Rebel (18 page)

He wasn’t drunk, Alaina ascertained, but he’d definitely been imbibing. He pulled out the chair she had just vacated, urging her back to it. “Sit, my darling. And Sydney, perhaps you’d be so good as to keep us company.”

“Actually,” Sydney said, “it’s late. I think that I should go to bed—”

“Sit, Sydney, and finish your drink.”

Sydney uneasily took a seat again. Ian poured himself a whiskey, studied the color of it in his glass, and sat upon the desk. He smiled somewhat grimly at them both. “Cheers, ladies. Now, Sydney, do go on. You’re Alaina’s best friend in the world, and you know all about her being in love with … ?”

Sydney sat very still, returning his stare in miserable silence.

“Well?” Ian pursued.

“Stop it!” Alaina told him. “You’ve no right to be cruel to Sydney.”

“Sydney can take care of herself,” Ian said sharply.

“I was madly in love with Peter O’Neill,” Alaina snapped. “That’s what she was about to say.”

Sydney gasped, then quickly recovered. “Ian, you’ve been out all day; I thought someone should entertain your new
wife
—”

“Well, thank you, little cousin,” Ian said huskily, studying his drink once again. His eyes fell firmly upon Sydney. “But I’m here to entertain her now.”

Sydney flushed and came swiftly to her feet. She started out of the room and Alaina was furious, ready to go to battle against Ian over his curt behavior to his cousin. But before Sydney had reached the door, Ian called her back.

“Little cousin.”

Sydney paused, looking back to him.

Ian rose and walked to her. He hugged her very gently. Sydney was stiff for a minute, then hugged him back, and Alaina realized at that moment that Sydney was probably almost as close to him as his own sister, and that there was something special that bonded all the McKenzies. No matter how good a friend Alaina was to Sydney, they weren’t bound by blood. She remained on the outside.

Even as Ian’s wife.

Sydney offered Alaina a grimace of encouragement behind Ian’s back. “Good night!” she said softly.

And fled the room.

Ian closed the door quietly in her wake, slid the bolt, and turned. Back against the door, he crossed his arms over his chest and faced Alaina.

Posed by his desk, she returned his stare. “McKenzie, you’ve been gone all day. Under the circumstances, you’re not welcome now.”

“Really?” he inquired, amused.

“Indeed, sir,” she continued, growing nervous at his presence despite herself. “You performed the great sacrifice of marriage—then went on to completely humiliate me before your family and my father.”

“I was missed?” he inquired softly.

“I imagine my father noted your absence.”

“Did you?”

“You were rude—”

“A social slight most assuredly punishable by hanging.”

“A pity they can’t hang you.”

He smiled. “Ah, but society be damned, my love. Did
you
miss me? Had I known that you were yearning to spend time with me, I would have made every effort to be more available.”

“Perhaps I should remind you that you were the one to force me to realize the gravity of the situation which brought our marriage about. Appearances caused this travesty. You could have made an appearance today!”

“Ah. Alas, my love, you insisted that I leave you be-but now you’re angry that I did so.”

She cried out her frustration. “Damn you! Go back and sleep in the hay!” she hissed.

“Ah,” he murmured.

She moved around the desk, putting its bulk between the two of them. “I mean it, Ian. You’ve no right to torment me when you choose to … to …”

“Sleep in the hay?”

He left the door and started walking toward her.

“Ian, this is very serious.”

“Indeed it is.” He reached the desk. He’d been out somewhere, she thought. Drinking, though how much, she had no idea. Riding, she was certain. He carried the mingled scents of fine leather polish, brandy, and tobacco.

The desk remained between them. His eyes were very dark and sharp as he surveyed her, and his lip curled with a strange curve of amusement. She lifted her chin determinedly. “Ian, you’re about to go back to the military. There’s really very little time now that we need play out this charade. I can go home—”

“You are home—now,” he said softly.

She ignored that. “There are places I’m quite certain you’d rather be—”

“I’ve already been many places.”

“So I’m aware.”

“There is nowhere else at this moment I’ve any desire to be.”

“Fine. I’ve no idea where you’ve been or what was so important that you had to make such a pathetic fool of me, but I mean this with my whole heart; leave me alone.”

