Rebel (9 page)

Yet over his shoulder she could see that the McKenzies’ private Eden was not so very private.

The very, very rich, elegant, and beautiful Mrs. Lavinia Trehorn, her brown hair artfully piled in a riot of curls atop her head, stood at the water’s edge near Ian’s discarded military-issue blue dress uniform and Alaina’s own neatly folded feminine attire.

Peter O’Neill, his cheeks lobster red, his breath rushing in and out of pursed lips, stood at her side, taut and rigid with fury.

“Oh, Lavinia, you were right!” he grated out, shaking. “You do know Ian, and indeed, you knew where he could be found, and Miss McMann is very definitely with him, so it appears! Yes, they are certainly together. And he is—what was it you said, Lavinia? He is ‘comforting the poor lamb’—and doing so quite well. In fact they both looked damned comfortable, I’d say!”

“Ian McKenzie!” Lavinia said with stark reproach, her perfectly formed lips trembling ever so slightly with an even more perfectly formulated dramatic touch. “Ian, I thought that, oh…”

She appeared angelic, and wounded. She looked as if she would faint.

Still, it was Peter’s next single word that seemed to ring in the pine forest long moments after the two of them had spun about and departed back to Cimarron—with the latest, most incredible gossip.

For Peter stared long and hard at Alaina, cheeks red and puffed, eyes burning with offended fury as he lashed out, “Whore!”

“H
e is an unmitigated ass, and I’ll kill the damned bastard!” Ian murmured in a deadly voice.

Alaina barely heard him.

She had to escape the pool. She had to get back to Cimarron and find her father before others did. She didn’t know what she was going to say.

The truth. Her father would believe her.

Yet as she streaked across the water, a sudden cramp knifed into her leg. She gasped, clutching her calf. Ian swam up beside her, eyes almost black now with fury, yet his voice, though very deep and husky, was surprisingly calm. “What is it?”

He was reaching for her.

“No! No! Don’t you touch me! Don’t you come near me again!”

He arched a brow, then swam past her, believing her words.

But the pain knifed through her again. She allowed herself to fall beneath the water’s surface while she tried valiantly to massage her cramped limb and bring functioning life back to it. She ran out of air and tried to surface. She couldn’t kick.
Float!
she commanded herself. She surfaced, but the pain was so intense she went down again.

Incredulous, she realized that she—Alaina McMann, who had been swimming all her life, who could hold her breath well over two minutes—was drowning. Again, little black dots were forming before her eyes. They were beginning to fuse together. She had to make the surface one more time. Once again. And no matter how awful and detestable, she was going to have to call out to Ian McKenzie with a word she could scarcely bear to issue to him at this time.

Her face broke the water. She managed a choked out, “Help!”

Then the blackness seemed to encompass her, leaving only the tiniest pinhole of light….

Her vision slowly returned, her mind dragging just behind it. She had been brought to the soft, grassy bank at the pool’s edge, near the fallen log. She lay naked on her stomach while a dripping naked man hovered over her, forcing the water from her lungs.

She coughed, sputtered, and swung around in horror, eyes wide as she stared up at Ian. “Oh, God!”

She leaped to her feet; too fast. She staggered. He steadied her. She struggled.

“Look at me!” he commanded fiercely.

She found herself doing so.

His eyes appeared blacker, fiercer than ever. His anger was such that she thought he did mean her harm.

“Were you trying to kill yourself over that fop? You little fool! He isn’t worth spit!”

“What? I wasn’t trying to kill myself!”

“But you were in love with him?”

“Oh, God!” She shook her head wildly, vehemently. “Please, dear God, will you let me get dressed—”

Still tense, he arched a dark brow. “You apparently didn’t mind jumping naked in a pool when you thought it was Peter O’Neill who’d be joining you.”

“Let me go!”

He did so. She raced straight for her clothing, fumbling terribly in her haste. She was aware that he dressed smoothly and competently at her side.

