And he was free.
Naturally, he didn’t need to see to a wine list. Such arrangements had all been taken care of long ago. His father didn’t know about Lavinia; he only knew Ian needed to escape, and he understood.
He decided, however, that he’d best make his exit in the direction of the kitchen.
And that was why, although he never saw the young lady involved, he clearly heard her kissing O’Neill—and then slapping him.
Ian disliked O’Neill. O’Neill, whose father had just announced his son’s engagement to the cotton heiress Elsie Fitch, was rumored to have fathered several children already, scattered about the state. And if rumor held true, he had denounced each unwed young woman when her condition became apparent. O’Neill was probably considered conventionally handsome, and obviously he could be a charmer.
When Ian entered the kitchen and happened upon the kiss and the slap, he was quickly certain that whoever the luckless lass might be, she was in his house and therefore deserved his protection. Assuming she wanted it.
But when he forced back the dolly to enter the pantry, O’Neill was alone, somewhat bent over, nursing his cheek—and more of his anatomy, so it seemed. His face reddened so that the hand imprint on it seemed to deepen when he saw Ian.
“Excuse me, Ian. Difficulties with an affair de coeur which must now be fini. I’m afraid that one was in love with me,” he said ruefully.
“Indeed. It certainly sounded like it,” Ian said dryly.
“She was totally inappropriate for marriage,” Peter said defensively.
“You do seem to have that problem with the women who attract you.”
Peter reddened still further. “My father would have none of it.”
“But at least the concept of marriage did pass through your mind this time,” Ian said politely.
Peter gave him an awkward smile and lifted his hands. “You’ve been around in the world, Ian,” he said. “You know how women can be. This one is… wanton. A little hellion. So ripe she was bursting. She wanted me. I couldn’t deny her. Believe me, Ian, I’d have had to have been a rock to resist her. You cannot imagine—”
“Peter, spare me, and spare my father’s house your theatrics, and whatever callous cruelty you might bestow on your inappropriate women.” He started to walk by, then hesitated. “You’re not toying with a servant in my father’s house, are you?” For a moment, he was afraid that Lilly might have been involved.
Peter drew himself upright at last, watery blue eyes spitting hatred. He knew Ian disliked him, and he was furious that Ian should have come upon such a scene. “Certainly not! And if rumor does truth justice in any way, Ian McKenzie, you’ve no right to condemn other men for their affairs with women.”
Ian arched a brow, yet he managed not to reply. He wasn’t about to argue with Peter or try to explain the difference in enjoying the company of a mature and independent woman and seducing a young innocent. But then again, maybe he had no right to condemn Peter after all; he didn’t know the woman involved. And he was growing somewhat anxious.
The hell with Peter and his problems.
The usual place. Lavinia could be impatient. She’d only wait so long.
“Take care in my father’s house, Peter,” he said softly.
“Or what?” Peter demanded, his tone surly.
“Or I will have to make certain that you do,” Ian said evenly, then stepped past the man and hurried through the doorway that led back out to the great hall.
As he left the house, he could hear the sounds of angry voices spilling from the library. He forgot Peter, and he wanted to forget the overwhelming sense of doom that seemed to hang over his country.
He felt a burning sense of nostalgia for the way it used to be. For the slow, easy days when there was little to disturb the way the river rippled, when barges moved slowly and lazily by and the day-to-day life at Cimarron was like clockwork. When the pines sheltered the land, and the crystal pools cooled a man’s flesh from the heat of the sun. That was his world. Unique from the North; unique, even, from most of the South. Much of his world still remained a wilderness, civilization bordered by primitive blues and greens. His crystal pools were like no others; the sunshine here was brilliant, the sunsets radiant with vibrant colors. His land was like an Eden.
Mmm… Eden.
Private, secluded. Seductive. He was going to be very glad for a few minutes’ respite with Lavinia in his own private Eden.
Before his whole damned world careened straight to hell.
Alaina hurried along the path, her footsteps light and quick upon the pine-carpeted forest floor. She hesitated just briefly, looking back. The trail from Cimarron was empty. Peter O’Neill was not following her, ready to insist anew that there could be something between them in private, even if…
Her cheeks burned.
