Rebel

by Heather Graham

  “You should be horsewhipped, McKenzie,” she snapped. She wanted to lash out at him so badly. She felt so absurdly on display, feeling the breeze all about her naked flesh, trying not to move or tremble, to waylay the heat that burned so fiercely in her. She would not feel intimidated, yet she was shaking…

  Awaiting…

  His touch.

  “I should be horsewhipped? For… ?” he inquired politely.

  “For criminal nastiness! Now, it’s really very late. We need to return to the house,” she told him briskly. She started to reach down for her gown and robe. The point of his sword fell into the fabric, pinning it to the ground. She looked slowly up into the hard blue darkness of his eyes.

  “I think not,” he said. “You like to be naked by water, and you detest my house and room. So we shall stay right here.”

  She couldn’t talk, couldn’t move, and was suddenly both very afraid of what he intended, yet trembling with the fire and anticipation of it. She couldn’t bear it. She decided to abandon her gown and simply run, yet the second she leaped to her feet, he caught her arm, and she was spun around and swept cleanly from her feet. She landed flat upon her back on the cool earth, breathless, staring into his eyes.

  His thumb moved in soft line across her cheek. “I won; you lost.”

  “When you fight to defend your honor, sir, you do so until the last.”

  “But you have surrendered.”

  “I have not; you have merely seized my weapon.”

  “Sometimes it is wisest to accept defeat.”

  “I refuse to be defeated.”

  “Well, then, think of it this way: Those taken in battle must accept the victor’s conditions.”

  She started to argue further; no words escaped her lips, for his mouth formed over hers with a stark demand that both angered and aroused. The pressure of his body bore her down; she was keenly aware of the rough wool of his uniform against her flesh and the soft sweet musky scent of the water’s embankment beneath her. More than anything, she felt the hot fire of his mouth, the savage demand of his tongue, invading and caressing, brutal, sensual, violating, coaxing, stroking again….

  Then his hand curved around her breast, thumb against her nipple until she would have screamed with the sensation had she been able. She writhed with the encroaching whiplash of fire that seemed to dart through her, burning from those points where he touched her. His mouth flooded her body with warmth; his touch upon the naked flesh of her breast seared through her center and spiraled somewhere deep within her.

  She gasped for breath, digging her fingers into his hair as his mouth left hers to suckle her nipple where his thumb had teased. She tried to form words to protest, but her mind failed to oblige her and she continued to do nothing more than gasp and twist and writhe, tearing at his thick black hair, dismayed to realize even that touch seemed oddly sensual to her fingertips. His hand slid slowly along her side, curving around a hip. Slid between the two of them, and then between her legs. The pressure of his thumb slid intimately down through the triangle of blond hair, parting her, stroking the most sensitive and intimate of female places.

  She tensed like a jackknife, a scream forming in her throat. His mouth covered hers again with a frightening ardor and passion. She realized she’d not begun to estimate his strength until that moment when she lay pinned beneath him, realized his every movement was not guided by passion alone.

  She pressed her palms against the hardness of his chest, but the force of his weight was such he didn’t begin to feel her protest. Nor could she cry out, for his kiss consumed her words. She twisted and writhed anew, on fire, seared by sensation, yet wild to escape the threatening pressure of his body. Her knees were thrust apart by a sudden supple movement of his body and the insistence of his weight. His chest and legs remained clad in wool; his hips were naked. She felt his hand and sex rubbing against her. A massive shudder swept through her. He burst into her with a single hard smooth thrust so knifing it instantly broke all barriers. She never screamed, for she could not. Involuntary tears of pain instantly pooled in her eyes. She clenched them tightly together, turning her head to her side as his lips broke from hers at last. She felt him looking down at her, just as she felt the fierce burning at the juncture of her legs. She wished fervently that she had the power to buck him off. She wished a giant bird would swoop down out of the sky and tear him from atop her—and perhaps tear him into little pieces in the bargain. She waited for him to apologize.

