Rebel (11 page)

Mrs. Dowd’s brother-in-law—-ninety if he was a day, but tall, spritely, and cheerful—was standing at Mrs. Dowd’s side. Grinning, cupping his hand to his ear to make sure he heard all that was said properly.

It was all so unreal. Alaina even felt as if the room were filled with fog, as if she dreamed. For this could not be happening.

But it was happening. Ian spoke his vows in a clear, ringing voice.

Alaina barely managed to whisper her own.

They came to the part about a ring, she discovered that Ian had set a heavy signet ring onto her finger, one
that was naturally quite huge, and would have fallen off her if she hadn’t wound her fingers into her palm. Then Ian was being instructed to kiss his bride. Again, his fingers were nearly brutal as he lifted her chin. Oddly, his lips were fire…

Forming over her own, imparting a liquid force and heat that startled and seared her, and left her trembling as Ian’s mouth lifted from hers and he gave his attention back to details with Reverend Dowd.

Certainly they could borrow a horse. Their haste was fully understood. Their secret regarding the exact date of their marriage would be kept.

Within another five minutes, Alaina found herself mounted in front of Ian on a very handsome bay. And they were cantering at a steady gait back along the carriage trial that led from the Episcopal church back to Cimarron Hall.

Alaina felt his arms, and the fire that seemed to compose his body and limbs, and again she felt a strange, shimmering chill.

She had begun the day thinking herself in love with a man she now despised.

Oh, and it was true! What a naive fool she had been! She had started this all by shedding her clothing…

Dear, God, she would never do so again!

Because she was now ending the day…

Married to a hard, angry, man. A
compromised
man.

Ian McKenzie. A force. A power.

A man she had actually known most of her life, yet who was still a virtual stranger.

His arms tightened around her as they rode. The heat of his fire seemed to encompass her. She shivered all the more.

She looked up at the sky and saw that the sun was sinking. It appeared to be a fierce, blazing ball of oranges and golds upon the horizon. There was nothing so beautiful as a Florida sunset, and yet, Alaina thought…

It foretold the night.

And she was quite suddenly afraid of the darkness to come.

I
an was angry with himself.

Furious.

He was equally furious with her—naturally. Especially now, as she sat before him, skeins of golden hair free and tangling about his chest and face as they rode hard against the wind.

If she and Peter O’Neill had picked another time and place to play their games, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t be married to one woman, when he had been all but engaged to another.

Yet no matter how it infuriated him that Alaina McMann had shed her clothing in his pool, he couldn’t deny—to himself, at least—that they both might have been out of the water and decently clad before Peter and Lavinia had come upon them if he hadn’t been quite so consumed by the sight of her and so irrationally irritated to discover that so lush a beauty as Alaina had been seduced by so wretched an excuse for humanity as Peter O’Neill.

Had it been a strange form of jealousy? The time during which he had actually touched Alaina intimately had been brief; yet the impressions of all that he had felt were forever embedded in his memory. He thought wryly that God had created woman—and so man had wound up cast from Eden. How ironic, for God had created a perfection in Alaina McMann that was surely the worst temptation of man. Her breasts were firm, rounded globes, her waist was wasp thin, her hips flared. She was slender, but, dear God, was she shaped. Maybe that was why he had not recognized her. The last time he had seen Alaina, she had been reed-thin. A devilish little hoyden, running free on the sand. But he should have recognized her face, though her features, too, had
matured to a delicate beauty quite different from the time he had seen her last. Still, those eyes, those golden eyes, cat’s eyes… sensual eyes, taunting eyes. He had seen that beautiful blend of color only in her eyes. How had he forgotten?

Time.

And his irritation with Peter O’Neill.

Which had now damned them both to this charade, as Alaina had called it.

Well, just what had he intended? He still didn’t know, except that he’d been obsessed that they must marry, and determined that he must somehow force her to his will. He’d be damned if he’d let Peter O’Neill have the opportunity to slander him, or any of the McKenzies.

