Rebel (19 page)

He laughed softly. “We must.”

“Why?” she demanded, eyes wide and flashing.

“Why?” The question gave him pause; she had voiced it in earnest.

“Because… making love is what husbands and wives do.”

“Making love is more frequently what husbands and mistresses do, so it appears in life!” she exclaimed.

She was angry, he thought. Angry—because he had wounded her tremendous pride today. He hadn’t done so intentionally, yet the fire burning in her now made her all the more tempting. He wanted her; he’d married her.

He’d be damned if he’d ever be such a fool as to sleep in the hay again.

He shook his head, and gently curled a tendril of her hair around his finger. “Sex is one reason men marry; it is a craving, a hunger, and I promise you, you will realize that it is so for your fairer—if not gentler—sex just as it is for us.”

Her eyes clouded. “Ian, your hunger is not for me.”

“You’re quite mistaken. What goes on between men and women, husbands and wives, can be exceptionally beautiful. And yet … a weapon as well. We’ll not use it so.”

She shook her head, but stared at him and must have seen both the amusement and determination in his eyes. She threw her arms out to her sides with exasperation, eyes furiously defying his. “Fine. Fine. Just do whatever you so choose!” she cried out dramatically.

His smile deepened. “I intend to,” he assured her.

Yet staring down at her, he suddenly remembered words Peter had used to describe her: ripe, lush. It galled him to think of Peter and Alaina.

Lush…

The valley between her breasts. He lowered his head and brushed her flesh there with his lips first, then the tip of his tongue, drawing a hot, liquid line between them.

Ripe…

Her breasts themselves. His mouth traveled to cover a dusky rose nipple, tongue sweeping around it, flicking the peak. His head against her chest, he could feel the thunder of her heart. She lay so perfectly still, not protesting, not moving. He rose slightly above her. Her eyes were squeezed shut; her face was pale, her lips just
slightly parted, her breath sweeping quickly in and out. He smiled, pressed his lips to her throat. Cupped her breast into his palm, caressed it again with his tongue and the gentle edge of his teeth. He drew his hand down the length of her, so sensually enticed that he forgot for a moment who she was, and even that she was his wife. He savored the slim and so beautifully curved length of her, stroking, touching, moving against her. Her flesh burned as soft as silk against his own; he felt her vibrantly with his fingertips and limbs, felt each curve with the fullness of his body. He rose above her again, taking her lips. Her eyes were still clenched, but her mouth parted to his coaxing, and he hesitated just a moment as humor tempered the fever within him. He moved his mouth seductively upon hers; he eased his weight to her side to allow him the freedom to know her, kissing her all the while with a deceptively soft, slow, tender thoroughness while the questing touch of his fingers roamed as lightly over her body. His mouth grew bolder, tongue delving, raking, plundering, drawing a little whimper from her throat. His touch became far more invasive as well, palm rotating over the soft blond triangle between her thighs. A needful throbbing began within his own flesh. He slipped his hand between her thighs; she started to clench them together. He shifted his weight, forcing her limbs apart with the weight of his own body. His sex, fully erect, teased the tender flesh of her femininity and he heard a sudden, wild intake of her breath. Her eyes flew open with sudden awareness and defiance; she trembled fiercely, staring at him, then closed her eyes again, going rigid.

The dutiful wife. She didn’t fight; she endured.

He smiled, watching her for long seconds. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow. She lay so perfectly still….

He inched lower, once again creating liquid trails of kisses against her throat and breasts. Fondling her flesh, suckling it. Inching still lower, cradling her breasts while drawing his mouth against her ribs, waist, and navel. Inching still. Lying directly between her thighs. Staring at her pale face briefly before parting her with his fingers and plunging into the most intimate kiss with the seductive
caress of his mouth and the searing liquid impalement of his tongue.

Her eyes flew open; a desperate, stunned gasp escaped her. She wriggled to free herself, and did nothing but bring herself more tightly against him. He caught her hands, his fingers curling against them as he continued to caress and seduce, feeling the wild trembling and surge within her that created an explosive fire in himself. Her every twist and buck further inflamed him until he throbbed with an agonizing pain; still he persisted, drawing her as high as he dared.

