Rebel (41 page)

But she didn’t. She just…

Wanted him.

“Ian, leave me be!” she pleaded.

He shook his head slowly. “I’ve never been anything but honest with you. I’ve never made promises I could not keep. And you can shriek and scream that I’m a traitor until the end of time, but I’m your husband, and I’ll be damned if I’ll spend my time watching you flash your smile and laugh and flirt with other men while you seek to deny me!”

“You’re pigheaded and arrogant and you’ve no rights when you simply leave—” she began, but this time her words were broken off by the force of his lips upon hers. She forgot what she had been saying. His mouth was all-consuming, covering, devouring hers. The passion of his kiss momentarily stunned her and all she could do was taste the wonder of his mouth, feel the brutal but sensual plundering of his tongue, demanding, thirsting, taking, arousing, eliciting. The feel and scent of him were so unbearably sweet that she could scarcely believe he was with her again, the weight of his body so hard against her own. His hands stroked her cheeks, held her face to his kiss. His knuckles brushed her throat … his fingers…

Plucked one by one the tiny buttons of her bodice until her breasts were free, and his hands and lips were
upon them, cupping, kneading, massaging, teasing, tasting, taunting….

Her fingers threaded through his hair. Her breasts were swollen; she’d been away from the baby several hours. And she told herself that Ian’s touch should hurt, but it did not, she wanted more.

“No…” she whispered softly.

He paid no heed.

But then, just then, from somewhere below in the house, she heard Sean begin to cry. She jerked, trying to rise.

“Ian, the baby!”

“We have a good staff who will see to the baby!” he exclaimed in exasperation.

“But Ian—”

To her amazement, he rose suddenly, shedding his boots, his uniform jacket, and shirt. She stared at him for a minute, then tried to clasp her bodice together, rolling swiftly to the side of the bed.

She never made it. He was back, stripped down to his breeches, and she was pinned beneath him. “Do you really want me going elsewhere?” he inquired softly.

She inhaled sharply, staring at him. “Oh! You really are a bastard!” she hissed.

“Do you?”

“Perhaps—”

He cupped her face, stroking it with his palm, staring into her eyes. “Can you really say, my love,” he demanded very softly, “that you don’t want me? If you can say so…”

She gasped, spun about suddenly as he impatiently maneuvered the dress from her. “You’re going to rip it!” she cried.

“Good. I should rip all your clothing. You’d be forced to stay inside.”

“Ian, I’ve just had it made.”

“It’s far too revealing.”

“It’s a mourning gown!”

“Indeed.”

The gown didn’t rip; still, she struggled against him as she found herself stripped of her linen chemise, pantalettes, petticoats, and shoes and stockings. She shoved against him, only to linger on the hot sleek feel of his
flesh. It was impossible not to feel his nakedness against her own, his chest pressed to her breasts, the proof of his arousal, still caught within the tautness of his breeches….

“My love…” he whispered, fingers smoothing her hair into a fan on the pillow, breath fanning her cheeks. His hands moved over the length of her nakedness, demanding, subtle, barely brushing her flesh, then pressing insistently against it… his lips against her. Hot. Kisses, searing, falling on her throat, her breast, belly, thighs, and then between….

Molton lead seemed to shoot through her, unbearably sweet, so sensually intimate after so long a time that she shrieked, fingers tearing into his hair. She felt herself shudder with a flood of instant, searing sensation. She tried to curl into the covers, embarrassed by the swift violence of her response in the midst of her denials. But he was up with her, his arms around her, forcing her to face him, and his lips covered hers again, the taste of their intimacy between them, and the stroke of his hand upon her then was tender and light, amazingly awakening the stirrings of hunger deep within her again.

His lips broke from hers. Pressed against her cheek. Nuzzled her ear.

“Should I leave now?” he whispered.

She tensed, longing to hit him, but he was suddenly over her, challenging her with his eyes, and parting her legs with the sudden hard shift of his body. She closed her eyes, shaking again, as he came very slowly into her, apparently aware, despite whatever emotion lay between them, that she needed gentleness this first time after the baby’s birth…

And yet…

Oh, God…

It was easy. Easy to want him. Easy to feel the rise of longing, aching. Needing…

Easy to feel the fire, and become captured within the golden flames of its fury. Everything about him seemed as fuel to that fire, the friction of his bare flesh against her own, the hardness and heat of his muscles, the feel of him, inside her, a part of her, touching, stroking, inside, impetus rising, the cobalt of his eyes impaling her own, his every thrust driving her upward to a hunger like in-
sanity, wanting, seeking, reaching that incredible surcease….

