Free And One Wore Gray by Heather Graham

sure you can’t have eaten much.”
    She sat, staring at him. But she didn’t touch the food.
    “What’s wrong? Can’t you eat with a Reb?”
    She shook her head. “I just can’t eat yet,” she said softly. The sarcasm was gone. They were both thinking about the battle.
    He shoved the whiskey bottle across the table to her. “Take a swig. It will help you to forget. It’s helped me a hell of a lot of times.”
    She started to shake her head again, but he said, “Take a swallow. A long swallow.”
    To her surprise, she did so. The whiskey burned. She choked, coughed, and swallowed again. The heat warmed her. And she did feel better.
    She felt his eyes on her. They were fascinating eyes. They seemed as cold as ice, as hot as blue fire. They studied her as if they saw so very much of her.
    “I think … I think the coffee is ready,” she murmured. She stood up, found cups, and poured them both coffee. She sat down and set the mugs down, too. He topped off both of the cups with a measure of the whiskey.
    “Relax, Miss … ?”
    “What difference does my name make?”
    “What difference does it make whether you tell me or not?” he countered.
    “Callie. Callie Michaelson.”
    “Relax, Miss Michaelson.”
    “It’s Mrs. Michaelson. And it is rather difficult to relax with the enemy in one’s kitchen.”
    “Is it?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll be leaving before dawn. But then, of course, we do have the evening before us. And I need to get some sleep. Tell me, where is Mr. Michaelson?”
    “Out in the yard,” Callie said flatly. But if she expected to see some sign of fear or alarm in his eyes, she was disappointed.
    “Dead and buried?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Where did he fall?”
    “In a skirmish in Tennessee.”
    “When?”
    “A little over a year ago.”
    “Well, Mrs. Michaelson, I was never in Tennessee, so I didn’t kill your husband.”
    “I didn’t suspect that you had.”
    “Ah. You simply hate all Rebel soldiers.”
    Callie swallowed down a gulp of her coffee and leapt to her feet. “I don’t hate anyone. But you are the enemy. You just can’t stay here any longer.”
    “I have to.”
    She turned around and strode out to the parlor. She heard him drink the last of his coffee and set down the cup. Then he followed her out. “You weren’t thinking of leaving, were you, Miss Michaelson?”
    “Frankly, yes. Since you’re not.”
    “You can’t go.”
    “Why?”
    “I won’t let you.”
    “But I haven’t turned you in—”
    “And that doesn’t mean that you won’t. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. But I can’t let you go.”
    She swore in exasperation. His dark brows shot up and he laughed. His face was really nice then. The enemy had charm.
    But then he leaned against the wall by the broken Windows and the once elegant parlor drapes. “What language for such a refined and sophisticated northern lass! And a beautiful one. Even more beautiful when you’re swearing away in such a ladylike manner!”
    There was a statuette on the table. A little statuette of Pan. Callie picked it up and hurled it at him.
    It didn’t matter much. Everything else in the house was ruined.
    Her enemy ducked and laughed again.
    “You really will be gone in the morning, Reb,” she warned him. “Or I’ll shoot you myself!”
    “Will you?” he murmured, appraising her with interest. “Actually, you won’t need to shoot me. If what you were out in the yard doing was helping me, you could just help me a little more, right into the grave. Would you really shoot me?”
    “Yes! Oh, will you please leave then!”
    “Oh, yes, I’ll be leaving in the morning. I promise. And you’ll be coming with me.”
    “What?”
    Blue eyes, razor sharp, commanded hers. “You’ll be coming with me, Mrs. Callie Michaelson. You’re going to get me through the lines, and back to Virginia.”
    “You are insane! That is the last thing that I’m going to do! You had a nice meal, and you’ll get a good night’s