But she wasn’t being followed. She had left Peter doubled over, and no one had seen her; no one had followed her. She could escape. And after the events of the afternoon, she was desperate for some time alone.
To cool down.
She knew where to go. To the soothing refuge where she’d been headed when Peter had so rudely stopped her.
There was a beautiful freshwater pool just ahead, or so she had been promised. A pool as private as Adam’s and Eve’s own Eden, locked away in the depths of the forest that began just where the Cimarron lawn ended. Ian McKenzie’s cousin, Sydney, had assured her she would find the pool easily enough, and that it was magnificent—gloriously clean and crystal clear, fed by underground springs. Sydney knew, of course, because she was a McKenzie herself, though not one of the McKenzies of Cimarron. Sydney had grown up in the far south of the state, as had Alaina, a part of the state still referred to as savage by those who felt they had completely civilized central Florida.
Such sentiments usually amused Alaina, and also gave her a certain sense of pride—which allowed her to feel at least a little contempt for the numerous young ladies at the Cimarron party this afternoon who were whispering about her—and her father—as they supposedly lay down to nap. She hadn’t needed Peter to tell her that she and her father were, in a strange way, not exactly preferred society to a number of the very rich mothers and fathers in the state. From her experience, young ladies never did nap when they supposedly did so at social events—they gossiped. But it didn’t matter to Alaina; she just didn’t give a damn. Young ladies didn’t swear, either, of course, but since her father was far more intrigued with plant life than human, he’d never realized in the least that he might have neglected her “proper” upbringing.
And thank God he didn’t have the least idea that she was uninterested in either resting or hearing what might be said.
Or that because of his eccentricities, she might not be considered decent marriage material. God! That Peter would dare say such a thing to her. And to imagine that she had thought herself in love with such a crude, detestable man, that she had considered marrying him! After all that he had suggested to her… Oh, God. She was mortified.
She stopped short. There it was. The pool. Large, with small bubbles appearing here and there from the deep springs beneath. Great oaks dipped their branches down upon the water. The water was so clear, she could see all the way to the depths.
She was dying to swim. She had started off for the pool, intending to plunge in, and she hadn’t been worried in the least before what people might think.
But now she felt that she had to remind herself that no decent woman would run out into the wilds of Cimarron and go swimming.
Well, she had just been informed that she wasn’t exactly decent material to begin with!
She spun around, inspecting the clearing. Insects chirped softly. A blazing sun burned down. Her temper burned as well, and the water was so inviting. She wanted so desperately to feel it, to feel as if she could wash away Peter’s touch—and his hateful words. The men were busy with brandy and port, the women were gossiping. The pool was a private place, known only by the
McKenzies.
She sat upon a heavy pine log and began industriously working at the ties on her elegant dress boots. With some difficulty she next shed her gown, petticoats, and the corset that was threatening to asphyxiate her. She paused just a moment, thinking that she remained somewhat decent in her chemise and pantalettes. But then again, if her clothing didn’t dry quickly in the sun, she’d have to return to the house—and the gossips—quite damp. If she stripped down and kept her clothing in perfect shape, took her swim, dressed, dried her hair in the sun, and returned to the house, no one would be the wiser. And besides, she still felt Peter’s horrible, horrible touch. Breathed his scent upon her flesh….
She slipped from the rest of her clothing, carefully arranged it all in a pile a distance from the water, then gasped just slightly as the cool spring water touched the hot fire of her flesh.
Chapter 3
Lavinia wasn’t there.
She hadn’t come to elegantly drape herself upon the log, and she didn’t even await him angrily, pacing up and down, ready to argue before impatiently insisting that there was always too little time, they must make up.…
Well, he had tarried too long. Maybe she thought that he wasn’t coming, that he’d had other plans. He silently cursed the fools who had waylaid him.
First, the warmonger Alfred Ripply.
And then, in the pantry, that damned pompous rooster Peter.
He gazed at the log. It was her place. The heavy old pine log.
She liked to perch upon it, knowing full well just how elegant she could look, sitting very straight, long legs curled beneath her, pale features guarded from the sun by a parasol.