Naturally!
she thought snidely.
Men!
He was far more accustomed to stripping and dressing than she. He was completely clothed, from uniform jacket to polished boots, scabbard, and sword, while she was still struggling with her corset.

“May I?” he inquired politely at her back, reaching for the strings.

“No, you—”

But he already had his hands upon the ribboned strings that constricted the corset, and he had a knee set gently against her back to wrench them in.

He was accustomed to corsets as well. Obviously. Lavinia
had probably taught him all about corsets. All that he hadn’t learned from previous experience. Oh, God, were all men such loathsome creatures? Interested in sex, prestige, and money, and not at all concerned if those things came in one package or in several!

She was shaking as he helped her into her afternoon tea gown as well, but when the dress was in place, she quickly pulled away from him to sit upon the log again, slip into her dress boots, and lace the ties. She realized that he was standing there, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with blue fire in his eyes all the while. When she was about to rise, one of his Union-issue-booted feet landed on the log beside her and he leaned low, more or less imprisoning her there upon the log.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

She stared at him, incredulous and, despite herself, more than a little intimidated. Ian McKenzie stood very tall, and as she was quite aware from newly gained firsthand experience, he was composed of good solid muscle for all that length. He was an exceptionally striking man, with his strong features, pitch-black hair, unusual dark blue eyes, and cleanly defined brows. His five-year seniority suddenly seemed like quite a bit as well; his jaw was set in a fashion that told her he knew what repercussions would befall them both over what had occurred here. He was angry, quite naturally. She felt a little chill, thinking that surely he could not mean that he really intended to kill Peter O’Neill. Of course he did not. Still, looking at him at that moment, she was glad that she was not O’Neill.

Not that Ian seemed to regard her with much less contempt. Those penetrating eyes of his raked over her in a manner now that quite clearly condemned.

She returned his stare.

No. She would not let him cow her.

“I have to go back and talk to my father, and you should be quite worried about doing the same. Not that men aren’t given every license in the world to behave like absolute animals, but since this has all occurred at your father’s house, he just might be rather perturbed about the whole thing.”

“My father will understand what occurred from my
end; he is a concern, naturally, but not my main concern at this time.”

“Boys will be boys, right? Your father certainly can’t be angry with a man acting like a man!” she muttered heatedly. “Well, this might surprise you, but my father is a rational human being who loves me—”

“Indeed, he loves you. And there, Miss McMann, may lie the real depths of our problem.”

“We haven’t a problem, Mr. McKenzie. I’m quite sure that the ever-lovely Mrs. Trehorn will quickly forgive you this transgression, and you will find yourself cheerfully sleeping with the widow once again. As to me, I’m rumored to be a witch, so the fact that I apparently indulge in the sins of the flesh now and then will be no greater detriment to my life than anything else I have already faced. Now, if—”

“So that’s it!” Ian murmured.

“What is what?” Alaina cried with frustration.

Those blue eyes struck her hard, seemed to impale her. “He promised to marry you. But his family didn’t deem you good enough.”

She had simply been humiliated enough.

“The next time I hear you described as a gentleman, I believe that I will… throw up!” she exclaimed vehemently. “now, if you please—”

“I do not please. You have compromised me.”

“What?” she all but shrieked. “I compromised you? Don’t be absurd—men are allowed to … to dally with …” She felt as if she were choking again. “Men are
expected
to seek out the company of… fallen women!”

“This is an incredibly delicate situation,” he said.

Again she felt the pressure of his gaze, eyes sweeping over her, something very hard, calculating, and still furious within them.

“There is no situation,” she assured him. But his cobalt eyes remained dark and compelling as he stared at her.

“Miss McMann, how do I put this delicately…”

“Why bother to be delicate about anything at this point?”

“Indeed,” he said, eyes flicking in a cool assessment over the length of her once again. Then they fell upon
hers and sharply narrowed. He demanded bluntly, “You’re not expecting Peter O’Neill’s child, are you?”

She couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d slapped her across the face. For a moment she couldn’t reply.

Her silence seemed to convince him he had guessed correctly. “Ah, poor girl. Dear God, was that why you were trying to… kill yourself?”