And as to Alaina, well, it was easy enough to twist her arm when her father was threatened. Still, he had rushed forward with little thought of the future; he’d only known that he’d not let Peter O’Neill return to Cimarron and destroy everyone there. Yet now the deed was done. He could mock himself. What now? He’d shackled himself to a woman O’Neill had known; perhaps she was still in love with Peter, despite Peter’s treatment of her. If she went near Peter, he thought with sudden fury, he’d slice them both to ribbons.

The thought suddenly astonished him, and he gave himself a furious shake. What in God’s name was the matter with him, that he could find himself seized by such overwhelming thoughts of violence?

“What now?” she whispered suddenly, and he realized that he had reined in at the lawn’s edge, that he just sat there waiting, feeling the last golden rays of the sun beat down upon them.

“Well, now, my love, we play out the charade,” he told her.

She twisted slightly, her face rising to his. Cat’s eyes questioning… perhaps just a little uncertain, delicate face strangely grave and very beautiful. He thought about the way she had teased and flirted on the lawn—and the cunning power with which she had bested her opponent at swordplay. A burning tension tormented the length of him, and for the first time since he had begun with this obsession, he reminded himself that she had grown into a rare beauty indeed, perhaps one of the
most beautiful women in all his acquaintance. Then he mocked himself, wondering if he hadn’t realized it all the time, if he hadn’t been as obsessed with the feel of her flesh, the curve of her breasts, as he had been with his fury against O’Neill.

Marriage.

A damned stiff payment for obsessive desire.

She looked forward again, long blond hair tousled from the ride and teasing his nose. He gritted his teeth and leaned low against her to whisper against her ear, “We face the barracudas.”

He felt a slight trembling within her.

“Afraid?” he mocked.

Her shoulders squared. She twisted again, cat’s eyes narrowed as they fell on his.

“Of what?” she demanded.

“Facing them all down.”

“No,” she assured him flatly.

“Ah, then, are you afraid of me?” he demanded.

“Never,” she assured him coolly, yet she looked quickly back to the house and he thought he felt the slightest trembling within her again….

He suddenly nudged his heels hard against his borrowed horse and they bolted across the lawn. One good thing, he thought: Alaina McMann could ride like the wind, swim like a fish, run like a deer. She was nature’s own child, her father’s daughter all the way.

He reined in at the house, leaped down from the horse, and reached up to help her down. Cat’s eyes touched his. He swept her down before him, close against him. She slid against the length of his body to the ground and he whispered to her, “Remember the game, my love.”

Rich honey lashes fell over her cheeks; she was still shaking. Whatever game he was playing, this was not so easy for her.

Was she in pain? Because of Peter O’Neill? The thought was enough to give anyone apoplexy.

He caught her hand. He gave her no more chance to protest, but drew her along with him into the house.

Cimarron was aglow. Lights blazed within; the exuberant sound of fiddles filled the night. As they stepped into the breezeway, Ian saw that the doorways to the parlor
and the library had been opened to the grand hall to create a massive ballroom of most of the downstairs. Guests danced, milled at a punch table, talked, flirted, teased—and argued.

Ian saw that gossip had preceded them home—but that his parents and Teddy McMann had apparently united against it. His mother and father stood together at the rear of the punch table. His mother was chatting away with Teddy. Teddy, his light blue eyes looking a bit lost, was valiantly trying to keep up with Tara and pretend that nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

Ian noted that though Peter stood by his newly announced fiancee, he was also close to the musicians. Peter whispered something to the men as Ian and Alaina walked in and the music came to an abrupt and jarring halt.

For a moment, they were frozen in an awkward tableau; fiddles remained poised, dancers remained upon the floor—and all eyes turned toward Ian and Alaina. Including those of Teddy McMann and lan’s parents. “Don’t you dare stand there looking guilty,” Ian warned Alaina.

“I’m not guilty!” she said indignantly.

His hand rested upon her back and he felt the stiffening of her spine. Good. They’d both need stiff spines to get through the night.

“Ian!”

His brother, Julian, younger than him by a bit more than a year and nearly his twin in appearance, suddenly came forward to greet him. They embraced one another warmly. As they drew apart, Ian grimaced, recognizing the light of pure devilment in Julian’s eyes.