  He did not. He held still, watching her.

  He began to withdraw.

  Only to plunge into her again. She bit fiercely into her lower lip, then felt his hands on her face, drawing it forward. She opened her eyes and met his. Even as she managed at long last to croak out “No!” she felt herself somehow stilled by the cobalt fire in his gaze and rigid tension in his face. She tried to part her lips to speak again. But again his mouth formed over hers. Demanding still…

  Coaxing. Bringing liquid warmth.

  Slowly, the warmth of his mouth seemed to ignite the burning between her thighs. The heat remained; the agony began to still. She found herself enfolded in his arms, his hands sliding down the length of her back, forming over her buttocks, drawing her more flush against the increasing furious pulse of his thrusts within her. Her fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging. Pain faded to a dull throb. The burning was part agony, part pleasure. She prayed for it to end, yet something else had begun within her. Something she needed, something that was a different kind of ache. She hated his touch, his stroke, and yet…

  She yearned for it. She had wanted to escape it. Now she twisted and arched to feel it, to feel the growing sweetness pervading her.

  A rigor seemed to seize him; then a violent thrust brought him so deeply within her that she shuddered with the force of it. Then once again… and the mercury of his climax filled her anew with a sense of liquid, burning fire. And almost as instantly, he eased his weight from her, adjusted his Union-issue trousers, and lay staring up at the sky.

  Naturally, as a maturing young woman, she’d had her fantasies regarding men and women and love. And admittedly, they’d had to do with Peter O’Neill. But they’d never gone much further than pretty pictures of Peter on his knees, asking for her hand, rising to capture her lips in a blissful kiss while the sun shone down and the birds chirped melodiously.

  Never had this particular picture—herself lying naked in the woods, hair entangled with grass and leaves— entered into the realm of imagination.

  Yet she lay perfectly still for an instant, sorely pained, humiliated, and suddenly, with his body warmth gone, quite cold.

  Then Ian’s deep voice broke the stillness that had settled over the night as he mused contemplatively, “So you hadn’t slept with him … as yet.”

  She rolled over and socked him hard in the stomach. She had to get away from him. He hadn’t had a chance to tense his muscles. He cursed, leaping to his feet, but a second too late, as she sped past him to dive into the pool, desperate to ease the pain in her body and soul.

  By the night, the fresh spring water was wickedly cold. She surfaced with her teeth chattering, half afraid that he had dived after her. He hadn’t. He stood by the pool’s edge, watching her, her gown and robe in his hands.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded crossly.

  “Swimming… bathing!”

  “Get out.”

  “Go away.”

  “Get out! It’s very late now. And if you think I’m leaving you here, Alaina, you’re insane. Get out here.”

  “Not yet. I—”

  “All the water in the world will not wash today away. Get out here.”

  She was freezing, so she determined to comply. Shivering, she emerged a distance from him, only to realize that he had her clothing. She twisted the length of her hair, wringing the water from it as he came impatiently to her.

  “I’ll help you dress.”

  “I don’t want your help.”


  “Madam, it’s undressing with which you don’t seem to need assistance.”

  “McKenzie, I will find a way to best you! I’m telling you, I don’t want help.”

  “But you need it.”

  She could either accept his assistance or lose her clothing, so it seemed. He helped her. The ties on her sheer ivory robe were slit; naturally the robe fell open. She grasped it together, spinning away from him, trying again to escape him. But again he stopped her with a firm grip upon her arm.

  “Alaina, where do you think you’re going?”

  She stood stubbornly still, staring at him, then allowed her lashes to fall.

  “Back to that hated house and my hated room?” he queried softly. He caught hold of her chin and raised it so that their eyes met. His voice grew more harsh. “Alaina, what did you think? We were married today. It wasn’t what you wanted; it wasn’t what I wanted. It was what was necessary. But it’s done now, and if you didn’t realize it yourself, I gave you fair warning that I wasn’t the type of man to courteously refrain from sleeping with the woman I had married.”

