“MADAM, DO YOU SURRENDER?”
She inhaled sharply at the sudden flick of his weapon. But his blade didn’t touch her flesh. It lifted the fabric from her right shoulder. She felt the softness of the sheer gown and robe falling and pooling at her feet. She stood naked in the moonlight, facing him.
“You have been beaten.”
“Never beaten Ian; you have merely cost me my sword—”
“You are beaten, and the point here is that you must learn that you can be beaten. If you would duel, you must meet the terms. Ah, the terms. I believe you are supposed to seduce me.”
The breeze grew very chilly; she burned against it. She remembered the feel of his hands, his lips…
“Seduce you! That was not in the terms!”
He grinned at her distress.
“You should be horsewhipped, McKenzie,” she snapped. She wanted to lash out at him so badly. She felt so absurdly on display, the breeze all about her nakedness, trying not to move or tremble, to cool the heat that burned so fiercely in her. She would not be intimidated, yet she was shaking….
Awaiting…
His touch.
TALES OF THE HEART
CAPTIVE by Heather Graham. When sheltered Virginia belle Teela Warren gets a taste of the lush, exotic Florida Territory, her senses are dazzled. But when she glimpses halfbreed James McKenzie, the most attractive man she’s ever seen, her heart is in danger.
(406877—$6.99)
A MAGICAL CHRISTMAS by Heather Graham. Jon and Julie Radcliff are facing the last Christmas of a marriage in trouble. The love they once shared has been tattered by time and torn apart by divergent goals. Their children are beginning to show the hurt and confusion of their family’s turmoil. Can a Christmas spent in an idyllic village help them to discover that love lost can be found again?
(407008—$14.95)
A TASTE OF HEAVEN by Alexis Harrington. Libby Ross came to Heavenly, Montana, hoping for a new start, a family, children and a good place to raise them. What she found was terrible. The cowboy who duped her into being his mail-order bride had died, leaving her penniless with nowhere to go. That’s when she heard about Lodestar Ranch and its owner, Tyler Hollins.
(406532—$5.50)
ANGEL OF SKYE by May McGoldrick. Alec Machpherson, famed warrior chief of the Highlands, has served King James IV of Scotland with his sword. Now he would give his very soul to protect Fiona, the spirited, red-haired lass from the Isle of Skye. But it will take Alec’s Highland strengths pitted against a foe’s cruel ambitions to prove, through blood and battle, which will reign—an army’s might or the powerful passions of two lovers.
(406745—$5.50)
PRINCE OF THE NIGHT by Jasmine Cresswell.The Count of Albion, sequestered in an Italian villa, hid his secrets well—until the beautiful Englishwoman, Miss Cordelia Hope arrived. Irresistibly drawn to this cloaked, commanding count, Cordelia sensed his pain and, in all her innocence, craved his touch. He would become her destiny—the vampire whose love she was dying to possess.
(405668—$4.99)
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Heather
Graham
REBEL
TOPAZ
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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First published by Topaz, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.
First Printing. March, 1997
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Heather Graham Pozzessere, 1997
All rights reserved
EISBN: 9781101576045
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Dedicated
in loving memory to
“Papa,”
my father-in-law,
Alphonse Pozzessere,
who will live in our
hearts forever
REBEL
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue: A Dangerous Game
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Florida Chronology
Prologue: A Dangerous Game
May 1862
The night was eerie.
Indeed, more than eerie. The night seemed to be an exceptionally savage time in this strange wilderness, where every whisper in the breeze and the slightest ripple of the water could mean the stealthy, furtive movement of a deadly predator.
Human, or other.
A full moon rode the silken black sky, casting an iridescent, ivory glow over the landscape. But there were clouds that night, puffy, billowing monsters that drifted along invisibly until they covered the moon, and pitched land and sea into a darkness so deep it was like an ebony void.
The night was dark, but never silent. In the moonlight, the chirping of insects, the screech of a night owl, the subtle ripple and wave of the water, might seem natural. But when the moon pitched behind a cloud, the sounds took on a new dimension, and for the newest recruits among the Union company known as the Panther’s Men, the terror evoked by battle could be no g
reater than the terror evoked by a south Florida night.
Not so for their leader.
