Note: You may find this chapter is boring, but believe me.. This chapter is a puzzle piece of Amber's mysteriousness. LOL

The next day Krystal looked outside the window and found to her relief that the day was clear and bright.

"Mornin'."

She spun around and then smiled at Amber. He was leaning aginst the doorframe,his eyes traveling over her until they reached her slim ankles and bare feet. Then he threw her a dark, irritated look, and she made the discovery that he was handsome even when he was scowling.

"Hell's afire, what are you doing out of bed with nothing on your feet?"

She scampered back to the bed, hunting for the wool socks and yanking them on hurriedly. "There's no need to use such language with me."

"Are you trying to make yourself sick?"

She smiled at him, ignoring his testy mood. "I'm not going to get sick. I'm perfectly healthy, and I'm going home tomorrow. Just look outside."

"So that's why you're so happy. Can't wait to go back and apologize to your fiance. How does humble pie taste, Krystal. . . sweet or tart?"

"A big slice of it wouldn't hurt you any."

Reluctantly he grinned back at her. "Probably wouldn't."

"And a nice, long bath," Krystal continued hopefully, "wouldn't hurt me any."

"Probably right about that too." He got her a fresh shirt and handed it to her, conspicuously careful not to brush her fingers with his.

"Just think," Krystal said brightly. "Tomorrow night you won't have to sleep in the parlor again. You'll have your bedroom back."

"But i don't mind you sleeping in my bedroom."

After giving him a reproving glance, she turned away from his innocent smile and left the room. Amber went downstairs to build the fires up and make sure that the rooms were extra warm while Krystal luxuriated in the bathtub. When she appeared in the parlor, pink and flushed and damp, he spared her not even a cursory glance, as he became preoccupied with a stack of tattered newspapers.

"What are you reading?" Krystal's curious voice interrupted his thoughts, and he answered readily.

"About the campaign of Atlanta."

"Why in the world would you want to read that?"

Amber smiled wryly. "For its mistakes. The reporter states that the troops retired in good order." He shook his head and snorted."I was there. We didn't retire in good order, we ran like hell,stepping all over each other in an effort to save our skins."

"Why are you reading those papers for their mistakes?"

"It's a hobby of mine to look them over. . .to see how they cover things,to see what the editorial policies were. Most of the time you get more information from looking at something that's been done wrong than when it's been done right. And everyone knows a lot was done wrong by the press during the war on both sides."

"If you were in charge of a newspaper, what would you do to fix things? You might start it off doing things your own way, but sooner or later you'd probably bow down to the politicians, and start writing what they told you to write and---"

"So hard-bitten," Amber said, his eyes glinting with sudden amusement.

"Not at all. . .that's just the way we do things in Massachusetts."

He threw back his head and laughed. "I wouldn't, no matter what everyone else did. If I were in charge of a paper, I wouldn't let it be anyone's puppet, and I'd steer my own course instead of following fashions. Most editors let anyone and everyone manipulate their newspapers, especially the politicians. Hardly anyone has the backbone to step on a few toes, print the truth without using a lot of fancy words to soften it up---"

"But would you always print the truth if you were in the editor's shoes? Even if you didn't like it?"

"Damn right I would."

"I don't think so. Maybe you would at first, but eventually you'd start printing your own version of the truth, just like all other editors do."

"Ah, but I'm different from all of them," he said smiling at her animated expression. "I wouldn't be so eager to sweet-talk the subscribers that i couldn't call a spade a spade. I have few biases---"

"Except that you hate Northerners."

"Oh, that's a little strong. When you get right down to it, I don't. In fact, there are some I could get to be quiet fond of." He chuckled as she stared into the fire with renewed absorption.

"Tell me." she said, still not looking at him. "have you ever worked for a newspaper? It seems like you have."

"I was a journalist for the Mobile Register during the war. I reported a few papers, too. I tended to swithch around, Nothing makes a writer mad quicker than seeing one of his reports cut almost in half--"

"But surely they had good reasons for cutting your work."

"Yes. They felt that a reporter should try to keep the public's morale high. The editors didn't like my battle reporting--said I was faultfinding, glum, that I didn't look on the bright side of things. Problem was, I couldn't find much cause for optimism in the middle of a battle--especially since I was on the losing side."

"The Register was a big paper, wasn't it? You must have gotten published often."

"Often enough."

"Do you have any copies of what you've written?"

"Actually, I don't."

"That's too bad. I'd like to read something of yours, Did you use your initials or--"

"Rebel. that was my pseudonym. I couldn't use my initials, since I occasionaly took unpopular stands."

Wearing a stricken expression, she stared at him. "Your pseudonym wasn't really Rebel, was it?"

"You don't like it?"

"That's not what. . .I mean. . .I have read something of yours. They reprinted them in some of the newspapers up here. We all looked for more articles by you, We were sure that whatever you wrote about the surrender would be printed. But there wasn't anything."

"I wasn't at the surrender. We were sent on a suicidal charge. A noble, last-ditch effort to win the war. At that time, we figured there wasn't much to lose. Most of the regiment was killed."

"I'm so glad you weren't," Krystal said, her eyes moistening with tears despite her will to hold them off. He looked up in surprise at the quaver in her tone, then shook his head and smiled ruefully.

"Your too softhearted."

"I know. Aiden says I shouldn't cry so easily, but sometimes I--"

"Aiden again. I don't believe I've ever known a man so well and disliked him so much without ever having met him."

She chuckled at that and swallowed hard against the biting tears. His hand slid over hers,enclosing her fingers in the warmth strength of his. Though she did nothing to encourage him, not even daring to look at him, her pulse became light and rapid, and an almost pleasant sensation of nervousness took hold of her. Slowly, she turned her palm up to meet his, and their fingers laced together. A strange and unfamiliar sweetness seemed to drift through her body. There's nothing wrong in holding hands, she told herself defensively. Yet somehow, this felt disloyal to Aiden, finding such pleasure in the touch of another man.