  “Oh, indeed, you did do me the great favor of marrying me!” she cried. “Other respectable men wouldn’t have married the botanist’s wild daughter, but you’re the great Ian McKenzie, and you do know your duty!”

  “I did what was necessary,” he said, eyes narrowing. “But have it as you will; this marriage was forced upon us both. I’ll be damned if I’ll be denied what small pleasures might be wrested from it.”

  “Small pleasures… Oh!” She wanted to strike him again; but he was far too prepared for a wild attack by her right now. She spun around, wanting to run back to the house ahead of him just to have a few minutes’ respite. His hand was on her.

  His damned hand. Swinging her back around with a sudden, savage force. “Ian—”

  “We go back together, Mrs. McKenzie.”

  “No, Ian, I just—”

  Despite her protest, he swung her up in his arms and started through the moonlit forest trail. “We go back together, just like any married couple.”

  She looked up into the set, grim lines of his face. “We are just like any normal couple,” she seethed. “The husband drinks a bottle of whiskey with his good friends, then ravishes his wife. Isn’t that customary?”

  She was startled to see a wry smile slip into his features.

  “How nice. I hadn’t begun to imagine anything so charmingly usual and domestic when we stood at Reverend Dowd’s this afternoon.”

  She let out a soft oath of impatience. His arms tightened around her, and she realized that he had come to a halt at the edge of the lawn, looking back on the house.

  “So you hate Cimarron,” he breathed. “What a pity, my love, that you must hate your home.”

  If she weren’t quite so bogged down in her own bruised torment, she would have told him that she had lied before to hurt him, that she loved Cimarron. The house was beautiful, the epitome of grace.

  But she was hurt.

  “It’s your home, not mine.”

  “Oh?” he queried.

  “My home is on the bay.”

  “Your home is now where I choose it to be,” he told her curtly, walking again. He paused once more, and she realized they were just below the balcony area that led to his room.

  “Perhaps, in the future, it will have to be somewhere without rose trellises,” he muttered, and started walking again.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  “Through the front door. It is my home,” he told her.

  “But what if—”

  “If someone sees us? Why, we’re behaving like your customary young newlyweds. I doused myself in whiskey with my friends and ravished you by the pool. And now…” he paused with a shrug.

  “Now what?” she asked worriedly.

  “I imagine that in my attempts to be a good husband, I’ll have to drink more whiskey, alone, I’m afraid—my very good friends all seem to have gone to bed for the night at last. So let me see … I douse myself in whiskey, and then…” His cobalt eyes had a hard, devilish glitter to them as he gazed down at her. “And then ravish my poor, downtrodden bride—inside the house this time. Whether you despise Cimarron and my room within it or not, Mrs. McKenzie, it seems that my bed is destined to become a place you’ll have to learn to love.”

  “Ian, please…”

  “What?”

  His gaze, sharp as an icicle, fell upon her. She tried to speak. “I need to be alone. I… you…” she stuttered.

  An odd sensation of warmth swept through her; she couldn’t go on. He entered the house through the front door, but they met no one in the breezeway, nor as he carried her up the stairs to the second story. Moonlight spilled through the open French doors. Embers still crackled in the hearth against the spring night’s chill. The room was illuminated in a mix of the ivory moonlight and the red touch of the fire. It was a very handsome room. But a masculine room. His room.

  Dear God, but she wanted to run. To understand what had happened without feeling his arms imprisoning her. Without the sound of his voice invading her. Without his touch….

  “McKenzie, put me down. Now.”

  She spoke desperately, but it sounded more like she was screaming as he obligingly dropped her. She’d been dropped down to the comfort of his bed.

  She could see his features clearly; despite the dim light, shadows touched his face. She knew that he stared down at her, that he stood with an angry tension—created, perhaps, by the sound of her voice—knotting his fingers into his palms so that his hands were fists at his sides, and despite herself, she gasped softly, cringing from him.

