Rebel (22 page)

Experimented.

Her hand rubbed over the length of him in an instinctive stroke. Her fingers feathered his flesh within the water. He groaned deeply, gutturally, as she reached lower, cupping and caressing his testicles, delicately hesitant, more and more surely….

He forgot to tread water. They pitched downward. He caught her shoulders, drawing them both back up. A few hard kicks brought them to the embankment, and he swiftly had her upon her back. His kiss was nearly violent as his mouth found hers; his touch plundered the dips and curves of her body, savoring the heat of her flesh beneath the chill of the water droplets upon her. He began to kiss, caress… lick them from her… her breasts, the hollows at her hips, her thighs, between them. …

The harsh intake of her breath brought him over her again. Her eyes met his, dazed, golden, and somehow still challenging. Her fingers stroked his hair; her lips met and melded with his in a fiery explosion in which she gave all the tempest she received. Her fingers arched into his shoulders, stroked his back, his buttocks, his chest. Her nails raked, then her hand closed over him again as the searing sweet heat of her kisses rained upon his chest….

An agony of desire shot through him; he pressed her back, surged into her. The sun falling from the sky became a blood-red passion that burned into the landscape, and into their flesh. Beneath him, she met the tempest of his rhythm, rode the lightning of his hunger.

The sun fell into the earth with a last burst of fiercely glowing rays. He felt a trembling within her, sweetly volatile, and cradled her hard against him, easing his weight from her, as the darkness came and the night blanketed over them. She lay very still against him, the heat of their bodies still warming them. He lay there, surprised by the tenderness he felt toward her as she lay so trust-
ingly against him. He smoothed back her damp hair in a gentle, lulling motion, watching the night take over the sky.

Apparently, his motion was indeed lulling, he thought moments later, with a certain wry amusement.

He had lulled her right to sleep.

His last night…

It didn’t matter. He was content, for the moment, to feel her length against his. Her hair, drying, blew softly against his chest in delicate tendrils.

He did his best to let her lie against him as comfortably as possible, trying not to disturb her. His arms gently encircled her.

The botanist’s wild, wicked… innocent daughter.

His wife.

Alaina opened her eyes and realized that it was night—and that she was sprawled atop her husband.

He wasn’t sleeping, she realized, but gazing into the night. She was suddenly grateful for the shadows that lay upon them.

Yet the night, in darkness, began to grow chill. Where his body covered hers, Alaina remained warm. Where it did not, she was cold. She still felt shaken, trembling inside. It was so frightening to feel such a violent, desperate sensation. She remained amazed by the way he could make her feel, by the strength of emotions awakened in her through this intimacy that still seemed so new, so strange. Each time he made love to her, she thought at first that he demanded what she didn’t want to give, but she was wrong. Somewhere in the midst of it, things had changed. Now it seemed that the sound of his voice could stir a warmth within her, the lightest brush of his fingers could ignite a burning, and when he pressed her down against the earth, she was desperately willing to feel the heat of his desire forever. She didn’t like the way she felt herself buffeted along. She didn’t want to want him; she certainly didn’t want to need him. Marriage had given her his name and salvaged her reputation; it had given her an amazing respectability. It had put her beneath his power in a way, forced this intimacy upon them both. But what it hadn’t given her was his…

Regard. Affection.

Love. She shivered and sat up. “Ian—”

“We’ll go back to the house,” he said, rising with a swift, graceful speed that suddenly made her cold again. He had learned a great deal from his uncle’s people in the Everglades. He could move in absolute silence, with a staggering agility. She knew firsthand that his ability with a sword was second to none.

He would certainly be a deadly enemy.

She wasn’t his enemy, she told herself. She was his wife.

He’d planned on marrying elsewhere. Maybe that made her more of an enemy than she could begin to realize.

He returned with her clothing to where she had curled to a sitting position on the embankment. “You’re cold. We’ll hurry to the house.”

She stood, slipping into her chemise, then letting him tie her into her corset. Her emerald-green riding habit was slipped over her head, and she suddenly couldn’t help but smile.

