Rebel (5 page)

Her laughter was like wind chimes on the air. Her smile, Ian decided, was absolutely lethal. Indeed, he couldn’t remember ever seeing such a vivacious beauty, so graceful—and so arrogantly confident in her wiles—in all his days. She had flirtation down to graceful science, a dazzling art.

The young men about her were fools, he thought. She was playing with all of them. He was, at that moment, ruefully amused to realize just what a tug she might have pulled upon his own heartstrings, were it not for Risa. But since he was contemplating marriage with the very poised and beautiful daughter of Colonel Angus Magee, he could easily take a step back from this little charmer and pity the men who might be caught in her web. Still, she was quite incredible—and he was about to leap down from Pye and insist upon an introduction. But he heard his mother’s call from the porch, “Ian!”

The maternal delight in her voice was such that she necessarily became the woman of the moment for him. He edged Pye from the crowd on the lawn and loped up the final yards to the house. Before he reached the porch he swung his leg over Pye’s sleek haunches and took a flying leap from the horse that landed him directly at the first step to the porch. He hurried up the steps, plucked up Tara McKenzie, and spun her about the porch. “Ah, Mother! I have missed you! As always, you are radiant.”

Tara laughed, landing breathless on her feet again, reaching up to take his cheeks between her two hands and study the depths of his eyes. “Ian!” she said, laughing, “my dear firstborn, my pride and joy—you are quite the consummate flatterer! I know that you’re deeply involved with your military career and the affairs of the world, and you probably haven’t given your doting mother a single thought. But that’s quite all right. I am so glad that you could make it here today!”

“I have three days’ leave—and two days travel time back to Washington, Mother.” He hesitated, growing serious. “I’ve some important personal matters to discuss with you, and I don’t like the way the nation’s going,
I’m afraid. There may be some decisions to be made soon, and I want time to talk with Father.”

Tara frowned, and Ian was sorry he had spoken so quickly. His mother was no simpering belle, and most certainly no naive hothouse flower. She remained, as she approached middle age, a beautiful woman, her golden hair hadn’t dulled a bit from the time Ian was a child; she was slim and graceful, the perfect mistress for his father’s beloved Cimarron. But though she embodied genteel Southern womanhood, the scope of her world was much larger. The precarious position the McKenzies had always taken regarding the Seminole question in Florida had caused Tara to be very aware of politics at all times. Ian knew by looking at her now that she was probably far more aware that the country was holding together by tenuous threads than most of the male guests enjoying Cimarron’s hospitality.

“Things are even worse than they seem?” she inquired softly.

“Right before I was stationed down at Key West, I had been in Washington. I was at John Brown’s hanging. As much as I see the justice of his sentence, I think that his martyrdom will help shed much more blood than he ever managed alive. I think there is no way this breach can be healed…. We’re heading toward war,” he told her quietly.

Her frown deepened. She shook her head. Like many people, Tara didn’t want to believe that the country could split apart, that there could be war. “I know that there is a wild and furious faction in Florida. We are a slave state, after all, and men can be adamant about keeping their property. Still, people are so split here with all the military bases that the state could well go to war against itself. But, Ian, surely saner heads will prevail.” “Not if Lincoln is elected president, I’m afraid. Mother, you know the sentiments of most of our neighbors!”

“I doubt if Lincoln will even be on the Florida ballot,” Tara said. “Really, his being elected remains a long shot.”

Ian shrugged. Perhaps so. But the military had kept him traveling and he’d seen Abraham Lincoln speak when he’d gone on leave with friends in Illinois, and he
was certain that those who had never seen the man were seriously underestimating him.

Ian shook his head. “Well, nothing is happening tomorrow. Nothing will happen until the election, that much is certain. But still … I look forward to your party today, though I do assume the Democrats and Whigs are at it already within!”

She shook her head suddenly. “There’s been some argument, but quite frankly, the majority of our neighbors are slaveholders who see your father as an eccentric—an important, powerful, wealthy and respectable eccentric, but an eccentric, nonetheless. Then, of course, there are those who claim they don’t give a fig about slavery; they are furious about the question of States’ Rights. As you say, though, it’s in the future—even if it is the near future. Tea is about to be served. Freshen up quickly, dear, and come down. You are the best birthday present imaginable for your father; he is like a child waiting to see you.”

