Rebel (8 page)

Oh, God, that wretched bastard Peter had followed her, determined on making her see that she wasn’t a decent young lady at all, and that she must see things his way.

But he didn’t seem angry.

And he was too strong to be Peter….

She was so stunned and frightened that she twisted wildly to fight the intruder, but the more she writhed, the more she felt those hands on her naked flesh.

Touching. Intimately touching.

And she couldn’t free herself from the power of them.

Dear Lord…

It couldn’t be happening.

But it was.

Oh, God! It must be Peter! It had to be. Who else might have come after her, who else would come to the spring pool? What an idiot she had been; he must have thought that she had come here just waiting for him, wanting him to persist no matter what she had said….

No!

She couldn’t bear that he could hurt and humiliate her so, and then dare to come after her, make indecent assumptions.

Water filled her mouth, her lungs. Idiot! She had breathed it, trying to scream, trying to fight. She was choking, gasping, dying! She twisted anew and tried to kick her legs to propel herself to the surface. She managed to shove herself forward into her attacker’s chest, and only then became vaguely aware that his skin was dark.

She realized that she was facing a well-muscled chest, thickly covered with crisp dark hair. Dark hair that narrowed at the waist, then flared richly again to nest the long, thick rod of the man’s—

Oh, God!

Why was she praying? God had deserted her.

What had she so carelessly done, in diving into the temptation of the pool?

She kicked harder, frantically. She was losing air. It wasn’t possible, but she was becoming a victim of the man—and the water. She was in danger of drowning. Black spots began to obscure her vision. She couldn’t even be afraid anymore of being raped and perhaps murdered by a stranger. She couldn’t think at all anymore….

Sometime later—just seconds, minutes? Surely no more!—her vision began to return. Her face was out of the water. She was being towed through it. An arm was around her torso, a hand just below her breast. “Oh, God, God!” she gasped out, and began to struggle once again against the hold upon her. She tried to strike, to kick, knee, disable this man however she might.

In the midst of it all she suddenly heard, “Woah, stop! I’m just trying to keep you from drowning! Dammit, those are vicious knees, woman … ah, but then, you must be Peter O’Neill’s young hellion—my Lord!”

Her eyes met his. Deep, dark cobalt, they reflected the very depths of the water.

“The young fencing mistress playing havoc on the lawn!” he exclaimed.

She was released. She tread water a foot away from him, staring at him in horror.

He was dark, all right. His hair was nearly black; his strong, striking features were well sun-bronzed. His eyes were all but black, assessing her, ripping over the length of her, piercing into her. Ian McKenzie. Ian.

She really wanted to expire. Right then and there.

Ian! The great man’s oldest son. James McKenzie’s nephew. Heir to half the known world, so it seemed. Built like an Atlas to take his part in the world as master of Cimarron. Towering, hard, handsome, independent, remote; the powerful young military man who had already made himself legend throughout the peninsula, to white men and red alike.

It had been years since she had seen him. Since he had stolen her father’s attention, and she had been both infuriated by him…
And fascinated.

He was no stranger; she knew him. Yet he had changed in those years since she had seen him.

She had been young, but she had come to know him. She knew his deep, probing attention when something intrigued him. She remembered the passion and intensity with which he had asked her father questions, the determination he had shown to learn, and his capacity to absorb what was taught him.

Ian McKenzie.

Oh God! What had she done to deserve this? What ironic cruelty fate had cast upon her!

She hadn’t even realized he was home. She hadn’t seen him at Tara McKenzie’s afternoon tea; but then, she had fled from it rather quickly.

And it seemed he must have somehow witnessed at least a part of the exchange between her and Peter O’Neill.

Could humiliation kill? Dear Lord, what had he heard, what did he know?

What had he seen?

Then? Now?

What had he…

Touched?

Oh, God, but she wanted to die. Fall straight back into the cool, encompassing depths and never break surface again.

“Ian!” At last she managed to speak. To gasp out his name.

Then, perhaps, the greatest insult of a sadly humiliating day assailed her.