“And what’s that for?” he queried.

“For once, McKenzie, I feel the upper hand. I’m dressed—and you’re not.”

He arched a brow, grinning. “And you think that gives you an advantage?”

“It could.”

“Under what circumstances?”

He stared at her with such arrogant, cocky male assurance that she couldn’t possibly ignore such a challenge. “Under such circumstances that you should find yourself walking up to Cimarron… bare-ass!” she informed him gravely.

“What?” he demanded, his head inclining with curiosity and his tone deep with a warning note.

She laughed and sped by him, sweeping up his clothing, and turning to flee.

She could run.

With shoes, without shoes.

She was her father’s daughter. She had learned to scamper over mangrove roots and wet sand, through shallow waters and thick brush and foliage. She was
delighted to realize at first that she had left him in her dust.

“Alaina McMann, get back here with my things!” he called in warning.

She kept running, musing about the possibility of returning his clothing—once she had come to the end of the trail that broke out onto the lawn, of course. Then it occurred to her that he had called her “McMann.” And just as that thought raced through her mind, she felt a breath of air close behind her.

And she realized, as well, that she knew her own skills, and she had even reminded herself of his. He was as fast as a wildcat, as sleek, sure, and well muscled. The end of the trail was in sight. She spun to see that he was indeed right behind her. “My God, you’d better dress!” she cried out, throwing the bundle of his clothing behind her.

It didn’t cause him to waver in the least. He seemed to fly after her. She was suddenly swept from her feet and brought down beneath him, pinned to the earth, gasping. His dark eyes were above hers, warily assessing, but a smile curved his mouth and he was both panting and laughing. She slowly smiled as well, wishing then that he was dressed and that she hadn’t stolen his clothing.

“I very nearly bested you—and left you in a most difficult situation,” she informed him primly.

“Very nearly—but not quite. And, my lovely wife, take heed. You’ll never best me. I simply won’t allow it.”

“Oh?” she inquired sweetly.

The way he was pressed against her, she could feel every nuance of change within his body. The warmth, the growth….

She grew breathless herself.

“You’re supposed to be charming tonight,” he reminded her softly. “Bending me, forming me, manipulating me to your will. So far, you’ve been doing excellently, but since it is growing so cool, it would be nice to be bent, formed, and manipulated in front of a fire with sweet warm wine, wouldn’t you say?”

Looking into the cobalt glitter of his eyes, she nodded. “Wine is always good,” she murmured.

He gave her a bemused look. “To smooth the rough edges of life?” he inquired somewhat hoarsely.

She shook her head. “Because sometimes I still feel so awkward.”

He smiled a deep, gentle smile. And she thought that when he smiled so, there could not possibly be a more striking man in all the world, with features both so ruggedly hewn and yet so handsome. He rose, and she felt a thudding within her heart, because he was so striking, so tall, hard-muscled yet sinewy, sun-bronzed so that muscle and sinew rippled in gold reflections beneath the moon with every movement he made.

He reached down a hand, helping her up, then turned away, gathered his scattered clothing, and dressed quickly.

They returned, unseen and unaccosted, to the house. In his room, he dragged the blankets before the fire, poured them each brandy, then slowly and meticulously undressed her again before drawing her against him. He seemed to be in no great hurry now. The fire crackled, the brandy seemed warm and delicious.

And it was good to lie against him.

“Don’t fall asleep again on me,” he whispered softly.

“Would it matter?” she asked.

He reflected on the question a minute. “No,” he told her.

He eased her to the floor then and kissed her. Softly, deeply, hungrily, teasingly. His lips just brushed her flesh. His hands moved over her body before the fire, and he seemed fascinated just to touch her. The gold and crimson flames of the fire seemed to leap and dance, touching her, warming her, bringing a buildup of heat and sensation that quickly set something ablaze within her. She could not lie still, but reached for him, seeking his lips when he teased, trying to slow his hand when his touch became invasively intimate. Her breath grew ragged. She was entwined with him, careless where the blanket lay. Eager for his kiss, eager to touch him in turn, eager to fondle and stroke…

As he had taught her today.