“Are Julian and Tia home yet?”

“Julian has been working in St. Augustine, you know. He should arrive by nightfall, and he is stopping by Tia’s academy to bring her home as well. Hurry, dear.”

“Indeed, I will.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “I shall be down directly, Mother.”

He hurried through the breezeway and up the stairway to the second floor of Cimarron, down the long hallway, and to his room. He meant to hurry, as he had promised, but every time he came here and looked out on the vista that was his home, he had to pause.

He loved Cimarron. Deeply.

As the oldest male offspring of Tara and Jarrett McKenzie, he was heir to Cimarron. He had always known it, and always taken the responsibility gravely. He wasn’t sure if his love for the house and grounds had been taught to him, or if he and his siblings hadn’t just been born lucky. His younger brother, Julian, quite naturally loved his home. But to Julian, the pursuit of medicine was everything, and so he had become a doctor. Ian’s baby sister, Tia, felt an equally warm pride in Cimarron, but Tia loved the world at large. Like their mother, she was intrigued by people and politics, and she was continually
restless and anxious to travel. It had been quite difficult for his parents to persuade her that she must remain in Madame de la Verre’s Finishing School for Young Ladies long enough to emerge with at least the facade of a proper education.

Cimarron…

The house was grace itself. His father and uncle had designed and built it when this area inland on the river from Tampa had been nothing more than wilderness.

His room was exceptionally large, as was the entire house, which seemed a waste now that he made use of it so infrequently. His bed was a large four-poster, made of oak carved in England: a masculine creation with lion-carved feet and winged griffins upon the headboard. It sat against the far wall, facing the hearth on the inner wall. Upholstered chairs were angled before the hearth, and a massive oak two-way desk sat center in the room, with chairs on either side. A wardrobe and dresser filled the north wall, while the south was taken by his washstand and a second wardrobe with a full-length mirror. The colors were dark with the richness of the woods. The Oriental carpet that lay beneath the bed was in brilliant blues and crimsons, and the sash curtains a rich blue tapestry as well

The second-floor windows were actually French doors that led out to a balcony. Ian stepped out and gripped the balcony railing. From there, he looked out over the slope of the land, to the river to the north; and to the stream that branched from it, habited by manatees and river otters, and some of the most glorious birds ever to touch down upon earth. He turned slightly, looking to the deep pine forests to the south that surrounded the little pockets of white civilization which had now sprouted here. At the far end of one of the forest trails was a copse, and within that copse, a freshwater pool created from springs beneath the ground. On the lawn, the grass, even in winter, was an emerald green. The river flowed a deep, dark aqua, the pines rose with majestic beauty toward a powder blue sky.

Ian watched a small eagle soar across the sky. A feeling of peace settled over him, only to be disturbed by a growing unease within him. He loved this place, this life. And he felt as if he were somehow tied to a boulder
rolling pell-mell, out of control, that would crash into the very foundation of the house, and cause it to fall.

He gave himself a shake. Saner heads would prevail, his mother had said. But already, among so many of the well-educated and well-read men in the army, talk had grown very serious. It was quite odd, of course—if it did come to war, often the men who had fought together before would be the ones riding out against one another. The nation’s finest military schools had always drawn their cadets from across the country; naturally, now, the officers in the United States military all hailed from every region. If it did come to war…

Whichever side he chose, Ian would be fighting old roommates, classmates, teachers—and friends.

Possibly his own relatives. He winced, telling himself he had made no decisions yet. No decisions had been called for yet. The country had come to the brink of war before and compromises had been made. Still, what the hell should he do?

Keep praying
, he advised himself.

He turned and reentered his room, found fresh water in the ewer on his washstand, and quickly freshened up. Still, he had tarried too long. He arrived in the breezeway just outside the dining room in time to see the servants clearing away the meal and to hear the company all lifting their lemonade glasses in a toast to congratulate Peter O’Neill on his engagement to Elsie Fitch.