“Madam, I suggest you quit dictating to me.”

“Fine! Go back to the hay, go straight to hell. I don’t give a damn where you go….”

Despite her best efforts to remain calm and rational, she was losing her temper. But the arch of his brow and the sharp glitter in his eyes was suddenly unnerving. She had to control her temper and behave in a reasonable, dignified manner.

“Ian, this is becoming quite ridiculous. There is no reason for us to be enemies.”

“I haven’t come to fight,” he informed her. But there was an edge to his tone.

He’d fight, all right.

“Ian, I’ve had a wretched day. If you come any closer to me, I swear by God, I promise that I will make you wretched, I will fight—”

“Fight your lawfully wedded husband?” he mocked, eyes narrowing.

“Ian, really, now …”

“Really, now, yes, indeed, my beloved—wife?”

He suddenly leaned across the desk; she found her wrist imprisoned in his grasp. Before she could protest or wrench free, he was around the desk in a lightning-swift movement.

He’d been drinking, yes. She was suddenly afraid of the volatility of his mood.

But he wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t drunk at all. She saw that in his eyes as he swept her up despite her sputtering protests. He held her tightly in his arms. She strained against his hold to no avail. He cast her down upon the bed, bracing against it, his palms flat upon the bed on either side of her head. He stared at her with a barely constrained anger, eyes seeming to rip into her as he spoke at last. “I’ll be damned if I’m sleeping in the hay again. Tonight, I’m sleeping here, in my room, in my house, with my wife. Your current feelings on the matter are quite irrelevant to me; accept the situation or fight it—and me—it makes no difference.”

He pushed himself away from the bed and seemed to tower over her. “There will be but one outcome for this marriage tonight. I will have my way—and my wife.”

S
he could be the most exasperating human being Ian had ever come in contact with: willing to fight when all hope of any purpose was gone, and never, never willing to accept defeat in any way, shape, or form.

And yet…

If he weren’t still plagued with guilt regarding Risa, he wouldn’t be entirely displeased. And if he didn’t remain quite so infuriated with Alaina regarding the entire Peter O’Neill incident…

Then what?

She was beautiful. Gathering herself against the bedstead, looking up at him warily, Alaina was beautiful. With her cat-gold eyes, sun-silk hair, and slim yet curvacious form, she was stunning. He had married her with a prayer that she wasn’t carrying O’Neill’s child; he’d been almost ridiculously pleased to discover that she had been as innocent as any young woman in their society who might have been brought up in the strictest home under a careful mama’s ever-watchful eye. And still…

She was accustomed to doing whatever she pleased, however dangerous it might be. And he was sick to death of hearing that she’d been in love with a swaggering, useless braggart like O’Neill. He still wanted to tear Peter O’Neill to shreds.

Perhaps it had been rude to stay away the entire day. But a streak of pained nostalgia had seized hold of him, and it had seemed important to spend the time with his kin—and away from the bride who played such havoc with both his temper and his passions.

Admittedly, he had spent a fair amount of time consumed with guilt because of Risa.

He was going to have to face her. What would he tell her? How would he explain?

Alaina had taken her place…

Alaina. Who was in love with Peter and ready to fight her new husband to the death for the honor he had fought to preserve!

They’d spent the day out in one of the old Indian cabins near Cimarron—Ian, James, Julian, Jerome, and Brent. Ian’s father had joined them eventually and they had drunk brandy and talked and laughed about the old days. James and Jarrett had reminisced about the war; they had all laughed about fishing incidents, Ian’s first encounter with a gator, the beauty of everything around them. The day had been good; but Ian still felt a strange pain, and it didn’t help to have this shrew he had acquired—no matter how beautiful—telling him to go sleep in the hay.

Yet as he watched her, she intrigued him, for she began playing a new act. She scrambled up and sat rigidly as she stared at him, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them, hair billowing freely down her back in long, thick waves the color of a brilliant sun. That angelic shade framed her delicate face; her small chin was lifted high.

“Ian?”

“No.”

“No, what?” she flared. “I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“No, I’m not leaving. You can fight from here until the peninsula sinks.”