“Do I know you?” he inquired with polite amusement and a slight edge of wariness.

She stared at him, astonished, then let out a furious oath and turned to swim away.

But a hand fell upon her naked shoulder as he jettisoned past her.

A hand that had touched her before. Slid proprietarily over breast, down her ribs… between her thighs. Again she burned, her flesh burned, the water couldn’t cool her.

“Wait!” he demanded.

Wait! Never! She tried to shake off his touch, the steel
grip of his fingers. She stared at him furiously, near tears, but determined she wouldn’t cry, no matter what. She was naked in the water with him. With Ian McKenzie. Like the wildest hussy in all the world.
Indecent
. It had been easy to tell herself she didn’t give a fig about her reputation when she knew in her heart she was innocent of wrongdoing, that she’d done nothing to sully her name, but now…

“No, I will not wait! How dare you, how dare you, how dare you?” Her words came in a tumble, fast and furious. “How dare you touch me—”

“The dramatics are completely unnecessary,” he said irritably. “Hold still. I don’t know who you are, but I thought you were someone else,” he informed her. His eyes swept over her in a way that bluntly reminded her of her state of undress. “And apparently you were expecting someone else as well.”

She swore, violently, thrashing the water, trying to strike him. He caught her wrist. She was mortified to realize anew just how clear the water was. She could see every inch of his naked body within it.

He could see every inch of hers.

“I was not expecting anyone! I—”

“You weren’t waiting for Peter O’Neill?”

She would have to kill him—or implode and die herself. “Damn you, I am not Peter O’Neill’s mistress, I—”

“Indeed? Just whose mistress are you?” His voice had grown very grave; the deep, dark blue of his eyes was touched by the sun’s reflection on the water in a disturbing way. She realized both his strength and sensuality at the same time, and damned herself more viciously as hysteria grew within her. Her frantic twisting and struggling wasn’t doing her the least bit of good. Oh, dear God, her father lived in the clouds, but this kind of scandal involving his precious one and only daughter would surely kill him!

“Let me go, let me go, this instant!” she shrieked, her nails tearing against his wrist as he held her.

But his fingers tightened angrily around her wrist.

“Who are you?” he demanded heatedly.

“Let me go!”

“Who are you?”

“You’re supposed to be such a great, damned gentleman! Let me go!”

“My pool, my property. You’re a trespasser.”

“I’m a
guest!
”

“Spare us both; tell me who you are.”

He wasn’t going to let her go. His grip remained as sure as iron. They would stay here together, naked in the water, treading water forever.

“I’m Alaina, Alaina McMann, and I used to see you rather frequently when you visited your aunt and uncle—
and my father
—down near the remnants of Fort Dallas.
Now let me go!”

He did release her, not because she had demanded he do so, she was certain, but because he was just so completely surprised. And she would have moved then, except that it seemed that his eyes, so piercing a cobalt against the bronze of his strong features, had pinioned her there, in the water. “Alaina!” he gasped in a voice rich with both fury and contempt. “Alaina? Alaina!” One kick brought him skimming through the water once again. His hands were on her shoulders as he easily tread the water with legs only. He didn’t even seem to realize that he had touched her again, he seemed so outraged. His eyes appeared black; his hold upon her was brutal. His voice thundered. “Alaina McMann, swimming naked in a pool, waiting to meet
Peter O’Neill?
Sweet Jesu, young woman, someone should have taken a switch to you years ago. What in God’s name would your father say?”

“How dare you! I wasn’t here to meet Peter—”

“Peter O’Neill! That absurd dandy?” he lashed out, not hearing her protest.

“He’s behaved no worse than you!” she informed him, astounded that she was defending Peter; but in such a shattered state, by then it didn’t matter to her.

Yet he continued to stare at her as if she were the most disobedient and evil young child he had ever seen. “You apparently don’t begin to see how stupidly you’ve behaved. Something should be done. You’re not a child, but you’re acting as recklessly as one. You should indeed be cast over someone’s knee and seriously reprimanded!” He again repeated the one question that
ripped cruelly into her heart. “What were you thinking? What would your father say?”

