Free Surrender the Wind by Elizabeth St. Michel

“There’s General A.P. Hill—Texan through and through, but a Southerner first. Always wears a red shirt going into battle, and boy, can those Texans fight. General Pickett—perfume and all. General Longstreet, dark and gloomy at times, but can be humorous. Hell of a fighter and strategist.”
    He stopped, picked several, yellow, bell-shaped flowers and presented them to her, his fingers warming as they brushed across her hand. “Trout Lilies.” He bowed gallantly.
    “Why thank you, General Rourke.” She extended a slight curtsey then singled out a lily for inspection. Her finger traced the subtle shape of each dip and turn, then rubbed against the thick ridge of the stem. An arrow of liquid heat went straight to his groin.
    “You may find this contradictory, but Lincoln never desired war.”
    “If Lincoln had any clear idea of the nature of war and politics, he showed a delicate art of concealing it.” Images of her stroking him like the lily passed hot, raw and carnal.
    A slow condemnation grew in her wide emerald eyes. “It seems hard to digest you delivering opinions on Lincoln. We should admire his genius. What he does is for the greater good. President Lincoln said—he’d rather be assassinated than to see a single star fall from the flag of the United States.”
    To hell with Lincoln. Despite her spectacles, she was alive, animated…her voice, lilting, musical…her golden hair and her shining countenance almost made him want to jump up and shake Lincoln’s hand. God she was a siren, leading him to wreck upon the shoals.
    They continued walking, and then circled back toward the house. When they approached the rear of the barn, he dragged his feet. No way did he want the spell broken. He stopped, observed her puzzlement. She took to the shade and leaned against the barn, waiting. John squinted at the sky and then focused on her face. Shaking his head, he removed her glasses. “That’s a hell of a lot better.”
    “You are quite presumptuous, general.”
    He placed both his hands against the barn, trapping her in between. He lingered, awareness filled his every pore, even the air he breathed. He remained duty bound for reasons she could not understand. He’d be returning soon. Who knew if he’d survive the war? They would never see each other again. He could not make a commitment, the way she deserved. Honor. His mind repeated the words but his gaze fell on her lips.

    Catherine’s wicked heart betrayed her, thundered in her chest. “I believe we should remain formal. I—I think it is safer.”
    He chuckled, deep and throaty. “Did I ever tell you about Molly? She’s one of my loves back home. Gorgeous, long, slender legs, and beautiful red blond hair. Always loyal and willing to—”
    Catherine pushed away from him. He didn’t budge. “How would you know she has long slender legs?”
    “Why she shows them all the time.”
    “Get away from me.” She shoved at him with all her might, having suffered enough of his arrogance to last a hundred lifetimes. “You, General, are obtuse and dim-witted!”
    “And you woman talk too much.” He flattened her to the barn.
    Her mouth went dry. With cast-iron certainty, he faked his injury. Why he could probably lift a horse. “I am sure you make your southern belles swoon with glib flattery by hailing your exploits with other women, and then settling on them like an anaconda and swallowing them whole. Pray save your amorous attentions for your lamentable homeward souls.”
    “Do I detect a wholehearted spurning? Or jealousy? He touched her hair, streaming it through his hand. “I am only a man.”
    “That is a most flattering dedication. Perhaps the lowest specimen I have met. To think you graduated from the nation’s top military school. Without question, West Point has lowered its standards.”
    “You humble me.”
    An instant of pretended offense stole into his expression and she flinched when he caressed the side of her face. Warm. Intimate.