Congratulations were in order. Elsie was pretty, sweet—a bit vacant in Ian’s opinion—but for a man like Peter, that was probably best.

She was also very, very rich.

“Ian!”

His father’s voice. Behind him.

Ian forgot everything as he was engulfed in his father’s hug. Jarrett took a step back from his son then, coal-dark eyes examining him. “You look fine, son. Indeed, a damned fine sight for these aging eyes.”

Ian laughed. “Speaking of aging, happy birthday, Father.”

“A very happy birthday. My children will all be home. I’m anxious to spend some time with you—hear about the world.”

“Father, I’m not quite certain you want to know about the world. You can’t begin to imagine the situation—”

“Trust me. I’ve seen a great deal. I will manage to view in my mind’s eye all that you tell me. I fear deeply for our country, and our state. News coming here is, of course, so often very slow, but it doesn’t matter; you can feel a surliness building like storm clouds. The failure of the National Convention seems to have set a new breeze stirring. There is a dangerous, ugly mood to the country now.”

“The division in beliefs is growing so deep, I fear that it can never be repaired.”

“We’ll talk later,” Jarrett said. “I believe your mother has just sent the gentlemen to the library, and a flock of young ladies will soon be heading toward the stairs to nap for the evening’s festivities. Naturally, I suppose you might prefer to be swamped by young ladies, but your uncle will want to see you and the not-so-terribly-young ladies will spend just a few minutes with the gentlemen, so your aunt will get to give you a kiss and hug as well.”

“I saw Uncle James and Aunt Teela not so long ago. Did they tell you?”

“Indeed, it seems they see more of you than we do, since you’ve been spending so much time at the base at Key West. Come, let’s head for the library, and get out of the way of the feminine stampede!”

“As you wish, sir,” Ian said. With a grimace, he followed his father.

As Jarrett had warned him, they had just slipped into the library before it seemed the breezeway was filled with giggling, fluffy creatures, all in skirts filled with so many starched petticoats that they could probably stand for building supports. A few, daughters of old friends, caught sight of Ian and gave him welcoming hugs and proper kisses.

In the melee, he thought he saw a swirl of teal brocade flowers and delicate ivory lace: the golden blond beauty who had been holding court with her fencing party upon the lawn.

Before he could question his father about the girl, however, his aunt appeared in the hallway. “Ian!” she greeted him with pleasure, and he met her with a hug
and a kiss on the cheek, and when he looked up again, the little spitfire siren was gone.

“Wait. Please, wait. You must wait!”

Alaina had almost managed to escape the house.

Almost.

She had reached the rear set of doors that opened from the great breezeway to the dense pine’ forests beyond it. At the sound of her name being called, she hesitated just briefly—but too long. Peter O’Neill had seen her. And now he was hurrying toward her.

“Peter, get away from me!” she ordered firmly.

But Peter kept coming, a pathetic-dog expression on his face. A handsome face—at least, she had thought so before today. His eyes were soft liquid blue, his features purely patrician, and his hair was a rich light brown and handsomely long to the collar, the ends curling naturally. He was elegantly dressed in a gray frock coat, starched white shirt, and brocaded vest. Now, though, perhaps for the first time, she looked him up and down and felt no emotion. His liquid eyes were not beautiful, but weak.

Still, his grip upon her wrist was strong.

“I
have
to talk to you!” he said urgently. He tugged upon her arm with force.

She could have broken his hold. She could have threatened to scream. Peter would have dropped her wrist like a hot potato—he despised scandal of any kind. Against her better judgment, she allowed him to lead her from the doorway.

A mistake. She discovered that she’d been drawn into the butler’s pantry. Her only escape was back out the way she had come, which Peter blocked, or the kitchen doorway, which was currently blocked by a dolly containing the meats from the smokehouse for the evening meal.

She stared at Peter, folding her arms over her chest. Her heart was racing.

Ah, well, perhaps love dies hard
, she mocked herself. Young love. In truth, she wondered even now if she had been in love with Peter, or in love with being in love.