“You don’t understand. I’m really, really tired.”

“Oh?” he queried with some amusement, turning away from her and sitting at his desk to pull off his boots. Her voice was no longer defiant. It definitely carried a note of hauteur, but it was somewhat pleading as well.

She nodded earnestly. “I mean, you must admit, it’s been an eventful two days. Tired can’t begin to describe how I feel. I’m actually exhausted….” her voice trailed off with a slight catch as she watched him rise, doff jacket and shirt, and then breeches. Her eyes rose to his, faltering only once to take in the length of his naked body, widening, riveting back to his face. She was beautifully flushed against the pure white cotton of the embroidered nightgown she wore tonight, and he knew that she
had ascertained in her quick sweep of his anatomy that he had come in definitely intending to keep her awake awhile.

And tonight, maybe she hoped not to have to fight him because she knew she couldn’t win. She meant to use other tactics now—appealing to his sensibilities as a gentleman?

“Ian, you’re not listening to me. Really, I’m so desperately tired,” she informed him.

“Ah… vigorous physical activity helps sleep,” he told her.

“I’ve had sufficient vigorous physical activity already, thank you!” she snapped.

He couldn’t help but smile. Nor did he intend to let her off the hook in the least. “You’re a newlywed, my love. Newly weds never sleep until dawn.”

If he hadn’t seen the swift calculations going on in her mind, he might have been swayed by her sudden tears.

“Ian… it’s been a difficult day. I’m… I’m hurt…” she said, forcing two liquid tears to pool in her eyes. “Last night was new to me, you must understand—”

He strode to the bed, arms crossed over his chest as he stared down at her. “You’re in no physical pain— I’d say that’s quite evident. And as far as your delicate emotional state, I thought you were suffering last night when I saw those sweet little tears on your cheeks. The next thing I knew—despite my warnings—you were crawling down a rose trellis to meet Peter O’Neill.”

“I didn’t go to meet him!” she cried.

“Right. You went to escape me—and this room.”

She let out an oath of irritation, then met his eyes. He saw a pulse ticking wildly at her throat, and he was both startled and aroused to realize that she was fighting both him—and herself. She was afraid—not so much of what he would do, but of what she might feel. He brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “There’s an old expression, my love, and I’ve told you it will hold true. You make your bed, you lie in it. Well, Mrs. McKenzie, this is the bed.”

“And I’m a
small
pleasure.”

He started to laugh, coming to another realization. He had offended her. He tilted her chin upward. “Mmm…

well, as you said, it was all rather new for you. I imagine you’ll be an excessive pleasure this time.”

She jerked her chin free from his touch. “Ian—”

“Alaina, you’re not going to talk me out of sleeping with you tonight.”

She scowled furiously, keeping her eyes averted from the length of him at her side. “There’s a whiskey bottle on your desk,” she said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to summon your kin up here for a few more drunken toasts to start off the night?”

“Are you sure you’re not wishing I could summon Peter O’Neill up here?”

“Perhaps it would be better to have an adoring married lover than a bitter autocrat of a husband!” she told him, and made a move to leap from the bed.

He caught her wrist. “You have what you’re getting,” he told her warningly.

“I’m just getting the whiskey bottle.”

“I don’t need any whiskey. And I think it only fair to warn you that I am heartily sick of hearing about your mad devotion to Peter O’Neill.”

“And I am heartily sick of you thinking that you can— that you have the right to walk in here whenever you so please and make demands. Let me go! Fair is fair. I need quite a bit of whiskey!”

He shook his head firmly. “What you need is to be very aware of the fact that you have
married
me.”

She wrenched free from him and started to spring from the bed. She was very fast. So was he. He lunged across the bed and caught the sleeve of her gown. He heard the rending of fabric and became entangled in the gown as it tore from her torso and held fast against her limbs. He straddled her as she lay trapped, breathing far too quickly, her pulse hammering against her throat. A tiny blue vein was just barely visible in the ivory flesh of her breast. Her eyes were brilliantly gold in the room’s dying firelight as they met his; like a cat it seemed she flexed her claws as her hands and nails pressed against his chest.

“Must we do this again?” she whispered.