He could move imperceptibly within the dangerous forest of reptiles, darkness, and haunting screeches. In this place where the pines met the mangroves and the hammocks touched the sea, he could maneuver with the ease and grace of the powerful, prowling panthers that lurked within the strange semitropical forest, and from which he and his company had drawn their nickname.
It was rumored that his walk was silent upon the soft earth; that he could see in the stygian darkness. He respected the deadly creatures of the swamps, the hammocks, and the sea, but he didn’t fear them. He led his men through trails most men could never see, and followed those trails to places no sane man would usually dare to tread. He could move across this savage landscape and become one with it. Silent, mercurial, subtle, he had been known to startle his own men with uncanny appearances and disappearances. Like a panther, he moved with ever-quiet care, always watching.
Stalking.
Tonight, they had left their horses a quarter of a mile back on a high hammock and he had led them on foot to this inlet far from civilization—indeed, far from all that seemed human in any way. They were south, even, of the old Seminole war outpost Fort Dallas, though he had assured his men they were still in the area designated as Dade County, so named in memory of the late commander killed in the Second Seminole War.
He knew this land well.
Word was that though he wasn’t Indian himself, he had kin among the Seminoles and had learned the swampland and the sea around it just like a red man. Rumor also had it that he had kin among the panthers and gators, and so he could run in the semitropical jungle like a cat and make his way through the brackish waters like a great streamlined lizard. At first glance, the major might have indeed been bred among the Indians, for his collar-length hair was as ebony as pitch and his long lean body was as hard-muscled and bronzed as any wild Indian’s. His eyes added to the illusion, for though they were blue, it was a blue as dark as cobalt, and upon occasion, they seemed as black as a pit in hell, and as dangerous.
It was good that he was a dangerous man.
For he led his troops into dangerous places.
And now, in the darkness, the troops of Major Ian McKenzie waited. Waited and watched—or listened, at the very least, when the clouds so covered the moon that watching became impossible. They had waited now for hours in the damp, insect-laden inlet along the extreme southeastern coast of the Florida mainland because there was a chance they might catch the Moccasin, one of the most notorious Rebel spies to work the Florida coastline.
A coastline that invited subterfuge.
A coastline most Union troops despised.
An assignment to Florida was like an assignment to hell to most men before they ever marched forward into battle and drew a weapon. The peninsula itself was a no-man’s-land, impossible for the Rebs to hold, impossible for the Union to take. Endless miles of coastline made the Union blockade laughable. Likewise, endless miles of coastline made the state vulnerable to Union attack at any time. Jacksonville had already changed hands several times. St. Augustine had been taken by Northern forces, and was still held by the Federals. Down in this arena of war, the naval base at Key West had remained firmly in Union hands, but as to the rest of the state, hostile forces were always at work. Florida had been the third state to secede from the Union. Her Confederates were staunchly loyal to what they considered their great Southern Cause, yet there were very strong pro-Union forces in Florida as well. Though Reb troops raised in Florida were most frequently pulled out of the state to engage in the heavy fighting taking place in Virginia, Tennessee, and other areas of the South, the Florida peninsula was incredibly important to the war effort. Florida provided a large portion of the beef and salt that sustained the Southern troops.
Thus it was important to the Union that this hellhole and those helping to see that supplies ran endlessly into and out of it were controlled.
Therefore, the Moccasin had to be caught. Since the hanging of the Rebs suspected of espionage in the north of the state a few weeks back, the major had determined that he and his men must be the ones to capture this particular pain in their backsides.
The Moccasin had been a scourge to the Union for some time now. Too many times, when Union ships had tried to stop blockade runners, the Reb captains had known about the Federal ships ahead of time—and backup had been waiting, lurking just within the next inlet, behind the next dune. Ships carrying firearms were breaking through the blockade and reaching Rebel troops through the Florida inlets; gold was making its way into enemy hands. Union men straying beyond the St. Johns River out of St. Augustine had fallen far too often into the hands of desperate Florida troops, and those Rebel troops were causing great havoc harassing Federals along the waterway.
Major McKenzie had been given free rein to do what harm he could within the peninsula, with the order to destroy the actions of all spies, blackguards, traitors to the Union, and blockade runners in whatever manner he saw fit. He hadn’t been given a customary assignment, and he wasn’t compelled to bow to customary authority.