He was older than she, but not by that much, only by five years. Yet it still seemed he was thinking of her as the little girl he had seen so many times years before. He hadn’t realized that she had grown up, that she was a mature and independent woman now.

Able to fight her own battles.

She would force him to realize it, she determined.

“Me? I should be switched? You bastard! You are the one at incredible fault here. You should be beaten senseless. Hanged, no less. What would
your
father say about you? Swimming naked in a pool. Recklessly, irresponsibly. Like a child. A—a—grown child. Diving in here, accosting a young lady, a guest in your home. Damn you, damn you, a thousand times over, accosting
me
—”

“When you wished to be accosted by someone else?” he demanded. His eyes narrowed sharply upon her. “I didn’t accost you, Alaina McMann, but perhaps you should be forewarned: A naked nymph swimming bare as a jaybird in a pool certainly appears to be inviting a man’s intentions,” he said angrily. “Any man’s intentions.”

“Oh! Oh!” What a fool she had been. It was a private spring pool, yes, private to the McKenzies.

And Ian McKenzie was here.

Again she tried to wrench free from him. He was incredibly strong and determined. She slammed at him with such a vehemence that she heard a grunt from him, but he didn’t intend to let her go. Suddenly his arms swept completely around her as he struggled to her keep her still. It was far more wretched a position than any she had been in before; she was flush against his naked body, and thereby forced to stillness at last.

No, she was actually desperate to be dead still then. Because his body was all but meshed with hers. She could feel the crispness of his chest hair against the softness of her breasts, touching her so tightly in the water. It was such an acute sensation she wanted to scream.

There was more to feel. More of him. oh, it was all so much worse! She could feel the hardness and heat of his muscled form, feel his hips, his thighs… feel…

Her cheeks burned. The very length of her body burned.

Dear God, oh, God…

Her struggle with Peter O’Neill now seemed like such a petty nuisance. She’d known how to move then, how to get the upper hand, how to hurt him and free herself. Her father had taught her how to fight. He’d taught her a great deal himself, and he’d given in to her every whim as well, hiring a fencing master when she declared an interest in swords, teaching her how to ride, how to aim, how to shoot, how to dislodge an attacker.

But now, when she so desperately needed her lessons to pay off, she couldn’t free herself.

And even the pounding of her heart seemed to bring her more closely against the force of this man. More aware of the length of him.

She couldn’t meet his eyes.

Had to meet his eyes.

Had to…

Find a way to escape his touch.

Swearing beneath her breath and pathetically close to tears, she tried very hard to stare defiantly up into his eyes.

Fighting wasn’t working.

She could take no more of this. Feeling him. The heat, the fire, the sheer strength of his hold. How could he do this? Perhaps it didn’t occur to him that this could be the most humiliatingly uncomfortable moment of her entire life; perhaps he thought that her nudity was a casual thing to her, since he was convinced she had been intending to entertain Peter O’Neill and had probably entertained him—or other men—before.

She wanted so badly to hurt Ian McKenzie for the way he was looking at her—slash him through with a sword!—but she was further infuriated to find herself absolutely impotent against him.

She couldn’t bear it. Not a second longer. Pride be damned, truth be damned, nothing mattered but that she escape him and the fiery brand his length seemed to be imprinting upon her.

“Please…” she just barely managed to breathe the word.

She shook.

The whole of her seemed to burn. She had never known such physical distress in all her life.

She was ready to beg for release and agree with anything the man had to say just to gain her distance from him and put some clothing between them.

Too late.

For even as her whispered plea sounded from her lips, she heard the movement of foliage.

And voices.

People…

“Oh!” An appalled hurt feminine sound.

“Oh!” A furious, shocked masculine sound.

“Ohhhh
…” spoken simultaneously.

She froze. Indeed, there were people behind her. She wanted to sink into the water and disappear. Forever.

There was, certainly, something of the gentleman in Ian McKenzie. For several seconds he was as frozen as she. Then he moved: swiftly, deliberately. Alaina discovered that she was no longer flush against his chest, but propelled protectively behind his back.