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paused, wondering why he was questioning her. “War is brutal on us all. Were you able to see him before he died?”
    “No, I—” she hesitated, biting her lower lip, obviously in pain. Then she shook her head, and her guard slipped just a little. “No, I hadn’t seen him in months. Not until ...”
    “Until?”
    “Until he died.” She said it strangely. As if she had seen him slaughtered on the battlefield.
    “I’m very sorry.”
    “Yes, you’ve said so, I’m sure you are. Now, is there anything else you want to know, Colonel?” she demanded.
    He crossed his arms over his chest, irritated that she was so impatient to dismiss him. He was suddenly very aware that he was unshaven and covered in dust and blood and mud. He was a tall man, broad shouldered and powerfully built, if a little underfed.
    Well, it was war, not a social, and she was a widow. A Yankee widow who he was certain would happily slice his throat if she knew he was a Reb. Yet she was very beautiful. And her scent was sweet. For the life of him, he could not help but be attracted and aroused.
    Then he recalled, once upon a time, he had received a proper Southern upbringing.
    He bowed deeply to her. “No, ma’am, I did not intend to waylay you.”
    “Then,” she said politely, “I will not allow you to do so.”
    She stepped by him, and as she did so, he turned, his eyes following her. “Actually,” he said firmly, “I would like to know about your garden.”
    She paused, shoulders squaring. For a moment she refused to face him again. Then she turned and asked pleasantly, “And why is that?”
    “Why?” he repeated, frowning. “I’d like to see what you’re growing, how you’re managing it. You said that you’re growing poppies, that you have laudanum—”
    “Ah, but, sir! To what use will any knowledge of my garden be to you? Will you be near enough to pillage my herbs?”
    “Pillage?”
    She hesitated. “North or South, sir, troops do nothing but steal from the civilians in the name of whatever cause they choose to honor.”
    “I don’t pillage, ma’am.” He walked to her, circling around her once again. “Rape, steal, rob, murder, plunder, or pillage.”
    “Then what do you do, Colonel?” she inquired, eyes glittering as she watched him.
    “Survive,” he said simply. And this time he was determined to have the last word.
    Only one way to do so. He turned and walked determinedly into the house once again.
    So much for Paddy’s angel.
    She was, he assured himself, as he’d heard, a witch.
    Strangely, a chill swept along his spine with that thought. He was just tired. Bone tired. The ride, the skirmish, carrying Paddy from the field of battle, riding hard with the weight of another man. He wanted rest, needed rest, and damn it, he was going to have some rest.
    And yet ...
    He could feel her eyes, see her in his mind’s eye.
    Rhiannon.
    A witch, a sea witch, with the power to heal?
    And very definitely, the power to haunt.

Chapter 2
    R HIANNON TREMAINE WATCHED AS the man re-entered her house, oddly torn by the emotions that assailed her.
    He was a liar. She had known that from the start, and she wasn’t sure that it was anything special about her senses that assured her it was so or not. He was a soldier, certainly, but he was no Yankee. He was a tall man, handsome despite his unkempt, threadbare appearance. Powerful, strong, and probably far too capable, she thought, again, despite the fact that he appeared lean and lanky, given his height.
    Charming, wary, even as he lied.
    And he was definitely a liar. His gaunt cheeks gave him away. He moved about with an alarming, effortless, fluid speed, but he moved like a man accustomed to desperate measures, a man who moved with soldiers forced to strike and retreat quickly. He would always be watching.
    He’d been enduring hardships lately, and though the war itself was damned hard on everyone, she was certain he had to be a Reb. And his friend had been injured fighting