  She swallowed hard, trying to remain perfectly still, thinking that he would reach down with force and wrench her close again.

  But he didn’t.

  He didn’t touch her.

  He just stared a moment longer. And she was disturbed by something that sounded like a contemptuous sniff.

  Then, to her amazement, he turned and walked away. His door opened.

  And closed.

  And he was gone.

  Chapter 7

  The intelligent, comfortable thing to do—in lieu of controlling his temper and remaining in his own room—would have been to sleep in his brother’s room. He chose not to. Not only would his brother be there, but his cousins as well, and he wasn’t up to whatever torture they might devise to taunt him regarding the state of his affairs.

  He chose the stables, taking another whiskey bottle from the cabinet in his father’s den, then finding a comfortable spot in the hay in Pye’s stall. He drank enough whiskey to sleep rather quickly—and awaken with a blazing headache. Then, to his dismay, as his eyes opened at last, he discovered his father’s butler, Jeeves—as hard, straight, ancient, and wise as a stick of old ebony—along with Lilly, staring at him where he had slept.

  “There he is. The bridegroom,” Lilly said.

  Jeeves arched a brow. “Happy man.”

  “I tried to warn him that he dare not play with that white witch! Ah, see the consequences.”

  “Lilly, the consequences occurred because I didn’t play with the white witch, as you would call Mrs. Trehorn,” Ian said sourly. “Now, if you two don’t mind—”

  “Now, you know, Major McKenzie, we don’t mind a thing—being the servants, of course,” Jeeves told him. “But your father is in the dining room and has asked to see you when you awaken. I imagine your father-in-law will want to see you, too, eh?”

  Ian groaned softly, leaning his head against the wood of Pye’s stall. Pye skittered uneasily, not liking the company of others at all.

  Jeeves was almost like having a third parent. He wasn’t just black, he was ebony, but he wasn’t a slave, and though he had a been a slave at one time, he hadn’t been one in a very long time. He had watched out for the McKenzies with a stern eye since they had been young children. He didn’t think of himself as a servant at all; he was family, and everyone knew it.

>   “I’m sure that my father is righteously angry, yet it is Teddy I dread to face,” Ian murmured.

  “You’ve faced both men already; I think they are both concerned with your plans for the future. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a bath in the kitchen,” Jeeves said.

  Ian stood. His head spun. “Fine. Thank you.”

  Lilly sniffed. “I’ll get him clean clothing. Had the young master just stayed in that room when he should have done so…”

  Ian stood carefully, eyeing her sternly. “Indeed? And come to blows at my father’s birthday party with that fool Alfred Ripply?” Ian inquired.

  Lilly didn’t look at him; she hadn’t been around quite long enough to earn the place Jeeves had within the family. “Now, I’m no one, of course, but it does seem to me that Alfred Ripply’s ideas are the popular ones hereabouts. It might be wise if the major were to learn to keep silent about his opinions.”

  Ian paused, then shook his head. “I cannot form my political opinions by what is considered popular. Excuse me, Lilly.”

  Ian brushed past her, irritated by the tsking sound she made beneath her breath. He hurried to the house, plucking hay from his uniform. He happened to pause, looking up to his balcony.

  Alaina was there. Blanching to pale white as she saw him below, drawing twigs of hay from his jacket. He paused, hands on hips, and stared at her. He was certainly scowling fiercely, since his head seemed to be splitting. She returned his stare briefly, before spinning about to retreat back into his room. He went on into the kitchen, where his bath awaited.

  Lilly had brought him civilian clothing, black cotton breeches and a white shirt. He bathed and dressed quickly, anxious to be done before his parents, a sibling, or a stray guest might come upon him. He paused at the dining room door, seeing that Teddy McMann was the only occupant within the room at that time.

  “Good morning, Teddy,” he said quietly. He entered the room. Lilly came in behind him, ready to offer him coffee, which he needed quite badly.