They were at eye level.
Had she noticed the piercing blueness of his eyes before? Perhaps not. Perhaps she didn’t dare register such things, because he would become a man and not merely an enemy.
His eyes were so sad—that, she had noticed. He was looking at her so gravely.
Such pain.
What happened to you? she thought.
Maria had no sense that he reached for her, nor she for him, but she was in his arms somehow. He held her tightly, both of them caught in whatever this moment was. Their foreheads touched; their breaths mingled. And suddenly his mouth was on hers. She gave a soft moan, completely overwhelmed by the feel and the taste of him. It was as if she suddenly couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t touch him enough, kiss him enough. She had never felt such need, such hunger….
Acclaim for Cheryl Reavis’s recent historicals
The Captive Heart
“A sensual, emotionally involving romance.”
—Library Journal
“A compelling tale that will keep you on the edge of your seat.”
—Rendezvous
Harrigan’s Bride
“…another Reavis title to add to your keeper shelf.”
—The Booknook
1992 RITA® Award Winner
The Prisoner
“…a Civil War novel that manages to fill the reader with warmth and hope.”
—Romantic Times
#604 MISS VEREY’S PROPOSAL
Nicola Cornick
#605 THE DRIFTER
Lisa Plumley
#606 DRAGON’S KNIGHT
Catherine Archer
The Bride Fair
Cheryl Reavis
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
CHERYL REAVIS
Harlequin Historicals
The Prisoner #126
The Bartered Bride #319
Harrigan’s Bride #439
The Captive Heart #512
The Bride Fair #603
Other works include:
Silhouette Special Edition
A Crime of the Heart #487
Patrick Gallagher’s Widow #627
* One of Our Own #901
* Meggie’s Baby #1039
* Mother To Be #1102
* Tenderly #1147
Little Darlin’ #1177
The Long Way Home #1245
“To the red-shod one—with humble thanks.”
Contents
Chapter One
Salisbury, N.C.
June, 1868
Who is this woman?
Colonel Max Woodard watched as the train conductor pointed her in his direction, then stood waiting for her to make her way across the crowded railway platform. The question stayed in his mind as she approached, and it became more and more obvious that she was not happy about having to seek him out. Four years of war and two subsequent years of occupation duty among the vanquished Southerners had made him more than adept at recognizing their barely veiled contempt. Her enmity didn’t surprise him in the least. The fact that she was about to speak to him in broad daylight and in clear view of any number of the townspeople did.
“You are Colonel Woodard?” she asked without hesitation. She was wearing black—most of the women in the South seemed to be in a kind of perpetual mourning. Or perhaps it was a matter of economics. Perhaps there was nothing but black cloth available to people who had little money to buy even the necessities.
The woman’s voice had a slight tremor in it. Not enough to disarm him, but enough to pique his curiosity as to the cause.
Anger? Fear?
More the former than the latter, he decided. He took the liberty of staring at her. She was too thin and small-breasted for his taste. And she was probably younger than she looked. He had found that to be the case with many of these Rebel women, and he knew from personal experience that near starvation did little to preserve the bloom of youth.
She had ventured out without her bonnet or her shawl, and she was slightly damp from the intermittent rain that had come in fits