He warned, himself that he had best cool the fires within him. Lavinia was apparently irritated that he hadn’t run when she had beckoned. He sat down upon the log, wondering if he shouldn’t be grateful he had missed his chance with Lavinia. He hadn’t particularly intended to be chaste, but it appeared a greater power might be forcing him to act like a man contemplating marriage—to a good woman who understood his inner turmoil.
But right now the tempest within him was maddening. He’d needed, wanted, an escape from his thoughts.
He ran his fingers through his hair.
He was going to be called upon very soon to make some very hard decisions.
Peaceful, rational men and women were still saying that there couldn’t be a war.
But Ian had seen firsthand the passions of those who might well bring about bloodshed. None of this had happened overnight. This argument had been in the brewing since the founding fathers had written the constitution—and left out the question of slavery.
Now the explosion was coming.
And if it did come to war, what in God’s name was he going to do?
No way out of it; Florida was a slave state, most of the planters here did depend on slave labor. Ian would have to fight against his own friends and neighbors.
Sighing, he stared up at the sky. It was so blue. It was what he loved most about being home. Winter did come, and rains came, and wild, deadly electric storms came to ravage the Florida peninsula, especially in the Tampa Bay area. But winter never stayed long; the sky was so seldom hung with gloom. Most days were radiant like this late spring afternoon, with the sky cast in a magnificent clear blue. And when the days weren’t radiant…
Well, he loved the storms as well. Loved the wild, angry slash of lightning across the sky, loved the feel of the wind against his face, loved to ride the flatlands in a fury on Pye right before a storm broke.
It would have been so nice to forget it all—for a time, at least—in Lavinia’s simple… lust.
A slight sound in the water startled him from his thoughts just as he realized that a pile of feminine clothing lay by the log, right before him.
He spun around. What he saw sent a flash of heat ripping through his torso and limbs—and straight to his sex.
The minx. She was here.
He’d found her. She hadn’t left him after all. Through the clear water, he could see her swimming. She was full of surprises. He’d always imagined she hated the water, and that she would never dampen her perfectly groomed hair.
But there she was. Moving about in the water with the grace and speed of a dolphin and the lithe, almost magical beauty of a mythical mermaid.
He smiled, instantly forgetting the state of the world.
He began to strip.
Her pile of feminine clothing was neatly folded.
His fell upon it with reckless speed.
Alaina was blithely unaware that she had been joined in the crystal spring.
Today reminded her of swimming at the reefs off the Keys. Of the wonderful occasions when she accompanied her father out, and while he fished, she swam. The reefs were different, of course. The reefs offered a magical array of color, with fish in dozens of different shades, pale and bright, darting through the water. There, she swam with the current, and the salt stung her eyes. The water, except in winter, was balmy warm.
Here, the water was crisply cool. And clear, unbelievably clear. She could see the clusters of rock, the plant life, the pattern of the sun. There was no force like the current in the ocean, it was really completely different, and yet…
The feeling of being beneath the water’s surface was every bit as magical. It was like entering a different world, a world where silence prevailed. She felt at peace, buffered from pain, embraced by a place eloquent in its very quiet.
She luxuriated in the clean feel of the water against her body in the clear view it afforded her, diving deep, surfacing for a swift breath of air, seeking the depths once again. She was indeed most accustomed to swimming in the salt of Biscayne Bay right off her home islet, and though she had been in the fresh and brackish waters of the nearby rivers often enough, she had never experienced anything so delightfully clean and cool on her eyes as this.
It was wonderful. It was enough to take away the hurt, anger, and humiliation that had seemed so monstrous before. It was a world where she could just feel. Far beneath the water’s surface, she couldn’t hear a thing except for a slight rush of the water as she moved within it. High overhead, the sun burned, casting its rays down like crystal beacons to guide her on her journey throughout her watery Eden.
Oh, God, she loved it! Loved the tranquillity and beauty of the water.
Then she felt…
Hands!
Large, powerful hands. On her, gripping her, touching her. They encompassed her waist, slid like mercury to her breasts, cupped them, palms over her nipples, fingers then stroking downward over her abdomen, then lower still into the triangle of hair between her legs.
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.