He rose over her at last, thrusting into her with fevered passion. A choked sobbing sound escaped her; her eyes were open, dazed, unfocused upon his. Her palms fell against his chest, then her fingers curled into his shoulders. She lay shaking, then clinging to him as he wrapped her tightly against him, pressing ever more deeply into her. The sight, feel, and scent of her was intoxicating, scarcely bearable. He fought to control his pace until…

Her body tightened, constricted. Face pressed to his shoulder, she cried out and her limbs went limp; searing, liquid warmth gloved his sex as he moved deeply within her.

He thrust and shuddered violently, amazed at the explosive force her climax had drawn from him in turn. Wickedly delicious heat seared throughout him and he finished, moving again, and again, more gently within her, until she, too, was filled with the mercury of their lovemaking. He eased himself to her side, drawing her against him. She stiffened; he persisted. He inhaled the rich scent of her hair.

And remembered with sudden raw clarity that he had told Teddy he could take his daughter home when Ian’s leave was done.

Could he leave her? Could he endure to do so, now, when he had just discovered the ferocity of the heat she could create in him? He stroked her hair. She tried to pull away, and he realized she was sobbing softly.

At a complete loss, he firmly pressed her to her back so that he could meet her eyes. “What? By God, I know that I didn’t hurt you.”

“Ian, please!” she whispered, cat-gold eyes shimmering.
The sound of her voice was earnest; no playacting now. “Please, just—”

He touched her cheek. “Alaina, I’m not a fool, and I’m not stupid, and I do admit to a certain amount of experience! I caused you no pain. In fact, I dare say that you enjoyed what passed between us.”

“Oh, you will never understand!” she cried.

Puzzled, he allowed her to turn away from him. He leaned up on an elbow, stroking the length of her spine with the back of his hand. She trembled at his touch.

“You just take… everything!” she whispered to him.

He smiled, feeling the budding of a new tenderness for her rising within him. She wouldn’t have been angry or hurt now if she hadn’t responded to him.

“Alaina, you’re my wife.”

“It’s still wrong; you don’t… love me.”

“Ah, and there it is! Well, dear wife, you don’t love me, either,” he murmured. He felt his body tighten with irritation, wondering if she hadn’t dreamed of such feelings in the arms of a different man. That thorn in his side.

But she wasn’t trying to be hateful; she was just young, and new to the games of love.

He rolled her back to him determinedly. For once, her gold eyes were open and vulnerable, her delicate face was simply beautiful, her cheeks were damp with tears. “We have married, Alaina, for better or worse. You are my wife. Circumstances were not, perhaps, what they should have been, but I am frankly pleased to have discovered what I have in this bed of mine you do so detest. Marriage is a commitment, and you are married to me. So I beg you, find peace with it. I have done so already.”

Her lashes fell upon her cheeks. “Tell, me, was your peace found here—or in the hay?” she whispered miserably.

He hesitated, wondering how much power he dared give this woman over him. He touched her cheek, brushing her silken flesh ever so softly. “I slept with no companion other than Pye; most uncomfortably so. And I have spent this day with my kin, and my kin alone. Does that make what we’ve done any more acceptable?” Her eyes opened to his again. “I…”

“Well?”

Her lashes fluttered again. “Yes,” she said very softly.

Ian smiled, easing down beside her. He drew her close. The fire burned low; the night air cooled them. She reached for the covers. He warmed her again with his body. Touched her, stroked her.

Made love again. Rested, sated, for a time.

In sleep, she shifted against him. He cupped her buttocks with his hands, curved to her length. The feel of her brought him to a full hard erection again, and he slipped in her. Made love.

Dawn came, and with it, a heavy sleep at last. Full daylight filled the room when he awoke. She was just rising. He caught her sleepy gold gaze, shook his head, pulled her back. “Not yet,” he whispered.

“Ian, it’s late in the day!”

But her protest was weak.

And he did not allow her to rise.

James and Teela McKenzie, along with Brent Land Sydney, left that afternoon. James had business in Tampa, then they’d be leaving for Charleston.

Jarrett McKenzie was sorry to see his brother, sister-in-law, nephew, and niece leave. It was a difficult parting.