She lay then, gasping for breath, feeling the sweetness steal throughout her again, quaking in its elusive pleasure. She felt the last shudders rake through his body as well. She was deliriously happy; she wanted to cry. And she wondered if their marriage, no matter how ridiculously begun, might have been wonderful if not…

If not for the world around them.

He lay beside her, stroking her back, evoking a last convulsive shudder from her as she curled into his shoulder, glad to just have him by her side. She didn’t want to, but she loved the feel of his flesh, the sight of his muscled arms, the structure of his hands. She loved his face, handsome features, searing eyes; his mouth, so generous, sensual, quick to curl in laughter … in anger.

His fingers moved into her hair; his lips pressed against her forehead.

“If this is how you hate me, my love,” he whispered, “you must continue to do so.”

She raised a fist to pummel his shoulder; he laughed, yet it had a hollow sound, and he caught her hand before she could strike, easing out her clenched fingers, stroking the center of her palm.

Lying beside him, cloaked by his warmth, she felt a shudder rip through her again. “You’re wrong, Ian!” she said miserably. “I don’t hate you.” She hesitated briefly. “I love you.”

He was dead still. Then he rose on an elbow to stare down at her. Before he could speak, she added quickly, “But I hate the way you treat me; I hate what you’re doing. I want to go home.”

He was silent a moment. Then he leaned toward her and kissed her lips very slowly and sensuously. “Don’t hate anything tonight, my love. Don’t hate at all.” He pulled her into his arms, drawing her hands against the breadth of his chest and cradling her tightly to him. “Feel me, Alaina. Abide with me. Tonight, we are home.”

Quick tears stung her eyes. She buried her head against his shoulder, trembling. He started to make love to her again, and sensation swept into her, robbing her
of all thought except for the certainty that she did love him.

And in his arms, she was happy. She longed to be at peace. She could almost…

Feel the sun.

It was good that the next few days went well, and that they had time together.

Time in which they didn’t talk.

Because Beauregard’s troops had been ordered to fire on the Union men who had refused to surrender Fort Sumter. Major Anderson had gallantly held on, but in the end it had come to a test of arms.

It was war.

“What will you do now?” Alaina demanded, finally putting the unspoken question squarely between them. “What will you do? It is war, real, bloody war, and your army is firing on your people.” She turned her back on him as they stood in the parlor, the newspaper lying on the floor between them.

He was quiet for a long moment, then he sighed. “I will do what I have been doing. I will stand fast for the Union.”

She spun around. “Then I will hate you!” she promised him.

He stared at her a long while, cobalt eyes unfathomable. “I’ve made my choice; I suppose you must make yours. So, my love—hate me,” he suggested, and spun on his heel, leaving her there.

She wondered bleakly if he had gone to Risa, who stood as staunchly for the preservation of the Union as any soldier who might ever fight upon the field.

Alaina sank into a chair, trembling, praying, wondering how she could endure either staying or leaving. She was trying not to cry, but at last a sob escaped her.

O
n April 19, President Lincoln proclaimed a blockade against all Southern ports from Texas to South Carolina. As the month progressed, so did the flurry of secession—and the clamping down on the border states such as Kentucky and Maryland. The Confederacy became solidified and those who had been calling for peace no longer felt that there could be any compromise.

In the midst of the schism, personal tragedy struck near and dear to both Ian and Alaina, for another of Rose’s beloved daughters sickened, and died. Rose was devastated; Ian and Alaina did their best to sustain and comfort her—and both realized how dear their own child was to them.

In this, they found a special, silent comfort in one another as well. To ease Rose’s sorrow, her friends all kept her involved in lively political discussions, and with Rose, it was certainly true: Argument and activity helped assuage her anguish and sorrow.

As war preparations on both sides continued, Ian found to his surprise that he had been summoned not to the Capital or War Department, but to the White House for a meeting with the chief executive himself.