Whatever was up, his brother surely intended to torment him in private. In public, Julian intended to stand by his side, and damn all those who would come between them.

Ian ignored the continued silence in the room and the stares focused upon him as many of Cimarron’s guests waited in both tense and delighted anticipation for what explosion might now erupt regarding the scandalous gossip that had been circulating the last few hours.

Ian spoke, greeting his brother with an enthusiastic
return, ignoring the rest of the room. “Julian, dear boy, but it’s good to see you. You do know Alaina—”

“Of course, how could I not know Alaina?” Julian said, his smile charming, his voice husky with admiration as he bowed over her hand to kiss it. “Alaina, you have grown into quite the most bewitching woman in all the state.”

Julian’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried—as it had been intended to do.

Alaina murmured a thank you. She was very stiff, and Ian became aware that she watched her father, and he saw the pain in her eyes.

Julian stepped closer to his brother. “Give me a lead here, Ian; I’ll follow.”

“Get the damned musicians to start up again,” Ian suggested softly. “And… and tell Father that I am sorry for any discomfort I have caused him, and that I must beg his understanding and indulgence in what I am about to do. I’ll speak with him as soon as I can suitably reach him.”

Julian arched a brow, as if he, like many others in the room, had been so drawn by the spectacle of Ian’s appearance with Alaina that he hadn’t realized the music had ceased. His lips curled slightly, and Ian was well aware his brother was anxious to know why he must ask their father’s indulgence.

But Julian spun around, catching the eye of the lead fiddler and lifting a hand in question. The fiddler hastened to comply with such a query from a son of the household.

The sweet, melodic sounds of a waltz suddenly filled the room once again. Ian bowed to Alaina and swept her into the dance. She moved with him quite easily, as naturally graceful on land as she was in water. Her small chin was tilted; her golden cat’s eyes blazed. “They are all staring; what are we accomplishing here? My poor father—”

“Your poor father will be just fine. Laugh, smile, pretend you are enjoying yourself. The gossips will soon have their due.”

“Will they? Listen! They talk so loudly, they must not even care that we hear.”

As they danced, Ian found himself smiling with grim
but genuine humor. Moving about the room, they indeed caught snatches of feveredly whispered conversation.

“Do you believe they’ve had the audacity to arrive together here?” demanded an old biddy.

“The very nerve of it!” replied her soldier partner.

‘Living in so savage a land, she has naturally been raised as little better than a savage….” That from a young Tampa mother.

“Teddy’s poor wife dead…” That from her husband.

“She’s a hussy …” An ugly old crone Ian was quite certain he didn’t even know.

“But for Ian to respond so, in his
father’s
house!” A dignified old soldier.

“There was talk of a
proper
marriage between Ian and a colonel’s daughter. …” A younger soldier.

“She bewitches men. …” A jealous old maid with a very large nose.

“But her father simply must accost him, do something!” Another elderly man, retired military from Tampa.

“It is quite deliciously awful!” one matron admitted to her balding partner. She caught Ian’s eyes on her; she flushed crimson, but met his stare for several seconds before backing down.

“Imagine, the McKenzies of Cimarron involved in so sordid an affair!” She said with a loud sniff as they danced away.

He saw that his brother had reached Jarrett and Tara and given his message. He gave his brother a barely perceptible nod, which Julian easily read. He moved across the room nimbly, ducking amid the dancers, to reach Ian’s side once again. “May I?” he inquired politely to Alaina.

Her golden eyes touched Ian’s, but she readily slipped into Julian’s arms.

Perhaps far too readily, Ian thought irritably. But he moved quickly through the crowd to the place by the punch table where his parents stood with Teddy McMann. He knew that the buzz of gossip about the room grew as he addressed his mother, father, and Teddy, but he kept his voice low. He’d be damned if he’d add fuel to the fire. “Father, Mother, Dr. McMann, I wish to make an announcement tonight, and ask that
you will all stand by my side—and that of your daughter, sir,” he said to Teddy. “Most assuredly, you have heard what gossip has been intended for your ears by now, and I pray that your belief in both Alaina and me has allowed you to keep faith in us despite it.”