Somehow, when they had been younger—half-brothers, one white, one Indian—they had managed to fight the rest of the world. Through the long years of the Second Seminole War, they had remained close. Not even the new flare-up of trouble in ’58 had caused the least difficulty between them.

Now Jarrett discovered either himself or James growing quiet when discussions regarding the possibility of war arose.

And as they said good-bye on the river that day, they looked into one another’s eyes. Oddly, James, the Seminole son, had their father’s deep blue eyes. Jarrett’s own were his mother’s—as nearly black as those of any full-blooded Indian in the country.

Jarrett felt his heart slam against his chest. He was getting old. In his fifties. Much of life spent. Funny, he didn’t feel old. The world changed around him, but he didn’t feel old. And certainly they didn’t look old. James hadn’t seemed to change a bit in all these years. Not in
appearance. His bronzed face showed little signs of age. Just a trace of silver was beginning to touch his temples. Only James’s eyes were old, and Jarrett was certain that same sense of age was reflected in his own.

If war came, they’d be on opposite sides. And Jarrett knew then with a sinking heart he’d be on the wrong side, according to most of his own people. “Take care on your trip,” Jarrett told James. James stepped away from him, slipping an arm around Teela’s shoulders. Jarrett thought that there was a trace of tears in his sister-in-law’s beautiful emerald eyes. Teela was a strong woman; she’d been willing to brave any danger to be with James. After difficult beginnings for them all—he and Tara, James and Teela—they’d been blessed. For over twenty years, their lives had been good. They’d had children, and their children were healthy and strong. Friendships had formed between them to augment the closeness of their blood ties. No family had ever been more supportive of one another.

And yet…

The future loomed before them in a frightening manner.

“For once, brother,” James told him with a trace of amusement, “I think that I can say I’m going to be all right. Jarrett, you have to be careful about voicing your philosophies.”

Jarrett might have replied, but he chose not to in front of so many people. “As father liked to say: I’ll do my best to behave—as honorably as I may.”

Despite the fact that the family laughed and joked easily while they awaited the barge by the river, a strange pall seemed to lie over them all. Jarrett and James discussed the roads that had been cut through the northern portion of the state, making transportation in that region so much better than it had been when they had first been blazing their own paths via old Indian trails. While the south remained a wilderness—still mainly inhabited by Indians and gators—northern Florida was gaining quite a population and all the amenities of any civilized state. The McKenzies exchanged embraces before the barge left, and those remaining behind watched and waved until it disappeared into the sunlit day.

That afternoon, Jarrett McKenzie had at last the opportunity for a long talk alone with his eldest son. With the barge gone, the remaining group split up. Teddy McMann drew his daughter along the river, excitedly studying the plants there. Jerome and Julian went walking down the quay, discussing the merits of Brent having taken up a practice near Charleston. Jarrett suggested Ian might indulge him and take a walk out to the pool.

They strode out together, speaking of casual things until they reached the fallen log by the pool. Jarrett drew a silver brandy flask from his frock coat pocket and offered it to his son. Then he took a seat on the log, folding his arms across his chest in a determined manner. “It’s definitely time we talked,” Jarrett said, and watched his son as Ian sipped from the flask, studying the crystal ripples of the water.

“As you say, Father.”

He was proud of his son. Jarrett had served in the military himself as a very young man, until Andy Jackson’s Indian policies had driven him to a stand on his own. But throughout his life, he’d had close ties with many military men. A good friend, Tyler Argosy, promoted last year to lieutenant general, had seen to lan’s entry to West Point, and served as lan’s mentor for years. It had been difficult for Jarrett to watch his son struggle with his conscience and his duty. Ian was against the military’s treatment of the Indians and would have resigned his newly gained commission if he had been assigned to Florida during the fighting of ’58; thankfully, he’d been assigned elsewhere. It was only in the last few months that he’d received the rank of major and been given a position as a guide and liaison for the army cartographers and surveying teams in the south of the state.

Yet Jarrett was damned well aware that though his son might have spent a fair amount of time with his uncle James recently, he hadn’t been near McMann’s daughter—until his arrival home. Now, in civilian clothing, standing very tall and dark in breeches, shirt and frock coat, Ian was a striking figure, his features strong, combining the best of both himself and Tara, Jarrett thought. He awaited his father’s questions with quiet dignity.