She felt as if she were strangling again. The temptation to lash out at him was more than she could control. She tried, really tried, to gouge his cheeks with her nails, but he was far too fast for her, catching her wrist with a pressure that brought a cry to her lips. “No, damn you, I am not expecting Peter O’Neill’s child, and I did not attempt to kill myself. I would never attempt to kill myself, especially over a despicable man!”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Are you daft? Indeed, if I ever do try to kill myself, I’m quite certain I will know.”

Pure annoyance swiftly crossed his features. “I meant about O’Neill’s child.”

“I have never been more certain about anything in my life!” she cried out furiously. “Not that it’s any of your concern!”

He suddenly released her wrist. Arms crossed over his chest, he paced in front of the log.

A feeling of deep unease crept through her. If she tried to rise and run past him, he wouldn’t let her leave.

“I really have to go!” Alaina informed him, fighting the nervousness in her voice and attempting a strict-sounding authority. “You know, I will prosecute you if you continue to force me to stay here. Brute strength is not the way to solve anything.”

“Indeed. So it seems that cunning and treachery are best, in sword play and in life?” he asked softly.

“Oh, this is absurd,” she grated, refusing to argue with him.

Ian stared at her, and again she saw anger in his eyes and in the set tension of his face, but there was more: Something both strangely weary and knowing was there as well. When he spoke, he sounded oddly beaten. “You know that we cannot simply go back.”

“Why not?”

“By now Peter has less than subtly let everyone know
that you and I were having a tryst at the pool. Your father is crushed and humiliated; mine is furious that I would so abuse the daughter of a friend, a good and decent man. My uncle, as well, will be absolutely appalled, since my acquaintance with your father came through him. Your father,” he added with a certain wry amusement, “might want to call me out as well—he may be a scientist, but when it comes to you, he is still no less the romantic.”

“You think that my father will challenge you to a duel? That’s so silly; it’s absurd, it’s—”

“You forget that we do live in the gallant South, be it the far wilds of that most honorable section of our country!” The sound of his voice was bitter; she didn’t know if he was mocking his homeland or himself. He continued, “Your father must demand some manner of satisfaction, and I would heartily hate to hurt the poor old fellow.”

“Oh, how dare you, you arrogant boor! Assuming that you’d be such a power against my father—”

“Forgive me,” he interrupted dryly.

Alaina was still for a moment, infuriated but aware that it was entirely true that Ian could kill her father with the flick of his wrist. Her father was aging, and he knew nothing but his books and science.

She struggled for a sense of dignity and told him, “There is nothing to be done; it is a mess, and that’s that.” The realization of just what a mess it was suddenly bore down upon her, along with the seriousness of it all. A Southern gentleman such as her father was definitely required to demand satisfaction if his daughter had been compromised. “Oh, my God, my poor father.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of him
before
stripping and plunging into a pool like a siren from the depths.”

“You are insufferable! I thought myself alone! Any decent man would have—”

“Alone? Or waiting for Peter O’Neill?”

“You are never going to get the chance to kill my poor father in a duel because I am going to kill you within the next few moments, Ian McKenzie.”

He lifted a hand. “The motive behind your indiscretion is of no importance at this moment.”

“Indiscretion? Indiscretion!”

“Miss McMann, call me rude, call me judgmental, but I am afraid in our society proper young women just don’t go around naked!”

She should have learned better by then, but after all, she did have the barrier of her clothing now. She leaped from the log, anxious to impart some kind of physical harm to him.

It was an attack he hadn’t been expecting; with his one boot angled upon the log, he fell off balance with her impetus, and they landed down hard upon the soft embankment together. For a moment she was on top of him, staring down into his surprised eyes.

Maybe she had grown up just a bit too rough. Because she was ready to give him a sound blow with her right fist to his jaw. But male pride apparently seized hold of him just in time, and she found herself lifted and slammed beneath him.

He was atop her, hands on either side of her head as he leaned against them to keep his weight from bearing down upon her. His face was just inches from her own.