Ian met with Lincoln in a small, private office. Though he had briefly shaken the man’s hand a few years earlier after witnessing one of his debates, he found himself newly impressed not just by the president’s height—Ian was two inches over six feet himself and Lincoln seemed to tower over him—but by the character written into the man’s features. Lincoln had a look of melancholy about him, and Ian had heard that he often suffered from ill health. He was a very thin man, surely no more than one hundred and eighty pounds for his six-foot-four-inch frame. His eyelids drooped slightly, adding to his sad-
hound look. He had a slow way of speaking—a slowness that lulled and charmed. Yet what impressed Ian most was the absolute faith Lincoln had in his own convictions—and the deadly seriousness and sorrow with which he looked upon the war.

Lincoln greeted Ian with a handshake, indicated a chair, and poured the tea himself. Then he sat back in an upholstered rocker facing Ian, studying his features. “So, you have remained with us, Major McKenzie. Do you intend to do so in the future?”

“I do, sir.”

“What of your state?”

“I’m deeply distressed about the course of events.”

“You’re well aware of everything happening there?”

Ian nodded. “The Union soundly holds Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, and Fort Taylor, Key West, and Fort Pickens. That the Rebs quickly and easily managed to seize the naval yard at Pensacola is a pity, because there is excellent anchorage there, armaments and tools—and a railway directly into Alabama. But the state continues to suffer, arguing over state versus Confederate authority over troops. The Florida legislature was at one time happy to disband the militia—save taxpayers’ money— but then they had to reinstate it because they were desperate for defense.”

“Discouraging, I would think, to Floridians.”

“Yes, but don’t underestimate their loyalty to the Confederacy,” Ian warned.

“I try not to underestimate any power,” Lincoln murmured. “And still, there are so many divided loyalties. Jeff Davis and I were both born in the state of Kentucky, and now we face one another over a great divide,” Lincoln said with quiet irony. “Were you aware that I had informally offered command of all Union forces in the field to an old teacher of yours—Colonel Robert E. Lee?”

“Yes,” Ian said.

Lincoln smiled, a slow, sad, wry smile. I’m terribly sorry he turned me down. I believe I have lost one of the finest soldiers in any military arena. He was most ardently against secession, and he served the Union brilliantly and loyally for a very long time. This is a bitter decision for him indeed, for his home, Arlington, sits upon
a hill just across the river. He chose to resign and will most certainly accept a position with the Confederacy….” Lincoln shrugged, lifting his large hands in a helpless gesture. “You, sir, are well acquainted with the strategy of warfare; we could not allow a hostile power to hold property from which cannons could annihilate Washington. Yet my heart was heavy for him when he left here. The poor man went home that night to a wife who is the grandchild of Martha Washington. And her father— stepson of
the
founding father of our country—built their home. A home where he has raised his family, watched his children grow, where Mary Custis Lee has cared for many historical artifacts left us by President Washington. What a terrible decision Lee had to make. But that will happen to us all. It is my understanding that you come from an exceptional home in Florida.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your wife has a home in Florida as well?”

“She does, sir.”

Lincoln nodded, as if with an understanding far deeper than he could ever explain. “My own Mary hails from Kentucky; if there is war, it is most likely many of her kin will fight against the Union.”

“I’m afraid, sir, that this will be an unbearably painful situation for many a man—and woman.”

“I pray with all my heart for God’s guidance,” Lincoln said with such a tremor to his voice that Ian wished he could reach out to the man and somehow ease the burden he saw for. the future. So many people—on both sides—had taken the prospect of war lightly. Not so with this strange, thoughtful giant of a man.

“Well!” Lincoln said suddenly. “It’s my understanding, Major McKenzie, that you are an expert in the terrain of your state.”

Ian arched a brow. “Well, I’m familiar with the peninsula, but so are many men.”

“The south of it?”

Ian frowned, and Lincoln smiled suddenly. “Surely, Major, you are aware that I have announced a blockade. Not that it is much in place as yet—it seems we Americans have a talent for getting into wars before planning for them—but I do feel strongly that the only way we will ever bring those rebel states back into the fold is to
tie a noose around them—constrict them so tightly that they’ll have to give up. So, I intend to assign you to one of my men here in Washington, and you will be responsible to him, and no one else.”