She touched him, seeking his mouth passionately as she did so. The brandy burned away her inhibitions. Her body arched to his, her breasts rubbed against his chest.
Her lips broke from his and she tasted his throat, his chest, played the tip of her tongue upon him, moving against him all the while. Kissing, caressing.

She found herself quite suddenly lifted, staring down at him, and slowly, slowly being lowered…

Impaled. His eyes were on hers, narrowed, cobalt fire. The sensation, so slow, was excruciating. She cried out, her head falling back. He drew her more slowly still, down, down until she sheathed him completely….

Later, spent, she lay at his side and shivered as the fire of energy that had burst between them ebbed and she was cold. This time, he simply wrapped her in his arms and carried her to his bed.

She curled against him, and he held her. Perhaps she dozed; she wasn’t sure. She slowly became aware of a deliciously wicked sensation simmering within her… and the stroke of his kiss moving down the length of her spine.

They made love again.

Sometimes she thought she dreamed his touch, because each time she closed her eyes, she opened them to a new seduction.

The fire burned to embers.

The moon waned in the sky; the sun began to rise.

She awoke again—chilled.

He wasn’t in the bed, he wasn’t in the room. She leaped up, shivering.

The fire had died completely. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise high.

Alaina dove into a wardrobe and quickly threw on a chemise and dress. She started to run out of the room, then paused long enough to stand before the dressing table and smooth down the wild tangle of her hair.

She rushed to the hallway and down the stairs. The house was quiet. She heard a noise from the dining room and hurried there, only to discover her father contentedly reading his paper and dining on pancakes.

“Good morning, daughter!”

“Father. Good morning. You’re… alone.”

“It’s a busy household. The McKenzies are all up and about, and you’d best get moving yourself, my dear. Jerome
is escorting our little party, and he’s anxious to get a move on.”

“Our little party?”

“Home!” he said happily.

“Ian… is gone?”

“Well, of course he’s gone. You knew he had to report back to duty.”

“Yes, but…”

Her father was looking at her with concern.

She floundered. “I—I hadn’t imagined that he’d leave so early. He didn’t wake me.”

“Ah, well, maybe he didn’t wish to disturb you, since he knew that we wouldn’t be leaving so early. I assume you said your good-byes last night.”

“Mmm.” She realized then that her father had known Ian had had no intention of having her come with him— nor had he intended to force her to remain at Cimarron. The decision had been made long before last night. Ian had simply been determined to torment her.

So much for his murmured words that he might need her! He had tricked her, used her, and the worst of it…

The worst of it, she thought miserably, was that she had spent the night ecstatically happy, glad to be tricked, used, and…

And falling in love with her husband.

“Are you ready to go, my dear?”

She nodded. “Yes, Father. Thirty minutes, no more,” she said flatly. She turned away from the dining room, fleeing back up the stairs.

To
his
room.

She had thought that she wanted to leave. That she wanted nothing more than to be back home. But here…

The indention of his head remained upon his pillow, the scent of him imbued the sheets. The wardrobe was filled with his clothing, the desk held his papers, mementos, and other belongings.

He’d gone away without even waking her to say goodbye. Marriage had apparently been fun while convenient, but now he was back to a different life.

And back to the woman he had intended to marry?

Alaina held her breath for a moment’s misery. Peter O’Neill had told her that no respectable man would
marry her. If nothing else, she’d certainly had a subtle revenge upon Peter. Ian McKenzie had married her. She couldn’t allow herself to wonder just what it meant to him.

She closed her eyes tightly and exhaled.

She needed to pack. And quickly.

She was going home.

F
rom the front porch of their home, a handsome, sprawling wooden structure that sat just center of Belamar Isle—which wasn’t really an island at all, since at low tide it connected with the mainland of the south Florida peninsula just a few miles from the Miami River—Alaina could see her father working with one of his new lime trees, a small smile of perfect contentment curved into his mouth. She had to call his name another three times before he looked up.