go home and return to the pleasure he found in farming the land, raising crops and prime thoroughbred horseflesh, the finest in the county.

But each day he woke in a tent, doomed to repeat the one previous. Often they passed burned out homes, or farmsteads reduced to rubble by shell fire, the hapless residents killed, or driven off. Sometimes they chased the Confederates, sometimes they were the ones being chased. And always, men died in these encounters. Young men whose lives had shone bright with promise.

He thanked God daily for his own survival. He wanted to live and prayed he would be afforded the chance. He wanted to find what his brother had found--love and devotion in a woman who would share his trials and dreams.

But the time for those dreams was long off. For the present, he must endure.

He rose from the log and stretched, ready to return to his duties, but as he turned to go, a rustling in the woods apprised him that he was no longer alone. Instinctively, he drew his revolver and whirled, searching the trees from whence the disturbance came, and his keen eyes caught movement--and a flash of gray.

He was running toward the treeline before he’d even made the conscious decision to do so, his adrenaline rushing in a wild torrent through his veins. The enemy. But how could anyone have gotten so close with the pickets posted all around? Well, he’d have the answer to that question soon enough, when he caught the brigand. He raised his gun and took aim… "You there--halt!"

The blur of gray disappeared into the brush. Instantly he assessed the situation--it appeared to be only one man and he could easily take him alone. He plunged into the trees.

Ahead of him the bit of gray flashed again, then appeared to halt momentarily before continuing on. David grinned. Trying to get a look at who is following, no doubt. Oh, yes. He would catch this devil. He redoubled his speed, nimbly avoiding the trees and fallen limbs, skirting the underbrush, and closing the distance.

The figure ahead seemed to pause again, then let out a strangled cry of dismay. He halted for a fraction of an instant to focus on the fellow. He could see him, though not clearly. It was a man clad all in gray, but he wasn’t moving now. He was standing still. No, he was struggling to free himself from an entanglement. David resumed his pursuit. Leaping over a fallen log, he crashed through a heavy stand of laurel and--

--abruptly halted, his eyes widening incredulously. "You’re a--a woman."

"Stay away from me, you dirty Yankee!" she hissed, struggling against the vines that had snagged the skirt of her dress.

His eyes skimmed over the obviously feminine figure. Her bosom rose and fell heavily from her exertion--and no doubt fear. But it was her face that held him spellbound. A very delicate face twisted in anger, though were she not scowling she would be quite attractive, he was sure. Firm set full lips beneath a slender nose that turned up just so at the tip, high rosy cheeks gracing an ivory complexion, and flashing green eyes ringed with long golden lashes. And hanging in a wild tangle down her back, reaching nearly to her waist, volumes of wheaten hair streaked through with deeper strands of gold.

It took several moments before he realized he was staring, but when he did he holstered his revolver and started toward her. "Let me help you."

"No. Stay back you filthy blue-belly."

David saw the arc of a blade flash from the folds of her skirt and he halted again. In her hand she wielded a small stiletto. Not a very large weapon, yet he judged it could do a fair amount of damage before he might wrench it from her grasp.

"Don’t be foolish, girl," he growled. "I have you. You’re not going to get away."