This was not a customary place, nor could he and his men possibly fight the war in a customary way. Nor had the major been his customary self since that hanging. The major never had cottoned to the military acting as the law. Men died in battle. That was a sad fact. But to him, if the Federals started taking the law into their own hands too many times they became nothing more than predators, and the whole point of the war would be lost, because they’d no longer be fighting for the unity of the country, for home, glory, and honor; they’d be nothing more than murderers themselves.
“A ship! Major, by God, you were right!” old Sam Jones whispered in the night.
Though they had seen their commander’s uncanny ability to fathom exactly when and where things were going to happen before they did, some of his men had silently doubted that a ship would actually have the audacity to risk this section of the bay.
“Steady, boys, we can’t take a ship right now, and we don’t want anyone getting wind of us and carrying off the cargo we can take,” the major warned back. His voice seemed to come out of nowhere. “We want the landing party, gentlemen.” He was silent just a moment, then his deep, soft voice seemed to ring with passion. “We’re here to seize the Moccasin.”
The spy stared at the fast-approaching coastline. Almost home! the Moccasin thought, and was glad, for the war was a wearying effort, more trying than ever recently, and frequently the spy was sorry he had ever, in a surge of loyalty, become the Moccasin and slipped into playing such a dangerous game.
It was just that the spy had believed, passionately, in the Southern Cause. In States’ Rights the Confederacy now was like the fledgling band of the colonies before the Revolutionary War, fighting for the right to independence, for the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness—in their own way. If only others understood, there would be no war.
Still, the pain plagued the spy. And still, too often now, the fear.
The Moccasin had been thinking a very long while now that it might just be time to curl up like a ball python—and quit. So far, all that had been done was good. Rebel lives had been saved. The spy’s information had all been good, and the spy’s movements had been well planned.
But times were changing. Perhaps it would be possible to slither into the water now, and disappear into legend and history.
And have a life again. Bitter now, perhaps, but one touched by hope. If only…
In the small inlet, just before they might have run aground, the ship was brought to a slow, smooth halt.
“Cast dinghy!” the captain ordered. He was a good, gruff old man who had sailed the seas as a scavenger before the war and the Cause had inspired every able man with so much as a rowboat to try to best the Union forces and break the blockade. The Moccasin had sailed with this captain before. They were close; good friends. Neither had ever sought riches from the war. Althou
gh the spy’s main contraband was usually quinine, ether, chloroform, or laudanum, and the main objective was to save lives, the spy had caused serious mischief, and was well aware of it—and of the union broadsides pasted up in every possible Yankee port advising that the Moccasin was far more deadly than any regular snake, and was to be taken, dead or alive, shot or hanged without mercy at the discretion of the captor.
The Moccasin didn’t dare think about such threats—or the fact that they would be carried out. Fear made it impossible to function.
Tonight, the spy wore a face-concealing dark slouch hat and a large, encompassing greatcoat with frocked shoulders and numerous pockets. The pockets were filled with correspondence, gold, and hard Yankee currency, and laudanum. The weight of the coat was such that it would be easy for the spy to drown if cast overboard, but it would be equally as easy for the spy to cast off the coat if necessary and, if possible, retrieve the coat at a later time.
But things should go smoothly this evening.
This was a no-man’s-land, by the spy’s home. And staring toward the land with sharp eyes, the Moccasin could see nothing amiss. The moon kept creeping behind clouds, but when the clouds parted, a strange yellow glow illuminated the earth. The water, with or without the moonlight, seemed black. Trees were encased in silent shadow. In a sudden burst of yellow moonlight, the Moccasin scanned the shore. Nothing. Nothing… except…
“Wait!” the Moccasin said, and the captain, about to order a man to row the spy in, paused.
“You see something?” the captain demanded, frowning and trying hard to peer into the night.
Yes, something. Something had moved in the shadows. The Moccasin was suddenly filled with dread. Twin red lights suddenly seemed to peer from the trees. The Moccasin felt a tightening grip of panic begin, but then breathed more easily again, nearly laughing aloud with relief.
“What?” the captain asked anxiously.
“A little deer,” the spy said.
“Ah … A deer. You’re certain?”